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Momota blinks.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Binge watching. Duh!”
Admittedly, Ouma stuffing his face with butter-soaked popcorn and being wrapped in the heavy coils of Momota’s favorite blanket - the one dotted with tiny stars - wasn’t an odd scene to walk in on. Normally, he would have just walked away as soon as he established Ouma’s whereabouts, informed him that dinner will be in less than an hour and asked whether he preferred rice or noodles to go with it.
It’s his own voice that ends up stopping him in his tracks, loud and clear and carrying a note he hasn’t heard in a long time. It comes from the TV and when he turns abruptly in that direction (almost giving himself a whiplash) it’s his eyes that stare at him with the intensity he hasn’t seen in them in a very, very long time.
“That I can see,” Momota responds curtly. “But why?”
Ouma waves him off impatiently.
“Shush, Momota-chan! Don’t you see that the best part is starting?”
Ouma’s disapproving voice is high pitched and whiny, the pout in it almost audible, and he reminds Momota of a child, ready to stomp his foot in an act of immature rebellion.
“There are no good parts.”
“Clearly Momota-chan doesn’t appreciate good entertainment.”
“The only thing that’s clear is that Shirogane is a shit writer,” Momota fires back. “There’s nothing entertaining about this crap.”
Ouma giggles, ostentatiously wiping his sticky fingers in the soft material of the blanket. He sticks his tongue out at him. “Momota-chan is just being salty because he’s not as popular as me.”
Momota purses his lips and for once chooses to be quiet. Well, it’s not as much of a choice as he simply isn’t sure what he could say in response to that. He’s popular enough - as the sacrificing types often tend to be, at least according to Saihara and those few meta articles he was able to stomach before he gave up completely - but it’s true that none of the participants of the fifty-third season is nearly as popular as Ouma is. He’s the sensation of their season. Scratch that, he may as well be the biggest sensation Danganronpa’s seen ever since that kid from the thirty-sixth season set the whole courtroom on fire before he could be dragged off to his execution, successfully ending the entire killing game early and causing permanent brain damage to one of the other participants who couldn’t be pulled out of the stimulation quickly enough.
Momota on the TV continues one of his fiery speeches, radiating confidence that others soak in, some of them more readily than others. There’s passion in every word, conviction in every gesture.
Momota stares at his own face and doesn’t recognize himself. It’s a special kind of dissonance.
“I don’t get how you can even watch this crap,” he says finally, just for the sake of saying something, just so his stance is clear.
Ouma only shrugs in response and turns up the volume.
Momota hovers in the entrance for a moment longer, uncertain, eyes darting between the TV and Ouma’s face, his lilac eyes glued to the screen as he shoves another mouthful of popcorn into his awaiting mouth. Briefly, he wonders if it’s some kind of self-imposed torture for Ouma.
Momota leaves, deciding that sometimes not knowing is for the best.
*
His phone’s familiar ringtone pierces through the air and maybe it’s the startled way he jumps at the sudden sound or how his panic-stricken eyes dart across the room to where it lays on the table next to where Ouma planted his feet, not even bothering to take off his shoes, that prompts Ouma to snatch it before Momota even has a chance to take a single step in that direction.
For someone who spends most of his days in his bed, Ouma is surprisingly fast and Momota freezes when the other boy steals one look at the caller’s ID and whistles loudly, eyes crinkling with amusement.
He turns to Momota, grinning and waving the phone in his hand. “And here I thought that Momota-chan finally grew some balls!”
“It’s not… I d-didn’t…” Momota stumbles over his own words awkwardly. He knows there's only one person who could be calling him. “Ouma, come on, it’s not what you think it is, I just...”
Ouma spares one last look at Momota’s face, at the drops of sweat forming on his forehead and with a smile that can’t mean anything other than trouble he answers the phone, his voice an unnaturally high chirp, the same one that he always used when he felt like being particularly obnoxious.
“Hello, my beloved Harukawa-chan~! How can I help you on this beautiful day?”
It’s over, is all Momota has a chance to think of, his heart dropping. I’m a dead man.
The sudden rush of heat and nausea hits him so hard that he stumbles gracelessly, reaching for the wall to steady himself. Words - excuses - form at the tip of his tongue but he’s too out of breath to utter any of them, so he just keeps staring at Ouma in hopeless resignation, waiting for the inevitable… something.
It’s not what happens, though.
“Ooops, she hung up,” Ouma informs him cheerfully.
Momota lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and sinks down on the nearest chair, feeling a confusing combination of relief laced with disappointment and guilt. He can feel Ouma’s intent, calculating gaze on his face and he instinctively grips the arm of the chair, his knuckles growing white.
