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Chapters: 1/24 Fandom: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Momota Kaito/Oma Kokichi, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added Characters: Momota Kaito, Oma Kokichi, Saihara Shuichi, Harukawa Maki Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Virtual Reality, Psychological Trauma, Hospitals, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change Summary:

Three days. It had been only three days since everything came to an end. At least, it felt like that much time had passed.

Momota stared into his bathroom’s mirror, hands gripped tightly at either side of the sink below it. The lights of the room had been off for a while now to the point that he could barely make out his own features. It didn’t really matter though, even if he could… He didn’t feel like he would recognize himself anymore.

The features didn’t feel like his. Every time he looked in the mirror, something always felt off. Eyes that stared back weren’t the right color and his nose seemed bigger than he thought. His face had speckles of freckles he didn’t recall, while his hair didn’t fall the correct way. It just felt wrong the more and more he saw himself.... He just wanted to feel normal again. Standing in the dark had its advantages. The lack of sight forced his mind to fill-in-the-blanks of the reflection that fixated back from the mirror, piecing together some resemblance of what he knew he should look like … What was that phenomenon called again? … Autokinetic Effect? … Or maybe Pareidolia? Momota wasn’t even sure if those words existed if he were being honest.

Hands moved away from the sink, opting to sit at his sides before turning into tightly balled up fists. It was another repetitive action that he found himself doing during his silent showdown with his reflection. What number was this now? If he had to guess, probably... the hundredth time since he started his solo staring match.

… How long had he been staring in the mirror, anyway? He wasn’t sure anymore. Two minutes? Two hours? Maybe even two days? He hoped it had been long.

Splish… Splash… Splosh…

It dawned on him that the tap was turned on, something he did way before getting distracted by his own reflection. Earlier, Momota had the idea that maybe the sound of faucet could help. The rushing waters that currently sprayed out the tap were meant to help his thoughts from wandering into a dark place. It didn’t work, obviously, his mind instead masking the sound allowing him to continue thinking negatively. Now, he stood, even worse off while the sink’s tub had overflowed.

Water continuously poured onto the floor, easily soaking through his house slippers. With such a sensation at his feet, his mind raced to remind him of the last time he could recall his slippers were this wet, but the water wasn’t warm enough to send him into that thought. It was ice cold... Momota could almost picture it steadily filling the room and drowning him in its freezing temperature.

He momentarily wondered if anyone had noticed how far the flood had gone out now. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the water trailed slowly , being illuminated by the light in the connecting bedroom. It had a night light permanently plugged in, an obnoxiously bright one at that. He had tried to turn it off, unplug it, hell, even break the damn thing but, he still couldn’t seem to remove it. The brightness had made the floor glisten immensely, though, if that were from the water or how clean it was he didn’t know.

Momota wasn’t sure how far the water had made it and was curious if there would be any lasting damage. Whatever the case, it was nothing he really cared about. It wouldn’t change the fact that his room was an empty place anyways. The walls were a bleak white color with a grey border running along the top edges. There was a bed with a baby blue blanket that he had bunched up into a ball at one point. In the corner, a TV was attached with a singular power button. Momota had yet to find a remote for it… that is, if it even had one in the first place. Regardless, when he had tried to turn it on, it was a channel with no noise and the occasional messages that looked as if they were drafted in a powerpoint program. The words would relay different things such as mealtimes and other information Momota cared very little about. Finally, there was a cabinet for what he assumed were for his clothes.

Rummaging through it the first time, he had found a few sets of unrecognizable clothing and a mystery bag. It was mainly junk filled but out of the search came an important discovery, a wallet. It contained exactly 3200 yen, a stamp card for some grocery store he had never heard of, and... an ID. The photo on the ID, no matter what Momota wanted to believe, was his own. The name on it had been Itō Shiro though, not Momota Kaito. His birthday was correct, April 12th, but the year he was hesitant about believing. If it was right, then it would mean he was currently 22 years old and knowing that was messing with his head … Hadn’t he only been 15 three days ago?

His eyes began to wander towards another door in the main room. He could count the amount of times it opened on his fingers. Nurses or doctors would come in to check on him, ask how he was doing, give him some medicine, and then abruptly walk out. Never had he seen the outside of his room. The most he knew was what they told him and they said he would start therapy soon. Momota wasn’t sure what therapy they could even administer that would make his entire existence being fake go away.

