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He’s not entirely sure where she got the cigarette.
However, in the short time he has known her, Akamatsu’s been nothing short of an anomaly, and it no longer surprises him when she produces one from somewhere. Sharp words, sharp tongue, sharp wit–all more surprising than any material object, and all she wields deftly, with a mastery Saihara could only wish to match. So yes, the cigarette is surprising, considering there are piano notes in her hair and on her skirt, and her vest is light and preppy, considering that both their outfits were changed to fit their characters, and that most definitely should have been taken in the process.
But.
But he supposes Akamatsu’s found a way around that.
She doesn’t speak for the longest moment–she doesn’t so much as look at him as she lights it, with a match Saihara had seen her retrieve from the warehouse. He supposes his question at the time had been answered, a quiet sort of “what do you need that for?” that she’d brushed off without second thought. Now they sit in the grass, as the sun dies on the horizon (and in it’s death, it hits the world with a golden light far more beautiful than anything it’s ever created before), and a dwindling line of smoke disappears into the sky. It’s beautiful, really, spending time outside the Ultimate Academy in the few hours before their memories are reset.
Akamatsu’s going to become someone fit for the colors she wears now, and Saihara’s going to be a detective. It’s all he’s ever wanted–and he’s sure that she understands that. That she’s the same as him. There’s a reason they’re both here, right? Because they’d rather be anyone else, because there’s something inherently fascinating about Danganronpa? Normal becomes Ultimate, and the mundane becomes exhilarating, and the solid red of their anatomy turns pink in their veins.
For a few hours, they have this, though. For a few hours they are Saihara and Akamatsu, and she’s beautiful like this. The sun’s last moments have turned her hair into a curtain of gold and light, and the stars are already peeking down at them, as if too desperate to wait for night to fully envelope them, and Saihara thinks he can see them in her eyes, luminous and pale and jaded and–
And looking at him.
“Didn’t take you for a creep, Saihara,” she mutters blithely, and he feels his face warm. It must be noticeable, because she scoffs only a second later. “God, loosen up. I’m kidding.”
“I knew that…'' He didn’t know that, but he does now. His hat shadows most of his features, and it’s in that shadow that he can hide his expression, something embarrassed and shy. He can feel her regarding him, as if he’s the strange one.
Though they both must be pretty strange in the most normal way, huh? Social outcasts, rejects, cynics but of the everyday variety. The type you can find anywhere in the world, in any classroom or country or household. Strange, but not strange enough to matter.
He expects her to look away, at some point. To stare back at the sky or the grass, or at nothing, even, just letting her thoughts consume her in the wake of their sudden silence. What he doesn’t expect is to feel her eyes lingering on him, introspective. What he doesn’t expect is for her finger to trace the brim of his hat, so close to him he forgets to breathe, and to pull his hat free entirely.
The world opens up around him, stars in a steadily darkening sky–cloudless and open, and large. And there’s no way to hide, not when Akamatsu sets the hat on her head, flipping her hair over her shoulder and giving him a look.
The look’s a cross between amused and intrigued, he thinks, evidenced by the coy tilt of her head, the curve of her brows.
“How do I look?” she asks, like they’re still students, spending time together between classes and after school has ended. Is it too much, to think they could have been friends? Meetings at cafes, surrounded by the thick aroma of coffee and pastries, or walks home together, knuckles brushing, or a million other memories that will never come to fruition.
They have this, now, though. And that’s what matters.
“Pretty,” he says, as if it can even begin to cover it, “the prettiest thing in the world.”
The cigarette is still perched beneath the pink of her lips, but she removes it to blow a stream of smoke into his face. He thinks–just maybe–that she’s embarrassed, if her averted eyes are any indication. It doesn’t seem like Akamatsu, to get flustered so easily. The honesty seems to disarm her: though it doesn’t last long at all.
“Just pretty?” she challenges, “that’s disappointing, Saihara-kun.”
And if it’s a challenge, Saihara has to prove himself, doesn’t he? So gently, he lays both his hands flat on her cheeks, cupping her face within them. He can feel the way they warm beneath his hands: and while he makes sure his movements are gentle, that she can push away whenever she wants, she leans into the touch.
“The hottest, the strongest, the smartest, the most perfect,” he says instead, because it’s true–maybe they haven’t known each other very long. Maybe Shuichi can’t claim to be an expert on Akamatsu (he wishes he was). But he knows enough about her. He’s seen her wit firsthand, and he knows this to be true.
She’s brave, too.
Far braver than him.
“Kiss me,” she says, bold and certain where he is not, “Kiss me or you’re a coward.”
And what type of person would say no to that?
