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Kokichi still vividly remembers the first day he met Rantaro Amami.
It would have been at a convention, then. The first snow of the year arrives on that day, and Kokichi is bundled up in a cherry-red scarf so long that it trails in the snow, two panda-like violet eyes peeping out from between its folds. Deep bags stand out stark on pale skin, and snow covers his messy hair. He clutches his Monokuma plushie with black-painted nails bitten to the quick, standing well out of the way of the other Danganronpa-obsessed fans.
He's not obsessed with the show, or so he tells himself. He's not obsessed, he repeats, watching the 51st season for the ninth time. He's not obsessed, he'll later swear, lying through his teeth.
Kokichi Oma hates lies, or so he tells himself.
But on that night, he's simply FantaPanda, a fanfiction writer, avid chatroom enthusiast, and scared shitless.
He wraps his hands around his arms, slightly upset with himself for not wearing a winter coat. His black and white Monokuma coat (plus matching messenger bag) is perfect for conventions, but not for the inevitable two hours spent outside, trying to convince himself to actually enter said convention.
Around him, enthusiastic fans stream into the building, chattering with each other about yaoi, yuri, who's going to survive the next season, the talents of next season... nearly every aspect of Danganronpa. Kokichi would be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued, but jumping in on a conversation with random strangers sounds like the polar opposite of a good time.
He instead chooses to focus on his breath, inhaling in and out. With each breath, a small cloud forms in front of him, akin to smoke in the pitch-black night.
"It's calming, isn't it?"
Kokichi lets out an undignified yelp, spinning around so rapidly that he nearly drops his plush Monokuma. He's not sure how to deal with this sudden social interaction, especially since they've confused him for a smoker.
He doesn't smoke, of course. Lung cancer is right at the bottom of the list with things he would rather not experience.
Oddly enough, a scenario like this ranks even lower. After all, he'd gladly swim with piranhas than have to approach someone he doesn't know and strike up conversation.
He stares into the snow, looking at the different patches of red, yellow, and brown. The fact that all three exist in this one place ought to bother him, but it's much lower on the list of things he's concerned about at the moment.
The person asking regards him with something akin to cool disdain, and Kokichi allows himself a momentary glimpse at his would-be interrogator's face.
The man has green hair, mussed and obviously not washed in days. Multiple metallic loops adorn his right ear, gleaming in the light streaming out of the convention hall. He has a cigarette perched between two slender, ring-adorned fingers, and as Kokichi watches, he lifts the stick to his lips, taking a long drag. He pauses for a moment, eventually releasing a cloud of smoke into the air with a satisfied sigh.
"Like I said," the man continues, eying Kokichi with lifeless green eyes, "calming."
Of course, this would be one thing if Kokichi actually knew this man. But no, here he is, standing outside a convention with a piercing-adorned, black jacket-wearing, and all around terrifying human being, and he is scared shitless.
"I don't-"
His protest comes out as a squeak and Kokichi abruptly cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Um, I mean... I don't smoke. I just like to... I just like to make clouds in the snow. Play pretend, right? And, um... yeah. I really like the snow."
The man eyes him with a hint of trepidation, but something in his eyes suggests smugness. However, instead of responding, he takes another long drag of his cigarette, exhaling a fresh cloud of smoke into the snowy night. "I gathered."
Kokichi withers at the cold dismissal, scuffing his too-large sneakers on the pavement. "Yeah... I mean, you probably did. I mean, I did. You gathered, I just... provided the gathering material."
He grips his plush Monokuma tighter, squeezing his eyes shut. If he can shut out the world, he'll be satisfied. Simply breathe. Remember, in and out.
"You're kind of bad at this," the man states.
Kokichi flinches at the brutal honesty, tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm sorry! I know... I'm sorry you have to talk to me. I know I'm bad at this, but I don't want to be. I really am sorry that you have to talk to me. I mean, why am I even here?"
"You tell me, FantaPanda," the man retorts, and Kokichi's heart skips a beat. He whips around, ready to confront the stranger, but the man is already carrying on. "I mean, it's not as though you're one of, if not the best fanfiction writer online. It's not as though you've impacted the community to the point where you're quoted ad nauseam."
"That's... ah... that's a bit much..." Kokichi mumbles, squeezing his bear tighter. "I really don't have a huge fanbase, and I don't know how you found out about me, but I'm just here as part of a panel that meets in a few hours, though I can't go inside because they'll see what a fraud I am."
