Chapter Text
1.
The first time it happens, it could be considered accidental.
Kokichi finds Shuichi Saihara in a library, his signature emo hat pulled low over his eyes. He appears to be entirely lost in thought, slender fingers brushing over his chin and mouth as he heatedly mutters something to himself. From Kokichi’s position, Shuichi looks like an awkward beanstalk, scrawny body stretched a little too tall for his weight, dressed in a stuffy black uniform that makes him appear far more pale than he actually is. The detective has the presence of a ghost, the stature of a skeleton, and everything about him screams of deeply-rooted insignificance, reeking of desperation to blend into the background.
He isn’t perusing the countless books crammed into their impossibly tall shelves, nor does he appear to be loitering around the library for recreational purposes. Kokichi is willing to bet that Shuichi is either hiding away, socially exhausted by the intense presence of their classmates and his beloved, painfully extraverted Kaede, or he is simply plotting murder, finally caving into the pressure of this stupid killing game. After all, it’s common knowledge that the quiet ones are almost always the most unhinged.
Shuichi doesn’t appear to notice Kokichi’s entry, silently gliding to the nearest shelf and turning his back to the newcomer.
How adorable. If Kokichi harbored any ill intentions, by this point poor, unsuspecting Saihara would be bleeding out all over the dusty spines of the hefty tomes. Kokichi’s heart trembles at the mere thought of it, queasy.
He thinks that Shuichi is weird. A boring, quiet dude with a face far too pretty to match his doomer aesthetics.
He is so ugly, Kokichi decides, as he sneaks up from behind, keeping his footsteps light. He prides himself for his stealth, taking extra care to make sure that his heels don’t alert his target. Shuichi is the dictionary definition of a wallflower, content with staying in the shadow cast by Kaede’s bright personality, quietly enjoying her warmth. He is so painfully dull that Kokichi believes he would easily nod off after talking to him for more than five minutes at a time.
He is so exceedingly average.
Shuichi turns to face him, slate-grey eyes alert, brow furrowed and angular jaw set. His long eyelashes cast subtle shadows over his flawless, porcelain skin.
He looks like a work of art—like one of those video game figurines placed on the glass shelves of Kokichi’s display case.
He is beautiful. Stunning, even.
Kokichi’s breath stutters inside his lungs, faint and embarrassed at being caught so easily. Still, his grin is easy-going when he smiles to put Shuichi at ease, hands automatically crossing behind his back. Shuichi only narrows his pretty eyes, clearly suspicious and alert, sharp gaze calculating and oddly intense. It sends an electrifying shiver running down Kokichi’s spine.
While the boy is plain and quiet, Kokichi would be a fool to try and deny the fact that there is something powerful about Shuichi’s presence—razor-sharp, almost enough to cut. Leave behind some serious damage. He’s caught the latter openly staring at their peers, and while to someone less invested in observing their surroundings such odd behavior would seem excessive and borderline creepy, Kokichi could tell that those prolonged stares were everything but.
Shuichi looked at people like it killed him on the inside to not have their intentions figured out, carefully analysing the reactions of his fellow classmates, studying their body language. His watchful eyes would silently probe them for any useful tidbits of information, pulling apart their responses no matter how insignificant, all for the sake of a single glimpse into the inner workings of their depraved minds.
Since he was no exception, Kokichi had felt those burning eyes focusing on him more than a few times as well, trying to figure him out and eager to see through Kokichi’s carefully spun lies, hiding himself away behind at least nine intricate locks, their keys long since tossed away into the deepest, darkest corners of his mind that he no longer bothers to visit.
If Shuichi truly wants to pick those locks, he will have to work for it. In the meantime, Kokichi figures that he can allow himself to have some fun, taken in by their exciting predicament—the fast-paced flutter of his heart, filling his chest with adrenaline.
Shuichi’s half-covered eyes narrow even further at the abrupt movement of Kokichi’s arms. He takes a tentative step back. Almost immediately, Kokichi’s toothy grin morphs into something far more reassuring and kind, as he holds out his hands, flicking them out with a graceful flourish to show Shuichi that he isn’t armed.
“Good evening, Mr. Detective,” Kokichi sings, taking notice of the full-body twitch that follows his newly-coined nickname. There’s something close to displeasure pulling at Shuichi’s lips, pressed into a thin line. “What are you doing out here, past curfew no less?”
Shuichi fixes his hat, pulling it low over his eyes, hiding away. Kokichi almost wants to protest, knock it away. Stil, it’s a display of trust, if he’s ever seen one. One glance is enough for Shuichi to rule him out as a potential threat. “I could ask you the same thing. Shouldn’t you be in your room?”
“Pot, meet kettle,” Kokichi hums, rocking back and forth on his heels. The motion sends him closer to the taller boy, who backs away some more, quickly glancing to the side. There’s something so precious about his adorably confused frown, as his brain visibly scrambles, trying to figure out how to deal with someone like Kokichi Ouma. At 11:51 PM, Shuichi does not have Kaede to hide behind, likely fast-asleep in her room.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Kokichi lies, shrugging his shoulders. Well, it is not entirely a lie—he’s found it exceedingly hard to stay still and relax, muddled thoughts racing with half-baked theories. On average, Kokichi gets a whopping five hours of sleep per night. “So I decided to take a walk, and while I was out, simply minding my own business, Gonta jumped at me with a knife in his hand!” Kokichi snickers at the brief flash of horrified shock passing over Shuichi’s deathly-pale face. ”So naturally, I ran back inside, and into the library to hide away from him! I don’t think he’ll think to look for me here—I seriously doubt that he even knows how to read, so I’m safe for now.”
“You shouldn’t come up with lies like that.” Shuichi’s tone is clipped when he pins Kokichi with a mildly disapproving stare to match. The latter almost snorts, derisive. What is he, his parent? Kokichi does not recall submitting any job ads to fill in the position after his own had kicked the bucket. “If you ever end up in serious danger,” Shuichi swallows, shuddering at the thought, “No one is going to take your claims seriously.”
“Ah, but you certainly will, won’t you, Mr. Detective?” Kokichi smirks, one eyebrow raised. When he comes closer, he almost feels Shuichi grow tense, the nervous bob of his throat a dead giveaway of his distress. His shifty gaze looks everywhere but the shorter boy. “I’m sure you’ll crack any case tossed your way, no matter how difficult it may be. I’m in your care from now on! Please make sure to defend me well!” He bows at the waist, mocking, and then promptly blinks in surprise when Shuichi actually flusters, bony hands held up before him and hovering uselessly, too shy to actually touch Kokichi in any way, pushing him back by the shoulders to make the latter stand straight.
“I am just an apprentice, so I cannot promise you something like that. For all I know, if you actually wound up in any serious trouble, I’d make the wrong call and doom us all. So please, just—just try to avoid that. Or tell the others that you—”
An incredulous laugh bubbles up in the back of Kokichi’s throat before he can fully notice it himself, slipping out without him being able to contain it.
“You’re way too honest. So pure,” he snorts gleefully as Shuichi gapes, soft lips parted. Kokichi cannot pinpoint the emotion that flashes by in his silver eyes, nor does he care much for it. “This can easily get you killed, you know? I could come up with some heinous plot to ensure my safety and escape. I could tell you that someone is hiding behind a corner, just waiting to get me, and the second you turn away—” Kokichi swiftly brings down his fist on top of Shuichi’s chest, gratified by the sharp flinch that follows, but before he can truly hit him, Kokichi stops himself and pushes the pad of his forefinger into the scratchy material of Shuichi’s primly buttoned blazer, lightly probing at the taller boy’s chest. He is pleasantly surprised to find some muscle definition there. “I’ll be the one stabbing a knife into your back.”