Nicotine, smoke, and strawberry lip balm lingers on his lips when he pulls away again, their shared kiss clumsy yet tender. Saihara’s kissed a few girls before (and two boys), but never with anyone he’s truly cared for, and never so sweetly. But maybe there’s something different in the air: two teenagers, about to set their lives on the line. Maybe it’s the fact that they’re of the same breed, that they both couldn’t care less about the rest of the world around them.
Maybe it’s because Akamatsu’s beautiful and assertive and intelligent, and she’s the same as him except better.
She looks content, after they part, like she’d half-expected him to stutter and blush and deny her. Maybe another day, another moment, one less perfect than this, and he might have. Maybe. But right now? Sitting in the grass outside a school of death and suspicion?
It feels just right.
“You’re a terrible kisser,” the girl whose eyes could capture the stars says, and then, “do it again.”
A few more times, exchanged beneath the dimly lit sky. Maybe the others will see them: Amami, from last season, or the loud one, or the girl who jumps two feet in the air every time someone so much as looks at her wrong. Shuichi can’t bring himself to care. And it doesn’t seem that Akamatsu can either. It doesn’t last too long: the cigarette is placed back between Akamatsu’s lips, Shuichi’s left breathless, and they’re sitting closer together now, shoulders brushing.
It doesn’t last too long but the effects do, a quiet sort of solace found in understanding, and in first kisses shared beneath the open sky. Open is a loose term, of course, in this case. The sky’s artificial and caged in by the dome, and yet it feels more welcoming than any other that Saihara’s lived under.
“We’re really here…” And it’s unbelievable. Even now, he struggles to wrap his head around it, struggles to come to terms with the reality that they’re part of Danganronpa.
A scoff, from beside him.
“Wouldn't have pegged you as the sentimental type.” Akamatsu murmurs. She’s still wearing his hat, but it looks right on her. Better than it’s ever looked on him. He has half a mind to take a picture: but his phone has long since been confiscated, and their monopads haven’t been handed out yet. Saihara’s not entirely sure if they have a camera feature anyway, but considering they aren’t available at all, it’s not like wondering will matter.
He’ll just have to remember how beautiful she looks right now.
“I’m not normally,” he says and it’s the truth.
There’s not a lot Saihara thinks is worth much sentiment, on this Earth. So he doesn’t often spare it–and when he does, it’s a special occasion, one that demands proper attention. And this is an occasion befitting such behavior.
It’s an occasion that marks the end and the beginning of many things. The end of an era, the beginning of their new lives. They’ll die for sure, Saihara knows, but that was a given when they signed up. Barely anyone survives Danganronpa. People with something to live for don’t sign up.
“I-I guess I’m just excited,” he continues, “For the game to start. Aren’t you?”
It feels like an obvious answer (yes. It should be a yes), but Akamatsu pauses, like she’s not quite sure of the answer. Shuichi’s not disappointed by her hesitance (is hesitance even the right word? She’s lingering. Pausing. But not hesitating), he’s not petty enough to be disappointed. They’re still kindred spirits, even if their presence here is the only connecting thread of their personalities.
That isn’t to say her answer isn’t reassuring, though.
“I guess.” She pinches a blade of grass between her fingers, pulling idly–not quite harsh enough to uproot it, but enough that the tension lays it thin and flat. “There’s nothing better than this, so I guess I’m excited.”
There’s nothing better than this.
Saihara’s not sure truer words have ever been spoken.
“I play piano,” she explains, like she needs to justify herself, “But it’s not like I’m very good. Mediocre at best. I’ve spent hours on it, and yet I can’t get it right. It’s nothing like an Ultimate talent. And that’s fine, or whatever. Ultimates aren’t real, hope isn’t real. That’s a fictional concept.”
“It’s one only Danganronpa can provide,” Saihara says without thinking, and when she looks at him he flinches, biting his tongue. The look’s not harsh, but he’s not used to anyone meeting his eyes the way she does.
“Exactly,” she says instead of anything cruel, and she twists the grass around her finger, letting green encircle pale skin. He thinks of flower crowns and weaved ornaments made of green, and grass nooses. “Humans kinda suck ass. I don’t have any faith in humanity–it’s not like there’s any hope to find in it.”
They’re silent for another long moment. Normally, periods of silence are awkward, unsettling. In books or movies, there are times when silence is companionable, when there is solace in shared quiet–but Saihara’s found that there’s nothing worse than being trapped in his own head, especially not when there’s someone who can pull him out (someone who can. And doesn’t). There’s nothing worse than that unsettling period where all he can hear are his own thoughts–pulsing with every beat of his heart, loud and insistent.
