Work Text:
They often say that home is where the heart is. It’s a sentiment that — would Shuichi consider it to ring true — would lead him to believe that home is six-feet under, rotting away alongside blood-stained memories of a life so carefully crafted, it makes him wonder if there’s any semblance of humanity left in those involved with shaping it. But home is neither here nor there, nor in the number of grimy hotel rooms he’d found himself bouncing between with every passing day.
It’s almost scary, the familiarity behind the wooden floorboards creaking below his footsteps. There’s an odd sensation — the acute awareness of what’s behind the heavy door despite having no recollection of it whatsoever — and much like the thoughts racing through Shuichi’s mind, it’s quickly drowned out by the sound of a key clicking into place.
It’s not particularly difficult to imagine himself having called the tiny apartment home at any point, at least from an outward perspective. It’s a simple building with no extra frills, from the rusted payphones in the lobby, down to the rickety old laundry room at the end of the hall. But when Shuichi presses his palm to the freezing doorknob and leans his weight against the door, he’s unsure if he’s prepared to face what’s inside despite his desperate attempts to convince himself otherwise.
It’s a normal apartment.
Anticlimactic, an unhelpful voice in the back of Shuichi’s head chimes in. Still, there’s a sort of madness in the mundanity, which is something that Shuichi quickly becomes aware of as he steps into the apartment that he has no recollection of ever owning.
He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to expect; there’s no burning stench of rotting food, or rats cowering in the corner of the room. The kitchen counters are clear, the sink is empty, and — save for the thin layer of dust that’s sealed the apartment like an old envelope does a letter detailing what once was — there’s no sign that someone like Shuichi ever lived there at all.
Someone like Shuichi.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
Perhaps he would’ve preferred to find the place crawling with roaches, a disgusting cesspool where the layers of dirt make it hard to see where he must’ve accidentally scratched his stove once, or where he probably dropped something on the kitchen floor, cracking the tile beneath.
But there’s none of that. His initial visual sweep yields nothing tangible that he can throw away. He doesn’t see anything that he could pack up and toss into a dumpster because if it’s out of sight and out of memory, then it’s most definitely out of mind.
Even in the living room, the only thing that even begins to hint at the person he was, the person whose presence he’s been dreading despite it having yet to be found, is the small stack of home-burned DVDs labeled Danganronpa 3, each with accompanying episode numbers.
Finally, Shuichi wants to think.
It’s the physical manifestation of an obsession he can’t remember, yet has become so intimately familiar with — the obsession that’s left him hopping from hotel to hotel, only to now finally gather up the courage to go back to where it all began.
It’s something to hold against himself, something to remind him of how far he’s come ever since both his literal and metaphorical worlds were shattered.
But when he sees the number of legally-purchased noir films behind the pile of Danganronpa DVDs, any sense of relief he must’ve felt in that moment vanishes from the pit of his stomach. They’re familiar ones, too. Ones that he thinks he might remember, if the gentle pull at the back of his mind means anything.
And yet, there’s no memory of having watched them on the faded couch he finds himself crumbling into.
No, all he sees is his uncle’s detective study, an old-fashioned television, someone sitting beside him commenting on the lack of realism. When Shuichi looks at the couch cushion beside him, it’s stiff and still set in its shape, as if it’d been rarely used. So unlike the soft, lumpy cushion he's currently slumped against.
The entire purpose of this trip had been to see what was salvageable, to see what things he could throw away and what he could potentially take with him to a new home. Take it as a form of therapy, one of the Danganronpa producers had said before Shuichi promptly slammed the hotel door in his face. And despite his searing hatred for anyone who wore that stupid bear-eye logo around their neck, he’d swallowed his pride long enough to try and find closure in the dumpster of some cheap apartment.
All that, and he only has a plastic bag full of pirated DVDs to show for it.
It’s frustrating and nauseating, and when he gets up to splash some water in his face in the bathroom, the sight of the same brand of toothpaste he’d bought last week makes his stomach roll.
Once again, the familiarity is all there — the reflections of old water droplets dried up on the mirror, a soap stain leftover from what Shuichi imagines was a bottle of face wash, a navy toothbrush that looks like it's seen better days. Even the image painted in the glass is so hauntingly recognizable; tired eyes trace the reflection of his pallid cheeks and chapped lips, and Shuichi thinks it’s like looking at someone that he once knew half a lifetime ago.
Here in this apartment, he supposes he is.
He slams the door to the bathroom much harder than initially intended, and through his mindless stumble, his feet bring him to a door at the end of the hallway.
Realistically, Shuichi knows what he’ll find on the other side of the door. Still, once he brings himself to push it open, it’s just like struggling to remember the face of a childhood friend who’s long since passed.
