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“You’ve gotten pretty good at this,” came the cool voice Damon has come to expect when he least does.
And at shitty timing too. Here, the debater thought he’d rather be caught dead than be seen hunched over the machine, twisting the knob that’d send balls ping-ponging all over the screen. His latest highscore flashes on the screen as the congratulatory sound effect commemorating his great achievement plays. With Desmond Hall hanging over his shoulder, Damon was forced to confront that he’s spent an embarrassing amount of time on this knockoff video game.
Still, being caught by the marksman wasn’t the worst possible outcome for him. He could live with that. No, the real worst people to be caught by would’ve been a certain golfer who wouldn’t be able to resist making an obnoxious comment, and he really didn’t feel like having a conversation about video games with the two who’re the most into these kinds of things. Because screw him for finding things to pass his time with. The blond turned around as casually as can be, trying to seem unaffected by the sudden intrusion.
“Not much else to do.” Replies Damon, eyes narrowed, on the immediate defense. He couldn’t help it, really, even after they’ve started talking to each other more often as of recently. It was as natural as breathing air, the primal drive to thrash and fight to live and survive. Ball up his fists and throw himself in a playground squabble, or sharpen his mind and walk on stage and fight there. His mind rationalizes that Desmond has never given him a reason to be so on guard, though.
Then Desmond laughs a little. Laughs as though Damon’s little crisis wasn’t happening, that it didn’t matter. “That’s putting it lightly. I’m pretty sure that’s the highest score I’ve seen so far. Even Cassidy hasn’t spent as much time on—” his eyes widen a little— “woah, that’s a lot of Marabucks.”
Desmond Hall. The Ultimate Marksman. The recent trial brought people apart as much as it did bring some people together, and in their respective cases, they’ve been talking more recently. Whenever he’s around, Desmond manages to include him in conversations with the others. What he doesn’t get is why he’s trying so hard to keep everyone together. Recent circumstances have convinced a lot of people that no one is to be trusted— but maybe thinking he wisened up was thinking too highly of him.
Maybe he’ll find out today.
Damon doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, he walks over to the gachapon, scanning his watch. Undeterred, Desmond trails behind him. “Gonna buy something? What are you trying to get?”
“I don’t know. The items that’re won are all random.” Like that random plastic duck he got that one time. He had no idea what to do with it, but Diana sure liked it when he’d pawned it off to her someday.
“Sounds a little like gambling.”
He debates whether or not he should even entertain this conversation at all. Regardless of his curiosity about Desmond’s motives, Damon just didn’t feel like talking. The trial—
You burn in my memories. I can’t get it out of my head. Eva? I still don’t get it. Why did you do that? You said you trusted me. Was that all a part of your lie, too?
Was it my fault?
— still hung like a dark cloud over him.
“... It pretty much is.” Green eyes slide to the side.
Damon remembers to keep his expression in check, if only so he can still be taken seriously after this. The screen lights up. Damon taps the dropdown menu and inputs the currency he wants to blow on dollar store toys.
Tap, tap-tap…
… taptap-tap tap tap taptaptaptaptaptaptap—
The items dispense out, comically piling up on each other, and Damon squats down to reap his earnings. Subtly, his green eyes shift to the corner as he tries to gauge where Desmond’s hanging around. Well— the guy’s standing behind him, looking at the display with mild but waning interest. He eventually does look over Damon’s shoulder, glancing at his prizes.
“Oh hey!” Desmond remarked, stepping beside him and picking up one of the prizes he won. Turns it over with a look that Damon could almost mistake as affectionate. “It’s the codebreaker you got me a while back. I didn’t know there were multiple here.”
The debater stiffened. Then, he acquiesces, stepping over for Desmond. Don’t get me wrong, thought Damon, I’m only tolerating this. Damon instead busies himself with sifting through his earnings for the day, before sighing.
“They’re all duplicates,” says the debater— disappointedly.
