Chapter Text
Second year of college. Alcohol, with a side of cigarette smoke that permeated the air and invaded his lungs. Crowds of not-quite-but-still babyfaced partygoers intermingling with each other, feet-aching heels mixing with all too polished dress shoes. Short skirts blending with prim and proper button ups until it all coagulated together in a blur.
The perfect setup for your local American college movie. Why American college movie specifically? He's not quite sure why— perhaps it's because of the large "HAWAIIAN FRUIT PUNCH" printed onto a plastic gallon that had been discarded on the floor instead of a trash bin. Or perhaps it was because there wouldn't even be a fraternity on school grounds if it weren't for the head frat boy himself, Momota Kaito.
Supposedly and according to numerous sources, the only reason they formed a fraternity in the first place is because the aspiring astronaut had binged on one too many college movies one night and thought it would be a brilliant idea to bring the concept to their campus. And thus began his spiral, as well as the spiral of the innocent bystanders he dubbed his friends as he dragged them into petitioning and fraternity work like unwilling slaves. The man had boasted it was for "brotherhood" and "bonding", but what went unspoken was that this bonding was done through the secret ritual of getting shitfaced drunk at big boistrous parties.
Luminary of the stars and pioneer of the worst kinds of things.
The very first party of a recently formed fraternity spelled nothing but disaster. And like a moth to light, Ouma was drawn to it.
Perhaps it was the promise of blackmail, or maybe it was because seeing a bunch of boistrous party animals embarrassing themselves was an interesting thought. Or maybe it was because he'd rather be spending his night doing anything that wasn't reading over mindnumbingly boring politics papers. Or maybe, just maybe it was all three.
Either way, Ouma eventually found himself slipping into the house, which was easy enough by itself; all it took was a few expert jiggles of his lockpick on one of the back doors before he was in, dusty shoes mixing in with stilettos and high class sneakers. He was just another face in the crowd, as his combo of sweatshirts and sweatpants didn't stand out that much from his fellow college kids. Though he was squeezed in uncomfortably tight between the shoulders of a large, muscular man and a thin woman who looked like she was entirely too unsure on where she was at that moment, he decided that, maybe, things won't be so bad.
Drunken idiots tripping over the plastic gallon he had noted earlier, dancing against each other in a blatantly erotic fashion, and lights flashing, dazzling in his eyes. Tossed and jostled around the crowd with unnerving ease, it's probably because of his considerably frailer body that he's so easily shoved around. Even though he hadn't had a single shot, a dull ache still hammered at the back of his skull.
It's been an hour and he already desperately wants to go home.
It's not like his little crusade to find blackmail had been unsuccessful. Oh no, it was rather the opposite. His phone's library was stuffed to the brim of douches making absolute fools of themselves in their drunken haze, either by stripping naked, getting rejected in the worst kind of ways, or generally doing all around stupid humiliating things that they would never otherwise do. It's just that he can only get knocked about so much before his body began to ache, can only take so much smoke until his lungs began to itch.
He can only endure so much of the obnoxious behavior that followed a fraternity, which he may or may not have underestimated a little bit.
Ouma's eyes squint through the suffocating haze of smoke that blanketed the room, gaze frantically darting back and forth for any semblance of an exit. There's a few open windows, some doors that may or may not be locked, and an arm wrapping around his shoulder.
...Oh boy.
Despite the reek of alcohol that immediately invaded his senses, Ouma managed to keep a perfectly blank face, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, warning bells immediately ding-dong-dinging him to get the hell out of there.
"'Eeey, Ouma... Y'seen Shoochi anywhere? Can't find him..."
At the slurring of head frat boy himself, Momota Kaito, that ding-dong-dinging escalated to deafening cling-clang-clanking inside of his head. And yet, despite all the warning signs, Ouma forced a smile on his face. Momota was either too drunk or too stupid to notice that he wasn't supposed to be there. It's fine. Everything's just fine.
"Nope! What, did you already lose one of your precious frat boys already? Nishishi, I doubt the higher ups will be pleased with that..." It isn't wise to poke the sleeping (or drunk) bear, and yet he still can't stop that jeering edge from creeping into his tone. Momota groaned, and Ouma barely caught himself by stepping back when the goatee'd man's body swayed. If he was lucky, Momota would pass out shitfaced on the floor before he could get another word out.
