The n-body Problem

by pupsake

Summary:

Saihara observes the relationship between Ouma and Momota over the course of one trip around the sun.

Notes:

All my knowledge of shoujo manga has prepared me for this moment... also, happy New Year!

New Year's

 

In the cold predawn, Saihara stands beneath the creaking roof of the creaking shrine, coated and gloved and ear-muffed and frozen to the bone. He tugs the bell-bound rope, and with both hands pressed together, he does his best to noiselessly sniff back the mucus dripping down his nose. He's never done well with low temperatures. Sandwiched between him and Harukawa, who's apathetic to the winter chill, Momota is something like a walking furnace, oozing warmth. He inches closer, tries to absorb the swell of Momota's hot blood under his clothes, but he can't get nearly as close as he'd like without drawing attention.

Saihara is the most taken with these kinds of events out of the three of them, not that that's saying much. He gets a small degree of relief from traditions that when carried out promise safety and good karma. As for his friends, Momota firmly rejects anything having to do with superstitions and is sure to reiterate this point whenever possible; and if Harukawa was the type of person to believe prayer and ceremony can tangibly improve your life, she would not be Harukawa at all.

Still, they've come here the past few years—three as of now—without fail. Upholding tradition needs no strong motive behind it.

Saihara descends the wooden steps and says, "Ah," when he notices the stall nearby that sells omikuji. It's also here every year, but after Momota had pulled a particularly damning fortune from the box his first time, he began acting like he'd been personally attacked by anything so much as associated with fortune-telling. To be fair, it turned out to genuinely be a rather difficult year for him.

"Hm?" Momota follows Saihara's line of sight, then frowns. "What's up, Shuichi? Don't tell me you're interested in that hocus pocus bullshit?"

Harukawa exhales a puff of white breath. "Whether you believe in it or not, it's something people do for fun. Don't take it out on him just because you always get a bad outcome." She fiddles idly with the sash around her waist. Harukawa's the only one that bothers getting dressed up. Saihara knows she wouldn't if Momota hadn't complimented her on how pretty she looks in a kimono the first time she'd thrown it on for one of Shirogane's projects. She had ordered him to shut up, then proceeded to wear one at every possible occasion.

"It's just," Saihara starts, still in the midst of deciding what to say. "...It's our last year at the academy. It might be nice to have an idea of what's in store, you know?" Their last year, and so little has changed, he thinks. Last year, last chance. It's probably a bit melodramatic, but that's the mantra that's been circling through his head these past few days. He'd even slipped away for a moment under the guise of getting food to secretly write an ema, not wanting either of his friends to see what he'd wished for.

"Yeah, well, too bad a scrap of paper can't help you with that," Momota huffs. "I'm telling you man, if you wanna have a good year, you have to fuckin' work for it."

"We've heard it before," Harukawa says.

Momota goes on like she hadn't spoken. "I mean, fuck, even getting a good fortune does more harm than good," he says seriously, "if you take it to mean you can just sit back and let karma do the work for you. The only one that decides your fate is y—"

"If you want one, just get it already," Harukawa says to Saihara. "I'll get one, too." She starts making her way over to the stall, and, with the decision made for him, Saihara follows. Momota squawks an offended "Hey!" as he scrambles after them.

Momota watches them unfold their fortunes with a scowl—it's not often they disregard his life coaching so blatantly—but softens a considerable amount when the sheets of paper don't damn their souls to hell.

Saihara feels the tautness in his jaw ease up just by reading aloud the words, "'Great luck.' Oh, that's... the best possible outcome." The paper explains to him in vague terms how he'll do nicely in studies, stocks, and—relationships. He steals a glance at Momota.

"'Middle luck,'" Harukawa reads. "So-so. Not that it changes anything." To her credit, she waits for a good deal longer than Saihara before looking at Momota.

Momota glances back and forth between them, misreading the way their eyes flit over him before he expels a put-upon sigh. He pilfers through his pocket for some coin.

His movements are hesitant, and he peers grudgingly through his fingers as he dares to read off his own paper, "...'Small luck.'" The corners of his mouth pull down tightly. "The fuck? For some reason, that pisses me off more than a full-blown curse."

Saihara hides a smile behind his palm. "It does kind of sound like fate patronizing you, doesn't it?"

"Why do you even care? You decide your fate, don't you?" Harukawa reminds him pointedly.

"Hey yeah, you're right, Harumaki!" Momota says it like the idea is hers alone and she isn't just flinging his own words back at him. He crumples the paper into a ball and tosses it over his shoulder, where it lands squarely in a trash can. "Come on, let's get outta here. I found this great spot when I was jogging where we can watch the sunrise."

His sidekicks trod obediently after him as he leads them through the crowds flocking the shrine, up to a high vantage point in the park that overlooks the whole city. The three of them huddle close, and when the first sunrise of the year gleams off the glassy skyscrapers and lights up Momota's face, Saihara is all the warmer.

It isn't until they've parted ways and Saihara is lying underneath his kotatsu with the paper slip tucked in his pocket that he realizes the fallacy in their fortunes. If his luck is great, and Momota's is little, what does that mean between the two of them?

 

April 26th

 

Over winter break, Momota spent several frozen months in Russia completing another bout of astronaut training. School already started a few weeks ago, but due to a mix of bus and flight complications, Momota wasn't able to return until today. Of course, Saihara missed him, but it would be a lie to say he hadn't been able to get more work done than usual with the time he'd normally spend on various Momota-related activities.

This morning is his first day back, and they reunite at the school gates. Immediately and excitedly, Momota starts detailing his trip from the beginning, only to draw to a sudden halt in front of his locker.

He says, "The hell is this?" as he plucks a taped note off the door. "'Welcome back'. ...Goddammit, I recognize this shitty handwriting." 

He bangs open his locker, then expels a slew of obscenities through gritted teeth.

"What's the matter?" Saihara asks as he peeks over Momota's shoulder. He doesn't have to wonder for long. "...Oh."

There on the first rack of his locker are Momota's school shoes, stuffed with moist black soil spilling down over the brims, and a red, pink, and white cluster of what Saihara recognizes as stargazer lilies stuffed into their heels.

Momota throws the lilies in the trash. They run his shoes under the spout in the courtyard, but the soles are stained brown, mushy, and sopping wet. Momota leaves them out in the sun to dry and asks, "Shuichi, do you know how to pick locks?"

Neither of them does. Maybe with a standardized doorknob and some practice, they'd have a chance, but Saihara gently tells him that a barrette is hopeless against a combination lock, especially if they want to make it to class. Momota nods, locates Iruma, and demands a crowbar.

He also takes from her some inspiration for what to write on Ouma's own slip of sharp white school shoes in sharp black marker. When Saihara frets over leaving Ouma's locker with the door torn off its hinges, Momota points out that half the students here with science-based talents are blowing up entire wings of the school every other day.

He stomps to class in his slippers. A few minutes later, when Ouma slides the door to their classroom open and steps inside, his own feet are apathetically clad in his vandalized school shoes.

If anything, he seems to want to show them off. With a sunny smile, he kicks up his legs on his desk so everyone can admire Momota's thick lettering, his scrawl of SHITHEAD along the toe, and DICKCHEESE across the side quarter. He readily puts his feet down when the teacher arrives, presumably because they'd confiscate the shoes posthaste. Momota seethes from his seat in the back row.

Come lunchtime, Saihara, Momota, and Harukawa gather at their usual table and Momota again tries to tell his rousing tale of survival training in the Russian wilderness. This time, he's interrupted by a loud exclamation that comes from the opposite corner of the cafeteria.

Several other students have tuned into the altercation. Ouma is planted firm in front of two boys that Saihara recognizes as part of the new batch of first-years, though he can't quite recall their names or talents. There's a kind of meek-looking kid with a weird sprig of hair sticking straight out the top of his head, who appears to be more an observer to the argument than a participant. The one doing the arguing, and looking pretty wound up about it, is a much taller, decently fit boy—Ultimate Bodyguard, Saihara thinks, no—Ultimate Hockey Player? He looks like his talent is a physical one, but Ouma doesn't cower the slightest under the boy's height advantage, even as he goes red in the face—very clearly dissatisfied with whatever Ouma is telling him.

"What's Ouma-kun doing over there?" Saihara wonders. Ouma does tend to haze new students before falling back on their class to get his regular kicks. But he'd already committed his water balloon dropping prank, right on the first-years' heads, a day after the welcoming ceremony.

"Hopefully getting the shit smacked out of him," Momota grumbles. He picks a chunk of fish off his plate and brings it to his mouth.

The taller boy's voice spikes in volume, and then he presses forward to give Ouma a hard shove on the chest. Ouma keeps his balance well enough that it almost looks not like he's stumbling, but like he means to recant a few steps. Momota frowns mid-chew.

The underclassman is yelling so loud now that a small crowd is forming. Ouma keeps his fingers twined behind his back, rocking idly on his heels, smiling like their conversation concerns the pleasantness of the weather. He says something that spurs the taller boy to grab him by the neckerchief.

Momota swallows his food and thrusts back his chair, standing. "I'll be right back."

Saihara revisits the size of the underclassman, glimpses in his mind's eye the image of Momota in a full-body cast, and says, "Ah, I'll come with you..." but he's drowned out by Harukawa saying, "Leave it. You'll just get dragged into Ouma's nonsense."

"It's ruining everyone's appetite." Momota punches his fists together. "I've gotta protect the sanctity of lunch."

Saihara trails him to the scene of the argument, and though she rolls her eyes up to the rafters, Harukawa isn't far behind.

"Hey, dickhead," Momota says as he comes up behind Ouma. "Whatever it is, just give it back. Or apologize if you've already destroyed it."

"Hm?" Ouma looks surprised to see him. "Oh no! Quick, somebody tell the Ultimate Zookeeper that one of their monkeys is loose!"

"Fine, you fuck, I'll do it." Momota straightens up and faces the pair of underclassmen dead-on. He grabs Ouma roughly by the top of the head and forces him to bow slightly down. "He won't say it but he's sorry for whatever shit he pulled. So let's just leave it at that, yeah?"

Ouma rips his hand away and bites it. Momota jerks back with a yelp. To the underclassmen, Ouma declares, "I am not and will never be sorry! You can write that on my grave!"

"Gladly," Harukawa says, on the move, but Momota stays her at the last second with an outstretched arm.

The underclassmen don't seem appeased—only bewildered in addition to the anger. "Stay out of this," the taller one says. "Our beef is with the runt, not you."

"Okay, I see how it is," Momota says as he smacks Ouma upside the head in revenge for the bite. Ouma goes to retaliate but stops short of Harukawa's glowing red eyes. "Listen, I won't let him fuck with you anymore. I swear, on my honor as the Ultimate Astronaut, that I, Momota Kaito, Luminary of the Stars..." He pauses to let the title sink in.

"We know who you are," the tall one says.

"Hell yeah we do," says the shorter one with the weird hair, starry-eyed. Ouma sticks his finger in his open mouth and makes a retching noise.

"Oh." Saihara sees Momota stifle a pleased smile as if everyone attending their school isn't some degree of celebrity. "Well, anyway, I promise I'll make Ouma leave you alone. With my fists, if I have to."

"I don't want him to leave me alone!" snaps the tall one. "Well, no, I want that, but more importantly, I want my fucking money back!"

"Seriously? Stealing from kids?" Momota glares at Ouma, as the underclassmen loudly assert that they're only two years younger. "Is fucking with our class not enough for you anymore?"

"I understand it hurts to hear, Momota-chan, but the heart wanders," Ouma says. "You know what they say: familiarity breeds boredom breeds contempt. A man has needs he must fulfill."

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about and I don't want to," Momota says.

"Yes, I think that's for the best," Saihara says.

"He was outside the school gates last week pretending he was a fucking starving orphan," says the tall, Momota-like boy, thrusting an accusatory finger at Ouma. "I gave him half this month's fucking pension and next thing I know, he's in the hallways and I realize he's a goddamn Ultimate!"

"And I fail to see how that contradicts my initial story," Ouma says, tilting his head. "Plus, it's not my fault you're so dumb that you can't recognize an infamous evil dictator when you see one."

"Your torn orphan cloak and orphan tin can full of change fucking distracted me!"

"It's okay man," the shorter boy says to his friend. "You were just trying to help. You've got a good heart."

"Ouma-kun," Saihara says with his hand to his chin. "You receive a pension the same as every other student, don't you? I doubt you need to go so far as stealing."

"Of course I'm rolling in dough," Ouma says. "But I've taken to funding a couple of new side projects. All that money really did go to a charity for starving orphans, if it makes you feel better."

"Why didn't you say so from the beginning?" says the shorter boy, his innocence intact. "We like giving to charity."

"Because—" Ouma's smile twists with the joy of digging into fresh prey, "—that was a lie! All your money went to building nuclear superweapons that will create even more orphans! Nice going, idiot!"

The tall boy raises his fist and makes to lunge for Ouma, but he's barely restrained by his friend grabbing onto his shirt. "Let me at him! If I can't get my money back, let me fucking hit him!"

"All right, all right, knock it off." Momota makes an X with his hands like a stern referee. "I get it— trust me—he's a pain in the fucking ass. He's also our class's pain in the fucking ass, so we'll deal with him and get back to you on the whole money thing."

Harukawa mutters so only Saihara can hear, "I don't understand why he's acting like we're responsible for him..."

"I think Momota-kun is just trying to talk things down," Saihara replies just as quietly.

"Another thing I don't understand." Harukawa tugs at one of her pigtails. "If this guy wants to teach Ouma a lesson, I say we let him."

"Because you've done such a great job keeping him in line so far," the tall boy is saying.

Momota furrows his brow. "'Scuse me?"

The boy catches himself and cools very slightly. "Look—no offense to you, man—"

"No offense at all," his friend pipes up.

"—but it's no secret in this school that the Ultimate Supreme Leader's favorite chew toy is the Ultimate Astronaut."

Ouma checks his nails. "Eh. He's in the top five if we're being generous."

"And the fuck does that have to do with anything?" Momota demands, his jaw tightening.

"You guys are third-years. How am I supposed to believe you'll take care of this asshole when he's still screwing with you to this day?" The boy jabs a thumb at Momota's star-studded slippers. "Let me guess, he did something to your shoes so you had no choice but to wear this dorky shit?"

Momota's frown stiffens. "Well—"

The boy gestures at Momota's head. "And I bet he switched your shampoo with glue and that's why your hair always looks like that."

"Are you fucking picking a fight with me?" Momota growls and takes a step forward.

"What? No—"

"It sounds like you are!"

"H-how about we all step back for a minute," Saihara suggests.

Beside him, Ouma punches at the air and cheers, "Give him the ol' one-two, Momota-chan! Rah, rah!"

"Shut the fuck up!" the tall boy barks.

"You shut the fuck up!" Momota draws himself to his full height, placing himself between Ouma and the boy. "I'm telling you to fucking go cool off, all right!?"

Out of Momota's sight, Ouma pulls down his lower eyelid and sticks his tongue out at the tall boy. A vein pops on his forehead.

"Let's just leave it for now," the shorter boy says, pulling at his friend's sleeve.

The tall boy yanks his arm away. "No, you said that last time, and I still don't have my goddamn money!"

"You know you shouldn't make decisions on an empty stomach. Let's go buy lunch."

The tall boy gnashes his teeth together. Ouma says, "Yeah, good luck on that."

Everyone's attention is directed to the undoubtedly pilfered wallet he holds in his small hands. Ouma cards idly through the bills inside. "This should do nicely to help arm my orphaned child soldiers." He flicks an ID imprinted with what appears to be the tall boy's younger portrait between his fingers. "Ooh, you better get this library card renewed. Sloppy, sloppy."

"You fucking asshole!" The boy charges at him, his white-knuckled fist on a fast-track course for Ouma's nose. Ouma doesn't even blink in the second before the hit lands—on Momota, who tucks Ouma behind him swift enough that he manages to absorb the full impact of the blow with his face.

Saihara and Harukawa shout his name while the tall boy, having lost all steam, is towed back by his friend. Thankfully, the punch isn't enough to knock Momota off his feet, but he does stagger unthinkingly into a puddle of spilled beverage. The thought flashes in Saihara's mind like a news ticker flicking across a television screen—MOMOTA-KUN'S FOOTWEAR IS NOT SLIP-RESISTANT—and he's a hair's breadth away from his fingertips meeting Momota's elbow when Momota's heel skids in the puddle, sending him careening backward bullet-fast and smacking the side of his head on the edge of a tabletop along the way. A sickening thwack resounds in the otherwise silent cafeteria, followed by a much duller thump as Momota eats the linoleum.

His name is screamed this time, along with a general burst of noise from the spectating crowd. Both Momota's sidekicks rush to his side. Saihara stays bent over him, fretful and questioning, frantic—"Are you okay? How bad is it? Are you bleeding? Can you stand?"—and Harukawa, the moment she's assured Momota isn't dead, reels on the underclassmen, her fingers flexing into sharp points—but Chabashira has already bent the tall boy's arm behind his back and slammed his chest onto a table.

"Tenko isn't sure if you don't understand because you're new or because you're a degenerate," she spits, "but unjust violence is prohibited, even if it is male-on-male!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he gasps. "I—I didn't mean to—I was trying to hit him!" He jerks his chin in the direction of Ouma. Saihara glances briefly to where he stands, rigid, his head angled towards Momota, his face blocked by his hair.

"A noble goal," Chabashira admits. "Work on your reflexes." She drags the boy away, his finicky friend trailing after, likely to the headmaster to dole out punishment.

Saihara half-expects Harukawa to go for Ouma herself, but instead, she kneels by Momota so they can help him sit up. All eyes are on the injured astronaut, and several more of their classmates flock to check on him.

Momota blinks his glazed eyes and mumbles, "Aw, fuck, it's bright."

"It's going to be okay, Momota-kun," Saihara soothes him, and then to Harukawa, "I think he might have a concussion."

Her face contorts with barely contained rage. "You're such an idiot, getting hurt to protect that brat."

"That's exactly right, Harukawa-chan," Ouma singsongs. He's wearing his typical chipper smile, fingers still laced behind his back. "Especially because I was just about to dodge, and then I could've had that first-year suspended without anyone getting hurt. Way to ruin my brilliant plans, Momota-chan."

"Do you want to die?" Harukawa asks, and it looks like she isn't going to wait for an answer when Momota lifts a shaky hand to pat her on the head.

"'S okay," he says. "Thanks for worryin' about me."

Harukawa goes red either from fury or embarrassment. Everyone's scurrying to offer help, but Momota, with both his sidekicks for leverage, climbs to a standing position and does his best to wave them off.

"I'm fine," he slurs, unconvincingly, wobbling on his feet. Saihara and Harukawa keep their hands hovering around him, uncertain. Their caution proves to be requisite because he takes two steps and tumbles straight into Saihara's arms.

"We're taking you to the infirmary," Saihara informs him.

"Gramma, I said 'm fine."

"Enough of this," Harukawa says. She sweeps an elbow under Momota's knees and another around his shoulders, and all at once she's got him in a bridal carry. He's not even lucid enough to protest this insult to his manliness; his head merely lolls across her chest. She issues the rest of the spectating students a warning glare not to bring this up to him later.

They start through the doors leading into the hallway, where it's quiet. Saihara tenses at the pattering footsteps behind them, and Harukawa grits out, "Go away."

Ouma pretends to be offended. "Hey, if you're taking Momota-chan to his death bed, I want to at least say my goodbyes—"

"Ouma-kun, this isn't the time," Saihara snaps. "Seriously."

They keep walking. The footsteps don't follow. Momota is handed off to some Ultimates with medical talents, along with the promise to visit him once school is over.

-

Momota laying in an infirmary bed with gauze wrapped around his forehead is unfortunately not unprecedented. Thinking back on it, the last time something like this happened must have been when he had forgotten his bag in class. After school, he and Saihara returned to the classroom, where Tojo was in the middle of mopping the floors.

"Please wait for them to dry," she had said. "I don't want for you to slip and hurt yourself."

"Tojo, c'mon," Momota had said like she was foolish to assume such a thing was possible. "A little soap is no match for the Luminary of The Stars." He'd waltzed through the door, and Saihara and Tojo both jolted at the sound of him immediately slipping and smacking his skull against the tiling. Once he was well enough to speak, Momota had requested that the story their classmates be told about the comically large bump on his head was the outcome of a manly sparring match between him and Saihara. He promptly changed his mind and revealed the truth after Iruma cackled one too many times at him getting his "shit rocked" by "that beanpole Cuckhara".

So, Saihara knows what to expect. He thinks he does, but once he and Harukawa go to pay a visit at the end of the school day, he's thrown by what he sees through the small glass window on the door to the infirmary.

"What are you waiting for?" Harukawa demands. "Open the door already."

Saihara's hand stays frozen on the knob as he tries to discern whether he's imagining things. The bed where they'd dumped Momota is shrouded in a white curtain, and Saihara can't see anything past it, not even a silhouette. But he does see, at the bottom where the curtain ends, a pair of shoes with ASS written on the left heel, and HOLE written on the right.

Saihara pushes the door open without knocking. The shoes streak out of sight, and there's an almost imperceptible noise similar to a sliding door being moved.

When the curtain is brushed aside, Momota is wide awake, unbothered, and smiles at them with a graffiti-free face. And Saihara would almost believe nothing is amiss if it weren't for the window on the far wall—wide open, billowing in cold air—and the fresh cut of stargazer lilies on the bedside table.

The cafeteria incident leads to some digging per a couple of curious, tech-savvy students. It gets out that the underclassman that punched Momota had been, at his young age, involved in a string of robberies before he'd come to gain the title of Ultimate. Upon getting scouted for his talent (rugby, Saihara finally learns), he received a government-issued alias so he wouldn't be linked to his past crimes. But even with several of his classmates—including the one with the weird hair—vouching that he'd done his time and changed his ways, this hasn't stopped the majority of the student body from ostracizing him. Inadvertently concussing a popular student certainly didn't help.

It takes a few days, but once Momota's been cleared to leave the infirmary, the first thing he does is head for the busy courtyard. He finds and marches right up to the boy that had punched him, speaks intensely with him for a few minutes, and gives him a firm handshake for all to see. The boy says something, and Momota laughs in response and noogies him for good measure. When he walks away, the boy stares after him. It's gradual, but one by one, other students approach the boy to talk.

A crushed up soda can falls from above and lands at the boy's feet. Saihara looks to one of the rustling trees leaning close by. A flash of a white belt hangs down from inside the thick canopy of leaves.

 

Children's Day

 

Yesterday, Ouma brought a remote-control airplane to school and taped Momota's swiped student ID card to its helm. The idea was that Ouma would take shelter from the highest levels of the school and behold Momota's furious pursuit of the toy around the school grounds, his fumbling attempts to shoot it out of the sky with anything he could grab. This only resulted in him losing more personal items. His wallet and phone ended up as failed missiles strewed about that had to be collected later.

This went on for such a tragically long time that Saihara, in a last-ditch effort to help his friend, stood in the courtyard and made an open plea for Ouma to have mercy. This only resulted in the helicopter appearing from nowhere to ram into the back of his head before sailing off again.

What brought the whole thing to an end was battery life. The juiced-out helicopter abruptly quit spinning its blades and plummeted straight down into the courtyard fountain. Without any hesitation, Momota dove into the freezing waters after it, like he was afraid it could take off again at any second. He heaved himself over the fountain's side, soaked, teeth chattering, his ID in one hand, the helicopter in the other—which he flung to the ground and stomped madly underfoot until it was little more than rubble.

