Chapter Text
Blue, green, yellow, white...
It flies past him in splashes of color. The deep blue of the sky stretching before him, bright greens of the plains rolling past, as well as the yellowing of rice stalks, fluffy white clouds dotting the sky.
He hated this place.
"Beautiful scenery!" His parents commented, "Such a peaceful place! You're lucky to be sent somewhere so wonderful," they chimed.
Each remark was like a sickening jab to his stomach.
Their words were nothing more than a poisonous apple hiding beneath a sugary caramel coating. So sweet that it even made his tastebuds recoil in disgust at how blatantly fake it was. And that was saying something.
The Ouma reflected in the car window scowls, and he scowls back. His cheek is smooshed against his palm as he idly looks out at the Hell that he was supposed to become acquainted with, and the agitation simmering in his stomach rose to a boil. It's the steam that gets to his head and makes him sneer.
Raising his head, he met them with the same sickeningly saccharine tone they had met him with moments earlier. "Yeah, some place wonderful where I can spend my days working as a slave on a farm until I die! Instead of spending this wonderful fall with people I actually know."
The space between him and his parents, which had been so alive with chatter, fell silent. Instead of forced, cheery remarks, there was nothing but a tension so thick that Ouma was sure he could cut through it with a knife, if he had brought one.
"You better watch your tongue, boy." His father is the one who breaks the silence, the deep rumble of his voice grating on his ears. Ouma's voice was too high pitched, too chipper, like the incessant chirping of a bird that didn't know when to quit. Compare the two voices and anyone would be surprised to learn that he was the son of such a man.
"Or what?" The snark in his voice is like that of a whip; quick, lashing, and sharp enough to leave a sting. "What's stopping me from jumping out of this car right now and becoming a hitchhiker for the rest of my life?"
"Child's lock, that's what."
The frantic jiggling of the door handle only confirmed his father's words. There really was no way out of this hellhole of a car. For a moment, just a brief moment, he cursed toddlers and their habit of finding any way to get injured, even when it seemed impossible to do so.
As the sun peeked out from the clouds and shined on his face, his hope dimmed and flickered out.
"Come on, dear... Only a few more miles until we get there. They'll deal with him then." While Ouma had the voice of a bird, with all of its chirping, erratic changes, his mother had the voice of a caged fowl that was merely watching the days go by. Her voice, while chittery, barely varied in tone, and her words were stilted and ended in such an odd way that you'd think she was trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Like she was right now.
Worst of all, though, was the fact they were both treating him like some kind of animal.
As if he were some rowdy puppy who misbehaved one too many times, caught amidst his mischief in the shreds of newspaper that surrounded him. As if they were dropping him off at an obedience school to whip him into shape. A perfectly boring shape with straight edges and sharp corners, with none of the fun curves and arches other shapes had.
Was it so wrong to cut loose every once in a while?
He bitterly jammed his finger against a button to roll the window down, wind brushing against his face as he continued his staring contest with the outside world. Splashes of color flew past but, as far as he was concerned, they could have been black and white and he wouldn't have cared.
Blue, green, yellow, white.
Grey, dark grey, light grey, white.
The purple of his hair as it smacked against his face and left a light sting against his skin.
Life was one of the few things you couldn't predict down to the second. You could have a walk in the park on Tuesday, but your plans could be ruined by a downpour of rain. You could go out for coffee but, whoops! Looks like you've been struck by lightning and now you have to go to the hospital! Dinosaurs could invade and zombies could become real, because no matter how much of a minute chance it had, there was still that chance of it happening.
Life was unpredictable, but Ouma was set on predicting one thing as he watched the scenery roll by.
This place was going to be his least favorite place on this planet, and he was going to detest every second of it.
...Well, second least favorite place.
Pebbles pop and scratch against the tires as they pulled up into the driveway and off the dirt road, car rumbling as they came to a stop. He swore he could hear the funeral bells tolling for his head, each strike a countdown to his inevitable doom. While his parents left the car to greet the old looking woman sitting on a rocking chair on her porch, Ouma drearily slid out of his seat as if he were a barely alive corpse, out of the backseat and his feet planting themselves onto the ground.
Instead of the comforting sight of packed together and towering buildings, flashing citylights, or idle conversation of people passing by, he was only faced with land. Land, land, and more land, grass stretching before him like an ocean, the shore a forest of fire-colored trees that surrounded them at all sides. The only sign of human life here was the rickety old house his parents were approaching, as well as the bright red barn situated near it.
If there was any sight that could be described as the picture of solitude, then this would be it.
