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Incredulously, Atsuko managed to sweet-talk her way out of her room. After going more than a little crazy in her room, Erina promised she’d speak with the rest of the team about letting her get out a little more. While still in the confines of this hospital—this floor, she isn’t bedridden anymore.
They have put their trust in her not to run off to the rooftop a second time. She debates it, but being allowed more freedom quells that urge.
She misses the fresh air, though.
Despite insisting she use a mobility aid, Atsuko promptly refused. She hasn’t been very cooperative with them lately, but she figures she’s within her right to do so. Anyone would be frustrated and angsty if they were in her position. And while she may have “psychosomatic neuropathy”, she will be damned if she doesn’t limp her way outside.
On the other side of the hallway, furthest from the nurses’ station, there is an open space with four chairs, a table and a TV. She imagines it—when it was once bustling, before all of her classmates were discharged—before she was left alone to rot in this godforsaken medical ward.
It is silent now. She shuffles over to one of the chairs and sits, soaking up the dying light of the sun. It’s golden and it blinds her, and she lets it—squinting still, but not moving to the other chairs absent of the light. In the presence of the sun, of fresh air, life feels simple—like she needs nothing more than this, like she can exist and soak in the sun’s rays and the oxygen.
She thinks she’s fine like that—just sitting there. But it’s quiet. Too quiet; she isn’t used to sleeping without noise—the podcast named “thunderstorms” has gone triple platinum on her phone, to save her from the incessant beeping of a heartrate monitor and the discomfort of the hospital beds.
Even Hope’s Peak mimics the experience of a real hospital, it seems. Their government funding clearly hasn’t gone to the comfort of their students, that is a guarantee.
So, she is not used to the silence. And the remote is within reach. Whatever is on the TV, she isn’t paying attention to and quickly turns it down. Pulling her legs up onto the chair—the chair that is much more comfortable than her hospital bed—she sits there and watches out the window. Her legs are thrown over the armrests of the chair, dangling off. She does this on purpose, her legs going numb is preferable to the pain of a gunshot wound that never was.
The sun and the murmur of the TV lull her into drowsiness, and she wouldn’t mind falling asleep here.
It is when the sun sinks below the horizon that she’s awoken by footsteps—heavier than any one pair she’s familiar with. She knows it’s not Ouma, though. She can imagine he’s not out of his room much.
She knows it’s him before she sees him. It’s hard not to get up and leave right then.
“Chikako!” Momota’s voice is hoarse, jovial. It is a strange combination of intonations. She pops open an eye and turns her head, where he’s standing still at the end of the hallway. No walker, he’s in a NASA t-shirt and plaid pajama pants.
She really needs to ask Akamatsu or Tojo to bring her clothes, now that her freedoms are being extended. She has quickly grown tired of the scratchy hospital gowns presented to her.
“Hi, Momota.” She doesn’t mean for her voice to sound so exhausted. She doesn’t want to see him, as much as or more than she doesn’t want to see Harukawa. Despite being a classmate, she hasn’t had the fondest opinion of him ever, and especially not now. Without looking, she hears the cushions of the chair to her left sink under his weight.
She couldn’t avoid him forever, she supposed.
She can practically hear his tail wagging—slobbery mutt. Her blood runs red-hot, and she sucks in a few breaths that she intends to be calming before turning and leaning against the other armrest to stare at Momota—he looks so odd with his hair down, absent of metric tons of hair gel. He looks just as exhausted as she does and feels.
The only difference is that he’s trying to hide it. She wants to say something about it, but doesn’t.
Momota looks contemplative. It’s the first time she’s seen him like this since his trial, and she wants to prod. She wonders what could possibly be going on in that brain of his—surely nothing complex…
How is Harukawa possibly attracted to him?
“Haven’t seen you around in a bit,” he quips. Is that really what he’s going with to start a conversation?
