Work Text:
Ouma lived in the heart of the city. All it took was one blink and everything changed. Same clothes, different people. Same lights, different places.
For example: he could’ve sworn that there was some sort of clothing store a ways across from the bank just yesterday, but it looked like it had gotten replaced already. It must have been replaced with some sort of pop-up shop now. Ouma blinked a couple times and actually had to stop and read the sign on the shop. He had all the time in the world to figure it out. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to hurry to.
It was a mash up of two different words in katakana, that’s why it looked like gibberish. The beginning of “grocery” and the ending of “restaurant” were combined: “grocerant.” And two weeks of skipping class and eating nothing but scraps and grief suddenly caught up to Ouma. It was an enticing offer.
Ouma turned down the sidewalk. It was as congested as can be. It didn’t matter if it was close to midnight. The city never slept. And neither did business or the men ran them. (Not even when they were driving over the speed limit through the rain just to get back to the office.)
He had his target already: it was dressed up in a nice dark suit and tucking a cellphone in the left pocket, so Ouma switched over to the man’s right. Pickpocketing was an art form. Finding someone, observing them, gauging them out, carrying the false air of nonchalance, and then doing the dirty deed. Beautiful.
Ouma was lucky that guy’s wallet wasn’t clamped shut. The job was always easier when someone had their bills out like loose-leaf paper, just ready and ripe for the picking. Ouma scored five dollars – American money too. He frowned but went to the “grocerant” anyway. If they had the audacity to combine a grocery store and a restaurant together then they could accept foreign money, right?
“There’s a currency exchange machine,” the cashier-slash-cook had a nametag that said Idabashi or something, “two streets down at the bank.” He even pointed like Ouma didn’t know where it was.
(How is he supposed to know that you know where the bank is, dumbass? Ouma was tired and hungry, he was allowed not to think straight for two seconds.)
day 1: ramen
ラーメン
chinese-style wheat noodles served in broth with meat and vegetables.
“I’m back~!” Ouma announced when he returned to the store (store? – could he call it that?). “Did you miss me, Idabashi-chan?” Ouma asked. He received the typical confused sputter he always got from speaking too familiarly. It never failed to make him laugh each time.
The door opened up to the grocery section. Actually, the place was 80% grocery store and 20% restaurant. There was a sort of bar area – a long counter with multiple seats – where the cashier-cook-dude was. There was another door that led to a kitchen behind him.
The neon signage advertised that the store was open twenty-four seven (like most of the other establishments on the block; you know, the city never, ever sleeps), but there hadn’t been anyone inside when Ouma had first came in.
But it looked like it wasn’t so empty anymore, though. There was a guy sitting just a few seats off from where the cash register was. He was looking at his phone with one arm propped up Ouma’s way, so Ouma couldn’t exactly see his face. Ouma made sure to leave a seat in between them. Just because he talked too friendly, didn’t mean he acted too friendly.
“What would you like to eat?” Idabashi asked.
“Well, I want—” Ouma was cut off before he could even start.
“Ramen? How would you like it?”
“Huh?” Idabashi pulled a chalkboard up from behind the counter.
“Today we’re only serving ramen.”
“But what if I want—?”
“Ramen? Good thing that’s the only thing we’re serving today. The way things work around here is there’s a, uh, ‘food of the day’ or whatever. If you got a problem with it, take it up with the owner—not me.” Idabashi had a cool guy vibe to him. None of his words seemed serious, they just slowly tumbled out. And he didn’t carry the buzz and zap that rushed through the core of the city and its inhabitants’ veins. He just carried something lulling and sleepy around his edges, from the leisure in his voice to the slouch in his back. “Hey,” he shrugged, “at least you get to pick how you want it. That’s something.”
“Yeah, I guess…” Ouma sighed as he read the rest of the board. He was about one hundred yen short. Shit. Businessmen always fucked him over in the end, huh?
“Ah, I can pay for it.”
Ouma raised an eyebrow toward the guy just two seats away from him. The guy was already sliding a bill over. And yeah sure, the magical rules of courtesy hanging over Ouma’s head was telling him to say thank you but turn down the money and leave in shame – but the grumbling in his stomach was king. He snatched up the bill before the guy could even have a chance to reconsider.
“Are you thinking about eating now?” Idabashi asked the guy. The guy nodded. Now that his arms were down, Ouma could see his face. He looked around Ouma’s age and he wasn’t atrociously hideous, so that was something. (Hey, stop staring at him, creep.) “What do you want? Let me guess, ramen? Good, good. How do you want it?”
“Um… Can I have it Hokkaido style? That’s when it’s seasoned with, um, salt and has corn and there’s miso for flavoring.”
“And you?” Oh, it was Ouma’s turn.
“Just home-style,” Ouma ordered. Idabashi nodded and went back to the kitchen.
The guy was tapping his fingers against the counter. It wasn’t in an impatient way. It seemed like he had all the time in the world, too. His voice was soft, enticing. It made Ouma want to lean in and actually listen instead of hear for once.
Ouma broke the silence: “Where are you from?”
“Oh, uh…” The guy’s turned slightly toward him. “From… up north.”
“Ooh, you’re so mysterious~. You know, I can tell. You spoke in dialect when you started salivating and creaming your pants describing those noodles.”
The guy’s eyes widened. “I-I did?” Ouma unhelpfully nodded. The guy cleared his throat. “How about now? Do I sound okay?” He reverted back to the standard accent quite easily. And he sounded more than just okay, if Ouma was being honest.
“Nope! You sound terrible.”
“Ah…” The guy looked down for a second. “My, um, parents are from up north but I just moved down here to live with my uncle to… to shadow him for his detective work.” Ouma didn’t remember asking for a backstory, but he guessed that he was sort of obligated to listen because this guy was paying for his meal of the day.
Idabashi returned with not only their dishes, but also a remote control for the stranger. There was a small television hanging up in front of them. The guy gave a quiet “thank you” before he turned the TV on and flipped through the channels.