"Nuhhh— Nahh! Y'know a great astronaut like me would neeeever endanger muh sidekick! Shoobi's not even a part of the fart— frat... 's just here 'cuz he helped with the petitionin' and all that borin' crap... But I can't find 'im! Ran off somewhere!" Alas, that was only but a fantasy, and this was reality. A reality where Momota slurred into his ear in a grating, rough voice that could barely form full sentences.
Part of him is tempted to blackmail Momota with the video of him hitting on some girl before being slapped in front of his audience of partygoers, and part of him really doesn't feel like getting throttled by a musclehead who had one too many drinks. So, instead, he opted for nimbly slipping his body out of his grasp, his mind already calculating the fastest route to break it for the exit.
...Petitioning, though, huh. A little strange, since Ouma could recall that Saihara had been diagnosed with some kind of health defect that made it difficult for him to go out in sunlight without suffering severe burns. His disease was severe enough that he took night classes. Although it was something he had only heard through the grapevine, yet still, if it were true, then that meant petitioning took place sometime before college began, most likely during summer...
He tells himself he'll muse on it later, shoving the thought away behind lock and key.
"Well, great! Wonderful! I'll text you if I see him. I'm sure Shoobi-chan would love to know that you've been looking for him." The lie slipped out of his lips as easily as butter, startlingly different when compared to the way Momota tightly and harshly seized his arm again, fingers digging into his skin.
"Oi, Oumer. That reminds me... 'Shmoogi wanted to play a round o'— of beer checkers since yer such a lil shithead politic major who's good at that mindgames kinda stuff. She's surprisingly good at that game, ya know." Ouma's face twisted at the way Momota rambled and how he shoved too many words into one sentence. He, for example, would use "expert liar" instead of "lil shithead politic major", as it would have gotten the point across far more quickly.
Ouma never got the chance to say it though, stolen away by the all too strong tug of a man who was clearly drunk on beer and his own ideals. He's sure he'll find finger-shaped bruises on his arm the next morning, when this party was nothing but a fleeting nightmare of a memory.
In the guidebook people called common sense, it was rule number two to never drink at a party. Not even the punch, which could be spiked, and especially not the alcohol, which also could be spiked with another drink that meshed horribly with the taste. Right after rule number one, which was "murder is bad".
As long as he abides by his common sense, he'll be fine. Right?
Wrong.
It turns out that Shirogane really was good at checkers. For such a plain girl, the way she moved her checkers (or shots, really) about the board was with such a calculated expertise that even Ouma had to begrudgingly admit her skill was on par with his own. It's not like anyone would ever hear him say it out loud, though. She even managed to beat him in a very close win, but of course he had proclaimed it was because he let her win, the alcohol soaking in his brain and lingering on his numbing tongue. He's not sure he'll feel it later.
Reality melts into nothing but a groggy haze of warmth and dizziness, his thoughts stewing in the soup he called his mind. Even his footsteps were distant— booming music and the chatter of other people melding and mishmashing together until it felt like they were next door.
Stumbling through the crowd with as much grace as a horse on heels, Ouma wormed his way between shoulders and torsos, his hands blindly grasping then shoving people aside to make room for himself. Their shouts and grumbles went in one ear and out the other; he was far more concerned with that door that would get him out of this hell pit of a party.
When his fingertips touched cool, somewhat sticky metal, Ouma paused for a moment to thank the gods that he was finally free. Stepping outside, he took a deep breath of fresh air, clearing the smoke from his lungs, eyes closing to enjoy the cool breeze on his face, and...
...He's not quite sure what he's supposed to do now.
Any attempt at collecting his thoughts was like trying to grab at water, ideas and plans slipping through his fingers as if they were sand. He took one step, then another, and he found himself wandering blindly down a sidewalk, eyes staring up at the pinpricks of stars dotting the sky. Sailors did this to find their way, right? Yeah. His gaze picked out the north star, breath coming out in frosty clouds in front of him.
He'll figure something out.
Ouma, in fact, did not figure something out and was now completely and utterly lost.
