Chapter Text
“Gentlemen, that’s a very sad thing, to be nothing.” – Juror 9, 12 Angry Men
“I don’t know why you do that to yourself. It makes no sense to me. If you keep making yourself a target, they’ll keep attacking you. If you would just keep your head down, you wouldn’t end up like this.”
“Yeah, but I don’t really care what happens to me, anyway. I don’t care if I go back. I don’t care at all. Nothing even matters in this world anyway, and I’m going to die at thirty, so might as well have fun, right?”
Two boys walked, side by side, one in a blue school uniform, and one in a black school uniform–a study in contrasts, a study in the strange ways people gravitate over their lives.
The smaller of the two in the black gakuran had one hand placed to his cheek, swollen and purple and covered in a bandage, his knuckles just as bruised from what appeared to be a fight the night before–one that didn’t look like it went very well for him, even before seeing the other participant. His nose was a little crooked, clearly from being broken and reset a number of times, and one of his front teeth appeared chipped at the end, not helping his overall disheveled and pallid appearance, accentuated by the deep, purple bags under his eyes. He had the appearance of a raccoon who was caught stealing from the dumpster–wiry and rough with wild eyes, a sharp smile like a tanuki, something made of wrought iron, something made of steel.
The taller of the two, a boy who very well looked like he could play in American college football, walked with a purpose–his shoulders back and straight, voice low and calm and driven. Even as he walked beside the other, his attention was held by other things–by the book in his hands, by the notes he took in it. His long hair, wavy and thick and healthy, was tamed into a braid that he kept over one shoulder, and the silver, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the edge of his nose lent a level of severity to his gaze–something he occasionally would level at his companion as they talked.
It was a friendship–or even less than that, really, the two didn’t seem to know each other that well–born of convenience, born of circumstance.
Juvenile Training Schools weren’t very big–only around a hundred and fifty students at most, in even something as big as Tama Juvenile Training School, in western Tokyo. To be sentenced to go to a reform academy (for gifted juveniles, sure, but juveniles nonetheless) was a death sentence to one’s social standings and social circles –leaving the two of them without much option but to spend time with each other, and the odd, few delinquents who ended up in the institute with them.
The smaller of the two ended up in the system with a history of acting out for attention, culminating in a carjacking at the wrong place, at the wrong time–right to the father of the taller boy. A choice that ended up with prank guns and bombs mistaken for real ones, leading to the taller boy nearly beating the other half to death to defend his father, landing both in the system with each other.
It wasn’t a very long stay–they hardly are, unless one ends up in and out over and over again, like his companion–but they both had a reputation at that point. A rich father and rich lawyers got his sentence reduced. He didn’t see much point in wallowing over it, but the smaller, even through bloody teeth and bloody lips and splitting up bile stuck to him, and he honestly couldn’t imagine why that was the case.
“That’s not a healthy way to live, you know. If you sincerely believe that you will die at such a young age, that sort of thinking will lead to risk-taking behaviors even more extreme than the ones you already take.”
“It’s just called having fun, you know.”
“Getting into fights every night because you keep shooting off your mouth at people doesn’t seem like much of a way to live. What exactly are you trying to prove with that sort of thing? People already know that you exist. All you’re doing is maximizing the risk that, one day, you won’t end up existing. People would forget you much quicker that way.”
The other stopped walking, and the taller boy stopped himself, so he wouldn’t leave the other behind.
Neither were very liked, not really. He knew he came off as cold and superior to other people–haughty by design, haughty by the way that he looked down at people, haughty by a rich family and private tutors and parents who taught him that one’s entire world was their reputation among the other elite. To be put in prison was a death sentence, and that was why he wasn’t liked even among his own family. He may as well have been a wild animal at that point–a dog who would be put out back and forgotten about. A wolf among sheep. Something dangerous and undesirable. Unpredictable. A stupid animal .
An insect among people.
That was, perhaps, the reason why he allowed his companion to stick by him–to cling to him, to follow in his shadow, a little lackey clinging to his coattails for a scrap of attention. At first, it seemed to be for physical defense–after all, he was half the size of the other boy, in both height and weight–but even then, a secret sense of superiority would bubble in the rich boy at being able to so easily fell things that would send his companion to his knees.
Occasionally, so–and it would be very, very occasionally–there would be a strange, spark of madness in the other boy–something that would become a fascinating line of thought for the other to follow. Something he simply attributed to the wild way that the other looked at the world.