Ouma crossed his arms, rubbing his hands up and down along his pitch black sleeves for some semblance of comfort. Then for warmth when a cold autumn breeze bled through the fabric of his clothing, and suddenly the white torso of his sweatshirt made him feel like he stood out like a sore thumb against the green of grass and warm colors of fall. His pants were white as well and, considering farmwork, he was also beginning to think he didn't pick his clothing very well amidst his fury of being banished from his own home to such a remote and rustic place.
Well, whatever. There's always weaseling his way out of work, which he would proudly consider to be one of his talents.
Shuffling his feet along the grass, cold dew droplets brushed against his ankles and left little trails of water against his skin. The smell of wet dust hit his nose almost immediately, making his face scrunch up in a desperate effort to keep himself from sneezing. It took a good two seconds for him to fail.
An "achoo!" was as about as useful as an explosion going off, because all it did was draw his parents attention to him.
"Kokichi," they called, waving him to the porch, "come meet the woman you're going to be staying with!" He peered past the car to look at the woman they spoke of— a short, tanned woman rocking back and forth in a rocking chair, white hair tied back into a bun and wearing a plain dark blue dress with an apron over it. Her eyes tapered into points, which had flickered from her parents to gaze curiously at him now.
Good behaving kids would walk over without any qualms. Good behaving kids would bow their head, greet them politely, and thank them for so graciously deciding to allow someone as lowly as them to stay in their house.
Ouma clenched his fists and ran, into the forest of trees without looking back once. He almost didn't hear the furious shouts of his parents through the whistling of wind in his ears.
It's when the sun begins to set and darkness began to blanket the forest that Ouma realizes hey, maybe blindly taking off into a sea of trees wasn't exactly the best idea he's had yet. In his defense, though, he severely underestimated trees and their ability to look the exact same.
Normally, he wouldn't be so reckless. Leaving bread crumbs or bringing a ball of yarn to track his progress would be the more thoughtful thing to do. Sometimes the stress just builds until it reaches the point where it feels like the only way out was to flee.
The only thing he has to guide him is the sound of water rushing along a creek, accompanied by the song of crickets chirping and owls hooting. It's this that brings him at ease, the tension leaving his shoulders as he picked his way along crunchy fall leaves and between tree trunks, the sound getting louder and louder as he drew ever nearer.
And then a person, too focused on their work to even notice him.
A boy he's never seen before, that's for sure. Taller than him, much to Ouma's chagrin, towering over the river in front of him. His feet, covered by black rubber boots, were placed firmly on two small rocks that were damp with river water, and as he walked along, placed themselves on even smaller and wetter rocks with a sort of practiced ease and balance, as if he had been doing this sort of thing his whole life. Water splashed and danced off his boots, as gracefully as the man was walking across small purchases and curved tips without much care in the world.
In his grip was an old fashioned fishing rod with a polished but scratched black pulley that served as the reel, one hand on the handle, and the other firmly grabbing the loop to control the line. He reaches back, the rod rising in the air with a practiced swing, then forward, and the fly caught the air, carried on the breeze until it landed on the water's surface with an almost inaudible plunk.
It's after when Ouma notices the boy had become as still as a statue, unmoving, save for the slight rising and falling of his chest as he took easy, slow breaths. His pants, which were as black as his boots were (just minus some of the mud), were actually suspenders, his white and slightly soiled dress shirt tucked neatly under the belt. His sleeves were rolled up to just above his elbows, and while Ouma couldn't see his face, he noted that the only thing that was a darker blue than the river itself was the boy's hair, almost black in what little sunlight that had remained. A dark tweed cap was firmly pulled over his head, the brim dipping over his eyes a bit.
Then his body suddenly tensed, and his arms pull back as something takes hold of the fly. It's only then when he noticed bandages, dirt smudged over white gauze, were wrapped around his hands.
For a moment, there was nothing but the tug of war between man and fish. As the boy pulled, the water splashed some more, water droplets dazzling in the dim light of the forest. Despite the fish's best efforts, the rippling of water only drew closer and closer to its captor, and then...
...Instead of pulling the fish out of the water, the fisher knelt, reaching for a handmade net and scooping the fish up, fishing rod discarded to the side. Unhooking the fish, he dipped the net back into water and let it swim free. For the first time, he spoke, though it was a mumble intended for no one's ears but his own.
"...Probably about time to head back now, huh..."
It was a cue for an introduction if Ouma had ever heard one. So he stepped forward, allowing himself to fall forward and hit the floor.
"EEYAAAAAAAAAAUGH!"
