Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ouma alternates between clinging onto Harukawa and Momota’s arms as they make their way through the festival, though on the whole he sticks to Momota; in part because Momota is warm, and it’s a bit chilly outside, but also because he’s the one who’s less likely to cuff him in the back of the head if he ignores enough warnings. Not that he ever violates Harukawa’s personal space without expecting some form of retaliation, but it’s just not fun to get hit more than once, y’know? It sort of loses its charm after the first couple smacks.

He’s not really thinking about the smacking right now, though. This festival is so utterly boring, and Ouma doesn’t even mean that in a mean way, he’s just, done all of this before. And as fun as it is to poke Momota into challenging him at a game, a lot of these festival games are rigged, so they often finish the games with no satisfying conclusion. What’s the point of a rivalry where they don’t get any closure? Seems like the people hosting this festival just don’t know how to provide a good backdrop for a slow burn 150k enemies-to-lovers romance. Clearly, they’re homophobic, and Ouma should file a complaint.

There’s going to be time for that later, though. As they walk, Momota rambling to Harukawa about how impressive she was in their last game, Ouma notices a large black tent off on his left, with black streamers dangling in the entrance. It’s spooky, and what little Ouma can see of the inside is dark, and it doesn’t take long for him to figure out what the attraction is.

This should be more fun than a rigged game of fishing.

“Hey, hey, hey! Look over there!” Ouma tugs on Momota’s sleeve, grinning, pointing out the tent. “Doesn’t that look like fun, Momota-chan?”

“Hm?” Momota’s eyebrows raise, and then his eyes widen, a knot appearing in his jaw. Nishishi. Momota’s so easily spooked, but he’ll never admit it, and from the way he shifts his weight now, it’s obvious this is gonna be another one of those times. No matter how bad Ouma’s gotten him in the past, Momota’s never actually cracked and admitted his fear, which makes it all the more interesting. That’s half the challenge, after all! Ouma doesn’t intend to quit until Momota stops lying to himself. “Uh,” Momota’s face is paling, “I-I think it looks kinda dumb, actually.”

Harukawa’s gaze settles on the exhibit, unimpressed. “You don’t really fall for childish things like haunted houses, do you?” She raises an eyebrow at Ouma. “It would take an idiot to be scared in a place like that.”

“Y-Yeah, what Harumaki said!” Momota agrees, nodding vigorously; though, Ouma can’t help frowning slightly. Harukawa isn’t above calling Momota an idiot, or anything-- which, is what it is, it’s not like she’s the only one who’s ever done it, and Momota’s pretty stupid for a genius-- but seriously, right in front of Ouma’s phasmophobic himbo?

“Awww, you two are booooring!” Ouma pouts, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re totally ruining my fun! I’m gonna cry!”

Momota pinches the bridge of his nose, like he has a migraine oncoming. “Please don’t.”

“Nishishi,” Ouma titters into a closed fist. “Maybe I won’t. But y’know, it’s pretty unmanly for you to cower in the face of a silly little game like that.”

“Wh-- I’m not cowering!” Momota sputters. “I just think it’s idiotic!” Next to him, Harukawa gives Ouma a frown, but doesn’t speak up otherwise, sighing quietly.

“Yeah, well, your face is idiotic, so it’s perfect for you!” Ouma beams. “Besides, if it’s that stupid, why don’t you just try it, hmmmm? We can make fun of it together.”

Despite his fear, Momota manages an impressively convincing skeptical expression. “Are you the kind of dude who watches bad movies just to laugh at them?”

“Yes,” Ouma says, before switching back to the original subject. “C’mooooon, agree already! I’m getting bored of this conversation.” He changes his expression to a more devious smile, looping his arm around Momota’s and tilting his head to the side. “Unless Momota-chan really is scared…?”

“I’m not scared!” Momota insists. “You’re so--” He fumbles for words, frustrated, and then lets out a huff, messing up Ouma’s hair. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he grumbles, before turning and stomping over towards the haunted house. Despite his indignation at having his hair fucked up, Ouma beams and skips after him, tucking his hands into his pockets. It shouldn’t be so bad in there. He figures Momota will scream like a girl a couple times and hug his sidekick (or whatever) and then they’ll get out and Momota will deny it. It’ll be fun! A good ol’ butting of the heads. Momota likes those, there’s no way he doesn’t. It’s not like Ouma’s the only one who ever comes up with these challenges.