Not like Ouma was staring, but the dude looked dead all of a sudden. He wasn’t blinking. His eyes were glued to the screen. He was frozen. He had his chopsticks poised right underneath his mouth with a good helping of noodles, but wasn’t even moving to eat them. Ouma glanced at the screen. It looked like Danganronpa was on.
Ouma moved himself over to the seat in between them. This guy was just begging to be teased. Ouma waved his hand in front of his face. Nothing. He was completely immersed. Ouma even stole his noodles right from underneath his nose and he didn’t do anything about it. (The taste was too heavy for Ouma’s liking. But that’s how they did it up north, he guessed.)
“What’s your name?” Ouma asked.
The guy’s mouth dropped open, but he was still in his trance. “Sai…”
“‘Sai’?”
“Saihara…”
“Oh? You don’t have a first name?” No response.
Idabashi came back again. He had tools and was tinkering with some sort of gadget against his side of the counter. “Hey, Idabashi-chan,” Ouma called out, “why does he get a remote?”
“Because he asked for it,” Idabashi easily answered.
“Oh.” Saihara blinked and frowned all of a sudden. He glanced down at his empty chopsticks and then toward Ouma. Ouma only smiled and waved.
“Have you ever watched Danganronpa before?” Saihara asked.
“Yeah, sure.” Ouma shrugged.
“Hm…” Saihara began to stir his noodles around. “My uncle doesn’t have a TV. He doesn’t even have Wi-Fi or anything…”
“So, you have to come to some random store in the middle of the night to watch it?”
“I… like the midnight broadcast. It’s uncut and there’s highlights and commentary.”
“Oh, I see.” Ouma slurped up his noodles. “That’s so interesting.”
day 2: yakitori
やきとり
chicken pieces on a grilled skewer.
It wasn’t too hard to lock in on this new target. He was begging to be seen, wearing a red velvet suit and a gold watch that glistened against all the streetlights and car lights and store lights. And he was a generous one too, keeping a bill for ¥10,000 in his pocket all nice and ripe for the taking.
Despite the frustration that would surely come from a one-food menu, it had been pretty good. And the restaurant (well, Ouma should probably think of it as that because he wasn’t going grocery shopping any time soon) was still there across the street, blinking its red lights like a beacon through the night, painting the perfectly square and cozy restaurant crimson and black.
“Oh, Saihara-chan. You’re back.” Ouma put a seat in between them again.
“R-Right.” Saihara looked… not exactly terrible. (And he didn’t even bat an eye at “Saihara-chan,” how lame.) Ouma blamed it on the low light of it all. Everyone looked good in a dimmed setting, but not everyone looked good in direct light. (I bet he would look perfect in any light, though. Ugh.) “I’m just going to be here until the, um, season’s over.”
“Ooh. Right, right. Of course, of course.”
“What was your name?”
“It’s Ouma.”
“Oh…?” Saihara frowned slightly. “Just ‘Ouma’?”
“You only said your name was ‘Saihara’ when I asked.”
“Ah.” Saihara’s frown deepened. “T-That’s right.”
Idabashi came in then. He set a screwdriver down on the counter before he approached them. “What would you two like to eat today? What was that? Yakitori? Good thing that’s the only thing on the menu today. How would you like it?”
“I don’t really want yakitori,” Ouma groaned as he slumped against the counter. He ran through the different ways that yakitori could be prepared in his head, though. He could go for some chicken wings, he guessed. He let out a loud sigh before he ordered: “Tebasaki yakitori—but only because I have to.”
Saihara kept it simple: “Toriniku yakitori.”
“All white meat?” Ouma asked. Idabashi went into the kitchen. “Is that a northern delicacy, too?”
“Ah, no.” Saihara stopped frowning, at least. “I just, um, prefer all white meat.” He tapped his fingers against the counter. Once, twice. Ouma could feel him sizing him up. It took him a second to register it. People usually only looked him up and down if they wanted a fight. Saihara didn’t seem like the fighting kind, though. (At least, Ouma hoped not.)
“What? What is it?” Ouma poked at his own cheeks. “Do I have something on my face?”
Saihara shook his head. “N-No. It’s… your skin. It’s…”
“…It’s what?”
“It’s, uh… pale.”
“Wooow. Gee, thanks.” Ouma wasn’t that pale, was he? He stretched his hand out to properly inspect it. Okay, maybe Saihara had a point – but he didn’t need to say it out loud. “It’s the shitty lighting in here, probably. I don’t know. And Saihara-chan is pretty pale too, so I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Ah, no. See?” Saihara rolled up one of his sleeves and pointed to his forearm. “My skin has more olive undertones to it, so it makes me look more sickly and tired. But yours,” he pointed toward Ouma’s arm, “has more neutral tones, so it’s a lot creamier.” His voice even suddenly took on a new tone, and a rare thing happened: Ouma was speechless.
Idabashi returned with their food and a remote for Saihara. The broadcast didn’t look like it was on yet. Maybe Ouma could sneak a few words in before Saihara got all hypnotized again.
Yet Saihara beat him to the punch: “Your hands are… pretty feminine.”
“And your voice is pretty feminine,” Ouma automatically retorted. Saihara didn’t seem too perturbed, though.
“N-Not in a bad way. They’re just... not veiny. And they don’t have any blemishes either.”
“Wow, thank you, Saihara-chan! I guess I can finally follow my dreams and become a hand model.” Ouma took a thoughtful bite from his skewer. Where the hell was this conversation going? “Show me your hands, then. Let’s see if they hold any of these ‘masculine’ values that you’re talking about.”
“Oh, um. Here.” Saihara offered his hand that had picked up a skewer in the space between them.