“People live long and boring lives–lives that they’re happy with, but that I’m not happy with. I don’t want to be happy in a small and peaceful life. I want to do something–I want to be one of the great leaders of the world. I want to be remembered in history.”
“Most heroes aren’t remembered in history. People who do great things end up shuffled in with the rest. The world doesn’t care about great heroes, not when there’s nothing to fight against. Not when everything has been discovered, fought, battled, conquered. The only place out there left is space, and we still can’t go past light speed.”
“That’s why I want to be one of the great villains!” The other laughed. “Villains get the better songs, the better art, the better poses and styles. I want to be remembered as someone like Darth Vader, or someone like Junko Enoshima, or Nagito Komaeda, even! Someone unpredictable, someone charismatic, a great leader who can bring the world to their knees!”
He spread out his arms as he spoke–an effect somewhat ruined by the fact that one of his arms was in a splint, and the other was still wrapped in bandages.
The taller of the two boys regarded the shorter with a small raise of the eyebrow–before the corner of his lip twitched upward in bemusement.
This was, perhaps, that spark of madness that existed within the other. The strange, burning mania that captured him–something from deep within his bones.
“So you’re thinking of applying to the show, then?” He asked. “That would be just about the only way that you could end up as one of the big greats, you know. If you want to be on the level of Junko Enoshima, you’d have to be from that kind of world–some kind of anime character like she is. Someone bigger than the real world. Someone more than human.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking of. I’ll be a mastermind–or if I’m not, I’ll be an even bigger villain than the mastermind. You’ll cheer me on from the couch, right?” He turned quickly, dropping the arm in the splint. “When I’m up there–you’ll cheer me on.”
“Who says I wouldn’t be up there, too?” He raised an eyebrow back. “Maybe I’d be the one to foil you. Some sort of great rivalry going on–or maybe I’ll be the protagonist. Or the antagonist. Or the wildcard character.”
“Come on, you want to be Byakuya Togami ? Do you have any idea how lame that is?” The shorter one groaned. “At least be cool like Sakura Oogami–or Gundham Tanaka.” He snapped his fingers in excitement. “That’s it–I’ll be like an evil Gundham Tanaka. Pull a triple reveal or something. If you’re really wanting to be my rival, maybe you can be, like, my Sonia Nevermind? Rich family and stuff–influential dominant leader to my wild leader.”
“I don’t think I’d look very good in the dress.” Was the dry response, earning a short, shriek-like laughter from the other. Something loud and sharp and piercing, startled out of him.
“Was that a joke?” The question came with a look of sparkling, effervescent joy–accompanied by a sharp toothed smile, something a little painful looking behind the split lip and swollen jaw, but it was there nonetheless–the manic joy and wild ideas crackling behind his eyes.
“I don’t know, maybe.” The reply came with a shrug, and the shorter boy laughed again, threading one arm through the other’s elbow–something met with a sharp, tensing of the muscles, but not much protest.
“Let’s sign up for the next season together. Our fight will be legendary .”
“It’s now your duty to sit down and try and separate the facts from the fancy.” – Judge, 12 Angry Men
“Gokuhara.”
It was always spring, in that academy. It was always spring. The eternal green grass, the scenery breaking through the walls, the Earth slowly reclaimed by the world around it. A world completely isolated, a state of being separate from nature. Such a place was utterly alien to Gonta–something as foreign to him as waking up in a crate, with slats for air to breathe.
It was always spring, but there were never any butterflies, never any cicadas. There were never beetles to catch. Even his insects held in captivity were all pinned to boards, spread out to observe, spread out to bone.
Ouma stood there, across from him in the courtyard. He was shivering despite the warm air, a flashback light held tightly in his hands, fingers small and shaking, knuckles white.
Gonta knew Batesian mimicry very well, of course, as the Super High School Level Entomologist. The hoverfly mimics the wasp in order to avoid being eaten by predators. The viceroy butterfly mimics the monarch butterfly’s poison. Kokichi Ouma spread his moth wings with owl eye spots, dazzled, spitting ultrasonic sounds to deter bats. It was as plain as day for Gokuhara to see.
But then, he was drawn to the things others were too afraid to touch, so this could have just been another example.
