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Ten years after graduation, Shuuichi takes a vacation.
It's not that he hasn't taken any breaks in the meantime. There have been long weekends and short beach holidays, lazy days at home. But taking down such a large corporation like Danganronpa takes money and effort and a lot of overtime, and in all of those ten years never once has Shuuichi had the opportunity to actually leave Japan.
A lot changes in ten years. There are new laws now that restrict what can and cannot be shown on reality TV. There are new phone models and new electric cars, new, more exciting celebrities. When he leaves home Shuuichi’s no longer recognized immediately, sometimes not even at all. He has more friends now, neighbors with whom he shares recipes and old university classmates that insist on staying in touch, but throughout it all he always had Harukawa and Himiko. They changed as well. Harukawa is more comfortable in her own skin. She is quicker to laugh or to smile. She spends five days a week in the gym and has the muscles to show for it, but rather than threats of violence she uses them to pick up the children she works with, spinning them around and around to peals of laughter. Himiko is perhaps the biggest change of them all. For one, she’s grown taller. She would never be as tall as he is, but on a good hair day she boasts of being taller than Harukawa, daring to boss her around. On a very good day, Harukawa might even play along.
Ten years changes a lot but the nightmares stay the same, especially around the anniversary. So when Harukawa corners him in a moment of sleep-deprived weakness and asks him where in the world he would want to go to, anywhere anywhere at all, he says London without even thinking about it. Two weeks later he's on a plane.
London is busy. Even though he knows it is a much smaller city than Tokyo it feels more crowded, especially to his jet-legged self. He watches it from the windows of a black cab, fascinated by the mix of old and new architecture, the rivers of people flowing everywhere, caught up in their lives.
The cab drops him off in a neighborhood called Shoreditch, where Himiko has booked him into a boutique hotel. She had insisted that if it were left up to him, he would have found himself in a rat infested room without any windows, and as always when it comes to Himiko, he has chosen the path of least resistance. He has to admit the place is pretty nice. There are tasteful artworks decorating the lobby and halls, and the room is fairly large, overlooking the busy street below.
Shoreditch apparently is known for its colorful and vibrant street art, which at least explains why Himiko would have chosen it for his accommodation; she has graduated from magic to art in the intervening years. So after a short rest in his room, that’s how he spends his first day in London: walking around Brick Lane, taking photos of every graffiti he can see. The neighborhood is humming with life. It’s the weekend, and a temporary market has popped up in the main street, vendors selling anything from vegetables to clothes to children's toys, families braving the chilly October weather to wander around, couples walking hand in hand as they peruse the wares. Shuuichi feels invisible in the thrum of people. He feels free.
On his second day he decides to buy a ticket for one of the big red buses he has seen advertised for tourists all over the place. Despite the cold wind, he sits outside on the second floor of the bus and listens as the Japanese audio guide tells him 2,000 years worth of stories: ghost stories from the Tower of London, love stories about Queen Victoria and Prince Alberts, tales of wars and heroism as they pass Piccadilly Circus. He has learned to love history over the years. At first it was picking up books he thought Shinguuji or Toujo would have liked, but then it was for his own sake. People long gone, who could only ever be remembered through their stories - it appealed to him. It was a comfort.
On the third day, Shuuichi indulges himself and heads to Baker Street. He’s glad he has spent a not insignificant chunk of the past decade improving his English. It had been useful for advocacy, to tell their story to the world outside of Japan and see the international condemnation pouring in, helping to bury Danganronpa. Now, it is useful for more than just that – the public transportation in London is a confusing mass of underground tunnels and overground trains and two decker buses, lines with names that he can barely pronounce in his heavy Japanese accent. He manages to get by with little to no assistance from locals, taking the overground to Canada Water (they’re in the United Kingdom?) and then switching to the underground, taking the Jubilee line right to Baker Street.
He leaves the station and immediately comes face to face with a statue of Sherlock Holmes. It’s the middle of the week, and the slightly chilly October wind reminds him that it’s not exactly prime tourist season, so the area is relatively bare of tourists. It allows him the dubious honor of taking an awkward selfie with the statue, Himeko’s threat about taking lots and lots of photos still ringing in the back of his head. He doesn’t have any social media – has been avoiding it like the plague, even when Harukawa started a fitness themed Instagram and Himeko has become a sensation on something called pixiv – but he thinks that if he had one, he would have tagged this photo 2detective2furious.
It’s not as hard to think about the title as it used to be. For years, Shuuichi has done everything in his power to distance himself from the moniker. He studied law instead of criminology in college, rebuffed all invitations to join the police or be involved with any type of criminal prosecution. Even during his time on Danganronpa, he had constantly felt like a fraud. Finding out he really was one… well, honestly, in the grand scheme of things and all the revelations of that final trial, it had fallen by the wayside, but that doesn’t mean that he had forgotten it.
Still, with time, and repeated exposure, comes a certain kind of peace. He no longer flinches when his landlady asks him to solve a puzzle for her, or when a coworker mentions off-handedly that he reminds them of the main lead in the latest popular detective show. When Harukawa gave him a mug saying “World’s Okayest Detective” for his last birthday, he had even laughed.
Maybe that’s why he wanted to go to Baker Street, even as he feels ridiculous standing in a fake living room of a fake house listening to fake stories about the fake man who never lived there, surrounded by families with bored looking teenagers. He’s not a detective – will never again be one – but Saihara Shuuichi was as much of a fictional detective as Sherlock Holmes ever was. With a much lesser degree of international notoriety, fortunately.
He listens as the guide – clad, of course, in tweed and a stalker hat – tells them about life in Victorian England. He imagines bodies lit by gas lanterns, kneeling in the rain to take a closer look at a clue, a steady partner beside him. Chasing down suspects in smoke filled pubs, gathering a family in the parlor to accuse them of different lies and crimes one by one. Sherlock Holmes featured in countless stories, lived countless lives, both in Victorian England and beyond. Shuuichi is grateful to only have this one.
In the gift shop, he picks up a teddy bear dressed like Sherlock Holmes for Harukawa, knowing the kids she works with would love it. He is always ready and willing to make another dent in her façade as a serious, cold woman.
By the time he leaves the house, the weather has shifted. He had been lucky so far, but now the infamous British weather has finally shown up, and a steady stream of wet drizzle is coming down from the heavens. He hasn’t had lunch, but he isn’t quite hungry yet, so instead he tries to look for a nearby coffee shop where he can hide from the rain, have some tea, and plan his next move. The main street is full of the big chains, but when he peers down a nearby side street he can see a sign for a coffee shop advertising an all-day full English breakfast and a wide variety of scones. He opens the door, hears the bell jingle, and sees Ouma Kokichi.