“I haven’t spent much time here myself.” Desmond comments, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, if you’ve got time, hang around here a little longer. I’ll try winning something for you.”
Damon blinked. “Huh?”
“Well,” the marksman continued to explain, “you’re always getting me a present each time we talk.” The blond stood up. “I thought I’d return the favor.”
…
There are many things he doesn’t get, and this is one of them. Surely Desmond should’ve realized it by now. They can’t be friends, not after everything that happened. This calm before the storm won’t last for long.
“Sure.” Damon shrugs. “I don’t really care.”
But if Desmond was thinking similarly, he doesn’t show it. He smiles instead.
“Alright!”
Desmond goes over to the pachinko machine, loading in his Marabucks. The balls roll down, and he starts playing.
“Now that I think about it,” the marksman began as he fired the first shot— the ball bouncing all over the screen. “I always see the others with these presents recently. Was that all you?”
“And if it was?”
“I’m not saying that’s bad or anything. I just thought it was nice of you.” The trajectory he starts off with is all wrong. Everything Desmond’s doing wrong while playing runs through his mind, all of which he respects Desmond enough not to say out loud.
“It just gives me a reason to talk to them,” he mumbles instead.
“... Huh.” That made Desmond pause.
Now it’s Damon’s turn to look at him oddly. “What is it?”
“Oh, no, it’s nothing.”
… “But uh, you do know you don’t have to give me gifts to talk to me, right?—”
— “It’s not like anything like…”
“... Alright, fine.” His ears go red. Damon stuffs his hands in his pockets as he simmers down, suddenly finding it difficult to look Desmond in the eye. “Maybe it is something like that.”
What can he do? Inane chatter after school with friends had been beneath him up until this point. Something that was the least of his priorities, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. So what if tossing presents his classmates’ ways was a bandaid on top of the fact that he, sincerely, didn’t know how to talk to them outside blindly fumbling around in the dark and asking invasive questions. Not that he’d ever admit he would be wrong for doing so.
His behavior seems to have only elicited an odd, almost amused look from the marksman.
“Sure, alright.”
Desmond, thank God, doesn’t push it any harder. In fact, he’d fallen silent as he focused on the game, firing off balls and scoring points. He’s fired his last one in the roster when the congratulatory screen popped up, the tiny versions of Tozu and Mara cheering on their accomplishment. It feels like a mockery, “wooo congratulations for winning”. “You might be in a killing game, but at least we gave you this arcade machine!” Good grief.
He cleared two bars, Damon thought. Not bad for his first try.
“So you just scan your watch and load in the Marabucks, right?”
“Yeah, the more Marabucks you put in it, the more likely you’ll get a unique item.”
“I’ll just do one for now, then. Alright, let’s do this.”
Tap, tap-tap.
Ka~thunk!...
On one hand, there was Damon, voice rising with anticipation. “What is it…?”
“I’m not sure, I’m getting it now.” On the other— Desmond, looking over to reveal...
Behold!
A barbie radio.
…
They both shoot a stare at each other.
Damon’s shoulders shudder.
… “Pfft.” And he’s the first to break. It’s a mistake he doesn’t make again, because he coughs and immediately composes himself. It takes everything in him not to embarrass himself further as he shields his face with his hands— “It’s not even properly printed! The stereo sticker’s plastered on the side.” Clearly, Desmond’s the one with more restraint, because the only inkling of Desmond’s inner suffering was the twitchy smile he was trying not to make.
“W-well,” said Desmond, trying not to burst out laughing, “I-I guess this is your present!”
Damon crosses his arms in some huffy motion, trying to seem annoyed. “I’m not taking the ‘barbie radio’.”
“Why not, man?”
The debater sucks his breath in, between a laugh and an exasperated sigh. Why are they having this conversation. This is just absurd— god, his sides ache. All of this. Over a shitty pink barbie radio.
“I don’t want anyone asking questions.”
“And the bajillion other prizes won’t bring up any?” retorts Desmond.