… Or make the screaming stop.

At times, he heard his “classmates” screaming from outside his door, which usually led to a chain effect. The more he heard the screams, the less he recognized those voices screaming, which caused Momota to panic. He would eventually start screaming himself and desperately try to escape his room. It never worked. Someone always seemed to be holding his door shut, preventing him from seeing who was hurt or the potential cause of their screaming. He rolled his shoulders back, watching his facial features seemingly growing darker in the mirror.

Instinctively, his arm jerked back as if to throw a punch. The sensation of the glass already seemed present in his knuckles as he thought about what he was about to do. Maybe, just maybe, if he broke his fist through the mirror, those nurses would let him out of his room... Maybe then he could finally catch a glimpse of ANYONE as he was being carted away out there. Maybe… Maybe.... Maybe he could see Shuichi, or Harumaki, or--

Suddenly, a loud clang rang through his ears, stopping his fist right before the glass could meet it. It caught him off guard and he turned to the side quickly, but nothing seemed to have fallen in his room. With the night light as his only light source for the moment and being limited to the ground, it could have obscured the cause for all he knew. He moved slowly, his still heavily drenched slippers making disgusting slapping noises as he trudged along the ugly, beige floor. He did his best to ignore the noise now, making his way to the light switch in the main room and flicking it on to properly investigate. Nothing seemed to be amiss... well, besides the majority of his floor still being overrun with water. All seemed fine inside, so the only conclusion he could draw was that it was coming from outside his room. … Right?

Momota looked at the exit and wondered if it would let him out. He never once tried to open the door to just open itl, only when it was for the purpose of attempting to save anyone outside of it. Fixating down at the handle, the feeling of being helpless began to manifest, but he tried to remind himself that he wanted to be helpful. The dire necessity to save the people he cared about grew stronger, over taking all other thoughts as he reached for it. There was already that scenario playing through his head. The feeling of the handle refusing to give, frustration boiling behind his eyes at another failed attempt to rescue anybody... He placed his hand on the handle and pushed down.

Click. It opened.

The surprise completely threw Momota off, making him forget all of the frustration and anxieties from the moment before. Hesitantly stepping out, he stared intensely at the new environment that greeted him. The hallway was bright, almost burning his retinas, but seemed empty. He continued to walk further out of his room, slightly dazed, and forgetting momentarily why he even came out here. His eyes slowly moved across the area. What time was it, now that he thought about it? There were no doctors or nurses wandering the halls and all the doors all seemed shut...

Wait, why was he out here again?

The clang, right...

Nothing seemed amiss in the hallway. Maybe he had imagined it after all? Had he been so sleep deprived these days that his mind was starting to make noises due to his lack of rest? He had to be extra sure though… Besides, what if someone was hurt and needed his help? What if they needed him ? Momota began his walk, looking at the doors as he shuffled by. There seemed to be six rooms. Three that lined up on either side of the walls.

Each door had a laminated name on it, none of which Momota recognized either. He momentarily remembered some fun fact he had read once. “ You can’t read in dreams .” He reassured himself while also reminding him that this whole scenario was really happening. An urge to open any of the doors and see who was inside was ever so tempting. He paused for a moment to grab at the handle of the one closest to him, standing in front of it for quite a while, before he let go and continued on. He needed to find out where the clang came from first.

His slippers left wet footprints with every step he made as he rounded what seemed like the third hallway. Once again, Momota started to believe he may have imagined that sound. Maybe he was going crazy. Whether from lack of sleep or from staying in his room too long, his mind was probably making it up. He was ready to start the long walk back to his room when he finally eyed a door that didn’t match the uniformity of the rest. It was slightly ajar, a small bit of light peeking out from the crack that didn’t seem bright enough. If anything, it was more than likely the same night light that plagued Momota’s nights. He wondered if this was a mistake, if a doctor had forgotten to secure the door before leaving. The night light was bright enough to almost blend in with that of the hallway, that the added light may not have even been noticeable. Maybe the person inside hadn’t noticed the door still open.

Momota looked up at the door and saw another name that he did not recognize.

“Mizushima”. It was printed, laminated, and taped on to it.

With the door already open, it couldn’t hurt to look inside, right? The curiosity got the better of him and he carefully pushed the door further open, looking into the room. He had expected it to reassemble much like his own, but his jaw nearly dropped at the sight.