“Ouma.” Gonta approached him. Ouma walked off being knocked unconscious like it was nothing. Ouma took being held in the air and strangled like it was nothing. He was the carpenter ant queen, stepping into a satellite colony, wings flared. They would attack him on sight, a queen without followers, an outsider to the order. Gonta wasn’t afraid of him as he approached. Gonta didn’t crouch down to him. Ouma didn’t fall into his shadow.
“The world inside here is hell.” The words fell out of Ouma’s mouth, one of his strange non-sequiturs that he sometimes said, things Gonta considered himself too stupid to understand, but things he didn’t mind listening to. “But it’s the best we’ve got.”
“What are you talking about, Ouma?” Gonta asked, frowning. “Is something wrong?”
Ouma did come to him with his worries, sometimes, and Gonta didn’t really mind helping, because it was always for everyone else. He liked the idea of the watch party with the Insect Meet and Greet, until he found out that Ouma lied about liking bugs (something which he was still mad about, to be honest, but something he decided to look past–for now, anyway) and he knew that Momota and Saihara didn’t trust Ouma’s intentions, and maybe it was just one of those things that Gonta was too stupid to understand (he didn’t understand people at all, really) but it wasn’t uncommon for termites to explode to defend their colonies, and to Gokuhara it really seemed as simple as that.
Ouma was a Super High School Level Supreme Leader, after all. Gonta didn’t really know much about how human societies worked, but he knew very much about insect colonies, and he knew that, even stripped from her own colony, a carpenter ant queen would still make a new one in time.
“The world inside of here is hell.” Ouma said, finally looking at Gonta, a strange and distant look in his eyes. “The world outside of here is hell. My organization is dead. DICE is gone. I don’t have anything to return to. There isn’t anything to return to.”
“What…?”
Gonta stopped at that, stopped completely cold. He must have been mishearing something, or maybe Ouma was doing one of his lies. One of his lies that he did to make the others laugh. That had to be it, he just had to be missing something.
He waited. He waited for a solid minute, his heartbeat slowly increasing. Ouma’s face didn’t change. Gonta’s breath slowly went ragged.
“Ouma…is lying, right?” He prompted again. “Right?”
Ouma’s face twitched, warped. It looked, for a second, like he was going to smile. Like he was going to proclaim, of course, it was all just a lie. There wasn’t anything to worry about. Gonta could already hear it on the air, the story Ouma would give.
Instead, Ouma held out the flashback light. He held it straight into the air, the handle pointed towards Gonta, like Gonta remembered how a gentleman would hold out scissors in the books he read about etiquette.
“It’s your choice, if you believe it or not.” Ouma finally said, his voice still carrying that strange, hollow quality to it. The strings were cut.
He seemed so small, then, to Gonta, in a way that Gonta had never really seen before.
Gonta was somewhat aware of the fact that Ouma was the second smallest person among all of them–even at fifty centimeters shorter than Ouma, Hoshi was only four kilograms lighter than Ouma, with the athletic build and skill to make up for it. Ouma just had a way of filling a room with his presence.
Cut from it, Gokuhara was reminded of the pinned butterflies in his lab again, pressed between glass sheets, dried and flattened and pinned, laid bare for the world to spectate.
“Gonta’s choice?” Gokuhara asked. “Ouma…what are you planning?”
“There’s nothing to return to.” Ouma repeated again. “Monokuma gave us this. I stole it from everyone. The Motive Videos are meaningless. Tojo’s motive was meaningless. The First Blood perk was meaningless. I guess that’s why Monokuma chose the Necronomicon after giving us this light. It would be the only thing that makes sense. Otherwise, what was the point of that?”
“Hold on–” Gonta hesitated in taking the light. “Ouma….is starting to scare Gonta. Nothing to return to? Gonta heard…about your organization. That is so horrible, you–”
A high-pitched, somewhat manic giggle bubbled out of Ouma. “Thanks, big guy–it was an Evil Organization, though, so don’t be too sad, right? The world is better off without ‘em–at least, I’d love to be able to say that, though! That’s a lie. I wouldn’t.”
Gonta frowned. “The world isn’t better off. It wouldn’t be better off without someone, ever.”
Ouma laughed again, one of his hands pressed to his mouth to stifle his laughter. “Gokuhara– Gokuhara . You’re a good person, do you know that? You shouldn’t be here. No, you should be the only one who deserves to be here. You know that? You shouldn’t be fucking near me. Go back to bed.” He pulled back the light. “Forget I called you out here. It wouldn’t make a difference. If Iruma gets her way, it’d still happen. I’d just have to throw off Saihara. Right?” He added the last part, more to himself than anyone else, it seemed, and Gonta’s frown deepened.
