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“I’m coming over to your house today!” The arm slung around Shuichi was recognizable without needing to check and he turned to meet the pricking stare he anticipated.
“To watch Danganronpa?”
“Duh! Or we can find people to murder ourselves if that’s more appealing...” Kokichi grinned.
“Morbid.” Shuichi shook his head. “New season’s not out yet, but we can do the old ones again.”
The public’s favor had not shone on either of them in a long time. They never expected to find a confidant in each other like this; it was all thanks to the lowest common denominator.
Shuichi knew every episode of Danganronpa inside and out, subject to an all-consuming fascination with the way every moment of love and betrayal was arrestingly televised. His adolescence felt like a terrifyingly perfect clock was looming behind his head, counting down the seconds until every potential friend decided he was too unusual, too calculated, and ditched him. He just needed more practice with the show that uncompromisingly broadcast every shade of human experience. It would be his fifth or sixth time experiencing some of these newer seasons (the ones with the best level of detail, the most exciting casts) but he’d gladly put them on repeat to appease his friend, the only person who had ever watched it with him.
Kokichi suffered from compulsions like he’d witnessed something unspeakable at a very young age, and that was one of many stories he ran with. When prodded, he refused to provide context for this theoretical tragedy, because after three vetted head injuries even he wasn’t sure if it had really happened. He fibbed up multiverses of possibility, chasing after one that would justify his screwed up existence or finally convince him to end it. He gave Shuichi a handful of inconsistent excuses for his fixation on Danganronpa, claiming that it was preemptive education for a forensics class, an honest career as a police officer, the shootout after a gem heist. He would fabricate explanations for why he was hooked on watching heads roll until one made sense– no luck yet, but miraculously, Shuichi seemed unphased by all of it.
Undiagnosed autism and obsessive-compulsive disorder, respectively. Together they made a comorbidity. The show just so happened to be the ideal breeding ground for the parasite which infected them both.
Their introduction took place at the career fair two months ago, more precisely on the bus parked outside. Kokichi had been ushered back by a chaperone for harassing the defense contractor spokesperson. Shuichi had never left. Seated in the back, pressed up against the window with shrimp-like posture and absorbed in his phone, he looked to be Kokichi’s next target. No time was wasted on the uptake.
Kokichi slid into the plush booth and flicked Shuichi’s industrial-strength phone case. “Nice tank you got there!” His attempt to peer around failed, desisted by a thick privacy screen protector. “Ooh, you’re enforced at every angle. What could you be hiding in there..?”
Shuichi, seldom conversed with and never approached, blinked in bewilderment.
“Monokuma!” Kokichi correctly identified the plush charm dangling from Shuichi’s bag strap. “You’re a Danganronpa fan, that tells me everything I need to know. You’re watching executions!”
“You know Danganronpa?” Shuichi asked, pushing down the feeling he was being tricked.
“Is it true?” Kokichi’s inquisitive head tilt made him look like a cute dog. “They actually kill people on that show?”
Shuichi hoped the right answer would coalesce in his mind, but he failed to find a clue within the stranger’s expression. In the dim bluish light filtered through thick windows, his eyes were dark enough to look purple, echoing the box-dyed strands framing his face.
“Yes, the executions are real, no, I’m not watching them in public,” he answered honestly.
The purple-haired boy laughed, his sharp teeth glinting during a momentary break in the clouds. “You’re so serious! You got a name? Everyone’s got a name, right?”
“Shuichi Saihara.”
“Kokichi Oma. I’m so glad I found you here! If you’re not doing anything after this, I’ve been dying to learn more about Danganronpa,” Kokichi purred, the hint of a smirk on his lips. “You got a place we can meet?”
Shuichi inwardly wondered why it needed to be his place. “Sure.”
“And your parents aren’t gonna bug me?”
“You’re pretty entitled,” Shuichi said, flipping his inky fringe. “No, no one will bother us.”
Kokichi tapped a finger to his chin, miming innocent confusion. “Hmm, you’re really going to invite a stranger home? What if I tie you up and slice you like in that TV show?”
“I don’t have much to lose,” Shuichi laughed, and Kokichi was hooked.
Their reckless contract formed as Kokichi confessed more and more horrible lies and Shuichi refused to back away, circling his darkness like an insect would light. The circumstances were too good to be true, even beyond their chance encounter. They rode the same line out of town and could meet undisturbed at Shuichi’s uncle’s house, his sole guardian and an altogether uncaring and busy man. The attic became the pith of their relationship, the shimmering mecca of Danganronpa– the only place they could freely speak their lowest urges. The insulation was dense enough to entrap Kokichi’s sing-song fantasies of murder and whatever other secrets the adults weren’t privy to. Despite the cramped conditions, they had enough metaphorical leg room to further entangle their strings.