Immediately, he knows that can’t be right. He is older than the Ouma Kokichi that haunts his dreams. The age he would be, same as Shuuichi, if he had made it to graduation. Not much taller than he was, but sturdier, somehow, holding himself differently. His hair is longer than Shuuichi remembers, gathered into a ponytail at the base of his neck, the illusion of order in the unruly mess that frames his face. He has lost some of the roundness to his features, maturing into them instead: high cheekbones, button nose, fuller lips.
Ouma Kokichi is dead. His eyes though. They remain exactly as he remembers: intense, colored vividly, and focused entirely on him.
“Could our dear customer please close the door behind him?” The voice is accented exactly as Shuuichi might expect from any British barista. “You’re letting in the rain.”
Shuuichi feels himself stumble away from the door, letting it shut close behind him. He can’t look away, his throat closing on any sound he might make. It’s not necessarily anything new. Over the years, he has seen shades of his friends in any passing stranger on the street: the same hair color as Akamatsu on a classmate in college, Momota’s build on a convenience store clerk, Angie’s tone of voice coming from the other side of an IT helpline.
But this isn’t that. It’s not just a likeness, or an echo. It’s Ouma Kokichi’s face staring at him across the room, Ouma Kokichi’s body standing behind the counter. No recognition in his eyes, no awareness, only a slight hint of curiosity in the raised eyebrow as Shuuichi continues to stand there, mute.
“So… are you ordering anything or…?” The barista - Ouma, it has to be him, how - prompts him. “I guess you could also just continue standing there. We aren’t exactly swimming with customers, and you’re pretty easy on the eyes.”
He’s right, the cafe is thankfully, blissfully empty, no one except Ouma to witness what feels like the complete breakdown of ten years worth of coping mechanisms. On unsteady legs, he makes his way to the counter, and forces himself to say: “What would you… recommend?” he tries to look at the menu, but it looks blurry, the letters blending into each other. He doesn’t even know if he could read katakana at the moment, let alone English.
“Aha, he speaks! Are you here just for drinks, or food as well?”
“Um,” he rakes his brain, trying to remember the name of… “Scone?”
“Sure, a classic. Jam or butter? Any drinks?”
“E- Earl Gray. And just butter, thank you.”
“No problem, take a sit!”
And Shuuichi does, more or less collapsing on the nearest chair. He can’t tear his gaze away from Ouma, even if he knows he must look deranged. It’s crazy how much he looks like Ouma, down to the very mannerism, the showmanship of him. He moves behind the counter like a performer on stage, and not a barista in an empty cafe. Every flick of his wrist is exaggerated, every turn of his head is elegant, his hair flowing behind him like a veil. It feels like he should be anywhere else but here.
He should be in a grave, Shuuichi thinks, and shudders.
He will be prepared, he decides. When he comes to give him his order, Shuuichi will catch him in conversation. Ask for recommendations for touristy things to do on a rainy day, maybe. He will sneak a look at his name tag, and just - make sure. He has to be sure -
“You know, usually when men look at me like you’re doing right now, I’m in a gay club in Soho, not on shift.”
Shuuichi startles so badly, he almost slips out of his chair. The barista is standing there, tray in hand, looking at him with a mix of pity and amusement. That feels familiar as well.
“A- Ah,” Shuuichi stammers, his face flushing. He has read of Soho in what little research he has done for this trip. He can only imagine the kinds of gay clubs that might be open there. “I - I’m sorry. It’s been… a long day.”
“Uh-huh. Tourist? First time in London?”
“How did you know?”
“You dropped your passport when you came in.”
Shuuichi jumps from his chair, finally managing to look away from Ouma to frantically look at the area near the door. “What - Where - “ And once again he is stopped in his tracks by a familiar laughter from behind him.
“Nishishi, sorry, just messing with you! I can see it poking from your pocket though. If I was a real criminal I could have snatched it up no problem!”
It’s Ouma, it’s Ouma, it has to be. An Ouma who is alive, who doesn’t recognize Shuuichi, who speaks English like a native, but still plays mean pranks and laughs when they work. He gives himself a moment to bite his lip as hard as he can, swallowing down every single question he has, before he turns back. “Thanks for letting me know.”
While Ouma sets down the tray, Shuuichi busies himself by moving his passport from his pocket to his backpack. He’s at the wrong angle to see Ouma’s name tag, and he mentally scrambles to find a way to keep him here for a bit longer.
“So my passport is how you knew I was a tourist. But how did you know it was my first time in London?”
“Great question! Just because.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It totally is. It’s just an answer you don’t like.”
“Usually an answer has additional information to it.”
“Who died and made you the communication king?”
Despite the shock and the pervasive fear that he might have really lost his mind, Shuuichi can still feel himself relax at the banter. It’s just so familiar, so nostalgic. “Well, I do have a law degree.”
“Ohhh, a fancy lawyer has graced us with his presence! Should I let everyone know? Should I throw a party? Should I invite the Queen.”
Shuuichi snorts out a laugh, and Ouma - the barista, no, Ouma - flashes him a quick grin. “Yeah, you look much hotter when you smile. I thought you were going to keel over and die when you first came in. Would have had to throw out your corpse. Waaaay too much paperwork if you die inside the premises.”
Shuuichi raises an eyebrow. “You sound like you have experience.”
“Wouldn’t ya want to know, Mr. Lawyer.”
Yes. Yes, I want to know everything. Shuuichi takes a sip of the tea placed in front of him to stop himself from blurting it out. Ouma takes the opportunity to take the seat opposite him.
“Is that… alright?”
Ouma waves him off. “Bah, no one’s here. Besides, I’m the owner! Won’t get me in trouble with myself.”
“Oh,” Shuuichi says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Or - he has too much to say, and doesn’t even know where to begin.
“Soooo… was it murder or wax?”
“What?”
“Bringing you to our lovely street.” Ouma leans forward, elbow on the table, leaning his head on his hand and peering up at Shuuichi. His name tag is still obscured. “Usually for tourists it’s one or the other.”
It still takes him a moment to comprehend what exactly he was asking. “A-Ah! The murder, I suppose.”