Harukawa gives Ouma an exasperated look as she reaches into her wallet to pay for her admission. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about!” Ouma chirps, tucking his hands behind his neck. “Besides, if Harukawa-chan thought I was pulling the wool over her boyfriend’s eyes, couldn’t she have said something about it?”

“He’s not--” Harukawa lets out a breath, her cheeks becoming slightly pink, her hands curling around one of her twintails. “There’s no talking him out of it when he gets like this. I might as well just go in with him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Okay, well, going into a haunted house just to prove you’re not afraid of it is a bit inherently stupid, but Ouma still thinks it’s a little mean for Harukawa to say that. Momota would be at her side in a heartbeat if she needed him, wouldn’t he? And even if she didn’t. That’s just kind of how Harukawa is, though, all aloof and cold and dismissive of the people she cares about. Ouma finds it distasteful, but he can’t say she doesn’t get why she acts like that. She’s scared to let people get close to her, or whatever.

Stupid to keep pushing them away when they’re already there, though. Ouma tugs out his own wallet and pays for his ticket, and jogs to catch up with Momota, peeking around at his face. Momota’s a bit pale already, his brow lowered, but aside from that he seems to be doing alright so far, his breathing steady, if controlled. Ouma watches his face closely as they duck under the doorway, those black streamers brushing against his hair.

It’s preeeetty dark in here, though. Ouma can barely see ten feet in front of himself. The only light source comes from the occasional green lantern by their feet. Ahead of them, Ouma watches a shadow dance, and Momota gets all tense, his breath hitching audibly.

“Ooooh, spooky!” Ouma says cheerfully.

“For you, maybe,” Momota denies, but his voice is a bit tight to be convincing. Ouma glances over to shoot him a wicked grin, and in the dim green light he can just barely make it out when Harukawa rolls her eyes.

There’s quiet again as they continue onwards, which is probably intentional, as it’s a bit more unsettling than Ouma will admit aloud, until he hears rustling fabric behind them, accompanied by the quiet padding of light footsteps. Ouma has already turned around by the time the actor makes a sound, yelling something unintelligible at them, his face painted in ugly reds and greens. Ouma thinks he catches the name of an internal organ, or something, which is more creative than the whole brains thing, he’ll give them credit for that.

“Buy me dinner first,” Ouma huffs. Momota, on the other hand, shrieks and latches onto Harukawa, crouching down behind her like she’ll be able to protect him.

Even in the dark, Ouma can see it when Harukawa’s face flushes, an indignant look crossing over her features. “Get off, Momota,” she snaps, and she elbows him in the stomach, nudging him away. Momota seems almost hurt as he moves back, a hand cupping his gut, and Ouma has to ignore the look on his face to avoid feeling icky. Geez, Harukawa. You knew he’s a scaredy cat. Why’d you come in here if you didn’t want to play emotional support? Did you think he was going to hang on Ouma? It’s Ouma’s fault that he’s in here to begin with.

Oookay. Well. Ouma can think about that one later, maybe. He waves at the actor (who is suppressing a laugh at Ouma’s reaction, cheers dude, he’ll be here all night) before turning around, reaching over to touch Momota’s elbow.

He jumps away, eyes flaring wide, but then relaxes slightly when he meets Ouma’s. Aww. He’s seriously freaked out, huh? Momota-chan must be miserable when he goes trick or treating.

“Let’s keep moving,” Ouma suggests, with less cheek than he intends. Momota nods wordlessly, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows, and puffs out his chest slightly before moving forward again. Ouma sort of has to admire his determination. It’d be so easy (in theory) to say that he’s not having a good time and leave. Doesn’t that show strength of character, or whatever, the ability to quit when you’re not feeling it?

...Ouma supposes, though, that that’s not something that really in either of their skillsets.

Momota’s reaction to the next handful of freaky exhibits-- a graveyard with moving tombstones, a surgeon with bloody medical instruments, a guys with axes who show up to chase them around for a little while-- only intensifies as they go along, and by the time they’ve managed to outrun the bloodthirsty lumberjacks, he’s practically trembling, looking almost sickly in the green light.

And like, it’s not as though Ouma is the type to quit before he’s seen something all the way through. That’d make him a pretty shitty Supreme Leader of Evil. But he almost feels like… no, he feels really bad looking at Momota right now. Every time their shoulders brush, or something rustles around them, he jerks, like he’s expecting to be struck. Ouma gets having an irrational fear, but this is bit more than he was expecting, especially considering the way Momota usually plays it off.