The plan was for Ouma to pretend to give his hand a one-over, followed up by some colorful variety of an insult, but it ultimately crumbled when he accidentally actually looked at the guy’s hand. It didn’t exactly have blemishes, but the veins, the tendons, the size, the whole shebang was definitely there and definitely fit the definition of whatever the hell “masculine” was. Geez, did this guy really just give Ouma some type of spontaneous hand fetish or something?
Ouma leaned in to steal a bite of Saihara’s food. Saihara blinked a couple of times before he withdrew his hand. He opened his mouth to say something, but Ouma was probably never going to find out what it was. Danganronpa came on. And just like that, the spell was cast.
Ouma leaned against his hand as he watched. The camera looked like it was following someone around. Maybe that could get something out of Saihara. “Hey, Saihara-chan, who’s that?”
“Amami Rantaro, the Ultimate Adventurer.” Saihara’s voice wasn’t “feminine” anymore. It was almost enough to send a chill down the spine.
“And why’s the camera following him around?”
“Because he just put a razor underneath his tongue.”
“Oh wow. Isn’t that kinda dangerous? Why would he ever want to hurt somebody? I thought this was a nice little family show.” Saihara didn’t say anything. “I’m kidding. No need to shoot me down about it. Oh no, Saihara-chan, please don’t talk my ear off. One question at a time.” Saihara didn’t even budge. Ouma tried a new approach: “Why… is he doing that?”
“Because he just received a motive of one of his sisters asking him for help.” Saihara slowly blinked. “We may just get a murder tonight.” Duly noted: when Saihara was under Danganronpa’s spell, he’ll only make complete sentences if it’s about Danganronpa.
And not to mention his tone of voice. He had two, possibly three tones: his regular softer and stammer-y tone, the “I’m-dropping-everything-because-Danganronpa-is-on-right-now” tone that was distracted and scrapped the surface of gravely even, and then maybe Ouma had gotten a taste of a possible detective tone (the guy did say that he was shadowing his detective uncle or something, right?) that was a little too confident (like, what type of guy suddenly goes in depth about another guy’s skin and hands?).
“What, that’s it?” Ouma slipped out of his seat. “C’mon, Saihara-chan, I’m sure there’s more to the story than that. Oh, wait.” Ouma leaned over Saihara’s shoulder and took another bite of the chicken from his skewer. As expected, Saihara did nothing.
Ouma then went to take a dip in the grocery store section for once instead of the restaurant part. “Okay, you can answer now.” Once again, as expected, Saihara spoke.
“He got the motive this morning.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ouma popped open the display refrigerator. “This morning, huh? Ooh, every soda in the world is here!” He needed to pay more attention to the grocery store section after all.
“It was just his sister’s voice—it was probably an imitation—and he couldn’t stop watching it.”
“Ooh, yeah? Was it one of those brainwashing videos or something?” Seriously, any fruit that Ouma could think of that could be soda-ified, it was there. Pineapple, apple, cherry, orange—grape.
“He is an easygoing guy, so I’ve always kept my eye on him from the beginning.”
“Yeah, because the quiet guys are the ones to watch out for, right?” Kind of like Saihara, huh? Ouma shut the fridge a little too tightly. “Tell me more about Ami-chan.”
“…‘Ami-chan’?”
“Sorry, Amami-chan. Oh, and what does Saihara-chan like to drink?”
“…Tea. Amami Rantaro is an oddity. He’s a calm, easygoing guy on the outside but he mostly spends his time alone. And he occasionally makes troubling statements.”
“Like what? Spill the beans.” Not only was the store stocked with soda, but with tea too. There had to be a million different kinds from a million different countries. Ouma never knew that it was so complicated. He just always got whatever looked the most fun. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…” Looks like Saihara was going to be drinking… something very foreign. “Saihara-chan, do you like bottled French tea?”
“Sure…”
“Does Saihara-chan like Amami-chan too?”
“I’m not sure. He’s a fan favorite, but… I’m just unsure.” Ouma slid some bills on the counter for the drinks. Idabashi wasn’t even looking at him, he was fiddling with his tools again.
“Why is Saihara-chan unsure?” Ouma held the tea in front of Saihara’s face. Nothing. He waved the bottle, shook it, pretended to spray it in his face. Nothing again.
“Because I’m just unsure. There’s something about him.” Ouma uncapped the tea bottle and held it up to Saihara’s mouth. Ouma tapped the bottle against his lips at least three times before Saihara opened his mouth and actually allowed him to give him some tea like a mother giving a baby a bottle. Afterward, Saihara continued on like nothing happened: “There’s something about him that doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Doesn’t sit right with you?” Ouma parroted.
“Yes.” Ouma switched out the tea for the soda and offered it to Saihara. Saihara drank again like it was nothing. He didn’t even make a face or anything at the tea being switched out for soda.
“I-I can’t do this. This isn’t me! I’m not a killer!”
Saihara’s body jolted. Ouma glanced at the screen. Amami was spitting the razor out and crying. Then, Saihara moved finally. His frown returned when he went to take a bite of his food and only bit into an empty skewer.
day 3: soba
そば
noodles made from buckwheat flour.
Ouma is an idiot. He snatched up so much money just to spend it all on drinks. Was it worth it at the time? Yes. Was it worth not being able to afford dinner tonight? No.
“Ah, Ouma-kun, I’ll pay for it.” Once again: free money, free food. Forget formalities, Ouma wasn’t passing up such an offer.
He accidentally sat right next to Saihara. Getting up and moving to leave a seat between them would be a bad look, considering the guy was kind of helping him not starve. (Oh, so now you care about being polite?) So, Ouma didn’t move. Saihara didn’t seem to mind either.
Idabashi was twirling a wrench around his finger. “Are you two hungry? Good thing we have soba. How would you like it?” Ouma wanted hot kake soba with soy sauce, sweet mirin rice wine, and a dashi soup base – you know, the good stuff. And Saihara ordered cold green tea soba.
