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When he first tastes the blood on his tongue and feels the tight, suffocating pain piercing through his chest so suddenly that he almost topples over, he thinks it’s back, the memory of blood filling his mouth and the metallic monster ready to crush everything on its way out, looming over him so strongly that he has to lean against the closest wall, his heart hammering wildly in his chest as he struggles to catch his breath, knocked out by the intensity of the flashback.

He hastily presses his hand against his mouth, the blood spilling over his palm as he waits for it to pass, coughing desperately. 

It’s not just blood, though, something else making its way through his throat, making him gag and splutter, coughing pitifully as he tries to get rid of the obstruction stuck deep inside, confusion painted on his scrunched in pain face.

“What the—?”

Something lands on his hand and he coughs a few more times, drawing the air in greedily now that he can breathe again, his throat sore and chest burning. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes and he shudders, the memory of the poignantly cold hangar sharp and clear in his mind. One last shuddering cough wracks through his body, leaving him panting and breathless, disoriented as he blinks away the haze of quickly fading pain that clouds his vision. 

Still panting, he looks down at his hand, relaxing his clenched fingers only to reveal a handful of crumpled petals, strikingly pale blue against the deep red shade of blood staining his hands. He blinks down at it, his vision blurry as his brain scrambles to understand what he’s looking at, familiar pangs of anxiety mingling with the swarm of thoughts swirling in his head. 

Unable to do anything else about it, he flushed his mouth with salt water and tries not to think about it after that. The feeling of uneasiness settles in his chest, however, nestled in close to his heart and there to stay. 

-

It comes back. 

One moment everything is fine, then he just doubles over, hot pain bubbling in his chest as he coughs and spits and wheezes pitifully as a bunch of petals trapped in his throat refuses to move. There’s more blood this time, dribbling down his chin uncontrollably when he throws up flower after flower into the sink, scarlet red blood diluted by the crystal clear water. The pain is just as excruciating as before, located somewhere in his chest, lodged between the lungs, his whole chest pulsating as if on fire. 

“Hey, Momota-chan! You’ve been there forever, I wanna peee!” Ouma’s voice tears him away from swarming grim thoughts and he realizes he’s been staring at the littered with flowers sink for way too long, blocking their shared bathroom. 

He clears his throat, voice exhausted and raspy. “Gimme a sec!”

Hastily, he throws the bloodied petals into the trash bin in the corner, careful as to not leave even a single one in sight and then takes it out and with a trash bag in hand finally unlocks the door. As he passes Ouma in the threshold be manages to choke out an excuse about it being his turn to take out the trash. 

He’s out of the apartment before Ouma could question his abnormal behavior. 

-

After that second time, it’s as if something in his reality shifted, attacks visiting him once or twice a week, ruining his daily routine, the one he’s worked so hard to uphold after the game ended and he’s been forced to find his place in this new and unknown reality. 

He can’t say that he’s enthusiastic about the idea of talking with Shinguji but it’s the only option he really has, the only person who could possibly know what is happening to him and — hopefully — how to stop it from spreading or getting worse. His heart twists and then clenches painfully at the possibility of whatever it is that keeps infecting his lungs being contagious.

He catches Shinguji after one of many tedious group therapy sessions, hostile glares and old grudges never failing to make the air heavy with tension. It’s always calm before the storm and each time without fail that thinly sense of calm eventually snaps, one or more of them inevitably storming out of the room in tears. Even now, months since the last killing game ended, they were stomping on mines, even the slightest wrong move enough to set off an explosion. 

He almost bolts out of his chair when they are finally given permission to leave by their therapist, her smile turning a little bit strained with every equally disastrous as the one before session, progress so slow that they might as well be going backwards. 

“You go,” he turns to Ouma, “I’ll see you back home, I need to take care of some stuff first.”

Ouma’s eyebrow raises as he teases. “Stuff? Woah, Momota-chan, secretive much?”

He stifled a groan. “Yeah. Stuff. Listen, take a cab, okay? Your limp is getting worse.”

Lips curling in a pout, Ouma crosses his arms over his chest. “Fiiine. But I’m using your card to pay.”

Momota pinches the bridge of his nose, heaving a sigh. “Sure, fine. I couldn’t stop you even if I tried. It’s not like you ever asked for my permission before.”

Ouma giggles mischievously, lips twisted in smirk that’s a tad too pleased for Momota’s taste. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

With that he limps in the direction of the exit. Momota watches him go. 

“Hey, uh,” he stammers awkwardly when he approaches Shinguji and the ex-anthropologist directs his gold eyes at him, a hint of surprise passing through his face. Other than scathing insults from Chabashira and encouraging, quiet smiles from the therapist, most of the time he remained unbothered by the fellow participants of their season of Danganronpa, none of them particularly close to him or interested in hanging out with a sister-fucking serial killer. “You have a minute?”

