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The sound of Monokuma’s laughter is still echoing in Shuichi’s ears when he opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling. His chest is heaving with strained breaths, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple as he remembers where he is. He considers getting up to get a drink of water, because it would probably help him relax a bit, but decides against it after a long moment. The white, spotted tiles on the ceiling swim overhead, shifting back and forth in the pale light that leaks in through the curtains, and Shuichi watches them, wondering if the motion alone is enough to lull him back to sleep. There are pinpricks at the corners of his eyes, but he’s not in the mood to cry right now.
At least the room isn’t silent. Silence leaves space for the voices inside of his head (as dramatic and cliche as that sounds) to get louder, echoing and repeating through his skull at top volume. Silences are stifling and empty and he used to flourish within them but now they make him feel like he’s suffocating, whether under all the words that he could have said or under the ones that he should be saying, the specifics don’t matter. Point is, usually Shuichi can’t breathe. But the sound of his own breaths, short and huffy as they are, is comforting in a way. More important than the heave of his chest, though, are the soft, even breaths coming from Rantaro, who is fast asleep next to him, oblivious to the screams that still reverberate inside of Shuichi’s skull.
Rantaro looks so peaceful when he’s asleep like this, lips parted just the slightest bit and his cheek squished against the palm of his hand. Shuichi sleeps with his back to the window, and as a result he can see the moonlight against Rantaro’s face, illuminating his freckles and casting shadows of his eyelashes upon his cheeks. What Shuichi really wants to do is reach out and touch him, feel the warmth that he knows will be there and reaffirm that he’s really here, lying down in bed next to the love of his life, and not trapped inside of a killing game watching his friends die on loop, but…
He hesitates, and he wouldn’t hesitate if the sun was out but it’s so much easier to doubt things like this in the dark. To let his insecurities manifest into a hulking black (vaguely bear-shaped) monster that towers over him and drips ooze on his face. It’s so easy to forget Rantaro’s comfort and remember only his insecurities, the screaming night terrors he gets sometimes and takes over an hour to come down from. Indulging in comfort like this, on a night of rest for Rantaro is… it’s selfishness, it’s what it is.
Because Shuichi doesn’t even really have it all that bad. It’s been two years since they escaped the simulation, one since their lawsuit was won and Team Danganronpa went bankrupt. Two years feels to Shuichi like more than enough time to recover from what he went through. Two years is like an eternity, really. As much as it was awful, as much as he still feels responsible for those awful executions and as much as Kaede and Gonta’s executions play every time he closes his eyes for more than a moment, he lived until the end. He saw all the carnage but he was separate from it, a passive observer in the sense that he never did anything substantial to stop it. He doesn’t have a right to claim any comfort for himself when what he experienced is comparatively better than anything else his friends did.
It just feels like he’s been stagnanting for the past year, that’s all. Getting out of the simulation was easy. There was a lot to address, but Shuichi could push that all to the side in favour of focusing on his real enemy; the massive corporation that put them all through that mess to begin with. He could ignore all the pain, the nightmares, the tears and the trauma, so long as he could put his energy into a real way of getting back at the people who hurt him. (Who hurt all of them.) And it was… it was nice, to have that, to be distracted and passionate, in fact more nice than he gave it credit for in the moment, because now that it’s over (now that it’s been over) he doesn’t know where to go.
Didn’t know where to go, actually, except into Rantaro’s arms. It took them a while to find each other, if only because Shuichi kept busy and Rantaro self-isolated and it was so much easier to make excuses to put off conversation than to address what had happened in a real, meaningful way. They’re here now, though, in their shared bed in their shared bedroom in their shared apartment, and it’s nice.
It’s nice because Rantaro’s so nice, he smells good, like trees, and his smiles light up the space and he’s a whiz in the kitchen and he’s funny and smart and playful, and yes ghosts lurk like shadows beneath his eyes but it’s manageable, definitely manageable, and more important nothing Shuichi isn’t willing to deal with. It’s nice because Rantaro’s arms are warm and comfortable and his voice is so low it rumbles in his chest and he sings in the shower, loud, pretty songs in other languages that always make Shuichi feel nostalgic, and he mouths the words under his breath as he reads books, and he whistles when he cleans.
