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Ouma winces as Saihara wipes the cut along the side of his neck clean, hissing through clenched teeth. It’s been a while since he’s actually been cut by those jackasses.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to do something about it? These look like they get worse every day, Ouma-kun...” Saihara clenches his fist, irritation flowing over his features. Ouma laughs humorlessly, tossing his head back against the bathroom wall.
“If you get involved, something bad’s bound to happen,” he mumbles, “Everyone’s already scared of you, and your reputation’s bad enough as it is.”
Saihara pouts disbelievingly. “I can count off a lot of people that aren’t scared of me,” he insists, placing the bandage over his wound, “and, I have top marks. I’d say I have a pretty okay reputation.” Ouma raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, they aren’t scared of you, they’re creeped out by you,” he offers, and it earns him an unimpressed look. “And your reputation is pretty bad y’know. One of the underclassmen heard that you were nearby and bolted.”
Saihara chuckles, pulling himself off the floor. He extends a hand for Ouma to hold on to, and pulls the smaller boy up. “We should get going to class, we don’t need the teacher chewing us out again for being late.”
Ouma nods, stretching, and hears the satisfying crack of bones. Man, he’s stiff as hell. He glances at the bathroom mirror, and decides that he looks decent enough, despite the large bandage slapped onto his neck. His outfit covers most of his bruises, too, so no one will ask.
“Alright. Let’s go, my beloved,” Ouma says, standing on his tiptoes to press a gentle kiss against Saihara’s lips. Saihara blinks, then presses insistently into the kiss, trying to deepen it, before the bell rings.
“Damn it,” Saihara sighs, pulling away. Ouma giggles, grabbing onto Saihara’s arm, and starts dragging him away.
They fail to notice the stall that’s cracked open, and the boy that snickers to himself in the stall as the couple leaves the bathroom.
Ouma grunts as his back hits the brick wall behind the school, a jolt of pain running up his back.
“Tch, you think you can avoid me the whole day? Fucking idiot, you’re so full of yourself, aren’t you?” The boy sneers, grabbing him by the collar. Ouma stares back blankly, unimpressed. Truthfully, he hadn’t been avoiding him all day, he was only hanging out with Saihara.
He notices that the bully is alone, his other two friends not with him like usual. Strange, but at least it means he won’t get as many injuries. Hopefully.
The bully scoffs, dropping him. “Fucking homo,” he spits, and that surprises Ouma a bit. As far as he’s aware, no one knows of his and Saihara’s relationship. It’ll be... problematic, to say the least, if people know, after all.
As if seeing Ouma’s confused expression, the bully smirks, and pulls out his phone. Eventually, the phone gets faced towards him and his blood freezes when he realizes what he’s seeing. It’s a blurry picture, but definitely easy to make out.
It’s a picture of him and Saihara kissing in the bathroom.
At that moment, the sheer amount of rage he feels is monumental, and his gaze turns cold. Ouma’s left hand slips into his pocket, and wraps around something that he hasn’t used in months.
The bully gags, closing the phone. “What do you think? Should I post it on the school’s Twitter page? I’m sure a lot of people’ll get a kick out of seeing this,” he mocks, “‘The local creep and the bullied loser.’ Has a nice ring to it, huh?”
Ouma pulls out the item from his pocket, sliding the dial across the object. He winces as he feels a burning pain run up his palm, but he pulls himself up, brandishing a pocket knife.
The bully’s expression morphs into surprise for a split second, before he smirks. “You kidding? I bet you couldn’t hurt me if you tried, you homo,” he says, and makes a move to pocket his phone. Quickly, Ouma tosses the knife into his right hand, and his left hand darts to grab the bully’s arm.
“What—? Let go of time, you sick fuck!” He demands, trying to free his arm. That’s when he probably notices the blood that very obviously trickles down his arm, the source of the blood being from Ouma’s hand. It serves to make him seem at least a little more menacing, even if he cut himself on accident.