An earsplitting shriek oughta do it. And oughta do it it did, because the stranger immediately spun around at the sound, eyes wide and body tense. The miserable sobs and sighs from Ouma are what spurs him into action and, soon enough, he caught the sight of one of those bandaged hands being offered to him.
"A-are you alright, sir...?"
It wasn't just the mumble. This person was softspoken, as if afraid of making too much noise. Perhaps that was for the best, as plenty of dangerous things tended to come crawling out when night came. Glancing up, Ouma caught sight of his face, and there's something about it that seemed faintly but oddly familiar to him.
Taking the stranger's hand in his, he got to his feet, brushing his pants off with one hand and rubbing at his teary eyes with the other. "'m-'m fine... aside from some internal bleeding, I think..." He stuttered, knees pathetically quaking.
Concern flashed across the other boy's face, mouth hanging open, but Ouma beats him to the punch.
"Thaaat was a lie! Nishishi, do you really just fall for everyone that comes your way?" With a playful wink, he folded his hands behind his head, and he desperately tries to ignore the throbbing pain against his ribs. A sure-bruise from landing on a rock that jutted out just a little too much. The taller boy's face twists in confusion, eyebrows knitting together and a frown tugging at his lips. Before he can speak, Ouma interrupts him again.
"So! What's a tall guy like you doing in the woods so late?" He leaned forward slightly and folded his arms behind his back in curiosity, before he popped back into standing completely straight, eyes suddenly wide and fingers clawed in almost comedic shock. "Don't tell me! Are you here to... b-b-b-b-bury a body?! W-w-waaaah!" Big tears rushed out of his eyes and down his cheeks. "P-please don't kill me for being a witness, Jaaason-chaaaan!"
"J-Jason—?! N-no!" The boy's lips fumbled as he desperately tried to defend himself against the accusations flung against him. "I-I was jus'— just fishinn—ing, sir...!" The way he talked was definitely odd, as if repeatedly trying to correct himself before something slipped. He stopped, relaxed, then took a breath before speaking again. "...Ayu fishing. My father taught me how to ayu fish when I was a kid, so I do it in my free time. Speaking of... if you'll excuse me for a moment..." He turned, stooping down to pick his fishing supplies off the ground.
"Woah, so you're like a samurai?" Pleased with the way things had unfolded, Ouma gazed at him with a cattish grin.
"...A-am— I am not." With a long, drawn out sigh, the boy faced him again. "...My name's Saihara Shuuichi. It's a pleasure to meet you. " And with that, he bowed, wooden rod dipping slightly with the motion. He was polite, he noted, almost too polite. "And yours?"
"Iiiit's..." Ouma paused, thoughtfully pressing the tip of his finger into his own cheek. "...Nonyabidness-chan! How about that? Ooh, how about you call me Nonyabidness-sama?!"
The stranger's— Saihara's eyebrows draw together in only more confusion, before he obviously gives up on trying to get an answer out of him by letting out another sigh. "...Are you lost?"
"Nope! I'm a ghost who wanders the forest and follows strangers like you to their home so I can watch them sleep all night."
"Please don't."
"Nishishi, who knoooows? Oh, but that could've been a lie, too..."
Saihara's expression could only be described as 'it's too late for this shit', but the boy's too polite for a word like that... Maybe 'it's too late for this tomfoolery'? The thought makes him chuckle.
"Right... Um, anyways, it's probably best if you just follow me back to where I live. Ma can decide what to do after."
Ouma's exclamation of "you have a mom?!" went ignored by the other boy, who leisurely walked back into the forest of trees, with the smaller boy tailing after him. Despite all his jabs and attempts to get under Saihara's skin, he was, deep down, secretly grateful he had found him— sleeping in the dirt with insects was unfitting for someone like himself.
The fishing rod bobbed slightly with every step Saihara took, the fishing net tangled in the fingers of his other hand. Staring at the back of the other boy made Ouma realize just how built he was— the way his muscles moved under his shirt and the way his arms were defined indicated he wasn't the type to just sit around and drink tea. A stark contrast to himself, who had, admittedly, sticks for arms and long, thin bony twigs for fingers.
Not only that, but he finally realized why his face had been so faintly familiar. The way his eyes tapered and the golden hue of his irises were almost identical to the eyes of the old lady on the porch. He's convinced now that that old lady was the 'Ma' he had spoken of earlier.
So this was the boy he was going to live with, then.
Maybe this stay won't be as bad as he thought it was going to be. Maybe, it'll be just a smidge better than burning alive in Hell.