She can’t be mad at him, she thinks she’d likely be just as awkward in this scenario. She wonders if he knows she’s angry with him, or if he’s just as clueless as he’s always been—it’s likely the latter. He’s always been one of the dumber ones in their group. “I assume you heard about the…?” She tries, either because Harukawa told him or one of the other nurses did, and she cannot let this conversation hang stale in the air.
He nods and rubs his stubble. She is momentarily disgusted. “Your epic jailbreak? Yeah, Harumaki told me. And then Mori, and Dr. Ono. You’re the hot topic.”
Harumaki.
She wants to choke.
Well, she already did, on her blood. But that’s besides the point. “Well, I guess that’s what happens when there’s only three of us left here.” News travels too fast for her comfort; she doesn’t want Ouma or Momota knowing about her brief lapse in judgment.
They don’t know about what she found, though, and that’s what matters.
And if she knows Harukawa, she was sparing in the rooftop's events. Admittedly, she isn’t too sure how she’s going to keep this one to herself. She’s been particularly good at holding her feelings in her throat, but this is a secret unrelated to her feelings—this is something important.
She can’t think about it too hard or the impending doom that her life is still in potential danger comes back. Erina knows something is wrong with her, but it’s nothing she can share.
“You’re thinkin’.”
Atsuko purses her lips, her gaze drawing back to Momota’s face—the stupid, wide-eyed gaze that meets her. She fundamentally doesn't understand his pursuit of knowledge to those who do not want to know him, his ability to push. Briefly, she wonders if this is what Harukawa felt like.
Is Momota trying to make her another sidekick? If that’s what this is, it’s not happening. Not with the way she feels about him. She is not some stray he can tame with offerings of kindness. Atsuko knows herself, knows that whatever inferno lives inside of her requires more work than she expects him to give. She does not trust him; she will not follow his lead, unlike Saihara and unlike Harukawa.
(Does she expect Harukawa to quell that fire?)
“I am, that’s all I’ve ever been doing these days. Can’t do much else when you’re practically forced to lay in bed for days on end.” He laughs, and the embers rise to flames at his amusement. She isn’t going to let him in on the thoughts in her head, the ones too messy and frustrated to voice in a way that isn’t cruel. It annoys her that he’s even asking. It annoys her even more that he laughs like he understands, because he doesn’t. He may have been on extended bed rest, too, but he wasn’t forced to watch as someone he loves walks with another.
She knows Momota has been visited frequently by his peers. He was well-liked, and cheerful in the face of his illness. She is only visited after, because her classmates were already here and it was convenient.
There is a lull—it is not a comfortable one. She hates this conversation—or lack thereof—and wants to walk away now before she, inevitably, says something she will regret. Recent uptick of unplanned vulnerabilities aside, that is with Harukawa, not Momota.
She would rather—
“What’s it like?”
She blinks, her crude joke interrupted only by his voice.
“Harumaki poisoning me only lasted a few minutes or so, I didn’t feel much of it. Not like Ouma, or… you.”
Atsuko blinks again, unsure if she heard him right—”I’m sorry?” The expression on her face must be enough to communicate both her confusion and disgust, because he stammers.
He clears his throat, and his tan cheeks darken, “crazy question to ask, nevermind.”
Briefly, Atsuko wonders if she should stand up and leave. She has half the mind to—but is too exhausted thus far to stand back up. She is mildly intrigued by what compelled him to ask that question, but ignores the train of thought quickly, because intrigue can only lead to a budding friendship she wants nothing to do with.
She doesn’t respond. She’s so confused, she doesn’t know what to say in response. The silence settles again as she considers completely rational responses. Getting up to leave and yelling at him alike, they both aren’t in her character. Not anymore. If she were to consider it from an unbiased perspective, she understands why he’s asking such a question.
He died so late in the Program, she’s likely an enigma; the only one he hadn’t seen die. He’s trying to establish some common ground, figure her out.
He is trying to make her a sidekick.