Shuichi just wishes, really wishes, that he could be okay, like really okay. It’s been two years. Two years is plenty of time to get over it when you’re someone who was hardly affected. The nightmares should’ve gone away by now. He hasn’t gotten one in a while. He’d even started to think that… well, that he was getting better. They say recovery has ups and downs, that it’s never all the way up all the time, but as good as Shuichi is at remembering the platitudes, in application it’s a little bit more… complicated. He doesn’t expect anyone else’s recovery to be linear, but with himself… he can’t help thinking that it’s a reflection of his own negligence, that he hasn’t gotten over it yet.
And he’s so, so tired of crying.
Against his better judgement, Shuichi closes his eyes and reaches out a hand, seeking out the side of Rantaro’s face, brushing his fringe to the side. He should just let Rantaro sleep-- he looks so peaceful, after all-- but the breathing has ceased to be loud enough to stabilise him and he’s craving the sound of Rantaro’s voice, low and melodic and comforting, and Rantaro said that if he ever has a nightmare to wake him up, but it’s so easy to agree to something in the daylight, less so to follow through with it in the dark. If Shuichi starts crying now he’s not going to stop and he just, he really wants for all of it to go away, that’s all.
“Rantaro,” he whispers, half thinking that if he speaks quietly enough, Rantaro won’t wake at all and he won’t have to feel guilty about it later. Rantaro stirs, though, against his hand (he’s always been something of a light sleeper; frankly it was somewhat surprising that he didn’t wake up when Shuichi jolted from his nightmare) and a soft hum sounds in his throat, his eyelashes fluttering and tickling the inside of Shuichi’s wrist.
“‘m awake,” Rantaro mumbles, voice thick with sleep, and Shuichi cracks an eye open, feeling his heart stutter with guilt. Rantaro’s brilliant green eyes are silver-ish in the moonlight, half-lidded and glazed over, but they focus after a moment, his brows twitching together and the corners of his lips shifting down. “Y’alright?” he sounds concerned through his sleepiness, his eyes sharpening into something more alert, and Shuichi curses how easy he is to read, how quickly Rantaro can look at him and see that something’s wrong. He can’t pass this off as a want for cuddles now, or a stupid, irrelevant midnight revelation. Rantaro won’t demand vulnerability but he’ll likely offer comfort regardless and it’ll be too, too much.
“I had a nightmare,” Shuichi whispers, deciding that maybe he’d better cut to the chase. Rantaro’s fingers curl around his wrist, dragging his hand over to kiss his palm. The gesture would be embarrassing in the daylight but right now it’s tender, intimate, and Shuichi tears his eyes away, feeling them burn more insistently than before. “I shouldn’t have-- woken you, I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” Rantaro’s hum vibrates against his hand. “Nevermind, a’ight? I want you to wake me up for that stuff, I--” he yawns, resting his forehead against Shuichi’s palm, and automatically Shuichi curls his fingers in Rantaro’s hair. The familiar softness is soothing, the way that stroking a cat is comforting after a long bout of crying. Shuichi tries to bring forth breathing exercises, figure out one that’ll serve to calm him before he can start breaking down. “What about?”
A meaningless question. They both know what it was about. And anyway, it wouldn’t make any difference. Shuichi closes his eyes. “I was-- we were, back there, and it… I didn’t know that, it wasn’t real-- ugh,” he uses his other hand, his free hand, to wipe at his eyes. “I, actually don’t really want to talk about it, I--”
“‘s fine, it’s okay,” Rantaro shifts closer, smoothly and effortlessly, sliding his arm between Shuichi’s waist and the mattress and curling it around his back. He’s so warm, Shuichi shudders in his embrace and curls in, pressing his face against Rantaro’s shoulder and screwing his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to cry, he’s not in the mood for it and he’s so tired of it, but Rantaro makes it so easy, and there are no consequences in the dark, nobody around to see and call him weak for it. Rantaro would never, never do so much as even think the word in this context. “You’re okay, now, Shu, we’re all okay.”
“Mhm,” Shuichi nods against Rantaro’s shoulder, trying to compose himself, find something to hold on to so he doesn’t start bawling.
“I think… to say that it wasn’t real kind of undermines the suffering that it put us through,” Rantaro muses, drowsily but firmly, his lips brushing against the shell of Shuichi’s ear as he speaks. “It was in a virtual world, yeah, but it all… really happened. The consequences weren’t permanent but the trauma isn’t gonna go away in a hurry, y’know? And you got to witness all of it,” he kisses Shuichi’s jaw, right beneath his earlobe, and his touch lingers long after his lips have retracted. “So it’s not going to be okay, not for a while.”