It is an empty threat. Kokichi is not planning on harming any of these Ultimate freaks, satisfied with taking the shotgun seat and watching from the sidelines as some unnamed future killer tries to steer their flaming school bus through the nine rings of hell. However, Shuichi does not know that, he knows nothing about Kokichi or his intentions, so the second the detective takes another step back, his spine pressing against the bookshelf, Kokichi’s significantly smaller frame moves closer, hovering mere inches away.
He carefully studies Shuichi’s deeply conflicted face, lavender eyes against breathtaking silver, and Kokichi barely witholds from reaching out to flick the bill of his ridiculous hat. To mess with the shaken detective even further, Kokichi inconspicuously pulls up his right arm, leaning it against the shelf, fingertips ghosting over the faded spines of the books.
Boxed in by Kokichi’s smaller body, Shuichi lets out a sharp exhale, his minty breath ruffling the purple strands of Kokichi’s hair. From his periphery, the shorter boy takes notice of the detective’s ashen face, forehead glistening with a sheen of newly-formed perspiration, eyes wide. He keeps discreetly glancing Kokichi’s way, hands sliding behind his back to steady himself, putting some distance between them.
He’s visibly too nervous to speak up, riddled with anxious sweat and tension.
Cute.
Testing the waters, Kokichi ‘accidentally’ brushes his thigh against the detective’s leg, and feels the latter’s knee jump at the unexpected physical contact. There’s clear discomfort in his stiff body language now, with Shuichi visibly shrinking back and leaning away. With an air of perfectly-faked, almost angelic innocence, Kokichi quickly relents, plenty satisfied with his measly findings and unwilling to cause the sweaty mess of a teen any further distress.
Soothed by Kokichi’s subtle retreat, Shuichi lets out another shuddering breath and swallows, finally finding his voice. It comes out shaky around the edges, strained with embarrassment. “What are you doing?” he squeaks out.
Kokichi makes sure to glance at him, eyebrows raised.
“Taking out a book. What does it look like?” he teases, smirking. To prove his act, he stands up on his tiptoes, stretching himself thin and tall along the bookshelf. Shuichi blinks. “No better cure for insomnia than a good novel! And I’ve been dying to read, uh.” He squints, trying to make out the faded yellow letters of an ancient, faded tome. “‘Thirty years that shook physics’.”
Shuichi’s eyebrows slant down into that by-now-familiar, doubtful frown. “Physics,” he echoes, tentatively disbelieving.
“It’s my favorite. I’ve aaaalways wanted to be the Ultimate Physician,” Kokichi says, tone serious.
Shuichi seemingly doesn’t buy it, frown deepening. “You mean Physicist.”
Shit.
Kokichi quickly switches his tactics. “Eh, same thing.”
“No, it’s really not,” Shuichi mutters, but he chooses to ignore it.
”You caught me in a lie! Actually, I heard that it’s so boring, it’ll knock you out right away,” Kokichi explains, grinning.
His smile must look genuine enough—only because he is entertained; he’d rather scoop out his own brain with a blunt spoon than sit through a single paragraph of this yawn-inducing gibberish—because something in Shuichi’s demeanor softens, his stiff shoulders losing some of their edge. The subtle upturn of his lips indicates faint amusement, and once again, Kokichi privately mourns the fact that he cannot properly see the detective’s eyes.
“Here,” Shuichi says, quiet and kind. So mild, so pleasant, that Saihara. “Let me get that for you.”
Kokichi is rendered speechless when the detective twists out from beneath him, stepping behind him, and now Kokichi is the one pressed into the shelf, the faint smell of dusty pages tickling his nose, the warmth of Shuichi’s torso almost singeing his tense back. There’s barely any space left between them when Shuichi reaches over him, slim fingers pushing into the tightly-cramped space to pry out Kokichi’s boring ass book.
All at once, Kokichi Ouma is forced to confront the painful pang of arousal sharply tugging at his stomach, right below his ribcage, no worse than a suckerpunch in its intensity. Red-faced and shaken by their comfortable proximity, he observes the way Shuichi’s lower lip disappears inside his mouth as he struggles with the task at hand, the damned book stubbornly refusing to move. His eyes glow an incredible silver, catching a hint of the dimmed library lights, and his hair smells clean, like fresh laundry and traces of soap.
Reeling, Kokichi braces his trembling hands against the shelf and lowers his head to hide himself, dizzy with the sudden realization that while Shuichi Saihara is, objectively, decent-looking, his willowy body type and delicate facial features doing him incredible justice, Kokichi is subjectively, incredibly attracted to him. Extremely so.
He presses his hot forehead against the hulking piece of furniture and forcibly wills himself to calm down, Shuichi’s slightly frustrated breath ruffling the shorter strands covering his nape, doing nothing to aid him in his task. The incessant movement does not help either, and when that lean waist finally brushes against Kokichi’s spine, brief and entirely accidental, he nearly ignites, biting down hard on his lower lip to hold back a whimpering groan threatening to spill out of him at any given moment.
Kokichi wants to lean in, drawn in by that comforting warmth, a moth to an open flame. Wants to press himself flush against Saihara’s chest, feel those stupidly defined muscles against his shoulder blades. He wants to press his back against—
Thank the universe and every entity out there, Shuichi finally frees Kokichi’s book and smoothly pulls away, smile pleasant and painfully oblivious to the shorter boy’s insurmountable distress.
“I hope you can sleep better tonight,” the detective tells his blushing companion, tone calm, if not a little shy. Wide-eyed and still very much aroused, Kokichi can hardly wrap his head around the fact that he is in the clear—and isn’t Saihara supposed to be smart and observant? He wonders whether Shuichi refuses to call him out of sheer politeness, purposefully ignoring Kokichi’s uneven breathing and his flushed face, but there’s something so terribly innocent in the way he hands over that dumb old tome, its corners frayed with age, that signals to Kokichi that the taller boy is truly that dense.
Wordless, Kokichi hangs his head and looks down at the black-and-white photos depicting the brightest physicists of the centuries past, offers a clipped word of thanks, and fucks right off from that cursed library, the back of his neck a glowing beacon for Shuichi Saihara’s oblivious ass to pick apart.
He vows to avoid the library for the next few weeks.
2.
The next time it happens, it is far more deliberate.
It happens inside the gaudy casino. They gather together—Kokichi, Miu, Shuichi, Ryouma, and Kaito—to have themselves a friendly gambling match. Kokichi is busy making an ass of himself in front of Kaito when he spots Shuichi further away, eyes squinting against the bright screen of the game machine. He is button mashing like there is no tomorrow, but the frustrated downturn of his mouth indicates that his tactics are getting him nowhere.
They’re still warming up before their great showdown, the brightly-illuminated area of the casino lobby filled with muffled cursing, excited yelling, overlapping game effects and the sound of Monocoins being crammed into machine slots.
Kokichi admires the way the neon blue lights dance over Shuichi’s handsome profile, flickering. His eyes shine something ethereal, and then close in defeat when the game’s screen glows a vicious red, indicating a GAME OVER.
“Try again?” Kokichi speaks directly into Shuichi’s ear and laughs when the latter jumps back, clearly startled. A bit too invested in Monokuma’s foolish, rigged games.
“I think I’m good,” Shuichi sighs, only a little bitter. There's a defeated type of sadness radiating off his wiry frame and Kokichi feels his nose scrunch up with displeasure. He’s never liked sore losers—people giving up. “This thing clearly hates me.” He accentuates his words with a light nudge of his foot against the game machine’s side, mindful of the school rules.
“That won’t do at all, Shuichi!” Kokichi huffs, leaning forward. He digs his hands into his hips, puffing up his chest. “Show some spirit. I won’t allow you to come out last—not when Kaito’s doing such a splendid job at it.” As though on cue, the aforementioned teen’s frustrated curse rings out over the miscellaneous sounds of the arcade. “This one’s not too hard, if you know the right tricks.” Kokichi circles the machine, patting it, almost lovingly.