Is he that blind? She seethes for a moment, and realizes that he is. Of course he is, he’s always been dense. As is now habit, she lets her anger stew in the silence. It is reasonable for her to feel this way, because his question was rude. She isn’t sure rude even cuts it.
But she doesn’t get up, and neither does Momota. He isn’t backing down from this conversation, or what he thinks will come of it. In her attempt to prove that she wasn’t as cowardly as she thought (or rather, knew that she was), she has damned herself to his whims.
Her ability to respond is her own, though. She is not going to let him be in full control here. Not any man, and certainly not Momota Kaito.
He doesn’t know the vitriol she holds for him, and she reminds herself constantly that so long as she’s not acting on it, she is perfectly justified in feeling this way.
That vitriol extends to Harukawa, and that’s where her logic falls apart.
Momota clears his throat, rearing to try again, and Atsuko tries not to shoot him down before he can start. She can feel his stare on her, burning; “Harumaki really cares about you, y’know.” She hates that he uses that nickname, that Harukawa allows him to use that nickname. “She’s been frettin’ over ya.”
She wants to roll her eyes and scoff, but doesn’t. He doesn’t know the first thing about what’s going on between them, and what Atsuko has been through and continues to go through. Try as he may, she’s never going to let him in, and he will never understand the unique relationship she has with Harukawa. “I don't think I've ever seen her this worried. Even when I was chokin’ up blood.” He's trying to catch her attention, perhaps project his concern through Harukawa. Atsuko feels the inferno grow, rearing its ugly head. It makes her stomach uneasy—much in a similar way to every time she tries to eat.
“Yeah?” She's already checked out of this conversation. He hums as he nods, though she can only see him through her peripheral vision. When she finally looks up, he's staring back at her. When the flames flare again, she barely has time to swallow them.
The doctors have said that her neuropathy's biggest trigger is her emotions. Stress.
She isn't sure if it's her exposure to the both of them—Momota and Harukawa, but she's having more flare-ups than usual.
You don't know her like I do. You don't love her like I do.
But he does. He knows her better, and he loves her better, and the thought is suffocating enough that she tastes iron once again. It takes two seconds for her to notice that she's crying, and a half of a second to stand after. She's dizzy—but that is of no importance to her, because she's not willing to let Momota Kaito know he'd wounded her. Retreated two steps towards her room, she hears Momota's voice calling her name. She doesn't stop. Part of her debates going back to the rooftop, or even the stairwell—anywhere that is safe, hidden.
His hand catches her shoulder. Alive like a live wire but more akin to a bonfire, she whips around and shoves him. It does nothing, he isn't fazed—surprised, though. She doesn't stop, feeling as though she's both far away and feeling too much. She starts to punch at his chest, his shoulders—she doesn't intend for them to hurt, not really, but she needs to displace her anger somewhere.
As far as she remembers, she was not a violent kid.
“Easy, easy, easy—” he insists, grabbing her wrists in his hands, and she is seized by something akin to fear at the touch. Her heart hammers accordingly, her vision blurs. She cannot control her emotions. She cannot control herself. She cannot keep things in, she is ruined and evil because she is jealous. She rips away from him and stumbles back, possessed by a strength that will only hurt her later. She tries to turn, but he catches her shoulder and squeezes. She stares at the ugly slippers he wears instead of his face. If she's crying still, it feels more like liquid fire than saltwater.
She has half the mind to start screaming until all of the air in her lungs is gone. She has half the mind to jump on him and beat his face in. She has half the mind to take a running start towards the glass windows and launch herself out of them.
Backing away until she feels the wall—support that she needs, she stares at her own feet.
“Chikako…”
“I don't want to talk to you.”
“Maybe ya’ should. ‘S not doing ya’ any good to keep it in.”
