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Ding-dong…
The bell rings once, and then the door opens with a quick creak.
“Oh, hey Ouma.”
“Saihara-kun!” Ouma says, a smile on his face. “Happy birthday!”
Saihara offers him a small one in return. “Ah, thanks. You want to come in?”
“Of course!” Ouma says, holding up a plastic bag that rustles with contents.
Saihara steps aside and Ouma toes off his shoes, shutting the door behind him. “I’m sorry I’m here a bit later than I meant to be… I had cleaning duty.”
Walking into the living room, Saihara glances at the clock. “Mm… this is usually when you get here, though.”
“O-oh, is it?” Ouma asks. He swallows, throat dry, and hopes that it’s the only evidence that he had been running for the last ten minutes. “I guess it went faster than I thought.”
Thankfully Saihara doesn’t continue the line of conversation.
Ouma follows him into the living room. The beginning sunset washes the room in a dark orange that highlights the specks of dust in the air. In the silence, the creaks of the floorboards seem louder, bouncing off the walls as if the room is empty.
Saihara kneels at the table in the center of the room and Ouma takes his place across from him. “First of all,” he says, reaching into the plastic bag next to him, “it wouldn’t be your birthday without cake, so here you go.” He slides a wrapped plate, along with a fork and knife, across the table.
“Thank you,” Saihara says. The small smile on his face widens as he unwraps it. “Ah, is it lemon?”
“Of course,” Ouma replies, trying to fight the grin pulling at his cheeks from growing too wide. He leans forward a little, watching perhaps too intently as Saihara takes a bite.
“It’s delicious,” Saihara says, looking at him with a bright smile “Where did you get this?”
Ouma quickly reverts his gaze, gluing his eyes down at the table. “Ah… um, I -- was in a rush, actually… so I don’t remember.”
He hears Saihara put down his fork, and looks up to find Saihara looking at him with a playful smirk. “You’re a bad liar, Ouma.”
“Well…” Ouma says, fidgeting his hands in his lap and returning his gaze downwards, “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to say it was good just to make me feel better…”
Saihara gives a small laugh, one that makes Ouma’s heart jump. “Come on. You know I’m always telling the truth. It’s really good, Ouma.”
“I’m glad,” Ouma says, hoping that either his hair or the sunset or some divine power masks the redness rushing to his face. “Um, more importantly… close your eyes.” He reaches back into the bag, and pulls a book onto his lap.
Then he glances over to make sure Saihara isn’t looking. He isn’t, of course. Saihara sits there, the warm light of the sunset caressing his silhouette. It shimmers against his dark hair and sparkles along his long eyelashes. It makes his skin glow and highlights each contour of his body.
Ouma puts the book on the table with just a bit more force than necessary and slides it toward Saihara. “Okay… you can look.” Tentatively, Ouma looks up through his bangs, chest tight and anticipation dancing in his stomach.
It explodes into warm elation as a huge smile comes onto Saihara’s face.
“Wow, Ouma! How did you get this?!” Saihara says, taking the book into his hands as his eyes go over every detail of the cover. “I’ve been trying so long to get one!”
“I know,” Ouma says happily, unable to keep the note of pride from his voice. “It wasn’t easy.”
“This is so cool,” Saihara says, flipping the book open. “Did you look through this? It’s so detailed, it has the audition transcripts for all the contestants, and all sorts of pictures and details that couldn't be seen when it was airing -- you can’t even find scans of this online.”
“Mmhm,” Ouma hums, unable and unwilling to fight the force of the smile on his face as Saihara’s eyes sparkle with each page he turns. “I know you have some of the other collector’s books, but…”
“But this season was my favorite by a long shot,” Saihara says, finally meeting Ouma’s gaze again. “Thank you so much, Ouma.”
Ouma’s heart nearly jumps out of his chest.
“You’re welcome. Happy birthday.”
Saihara only looks over one more page of the book before he puts it down, and Ouma tilts his head a bit. “Actually, speaking of Danganronpa, I wanted to talk to you about it.”
“Hm? Did they show the new contestants?”
