Komaeda Nagito did not know what was real anymore. Sometimes he believed he was fourteen and gorged into a putrid garbage bag, scratching with chipped fingernails against a soggy lottery ticket. Other times he swore he felt a despair so deep it capsized his bones and writhed around inside of him like a sickly parasite. It burnt so much he would etch into his wrists until wells of blood oozed out and seared holes in his white bed sheet. His bed sheets were supposed to be black, why were they white?

Trying to understand, to remember what day came before, nicked more than any other unidentified scab on his body. He disappointed everyone. He knew what he was talking about, why did nobody listen? Why did they all seem so sad when he pondered who the girl with the red hair was? Oh, right, that was Koizumi. He liked Koizumi.

He was so angry; they kept retouching his words with false arguments and glancing with quivering pupils toward the door, like an ashamed family member face to face with the bane of their name. He was so fervent his face began to boil and the tears stagnant on his face almost escaped into steam.

Whoever was present would freeze, stew over him, lay him back in bed until the unwashed gnarls of hoary hair squished against his cheeks and crept up his nose, venomous vines choking off his breathing. Komaeda would slap them away, bolt up and scrape at the base of his head until chunks of dry skin and dead hair fell into his hands and scattered to the bleak, frigid tiles all arranged fastidiously below.

They would scream, or cry, sometimes both, and the soldiers would flood in, holding him flush against the mattress until all he could manage to do was sever his tongue with his obtuse teeth.

Eventually, they all stopped disagreeing with him, their debates turning into taciturnity as they listened to him prattle off his first day at Hope's Peak Academy word for word, like it was yesterday. Because for him, it was.

Hinata had never expected Komaeda to wake up, he never counted on any of the ones who had died to recover, but as the dingy glint of his eyes slowly returned when he brushed at the year of crust cementing them shut, a momentous roar actively resounded in his ears. Everyone around began to haltingly whisper, all awake, but afraid, wary of the billowy boy in front of them.

The skin around his mouth peeled, his lips were so cracked they began to bleed, but Hinata had never been so surprised to see someone smile.

They became so close that Hinata heard Komaeda slip past his cheek, mouth dancing over his ear as he sighed into a passing tropical breeze.

"Hajime."

Hinata never forgot that day, because it was the last day Komaeda remembered everything.

Dementia turns your brain into plasma of forgotten words, memories bouncing around the walls of your skull, occasionally finding their way to your mouth, slobbering out in barely understandable sentences mixed with spit and macerated piles of food. Komaeda woke up, he felt the validity of sand beneath his feet, the sweat of someone's palm holding his own, but what did it matter if he skipped it all?

The paramount bad luck, finally being happy, and then forgetting it all.

It started with facile daily things, had Hajime eaten his cereal? Of course, they had eaten together. Oh, he must have forgotten. What time was it? It was six. What time was it? It was six oh five.

Until one day he flashed into Hinata's eyes and asked him if someone had been murdered yet.

Some days it was Hajime, most days it was Hinata-kun. Where was Nanami? Why were they on an island? Who was that? Who were those people? Where were his parents? Why wouldn't anyone answer him?

What was there to say? You are dying, you have obliterated it all, your mind is a fondue pot of Swiss cheese and leisurely decaying memories. You killed yourself, do you remember? We hated you all, do you remember? You destroyed every single thing you held dear, can you remember?

All of your ribs have been smashed to bits, your spleen has ruptured, the constant night sweats leave you adhered to a poor boy who cannot kiss you in fear that you will have forgotten him and tear away.

So most of the time, Hinata took his arm and bolstered him around the island, touching neon flowers and destitute store shelves. Komaeda would stare, for a long, uninterrupted amount of time, and then tighten his grip on Hinata's arm, like he was trying so hard, breaking into a sweat as he grappled at evasive memories twisting out of his grasp.

It caused him pain, the sweltering headache doing nothing more than gore him farther away from his precious thoughts and leave him clutching onto his swollen stomach, coughing up bile onto the linoleum.

On a day that he remembered almost everything, Hinata guided him to the beach, his footsteps barely condensing any indent into the grains of sand. He was shivering underneath his stratums of clothing, teeth gnawing the blisters on his cheeks as they chattered and concocting sores on top of sores.

"What a cute sandcastle, who built it?" Komaeda stopped in front of an eroding stone building, lopsided and melting into the ground under the shade of a palm tree.

"We did, yesterday."

"Ah, really?" Komaeda bent down, using one tendril finger to skim at the roof of the fortress. It crumbled at his touch, and he pulled away, afraid and ashamed at his pernicious existence.

"I'm sorry I can't remember things, Hajime…" He did not make eye contact as he spoke, but Hinata could see his haggard wrist trembling as it poked out of his jacket, "I try really hard, but I just can't. I really am worthless."

Hinata did not respond, but grabbed onto his corpse hand, an icicle in the torrid world sweltering around them.

"Look, there's Koizumi and Saionji," Hinata pointed at the ocean, and Komaeda turned to the boundless world ahead of them.

The two girls were floating on tube rafts, watching from their safe distance, hesitant as they oscillated back and forth in the warm salt. Komaeda raised his hand to wave, and they waved back.

Hello.

EEUgeHEUEEgGHJ KOMAEDA i love him so much he means so much to me #komaedasquad.

I just always think how even if they DO wake up in the end of sdr2, Komaeda has no more than 2 years to live because of his diseases. Despair.

SO please review and have a good day!