“I don't want to talk to you.” There is a pressure in her head and behind her eyes, even though the tears have stopped, and in her ears, and it's hard to swallow and when she does she can hear it click, and she can feel and hear her heart beating too fast. She hates Momota and she knows she shouldn't. He hasn't done anything wrong except love the same girl she does. She hates him. She hates herself for it. She is awful and inferior and undeserving of love for thinking this way, and Harukawa would never choose her anyway, so why does it matter? She wants to run away and hide or never see him again, and she knows she can't. He's in her class; there is no escaping him.
He stands there, silent and gaze unwavering on her. She feels it, entirely too hot—burning her, like too much exposure to the sun. She knows he isn’t going to back down from this, and she, stubborn as she typically is, doesn’t want to stick it out. But he’s too much like a dog; will sit and wait for a treat if given one in the past—he has had experience with Saihara and Harukawa, he knows that sitting and waiting works. It infuriates her that he thinks it will work on him.
She also knows that if she does something rash, he won’t think to approach—she is a wounded stray, if she lashes out, he is going to learn his lesson. Not everyone is going to open up to him, not everyone will humor his whims. There are some people who aren’t easy, and she wants him to know that she is one of them.
Does that ring true for Harukawa, as well? In recent weeks, she has been nothing but difficult to her.
In response to the thought, her stomach bottoms out with familiar nausea. She doesn’t want to think about how horrible she’s been to the girl she’s only ever wanted. But it makes those flames—rage and hurt and heartbreak bundled neatly together like kindling and set ablaze—climb. Momota Kaito, however kind he is, is stupid. She doesn’t understand why her words aren’t getting through his head, she is not going to fall apart into his hands.
“I don’t like you, and I’m not going to give you what you want,” she spits, shouldering past him and hoping that the venom on her tongue was enough to dissuade him.
While he doesn’t immediately call or follow after her, she knows in her gut that it is not.
Because one thing is true—he cooperated with Ouma and wasn’t once offput by… him. If he can withstand that, even if it was only to save his skin, any hope of him backing down is lost. She already knows how the following conversation is going to go, and she wishes he wouldn’t try.
Why won’t he just give up on her already?
She, fundamentally, does not understand what Harukawa sees in him. Even if she removes gender from the question.
But he is just like you, is he not? Persistent in his efforts to reach his loved ones?
She grits her teeth.
Atsuko cannot grasp why Momota isn’t angry. She’s seen him angry, dealing with Ouma. She is being just as stubborn. But here he is, displaying endless patience for her despite—and whatever she is feeling turns to rage in seconds when she realizes that he does not see her as a threat. That he simply sees her as weak.
Briefly, she considers turning on her heel and channeling Ouma more than ever, digging into Momota about his persisting illness and weakness even now, but she knows that will get her nowhere; he knows she is weak, and because he knows she is weak, he will view this as what it is: her lashing out to protect herself.
She will not be seen as injured prey.
The internal debate is quick, whether she should go back to her room or return to the common space. At first, going back to her room seems easier—he won’t try to enter if she slams the door hard enough. But, then again, she won’t let him ruin her free time, the limited time she’s allowed out of her hospital bed.
Her legs, one aching, circle back to the common space. She’s sure she’s visibly limping by now, from the combination of walking away and much angrier stomping, but Momota’s gaze is lost on her, so she assumes she has won. The chair she sat in minutes prior welcomes her, and she grabs the remote on the side table with the intention to flick through some shitty TV drama.
Trembling hands, from rage or something else she can’t name, drop the remote—it clatters to the floor. The moment she stands to grab it, her knee gives out and she is kneeling on the tiled floor—where a bruise will surely paint the impact. Hands still shaking, she reaches for the back of her chair to lift herself up.
There is a hand in her vision. She must not have heard him over the sound of her own breathing, but he is there.
Holding his hand out.
She stands by herself, and the once-calmed embers that live in her sternum flare again. He holds the remote out to her, and in the brief moment that they meet eyes as Atsuko takes it, Momota’s gaze is soft.