Fair point. Damon shifts his eyes right where all the other prizes he’s won are still sitting.
“... No way, I’m still not taking it.”
“I insist.”
Stare. “Why are you so adamant about this?”
“I’m just saying…” Pause. “I’d try for another gift if you really don’t like this one. But I want to give you something, at least.”
The debater stops, crossing his arms. Then he sighs.
“No. That’s not necessary. Fine, I’ll take it.”
Pleased, Desmond makes a satisfied hum.
“Sounds good. There’s a shopping cart over there in the corner.” Desmond points out. “We can put all the stuff we’ve won in there and wheel it over to your room.”
“When we leave, let’s be quick. I’d rather not be seen.”
“Haha, I don’t think that should matter so much…” Damon clicked his tongue in annoyance. Desmond, noticing he’s poking the beast, backtracks. “You’re pretty worried about how people think of you, huh?”
The debater’s arms cross. “Well, yeah, someone would be if everything they did was dunked on. I literally got hung by the ankles by Jean the other day.”
“... You really did?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t going to!” Liar. He can see him trying not to. “I’m just saying you don’t have to be. You’ve got people in your corner.”
Well, he would be very wrong…
But Damon doesn't correct him. Desmond instead walks over to where the shopping cart is, abandoned next to the cart corral. Looks like someone couldn’t be asked to at the very least put it away after they’re done. He takes the cart, wheeling it over to where the gachapon was, and then they start the (not-so arduous) process of hauling their winnings into the cart.
It’s when Damon’s trying to figure out where to put the plushie he’d won when Desmond asked him a question.
“Wanna play another icebreaker?” he proposes.
Damon’s brow rose. “Are you going to ask me the other 18 questions?”
“I can, if you’d like?”
Damon decides to chuck the teddy bear in the cart. “Eugh, no.”
“Then play two truths and a lie with me.”
Scooping up an armful of the prizes, Damon gave him a look. “What are we, in kindergarten?”
“Like I said, good way to get to know each other more,” Desmond countered. “Unless you really wanna do 20 questions.”
“I’d really rather not, thanks. ‘Two truths and a lie’ it is.”
… And they’ve dumped all the prizes into the cart! The two stand behind, surveying their job done well. Leaning back, the blond pondered over what he could say.
Damon thinks—
— and thinks…
Aaand thinks harder!...
“Are you good? I can start—”
“Yes.”
“...”
Desmond’s mouth parts. “Uhh?...”
“Yes, uh, please?” Damon tries next.
Then, the marksman’s shoulders relax a little. “I wasn’t poking for that. Sorry, I was just confused for a moment…”
Damn it!
“Well, I think I just came up with something.” Desmond stops. Then he looks over, faintly smiling. “So, here’s my list: I’m the youngest out of all my siblings, I worked as a waiter during highschool, and my childhood pet was a rottweiler.”
“Alright, there’s no way you were a waiter.”.
“... Dang.”
“Was that really that bad of a lie?” asked Desmond, in earnest.
Damon’s mouth thinned. “Yeah.”
“Can I get an explanation at least? I’m curious to know how you got me that quickly.”
Damon works through his thoughts.
“Well,” the debater begins, “for starters— you’ve been working out 6 hours a day ever since you were seventeen. No one working has time for that.”
“I could’ve at sixteen and had shifts on the weekends?”
“... I should’ve started by saying you wouldn’t even need to work in the first place.”
“You talk like you have experience.”
“Well, I started working when I was fourteen.”
“Wait, really?” Desmond’s eyes widened. “You can do that?”
Damon waves him off. “We probably lived in different states, so different minimum working ages, but yeah. In my state you could. It’s not really all that uncommon; I had multiple jobs before debating really took off. I probably wasn’t supposed to, though.”
The questions Desmond has for him die in his throat. “Huh… Makes sense.”
“Tch. Don’t mention it.”
Damon goes silent briefly.
“No, I think I have something now…”
Desmond nods ‘go ahead’. Damon turns.