He almost has to wonder… if there’s something else behind it? Maybe Momota is just terrified of ghosts and All Hallow’s Eve, but on the other hand…

As they round the corridor, a faint oooo sounds from some distance ahead of them, Ouma’s train of thought is interrupted as he watches Momota shiver, clenching and unclenching his fists. He looks desperately at Harukawa, like he’d like her to protect him, and then averts his gaze. He probably doesn’t want to get pushed off again.

Ugh. That kind of, seriously sucks, Momota. Ouma takes an impulsive large stride forward and sticks his hand inside Momota’s. It’s hard to be properly comforting because Ouma’s are so small and Momota’s are so large, but he squeezes it anyway, disregarding how clammy it is, the way his fingers tremble slightly underneath Ouma’s own. The look that Momota gives him is alarmed, and then confused, and then inquisitive, but Ouma just shrugs.

“It’s always been a dream of mine to hold Momota-chan’s hand, you know,” Ouma chirps, closing his eyes. “Besides, this is totally scary! I’m terrified.” He nods seriously.

Momota’s quick exhalation through his nose is slightly derisive. “Right,” he says quietly. Even speaking at that volume, his voice shakes, but the contact seems to relax him somewhat, which is good, sort of, except that Ouma only got him to come in here in the first place to scare him, and now he’s trying to comfort the guy. It’s almost like Ouma’s the one getting played here.

...Well, maybe it’s not that so much as it is the fact that Momota seems a lot more terrified than Ouma was expecting. He’s never reacted like this to one of Ouma’s pranks before, no matter how many ghosts and cobwebs he’s tossed around. But then, they’ve never gone into a haunted house together before either, so it’s not like Ouma has anything else to compare it to.

A few steps ahead, Harukawa shoots Ouma a glare, and Ouma can’t help raising an eyebrow. Oh, now you wanna hold his hand, Harukawa-assassin-chan? Why did you shove him away before if that was the case? Ouma is torn between verbalising his thoughts and ignoring her, and eventually he settles for sticking his tongue out, putting his free hand on the back of Momota’s, so it’s like a purple homoerotic rival sandwich, or something.

Ouma keeps moving, because that’s what you do, in a haunted house, but they’ve barely gone a couple steps before a white blur falls down from the ceiling, its large, round eye-holes glowing blood red. The spots on the wall where the green and red light touch each other turn an ugly brown, and even Ouma jumps this time, sucking in a sharp breath. He stays planted though, lifting one of his hands from Momota’s to flip off the puppet. Dick.

In a weird way, though, Momota’s reaction is… anti climatic. His grip on Ouma’s hand tightens so much that it’s almost painful, and he backtracks several steps, but he doesn’t make a sound, his eyes as wide as saucers as he stares up at the prop. He was pale before, but it’s as though another pint just drained from his face, and when Ouma looks up to try and meet his gaze, he finds that Momota’s eyes are brimming with tears, his lower lip wobbling.

Shit. Okay, okay, okay.

He quickly unflips the birdie and reaches out to Momota with his free hand, trying not to startle him. “Momota-chan, it’s--”

“It’s fake,” Harukawa says flatly. She’s unfazed, her arms folded across her chest, an irritated look on her face. There’s a crease in her brow, which leads Ouma to believe that she is concerned about Momota, but from her voice, and in the dark, you’d almost have no idea. “It’s just a prop, Momota.”

Momota stammers a little, incoherent, but doesn’t get a word out. When he sways on his feet, Ouma rushes forward to support him before his knees can buckle. Shit, Momota, shit! Momota slides down a little against Ouma’s arm, shuddering a couple times, and Ouma worries his lower lip between his teeth.

Damnit, this is his fault. He knew Momota had a bad fear of ghosts. He didn’t realise it was this bad, though, or else he never would’ve--

“Stop crying.” Harukawa’s voice takes on a harsh edge. She walks over to Momota and puts out her hand, like she’s expecting him to take it, and Momota flinches away. She almost seems hurt for a moment before her eyes harden again. “Come on, Momota. Get up. Are you a child? You’re sniveling like an idiot over a bunch of actors.”

“Leave it alone, Harukawa-chan,” Ouma says quietly.

