The Mortal City

by MidnightRun42

(Post-SD2) Waking up is never the hardest part.

11. Fell Down South

"All I want is someone who likes me."
"All I want is a clear sign," I said.
"All I want is a magical horse that fits in my pocket," Wil said. "And a ring of red amber that gives me power over demons. And an endless supply of cake."
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear

-ooo-
DAY THREE
-continued-

He couldn't stop laughing.

The sound of her clumping up and down the hallway was stirring panic to hysteria in his chest and he couldn't stop the flow of laughter bubbling up past his lips. He'd buried his face against his bare knees, terribly conscious of the fact that there wasn't really anywhere left to hide.

There never had been, really.

The hall had been so long, so long, but every door had only led to another room identical to the last.

Another and another and another, each room was just as cluttered as the last. The same bed, the same bank of windows, the same curtains and boxes and disused equipment, everything just exactly the same as the last down to the tape dispenser he'd thrown at one of windows in the seventh or eighth iteration of the room he'd entered that was now lying discarded on the floor.

Each room had been an exact copy of the on-call room from the hospital or at least he thought so, he wasn't sure. It hadn't really been important at the time and so he hadn't paid it as much mind as he had some of the other rooms. He remembered the patient rooms, the conference room, even the lobby, but his memory of the on-call room… was vague at best. The rest he'd needed to remember in case Hinata didn't… but the on-call room had been… unnecessary. He remembered the bed and the windows and that it had been stuffed full of junk, but that was it. And after he'd died… well, he'd avoided the hospital on general principle. He'd spent more than enough time in hospitals in his life. So he hadn't had any intention of spending whatever the heck this was in one as well.

The irony was spectacular, really.

He'd run and run, crashing into room after room, slamming into windows, throwing things, searching for… something, anything that was different, that would help, but there was nothing. Just more of the same, over and over again until he realized he was on the second floor standing in front of the last room.

The end of the line.

And now he was trapped.

Completely and utterly trapped in this hospital, in this room, in this… whatever it was.

Because whatever this was, it wasn't what he'd thought.

It couldn't be.

Not if he was right about Hinata.

Not if he was right about her.

There were no exits, just doors and more doors and windows that didn't open, wouldn't break.

There was no way out.

There was only her.

Always her.

Her and the sudden persistence of memory seeping into his skin as if he were some demented child's coloring book and someone kept scribbling blood across his pages, sloppily filling in all the bits he'd been missing. Slowly erasing whatever had been done to him to… fix him, to reset him to who he'd been before all that despair.

And it was terrifying.

And he didn't know how to make it stop.

It had been little things at first.

He pressed a door open and he'd remember doing laundry late at night because someone had poured ink down the back of his gym uniform. Sitting on the table in a t-shirt and shorts, waiting for the cycle to finish, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if this meant he would have good luck the next day. If he would be able to score well on his English test even though he hadn't bothered to study.

He'd rattle a window and he'd remember watching the reserve course students run laps. Remember thinking how much they looked like ants trudging about their mundane, simple lives in neat orderly lines of black and white. He often wondered if the school instructed them to run past the main building each day on purpose. Whether it was a reminder to them that the rest of the world was less special than they or if it was a reminder to the reserve class of the heights they could never attain.

Either way it seemed needlessly cruel.

Reality was what it was after all.

What was the point of rubbing it in?

It seemed so stupid at first.

Pointless.

But it kept happening again and again, over and over. He made an attempt at escape and he was greeted by some new fragment, some new useless, pointless sliver of memory trivia.

Cutting his hair because someone had put gum in it.

The family accountant stealing away with his inheritance, but getting in a horrific bus accident two days later so all the money had been recovered by investigators… only there had been a lot more than what he should have had in the accounts. He remembered trying to tell the investigators that it wasn't his, but they'd signed it over to him anyway with condescending smiles.

Stealing cheap jewelry from a department store because he'd liked the way it glittered.

Bashing someone's head in with a baseball bat, watching it burst and crack and ooze all over the sidewalk, splattering across his cuffs, his shoes, spray doting his shirt, his face. Hitting it over and over until there had been nothing left but mush. How his arms and back had ached after, how hard it had been to catch his breath.

It just kept going, on and on, each new memory as bad or strange or nauseating as the last.

Memories of maggots on his skin, of his head ringing with pain again and again.