“Sooo,” starts Ouma conversationally after yet another beat of silence when Momota’s brain has already started to hope against hope that he would let it go. “Momota-chan is avoiding Harukawa-chan, huh?”
Momota groans, dragging his free hand - the one not gripping the chair like his life depends on it - over his face.
“It’s none of your business,” he says but it lacks its usual bite and comes off more resigned and petulant than he probably would have preferred. Ouma’s the last person he wants to discuss these matters with.
“Nishishi.”
Ouma’s smirk is positively sly when he jumps to his feet and skips closer, positioning himself behind Momota’s chair and his bony arms wrapping around Momota’s shoulders in a way that’s probably supposed to look tender and affectionate but reeks of insincerity. Momota can only blink up at him tiredly.
“The hell do you want, Ouma?”
“Dunno, I guess I’m just curious why you’re avoiding your sidekicks like they’re the plague or something. That’s not very heroic of you, you know.”
“I’m not avoiding them,” Momota argues but deep down he knows it’s a lost battle. It sounds fake before it even leaves his mouth and he’s talking to a walking lie detector after all.
As expected, Ouma doesn’t buy it.
He throws his arms up with a theatrical groan of someone who’s been suffering for months and cannot take it any longer. “Puh-lease, as if it wasn’t obvious for everyone else. You practically ran out of the room when Saihara-chan wanted to talk to you before he was released from the hospital.”
“What do you want me to tell you, Ouma? What do you want me to do? Can’t you fucking leave me alone? It’s not like you care about Shuichi or Maki, so just let it go, dammit.”
Ouma's arms are back on his shoulders as he nuzzles into Momota’s neck. His breath ghosts over his skin and he can feel a shudder crawling down the stretch of his spine.
“I want Momota-chan to be honest.”
Momota snorts humorlessly and leans back a little to get a better look at him. “Now that’s a lie if I ever heard one. What’s this really about?”
Ouma hums, playing with his hair and considering the question. “Momota-chan doesn’t have to believe me. The word of a liar isn’t worth much anyway.”
“No. It’s not. And this liar,” he pauses to poke Ouma in the forehead, “never liked honesty anyway. I was honest the whole game and you never believed a word I said. I don’t see why that would change now. You hate it when I’m honest.”
“Oh, so you were honest when you were hacking blood all over the floor and lying through your teeth that it’s not a big deal? Could have fooled me.”
Momota frowns, deep lines carved in his forehead.
“That’s not fair,” he huffs and pushes away the thought that he really shouldn’t sound so goddamn defensive. It’s not like he did anything wrong. “All I did was try to make Shuichi and Maki more confident. There was no point in having them worry about me for no reason.”
“Dunno, I’d say that someone they look up to dying slowly is a pretty good reason to worry. But what do I know, right?”
“It was the best thing I could do,” anger swells in his chest and he’s vaguely aware that his voice raises in volume but he doesn’t care, a desperate need to defend himself taking priority. “I didn’t want them to worry, is that really so bad? They were looking up to me and I said that it would be fine, it was never supposed to go the way it did! I did everything I could for them! All that just to save them!”
His voice cracks at the last two words and he’s panting now, his chest rising and falling rapidly, fists clenched so hard that he can feel the nails digging into his skin, leaving bloody crescent-shaped imprints.
“Yeah,” breaths out Ouma and he leans back, the warmth of his body pressed close against Momota’s back gone, letting the cool air hit his skin and making him shiver. “And look where it led you.”
-
Momota’s on his way back home from his therapist when he feels it.
He wasn’t feeling well recently but it still takes him by surprise, especially with how fast he goes from ‘doing relatively well’ to ‘throwing up on the sidewalk’,
He has just enough time to run to the nearest dumpster, the half-digested contents of his breakfast spilling over the trash. It’s still a much nicer sight than the memory of pink blood trailing down his chin and staining his shirt.
“Momooota-chan,” says Ouma in that annoying way of his later that day, dragging out the vowels in a reprimanding tone. His lilac eyes frown down at him in something that would have looked like concern if Momota didn’t know better. “Why would you go and get yourself sick?”
“It’s not like I planned it to happen, you asshole,” Momota grumbles and takes the offered tissue to blow his nose noisily. He feels like shit and he’s doesn’t need to look into the mirror to know that he also looks the part.
Ouma leans away, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Gross. Sick Momota-chan is super gross!”
It takes all of Momota’s ability to control himself not to throw his used tissue right into Ouma’s face and get his pesky, ugly germs all over him. If he aimed it well enough maybe he would even be rewarded with one of those screeching screams that Ouma reserved only for special occasions, like that one time when he spotted a bug on his pillow and refused to sleep in his own bed for a week afterward. Still, it was in Momota’s best interest to be rational considering that he was the unfortunate soul charged with the ingrate task of taking care of him. A normal, perfectly healthy Ouma is a handful and a nightmare and he definitely isn’t interested in finding out just how unbearable a sick Ouma would be.