Saihara rushed him inside and smothered him in towels while Harukawa simply looked on, mystified by the stupidity of the situation. She left early, as she complains about doing every year, to help the kids at the orphanage craft paper carp for today's festival. It surely does nothing to help her mood when Momota fails to show up to class in the morning because of a debilitating cold. Now the look she's wearing is one of murder and one for a very obvious recipient. 

Still, she doesn't try anything until class is through. Saihara spies, on the edge of his seat, as Harukawa gets up and makes her way over to Ouma. He's doodling something with crayons in a checkered notebook, and he squints up at her, looking awfully put out when her shadow swallows up his work.

"Um, no, I don't wanna die," he says, full of disdain. "Is that all? Yes? Then shoo, shoo." He flaps his hand at her and trades a purple crayon for a red one.

Saihara immediately goes tense. With Momota out of commission, the responsibility of talking Harukawa down from wringing Ouma's skinny neck probably falls to him. But she must have steeled herself for these kinds of comments because Harukawa's hands remain limp at her sides.

"I want to play a game with you," she says.

Ouma stops scribbling. Saihara looks out the window to check for signs of the apocalypse.

"Your stand-up still needs work," Ouma says flippantly. "You forgot the buildup before the punchline."

"I'm serious."

"Oh, okay. No, Harukawa-chan, I do not want to run and hide from bush to bush while you try and shoot me. I doubt you know any other 'games'." He goes back to scribbling.

Harukawa slams her hand on the page, and Saihara is honestly amazed by the absence of a flinch on Ouma's part. "Threats don't work. Carrying out those threats doesn't work. So now I'm speaking your language." She leans down so they're eye to glaring eye. "We're going to play a game. The stakes are that if I win, you have to leave Momota alone."

"Who's Momota?"

She ignores him. "You've had two years to terrorize him all you like. Now it's our last, and I don't want to spend it putting up with your crap."

Big eyes go narrow. Ouma tips back in his chair, props his legs on his desk, and laces his fingers behind his head. It's the strongest impression of an all-powerful crime boss he's ever given off. "Jealous, are we?"

"Of how much Momota hates you? Hardly," Harukawa says. "It's his business if he wants to chase you around, but it's baiting him into getting hurt where I draw the line."

"I didn't force stupid Momota-chan to jump into the fountain. He did that by his own stupid self."

"Just like you didn't force him to get a concussion trying to defend you."

Ouma opens his mouth but doesn't speak right away.

And Harukawa doesn't care to wait for him to find his words. "I'm not arguing logistics with you," she says. "The fact is that if it weren't for you, he wouldn't be sick." 

He gives her a lazy smirk. "And now you want to waste your time losing a game against me when you could be buying him flowers and candy and get-well cards? Some friend you are."

"Like you would know about friends," she bites out. "Now are we going to do this or not? Unless—" She looms over him, and for a moment her face is cast in shadows by the blinds interrupting the midday sun. "You're scared?"

Her palpable malice isn't directed at him, but Saihara gulps all the same. 

Ouma levels her an unimpressed gaze, but it's clear by this point she commands his full attention. "Less scared, more... unincentivized."

"I'll do something you want if you win," she says blandly.

"You sure know how to excite a guy, Harukawa-chan! Which is a lie, obviously," he says with a finger to his lips, "since there's no one I have for you to kill. My underlings have already taken out all my enemies."

It's all Saihara can do not to lock his eyes tight in anticipation of Harukawa's hand darting out to crush Ouma's windpipe. To add to the stream of extraordinary events, she simply goes very still.

Ouma carries on like he doesn't have a care in the world. "You're in luck, though! I happen to enjoy the thrill of a good hide-and-go-chase, so if that you can provide, I'm all in."

Harukawa blinks at him. "Hide-and-seek? How much of a child are you?"

"Spoken like a true fuddy-duddy," he laments. He untwines his fingers and refolds them in his lap, beaming. "More importantly, Harukawa-chan! How do you plan, exactly, to have me keep up my end of the deal?"

"Funny. You seemed so confident a second ago." She flicks a lock of hair over her shoulder. "Why don't you just win the game and you won't have to worry about that."

Ouma is smiling, and Harukawa is scowling, but from what Saihara can see, their eyes mirror each other.

"Saihara-chan!"

Saihara jolts at his name and just then realizes how close he'd been leaning across his desk and towards the pair of them. There's a blunt clattering sound as Ouma pushes back his chair and hops to his feet.

"You're bearing witness to this arrangement, all right?" he says, putting one hand on his hip and pointing upwards with the other.

"Oh, um, I don't know what you—"

"Don't even bother," Harukawa says. "You're so obvious." Saihara wilts.

"So that means!" Ouma points straight at Saihara. "If I'm found dismembered in the school warehouse, you know who did it."

"If I were to kill you," Harukawa tells him, "I wouldn't leave a trail."

"You heard the lady," Ouma amends. "If I disappear from the face of the Earth, then."

Saihara shoots Harukawa an urgent look. She shrugs. "What? It was a joke."

Rules are set. Harukawa has ten minutes to find Ouma, and he gets ten minutes to choose a hiding place—"Don't patronize me!" he protests. "Give me one."—one minute to choose a hiding place, and it has to be somewhere on school grounds.

After they've departed the classroom, Ouma skipping and Harukawa skulking, Saihara gets up and dares to let his gaze wander over the notebook Ouma had left open on his desk. He sees colorful prototypes for yesterday's prank and learns that originally Ouma had planned to duct tape Momota's wallet to the back of a bullet train, before settling on the student ID and helicopter. At the bottom of the page, in childish red chicken-scratch: Day 855 that I permit my classmates to continue breathing. I will allow them the mercy of one last school year before all who defied me are fed to the shark tank. This goes doubly for the nosy detective reading this because he doesn't have a life of his own to worry about. The rest of the notebook is blank.

Harukawa returns to the classroom just short of ten minutes. Alone. "Don't look at me like that," she snaps. "He lost, so he's off sulking somewhere."

Saihara stares at her in surprise as he clicks off the timer. "Ouma-kun... lost?" It's not that he doubted Harukawa; the thought of someone besting her in a physical match is unthinkable. However, Ouma losing at hide-and-seek is... somehow equally so.

Harukawa looks at him like he's stupid. "I haven't lost a mark since I was a child," she says in a way that makes Saihara sweat. She fiddles with the bow on her uniform and sounds lost in thought when she speaks again. "But... I have to hand it to him. That was the longest it's ever taken me. And in a contained area, no less..."

Saihara places his hand over his mouth. "I have to ask... where was he hiding?"

"Under a car hood in the parking lot," Harukawa says.

"A car h—"

"I'm not sure either," she says, shaking her head. "He had a wrench on him, must have rearranged some things. Whoever it belongs to is going to have to take the train home."

Saihara takes a second to process this information. "And... you thought to check under car hoods?"

"He cut himself on one of the metal parts." There's that shadow over her eyes again, with only the red of her irises burning through. "I just followed the smell of blood."

Saihara waits until her back is turned before he allows himself to shudder.

Perhaps most surprising of all, Ouma stays true to the terms of their deal. Once Momota is well enough to return to class, he growls at the sight of Ouma and is springing into defense mode when Ouma hits him with a nonchalant apology. Momota is so thrown that he sinks into his chair without a word, and Ouma doesn't approach him for the rest of the day.

Or the day after. Or the week after that. He doesn't ignore Momota, per se, but doesn't go out of his way to pester him, either, which is about as far away from regular Ouma behavior as telling the truth.

Momota confronts him over this lack of harassment one day in the halls like it's a personal affront. Ouma shrugs and says, "I got bored."

From there, Momota falls into a peculiar sort of despondency. He stares blankly into space when he thinks no one is looking, takes too long to answer questions that would normally spur him into long diatribes. He asks Saihara if he's losing his edge, although in regards to what, he doesn't elaborate. He stops at a window overlooking the courtyard, where Ouma is slipping one of Gonta's caterpillars down Iruma's shirt. He gazes longingly at the resulting chaos that has nothing to do with him.

They're having lunch under the newly built arbor one afternoon and Saihara is relaying the details behind the latest case his uncle's agency has taken on. He studies the way Momota picks sparingly at his food and asks, "So, Momota-kun, do you have any ideas?"

Momota contemplates a snap pea. Saihara repeats the question and his spiked head jerks up. "Shit, fuck, uh—sorry, bro. Ideas about what again?"

"The bikes going missing around the city," Saihara says with patience. "There's reason to believe it's a single group responsible, but... um. Did you hear anything I said?"

Momota laughs uneasily and rubs the back of his neck. "Honestly, no. I'm fuckin' sorry man, I just..." He hesitates, then grins wide and gestures at his lunch. "I just have a lot on my plate right now."

He turns from Saihara to Harukawa and back, his self-satisfied expression saying Ah? Ah? Following a few awkward seconds, Saihara forces out a paltry chuckle. Harukawa makes a face.

"You're the one that asked about it. It wouldn't kill you to at least pretend you care," she says, bitterly.

"I know, I know," Momota amends. "Won't happen again. I'm really sorry, Shuichi."

"Ah, it's okay," Saihara says.

"It's not okay." Harukawa's knuckles are white from clenching around her chopsticks. "Stop letting him get away with everything."

Momota's eyebrows knit together. Saihara starts, hesitant but knowing a confrontation is the last thing he wants, "Harukawa-san, it's not a big—"

Harukawa stabs one of her tomatoes and he shuts up. It pops with a bright red burst. She stands, taking her school satchel and lunch with her.

"I'm not hungry," she says, twisting away from them. She shoulders through the hanging wisteria vines and stalks off towards the main school building.

Momota leans forward and cups a hand over his mouth. "What's her problem?"

Saihara, acutely exhausted, doesn't reply.

They've finished their lunches and are approaching the door to the classroom when Saihara notices it's cracked open just a tad. He follows the line of the door to the ceiling and is opening his mouth to deliver a warning just as Momota slides it aside without a second thought.

The blackboard eraser drops from where it's slotted into the space between the door and the wall, then thunks unceremoniously onto Momota's head.

The chattering of their classmates falls to the wayside. Iruma crows, delighted, "Holy shit. Oldest trick in the book and he still fucking fell for it." 

Everyone else loses interest in the next second. Momota and Saihara lock their sights on the greatest possible culprit behind the crime. Ouma's eyes smirk at them over the top of his manga.

As Momota trudges over to give him a good shaking down, Saihara searches for Harukawa in the sea of heads. She's slouched over her desk, cheek in slender palm, penciling vague, scratchy lines into her schoolbook. She barely spares him a glance as he makes his way over.

"Harukawa-san, is this... all right with you?" He lifts a shoulder in the direction of the now full-scale squabbling Momota and Ouma.

"I told him to do it." Up close, the lines on her page are jagged points, like shark teeth.

"You told him to... why?" Saihara asks, at a loss for anything else.

"I thought you were supposed to be a detective," she hisses, then sighs at his compulsory wince. "They're both stupid, but... this is the first time I've considered a little girl that enjoys getting her pigtails yanked on the playground."

"That..." Saihara wavers. He observes their feuding classmates, as loud as they are lively. "...oh."

"Oh." She stabs her pencil into the heart of the page.

 

Summer Festival

 

When Saihara was very young, he'd gotten separated from his parents at a festival like this. The blazing lights, thundering noises, and swarm of tall, lumbering strangers had swallowed him up and spat him out at the shooting gallery. It was one of the few semi-quiet nooks he could find that also happened to be inhabited by a crew of friendly-looking stuffed animals, who kept him company until one of the participants accidentally shot him between the eyes with a rubber arrow. His parents were promptly summoned when it became clear he was not a creepily lifelike doll.

He recounts this story in sparser detail to Momota and Harukawa as he holds the stock of the toy crossbow and takes aim. Momota laughs like it's funny but Harukawa quirks an eyebrow at him and asks, "Did your parents not bother watching you?"

"It wasn't their fault," Saihara says hurriedly. He pulls the trigger and a miniature plastic cat falls away. "I was always quiet, so it wasn't very noticeable if I disappeared. I... remember it being very calm. I was a little disappointed when they found me."

"Some things never change, huh?" Momota says. "You get lost in your own world sometimes, and Harumaki and I gotta drag you out."

Harukawa tucks a dark strand behind her ear and looks away. Torchlights and red lanterns reflect off the flowery ornaments pinning her thick bun of hair. "I've had enough of doing the finding, thank you. With events like these, it was always my job to keep an eye on the younger kids before I could have any fun myself."

Momota strokes his goatee. It's a new idiosyncrasy he's taken up that, according to him, makes him seem more mature. "Geez, guys. Can't say the festivals I remember were such gloomy affairs. Back then, Gramps would make me ride on his shoulders 'cause I kept running off, and Grandma would buy me every treat I asked for..."

The conversation comes easily and Saihara surprises himself by shooting down the necessary number of plastic figurines in the midst of it. He didn't want any prize in particular and had only tried his hand at Momota's insistence, so he flounders a bit before settling on a box of sparklers. Momota's own modest prize, a purple octopus on a keychain, hangs off the thread of his drawstring bag as he lauds Saihara like he's just won the Olympics.

Flustered and mostly to take the attention off himself, Saihara says, "U-um, Harukawa-san, are you going to have a go?"

"Nah, man, Harumaki doesn't care about stuff like this," Momota says immediately.

Saihara frowns. "Is that so?" He waits for Harukawa to rebuke Momota for speaking for her, but she remains silent and stone-faced at his side. Saihara looks down at the crossbow and is hit with the sensation that he's done something wrong. "Oh, uh..."

Harukawa saves him. "Momota doesn't want me to show him up. That's all." She does an about-face, and over her shoulder, she shows them the most indistinct of smiles. "I'm willing to give him that mercy. Let's go."

They check out as many attractions that draw Momota's interest and as many food stalls that stoke his hunger, and the night air only thickens with heat and the smell of grease the later it gets. Saihara is nigh constantly sweltering in the summer, and wishes he was as bold as Momota when he loosens his yukata around the chest and flaps a paper fan around his neck, groaning, "Why the fuck is it so hot? I'm gonna beat the shit out of the sun."

"The sun is already set," Harukawa says impassively, and Momota launches into a tangent about how it's still the sun's fault, in the end, because its rays hit the Earth at an angle during the summer and... Harukawa curves into a particularly noisy food stall so that Momota's voice is drowned out by the chatter of patrons. This works for both parties because his attention is soon captured by a row of shiny candied red apples on display. He flicks the seller a coin and spins the apple on its striped stick as they sidle through the throng of festival-goers.

"Look, Harumaki. It looks like you!"

"Excuse me? Do you want to die?"

Momota holds the round red apple right next to her face and says, "It totally does. Right, Shuichi?"

Saihara is about to deny that the resemblance is uncanny, but Harukawa snaps, "Don't dignify that with an answer."

"And—they look like Shuichi!" Momota jabs his finger in the direction of the tanks of bulgy-eyed goldfish stacked in front of the scooping stall they pass.

"I—what?" Saihara says.

"Ignore him," Harukawa advises.

Someone announces into a microphone that the fireworks show is about to begin. The three of them travel a small way up the mountainside to an off-road shoulder encased in iron railing, the perfect spot for viewing. They weren't the only ones to have realized as much, because a sizeable crowd has gathered. They come to a stop, and the sea of bodies parts enough to reveal one tiny yukata-clad figure and one that, while similarly dressed, is absolutely massive.

Gonta is bent with his hands on his knees, still not low enough to meet Ouma at eye level, resembling a daycare worker appeasing a toddler. "Gonta is sorry, but Gonta can't," he's saying meekly. "Gonta already promised to watch the fireworks with Hoshi-kun and Shinguji-kun."

"Oh, okay." Ouma is gripping a plastic bag full of water with a goldfish floating inside. "Tell them to meet up with us, then."

"Um, but, they told Gonta not to bring Ouma-kun."

Ouma begins unknotting the top of the bag. "Then I'll eat this stupid goldfish."

Gonta flails about, horrified. He cries, "No! Why?!" as the trio approaches them.

"What are you two talking about?" Saihara asks. Gonta looks to them, sighing with relief, but Ouma doesn't bat an eye.

"You have ten seconds or Bubbles gets it," Ouma says, holding the open flap of the bag up to his mouth.

"Ouma-kun, please!" Gonta begs.

"Knock it the fuck off," Momota says and flicks Ouma in the back of the head. 

"Owie!" Ouma staggers forward like he's been hit and clutches his head, his round eyes narrowing into angry slits. "What the heck, Donkey Kong? Did you come out of the jungle just so you could bully innocent children?"

"I do see a bratty child," Harukawa says from behind Momota, "but not an innocent one."

Ouma blinks and peeks over Momota's arm. "And I see you've let Diddy Kong and Dixie Kong out for some fresh air."

"If he's fucking with you again, man," Momota says to Gonta, "I can teach him a fuckin' lesson or three."

"N-no, it's not Ouma-kun's fault," Gonta insists as if Ouma wasn't threatening to swallow a live fish five seconds ago. "Ouma-kun asked Gonta to give him a shoulder ride so he can see the fireworks better, but Hoshi-kun and Shinguji-kun already invited Gonta to watch with them, and..."

"...They don't want Ouma-kun there," Saihara finishes for him.

Ouma's shoulders twitch. He begins to tip the bag over towards his lips. "Say goodbye to Goldie."

Gonta becomes frantic again and is about to give in when Harukawa puts a stop to it all by snatching the bag out of Ouma's hands. He has no choice but to switch tactics, turning on the crocodile tears.

"Gonta, are you really going to leave me all alone? Do you hate me that much?" He sniffles, rubbing at his wet cheeks with the sleeve of his yukata.

As Gonta hastens to assure him that that isn't the case, Momota grunts, "Why the fuck is this even an issue? They're fireworks. Look up and you can see them just fine."

"A lowly stable boy like you wouldn't understand," Ouma says as he checks his nails. "A supreme leader deserves to watch such recreation from a throne, not suffocated by the masses."

Saihara places a hand over his mouth. Of course, from Ouma's height, he'd have to angle his neck uncomfortably high up to see over the shoulders of the crowd...

"Chop, chop, Gonta!" Ouma says with a clap of his hands. "Hoshi-chan and Shinguji-chan will still be here after the show is over, but I might just throw myself off the side of this cliff if you abandon me."

Gonta's allegiances are clearly torn in two even as he bends down to give Ouma his desired shoulder ride. He's a whisker away from Ouma's waist when out of nowhere, Momota's arm shoots out to impede him. Momota looks down at his own hand clutching the fabric of Gonta's sleeve and seems just as surprised at himself as the rest of them.

"M-Momota-kun?" Gonta says, bewildered.

But Momota bounces back quickly, sounds totally at ease when he says, "You promised Hoshi first, right? A man... a gentleman's gotta keep his promises."

Gonta is still fretting and Ouma is indignantly squawking until Momota wheels to him and snaps, "I'll give you your goddamn lift, okay?" Pasting a smile back on for Gonta, he says, "We'll deal with him, dude. Don't sweat it."

"Oh, um, thank you, Momota-kun!" Gonta bows his head deeply as Ouma mutters, "I didn't agree to this..." and Harukawa hisses, "Neither did I." Bubbles or Goldie is deposited into Gonta's custody and he thanks them a couple more times until he's shooed off with the warning that if he dawdles, he'll miss his meeting with Hoshi and Shinguji anyway.

"You know you're like, a dwarf compared to Gonta, right, Momota-chan?" Ouma says, his little face wrinkled with displeasure. "My view is going to be ruined now thanks to you."

"Then there's no need for him to bother helping you," Harukawa says. "Go away."

"Nah, this works too!" Ouma's tune changes blindingly fast. "C'mon, Momota-chan! It's about to start!" He bounces on his heels and makes grabby hands at him.

Momota pinches the bridge of his nose and grumbles, "This is for Gonta, not you," making a big show of what an inconvenience this is, but Saihara knows what a truly resistant Momota looks like. His hands close easily around Ouma's middle, and the only sign of exertion he shows is a low hup noise as he hoists Ouma onto his shoulders. 

Ouma visibly stiffens somewhat—but promptly kicks out the bunchy fabric of his yukata, swinging his legs and getting comfortable, eliciting a pained grunting noise from his human perch. "Wow, you guys look like ants from up here!" He glances to and fro, clasping his fingers under Momota's chin to keep steady. "Usually you just look like cockroaches."

"Momota, drop him," Harukawa orders.

"Ghhhrk," Momota says, trying to pry Ouma's fingers off his trachea.

"Nooooooo doooonnn't, I'm so scared of heeeeiiiights," Ouma wails, clinging on to Momota even harder.

Over Harukawa's threats, Ouma's sobs, and Momota's coughing, Saihara only gets as far as "Guys, it's start—" before the first white flare of light swimming up the sky explodes into color and noise. Everyone's pulled out of their respective squabbles to watch the smooth sheet of black night burst apart.

Saihara takes in the sight for himself before peeking at Momota, who's come to a still beside him. Fractals of yellow and red, blue and purple, cut shapes along the curve of his jawline and glow in his eyes, but most of his face is obscured by the knobby knees framing him. The owner of said knees has relinquished his chokehold on Momota's neck and is instead clutching at his hair, causing it to fall over his eyes.

"Ouma, fucking—" Momota is about to swat him away when, without a word, Ouma sweeps his hand across Momota's forehead and keeps it there, brushing the hair from his face completely. Momota goes stock-still.

For a good while, they all do. Saihara clears his throat, opens his mouth, says nothing. He holds onto the iron rail in front of him tightly, and can't help stealing another glance at the boy next to him. He doesn't dare meet her eyes, but he can distinguish the blur of Harukawa's head angled to do the same.

"It's beautiful," he and Harukawa say in unison. They both startle and look from Momota to each other.

"Yeah," Momota agrees. His face is tilted upward, looking at Ouma.

The last batch of fireworks fizzle away, and the only thing left behind is curls of smoke clouding the sky.

The next time Saihara sees him at school, Ouma is doodling graffiti on Yumeno's dozing face as she's slumped over her desk. A little purple octopus dangles from his cell phone as he uses it to snap pictures.

 

Sports Festival

 

Saihara has never been one for the cold, but he doesn't fare much better in the heat. He distinctly regrets choosing a tracksuit over the T-shirt and shorts the majority of the students don as he runs the back of his arm over his forehead before more sweat can roll off his brow. He plunges the long, cylindrical pole into the ground with as much strength as he can muster. His first sports festival at Hope's Peak, he barely made a dent in the earth, but all that training must have paid off to some degree because he manages a couple of centimeters on the first try.

"Now hold it down," Harukawa instructs him, walking backward and taking the opposite side pole with her. With the square of posts spread out, the pointed tent ceiling springs up and shades Saihara's head from the morning sun.

His ears prick at the sound of a low whistle behind him that grows in volume, along with the clump of Momota's sneakers. "Nice job, sidekicks! I think you've earned yourselves another gold star for your hard work!" He fishes a file of stickers out from the fanny pack around his waist and thumbs two onto the clipboard he's holding.

Saihara brightens at this news. "Ah, am I still in the lead?"

"This is nothing," Harukawa says while the muscles in Saihara's upper arms ache. "We haven't even set up the coolers yet." They're laid out in empty stacks beside the recently built tent, yet to be packed with ice and beverages.

"Hop to it, then," Momota says with a cheery smile. "I'm gettin' thirsty. Whoever brings me barley tea first gets another star."