“Don’t you call yourself a hero?” Harukawa continues, sharply. It’s like she didn’t even hear him, or something. Ouma scowls, opening his mouth to speak again, but Momota’s hand (where it’s been resting on Ouma’s shoulder) tightens again, and he ducks his head.

“I-- I-I’m…”

He sounds so out of it, it squeezes Ouma’s stomach tight and painful in his gut. He’s happy to challenge the validity of Momota’s whole Luminary of the Stars gig any day of the week-- in no small part due to the fact that he’s half convinced it’s all a facade-- but right now really is not the time for it. Sure, Harukawa probably has her reasons. Maybe she’s just never considered compassion or empathy for more than a second in her life. But Ouma could care less about her right now, frankly.

“I think Momota-chan is plenty a hero,” Ouma says gently, looking at Momota now. He doesn’t meet Ouma’s eyes, head still lowered, so Ouma gently eases him to his feet, bracing him with an arm around his lower back. “I know it’s overwhelming,” he adds, more quietly, “but I need Momota-chan to stay with me the rest of the way through, okay? I can’t find my way out without the Luminary of the Stars to guide me.”

Ouma isn’t wholly convinced that appealing to the hero complex is a good idea as a general thing, but it seems to get through to Momota. His eyes focus a bit more, and he nods, taking some of his weight off of Ouma’s shoulders, sucking in a breath.

“Hurry up.” Harukawa’s voice is as flat as ever as she turns around, starting to make her way past the ghost. Ouma says some mean stuff about the prop’s mother as they follow, and it coaxes a weak chuckle out of Momota, even though he cringes when he has to duck under it. Downside of being so tall, Ouma supposes. He just squeezes Momota’s waist a little and keeps walking, trying to ignore the guilt that crawls in his throat, his chest, his stomach.

It isn’t much longer until they’re out, thankfully. There’s a volunteer on the other end to greet them, but Harukawa walks right past him, and Ouma steers Momota after her, following until they reach a relatively quiet section of the fair, a large stretch of grass between two empty tents. Momota pulls away from Ouma when they arrive and stumbles a few feet, and once Ouma’s sure he’s not going to tip over, he leaves the man be, forcing a neutral expression so Momota won’t have to deal with Ouma’s concern on top of everything else.

There’s quiet for a moment as Harukawa and Ouma watch Momota try to recover, his shoulders trembling, one of his hands bracing his weight on his knee. It’s Momota who breaks the silence first, though, swallowing thickly and straightening up.

“I’m fine,” he says, which is a really stupid first thing to say, but it’s already out in the air. Ouma considers contradicting, but Momota’s still so pale, his fingers shaking where he’s pressing them against his leg. He looks like he feels sick, swaying on his feet like he’s a second away from collapse. Ouma inches subtly closer, just in case his services are needed, but otherwise keeps his distance, maintaining a straight face.

Harukawa, though, shoots him a glare. “Uh-huh.” Her voice is flat, her arms folded across her chest. Ouma shoots her a warning glance-- this isn’t the time, Harukawa-- but she doesn’t seem to receive it, gaze affixed to Momota. “Sure, Momota.”

“Come on, I am!” Momota insists, his voice a little more firm now. “I was j-just a little surprised in there, ‘s all, I,” he sucks in a breath like he needs oxygen, lifting his free hand to the back of his neck, “I got through it, didn’t I?”

“Not without standing there quivering for five minutes,” Harukawa scoffs. “What would you have done if we weren’t there? You would’ve collapsed if Ouma hadn’t caught you. Everyone knows you’re scared of ghosts, Momota. You brought that yourself by going in there in the first place. It was only a matter of time before your idiocy caught up with you.”

Man, fuck this. “Will you lay off?” Ouma snaps.

“Are you saying I’m wrong?” Harukawa raises an eyebrow. “Momota can barely survive most of the time without Saihara and me around to hold his hand. He would’ve been useless in there by himself, he--”

“Right, like you did anything?” Ouma raises his voice so he can cut her off, getting up in her face. Right now, he doesn’t care of she attacks him, his heart pounding heavy and hot in his chest. “It was my fault Momota even went in to begin with, so you know, I’m actually not sure how much my help really meant! But when he was having a panic attack, you just stood there insulting him!”

“I was trying to get him to move,” Harukawa retorts, disgruntled, though her eyes are a bit wide. “What else was I supposed to say? He’s was freaking out over toys.”