“Ouma?” It wasn’t the first time that Gonta snapped him out of his sudden rambling fits before–Ouma had a tendency to ramble, in particular talking aloud. Gonta had the impression he wasn’t often alone, and needed a sounding board–one Gonta was usually happy to provide. This was different.
“Whatever you do, don’t vote for Iruma.” Ouma suddenly said. “Or, hell, vote for me. If I don’t go, anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t go?”
“Ouma, what is happening?”
“There’s no point!” Ouma threw out his arms, his smile widening, and his eyes widening with the proclamation–Gonta pictured a firefly flashing, or a cicada droning. Ouma laughed again, pacing, one hand held to his chin. “I asked Iruma for a way to get out, inventions to get out, but there’s no point in any of them anymore! Heh–true freedom is having nothing to lose, right? Maybe I should eat all of the ice cream in the cafeteria, maybe I should burn the Emo Hat? Maybe I should shave Momota in his sleep. Going out with a bang. Dyeing Iruma’s hair. What do you think? Stealing Yumeno’s hat? What could really bother her?”
“Ouma–” Gonta finally put his hand on the Supreme Leader’s shoulder, and Ouma sharply looked up at him. His entire body shook, under Gonta’s touch. He was drawn so tightly that he seemed to be made of tension. Gonta got the impression that he would shatter if squeezed.
“I wanted you to at least. Know. Before I got you killed. They say knowing is worse, right? Maybe I want to torture you more. Maybe I want to make you snap. Do you ever think about that? That I’m going to make you snap? That I’m going to drag you down with me into hell?”
“Ouma…Gonta is too stupid to understand what you are talking about.” Gonta said, slowly, carefully. “Gonta just knows that Ouma is acting even worse than normal.”
“There’s just four ways this whole thing can go.” Ouma finally said, switching again, that strange and flat tone to his voice again. “One, Iruma kills me, and gets everyone killed, before she goes into hell and realizes she did it all for nothing. Two, Saihara finds out, and everyone keeps killing each other, one at a time, and it’s still all for nothing. Three, everyone finds out, and we die here, slowly, with nobody coming for us, and nowhere else to go. Four, we all die, here and now.”
Gonta, struck dumb, jerked backwards. “That–that’s also a lie, right? Ouma is lying, right?”
Ouma turned around, back facing Gokuhara. “Yeah, it’s a lie. I just felt like seeing your face when I told you that, it’s hilarious, ya know. You’re just way, way too naive.”
Gonta swallowed.
“Gonta wants to see.” He finally said. “If it’s really that bad.”
Ouma glanced backward at him.
“Dealer’s choice.” He finally said. “I’ll take you through the ideas I’ve had.”
“It’s very hard to keep personal prejudice out of a thing like this. And no matter where you run into it, prejudice obscures the truth.” – Juror 8 , 12 Angry Men
Limenitis archippus. The viceroy butterfly. Co-mimic of the danaus plexippus , the monarch butterfly . Long thought to be a Batesian mimic, now thought to be a Mullerian mimic.
The thoughts entered his mind, unbidden, unwanted. Such was often the case–Akamatsu called them intrusive thoughts, but that was a kind way of putting it.
He wasn’t even sure if she was really called that, but it was what they all referred to each other by. Names that were unfamiliar and familiar at once. Names that he lived a whole lifetime with. A script someone came up with in a writer’s room, laid out with all of the plot twists and concept art on his desk.
Kaede Akamatsu was a jaded, teenage girl who wanted to make a name for herself in a world that was uncaring and cold to her, in a world that didn’t care if she lived or if she died. Kaede Akamatsu was a warm and comforting person, determined if a little bit pushy, and easily riddled with anxiety. Shuichi Saihara was a soft-spoken and nervous otaku who wanted to make himself into a cool and calm detective, with a darker side. Shuichi Saihara ended up with panic attacks that made him grasp his chest in fear.
The days came back, in bits and pieces.
Gonta Gokuhara was born to a wealthy family, and he wandered into the woods to be raised by lizard people for ten years. Gonta Gokuhara was kind-hearted and gentle by nature, with an inner darkness like most people. Production notes compared him to Aoi Asahina’s character arc–the staff wanted to make Gonta into a combination of some of the most popular characters from the first season, as a return to form after a rating’s drop and a bid for the Hope’s Peak Academy nostalgia.