Shuichi merely raises one eyebrow in silent question. Kokichi does not falter, confident in his ability. He has spent several hours trying to beat this stupid fighting game, eventually figuring out the correct combos to progress. Kokichi didn’t like half-assed effort when it came to games, dedicated to emerging victorious in everything he ever did. Perhaps even more so when it was him alone, trying to prove something to himself.
“I seriously doubt that it—” Shuichi starts, but Kokichi swiftly cuts him off, dismissively waving his hand.
“Since I am sooo invested in watching Kaito lose horribly, and I am in a pretty good mood, I’ll make a teeny-tiny exception this time around. I’ll reveal my secret techniques and coach you, free of charge!” He siddles up to his beloved detective, innocently peering up at him through lowered lashes. “Besides, this one’s definitely worth it. I hear that there’s an interesting prize waiting for the person who beats the high score.”
And Shuichi must be a sore loser indeed, because there’s something deeply annoyed in the way he glowers at the hulking machine, as though personally offended by its existence. After a few beats of silence, he nods, equal parts hesitant and determined. “Alright,” he says, lacing his fingers to stretch them out, cracking his knuckles. Kokichi tries not to observe the way Shuichi rolls out a kink plaguing his sore neck, eyes closed and hair falling into his face—a silk curtain of dark blue. “Let’s give this another shot.”
There’s a lack of conviction in his voice, but Kokichi vows to change that real soon. He feeds the machine another few coins and boots it up again, eyebrow twitching furiously the second he is greeted by the title screen. Kokichi stands to his right, hands politely clasped behind his back. Oddly invested, he gives Shuichi a brief rundown of the best combinations to go with, describing the future phases of the game in as much detail as he possibly can.
Shuichi only hums along, perfect eyes fixed on the game as he moves his character, lean hands slipping over the incorrect buttons still, inexperienced and all over the place.
When his character is almost down to half of their HP, Kokichi starts getting annoyed. “I expected you to put in some more effort than that, Shuichi! I’m doing this for free, you know, so you better not shame your wise and gracious teacher. Up, up, A, B, A, come on. I know you can do it!”
“I’m trying,” Shuichi squeezes out, embarrassed. He briefly lifts his eyes to meet Kokichi’s, risking a fatal blow to his avatar. “It’s distracting to have you watching me. I keep messing up.”
“Eyes forward!” Kokichi commands, and the detective snaps his head back to the screen. “That won’t do. If you’re suffering from performance anxiety that bad,” Shuichi lets out a strangled noise at that—a mix between a gurgling cough and a gasp, “then a different method is required to teach you.”
Before he can really, truly think about it, Kokichi finds himself moving behind Shuichi’s curved back, sliding his hands over Shuichi’s moist ones, grip firm. He pulls a face at the wet sensation that greets him, displeased. No wonder his fingers kept slipping.
The detective stiffens beneath him, fingers jolting, but Kokichi’s grasp is vice-like on his sweaty palms, keeping them locked in place and preventing another fatal mistake. “If you want to impress me, beloved,” Kokichi mutters against the shell of Shuichi’s ear and it is impossible to tell whether it turns red at their intimate stance or it’s just a brief trick of the bright, flickering light, shedding neon-pink over the two players, “then you better focus.”
He does not mean for his voice to come out like that, rough and breathy, low and so very inappropriate, but it seemingly does the trick. Shuichi clears his throat and straightens up as much as he can with Kokichi’s body boxing him in, bracing himself a little more comfortably against the machine. Kokichi’s waist snugly pushes into the small of Shuichi’s back, chin hovering over a sloping shoulder to watch the screen.
Guiding Shuichi through the rest of the phase is more instinctual rather than focused. Shuichi’s bony fingers feel cold and damp against his, but Kokichi hardly relents, guiding him with a firm hand. He keeps sneaking quick glances at the side of Shuichi’s handsome face, determinedly fixed ahead, refusing to acknowledge Kokichi’s existence. He is far too tense, frozen in place—an impressively life-like marble statue radiating intoxicating heat. Kokichi can tell that the detective is simply far too scared to move, to touch him more than it is absolutely necessary, gaze purposefully glued to the screen.
Together, they defeat the final boss with barely any life left, and when Kokichi leans in to commend his partner for a job well done, whispering a proud ‘good boy' into his ear, Shuichi nearly convulses, the full-body twitch, followed by a strong shudder, rattling through Kokichi’s core. Fascinated by this new discovery, he stares at the taller boy, mouth agape, and their character dies the second the game enters its second phase, killed off by a stray slime.
“Aww.” Kokichi sticks out his lower lip to lighten the mood, only a little disappointed. They—‘them’ being Kokichi, yours truly, exclusively—were doing pretty alright, too! His gaze briefly drits to the screen, indicating a new high score for the player ‘SAISHU’. “At least you managed to complete phase one! A big step for this baby gamer. You’re going to beat me in no time,” he lies, grinning wide.
Shuichi remains silent and awkward beneath him, awfully high-strung. Before Kokichi can even blink, the teen stands up to his full height, the motion of it so sudden that it nearly throws Kokichi off.
Saihara is nothing short of a skittish steed that cannot be easily tamed by Kokichi’s simpering, his mischievous words, and god damn, he might as well be a cowboy.
Kokichi almost wants to cackle at the highly creative and ridiculous image that his wonderfully talented mind pulls up, but then he notices Shuichi, fidgeting and vulnerable before him, and for whatever reason, it’s not as funny anymore.
“I, uh,” Shuichi starts, fingers picking at his long fringe—clearly an unwitting habit, seeking out a hat that was no longer there, buried alongside Kaede Akamatsu’s hopes and dreams—“Need to step out for some fresh air.”
When Kokichi takes a step to fall in line with the taller boy, Shuichi only turns on his heel, face aflame.
Kokichi blinks, eyes wide with surprise when Shuichi stutters out a weak and desperate, “Alone, alright?” and makes himself scarce, walking away in the opposite direction of the exit.
Huh.
Interesting.
Kokichi’s fingers twitch with the memory of Shuichi’s clammy skin against his and he grins to himself, wild and deranged, heart thundering somewhere in the back of his throat.
3.
Kokichi is annihilating his hair when Shuichi steps into the mens’ bathroom, a fluffy towel folded in his arms and his blazer missing. The white button down accentuates the generous ratio of his wide shoulders and small waist, sleeves rolled up his forearms. Kokichi stares at him through the slightly dirty mirror, zeroing in on the other boy’s long neck. It’s simply too strange, seeing so much skin—a forbidden territory, usually covered by the tall collar of his school uniform.
Kokichi wants to bite it. Wants to suck at least one love bite into it, in a place where it cannot be hidden. Wants to split that perfect, porcelain skin open with his teeth, canines itching with need.
He wants to wrap his fingers around the fragile column of Shuichi Saihara’s swan neck and press down, leave behind dark bruises in the shape of his hands.
Instead, Kokichi channels the sudden burst of aroused energy into fucking up his hair even further, the kitchen scissors messily snapping off a good chunk of purple strands, drifting into the sink to join the rest.
Shuichi eyes him through the mirror, a concerned crease marring his perfect eyebrows when he hangs the white towel and fishes out his toothbrush from the back pocket of his pants.
“What?” Kokichi finally snaps, fed up with the ‘discreet’, worried glances. He stretches his neck to the side to check the damage. It looks… alright. He’s had it worse and practice really does make perfect. Eventually. “Never seen a guy get his hair done, Shumai?”
“If you can call it that,” Shuichi comments, voice barely audible over the mouthful of toothpaste and the lazy swipe of the toothbrush. “Are you sure you want to keep going? You’ll end up with a bald patch with scissors like that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my scissors,” Kokichi insists, petulant. Huh, maybe the other boy is right—he did go a little ham with that last snip. Anything to get his mind off Shuichi’s pale collarbones and lightly-toned arms. “I always cut my own hair.”