“You have the tastes of an old man,” Ouma murmured as he stole a spoonful of broth from Saihara’s bowl. Regret immediately invaded his taste buds. He crinkled his nose as he wiped off his contaminated spoon on the back of his hand. “That’s two out of three of your meals that I haven’t liked, Saihara-chan. That’s not good.”
“It’s also been three school days that you haven’t worn a uniform.”
“What? What’s wrong with that, Saihara-chan? Why can’t I take off my uniform at home before coming here?”
“Because… it’s a bit of an unusual thing to do.”
“Maybe I graduated.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe I dropped out.”
“I don’t think so either.”
“Maybe I dropped out so that I can launch my top secret, underground evil organization that’s going to liberate the Japanese youth, then liberate the worldwide youth, and then take over the entire world.”
“Ah, okay.” Saihara laughed. It was so quiet. Suited his soft tone, his soft everything. “I believe that.” He looked so much better when he was smiling. “I-I have an idea.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ouma took a long slurp from his spoon. “What is it? Is it a game? Please tell me it’s a game, I’m sooo bored.”
“Um, kind of.”
“Ooh, hurry up and tell me then!”
“If I manage to guess what high school you go to, then you’ll have to feed me my food when the show comes on.”
“Ew, what? That’s not a game. That’s not a prize. That’s not fun. That sounds like a nightmare come true.”
“I-I’m just really hungry and I want to eat when the show’s on…”
“Okay, well, that shouldn’t be a problem. You got cold noodles so they’re going to be the same temperature when the show is over.” No, no, no. Saihara was pouting. “Ugh, fiiine.” Ouma leaned over the counter. “You only get one guess.”
“Alright.” Saihara was already transitioning into the “detective” voice. “I go to Spring Field Academy and, even though I’m a new student, I’ve never seen you there before—so that’s off the list. So…” Saihara tapped his fingers against his bottom lip. “I’m going to go with… Imperial Capital’s Imperial High School.”
The plan was to deny every and any answer, but Saihara must have caught the split second face crack – Ouma needed to teach himself to not widen his eyes in shock – and he smiled one of those smiles when it’s so wide that a person’s eyes couldn’t help but close. “Ah, I guess I got it right?”
“I guess,” Ouma sighed. “How’d you know?” Saihara gestured his head downward. Ouma looked down. Oh. Did Ouma say he was an idiot before? Scratch that, because he was a super idiot. Mega idiot. He was wearing a T-shirt with his school logo on it. “It was free, I couldn’t turn it down,” he grumbled.
Danganronpa came on. Ouma couldn’t believe that he could recognize the theme song now. But Saihara wasn’t watching. He was still looking at him.
“Hm, it was free?” Saihara asked.
“Yes, wh—hey, don’t use your freaky detective powers on me!” Ouma took a spoonful of Saihara’s noodle broth and held it up for him. He ate it with a smile before he turned to the TV and let his face fall.
day 10: curry rice
カレーライス
japanese style curry over rice; a national obsession.
They were sharing a large plate of curry with literally every vegetable and meat possible in it: onions, carrots, potatoes with beef, pork, and chicken. Why? Because they couldn’t come to a consensus on what to get, so the solution was to get everything. (But Ouma made sure to pluck out the pork whenever it dared to come in contact with his fork.) Why were they even sharing a meal in the first place? Because Saihara had already spent a good portion of his allowance to buy gifts for his uncle’s birthday coming up tomorrow.
Saihara showed some pictures of what he bought on his phone: an extremely detailed travel journal (because his uncle really enjoyed traveling), a silver replica of a gun, and expensive (he didn’t specifically say the word “expensive,” but it was heavily implied in Ouma’s ears) oolong tea imported directly from China.
“Wooow,” Ouma breathed out as Saihara pocketed his phone. “Your uncle must be loaded. Your ‘allowance’ must be enough to rent an apartment down the street.”
“W-Well… My uncle is a renowned detective and does a lot of, um, high profile cases. S-So he’s a really good person to shadow.” Saihara started to twiddle his fingers together. “My skills aren’t that great, though…”
“Well, there was that one time when Saihara-chan was being all super, duper creepy looking at my skin and my hands, so.” Ouma shrugged. “You’re observant, at least.”
Saihara shook his head. “I’m only ‘observant’ because I can’t miss anything on the show. But, um, it looks like you usually wear random free T-shirts and you don’t really do your hair.”
“Is there some sort of meaning behind that?”
“Yes, it means… it means…” Shit, the show was on. “You see that girl right there?” And that voice was back. “Do you see the way her knees are shaking and how she keeps glancing at that other girl? There’s going to be a murder soon.”
“Oh, wow, that sounds great. Be sure to tell your ojii-chan that I said happy birthday.” That broke Saihara out of the trace. He blinked a couple times and frowned for a split second.
“‘Ojii-chan’? I was talking about my uncle, not my grandfather.”
“Oopsie, daisy. I meant ‘oji-chan.’ The words are too alike, you know how easy it is to get them mixed up.”
day 11: udon
うどん
thick wheat-flour noodles.
Saihara was wearing a hat along with a completely black outfit for some reason. It wasn’t his uniform but something pinstriped and proper, something that would make him blend in with the fancy businessmen trudging down the street. Ouma turned the hat around so that the bill faced backwards as he took his usual seat right next to Saihara.
Danganronpa had already started. Ouma was a little late because he was actually being a good kid for once and went back to school. He was even wearing his uniform as evidence for Saihara to pick up on. But after Ouma moved Saihara’s hat around and sat down, all Saihara did was slide a bowl of kitsune udon to Ouma. Rich broth, chewy noodles, fried tofu – Ouma felt appreciated. Saihara needed to give himself more credit in the “observant” department.
Ouma peeped over at Saihara’s bowl before he dug in to his own. Looked like Saihara had ordered moon-viewing udon – and there was a perfectly untouched poached egg just sitting on top of the uneaten noodles.
“How’d your uncle’s birthday go?”