Two months down the line, their symbiosis was practically second nature, though haloed by a haze of uncertainty. Dissecting the nature of their relationship with death, the ever-enabling fandom, and one another— it didn’t make for excellent water cooler talk. They’d ignore the coming storm until the rain opened up on their heads.
When the final school bell chimed, their routine was set into motion, clipping each other’s heels in a whirlwind of forward momentum to the train station. Crammed next to each other in their seats, Kokichi’s quarrel with his friend’s shiny dress shoe persisted, trying repeatedly to slip it off. Shuichi concerned himself with nobler acts, fidgeting with his Monokuma bag charm and scrolling forums. Today’s hot topic was upcoming auditions and subsequent speculation on talent assignments for the new season.
“Ultimate Paleontologist pleaaase! 52 seasons and no Ultimate Botanist?!” Kokichi leered over Shuichi’s shoulder, mocking comments aloud. “Some real nerds watch this show,” he huffed.
“That’s a given. Do you have better ideas?”
“I’d be the Ultimate Entertainer,” Kokichi said proudly.
Shuichi raised his eyebrows. “For once that doesn’t seem too far off.”
“I’d bitch and moan and drive the camera crew and hosts crazy, too. Until they let me be the one and only face of the show. Buh-bye Monokuma.”
Shuichi did his best to ignore the grandiosity. “What would I be?”
“They’d never let you on! You’d predict every plot point right before it happened!” Kokichi hooted.
“Maybe the Ultimate Clairvoyant, then,” Shuichi replied, and went back to scrutinizing fancasts until their stop.
The early July heat left the attic sticky, the graying wallpaper peeling off the walls in florets near the ceiling. Shuichi’s fold-out futon, a sagging thing even under no weight, was centered in the room, positioned across from his flat screen. Shuichi had tacked posters up over the room’s only windows; the heat and humidity warped them too, causing little rivulets of light to frame the season one cast like holy figures. Idol figurines of Junko and Chiaki turned the TV stand into more of a shrine. The whole room had a quiet reverence when unoccupied, or when Shuichi was there alone, scribbling observational notes like prayers, but when Kokichi stepped inside it seemed more cultish, all awash with malignity.
The docket that day was the same as always. The pair might’ve had more in common than Danganronpa and fooling around, but they didn’t often bother finding out. They made for great impromptu wrestlers, and preferably the difference between breaking bones and making out became negligible. Neither were particularly strong; Kokichi liked to injure and Shuichi had a great pain tolerance. By the time they made it to the floor, both jackets and half a tie were shed.
“Tell me I won, fag.” Kokichi tightened his grasp on the birdlike wrists below him.
Shuichi bucked into the insult and leveled another command. “Call me a girl.”
There was something small and honest in the admission that Kokichi wanted to beat to death– his personal vendetta toward being known was likely at fault– but he recognized the need for caution. He grazed his teeth across his best friend’s ear. “Tell me I won,” he whispered.
Shuichi suddenly got all too warm despite the shed layers and leveraged a knee to shove Kokichi to the side. It was obvious the match was soured and he didn’t intend on dwelling on his request. He’d never speak of it again should that please Kokichi. The boy in question refused to meet eyes while catching his breath, trying to think of a way to explain to Shuichi that what they shared was far greater than such constructs, when he was interrupted with a meek deflection.
“It was a draw.” Kokichi looked to where Shuichi was splayed on the cool hardwood, dwelling on where his shirt had ridden up, his softly rising and falling stomach.
Kokichi shifted on his knees. “You’ve told me worse, Shuichi,” he muttered noncommittally.
Shuichi blanched, propping himself up on his elbows to draw nearer to Kokichi. “I’ll be anything you want.”
“Nono, my point is that– it doesn’t really matter to me,” Kokichi struggled through the honesty from both sides.
Shuichi leaned closer, trying to capture Kokichi’s averted gaze, his own face overcome with a new dark possessiveness. “You wouldn’t leave me,” he said, poised like a question; really it was a command.
Kokichi realized that was a requirement weeks ago when he discovered his initials carved into Shuichi’s hip. His plan was to play with Shuichi for a while, eventually discarding him like he did most toys, but the little freak kept upping the ante. Kokichi hadn’t figured out how to make his grand escape and nowadays he got the impression he’d never be able to.
He accepted Shuichi’s unwavering stare, let it tear right through him. “I wouldn’t.”
Immediately Shuichi softened back into a recognizable shape. He wordlessly clambered up, brushing off his pants and discarding his skewed tie. The alcohol stashed away downstairs would smooth over the tension. He gave a half-hearted jog towards the door, calling out for requests on the way.
“Beer!” Kokichi hurrahed and flung himself up onto the futon, his demeanor once again a perfect mask of silliness.