Lights dance in his vision, from the buildings, the cars that zoom by, glaring right into his eyes... It went from his eyes and then to his stomach in a tight ball of nausea, and he's not even sure anymore if it's from the alcohol or light. Leaning against a wall, he held his arms over his stomach, lips twisting into a grimace. He didn't really have too many shots, but then again, he never thought of himself as a drinker, never really made a habit out of it either...
"Ughh... I'm gonna dieee..." With a soft groan, Ouma ducked for the darkest place possible, which was a nearby alleyway because of course nothing could go wrong there.
His mouth tasted faintly like that time he had licked hand sanitizer in Elementary School.
Loudly smacking his lips for no other reason than he can, Ouma stumbled deeper into the alleyway, before stumbling over his own two feet with a yell.
A sharp pain shot through his tongue and he instantly knew he made a terrible mistake. Well, at least he knew he had feeling there.
The taste of metal blossomed on his tongue and, leaning against the wall, he spat out a mix of blood and saliva on the floor. Perfect. "Fantashtic."
Crossing his arms, he adjusted himself into a more comfortable position, his back now pressing against the building. The cool autumn breeze drifted down the alley, bleeding through his sweatshirt and making his body shiver. "I'm cold..." He whined to no one except himself. "Cold, abandoned, and lonely..." His tongue was numb and barely moved beyond all the pain, and it was a miracle in and lf itself that he could even form words without lisping it into an alphabet soup. Hot tears stung at his eyes as he bemoaned his struggles to the darkness of the alleyway. "I'm going to die here..." He slid down into a sitting position, fingers digging into the freshly forming bruises Momota left.
For a few moments, there was nothing but him, the blood on his tongue, and his misery.
Then, footsteps, eager to join his pity party.
"Ouma-kun...?"
His head snapped up immediately. Eyes darting around, they eventually settled on the source of the voice, and by squinting, their features became clearer...
...Ah, so this must be where Saihara ran off to.
Jumping to his feet, Ouma eagerly enveloped in a tight embrace, crying out a "My prince! My prince in sshhhining armor!" Ignoring the surprised gasp that rustled his hair, he instead found comfort in the other man's touch, burying his face into a puffy jacket.
"W-wait, hold on!" Cold hands seized Ouma by the shoulders and the next thing he knew he was face to face with Saihara again, his own red cheeks a startling contrast to Saihara's own. In fact, the man seemed to be completely lacking of color in his face entirely, cheeks hollowed out a bit. Not only that, but despite the brim of his hat covering his face, it almost seemed as if his eyes, framed by long lashes, were glowing... though he still retained that handsome look to his features from their first year of college, Ouma noted. "What are you even doing here?" His voice this time is hushed, words hissing out in a whisper.
"You think I know?" Ouma giggled, absentmindedly tracing a finger along Saihara's chest. "I do know that I was going to die in the cold all alone until a certain someone showed up... Oh, how lucky am I! Truly, my guardian angel has descended down from the heaaavens to sweep me off my feet!"
Saihara's eyes widened, mouth opening to say something before shutting it just as fast. He bit his lip in thought, taking a deep breath in, then out. "Are you drunk, Ouma-kun? ...Bleeding...?"
"Wah! I've been found out! I can't even see straight! Catch me!" He would've fallen forward into Saihara's arms if it weren't for the hands secured on his triceps. So, instead, he fell limp like a kitten that was grabbed by its scruff. "Y'know, boring ol' Momota-chan was looking for you... but who needs him when the life of the party is right here?! Nishuuhshi!"
Saihara's lips were set in a straight line, eyebrows twitching as his mind churned in thought. "Where are you hurt?"
"Hmm..." A light hum left Ouma then, his eyes closing in blissful thought. "Giving the answer outright is soo boring... How about I give you a hint?"
"Huh?" The other man's grip slackened in shock just for that moment, confusion crossing his face. "This isn't a game, Ouma-kun, this is serious— u-uwaggh!"
Ouma's body jerked as if he were pouncing, wrenching himself out of Saihara's grip, fingers digging themselves into his jacket to close the distance between them. Unluckily for him, Saihara was a big coward, which meant that he managed to tilt his head away at the very last second. Instead of his lips, Ouma found himself placing sloppy, open mouthed kisses against his cheek, leaving drool and blood on his skin when he pulled away. He felt the taller man shudder underneath his fingertips, and he couldn't help but cackle.