Saihara is about to start for the school cafeteria, but Harukawa juts her arm out in front of him and says to Momota, "Stop bossing everyone around and help us out." Saihara chooses not to say that she's just bitter because he's three stars ahead of her.

"Hey! Bossing everyone around is helping!" Momota says hotly. "I'm the leader, and the leader's job is to run a tight ship. If I don't keep up morale, you guys will start crying and run off and hide in your rooms, and then everything falls apart!"

"That makes no sense." Harukawa goes to retrieve a hammer to beat the poles down. "Akamatsu is already keeping track of our side of things as the class rep. You're just getting in her way."

"Well," Saihara says amicably. "She did say she appreciates the help, but that... if there's something more pressing, Momota-kun, you can always attend to that."

Momota sighs, and his tone becomes soft, like he's soothing children. "Look, I know you guys can't stand being apart from me, okay? But I'm really busy right now. I promise you'll get plenty of time with your hero once the festival starts."

He looks like he sincerely means it, not a hint of irony on him. Harukawa's lower eyelid twitches. Before she can retort, Momota calls to the southernmost row of billowy tents, "Hey, Amami! Lift with your legs, not your back!" His broad shoulders turn away from them. "Try not to make out too much while I'm gone," he says with a wink. He trundles off to let them stew in the awkward silence he's created.

"...I'm going to..." Saihara gestures vaguely, inching towards the school entrance.

"Just go," Harukawa growls. She hammers another post into the ground with deafening force.

To the surprise of no one, Momota has always loved the sports festival, but he's exceptionally gung-ho about it this year. Saihara thinks he's got a pretty good guess as to why, and it has to do with what transpired a week ago.

When Saihara and Harukawa arrived at their usual training spot, Momota was already there. He was engaged in a heated dispute with Ouma, making it their third of the day. Momota was in the middle of barking out something only half-intelligible about deflection and avoidance, and Ouma was the one to perk up when he saw them.

"Great, sidekick-chans, you're here," Ouma chirped. "You can get this brittle-boned, plankton-guzzling crustacean out of my sight now."

"The fuck did you just call me?"

"This is our training spot," Harukawa said coldly. 

"Really? That's funny," Ouma said. He flailed his arms at the clumsy scrawl in the dirt that read, This training spot is mine. -Ouma Kokichi. "Because it has my name on it."

"That's not how land distribution fucking works," Momota said sagely.

"I have a deed. From the prime minister," Ouma said. "I'd show it to you, but my grandma ate it."

Harukawa stamped the message out under her foot. Ouma burst into tears.

Saihara took a wild guess and spoke over his ear-piercing wails. "Ouma-kun, if this is your way of saying you want to train with us, then..." He stopped when he realized he had nothing nice to end the platitude with. Doubly so when Ouma blew a glob of snot his way.

Tears dismissed, Ouma made the same face that he does when Gonta describes to him the reproductive systems of insects. "This is actually my way of saying get the hell off my lawn, but A for effort, I guess."

Momota shot a knowing look to Saihara, then scoffed at Ouma. "So that's what it is, huh? Man, why didn't you just say so?"

"Because I'm just a poor widdle tsundere at heart that's terrified of rejection!" Ouma beamed, pumping his tiny fists. In the next instant, he was boredly examining his fingernails. "Hey, when you leave, be careful of the landmines I planted everywhere. Or don't be. I don't really care."

"We don't have time for your shit right now, okay," Momota huffed. "The sports festival is a week away, and we're shifting into fucking mega turbo training mode. It's gonna be too much for someone like you, all right?"

Saihara doesn't know if there is a way to talk Ouma down, but he does know that was the furthest thing from accomplishing it. Ouma tilted his chin high, his eyes blisteringly cold when they pierced Momota. "Setting aside the fact that I want nothing to do with your disgusting sweatfests," he intoned slowly, "what exactly does Momota-chan mean by that?"

"Exactly what I said?" Momota peered at him quizzically. "The reason you flake out on the sports festival every year is because you assume you can't win, yeah? With you being that fuckin' pale and scrawny," he motioned at Ouma in general here, "I get why you're afraid you'll fail. 'Course, you can always overcome that with training—but like I said, our training today will be too intense for a beginner."

Ouma's eyeballs grew wide as dinner plates, his mouth a limp muscle. Saihara doesn't know how this reaction spurred Momota to say, his voice markedly gentler than before, "Look, if you still wanna train with us after the festival is over..."

"Shut up, Momota," Harukawa said.

"...Then I'll refer you to Nidai," Momota said. "Remember him? He'll help you get some meat on those bones."

Ouma responded by stumbling backward, swaying on his feet, like the wind was pulling him in all directions. "Momota-chan thinks... that's why..." he rasped, and Saihara thought it was pretty impressive if that green tint to his face was somehow conjured by sheer will.

"Dude?" Momota only watched as he tottered in wobbly circles. "The fuck is wrong with you?"

"I... feel sick..." Ouma puffed his green cheeks and covered his mouth with a sweaty hand. "Momota-chan is making me sick...!"

"Hah?"

"I... I have no choice," Ouma moaned. He looked away, hand still clutching his mouth, but crooked a trembling finger at Momota. "...I have no choice but to kick your ass at the sports festival and humiliate you for all time."

Momota blinked. "...You serious? You're gonna participate this year?"

The green dispelled instantly, replaced by an angry red flush across Ouma's forehead. "What do you take me for, some kind of goddamn liar!? Yes, you idiot! Because of the stupid words you've desecrated my ears with today, I have no choice but to show the world what a loser you are!"

A toothy grin gradually took form. "Oh, yeah? You think you can keep up?"

"I'll beat you in every event! Ball, race, and punch!"

"Ah, there's nothing that involves fighting," Saihara said.

"That's unfortunate!" Ouma shouted, leaning into Momota's personal space. "If there was a killing event, I'd have your head on a pike!"

"I'd like to see you try, you little punk!" Momota slammed his fists together and bent down to glare at him right in the eyes. "Come at me! I'll kick your ass into orbit!"

"I'll rip your arms off and shove them down your throat!" Ouma screamed, their noses just shy of touching.

"Guys," Saihara said.

Saihara then heard a metallic noise. He realized that at some point Harukawa had left, procured a can of tea from the vending machine, returned, and finished her drink.

"Momota," she said, crushing the can in her fist into the thin shape of an apple core. "End this now or I'm leaving."

Her words served to distract them from their... rather passionate declarations of war. The almost comical affectation of rage slid right off Ouma's face. He bounced away from Momota and wound his fingers together behind his back. "So, next week at the track field?" he asked, batting his eyes.

"You can bet your life on it," Momota said. "I, Momota Kaito, Luminary of The Stars, formally challenge you!"

"Great!" Ouma giggled. He began skipping away. "I'll pick you up at eight! Be ready!"

"It fucking starts at twelve," Momota said, watching his back grow smaller and smaller.

Since then, Momota has been overwhelmingly energized and devoted to training, even when compared to his prep for previous sports festivals. It's not like any of them expect to take first place in the events; not when there are so many students with far more physical talents, who have dedicated their very lives to honing their bodies. Still, making out a high rank right below those Ultimates earns its own degree of repute. For someone whose talent teeters between academic and physical, Momota has always come out with a decent show of skill.

He doesn't know how Ouma would perform if he didn't elect to skip out on the previous years. He's undoubtedly fast; he could probably give the Ultimate Track Runner a "run" for their money (haha...). But when it comes to something like the cavalry battle or tug-of-war... well, Saihara has no clue.

He finishes setting up the refreshments booth with the help of Harukawa, who then switches off to aid Akamatsu in final preparations for their class. Saihara opts to lie under the shade until the competition begins—and thereafter if he can help it. Momota has manhandled him into participating the previous years, but this time, he quietly forewent signing himself up, content to lounge in a lawn chair and hand out drinks and informational pamphlets. Harukawa is perhaps even less of a fan of the festival than he is—she finds the competition insipidly easy—so he doesn't expect to see much of her today.

By the time the school stadium is open to the public and people are spreading en masse across the sports field, he's nose-deep in a novel and tuning out the drone of the opening ceremony speeches. He still jerks up in surprise when, upon turning a page, he sees Ouma resting his chin on the counter across from him. Weird. Ouma is dressed in the customary green tracksuit, but Saihara could've sworn he caught a tiny glimpse of him in that familiar all-white uniform flitting between the stalls just a second ago.

"'Bout time you noticed me, you lousy barkeep," he pouts. There's a purple bandana tied around his pale forehead, and the dainty bow at the back marks Amami's handiwork. "Pour me some saké already."

"We're underage, so." Saihara tucks his novel away and resigns himself to dealing with Ouma until he gets bored.

"Says you. Did you know you're actually a middle-aged man with a babyface, and you keep getting held back 'cause wearing that dorky cap for so long cut off blood circulation to your brain?"

"Ouma-kun, are you... lying to me about my own life, now?"

"Don't get off subject!" he snaps, smacking the counter's surface. "I'm dying of heatstroke over here!"

Saihara pops open the nearest cooler. "We have flavored milk," he offers.

"What am I, a toddler? Give me grape soda."

He pulls up the catalog of drinks in his mind. "There's no grape soda," he says.

He watches Ouma's features twist and distort beyond what should be humanly possible, uncanny in his similarity to the monster from the DVD he had once swapped with Momota's space opera.

As if summoned by Saihara's thoughts, Momota emerges from behind to press a water bottle against the nape of Ouma's neck. The demonic impression melts off his face; he jerks, his teeth clamping together, his pupils shrinking in wordless surprise. Saihara gets some amusement thinking how this is probably the most shocked Ouma has ever looked.

"Momota-chan." He pulls off a speedy recovery and smacks the bottle away. "I would be impressed that you managed to sneak up on me if I didn't know it was just dumb luck."

"Was fucking not," Momota says, chucking the water bottle at Saihara. By now, he's had plenty of experience with Momota throwing things at him and manages to catch it without fumbling or flinching.

He doesn't say anything about the plethora of drinks at his fingertips. Momota enjoys being the one to take care of others, is all. "Thank you, Momota-kun," he says, unscrewing the cap. It's pleasantly ice-cold in his sweaty hands.

"Yeah," Momota says, and then to Ouma, "the trick is to strike when you're trying to show off how evil you are. That's when you're most distracted."

"I'll keep that in mind for when I want to sneak up on myself."

"See?" Momota smirks and puffs out his chest. "I've figured out the pattern to your behavior."

"So you learned one thing over the course of three years," Ouma says with a roll of his eyes. "You must have all the luck if there are people out there seriously considering sending you to space."

"Shut up, asshole. It's called hard work, and you don't get where I am without it."

"The work can't be that hard. They sent dogs up there, after all."

"Yeah, and they were fucking heroes!"

Their yammering fizzles to background noise as Saihara chugs the water bottle and gazes out across the track field. By some miracle, Chabashira convinced Yumeno for the first time to participate in the day's events. She's helping the tiny girl stretch by slowly pressing her shoulders down so she can touch her toes, but not slowly enough, it seems, because Yumeno lets out a pained yelp. Chabashira releases her in a panic, and Yonaga comes up to them and begins kneading Yumeno's shoulders.

Yumeno melts into her touch. Chabashira hops from foot to foot. Saihara grows weary of watching them and thinks he'll reorganize the pamphlets by color while he waits for Momota and Ouma to finish their argument.

He doesn't have to wait long. Momota stops abruptly in the midst of pinching and stretching Ouma's cheeks out like he's pulling taffy. "Hang on, I just remembered why I came here."

Ouma's mouth snaps back in place, and he lets go of the spike of Momota's hair he'd been yanking. "What is it?" he asks curiously.

"Here." Momota retrieves a canteen that sloshes with liquid inside and a small container of something white and viscous from his fanny pack. He sticks both in Ouma's face. "Since you don't have a canteen, for some dumbass reason. You need to stay hydrated."

Ouma looks down his nose at the items Momota extends before him. He asks, "And the bottle of semen?"

"It's not—" Momota flushes and smacks the side of Ouma's head with the bottle. Ouma snickers. "It's sun lotion, idiot! God, that wasn't even fucking clever. You don't look like you've ever seen sunlight, and it's hotter than we thought it'd be. So." He pushes the canteen and bottle at Ouma's chest. 

Ouma finally accepts them and rolls the lotion bottle around in his hands, checking the label. "I can admire the dedication, but I told you, I'm not taking any more subordinates at the moment. Even though you clearly enjoy slaving under me."

"And I told you I'm not joining your dumb prank squad," Momota says. "This is just so you don't fucking drop dead out here."

"Step off, Momota-chan. I already have a mother, and her name is Tojo-chan."

"You're fucking welcome."

Ouma's head snaps up all of a sudden, and he stares Momota dead in the eyes. His facial expression becomes eerily vacant, and Saihara wonders how Momota can face him down without blinking but still cries at the sight of an ouija board. "Does Momota-chan think I'm some kind of weakling?"

Momota stares back. Then he exhales a long, weary sigh. He pushes down on the bridge of his nose with his thumb. "Of course that's your first thought..."

"Because we all know the one who tans like a lobster is your sidekick over here," Ouma says with a nod towards Saihara, who wasn't aware he was anything more than decoration at the moment.

"Shuichi's already all lotioned up," Momota harrumphs. "Tell him, Shuichi."

"Uh," Saihara says.

"What's the problem, man? You need me to help you get the places you can't reach?"

Saihara flushes at the look Ouma shoots him. "Is that why you put up with him, Saihara-chan?"

"N-no—be quiet,"  Saihara hisses.

"Leave Shuichi alone," Momota says, perfectly oblivious. "And drink up, dickhead. When I kick your ass, I don't want you to be able to say it's 'cause you were exhausted or some shit, all right?" He jabs his index finger at Ouma's chest. "Come at me with everything you've got. Otherwise, there's no point in grinding you into the dust."

Ouma regards him for a moment with that paperwhite face of his. Then he shoves the canteen and bottle back into Momota's arms. "In that case, it'd be stupid to accept handouts from the competition. I don't need your help to win."

Saihara expects Momota to snap at him, but instead, he just quirks an eyebrow. "Really? Because you already look as white as a fuckin' sheet."

"I prefer 'white as a ghost,'" Ouma says shortly, and Saihara sees Momota's hair bristle. "Oooh, that gives me an idea, Momota-chan! If I can get my team to change their uniform to something a bit more... intimidating, then just like that, Momota-chan will be out of commission for the day!"

"No I fucking won't be!" Momota barks. He throws the rejected canteen and bottle on the table Saihara is meticulously organizing, which knocks over a stack of pamphlets. "That shit won't work on me, so don't even bother." He makes like he's going to leave, but says to Ouma as he passes, the muscles in his face tight and severe, "Seriously, don't." 

Ouma flutters his fingers at him in goodbye. Momota grumbles something incomprehensible under his breath, then says, "Shuichi, meet me at the line for the borrowing race. It's about to start."

Saihara halts in restacking the pamphlets. "Oh, Momota-kun, I'm not—"

"Don't worry. I noticed you forgot, so I signed you up," Momota says. His missions accomplished, he vanishes into a throng of jersey-clad students.

As soon as Momota is out of sight, Ouma reaches over the counter and snatches up the canteen. He takes a long swig and wipes his arm over his mouth. "Borrowing race, huh?" He burps. "I prefer things to be less chance-based. My luck stat is below average, but my work ethic is through the roof!"

Saihara, who had taken note of Ouma prancing from stall to stall this morning, making messes without lifting a finger to help anyone, says stonily, "...But that's a lie."

"Took the words right out of my mouth, Sherlock-chan!" Ouma beams. "But I'm not lying when I say it's too bad there's no hide-and-seek event." He crosses his elbows behind his head. "I'd never lose at that."

"Ah, well, you have," Saihara reminds him.

"Hmm?" Ouma's round eyes grow even rounder, and he looks at Saihara like he's noticing him for the first time. "No way, a talking bug!"

Saihara purses his lips. Ouma twirls on his heel and says loudly as he trots the same way Momota headed, "I should tell Gonta so he can stick it in a cage and study it!"

If that's supposed to be some kind of threat, Saihara isn't sure. He exhales deeply, takes a parting gulp of water, and resigns himself to meet Momota at the line where the race is set to start.

"But man," Momota says once they join up, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, "it's way too fuckin' bright today."

"It's not ideal," Saihara agrees deliberately as he ties his jacket around his waist. "I can see why someone might want to sit this one out..."

Momota misses his point and nods, scanning the crowd of heads. He stops on Ouma's little mop of hair, bobbing up and down next to Gonta. "Fuckin' weird, though. He doesn't seem bothered at all..."

"Why would Ouma-kun be bothered?"

Momota's eyes stay on the crown of Ouma's head. "He usually looks... scared, I guess, when the sports festival is brought up," he says slowly. "...Or maybe not? I don't know what the fuck a scared Ouma looks like."

For being a detective, Saihara hadn't noticed anything of the sort. Most of his noticing Ouma happens when he's noticing Momota notice Ouma. "From what I've seen, Ouma-kun isn't big on exercise, but... I can't imagine that sports of all things frighten him," he says.

"I thought that, too," Momota says. "Which is why I assumed he was really just afraid of fucking up in front of everyone. But now he seems... fine."  He frowns.

"I know you don't like him," Saihara says, carefully gauging Momota's expression as he speaks, "but you don't have to sound so disappointed."

"Geez, that's not what I mean." Momota rubs his temple. "It's just that—my hunches are never wrong. So what the fuck."

"On your marks!" the announcer roars into the megaphone. Saihara turns to look at them on the elevated platform and notes that they're not cocking a starting pistol.

Instead, it's the announcer's voice alone that signals the start of the race. Momota dives ahead, and the crowd of students all but carries Saihara to the pile of envelopes strewn along the ground. For someone that had no wish to participate, he still ends up absorbed in the panicked frenzy and hastily goes for the nearest paper he can get his hands on. When he tears it open, the words The one you love seem to laugh at him.

Nearby, Momota scans the envelopes like he's searching. He finds one of them satisfactory and yoinks it off the ground.

"All right," he grins, delving his thumb under the flap, "I've got a good feeling about this one."

"Glad to hear it!" Ouma practically materializes at his side and swipes the envelope for himself. Momota screams after him.

Saihara keeps staring at his slip of paper as students typhoon around him. Eventually, Momota's anger dies down enough for him to remember he still doesn't have a slip for himself, and he nearly rips the next envelope in half in his desperation. The next thing Saihara knows, Momota is grabbing him by the wrist.

He smiles like the sun. "Shuichi, I need you!"

"I—wha—" He stumbles as Momota commences in hauling him towards the judges. "Wait, I still don't have—" He doesn't finish the sentence.

"You can get it after!" Momota is pleading with him. "C'mon, bro, I have to beat Ouma's ass!"

Momota drags him all the way to the far end of the field, where a row of school faculty has gathered behind a long table to act as judges. He seethes when they come by Ouma nodding happily at what one of the judges is saying to him. He was the first to clear the race.

Nonetheless, Momota shoves Saihara forward and slams his slip of paper down on the table. One judge inspects it, then levels Momota a critical look.

"Well, I suppose it is a matter of opinion, but..." She trails off.

Saihara looks down at the slip. It reads, The most reliable student.

"It's got nothing to do with opinion,"  Momota snaps. "Shuichi's the best, most trustworthy, most reliable guy in this school—no, the whole universe!"

Saihara clutches his slip of paper to his chest. Ouma pokes his head out from behind Saihara's back and chides, "Just because he does whatever you tell him to doesn't make him the most reliable, Momota-chan."

"Shut up, you fucking thief!"

"Enough," the judge says, waving her hand. "Twenty points."

"The hell do you mean twenty—"

"Language."

Momota fumes, rolling his jaw. The judge motions for Saihara to give her his slip.

"A-ah, no, this isn't—"

The paper has disappeared from his sweaty grip and wound up in Ouma's. Ouma steals a brief glimpse, and then his smile freezes over for a millisecond—or maybe that's just Saihara's imagination. Then, he imparts it to the judge, crooning sweetly, "Saihara-chan is just being shy. Don't pay him any mind."

She blinks at the slip, then at Saihara. Then at Momota. Her face softens a bit. "Thirty points."

"Wait, what? Really?" Momota tries to lean forward to read it, but Saihara's hand shoots out instinctively to wrench it away from the judge. He then rips the slip into a million pieces.

"It's nothing," he says, panting heavily.

Momota goggles at him. Ouma nishishis deviously, riffling his own slip of paper between his fingers.

"Heeeeeey, aren't you curious about what my item was? You are, aren't you?"

"You mean what my item should've been?" Momota growls. "No. Fuck off."

"Here it is!" Ouma ignores him and holds the slip up for all to see. "Talk about lucky, right? Maybe that instinct of yours isn't total baloney, Momota-chan!"

Momota looks away. Ouma's paper reads: 1 strand of hair.

Ouma employs debatably less nefarious means to wipe the floor with Momota in tug-of-war. He calls to Gonta, who's on Momota's team, "Gonta! If you go back any further you guys will trample an anthill!"

Gonta hesitates but holds steadfast to the rope. He's not pulling so much as acting as a steadying force; the only way he's allowed to participate in the sports festival is because he swore to exercise copious restraint. Such limitations came to pass after one too many injuries at the first sports festival. 

He calls back, "Momota-kun already warned Gonta that Ouma-kun would lie about bugs to make Gonta lose the match!"

"That's right, you predictable fuck!" Momota yells at Ouma, digging his heels into the dirt. "Get bent!" He gives a harsh yank, and they all stagger backward.

Their teammate at the far end of the rope shrieks. He's ankle-high in a mound of dirt, ants crawling up his knees.

Gonta roars as he lets go of the rope, and the loss of that steadying force causes Saihara and Momota and all their teammates to plunge forward at once.

"See?" Ouma is standing over them, hands on his hips, pouting at their dirt-caked faces as Gonta goes ballistic in the background. "I was telling the truth. Like always. Oh, and I totally didn't plant that or anything, okayyyyy?"

The cavalry battle sees Saihara hoisted over the shoulders of Momota, Kiibo, Shinguji, and Amami. When he weakly protests that they'd be better off choosing someone else as their rider, Momota perishes the thought, saying, "Don't be stupid! For once, that lanky body of yours will be your strength!"

Hoshi would be lighter and faster, but the height disadvantage is too much. The rider has to at least be tall enough to have a chance at reaching the headband around their opponent's forehead. And so, Saihara has no choice but to relent. He normally wouldn't even bother protesting, happy to bend to Momota's whims, but the thought of Momota blaming him for a defeat against Ouma is unbearable.

Oh, he's already accepted a loss to Ouma as inevitable, huh. Well, he's being realistic this time, not just pessimistic, what with the way Ouma has taken the field by storm, yanking headbands left and right. He picks yet another off a kid that doesn't even notice the pilferage until he's already gone, briskly wheeled away by his modest wagon of Hope's Peak students. Saihara doesn't immediately recognize any of the boys on Ouma's team, and he wonders if that was intentional. Most people familiar with Ouma, or just his reputation, wouldn't be eager to trust him with their victory. But with each headband plucked, his team's trust in him grows more and more implicit, their obedience more and more absolute. Even though—

"Hey! Veer left!" Ouma yanks the hair of the boy supporting his left knee and jabs him in the ribs with his heel.

"I said stop kicking me!"

"And I said be a good horsey and do what I tell you," Ouma trills. He brandishes a bundle of headbands in his tiny fist. "I'm the one that's actually pulling our weight here, after all."