“I noticed. You should really consider investing into a barber.”
“I am not paying someone to come near my head with a sharp object.” Kokichi cringes at the mere thought, shuddering. The scissors noisily clatter into the sink and he lets out a long, defeated breath, suddenly feeling embarrassed.
So he may not know how to cut hair. Big deal. Shuichi has no right to judge him with his perfect dark-blue locks and his stubborn cowlick, akin to Kiibo’s bizarre antenna. Kokichi figures that the two use it for their super secret clown-to-clown communication.
“I can do this on my own,” Kokichi speaks up, sounding far more brave than he actually feels, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid—he should’ve asked Angie to lend him a hairtie instead. And now Shuichi has caught him off guard, and here Kokichi is, missing a good chunk of his locks, no thanks to his depraved, excessively horny thoughts.
He’ll fix it. Style it as always. No one will know the difference.
The future looks bleak.
Shuichi rinses out his mouth and takes pity on Kokichi, pathetically staring down into the sink and mourning his literal hair loss, internally cursing out his bad life decisions—the sudden, overwhelming urge to chop off his overgrown hair at 11:10 PM.
“You could have asked someone else to trim it for you.” Shuichi approaches him like he would a skittish animal, voice disgustingly soft when he reaches for the scissors. Briefly, Kokichi wonders whether the detective is going to stab them into the back of his neck, but quickly chases the intrusive thought away, shivering. Shuichi would never do that, would never think to cause him intentional harm—then again, they all thought the same about Kaede, and now she was gone and everything was worse somehow.
Kokichi laughs, only a little bitter. “And let someone get close to my back with what is essentially a murder weapon? No thanks. I can handle a few bald spots if it means I get to survive this killing game, love. Unlike someone, I’m in it to win it.”
Shuichi frowns at his insensitive choice of words but doesn’t comment on them, likely picking up on Kokichi’s less-than-stellar mood. Instead, he pushes his fingers through the metal loops, snipping at the air a few times to adjust to their weight. “I understand that. I do. But it doesn’t hurt to rely on someone every now and then, especially if you really need help.” And of course Shuichi would think that, bright and noble Shuichi who has been entrusted with Kaede’s doomed dream, determined to cooperate with the rest in order to prevent any future killings. Stupid, wonderful, beautiful, and painfully naive Shuichi Saihara.
Kokichi does not know what to expect when Shuichi shyly tells him, “And I just happen to know how to cut hair. Ah, not very well, but…” He shifts his gaze away from the mirror, a light dusting of baby-pink permeating his cheekbones.
“Better than this, right?” Kokichi finishes for him, rolling his eyes and sighing dramatically. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to show off? If I let you do this, if I trust you enough with these scissors, and you mess me up, I will seriously kill you. And that is the truth. I think the rest will agree that my motive was acceptable.”
When they meet eyes again, nervous and a little uncertain, Shuichi smiles comfortingly at their reflection, positioning himself behind Kokichi. The subtle upturn of his lips nearly makes Kokichi’s knees buckle beneath him, overwhelmed by a deeply intense need—his building excitement to get physically close to Shuichi once more.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the detective hums, visibly unperturbed by the empty threat, and his fingertips gently brush over the uneven ends of Kokichi’s dark purple strands, straightening them out.
He is careful when he works and Kokichi is worried enough about his looks to keep his mouth sealed shut throughout the painstaking process, standing completely still, hands braced against the sink to grant Shuichi better access, making himself smaller. Shuichi is diligent, taking his sweet time to snip away at any excess hairs. Kokichi threatens him with the promise of castration the second he notices Shuichi focusing on some strands a little too much for his liking, the cut far too neat.
He’d rather kill himself than allow Saihara to accidentally give him a misshapen bowlcut.
With Kokichi’s instruction, the detective readjusts his approach, growing a little bolder, using the heavy scissors to feather out his hair into something semi-decent. It is far more professional-looking and better than anything Kokichi’s ever done for himself, so naturally, when Shuichi nervously asks for feedback, he lies. “Eh, it’s alright, I guess. A solid four out of ten. You should never pursue hairdressing as a career, though.”
Shuichi has managed to salvage his hair, even if the cut is a little odd—the front kept longer, and the middle a little short compared to the hair growing out at the back of his head. Still, it’s very similar to the cut that Kokichi had going on before this ‘brilliant’ idea had taken root in his brain.
“It’s not my best,” Shuichi quietly admits, stroking his chin and observing Kokichi’s reflection. “I usually cut my own hair, and, uh, the way we prefer to wear it is completely different, so…” he trails off, embarrassed and meaningful, setting aside the scissors in favor of burying his slim, cold fingers into the flurry of purple strands to shake them out, push them back into place.
That innocent, deeply impersonal action sends sparks down Kokichi’s spine and makes him audibly groan when Shuichi’s cool fingertips come in contact with the sensitive skin of his scalp, carefully stroking over it. The pleasured moan that escapes him is so terrifyingly embarrassing that Shuichi’s hands momentarily go still in his hair, ceasing their ministrations. Wide eyes flick up to meet Kokichi’s in the mirror.
A charged silence hangs heavy in the air between them, filled with hesitance and tentative questions that Shuichi does not dare to voice out.
In real time, Kokichi detachedly analyses his own reflection’s shaken face turning an impressive shade of bright pink. Surely, if he were to set himself ablaze right now, it would be far less painful and warm than this. To escape the detective’s probing gaze, Kokichi screws his eyes shut and discreetly bites at his lower lip, boldly leaning back into Shuichi’s slack hands, nuzzling into them. The skin-to-skin contact feels so nice that he nearly whimpers.
Privately, he wonders whether he is truly, undeniably touch-starved.
Shuichi’s thoughtful, ghost-like touches never fail to make Kokichi feel incredibly fuzzy, like a dozen fluffy kittens had been stuffed inside his being. These subtle actions always leave Kokichi wanting more, craving for something far more solid. Something fully intentional, gifted to him by the object of his affection.
“That felt really good,” he finally admits out loud, because there is nothing else left for him to say when they’re stuck together like this. It takes some time before the detective hums back in acknowledgement, something disbelieving and deeply conflicted flitting by his pretty eyes. Meanwhile, Kokichi positively drowns in searing-hot shame, cursing his far too honest body language. To ease his internal suffering, he smirks, tone developing a teasing lilt. “You may suck at cutting hair, but at least you’d make a decent masseuse.”
Jeez, talk about embarrassing.
He nearly whines at the loss of contact when Shuichi’s pleasantly cold hands drift down, patting at his shoulders to rid them of stray hairs.
Kokichi could’ve told Shuichi that the latter had hurt him somehow. That he had a severe phobia of people touching his scalp in any way, shape or form. That he was secretly obsessed with Angie’s obsessive sermons and her Atua nonsense, that he didn’t want anyone defiling ‘the god’s gateway’ into his body. Could’ve said literally anything, really, any lie under the sun, and yet, with Shuichi’s careful fingers threading oh-so-tenderly into his hair, Kokichi Ouma had decided to speak the honest truth, chest close to bursting with intense pleasure and gut-churning affection—the two emotions that one should never harbor towards anyone while participating in a killing game.
And if he notices Shuichi’s hands casually rubbing over his shoulders, lingering with the pretense of collecting the smaller hairs, he does not comment on it.
4.
Kokichi Ouma knows that he can be a handful at times and that Shuichi Saihara does not necessarily like him. He isn’t too surprised by this. After all, Kokichi isn’t the nicest person out there, nor does he exactly wish to be adored by his potential enemies, but Shuichi is different.