The room was the beginning of a hoarder’s nest. There were so many different items pushed tightly against the walls that some were starting to obscure the path made for walking through it. He couldn’t make out exactly what everything was-- but, he could faintly see a magazine stack, a toy train... and a figure sleeping in the bed.

This person had to have been here longer than Momota, given the mess they had, he was certain. How long could they even keep you here? Could they keep him here for years if they wanted to? Keep him from seeing other people who were not doctors and nurses dressed in white for the rest of his life? Momota gritted his teeth at the prospect. No, he wouldn’t let them. He’d find his escape route and get everyone else out too, even if it killed him.

Momota made his way into the room, flicking on the actual light without even thinking. He winced as soon as he did, looking over at the lump under the covers. They didn’t stir though, they seemed completely buried beneath the blankets. Momota gave a sigh of relief, using the opportunity to look through the room, and headed to the farthest end of it. He figured, given the possibility that if this Mizushima woke up, he could act like he walked into the wrong room. It may at least confuse them long enough for him to make an immediate escape.

He began to pick up magazines strewn on the floor, looking for dates, trying to get an idea of how long this person had been staying in this room. He felt his skin go pale once he realized the dates on some of them were older than 2 years. Could they have really been keeping someone so long? The idea put dread into his stomach. Had he moved from one inescapable prison to another? He shook his head. He couldn’t let that sit with him, not right now at least. Momota continued to shift through the room. There were clothes strewn about, some pamphlets describing different types of medications, and then some crayon drawings.

The drawings seemed childish in nature, but also too elaborate to be so at the same time. Momota looked through them and a sudden feeling of guilt washed over him. He realized how personal this really seemed to be, rummaging through someone else’s belongings while they slept not even 10 feet from you. For all he knew, this was their child’s drawings. He set the paper down, groaning slightly as he began to push himself up off the ground. He could come back when it was presumably morning, or when this person was awake at the least to ask questions.

Momota turned heel, making his way back to the door. His heavy footsteps squelching underneath while his eyes kept steady on the person in bed. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have almost believed they weren’t breathing. He was too distracted and let his focus stray on them for too long. So much so, that his slippers landed on a discarded magazine that had fallen from another pile. His footing lost completely and he desperately tried to regain his stance, instead falling forward, straight flat onto the ground.

Not only that, but while in this midst of falling, he tried to grab at a pile to stop himself, but only succeeded in pulling it down with him. He yelped in pain as his face hit the floor while piles of items quickly fell onto his back. Momota groaned, pain filling his whole body. He struggled to lift himself back up, items falling from him as he did and coughed out violent, suppressed air. Covering his mouth quickly, to try and dull the sound, he looked up to check the person on the bed but they didn’t move. Not once...

Momota began to wonder if the person was either deaf or just a really heavy sleeper. Maybe they weren’t breathing after all, a voice sounded in his mind, maybe they were dead. They hadn’t even shifted at all and he supposed that was lucky, but now he couldn’t even shake the idea of them possibly being a corpse. He took an unsteady breath, calming his coughing down slowly and removing his hand from his mouth. It was time to head back to his room, this night becoming too much for him now.

Then, the sirens were suddenly filling his ears as he looked toward his hand.

Blood.

There was blood seeping between his fingers, sticky and red. It filled his nose with the sickening scent. He wanted to vomit, feeling all the warmth escape his body instantly. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They told him he was basically better and that his body would just cough once in a while, right? The doctors told him it was just an after effect, that he shouldn’t have any blood come up. Panic set in, only triggering more coughs to escape from his mouth. He got up and quickly rushed out of the room. The ringing in his ears sounded like the trial room, inside of the cockpit, the squelch of a bod--

He ran straight, hitting a wall in front of him. The world shouldn’t be spinning. It was supposed to be safer now, there shouldn't be any blood. Momota fell to the ground, coughing onto the floor violently. He couldn’t hear anything other than the ringing in his ears. Not even the noise that sounded near the end of the hall did he hear anymore. Wheels squeaked their way towards him and a pair of eyes fell onto him.