Ahem. “I…” He deadpans. “I can sew. I can tolerate dogs. I have black hair naturally.”
“... You know, if you really didn’t want to play this, you don’t have to force yourself.”
“Just get on with it already…”
“Alright, alright.” Desmond puts a hand on his hip. “Well. First off, sewing isn't entirely out of character for you. I’d clock that as a truth.”
Damon stared at him.
“The wording ‘tolerate’ is kinda weird too… But black hair? Really?”
“What’s your final answer?”
“... Sorry. I can’t imagine you with black hair.”
Damon throws up his hands. “Tolerating dogs was a lie. I’m allergic.”
“I dye my hair.”
“Woah, yeah.” Desmond looked at him up and down with renewed interest. “Never would’ve guessed.”
There are many things the debater doesn’t get, and this was one of them. Desmond was always respectful, so considerate. Flattering, he’s never one to leave a favor unpaid, unaccounted for. It made Damon frustrated to no end— what exactly was this guy wanting to get at?
Damon shook his head, grinned, and that’s when he stepped over, closing the gap—
“Ha, it’s as bad as imagining you blond.” His shoe sits besides Desmond’s, tan against black.
…
But maybe his snark doesn’t land right. “Hey man, not too much now,” Desmond manages eventually— but it’s uncharacteristically flat, and… Nervous?
What’s up with him? The conversation had ground to a sudden halt with the way that guy just— cut himself off. Started looking at him all weird with those big, blue eyes... But he’s not looking at him, he’s looking…
“But yeah. I…” tries Desmond, again.
Desmond’s distracted, that much Damon can piece together. Anyone could just tell by the way he opens and closes his mouth like all the thoughts in his head had ceased to exist. His foot even tries to move away, but it hesitates.
Damon narrows his eyes. He’s looking— but where? Watching where Desmond shifts his gaze, he’s looking down… Pointedly to his left— but that can’t be, that’s his…
The blond moves to touch his face. Brushes the corner of his mouth, to be exact. He stops and stares back. That little motion with the knuckle of his thumb is what does it. It snaps Desmond out of his spell, and he tears his gaze away, hard. Looking as though caught, he quickly stammers to speak.
“Blond’s— a good color on you.”
… Because clearly he was “only” thinking about his hair?!
Remembering was the start of it. Nevermind that— Damon Maitsu hasn’t properly breathed for the entirety of the last minute. Clearly, the lack of oxygen had destroyed his mental faculties. That could be the only explanation for why he was acting so pathetic right now. It was as if Desmond, Desmond Hall had arranged to rearrange his mind, permanently alter his brain chemistry, because he cannot— for the life of him— recall when he’d been so stuck, so hung up on his every last word. His heart hammers in his chest, and his face heats. Powerlessly, he catches a flash of Desmond’s teeth, just as he chews on his bottom lip—
“You’re in my face.”
The effect is immediate. A guilty expression flickers across his face.
“Sorry about that,” he says. Only nearly s-! S-stuttering. But he’s not supposed to feel bad. Desmond didn’t do anything wrong. It was Damon who marched right into his personal space and forced him in a corner, and yet he insists it’s his fault. So did that not mean he was admitting he was thinking about something else other than school yard games, getting along with his peers, or if the color of his hair looked better black or blond?
All of the heat in Damon Maitsu goes from his face straight to his head.
It’s like he’s burning.
“Weren’t you here for something in the first place?” blurts Damon.
“Huh?—”
— “Why’re you helping me out?”
Desmond avoids his gaze.. “... I just needed somewhere private to be.”
“Me being here doesn’t really make this place ‘private’, now, does it?”
What do you want out of me?
Something gnaws at him.
The marksman stared at him like he was a little stung, as if he was hurt by the idea that Damon distrusted his intentions. Bummed out, even. But all Damon did was watch as Desmond attempts, numerous times, to open his mouth for what would be his answer before stopping and trying again. Then, his eyes go soft and his brows push together. Troubled.