No one can argue with that. Ouma has singlehandedly deheadbanded just about every team on the field and shows no signs of slowing down. From the moment the boys propped him up on their shoulders, he'd slotted into the role as easily as one of those mecha pilots in Momota's favorite anime slotting into their cockpits. Even the opponents with significant height advantage are no match. He simply commands his cavalry to bolt upward on their feet at just the right moment, then lifts his knees and twists his torso at the perfect angle to rip the elastic bands off with frightening ease.

Saihara has managed to nab exactly one headband for himself, and the boy he took it from looked so disappointed that he just wound up feeling guilty. It's more impressive, really, that he's managed to evade Ouma to the point that theirs are the only cavalries left on the field—but he'd wager to guess that that has more to do with Ouma wanting to save him for last for his own sadistic motives.

He has zero faith in his chances of winning against Ouma. But he'll still try, for the sake of the astronaut shouting encouragements from under his knee.

From the opposite end of the field, Ouma points at Saihara and his team. "Advance. Slowly."

As he wills it, the boys start to lumber forward at an agonizing pace. Saihara is sweating now, and not just because of the heat. Momota says, "Shuichi, fucking kill him."

"Er," Saihara says.

"You know what I mean."

"It is all right, Saihara-kun," Kiibo chirps. "Even if we are doomed to fail, today has been highly educational. I have enjoyed being a team player."

Saihara winces as Momota's fingers bite into his calf. "Good for you?" he tries.

"Not fuckin' doomed," Momota growls.

"That's a good way of looking at it, Kiibo-kun," Amami says pleasantly. "Sure, Ouma-kun is going to destroy us, but at least we all had fun."

"Kukuku... if that is what helps you sleep at night."

"All of you shut the fuck up!" Momota barks. "I mean, you're right about all that shit, but you can't give up so easily! There's still a chance that we'll—"

"Momota-kun, please don't put too much faith in me," Saihara says.

Momota stops, looks out to the field where Ouma's team is continuing their menacing slow-motion march. Then he says reassuringly, "Shuichi, don't worry about screwing up. It's just a sports festival. And I won't blame you no matter what happens, got it?"

Saihara relaxes enough to smile. "Momota-kun..."

"But if I don't beat Ouma even once today I might die."

"Momota-kun," Saihara says sharply.

Ouma and his merry band come to a ceremonious stop mere feet away from them. No one speaks right away. The air goes still. The chirping of birds fades, or maybe there was none in the first place.

Momota is the one to break the silence. "All right, let's get this over with. Show him what you've got, Shuichi!"

What he's got is an overeager lurch and clumsy swipe for the side of Ouma's head that nearly topples their whole formation. Ouma, just by craning his neck, dodges him like he's a particularly slow toddler.

"I'll give you one more chance, Saihara-chan," he says. Then, in a low voice, "I don't want to humiliate you in front of the one you love, after all."

Saihara solidifies in place, hand outstretched. Critical moments are wasted in the time it takes him to quell the blood rushing in his ears. Ouma says, "There goes your chance," and Momota says, "Oh fuck," and he rears up in the same moment that Ouma grips one tail end of Saihara's headband and pulls.

As soon as the game is won, Ouma's team loses their uniform stoicism and they erupt into raucous cheers. Momota's arms go very limp, and without his support, Saihara practically slides down into the dirt. He drops to his knees, and above him, Kiibo is saying, "Saihara-kun, I... I had no idea you felt that way..."

"Do you assume he was talking about you?" Shinguji asks, stupefied.

"I am confused. Who else would he be talking about?"

"Incredible. So even a machine driven by logic can be blinded by ego..."

"Excuse me? I'll have you know that the term 'machine' is—!"

Saihara is feeling particularly self-pitying right now and is content to wallow in the dirt. Meanwhile, Ouma's teammates aren't just still carrying him, they're throwing him up and down in the air as they cheer. He laughs openly as he's chucked upwards, once twice, three times. They chant his name like loyal little subordinates, him the commanding ruler overseeing their victory. Momota's back is turned to watch the spectacle, hands on his hips, his posture rigid and inscrutable.

"All right, Shuichi, you're up," he says.

Saihara stares at his back in confusion. They still have a break before the next event starts. "Momota-kun, what do you—hey!"

An undignified squeak escapes him when Momota whirls around and grabs him under the arm. "Come on, guys!" he hollers at the rest of their team. "Let's show our rider some appreciation!"

The others give him scrutinizing looks. "I don't understand," Kiibo says. "Saihara-kun did not secure us a victory, so why would we—"

"Kiibo, do you want to be a team player?" Momota asks. "Yes? Then help me throw Shuichi in the fucking air."

Saihara makes more undignified noises as he bounces up and down in the circle of their conjoined arms. The amusement and bemusement the other teams regard them with only heightens with Momota's unabashed cheers of, "Yeah, Shuichi! Woohoo! Go, Shuichi!"

He shuts his eyes tight and wills it to be over. It's embarrassing and absolutely wonderful to have Momota cheering him on so brazenly in front of not only the school but a whole stadium of spectators. It's been too long. The encouragements have lessened with his confidence built, and Saihara's found himself wondering, rather pathetically, if it's a worthy tradeoff.

Momota insists they carry on up until the moment Ouma's team sets him down. The small boy rights himself on his feet, then makes square eye contact with Saihara. He sneers, but his derisive wave is cut short by his teammates flocking in front of him, their celebration not yet complete. 

As they circle around him, shouting and laughing, Ouma's expression goes from jeering to perplexed. The boys talk at him like they're friends, offering respect and flattery and a few lighthearted jabs, and Saihara overhears a couple asking how he got to be such a talented thief. These boys don't know Ouma, Saihara realizes. They've at least never had a direct run-in with him.

Ouma reacts to the cluster like he's being cornered. Even as he glances back and forth, his attention begged every which way, when one boy reaches out to presumably ruffle his hair, Ouma still slaps him away with catlike reflexes. The boy winces, shakes his wrist out, and whatever Ouma says to him next definitely isn't an apology.

The boys scatter eventually and leave Ouma standing alone in the field. He hugs his arms over his chest and turns away, ignoring Momota calling out to him.

"Asshole," Momota mutters under his breath. "And here I was gonna ask him to join us for break time."

The memory of Ouma's knowing sneer, his low voice, comes to Saihara at once. "Why," he says bitterly.

Momota shrugs, rubbing his neck. "He showed some real skill out there—until he had to lie about you to win, I mean. But he took down everyone else fair and square. Figured I should let him know how well he did."

Saihara can't quite link the gap between the Momota that says things like that and the Momota that looks like he means it when he calls for Ouma's murder. "I think he knows," Saihara says.

-

The festival's grand finale, the Hope's Peak annual track race, is minutes away, but Saihara's mind is elsewhere. There'd been no sign of a starting pistol—visible or audible—all day. When he questions the student council about it, Saihara is informed that all the pistols have been missing since this morning. Probably some kids found them and thought they'd make great toys. He normally wouldn't care about such a small thing, but he can't help but connect the missing pistols to the only other incongruency that marks this sports festival as unique.

As they stretch at the starting line, he mentions it in passing to Amami, who blinks lazily at the announcer's platform.

"Looks like they're getting it delivered," he says. Saihara follows his eyes to where a mini parachute dangling a tiny box from a string is slowly floating towards the announcer. They hesitantly reach out to catch the box, and as the parachute deflates, Saihara sees that the top side is printed with a monochromatic symbol that resembles a clown's painted face.

The announcer lifts the box's lid and out comes a starting pistol.

"What the fuck?" Momota says. 

"What indeed," Saihara says blankly. That throws a bit of a wrench in his theories.

All the racers are grouped up according to class, so Ouma isn't far off from them where he's bent touching his toes. Momota stops in the middle of a side lunge as the announcer's voice reverberates through the mic, letting everyone know they have 5 minutes left to prepare. He dusts off his pants and says to Ouma, "Show me your hands."

"M-Momota-chan," Ouma stutters, pressing a fist to his chest, "h-how bold... but, at least take me out to dinner fir—hey!"

Momota seizes and unfurls his left hand by force, then does the same to the right. "Gotta make sure you don't have sand to throw in my eyes or some shit," he explains.

Ouma's cheeks puff. "Yeesh, someone's high up on their horse! I've got way bigger adversaries to worry about than you, Momota-chan."

"Yeah, whatever," Momota says. "You wouldn't even be competing if it wasn't for me."

"Huh? What are you saying? I love the sports festival. It's my most favorite day of the year, you big dummy."

"Quit fuckin' lying."

Ouma sniffles, his mouth wobbling. "J-just because you're bitter that I've spent the whole day humiliating you for the whole world to see doesn't mean you get to be mean to meeeeeee..."

Saihara lets them jabber some more before he taps Momota on the shoulder. "Momota-kun, we need to get in position." He nods at the electric countdown board.

"Oh damn." Momota follows his sightline before promptly dropping into a sprinter's crouch, same as the rest of the students in their long row of competitors. Saihara assumes position next to him, and Momota says encouragingly, "Give it all you got, Shuichi. I'm gonna kick your ass, but I'll still be cheering you on!"

"Ah, thank you, Momota-kun," he says. "I'll do my best."

"That's my sidekick!" Momota grins and slaps him on the back with way too much force. The awkward position causes his foot to twist in the dirt and he slams down facefirst. "Shuichi!?"

"Ah." Saihara pushes himself up, and it takes a few moments to feel out the stinging pain in his nose. He tenderly brushes the back of his hand over his upper lip and blinks at the blood that smears over his knuckles. "Uh oh."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Momota babbles, "Shuichi, you're fucking bleeding!"

Ouma has been monitoring the whole ordeal with a blase look. "So you've stooped to incapacitating the competition, huh."

Saihara cups his hand over his nose when he realizes the blood isn't stopping anytime soon. It drips through the cracks of his fingers as he says, "Um, I think I have to go."

"Shit, Shuichi, I'm sorry, I'll go with y—"

The board reads ten seconds till launch. "I'm fine," he says, and when that does nothing to assure Momota, "really, I am. I just need to go sit down." When he stands, more blood drips down and wets his shirt.

Ouma tuts disapprovingly. As the countdown begins, he leans back, poised to pounce, and twice taps the toe of his sneaker in the dirt. "This is a new low, Momota-chan, even for you."

"Shut up," Momota hisses, "shut up, I didn't fucking mean to—"

"Seven,"  the announcer booms, and the stadium of people booms along with them.

"Ouma-kun." Saihara hesitates upon opening his mouth. If he's wrong, he could be causing unnecessary trouble, and either way, he doesn't know exactly what the information means to Ouma. And... and maybe it could give Momota an advantage, and then maybe Momota would get past this silly fixation. He turns to go, then on pure impulse he says, "They're going to use the starting gun."

Momota's eyebrows furrow together. "Shuichi, what—"

Ouma is staring down the finish line. "So?"

He doesn't know what he expected. Saihara pushes past the crowd, stumbles down the path to the school building. Faculty on standby gasp at his bloody face and try to guide him by the arm, but he insists on taking himself to the infirmary. On his way, the roar of a gunshot rings across the stadium.

-

He stuffs wads of tissue paper up his nostrils and sees the end of it through the window by the hospital bed. He discerns the faraway shape of Momota at the exact moment his fingers grab for the hem of Ouma's trailing jacket and miss completely. The failed lunge sends him tumbling over and landing between painted white lines, and with those precious seconds lost he's damned to never catch up again. Momota must have forgotten the objective was to reach the finish line, not catch Ouma.

It's no good, then. He'll keep racing and racing until he meets the goal he's set for himself. That's the kind of person Momota Kaito is.

Ouma is a bullet firing down the track, his legs a blur, paler than Saihara has ever seen him. Momota grabs and falls and rises and gets right back to chasing him and Ouma acknowledges none of it, set on the finish line and the finish line alone. He bleeds straight past the middling glut of the passable racers, then the respectable athletes, then the  Ultimates whose lawfully recognized talents should have already decided their victories. And when he pushes up to the last long-legged boy streaming down the track, the crowd holds their collective breath. Ouma gets an inch on him and half of them are already screaming.

Saihara can only stare with his fingertips pressed against the glass as Ouma pitches past the finish line, skating on his knees as he plummets. He's going so fast that when he goes down, he does a sloppy half-somersault like a human tumbleweed and pivots into the dirt with his face acting as a cushion. His arms and legs are spread horizontally in the sunburnt soil, postured like he's making a snow angel, the fabric of his tracksuit browned and torn around the knees. The victory is far from elegant; if anything, the pose brings to mind a couple of Momota's clumsier mishaps. But when the referee brings the flag down, none of that stops the stadium from exploding with cheers and screams that cause the floors under Saihara's feet to vibrate.

Ouma lifts his head off the ground and pushes himself up on his elbow. He ignores the hand the referee offers him, clambering to his feet through no effort but his own. Even from his distant point of view, Saihara can see Ouma's bloodied knees shaking as the gold medal is slipped over his neck.

Saihara closes his eyes. Through the overpowering din of a forty-thousand capacity stadium, he picks out Momota's voice, cheering louder than anyone else.

-

Saihara is about to pass by the men's locker room, but he stops in his tracks at the familiar sound of shouting. He peeks through the door and sees a rather sweaty-looking Ouma seated on a bench and staring up at Momota, who is talking at him with something like reverence.

"Dude, why the fuck did you never compete until now?" Momota is asking as Saihara slips past the door. "You wiped the floor with us like it was nothing. If I was as fast as you, I'd be rubbing it in everyone's faces left and right."

Ouma takes a second to find his response. "It's—a good thing Momota-chan isn't me, then. God knows how you'd use my evil powers for evil—"

"And when you jumped over those guys that fell—goddamn!" Momota... Momota has stars in his eyes. It's the same look he has on him when he learns about new breakthroughs made in space technology, or—or when he'd first met Hoshi. "That was insane! Everyone in the whole fucking stadium went crazy!"

"Hey, Momota-chan. I was there, remember? You don't have to tell me."

"Momota-kun, Ouma-kun," Saihara says as he comes closer. He recoils at the sour odor that hangs in the air. "What's that smell?"

"Hm? Oh, that?" Ouma sniffs the air and runs a towel over his damp forehead. "Being around idiots for this long makes me sick, so I've been blowing lots of chunks."

Saihara unthinkingly wrinkles his nose at the mental image, which kind of hurts. Momota jumps to action, saying, "Huh, you do look kinda paler than usual, should I get you some food or water or—" 

"Ugh, that was a lie, stupid!" Ouma says with what might be sincere frustration. "Someone took a fat shit in the sink, okay?"

Momota continues to only hear from Ouma what he wants to hear. "Shuichi, man, you should've seen him—wait, do you even know he won first place?"

"I saw from the window," Saihara says. "Um, congratulations, Ouma-kun."

"First place," Momota repeats with meaning, and Saihara guesses his reaction wasn't enthusiastic enough.

"They didn't even give me anything useful," Ouma whines, gesturing at the medal hanging off his neck. "Just this old hunk of junk."

Momota shakes his head. "That's proof you won a Hope's Peak's annual race, dude—in a field your talent has nothing to do with. You're gonna be on the fuckin' news and shit."

Ouma makes a face. "Blegh. I deserve to be famous for blowing up buildings and kidnapping politicians, not winning some silly little race that's so totally easy anyway—"

"It was insane," Momota gushes to Shuichi. "He was all like—" He splays his fingers out and runs them through the air— "Swoosh! And then he was like—" He jogs in place and makes a noise that Saihara can't comprehend the meaning behind. "And then—" He animates the whole event with his hands, and Saihara is left wondering if it was a track race or a life-or-death battle involving superpowers.

"Aw, shucks, Momota-chan, you're embarrassing me," Ouma says, "with this idiotic display of yours."

"None of those sporty Ultimates could keep up with him!" Momota goes on like his life depends on talking Ouma up. "Not even the goddamn Ultimate Track Runner. Hey, if being a supreme leader doesn't work out, you know you've got a back-up talent," he jokes.

Saihara is no expert, but he doesn't think seasoned track runners wind up quite this clammy and sickly-looking after a match—unless this is another play of pretend for Ouma, though Saihara has no idea how it would benefit him.

"Momota-chan, I have to say this is pretty disappointing," Ouma says, clicking his tongue. "The real prize was supposed to be the sight of you crying and committing seppuku in shame, not kissing my ass. Not that I don't deserve it."

"Like hell I'd do that," Momota snorts. "You didn't pull any tricks this time—you just did your best. People that work hard get my respect. That's all there is to it."

Ouma studies Momota's face, possibly trying to read him. He doesn't seem to appreciate what he finds.

But Momota isn't done yet, still all grinning teeth and shining eyes. "Be real with me, dude. You must practice some kind of training to be able to pull that off." He laughs. "Maybe you should be the one leading our training sessions."

When Saihara checks on Ouma's reaction, it's not unlike the face he'd made when Momota had pressed the cold water bottle against his neck. His recovery this time is just as quick, but not as thorough. "Well," he says, smiling his usual eyeless smile, his line of sight fixed squarely on something to the left of Momota's radiant face, "as it turns out, Momota-chan, spending all of your free time evading the cops works wonders for honing one's reflexes."

Momota must be in a really good mood, because he just laughs at the lie. Saihara and Ouma both marvel at him, Saihara not bothering to hide his astonishment. "Yeah, I shoulda' known there's no way you'd give your methods away that easily," Momota says. "Can't go aiding the competition, right?"

Ouma seems disgruntled by Momota twisting his earlier admonishment. "It's not that, dummy. If you really wanna know my super special trick, then..." He looks down at the space between his knees and plucks at the cuff of his sleeve. "...If you ever want to get yourself to run fast, just put the scariest thing in the world behind you. You'll go faster than you ever thought you could."

He falls into an odd silence. Saihara bites his tongue. Momota calls out curiously, "Uh, Ouma?"

His head pops up and he beams. "That's why having the hideous wildebeest known as Momota-chan behind me the whole time was soooooo helpful! I couldn't have done it without you!"

Momota rolls his eyes as Ouma giggles. "Whatever, man. But I'm being serious."

"Sorry, you're right," Ouma sighs wistfully. "I was lying. It's steroids. I took steroids." Before anyone can groan at him, he continues, tapping his chin, "Or was it cocaine? Either way, I'm not sharing my utterly deplorable criminal techniques with you out in the light of day where anyone can see. I'm not that careless." He cups a hand by his mouth and leans toward Saihara as he whispers, "A little birdie told me that certain students here work for law enforcement."

Saihara grimaces.

"Fuckin' show me your 'techniques' at night, then," Momota says.

Ouma's lips split into a manic sneer. Saihara hastily interjects before he can open his curling mouth, "A-ah, my nose sure does hurt...!"

"Aw, fuck." Momota seems to break away from his Ouma-induced trance. "I'm sorry, man, I forgot to even ask. Is it still bleeding?"

Saihara touches his upper lip. "I don't think so," he says, because he can't will that to happen.

"Do you need some help with that?" Ouma chirps. He's smiling vacantly.

"...No, Ouma-kun." Saihara acts like he's confused. "But I feel like I'm getting dizzier. I think I need to sit down..." He trails off and gives Momota a meaningful look.

"Right, let's go," Momota says, settling a steadying hand on the small of Saihara's back. But first, he says to Ouma, "We've gotta jet, but I wasn't kidding, bud. You did good. Everyone's proud of you."

With a start, Saihara realizes that Ouma is still looking at him, not Momota. After a moment of allowing Momota's words to sink in, Ouma glances over and says, "Maybe that's the kind of sentiment that would make Momota-chan happy, but we're very different people."

Momota's mouth thins out to a line, but he appears more thoughtful than annoyed. "You know, nothing's stopping you from just..." He turns away. "...Forget it. Come on." He pushes Saihara lightly forward to signal that they're departing. His hand stays in place until he's using it to press a bag of ice to Saihara's nose.

A faculty member announces they're taking commemorative photos of each class. When they all group together, Momota swings one arm over Saihara's shoulders and he's too focused on the warmth of Momota's bicep to register anything else. When he inspects the photo later, Momota is smiling hugely into the camera, his teeth actually glinting in the sun. Then Saihara's gaze trails down, to where Momota's other hand is ruffling Ouma's hair. Ouma is scowling, tugging at Momota's wrist, pretending he isn't strong enough to bat him away.

 

Karaoke

 

Momota and Ouma had a fight. A big one. Saihara can tell it's the real deal because no one knows what it was about. Up till now, their fights have been public affairs that anyone passing by gets to enjoy, and usually, Saihara has a front-row seat. This time, it's the lack of screaming and thrown objects that signal how bad it truly is. They won't even glance at each other for days, and Saihara would appreciate the calm if it didn't also affect the rest of Momota's relationships. In defiance to the way he'd reacted when Ouma ignored him as part of the deal with Harukawa, Momota seems determined to prove that he thinks nothing of it. He goes from one hundred push-ups a day to two hundred, speaks louder than usual and with unwavering confidence whenever Ouma is within earshot. If anything, he's more energized—although the first couple of days after their silent feud, he seemed particularly edgy around Saihara and would talk unsubtly over every attempt to ask what the fight was about.

Though they don't dare look in the other's direction, Ouma's still open to taking indirect potshots where he can. Radiation poisoning comes up one day in class, and when the teacher is about to give examples of symptoms, Ouma raises his hand, unprompted, and suggests, "Gelling your hair so you look like a rodent?"

The teacher tells him no, and Ouma presses, "Thinking jackets are supposed to be worn on one arm?"

A pencil flies out and jabs him in the back of the head. Ouma starts bawling about bullying in schools, and the teacher sends him and Momota to stand out in the hall, where they proceed to violently ignore each other.

It's been a few days of this when Ouma decides to involve Saihara in the conflict. After a bout of training, he's walking to the school exit at Momota's side, Harukawa at the other, when out of nowhere Ouma bursts through the space between him and Momota. He latches himself onto Saihara's arm and uses all his meager strength to try to drag him ahead of the other two, whining, "Saihara-chan, come on! Come play with me!"

"Um." After getting over his initial surprise, Saihara sticks out the arm Ouma is clinging to, wishing for a second that it was detachable. Harukawa and Momota have drawn to a halt and he turns to them for help.

Momota is all of a sudden busy checking his phone. Harukawa looks at him like, Well?

"Come oooooonnnn, let's go play!" Ouma wails. "You always hang out with Harukawa-chan and the other one whose name I forget! You promised you would play with me today, remember?!"

"Ouma-kun, that's a lie," Saihara responds as patiently as he can.

"Huh? You mean you were lying when you said you'd play with me? You can play with my guillotine, then."

"Listen, Ouma-kun, we already made plans to..." Saihara flounders, still hoping for his friends to cut in.

"Why bother coming up with an excuse?" Harukawa asks. "Just tell him to screw off." Momota's jaw is under lock and key.

Ouma gasps in mock offense. "Saihara-chan would never do that because he's not a meanie like you!" He tightens his hold on Saihara's elbow and goes from pulling him to pushing. "Please, Saihara-chan! Just for a while! Please please please please please please please please pleeeeaaasssssseeee?" He looks up at him with huge, shiny eyes, fluttering his lashes so rapidly it might actually be some kind of spasm.

"Okay," Saihara says so Ouma will stop jostling his arm. He might not be strong enough to drag Saihara somewhere against his will, but the little fingers digging into his skin hurt.

Harukawa rolls her eyes and Ouma hoots with victory. As he passes them, Momota throws, "Later, Shuichi," over his shoulder. Saihara suppresses a wince as Ouma's fingers dig grievously deeper.