He settles for a weary and very eloquent ‘fuck off’ and then closes his eyes, the too-bright lights of their apartment and Ouma’s nagging voice making the pulsing ache building behind his temples worse.
He drifts away soon after, only half aware of the cold compress that’s being pressed against his burning forehead.
-
Momota hates doing interviews.
He really fucking hates them.
He’s sweating under the intense, unforgiving light of about dozen lamps in the studio aimed right at him. His jaw aches from how wide he’s smiling, almost as if he’s forgotten how to do that in a way that would be even remotely natural. He wants to be anywhere but here but there’s not much he could do about that, the contract he doesn’t remember signing not leaving him any room to argue.
“So,” the host of the show directs his attention at him and in a different life maybe he would have enjoyed it, maybe he would have craved all the admiration and spotlight. Now, however, all he can feel is the bile swelling in his throat and his mind going blank, all of the tips and instructions of his agent fleeting his brain. “Momota-san, how have you been ever since the end of your season? You’ve been pretty difficult to get a hold of. Surely, you haven’t been hiding from your fans, have you?”
The audience bursts into laughter and Momota’s smile turns a little more strained around the edges, his left eye twitching slightly.
“Oh, you know,” he lets out a short laugh and almost sighs in relief when his voice doesn’t shake, “just living my life, I guess.”
“That is horribly vague, Momota-san!” More laughter. “You’ve been doing well, I presume?”
Momota forces himself to relax, shifting in his seat, the soft sofa he’s sitting on plush against his stiff limbs. He smiles and prays that it looks at least somewhat convincing.
“Yeah, sure! I recovered pretty quickly and left the hospital as soon as the doctors said that I’m good to go.”
“I see, I see!” The man in front of him nods his head energetically and Momota tries to push away the memory of one of those toy dogs bobbing their heads that suddenly resurfaces in his mind. “And what about your illness? You aren’t dying anytime soon, I hope?”
He shifts his expression into that of uncertainty and worry and Momota is almost impressed with how fit he is for his role.
“Nah, I’m all good.”
“Whew! I am relieved to hear that,” the host looks at him with what is supposed to look like sympathy and Momota would like nothing more than to see his fist connect with his nose. He fidgets a little, his knuckles tingling at the thought. “But I’m sure that your fans would love to hear more. Isn’t that right?”
He smiles brilliantly in the direction of the audience that responds with enthusiastic shouts and whistles, the sound of their excitement almost deafening.
Momota rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, what would you like to know?”
The host’s eyes lit up with a glint that surely couldn’t mean anything good and in that moment he dangerously reminds him of Ouma, the one who used to mock, belittle and discredit them all back in the game. Not that this new, current Ouma doesn’t do that, but… it’s different, somehow. Momota can’t explain this difference but he knows it’s there.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware, Momota-san, but you’re pretty high on the popularity lists of this season, so your sudden disappearance from media has been quite a blow for your faithful fans,” the audience murmurs in sorrowful agreement at that, “and many of them have been left wondering how their favorite Ultimate Astronaut has been doing. There’s also the matter of, ah,” the host presses his hand to his mouth, pausing for a maximum dramatic effect. The audience holds its breath, frozen in intrigued anticipation. Momota fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, you see, Momota-san, there’s been some… rumors.”
“Rumors,” repeats Momota flatly. He sure as hell doesn’t like the sound of that.
The host nods eagerly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Regarding your relationship with Ouma-san.”
Momota’s mouth goes dry, a nervous laugh spilling from his lips.
“W-What about it?”
The reporter scoots closer like an over-excited teenage girl, greedy for a juicy piece of gossip. “There’s been speculation that it’s romantic in nature. Care to comment?”
Momota’s mind goes blank, the words simply refusing to register in his brain, the sheer absurdity of the question preventing him from fully comprehending what’s just been said.
Romantic?
Ouma?
He and Ouma?
Hundreds of expectant stares are fixed on him and he’s never felt so small in his entire life, both real one and virtual.
“So,” prompts him the host eagerly when he doesn’t answer him immediately, the wide smile never fading from his smile, as if plastered there with force. “Are the two of you together?”
“Um,” Momota laughs awkwardly, something in his stomach twisting and squirming, “no, of course not.”
“Are you sure? According to our sources, you two have been spotted together quite a few times. Shall we see some photographs our paparazzi managed to capture?”
Before Momota can assure that it won’t be necessary one of the big monitors hanging next to them lit up and soon the photo of him and Ouma loads in.