Rantaro’s words are, are registering in Shuichi’s brain, but the meaning behind them clashes uglily with things that he’s always held as truths. It makes his brow furrow, because he can’t be wrong, but Rantaro would never lie, not about this, and not about anything. Not anymore, not after what happened, not after what they’ve been through. “It’s been two years,” Shuichi whispers, trying to shut out all the noise. “Shouldn’t I be-- better?”
“There’s no real way of defining that,” Rantaro responds. “Better, worse, it’s all kind of a grey area anyway. I think you are getting better, Shuichi, which is remarkable, because some people wouldn’t. Some people would just sit down and let it consume them. You’re so strong, and determined, it’s… incredible, how much better you’ve been,” he pulls back to brush a few stray tears from Shuichi’s cheeks, smiling a bittersweet but beautiful glow-in-the-dark smile. “It’s just easier for the demons to get you in the dark.”
There’s just, there’s no real good way to respond to that. Shuichi presses his face into Rantaro’s shoulder so that he won’t see the hot, shameful tears that are finally making their way out.
Two years ago, Shuichi’s nightmares were all about Kaede and Kaito and Gonta. He saw their executions during every rest, every time the activity stopped and the moon shone overhead. He heard Flea Waltz, messed up and discordant as it was, and he saw rocketships shooting into the sky and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of poor Gonta’s swollen face. Sometimes he saw blood dripping out from under a press, or Himiko sobbing as she threw the basket off of Tenko’s corpse. And then a year later, Shuichi found that he only ever dreamed of libraries and shot put balls.
It’s not abnormal to worry about something bad happening to someone you care about. It’s a fairly common thing, actually. And when there’s something bad that already happened to that person, it’s not all that difficult to… see it, over and over and over again, every time you let yourself rest even a little bit. Shuichi can’t close his eyes for a second without seeing Rantaro’s body, crumpled on the floor, or else the bloody Monopad in the hidden room, or else Tsumugi’s total lack of remorse on the podium, after she killed both Kaede and Rantaro just to get the killing game started.
He hasn’t said… any of this to Rantaro. How would he say it?
Every time I close my eyes, you’re dead and I’m alone.
I thought I was getting better but I can’t erase the image of your corpse from where it’s burned into my eyelids.
I can’t bear the thought of losing you. It makes me want to bury myself underground and never climb back out.
It’s just… not feasible. And Rantaro would never make him say any of that, no matter how much he maybe should, because that’s just not the kind of person that Rantaro is. He’s so sweet and understanding, too understanding and too sweet in fact. There’s no way that he’d… ever make Shuichi do anything, that makes him uncomfortable like that.
“This isn’t how I envisioned us getting a happy ending,” Shuichi mumbles against Rantaro’s shirt. Rantaro hums, combing through Shuichi’s hair, and doesn’t reply. “Back in the killing game, y’know? I thought it would be… happier, than this. Easier. More riding off into the sunset, less crying in the dark, kind of thing.”
“There’s a little bit of both,” Rantaro’s lips are warm against the crown of Shuichi’s head. “It’s a blend of happy and sad. Bittersweet, y’know? The way I like my coffee.”
Shuichi smiles. “Gross, Rantaro.”
“Not my fault your taste buds are broken,” Rantaro retorts, and Shuichi laughs quietly, despite the tears that are still falling and his breath which still hitches every now and again. At least when his shoulders shake in this moment, it’s with laughter, and not with his stifled sobs. “But really, Shuichi, there’s no such thing as a happy ending. Not really. Things get better and then they get worse all over again, and that’s just the nature of existence. However,” he pauses, his fingers curling around the hair at the base of Shuichi’s neck. “I have a hard time believing that I’m even capable of sad endings when I have you with me.”
“You might want to look into a career of poetry,” Shuichi lifts his face and Rantaro lifts one of his hands to wipe away his tears, delicate and accommodating. His touch is feather-light and Shuichi finds himself leaning into it. “Or politics. Your use of language is unprecedented.”
“Only in the dark, Shu,” Rantaro says quietly, and Shuichi hesitates for a moment. In the end, it’s unclear which one of them moves in for the kiss-- only that it happens, and the nightmares all fade into obscurity with the feeling of Rantaro’s lips against his.
(They’ll be okay. In a sense, that’s kind of a happy ending all on its own.)