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The line in front of Amami’s table is so long it snakes around the perimeter of the convention center and disappears out the open door. The sight of it makes Amami want to turn around and leave, forget all notions of doing this and fall into bed at home—but obviously he can’t do that. He’s here for a reason, and anyway, if he left, he’d be leaving Sako to endure it by himself, and that wouldn’t be fair.
He does sigh, though, running both of his hands through his hair and flopping back into his seat. This was already old within the first fifteen minutes of his very first meet and greet. Now on his fifth, it hasn’t gotten any easier. If anything it’s just gotten even more agonising to sit through, knowing that while he has more experience than some of his friends, he still has no idea what’s coming. He could meet a bunch of very respectful fans, or…
Well. Or. That’s the reason why Amami hates this so much, above all else. When he lowers his arms to his sides, his anguish must still be visible on his face, because Sako claps his shoulder firmly, offering a slight, reassuring grin that crinkles his eyes. It’s remarkable how easily he can pull those up and look so genuine about it. Amami can smile, sure, but he doesn’t always mean it. Not in the way that Sako usually seems to.
“It’s just three hours,” Sako says consolingly. “If you meet anyone decent, just keep them talking to you for a long while, no matter how impatient the people behind them seem to be getting. When the three hours are up, they have to let us leave even if there are still people in line.” He winks. “It’s foolproof.”
“Not bad,” Amami admits with a low chuckle. Sako pulls his hand away and smiles wider. “You do that last time?”
At that, Sako grumbles quietly under his breath. “Not as much as I would have liked to. Have you ever been to one of these events with your girlfriend before? Don’t answer that,” he adds quickly, before Amami can remind him that he’s gay, “but Christ, the amount of shit Sayuri was putting up with. I’m just relieved there aren’t any girls here this time.”
Amami hums in agreement. Not that fans aren’t weird to the guys, or anything, but it’s different with the girls. There’s a portion of the fanbase who seems to think they’re obligated to the girls—to their time, their touch, even their affection. Gui—Sako’s girlfriend—is funny and beautiful and not to mention a returning cast member from the previous season, so of course she draws all kinds of awful attention. That doesn’t make it any less of a relief that she isn’t here right now, that she doesn’t have to endure the comments that she must have during her last visit with Sako.
Before Amami can say any of this aloud, it’s announced over the loudspeakers that the meet and greet is beginning, and the first people in line come up to the table with prints and other pieces of merchandise in hand. Amami puts on his usual, mysterious grin as he greets them, but inwardly he wants to cringe away. From all of it—the invasive questions and the posters with his face on them and the occasional touches from across the table—but most of all the admiration, the way they look at him with wide, sparkling eyes, like they know him, like they love him.
None of these people, not a single person in this building with the exception of Sako, knows Amami. Amami barely even knows Amami. He knows who Team Danganronpa made him and who he was in the game. In fact he knows that a little bit too well considering that none of it was ever real. He remembers the names of each of his sisters, their birthdays, their favourite colours. If he focuses hard enough he can even remember how each of them had laughed, what their smiles looked like. Them, Amami knows. The person he was in the game… Amami knows.
But that wasn’t him. The Amami before the game was… a nobody. He remembers very little of that time, just flashes of math notes and a long, lonely walk home from a school he can’t remember. The way he laughs and plays the part is easier than breathing, which makes Amami think that perhaps he knew that even before the game—and the way that people smile at him without seeing him, touch his shoulder and tell inside jokes that he’s never thought were funny… that’s familiar too. As for anything else, though… Amami knows that just about as well as anyone else in this room.
It’s easy enough to fall into a rhythm at least, uncomfortable questions and touches aside. He signs with his left hand and says vague, complimentary things that could maybe be construed as flirting, and he exchanges conspiratorial exasperated looks with Sako every time things get unbearable, and otherwise… he tunes out. He has to, or he won’t get through this. Sako had said three hours before as a reassurance, and Amami can see why it was meant to be.. The reminder that this isn’t forever, that they’ll be allowed to leave when they’ve done their time, that is reassuring, in its own way.
Three hours… is a long time, though. Especially when you’re doing something you hate. Amami forces himself not to look at the clock, looks nowhere but at the faces of his fans and the posters they want him to sign, and he lets the minutes pass by, the only sign of his agitation being the way his leg bounces underneath the table.
He only starts to pay attention again when a group of three fans comes up to him, standing close together, and none of them speaks or even hands off a print to sign. Amami lifts his head after a moment of silence, expecting for them to be shy, or maybe… in awe, as conceited as that sounds, but… he pauses, when he makes eye contact with the tallest member of the group.
The boy—around Amami’s age, Amami thinks—has a distinct enough face that Amami thinks he would remember it, if he’d seen it before. And yet he’s familiar, with his strong jawbone and his dark, brooding purple eyes, like a face Amami has seen in his dreams. He has a tuft of facial hair on his chin and his hair is styled into a ridiculous spiked updo, but despite the energy that the style implies, he looks at Amami with a dissatisfaction to him, an upset. He stares and he frowns and Amami shifts in his place, suddenly uncomfortable under the weight of that stare.