The afternoon slipped into evening to the tune of reruns. Between episodes, kissing or killing Sapporo Blacks from the downstairs fridge. When the decrepit AC unit lodged in the window petered, cold cans pressed to necks were nearly as good. The tipsiness dislodged their inhibitions a little, so Kokichi sat closer than normal, arm slung around his friend in an unusual moment of slowness. Normally the two didn’t indulge in minor affections.
Shuichi caught himself looking at Kokichi more than the screen, which was new, and blamed it on having seen this episode a multitude of times already. He loved the way the corners of Kokichi’s mouth perked up at the exciting parts, and as the episode’s climax approached he pressed closer, vying for another kiss.
Kokichi shooed him away. “Watch, this is the good part.”
The glimmering production value of the newest seasons spared no detail during executions. The Ultimate Sharpshooter was on the chopping block, a fan favorite who killed her unhinged attacker mid-skirmish; she was a pretty American girl who once had big dreams of helping her parents retire in the countryside. The production crew surmised a Juvenelian punishment: she was prey in a boundless cardboard forest. Monokubs in ghillie suits posted in treetop turrets, even more in safety orange lined the brush, barrels gleaming.
“Iiit’s wabbit hunting season!” Kokichi jeered, pumping both fists in the air.
All’s fair in Danganronpa, so she got a head start, a ten-second countdown trickling away in slow motion on the looming scoreboard overhead. Whining synthesizers climbed steadily over a hammering djembe beat, the mics under her shirt picking up awful panting as she scrambled over props. Her desperation rose higher, and Shuichi could really feel it, her need to escape for her family, her strife– all riddled with holes in the blink of an eye when the timer hit zero. The Monokubs kept firing for longer than was necessary, blood arcing through the air like rubies in the artificial sunlight.
The Ultimate Sharpshooter slumped unceremoniously over a hollow log. Kokichi’s gaze lapped up every spurt of blood through the screen, his mouth a chimera of smile and grimace. Shuichi stared at those lips curling over small white teeth and realized that Kokichi hadn’t cared about her blistering passion. He would rather be watching a compilation of executions. When the twitching slowed, Kokichi fumbled for the remote and hit rewind. Then again, giggling.
“Fucking stop it,” Shuichi snapped, wrestling the remote out of Kokichi’s grip and reinforcing his point with too rough of a punch to the shoulder.
The curtains drew on the bloodbath and a cartoon Monokuma obscured the screen, covered in sweat drops, toting a bucket and mop. The colorful text beneath it called out to no one: “Beary sorry for our mess!”. The editing took care of the rest from there, allowing everyone at home to pretend clean up was quick and easy. Circus-like chamber music played as Kokichi still snickered. On set, it must have been silent, except for the squeaking wheels of cleaning equipment.
Shuichi knew better than to spark up an argument, but he still couldn’t relax his jaw. “A whole fandom gets a bad rap when a few of them take it too far,” he warned.
Kokichi scoffed, his tone venomous. “My typical evening docket consists of skinning neighborhood cats, so this is pretty high brow for me.”
Shuichi couldn’t stand the jokes at a time like this. “It’s like you get off on this or something.”
“No, really, I’m hurt,” Kokichi rolled his eyes. “This is coming from the guy who cut my name next to his dick.”
Shuichi felt ill, teetering on the verge of tears. “I wasn’t– it’s not a sex thing, please don’t make me explain what you already know.” He couldn’t continue around the lump in his throat.
“Well what the fuck was it then? We aren’t even boyfriends so please enlighten me!” Kokichi’s register ramped higher.
The rift between them on the futon had widened and the beers were starting to taste like regret. The multitude of crushed and dented cans littering the table screamed overindulgence. B-roll of talking heads filled the silence, the remaining survivors blubbering about the loss of their classmate. Some jockish oaf close to the blackened rambled on about this needless sacrifice (in about forty minutes he’d be executed for murdering two people in a starvation gambit). Once, this was Shuichi’s favorite part, the primeval, tangible grief radiating from good and evil people alike.
“Would you ever audition?”
For a moment, the question’s sincerity refused to register, and Shuichi just smiled incredulously.
“Y’know you’d be a real stunner under those stage lights!” Kokichi added.
Kokichi nearly regretted the words tumbling out of him, except he couldn’t afford to. In all his brokenness, his shining standard for commitment was a readiness to self-sacrifice. The ephemeral nature of his existence meant he needed to secure Shuichi’s final ounce of devotion or jump ship and cling to some other reason for living. Now that everything was being laid out on the table, it was the right moment to egg him on.
“Can’tcha see me mowing down plebs, winning the hearts of millions?” he asked.