Whatever possesses her is foreign, because she launches the remote squarely at his chest. It hits him, clatters to the floor where the batteries pop out, and she hyperventilates—it starts in rage, but she finds she cannot breathe evenly soon after. Her limbs are shaking.
“What the hell, Chi—”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Her emotions are quickly spinning out of control, and knowing that she isn’t in the Program anymore only fuels the urge to let them. “When I fucking tell you that I don’t like you, don’t fucking follow me! Can’t you get the fucking hint?!” Her stomach churns, she tastes iron in the bile rising in the back of her throat. It burns, everything burns—it always does.
He tries to speak, but the notion of letting him get a word in is enough to spur her into screaming. “I don’t fucking like you! I hate you, Momota Kaito! You have ruined my fucking life!” Distantly, she can feel her bitten nails biting into her palms. Distantly, there are footsteps. “You have taken everything I have wanted, and you have stolen it!”
The little, mature voice tells her she is being overdramatic. The rest of her body screams that she has every right to respond this way. Her muscles tense so much they hurt—so much so that she is, for a second, sent back to then, and the poison, and how her muscles would spasm painfully, and everything that followed. It flashes by in dizzying succession. “It’s not fucking fair! Momota, it’s not fair!” Salt coats her tongue, it is only then she knows she is crying. “None of this is fucking fair! Not this fucking Program, not what Shirogane did to me, and certainly not the fact that you f-fucking took Harukawa from me!”
She can’t stop, she finds. She’s breathing too heavily, and she’s crying too hard, and she sees darker purple hair in her peripheral that tells her someone is eavesdropping. Seeing Ouma Kokichi adds gasoline to the fire, and she walks—stumbles—forward. Momota doesn’t seem too bothered, but his expression has changed, and that too makes her burn brighter. His back hits the wall, and she has trapped him, and something in her delights in letting him hear this. Letting him know what he’s caused her.
“You have stripped me of the one fucking thing I wanted, Momota. As if having poison in my system for over twelve hours wasn’t enough, you are making it worse!”
There are nurses, and there is a hand on her shoulder, but she doesn’t turn and doesn’t back down. Her leg pulses, as if there is fire under her skin—there might as well be, her throat is on fire, her skin is on fire, her eyes are on fire.
Everything is on fire.
“You took her from me. You and your stupid hair and smile, you had to get sick and make her worry, and she left me! For you! The stupid astronaut that cheated on his admissions exam! Over me!”
It is not real, the voice whispers. Those backstories were woven into your being.
“So, no, Momota, I don’t ever want to be friends. I don’t ever want to be your fucking sidekick, I don’t want to follow you around mindlessly while you boast about how amazing you are! You’re not! You’re an idiot, and you’re a thief!”
If she could reach, she would’ve shoved him to punctuate her words. She cannot, and so she instead shoves off one of the attending nurse’s hands and turns on her heel, running despite the fire that burns brighter in her thigh as she does. She doesn’t look back at what she has done, how she has unleashed a monster on a boy just as weak as she. For once, she does not think about her outburst at all—her mind is both preoccupied and completely silent.
Her hospital room’s door slams into the frame so violently it shakes, and she enters the connecting bathroom, hands white-knuckling the counter.
Her eyes are red and puffy, tears still trailing down her face despite the absence of confrontation. She can’t catch her breath. Her palms are bleeding.
She can’t catch her breath. Her blood is rushing in her ears and everything is moving much too fast. She can't breathe.
She punches the mirror, it shatters, and her knuckles bleed in synchrony with her palms. She watches her face, her mask, shatter before her. She doesn’t tend to her knuckles, nor the fiberglass or bits of reflective glass that are now lodged in her open wounds.
Momota Kaito makes her violent, she concludes.
There is blood creeping up her throat, and there is a fire set alight in her veins. She pays no mind to either, and leaves her room.
She disappears to the rooftop once more, seeking air that will not fix her and alone time that will not heal her.