“It was fine.” Saihara wasn’t in Danganronpa-viewing-mode. He was wringing his hands together. His eyes were wavering away from the screen. “I, um… We went south for the day so that I could assist him with a case.”
“Ooh, skipping school and solving crimes? How’d that go?”
“I solved it… by accident.” Ouma dipped his own chopsticks into Saihara’s bowl, scooped up some noodles, and held them up for Saihara. Saihara took the noodles into his mouth but didn’t chew, didn’t do anything with them.
“God, this is pitiful,” Ouma muttered. He tugged the noodles out of Saihara’s mouth and ate them himself. “What happened? And it better not be boring.”
“I-I lied.”
“You lied?” Ouma couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face. “Perfect boy Saihara-chan lied to little old me? Do tell~.”
“I, wha—Y-You’re not mad?” Saihara’s full attention was on Ouma now. He was still so nervous and jittery.
“How can I be mad? This is the best thing ever! What did you lie about? I bet it was something that I could never guess, too. Tell me, tell me, tell meee.” Ouma figured that he was getting all starry-eyed and he allowed the expression to make way. He couldn’t count how many times he just wanted to openly gaze at Saihara and couldn’t.
“W-Well, um… I didn’t move to live with my uncle because I wanted to be a detective. It was just something that, uh, happened along the way. A-And my uncle isn’t this top notch guy, he’s just really good at investigating things l-like… like infidelity and stuff. And my uncle isn’t the one who has money, it’s my parents. T-They’re, um, an actor and a screenwriter and they’re always overseas—so that’s why I moved in with my uncle. A-A-And they’re the ones who give me my allowance b-because they just… That’s the only thing they know how to give me: money.
“And the only case that I solved before was helping this girl in my class find her pet alligator and it was really, really hard. I had to climb around a mountain and swim up a river to find it, and then I assisted my uncle on one infidelity case, but then t-today I… I solved a murder and I j-just don’t know how to feel about it.” Saihara looked down and squeezed his eyes shut. He looked like he was ready to be gutted, to be condemned and tossed into the flames.
“I think you should feel decent about it. I mean, you caught a murderer—doesn’t matter if it’s on accident.”
“B-But I—” Ouma quickly scooped up some more noodles and prodded them against Saihara’s lips. “I—” Ouma kept tapping and tapping until Saihara finally sighed and ate them.
day 14: gyuudon
牛丼
fried thin cut beef on a bowl of rice.
Ouma picked out the poached egg from his beef bowl and put in Saihara’s bowl. Saihara picked out the pickled ginger from his beef bowl and put it in Ouma’s.
Saihara was still wearing that damned hat. Ouma always turned it around whenever he saw it. Out loud, he said it was because Saihara looked ugly with the hat on. On the inside, he knew it was because he hated the way the bill of the hat blocked Saihara’s eyes and cast a shadow over his face.
“You’re going back to school again?” Saihara gestured toward Ouma’s uniform.
“I’m afraid Saihara-chan is three days too late on that observation.”
“Why weren’t you going before?”
“None of your business. Did, uh, did that one girl kill that one girl yet or whatever?”
“Ah, n-no, but—” Saihara glanced toward the TV. “Look. She’s looking for weapons right now.”
day 18: hamburg
ハンバーグ
hamburger patty without the bun served over rice with vegetables and brown sauce.
“How’s school going?” Saihara asked.
“It’s fine, I guess. Why is Saihara-chan asking such boring questions?”
Ouma felt something touch his hand. It was Saihara. He was patting his hand. First a dad question and then a dad pat on the hand? What was this? (And why was Ouma melting a little inside?)
“You can talk to me when you’re ready, Ouma-kun.”
I don’t want to. It was on the tip of Ouma’s tongue. It wouldn’t be something out of place. It was a perfectly childish and bratty statement, but it got all choked up in Ouma’s throat. So, he moved to refill Saihara’s drink before the other had a chance to feel his hands tremble.
day 21: kaisendon
海鮮丼
raw seafood on a bowl of rice.
They were sharing a big bowl of kaisendon. Why? There was no reason why. Saihara could afford to get them both big bowls. There was no real answer to the question, just excuses from both sides.
“Saihara-chaaan, let’s play a game.”
“O-Okay?”
“We go back and forth, asking each other questions, and whoever refuses to answer loses and has to give the rest of the food to the winner.” Ouma only really suggested it because Saihara was curious about him. He knew it, but Saihara wasn’t the type to outright ask probing questions – so Ouma was directly giving him the opportunity to do so. He wanted to see how Saihara’s brain ticked, honestly. “I’ll go first! How much is Saihara-chan’s allowance?”
“It’s, um…”
“Ooh? Already about to lose?”
“N-No, it’s 20% of both of my parent’s finances, so I get about, um…” He coughed into his hand. “¥175,178 a week.” He said it so quietly and so fast that if Ouma wasn’t a money starved bastard and fluent in the language of the coin, he would’ve missed it.
“Oh. My. God.”
“Y-Yeah?”
“I thought it was enough to just have a boy crush, but a rich boy crush? Catch me, Saihara-chan, I think I might swoon!”
“Um, d-don’t do that. How much school did you miss?”
“Two weeks, I think. I dunno. Can you sponsor me?”
“Ah, I kind of am. I get you food all the time.” Saihara suddenly looked up. Idabashi wasn’t there. (He typically went into the back whenever they ate, assumedly working on whatever project that Ouma had only seen glimpses of in the form of various tools and gadgets that he didn’t recognize.) Saihara must’ve been looking out into space, apparently. “The first few times that you paid for your food, it was money that you pickpocketed, right?”
“Well, I am not a thief, but if I potentially was, though—how would Saihara-chan know that?”
“I saw through the window.”
Ouma hadn’t pickpocketed since the first few days he started eating at the grocerant (he decided to equally respect the establishment for what it was ever since he realized that they had an endless stock of Panta and even more goodies), so Saihara had been watching him even back then? The stool Ouma was sitting on suddenly became the most uncomfortable thing in the world.