Momota breathed in heavily, trying to calm down. Just calm down and the blood will stop. Just calm down and you won’t cough. He couldn’t die here, he hasn’t done anything with his life yet. He can’t die here, he can’t die here, he can’t--

Momota opened his eyes, looking down at the blood droplets that had made their way to the floor. He tried to breathe easy, to relax, but the lingering scent and taste of blood was going to send him into another panic at any moment. There were also eyes that he could feel on his back and he wondered if a doctor had probably heard all of his fussing around, coming to finally check on him. He didn’t have the heart to look up at them, whoever they were. If anything, they would just put him back in his room, or another entirely just to find out why he was coughing up blood again. His eyes closed, gulping down saliva mixed with the metallic taste best he could. Maybe he could play this off somehow and recompose himself.

He breathed in and out, trying to relax, but it was futile as a coughing fit erupted from his lungs violently. It burned as he doubled over in pain. A hand made its way to his back. It seemed hesitant at first, like it wasn’t sure if it should be there, before the base of it began to rub circles into the fabric above his skin. Slowly, it brought him comfort, his cough receded, and he slumped slightly against the wall.

The stranger didn’t speak. Once the coughing had finished, their hand was recovered. Momota slowly drew his gaze up, turning his head towards the figure. His eyes widened and stared back in utter disbelief. The figure before him carefully slumped back into his wheelchair.

The young man shifted his torso, his hands going to the wheels of the chair to back up slightly and give Momota more space. Dark hair framed the small, pale skinned face that Momota could compare to being almost as white as the walls in his room. Bags lay under his eyes, he looked as tired as Momota had felt.

He looked Momota over, dark eyes obviously scrutinizing him. The young man could see the blood drying on the other’s face. The stain caked mostly against his nose, which had turned a red color and was obviously going to be bruised the next day. It also held tight into the excuse for facial hair that Momota had. The young man huffed, closing his eyes before turning his head towards the doorway behind him. He could see the imprints of waterlogged footsteps leading into the room, scowling at the sight. His face turned back to the other man on the ground. “Momota-chan, what were--”

The sentence was stopped with a shocked noise as Momota lurched forward, grabbing his hand from one of the wheels. He held it in a vice like grip, pulling it closer to himself. The young man wailed, trying to pull away from him. The sleeve of his hospital outfit had pulled up in the action, revealing his wrist covered in yellowish marks.

Momota held his hand for a while and the young man relented to let him, breathing deep breaths. One… Two... Three... Then he could finally speak. “... You… You aren’t dead… Ouma…” It was all he could muster out. He looked up at Ouma, who in response had rolled his eyes before pulling his hand away. Momota let him, allowing his own flop to the ground instead.

“Oh no, I’m SUPER dead, Momota-chan! Didn’t you know? This is Hell! We’re in Hell. I guess you’re just too dumb to notice that, huh?” The sarcasm practically leaked from his entire being. He leaned back into his chair, grumbling something under his breath that Momota couldn’t quite make out.

“I’m not dumb!” Momota growled out, new life sparking into him. “This is a hospital, not Hell! Stop fucking around!”

Ouma sighed, looking back towards Momota and eyed him over. Momota wasn’t very much to look at, if Ouma were honest. Compared to how he remembered him, he was different. His cheeks were sunken in, probably due to the fact he had been on a feeding tube for what was over a month. Despite his skin being slightly pale at the moment, it still held a tinge of someone of a darker complexion. Ouma assumed a few days out in the sun would bring that color right back though. Momota’s hair was flopped sadly over to the right side while his facial hair had begun to sprout unevenly around what used to be a clean shave along his goatee. They were a dark black color, it seemed too. The blood was the same from last time he saw him, though Ouma knew better. He could obviously tell Momota had been having a nose bleed just now and not dying of some unknown illness.

This was Momota Kaito alright, but it was obvious the simulation had clearly gone about prettying him up. He wasn’t half bad looking, to say the least, but not as picture-perfect as one would have remembered. Though, maybe he could have probably gotten away to being as very close of a look alike if he wanted. Ouma had seen this difference in himself too. He could remember his face in the simulation at least and they contrasted the very slight differences in himself now. His body was much thinner for sure, much more unhealthy looking in reality.

“Why were you in my room?” Ouma tried to ask again, his tone much more demanding than before. “Don’t lie and say you didn’t. I saw your footprints on the ground. It’s pretty creepy to go snooping around people’s rooms, you know?”

Momota huffed at that statement. “Like you’re one to talk!” At least, Momota seemed back to his usual self. “I heard something and wanted to see if anyone was hurt! Also, that’s not your room unless you’re sharing it!”

