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Kokichi’s body was a cacophony of pain, each individual wound crying out and demanding his attention. He cataloged them silently, mouth set in a determined grimace as he walked to the entrance of the convention center. One step at a time. There were the bruises along his ribs, possibly accompanying a fracture in one or two from where the bulky guy had kicked him in the side. It was a struggle to stand up straight, but he did anyway, not wanting any reason for those around him to clock him as weak.
A couple of the fingers of his right hand were broken — the girl had done that. Good thing he was ambidextrous, right? He shoved that hand in the front pocket of his hoodie to hide it, swinging open the heavy door with his left. Part of him was worried he might find his assailants again inside, dread curling in his stomach, but there was no way he was going to just turn around. Auditioning for Danganronpa was a plan years in the making, and if he went home without at least trying, he’d just be giving them what they wanted.
His head was pounding, nose still bleeding sluggishly from a punch. He could no longer recall who delivered it. He didn’t think it was broken, thankfully, but it was probably already turning black and blue.
Kokichi wove through the crowds gathering in the vast entrance hall, trying not to put too much weight on his left ankle. Sprained. Huh, when did that happen?
Well, it didn't matter. His first stop would have to be the bathroom to wash the blood off his face. There was a chance it could actually give him an edge in auditions if he left it, but...No, he couldn’t quite bear the thought. Showing vulnerabilities, no matter how small, wasn’t something he did by choice.
Once he was alone and hunched over a sink, splashing icy cold water on his face, he heard the door open with a creak. He glanced up, looking into the smudged mirror for a second and taking in the vague impression of a man around his own age. Taller and more muscular, carrying himself with the same sort of arrogant swagger that spelled trouble earlier. Kokichi’s grip tightened on the edge of the sink, glad there was no longer any visible blood on his face.
“Hey, dude,” the stranger said. “You alright? You don’t look too good.”
“Hey, Ouma. Dude, are you even listening to me? You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Kokichi felt himself swaying in place, blinking woozily at Momota in the sunlight. Had it always been so bright out in the courtyard, or was it the head injury? He steeled himself the best he could — there was nothing nearby to grab besides Momota himself, and there was no way that was going to happen, even if he did wonder idly how it would feel to take hold of his arm and feel him, warm and solid and too damn noble.
“Are you worried about me, Momota-chan? How adorable! I’m honored you feel so concerned about little old me, even when you should be concerned about catching the blackened. Maybe a little concerned for yourself, too. You don’t look so great either.”
He waited for the flinch, barely perceptible but entirely expected, then smirked.
“That was a lie, of course.”
“Why, you little...Why can’t you ever just accept anyone’s help?” Momota scowled, glancing back and forth between Kokichi and the Shrine of Judgment in the distance, like he was debating whether or not to go on without him. Good. Kokichi shrugged and ran a hand through his hair in a gesture he hoped looked casual, fingers brushing against blood-matted snarls. Hopefully it blended in with the dark color of his hair, at least enough to keep Momota from noticing.
“Because I don’t need your help, silly! A supreme leader like me has to be totally self-sufficient at all times, unless he just feels like getting an underling to do his bidding. So you can just run along and stop annoying me, okay?”
He needed to think. His mind was fuzzy and he knew the trial was the immediate priority, but his mind couldn’t stop going back to when he hit his head. That scene he saw, whether it was a dream, a hallucination, a memory...Until he could figure it out, he couldn’t take anything for granted. Not himself, not Momota, and not the killing game.
“Showing concern for a stranger? That’s not very becoming of a Danganronpa hopeful.” He sneered at the stranger in the mirror, hoping to radiate enough sheer “fuck off” energy to get him to leave him alone.
Instead, the man just chuckled, shaking his head.
“C’mon now, you don’t really think everyone here is auditioning for the same reason, do you? What’s so wrong about checking on a stranger?”
“Not everyone has the same reason,” he agreed, gritting his teeth against a fresh wave of pain from his ribs. “But at the very least, it’s no place for bleeding hearts. If something was really wrong with me,” he continued, careful to avoid confirming it as true, “that would just be good news for you. One less serious competitor, right?”
“No,” the stranger argued, making Kokichi suppress a groan. His ankle was moments from giving out, and he didn’t particularly want to hobble past this guy out of the bathroom. “If I’m going to win, I wanna do it fair and square. That goes for auditions and for the killing game.”
“How noble of you.” As his vision started to blur, he noticed that the stranger’s eyes were the most lovely shade of lilac. There was some deeper sentiment in his expression, some depth of feeling that led Kokichi to think he was being serious about all that fairness crap. Or maybe it was all much simpler than that and he just had nice eyes. As Kokichi started to slur out his next sentence, something about how those ideals wouldn’t last long, he felt himself slumping, hand loosening from the sink’s edge.
As he started to black out, the last thing he felt was the stranger’s arms catching him and holding him close.
“Ouma? Ouma!” Momota’s voice broke through his concentration, the sound fracturing into thousands of disparate shards. Wasn’t he supposed to be leaving? Stubborn jackass...Kokichi would just have to try harder to push him away. That was the idea anyway, but when it came to putting it into action, something within him faltered.
“What?” he asked, as playful and carefree as he could manage. “Missing my attention that much already? Jeez, Momota-chan, so forward! It’s only been a minute.”
He hoped it was only a minute, at least. How long had he actually zoned out for? A quick glance around the courtyard revealed others making their way to the shrine, varying levels of stress evident in the way they carried themselves.
Momota gave him an impressively disbelieving look, resting a hand on his shoulder. It was all Kokichi could do not to crumple under the weight of it, the warmth branding him through his clothes.
“You seemed like you were about to pass out. Again. That’s not like you at all.”
“I was just teasing, of course.” He brushed past Momota clumsily, offering his jauntiest, most flirtatious smile when he bumped against his side. “And you totally fell for it! Man, you really need to work on that. Or don’t, it’s more fun for me that way.”
Kokichi headed for the shrine, one wobbly step in front of another. He could feel Momota’s presence behind him, at just a little too close of a distance to seem entirely casual. He thought back to the memory — yes, he was becoming increasingly certain that’s what it was — and the comfort of Momota’s arms around him, holding him up.
He could confess the severity of his injury, could whimper and whine and hope to be doted on, but even if Momota chose to have mercy on him, Monokuma wouldn’t. He wasn’t supposed to have anyone to catch him, not in this lifetime. If his suspicions were correct, nor would Shinguuji, soon enough.
“The show must go on,” he mumbled under his breath, chuckling to himself. If Momota heard him, for once he said nothing.