“Guys, c’mon,” Momota speaks up behind them, sounding slightly desperate. “There’s no reason to fight-- I’m good, really, I just need some water, and then--”

“Shut up, Momota,” Harukawa huffs.

“What, like it’s not any of his business?” Ouma scowls. “Seriously, Harukawa-chan, at this point I’m not sure if being friends with you would even make a difference in how you treat me. Can’t you wait two seconds before getting a witty comeback in?”

Harukawa’s brow lowers. “That’s not what this is about. What Momota did was what he always does, falling for your bullshit. I don’t know why he even gives you the time of day. Now look where it got him. He had to be bailed out, again.”

“I already said, it was my fault he even went in in the first place,” Ouma snarls. “Do you even listen?”

“This isn’t the first time Momota has needed me or someone else to clean up his messes,” Harukawa insists. Her arms are folded across her chest, which is good, Ouma supposes, but he almost wishes she would hit him, so that he could fight back, because his stomach is so tight he feels like he’s about to burst.

“Is he your fucking friend, or isn’t he?!” Ouma’s voice raises, feeling his face flush with anger. “Why are you talking about it like it’s such a chore to you to just--”

A hand finds its way to Ouma’s shoulder, and he nearly lashes out, but there’s only one person it could belong to, so he forces himself to calm down and listen to Momota despite the blood rushing past his ears. “Ouma, it’s fine, seriously. Harumaki’s right, I shouldn’t-- it’s not her job to look after me.”

Oh, shut the fuck up, space boy.

“Momota,” Harukawa seems unhappy, even though Momota is taking her side, her brows knitting together. “That’s not--”

“I don’t want you guys fighting on my behalf,” Momota says. His voice lilts unsteadily, his hand shaking even where it rests on Ouma’s shoulder. “I-I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to cause somethin’ like this.”

Ughhhhh, Momota. Ouma turns, now, putting one of his hands on top of Momota’s and looking up at him. He’s so pale, a bead of sweat dripping down from his hairline, and he looks like he’s going to collapse. “Why don’t you sit down, Momota-chan? This isn’t your fault, we just need to talk this out really fast, y’know?”

Momota shakes his head. “N-No, I don’t need to sit down, I’m fine, I just--” He stops, abruptly, and then turns around, his shoulders tensing, and it’s only when Momota’s dropped down to his knees on the ground and started retching that Ouma realises what’s happening.

Shit, shit shit shit. Ouma is over at Momota’s side in an instant, resting a tentative hand on his back. Momota bristles, but when he glances at Ouma he seems to relax somewhat (as much as you can while actively puking), turning his head back down and shuddering before he heaves again.

Ugh. Fuck. What even happened to this guy? Ouma’s seen Momota off his game before. He always gets pretty twitchy whenever the topic of ghosts comes up, and it’s not like he’s not easily provoked. But this is almost surreal. Ouma can barely feel his feet, standing here and rubbing circles into Momota’s back while he loses his lunch. Part of him wants to call this a dream, but there’s… no way that he could ever imagine Momota looking like this, not on his own.

Which means that it’s real.

When he’s finished, Momota coughs hoarsely, returning his weight to his ankles and shuddering, fisting his hands in his pants. Ouma fishes a napkin from his pocket and hands it over, continuing to rub Momota’s shoulder while he turns to look at Harukawa.

She’s watching the scene with an almost deer-in-the-headlights type of look on her face, eyes wide and stricken, brows furrowed together. It’s obvious that she’s distressed, unused to seeing Momota so vulnerable-- and worried about him, probably-- but Ouma can’t find it in himself to be sympathetic right now.

“Gee,” Ouma says flatly, “almost like calling Momota-chan an idiot wasn’t the solution.”

Harukawa opens and closes her mouth, and then says, “I’m going to get some water.” Her gait is stilted as she turns, but Ouma doesn’t pay any more attention to her, easing an arm around Momota’s lower back to start pulling him up again.

“Let’s go somewhere you can actually sit, okay?” Ouma urges, gently, and Momota nods, but when Ouma looks at his face, eyes screwed tight, his hand holding the napkin against his mouth, he sees that there are tears dripping down his face.

Fuck. Shit, piss, balls, damnit, christ. Ouma owes Momota like, a million space books after this. Or even a spaceship. Something super cool and awesome and not consolation prize-y.