He is fully aware that Shuichi probably only ever hangs out with him because he either feels sorry for him or feels like he has to, like he needs to keep everyone in check, desperate to pick up on early warning signs indicative of a brewing murder plot. It’s almost as though the detective enjoys making things difficult for himself by making friends in such an awful, hostile environment, trusting complete strangers with their memories in shambles. It’s like Shuichi secretly wants to share their burden, be held, at least, partially responsible for every little ‘incident’, no more than a nervous dude holding the leashes of fifteen rabid dogs, dragged about left and right.
Kokichi wants him to get off his damned cross and face the truth.
Perhaps he just doesn’t understand. No thanks to his own suspicious nature, Kokichi is the exact opposite, and he frequently goes out of his way to push others away, uncertain how to deal with well meaning intentions, encouragement, and kind words. Despite knowing that, Shuichi still continues pursuing him, dead set on getting to know him better, the real him, and that persistence, while wholesome and sweet, makes Kokichi’s skin crawl with frightened unease. Shuichi’s foolish drive forces him to put up towering walls, presenting himself to be a terrible person, unworthy of the detective’s time and effort, desperate to push the other boy away.
Time and time again, Shuichi offers him a hand, overbearingly patient in spite of his gradually accumulating frustration, but Kokichi refuses to take it. Time and time again, he slaps it away, rejecting Shuichi’s delusional ideas of camaraderie. Unwilling to genuinely bare his heart to someone who might end up dead, Kokichi shrinks back and hides, covering himself in layers upon layers of lies and empty threats that he has no intention of ever following up on.
It’s fine like this. After all, Kokichi knows—perhaps a little too well; huh, go figure—how to downplay his true feelings, make them come out as playful rather than honest. He calls Shuichi pretty names, cute little nicknames that make his heart flutter with excitement whenever he gets to say them out loud; however, the second Kokichi feels a single questioning gaze raking over his body, he quickly backtracks, playing off the endearments as something casual.
Being an obnoxious jester suits him. No one needs to know just what kind of power Shuichi holds over him—least of all the man himself, flustered and wide-eyed, constantly second guessing Kokichi’s mushy words of deeply-rooted affection.
There’s something so extremely stimulating when it comes to messing around with the detective—keeping him up on his toes, suspicious and confused. Kokichi plays with him just enough to get away with shit like this, smiles kept deceptively innocent.
It has to be mentally exhausting, he knows. Tired of his wacky shenanigans, more often than not, Shuichi finds himself leaning closer to his friends—Kaito and Maki, to be more specific—in an attempt to escape Kokichi’s shining personality, his sharp grins and questionable statements, so it isn’t entirely shocking when Shuichi chooses to walk away with Maki after Kokichi falls through the floor and bashes his head against the ground.
Kokichi doesn’t know whether it’s his concussion speaking or his overall incomprehension of genuine human connections, but something close to petty jealousy rears its ugly head when he watches Shuichi and his Murder Queen bestie rounding a corner, discreetly rolling their eyes at the blood gushing out of Kokichi’s split forehead. As if he had intended to give himself brain damage. Damn.
Talk about ice-cold.
Kokichi rests against the wall and stews in resentment, in betrayal, secretly wishing to be a part of Shuichi’s oddball clique, to be someone Shuichi can easily rely on and freely lean against, eager to be pulled in close. Consumed by these irrational ideas, more than once, Kokichi had found himself burning holes into the back of Kaito Momota’s tanned neck, mentally setting those buff arms aflame, too familiar around Shuichi’s slender shoulders. More than once, he had caught himself glaring daggers at Maki, bewildered by his beloved detective’s insane decision to keep a woman that dangerous by his side.
Fucking Shuichi who was far too cool and casual to ask Kokichi Ouma if he was alright in front of his asshole friends. Liar Shuichi, who had fussed over the boo boos left behind on Kokichi’s hands by a sharp kitchen knife.
Mildly annoyed and still very much concussed, Kokichi scrapes his nails against the off-white bandage that his beloved detective had carefully wrapped around his ring finger—oh, the irony of getting stabbed right through the promise finger—desperate to ward off the dizziness and the bursts of light dancing around in his periphery. The second he sees the nasty scab, he immediately slaps the bandage back into place. In all honesty, that slice had probably required several stitches.
Perhaps even a kiss from his own personal doctor to make it heal faster.
When they enter the school building, Shuichi is definitely in a bad mood—well, all of them are, especially after having sat through a double-murder trial for three hours with zero bathroom breaks—and Kokichi finally sways, collapsing right into the detective’s side. Witnessing yet another brutal execution has done very little to help him clear his mind or magically cure his concussion, and who could ever forget the glaring lack of chairs or refreshments inside that god awful courtroom mockery.
The others had already gone ahead, huddled together for comfort, carrying Himiko’s unconscious body back to her room, tuckered out from sobbing her poor little heart out. Once their group had approached the stairs, unable to keep up his tough guy act any longer, Kokichi had started lagging behind, ill and deeply unwell, while Shuichi kept discreetly glancing his way, a worried crease etched into the space between his eyebrows.
Everything about him had seemed miserable, tired, and painfully defeated, and yet, the second Kokichi’s legs had given out beneath him, Shuichi was right by his side, a supportive presence steadying him by the shoulders.
“You alright?” the detective asks, but by the looks of it, he already knows the answer to that question. His slate-grey eyes scrutinize the crooked bandage pressed into Kokichi’s hairline, completely hidden by his strands.
“Peachy!” Kokichi chirps his lie, and the world spins a little too fast for comfort, Shuichi’s sylph-like face morphing into a blur of faded dark blue, black and grey splotches. God, he is going to be sick, and won’t that be romantic, throwing up instant noodles, chocolate, and grape-flavored soda all over his crush’s kind of ugly shoes? The mere thought makes Kokichi snicker. Shuichi only narrows his eyes, concerned and slightly suspicious. “I’ll sleep it off and will be as good as new.”
“You don’t look so well,” Shuichi insists, worry lacing his saccharine voice, sending a bolt of electricity down Kokichi’s spine, painfully tugging at his ribcage. These gut punches were starting to become more and more familiar. “Do you need to lie down? Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” Kokichi snorts, huffing. To prove his point, he takes another step forward, only to tilt forward, vision going black around the corners.
As though in slow motion, Kokichi idly observes the dirty floor closing in on his face, but then Shuichi’s arm is there, holding him back. A little more aware of his surroundings, he grabs the limb for leverage, but his ankles are akin to blobs of jelly and his weight is a massive boulder, crashing forward with the intense pull of gravity. Predictably, he trips again, and to save him from yet another unfortunate injury, Shuichi Saihara bravely ducks in front of Kokichi’s form, cushioning his fall. They collapse in a pile of tangled limbs, with the detective letting out a winded “oof” after the shorter boy’s chest collides with his.
The awkward tumble knocks back Kokichi’s head with enough force to make him groan in pain. Stars and fireworks burst beneath his twitching eyelids, leaving his stomach churning with intense nausea. Immediately picking up on the distressed noise, equal parts flustered and concerned, Shuichi attempts to raise himself up on his elbows to inspect the damage, only to be greeted by Kokichi Ouma’s agonized whimper, teeth grit when he hisses out in warning, “Don’t move.”
Fuck, he must sound seriously pathetic right now.
For a few seconds, Shuichi observes him, sharp gaze intense and calculating, but then he relents, slowly maneuvering himself to lie back down on the floor. He is clearly trying not to breathe, lest the subtle rise and fall of his chest makes their current predicament somehow worse and Kokichi’s pain more intense.
It takes some time for Kokichi to get his bearings. Eventually, the confusion subsides, making way for something far more intense and deeply embarrassing. Once it settles in, it takes Kokichi another dozen or so seconds to fully realize that he is currently sprawled out on top of Shuichi Saihara’s unmoving body, his head pillowed against the detective’s chest, a thigh comfortably pushed between those long, lean legs.