“Yeah, I figured. Mister Customer looks a bit too sophisticated for Tussauds’ freaky wax shit they try to pretend is art.”
“It’s Saihara. Saihara Shuuichi,” he says. It feels like every one of his senses is honed in on the man across the table, trying to find any hint of recognition.
But there’s absolutely nothing there. “In Japan it’s last name first, right? So which one should I call you?” and then he leers at him. “Not sure you want to know what I’ve been calling you in my head.”
Shuuichi huffs out a flustered laugh. “Um, I don’t mind. Whichever you prefer.” He already knows he won’t hear the same Saihara-chaaan that he remembers, but he’s a bit curious to see which direction this Ouma would go for: the polite but distant Saihara, no honorifics in English, or the more… perhaps culturally insensitive, but regionally appropriate, Shuuichi.
Maybe he really should take it as a final proof that this is really Ouma, as he contrarily chooses neither option. “Shuu, then!” he grins at him, and even through his fluster Shuuichi can tell that he knows exactly how familiar he is being. Despite his instinctive horror at the rudeness, Shuuichi can feel his heart jolt in his chest.
Still. It’s an opportunity, and if there was anything Shuuichi learned in law school, it was to grab any opportunity with two hands and pull. “It’s rude to give someone a nickname without giving them the opportunity to do it in return.”
“Oh?” Ouma asks. “But I have the feeling Shuu would die of blood loss if he even called a stranger by their first name, forget about a nickname.”
Stranger, stranger, stranger. But Shuuichi rallies himself. “Try me.”
A glint of interest sparks in Ouma’s eyes. He sprawls back in his seat, his nametag finally visible, even as his voice confirms what Shuuichi has known from the second he stepped foot in the door. “Kokichi Ouma, a humble barista at your service! And that’s Kokichi as my first name, so don’t even try to call me Ouma-san or anything like that. That would be cheating.”
“Kokichi-san, then,” he says, and before Ouma can object he adds: “Trust me, my friend would be very scandalized.” Not so much about the use of a first name when even Harukawa and Himiko are still Harukawa-san and Himiko-san, but about who exactly he was having a friendly conversation with. But it’s not like he could explain any of that, and besides, Ouma should be able to appreciate a little bit of a white lie.
Ouma opens his mouth - no doubt for another atrocious flirt - when the bell at the door rings and another dripping customer steps in. Ouma lets out such a theatrical heavy sigh that Shuuichi has to stifle a laugh. “You sound like an aggrieved dog.”
“A dog could at least bite annoying customers,” Ouma mutters, though not quietly enough judging by the newcomer’s scandalized face. He hops off his chair and swings around the counter, a big, fake smile on his face. “What can I get’cha?”
Later, Shuuichi won’t be able to describe his journey back to his hotel. When he is next aware of himself he is already sprawled on his bed, still wearing his clothes, coat and shoes included. In his hand is his phone, and he is staring at the list of contacts. He could call Harukawa, or Himiko. He should call them - should start a group video call, try to explain who he met today, theorize about what it could mean. Has Ouma survived his own martyrdom? Had he escaped Danganronpa, escaped Japan, made a new start in London and just… forgot it all?
This could be another one of his lies, the biggest, ugliest prank he could have played. Maybe the second Shuuichi left the coffee shop he burst into gales of laughter, crowing about the sad little ex-detective who once again fell into his trap, as if ten years never went by.
Or… he could be nothing more than what he seems. A Japanese-British barista, who never even heard of Danganronpa, let alone participated in it. Who really hasn’t recognized Shuuichi, just another strange customer. And sure, he flirted with Shuuichi, but he could have flirted with anyone who walked through that door. Shuuichi doesn’t know him. Shuuichi doesn’t know anything about him.
He lets the phone’s display dim, and then grow dark. He stares at it for a long time. He doesn’t call anyone.
He returns to the coffee shop the next day. He doesn’t know if he has a shift that day. Maybe he has other staffers, and yesterday was a one-off? It certainly didn’t look as though… Kokichi has much of an aptitude for customer service. Even though, he is prepared to camp in the coffee shop for as long as it takes, perhaps even engage in some covert interrogation of whichever barista might be manning the counter. He was caught off guard the day before, but he will do better today. He will know exactly the right questions to ask, exactly what to say to find out if…
When he enters, much dryer this time, it is, indeed, Kokichi who is standing behind the counter. The shop is slightly busier this morning – he sees a number of men and women in suits, presumably loading up on their morning caffeine before the work day begins, but there’s no one between him and the counter so Kokichi sees him instantly. Shuuichi watches, charmed in spite of himself, as a bright grin overtakes his features.
“It’s you! I was hoping you would come in again. Awfully rude to leave without saying anything.”
“Sorry,” Shuuichi apologizes, walking closer and letting the door shut behind him. “I forgot I hada n… appointment?”
Kokichi raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. A vacation appointment, I’m sure.”
“… Yes.”
“Well, then I am extremely honored that the busy lawyer found time to visit little old me again between all of his vacation appointments,” Kokichi says. “Same as yesterday, monsieur?”
Slightly more in control of his mental faculties this time, Shuuichi is able to actually read the menu. He has skipped the complimentary hotel breakfast, but honestly he’s still feeling somewhat nauseous, nervous butterflies wreaking havoc on his digestive system, so he says: “Just the tea, please.”
Kokichi rolls his eyes. “No wonder you look like a breeze could blow you away.” This time, Shuuichi stays by the counter, watching as Kokichi confidently moves around to prepare his Earl Grey. “Soooo what are the tourist’s plans for today, then? If you tell me you are actually going to that wax monstrosity this time I reserve the right to judge you for perpetuity.”
Shuuichi huffs out a laugh. “No wax for me,” he promises, before a flash of inspiration strikes him. “You’re a local, right? What would you recommend?”
“Yep! Lived in London my whoooooole life,” he confirms. “That’s an awful lot of trust you’re placing in me, Shu. I could just send you to all of the tourist traps.”
Shuuichi shrugs, unconcerned. “Would have probably fallen into those without you anyway,” he admits. It’s not like he had much time to do any sort of planning or research. Before he met Kokichi, his only plans were to see the Big Ben. Besides, falling into Ouma’s trap is the norm for him.
“Pathetic,” he sighs. “I suppose it’s my duty as a local to steer you right. Oh!” he claps his hands. “I could be your tour guide!”
Taken aback, Shuuichi asks: “Why?”
