Work Text:
At the first sight of blood, Momota Kaito knew.
He knew he was not destined to last long, right then and there, in that tiny, cramped, joke of a bathroom, and he had known for a long time. Ever since they'd received another flashback light after Iruma's trial, and he had remembered something extra, something more than the others, something sick and terrifying. He'd remembered his grandparents coughing up blood, pretending they were alright, pushing their health, suffering from a horrific, unknown virus—the way he is now.
He wasn't sure what happened to them after, only those painful images floating around in his mind, making his heart hurt terribly for grandpa and grandma. He didn't know what happened to the rest of the world, either, only that somehow humanity had perished from the meteorites, crashing down from outer space to the surface of the earth.
And now they were stuck here, being forced into this ridiculous killing game. And Momota was stuck here, choking up blood again and again, into the porcelain white sink of the bathroom, staining it a bright neon pink. It only furthered his suspicion.
You see, time was running out for the purple-haired astronaut. The days were getting shorter, the nights getting longer and harder to sleep through, and Momota had to face the cold, hard facts. The fact that he might never discover his true identity in the mystery of this school, that he will never reunite with grandma and grandpa, who he desperately wanted to see, despite their stubborn attitudes and overbearing expectations. That he will never become a true luminary of the stars, and most important of all, that he'll never see his trusty sidekick, Saihara Shuichi, again.
Saihara, who he wanted to protect and keep on protecting until the detective was strong enough on his own. Saihara, whose quiet nature brought him both warmth and jealousy, made him feel both confident and inadequate as a man. Saihara, who he wanted to support and wanted support from, no matter how much he tried to deny it or how scared he was to ask for it. Saihara, who he'll have to leave behind, who he'd already started to leave behind.
Even before, at Angie and Chabashira's trial, or earlier still, he had had a feeling, an inkling of the disease that was now consuming him, tearing him apart bit by bit. But back then, it was easier to ignore, to shrug at, to pass it all off—the irregular breathing, the light-headedness, the feeling of his lungs getting weaker, the occasional taste of iron in his spit—as being due to their circumstance. Their circumstance being this unorthodox, incomprehensible, murderous school life.
Momota steered himself back to the present. Looking down, blood and bile mixed together and were swirling down the drain, just like the thoughts of bravery and cowardice swirling through his mind, unable to be separated from each other. His head throbbed from the confusion of it all.
Some of the blood he'd coughed up had splattered onto the mirror, and when he looked up at his reflection, Momota could see how pathetic he was, with blood dripping from his hands, the sides of his mouth, peeking through the cracks between his teeth.
Eventually, he decided to stop being weak.
Two weeks ago, he had come out of his dorm room at 8 o'clock in the morning, pushing down his feelings of cowardice, fear, and unease. It wasn't like a man to get scared, as his grandparents reminded him constantly, so he repressed those emotions into the darkest corners of his mind. It was something he did easily now.
With a forced vigour in his steps, he looked for Harukawa and Saihara at their morning training session in the courtyard. Once he found them there, sitting on one of the benches, he told them an excuse about his fear of ghosts and the supernatural. Partly stemmed in truth, Momota simply exaggerated the fact until it hid the true cause of his symptoms. Looking back, it seemed silly to tell them such a blatant lie, but his usual manner was so confident and certain that the other two didn't see anything doubtful in his words. They ate the whole thing up within seconds, and Momota was partly disappointed, partly relieved. He wondered if they honestly believed him or if they saw right through his deceit and just didn't want to face the truth. Especially the detective.
Then again, they had never seen him coughing up blood into the palm of his hands. Still, sometimes one had to reveal small weaknesses to cover up the big ones.
"Boast about all the big things he's done, and then turn around and be scared of something like ghosts. That's just like Momota, isn't it?"
The words Harukawa spoke were in jest, yet they cut deep like a blade of truth, and he was once again reminded of why he had to keep deceiving both them and himself. After all, if they couldn't understand a mere superstition, how would they be able to accept a terminating, painful illness?
In the end, Momota wasn't even sure himself how much of it was to keep the two from worrying about him and how much of it was his unwillingness to rely on others. But he was sick, afraid, in denial, and tired of being in denial, so he just...stopped thinking and accepted the lies and truths as they were. Using all his strength to keep smiling through the pain and holding up this cheerful facade, he somehow stumbled back to the dormitory.
The door closed with a slam.
He collapsed onto his bed.
Everything morphed into welcoming darkness.
—
Now, back in his room, Momota slowly regained consciousness. The harsh, white lights on the ceiling made it hard for his eyes to stay closed. They scorched through his eyelids like the rays of the sun on a cloudless day, with none of its colours or warmth, making him feel like its shine was both freezing and burning him to a crisp.
So unlike the light of the stars, twinkling softly and quietly above him, making him feel at ease with the universe. Although the stars that shone in this Ultimate Academy were somehow less authentic than the ones he'd gotten used to in the outside world, they were still meaningful to him because he had shared their brightness with his two friends. His two precious friends with whom he shared the most genuine, most authentic bond in his life. Not that he'd ever tell them that, he thought with a smile.
Telling them would be too painful, too sentimental, would make it too hard to say goodbye once Momota had to leave everything behind. He'd just have to trust that they knew and ignore this ache in his chest every time he thought about either of them. The image of his friends, their compassion, and the gentle night dragged him back to a desperately needed sleep. For now, he was at peace with the universe.
Time passed on, as it always did. Still, sometimes, in the dead of night, when he awoke to another bloody coughing fit, Momota wondered—just for a second—what it would have been like had he told the truth to the assassin and the detective. Would it be easier to show them or tell them about it? Even if it meant adding more misery to their already full plate, even if they wanted to deny it just as much as he did?
He imagined it—a world where he could feel free to have weaknesses and quirks and shortcomings, and still be accepted for all that he was. He found himself starting to miss their training, which he no longer participated in. Found himself missing the taciturn yet thoughtful presence of Saihara beside him, the aloof but affectionate way Harukawa told them about her past. They were the friends he had always wanted; he needed to confess about his disease and he longed for their support. But he'd gotten...scared, and maybe that's the real reason he sought out the assassin, the real reason he was so adamant about having her there. It was easier to lie to two instead of one; easier to withhold the truth from Harukawa, who never prodded him or stepped over his boundaries, rather than Saihara, who always knew when something was wrong, who worried about him as Momota worried about the detective. Saihara, who had eyes as sharp as an eagle, but a heart as kind as the stars.
It had been easier when it was just the two of them because he had felt safe then, but more complicated because he was scared of feeling safe. Not that he hadn't felt safe with the assassin around, but it just wasn't the same. He was safe enough to be himself with the detective around, safe enough to tell the truth, safe enough to even...
Momota banished the thought from his mind. It was too late now, anyway.
Nevertheless, Momota dreamed about what could've been. What exactly would have happened, had he lived to see another day in the Ultimate Academy for Gifted Juveniles? Had he been honest to Harukawa and Saihara and himself? Had he not been stupid and gullible and aloof at all the wrong times? Had he just been...a little stronger about his weaknesses, and a little weaker when he didn't need to be strong.