The taller boy feels rigid beneath Kokichi’s flushed cheek, and he smells just as nice as he recalls—laundry detergent, soap, and hints of minty toothpaste, all mixed in one. And wow, his chest really is far more solid than he remembers, Kokichi dimly thinks, once he presses his chin into it, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Has he been working out?
“K-Kokichi?” Shuichi’s meek call of his name quickly brings him back down to reality. Goodbye, Horny Land, it was nice while it lasted. “Are you—” he starts, and then shuts right up as Kokichi struggles to raise himself up on trembling arms, messy hair falling into his flushed face, partially hiding him away.
It takes an insurmountable amount of effort to even do this much. Kokichi has no clue as to how he’s going to crawl back to his dorm—there’s no way in hell Shuichi would ever offer to carry him and he’d much rather shoot himself in both legs than allow that to happen—and his final lucid brain cell runs away with him the moment he looks down at the detective’s beautiful face, his silver eyes wide and gleaming in the dimness of the hallway, their ethereal color brought out by the ugly grey hues of the crumbling floor beneath their bodies.
He could watch him for hours, just like this, Kokichi thinks, a plan already forming in the back of his head. He could fake dizziness, could bitch and whine for Shuichi to help him out. He could bring him back to his room, ask Shuichi to stay with him, and nurse him back to health. He could easily take advantage of this situation, handed to him on a golden platter by his gaping forehead wound.
Kokichi could do all of those things and more, but Shuichi is so beautiful like this—luminous eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes, porcelain cheeks flushed a pale bubblegum pink.
For a long while, they simply stare at each other, uncertain how to proceed—or if they even should, something sacred and fragile hanging by a thread, suspended in the small space between them. This isn’t the first time Kokichi has clambered on top of this divine boy, but it certainly feels that way, especially when he feels those thin fingers wrapping around his trembling upper arms, supporting his lead-like weight.
Kokichi feels those fingers squeeze and he wants to kiss him. So badly. He thinks that he could, too. Could play it off as something incidental even, induced by his head injury.
The idea of it leaves him so dizzy that his arms give out and Kokichi collapses forward. Before he can smack his forehead against Shuichi’s, the detective’s cold hands shoot out to take hold of his too-warm face, effortlessly supporting Kokichi’s body, hovering a mere inch away from the tip of his pointy nose.
Almost involuntarily, Kokichi’s eyes flicker down to Shuichi’s lips, who only exhales, nervous and shaky, voice suspiciously steady when he finally speaks up, “I’ll help you up, alright? You can lean on me as we go to the dorms.” Every word that he speaks into existence brushes over Kokichi’s too-sensitive lips, making him subconsciously gnaw at them. He does not miss the way Shuichi’s eyes trace the not-so-subtle movement. “Sounds good?”
“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Kokichi murmurs, still very much dazed, perhaps due to reasons completely unrelated to his injury. His shivering only intensifies when he notices Shuichi’s face turning darker still, clearly riled up and undeniably affected by their proximity.
High on sheer dumb luck, Kokichi hangs his head low, pressing down on Shuichi’s palms the slightest bit, their skin a little moist and sticky against his cheeks, but the detective’s grip remains firm, halting him immediately.
Aww. No ‘accidental’ kissing for him today.
Shuichi maneuvers them around until they’re both standing up with Kokichi tucked into his side, safe and warm, his right arm awkwardly hooked around Shuichi’s shoulders. Privately, the shorter boy thinks that perhaps wishes really do come true if you try hard enough and manipulate the situation in the right way.
5.
The final time it happens, he is in a mood.
He may be an agent of unparalleled chaos with at least six different tabs open inside his mind at all times, all of them focused on his plans to end this stupid killing game, but he is still a teenage boy with needs.
Kokichi hasn’t exactly had the time to take care of himself, and he figures that he isn’t the only one out there—unless you were Miu, which, ew, no one really needs to think about that. There’s something pent up about each and every one of his classmates, buzzing with nervous tension, craving to be released. Regrettably, the killing game’s shitty environment isn’t exactly ideal for spinning steamy romances or simply rubbing one out, and the recurring, meaningless deaths could certainly put a damper on everything for days to come.
On some nights—whenever he doesn’t collapse face-first into the nearest, less-cluttered corner of his dorm at the break of dawn, still dressed in his outside clothes—Kokichi takes long, nice showers, cuddles up in his comforter, and tries very hard—heh, hard—to will away the uncomfortable sensation of his pajama shirt brushing against every more-sensitive part of his body, sticking to his sweat-slicked skin. He is fully aware that edging himself like this does nothing to help his case, but Kokichi would much rather die from embarrassment than let his fingers drift down past the waistband of his boxers to touch himself to the thoughts of long eyelashes and cold, damp hands.
There is something sacred about his feelings towards Shuichi. He does not dare to taint them with his sick, depraved desires, his twisted needs. He does not think that he’d have the mental fortitude to look the detective straight in the eye the morning after, and he is not about to test that theory.
Whenever things get hot and heavy, fuelled by the incessant assault of rather steamy imagery, Kokichi only bites his lip and powers through it, forcing himself to go to sleep.
This utter nonsense only fuels his perpetual insomnia. Haunted by Shuichi Saihara’s divine visage, Kokichi Ouma spends hours tossing and turning in his bed, flushed pink and sticky.
During these moments, even if he were to think about literally anything else, there isn’t a single doubt in his mind that his thoughts would inevitably drift back to Shuichi. His brain would definitely send him even more visions of his beloved detective, bent over Kokichi’s shorter frame, face like a furnace between Kokichi’s thighs. Visions of those crystalline eyes looking right at him, through him, right before Imaginary Shuichi would push his blessedly cold hands against his inner thighs to spread them open, leaning in to—
Wow.
Kokichi is willing to admit to himself that he is down bad.
There’s that, and he should also get off soon. Those long, frosty showers were no longer cutting it.
Speaking of the devil, Shuichi Saihara rounds a corner of the school building, wandering around past curfew yet again. Kokichi wonders whether the boy truly has a death wish, thinks about the glaring hypocrisy of that thought, and hides in the shadows, watching. Waiting.
Shuichi is blissfully ignorant of his ninja-like presence, pace faster than usual, making Kokichi work extra hard to upkeep his imaginary phantom thief title.
It doesn’t take long for the shorter boy to notice that something is undeniably wrong. Shuichi’s shoulders are far more tense than normal.
Eyebrows furrowed, Kokichi squints and wonders whether he should leave the other boy to his own devices—clearly, he has some stuff to deal with—but his concern for the others’ wellbeing is far too great, outweighing his hesitance. Is Shuichi in any trouble? Is he being pursued?
If that is the case, then they are sorely fucked. Kokichi has nothing on his person that he could use to protect his beloved detective, helpless to stop a potential murder. If it were anyone else, right about now Kokichi would be running away as fast as he could, but if it involves his beloved Shuichi…
If push came to shove, Kokichi would gladly throw himself at Shuichi’s alleged attacker, jumping on their back in order to stop them—even unarmed.
Even if it meant putting himself in harm’s way.
Once he is fully hidden by the long shadows cast by the lush trees, Shuichi halts, dropping into the first bench that he comes across, boneless. Silently crouching down behind some bushes, reflexes catlike, Kokichi quietly observes his target, taking in the exhausted slump of his shoulders when Shuichi puts his face in his hands, sighing. There’s no one else around. No one approaches.
Shuichi just sits there, imitating a rather impressive, life-like stone statue, and Kokichi quickly grows bored and restless, feeling himself extra annoying that night. He pulls away from his hiding spot, circling around the greenery to inconspicuously step out into the main path, arms casually crossed behind his head, whistling an off-key tune to alert the other of his approach.
Upon seeing him, Shuichi audibly groans, face flushed a dark pink and brow exaggeratedly furrowed, twisting his handsome face. It’s a peculiar reaction, one that makes Kokichi’s own eyebrows disappear in his messily-cut hair.
