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Amami’s lab is so macabre, it’s distasteful.
Makes it sort of difficult to believe that he’s willingly coming up here to spend any period of time, but then, as unsettling of an atmosphere as the lab provides, it also serves as a pretty effective deterrent against the others, which Amami really needs right now. That isn’t to say that he’s ever been particularly inclined to hang around these guys-- they’re nice and all, but Amami is sort of the odd one out in that he can’t remember his talent (and with the way the lab looks there’s really no positive conclusions that Amami can come to about it, but nevermind) and even if he wasn’t, he doesn’t always have the most interest in getting close to other people, anyway.
He knows on some vague, distant level that he’ll have to get close to at least one of them during his time here, will probably have to get a move on doing so since it’s been about two weeks since they all woke up, but he’s been trying really hard really consistently not to be thinking about that. Getting to know someone means being vulnerable. And in theory, Amami could just be selective, but as it turns out, being distant and closed off is kind of a turn-off. Amami never could’ve told you that. It’s not like he needs to know the play by play of how his romantic interest fucked up in the past in order to date them, but people are so freaking nosy, so, there it is.
And like, it’s find someone to “fall in love with” or stay here forever, and of course Amami doesn’t have the fucking time to stay here forever, he has sisters to find, but that knowledge has done little more than drive him crazy over the course of the past couple of weeks. He just doesn’t have the cojones to try getting close to people. Saihara has taken him on a couple dates, but after the guy suggested burning down the school on their last one, Amami has kind of, like, taken a step back from the dating scene, so to speak.
Which is a polite way of saying he’s been self isolating for the past week. But hey, it’s actually surprisingly easy. Hang out in this creepy fucked up lab all day, sneak out at night to get food. Toujou’s even been leaving out food for him recently, knowing that he’ll be creeping down to the kitchen at one in the morning like some kind of gremlin, and it’s very thoughtful of her. Amami would almost be looking to get closer to the maid if not for her blatant interest in Harukawa. (Which, like, good luck with that, Toujou. She doesn’t even have the advantage of one of them being an extrovert in this instance. They’re both clearly interested, but watching two reserved people try to make first contact is excruciating. Amami wishes them the best, though. Maybe they’ll bump into each other someday. Let’s go lesbians.)
Today especially, though, Amami needs to be alone. He wakes up underneath the long table in the center of his lab, his neck cramped, even though he took the liberty of bringing pillows and blankets upstairs here from his bedroom a couple of nights ago. It’s really not the best way to wake up, but this is the only place in the room where he can’t see fake blood dripping down the walls, and the table is just tall enough that if Amami closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s not claustrophobic long enough to fall asleep.
It’s not like he’s easily disturbed, or anything. Amami has handled a lot worse than some hanging cards from the ceiling and a bunch of fake electric chairs. One time, when he fell off the trail out in the Philippines, he broke his arm so badly that he could see the bone, and all other parts of his arm that very well should not have been on the outside. The occasion ended with Amami losing his lunch, but hey, he made it through, both arms intact, so really, this is nothing. The red lighting in here is almost a little quirky, after all the time he’s spent getting used to it. Sure, Amami would rather be on a plane searching fruitlessly for one of the sisters he lost, but this is okay, for now. It keeps the children off his heels.
Sighing and massaging the cramp in his neck, Amami rolls out from under the table, then pulls himself up, fumbling for his Monopad, which he left on the chair last night after staying up until five in the morning drawing middle school style penises on the drawing app. (There’s really not a lot to do around here.) He already knows what day it is, of course, has been dreading it since even before he woke up here, but a silly part of him is still hoping, when he taps the power button, that the display will read anything but October third.
No dice. Silly little boy, of course it’s still October third.
And Mina is off in San Francisco, probably, if not somewhere entirely different (kidnapped, murdered) spending their birthday alone, or else surrounded by people she doesn’t know, which isn’t much better. How long’s it been since Rantaro lost her? Just over a year by now, if Amami is right about how old he’s turning today.
Ha, ha. Isn’t that pathetic? Amami can’t even remember how fucking old he is, nevermind his own talent. How the hell is he going to find his sisters when he gets out of here? It would be better, for all of them, if he got really, really close to someone, and then died tragically, so that the person who loved him or whatever went to find them instead.
...What a ridiculous thought.