Shinguji’s eyes widen just enough to convey how surprised he is, quickly masking it with a nod that is just a bit too jerky, and he gestures to the nearest therapy room, empty at this time of the day. Momota hurries inside, slamming the door after them with much more force than necessary, his nerves getting the best of him. 

“So, uh,” he starts awkwardly, shoving his sweaty hands into the pockets of his jeans. “There’s this… disease or illness or whatever and I have no idea what it is. You know a lot about this kind of thing, yeah?”

Shinguji shifts his weight from one feet to another, uncomfortable but visibly relaxing when he realizes it’s not a confrontation but rather genuine interest in his knowledge. His voice is strong and certain when he speaks up. “Yes, I suppose I do. According to my memories, in my studies I’ve encountered many cases of health-related problems.”

A small sigh of relief escapes Momota’s lips and he smiles, glad to be closer to getting some answers. “Right, right. Yeah, uh, so listen...”

It doesn’t take long to explain everything, words spilling out of his mouth now that he can finally share them. It feels like a flood breaking through the tame, a feeling somewhat cathartic as he puts it all into words and lets it out.   

When he finally finishes, he’s almost out of breath, only now realizing how fast he talked, relieved to not have to bottle it up anymore. Shinguji doesn’t respond right away, simply nodding his head as if in deep thought, dainty fingers scratching lightly at the skin that looks sickly pale in the dim yellow light of the room, his bandages gone now that they are no longer in the game. 

“My, my, what a curious inquiry,” he says finally, measuring his words slowly. “I believe there is only one thing that matches the description you provided. It’s called Hanahaki disease.”

Momota’s face scrunches up in confusion, the name sounding foreign and unlike anything he’s ever heard of. 

“Hana—what?”

“Hanahaki disease,” Shinguji repeats patiently. “It’s an illness caused by powerful love that is unrequited by the object of the infected person’s affection. Sadly, from what I’ve heard there aren’t many solutions at the disposal of the person wishing to deal with the disease. It is believed that it disappears if the one they love returns their feelings. It can’t be resolved with simple friendship, however, it has to be genuine feeling of true, unconditional love. Another option is to have the infection removed through surgery, though the feelings disappear along with the flowers. If they choose neither options, or the feeling is not returned in time, then the infected lungs will fill up with flowers and eventually suffocate them. It is truly an unprecedented disease and a cruel one at that. It is extraordinarily rare.”  

Shinguji continues his explanation, but Momota stops listening to him, a paralyzing sense of dread taking over his insides, trapping them in its clutches and squeezing until he feels like spilling his breakfast all over the carpet covering the floor underneath their feet. His breathing turns shallow, the world spinning around him as he struggles to wrap his head around what he’s just learned. 

Shinguji moves on to talk about the surgery, listing all the different methods and risks that come along with it, the advantages it carries, but it’s all just noises to him, an unintelligible mass of words, impossible to untangle, and he finds himself stupidly nodding his head, if only to create the pretense of listening. 

Shinguji hesitates, his normally neutral expression twisting in uncertainty as if he’s unsure whether whatever he wants to say is appropriate. Eventually, though, curiosity topples over his doubts. “If I may ask,” he clears his throat, gaining confidence, “what is the cause of your sudden interest in Hanahaki disease, Momota-kun? Not many people are aware of its existence, and the knowledge of it is kept in secret as its reveal could possibly cause a mass panic. It plays a relevant role in poetry and literature as floral motifs has always been one of the most prevalent themes in art but on it’s own the disease is so rare it could as well belong only to fiction.”

Momota’s heart slams against his ribs in futile panic. Somehow it never occurred to him that Shinguji would question his motives. 

“J-just, uh,” he stumbles over his own words, afraid of delaying the answer in fear of it raising even more suspicions, “I read about it somewhere?”

The look Shinguji gives him is streaked with scepticism, calculating, and suddenly he regrets going in search of answers to the person who prided himself in deciphering the human nature. 

“I see,” he says slowly, clearly in disbelief. Despite that, he doesn’t pry, doesn’t prod, doesn’t try to wrestle the real answer out of him. Momota has an unpleasant feeling that he doesn’t have to, but mercifully he lets it go, letting Momota deal with his demons on his own.  

Shinguji bows his head, “If it is all you wished to know I’m glad to be of assistance. I hope my answers have been to your satisfaction, Momota-kun.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks, I guess.” Momota rubs at the back of his neck, anxiety’s familiar clutches wrapping even tighter around his insides and the need to be anywhere but here rises within him. 

Thankfully, Shinguji seems to sense just how uncomfortable he is and with another small bow and a shaky twitch of his lips in what could be considered a smile, he bids him goodbye and disappears behind the door, leaving Momota alone with his thoughts. 

-

Hanahaki disease. 

It’s strange to have a name to accompany the symptoms, as if that somehow made things even more real, cementing his fate for good. 