“Were… Hm…” Saihara bit his lip – well, more like chewed on his bottom lip – and refocused his eyes on the counter. “A-Are you related to the Ouma’s that were involved in the car accident a few weeks ago with that one man big in the swine business? I-I, um, I was cleaning out my uncle’s office and I noticed that he turned away the case because it, uh… ‘solves itself.’ T-That just means that there’s no questioning what happened. Were you not compensated? I’m just confused why you don’t have any money…”
There were a million things that Ouma could’ve said, could’ve done – but he couldn’t.
Saihara was beginning to stammer out an apology, when suddenly a scream sliced through the air between them. The one girl that Saihara had said would surely murder was doing it, and Saihara’s demeanor completely changed. He was absolutely immersed instantaneously. And the only thing that Ouma could think about was if it were possible to come up with a way for Saihara to look only at him, but not look too deeply at the same time.
day 23: motsunabe
もつ鍋
a hot pot stew of pork or beef organs with cabbage and garlic chives.
“Danganronpa is going to be over soon.” The few remaining participants were collecting evidence for the upcoming trial. The murderer’s knees were getting shakier and shakier by the second. It looked like it was going to be a short trial if she wasn’t going to get it together soon.
“Is Saihara-chan still going to eat here afterward?” Idabashi decided to come in before Saihara could answer the question. Ouma silently cursed the man in his mind.
“If you guys are planning to eat here after this season’s over,” Idabashi announced, “you’ll be getting meals right from my boss.”
“Hm, you’re leaving?” Saihara asked.
“Mhm. This was always a temporary job. I just needed a little extra funding for my project to make sure that I didn’t go over budget, because that’s a nightmare. I’m already borrowing so much from so many different people, I literally can’t afford to pay back anything else.”
“What are you working on?” Saihara took the words right out of Ouma’s mouth.
“Just a robot for Danganronpa V3. They’ve expressed interest in making the audience more involved next season, so I’m submitting this robot that’s going to be able to take surveys from the audience and serve as this in-house camera feed. It’ll feel like you’re playing the game at home.”
“Ah, that sounds pretty amazing, Idabashi-kun! It’s really a shame that I won’t be able to take part of it.”
“What?” Ouma felt himself frown before he could stop himself. “Why wouldn’t you be able to take part of it? You’re getting tired of Danganronpa already?”
“Oh, no—never.” Saihara was giving him one of his classic easygoing smiles. The smaller variety when his lips parted just enough to show his pearly row of upper teeth, the one that managed to steal Ouma’s breath each and every time. But this time it was for all the wrong reasons. “It’s because I’m auditioning for next season.”
Ouma laughed. What else could he do but laugh at that? He laughed and laughed until tears formed in his eyes and his stomach (and chest) ached. “Saihara-chan is so funny, wow! I didn’t know you had it in you to tell such funny jokes like that! I’ve been worried that you didn’t even have a sense of humor at all!”
“Ah, no, Ouma-kun, I’m not joking. I’ll be graduating soon, so I’ll finally be able to make my own decision and audition. My uncle and aunt have been against it so I had to wai—O-Ouma-kun, where are you going?”
Ouma didn’t know to be honest. He just knew that he had to be anywhere in the world that wasn’t right next to Saihara. He didn’t even spare a glance back.
day 27: tofu
豆腐
curd made from mashed soybeans.
Ouma was going four days strong avoiding the grocerant, avoiding Saihara, until he had been called into the bank to discuss various things involving his parents’ inheritance and possible compensation. Basically: long boring discussions that was going to end in a disappointing transaction and more empty promises, just like his first meeting had been only twenty-six days ago on that fateful night when Ouma had walked into that damned store-slash-restaurant for the first time.
It must have been the red lights. The store’s darker aesthetic couldn’t help but stand out against the brighter, forcibly cheery neon hues that the other stores possessed. Ouma was looking. He was looking despite the fact that he had drilled it into his head that he was not going to look, he was just going to walk to the bank and back and not look after his meeting.
And Saihara was there. And Saihara saw him. (There might have been a chance that Saihara was the one who noticed him first all along.) And Saihara waved. Ouma felt a shudder go down his body. He honestly felt like he was going to puke more than anything. And he wasn’t starving, he had school there to provide his meal of the day again – free, too.
Ouma honestly didn’t know why his legs were leading him across the street and to the door, but they stopped when he was just a few steps behind Saihara. He didn’t dare to sit down.
There was a plate of silken tofu with a flower stalk for garnish in front of Saihara. He pushed it slightly to the side so that it was completely in Ouma’s view. “This reminds me of you,” Saihara said. “The whiteness reminds me of your skin.” There he was again, being creepy about his skin, and – honestly – Ouma was not that pale, and he hated it. He hated how much he deprived himself of four days’ worth of stupid conversations with this stupid boy over stupid plates and bowls of stupid food.
“Saihara-chan is weird for not only eating super soft raw tofu by itself, but for thinking about me while he’s doing it. What, are you picturing yourself eating my skin or something? Have you been fattening me up all along because you’re a cannibal and I’m going to be your last human meal?”
“N-No. It’s because… It’s because I missed you.”
“Really? You’re about to get yourself killed soon, so I don’t think you do.”
On the screen, Danganronpa looked like it was going through a trial. It couldn’t have been from the knee-wobbly girl, anymore. It must have been the last twisty turn-y trial of the season, the one that would drag on for days and days on end because finales were always grand affairs.
“It’s always been my dream to be on this show, Ouma-kun. And it’s perfect timing, too. With my detective skills, they might make me into an Ultimate Detective. I could even make history with that. An Ultimate Detective has never murdered another participant or been murdered directly by the hands of another participant before. I could be the one that changes that.”
“And why the fuck would you want to do that?”