Momota allows Ouma to maneuver him away from the problem area, and it isn’t long before Ouma locates a park bench, carefully easing the astronaut into it. He’s torn between sitting down beside him and crouching down in front of him, but then Momota draws his knees into his chest and shivers, and Ouma decides it’s probably better to sit at his side, for now.

“Does Momota-chan want to know a secret?” Ouma prompts, as he perches himself at the edge of the bench. He wants to wrap his arm around Momota, but the guy looks so fragile, almost, he can’t bring himself to touch him again. Momota nods, though, eyes darting over to Ouma and then returning to his hands. “I’m afraid of heights.”

“You are?” Momota’s voice comes out thick and muffled. He clears his throat and blinks, tears catching in his eyelashes. “I didn’t think you were… nevermind.”

Ouma tries not to giggle, carefully leaning his head against Momota’s upper arm. “You didn’t see me as a heights guy?”

“N-No, it’s not that, it’s…” Momota takes a careful breath. “I didn’t think… you were afraid of anything.”

That one sort of makes Ouma chuckle. “Everyone’s afraid of something.” He adjusts his head against Momota’s arm. “Fear is how we survive, right? It keeps us from going into dangerous situations. Makes sure we’re diligent and cautious and ready to run at any time.” He grins. “It’s not like it makes you weak to be afraid.”

“‘F course not,” Momota mumbles. He’s quiet though, for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. “But you… always seem so impervious to everything, like nothing can hurt you. You make it look so easy.” He sighs, and tilts his head back, gaze trailing across the sky. A few more tears drip down his cheeks with the movement. “I don’t get it. I wish I could be like that.”

“You’re saying you’re not?” Ouma raises an eyebrow. “Momota-chan is pretty tough, isn’t he? And that’s not a lie. You’re easy to provoke, sure, but that’s just because you have a big heart, full of so many feelings. You bounce back quick.” He presses his lips together. “That’s… why Harukawa-chan was so hard on you, because she thinks you’re invincible, and it scares her when you’re not.”

She needs Momota to be perfect, this shining, glowing image of a person who thinks that the universe is his to conquer. Her stability depends on it. And the only way Harukawa knows how to cope with anything is by lashing out.

That doesn’t make it right. But Ouma… gets it, he supposes. In the sort of way where he wishes he could talk some sense into her, without having to interact with her at all. Momota’s a person, a teenager, a guy who cares too much about too many stupid things. He’s plenty of a hero, but he’s not untouchable. Harukawa can’t just treat him however she wants because she’s afraid to be vulnerable.

Momota hums, and his eyes close. Ouma hears it when he swallows. “She was right, though,” he murmurs. “What kind of hero’s afraid of somethin’ stupid like ghosts?”

“It’s not stupid, Momota-chan,” Ouma scoffs, anger flaring up in him at the very insinuation, “those things are supposed to be scary.”

“But you and her weren’t scared at all,” Momota argues. His hands clench into fists so tight his knuckles pale, and he takes another shuddering breath. “Like it didn’t even bother you.”

Ouma considers saying, it’s easier to stay calm when other people are freaking out, but he’s not sure he would’ve freaked out even if he was alone, so it might not be the best reassurance. Besides, Momota is too smart to fall for one of his lies right now. Instead of saying that, Ouma hums, tapping his chin with a finger. “So? If there’d be any ledges in there, I would’ve clung to Momota-chan for dear life.”

“Pfft--” Momota laughs, like that surprises him to hear. “Why’d there be ledges? It was a haunted house.”

“Well, duh,” Ouma huffs, “I’m just saying we all have our fears, y’know? Heights can be mine. Ghosts can be yours. Besides, you still went, didn’t you? What’s that saying, courage is being afraid but doing it anyway? Does Momota-chan think he has to be immune to everything all the time?” Ouma raises his eyebrows. “Doesn’t it make you stronger, to go through something tough and survive it, instead of going through something with no challenge at all?”

Momota’s eyes glide over to Ouma, puffy and red tinted from crying. “Since when do you talk like that?”

“Since I got the most persistently optimistic rival I’ve ever had,” Ouma says, closing his eyes for a moment. He lowers his voice and makes it a bit gruffer in a poor imitation of Momota. “All this good quality life advice I give all the time applies to everyone except me, I think!”