Shuichi pictured Kokichi as the Ultimate Entertainer, his faded purple dye job redone to the nines, a glitzy silver suit cinching his small body. He’d have to wear those humiliatingly large dress shoes that increase your height an inch or two. Shuichi imagined him lying to his classmates with little concern for the sanctity of trial results. Worse, he’d devise a way to make every announcement, motive, plot beat about himself.
“I don’t think you’d do very well. They’d probably pick you off early,” Shuichi answered.
“Psh, don’t be like that, Shumai–” Shuichi bristled at the nickname– “you know it’s scripted anyways, I’d crack a deal to become the most popular survivor yet. We could make it out of there together, easy, if you don’t take the crew by surprise and kill me in the final few days.” Kokichi stretched his legs out onto the coffee table, playing it like he wasn’t dead serious.
Shuichi’s lips drew a tight line; he despised the popular theory that Danganronpa was scripted. It would make every inch of his dedication for naught. He watched Kokichi absentmindedly roll his ankles, dangerously close to knocking over an abandoned drink. Kokichi was caught up in beautiful images of Shuichi extinguishing his divine light, a final act of mercy that would be even more fitting as a betrayal in the home stretch– it could be arson, stabbing, though he’d really prefer the personal touch of strangulation.
“Would you sacrifice me for a cooler plot point? Wooow, your dedication knows no bounds,” Kokichi continued, savoring the thought of being throttled by his paramour’s bare hands.
“I’m not signing off on my televised murder,” Shuichi said, “or yours.”
Kokichi felt like a child whose prized toy had been snatched away. This asshole would never poetically risk his life for their love if he wouldn’t even risk it for Danganronpa. Aimlessly looping theme music stoked the coals of rage and he leapt to his feet, squarely across from Shuichi who was withering like a sunless plant.
“I thought you loved Danganronpa, but I must be a way bigger fan than you,” Kokichi tutted, digging into the spot he knew would hurt most.
Shuichi yanked a balled fist through his hair indignantly. “Danganronpa is my life! I don’t have any other reason to be here!”
“If that was true you’d be willing to die for it!” Kokichi shot back, beginning to pace in little circles in front of the futon, a hunter about to pounce.
Shuichi had journeyed across mountains and valleys to find something worth hanging his hopes on. He’d convinced himself it was the show when nothing else was adequate, but that farce was melting away, going gooey and translucent under Kokichi’s flame of true dedication. Disturbingly, he could not pin down a reason for that blinding intensity, lodging a block firmly in their path of cooperation. He wouldn't agree to Kokichi's whims until the truth behind his readiness to die crystallized.
“Lots of people want to kill themselves,” he said. “I can understand wanting to secure fame right before you make your exit, too. What I don't get is why you want to take me with you.”
“I'm not planning on getting my getting my face stomped in out there. I still might, but I'd be pretty ticked off if I lost,” Kokichi fronted.
“So you're gonna do me in first.”
“No!” Kokichi cried, stamping a heel into the ground. The tears pricking in his eyes looked genuine, the frustration of miscommunication mounting. “Ideally, we both live.” I need to be more important to you than Danganronpa. The only way is to battle it head-on for your devotion and win.
“Then what’s the point?” Shuichi finally asked.
Kokichi longed to wriggle free from the weighty silence. He watched his best friend wring his lithe hands and pick at chipped black nail polish; the tics were more insistent than anxious. Despite the apprehension hanging heavy in the attic air, Shuichi’s shoulders reinforced a straight line, his jaw tilted upward staunchly. Kokichi wanted more than anything to make him understand the truth.
“The point is that you’d try with me.”
The sun had firmly sunk below the horizon line, a navy gloom drenching the already-dim attic. Cicadas thrummed noisily outside, relishing the blessed cooling temperature. Kokichi had draped his arms around Shuichi from behind the futon, tracing invisible pictures across his chest. They’d long since missed the train Kokichi normally took home, and if they didn’t hurry, they’d miss the very last one. An improvised sleepover wouldn’t be ideal tonight, though the gentle rake of Kokichi’s blunt nails made Shuichi long for a world where it was.
Kokichi stopped, ruffling his hands through the back of Shuichi’s hair as he broke away. He slunk back around to sit adjoined, their knees barely touching.
“I’m gonna say it one more time. Would you audition?” he asked, his eyes huge and empty and purple like they were on the bus back in May.
“Yes,” Shuichi mouthed, but the word came from elsewhere.
“I want us to make it out of there together. I want you to kill me. I want you to be ready to die for me,” Kokichi said, and it was the most honest he’d ever been.
“I don’t think we have much of a future here,” Shuichi said, gazing into the reflective void of the powered-off TV screen. “Do you think we’d be able to start over? If we got picked?”
Kokichi nodded. “I think we’d be better than ever.”