-

Saihara knows from the times Momota has dragged him to this same room that karaoke is loud. It's so loud and colorful and he can hardly hear himself think about how loud and colorful it is. Ouma orders their first round of drinks in shot glasses, and Saihara only takes a sip to stop him from screaming in his ear to quit being a baby and drink up. It's overly sugared soda and he finds himself wondering stupidly why he believed the staff would serve two students alcohol.

A disgustingly cute anime opening is blaring through the speakers. Ouma plants one foot on the table and screeches death metal tones into the microphone. After the first song ends, Ouma shoves the mic in Saihara's face. Even if it's only Ouma watching—no, because it's only Ouma watching—he winds up too nervous to get past the first couple of stammered out lyrics. He mumbles an apology and returns the mic to a blank-faced Ouma.

The next song Ouma handpicks is a spiteful rock ballad about hating the listener, delivered just as screechingly as the last. Saihara's hands are rigid around his drink as he resists the urge to cover his ears.

The room is dark, save for the disco ball strobing rainbow spheres of light across the walls. Ouma takes a short break when a love song, something calm but heartrending, washes over their compact room. He sinks into the plush couch and nurses his drink with a curly straw.

Saihara runs his fingertip through the condensation on his glass and thinks about how Momota is his friend. Momota is his friend, and Momota won't say it, but Momota is being driven crazy even if, from Saihara's perspective, he should be more at peace than ever. But Momota is his friend and if Harukawa can bite the bullet, he can, too. Saihara murmurs, "If you want to make up with Momota-kun, maybe I can help y—"

"WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU," Ouma screams over the acoustics, and Saihara cringes. The music isn't that loud.

"I said—"

"SPEAK UP, SAIHARA-CHAN."

Saihara grits his teeth, and as he's about to match Ouma's volume, Ouma starts sucking his drink obnoxiously loud. He waits an agonizingly long time until Ouma has finished the whole thing, then tries again. "I said that—"

"WHAT'S THAT? YOU WANT TO MAKE ANOTHER PATHETIC ATTEMPT?" Ouma shoves the mic right under his nose.

Saihara bats it out of his face and yells, "I SAID I WANT TO HELP YOU MAKE UP WITH MOMOTA-KUN."

Just Ouma's profile is visible, and his expression cools completely. The only physical indication that he heard Saihara is a brief side-eye, and then he's back to the mounted television.

"First of all, calm down," he scolds. "Second: there's nothing to make up, Saihara-chan. The wedding is still on for July. Try to wear something that doesn't make you look like a total nimbus." It's delivered so flatly that he doesn't have to tack on the catchphrase to get across his point.

"It's just, you seem... troubled," Saihara says, and hastily adds, "Momota-kun more so. Even if you don't care, as his friend, I'm worried."

"That's so, so nice of you to worry about your friend," Ouma says. "The relationship between you two is so touching, I'm gonna cry." He keeps his dead stare on the TV. 

Saihara bites back a sigh. It isn't like he didn't expect this to be like pulling teeth. "Like I said. Even if you don't care, he does. For some reason."

"Sounds like a you problem," Ouma responds airily. "It's not my fault you can't keep your hero tied down. Maybe you and Harukawa-chan are doing so well that he needs a new pet project." A lightbulb seems to go off in his head. "Ooh, I know! Why don't you set the school building on fire? Then there'll be plenty of people for him to rescue! That should keep him occupied."

He sucks on his straw, getting nothing but residual drops by the sound of it. Saihara squares his shoulders and says, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't say things just to upset me."

"Saihara-chan, how rude," he squawks. "It's not just to upset you. I also like the sound of my own adorable voice. Honestly, I just say words for the sake of it." He kicks his short legs under the table and happily goes back to sucking up nothing.

"That's a lie, isn't it?"

"I don't know, Saihara-chan. Is this usually how you solve cases? You just—" He mimes knocking on a door. "Hi, yes, hello ma'am, are you the killer? No?" He knocks on another. "How 'bout you? I see, sorry to bother you."

"I don't solve murders."

"Oh, yeah. Not enough crime 'round here. Must be boring," Ouma says like he pities him. "If you want, I can tell my underlings to give you some to solve."

Saihara does sigh this time. "Look. I know you at least want to get along well enough with Momota-kun that you can go back to pranking him."

"That's Saihara-chan's idea of getting along," Ouma muses. "So you are a masochist."

Spluttering, Saihara opens his mouth to protest, but Ouma cuts him off. "No offense, Saihara-chan," he says. "Really. But you're the last person I would go to for advice about Momota-chan."

"What—what is that supposed to mean?" Saihara demands, forgetting himself.

"Because you're his best friend." He spits out the word like it tastes bad. "I have no interest in being friends with Momota-chan."

"Right," Saihara says caustically. "You'd prefer advice on how to be his enemy?"

"No need. I could write a book on that." He looks far too pleased as he says it.

Saihara shakes his head. "That's what you don't understand," he says, and he doesn't care if he sounds condescending. "Momota-kun doesn't think of anyone as his enemy. Not even you."

The song starts to fade out. Ouma at last turns to face him, giving his undivided attention. "I really am so jealous. I could never hope to come between you two. It's like you're made for each other."

He's smiling, bright and doll-eyed, sugary sweet, but it sounds so horrible coming out of his mouth. Saihara's hand is going cold from how tightly he's clutching his drink in anticipation of the next horrible thing.

"After all," Ouma delivers when Saihara remains silent, "Momota-chan is useless without someone to rely on him and you're useless without Momota-chan. Truly, a match made in heaven."

Of course. The song is over and in the lull before the next one starts, he can hear the ice in his glass clink together. He stares into his cup and says, "Is that so."

Ouma smiles wider. "See, that's the difference between you and Momota-chan. Well, among other things. He threw a real fit when I explained that to him—" Ouma moves on as Saihara pieces together what that means, "—but you just roll with the punches and—oh, don't be mad."

Saihara doesn't realize how dark his expression has become until Ouma's eyes skim over him. He almost looks impressed. The next song has kicked up, a fast-paced electro beat.

"It's a real virtue," he says, "being able to take what I throw at you instead of reacting like a wild monkey. Momota-chan could learn a thing or two."

"Why should I waste my time reacting when it's all lies?" Saihara looks him in the eye, a final effort to have a real conversation. "How am I supposed to take anything you say seriously?"

Ouma's face draws a blank. "So that's why. You can only care about the truth."

"That's why... what?"

"Or does it only apply to me?" Ouma acts like he's forgotten that Saihara is sitting beside him. He speaks to the air. "Would it be truer coming from someone else?"

He knows there's some underlying meaning to Ouma's phrasing, but at this moment, he frankly doesn't care to channel brainpower into figuring it out. "Ouma-kun," he says tightly. "I don't know what you're saying..."

"The truth is, the last part used to be true but isn't, but the first still is. Isn't that sad for Momota-chan?"

The rainbow splotches of light cycle across Ouma's bloodless face. He's staring ahead, lightly drumming his fingers on the tabletop to the music. He swirls the melty ice cubes in his glass.

"I'm going to leave," Saihara says. He goes for his bag.

Ouma darts out and grabs him by the wrist. Saihara flinches away. His hand is so cold.

"I can show you the truth," he says. "It's something you can't see by yourself." His lips curl nightmarishly. "Do you want that? The truth, as revealed by a liar?"

"Ouma-kun, I have homework," Saihara says, irritated.

The shadow over Ouma's freakish grin dissipates into a modest frown. "Fine, whatever. But you didn't answer my question." He leans in close, and the lights flash in his bottomless eyes. "I'd be doing you a huge favor, you know. It's against a liar's code of honor to put more truths out into the world, but... I think it's even worse to lie to yourself."

"I'm—not lying—"

"Hmm, how about..." He taps his lip. "On the camping trip coming up? Yeah, I think that'd work."

"What are you talking about?"

Ouma lets him go. He takes up the microphone again and sighs pityingly. "So many questions, and so little to show for it. But don't worry," he winks, "that was all a lie anyway."

The bloodcurdling noises that could scarcely be described as singing spill into the corridor when Saihara thrusts the door open. He bangs it shut, and Ouma's shrieks are abruptly cut off.

 

School Camping Trip

 

Saihara should be enjoying the clean air, the lush green of nature, and the smoked campfire food, but half of his energy is spent staying on edge for whatever it is Ouma has in store for them. He's not such a poor excuse for a detective that he takes Ouma at his word when it comes to his threats being lies. Stationed on a towel along the bluffs, he nearly splits himself cross-eyed trying to watch both Momota flaunt his backstroke (only to be promptly shown up by Hoshi) and Ouma across the shore, hopping on a tire swing and then screaming every time he plunges into the lake. He goes on to repeat the process over and over again until he's successfully splashed or scared off everyone that was just trying to lounge about the shore in dry clothes.

But the sun begins to set, the students settle in the campsite, and it seems like their first day is going to end without any machinated incidents. Harukawa, her face a shadow, her mouth a tight line, lugs a protesting Momota by the arm to where Saihara is slicing vegetables for dinner.

"Watch him," she orders, thrusting Momota Saihara's way. "I was chopping firewood and he thought it would be funny to sneak up on me. He's lucky his head is still attached to his neck."

"Christ, Harumaki, I told you you're overreacting," Momota says. "I would have dodged you no problem."

"Harukawa-san, I'm also working with sharp utensils," Saihara says meaningfully, holding up the kitchen knife.

Harukawa glowers and tugs at a pigtail, her eyes wandering around the campsite. "There has to be something around here that will keep him occupied..."

As Momota objects to being treated like a kid, Akamatsu overhears them deliberating this predicament and walks over to say, "Maybe Momota-kun could come with me. Ouma-kun said he found some chestnut trees on a walk, and I was hoping to use them to make dessert."

Momota brightens. "Yeah, sounds good! I'm your guy." He hasn't told Akamatsu "no" in the years since they've met and isn't about to start. He goes to join her, and she smiles and holds a lantern out to him. Saihara spies a tendril of purple-tinged hair sticking out from behind her back.

"Great, now that that's settled," Harukawa says flatly, and Saihara never would have predicted the next words to leave her mouth would be, "I'm going fishing." She goes to meet Hoshi, who stands at the edge of the trail to the nearby lake, wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He tips a fishing pole over his shoulder and hands her a tree branch that's been sharpened to a point at the bottom, and they vanish into the undergrowth.

Akamatsu has turned to go her own way, revealing the small classmate that her back was hiding. "Ouma-kun is coming too, of course," she says casually as she shrugs the wicker basket on her shoulders.

Momota gapes, caught between protesting and keeping from giving any hint that he recognizes Ouma's existence. "Wha—do we need that many people?" he forces out.

"Naturally. He has to lead us there." She takes off at a brisk pace.

Ouma suffers none of Momota's indecision, saying absolutely nothing as he accompanies Akamatsu to where the campsite ends and the forest begins. Saihara sees Momota's hands grip into fists at his sides, and after a moment's hesitation, he's stamping after them.

Next to Saihara, Shirogana pauses in balling rice in her hands and follows his gaze to the three steadily retreating backs. "Saihara-kun, is something wrong?"

Alarm bells go off in his head. Saihara sets down the kitchen knife and says, "I'm going with them." As he reaches behind his waist to undo his apron, he calls out to the nearest unemployed person, "Chabashira-san, could you please take over cutting the cucumbers for me? There's something I need to do."

Chabashira freezes where she's fluttering over Yumeno, who's peeling sweet potatoes at an agonizingly slow pace. Her lip curls. "Of course a degenerate male like you would push kitchen duty onto a girl—"

"Thanks," he says, tossing the apron towards a chair, not bothering to check behind him to see if it makes the mark.

Momota appears relieved that he's joining them, but while she isn't unwelcoming, Akamatsu shoots him a perplexed glance. Saihara thinks he has an idea of what her goal is, but she doesn't understand—which isn't her fault, of course. She isn't privy to the information Ouma has stuck him with.

Dusk has fallen by the time they locate the trees and load up their baskets full of chestnuts. Akamatsu chatters away the duration of the hike, pulling up every relevant conversational topic, and while they're receptive, Momota and Ouma impressively succeed in sidestepping everything the other says. The tree branches draw deep shadows along the unworn path illuminated by their lanterns, and Ouma chirps, "This is a lot like the start of a horror movie, huh?"

Saihara braces himself, but it does little to soften the crush of Momota squeezing the life out of his chest. His knees nearly buckle under the weight, and he has to push Momota back somewhat to regain his footing.

"Ouma-kun, no," Akamatsu says sharply.

"What? I'm right," Ouma says. "A camping trip... alone in the woods... high schoolers, many of them hormonal..." He looks Saihara in the eye as he drawls the last part, and Saihara meets him with a scowl. "It's not exactly original."

"What kind of dessert are you going to make, Akamatsu-san?" Saihara asks, but Ouma plows on.

"In fact, I think Shinguji-chan mentioned a legend surrounding this forest," he says, his voice a low murmur, and Momota releases a distinctly unmanly squeal. "It's said that a woman committed suicide here after she was cast aside by her lover..."

"Sh-shut up," Momota whimpers. He clings harder, pressing his sweaty face into the crook of Saihara's neck. "Just shut up..."

Saihara pats his back and says, "I-it's all right, Momota-kun. There, there..." and tries his best not to blush.

It's the most Momota's said to him in weeks, but the only indication Ouma had heard anything is a slight tug of his lips downward as his gaze flickers between the two of them. "...They say she begrudges those that resemble her lover," he picks up, "men who are tall... and have facial hair..."

Momota's hold tightens with each descriptor, and Saihara quickly finds he's less anxious about blushing, and more so about having his ribs shattered.

"And, who are..." Ouma stops in his tracks, whirls to Momota and Saihara, and holds his lantern right under his ferocious grin. "...ugly."

Momota's high-pitched scream booms directly in Saihara's ear. He throws himself bodily on top of Saihara, and this time it does knock both of them off their feet and straight into a tree. Grunting, Saihara tries to shoulder the violently trembling Momota off his back only to collapse again under the heft of Momota's chest pressing him down. "Momota-kun, please."

"Honestly, Momota-kun!" Akamatsu says in exasperation. "Did you even hear what he said!?"

"It doesn't matter!" Momota wails, and Saihara can hear tears in his voice. "It's his creepy fucking face that's the problem!"

"Oh, my face, huh?" Ouma simpers. "I wish you could see your own miserable mug right now, Momota-chan!" He puts his hands on his hips and sneers. "Hey, when are you gonna quit clinging to Saihara-chan? I know you're needy, but it's really getting pathetic."

Saihara winces at the fist tightening around his arm, and Momota growls, low in his throat, "Ouma..." The anger momentarily dispels the fear, and he scrabbles to his feet and makes like he's going to lunge for Ouma's collar, but the boy snickers and dances out of the way. There's what sounds like a twig snapping underfoot—and Momota lunges again, this time yelling not with fury but with urgency, "Ouma!"

Ouma merely looks confused as he suddenly tips backward, his small fingers stretching out to reach for leverage that isn't there. Saihara at first expects him to land hard against the grass, but the darkness at the edge of the lantern glow swallows his form instead. The coarse, unforgiving noises of something rolling down a hill, crunching up leaves, and ultimately hitting the dirt, come next. Akamatsu shrieks, "Ouma-kun!"

Momota's hands grab uselessly at the air that Ouma had seconds ago occupied. A sudden dropoff is revealed by his lantern, and they all gape at the steep wall of greenery that Ouma is now at the bottom of.

"Shit," Momota hisses, thrusting his lantern further down, trying to see an end. It only reveals more darkness. "Ouma! Are you alive!?"

Saihara hears a faint voice rise up from down below: "Yes."

"Shit," Momota repeats. He begins to hook the lantern around his belt, but Saihara stops him with a hand on the shoulder.

"You're not thinking of going down there," he says, fully aware that that's exactly what Momota's thinking. "We should wait for the chaperone, or—or Gonta-kun."

Saihara is startled by how roughly Momota shakes him off. "Quit being stupid. A hero doesn't sit around and wait for others to do the rescuing," he says, then tacks on, "even when it's Ouma."

"Saihara-kun is right," Akamatsu says a bit gentler. "What if you end up falling, too? We should get the others before we do anything reckless."

"Ouma-kun!" Saihara calls out, cupping his mouth. "Can you wait for help just a bit longer? Or is it urgent?"

A pause. Then, "Probably."

Saihara frowns. "Probably what?"

No answer.

"I'll be back with help before you know it," Akamatsu says. "Just stay with him, okay?" She swings her lantern back the way they came, but not before giving Saihara a knowing look.

Momota monitors her receding back, then stares down the ravine.

"Momota-kun," Saihara says tightly, "don't—"

The moment she's out of sight, Momota throws his legs over the ledge and starts clambering down the wall of roots and rocks.

"Momota-kun!" It's not like Saihara didn't see this coming, but irritation nevertheless spikes through him. "If you break your arm, I'm not feeding you this time!"

He's only further alarmed when Momota actually lets one hand go to flash him a thumbs up and a wink. "You just sit tight. I'll have us both back up faster than you can say, 'even crying children adore the Ultimate Astronaut'."

"I—I'm not going to say that," Saihara says, at a loss for a better threat. 

Momota clambers some more, but the light of Saihara's lantern can only follow him so far. Similarly, he can only stand there in the darkness for so long until, petulant, he says, "Fine, then. I'm coming down, too."

"What? No, you idiot," Momota says. "You could get hurt."

Saihara doesn't press the point of his hypocrisy. Hooking his lantern, he says, "A sidekick has to be there to assist the hero. That's what you taught me, Momota-kun."

Momota scolds him as best he can, but it's not like he can do much from where he's hanging. It isn't quite as difficult as Saihara had feared to get a hold on climbing down the ravine, nor is it as steep, but it is worrying to imagine your body tumbling down here without a foothold. 

The supposed victim of such a fate sits at the bottom of a grassy pit, his legs splayed in front of him, staring numbly at his foot. Ouma doesn't immediately appear to have suffered anything apart from a handful of shallow scratches and a torn shirt, and he doesn't acknowledge them when they drop down.

"Hey, we're here," Momota announces, then grimaces when he receives no reply. "Anybody home?"

It's only then Ouma seems to comprehend their arrival. "Oh." He raises his head, and Momota runs the lantern over him, surveying.

"You fucking hit your head or something?" He moves the lantern down Ouma's legs and feet, bringing to light a red spot blooming over his left ankle. "Or—shit, your foot, I guess?"

Quizzically, Saihara measures the distance between where he and Momota had arrived and where Ouma is sprawled. "Can you walk, Ouma-kun?" He knows he sounds curt, but—even now, his guard is up. He still hasn't foregone the possibility that Ouma has paid lackeys in ghost costumes down here lying in wait to make Momota wet his pants.

"I don't know," Ouma replies. When he sets to putting weight on his left foot, he instantly falls back on his rear, hissing in pain.

"Damn it, okay." Momota rubs the bridge of his nose and looks back up to the ridge they'd descended from. "Maybe we can go 'round..."

As he and Saihara are searching for a possible detour, they both jolt at what sounds like a sob coming from where Ouma is sitting. Momota strikes him with the light again, and Saihara watches, in sheer amazement, as Ouma's pale face crumples. 

"I-it hurts," he chokes out by way of explanation. Fat, rolling tears streak wet lines down his cheeks, and judging by the irregular up-and-down swell of his small chest, his lungs have to fight hard to pump out air. It's nothing like the bombastic crocodile tears that everyone in their class learned long ago not to pay any mind; instead of bawling like he wants the world to hear, Ouma sounds like he's doing everything in his power to keep the sobs constrained in his chest, only to fail terribly.

Saihara is still wondering if he's seeing things when Momota sets his lantern down and goes to his knees at Ouma's side. "Fuck—um—" His hands hover falteringly around Ouma's shaking frame, like he means to touch him but an invisible force is keeping him at bay. "...Just making sure, but you're not faking, are you?"

Ouma hiccups.

"Shit, fuck, okay," Momota says. "Don't—don't cry—" His mouth screws up in frustration when Ouma spurns this request.

Off to the side, Saihara leaves Momota to assume the role of emotional laborer while he takes mental notes. He cups his chin between thumb and forefinger and lets his eyes wander. In the many instances where he's seen Momota go to offer someone support, he's never looked panicked or uncertain, especially not to this degree. In addition, his first word of advice would be for them to let out all their emotions—but here he is, borderline pleading for Ouma to stop.

Saihara focuses on Ouma's ankle. It's red, but there's no lumpy sign of swelling. That might happen later, but...

Momota finally makes up his mind to settle his hands on Ouma's bouncing shoulders. "It—it's okay," he says in a hush, like someone coaxing a frightened animal out of hiding. "Shuichi and I are here now, and we're gonna get you back to camp, and you're gonna get that foot looked at. There's nothing to be upset about."

Ouma, his mouth a quivering upside-down V shape, closes his eyes tight and inclines his head, letting his curtain of hair obscure his tear-slicked face. They wait for him to say something, but the waterworks only ramp up. One particularly violent sob wracks his whole body, and it sounds so wretched that Saihara starts to feel guilty for doubting him.

At a loss, Momota glances over his shoulder and mouths the words, What the hell is going on?, and for the few seconds his head is turned away, Ouma also looks to Saihara with—

—the biggest shit-eating grin he's ever seen.

Saihara breaks into a cold sweat as Momota shifts concern again to Ouma, who instantaneously resumes his look of pure anguish. The harsh sobs have at least died down to a wet sniffling. 

"Momota-kun," Saihara says.

No reply. Removing one hand from Ouma's shoulder, Momota says, "Let me take a look at your foot, okay?"

A disconsolate nod is his answer. Feather lightly, Momota grazes his fingertips over the reddish ball of Ouma's ankle, only to yank his arm back as if stung when Ouma responds with a second barrage of tears. "Fuck, fuck, sorry. Does it hurt that much?"

"No, I just—" He rubs the heels of his palms fiercely against his eyes, like he's trying to push the tears back in. "N-now I'm thinking about how I won't be able to—to do anything on, on the t-trip, a-and—" another violent sob shakes him—"and—and—this is so stupid—" He cuts himself off with a whimper.

Momota melts into a puddle, and Saihara is helpless. His hand goes to press against the nape of Ouma's neck. "Hey." He leans over him, coaxing him to look up, but not forcing him. "Hey. I already know you're tough as fuck, okay. You don't have to explain it to me. This is just the breaking point for a bunch of stuff you've been bottling up, yeah? It happens to everyone."

Ouma doesn't give in to showing his face, but he does allow Momota—with short, clumsy movements like he's afraid of Ouma reacting with teeth and claws—to wrap his arms around his scrawny body so that his chin rests on one of Momota's shoulders. His weeping lulls just for a moment. It's Saihara that can see his face, and he can see the look in his eyes. He would be ignorant to the meaning behind that look if it wasn't the same one Harukawa sports when she's on the verge of snapping someone's neck.

But then Ouma squeezes his eyelids tight, pushing out more fat tears, scrunching his little nose in anguish. His fingers curl divots into the back of Momota's shirt. The strangled sobs resume in full force, and Momota takes to stroking his hair and rubbing circles into his spine in motions Saihara isn't totally unfamiliar with.

"You're okay," he says into Ouma's neck. "You're okay."

It all strikes Saihara as oddly perverse, now that he's the one on the outside looking in. It's especially jarring because it only has half to do with Ouma's ruse. Saihara grabs his elbow and grimaces. Is this how it looked, the times Momota has comforted him? Desperate and melty, like they're oozing together? 