It sounds so contradictory, a disease born out of love, something so pure and beautiful bringing him a little closer to death’s doors, every day pushing him a little over the edge as more flowers spill out of his mouth, staining the sink with blood. Every day proves to be more difficult than the previous one, the flowers crushing his lungs in their unforgiving embrace until the burning pain somewhere close to his heart becomes a constant in his life, unrelenting even as he slams himself shut in his room where he can cough up flowers all he wants without fear of being found out. 

-

He knows it’s Ouma. 

Knows it without a hint of doubt, without a moment of hesitation. It could only be Ouma. 

-

Forget-me-nots. Of course it’s forget-me-nots. 

Empty laughter swells in his throat as he shoves the bloodied pale blue flowers into a paper bag, delicate lifeless petals crumbling under his fingers without a hint of care. 

He remembers them from his grandma’s garden, growing in the shadows of their little wooden house, reaching their delicate petals in the direction of the sun and coming out every spring without fail. 

He’s read countless character studies of the person he was in the game, faceless people he’s never met knowing him better than he’s ever known himself, deconstructing every word he has ever said, every feeling, every — even the smallest — gesture. He knew better than anyone else just how relentlessly obsessed Danganronpa’s fans could be, picking him apart with frightening accuracy. 

Ouma was impossible to forget, though, that much was obvious. In a way, it was never about Ouma, though, was it? It’s his own hopeless, stupid heart, hoping to stay in everyone’s memory, his own desperate plea to not be forgotten. 

Out of some perverse masochistic need, he types ‘forget-me-not meaning’ into his browser in hope of answers he doesn’t really need because they would never change anything. “Forget-me-nots symbolize faithful love and memories,” says one website in a voice of some self-appointed expert. “Fidelity and loyalty in a relationship, despite separation or other challenges,” offers a different one. “A connection that lasts through time.”

He snorts loudly and snaps his laptop shut, migraine pulsating in his temples. 

As the disease progresses, more flowers start to appear, first the snow white gardenias, then the purple-colored ones, and Momota finds himself searching the same website, compelled by some sick sense of curiosity to learn their meaning. Gardenias symbolize luck, is the first information he finds, and his thoughts instantly snap to Ouma. 

Ko-ki-chi. 

Little luck. 

Considering everything Ouma went through, Momota could hardly call him lucky. Or himself for that matter. The universe sure worked in funny ways. Was this some kind of punishment? And if yes, then for what? As if dying once wasn’t enough now he was about to be killed by… by what, exactly? By love?

In a moment of blind rage he takes his computer and throws it against the opposite wall. It hits it with a loud bang and then unceremoniously lands on the floor, a huge dent on the side, screen flickering pitifully a few times until it fades to black. 

He stops looking for more information about the flowers after that. 

-

There’s only so long that he can keep lying to himself. 

He reeks of blood, reeks of disease that consumes him from the inside, choking on crumpled petals and blooming flowers, the deep-rooted pain in his chest making itself known with insistent stinging whenever he as much as looks at Ouma, lets his eyes linger on his lips for a moment too long or reaches out to shake off the imaginary dust from his hair. Those are all gestures he can’t help but make, an involuntary reaction to Ouma’s presence. Since the moment he found out about the disease he’s felt weirdly compelled to keep Ouma close, keep him near while he still can. 

Sometimes, he wonders if it shows, wonders if it’s possible that the way his eyes would always find Ouma in the crowd or how he brushes against him when they pass each other in the small kitchen would betray him, his feelings somehow imprinted on his forehead for all to see. 

It’s a constant battle between what he wants and what he can’t have. He’s never been known for being good at letting go, not even as a kid. As soon as he set his eyes on the prize, he was willing to do anything to have it, no matter how many obstacles the universe would throw in his way. For him, the stars were never impossible to reach, he knew he would be there one day, among them, ready to put the imprint of his feet on the moon and exploring the vast expanse of the galaxy. 

Ouma, however… He couldn’t have him, he would never have him, and the bloody flowers littering his sink were a pretty damning evidence of that.

Some part of him wondered why Ouma of all people, but the truth is… he knew why, he knew it for a long time, refusing to accept the truth out of some defiant denial. But then the flowers came, pale blues of forget-me-nots, deep violets and innocent whites of gardenias, and everything fell into place, all elements of the puzzle slotting the way they were supposed to. 

He isn’t sure when that deep, helpless admiration for Ouma was born, isn’t sure when the line between stubborn rivalry and frail, flimsy understanding they had formed in that exisal hangar had been crossed. All he knows is that it happened and he reached the point of no return, possibly sealing his fate the moment he offered Ouma to move in together to his place, moved by some sense of guilt, unvoiced pity and deep, childish fear of being alone among people who couldn’t possibly understand what he was going through. 

Living with Ouma is easy, surprisingly so, especially when compared to that brief moment when he shared a room with Saihara, shortly after being pulled out of the game and being forced to stay in the hospital as the doctors prodded at them in Team Danganronpa’s attempt at avoiding a lawsuit. He loved Saihara with all his heart, but his presence had been tiring, a constant reminder of all the mistakes he made, of lives he couldn’t save on his own, not until Ouma came along, haunted by his own guilt. To this day, Momota can’t be entirely sure what transpired in that hangar, but what he knows is that trusting Ouma might have been one of the few right choices he’s ever made.