Momota sure as hell wasn’t aware that they were being photographed but he recognizes the photo, he remembers that day. In the photo, Ouma’s piggyback carried by him, clinging to him like a little koala bear, his unruly hair sticking out from underneath the beanie he pulled down on his face. Momota’s arms are supporting his legs securely and he’s saying something to which Ouma sticks his tongue childishly, his eyebrows pulled in a teasing, almost filtarious expression.
He can’t really blame anyone for mistaking them for a couple and he knows firsthand just how hungry the fans are when it comes to their precious shipping. He’s seen some truly questionable shit online and he still remembers that one time a crazy fangirl tried to force herself on him after she followed him to the bathroom after one of the full cast photoshoots they did immediately after the game ended, simultaneously tormenting him with questions whether he and Saihara ‘banged already’. Her words, not his.
The host wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at him, leaning in closer.
“Will you share the circumstances this photo was taken in, Momota-san?”
“Uh… Sure? Ouma dragged me to this festival last March. We were going back to our apartment an--”
“Oooh?” He’s cut off abruptly. “So it’s true that you two have remained close after the game! That is reassuring to hear. And you live together! I'm sure many of our fans are happy to hear that.”
Momota slams his mouth shut, realizing too late that he fell right into their trap and babbled way too much without even trying. He should have kept quiet in the first place but it’s kinda hard when the whole point of this bullshit is that you can’t keep quiet.
The interview continues with all it’s usual prodding and pressing and judging and by the end of it he feels like all energy has been sucked out of him. He knows how these things go and he knows he feels like a hollow shell of who he used to be - of who he is supposed to be. He does his best to act apologetic when his agent spends over fifteen minutes scolding him over his performance and demanding that he tries harder the next time or he will face the consequences, whatever those are. He never actually bothered to read his contract.
“I don’t know what happened to Momota we had all seen in the game but you better find a way to bring him back,” she spats when they’re finally parting and he can feel the hollow laughter welling in his throat.
He can’t bring the dead back to life.
He doesn’t voice that sentiment and instead bites his tongue and nods obediently, assuring her that he won’t fuck up. She shoots him a sideway glance and warns that he better keep his word.
“Momota-chan, is there something you wanna tell me?” is how Ouma greets him later that night when his personal walk of shame leads him to the doorstep of their little apartment after he can no longer postpone his return. It’s clear that Ouma’s seen the interview - it was going live, after all - and watched the whole shit show that took place.
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he manages with a grunt and makes a beeline for his room, not bothering to take off his shoes and avoiding Ouma’s gaze.
The door slams behind him with a little too much force than necessary.
-
“I never took you for the type to like tea.”
Ouma raises his eyebrow, taking another sip of his drink.
“Oh? Well, I am full of surprises, my beloved Momota-chan.”
Momota grunts, dabbing at his strawberry shortcake with his fork mindlessly.
“Yeah, I guess,” he says distractedly. “I just always thought you’d prefer soda or some other crap. They did that Panta commercial with you before our season even aired, after all.”
Ouma lets out a loud dramatic gasp, hand flying to his heart.
“How dare you!” He exclaims, loud enough to attract the attention of the other customers, recognition flashing in their eyes and hands already reaching out to fish the phones out of their pockets. Momota shots Ouma a nasty glare. He rather liked this place and he’s not too fond of the idea of having to find a new one because Ouma blew their cover. According to his calculations, it would be the twenty-first place they would have to stop visiting due to Danganronpa-crazed fans catching a whiff of the fact that they enjoyed spending time there. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to. “I’ll have you know that I’m a real tea connoisseur.”
“Sure,” Momota eyes him suspiciously. “Yeah, whatever you say.”
He finally stops playing with his food and cuts off a piece of cake, hoping it won’t taste like cardboard. Eating really lost its appeal ever since he left the game, the way his collar bones peek out from underneath his shirt is the best evidence of that.
Enjoying food is a challenge when everything tastes like blood.
“Hey, Momota-chan?”
“Hm?” Momota stops to look at him with the fork about halfway on its way to his mouth.
It turns out to be a mistake.
Ouma leans in closer over the narrow table that separates them and catches his fork between his teeth, claiming the bite of his strawberry shortcake without any kind of warning.
“H-hey!”
Momota can only stare in stunned silence as Ouma munches his stolen treat happily, moaning loudly in an exaggerated pleasure - to get on his nerves more, no doubt - and smacking his lips once he finally swallows. He bares his teeth in a smile when he notices Momota’s bewildered expression and the faint pink hue of a blush blooming on his cheeks.
Finally, Momota leans away and pushes his plate to Ouma.
“Take it,” he says flatly. “I lost my appetite.”
-
Bad days happen.
Plenty of bad days and rarely any good ones and it’s so, so tiring.