But then there's the tight set of Momota's shoulders, his worrying, unsure hands. Saihara thinks, no, this is different. For better or worse. 

"Ouma-kun," Saihara says coldly, and they both start like they're just remembering he's there. "How exactly did you hurt your foot?"

"I-I," he sniffles, unsticking himself slightly from Momota, "I l-landed on it—when I—when I fell."

"I saw you trip. You're several feet off from where you should've fallen." He points at the groove of roots he and Momota had used to climb down. "You should be over there, unless... you moved."

Momota is looking at Saihara, so Ouma doesn't bother to stifle his cavernous, crescent moon smile when he responds, "I, I don't know what..."

"Shuichi," Momota interrupts. His expression starts out hard, but he softens his features in record time. "You don't have to worry about that right now. I'll believe him so you don't have to, and if it turns out he's lying about something, you can blame me." He smiles reassuringly.

Saihara doesn't know if that's Momotaspeak for shut up and fuck off, or if he really is entertaining the possibility that Ouma is lying, but he can tell by the way Ouma shows his teeth that continuing down this line of questioning is no longer feasible. And, as far as he can tell, there's no disproving the redness of Ouma's ankle.

"Guys, where are you?" Akamatsu's frantic voice carries from above. Flashlight beams shine over the ledge.

Gonta's hulking silhouette takes form in the light. "Gonta is here to help! Where is everyone?"

Saihara calls out to signal their location. Akamatsu throws down a rope ladder for him and Momota, but it takes Gonta's strength to haul Ouma up the ravine. Light as Ouma may be, it's not realistic for Momota to transport another person across the flimsy ladder, whereas Gonta can descend and rescale the dropoff like it's as structurally sound as a staircase.

Once they've all safely returned to the trail and are following it back to camp, Momota ignores Akamatsu's reprimanding of their rashness to keep lingering close to Ouma and thereby Gonta, stealing less than discreet glances at him every other second. Akamatsu looks back and forth and to Saihara's horror says, "Gonta-kun, could you carry the ladder for me? And then Momota-kun can carry Ouma-kun."

Instead of asking why Momota doesn't carry the much lighter rope ladder, Gonta reacts like she's a genius for this suggestion. Without any protest on his end, Momota's arms slide under Ouma's back and knees, and his thin limbs bounce around as Momota heaves him upward. He tucks his ruddy nose into the crook of Momota's arm and Saihara averts his gaze, feeling like he's seeing something he shouldn't even though he's part of Ouma's intended audience.

"Thank goodness," Akamatsu whispers to Saihara, a hand placed over her chest. "I was worried they wouldn't make up for the rest of the school year, and then that would be it."

"That would be it," Saihara echoes fervently.

Everyone at camp greets them when they arrive, clamoring to find what's come of Ouma falling off a cliff, though Saihara corrects them in that it was only a ravine.

Iruma gawks when she sees Momota cradling Ouma. Aghast, she scoffs, "No fucking way any of you seriously believe this shit. Clearly the shitty shota is faking so Homota will give him a pity BJ."

"Iruma-san, I think I hear Kiibo-kun calling for you over by the campfire," Akamatsu says severely.

Kiibo, who is standing nearby, says, "What?"

"Bitch, do you have jizz in your ears? No the fuck he isn't—"

"Iruma-san." Akamatsu grabs her by the upper arm and leans in close. "The campfire. Now."

Iruma wilts as Akamatsu drags her away. Everyone is looking to him, so Momota ducks over to Tojo and hands Ouma off to her. "If you're not too busy with dinner—do me a favor and take a look at his ankle? I think it's sprained."

"Of course, Momota-kun. You need not consider it a favor." Tojo readily accepts Ouma into her arms like he weighs no more than a bag of rice. Ouma doesn't make a sound as he's carried to the infirmary tent. The skin around his eyes is red and puffy, and he looks as exhausted as you'd expect from someone that's just cried their eyes out, or acted their heart out.

With a grateful nod towards Tojo and a parting ruffle of Ouma's hair, Momota backs off and catches wind of Saihara observing them from afar. Ouma's eye leers at him from the gap in the tent before the flap falls shut.

"Man." Momota suddenly looks bewildered as he trudges towards him. "I sure as shit wasn't expecting that."

Saihara had been expecting something all day, but he says, "Right..."

"Wonder what set him off." Momota scratches his neck, frowning. "Fuck. He better go back to normal, and fast. It's like the fuckin' world's out of balance with him like that."

"You seemed to be... handling it well enough, Momota-kun," Saihara says.

Momota looks at him oddly. "Yeah, I'm good at rescuing people, if that's what you mean." He switches his attention to the infirmary tent Tojo and Ouma had disappeared into. "I mean... shit. The quicker he gets taken care of now, the quicker he goes back to being his annoying ass self, y'know?"

Saihara matches his curious expression, though Momota can't appreciate it from where his focus is trained. "Is that what you want?"

"I don't want him to be..." Momota gestures loosely with his hands. "Fucking... like that." He laughs, though Saihara is clueless as to what there is to laugh about. "I could go the rest of my life without seeing him like that again."

Saihara's surprise gets the better of him. "You mean that?"

"Did I say something wrong?" Momota asks. "...Maybe there was a time I might've felt... shit, relieved, I guess, to see him act like a fuckin' human being. But." He keeps staring at the tent. "Is it weird that I'm kind of hoping he was lying?"

"...No, Momota-kun," Saihara says tiredly. "It's not weird." Not now that he knows what he knows.

They're sitting beside the campfire and Saihara is still mulling things over when Tojo pops her head out of the folds of the tent. Far be it from her to request help, but Ouma must be proving himself a handful because she asks for someone to get him a juice box while she applies ice to his wound. Momota is more than quick to volunteer himself, scampering to the cooler and then into the tent. It takes Saihara a minute to realize he's wasting his patience waiting for him to come back out.

Crossing his wrists over his knees, Saihara stares into a campfire ringed by kebabs pronged on wire sticks. When Iruma shrieks as her kebab goes up in flames, and Yumeno casts a dousing spell by throwing her soda at it, it all sounds to him muffled underwater. 

"Saihara."

He blinks at Harukawa's flat reception. She and Hoshi have evidently returned from their long fishing trip; he hauls a bucket full of his catches to where Kiibo and Chabashira have taken over for Tojo in fixing up loose ends for dinner. Meanwhile, Harukawa stands before Saihara, a fishing hat hanging down her back by the string and what looks like bandolier belts tacked with dozens of fish strapped over her shoulders.

He offers niceties about what a good job it appears she's done. She nods, fetches a stick off the ground, and skewers it through one of her fish from mouth to tail. Twirling it over the flames, she looks at him expectantly. "Well? Did he realize he was in the woods at night and have a heart attack or something?"

"No, but Ouma-kun almost gave him one," Saihara tells her. Her face says murder. "Not like that. He hurt his ankle, and, well... Momota-kun won't leave him alone. They're in the infirmary tent."

One eyebrow goes up. Saihara fumbles with the skewered fish she shoves at him and watches in puzzlement as she goes to grab a water bottle from the cooler. As she stomps off to the infirmary tent, he scurries to follow.

"Harukawa-san, what are—"

She shoves the tent flap aside, marches up to Ouma—who's nursing the juice box and reclining on a cot—and dumps the water over his inflamed ankle.

"Hey!" Ouma shoots to his elbows as Momota jerks to attention beside him. He opens his mouth to protest further, when, before their very eyes, the spot on his ankle melts away into reddish liquid.

Following a beat of silence, Ouma chirps, "I'm healed!"

Momota seizes him by the collar and demands, "Really? Fucking really!?"

Ouma gazes up at him, his face a blank sheet. Then, ever so slowly, his lips curl devilishly and his eyes become dark slits. "Saihara-chan," he says, and Saihara flinches at the sound. "You can start blaming him now."

Momota shoves him off of the cot, but Ouma only giggles as he hits the ground running out of the tent. He calls out to their classmates, "Worry no more, peons! I have made a full recovery!"

Momota races after him, howling profanities, and the band around the campfire sit back to enjoy dinner and a show. Harukawa watches them tear circles around the campsite, hollow-eyed.

It's not an expression Saihara can't understand. "How did you know."

"I didn't." She trades him the skewer he's been clutching for the empty water bottle and skulks off to deposit her outfit of fish into Hoshi's bucket.

Cursing, Momota goes in for a leap, skids in the weeds and trips. When he raises his crimson face, it's marred with shreds of grass and dirt. This blunder is enough to make Ouma explode with laughter, and tears—real or not—gather in his eyes as he snorts and slaps his knees.

Saihara tears his gaze away and redirects it to his feet. He senses Tojo coming out from the shadows where she'd been quietly observing to stand beside him.

"You could tell he wasn't hurt," he says.

"Yes." Her head is turned not to him, but the respective sources of the screaming and the laughter. "Normally I would decline a request that I know is a lie, however..." She pauses. "His request was that I keep it secret in order to help him reconcile with Momota-kun."

Momota scrounges up a handful of pebbles and fires them at Ouma, who deftly dodges. A stray pebble pelts Yumeno in the forehead, and Chabashira, screeching, launches a soup ladle into the side of Ouma's skull.

A temporary tattoo meant to simulate swelling, courtesy of Yonaga, Ouma informs him without entreaty the next morning. He doesn't touch on the whole throwing himself over the side of a ravine bit, but it wouldn't come as a surprise if he'd cased the area beforehand and secured some kind of safe route.

Saihara flits his eyes to him, then back to his breakfast. Harukawa and Momota are still in line, spooning food into their bowls, and he's saving their seats. Ouma plops himself down where Momota is supposed to sit, jostling his tray against Saihara's. The force causes some soup to spill over the lid of Saihara's bowl.

"So you see, Saihara-chan," he says like they're picking up a conversation, "if you want to keep your man interested, that's all there is to it. Just act absolutely pathetic, and he won't be able to leave you alone. It doesn't matter who you are or what you've done." He almost smiles warmly enough for it not to be a lie. "Isn't that convenient?"

He blows spit onto a spoonful of steaming broth. Saihara, eyes hooded, watches him slurp loudly at the soup, then says, "You really don't understand."

Ouma stops. He drops his spoon into the bowl with a kerplunk and puffs out his cheeks. "I put my heart and soul into that performance, so if you're not going to appreciate it I am going to get very, very angry. Th-that's a lie, though," he whimpers, suddenly glossy-eyed. "I was so, so sad and needed big, strong Momota-chan to comfort me."

He sniffles soppily, wipes an arm over his face, and when he withdraws it he's smiling again.

Saihara says, much as it pains him, "If you still think Momota-kun would act like that towards just anybody... then the only one lying to themselves here is you."

He doesn't stick around for Ouma's response. He picks up his tray and carries it to the end of the buffet line, where his friends have finished filling their plates, and says, "Let's sit over there." He nods to a spot far from Ouma.

Ouma's small back doesn't show any signs of moving. He remains frozen in place, bent over his food up to and perhaps past the moment that Saihara blocks him out of his peripheral vision completely.

 

December 1st

 

He has a nightmare that, upon reflection, is more embarrassing in its lack of subtlety than it is scary. They're on the school rooftop, and Momota is explaining how Ouma tricked him into signing a marriage certificate by making it look like a legally-can-go-to-space certificate.

"Can't you just get a divorce?" Saihara nags him.

"No can do," Momota says with a regrettable shake of his head. "Divorce goes against my undefined but traditional values. But there is good news!" He flashes Saihara a thumbs up and a grin. "Our honeymoon is gonna be on the moon moon!"

This does not strike him as good news. "No, Momota-kun! Don't leave me!"

"Not up to me, sorry," Momota says, not looking sorry at all. "Oh yeah, I guess I should tell you—Ouma's organization managed to topple the government, so you're all going to be enslaved by tomorrow."

"What?"

"I tried to convince him to at least let you be one of my slaves, but..." Momota scratches his cheek with one finger and goes a little pink. "He's the jealous type, y'know?"

Saihara is speechless. Momota lifts his chin to the sky and says, "Oh, here comes The Tube."

A huge translucent pipe shoots out from its base on the moon and hovers right over Momota's head. When it sucks him up inside, it makes a loud sound like a cork unstoppering a bottle. Saihara can only stare in horror.

"Bye Shuichi!" Momota waves through the glass as he rapidly ascends, then looks skyward. "Wheeeeeeee!"

Around Saihara, the city has fallen into ruin. Skyscrapers crumble as wild horses stampede through the streets, trampling everything under their hooves. 

Harukawa's fingernails dig into his neck when she lifts him into the air. "This is all your fault," she snarls, eyes glowing red. "You should have let me kill Ouma when I had the chance." 

Saihara is thrust into wakefulness with distant horse laughter still ringing in his pounding ears. He's half-lucid as he scrambles for the cellphone on his bedside table, knocking a cup of water over in the process. The beating of his heart thrums through his whole body as he waits for Momota to pick up.

"Yeah?" Momota slurs over a yawn. Saihara can envision him; leaning on one elbow, his hair a mess, his T-shirt rumpled, the tanned skin of his arms on display, confused but not bothered in the least about being rung up at 3 A.M. "What's up, man?"

"Momota-kun, I—" The phone trembles in his fingers. "I-I'm so sorry. I had a bad dream, and, you weren't there, I think I just needed to hear your voice—"

"You're talking too fucking fast." Momota yawns again, long and loud and unashamed. Saihara can hear him repositioning himself on the mattress. "Just breathe, okay? Tell me what's wrong. Slowly."

"I'm sorry," Saihara repeats. He disentangles his hand from the bunched up fabric around his chest. "I... I just wanted—"

Ouma's voice is background noise, faint and husky with sleep. "Momota-chan, who is it?"

Momota shushes him, and he sounds terribly far away when he says into the phone, "Go on, Shuichi."

"Hey, tell Saihara-chan to hurry it up. Getting rudely awoken in the middle of the night puts me in the mood for a round two."

Saihara jolts awake for real this time—he thinks, he hopes—drenched in sweat. In the morning, he's not sure what parts were dreamt and what was reality. The skyscrapers, at least, are intact.

"You look awful," Harukawa says when he meets her at the front gates. "Don't let Momota see you like that or he'll put you on a new diet and sleep schedule."

He goes straight to the bathroom mirror, stares down his own lifeless eyes and the chalky black shadows underneath. He splashes water on his face and tries to smooth down the confused locks of bed hair.

It's futile. "Shuichi, my bro!" Momota says when he pokes his head in the classroom before Harukawa can interrogate him about his lateness. "You look awful." There's a thick scarf wrapped around his neck that Saihara's never seen him wear before. He goes on to suggest that they've been using the cold as an excuse to slack on exercise, and longer hours of training will exhaust him for a night of better sleep. Saihara nods along, because what he's really agreeing to is more time with Momota.

While Momota is preoccupied, Saihara lays his head down on his desk and tries to rest over the volume of his thoughts. The respite is short-lived, however, because Shirogane sidles up to him and says, "Saihara-kun, you look—"

"Yes," Saihara says.

"—lovesick," she finishes, clasping her hands together and gazing down at him with glittery eyes. "Please, please tell me I'm right?"

Saihara replies, because what does it even matter, "Maybe you should be the detective, Shirogane-san."

"Ooh, so I am right! Right? That's what that means?" Without waiting for an answer, she crouches down lower so their conversation isn't broadcast to the rest of the class. "I won't make you tell me who it is, but—" Her eyes dart to where Akamatsu is sitting for some reason—"maybe I can help, if you'll let me."

Saihara's cheek is still smushed against the wood of his desk, so she can't fully appreciate his doubtful expression. "Ah, well..."

"Saihara-kun, please. I can't stand to see you like this."

He can't find it in him to believe that, either. But whatever. "I don't think there's anything anyone can do," he says finally. "If you support the person you like for years, doing everything you can think of to get them to like you back and then... and then it turns out they like someone that's terrorized them for just as many years, then." His hands clench in his lap. "What does that mean, other than you never had a chance in the first place?"

He sounds pathetic to his own ears. He sounds like he did before he met Momota. When he glances at Shirogane, she's frowning. 

"That..." She hesitates, grabbing her elbow and appearing faintly disappointed. "...Hm. While I definitely can't say it appeals to me, the trope of good girls liking bad boys does exist for a reason."

Saihara stares at her in disbelief.

Shirogane says, "But I'm sorry, Saihara-kun. That sounds just plain unfair."

"Okay. Thanks, I guess." 

When she walks away, she reveals the space where Momota is discussing something enthusiastically with a group of their classmates. Momota doesn't look like he's had anything short of undisturbed full night's rest, and he doesn't bring up any late night phone calls. It doesn't really matter, though, because he doesn't unravel the scarf around his neck for the whole day, or the day after.

 

Ski Trip

 

On their first day at a popular onsen situated in the mountains, Momota engages in a high-speed game of ping pong with Ouma that keeps them occupied for much of the morning. Akamatsu invites Saihara to join her, Kiibo, and Gonta at a table as Yonaga instructs them on how to braid and accessorize charms. The latter two are unfamiliar with the practice and Gonta has a particularly hard time with the delicate handiwork. But Saihara finds the repetition of looping and weaving with his fingers to be a relaxing respite from his mind, which is something he needs as the sound of jeers and cursing and ping pong balls thwacking off walls bleeds from the next room over.

It's not an activity particularly in line with snow and hot springs, but the gist is for anyone late on their holiday shopping to make some last-minute personalized presents if need be. Saihara had already painstakingly chosen what to get his friends months ago, but something extra, nice and homemade, can't hurt.

So wrapped up in his task, he doesn't notice the sounds of battle dying down or the hefty stomp of Momota's slippered feet until he's standing right behind him. "Hey, Shui—oh, is that for me and Harumaki?"

Saihara's head flies up to see Momota leaning over him with an excited grin, an apathetic Harukawa at his side. Saihara looks at the bracelets Momota's marveling over—one a cord of pink-violet gradient inlaid with rhinestone stars and plastic planets and dusted with glitter, the other a silky red-and-black circlet hot glued with roses—then looks back at them. "U-um," he says.

"Geez, Momota-kun! Way to ruin the surprise," Akamatsu pouts. 

"Aw, 'm sorry," Momota says, grinning wide. "But hey, whether I'm seeing this now or later, that doesn't change that this shit is cool as fuck! Man, how many talents do you have, Shuichi?"

It's times like these Saihara wishes he still had the brim of his hat to hide behind. He knows he's turning noticeably redder and redder as Momota goes on like a proud parent being shown their kid's glowing report card, and when he asks if he can touch his charm, he holds it in his callused hands with such reverence that Saihara has to tuck his chin in the collar of his shirt as a last resort. 

Harukawa doesn't ask permission. She says, "What are you, five?" as she twines her charm around her wrist, smiling faintly. Saihara suddenly feels terrible for investing so much more time in perfecting Momota's over anyone else's.

"I, um, I'm really glad you like it," Saihara manages.

"Like it? Don't be stupid," Momota huffs. "I fuckin' love it."

Momota goes down the rest of the table, scanning over everyone's work and singing some quick praises to the others, then he's off to flaunt off his gift to anyone he can find. Harukawa stays behind, somewhat grudgingly, at Akamatsu's insistence. It's unlikely that Harukawa plans on giving presents to more than a select handful of people, but this is her opportunity if she wants it.

"Saihara-kun, please move," Kiibo says tersely. Saihara realizes that in the cloud of embarrassment, he'd accidentally placed his elbow directly on top of Kiibo's line of thread. 

"S-sorry," he says. He's a little mystified when Kiibo just tuts at him. "You, uh, seem to be taking this very seriously, Kiibo-kun."

Kiibo frowns at the perfectly woven strips of thread spaced out before him. The workmanship is remarkable, but they're bare of any accessories, any personal touch. "I am, admittedly, frustrated. Braiding the silk is not difficult, but decorating does not come as naturally to me as it seems to the rest of you."

He's gripping a pink cord in his steely hands, staring fiercely at the boxes of decoratives lined up on the table. Saihara decides to take pity on him.

"I'm sure whatever you make, Iru—your friends will be happy with it." It sounds like the right thing to say. 

Kiibo seems to mull this over. "Would Momota-kun have been that happy if your gift was not well made?"

"I," Saihara stammers, caught off guard. "I don't—um..."

"Was that a rude question?" Kiibo asks. "It's just that there are many charms here, far more professional than yours, but he seemed to like yours the most."

"Th-that's because," Saihara says.

"I do not mean to imply he shouldn't appreciate your gift, of course," Kiibo says. "But I suppose that does prove it. The person giving the gift, and the intent behind it, is more important than the gift itself..."

"I'm sure that's part of it, but," Akamatsu chimes in with a smile, and Saihara startles upon the realization she must have been listening to the whole conversation. "I also think Momota-kun will always favor anything with space imagery."

"Perhaps that is true," Kiibo says seriously.

"Oh, oh, Kiibo, are you having trouble getting inspired?" Yonaga prances over, bringing with her more plastic containers of knickknacks. It's a lot of inventory for such a small, last minute gathering, and like her usual hammer and chisel, she's able to produce it from nowhere.

"I am," Kiibo relents. "Do you have any advice?"

"Hmm hmm hmm, Atua is telling Angie..." She taps her chin. "You should decorate in a way that reminds you of the person you're creating for! That's why all of Angie's paintings have a bit of Atua in them, because they're all gifts for Him!"

"I see!" This incredibly bog standard advice does well to alleviate Kiibo's troubles. It seems this was the only thing standing between him and a decision because, with clear confidence, he reaches into a box and retrieves the face of a white mouse made of felt.

-

The water is disarmingly warm when he sinks in, a splendid juxtaposition to the frostbitten air. Not wasting any time, Saihara submerges himself all the way up to his neck, suppressing a moan as the heat swiftly melts away all the coiled up tension in his muscles. A day of getting dragged into skiing and snowball fights against his will had left him chilled in a way hot tea alone couldn't fix, but the outdoor springs make it all worth it. Not far off to his side, Momota rests both arms on the wooden rim of the bath and doesn't hold back his moan when he slides in, puffing white clouds from his lips and into the cold. His wet hair lies splayed against his forehead, and a bead of water gathers on a strand and plinks onto his nose.

The rest of the guys, barring Kiibo and Ouma, form a haphazard circle and chat lazily. The innkeepers were more than reluctant to allow a robot into their baths, either for fear of oil-based bacteria or electrocution, and weren't persuaded otherwise by Iruma screaming globs of spit into their faces. If only to keep her from getting kicked out, Kiibo talked things down and accepted his exile with grace, then retired to their room with a box of Yonaga's origami paper. In private, he informed his classmates that he'd be writing a strongly worded online review about the establishment's discriminatory practices once they were back at the academy. And Ouma—

A white blur catapults over Saihara's head and plunges into the center of the spring, whooping, "CANNONBALL!"

Hot water sprays him in the face. Everyone gripes and groans, Momota loudest of all, but Ouma doesn't immediately surface. It's Shinguji's arm that shoots out and plucks him from the depths, not unlike someone masterfully poaching a fish with a spear.

The towel wrapped around Shinguji's head, as well as the mask he declined to remove, are now soaking wet. "Do not do that again," he says blackly.

Ouma stays mouth deep and bubbles at him disagreeably, then floats to where Gonta is saturating. His wild mane is also narrowly contained by a towel, knotted into one of Amami's neat little bows.