“What-- Oh, right, you’re that dumb. God, even Gokuhara-chan wouldn’t have fallen for that trick after he turned on the lights. That’s just so sad, Momota-chan..” Ouma shook his head with a tsk, giving a pitying look. “You probably mistake department store mannequins for employees, don’t you?” He moved the wheelchair to turn it, yawning in an exaggerated tone before Momota could retort. “Well, this conversation is putting me to sleep! I’m gonna--”

Ouma groaned as Momota had, again, grabbed at his hand to keep him in place. He let himself sit still but gave him a look regardless. Momota wasn’t looking at him though, instead his gaze was transfixed at the other’s arm. Ouma tried to remove his hand now, but Momota stubbornly kept it before observing the arm back and forth, looking up at him puzzled.

“Why are you in a wheelchair?” Momota asked, the concern in his voice almost poisonous, feeling undeserved if anything. “Did someone hurt you?” There was an anger that began to show through his eyes, but it wasn’t at Ouma. That resentment sounded through his voice, boiling deep in his chest. It made Ouma’s heart flutter a bit, but he quickly suppressed that feeling away. This was enough, and he pulled his arm away again to signal that to him. There was a slight hesitation but Momota relented and let him go.

Ouma smiled a sardonic, tight lipped smile. “Why yes,” he said, familiar venom coating his own words. “Actually, someone dropped a hydraulic press on me.”

He regretted his statement almost immediately. The hallway grew dead silent, the buzzing of lights the only noise breaking it. Somehow, it made it worse. Momota looked as if Ouma had stabbed him right then and there. All the confidence and anger that had been inside him had disappeared at once. If this had happened before, Ouma would have maybe revelled in seemingly bringing this stupid bastard down a peg.

Maybe… Just maybe.

But, now... he just felt… awful?

Momota stood up slowly, turning his sight away from Ouma and glared down at his own feet. Nausea was rising up again and he felt like he needed to vomit. He could visualize the press, inhale that familiar smell of blood, and could hear the sickening squelch... then nothing. Only silence. The feeling of bile rose to his throat immediately. It was all too intense and he needed to escape before he puked. Before he couldn’t hold back angry, frustrated tears any longer.

He covered his mouth and turned his back on Ouma, wanting to move away from him entirely…. But, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to return to his own room at all. He stood there dumbly, trying to figure out exactly where he could go from here. There was probably somewhere he could escape to, a rec room of sorts. He began to let his feet move him away. Ouma eyed him before letting a groan erupt from his throat.

“No,” Ouma huffed, trailing after him. He attempted to grab at his shirt with one hand, the other attempting to keep the wheelchair going straight, but ultimately it began to sway to the side. “Wait. Stop, I can’t keep this shitty thing--” He apprehended the fabric into his hand, gripping it tightly. Ouma grinned triumphantly at his capture and looked up at Momota's back. “Where are you going? We were talking, I thought you didn’t like when I ran away from your conversations, why do you get to leave mine?”

Momota paused as he felt his shirt pull tight against his stomach. He didn’t retort, he knew if he tried he would end up losing the battle with his nausea. He closed his eyes and swallowed down the bile threatening to escape his throat, a sick noise bursting from his chest out of his throat as he took in a breath of air. Concern bloomed in Ouma’s eyes at the sound.

“I- Are you okay??” He released Momota’s shirt, wheeling himself so he could try and face him. Momota took this chance and made a break for it, going towards the trash can at the end of the hall. His slippers squished and squashed against the clean floors. Their wetness, again, being Momota’s literal downfall. He fell to the ground, throwing his hands to catch himself this time. His eyes were screwed shut as he began to spew out stomach acid.

Momota’s whole body began to ache, but he did not let himself fall to the ground. He let his eyes open for a moment, only to find himself back in the hanger. The walls were cold and unwelcoming, the sound of silence filling the room. He could still see the small, pale figure shivering on his coat. Momota could tell he was putting on a brave face, his lips tightly closed and his eyes shut as he waited to die. He waited for his executioner to hit the button and trade out a slow death for a far quicker one. Momota wondered if he would feel as calm when it was his turn to die.

He wondered how he could ever feel calm again knowing this was his fault.