“Someone’s grumpy,” Ouma pokes his cheek on one such day and Momota catches his stretched out finger and lowers his hand down until it rests on the couch next to his thighs, eyebrows furrowing in a dispassionate glare.
“Of course I’m grumpy,” he spits irritatedly. “I have absolutely no reason for not being grumpy.”
Ouma hums and hops on the couch next to him, the springs squeaking under the additional weight.
“Aww, does wittle Momota-chan need a hug?”
Momota groans, a loud and drawn out sound. He swats Ouma’s hands away and lifts his arm to press his hand against his eyelids.
“No, I don’t need a fucking hug. Just… Just leave me alone. Go bother someone else or whatever, I don’t care.”
“No can do,” chirps Ouma and goes to reposition both of them, pretending to not hear Momota’s protests. They are half-assed at best and soon he finds himself laying on the couch with his head resting in Ouma’s lap.
He closes his eyes, feeling strangely drained.
“Now, tell your friendly neighborhood Ouma what bothers Momota-chan’s pretty little head, hm?”
Momota’s eyes snap open as he scoffs. “You are not my fucking therapist, dude.”
Ouma has the gall to laugh at that and Momota lets out an annoyed huff through his nose.
“It’s just… hard or whatever. I know it’s been a few months now and we are set for life with all the money we have but damn, you just can’t go through something like that and come out the same, y’know. We don’t even know who we were before all this bullshit! I have no idea what kind of person I was before any of this.”
Ouma taps a finger against his chin, thoughtfully. “Weeell, considering that he was a suicidal fame-hungry prick maybe that’s for the better.”
Momota’s vaguely aware that he’s acting like a kid, demanding something he can’t have. “I know, but… I still want to know him. I wanna know who I was before that… all that.”
He gestures to the TV like that explains everything and then lets his arm fall limply on the couch.
“Aw. Momota-chan is a baby,” Ouma announces cheerfully, eyes full of glee.
“Wha-?! No, I’m not!”
Ouma pats his head and pulls him into an awkward half-embrace, giggling into his hair. “You sure are!”
“Ugh. Fine, whatever. Don’t think that I agree with you, I just don’t feel like fighting or whatever it is that we’re doing.”
To his surprise, Ouma doesn’t press harder, simply playing with his hair, and Momota finds that quiet help him gather his thoughts. Maybe he’s not being fair. Ouma has his bad days, too. The difference between them is that whenever Ouma’s feeling overwhelmed he disappears, as if he’s never been there. Momota’s somewhat aware that he couldn’t have left the apartment but whenever he chooses to hide - it’s a remarkably good hiding spot. Or spots.
Still, in his own weird way Ouma’s just trying to help. Maybe. Probably?
He takes a deep breath. “Look, I have no idea what I’m doing. Back in the killing game I had a plan for myself and I knew who I am. I fought damn hard to be an astronaut and I was good at it, goddammit. And all that, everything I fucking knew, was a lie.”
He can feel the tears pricking at his eyes, threatening to spill over his cheeks. He wipes them out angrily with the sleeve of his shirt, feeling utterly pathetic under the watchful gaze of Ouma’s eyes.
“I just want things to be normal,” he finishes lamely, feeling like a sudden wave of exhaustion crashes into him. “Or something. I don’t even know anymore.”
He’s rewarded for his outburst with a pat to his head.
“Pat pat,” drawls Ouma, his fingers cradling through his hair and with a vague sense of amazement Momota realizes that it’s not a bad feeling. Ouma doesn’t say anything else and Momota wonders if all that was just to get him to vent. Or maybe he simply ran out of insults. It’s probably not fun making fun of him when he’s like… this. Reluctantly, he leans back against the cushions and wills his body to relax, taut muscles and stiff shoulders trying to remember how it feels to loosen up, how to release the tension coiled and warped in his body ever since he woke up within the sterile white walls of the hospital.
He falls asleep with Ouma’s fingers still tangled in his hair.
-
“You know you can’t avoid them forever, riiight?” questions Ouma around a spoonful of his favorite cereal. Momota can smell its artificial sugary scent all the way across the room, a pang of annoyance surging through his veins once he realizes that he must have gone behind his back the last time they were out shopping because he remembers very clearly telling him that he’s not planning to pay for it.
“If you continue to eat that crap all your teeth are gonna fall out,” he scolds him and snatches the box from the table, striding across the room to dump its contents into the nearest trash bin, pointedly ignoring Ouma’s weepy protests and pleading eyes.
“Momota-chan is such a bully,” Ouma sniffles, his glassy eyes full of betrayal and lips curled in a pathetic pout. “You are the reason why we can’t have nice things.”
“Yeah, sure.” Momota ruffles his hair, laughing at Ouma’s apparent displeasure. He makes a move to leave but he halts to a sudden stop when long, bony fingers wrap around his wrist.