He readjusts the straps of his messenger's bag, the latest chapter of his fanfiction contained inside. Or rather, it was; he's not sure how wet it is by this point, but it's likely illegible. God, his beta is going to kill him.
"I'm actually really excited for the panel!" he continues, ignoring his companion's satisfied smirk. "The author Triple-Q is revealing their name today! I mean, they're actually coming to the panel and everything! I'm going to get to breathe the same air as the Triple-Q!" He twirls in a small circle, the trepidation from earlier having long-since evaporated. After all, whenever Kokichi talks about his personal idol, it's not easy to dissuade him. "I've talked with them online, but nothing compares to actually meeting them! Holy shit!"
His companion doesn't reply, only taking another drag of his cigarette with a small smile perched on his face. "So, FantaPanda, who d'ya think I am?"
"Um..." Kokichi muses, tapping his chin as he thinks. "Um... are you another author? You must be, since you know someone as small as me."
The man quirks a brow, before proffering his hand. "Rantaro Amami. Nice to meet you...?"
Kokichi realizes approximately three seconds too late that this person is, in fact, asking for his name. "Kokichi Oma!" he exclaims, gripping Rantaro's hand and shaking with gusto. "It's nice to meet you!"
"That it is, Kokichi," Rantaro grins, pulling the hood of his black jacket over his head. It immediately eclipses his face, leaving only the light reflecting off his irises visible. "Let's head inside, shall we?"
He withdraws a small slip of paper from his pocket and pulls on a lanyard, patterned with the typical monochrome Monokuma. Kokichi pulls on his own, running his thumb over the raised lettering that allows him access to the convention.
"Well?" Rantaro prompts, and Kokichi shows his lanyard to the staff, breaking out into a grin as they wave him in.
Around them, fans run to and fro, buzzing between booths and hurriedly discussing next season's auditions. The bright signs for Danganronpa 52 auditions overshadow the entire convention, with even those who barely know the show inexorably pulled towards them. Around them, booths hawk merchandise, stretching from Danganronpa 1 all the way to 51. Kokichi almost finds himself overwhelmed by the sheer number of people, and only Rantaro's hand on his shoulder grounds him.
For that matter, when did Rantaro's hand end up on his shoulder?
He shakes his head, banishing the thought. After all, Rantaro seems like a good person, and Kokichi considers himself a very good judge of character. He'd be able to tell if Rantaro had ulterior motives.
Rantaro, on the other hand, takes another drag of his cigarette, blatantly ignoring the signs posted against smoking. "We need to find the panel," he muses, blowing a bit of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah!" Kokichi chirps, trotting after his green-haired friend. Funny, how he's begun to think of the man he just met as a friend, though it's not really surprising.
He follows Rantaro through the crowd, the latter keeping a firm grip on Kokichi's shoulder as they head for the panel. Around them, the crowd parts like the Red Sea, likely due to the fact that Rantaro looks like someone who murders children for a living.
Still, it doesn't stop the whispering, and certainly doesn't stop one audacious fanboy from approaching them.
There's a detective's hat pulled low over washed-out alabaster eyes, though it does little to nothing to distract from their piercing intensity. There's a slightly unnerving smile perched on his thin lips, and when he proffers his hand to Kokichi, he catches sight of a Monokuma tattoo on the inside of his wrist.
He's exactly the type of rabid fan that keeps Kokichi from leaving the house more than once a month. After all, it's not as if he had the wherewithal to not advertise his name once his writing really started to take hold.
Surprisingly, though, he doesn't even seem to register Kokichi's presence. He scrutinizes Rantaro's face for a moment, smile growing impossibly wider with each passing second. "You're Triple-Q," he states, utterly nonchalant and with the conviction of someone who's just solved a very difficult trivia question.
Kokichi sputters, frantically trying to think of a way to help out Rantaro. Surely he kept his identity secret for a reason, right?
"Yep," Rantaro smoothly replies, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the air. The fanboy's eyes widen, and he proffers a hand for Rantaro to shake.
"Shuichi Saihara," he states, excitement sparkling in his gaze. "DanganDetective. It's an honor."
"You're DanganDetective?" Kokichi exclaims, and oh, if he wasn't excited before, he is now. DanganDetective is well-known on the interweb for being able to figure out the plots and endings of every season before they even finish airing, and for writing fanfiction that eerily mirrors later seasons.
In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if Shuichi came here to find inspiration for next season. Or, more likely, to scout out the applicants and post his cast list.
Which, again, is scarily accurate.
"I'm FantaPanda!" Kokichi chirps, darting closer to stare into Shuichi's eyes. They're empty, scarily so, and Kokichi wonders why for a fleeting second before they narrow in disgust, a hand slamming into his chest and pushing him away.