At any rate, Amami is pretty sure he’s turning sixteen today, which means that Mina, all the way across the world, out of Rantaro’s reach even without his being trapped here in this place, is turning fifteen. He hopes she was at least taken in by some well-meaning Americans. That’s the best case scenario in every event, really, that his sisters were found by some strangers who decided to take them in for as long as it takes Amami to find them. Paying them back won’t be an issue, of course, if they need that sort of thing. Amami has enough money that he could conceivably bathe in it, and he would spend anything on his sisters, he really would.
Of course, it also runs the risk of Mina (or any of his other sisters) deciding that they like that family more, but that’s… well, that’s. Beggars can’t be choosers. Amami would much rather his sisters be alive and happy, even if they never want to see him again, than the alternative.
Honestly, he can’t even bring himself to consider it on most occasions. Least of all when he’s traveling. The thoughts are probably just coming up now because Amami is here, trapped god knows where, and not out there, trying to get her back. It’s easier to repress when he’s actively doing something about it. God, Amami knows (or at least he feels, subconsciously, on some level) that a lot of what he does is just retracing old ground, jumping on hints that lead nowhere, but at least there’s the pretense of proactivity when he’s out and about. While he’s here, there’s… nothing. Just the knowledge that anything could be happening to his sisters, they could be hurt, dying, even just wishing for him to come, and he’s… not there.
Amami spends the morning thinking about his sister, leaning against the back of one of the chairs, his feet propped up on the table. He draws Mina for a while, idly sketching her in matcha green, but it’s melancholic, sort of in the way that looking at photos of her is always melancholic. Mina will, no doubt, look different than he remembers her. Older. Probably more tired, too, because who knows what’s happened to her in the year since she got lost. By looking at pictures, Rantaro is just reminding himself of a person who no longer exists, not in that form. A person who isn’t within his reach.
(A person who he’s letting down, every day that he isn’t using to find her.)
When drawing becomes too painful, Amami saves the doodles that he made and then puts the Monopad to the side, closing his eyes, tilting his head back. He slips one of his legs underneath the table, hooking his foot on one of the boards that juts out underneath, and pushes the chair back onto its back legs, like he’s a bored middle schooler messing around in sixth period. Amami would ordinarily use this position to gaze up at the ceiling, but he’d prefer his eyes to be closed right now. Maybe if he gets tired enough, in this position, he’ll fall asleep, and the chair will rock back forward, and he won’t have to think about Mina for a while.
It’s such a… selfish thing to wish for, truly. He should be thinking about her all the time, but today especially. He’s the one who lost her, after all. If he had just held onto her hand a little tighter, or noticed when hers got pulled out of his, maybe he could’ve… maybe…
In this position, Amami doesn’t hear the door to his lab opening and closing, nor does he hear the footsteps of the person who creeps up behind him. In fact, he doesn’t notice that they’re there at all until he feels their breath, light and ticklish, on his lower lip; then he opens his eyes, brow furrowing, eyes meeting dark violet, and thinks, oh, the ceiling wasn’t that colour earlier, before losing his grip on the table and crashing backwards into the floor.
Ouma steps backwards, swiftly, but his hands outstretch, Amami thinks-- that’s the only explanation he has for why his head hits two things on its way down, one being some soft, undetermined thing, and the other being the floor. Regardless of Ouma’s intentions with this, Amami’s head doesn’t hit the tiles nearly as hard as it would’ve had he not done so, so he’ll call it a win.
Begrudgingly. It still fucking hurts, an ache spreading from the back of his head to the spot just below his eyes almost immediately, and it wasn’t just Amami’s head that took the blow. He groans, quietly, closing his eyes and lifting a hand to his temple. Great. Cool. Perfect. Today really is Amami’s day, huh.
“Silly Amami-chan,” Ouma’s voice is as childishly casual as possible, his wide grin sneaking its way into his tone. Amami, decidedly, does not open his eyes. “He should know better than to lean back in his chair like that! Yup yup, it’s a recipe for disaster. Amami could’ve tooootally crushed me with his massive body if I hadn’t moved backwards, y’know? Nishishi, I could’ve been squished like a grape! What a lame, un-fitting ending for a supreme leader!”
“Ah, my bad, then,” Amami breathes out, though his tone is a bit tighter than it would be on a normal day; in his defense, it’s been a while since he’s actually spoken to anybody. Being patient is easy, but Amami is a little out of practice. Regardless, he opens his eyes, adjusting both to the lighting in this room and the green and grey spots dancing before his vision. “If I’d known crushing you like a grape was a risk, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“Doubtful,” Ouma giggles, but he still extends a hand to help Amami off the floor. Amami eyes it for a moment, warily, then accepts the help, disentangling himself from his chair and allowing Ouma to hoist him off the floor. Ouma has small hands. They’re cooler than Amami’s, though only slightly, and dry, smooth. Amami’s must be a bit sweaty. They were when he lost Mina, after all.