Living with Ouma is easy, yes, but it also made things so much harder, forcing him to sneak into his own house, jumping at the shadows, scrambling to clear his bedroom floor of every last bloodied petal when all he wished for was to seek comfort in dreams, exhausted after flowers tumble out of his mouth and his chest feels like it could explode.  

Loving Ouma sounds simultaneously easy and scary, a prospect he’s never truly considered until now that he realized that those feelings are already there and not going anywhere, the feeling of realization crashing right into him with full force at first, only to be met with a calm acceptance once he has time to process it. 

After all, it’s hardly the most unexpected thing to happen to him. 

What he and Ouma have is special, he knows. A sense of trust born out of one desperate decision that intertwined their lives forever, a hopeless attempt at making things right. They’ve seen each other at their worst and Momota can’t say that about many people in his life. In the months following the end of the game, it was Ouma’s presence at his side that kept him going, his quiet determination and smile plastered on his face an inspiration, even if fake at its core. 

Ouma is… admirable.

It’s something he never would have admitted in the game, more likely to cut off his own tongue than let himself say it. But it’s still true.

-

“Momota-chan is too quiet,” Ouma narrows his round, resolute eyes at him in suspicion, his stare sharp and accusatory, as if Momota dared to commit some heinous crime and didn’t let him know about it. 

Momota swallows around the cluster of flowers stuck deep in his throat and lets out a nervous chuckle that only cements his guilt and insincerity further.

“Nonsense,” he chokes out weakly, masking his with a cough that’s not as forced as he wishes it could be, familiar burning feeling swelling inside of him as he senses another attack coming, eyes darting across the room to rest on the sturdy surface of the door, calculating how long it’ll take him to reach them if the need comes. 

“You’re lying.” Ouma tilts his head to the side like an owl, his eyes roaming all over Momota’s slouched form. He can feel himself sweating under the scurt eyes, perspiration breaking on his forehead. “What are you hiding, Momota-chan?”

“N-nothing!” He says a little too quickly, panic settling deep in his chest as he forces himself to remember to breathe, willing his hammering heart to slow down. “It’s just… Dunno, man, I just… I’m going through some stuff.”

Ouma cocks his head to the other side, one eyebrow arching in mute skepticism, a gesture that says more than what a million words could convey. 

“Stuff,” he echoes dully, his expression making it more than clear that he doesn’t buy it. At all. 

Momota opens his mouth to say more, to explain, to defend his quickly fading away resolve, but in that moment the bile of blood, flowers and leaves threatens to slip through his lips and slamming both hands against his mouth, he flees the room, deaf to the surprised sound Ouma makes when he bolts out of there, making a beeline for the nearest bathroom and slamming the door after him with a resounding thud.

Ouma doesn’t follow after him and he’s thankful for that when he heaves painfully, arms wrapped around the toilet seat, knuckles whitening, staring unblinkingly when the bloodied forget-me-nots and wrinkled gardenias swirl inside when he flushes them all down the drain. 

-

This is not how it was supposed to be, thinks Kaito as he stares at the ceiling, the faint light of dozens of yellow, plastic stars blinking down at him in voiceless pity. The taste of blood is strong today, red stained tissues lie scattered on the floor and there’s no strength in his limbs to get up and pick them up to throw them into the trash bin. All he can do is lie there, eyes heavy as the deep, hollow feeling in his chest grows, swallowing everything on its way. 

He’s used to dying.

He’s been dying and surrounded by death for so long it should be easy, barely something worth paying any attention to. Danganronpa was a mistake, a grave one. And he doesn’t even remember the person who made that mistake, gone the moment he accepted the pen handed to him by the elegant lady, Team Danganronpa’s representative, and put his messy, hasty signature on a bunch of papers they shoved into his hands, not even bothering to read any of them, too blinded by the prospect of fame and his own thirst for blood. 

He’s scared.

He shouldn’t be, not really. 

It can’t be much worse than lying curled up in the small space of the exisal cockpit, his throat feeling as if it’s bursting in flames as he’s speaking in the voice of a dead boy and hoping for death to wait just a little more, let him bring it all to an end before he can no longer postpone its inevitable embrace. He remembers death in detail, even if he couldn’t have been dead for longer than three whole seconds that must have passed between his passing and being pulled out of the simulation like a fish taken out of water, wide-eyed and disoriented and — in a moment of his greatest weakness, one memory he’s never shared — pleading for death to take him back, for it all to just be over. 

Dying, in his memory, seemed easier. 

But the longer he goes through it, the harder it gets, expanding the constant web of lies that he no longer believes in. The trick, after all, isn’t to fool the audience, but to fool yourself. 

It’s Ouma who taught him that. 

-

It’s when one day he wakes up to his pillow covered with blood-soaked flowers that he starts to truly panic.