“Oh, no. The applications don’t close until tomorrow morning. But the panel seemed really excited and pleased with my audition, seems like I’m pretty much guaranteed to get in.”
Ouma stares at him. He tries to make sense of his words. “Huh?”
“I mean I applied,” Saihara says, the smile on his face unwavering.
Ouma’s heart stops.
“Huh? What… what do you mean?”
“I used the birthday money my parents sent me,” Saihara explains, his tone unchangingly casual. “Today’s my seventeenth birthday, so I really don’t have that much longer. I wanted to make sure I applied for this season. It was kinda spontaneous, and I could wait till the next one, but --”
“No!” Ouma says, the table clattering as he slams his palms into it. “I mean -- you didn’t really, did you? You’re not serious, right?”
Saihara just gives a weak laugh, his brow furrowing a little. “Calm down, Ouma. Is this really a surprise?”
“I…” Ouma swallows thickly, heart beating so fast it may very well jump from his chest. “I didn’t think… you would actually…”
“Danganronpa has been what’s kept me going, you know? I don’t want to pass up my chance to be a part of the thing I love so much.”
Ouma leans forward quickly, his elbows on the table. “Can you take it back? Your application. Please, Saihara-kun --”
“Why would I do that?”
“You could die, Saihara-kun!” Ouma yells, unable to keep his voice from cracking. “Chances are you will! You can’t do this!”
Saihara’s expression changes to something that’s nearly a pout. “Why are you getting so worked up?”
Ouma clenches his hands so hard he feels his nails nearly cutting into his skin. “I -- I --” The images flood into his mind, breaking his speech. Saihara, on live TV for all to see, being stabbed to death. Or poisoned, or crushed, or choked, decapitated -- “You just -- you can’t -- please, Saihara-kun -- please don’t do this.” He blinks rapidly, fighting the stinging behind his eyes.
Ouma’s words had been near unintelligible, but Saihara simply shakes his head. “I thought you’d understand, Ouma. You’re my best friend.”
Not even a ragged breath escapes Ouma this time. He simply stares at Saihara, who meets his gaze with an unchanging placidity. Around them, the sunlight has turned to a shade of deep crimson, washing Saihara’s body a red glow that makes Ouma’s stomach twist. The color shines in Saihara’s eyes in a way that reflects back the honest purity of his words. Words and feelings that could not be changed, persuaded, or stopped.
Ouma bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood, looking down and letting his bangs obscure his blurring vision.
“I’m sorry,” Ouma says quietly. “I -- I should go.”
In less than a heartbeat’s time he stands up, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and nearly running for the door.
“Wait, Ouma,” Saihara says, standing quickly.
Ouma doesn’t have time to turn the corner before Saihara grabs his wrist.
“Wait,” Saihara repeats.
Ouma doesn’t have the energy to pull. He stares at the ground, chest nearly too tight to breathe.
“Really, thank you,” Saihara says. “You’ve always made my birthdays nice.”
He’s speaking simply, but Ouma still has trouble understanding his words.
“Don’t be sad, because this is what I really want, okay? And I think you’ll have fun watching me.”
Ouma’s knees shake.
“You can have all my stuff, too. Even that book.”
Ouma pulls away with a force he didn’t know he had, stumbling over the entryway. He fumbles with his shoes, nearly falling over as he slips them on. The doorknob rattles as his shaking hand grabs it.
“I -- I’m going -- see you --”
“Ah, maybe not. They might pick me up during school tomorrow.”
“See you,” Ouma says, firmly, opening the door as his vision again grows blurry and hot.
He steps outside and there’s a short silence.
“Goodbye, Ouma.”
Ouma hurries down the steps, turning the corner next to them.
He hears the door click shut, and then he falls onto his knees.
Only then, in the secluded alley, does he let the tears finally fall, streaming down his face. He chokes on his sobs, covering his mouth as they rack his body over and over again.
By the time it’s dark, his energy is drained enough that only occasional, quiet tears are left, his eyes puffy and red and sore. He breathes heavily and quickly, holding onto his arms to make sure his body doesn’t fall apart with the force of his trembling.