The thought pops into his mind, unbidden, and he pulls his hand away too fast, clenching his teeth. Ugh. He’d almost forgotten what day it was, for a moment there.
To Ouma’s credit, he doesn’t remark on Amami’s sudden rejection of the clasp. He throws both of his hands behind his neck, beaming, tilting his head to the side. “So! Is this where Amami-chan has been camping out the past couple days like some kinda hermit? Everyone’s been suuuuuper worried, y’know? They talk about you all day!”
“Haha, really?” The thought of that makes Amami really uncomfortable. He would like not to be perceived, thank you very much.
“No, that was a lie,” Ouma’s face blanks. “Saihara-chan noticed when you stopped showing for meals but he’s too busy with icky Momota-chan to really care. It’s super sad, y’know? Detectives like him always go for the himbo types…” he sighs, looking at his nails. Amami gets the sense that Ouma doesn’t particularly care who Saihara is interested in. “Actually, I think too many people miss meals and stuff like that for anyone to really notice. Even if it is super duper different from how you behaved at the beginning. Everyone here is too dumb and stupid to pick up on patterns like that.”
Amami smiles, a touch wryly. “We’ve only been here a couple weeks, Ouma-kun. I don’t know if that’s enough time to get a feel for someone’s behavioural patterns.”
“To you, maybe,” Ouma shrugs, polishing his nails on his scarf. “That one’s a lie too, though. I don’t care enough about the bozos here to try memorising why they behave a certain way. I just get bored with annoying the rest of them sometimes and without my beloved Amami-chan there it’s suuuper sad. What’s the point of performing when you don’t have an audience?”
“Self-fulfillment?” Amami suggests.
“I think that’s just a term bullies make up to justify excluding people,” Ouma sniffs, and before Amami can try to figure out what the hell that means, he continues. “Anyways! I hate small talk, it’s boring.” As if Ouma’s prattling from just now could be considered small talk. “So I’m gonna cut to the chase. Why does Amami-chan hate his birthday so much?”
Out of all the things Amami was expecting Ouma to say, that doesn’t even come close to making the list. Like, there’s out of left field, and then there’s that question. Amami blinks, and sputters a little, trying to formulate the proper response to that, if such a thing exists. “Wh-- How d-- I don’t--” okay, try harder, Amami. “How did you know that it’s my birthday?”
“Huh? Lucky guess! Was I right?” Ouma flutters his eyelashes. “I thought you seemed like a Libra, it’s the peacemaker qualities, y’know? Ever since you saved me from the wrath of Momota-chan the other day, I was like, this boy is totally a--”
“Ouma-kun, seriously,” Amami frowns, crossing his arms.
“Geez, you’re boring,” Ouma sighs, picking at his cuticle. “And not just ‘cause you cut off my super awesome funny lie just now, y’know? Did you even look at your Monopad? You’d think that having such an edgy lab would make you super duper paranoid or something, but you’re kinda just an airhead.”
Well. Uh. Ouch, Ouma.
“Kidding,” Ouma adds, his lip curling. “Maybe Amami-chan just forgot. It says everyone’s birthdays under their student profiles, silly.” He tugs out his Monopad, swiping through it for a moment and then holding it up for Amami to inspect. Amami’s profile is pulled up, and, as promised, his birthdate is one of the pieces of information listed. It makes Amami a little uncomfortable to know that their captors know his blood type, but that’s… that’s just what it is, he supposes.
“Oh,” Amami chuckles, a little self deprecating sound, both to disguise his discomfort and because he does feel a little genuinely stupid. “Whoops. Yeah, that… yeah. Whoops.”
“I’m sure Amami-chan looked at it on day one and thought, how the hell do they know the size of my Amatiddies? and then got distracted by something more important and put it away.” Ouma shrugs. “The human mind is funny like that, y’know? You remember the most random things.” His eye glints. “Unless you’re me, of course. I have to keep myself sharp if I’m gonna keep ruling the world behind the scenes.”
Ouma giggles, like it’s a joke, and Amami is sure that Ouma doesn’t actually rule the world behind the scenes, but he thinks there’s also a shred of truth in that, in the statement about him having to keep himself sharp. Amami wonders if that might have more to do with his own paranoia, though, than it does with him being a leader of any kind. (Also, if Amami isn’t mistaken, wasn’t Ouma… trying to comfort him, just now…?)