Laughing again, Momota nudges Ouma’s shoulder with his own. “C’mon, give me a break,” he says quietly. “I’m not… good at this. It all feels so new to me.”

Ouma’s smile softens at that, and he opens his eyes, taking in Momota’s expression. He’s not crying anymore, but he still seems fragile, like the slightest breeze could knock him over. It’s not really the way that Ouma likes seeing him. He’d prefer to see Momota with determination in his eyes, his jaw grit, his hands clenched into confident fists. He wants to compete with Momota, not beat him down. That’s what the point of this all is.

“Ouma?”

Oops! Gay ass. “Sorry,” Ouma shakes his head quickly. “I was just thinking.” He clicks his tongue. “There’s no good way to be comforted, y’know. But Momota-chan probably isn’t used to being on the receiving end of this support, since he cares sooo much for so many other people.” He shrugs. “You’re not making me upset or anything.”

“Well, that’s good,” Momota huffs out another one of those laughs, and then turns his gaze to the ground. He straightens out his legs, planting his feet in the grass, and drums his fingers against his knees. Impulsively, Ouma reaches over to grab one of his hands. It’s warm, and callused, and hairy on the back, and Momota doesn’t pull away. “I still… feel kind of shitty that you have to do this, though, I’m,” his voice shakes slightly, the threat of tears clearly not avoided entirely, “I-I’m supposed to be stronger, you know? How am I supposed to help anybody if I break at something like this?”

“Can I be a little presumptuous for a second?” Ouma waits for Momota to nod before he speaks. “I think… Momota-chan’s fear of ghosts is a little bit more than just your run of the mill irrational phobia. You don’t have to tell me,” he adds, squeezing Momota’s hand, “it’s not my business, and it doesn’t change anything. But you also shouldn’t feel bad for having a trauma response to something that’s traumatic for you.”

Momota grumbles something that Ouma thinks might be an objection so he butts his head against the other boy’s arm.

“I mean it, you know. I wouldn’t lie about something like this.” He pauses for a moment, turning Momota’s hand over in his own, tracing over Momota’s thumb with his index finger. “You know you’re not… broken, just ‘cause of a moment of weakness, right? You being scared right now doesn’t change everything you’ve done for Harukawa-chan. Sure, she’s upset, but she’s also wrong. If it bothers her so much to try and help you, maybe she doesn’t deserve you in the first place.”

“She’s not--” Momota starts.

“She has her reasons,” Ouma amends. “But you should demand better treatment. That’s all I mean.” He squeezes Momota’s hand again. It’s so warm, so large in Ouma’s. He’s so reassuring, all the time, even before when he was about to throw up. Just the sight of Momota’s face made his anger drain out of him like he was a deflated balloon. How could Momota possibly think that this undermines everything else he does for the people in his life? “Does it really make you weak to be scared, Momota-chan? Would you say that to anyone else?”

Momota’s responding silence is answer enough, Ouma thinks, but when Ouma looks over at him, the astronaut refuses to meet his eyes, which makes Ouma feel kind of bad. Maybe they should save this conversation for another time.

“That aside, you were still a hero in the end, right?”

“How?” Momota laughs lightly, tears welling in his eyes, his hand starting to shake again in Ouma’s. “You heard Harumaki, I would’ve collapsed if you hadn’t been there to keep me up, I--”

Ouma cuts in, “But when I said that I needed you, you kept going.”

That stops Momota for a moment, his gaze focusing back in on Ouma, his brows furrowing together. The what is implicit in his eyes, even if he doesn’t verbalise it, his lower lip wobbling.

“What Harukawa said wasn’t wrong, exactly,” Ouma admits, tossing his head. “Everything in there was fake. And the reminder can be helpful sometimes. She was trying to get you to stand up. But Momota-chan is so motivated to help other people, all it took was me saying I wanted you by my side to give you the courage to continue.” He smiles. “Doesn’t that make you a hero?”

“Ouma,” Momota starts, and to Ouma’s endearment and also horror, his face starts to turn slightly pink. “Why are you…”

Good fucking question, space boy. Ouma turns away and sighs, leaning against Momota’s arm again, and looks up at the sky, trying to figure out what to say next.

...Well.

“I owe you an apology,” Ouma says quietly.