His days are numbered. 

-

“Momota-kun?” Saihara wriggles his fingers nervously, staring into his cup, filled with already-cold coffee rather than at him. The comforting smells of pitch-black coffee hang lowly in the air and Momota draws deep, slow breaths, soaking in the atmosphere of peacefulness of the place. It’s a small coffee shop, one where it’s unlikely they’d be found by any crazed Danganronpa fans, except maybe some particularly stubborn ones.  

“Hm?” Momota hums questioningly, sipping his own coffee slowly, wincing every now and then when the drink irritates his already sore throat. 

“I—I noticed something,” he says carefully, keeping his voice quiet. It reminds Momota of how people talk to startled animals. He doesn’t like that thought. He doesn’t voice it, though, smiling at Saihara encouragingly over the brim of his cup and trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest.

“Yeah? What did you notice?”

Saihara taps his fingers nervously against the table, looking as if he’s going to change his mind and back out of this conversation now that he still can. 

“Momota-kun, can I ask you a question?” 

“Sure!” His face stretches in a grin, relying on muscle memory rather than authentic emotion. “My sidekicks should know they can ask me anything!”

“Are you sick?”

The question, just those three words, slam into him like a bag of bricks, momentarily leaving him breathless, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to remember how words work, scrambling for excuses and the most convincing lies. 

Eventually, he forces out a smile that he hopes doesn’t look as strained as it feels.

“Pff, of course not,” he snorts as if the mere idea is laughable. “Come on, Shuichi, you know that the Luminary of the Stars is invincible, right?”

Saihara smiles faintly. “Yeah, sure. I just… I guess I’ve been worried, you’re much more quiet than usually and you disappear in the bathroom so often, I thought that—”

Momota waves his hand dismissively. “I’m okay, Shuichi. Nothing to worry about!”

It feels like a lifetime ago, but Saihara is just as quick to accept the pleasant lies as he used to be. He asks a few more questions, his relieved little smile growing as Momota reassures him that everything is alright, tense muscles slowly relaxing as he lets himself believe in Momota’s flower-scented lies. 

And Momota smiles, he keeps smiling through it all and tries not to think about how good he is at it, at the fake smiles and lies that come way too easily. 

Saihara eventually lets it go, and when he finally leaves the cafe, Momota allows himself a sigh of relief, one that transforms into a coughing fit halfway through as he fights to swallow back the sticky with blood flowers. 

-

Harukawa isn’t that easy to fool. Not this time. 

She doesn’t waste time beating around the bush, as terse and blunt as ever, and some part of Momota admires her for it, admires the progress she’s made, many ways in which she’s learned to escape her past, bury it three feet under and stop looking back. 

“You’re sick,” she says in a voice that leaves no room for discussion, a firm statement rather than a question. 

There is a demand hidden between the words and he knows she won’t leave without answers. 

“What is it?” she asks when he neither confirms or denies, unusually silent. In a way, that silence is a response on its own. 

Harukawa’s eyes gleam red in the dim light, cold and fierce, and he has no doubt that she would be ready to fight any disease he had with her own bare hands. But when it comes to the Hanahaki Disease, she’s just as helpless as he is and he’s only learning how to accept that. 

He tells her. 

There’s no point in keeping it secret and she deserves to know as much. 

“Who?” is all she asks when he finishes her story, death flaring in her eyes. 

It’s one thing he doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t have to. 

-

The metallic taste of blood and bile follows him whenever he goes, mingled with the bitter aftertaste of flowers he keeps choking on. The disease keeps getting worse, making him constantly aware of its presence, to the point of planning his entire days around it, never able to spend too much time outside, his bag stuffed with paper bags and spare shirts in case he doesn’t react fast enough and another one of his favorite outfits gets ruined with blood. He feels the rational part of his mind slip away more with every day, giving in to the crippling sense of overwhelming paranoia. 

It wasn’t like this back in the game. 

Up until the last moment, he believed there would be a cure, believed he could still be saved, last minute just like all heroes do, tension reaching its highest point until a solution dawns on him and he saves the day. And when he finally had to face the reality, it was with a knowledge of a fight well fought, with a knowledge that he fought tooth and nail, up to the very end, sacrificing himself in one last heroic act. Back then, giving up was not an option, failure a word forever exiled from his vocabulary. 

There’s nothing heroic about being consumed by pointless love. Nothing heroic about a meaningless death of a man who was dead already, nothing heroic about the stabbing pain of rejection that penetrates his chest. 

His grandma warned him, once.

You feel too much, she said one night after he woke up from a bad dream, stroking his hair with affection only a grandparent was capable of, her warm smile a promise of no more nightmares. It’s both a curse and a blessing, she explained, something that will bring as much good as it will bad.

He didn’t understand it at the time.

Now, though, these words come back to haunt him, the memory of his grandma's warm hands and the smell of her cookies replaced with the bitter smell of drying blood and the pain pulsating in his chest with every breath he draws, threatening to suffocate him one day with pretty petals and wasted dreams of space travel. 