It’s a loose grip, the pressure barely there, and he could easily wriggle his arm out of it, but instead he inhales sharply through his teeth and freezes in place, as if obliged to do so by some invisible force.
“I was serious, y’know.”
Momota swallows and shakes his head with a small laugh that was meant to dissolve the tension that wraps around his limbs but comes out as a choking, nervous sound that he immediately wishes he could take back.
“About what?”
“About your precious sidekicks of course!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ouma clicks his tongue and retreats his hand back, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at Momota the same way disapproving parents tend to look at their misbehaving children. It’s a shift that feels almost surreal compared to their usual dynamic.
“Really?”
“What?”
“Are you gonna play dumb with me, Momota-chan? Me?!”
Momota shrugs.
“Worth a try.”
Ouma groans and bangs his head on the table, face first, barely missing his still half-full bowl of cereal. Momota’s eyes widen with concern.
“H-Hey! Don’t do that!”
“Momota-chan is the dumbest man alive,” complains Ouma to the table, his voice muffled by its wooden surface.
“I am not!”
Ouma raises his head and sends him an unamused stare, one of his eyebrows forming a perfect arch.
“Then get over your ego and move on already, please and thank you.”
Momota scoffs, eyeing him warily.
“No. Why do you even care so much?”
“Because I want you to get over yourself and stop feeling sorry for your dumb ass.” Informs him Ouma, voice flat. Momota stubbornly refuses to answer that and hopes that this is where that conversation ends but after a momentary contemplation Ouma adds, almost offhandedly: “Oh, and because Saihara-chan called.”
“You answered my phone?! Ouma-!”
Ouma rolls his eyes.
“No. He called me .”
Momota deflates visibly, surprised. “Oh…”
“Yeah! Oh! Maybe Momota-chan would know if he wasn’t so busy moping around.”
“I am not moping around,” he protests, loudly, because he really isn’t. He bites his lip, strangely unsure how to approach this unsuspected revelation. “Since when does he even have your number? What… What did he want?”
Ouma shakes his head vigorously, the tips of his hair bouncing with each movement. “Not telling ya!”
“What? Why not?!”
“Momota-chan has to clean his own messes.”
And with that he hops off the stool and marches out of the kitchen, arms folded behind his back, whistling some made up tune.
Momota stands in the middle of their little kitchen, his head swallowed by a swarm of befuddled thoughts. His fists clench and unclench at his sides and he tries to sort through his thoughts, looking for answers, clues, anything that would help him decide what to do next.
Ouma's head pops back. “Oh, and be a dear and clean after breakfast!”
This time Momota doesn’t hesitate.
He throws a wet rag at him and feels a little better when it smacks him right in the face, Ouma’s shriek echoing in the apartment.
-
He makes amends.
He starts with Saihara, not quite sure how to face Harukawa just yet, the shame burning in his throat whenever he thinks back to their last conversation, to the series of rejected calls in his calling history or to the letter he received one rainy afternoon, the one he’s never read to the end, too choked up and overwhelmed with guilt to continue.
He’s surprised by how easy it is to reconnect with him. Saihara accepts his apology - for ignoring him back at the hospital, for not calling, for acting as if he didn’t even know him - with gentle understanding and Momota’s filled with something akin to hope when he realizes that there are no expectations, no reproach in Saihara’s eyes but rather some kind of new-found confidence peeking out from underneath his meek nature. He doesn’t press, he doesn’t expect them to go back to what they had before and for the first time in months Momota feels relief. He can see the same relief reflected in Saihara’s eyes and just like that he knows that they are going to be okay.
“Hey,” Momota smiles when they finally get their drinks and exit the cafe they entered on their way to the small park Saihara mentioned visiting when he was younger. “I’m glad that you called Ouma. I’m not sure when I would have gathered the courage to contact you myself if it wasn’t for this little gremlin, heh.”
Saihara’s eyes grow big and round and his mouth drop open before he can stop himself, taken aback by Momota’s admission.
“Me? But it was Ouma-kun who--” Saihara stops himself mid-sentence, suddenly biting his lip, hard. Momota sends him a surprised stare, eyebrows quirked quizzically. “I-I mean, nevermind.” Saihara tries for a smile and it looks a little shaky but otherwise sincere. “You’re right. It really was very nice of Ouma-kun.”
Momota laughs heartily and slaps him on the back, blissfully unaware of the fact that Saihara’s knees almost buckle under him at the gesture. He pulls the other boy closer, feeling as if a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders.
It all feels so silly now, why would he ever avoid Saihara? They are friends! And nothing could ever change that.
Maybe there was some truth to Ouma’s words and his prevailing, constant insistence.