Despite this, the horrible images playing in his mind have stopped. Or perhaps they’ve engraved themselves there, a permanent resting and motivation, the prime factor in what now takes up his forethoughts, in what now gives him the strength to slowly rise to his feet.
Ouma takes a particularly long, yet steady breath. And then he reaches into his pocket and takes out his phone, immediately opening the search function.
He types in “danganronpa application centers” and hits enter.
Saihara stares at his feet. For the third time in the last five minutes, he checks his Monopad. 9:57PM.
Despite it not even being quite the specified time yet, anticipation flutters in his stomach like butterflies. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was left waiting here for a while. Perhaps the whole night.
He wouldn’t put it past him. At the very least, he was going to be purposefully late by a few minutes.
So it’s the sheer surprise, of course, that makes his heart jump when Ouma turns the corner into the courtyard, all but skipping down the stairs.
“Hi there, Saihara-chan~!” He calls with a wave. Saihara gives him a small wave back, despite the fact that his stomach is sinking the desperate hope that somehow half the campus didn’t hear that.
“So, so?” Ouma says excitedly as he comes closer, stopping at least two paces too close to Saihara for comfort. “To what do I owe the pleasure of being called out by Saihara-chan in the middle of the night? That’s pretty scandalous, by the way, so my expectations are pretty high.”
“Just -- sit down,” Saihara says, averting his gaze and motioning next to him.
“That was a lie, by the way,” Ouma says, sitting down on the bench, close enough that their elbows touch. “Only because I know you’re not capable of being that smooth.”
Saihara holds in his sigh.
Ouma tilts his head a bit. “By the way, don’t you have dates with Momota-chan and Harukawa-chan at night?” Before Saihara can answer, he gives a soft gasp, and leans closer, eyes sparkling. “Ah! Did you ditch them for me?!”
Saihara leans back, though he’s unable to move much, already being at the edge of the bench. “Uh -- no -- they just… didn’t want to tonight…”
The grin that stretches onto Ouma’s face as his eyes narrow is so self-satisfied that Saihara can barely look at him.
“Ahh, well, I just hope you told them a better lie than you just tried to tell me,” Ouma says, scooting close enough that his hips bump into Saihara’s. “You really are no good at lying, Saihara-chan.”
“Just…” Saihara gives a small sigh. “Don’t tell them, okay?”
“Of course I won’t,” Ouma says, his voice nearly giddy. “I want to keep the knowledge that Saihara ditched his friends to hang out with me in the middle of the night a~ll to myself!”
“That’s not what --”
“Ah, that’s not a lie, by the way,” Ouma says, nodding. “And you should just call it what it is instead of lying to yourself, okay? If you’re not good at lying, you shouldn’t do it to yourself, either.”
Saihara closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.
“Anyway,” he says. He pauses, stomach twisting into a knot. This was only supposed to take a minute, yet somehow nervousness still floats up into his chest.
Ouma tilts his head curiously, leaning forward and swinging his legs, crossed at the ankle. Saihara notices then that he’s so short his feet don’t touch the ground, and fights against the twinge of a smile pulling at his face.
“Here,” Saihara says quickly, tearing his attention away as he reaches under the bench. He grabs a small bag, and holds it out to Ouma.
Ouma just stares. “Eh?”
“Take it,” Saihara says. “You can open it too, or you can do it later…”
With an unexpected tentativeness, Ouma takes the bag and sets it on his lap, rustling it open and looking inside.
Saihara barely watches out of the corner of his eye. His heart seems loud and he worries, ridiculously, that it’ll burst if he dares to observe directly.
He sees Ouma pull out the small slip of paper, and then slowly peel back a bit of the wrapping of the plate underneath it. His gaze shifts over to Saihara.
“You… did you make this?”
“I mean… um, yeah,” Saihara says, slowly looking at Ouma with a bit more directly. “Um… I kind of guessed on the flavor, but I hope you like it.”
He sees Ouma peel back the wrapping on the cake a bit more. “Vanilla?”
“Y… yeah.”
“Good guess, Saihara-chan! That’s my favorite!” Ouma says, smile a mile wide. He pokes the cake and takes a bit of the frosting onto his finger, and quickly licks it off. “It’s really good! Oh, and neither of those are lies, either.”