But perhaps the movies and the books and fiction are onto something.
When the two of them fall silent, Saihara doesn’t quite mind losing himself. Akamatsu’s pulled a blade of grass free, and she unwinds it from her finger, cigarette held loosely in her other hand.
She’s not looking at him when she speaks again.
“What about you?”
“Huh?”
She scoffs.
“You said you were excited, dumbass. Why?”
As if that’s not the easiest question in the world. As if her answer wasn’t exactly the same as his (because there’s nothing better. Because hope isn’t real.)
It’s never been real–not in a society like this. “Peaceful,” it’s called. Like peace can confirm something like happiness. Danganronpa provides hope in a way nothing else can. Hope cannot exist without despair, and vice versa–so how could something like it exist in a world that doesn’t contain any despair? It’s no wonder he feels this way.
“What isn’t there to be excited about?” is what he says, instead of any of that.
Akamatsu sighs. It’s a brittle sound, that just barely escapes her lips–and if she were anyone else, if the slight quirk to her lips wasn’t present, Saihara might have thought she disliked him. Might have.
“I don’t know. Some people find gruesome and near-certain death to be a bit of a turn-off,” she says, like it’s obvious. Maybe it is.
Maybe it is, because Saihara knows not everyone finds Danganronpa the thrilling concept he does–and perhaps he can understand. It’s not that he wants to die, that he craves it. If he’d wanted that, why come here? Suicide is considered an anomaly, a rare instance in which the peace of society is broken, one where something has gone horribly and terribly wrong within an individual, but he still could resort to it.
(He’s had access to the internet since he was a child. It's more common than people think. Hushed, sometimes, but just like people like him–suicide is very present, very real. It exists. Even if people don’t know how frequently they occur. Even if they’re kept quiet, for fear of disturbing a world years ahead of any bloodshed and war.)
If he wanted that, he could do it.
It’s not the death that interests him–though he has no intention of avoiding it, either. Danganronpa is gruesome. The deaths it serves are proof of that. And Saihara? He doesn’t find it to be a “turn-off” at all.
“Well not me,” he settles for saying.
“Not you.”
“I won’t be one of the final survivors, Akamatsu-san.”
He’d never planned to be. No intention of avoiding it–full intention of accepting it. There cannot be hope without despair, right? He’ll provide it. He’ll be a plot twist. The Ultimate Detective, a murderer, failing what should have been a perfect crime. Executed.
Akamatsu’s giving him a look now. She’s finally turned her eyes back on him, narrowed pink directed at him. She’s thinking, Saihara realizes, adding him up like he’s a mystery she just can’t figure out. Her words come out in a huff, all cherry-flavored and exasperated.
“And you’re still excited?”
“Yes.”
Another tilt of her head. She takes a long drag of the cigarette, and Saihara’s reminded of a time her nails were black. It’s a strange observation, seemingly coming out of nowhere, but he’s watching the curve of her fingers, the way they linger near her mouth, and they’re not polished–like the character she’s set to be doesn’t care much for them, or doesn’t have the time to.
His are still painted–chipped black that the Monokubz either didn’t see fit to remove, or that suited his character a little too well.
“Do you believe in heaven?” Akamatsu asks suddenly, a puff of smoke accompanying her words. Fitting.
“Huh.” His immediate reaction is to shock, head jerking up a little, from her hands to her eyes. “Ah, no. Why?”
A breath of laughter–so faint it might as well not exist, and plenty bitter in its own right. It’s not judgemental, or at least, it doesn’t feel that way. More an acknowledgment of his surprise, at his question.
“Thought not. If you did, I was gonna say that’s not where you’re going. I can’t judge. I’m the same way,” she says, leaning into him, their shared closeness. The sky above them is a stretch of foreign constellations, dark and lit only by artificial stars, and the grass beneath them is green and dirty, patches of it dead. It’s an imperfect world they’ve found themselves in, an imperfect world they’ve applied to join.
It fits them pretty well, Saihara thinks. If there’s any sort of heaven, it would be the perfect world they’ve come from, where there is no such thing as war. If there’s any sort of heaven, it would not exist here, in halls soon to be overcome with blood and death and despair.
But maybe Akamatsu is asking for a reason. He puts an arm around her, not quite hesitant, not quite confident either.
“Oh. Do you believe in it?” he asks.
He’s rewarded by a scoff. She drops her head on his shoulder.
“Of course not. I’m not stupid.” He can feel her breath when she speaks, when she’s this close. Like she belongs here, maybe, and this time it’s his turn to laugh a little, something just as airy as hers, if a little more awkward. She’s so confident. It’s admirable, really, just how confident Akamatsu can be, even now, even like this.