There was something chilling about the cold, clinical nature–seeing writing decisions made behind the scenes.
A camponotus crawled across his windowsill, a worker ant, on its way to pick up a dead apis mellifera . The bee had, earlier, stung Gonta after he’d reached out to touch it. It lay there, now, and ants swarmed it, and Gonta continued to stare.
There were aftershocks from the reality simulation, of course. They’d known that since their first time implementing the Neo-World program, back in season thirteen. Avatar modification turned out so badly that legitimate comas had been a worry for participants. That was when they introduced the idea of flashback lights, so the crystal cloud network could hold onto the identity coming in, and the database could put in modified memories until the season ended.
The year-long rehabilitation program was a simple expense for Team Danganronpa–all in neat, non-disclosure agreements at the bottom of the sign up page.
He’d seen the end of the world. He’d discussed a group mercy killing with Ouma. He’d strangled Iruma to death, and had been burned to death himself.
The only reason their mercy killing plan hadn’t worked was because of two, crossed wires.
The bee stung him, and for a moment, he was brought back to the moment of death. He’d jerked away, terrified of the little insect.
Insects were friends , the memories of Gonta Gokuhara spoke to him. Squash it , something else said. The clashing voices split him down the middle. Two lifetimes, black and white, monochrome.
Kaito Momota visited him a few times–strangely cowed, and even more strangely, wearing his gakuran with both sleeves, though still unbuttoned to the shirt. He seemed to be even more lost than Gokuhara–wandering with a strange hesitation in his steps.
Gonta didn’t even want to think about what Shinguji must be going through. He hadn’t heard anything from Shinguji yet–one of the three people he hadn’t seen.
The other two being Ouma and Iruma.
Saihara seemed to take it upon himself to talk to Shinguji, while Akamatsu took it upon himself to talk to Iruma, something that still boiled with conflict in Gokuhara. He should be the one to talk to them, they’re his friends. He’s the one who failed to protect everyone. He’s the one who promised that he would protect all of them.
He didn’t know any of them, though–not really. A bee stung him after he tried to reach out and pet it. Shinguji was an only child, DICE didn’t exist, Iruma was into gyaru, and Gonta Gokuhara wasn’t his real name.
It took a very long time for him to see Kokichi Ouma again.
They avoided each other, danced around each other, it seems.
It felt as if he were torn in two by it. One side black and one side white. Hope and Despair, Truth and Lies, co-mingling, mixing, oil and water, a checkered pattern on the side.
The part of him that was Gonta Gokuhara missed Ouma like he missed air, like he missed water. He missed Ouma’s laughter and playful smile. He missed carrying Ouma on his shoulders and the way that Ouma would puff like a cat. He missed the white lies.
It was a lance, a sword piercing him through the chest. Miles away, lifetimes away, he was walking away, facing away from a scrawny, bullied kid who stuck to him, listening to him chatter. A rough cut, raw clay, before being hardened to shape.
Gonta missed being able to understand animals. He was idly reminded of Enkidu being rejected by the forest. They would run from him, as they always did. He was reminded of Gonta’s insistence that only rotten people liked insects. What would Gokuhara think of insects running away from him?
Well, he damn well knew. It hurt . Hurt like being stabbed through the gut by a stinger hurt. He crawled out of bed and stared at the ceiling fan, blades rotating.
He sometimes had nightmares, about waking up in the afterlife, about being guided by Ouma to hell. He had even more nightmares about Ouma falling into it, about not being able to save him. Gonta Gokuhara, in his heart, cared about his friends more than anything. His memories and personality lived in muscle and bone and sinew. He’d watched the final trial. He was a fictional character with a beating heart. He supposed that was the right way to put it–two lifetimes to put behind him, to process. Two lifetimes to live.
Nine months passed, and one by one they were discharged. Rantaro Amami took the shortest amount of time, already having been through the process before. Kaede Akamatsu was released after he was. Yumeno, Harukawa, and Saihara stayed a while to support Momota, who had to come to terms with the fact that his personality was altered to such a severe degree. Shinguji stayed for the full year with financial compensation for the backstory he was given.
Throughout it all, he didn’t talk to Ouma.
“I used to play in a backyard that was filled with garbage. Maybe, it still smells on me.” – Juror 5, 12 Angry Men
“Gokuhara.”