Love was never really an option that he would consider seriously. 

The memories might be fake, but all he’s ever knew were the stars, their distant, reassuring glow calling his name. It’s what felt the most real to him, it was where his purpose lied. Romance, relationships, all that mushy stuff — those were things that belonged to the future, future so far and unreachable at the time that there was no point in thinking about it, merely a promise of something to come, something undefined and pale next to the stars that shone so bright.

He’s never really loved before, despite how much love he had to offer. 

Sure, he loved his grandparents, and Saihara, and Harukawa, too — albeit not the way she wished he could — but romantic love was a foreign concept, one he couldn’t grasp fully and had no use in trying to. 

He had time.

He had all the time in the world… except, not really. 

-

He starts avoiding Ouma. 

It’s not an easy feat, what with them sharing their living space. Ouma is still struggling to get back to full mobility, moving from wheelchair through crutches to half-jumping, half-limping back and forth between the rooms and occasionally relying on Momota whenever particularly bad days hit. It’s strange, having him so limited when he used to be so lively, and with a distant pang of guilt Momota finds himself with whatever excuse comes first to leave their apartment and cough his lungs out behind the building. 

Tell him the truth. Harukawa said, voice tight and hands curled into fists, as if she was ready to beat Ouma up, punish him for not returning Momota’s feelings, whether he was aware of them or not. Momota refused. What was he supposed to do, make him a bouquet of flowers out of what he coughed out moments earlier and confess? Yeah, right.

How do you tell someone that they’re the reason why you’re dying. And in this case… it wouldn’t even be the first time.

Ouma killed him once. 

He can kill him once more.

-

The inevitable comes and it’s just as ugly and painful as he expected it to be. 

They’re in their living room, both sprawled on the couch, a bowl of butter popcorn perched between them as they lazily follow the movement on the screen, cartoons being one of the few things they agreed on watching together. 

It’s a peaceful evening, quiet and pleasant, the kind of evening when they could simply laze around, unbothered by the rest of the world, free of therapies — psychological as well as physical ones, in Ouma’s case — for the rest of the week. 

He doesn’t notice the signs and when the moment comes - it’s already too late. 

Perfectly fine one moment, screaming in agony the next one, his chest burning as if ignited from the inside and blood dripping down his chin, staining his shirt as flowers push past his lips and spill everywhere. 

 “...Momota-chan?”

He’s too drunk on pain to react, the burning feeling in his chest spreading, taking hold of his throat as he suffocates around the stalks and leaves and petals creeping up and he’s unable to do anything other than succumbing to the agony.  

The flowers are tumbling out of his mouth and there’s nothing he could do to stop them, silent tears spilling over his cheeks involuntarily. He barely registers anything other than Ouma’s eyes, big and tinted with violet, swimming with concern and forcing him to look at him. At one point, he thinks he hears muffled screams somewhere above him but they’re just a background noise, words indistinguishable and irrelevant. He doesn’t know when he ends up on the floor, all he knows is that at some point he went from upright to curled tightly fetal position on the floor, rolling in bloodied petals as he can’t even scream around the mouthful of flowers that fill his mouth. 

Ouma keeps talking to him, undecipherable murmurs, his cold fingers wrapped around Momota’s wrist. His face is the last thing Momota remembers before his consciousness fades away to black. 

-

He wakes up in a hospital. 

He recognizes the sterile white walls and the reeking smell of antiseptic mingled with what he could only identify as rotting bodies everywhere, hauntingly familiar after weeks of what Team Danganronpa referred to as imposed ‘recovery period’. 

Back then, he thought he’ll have enough of hospitals for the rest of his life. Clearly, he was wrong. He glares at the IV attached to his arm, needle cutting deep into the skin, a transparent tube pumping him full of who-knows-what.  

“You’re such a drama queen,” says the voice somewhere on the left of him and he almost jumps at that, startled out of his mind. 

“Ouma!” He calls out anxiously, his eyes widening. 

He stands near the door, not looking at him, his eyes framed by the long strands of hair that fall on his face, hidden in the shadows. His voice is quiet, neutral, barely betraying any emotion and Momota swallows thickly and keeps quiet, hands grasping at the of the blanket, clutching it tightly. 

He’s ready to be yelled at. Ready to face Ouma’s wrath, ready for him to call him names and chastise him for his stupidity. He knows that if the roles were reversed, Ouma wouldn’t hesitate to have the flowers planting roots inside him and wrapping around his lungs surgically removed, he would never let things get this far, wouldn’t let something as irrelevant as feelings keep killing him for days, weeks, months, long enough until there’s nothing left but a ghost of who he used to be, spilling his insides all over the floor as he coughed and coughed, coughing up a never ending stream of petals. 

No, Ouma was way too smart for it and it was just yet another thing Momota loved him for, loved so deeply that he would rather die than have those feelings removed by skillful doctors and their surgical scissors and scalpels.