"Oh, that's right!" The shorter of the two pulled back a bit, meeting Saihara evenly with a gleeful gaze. He couldn't say the same for the other, however; he clearly wasn't taking it well judging by the sweat rolling down his forehead, body trembling, his eyes unfocused and dilating. "I forgot! You're a total kiss virgin. You've probably never even kissed anyone outside of me, huh?"
"Th-that's..." Ding ding ding, Ouma hit it right on the head. Snapped out of whatever stupor Saihara had found himself in, his eyes quickly looked away, his bottom lip being worried at again. "That's not... i-important." It didn't take very long for his voice to rise to a whine. "Seriously, Ouma-kun, you can't mess around with me like that—!"
The way Saihara chattered had gotten on his nerves, so he cut him off by pressing more open mouthed kisses against his jawline, gathering up as much strength as he could to pull the other man deeper, deeper in. He lost himself in the way his lips noisily smacked against his skin and how he felt Saihara's jaw tense under his affection, stealing his words in a small gasp. Finally pulling away after a good minute or two, his mouth twitched slightly when the copper smell reached even his nose. "You talk too much." And still, he softly scolded him with a drunken giggle.
Looking up and then down, Saihara didn't exactly look so good. Sweat was practically pouring down his face, his fingers twitching as if keeping himself from acting out on some kind of urge. His pupils had widened to the point where they were large black dots in his eyes, his breath coming out in ragged gasps and sighs.
Before Ouma could open his mouth to make a snarky comment about stealing his 'kiss virginity', it was Saihara's turn to close the distance between them, pulling Ouma's head to the side to expose his neck, where he placed his bitten lips. "Aww, Saihara-chan..." He cooed softly, his fingers playing with the hairs of his neck. "If you wanted to make a move, you could've just said so! With a supreme leader such as myself, you should be asking permi— ow?!"
A sharp, stabbing pain pierced the skin of his throat, and two stiff objects inserted themself into the flesh of his neck. "What are you doing?!" Writhing only seemed to make the pain worse as the foreign objects dug in more, and eventually Ouma himself was nothing but a gasping, trembling mess, grabbing at Saihara's shirt desperately as his spinning and not-quite-there mind tried to grab a sense of things. The pain soon faded, though, a numbing and even warmer feeling spreading from his neck to the rest of his body. "A-ahh, wait... I... ugh..." It was the same kind of sensation you'd get from your arm falling asleep, except that Ouma was locked into a kind of sleep paralysis where he couldn't move, not even his fingers. His body, which had fallen limp, was supported by Saihara's arms— was he always this strong?
Ouma's mind vaguely registered that once those piercing objects had left his throat, Saihara eagerly began to drain his neck like some kind of bloodsucking leech. Grimacing, he couldn't help but think that if it weren't for the fact his body was locked in complete paralysis, he might've tried to remove Saihara if he were some kind of leech too by prying him off with his fingernails. Maybe he really was going to die here.
As soon as that thought breached his mind and darkness began to close in on the edges of his vision, Saihara finally pulled back, eyes halflidded as a trail of red dripped down his lip. Recognition flickered across his eyes when he took in the sight of Ouma's state, excuses flying out of his fumbling lips at a pace neither of them could keep up with.
"I-I'm so sorry, I...! I didn't mean to! I was so hungry, I just— a-are you alright?! Ouma-kun?! Oh god, it's not... it won't stop bleeding..."
There was one last thought Ouma could muster before his consciousness slipped out of his grasp.
What the hell does he mean 'I didn't mean to?'
It's the headache that hits him first. Throbbing in the back of his skull, eventually hammering him over the head with pain. The first sign his body was telling him he had pushed himself too far.
Then, the dizziness and the nausea that brewed in his stomach. Finally, his dry and alcoholic mouth, which did nothing but pile onto that sick feeling in his gut. When his eyes cracked open, staring blearily up at a white ceiling, he could only think one thing as his fingers gingerly ran across the wooly blanket wrapped around his tiny, shivering and pathetic body.
I am so pissed off.