Snow fell between them, a moment of quiet before the storm. Little, virtual avatar bodies–things imperfect and imprecise and an easy vector to talk about things one couldn’t talk about in the real world.
Gonta looked at him, his teammate. The plan loomed on the horizon. He guessed it made sense for Ouma to want to spend more time with him. They wouldn’t have much time left together anyway.
“Ouma?” He asked. It was routine, practiced. Ouma sat beside him, on the roof, looking out over the small world.
“You know, I actually really hate killing. When I started my organization, it was just so I wouldn’t be alone. So a bunch of us loners would have some power in the world. I intended to rule the world with DICE, but I guess that won’t come to pass.”
“So, that’s the name of Ouma’s organization?” Gonta distantly remembered the name being thrown around, but he wasn’t sure. Ouma gave a little shrug, and then a smile.
“Who knows? It could be a lie.”
“It could be.” Gonta glanced away again. “Gonta believes Ouma, though. Gonta doesn’t see a reason why Ouma would lie, now.”
“Is there ever a reason, though?” Ouma laid down in the snow, hands behind his head, as the simulated flakes touched his cheeks. “Maybe it’s to make you feel sorry for me. You could just go through with it and let Iruma kill me, you know. Go team up with Saihara. Be the hero.”
Gonta listened, and frowned. “But Ouma just said he didn’t want to be alone. That he made DICE so he wouldn’t be alone.”
“That was also a lie, idiot. Everything I tell you is a lie.” Ouma opened one eye. “I actually had Iruma make that flashback light so I could use you. I lied to turn you against her and everyone else. I don’t care if anyone dies. It’s a game, after all.”
Gonta frowned, watching Ouma.
“Ouma is lying right now to push Gonta away. That’s how Ouma works.”
“I hate people who think they know me.” Ouma shut both of his eyes again. “You’re not going to fix me, you know. You really think I’d just change myself for someone else? I would have to give up everything I am, and I’m not going to do that just for you.”
“That’s not what Gonta wants.” It was hard to put into words–but it was always hard to put things into words. He struggled to grasp the air, to grasp what he wanted, and he started again. “Gonta just…thinks that’s the way you live, and that’s okay. Gonta just wishes to share that life with you. That’s all. Not to change you, just to live with you.”
Ouma watched the sky for a while, and gave a shrug.
“You want to be a member of DICE?”
“Huh?” Gonta asked.
“We’re going to die soon, anyway, so I can’t haze you, but either way. If you want to join DICE. Maybe in some other life, we could’ve been great.”
“Gonta thinks that the Killing Game Busters are still great.”
Ouma laughed. “Sure are!” He gestured to the spot beside him. “While we’re still alive. Make snow angels with me.”
Gonta paused, but laid down beside Ouma.
“Snow…angel?”
“And a snowball fight.” Ouma stood up and over him. “Wave your arms and legs. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
For the past, two days, he'd seen it--the swirling madness of despair in Ouma's eyes. The collapsing of shadow into shadow, of darkness into darkness.
For the first time in days, he saw something else break through--and Gonta would have followed it to the ends of the world. A smile that would bring down the world.
He already did.
“Look, this boy’s been kicked around all his life. You know, living in a slum, his mother dead since he was nine. He spent a year and a half in an orphanage while his father served a jail term for forgery. That’s not a very good head start. He’s had a pretty terrible 16 years. I think, maybe, we owe him a few words. That’s all.” – Juror 8, 12 Angry Men
“You’ve been avoiding it.”
“What, can you tell? I thought I was being so subtle. Nishishi ~”
The laugh, of course, was tacked on at the very end for the show, as a lot of things were. Gonta sat down in the small chair in Ouma’s room (decorated with a horse mask, no less) and he looked down at his own hands, avoiding Ouma’s eyes.
He hated shoes at this point, but he wore sandals, to not be crude. Ouma looked like he exchanged the tight, straightjacket vest for a loose shirt. He couldn’t imagine pressure being very….comforting after the crime scene he’d seen on air.
“How much…of you is real?” Gonta asked, the words falling out gracelessly, frustratingly. Ouma’s razor sharp eyes watched him, steel and ice.
“Depends. How much of you is real?”
“G–I’m not sure.” The honesty was new. The willingness to talk was new. Impulsive, right out of his chest. Hard to control. Ouma nodded.