"Sure, gang up on me," Ouma whimpers as half of them continue to glare. "Because a little water is way worse than Saihara-chan setting up a camera on the girls' side..."

Now all eyes are on him. Saihara goes even hotter, stuttering, "I-I didn't—he's lying!"

"Saihara-kun..." Amami says, darkly.

Saihara is incredulous. "Don't tell me you believe him."

"Guys, lay off." Momota comes to his defense. "What do you think's more likely, my sidekick doing something like that, or Ouma lying about it?"

This is enough to mollify them, even as Ouma insists he would never lie about such serious subject matter. Momota makes sure everyone is convinced before he murmurs to Saihara so only he can hear, "You didn't do that, right?"

Now he's offended all over again. "Momota-kun. You can't honestly think for one second I would spy on the girls."

Momota's withdrawal is quick. "No, yeah, of course not. I know that." He scoffs like he finds the whole thing ridiculous.

Just as everyone's settling back down, Ouma gets the bright idea to showcase how long he can hold his breath underwater.

"My record so far is five hours," he explains to them. "But hot water is different. Drowning is one thing, but then there's also getting boiled alive you have to worry about."

"No one gives a shit how long you can stay underwater," Momota says. "You're going to get yourself killed for nothing."

"Gonta, time me!" Ouma pops his head down under the murky black. Gonta starts counting aloud.

"Seriously?" Momota scans the waters, but there's no hint of motion under what isn't obscured by the plumes of white steam curling over the surface. "Christ, he could be anywhere," he says. They all cross their legs.

Amami is the only one untroubled. "I wouldn't worry," he says. "He probably knows the threat of something happening is scarier than anything he can do." Combing his studded fingers through his damp hair, he chuckles. "Ouma-kun can be surprisingly cute at times, can't he?"

Everyone looks at him like's grown a second head. Everyone except Shinguji, who actually seems to consider his words. "Perhaps in the right dress, he would be acceptable."

Momota's head jerks up in the corner of Saihara's eye at the same time Amami breezily responds, "Oh, I didn't mean it like that, but."

"The fuck are you talking about, man?" It's unclear if the redness crawling up Momota's neck is from emotion or just the heat of the springs. "Don't say creepy shit like that."

Shinguji's snake yellow eyes pass coolly over Momota. "It was simply an observation concerning his appearance," he says, and then a bit quieter, "I would never introduce them for as long as he's still capable of speech..."

"The fuck are you observing his appearance for," Momota grouches.

Hoshi raises an eyebrow. "Is no one allowed to do that?"

"Not him," Momota says, pointing right at Shinguji. "Not when, no offense, the way you phrase it gives me fucking serial killer vibes."

"None taken," Shinguji says.

"Ninety-one, ninety-two..." Gonta mumbles.

"Um, more importantly," Saihara says, "shouldn't Ouma-kun be up by..." There's a forceful bubbling sound coming from the space between him and Momota. "M-Momota-kun?"

The rest of the guys follow his stare. "Wha—" Momota flushes darkly. "The fuck! That's not me!" He scoots back in the water, and the bubbling follows him. He looks desperately from face to face. "Don't fucking look at me like that! It's not me, all right!?"

"Momota, no one cares if you fart," Hoshi says. "There's no use lyin' about it."

"But I'm really not—" Momota is interrupted by the bubbles turning into a huge burst of water as Ouma surfaces, standing at full height, a straw in hand.

"Ta-daaaah!" he cheers. "Gonta! What's my score?"

"One hundred and fifty-two seconds," Gonta supplies diligently.

Ouma lets out a low whistle. "A new record," he says, and Momota uses the full strength of one arm to splash him right in the face.

-

Their bath was cut short when Ouma caught a bright blue eye peeping through a knothole in the planks separating their spring from the girls'. He'd jabbed his straw through the hole and Saihara half-expected Iruma's echoing scream of "Bitchfuck!" to cause an avalanche. No one was comfortable sticking around after that.

Saihara and Momota are the last ones left in the changeroom. He's pushing his arm through a sleeve when Saihara hears from behind, "Hey, Shuichi. You're good at noticing shit other people don't, right? Y'know, being a detective and all?"

"Oh, sometimes, I mean, it depends," he says without turning his head. Steam from the baths crawls out from the edges of the door, which must be why the room feels so hot.

There's a ruffle of cloth, and Saihara can tell that Momota is facing his back. "Then do you know... do other guys think about Ouma, in like, that way?"

Saihara's fingers go stiff where they're tying his sash. "What way?" he asks, already well aware.

"Like they think he's, fucking, attractive or something." Momota makes sure to add a snort to show how absurd he finds the very possibility. "So uh... do they?"

Saihara could fire his own questions. He could ask Why? Why does it matter? Do you? but he doesn't have the heart to face the answers he'd receive, so instead, he says, "No, I really don't think so." He chances a glance behind him, then looks away again when he sees Momota hasn't finished tightening his shirt.

"Why were they saying that crap then?"

Saihara yanks at his sleeves like he still has more dressing to do, trying not to feel resentful. Sometimes, it really does feel like he's explaining things to a child. "I'm pretty sure Amami-kun just sees him as a little brother," he says, "and Shinguji-kun... um, to be honest, I don't know what goes on in his head, but I wouldn't worry about it."

"I'm not worried," Momota says instantly, and follows it up with, "what about the girls?"

"Definitely not." Saihara doesn't even have to consider that one.

This seems to satisfy him, as Momota doesn't prod further. They finish getting dressed in silence, and then Saihara takes a good look at his best friend. His hair is, naturally, still ungelled, framing his face and looking soft to the touch. Saihara still can't quite meet his eyes but he plucks his courage enough to ask, "Why are you so curious about it?"

"Huh?" Momota acts like he has no clue what Saihara is talking about, like he has to wrack his brain to remember. "Oh. It's just... a fuckin' bizarre idea, you know? Someone thinking that weirdo is cute." He laughs.  "But maybe if there was someone, they could take him off our hands. It'd be nice if he was too busy dating to screw with us, right?"

"You would be left with a lot of free time, Momota-kun."

Momota doesn't catch the bitterness seeping his words. He laughs again. "Ha, yeah, I guess." He claps Saihara on the shoulder as he heads for the door. "Sorry for askin' something so weird. I dunno what got into me. Some guy thinking Ouma is cute? That's just impossible, right?"

Something about his choice of words, and the way he angles his face away from Saihara, strikes him as peculiar. He tries to speak carefully when he says, "Not particularly."

Momota doesn't give any indication he heard him as he slides open the door.

Maybe Saihara should have told him differently. Saihara could have told him that if he doesn't want to worry about others flocking around the object of his affections, he couldn't have picked a better person. He could have told him he'll never know what it feels like to have a crush with a fan club of underclassmen prepared to throw themselves off a cliff at his command. He could say and ask so many things but, when it comes to the same boy that taught him how to look people in the eye, he's still a failure of a detective, terrified of the truth to his very marrow.

-

Saihara considers himself retired for the night but waits for the other guys to settle down, a mystery novel in hand, cozied up by the crackling stove. He does a cursory glance over their room and discerns that Momota still hasn't returned. In fact, a few hours must've passed since he'd rummaged through his suitcase and suddenly decided it was imperative that he head over to the girls' room to speak with Harukawa.

"Hey," he says, setting down his novel. "I'm going to check on..."

He trails off when he sees Amami and Gonta crowding the window. Past their heads, he sees a rapid flurry of snowflakes lit by moonlight. He realizes the sound his novel had pushed to the back of his mind this whole time was the wind shaking the bones of the inn.

"Gonta didn't know there was going to be a snowstorm..."

"That's because it wasn't in the forecast," Amami tells him, then rubs his chin. "At least, I don't think it was...? But it makes for a pretty view."

"A storm, huh?" Ouma's eyes glitter. He tugs on Kiibo's steely arm with the hand that isn't holding a deck of cards, pulling him from the game of hanafuda they're playing with the rest. "Keeboy, Keeboy! Why don't you join me in the veeeeeeeerrrryyyy important Japanese tradition of having a snowball fight in a blizzard?"

Kiibo regards him suspiciously, then consults Shinguji. "Does such a tradition truly exist?"

Ouma interrupts before Shinguji can tell him no, it doesn't. "Hey! Why are you doubting me?! Do you think that I would lie?!"

"You always respond negatively no matter how I answer that question. Also, my cards have been switched, and based on data gathered from past experiences, the probability that you are the culprit is overwhelmingly high."

"Heartless tin can," Ouma sulks. "And here I am being considerate and asking Keeboy because he's immune to the cold. It's not like I want any of my good friends to freeze to death, you know! So it's either you or Momota-chan."

Kiibo prattles about how, in spite of Ouma's bigoted assumptions, the cold can negatively affect him, too. Saihara frowns and sits up in his futon. He's about to speak again when their door to the hallway skates open with a violent clatter.

Harukawa stands stiffly before them, the muscles in her jaw wound tight, her fist tighter around a flimsy piece of paper. The rest of the guys spook at her sudden appearance, but her glare goes straight to Saihara.

"Momota is gone," she snaps, and Saihara can't help but feel by her tone that she's accusing him. "He left a note in the lounge. 'Lost something. Went to look outside. Don't wait up.'" Her nails tear holes in the paper. "Either it was before the storm started, or he really is that much of an idiot."

All the warmth seems to drain out of the room. Saihara's thoughts are swimming as he scrambles to his feet and says, "Let me get my coat—"

"I'm just telling you so you can phone me if he comes back before I find him." Harukawa turns on her heel and lets the mangled note drop to the ground. "If the signal permits it."

"No, I'm coming with you," Saihara maintains, already finished sliding on a pair of gloves. He ignores her grimace as he hastily grabs a thick coat and boots, pulling them on as he follows her.

"Don't slow me down." Perhaps leaving him as a lookout wasn't her intent after all, because she throws him a flashlight.

"Guys, wait!" Amami pokes his head out the sliding door. "I know you're worried, but it's too dangerous to—"

They peal out the inn's entrance and into the heart of an unforgiving snowstorm. Saihara could swear he sees Harukawa sniffing the taut air before she says, "This way," and starts tearing her way through a sliver of a path through the undergrowth.

Little time has passed with her leading and him obediently tailing when he nearly bumps into her as she draws to a sudden stop. "Saihara," Harukawa says flatly, a shadow passing over her face. "Tell him not to follow us."

"Who do you..." Saihara doesn't understand what she's talking about until he turns marginally to look behind them. A dozen or so feet back, he makes out an approaching tiny white figure holding a flashlight. It would blend in entirely with the churning waves of snow if it weren't for its head of prickly dark hair. "...Ouma-kun?"

"Don't mind me!" Ouma waves at them as he catches up, and Saihara is struck by a flash of deja vu. "Continue, I implore you! Every second that passes is another hundred snowflakes making Momota-chan's corpse harder to find!"

"Don't joke like that." Saihara's surprised at the sharpness of his own voice.

"Oh, that was just a little feel-good lie to clear the atmosphere, okay?" Ouma brushes him off lightly. "Momota-chan knows he's not allowed to die now that he belongs to me. It goes against our contract."

Harukawa's pigtails whirl out behind her as she rounds on him. "Do you want to die?"

"Hey, it's the truth! You know, our bet over ping pong?" Ouma says this as if it's obvious. "Momota-chan lost, so he gets to be my slave for a week. He won't die before I can use him, because if he does I'll send him to my work camps in Siberia!"

Harukawa's delicate face twists with unadulterated disgust. Balling her fists at her sides, she returns to stalking down the strewn path in front of them. "Why couldn't it be you lost in a snowstorm?"

"Lots of reasons," Ouma says, tromping enthusiastically along. "My IQ not being below average being the biggest."

Saihara's fraught nerves lend him the impulse to say outright, "Ouma-kun, if you're not going to take this seriously, you need to go back to the inn."

"Oh, boo." In total opposition to Saihara's reprimand, Ouma sticks out his tongue like a little kid. "If you genuinely cared about Momota-chan, you wouldn't be picky about who helps you find him."

He does have a point. Saihara's eyes try to meet Harukawa's, but they're busy glaring knives at the interloper. "Well, if you really want to help..."

"Help? Who said anything about helping? I'm just tagging along to see if the body's still warm enough to extract organs." Ouma winds his arms behind his head and strolls off ahead of them. He's not wearing anything especially warm besides a ratty jacket thrown over his yukata, and yet he doesn't so much as a shiver as iced whips of wind smack at his hair and clothes.

"Come on." Harukawa grabs Saihara's arm and violently yanks him along until they're a ways ahead of Ouma again. She hisses at him as they pass, "I hope you walk off a cliff and die."

Ouma tsks at her. "Again, the likely fate of a certain low IQ individual, which I am not."

Harukawa takes sharp, twisting turns through the underbrush that leave Saihara panting and marks made by skinny branches clawing up his sleeves. By all means, her efforts should have shaken Ouma off pretty quickly. But each time he seems to disappear, seconds later he's found a way to pop up behind them to alternatingly cry about being abandoned and wondering if they'll have no choice but to eat whatever remains of Momota-chan by the time they find him.

Saihara communicates in hushed tones that their finding Momota takes precedence over losing Ouma, which ethically shouldn't be a goal in the first place. Harukawa bites out that she is following Momota's trail, and it's not her fault if you two can't keep up.

She must be angrier than he thought if she's grouping him in with Ouma. He chooses not to press the point. Ouma doesn't seem to need his help, anyway.

They retread the skiing area and the hiking trail, places where Momota is most likely to have dropped something, but come up empty-handed. In a way, they're lucky to have left late enough that they don't have to bear the full length of the storm—but that only means Momota has been out here much longer. After a half hour or so of screaming his name over the wind and jerking their flashlights at all angles, the snow stops falling and the air goes still.

"Let's split up," Harukawa says. It's a command, not a suggestion. "Search anywhere you think Momota might've gone during the day."

Ouma shrugs but dutifully tips his flashlight in a different direction from the one she's headed. "You should realize by now a little snow isn't going to take out a supreme leader, but all right."

Harukawa brings up her flashlight and the yellow hits Ouma dead on. Saihara falters over a root hidden in the snow when he sees how red Ouma's hands are, the frost gathering on his eyelashes. If Momota's borne at least twice the brunt of the storm, how is he holding up? Did he even bother putting on a jacket before he left, impulsive as he is?

"I don't care what happens to you," Harukawa says. "I'm doing what will find Momota the fastest."

The light falls away, and Ouma crows. "Oh, I get it! Whoever finds the body first gets dibs! Good thinking, Harumaki-chan!"

He disappears into a bush, cackling. There's an audible tightening sound and Saihara can tell Harukawa is weighing the pros and cons of letting the full weight of her flashlight loose on the back of Ouma's skull. 

He's about to split off as well, but first checks in, just to be safe. "Um, you're sure we'll be able to find each other?"

"It's quiet now," Harukawa says shortly. "Scream and I'll come get you."

"And Ouma-kun, too, right?"

Harukawa says nothing.

"...Right?"

"Quit your nagging. We're not so lucky that he's in any real danger out here." Harukawa pushes past him and ducks through the trees. "Momota is close. Don't stray."

Saihara goes still, unsure of what route to take so that he ends up going nowhere. It's thanks to this indecisiveness that he's still close enough to hear Ouma curiously call out, "Momota-chan?"

With the help of moonlight and the faint echo of the voice, he can make out through a ring of trees Ouma, standing motionless as he looks over a clump of shrubbery. Past that, there's a familiar face wearing earmuffs and at least five different snow-dusted layers.

"Ouma!" Momota's expression is a mix of outrage and concern as he rushes over—tries to rush over. He takes clumsy, loping stomps through the knee-high snow until he's finally directly in front of Ouma. "What the fuck are you doing out here!? You could fucking freeze to death!"

For once, Ouma looks positively bewildered. "As opposed to Momota-chan, who happens to be part toaster oven?" He puts his hands on his hips. "What are you, Keeboy's long lost cousin? Maybe that's why your head is harder than a hunk of metal—"

"You're barely wearing anything, Christ." Momota goes on like Ouma hadn't said a thing, fussing at the thin material of his yukata.

He starts peeling off his top layer, but Ouma says, "I'm not going out in public wearing your stinky old castoffs."

"There's no one else around, idiot." Momota's gloved hands rise up, and Saihara thinks he's going to cup Ouma's rosy red face, when Ouma throws his head back and yells, "Saihara-chaaaan, Harukawa-chaaaaaaaaan! I found your senile grandpa!"

Momota's hands retract immediately. Saihara hears fast, clumping footsteps approaching, and then Harukawa bursts into the clearing, wide-eyed and hair astray. "Momota?!"

After giving it a few seconds, Saihara slips out from the trees behind her.

Momota's brow creases in confusion. "The hell, guys? Why are you all out here?"

Harukawa mirrors his confusion and then some, and it's the most emotion Saihara's seen from her since the first and last time Ouma targeted her for a prank. "Why are we out here? We're looking for you, you idiot!"

"And doing a terrible job at it," Ouma interjects. "Since you'd still be looking in the exactly wrong place if it weren't for moi."

"Momota-kun," Saihara cuts in before a fight can erupt. "Well, um. If you haven't noticed, a snowstorm passed through. We were all worried about you, so we came out to look." As he speaks, he looks Momota over. Sufficiently layered with clothing, he doesn't appear particularly frozen, just disgruntled.

"You were worried, you mean," Ouma says. "I wanted to loot his corpse before anyone else could get to it, and Harukawa-chan wanted to cut his head off and keep it in her closet attached to a mannequin or something."

Harukawa clumps meaningfully towards him. Against his self-preservation instinct, Saihara places a hand on her shoulder while Momota expertly edges in between the two.

Momota puts his palms up in a keep-the-peace sort of gesture. "Okay, so I appreciate you coming out here and shit," he says, "but you know I'm trained for this exact situation, right? This is what I was doing those four months in Russia. I told you guys all about it."

The three search and rescuers share a united moment of realization dawning as they all glance back and forth at one another. Momota had, in fact, talked at length about his survival training in the Russian tundra, but the possibility that this might save him from a small town snowstorm hadn't for one second crossed Saihara's mind.

"I mean, look." Momota jerks his thumb to the left of the clearing, and they all do indeed look to see a large hole gouged into the snow, forming a very makeshift igloo. "Wasn't a fuckin' five-star hotel, but I made it through."

"Wow, Momota-chan's a real survivalist!" Ouma gushes. "Which is why you were heading in the opposite direction of the inn when I found you."

"Shut up, I would've made it eventually." Momota rubs at his red nose. "Point is, I know how to take care of myself."

"Of—of course we weren't thinking about that," Harukawa says, twisting the thread around her sash in her hands. "You went out in the middle of a snowstorm, without telling anyone. What did you expect us to do?"

"Well, I left a note..." Momota says.

"You should have told us directly—no—you shouldn't have gone in the first place."

"We worry about you, too, Momota-kun," Saihara says firmly.

"I don't!" Ouma reiterates.

No one acknowledges him. Momota looks like he's been thrown a curveball, but the jagged line of his mouth softens easily as he bends slightly towards them. "Sorry, guys. You're right. I'll be careful not to worry you again, yeah?" His big hands reach out to rest on top of either of their heads.

Just like that, all the congested anxiety locking Saihara's shoulders together drains. The cold melts out from his body and he's left light and hot again, like slipping back into the onsen or cuddling up to a stove, muscles slack and verging on sleepy. He concentrates, savors the weight and the warmth of Momota's wide palm rubbing his hair, and scarcely pays any mind to the deathly blank stare Ouma has trained on them.

"So long as you mean it this time," Harukawa says to hide her own contentment.

"That's right, Momota-kun," Saihara says, suddenly remembering. "What was so important that you had to search for it in the storm?"

Momota's hands fall away to scratch the back of his neck. "Oh, uh—my phone, that's all. Gramps would be pissed if I lost another—"

"I called your phone. It was in the lounge room," Harukawa says. Momota goes blank.

"He didn't have a phone on him, but he did have this," Ouma pipes up, and everyone startles to look at him. His hand juts out and from his fingertips dangles the silken charm that Saihara had woven together hours before.

"When did you—" Incredulous, Momota pats down his pockets, then jumps forward to wrench the cord from Ouma's small hand. "Fucking give me that!"

Giggling, Ouma lets him take it. "You're full of holes, Momota-chan."

"I'll show you full of holes," Momota grumbles, stuffing the charm in his pocket.

"That's..." Saihara doesn't know what to say. His eyes dart to Harukawa, who frowns, and then Momota, who's scratching his nose and glancing away. "Momota-kun, you didn't have to..."

"Hey, Momota-chan just told a lie!" Ouma puffs out his cheeks and glowers. "Isn't that bad? Hey, isn't it? Don't you care?! Harukawa-chan, aren't you gonna beat him up?!"

"The only one here that deserves a beating is you."

"M'bad, Shuichi," Momota says over Ouma's babbling. "Right after you made this for me and I end up losing it. Makes for a pretty lame boss, right?" He presses his fists together. "It'd be the same as abandoning the heart and soul you put into it. There's no way I could just let it get swept away by the storm."

"M-Momota-kun," Saihara says, and hopes that everyone assumes that it's the weather making his cheeks flush red. "I—I... thank you," he stammers, melted to the core. "But your safety is so much more important to me than that."

"Then it's no problem," Momota says with a shrug. "Like I said, my safety was never an issue."

"Well, then." He looks at his hands, fiddles with his fingers. He can see his breath coming in white puffs as he tries to find the best thing to say. "Good. I'm glad."

An obnoxiously loud, droning yawn drives him out of the utterly perfect moment. Ouma is leering at them through half-lidded eyes. "Eeeeeugh. If this was a movie, I'd be clicking off right about now."

"The hell's that mean," Momota says.

"It means he wants to whine and complain when no one asked him to be here." Harukawa turns her scowl to Ouma. "Go on. Leave if you're so unhappy."

"Um, I don't think we should do any more splitting up," Saihara says diplomatically.

"Oh, I absolutely would, if I had something as stupidly cliche as a friendship bracelet to be out here risking pneumonia for," Ouma says. "Seriously, Momota-chan? For as much as you like to ramble on about the importance of your friendship and whatever, all I'm seeing is that having friends entails some silly obligation to almost getting yourself killed over a dumb piece of string."

It's about as acidic as Saihara would expect coming from Ouma, but it does serve to remind him that he's supposed to feel guilty. He should probably apologize for inadvertently bringing them all here, but the first thing out of his mouth is, "It's a charm, not a friendship bracelet..." right as Momota gives Ouma a forceful shove on the chest.

"I fucking told you not to talk about my sidekicks like that," he says, and real anger flashes in his eyes. "Just because you don't understand it doesn't mean you get to fucking talk like that."

The clearing falls silent. Saihara flusters at his words, his first instinct being to talk things down, but he stumbles searching for what to say. When he glances to measure Ouma's response, the boy looks like he's been slapped.

"I-it's all right," Saihara says, putting a placating hand on Momota's shoulder. "I'm not upset. I know it's just Ouma-kun being Ouma-kun."

"So it's okay for him to be terrible, because he's terrible?" Harukawa says icily. "That's the worst excuse I've ever heard."

Momota doesn't respond to either of them, determined to stare Ouma down. Wordlessly, Ouma spins away from them, and Saihara realizes with a start that he's making to dash for the trees. It must dawn on Momota pretty quickly, too, because he snatches up Ouma's wrist before he can get too far.

"Oh no you fucking don't," he says, dragging him back. "No one's sending out any more search parties. You can run away and hide all you want once we're back at the inn."

