•°DRV3 ship drabbles°•

⚠️ Missing piece [Oumami] ⚠️

There was something missing, still. He had remembered so much since the game had begun, and yet he was still stumped as to why he felt like a chunk of his own heart was missing. They had used countless flashback lights by now, had so many discussions about their memories, and yet nothing was coming back to him. Ouma began to wonder if that was just how he was. If he had always felt this empty; this lonely. Perhaps he was just hyping himself up for a memory that would never come, so he had began crushing down his hopes not long after the first trial.

Trials. Iruma's trial was just minutes away, he was sure. They had been investigating for what seemed like days now, so it had to be, at least. As he followed Saihara around aimlessly, pointing out obvious clues but asking ridiculous questions about them, Ouma felt a pit in his stomach. He didn't want another execution, another corpse, another body needlessly tossed away like some scrapped wrapper. This whole game was disgusting, and he felt even worse to have basically dealt into the hand of the mastermind by asking Gokuhara to help him. Gokuhara is nearly an adult, so this was his choice. He chose to go through with this, he chose to kill. Or, at least, that's how he justified it in his head, but no matter the excuses he made for himself, he still felt completely and utterly guilty.

With the sickening chime of the announcement bell, Ouma stopped walking, watching as Saihara jolted uncomfortably. Of course he would be uncomfortable, each and every trial was basically laid out for him to carry on his own, aside from Ouma's occasional hidden aide. He suddenly wondered if Saihara ever felt guilty.

The walk to the court room was filled with the usual hopeless chatter. "We'll make it out this time!" or "I'm sure this was justified..." and anything of the sort rung in his ears as his peers spoke around him. He narrowed his eyes at the elevator door as it slid shut, watching it buckle and shake as the carriage began its descent. He didn't want to do this.

It was only a matter of time until they came to the conclusion that Gokuhara was the culprit. Of course they did, no one would ever get away with murder as long as they had a detective in their ranks. He was practically fuming at how Gokuhara didn't seem to remember anything until his avatar self was provided. He was less so angry at the boy himself, but rather that even in his final moments he had to be so innocent. He committed murder- Ouma should detest him- and yet he was innocent. No, it wasn't even murder. It was protection. No one who defended the weak deserved to be punished, and yet Gokuhara was, right in front of everyone's regretful eyes.

The somber grimace he wore during the execution just wasn't fitting for the character he played, thus it was quickly thrown aside for a calm grin. The others glared with disbelief at his continued "enjoyment" of this twisted excuse for a game.

He was hardly retaining any of the argument that they were having with him. It was his fault, he already knew that, he didn't need to be reminded of it. He was a disgusting freak of a person. He was guilty. And yet here he stood, alive and well with a chasm for a heart. None of the words thrown his way were really sticking, at least, not until Saihara near growled at him.

"You're alone, Ouma. And you always will be."

Alone.

And so he remembered.

A soft breeze tussled Ouma's short, loose hair effortlessly. It knocked some of the sand from his head, but not much. He didn't mind, though. The sand beneath his feet was warm and welcoming after all, so he was much too distracted by the little pit he had dug to sit in to notice the bits on his scalp. His young eyes peered out at the ocean with endless curiosity, his fingers poking holes into the sand as he admired the horizon.

Ouma hit the ground with a thud, the skin on his palms scratching up as he braced himself. He sat up and ran his fingertips over the gravel left on his skin, wiping it away as he glanced above himself to the monkey bars he had fell from. His grip was never strong enough to stay on past the second bar, but that was fine. His eyes fell back to his palms, watching as small bubbles of blood formed in a few deeper scratches. He stared momentarily before closing his hands and standing back up, running off to go clean them off.