He tries.
He tries so hard to remember, to forget. He’s never seen this bedspread before, but that particular shade of blue is definitely one he has in his current closet. He’s never read the books stacked along these shelves, but the name of every single main character is just on the tip of his tongue, like the bitter aftertaste of a least favorite food. The entire room is a memorial, a homage to someone who never should’ve been honored in the first place, and yet.
Yet, Shuichi’s still here, shoving away the memories clawing at the deepest parts of his brain.
There’s a desk in the corner. It’s older, and the scratches embedded into its grain speak stories that Shuichi knows he’ll never want to hear. But it isn’t the cracked wood that draws his attention, nor the stack of completed school worksheets piled in the center of the desk.
No, it’s the Danganronpa sticker sticking out in between the gaps of the mess.
Hesitantly, Shuichi reaches out and brushes aside the surrounding mess, revealing that the sticker is simply being used as a seal for an envelope. A letter, Shuichi realizes.
His resolve might waver, but his fingers don’t.
The tearing open of the letter is a mindless action, one that Shuichi does without realization.
He knows that none of the Danganronpa staff are responsible — they don’t care enough to bother prying into his personal life, much less leave him a note. Besides, a quick glance into the room’s trash can tells him all he needs to know. The backing paper is still in there, complete with a red and white border from where the sticker must’ve been removed.
The familiar handwriting doesn’t catch him off guard, unlike nearly everything else in the apartment.
Shuichi, the letter begins in blocky scrawl.
It’s long. Surprisingly so, actually. An entire page covered from edge to edge in smudged ballpoint pen, all of it slightly squashed, as if there were too many unstructured thoughts to fit on a single sheet.
Shuichi doesn’t make it past the first line before he has to sit on the ground, his stomach churning.
Glad to see you’ve made it back home , it reads.
Home.
This haunted apartment, empty spaces filled by the ghost of a person Shuichi would give his life to never meet again.
Not that it’s surprising. You know I planned ahead for this. Or, I guess we did.
This version of Shuichi — this distorted, long-dead version of himself — knew that he would come back, and he would come back physically unscathed. It’s eerie.
The letter continues:
So, what was it like? Were we right in thinking that Kaede would be the perfect partner, in crime or otherwise?
(Yes, and God, it hurts to admit.)
Oh, and what about Kokichi? Was he as difficult as we thought he’d be? I swear, those archetypes are getting old, but it doesn’t make them any easier to figure out.
(There was nothing easy about peeling back layer after layer of lies, only to be left with a rotten truth and a needless death.)
I already know he’s not making it out of there alive. His types never do.
(He wants to stop reading, wants to forget —)
Speaking of ones who weren’t gonna make it, how was Kaito? You know I wasn’t we weren’t a huge fan of his after running into him at the audition. Still, things change. The Ultimate Detective is usually a pretty likable person, so maybe you turned it around to make it work.
(There hasn’t been a day where he hasn’t thought of Kaito, and of his smile. It takes every bit of Shuichi’s remaining brainpower to blur the edges of blood coating the seam of his smile, and it’s an act done solely to keep the rest of his sanity intact.)
But I’ve saved the best question for last, of course. Did the producers actually go through with my idea of making a detective be the blackened? Did you actually get to kill anyone, or were you just the one responsible behind the scenes?
Responsibility. Shuichi had simply had one — to make sure that his friends had the opportunity to escape the killing game and see the true light of day once more. He had a responsibility as the Ultimate Detective, and instead he found himself half-responsible for their deaths.
Shuichi doesn’t consider himself to be skilled with words by any means, but the idea of responsibility rings impossibly true in his mind.
He killed Kaede when he watched her get dragged out like a dog, unable to do anything beyond watch as she struggled as hard as she could. He killed Kokichi, he killed Kaito, and it was only by the grace of his own luck that he didn’t manage to kill Himiko and Maki.
The thought makes him feel sick, not only because of the memories it dredges up, but because there hadn’t been a single thing his past-self hadn’t predicted. Hadn’t known. As if he could read Shuichi like the back of his hand.
The letter drones on and on, detailing some critical details his past self was sure Shuichi would be bound to forget. His apparent favorite restaurant was three blocks down, and the grocery store around the corner always had the best deals. There was disposable silverware in the bottom cabinet under the sink, where he kept a lot of the cleaning supplies, but he was running low on paper plates…
Shuichi doesn’t care. His eyes have long since glazed over with each passing word.
He tears apart the letter into tiny pieces. He can figure out his own life, with or without every mindless little detail.
Because when he looks down at remnants of torn paper, especially the pieces with crumpled edges from the iron grip he’d had on it for the past several minutes, he sees both a time capsule and a mirror.