“O-Ouma-kun, I wasn’t expecting for you to be… so concerned about me.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? You’re about to kill yourself, that’s just a little bit concerning, you know? Just…” Ouma felt his hands clench into themselves. “What was all this time we spent together for, then? Were you just wasting my time and wasting your time, talking to me and buttering me up just so you can leave me too?”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Idabashi poked his head in from the kitchen. “If you two are going to fight, take it outside. I’m working on something with the robot and I won’t be able to concentrate if you two start arguing.”
Take it outside, they did.
It was the first time they had ever stepped outside together. Ouma was always the one who left first, so they never had an opportunity to leave or walk out together before. Now, they both stood underneath the store sign, just barely tucked away from the busybodies on the sidewalk. It was like crossing the threshold.
“I…” Saihara sighed and stuck his hands into his pockets. He was taller than Ouma when they sat, but he truly towered over them now that they were standing so closely side to side. Ouma had felt small his entire life, but now he felt like an ant ready to get squished. It was a suffocating feeling. “I-I wasn’t expecting for you to care so much about me, Ouma-kun. But, it’s my dream to be on the show, you know? I’m really sorry. And the time we spent together means a lot to me. W-When I first moved here, I didn’t have many friends. No one was close to me except for my uncle. I wasn’t expecting this but… You seriously made me reconsider the past few days when you didn’t come around.”
“Then don’t do it, idiot. You’ll be good as dead or stuck in the cycle. Danganronpa is a trap.”
“I know. I’m aware…”
“Then why do you want to be a part of it so badly?”
“I, um… I can’t answer that, honestly. It’s just something I’ve always wanted. I’m sorry.”
Saihara didn’t stop Ouma when he walked away again.
day 28: sushi
寿司
small balls or rolls of vinegar-flavored cold cooked rice served with a garnish of raw fish, vegetables, or egg.
Saihara’s eyes were wide and his mouth must have hung open for a good minute. “Y-You’re back?” Ouma just took the seat beside him wordlessly. Saihara quickly ordered another platter of sushi for him. “Ouma-kun, I’m sorry. I-I really am. Um…” Saihara slid his own food over to him. “How about this?”
“Just watch your stupid show. You’re going to miss the end of the finale.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Idabashi’s voice called out again. “If you’re going to argue, take it outside again. I don’t need bad influences on the bot!”
“We’re not arguing—!” Ouma nearly choked on his retort, as he was being dragged out of his seat by the hand. Saihara wasn’t leading him outside, but to the grocery store section. When they were tucked behind a few aisles, he stopped, but didn’t let go of Ouma’s hand.
“Ouma-kun,” Saihara held Ouma’s hand up and clutched it in the space between them, “I wasn’t expecting for our friendship to happen, but it’s okay. I don’t want you to get hurt so… so just forget about me, okay?”
“That’s easier said than done.”
Saihara gave him The Look. The same look that the police officers gave Ouma after the accident. The same look that the lawyers and banktellers gave him. The same look the teachers gave him before assigning disciplinary actions to him. The same look his parents gave him when he came home too late and too slowly. The same look the pig that killed his parents gave him before stiffly apologizing and walking out of the courtroom.
But none of those people have ever hugged him before.
And Saihara was everything that he was supposed to be: soft and warm. He was everything. Ouma couldn’t help but claw his fingers into Saihara’s back – from shock, from surprise, from something else he couldn’t quite put a label on.
“I-I’m just some nobody t-that you eat dinner at midnight with every night,” he heard Saihara murmur, “but… I feel the same way… I was even thinking about auditioning for the season after the next so that we could spend more time together, but that would just make things more painful.”
“Then don’t go.”
“I’m… I’m sorry. I have to.”
day 29: onigiri
寿司
white rice formed into triangular or cylindrical shapes and often wrapped in seaweed and traditionally filled with salty or sour ingredients.
Ouma was on the verge of tears and he hated it. He wanted to chain Saihara down his seat so that he could never leave. Ouma wanted to do a million things, but he couldn’t. He could only sit and watch TV with the other boy. He was even willing to watch this show that was the same thing over and over again forever if he had to.
The final trial always ended in the same conclusion: the mastermind was revealed and there’s a final showdown with them and the participants. It’s miserable. Ouma felt absolutely miserable. “How can you even like this show so much when you know what’s going to happen?”
Saihara barely managed to shrug, still entranced. “It just never fails to give me this sense of excitement each time.” His arm moved, though. Ouma felt a hand on his knee. He didn’t realize that he had been shaking so badly and bumping into Saihara’s seat.
The mastermind’s execution was coming. Ouma decided to dive into his food. Execution. Saihara had mentioned that an “Ultimate Detective” had never been executed or murdered or something. Would getting killed really make that bastard happy? Ouma felt a squeeze on his knee. “You’re shaking again,” Saihara murmured.
“Don’t go…”
Saihara tore his eyes away from the screen and looked at him. It was obviously a difficult feat for him to do. The show had managed to cage him completely under its spell. There was no breaking him out, was there?
“Ah, don’t cry! It’ll be okay.” Saihara pulled his hand from Ouma’s knee and patted his shoulder. “Okay, Ouma-kun? It’s going to be fine.” He kissed his cheek. The touch was so timid, so slow. It didn’t even feel real. It probably wasn’t. “When I’m gone, you’re going to make a lot of new, better friends and forget all about me and move on, alright? You have… You have an infectious personality and it’s going to draw so many different people in. I can’t be your only friend.” Ouma had nothing to say.
A few more minutes passed. The mastermind’s execution was halted to give another twist or another. All the participants except one were going to be sacrificed or something. It didn’t matter because Saihara was getting up. A flicker of panic flared in Ouma’s chest. Saihara never got up first, it was always Ouma. It was an unspoken rule in between them.
“I have to go now. I promised my uncle that I would get home earlier so that I can help him pack for his flight in the morning. But…” Saihara put a hand on Ouma’s shoulder again. He sighed. At least he wasn’t looking at Ouma pitifully again.