He wonders if she sounds this confident when she plays piano. “Mediocre,” she had claimed. He’d like to hear her anyway, if she wanted to show him.
“Right.”
“But if it did exist we’d be damned,” she continues at the affirmation, matter of fact. Like she doesn’t find the thought terrifying–but why would she? Neither of them believe in it anyway. In an afterlife, in a God, anything of the sort.
So they’d both be damned. They both are damned. Saihara doesn’t care.
“You’re right.”
“Hey Saihara?”
A pause. Another one of those silences that Saihara had only thought existed in movies. It’s not quite as long this time–she had asked a question, after all, though the quiet has value when it lingers. Gentle. Warm. He’s the one who breaks it first. “Yes?”
She cranes her neck to glance up at him–he can feel it, the way her hair shifts on his own neck, her sigh on his jaw. Like whatever she is about to say next, that it’s important.
“Damned soul or not, tell me you love me.”
So of course, it is.
He should have expected something like this, something bold, a proclamation that seems to still the air around them (not that there was anything remotely like a breeze anyway, not here, not in Danganronpa). But he didn’t–he didn’t expect it at all, and this fact doesn’t make the way his heart stutters, nor the warmth in his face any less present.
“A-Akamatsu-san, we’ve only known each other a few hours,” he says, “I don’t know if I should…”
Another sigh. It’s heavy on his skin.
“I didn’t say it had to be true. I didn’t say you had to mean it.”
She’s still wearing his hat. It’s not like he’s forgotten that detail, it’s not like he could, but it feels especially relevant now. Relevant like the way she waits, almost in anticipation. It’s a little thing. To say this.
“I love you,” he says, and then again, “I love you, Akamatsu-san.”
He thinks in another life, he might mean it. He thinks, in this life, he could. If they had been given time. They could have been friends, he’d thought earlier, but now that seems too simple. They could have been more. Saihara almost wishes they could have it, almost wishes that their time isn’t up.
“I love you too,” Akamatsu whispers, in a tone he can’t read. He wonders if she believes in love at all. The girl with stars in her eyes, who doesn’t believe in humans or hope or heaven, and who plays the piano. He wouldn’t be surprised if love was another concept she couldn’t put much stock in.
He wonders what she’ll be like in the game.
(Will she still amaze him? Will she steal his breath? Or will they be entirely different? He hopes that for as long as they both live, that he can see something in her.)
(He hopes she survives.)
Hope.
Something stirs within him–something unsettling, at just the notion of hoping for something as selfish as this. (Hope cannot exist without despair. They’re both going to die. He doesn’t care–she came here to die, and so did he.) She’s still pressed against him, his arm around her shoulders, and he dismisses the thought.
“We should head inside,” he says quietly, “Um. Only if you want to. But it’s getting close to time.”
They were given a few hours. And then the night–the night, when they’d lose all their memories, when they’d become someone new. Pianist and Detective. Ultimates. Blackened, maybe, if Saihara is lucky. Those hours are almost up, and they don’t have a choice.
It’s not a bad thing. They all knew what they were getting into, signing the paperwork they did, tying their lives permanently to Danganronpa. He doesn’t want a choice. She doesn’t either.
“We should,” Akamatsu agrees, “The locker was cramped...geez, I’m not excited to wake up in it again.”
“Maybe we’ll be in the same ones, again.”
A huff of laughter. She straightens–pushing herself off of him, rolling her eyes. He doesn’t watch her smooth her skirt, take a final few puffs of the cigarette before crushing it beneath her heel. He’s too busy standing himself, staring at his hands, and contemplating the cold–because it is cold, now, without her leaning against his side.
“The same ones. Maybe.”
An offhand remark. Akamatsu doesn’t stop there, however. She considers him, and then puts his hat back on, a firm gesture that lingers, like she doesn’t want to pull away. It’s not that that catches Saihara’s attention, however (not primarily, at least.) It’s the smile she gives him. Gentle. Warm. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, and he’s not sure when he starts smiling back.
“We’ll meet again,” she murmurs, and he nods, repeating the words to her.
They will meet again. They’ll meet again, in another life, as different people. If fate (if Danganronpa, by all accounts) allows it, perhaps they’ll meet and like each other, not set to be enemies by nature. If their time dies tonight with them, then at the very least, it was something neither of them had gotten to experience before.
But Saihara hopes that when they meet again, it’s waking up beside each other, in the same classroom, in the same lockers. He hopes when he stumbles out of the dark again, he’ll be greeted with her steadying hand.
He doesn’t know how to hope, not really.
He does anyway.