“Because if I left it up to you, you would only do the booooooring stuff like Buckingham Palace or Westminister or the other posh places. Mate, that’s no way to see London! Besides,” he leans in. “You’ve been staring at me so intently all this time - I want to see if you stare at anything else even half as studiously.”
He coughs, willing down the flush in his cheeks. “U-um…”
“It’s a transaction, yeah? Maybe when I come to Tokyo, you can show me around.”
Shuuichi latches on to that. “So you’ve never been to Japan?”
“Nope! My parents had to flee the country since my dad was an illegitimate heir to the Emperor and the Empress tried to have him assassinated.”
He rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the fond twitch of a smile. “The current Emperor doesn’t even have an Empress.”
“Oops, you got me! It was actually his mom, the Empress Dowager.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I don’t know if my patriotic spirit could handle the indignity of having my future Emperor act as a mere tour guide.”
“Ah, in that case, that was all a lie. So? What do you say?”
Yes. But still, Shuuichi has to ask. “What about your job here?”
“Hmm…” he hums, tapping his chin. “I guess I’ll have to quit.”
“Quit? I thought you owned this place?”
“Nope! That was also a lie. Just wanted to impress you,” Kokichi grins at him, more mischievous than any Cheshire cat.
Shuuichi spends the next few minutes convincing Kokichi that no, he didn’t need to quit, they could just plan around his shifts. Kokichi pouts and whines but Shuuichi didn’t go to law school for nothing, and by the time he leaves the coffee shop, they have an itinerary, and Shuuichi -
Shuuichi has a plan.
They meet in the place Kokichi marked for him on his navigation app first thing next morning. Shuuichi opts to take the bus from Shoreditch to Borough Market, and the morning traffic means he is slightly late to their appointment. Kokichi has insisted they meet early enough to beat the morning crowds, but Shuuichi thinks that even if the place was full of people he could have spotted Kokichi easily. This version of him has the same effortless magnetism from Shuuichi’s memories, the kind that meant that even back then, with all his suspicions and fears and doubts running wild, he could have barely looked away. Now, with an older, easier Ouma Kokichi, he has no chance.
Kokichi still has his hair in the same messy ponytail he sported in the cafe, but he is dressed for the weather now. The barista apron is gone, and instead he’s wearing a long, plum-colored trench coat, a burnt orange scarf loosely wrapped around his throat. He’s tapping at his phone, but seemingly senses when Shuuichi approaches, because he looks up straight at him. “Oh, good. I thought I got ditched.”
“Sorry, traffic.”
“Took the bus, didn’t you?” he asks, a knowing look in his eyes. “First London tip - always add 1.5 length to your journey if you’re avoiding the tube. Not that I can blame you, those tunnels stink.”
Shuuichi, who did find the whole experience a lot more off-putting than the Tokyo public transportation system, had to agree. “So? What’s the plan?”
“Food!” Kokichi declares. “And none of that stupid model diet shit, Shuu-chan, I’m going to feed you properly this time.”
He wants to object - he isn’t on a diet - but then… “Shuu-chan?”
Kokichi has the nerve to smirk at him. “Did some research,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to be culturally insensitive. This way I can maximize my nickname's fluster powers.”
Shuu-chan feels similar enough to Saihara-chan that he can feel his heart beat faster, his palms sweating. He needs to change the subject before he asks anything, demands anything of this stranger who looks and sounds so much like one of his personal ghosts.
“So… why is a food market more of a must see than the Big Ben?”
“I don’t like the tone of ridicule in your voice, Mister Tourist! Borough Market is much older than that ugly clock, so pay some respect.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Shuuichi apologizes, laughing. “I promise, I respect any and all historical sites.”
“Hmph, you better! Especially since this one is about to feed you. There’s been a market in this spot for 1000 years.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Nope! Truth. It used to be illegal for Londoners to come across the river to shop here because their own merchants were too greedy and jacked up the prices. I’m turning you into a medieval criminal.”
“I think medieval England would have much more of an issue with the two of us beyond our illegal market practices,” Shuuichi says dryly, and Kokichi laughs.
“Yup, guess so!”
They meander between the stalls, going after whichever smell catches Kokichi’s attention at the moment. Despite the early morning, the market is humming with the hustle and bustle of people. Kokichi, claiming that he doesn’t want Shuuichi to get lost, grabs his hand. Shuuichi is glad that the weather isn’t cold enough to require gloves.
Quickly he catches on to the pattern in Kokichi’s movements. He skips anything to do with seafood or meat, only pulling excitedly on Shuuichi’s hand towards the stalls that smell of sugar and bread. Shuuichi watches in half-revulsion, half-awe as he stuffs more and more sweet confectionaries into his mouth, donuts and muffins and cakes, dripping candy that leaves a sweaty residue on his palm as he tucks it against Shuuichi’s. If he casts his mind back enough, remembers well enough, he thinks he can conjure semi forgotten memories of Ouma Kokichi drinking disgustingly sugar heavy grape drinks, offering them to Shuuichi over and over again. The child that he had been then - scared and confused, half-mad with grief after Akamatsu’s death - had only ever regarded those offers with suspicion and distrust. Now he wonders if they might not have been another manifestation of the hand Ouma had extended to him time and time again. The hand that Shuuichi never took, until it was too late.
So now, when Kokichi offers him samples and bites, he doesn’t refuse. He bears his aching teeth and his heavy head, and is rewarded with carefree grins and continuous attempts to feed him from Kokichi’s fingers.
After the market, they board the train going east. When he tries to press Kokichi on where they’re going, he refuses to say. “Shuu-chan must be the world’s worst lawyer, if this is how impatient he is!”
“Being a lawyer is about working to get answers out of suspects, not just waiting for them.”
Kokichi’s smile turns sly and he leans in towards him. The train isn’t very crowded - it’s the middle of the week, and they’ve passed rush hour. Still, Shuuichi suddenly feels very aware of every single other person in their car. “Oh? So does Shuu-chan think I’ve committed a crime?”
“Earlier you told me you’ve been embezzling money from the cafe to pay for our outing today,” Shuuichi points out. He’s about 70% sure that was a lie, but that 30% is still rattling in there.
“No court of law would persecute me for wanting to spoil a cute boy on a date! I’m innocent of all crimes, your honor.”
This incorrigible flirt… “I thought you were just my tour guide? That seems unprofessional.”
“Unprofessional? Me?” Kokichi points to himself, pouting. “Not even once have I been accused of that in all 389 jobs I’ve worked in the last five years. How dare you.”