Or… not uncomfortable. Maybe. But there’s something about it…
“Momota,” one of the others in the group says. Amami blinks as he remembers there were others present and looks down at the girl who just spoke. She has blonde hair that tumbles over her shoulders in waves, dull pink eyes, and a black choker around her neck. She looks just as grumpy as her friend—the one she just called Momota— but her eyes aren’t even on Amami. They aren’t on Momota, either, but on the dusty convention floor. “You didn’t bring a print?”
Momota—apparently—grumbles and rubs the back of his neck, gaze averting. “Why would I bring a fucking print?” he asks. His voice is sullen, moody in a way that’s to be expected of a high school boy, yet… Amami thinks he detects a hint of something else. “This wasn’t even my idea.”
“You guys are being a bit rude,” the third, a boy shorter than both Momota and the girl, says quietly. He clears his throat, brushing a strand of dark hair out of his violet eyes, and takes the final step up to the table. He offers an awkward but polite smile in Amami’s direction. “Um, hi, Amami-san. We don’t actually have anything for you to sign, but we wanted to meet you anyway.”
Amami blinks. That’s pretty rare, actually. Most fans will at least want a justification to ramble to him, though given that he’s not even sure that that is the reasoning behind this interaction, he supposes it isn’t really comparable. None of these three even have any merch on them. The girl is dressed in a school uniform with an old grey cardigan pulled over, and the two boys are dressed modestly without even a hint of monochrome, vibrant magenta, or other colours or decals that might give them away. They just look… like regular teenagers. And they certainly aren’t acting like they want to be here.
It’s weird. Amami can’t decide whether he’s uncomfortable or intrigued.
“That’s perfectly fine,” he assures the shorter boy, smiling slightly. “We can talk for a little while. What are all of your names?”
The boy who addressed him avoids eye contact, fiddling with the cord on a pair of cheap earbuds that dangle around his neck. “Ouma,” he replies eventually. “That’s Akamatsu,” he adds, pointing back at the girl, “and that’s Momota.”
Upon being introduced, Momota’s frown deepens, though he doesn’t look to be especially peeved at Ouma. His eyes focus on the shorter boy for only a moment before he’s looking at Amami again, that same unreadable quality as before playing in his expression. It’s unsettling. Or at least, that’s what Amami wants to call it, because he doesn’t know how else to identify the wriggling in his stomach. It really does feel like he should know Momota from somewhere, that they’ve met before, but… surely Amami would know. That isn’t a forgettable face—a forgettable hairstyle. He just feels like the kind of person Amami would pay attention to.
“I got somethin’ on my face?” Momota asks. Amami blinks, realising he’d been staring. He smiles automatically, shaking his head.
“Sorry, no. Your face is fine.” He chuckles, reaching back to scratch his neck. “It’s just…”
He hesitates. He’s not sure why, really, except that Momota could take it the wrong way, or… or he could be wrong, and that would be pretty embarrassing. It almost seems like Momota really wants him to continue, though, because his frown lessens as his gaze intensifies, near burning into Amami. Sure, Amami could imagining it, but maybe…
…
Well. It doesn’t matter. Even if Amami knew Momota at one point—if Momota knew Amami— then acknowledging that will only lead to heartbreak for the both of them. Amami still has another season to complete, and Momota… is a stranger to him now. Regardless of the deja vu, and regardless of the indecipherable emotion (sadness, Amami thinks) in Momota’s eyes.
“Nevermind,” Amami says lightly. He chuckles. “I honestly don’t know what I was going to say. I guess I just spaced out.”
Momota’s expression closes off immediately. He turns his head away, glaring down at the floor, and Amami’s stomach clenches with… something. Guilt, maybe, or something stronger, like… grief. Regret. Would Momota have smiled, if Amami had said what he was thinking? Maybe he would have spoke? As things are, the other boy just shrugs and leaves the line without another word, his hands shoving into his pockets. Amami thinks he mutters something to his friends as he goes, but whatever it is, he doesn’t hear it. Akamatsu follows without even a glance back in Amami’s direction, but Ouma lingers, his lower lip drawn between his teeth.
He glances between Momota and Amami, as though considering speaking.
“Don’t feel bad,” he says finally. “He’s… well, it probably wouldn’t be fair for me to talk for him, huh.” He smiles again, another polite smile that falls as he starts to turn away. “Thank you for your time, Amami-san. Good luck with the rest of your fans.”
Amami watches him leave, his brow furrowing. It feels wrong, just letting them leave like that, but what is he supposed to do? Call after them? The next fans are already coming up in line.
Besides, what he thought before still applies. Momota is a stranger to him now, if he ever was anything. It’s probably just… better that this be painful now, rather than later.
Picking up his pen and ignoring the concerned look Sako is giving him, Amami finds his usual smile to give the next group that’s come up to the table. He can’t focus on the guilt or the regret right now, on the way his stomach churns as the one person who may or may not know him better than anyone else in this building leaves it. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he gets through this and get back to the facility with a smile on his face so nobody will know there was ever a problem to begin with.
That’s what he does best, after all. That’s who Amami Rantaro is now.