“I didn’t feel like being cooped up in my room, people come in and out the courtyard, and the most private place in here’s… the boiler room.” His answer is honest.
Okay. Yeah. Checks out why he didn’t want to go elsewhere. The memories of the class trial and execution are still fresh in their minds, and they find solace in the fact that they cringed at the same time.
“Besides… You’re an exception.”
Damon, I trust you.
“Huh?”
“I said you’re an exception. I don’t mind being around you. Talking to you helps get my mind off things, anyway.”
His heart sinks.
… “You keep saying things like that.”
Desmond scratches his ear as he looks to the side. “Sorry, I don’t get what you mean…”
“You’ve been complimentary this entire time. You’ve seemed nothing but happy to oblige to my requests. You go out of your way to talk to me and include me in your conversations. I don’t get it, what possibly could you gain out of doing all of that?”
“I mean, I had a similar question.”
“What?”
“About why you kept giving me gifts. But we had the same answers why, didn’t we? We wanted to talk more to each other, but we just didn’t know how.”
….
“So yeah. I wanted to hear more from you, and making you comfortable was part of that.”
This is just pathetic at this point. He can’t believe he’s going to ask this. “Why?” Why do you care so much? echoed the debater dumbly.
It just doesn’t make sense.
And as if he read his mind, Desmond responds like he always does: “We’re similar.”
“It’s, uh, comforting— you know. To know I’m not alone. We might not see everything eye-to-eye, and you’re kind of an ass, but we have enough common ground… And I’ve been doing some thinking, too.”
“I don’t understand Eva. I still don’t get why she killed Wolfgang in the first place. I’ve racked my head ‘why’ over all the reasons she gave us and I haven’t gotten any closer to an answer. She— just…” Desmond winced. “Shit, man. She wasn’t exempt from the consequences of playing Tozu’s game. She thought she could’ve gotten away with it.”
Ah.
“... But.”
“She didn’t deserve that. That, I have to agree with her on… Dying like that— her reasons. I didn’t get them, and I still don’t now, but her reasons were undeniably real to her.”
Aaaah.
“The worst thing we can do is…” Desmond hesitates.
… “Nevermind.”
The silence hangs between them. Of things untold and unspoken. Of course Desmond wouldn’t delve so deeply, especially when he’d been closing himself off the entire time. Damon finds his hands twisting and tightening into fists.
“Eva died because she wasn’t smart enough to win the class trial.” The words are ugly. “ She flew too close to the sun with her convoluted plan. That’s all.”
That would’ve gotten a rise out of anyone else, even out of those who hated Eva when she was alive. But Desmond could look past what Damon wanted people to see, and he had trusted him enough not to push deeper. But now Damon wasn’t so sure.
“Are you okay, Damon?”
“...”
Damon’s silent. Desmond’s silent. They’re both silent. He wonders what Desmond would think if he told him Eva killing was probably his fault.
Finally, a murmur. A confession.
“She said she trusted me.”
Desmond blinks.
“She did?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
Desmond places a steady hand on his shoulder. Damon hates that he doesn’t shrug it off at first.
“... I’m sorry to hear that, man.”
“...”
Damon’s hand lifts, if only to place above Desmond’s. Teases the idea of lacing them together. Then, out of shame, he pushes Desmond off.
“Don’t do that.”
It’s the last time they mention Eva. The rest of their conversation dies into easy, uncomplicated chatter on the way to Damon’s room.
“Alright, there isn’t enough room inside my dorm. I’m going to have to put some inside yours.”
Damon’s cabinets overflow with his winnings. The marksman’s shoulders slump in exasperation.
“Do you have any shame, dude?...”
"Just for now..." Damon avoids answering. "But thanks for helping, I guess."
"No problem."
"... Still can't believe you're really going out of your way for everyone like this. It's kind of cute."
"Excuse me?!"
FTE Complete!
And thus, everyone begins appearing with new gifts… How strange!