“Well, I guess that’s what we get for signing up to kill people.” Ouma lazily stuck his hands behind his head. “Sure pulled one over on me! It was all pretty useless, anyways. Saihara ended up being the one to end it, not even my plans worked! Pretty pathetic, right?”
“That isn’t true–I…I don’t think so.” Gonta frowned. “Having to put in all of the Enoshima stuff…that gave Saihara what he needed.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Ouma shrugged. “I’m still a burned-out reality TV star, so I’ll just go and maximize that for profit. Cash in on my fame. Maybe become an idol. How does that sound?”
He was avoiding the topic again, and Gonta hated that he cared about it now. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Ouma.”
“ Neeeeh ? What is it?”
“I don’t blame you.”
Ouma paused for a moment, then huffed. “Seriously? That stuff? What, you think it bothers me? Why would I care? It just made me more popular to kill you off. The fans loved it. What, with me as the tragic, complicated antagonist. You know they love that stuff.”
“That’s not what I mean. I don’t blame you for wanting to do this. And I don’t blame you for using me. I agreed to it. I knew the whole time.”
Ouma blinked, then he laughed. “You think I cared? No, I don’t regret it at all! I wasn’t lying about that–I was lying about all of the tears!”
Gonta Gokuhara in his heart was pierced, but even then, he saw the viceroy butterfly’s wings flashing, warning of poison he only pretended to have. “I still forgive you.”
Kokichi Ouma stood up, then, kicking the blankets in his bed off, feet hitting the floor. “I put you in the same place I was in, idiot! I drove you to the fucking edge! I infected you–I knew what I was doing! The fuck are you talking about? Then I used you to put everyone else in that place! The fuck is wrong with you?”
There it was. He didn’t have to fight with the memories or feelings. They clicked, ebbed and flowed, seamlessly into place.
“I’m not stupid.” Two lifetimes into one. “I knew what I was doing. And I knew what kind of person you were.”
Ouma’s lip curled. “The kind of shitty fucking leader who gets people killed!”
“The kind of person who isn’t scared of me. Of Gonta. Who gives me a chance. Who listened about the bugs. Who came to me for
help
.” Stubbornness built up in him--an insect who struggles against amber. An insect who chokes down poison. A termite who fights until the end.
“The fuck did you believe me for!” Ouma was the shrill sound of the Tiger Moth, alerting predators of its poison. “The fuck–how is that not stupid ?”
“The…same reason you believed in Gonta. In me. I didn’t want to be alone. I trusted your opinion. I understood why you lied.”
Ouma’s hands shook, curled into fists. Finally, slowly, he undid them--though he didn't meet Gonta's eyes. His face, hidden in shadow, was still as tense as ever--Gonta wondered if he relaxed at all during the year that fell between them.
“You weren’t boring.” Gonta said. “Gonta…I. We. Think so. You were great. As a leader.”
“We?” Ouma asked, grasping onto anything, everything that could get him out of talking.
“It’s hard to shake. I think both? Both.”
“I guess that will take some getting used to.” Ouma sighed. “Whatever…I’ll make do.”
“Hmm?”
“You said you’d be a member of DICE. Don’t tell me that was a lie.”
“DICE isn’t real.” Gonta pointed out, and Ouma grinned at him.
“Not until just now.”
Live with me. I don’t want to be alone. Please, Gonta, don't leave me! I don't want to be alone!
Ouma screamed when Gonta was dragged away to his execution. He screamed in a way that Gonta had never heard before, and had never heard since. He screamed, he sobbed, he begged to be taken with Gonta. He begged for Gonta to not leave him alone.
It didn't make any sense, to Gonta, why he would do that if he was going to do his mastermind plan. Surely, it would have worked more to be brutal to Gonta in the moment? That was the reason he couldn't help but believe everything in that moment had been real.
Ouma's death wish, the entire time, had been real.
It was the first time, he thought, that he’d ever heard the other boy talk about the future before, with some level of hope in his words.
“Okay.”
“Shut your eyes.” Ouma suddenly said, getting up, and leaning into Gonta's face. Gonta was so, honestly, genuinely caught off guard that he ended up nodding back.
Gonta did so, and a moment later, he felt whipped cream put on the end of his nose.
“Heh, what did you think I was going to do, nishishi ?” Ouma laughed. “You should have seen your face!”
That…was also going to take some getting used to.
I'm so glad I met someone who can truly understand me.
Wow. Maybe I was born into this world just to meet you.