“Stop spacing out and looking like you’re trying to understand me!” Ouma huffs, and Amami blinks, realising he was doing just that. He smiles sheepishly. “Understand me later! Answer my question first, peasant! Why do you hate your birthday so bad? Hmmm?”
“What makes you think I hate my birthday?” Amami asks, automatically, and a touch defensively. He doesn’t hate his birthday. At least, not like, inherently. There’s nothing wrong with the concept of a birthday. Regardless of whether or not Amami deserves to be celebrated he doesn’t particularly mind indulging the people who would like to celebrate him. It’s just…
“You keep pitching to me underhanded,” Ouma sniffs. “Too easy! Step up your game, Amami-chan. You’ve been hiding in here for a week, probably, and sneaking around at night so people don’t see you. I might have just assumed you’ve secretly been a hermit this whole time and reached the end of your social tether, which, is a thing that happens,” he shrugs, “but you don’t really strike me as the type to take space for yourself even when you do feel crappy. More the grin and bear it kinda guy. Which is sooo stupid, by the way, and would be really super annoying if I cared.” Ouma lets out another giggle, and Amami wonders if Ouma does, in fact, care. “Which means you have a reason to self isolate!”
“Maybe it’s something else,” Amami points out, though there’s not much of a point to it. “Who says that the reason I’m spending time up here is my birthday? Maybe I got into a fight with somebody.”
Ouma shrugs. “Maybe! Gotta leave room for margin of error.” He smiles. “Did Amami-chan get into a fight with someone?”
“Would it be any of your business if I had?”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Ouma simpers, and he bounces past Amami, swinging his arms at his sides, bending down and swiftly fixing the chair that Amami just fell out of. When it’s upright, he strides up to the table and pulls himself onto it, resting his palms on the edges, kicking his legs because they’re too short to reach the floor. He gives Amami a big, toothy grin, and pats the space beside him, but Amami doesn’t move. “Amami-chan has noooo reason to tell me anything at all! But I think that he would, if there really was an argument.”
“What makes you so sure?” Amami folds his arms across his chest, raising an eyebrow at the assertion. “I’m not untrustworthy, but I like to keep things to myself.”
“Me too,” Ouma tilts his head. “Minus the untrustworthy part. I’m super untrustworthy. Big fat mouth that spills everyone’s secrets attached to this pretty face of mine, nishishi.” He twirls a strand of dark purple hair on his finger, his tongue darting out from between his teeth. “But as much as Amami-chan doesn’t trust people, he’s still an honest person. Not a liar like me! Nope nope! Which is why Amami-chan hasn’t actually said this whole time that he doesn’t hate his birthday. Because he’s just deflecting right now, hoping I’ll get distracted.” Ouma heaves a melodramatic sigh, and when he speaks again, it’s in a poor imitation of Iruma’s voice. “I know, brains and beauty? So unfair to the rest of the world!”
Amami decides not to address that last bit, rolling his lower lip between his teeth and averting his gaze. Ouma is sharp. He wishes he knew another way to deflect, because he really doesn’t want to talk about Mina. He could try makings something up, of course, but Ouma would probably see through that, too.
“You’d think you’re the first person in the world to hate your birthday or something,” Ouma remarks. When Amami looks back to him, he’s leaned over, his elbows propped up on his knees, chin resting in his palms, looking thoughtfully at Amami. “You look all emo and sad. It’s totally not a good look on you. Emo looks pretty on Saihara-chan, y’know? And Momota-chan, if you’re into ugly people.” He giggles. “You’re the kind of pretty that looks better with a smile on your face.”
Chuckling, Amami replies, “I hardly think that you should be expecting me to smile when I’m thinking about something that makes me unhappy.”
There’s a casual smile on Ouma’s face. He shrugs. “Well, that was a lie, anyways. Amami-chan is pretty all the time. But if he could just be a little bit meaner, fuck off would also be an acceptable response, y’know? It’s what Shinguuji-chan said, when I asked him if I could draw in one of those fancy books he has in his lab.”