When they eventually get off the train, Kokichi leads him - by hand, again, and Shuuichi has to try very hard not to fixate on that - to a big, sprawling park. He points out a big, ornate building on one hand - “a really boring museum about boats, like who cares” - and instead they walk further inside the park. At this time of year, the autumn leaves have already started falling, and Kokichi zig zags between their piles to gleefully step on them, dragging Shuuichi behind him. He asks Shuuichi about his job, his apartment, his life in Japan, but when Shuuichi tries to ask the same questions he deflects and jokes. “We have to be on at least the fifth date before you can get to visit my flat, Shuu-chan! I don’t put out on the first date.”
Eventually, they reach a smaller building than the museum, situated on top of a steep hill that Shuuichi struggles to climb. The sign declares it “Royal Observatory Greenwich” and Shuuichi turns to Kokichi, skeptical. “Are we going to stargaze?”
“Are you stupid? It’s the middle of the day.”
Shuuichi shoves him a little in retaliation. “Why else would you go to an observatory?”
“Gah, Shuu-chan, so uncreative! Just shut up and follow me.”
As they walk around the museum, Kokichi tells him about Royal Astronomers of past. They keep getting dirty looks from other visitors, because Kokichi keeps telling outrageous lies - “No, I swear, he really did die because he was holding his pee!” - very loudly. Eventually, just as Shuuichi spots a hurried staff memberf approaching from the corner of his eye, Kokichi decides to finally show him the real reason they came and drags him outside.
“Ta-dah!”
Shuuichi looks around. In the distance he can see the Maritime Museum they passed earlier - the birthplace of Henry VIII, according to one of the plaques in the Observatory - but other than that and the peaceful views of the park he can’t see anything special. “What…”
“Under you, idiot!”
He looks down. Right between his feet there is a bronze line carved into the ground. “Huh?”
“Prime Meridian!” Kokichi bounces on his feet, and it’s very endearing. “You have one foot in the west hemisphere, and one foot in the east. Allllll time zones start here.”
Shuuichi considers the line. It doesn’t seem like anything special. He moves from one side, to the other, and laughs. “This is what we came here for?”
Kokichi lets out a wounded sound. “Shuu-chan is so cruel! So merciless!! Here I am, a poor maiden wanting to bring him to the center of my world, and this is how he repays me…”
“Sorry, sorry,” Shuuichi chuckles. “I guess this is pretty cool. Center of your world, huh?”
The hurt expression disappears like it was never there, and Kokichi smirks at him, a spark in his eyes. “Let me show you the rest of it.”
After this first date, Shuuichi is taken on a whirlwind tour of London. At his request Kokichi, with a lot of whining, takes him to see Big Ben and Westminster. He makes snide comments as Shuuichi takes photo after photo, rolling his eyes and chewing gum obnoxiously. When the tourists around them begin to have a pinched look, Shuuichi finally lets Kokichi drag him away. Instead of following the hoard of tourists headed over the bridge to the London Eye - an attraction Kokichi absolutely put his foot down and refused to go - Kokichi takes him along the river, and then down a partially hidden pathway leading right to the edge of the water.
“Are we allowed to be here?” Shuuichi wonders. Although the sun is out and there’s almost no cloud in sight, it feels colder than the previous few days he has spent in London, and he huddles into his coat. Next to Kokichi, skipping gracefully on the rocky beach, he feels awkward and unmoored.
Kokichi waves him off. “I have a permit,” he says, and then to Shuuichi’s amazement actually shows it to him.
“Mud…lurking…?” Shuuichi reads the foreign word out loud, trying to figure out what it means.
“We’re going to be detectives today, Shuu-chan!”
Shuuichi’s gloved hands curl into fists, and it’s an active effort to keep himself relaxed, to not flinch. “Detectives…?”
“Ta-dah!” Kokichi exclaims, and pulls out of nowhere two metal detectors.
“Where the hell-”
“Just like the Victorians did! Well, they didn’t have these bad boys around,” he waves the two metal detectors, “but still. Age old London tradition, and I’m sharing it with you! Imagine, Shuu-chan, what if we find some ancient Roman artifact? We could become known world-wide! I’ve always wanted to be a celebrity.”
This time, Shuuichi can’t stop himself from pulling a face, and Kokichi notices.
“Hmm, I guess you would be the shy and quiet type, huh? That’s ok. I can just sell whatever we find anonymously on the black market like I always do!”
They spend two hours on the beach, and Kokichi refuses to answer any of Shuuichi’s questions about the black market and Kokichi’s own supposed involvement with it.
On Sunday, Kokichi takes him to Hyde Park’s Speakers’ Corner. He tells him of the activists, politicians and writers who stood there, figures larger than life dotting London’s history. There are no people giving speeches at the moment, but it’s easy to imagine the crowd, the fervor. The power of words alone.
“What would you pontificate about if you stood there?” Kokichi asks him.
Shuuichi gives him a half-wry smile. “I got all of my pontifications out of me a long time ago.” When he asks Kokichi the same question, he is treated to a 20 minute rant ranking various British candy, and ends up promising Kokichi to try something called Marmite (?). From Kokichi’s mischievous grin he can tell that he is being played some sort of prank upon, but he is happy enough to go along with it and try something new.
Kokichi takes him to more stereotypical tourist spots, but with his own twist. They go to Covent Garden, and as Shuuichi peruses the stalls for any sort of souvenir trinkets, Kokichi tells him of a Georgian era singer, mistress of a famous Earl, murdered in front of the Royal Opera House in the market by an obsessed fan. “The price of celebrity, I suppose,” he laments, as Shuuichi tries to catch a glimpse of the magician currently basking in the square in front of St. Paul’s Church. “Maybe it really is for the best that we haven't found anything on the beach. I don’t think Shuu-chan could have coped with the stagelight!”
They go to Kensington, and Shuuichi can’t stop smiling as they go through the Museum of Natural History, excitedly reading facts about long gone creatures to Kokichi, who indulges him with only the barest of mocking comments. Then, it’s Shuuichi’s turn to indulge as they move on to the neighboring Museum of Science and he watches Kokichi’s face rapture in awe under the displays of spacecrafts and airplanes. He looks younger in the darkness of the museum, almost as young as the face in Shuuichi’s memories. But that face never looked as open or as carefree as it does now, telling Shuuichi all about the Curiosity rover.
