[Fic] It was a coincidence.

[usononikki]

That's what Kokichi kept telling himself as the group finally split off to their separate rooms for the night, trailing at the back of the group as though he was following everyone else. How he had to fight the urge to interrupt with an answer before anyone had asked a question. How he was at the top of the steps before he fully processed his room was, in fact, upstairs, and right next to the staircase he'd chosen at that.

A coincidence.

He'd never been here before.

That's what he kept telling himself as he swiftly locked the door behind him, kicked off his shoes, and breezed past the bathroom and the closet full of identical uniforms and the key sitting on the table. Nevermind that he knew the door was a bathroom, knew the closet was full of uniforms, knew the key would be on the table. None of that mattered because he didn't know those things. Not really.

That's what he liked to tell himself at the start every time, as he breezed through the tired key explanation with Monodam, like skipping dialogue from an overdone tutorial. The key was for his room's door. Don't lose it. Someone might try to sneak in to kill you if they got their hands on it. Kokichi had long stopped bringing the key with him, instead using his tools to pick the lock of his door open and closed every time—a method he and only he could accomplish.

Except that was a lie, because he'd never seen that key before in his life.

Monodam left, and he was finally, finally alone—except he knew he wasn't. But no, actually he didn't because how would he? It's not like he'd done any of this before. It's not like he knew the ins and outs of the cameras and the viewers and the gas and the pain of death—

Kokichi stared at the key hanging on the stand on the table.

He didn't know anything. Didn't feel anything.

That's what he always, always told himself as he carelessly swatted at the stand, sending the thing careening onto the floor and the key skidding under his bed. A practiced action, like clockwork. He didn't know why he did it every time. (Every time?) There was a purpose, but he's sure he didn't know what it was. (Or did he?)

Neither seemed preferable. None of it was fun. Where was the lie? Did he know or didn't he? Had he been here before or hadn't he? Had his memories been tampered with? By who? Himself? The perpetrator of their current situation? Why did he know every minute detail of this room? He hadn't been here before. He hadn't. Not once, not twice, not seventy-two times.

That's always, always what he told himself, wasn't it?

What good was lying to yourself that you knew everything already?

Was it the control it seemed to give him? To pretend to know what was going to happen before it ever did?

Kokichi stared at the bed, where the Schrodinger's key he stopped using ages ago but simultaneously had never used once in his life had disappeared. He dropped down onto knees, then his hands, then his stomach. Peering under the bed, he spotted the offending key in the back near the wall.

Carefully, he dragged himself under the bed. He kept going, farther and farther until he'd disappeared beneath it entirely. It was surprisingly roomy under there. (It wasn't surprising at all.) Just large enough for him to lay comfortably—to twist around on his side or back, even. The key sat there on the floor, right in front of his face. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand, unassuming in its simplicity.

Unassuming in the scuffed and chipped finish, despite never having been used.

Kokichi turned over onto his back to etch yet another tally in the bottom wood frame of the bed, then tucked it carefully between one of the slats and the mattress for safekeeping.

That's where it belonged. That was its new intended purpose.