Saihara lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
“Happy birthday, Ouma-kun,” Saihara says, finally looking at him in full. It lets him see that Ouma is still holding the small piece of paper with the same phrase written on it, holding it like it’s made of glass.
For once Ouma looks away, eyes cast down and bangs obscuring his face. “So, how did you know?” He asks after a moment. “The profiles on the Monopods?”
“That, and the calendar in our rooms. Based on the amount of days we’ve been here, today has to be June 21st.”
“We have no way of knowing if those are truthful, though,” Ouma says, tapping a finger to his chin, and looking back at Saihara. “If I had to guess, I’d say they’re probably not, you know.”
“I mean… I thought about that too, so I almost didn’t, but…” Saihara brings his hand to his face, only then feeling that it’s hot. His shifts his eyes downward. “I figured even if the date is a lie, the… sentiment isn’t.”
He feels Ouma looking at him and makes the habitual grab to pull down the visor of a hat that isn’t there. Instead he only brushes some hair forward.
“Thank you, Saihara-chan,” Ouma says. His voice is flat -- or unreadable -- and nearly quiet.
But it seems so loud Saihara’s heart nearly jumps out of its chest.
“So, so?” Ouma says, tone back to its normal, bouncy self. “Is this the part where you tell me there's a part two and… take me back to your bedroom…?”
“H-hey,” Saihara says, face all but red hot.
Ouma nudges his shoulder into Saihara. “I mean come on, it’s my birthday! As the leader of such a grand organization, I’m used to having pretty extravagant birthday parties, so you have to at least try to live up to the standard, you know?”
“Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to even come close to that.”
“Mm, well, that was mostly a lie, so it’s okay,” Ouma says. Then he learns forward, eyeing Saihara with an intense curiosity. “So? What do you usually do for your birthday, Saihara-chan?”
“Mine? Well --”
Saihara pauses. He doesn’t actually mean to; the breath just catches in his throat with his words, his mind simply stopping, blank.
Ouma tilts his head. “Hm?”
“I…” Saihara brings his hand back to his chin, his brow furrowing. “I don’t… remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Sort of…” Saihara closes his eyes a moment -- he remembers his birth date -- he remembers celebrating it, he can see someone sitting across from him -- short in stature and honest eyes --
A pain spikes through his head.
“I… can’t remember exactly,” Saihara says, rubbing his temple, “but I’m pretty sure it was usually just a quiet celebration with a friend.”
“Huh~.” Ouma says, expression turning to a small pout. “Someone you spent your birthdays with alone? Sounds like more than just a friend. I’m jealous.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t like that,” Saihara says quickly.
“Mm, either way,” Ouma starts, before carefully putting the bag on the other side of the bench to stand, “On your next birthday, I’ll make sure you won’t even want to remember them, okay?” he says, leaning forward enough that his face is inches from Saihara’s.
For once, Saihara can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Ouma’s eyes -- big and a purple deeper more engulfing than the encroaching night around them. Strands of his hair brush against Saihara’s face, feeling cool against his too-hot skin. “Ah -- um --”
“Anyway!” Ouma says, quickly pulling back and gently picking up the bag. “It’s getting pretty late.”
Saihara nods once. “Y… yeah.” He clears his throat, standing up. “Then… good night, Ouma-kun.”
Ouma tilts his head. “Hm? What do you mean? You’re coming with me.”
“Eh?”
“Even if you don’t plan on doing what I’d really want, you still can’t just leave!” Ouma states simply. “It’s my birthday! Come on, you should get it, since you apparently always get to spend your birthdays with an oh so special someone.”
“Like I said, I don’t think --”
He stops short as Ouma grabs his hand. “Come on, come on~ Oh, my room’s a bit of a mess, so I hope you don’t mind hosting me.”
When he pulls him along, Saihara follows with little -- honestly, no -- hesitation, and without realizing himself squeezes Ouma’s hand.
“I don’t mind,” Saihara says, and he’s thankful Ouma is looking ahead and can’t see the small smile on his face.