The thought makes him snort and he waves his hand dismissively, a small smile playing on his lips, when Saihara’s muddy gold eyes land on him curiously.
“Nah, just thinking about something Ouma said, don’t worry about it.”
Saihara smiles softly, uncertainty shining through his eyes.
“Ah, you and Ouma-kun have gotten really close, haven’t you?”
Momota merely shrugs.
“Dunno. I guess? He’s still an obnoxious little brat, though,” he says, not without a smile.
On his way home he makes sure to stop by the store and buy Ouma’s favorite candy.
-
In the time they lived together Ouma got better at… well, Momota can’t say that he got better at being honest but he definitely got better at not-lying.
He tells him that and Ouma snorts and giggles and deflects the way he always does, but Momota knows it to be true so he doesn’t care what Ouma says.
“Momota-chan has always been such a wishful thinker,” Ouma drawls in that voice of his that indicates that Momota’s boring him to death.
Momota shrugs and agrees with him, much to Ouma’s dismay. There’s nothing wrong with a little wishful thinking anyway.
-
In the end, it’s Harukawa who makes the first move, again. It’s been a while from her last phone call, so when his phone rings a familiar tune he almost drops the mug he’s been holding. His mind immediately jumps into that dark, anxious place and his first instinct is to either reject the call or wait until it stops ringing and he can breathe again.
But then he thinks about Saihara, thinks about Ouma’s special brand of encouraging that involves more teasing and mocking than anything else and with a shaky breath and trembling fingers, he finally accepts the call on the last ring.
“Momota?”
“Harumaki,” he greets her, quietly praying for the ground beneath his feet to swallow him. He isn’t the type to deal well with nervousness. “Hi. It’s, uh, it’s nice to hear from you.”
He says that as if he hasn’t been the one ignoring her for months after her confession, cringing mentally at every word that leaves his lips. They all sound so wrong.
There’s silence on the other side of the call, the awkwardness tangible and Momota swallows around the bile lodged in his throat.
“I talked with Saihara,” she informs him eventually instead of a greeting, her voice a familiar deadpan. “He says you two met.”
“Um, yeah!” Momota laughs stiffly, scratching the patch of skin right under his hairline. “We did. Uh, it was his idea… He didn’t want to talk over the phone.”
“I see.”
The silence stretches once again. Momota squeezes his eyes and thinks ‘fuck it’.
“Listen, Harumaki… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, okay?”
He hears her breath on the other side and expects… He’s not sure what he expects. But it’s certainly not what he hears next.
“Apology accepted.”
“Wh-what?” He stammers, stumbling over his own words, phone almost slipping out from his sweaty hand. He grips it more firmly. “Are you serious? Harumaki, I-”
“I am. It’s fine.”
Momota stands in stunned silence, her words slowly catching up with him. “I… I-I don’t understand.”
Harukawa sighs, impatient.
“Listen, you don’t owe me anything, okay? But I do. I owe you.”
Momota’s eyebrows pull down in a frown. It’s ridiculous, why would Harukawa ever think that?
As if reading his thoughts, the ex-assassin continues. “You saved my life when I didn’t think my it was worth saving and all I did in return was get you killed. I shouldn’t have intervened back then, in the hangar,” she confesses, the sound of muted shuffling coming from her side of the conversation. He could almost see her fumbling with her hair. “For that, I wanted to apologize. And… And thank you. For saving my life.”
“I didn’t do it alone,” he says quietly, his eyes drifting in the direction of the living room where he knows Ouma’s curled up on their worn out couch, a controller clenched in his hands and eyes fixed on the game, the sounds of crashes and screams from the screen carrying through the thin walls.
“No,” Harukawa agrees after a moment. “No, you didn’t. But I’m… I don’t think I’m ready to face him.” And then, almost like an afterthought, she adds: “Yet.”
Momota opens his mouth to ask why not but snaps it shut almost immediately because who he is to judge when barely five minutes ago the mere idea of talking with her was enough to send him into a full panic attack.
“Yeah... Yeah, right.”
There’s more silence after that as he contemplates everything he’s just heard, reliving these moments spent in the hangar, an arrow lodged in his arm and soaring pain surging through his body. It's still fresh, the pain way too easy to recall, but he knows that clinging to it will only make things worse.
He closes his eyes and lets it all go along with an exhale.
When that’s done he smiles, feeling lighter than ever.
“So… How have you been?”
-
His love for stars somehow prevailed and he isn’t sure if it’s because he liked them even before he decided to throw his whole life away for a distant promise of money and fame or because it’s part of their natural appeal along with the knowledge his brain was artificially stuffed in with.
Still, there’s nothing wrong in appreciating the little things in life.