“Is that some kink of yours?”

…

What. 

His expression must be conveying his confusion for him, because Ouma sighs exaggeratedly and rolls his eyes as if he’s dealing with the dumbest human on Earth and has no fucks left to give. 

“Is this some kind of kink?” He repeats, slowly, both eyebrows curved questioningly. “Do you enjoy hacking blood left and right and pretending that everything is A-okay?”

“How am I alive? Did I have the surgery? W-what happened?” He rasps instead of answering, the familiar heavy feeling in his chest gone, leaving only bone-deep fatigue. Dread swells in his chest at the possibility of the doctors undergoing the surgery without his knowledge and permission. But the feelings are still there, he knows they are. If that’s the case, though, then how...

Ouma rolls his eyes once more, irritation rolling off from him in waves.

“Calm down, you didn’t have the surgery. And you don’t have to, unless you keep insisting on being so dumb. Hanahaki isn’t about whether the love is requited or not,” he says impatiently, as if chastising a particularly dumb kid. “It’s about whether you let yourself be loved by the person you love.”

A deep line crosses Momota’s forehead, eyebrows furrowed as his tired brain strains to understand the implications of what Ouma’s saying. 

Let yourself be loved… 

It doesn’t make sense. Certainly Ouma must be mistaken… right? 

“I—I don’t get it,” he admits, looking at Ouma in search of answers. ‘Shinguji said—”

Ouma snorts. “Since when do you ask Shinguji for advice? Really, Momota-chan, it’s not that hard.”

“So you… You love me?” His voice cracks pitifully at the end and he is struggling to get the words out. 

Ouma looks at him, unblinking. 

“Does it matter?”

Momota sputters, incredulous. “I mean—yeah?! Of course it fucking matters!”

Ouma offers him a small half-shrug, no longer looking at him and inspecting his fingernails instead, the expression on his face bordering on bored. 

“Momota-chan thinks he has to do everything alone,” he drawls. “He thinks he has to take care of everyone, always putting their needs before his and acting like he has to carry the whole damned world on his shoulders.”

He raises his head, this time looking straight at Momota, his eyes bright and gaze piercing right through him, the intensity of it making a shudder crawl up the length of his spine. “Isn’t that right, Momota-chan?”

“You say it as if it’s a bad thing.” Momota’s frown deepens. 

“Have you ever considered that maybe it is?”

“That’s just—That doesn’t make any sense! Why is it suddenly so wrong to want people to be happy?”

“Oh, so Momota-chan wants everyone to be happy?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Jeez, why are you acting like it’s such a bad thing to help people around you and have faith in them?” 

“Does it include you ?”

“Uh,” Momota blinks, scratching the patch of skin next to where the needle of his IV pierces through the skin. “Excuse me?”

“Does it include you? You being happy and having support and all that shit.”

“I don’t—I didn’t...” His resolve falters, excuses freezing at the tip of his tongue. 

Ouma’s smile is that of grim satisfaction, pleased to finally poke at where it hurt the most and went straight to the point.

“Momota-chan thinks that everyone deserves happiness and second chances and being coddled and a pat on the back and whatever. But he never extends that to himself, does he?”

As Ouma keeps talking, the tightness in his chest grows again, he can feel the petals tickling at the back of his throat, his saliva tinted with the faintest taste of blood. 

“Maybe it’s time Momota-chan lets other people take care of him for once,” Ouma muses quietly, his dark hair framing his face, for once serious and unrelenting. 

Not waiting for his answer, Ouma storms out of the room and now that there’s no immediate threat of death looming over him, Momota almost wishes it was back, the perspective of gagging on flowers and blood more appealing than being left with his own thoughts. 

-

Ouma comes back the next day, throwing the small paper bag on his lap, not unlike the ones Momota used to store the blood-covered flowers in before he could dispose of them. He eyes the bag suspiciously, the memory of their last conversation still imprinted at the back of his head. 

“What is it?”

“Open it and see for yourself,” Ouma shrugs and hops on on the other bed in the room, leaning back on his arms. 

Momota obeys, peeking inside the bag. Inside, he finds his a small wish card, a small bag of his favorite mints and his phone, forgotten when he was rushed to the hospital. Frowning, he reaches inside to fish out the card, flipping it open. 

Just get better already, idiot.

 - Harukawa

And lower, scribbled in Shuichi’s familiar handwriting:

Momota-kun, I hope you’ll feel better soon! I can’t visit you in the hospital but Ouma-kun said he’s gonna make sure you will be out soon. 

He stares at the card, reading it over and over, confusion clouding his mind.

“I… I don’t understand,” he says, lifting his head. 

“Jeez, Momota-chan, I know Hanahaki is a bitch, but does it fuck up your brain, too?”

‘I didn’t know you were in contact with Harumaki and Shuichi outside of our group therapy sessions.”

Ouma shrugs. “I’m not.”

Momota doesn’t have a good answer for that.