When Kokichi insists on a night-time excursion, Shuuichi is convinced that he’s about to be taken to a club. He has not forgotten Kokichi’s comment about gay clubs, and has done his best not to obsess over its implications - Did Kokichi go a lot? Did he go alone, with friends, with a partner? Was he the type of person to go alone but leave in company, or did he keep his dalliances in the confines of the club, a makeout session in a dark alleyway or some quick frotting in the toilets?
He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed when Kokichi reveals that he has booked them on a Jack the Ripper tour, but the mix of emotions is so extreme that he doesn’t wonder about Kokichi’s keen-eyed looks throughout the night, his pointed questions about the case which Shuuichi answers absent-mindedly. He eventually allows himself to be excited by the opportunity. Deep inside there are still memories of a detective long since gone dormant, hours of studying cold cases and unsolved mysteries, and of course the Ripper is one of the most famous of them all. He asks the tour guide question after question, and only stops when he notices the man turn slightly greener at some of his more graphic examples. Kokichi doesn’t stop laughing at his disgruntled face for the rest of the tour.
Throughout it all, little by little, he discovers London - and he discovers Kokichi Ouma. It’s almost laughable to think that a few days ago he has been so ready to completely throw away the title of detective, because that’s all he has been doing since. Prying for hints, connecting clues, observing and deducing. Any scrap of information Kokichi offers gets hoarded and examined, tilted any which way for more details.
He wouldn’t be much of a detective if he didn’t realize that Kokichi was observing him in return, hunger in his eyes. Shuuichi is nearly thirty now, and he’s no stranger to the kind of heat he sees in them, but it sears differently coming from Kokichi. Kokichi, who might be Ouma, who he has once shared a love hotel suite with and who called him by his name when Shuuichi was supposed to be nothing but an ideal fantasy.
When they were playing Monokuma’s demented game, there was never any space for this. There had been a wall between them, one made of concrete and suspicions. No matter how much they wrote on it, how many ideas and theories they scribbled on their respective sides, they could never see through to the other side. Shuuichi never let himself catch the hand that Ouma extended to him, and Ouma had masked any note of sincerity with too many ugly lies.
It’s different now. Kokichi’s lies are kinder, gentler. He pokes fun and calls Shuuichi names, but there is never intent behind it. When Shuuichi offers his thoughts, he listens. And when Shuuichi licks his lips to combat the autumn dryness, or bites them when he thinks, Kokichi lets him see his eyes as he tracks those motions, bares his interest to Shuuichi’s surveillance.
So when it starts raining just as they’re about to leave the Columbia Road Flower Market (where Kokichi has spent way too long interrogating every seller on flower language, intent, in his own words, to find the perfect flower for his Shuu-chan), Shuuichi isn’t overly surprised when Kokichi tells him, nonchalantly, that they’re not that far away from Shoreditch.
They don’t talk on the walk to the hotel. The air between them is full of a different kind of tension. Shuuichi just doesn’t know what to say, but he’s sure that Kokichi is saving all of his words for later.
It’s only once they’re in Shuuichi’s hotel room - passed the knowing eyes of the girl in reception, and Shuuichi can only hope she’s not on shift for the rest of his stay - that Kokichi speaks up.
“Wow, Shuu-chan, this is kinda fancy. Are you applying to be my sugar daddy?”
Shuuichi looks at him blankly. “Sugar… what? Are you having issues with your coffee shop’s sugar supplier?”
Then it’s Kokichi who has a peculiar expression, before he bursts into high peals of laughter. “Shuu-chan, you really… You’re really funny, you know?”
“No one has ever called me that before,” Shuuichi replies wryly. He ducks into the bathroom and returns with two towels, tossing one to Kokichi. “Here, so you can dry yourself.”
“Or… I can just take my clothes off,” Kokichi says. “Would be better for the environment and all.”
Shuuichi pauses and looks at him. With Kokichi, as with Ouma, you can never let down your guard, and you can never, ever let him know he surprised you. “You could,” he says, evenly, with calmness he does not feel.
“Nishishi, who would have known Mr. Lawyer would be so forward.”
“It’s like you said. Less work for the cleaners, too.”
“Ah, a protector of the working class! I’m swooning.” He puts a hand against his forehead, leaning on the wall. “How can I stand against your charming wiles?”
As if possessed, Shuuichi hears himself say: “Well, you could lie down instead.”
Kokichi drops the act and laughs. “Woah, Shuu-chan. Maybe you are just like the boys I meet in Soho gay clubs.”
Now he has the decency to blush, looking away from Kokichi and busying himself with the towel. “Am I?” He doesn’t have any illusions about himself. The various men and women he has dated over the years have been appreciative enough of his looks - he never had any complaints, at least - but he’s sure someone as dazzlingly bright as Kokichi, who speaks of gay bars and dance parties and music festivals like they’re nothing special, an everyday part of his life; wouldn’t be so impressed.
“Hmm, I guess not.” He sounds closer now, but before Shuuichi can look at him, he feels a hand at the nape of his neck and a force pulling him down. “Don’t see many lawyers there, for one.”
Kokichi’s lips are cold, and taste of the grape-flavored chapstick he has been using all week to combat the dryness of the British autumn. It’s a soft touch at first, almost as if Kokichi is testing the ground, seeing if this is okay. But Shuuichi knows him better than that; even this version, mellower and good-natured, never does anything as it appears on the surface. So Shuuichi lets himself relax, sighing into it - and he is rewarded when Kokichi uses this apparent distraction to slip his tongue past his lips. Then, the kiss turns anything but cold - Kokichi retreats, and Shuuichi follows, nipping at his lips, licking the waxiness of the chapstick clean until he can’t taste anything but Kokichi; still slightly sweet, but less artificially so, more real.
He steps closer, bringing his whole body against Shuuichi’s, and Shuuichi can’t control a shiver wrecking through him - partially because of the coldness of the wet clothes, and partially because of the proximity, the promise of what comes next. Kokichi takes this as an excuse to pull away, and when he smirks his lips are kiss-pink and wet.
“Maybe we really should get our clothes off. I don’t want to kiss a guy with pneumonia.”