"Does it look like I care?" Shuichi challenges, and the pure malice in his voice is what really registers. The irritation of dealing with a relative nobody - which is all Kokichi is, isn't it? - and the fury of being distracted from his pursuit of Triple-Q. Kokichi shrinks in on himself, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Just because he expected it doesn't make it hurt less, after all.
"As I was saying," Shuichi continues, a demented sort of excitement in his gaze, "I'm DanganDetective. It's nice to meet you!"
"I wish I could say likewise," Rantaro retorts, voice smooth as silk and calm as the ocean. It's how Kokichi knows he's really mad. "Except I don't take kindly to people insulting my friend's talent, skill, and general likability. He's an incredible writer, and far more deserving of your time than I am. So please, apologize to Kokichi before I'm tempted to punch your lights out."
Shuichi's eyes widen, fear mixing with regret. "I'm sorry!" he exclaims, squeezing his bear tighter. "I'm just... you all are going to the panel now, right? I'm on it too... I'd like to make it up to both of you somehow!"
Rantaro's eyes narrow, disbelief evident. "Why not," he finally replies, a sort of weariness in his voice. "It can't hurt, can it?"
He remembers that as the day he met the loves of his life.
Loves, plural - to call only one of them the love of his life would infuriate both parties, and undoubtedly lead to a twenty-minute conversation about the technicalities of polyamory. He's heard the technicalities so many times he could recite them in his sleep, though apparently Rantaro isn't satisfied, and also makes any member who forgets the technicalities contribute twenty dollars to the "Rantaro-cuts-his-hair-into-a-mowhawk" fund.
Nobody wants to see that, Kokichi and Shuichi definitely included.
But, just as every story has a beginning, each has an ending.
For Kokichi, the beginning of the end is the day Rantaro tells them about his acceptance to Danganronpa 52.
Kokichi was making breakfast on the day, then. The steam from his cooking turns his face red and makes his eyes water, but it's all fine, so long as Shuichi and Rantaro enjoy his cooking. Which they undoubtedly do, since they tell him every day.
Shuichi's perched on a stool at the island, fingers flying as he types up his predictions for the 52nd season. They come live in ten minutes, and though they all know he's held off far too long, better late than never. After all, if the reason he's late on his yearly predictions is to spend time with his boyfriends, then, well... none of them are exactly going to complain, are they?
Rantaro enters, hair mussed and deep bags underscoring his eyes. There's a new vibrancy to them, a sort of excitement, but also a hint of trepidation. "Good morning!" he greets all the same, pulling out the stool next to Shuichi and placing a peck on their boyfriend's cheek.
"Done!" Shuichi proclaims, and Kokichi so desperately wants to cross the room to congratulate him, but has to settle for turning over the pancakes as Rantaro emphatically congratulates their boyfriend. There's a flush of pride to Shuichi's pale cheeks, and it makes Kokichi smile. They're all doing so much better, after all.
Shuichi clicks over to the Danganronpa website as Kokichi waits for the pancakes to finish cooking. There's a sort of excitement in the air, anticipation thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Done!" Kokichi crows, celebrating his own personal victory. He slides the pancakes onto a plate and places them on the island, taking the stool on Shuichi's other side and resting a head on his shoulder.
Rantaro looks nervous. It's strange, wrong, an unfamiliar emotion for Rantaro Amami, especially in this scenario. Kokichi can't possibly fathom what he'd have to be nervous about, however, and settles for wrapping his arms around Shuichi's waist, keeping his gaze trained on the screen.
Shuichi reloads, and oh. There it is.
Oh.
"Rantaro...?" Shuichi whispers, trying out the name on his tongue. It's the only one he's ever guessed incorrectly before, after all. "Rantaro... please tell me you didn't do this. Please... don't leave us, Rantaro!"
Rantaro doesn't reply, gaze trained on the counter as though it'll open up to swallow him whole. He can't meet either of their eyes, and simply shakes his head in lieu of a response.
"You can't go!" Kokichi protests. "We'll run! We'll hide! You can't go to Danganronpa, Rantaro! Please, don't leave us! Don't forget us! Please, Rantaro!"
He doesn't reply yet again, silence and unspoken words hanging in the air like a blanket. There's so much they want to say, so much they want to do, and yet.
And yet, and yet, and yet.
There's that technical fine print at the bottom - Report to Team Danganronpa by 3:00pm or risk being sued for a breach of contract - and they're all well aware that none of them have the money to risk suing. It's likely part of the reason Rantaro applied in the first place; money doesn't grow on trees.