One of the best things about their apartment - which, admittedly, there aren’t many, considering that at the time when they were looking for a new place they would have settled for nearly anything, as long as it wasn’t a hospital room - is its big balcony. It’s big enough to accommodate both of them, as well as the big mattress Momota drags there along with all of their pillows and blankets, leaving the beds and couch completely bare.
The point is: it’s perfect for stargazing.
“Momota-chan,” Ouma eyes him suspiciously, observing him as he wraps the chain of fairy lights along the length of the balustrade. He doesn’t move a muscle to help. “You sure it’s not a date?”
“Pff, no,” Momota laughs, moving to add one more pillow to the already big pile. “As if anyone would want to date a gremlin like you.”
He straightens up, wiping the sweat from his forehead and settling his hands on his hips, looking at the results of all of his hard work with a mixture of pride and contentment, two things he hasn’t felt in quite some time.
Of course then there’s also the matter of Ouma who apparently wouldn’t be himself if he let Momota enjoy himself for longer than two seconds. Figures.
“But Momota-chan, it sounds so boooring,”
Momota flicks him on the nose. “Quit whining, you are so not cute.”
“Excuse you, I am offended! This is slander! I’m plenty cute and you know it!”
“Sure, sure,” he’s not paying attention to him anymore, too busy casting his eyes over the vast expanse of the darkening sky. He blindly reaches to grasp at Ouma’s arm and pulls him closer, snickering quietly at the yelp that escapes the smaller boy when he lands on the pile of blankets. Momota gets himself comfortable.“Come on! It’s gonna be great, I always wanted to show some of my favorite constellations to someone.”
Ouma lets out a long-suffering groan but obediently lets Momota wrap him in the blankets, snuggling closer as the sky gets darker, moon’s gentle light enwrapping everything in a silvery glow. The stars twinkle at them and if he stares at them long enough he can almost be happy about never being able to reach them. He did it, once. That’s enough for all three lifetimes that he’s carrying with him.
As expected, Momota soon loses himself in one story or another, pointing out to various parts of the cloudless sky and drawing constellations with invisible lines, connecting the stars with practiced experience even though some small, muted part of him is fairly sure that in this life, in this reality, it’s the first time he’s doing that. He doesn’t think his past self was quite as passionate about astronomy as the one with fake memories was.
But he’s neither of them now, so that’s alright.
Also as expected, Ouma’s endless stream of mockery and teasing proves to be… well, endless. Every once in a while, he interrupts him, as obnoxious as ever - or maybe even more so - to call him a nerd or accuse him of being boring and a horrible storyteller. Still, for the most part he remains quiet and Momota’s quiet voice carries into the night as he recalls stories someone programmed into his brain.
It’s around three in the morning when he at last runs out of stories and realizes that Ouma’s not awake anymore - hasn’t been for a while now - and his gentle snores and occasional sighs blend in with the morning twitter of the birds.
Ouma’s head is propped against Momota’s shoulder, the tangled strands of his hair brushing again his skin. There’s a thin string of drool dribbling down his chin and Momota stifles the laugh bubbling in his chest, careful not to wake up the other boy.
After a moment of soundless debating, he decides that with Ouma comfortably tucked next to him there’s no point in trying to move him to bed.
He lets his head drop, nuzzling into Ouma’s soft hair and lets the steady rhythm of his breath lull him.
That night, he sleeps with a smile on his face.
-
When he thinks about it later - months, years later - it’s with a hint of amusement and shock at how long it took him to connect the pieces that’s been laying before him this whole time. He can be oblivious, sure, but honestly, being that oblivious should be a crime.
It’s not some kind of spiritual experience that opens his eyes to a brand new world. No, it’s nothing quite as profound. One moment he doesn’t know and then the next one he does, and everything just falls into place, as if it was always meant to be.
One day he just looks at Ouma and just knows he isn’t as opposed to the idea of dating at he always thought. In fact, in a moment of striking clarity, he realizes that he’s never been opposed to it at all.
It was always there, huddled under the surface, waiting until Momota would be ready to face it, free of doubts or fears or objections.
So when he dives in to plant a kiss on Ouma’s lips - a sweet, gentle kiss that tastes like candy and green tea - it feels like a natural progression.
Ouma’s eyes grow wide when he blinks at him in surprise but then they soften. When he speaks, there’s a teasing, playful undertone in his voice.
“Wow, Momota-chan,” he drawls, barely above a whisper, “took you long enough.”
Momota laughs, sheepish but not ashamed. “Yeah, I guess it did.”
He doesn’t imagine the crinkling of Ouma’s eyes or the upward curve of his smile when he leans in for another kiss. It tastes even better when Ouma’s hands reach for the collar of his shirt and he pulls him closer, his lips moving against his, still smiling. He’s warm and real against him and in that moment Momota realizes that it’s all he needs.