“Got stood up by a hot date, Shumai?” Kokichi teases, halting in front of the detective’s curled up form, the taller boy’s pretty face buried in his open hands once again. “Too busy crying to look at me? It’s alright, I won’t judge. Much.”
Growing more and more tired by the second, Shuichi scrubs at his cheeks, fingers catching his dark blue hair, ruffling it. He looks younger like this, the fluffiness of those strands taking away some of the edge. “If you have nothing better to do than to poke at me, please leave me alone. Now’s really not a good time,” Shuichi mutters, the words barely audible over his fingers. Kokichi has to strain his ears in order to hear him.
“You can’t schedule a bullying session with your handsome tormentor, silly! That’s not how this works. And you didn’t say no,” the shorter boy points out, trying to come across as obnoxious as possible, straining his beloved even further. Jeez, what’s got his panties in a bunch? Whatever it is, it makes Shuichi appear even more unapproachable than he normally is.
Seriously debating whether he should sit down besides the detective to invade his personal space and mess with him even further, Kokichi comes to the conclusion that it isn’t the best idea. But then again, Kokichi isn’t known for his wise decisions, correct choices, often led by pettiness rather than rational thought.
Shuichi pulls away as far as humanly possible without falling off the bench when Kokichi makes himself comfortable, bouncing in his seat. To show the taller boy that he isn’t a threat, Kokichi doesn’t try to sidle up to him. “What’s up, Shumai?” he crows, only a little concerned. He leans forward to catch a proper glimpse of Shuichi’s flushed face, head cocking to the side, genuinely curious. “Is anyone else bullying you? Can’t really blame them, I definitely can see why. Even so, let me know right away! I don’t like sharing, so that means I’d have to kill them. Would save you from a whole lot of trouble in the process, too.”
“Thanks,” Shuichi dryly replies, pinning Kokichi with a flat stare. The latter teen only smiles, laughing brightly and kicking out his legs. “I’ll make sure to notify you, my tormentor.”
Something about that innocent, seemingly insignificant ‘my’ before the ‘tormentor’ makes Kokichi tense and his cheeks flush. Shuichi openly stares at him, slightly bewildered, so the shorter boy only coughs, covering up his embarrassment with an over-the-top laugh. For the desired effect, he also crosses his arms over his puffed out chest. “Yes, you better know who you belong to! As a Supreme Leader, I want to make sure that I’m always in charge and my subjects are safe! You could even say that it’s my job!”
Shuichi huffs at that. This time, it comes out as fond. Still exasperated, but undeniably endeared. “Never agreed to join your organization, Kokichi,” he says, standing up. The shorter boy catches a hint of a smile. “So calling me that is incorrect.”
“But you’re my favorite person to bully, so I want to be the only one who gets to mess with you. Duh. Read the room, Shuichi.”
“Sure,” his beloved detective hums in response, automatic, but it looks like he hasn’t even heard any of his tirade to begin with, mind somewhere far away, a glazed-over look in his eyes.
Far away from this dome, the Ultimate Academy. Away from this wretched killing game, from Monokuma and his little bear-rats.
Away from Kokichi.
The mere thought makes him equal parts anxious and annoyed. Without truly thinking about it, Kokichi pushes out his leg right as Shuichi moves to walk away, making his beloved detective trip and stumble forward. Before he can hit the ground, though, yelping in surprise, Kokichi leaps at him, moving faster than a hunting feline, grabbing the taller boy by a skinny wrist.
The pull of gravity works in his favor. He easily twists them around, swinging Shuichi until the other finds himself backed into the bench, half-draped over it, Kokichi’s steady hand pushed into the small of his back—the only thing supporting him, keeping him upright. The backs of Shuichi’s knees press uncomfortably into the wooded frame, the angle far too awkward for him to keep his balance. On autopilot, Shuichi reaches out his left hand to fist Kokichi’s white clothing, clawing at the material to keep himself somewhat steady.
The shorter boy’s gaze roams over the detective's scrunched up face, deeply appreciative, taking in the breathtaking color of his silver eyes, genuinely obsessed with the subtle shadows cast by Shuichi’s long eyelashes. From this angle, this proximity, he can see every single flaw of Shuichi’s seemingly perfect face. Every tiny mole and freckle, fading into the healthy flush of his clammy skin. The dark circles under his eyes. The small lines of worry etched into the skin between his eyebrows, unbecoming for someone his age.
He looks drained of life, worn out to the bone and stretched far too thin to be comfortable, a man at the end of his wits—and yet, he is still the single, most beautiful thing Kokichi Ouma has ever seen.
He is the eye of the storm, the flashing of lightning and the rumbling of thunder, distant but dangerous, and Kokichi always had a thing for bad weather, for the first flash of sunlight that would come out afterwards.
Shuichi’s eyes cloud over, something heavy reflected in them, and he is clearly, obviously annoyed, but Kokichi wants to stare at him just for a little while longer, long enough to push at his beloved detective’s buttons, but not enough to cross over any invisible boundaries pushed between them. By whom? He does not know.
His choppy hair brushes over Shuichi’s pointed nose as he leans in closer, tightening his hold around that lean waist. His tone is conspiratorial when he finally speaks up, voice scratchy with tension. “See? What would you do without me? I saved you from falling over. Bow down before me in thanks.”
Kokichi feels shaking fingers and blunt nails digging into the thin material of his white jacket, pulling at it. “You’re literally the one who pushed me,” Shuichi forces out through grit teeth, one eyebrow twitching wildly. He looks like he is about to have an aneurysm, like he is terribly disoriented and cannot tell left from right, up from down. Like speaking to Kokichi Ouma for more than ten seconds at a time is giving him severe brain damage.
Kokichi almost wants to smirk, strangely proud of himself. All in a day’s work.
Instead he frowns, scandalised and fake. “Pushed you? I hate violence! There’s no need to be delusional or accuse me of such awful deeds.”
“Stop gaslighting.”
Kokichi snorts, derisively. “It’s just a lie, sweetheart, calm down. No need for dramatics. I’m not that much of a dickbag.”
“That’s debatable,” Shuichi mumbles, subtly rolling his eyes and looking aside. Their curious predicament is kind of losing its magical vibe. Fast.
Kokichi vows to salvage it, muscles tight with pent up, horny frustration, fed by the plethora of mental images of Shuichi Saihara on top of him, below him. Literally any position one could possibly think of, Kokichi has already gone through, perhaps more than once.
His mind is both a brilliant place and a godawful prison. The prison part of his brain likes to conjure up every sexual dream under the sun, only to play them afterwards, always right before Kokichi’s bed time, adult movies meant to torture him further.
Kokichi has to confess that it isn’t always like this. Occasionally, he has dreams of simply holding Shuichi in his arms, just like this. Holding onto his slick palms, lacing their moist fingers—did he mention hand sweat? Because there’s a lot of it—and going on… normal dates. Hugging. Cuddling.
Kissing.
Sometimes without tongue!
Cute and innocent, painfully domestic kisses without any hidden intentions, without any carnal desires spilling into them. Kept soft and simple, shared throughout the day, quick little pecks that are far too much for Kokichi to fully wrap his head around, leaving it spinning and aching for the rest of the day.
The knowledge that he, Kokichi Ouma, wants to be held by another human being in a more intimate way, is damn near incomprehensible. Impossible to parse through.
His lucid thoughts start trickling back into his mushy dreamscape—filled with images of a normal, everyday high school setting where he and Shuichi are normal classmates going on adorable, normal study dates, holding hands while completing their math homework—so Kokichi startles once he feels his beloved detective shift against him, extremely uncomfortable with their awkward position. The shorter boy’s arm struggles to hold up Shuichi’s weight, biceps shaking with strain.