"Why?" Shuichi whispers, treating the word as a problem, question, and a solution. "Rantaro... why?"
"They told me..." and here Rantaro's voice breaks, the tears that were threatening to spill now pouring in flux, "they told me they could make our marriage legal. All three of us. And if that's possible... if that's possible..."
Shuichi and Kokichi wrap him in hugs simultaneously, all fully aware of how much this means to their green-haired partner. He's always hated the way they have to simply be, simply play along like puppets, as though they're not in love, all three of them.
As though what the three of them have isn't real. As if one of them is a redundancy.
Which is isn't, of course. It's always been a lie, always will be a lie. To single one of them out as less important is a sin of the highest order, especially since none of them think that way. Why should any outsider have the freedom to judge them like that?
And yet. And yet, and yet, and yet... isn't this simply what Rantaro's done? Singled himself out as less important, thrown himself to the wolves for the other's sake.
They love Danganronpa, but to live it is suicide. They know this as well as they know their love; it's a fact that's stuck with them for the months they've been together, and even before that, when Kokichi was simply FantaPanda, Shuichi, DanganDetective, and Rantaro, Triple-Q. Back when this wouldn't have hurt the way it did, wouldn't have managed to burrow under their skin and into their hearts and squeeze, aching more than any of them knew was possible.
It hurts so damn much.
Shuichi stares for a second, and Kokichi can see the walls descending over his expression. The way he shuts himself off from the world, distances himself from his emotions... it hurts.
It's far too fast, the way Rantaro leaves. He leaves his things, his clothes, as though he's going out for a simple afternoon stroll. He just... leaves. Leaves while Shuichi and Kokichi still pour over the contract, trying to find some way Rantaro won't have to go (it was at the panel, then, that their lives were born and died).
Never being able to say goodbye haunts Kokichi. It's even worse seeing the impostor that wears Rantaro's face on television, seeing the impostor that should be Rantaro but isn't.
It hurts so damn much.
It hurts to the point where he can barely write, doesn't watch Danganronpa 52 because it hurts so damn much to see Rantaro so close, and yet so far. A phantom pain, they call it. The pain of a missing limb.
Can you feel the pain of a missing heart, too?
It's not just Rantaro he loses that day, either. Shuichi buries himself in Danganronpa, as if staring at a screen will bring Rantaro back to them. As if Rantaro'll be okay if they just watch, watch the car crash and refuse to look away.
(It's a blatant lie, of course. Watching this is what Team Danganronpa wants, after all. It's all they want. So what if Shuichi and Kokichi were written out? Rantaro must remember them, somehow. Somewhere.)
(There's no other choice.)
When Rantaro's forced to play Danganronpa 53, they both know there's nothing else they can do.
Leaving Rantaro to fall alone seems cruel. Leaving him to fall alone is self-preservation, and the both of them have always had a nasty martyr streak. It tends to surface in too-late nights to push out a new chapter, overworking themselves to the point of passing out in any sleep-able place.
But this? This is the largest martyr undertaking either of them have attempted, and they're not ready for it whatsoever.
When they head into the interview, all they have to say is that "we're Amami Rantaro's boyfriends" and the interviewer's eyes widen, understanding processing slowly, painfully so. She picks up the phone, dials a few numbers, and within days, they're in Danganronpa 53.
They're not able to see Rantaro until filming starts, they're told.
So never.
The night before it all starts, Shuichi and Kokichi intertwine pinkies, a promise floating in the air between them.
"Please, don't lie to me too," Shuichi whispers, and Kokichi nods. In no world, in no universe, would Kokichi lie to either of them. No matter what they do, they can't force him to lie - because in this world, the truth is all he has left.
"Please, don't leave me," Kokichi pleads, and Shuichi nods, pulling him into a hug. They cry there, and for a moment, they're back at a snowy convention night along with a boy who doesn't remember it, doesn't remember himself, and that makes their tears come all the harder.
("I love you," Kokichi whispers, just before the glass lids come down and the gas enters)
("I know," Shuichi replies)
The detective isn't sure how to feel.
The liar is dead. The eternal mystery that was Kokichi Oma is dead, and he doesn't know how to feel.
So he doesn't.
Why should he care if Rantaro Amami and Kokichi Oma are dead? They're just... other classmates. They're not Kaede. Not Kaito. They're not special to him.
(And yet, and yet and yet and yet, they still feel as though they mean the world to him... and maybe, once, they did)