His eyes are fixed on the card in his hand, trying to sort through his own thoughts, figure out what it is that he’s feeling, confusion mixing with regrets. Despite everything, he’s glad Ouma’s by his side, even when his words are meant to hurt - they’re laced with truth and he’s just too stubborn, too scared to admit it.

It’s almost scary how easily Ouma can read him, how he can take off all of his layers, uncover every lie, until all there is is who he is at the core, no matter how ugly it gets. 

“You never answered my question,” he says quietly when the card in his hand begins to become blurry. He blinks back the tears before they could spill down his cheeks. He knows that once they start there will be no stopping them. 

“Which one?”

“You know which one.”

Ouma’s lips curve in a smile. “If I love you?”

Momota opens his mouth, but when no words come out he closes them and nods instead. 

“Momota-chan… Why do you think I’m here?”

“Dunno… to yell at me for being stupid?”

“Well, that too,” Ouma giggles quietly, gleefully, as if bullying Momota was the greatest joy that life had to offer. But then his face turns serious again, and he gives a more sincere answer. “I’m here for the same reason you would be at my side if the roles were reversed.”

Momota mulls over his words for a second, turning and shifting them in his head, searching for a lie. “Okay but does that mean—”

Ouma groans loudly, interrupting him. “Oh no, we’re not doing that whole ‘who-gives-up-first’ thing, okay? Nope! Nuh-uh. No way.”

“I mean… I think my feelings are pretty fucking obvious.” Momota chuckles bitterly. 

“They are. Momota-chan’s never been good at hiding his emotions.”

“Thanks,” Momota says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You know it’s still not an answer, right?”

Ouma dragged his hand over his face. “Ughh… Fiiine! I love you, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I could imagine a better confession,” Momota comments dryly, but there’s a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “But I’ll take it.”

“Oh, how gracious of you!”

Silence settles once more but it isn’t nearly as awkward as the previous one. Despite himself Momota finds himself smile, feeling lighter than he did in weeks, the pain between his ribs barely a dull echo of what he felt for days on end. 

“So,” he licks his lips, “what now?”

Ouma hums, tilting his head to the ceiling and letting out a small sigh. “Now Momota-chan focuses on getting better.” 

The words of protest tingle at the tip of his tongue and he’s just about to voice them when he thinks better of it and presses his lips together instead. He shakes his head slightly, smiling in disbelief. 

He and Ouma were through so much together, from silly, casual rivalry to enemies turned reluctant partners in crime, only to end up sitting in silence, the memory of flowers welling up in his throat still fresh and Ouma’s confession hanging in the air. 

He knows it’s not a lie. It’s one lie Ouma would never tell. 

Momota takes a shuddering breath. “Right. Okay, I—I’ll get better.”

Ouma’s stare is piercing and serious as he scans his face as if to confirm he really means it. When he finds no shade of resistance or anything that would indicate Momota’s going to be difficult about it he gives a simple nod, corners of his lips twitching in a smile. “Good.”

Momota squirms, hands tightening around the edges of the blanket in his lap. Gnawing at his lips nervously, he averts his eyes, not looking Ouma in the eye. 

“Can you do something for me?”

Ouma blinks, surprised. “What?”

“Can I… can I kiss you?”

He keeps his eyes fixed stubbornly on his lap, unable to face Ouma’s rejection, not after everything, not after suffocating on forget-me-nots and gardenias for weeks, not after that confession… 

Momota almost jumps when he feels a pair of cool hands cup his face, forcing his chin up and he realized that Ouma limped all the way to his bed, sitting at the edge of his bed. 

“Sure,” Ouma murmurs quietly, looking at him through half-lidded eyes, his warm breath ghosting over Momota’s lips and this one word is enough for something in Momota’s chest — some kind of tight, painful knot that’s been there ever since Hanahaki first planted it roots in his chest — to unravel.

He closes the distance between them, Ouma’s lips soft and sweet under his, moving slowly. Slowly raking his hand through Ouma’s hair he gets a good handful and then pulls him even closer until there’s no space between them. He presses their foreheads together, not stopping the kiss and parting his lips delicately when he feels a gentle press of tongue against his, stealing Ouma’s breath. 

He never let himself dream of this moment, never dared to wonder how would Ouma’s taste lips — like grape, he will come to decide later — or what sounds he would make if he dragged his teeth over the length of his neck. He never dared to hope he would ever find out, never believed Ouma would just let him do that.

Now that he knows though, he can’t imagine the world not knowing these things.  

When they finally separate, he tugs Ouma’s smaller body even closer, drunk on happiness and peppering joyful kisses across Ouma’s forehead and cheeks between breathless laughs. And Ouma lets him, soft and pliant in his arms, nuzzling closer and allowing him to enjoy the moment and the closeness between them.   

“I love you,” he whispers against Ouma’s lips when he finds them again.

“I know,” Ouma whispers back, reaching for his hand and squeezing gently when their fingers intertwine. “I know.”