“You drop the phone right now,” Ouma hisses, “or I promise you that you’ll be missing a few fingers after today.”
He knows damn well that the bully could just pummel him into the wall easily, but he must look a little intimidating with a pocket knife in one hand and a probably-huge gash in the other.
The bully glares at him, the grip on his phone tightening. “Not on your life,” he refuses. Ouma digs his nails into his arm for emphasis, earning a strangled cry. He’s glad he decided to not shorten them, they help in the cruelest scenarios.
“I’m ten seconds away from cutting off your finger,” he remarks, pocket knife inching towards the bully’s hand. “It’s in your best interest to listen to what I say.”
The bully’s at least smart enough to not move around, lest he want to get sliced by the blade. The hand wrapped around the phone starts to tremble, and the cold blade of the knife gets pressed flat against a finger.
“I’m waiting,” Ouma say, smiling almost demonically. The bully gasps, dropping the phone, and takes that moment to pull his arm out of Ouma’s grip, taking several steps back.
“Y-you fucking freak!” He exclaims, arm smeared with Ouma’s blood. Ouma picks up the phone, shrugging.
“I’m telling everyone about you and that Saihara freak,” he spits, and Ouma turns to him, smirking.
“You think they’ll believe you?” He asks, and then starts to laugh. The horrific look that crosses the bully’s face actually makes him quite amused, but then he runs off to who knows where, leaving behind his phone in Ouma’s possession. Ouma turns to grab his own bag that got tossed onto the floor carelessly, and slides the pocket knife closed.
That’s when Ouma notices a familiar figure with a familiar hat and familiar navy hair.
“Ouma-kun!” Saihara shouts, running towards him. Ouma’s eyes widen. Had Saihara been watching everything?
“That was amazing, Ouma-kun!” Saihara exclaims, eyes ablaze with excitement. That makes Ouma crack a smile.
“I’m not really, I didn’t even cut him,” Ouma muses, gaze flickering to his pocket knife. Saihara hums, and reaches for the knife. There’s still a light sheen of blood on the handle from his own accidental cut.
“I didn’t even know you had this,” Saihara says in awe, rolling the knife in his hand. His thumb presses against the dial, and Ouma panics, quickly reaching out to retrieve the weapon.
“D-dont do that, it’s dangerous,” Ouma warns, sighing. Saihara stares at him, curious.
“What do you mean?” Saihara questions, gaze resting on the weapon. Ouma silently raises his left hand, showing off his wound from earlier.
Saihara grabs his left hand (the one that’s still bleeding, ouch), and gasps.
“Ouma-kun, what happened?” Saihara asks, eyes round with worry. A gash runs all the way across his palm, still bleeding dark red. Ouma winces, the pain fully kicking in.
“There’s something wrong with this knife. When you open it, the dial basically produces a whole other blade and slices you,” he murmurs, toying with the knife. “That’s why I don’t usually use it. But I think today I had a good enough reason to.”
Saihara’s gaze softens, and Ouma’s wrapped into a tight hug. “You’re the best boyfriend ever. I’d literally give up anything for you.”
Ouma looks up innocently at Saihara. “Even Danganronpa?” He jokes, knowing full well what the answer is.
Saihara stares at him, expression serious. “Even Danganronpa.”
...What.
Ouma blinks, trying to process the words. There’s no way in hell Saihara just said that. Because Saihara’s borderline— no, he’s is obsessed with the game.
“Is that too much?” Saihara asks softly, brushing a hand through his hair. Ouma giggles, pressing his face into Saihara’s chest.
“Of course not. I love you, Shumai.”
“I love you too. But let’s get that wound cleaned up, we wouldn’t want it to get infected.”
“Can we crush the phone and then throw it into the river?”
“...Yes. After we get you cleaned up.”
“And then we can watch the next episode of Danganronpa together?”
“Of course. But after I clean your wound.”
“...Hmph. Okay.”