“I wouldn’t tell you to fuck off!” Amami laughs, surprised. “The most I’d do is say that I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then why haven’t you?” Ouma’s expression blanks, and Amami blinks. Ouma’s response was so prompt, like he was expecting Amami to say what he said. Like he’s expecting to get a certain reply. It’s a little unnerving, but not enough to make Amami feel truly uncomfortable, which is… weird. He certainly doesn’t like feeling like he’s being read, like his movements are being analysed. It reminds him too much of dealing with his father, whose gaze, in the best of times, weighs a million pounds. (Even before Amami started to resent him, he always felt uncomfortable being looked at like that, like his mind was being taken apart and looked through, regardless of whether or not he wanted that.)
This, though, none of this reminds Amami of dealing with his father. Maybe it’s just knowing that Ouma isn’t semi-responsible for Amami’s sisters getting lost around the world. (Semi, because, it’s hard to absolve his father of all the responsibility given his position, but also, the blame lands squarely on Rantaro’s own shoulders; they both know that.) Amami feels like there’s something more to it than that, something about Ouma’s expression right now… it’s calculating, for sure, and impossible to tell what he’s really thinking, but there’s no… danger, Amami doesn’t think.
Or if there is, he’s totally blind to it. Which would make Amami a fool, especially if he decides to let his guard down, here. (As if his guard isn’t already lowered.) But he’s finding, the longer he stands here, looking at Ouma, that he doesn’t particularly care about any possible danger. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that he doesn’t care to worry about it. That he’s tired of worrying about it.
Either way, Amami releases a breath and walks himself over, nudging one of the chairs out of the way so he can hop up onto the table next to Ouma.
Obligingly, Ouma scoots himself over, pulling his legs up onto the table and crossing them, giving Amami a toothy grin. “Was my argument that compelling?”
“I don’t know if I’d say that,” Amami says, but he’s smiling, which pretty much means that that’s exactly what he’d say. “It’s not like I’m going to explain everything, okay? It’s a long story that nobody has time for, and you’d only really understand if you have siblings, anyway.”
“As if I have anything else to be doing with my time,” Ouma snorts. “And I have loads of siblings! Geez, Amami-chan, weren’t you listening when I told Saihara-chan the story of how I killed my older brother?”
“No, I wasn’t,” Amami smiles.
“Wow! The audacity!” Ouma’s eyes bubble with tears, his lower lip jutting out, wobbling. “A-A-Amami-chan is so mean, I think I’m gonna burst!”
Amami raises his eyebrows, and Ouma blinks, and the tears are gone, his expression smoothing out.
“Okay, I’m over it. You’ll have to be super duper sorry, though.”
“I am,” Amami says, though he isn’t, really.
“Hmph,” Ouma puffs out his cheeks. “I think the only way you can apologise to me for this affront is by becoming my brother in the place of the one I killed. Sound okay?”
“Off the table,” Amami says, at once, his tone a little sharp, and it catches the both of them off guard, he thinks, if the way Ouma blinks is any indication.
“Uh,” Ouma seems to buffer. “Okay. Instead of that, maybe Amami-chan can start to apologise by not assuming what I will and won’t understand!” He beams. “Or start valuing compassion over understanding, hmmmm? If you search the world for someone who’s gonna get what you’re going through you’re gonna be super lonely, y’know? Not to mention spend a lot of time looking for something that’s impossible to find.”
“I’m used to that,” Amami remarks, offhandedly, and it’s only when Ouma raises his eyebrows that he realises what he said. Jesus. He was just putting all that thought into what he was saying a minute ago, what happened to that?
Ouma is smiling. It’s… startlingly soft, actually. Amami was expecting more of a smirk. “It’s kinda easier to share stuff when you’re bantering, huh? Keep on like this and I’ll tell you my tragically scarring backstory.” He winks, and Amami laughs.
“Is that a promise, or a threat?”
“Fuck around and find out?”
And Amami pauses, for a moment, wondering if he’s even allowed to do this, have a conversation with Ouma like this (a conversation he’s enjoying, no less) while it’s his and Mina’s birthday and Mina is still wholly, dreadfully lost. He doesn’t know if he deserves this, whatever it is, however nice he feels indulging in it.
...Then again, Ouma did go through all the trouble of finding him, here. It would be rude to just turn him away.
“Sure, yeah,” Amami snorts a little, and leans back to lie down on the table, looking up at the ceiling. Ouma stays upright, but shuffles around so that they can face each other. His smile is earnest to the point where it’s probably exaggerated, but Amami enjoys it anyway. “I’ll fuck around and find out.”
“Excellent,” and Ouma cackles, “all according to my evil plan, nishishi. Prepare to die painfully, Amami-chan.”
“I can’t wait,” Amami chuckles.