Saihara sucked in a deep breath before he kissed Ouma. Time must have stopped for a moment. It could’ve been seconds, hours – but it still wasn’t enough. He was gone too soon. It was something displaced, nonsensical. Something that wasn’t meant to happen between them. It was all sealed away in the fleeting press between their lips.
“Goodnight. And please don’t be sad, Ouma-kun.” He looked back as he opened the store’s doors. “And don’t watch next season either. T-That’s… That’s probably not a good idea.” He waved before he left.
day 30: sukiyaki
すき焼き
soup consisting of sliced meat, especially beef, fried rapidly with vegetables and sauce then usually dipped in a bowl of raw eggs – usually a winter dish.
Sukiyaki. Ouma’s favorite. Personalized especially to his tastes with jelly noodles, garland chrysanthemum leaves, and boiled mochi. He probably mentioned his tastes to Saihara only once and Saihara, being ever the detective, must have eternally stored it into his memory.
Ouma frowned down at the food and tapped his fingers against the counter, waiting and waiting. The seat next to him was empty and the TV in front of him was off.
Idabashi came out. Ouma eyed the new bandages across the man’s face and arms. “Just a little accident with Kiibo.” Idabashi shrugged.
“‘Kiibo’?”
“That’s what they’re naming the robot.”
“Wow, that’s very cool. I hope Idabashi-chan gets well soon. Anywho, where’s Saihara-chan?”
“Well, he came in here and ordered this ‘cause he said it was your favorite or something? And then he got a callback for his audition, so he had to go.” Idabashi slid the receipt over. It read that Saihara had been there about twenty minutes ago when he had ordered the food. Twenty minutes too late. There was nothing left to do but crumple the receipt up and— “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Turn it over.” Turn it over?
“I’m sorry I had to go. I wish that we could have spent more time together. Every day over the past month while I was at school or working with my uncle, all I could think about was eating with you and spending time with you and how pale your skin looks in the moonlight, but I wish that I could’ve seen it in the daytime too. (Ah, writing it out now makes me realize that it does sound a little creepy…) I’m sorry that it didn’t happen. Thank you for spending time with me. My only request is that you throw this receipt away and forget all about me. I don’t want you to be in any more pain.”
Ouma shoved the receipt into his pocket and ran faster than he ever had in his life.
∞
Ouma wasn’t sure what was fueling the fire underneath his feet. Perhaps it was obsession. Perhaps he should have rightfully labeled it as loneliness.
The Danganronpa audition center resided on an infamous block in town. Even Ouma knew where it was in a heartbeat.
A light bulb blinked on overhead. He was in a dingy white room with a (obviously two-way) mirror facing the entrance doors. Ouma walked right up to it and banged on the glass. “Hellooo? Anybody home?"
Intercom static. The voice came out tinny and reverberated off the walls. “We’re sorry, but the audition process has just closed.” It wasn’t an automatic voice but a live human one. There was still some hope.
“I don’t care, you gotta let me in! I’m batshit crazy, I’m going to be the best entertainment you’ve ever had! Trust me, I’m going to be a fan favorite! I bet I’m even going to be the main reason people watch!” He laughed to seal the deal. It came from the pit of his stomach, deep and pouring enough to tug at his chest.
It was a long back and forth, but he was always relentless and slimy and seeping with charm. It must have been his “infectious personality.” It worked in almost all situations.
“What’s your name?” He gave it. “‘Ouma’ is acceptable but that first name isn’t. It will be changed.”
“What? What’s wrong with my—?”
“You can’t have your cake and eat it too.” The mirror split open right down the middle and pulled apart to reveal a long white corridor. “We usually do not accept late admissions so your audition better be phenomenal.”
“Ooh, I’ll be better than just ‘phenomenal.’ Trust me.”
∞
It was a particularly slow and hazy night in the Ultimate Academy. Shuichi and Kokichi had gradually come together, lazing through the courtyard to the slow rhythm of the omnipresent moon and stars sealed away by the glass dome.
“I wonder—” Shuichi did that a lot, Kokichi noticed: wondering. “—if we were all connected in the past. I mean, since we’re all ultimate students…”
“I don’t know.” Kokichi shrugged. “Maybe.”
Shuichi slowly nodded. He didn’t look like he was deep in thought for once. He didn’t look exactly relaxed either – as being relaxed was impossible in their situation – but he just looked a little at ease for once. He wasn’t tightlipped or frowning, his eyebrows weren’t furrowed, his body didn’t look as rigid or tense as usual. He looked like he had allowed himself to become lost into the night for at least one fleeting moment.
“Ah,” Shuichi only blinked and some of the anxious air had already fluttered back about him. “I wanted to thank you for what you said earlier.”
“Hm?” Kokichi tapped his finger against his chin and rolled his eyes up in mock thought. “Which thing? I talk a lot, you know. Saihara-chan is going to have to jog my memory.” Kokichi already had a feeling of what it was, though.
“About how if the motive is going to be used you would want… A-Akamatsu-san to be brought back because it would make me happy… Thank you.”
“Oh, Saihara-chan, you’re still thinking about that?” Kokichi’s hand flinched to his pocket. The one with the torn paper all rumpled, wrinkled, and creased up beyond recognition. (He had long figured that it must have been a mistake. Something mistaken for lint when he was entrapped, so it was never taken from his clothes. Another clue that fueled him to keep searching through the cover of the night and the shadows of the day for the truth.)
Shuichi brushed their hands together. It happened accidentally before, but the entwining of their little fingers was all too purposeful now. “I-I can’t just stop thinking about it,” he mumbled as he turned his head in the opposite direction. “I wasn’t expecting for you to say something so… so nice.”
Kokichi turned his head away, too. “It’s nothing, Saihara-chan. Don’t flatter yourself,” he murmured.