Shuichi may not be heavy, but Kokichi is not the type to work out, and his diet—religious consumption of non-spicy instant noodles, sugary goods, and grape-flavored soda—isn’t exactly catered to muscle growth. There are also days when he straight up forgets to eat, a chewed up pencil shoved inside his mouth and his back bent over a pile of half-assed sketches; blueprints of devices that could potentially save their asses in the long run.
Kokichi is short and he is weak, so damned weak, incessantly plagued by filthy thoughts and dizzy with Shuichi’s enticing warmth, the latter boy’s lean body radiating heat no worse than a furnace. The detective attempts to dislodge himself one more time, and it’s more than enough to finally do Kokichi in. His poor arm gives out and his lower back is left aching.
The detective’s beautiful, slate-grey eyes grow wide with surprise right before he falls backwards and collapses. Shuichi falls into the bench, and Kokichi drops right into Shuichi’s lap.
A startled squeak rips out of the shorter boy’s mouth when he slips down and tilts back, still very unsteady from their semi-unexpected tumble. To save him, Shuichi firmly grabs him by the waist and pulls him in close—close enough to comfortably settle against his chest. To secure him in place, Shuichi’s arms automatically circle around his waist in what could be considered a deeply impersonal hug. Seeking some balance, Kokichi blindly wraps himself around his beloved detective’s neck, fully closing the small gap between their bodies by unwittingly pulling Shuichi in even closer.
His heart races, beating loudly against his ears when Shuichi’s too-warm face rests against the curve of his bony shoulder, and when his crush exhales, relieved and embarrassed, Kokichi thanks every deity out there for the checkered scarf protecting his goosebump-riddled skin from that shuddering puff of breath. If he’d felt that head on, he knows that he would’ve combusted on the spot.
Time stands completely still, and Kokichi does not dare to breathe, far too frightened and completely stunned by their… rather compromising position. A muddled thought surfaces to the forefront of his reeling mind, and Kokichi distantly wonders what the two of them would even look like to someone passing by—some student unable to sleep, just like the pair of crazy insomniacs, accidentally cuddling up on a bench. But it is 3:15 AM, and Kokichi knows that, realistically, no one is crazy enough to wander about this time of night without at least a very good reason to do so.
The exception being them, of course, but Kokichi’s always been a bit of an anomaly. A freak, if you will.
He wonders if Shuichi is one too, especially when he feels the latter slowly sliding his slender hands down Kokichi’s sides, uncertain where to place them. The accidental petting motion—and it has to be an accident, right, because there is no way in hell that Shuichi Saihara is knowingly feeling him up in the middle of the courtyard at three-o’-fucking-clock at night—leaves Kokichi viciously biting at his lips. A second more of this and he will surely start keening, and, in turn, that will kill him, annihilate their tentative partnership and completely lay waste to this bizarre thing that they have going on. If Kokichi responds positively to Shuichi’s cautious, deceptively tender touches, the latter boy will never approach him again. Not unless he is armed with a broom in one hand, and Maki Harukawa in the other.
His lungs ache when those curious fingertips continue tracing over Kokichi’s tense muscles, slipping past his hips to rest on his lower back, respectively kept right above the hidden waistline of his pants. His painfully tight pants.
Kokichi does not recall them shrinking in the washing machine.
So perhaps the pants aren’t the problem here.
Shuichi exhales again, noisier, heavier, softly muffled into the thin material of Kokichi’s summer jacket. The latter boy distinctively feels Shuichi’s sigh against his skin, the sharp pin prick of hot breath raising goosebumps along his forearms. He tenses even further when Shuichi’s thumb skims over a sensitive spot against his spine, the motion so subtle it could almost pass as unintentional.
It leaves Kokichi’s heart squeezing and his gut churning so painfully that he almost feels himself growing nauseous.
To escape the shiver-inducing sensation, Kokichi slips forward to shift his weight, uncertain what to do with it, where or how to place it. What to do next, with Shuichi’s body so pliant beneath him, openly accepting the uneasy squirming, glazed-over eyes fixed on Kokichi’s red face, a divine blessing and a tortuous curse.
The detective blinks up at him, clearly out of it, and Kokichi finally, finally places that feverish look, the familiar tension in Shuichi’s shoulders, reflecting his own. The flushed cheeks and the restless pacing in the middle of the night. Everything falls into place just like that, one last puzzle piece to complete the picture, and the two of then must be sharing the same type of burden—a pair of dumbass teenagers stuck in a life-or-death situation, stewing in a whole lot of misplaced arousal with no right way to rid themselves of it, especially under such circumstances.
Going outside certainly helps to clear the head. Both heads, actually.
Belatedly, Kokichi realizes that there is definitely nothing accidental about Shuichi Saihara feeling him up in the middle of the courtyard at three-o’-fucking-clock at night, and figures that the detective must be feeling desperate, as wound-up as Kokichi is on the inside, completely uncaring about who he gets to embrace, completely high on the feeling of intimacy, delirious with it. It sucks, badly, the knowledge that this means nothing to his beloved—that Shuichi doesn’t think of Kokichi as special, his mind consumed with the blind need to grind one out, choices dictated by hormones rather than lucid thought.
Kokichi discreetly slips one hand behind his back, blindly patting around. He rests his shaking fingers over Shuichi’s, skimming them over the top of the detective’s lean hand, and he pauses, not knowing what to do with it. Should he pull it away? Readjust it? Slide it down lower to press over the curve of his—
Silver eyes hazy and dark with, dare he say, arousal, Shuichi sits up a little straighter, his thigh accidentally brushing right between Kokichi’s legs.
The fragile moment violently disintegrates, replaced with all-consuming, suffocating anxiety.
Kokichi’s arm hangs heavy by his side, as though it’s been struck.
Shocked, Shuichi halts and tilts his head up to properly look at the lithe boy sitting completely still in his lap, face ashen and lavender eyes blown wide, filled with unspeakable dread. Kokichi does not dare to meet that burning, inquisitive stare dead-on, far too terrified of finding something awful there—disappointment, disgust, anger. Hatred, perhaps. Determined to avoid confrontation at all costs, he stares past Shuichi’s red ear and trembles, overwhelmed with shame.
His cheeks burn brighter than they ever had in his entire life.
He really shouldn’t have allowed himself to get carried away like this. There is a time and place for everything, and he has already promised himself that he wouldn’t pursue Shuichi no matter what. Kokichi has spent long hours trying to convince himself that he would be more than okay with supporting his crush from the sidelines, watching over him like a good partner would. A reliable partner that he isn't, but still tries his damned best to be whenever their circumstances allow it.
Kokichi may crave intimacy, genuine human connection, but that does not mean that he should get it. After all, he has done nothing to earn it, and his cautious nature, his twisted personality, have already wasted all and any chances that he might’ve had.
For a long while, Shuichi openly gapes, mouth falling and closing, useless. Unable to form words, to tell Kokichi off, to curse him out, to—
When he finally does find his shaky voice, it comes out high-pitched, strained with sheer disbelief. “Kokichi, did you—”
The verbal acknowledgement of his… prominent problem is more than enough to push Kokichi over the edge and send him packing. Deeply embarrassed, he shoots up, half-stumbling off Saihara’s pillow-like lap, but not before flattening his white jacket to the front of his quivering thighs, just to be on the safe side. Legs jelly-like, Kokichi almost trips in his hasty retreat, mumbling a garbled “Ineedtogobye!”, and then he dashes, his noisy heart threatening to climb up his throat, setting his tight lungs aflame.
He runs the entire way back to his room, grateful for the fact that Shuichi does not chase him, and then spends the remainder of the night with his spine pressed to the door, muffling incredulous, slightly deranged giggles into his open hands, mind drawing blanks whenever he so much as thinks, that yes, he’s just been caught with a goddamned boner while comfortably seated in Shuichi Saihara’s lap—a king on his throne.