Shuuichi doesn’t let himself become self-conscious. He won’t let himself ruin this, pull back from Kokichi again. So instead, he nods, and watches as Kokichi steps away, not looking away from Shuuichi as he slowly unbuttons his damp coat. Underneath he’s wearing a cozy looking sweater, oversized on his slender frame, and Shuuichi wants to see him wearing it again, without the heavy weight of water soaking it down - wants to touch it, wrap himself around Kokichi as he wears is, see if it’s as soft as it looks or if Kokichi’s skin underneath is softer. Unconsciously, he moves to step closer, but is stopped by Kokichi’s voice. “Nu-uh, Shuu-chan. Can’t touch until I say so!”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“All’s fair in love and war!” Kokichi declares as he whips the sweater off, leaving himself in only black slacks which he also hurriedly steps out of. “What’s really not fair is you still wearing clothes. Chop chop!”
Shuuichi snorts, shaking his head, but he makes quick work of his own coat. He doesn’t let himself look at Kokichi again, doesn’t want to get distracted by miles of smooth skin over a wiry body, flash of pink nipples haunting his vision. It’s when he is taking off his trousers - in a hurry, not thinking about it - that Kokichi speaks again. “You know what’s really not fair? Shuu-chan has been doing so much exploration this week, while I’ve been stuck just looking at the same boring stuff that I’ve seen a million times.”
“Eh? What does that have to do with anything -”
Lightning fast, Kokichi strikes, and pushes Shuuichi on the bed. He hasn’t even noticed that Kokichi has led him in this direction when he was kissing him, and he lets out a small sound of surprise as he finds himself sprawled on his back, a grinning Kokichi looming over him.
“I think it’s my turn to do some sightseeing on my own.”
Any protests Shuuichi might have at this corny line die in his throat as Kokichi slides his mouth against his once more. This time, it doesn’t start off gentle at all, as Kokichi bites with intent at his lips, pushing his way into Shuuichi’s mouth the way he pushed himself into his life, time and time again. A hand slides into his hair and pulls, baring his neck to Kokichi’s investigation, right where he wants him, and Kokichi pulls away from the kiss with a final lick across his lips, as he trails kisses across his cheek. He flinches when Kokichi abruptly blows hot air into his ear. “Oi, stop that-”
“Shuu-chan doesn’t really want me to stop, does he? So dishonest!” And then teeth pull at his earlobe, finding a sensitive spot Shuuichi didn’t even know he had.
Maybe if he was a real detective he would have figured out in advance that Kokichi would be a biter, would be a person who wants to mark up his lovers any way he can. He learns it now, at least. As Kokichi makes his way down his body - he runs his teeth along the veins of his neck, nipping at his collarbone, biting at a nipple as he lightly scratches at the other one, raising faint red lines against his skin. Instead of pulling away from the pain Shuuichi arches into it, and Kokichi notices. “Ho, so Shuu-chan is a bit of a masochist! That’s fun.”
Shuuichi can’t even protest because he moans when Kokichi twists a nipple, meanly and relentlessly. He throws one hand over his face, wanting to hide away his wide-eyed look, the redness of his face. No one has touched him this way before - Kokichi said he was going to explore, but this wasn’t that: it was confident and assertive, like Shuuichi’s reactions were a given. As if when Shuuichi was busy learning Kokichi, Kokichi had been busy coming to his own conclusions about Shuuichi in return.
But Kokichi doesn’t let him hide away. His arm gets pulled away as Kokichi brings their palms together over Shuuichi’s head, looking down at him in chastisement. At least now Shuuichi can see that he’s not unaffected: there is a flush high on his cheekbones, and his lips are wet with spit. “You gotta let me see your cute face, Shuu-chan, or this wouldn’t be fun at all.”
“Looks like - you’re having a lot of fun,” Shuuichi manages to bite out, looking down at his marked body.
“It’s alright, I guess,” Kokichi allows magnanimously, and then grinds down against Shuuichi, bringing their almost-naked bodies into full contact for the first time. Shuuichi can feel him now, long and hard against his own erection, and he shudders, gasping. “Ah, Kokichi-san—”
“That’s a nice sound,” Kokichi says, but his voice also sounds breathy. His hips keep twitching, as if he can’t help himself from rutting against Shuuichi. His palms are warm and sweaty against his own. “Hmm… I had other plans but maybe… this is also good.”
Shuuichi has had enough of being a passive participant in Kokichi’s game. He plants his heels on the bed and pushes up, thrusting his own hips against Kokichi’s on his next downward turn. Kokichi’s mouth falls open and he moans, a long, drawn out sound. Shuuichi takes the opportunity to slide his hands out of Kokichi’s grasp. He then does what he has wanted to do from the first day he has seen Ouma Kokichi standing behind the banister at the coffee shop, and he twists his hands into his unruly hair, pulling him down into another kiss.
Very quickly, the kiss devolves into open mouth panting against each other, their lips barely slotting together. The air between them is humid with their breaths as they continue to shove their hips against each other. Shuuichi can feel the pre-cum staining his boxers, but the thought of stopping to take them off feels impossible. Besides, there is a dirty thrill in the thought of Kokichi leaving this room with boxers stained with Shuuichi’s release, a scent that won’t leave him until he washes them clean.
He trails his hands down from Kokichi’s hair along his back, taking his revenge by leaving thin red marks with his nails along his spine. Nothing that would stay or bruise, there for a moment and then gone, but they both know it was there at one point and that’s enough for him for now. He then grips Kokichi’s hips and helps him shove down harder, crying out at the added pressure.
“Hnngh - Ah, a more assertive S-Shu-chan is good too—”
“S-shut up, Kokichi—”
“I won’t lose!” Kokichi declares, and then leans down and bites at Shuuichi’s nipple, harder than he had all night. The hot flash of pain shoots right into Shuuichi’s cock and he arches into Kokichi, mindlessly grinding their cocks together, half-out of his mind with pleasure. Kokichi doesn’t let up at all, tugging and twisting until it feels like Shuuichi’s entire chest is just one giant bruise, and he comes.
He’s barely conscious of the way Kokichi tenses against him with a gasped moan, and he is regretful that he doesn’t get to see his face when he comes - but he feels it when he collapses on him, only barely twisting enough to make sure they don’t butt heads. His heart is still beating wildly in his chest even as his breathing is slowly slowing down as he comes back to himself. He just had sex with Kokichi, a stranger he has known for barely over a week. He feels reckless, wild. He knows that soon they will grow sticky and disgusting, and he will have to get up to find something to clean themselves down. God, they haven’t even taken off their boxers, just frotted in bed like a pair of teenagers. How embarrassing.
“Sooo… did you also fuck the other Ouma?”
The question doesn't even register at first for Shuuichi’s hazy mind. “What?”