"I know how to make it back on my own." Ouma's voice is pure poison. "Unlike a certain idiot."

"I don't give a shit. You're already fucking freezing," Momota closes both of his gloves over Ouma's unyielding hand as he talks, "and I'm not risking it."

Ouma yanks his arm back with enough force to pull it out of its socket. "As your master, I order you to release me!" he bellows.

Momota's eyebrows shoot up and he jolts, hissing at a volume he thinks only Ouma can hear, "Sh-shut the hell up. That doesn't count right now." He clears his throat and shifts attention to his waiting sidekicks. "...You guys got a map on you?"

Harukawa sets aside a moment to glower at them both before she retrieves the parchment from where it's tucked in her shirt, points and says, "North." She leads their quietly strained group for the remainder of the trek, falling into step alongside Saihara as the two of them take up the front.

"You better not be feeling guilty," she mutters under her breath. "About any of it. It's about time someone told off that brat."

Saihara's thoughts are very different from what she must assume. Momota's fist remains closed around Ouma's hand, and the latter smilingly spits venom the whole tread back. But Momota doesn't let go, even as Ouma scratches angry pink marks along his arm, until they're nestled into the warmth of the inn and Ouma is firing orders for Momota to crawl on all fours and pretend to be a dog. By then, the conviction that he'd won this round has faded completely and Saihara knows well that he hadn't, not really, not at all.

-

There's some squabbling over seating arrangements when they all pile inside the return bus. Ouma sat with Gonta on the way to the onsen, but now he's straggling through the aisles, complaining about how he didn't enjoy being squished against the window by Gonta's massive frame for the hours-long trip. Saihara, Harukawa, and Momota line up alongside each other, a single empty seat between them. Harukawa plops her handbag in the seat as soon as she catches Ouma making a beeline towards them.

"I appreciate the thought, Harukawa-chan, but that's no cushion," Ouma says. "I have no interest in getting stabbed in the butt by your knife collection."

"I don't have the patience for this. You deal with him," Harukawa growls to Saihara and Momota.  She retrieves her headphones and fastens them on tight. She cranks the volume up high enough that the calming sounds of bird songs and lakeshores leak out.

Momota says, "Look, we know if we let you sit here you're just going to start shit."

"Nuh-uh!" Ouma insists, crisscrossing his finger over his chest. "Cross my heart, hope to lie!"

"Yeah, yeah, that's what I fucking thought." Momota waves his hand in a shooing motion.

Ouma juts out his lower lip, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Fine, you bunch of jerks." He calls out down the aisle, "Gonta, let me sit on your lap—"

"Shuichi." Momota straightens up instantly. "Shuichi, is it okay with you if he sits with us?"

Saihara regards the empty seat.

"Hm? You sure changed your mind fast, Momota-chan," Ouma observes, poking his cheek and tilting his head. "Is it your hormones acting up again?"

"No, I'm just really fucking nice and forgiving," Momota snaps, "so I'm considering letting you sit with us. But only if my sidekicks agree to it. Of course."

"Of course."

"So, Shuichi?" Momota looks at him with hopeful eyes.

What would be the point of saying no? He answers, weakly, "I don't mind." When Momota taps her on the shoulder to ask her, Harukawa makes it clear that she minds, very much. Momota has Ouma swear that he won't make a peep for the whole ride, and while this does little to assure her, she just jerks away from them to glare out the frost-capped window.

They resituate so that Ouma is between Saihara and Momota. He pumps his legs under the seat like a child and makes primal grunting noises in lieu of speech until Momota threatens to kick him into the aisle.

Hours later, the sun casts yellow over the winter-browned fields flanking the bus' sides. Ouma's head slowly declines to the right to bump against Momota's shoulder. Saihara takes a look at his calm, sleeping face, slanted in late-noon light, and murmurs, "Momota-kun."

"Mm?" By the sluggish manner he responds, Momota is verging on a nap himself. When he cranes his neck a little to investigate the weight on his arm, one of Ouma's prickly tendrils of hair pokes him in the eye. "Ow."

Ever the observer, Saihara says nothing as Momota smoothes down Ouma's hair and makes no effort to reposition him. "Least he's a lot quieter like this," Momota mutters, as if that's supposed to be an excuse. He covers his mouth with his elbow to muffle a yawn.

Saihara rests his cheek on his fist. While he's waiting, he wonders exactly what point in time it was that Momota changed from the kind of person that would be shoving Ouma away right now, to the one that would allow himself to be used as a headrest.

His thoughts are disrupted when Ouma's eyes pop open wide and dart to meet his. He thinks to himself, How predictable. Except there's no sneering, scathing grin, this time. Only a silent question in his eyes, but what exactly Ouma is asking, Saihara isn't such a skilled detective that he can tell. He looks away in answer.

 

December 24th

 

They're in the library—just the two of them—Saihara with his neck bent over a geometry textbook, Momota flipping through a shoujo manga sleeved with the jacket of a book on propulsion systems that Saihara knows is far below his reading level. He spots the edges of the manga's shiny pink cover peeking over the fringe and hides his smile by holding up his own book.

Momota makes a frustrated noise not long into their study session, scratches his head roughly, rubs his chin in thought. When Saihara doesn't immediately ask what's wrong, he takes it a step further, tipping back in his chair and letting the pages splay flat over his face. Saihara tells himself he'll attend to Momota once he's finished this chapter.

His best friend is not as patient. "Shuichi," he begins, removing the covert manga from his face and slamming his chair down on its feet, "you're really smart."

Now he's wondering what Momota wants advice on, but when he replies, "Thank you, Momota-kun," he means it.

"Almost as smart as me," Momota goes on, "so hey, what would be a good present for a really fucking smart person?"

Saihara blinks. He knows Momota can be shortsighted, but did he seriously procrastinate on picking Saihara's gift so close to the holidays? "It... it depends, Momota-kun. Who are you talking about, exactly?"

"You don't know them," Momota says with a wave of his hand.

"...Right." Saihara clears his throat. "What kind of person are they? Other than being really smart."

Momota crosses his arms over his chest. "Really fucking annoying."

"Well." Suddenly the geometry is a lot more interesting. "That goes for a lot of people in this school."

He hadn't meant it to be funny, but Momota laughs, then seems to remember himself. He blows out a breath and runs his hand through his hair. "Bro. I'm serious. You're my last fuckin' resort, here."

Saihara glances at the hint of pink cover. So business, then, not pleasure. Accepting that he's never been able to deny Momota for long, he closes his textbook and offers his undivided attention. "You can't think of anything they might like?"

"No, they like a lot of shit," Momota responds smoothly. "A lot of stupid shit that tastes bad. But that's not the problem. It's—" He chews the inside of his cheek. "They always find a way to get what they want, without having to rely on anyone. I wanna get them something—something they couldn't just get themself."

"I... don't know how that's possible when you just said they can get whatever they want," Saihara says, not unkindly.

"That's why I thought I'd make the impossible possible," Momota says, "except I'm starting to feel like it actually is fucking impossible. Which it isn't, but you know."

Saihara doesn't know. "Uh huh..." he says. "In that case, Momota-kun, maybe you should... consider not what they want, exactly, but something only you can provide."

Momota bites his lip, chews his cheek some more. His gaze slides off to the side, thinking, and he says quietly, "No, that's no good. It... it has to be something amazing."

Saihara is caught off guard, here, at Momota's implication, and presumes he must have either heard or interpreted incorrectly. But then Momota straightens out, and the sudden change in atmosphere roils away. "Maybe tickets to a big theme park, or something? Not that I could afford it, and no one wants to do that in this weather." He laughs wryly. "But hey, that's a good idea for another time. They love games, so..." He falls silent, lost in thought again.

"Games, huh?" Saihara covers his mouth with a hand. "...tell me more about them. I still might be able to help."

"Well, they don't just like games, they like winning at them," Momota says, and the more he talks, the more the constriction in his jaw gives way. "He—they'll do anything to win, like—it's fucking crazy. And I thought I was competitive."

"Maybe you should challenge them to a game and let them win, then," Saihara suggests, half-joking.

"No way," Momota says. One corner of his mouth curls up in a crooked grin as he speaks animately with his hands. "They'd see right through it. Like I said, real fuckin' smart. Prideful, too. They'd try and kill me if I pulled some shit like that."

"That seems a bit drastic," Saihara says.

"I mean, I'm exaggerating."

"I know."

"They'd threaten it, but," Momota scratches his neck, "they'd never. They talk themselves up all day long, but only half of it is true. If even that much." 

"They sound kind of familiar," Saihara says.

Momota immediately backs up. "Oh, yeah? Huh. So, any ideas?"

Saihara looks back down at the grainy cover of his textbook. He draws his index finger over the lettering, and says, only half thinking, "No. Sorry. I couldn't begin to tell you what Ouma-kun wants."

He freezes as he registers his own words. He hesitates to raise his head. When he finally musters the courage, Momota doesn't even appear to have heard what he'd said. He's not focused on Saihara at all.

Their table is propped against an arched black window, and that's what Momota is turned to. It presents to them a picturesque view: a gleaming sprawl of city, wrapped in a silent white film of snow, a token of the prestigious grounds they walk. Momota's eyes reflect the little white stars blinking, the smiling crescent moon.

Saihara tries to call out to him, but his voice dies in his throat. He wonders if Momota would even hear him.

"So you already knew, huh?" Momota gradually turns his head to Saihara, and his intense stare makes way for a big, toothy grin. "That's my sidekick for you. Man, I was stupid for thinking I could get anything past you."

"Momota-kun?" Saihara says, helplessly.

"You figured everything out, right?" Momota presses gently. "About me and him."

"...I don't know what counts as 'everything'," Saihara says, mindful of his words, "but I've known... I've noticed how you act differently around each other for a while, now." He falls quiet. "...Like he's special."

"Aw, man." Momota chuckles weakly and leans forward on his elbows, bending down so Saihara can only see the top of his head. "Is that because you're sharp, or because I was too obvious?"

"...For what it's worth," Saihara murmurs, "it wasn't just you who was being obvious."

He's taken aback when the fearless, thundering Luminary of The Stars shows him a smile that can only be described as shy. "You think so, huh?"

Saihara nods once. When Momota doesn't say anything, seemingly content to eyeball the table's surface, he realizes it's up to him to draw this out. "I think we should talk about this."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course." Momota sits up straighter, but keeps his elbows on the table, one finger tapping out an unsteady beat on the sheathe of his manga. Saihara senses the infinitesimal vibration of him minutely bouncing one leg underneath the table. "I'm sorry, Shuichi."

Saihara blinks. "What?"

"I'm sorry," Momota repeats, more firmly. "You're mad that I kept it secret from you, right?"

"Momota-kun, no," Saihara scrambles to assure him, bewildered. "I'm not—I could never be mad at you," he says without thinking.

"You should be," Momota says. "I always tell you that you rely on me, and I rely on you, but," he grips his arm, his fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve, "then I keep shit from you, go behind your back. It's not fair to you."

Saihara opens and closes his mouth. He has no idea where this is coming from, and grapples for the right thing to say. "I," he starts out, stops. He tugs at his bangs. "I understand if... if there are some things you don't want to share with me, right away. That doesn't make me angry." He hesitates before pushing forward. "But... I will admit, it does make me a little—sad, I guess, to think that you don't trust me the way I trust you."

"It's not you," Momota says quickly. "I mean—shit." He forces out an awkward laugh, massaging his forehead with his fingers. "I mean, you could be my grandma's cat, Shuichi, and I'd still have problems just talking about this kind of crap out loud."

"Are you speaking from experience?"

He smiles sheepishly. Saihara smiles back and feels some tension leave his shoulders.

He plays with his fingers in his lap. Taking a gamble, he says, "...if there's someone—even if it's not me—that you can share it with, then... that makes me happy for you." He realizes with some relief that it's not entirely a lie.

Momota breathes out. "Thanks, man. It's just—" He manages to meet Saihara's eyes. "...This won't make things weird between us. Right?"

Saihara stares, unsure precisely what out the litany of reasons he could be referring to. But Momota is looking at him with—something else he'd never seen from him, until today—barely bated fear. Not the kind that follows talk of undead and resurrections, but the kind that comes with the uncertainty of a raw wound laid bare, the hope of being treated gently.

"Of—of course, not, Momota-kun," Saihara says, heedless of his voice rising in volume, "nothing could ever—I would never—"

"Shuichi, we're in the library," Momota reminds him, a shushing finger to his lips. Saihara flushes, and Momota chuckles good-naturedly. "But it's okay. I get what you're—"

"Nothing could ever stop me from wanting to be with you," Saihara blurts out.

His eyes burn holes through the red pattern on Momota's shirt. He holds his breath, keeps holding it until he feels Momota's bony fingers disheveling his hair. He lets go.

"Yeah," Momota says easily. "We'll always be friends."

Saihara bobs his head weakly. He's thankful there's the table separating them. If not, Momota might go in for a hug right about now, and Saihara doesn't think he could bear it.

Momota's fingers slope off his skull, and he thinks about how he'll miss that feeling.

"Man." Momota heaves out a long, world-weary sigh. His stiff posture goes entirely limp, and he sinks down, flopping his long limbs over the chair. "That wasn't half as fuckin' bad as I thought it'd be. Thanks, Shuichi."

"Um, you're welcome," Saihara offers.

Momota steeples his fingers together and flexes them out in front of him. "Dunno if Harumaki is gonna be quite as chill as you when I tell her."

Saihara tries and fails to stop himself from gawking. "You're—going to tell Harukawa-san?"

Momota quirks an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah?"

"About you and Ouma-kun?"

"Yeah, dude."

"Harukawa-san?"

"Jesus, Shuichi, ye—"

"You're going to—"

"—dude, come on," Momota cuts him off. "This is Harumaki we're talking about."

"...Yes..." Saihara says slowly.

"I know how she feels, all right?" Momota says. "I don't know if you remember, but I wasn't exactly Ouma's biggest fuckin' fan either when we first met."

Their first year at Hope's Peak, Momota had chased Ouma into busy traffic when he spoiled one of Akamatsu's recitals by modifying her piano so that it made farting noises when a key was pressed. Ouma jumped off a bridge and almost drowned during his escape. Momota was lucky to only be hit by a scooterist, which broke his arm. And Ouma was lucky that Harukawa and Momota weren't friends yet.

"I think Harukawa-san still feels more strongly than you ever did," Saihara says gravely.

"Maybe," Momota says, all too relaxed. "But I know our friendship is more important than hating him. I just need to get them to spend some time together, and she'll come around. Just like I did." He rubs his shoulder. "Er, not just like I did. But you know what I mean."

Saihara has never been able to talk Momota out of his delusional faith before, and he has no desire to ruin the peaceful climate they've achieved. "If you say so, Momota-kun."

"I do," he says with a confident grin. "But don't worry, I won't tell her right away. Need to test the waters first."

"I think that's a good idea," Saihara agrees swiftly.

"Eventually, I'll tell everyone," Momota goes on. "Akamatsu and the rest. My grandparents, too. I just need to... get my head on straight."

"Take as much time as you need, Momota-kun."

Momota nods. After a moment's hesitation, he rises out of the chair, tucking his manga under his arm. His gaze lingers on the window. "Thanks again."

"Don't mention it. Really." Saihara gets out a smile. "Thank you for... for trusting me."

Momota's eyes pass over him, thoughtful. "You know, I think I do have an idea for a gift, after all."

Saihara blinks. "You do?"

"Yeah. That's thanks to you, too." Momota throws him a thumbs up. "Don't stay up too late, sidekick. I know how you get distracted." 

He yanks his coat off the ear of his chair, pulls it over his shoulders. Saihara watches the galactic underside glide past a bookshelf and disappear.

 

New Year's Eve

 

They exchange New Year's gifts in the near-empty common room. Momota presents to his sidekicks a pair of planets in miniature, wedged to silver necklace chains, delicate and more delicate still in his rugged hands. Venus for Harukawa, Neptune for Saihara. He offers to lay the chains over their necks and fix the clasps, but contrary to popular belief, Saihara is not a masochist.

"We get him something space-related because he likes space. He gives us something space-related because he likes space," Harukawa scoffs, fingering the chain, sliding her thumb over the lacquered red surface. Her hand lingers there for much of the night.

As she'd indicated, Harukawa gives Momota a mug plastered with the image of a cat in space because she assumed he'd find it funny—he does, perhaps overly so—and Saihara a new scarf, since he'd been complaining so much of the cold. She prefaces this, as she has every past gift-exchanging venture, with the warning that she's a terrible gift giver. Saihara dons the scarf and marvels at its softness while Momota vigorously fills his mug with tea to advertise how incorrect she is.

"And this is from the kids," she says, producing from behind her a container inexpertly tied with a cloth ribbon. "They wouldn't stop whining until they were confident I'd have it delivered to you two." 

She undoes the knot, and inside is a sizeable mound of misshapen chocolate chip cookies. Saihara reads the tag held down by the ribbon to find his and Momota's names misspelled. He smiles unthinkingly at the memory of tiny children climbing over him, tugging at his shirt sleeves and hem, of a group of little girls forcing Momota to play tea party at their too-small table set.

Harukawa has another warning, this time about the high chance that the kids swapped sugar for salt. The boys dig in without a word. They're definitely edible, Saihara thinks, when downed with tea.

Now it's his turn. For Harukawa, a shiny new hairpin to replace the one she'd lost when she threw her satchel at Iruma. For Momota, a scrapbook—encased in galaxy-printed bookbinding, naturally—full of photos of the three of them, of their classmates, of festivals and birthdays and school events, of every token he could collect over the years. And heartfelt passages scrawled beside each that he's embarrassed to have ever put to paper the second he hands it over.

But—no. There's no shame in his feelings. That's been drilled into him by now. Momota flips to the first page, and even as his hands go wet and clammy, Saihara forces out, "So you don't forget about us, when you're up in space."

Momota looks up. Saihara sees the tells before he springs, but his full-body tackle-hug still almost takes them both to the ground. Harukawa bolsters Saihara's to standing with one hand, and her reprimand is cut short by Momota dragging her into the fold.

Night falls outside. Harukawa goes to bed so she can wake early to meet them at the shrine, but Saihara stays with Momota in the common room. They chat sparsely, him nestled with a book and Momota idly tapping away at his phone. Momota gets up to go to the bathroom, leaving his phone out and on, a square of light in an otherwise nearly pitch-black room.

He doesn't think it's Momota's carelessness as much as it is his assumption no one would bother to mess with it. Saihara fights with himself for all of five seconds before craning his neck towards the screen.

 

kokichi : omg momota-chan stop being dumb

kokichi : it's a very useful gift

kokichi : it saves me the time i was going to spend picking your lock

 

user : Im not fucking dumb but also

user : Does that mean 

 

kokichi : uhhhhhhhh ofc mr. im not dumb-chan

kokichi : u think i was just going to let the hero go on to graduate, fulfill his dreams, and live happily ever after ???????

kokichi : a decent villain would never stand for such a boring ending !!!!!!!

 

user : Whatever you say man

user : And I know I already said it but thanks

user : Seriously

 

kokichi : shhhhh

kokichi : is that any way to talk to your archnemesis??

 

user : Nah

user : But it is how I talk to my boyfriend

 

He could scroll up or down, see the full context behind what's being said, except he doesn't need to. Instead, he pushes the off button, sits back, and waits for Momota's return. It takes the bells tolling for him to realize how late it is.

Momota stayed within his sights most of today but had disappeared somewhere on Christmas Eve. If Ouma ever gave Momota anything, no one else is privy to it. Saihara is beginning to recognize that pattern.

 

New Year's

 

He can't find it in him to be surprised when they meet Momota at the temple and, sticking to his side like a thorn and out like a sore thumb, is Ouma.

Trudging along at his side, Harukawa's nails bite into her palms. He learns later that Momota had the forethought to warn her before of his plus-one, and she had promptly refused to join them. Then Ouma caught wind of this and, in not so few words, decided he wasn't going if "Harumaki-chan is going to kill a cow over it". When it became clear that either alternative would make Momota miserable, they both sucked it up and agreed to play nice—or unarmed, at least.

And even later, she says to Saihara in a rare moment when they're alone, twisting her hair like she's trying to wring something out of it, "It didn't have to be me or you. But why... why him?"

Saihara has begun to put together an answer, but it's not like sharing it will do anything but hurt her further, now. When the wound isn't raw and Ouma isn't rubbing salt in it, maybe they can discuss it like adults and not sad children.

"Salutations. Saihara-san. Harukawa-san," Ouma says like a robot—a lesser robot, Saihara would think if Kiibo was here and could read his mind.

Momota elbows him. Ouma breaks character to pout and say, "What? You're the one that told me to be normal."

"Hello, Ouma-kun," Saihara says.

"Let's go," Harukawa says, already marching ahead.

Ouma tails Momota's back while the usual trio flanks each other. Saihara finds it in him to scoot to the side, so there's room for Ouma to take up the spot next to Momota that is normally reserved for himself. He's not so selfless that the tight feeling in his chest doesn't start to unravel until Momota smiles at him gratefully.

Even the boys are dressed in the traditional kimono, as a special sendoff to their last year at the academy. Momota and Ouma's arms fall close together as they walk side by side, the long sleeves slinking down well past their fingertips. They're so long, Saihara doesn't have visible evidence but only a gut instinct that the two of them are holding hands underneath.

They climb the steps. Saihara drinks in the sight of the weathered shrine, the birdsong that comes just before dawn, warbling over the mumble of the crowds. He doesn't know if he'll be here next year, if ever again at this same shrine. Following graduation, he and the rest of the class will be moving onto bigger and broader horizons—doubly true for Momota, whose presence will become scarcer and scarcer if he wants to make it to the galaxy within the next couple of years. He already has the key to his new apartment.

Saihara briefly wonders where Ouma is keeping his as Momota reaches the top of the stairs first and pays the usual modest tribute to the offering box. Right behind him, Ouma flicks a counterfeit coin off his thumb, and Momota snorts, "Leave it to you to lie to the fucking gods." But the way he looks down at him is less irritated and more like a boy in love.

Harukawa drops her coin into the offering box like she's tossing trash in a bin. She passes by Ouma on her way back down the stairs, and her fingers twitch at her sides.

Saihara's own fingers have dug crescent-shaped marks into his hands. He regards the offering box doubtfully. He realizes he's disillusioned. He wants to take his feelings out on someone, but excluding himself, he doesn't know who to blame. He imagines going up to the omikuji stall and demanding his money back. He wishes that Momota had passed by and seen the ema he'd written last year, even though his response would probably have been, "Hey, look, somebody's crushing on a dude with my name. Funny."

The nasty, childish frustrations expand in his chest and threaten to pour out. Then, like usual, it all seeps inward. In addition to being a loser in love, he's now short a hundred yen.

Then he turns his head to where Momota is standing, palms clapped together, eyes softly shut, looking the most serene Saihara has ever seen him. The cuff of his sleeve has slipped down so that Saihara catches a glimpse of the magenta-indigo thread laced around his wrist.

Saihara breathes in. He thinks, it wasn't all a lie. Even if Momota doesn't look at him with the stars in his eyes, Saihara was lucky just to have met him. Still.

Still, it doesn't completely dull the ache of his heart being clawed in a lovesick half.

"I'm an esper, so I already know," Ouma says, hands clasped, grinning out of the corner of his eye, "but what is everyone going to pray for?"

Saihara peers back down at the offering box. He puts his palms together and sighs. Better luck next time.