“You don’t--”

“No, I do.” Ouma shakes his head. “I didn’t know it was so bad, Momota-chan, but I should’ve. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t anything like our usual challenges. I dragged you into something that got you so bad you threw up. That’s my fault.” He looks over at Momota. “That’s not why I’m saying all this, you know? I’m saying it because it’s true. You know how much I hate liars.” He squeezes Momota’s hand again. “But it was still my fault you went through all that. You shouldn’t have had to, and I’m,” hhrghhgh, “sorry.”

Momota’s gaze is almost stiflingly soft when Ouma meets it. “You still practically carried me out of there,” he mumbles. “I don’t know how I would’ve gotten out by myself.”

“Lucky for you, it’s not something you even have to worry about.” Ouma shrugs. “I was there, and it won’t happen again. That’s all there is to it, right?”

“Right,” Momota agrees, but he still sounds uncertain, his eyes focused on Ouma, a crease between his brows. “You…” He trails off, looking like there’s something he’d like to say, and then shakes his head a little. “Right. Thanks, Ouma.” He looks away. “It means a lot to me.”

Ouma’s about to quip, What are homoerotic rivals for, right? but before he can speak, Momota pulls his hand out of Ouma’s and leans forward, dropping into his chest, his hands fisting in the back of Ouma’s shirt. The action is surprising, and it makes Ouma’s heart skip a beat, but Momota doesn’t say anything about it, so Ouma decides that he won’t either, lifting his hands up to rest on Momota’s back, rubbing up and down with one of his palms. When he feels moisture soaking into his shirt, he ignores it, propping his chin up on Momota’s shoulder and looking up at the sky. Mmmmm. This isn’t so bad, all and all. Feels weird that Momota’s seeking comfort from the guy who put him into that situation to begin with, but it’s the least that Ouma can do, really.

And there’s… something nice about it, about being able to be there for Momota right now, that Ouma sooooo totally is not equipped to put into words. He’ll just repress the shit out of it for the moment. It’s fine. It’s all good. He’s better than the alternative, at any rate.

Speak of the devil, Harukawa shows up with a water bottle in her hand before long, steps silent against the grass. Ouma eyes her warily, and in turn her gaze flicks over the two of them, her lips pressing together for a moment, like she’s displeased. Ouma can’t quite decipher what it is that prompts Harukawa to look at them like that, but he decides that he doesn’t particularly care.

Harukawa seems to decide not to comment, either, she just holds out the water bottle to Ouma, who lifts a hand off of Momota to accept it, and then carefully leans herself against the side of the bench, looking off at the festival. Seems she’s going to give them space for now.

That’s probably the best thing she can do, if her earlier efforts were any indication. Maybe Ouma’s being too hard on her. He shouldn’t be expecting emotional articulation from an assassin of all people, and she was clearly worried about Momota, even if she didn’t express it properly. It just makes him so damn angry, is all. How can Harukawa claim to care about Momota and then act like helping him is a chore? She--

Momota shifts slightly in Ouma’s arms, sniffling, and Ouma melts, forgetting briefly what he was angry about. Okay. He can stew in his rage later, when he doesn’t have an armful of himbo. That seems best. Right now, he puts the water to the side and brings a hand up to card through Momota’s hair, carefully disregarding the gel. Momota seems pleased by the action, shivering and leaning into it, so Ouma continues, looking at the astronaut thoughtfully as he cries himself out.

He deserves this. He takes care of a lot of other people. It’s not very rival-like or even particularly homie-like to sit here petting the dude’s hair, but Ouma’s trying not to get so caught up in the specifics. Worst case scenario, he can just repress all of this later, forget it ever happened and not think about the look Momota gave him a couple moments ago the next hundred times they make eye contact.

Best case scenario… Momota turns a little in Ouma’s arms, opening one of his eyes, and despite the tears glazing over it, the afternoon light highlights speckles in the warm lilac, and Ouma’s heart skips a beat.

Well… best case scenario, Ouma won’t have to repress it. He brushes Momota’s hair out of his face and gives what he hopes isn’t an impossibly lopsided grin, his tongue poking out from between his teeth. Good morning, starlight.

“How’re you feeling?” Ouma asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Momota hums, and closes his eye again, nuzzling closer to Ouma’s chest, and Ouma thanks God and also Satan that Momota’s eyes are closed so he doesn’t see the heat that spreads to Ouma’s neck. “Better,” he mumbles. “Feeling a lot better.”

And for the first time today, Ouma believes him.