Kokichi rolls off of his body and twists himself to face him. He pushes himself on one elbow, leaning his head against the palm of his hand and looking at him curiously. Shuuichi’s eyes track the rise and fall of his chest, the skin he has barely marked, unlike his own, and feels a twist of regret.
“The other Ouma, from that TV show. Did you fuck? Am I better? I have to be better than a teenager Shuu-chan, my pride couldn't take it otherwise.”
It’s as if all traces of the afterglow flee his body, as he finally comprehends his words, like he has opened a door only to be drenched in ice-cold water from a bucket hanging overhead. Another one of Ouma's pranks, maybe. Like this one has to be.
“How did you know?” he hears himself ask as if from a distance, through a concrete wall.
“You really did drop your passport that first day, y’know. So I picked it up and took a picture, and later I used a translation app to look you up. Thought I would find an embarrassing instagram, maybe some wedding photos of a disgustingly boring girlfriend waiting at home. Imagine my surprise to find out you are a celebrity!”
“I’m not.”
Kokichi rolls his eyes, as if annoyed by the semantics. “Ok, but you were. Rich and famous, Shuu-chan! You really could be my new sugar daddy, but I refuse the position if I’m just a rebound. That’s too pathetic.”
“A rebound…?” He’s still struggling to follow Kokichi’s words, too caught up on the idea of Kokichi knowing about Danganronpa. Has he seen the show? No, there are no longer full episodes available online, he checks regularly. But even the combined power of their formidable legal team couldn’t have taken all the videos of it down. He knows there are compilations. Some are relatively innocent - every moment where Akamatsu Kaede was the cutest! or top ten coolest Ryoma Hoshi lines - but some are vile, people ranking executions, murders. Has he seen any of those? Has he seen Ouma Kokichi’s death, lonely and gruesome?
“A do-over! A boomerang relationship! Re-shitting in the same toilet, whatever. You’re really lucky to have found such a perfect replacement, right?”
“It’s not like- we weren’t like that.” It feels absurd to have this conversation with someone with Ouma’s face, mannerism, personality. To have to explain Ouma to Kokichi, to explain Ouma-kun in relation to Saihara-chan, and what has never been between the two of them. “He hated me, towards the end.”
“Oh? That’s not what the fan forums say.”
Shuuichi snorts derisively. “I think I would know better than fans.” He turns on his side to face Kokichi. Even now, when he is actively trying to hurt Shuuichi (and he knows that’s what he’s trying to do, recognizes the mean tone he hasn’t heard all week, but hasn’t forgotten in ten years), he’s still beautiful. Hair in disarray, bitten pink lips, still a hint of a flush high on his cheekbones. He’s still close enough to touch. He still looks real.
“Is he you?” he asks the question that has been burning in the back of his throat since that first rainy day on Baker Street.
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I… don’t know,” Shuuichi parrots back. All clues point to yes. All clues also point to no.
This is the second time I’m dealing with Schrodinger’s Ouma, he thinks, and has to smother an irrational laugh in the pillow.
Kokichi looks on, amused. “Shouldn’t it be me who is having the psychotic break? Since I might have just fucked my clone’s ex-boyfriend.”
“He wasn’t my ex-boyfriend,” Shuuichi sighs out into his pillow. “And you aren’t a clone. You have memories of a life in England, right?”
Kokichi gasps theatrically, collapsing back onto the bed. “Maybe my memories are fake! That’s what they did to you, right?”
As sensitive as always… Luckily, Shuuichi has had ten years of therapy to cope with being a fake person, so he only rolls his eyes. “Do you think your memories are fake?”
“Do you?”
“You can’t answer a question with a question.”
“I thought that’s what lawyers do all the time.”
“This isn’t a trial, Kokichi!” it explodes out of him. He hasn’t even noticed the mounting frustration inside him until it made itself known. “This isn’t - I haven’t been tricking you, or lying to you, or trying to trap you! When I saw you that morning, I thought I was having a mental breakdown. I didn’t know what was happening. I thought maybe it was you who was - playing a prank, another one of your horrible jokes. Pretending you didn’t know me, didn’t remember Danganronpa, putting on a stupid British accent. But I couldn’t just accuse you with no proof, I couldn’t - I wouldn’t make the same mistake.” It had been Ouma who encouraged them to think he was the mastermind, Ouma who never tried to convince them otherwise. Still, Shuuichi had been a detective - and a detective never acts without evidence.
“So when you offered to be my guide,” he continues, still looking right at Kokichi. He wishes they weren’t naked for this conversation, but of course Kokichi would have wanted them on as equal footing as possible. “I thought it was my only chance to figure it out. I couldn’t have planned for a better opportunity if I tried. Though I guess,” he adds, somewhat bitterly, “you only did it to figure me out.”
“Well, not only. You were suspicious, but at least you were also pretty cute. Two birds, one stone!”
“Great,” Shuuichi mutters, feeling discouraged. “Maybe I should have tried to seduce Ouma back then too.”
“Pfft. That wouldn’t have appealed to the viewers at all. Huge drop in ratings.”
“Good.”
There’s a lull in the conversation then, and Shuuichi has half the thought to get up - he’s starting to feel actually disgusting - when Kokichi asks: “Does it matter if my memories are real or not?”
“No…” Shuuichi says, slowly. “That's what we decided ten years ago as well. We could never become the people we were before Danganronpa, and I don’t think any of us even wanted to try. In the end, it doesn't matter if something is fiction or not. We decide what’s the truth for ourselves.”
“Hmm… but now it suddenly matters because my memories are a lie to you. That's selfish, sweetheart.”
Shuuichi flushes, which is ridiculous considering everything they’ve just done. But he’s used to Saihara-chan, gotten used to Shuu-chan even, but sweetheart… He hides his face in Kokichi’s neck. “That's not fair. Wouldn't you also want to know, if it was me?”
A pause. “I think…” Kokichi hums a little, one of his hands coming up to play with Shuuichi’s hair. A finger grazes the shell of his ear and he shudders, still sensitive from his recent orgasm. “If it was you, I would tear apart the world for the truth.”
It aches, a little. To finally have all of his attention, but ten years too late. To finally be able to bare their hearts, but ten years too late. And to do it all, while not even knowing if it’s real or not…
Ah. This really is Ouma-kun.
Shuuichi smiles, and lays a kiss right against Kokichi’s pulse. It’s beating steady, steady, under paper-thin skin.