It was true that Harukawa was the one to seal their fates, but Momota hadn’t the heart to blame her. He blamed himself. If he had been braver, maybe just a bit stronger, maybe he would have tried to confront Ouma earlier. If he could have worked out what Ouma was doing before Harukawa had a chance to even think of resorting to killing. If he had tried to understand Ouma better, or if he had tried to get others to understand Ouma better.

If, if, if.

Ouma withdrew at the sight, feeling his own body begin to retch. He held the feeling down though. He noted the fact there didn’t seem to be any food in the vomit, just acid. When was the last time Momota had eaten? He heard hospital food tasted rather nasty, but he didn’t think that would deter Momota’s ravenous appetite. Ouma gulped down and approached again, placing a hand against Momota’s back once more.

Momota breathed slowly as he looked up at Ouma. Ouma could see the lack of focus in Momota’s eyes, like he wasn’t quite where the other was. He wondered if Momota could see the fear he felt, looking at him like this. If he could see the uncertainty of what to do now, how his brain wasn’t finding a solution. Momota took in another breath as the fog lifted from his eyes, attempting to speak.

“... Your death… I didn’t want--” Momota heaved again, looking back to the ground. Ouma frowned, assuming what Momota wanted to say. He presumed Momota was saying he didn’t want to use the press, that he didn’t want to be part of his plan. A part of him wanted to be snarky and said he could have chosen to not do it if he very well wanted, nobody forced his hand.

“H-Hey… You’re fine. I… I don’t blame you, you know?” Ouma wasn’t sure where this nervous feeling was coming from, maybe guilt. It swelled in his chest, ready to burst, and he wanted it to go away. He looked around the hallway, paranoid. Momota was making more noise than Ouma ever did in the nights he’s spent here. Orderlies would probably come poking about, and Ouma wasn’t up dealing with them. He pulled at Momota’s clothing again. “Come on, let’s get out of the hall.”

“... To…” Momota gave a dry heave, trying his best to sit up. “To… Where?” His body shook, this vulnerability wasn’t something Ouma was used to seeing in him. He looked around, as if he had forgotten where he was. He wheeled himself back, releasing Momota from his grip. “My room, come on.” He headed towards it, looking back momentarily towards Momota.

Momota sat in front of his own bile for a moment, nothing running through his head. His whole body felt weak, he couldn’t find the energy to even lift his head. He heard Ouma cough, as if trying to grab his attention. He probably thought Momota was ignoring him, or out of it. He heard Ouma huff in exasperation.

“Earth to Momota-chan~” Ouma gave a sing-songy tone to his irritation. “You shouldn’t rest in the hall~” He continued his teasing, maybe hoping to rile Momota up so that he would follow him. Even resorting to saying ‘here boy, come on, who wants a treat~?’ Momota just didn’t have the energy to get up. He heard Ouma huff again.

Wheels squeaked away, presumably into the room. Momota heard nothing after, and could only assume Ouma had given up. So, he continued to sit, no thoughts. He was so tired, he wanted to sleep so badly, but he was trying to stop the exhaustion, trying to keep himself from falling into his own sickness. He heard the wheelchair again, it approached him. Momota wondered what Ouma was up to now, but didn’t have it in him to look at him.He heard a thump against the floor, and then tugged at his clothes.

“ Move. ” Ouma demanded, pulling harder. “You don’t have to stand, but you have to move. Drag yourself.” Momota could feel Ouma trying to drag him, trying to get him away from the puddle. He let him, trying to be as helpful as he can to follow his lead. Ouma drew them both to the wall closest to his door, groaning at the exertition. He reached over for a blanket he had, presumably, thrown on the ground, pulling it over both of them. “Dumbbass just sleeps in a hallway, unbelievable…” Ouma grumbled, fixing it carefully.

Momota was unsure what to do or say as Ouma relaxed, almost against him but not quite. Momota could feel his eyes droop close, feeling an ease overtake him. The blanket was warm, warm enough to distract him from the cool ground around him. He didn’t know why Ouma had decided to take to the floor as well, why didn't he just leave Momota out in the hall by himself. He wondered if in the morning he’d get an earful for it. Ouma yawned quietly, moaning about the lights before pulling himself more under the blanket. Momota listened as Ouma grew quiet, falling asleep from what he could tell.

Momota relaxed, finally being able to find it in himself to rest.

#kokichi ouma #kaito momota #oumota #oumomo #kokichi oma #new danganronpa v3 #danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #writing

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