Memories of easy conversations with a girl he didn't know.

Anonymous sex with people he couldn't see or feel or care about.

The caress of a blade slicing across his thighs and the memory of his own laughter ringing in his ears again and again as if the whole world was funny or nothing ever was.

He just wanted it to stop.

But it didn't.

He couldn't stop hoping that if not this door or this window then maybe the next or the next or the next would be his answer.

But it wasn't.

He kept running and the memories kept coming, falling down like rain, too fast to make much sense of some of them.

And she was always right there, just out of sight, calling out to him, pushing him through exhaustion towards the looming threat of despair, her uneven steps echoing all around him.

He'd stumbled up the stairs to the second floor shooed along by those footsteps and that voice, still searching for an escape route and finding nothing.

Nothing but dead ends and increasingly vile memories lying in wait like rusty, bear traps.

And then he'd reached the last room.

The last room and it had been just like all the others. So he'd locked the door and sat down against it, too exhausted to go even a step further and he'd thought that at least those memories would stop coming.

But they hadn't.

It hadn't even mattered that he wasn't trying anymore, because those memories just kept coming anyway, slipping inside, worse and worse each time even though he'd reached the end of the line and all there was left to do was sit slumped, defeated, against the last door in the last room, laughing.

The tiles were unpleasantly cool against his bare ass.

He was sure pressing his back against the door wouldn't actually keep the door closed, wouldn't really keep her out if she found a way around the lock, but he couldn't quite convince himself to give up that last token piece of resistance, to give in just because it seemed inevitable.

No, he'd cling to hope until the last moment even if he really was little more than the last rat left on a sinking ship, digging his nails into the hull and holding on until the water swallowed him up.

It was pathetic, really.

He was pathetic.

Filthy and wretched and hardly worth the air he was breathing.

He could almost feel her hands on him again, fingers tracing up his thighs with nails sharp enough to bleed him dry.

He shifted uncomfortably, squirming away from the phantom sensation, his sweaty skin peeling unpleasantly off the tile.

Panic rose again, sharp and vile.

Where were his pants?

Had he taken them off himself? Or had she?

He kept grasping for that terrible blankness, that placid emptiness he felt sometimes where everything was numb and nothing much mattered, but he couldn't find it anywhere.

It was just… gone.

Gone like Hinata.

Gone like his pants.

Gone like whatever claim he'd ever had on sanity, maybe.

He could feel everything and it was awful.

Why?

What was the point?

He was supposed to be dead, wasn't he?

So, why was she there?

It was one thing to imagine Hinata, but she… she wasn't… she wasn't anything to him. Not really. Nothing but a bad taste in his mouth, a strange voice in his ear, a knife…

-ooo-

He was screaming, fingers clawing at the air, unable to find purchase, screaming again as agony flashed up his arm as he attempted again and again to flex fingers that were no longer there. Fingers that weren't his, fingers he could see, but never feel.

His screams were barely more than croaking groans, the stuff of horror films come to life, gasped into the stale air.

Everything hurt, but his side most of all, lava running molten and terrible in his veins. She'd said something about an infection, but he hadn't been able to understand much of it.

It all just sounded like gobbley gook and since he'd lost his voice to screaming days before there had been no way to ask her for water, to tell her that he was pretty sure he had a fever. He couldn't stop shivering and his throat burned and there was no relief.

Sometimes she gave him something for the pain… when she remembered.

She fretted mostly, pacing back and forth mumbling to herself about options and treatment plans and sometimes she seemed to forget he was there, but that was probably fair. Sometimes he forgot she was there too. Sometimes it was because he was so high that time seemed to stretch like taffy, gooey and thinning the more he tried to tame it, control it. Other times the pain was so much that it was all there was.

There weren't a lot of times like this. Times where he was somewhere in-between.

It was funny, really.

Her hair was dirty, hanging in limp uneven clumps around her face as she moved, swaying and jerking with each step. She yanked on it every once in a while. Sometimes she ripped out little clumps, but if she noticed she gave no sign except to wiggle her fingers so the bits of hair fell away to the filthy, bloodstained carpet of the hotel room she was using as a makeshift recovery suite.

"I'll have to drain it and pack the wound, it's the only thing to do otherwise the infection might ruin everything." She was just suddenly there, hovering over him with a scalpel and the beginnings of a crooked smile tugging at her lips, "I'm sorry, beloved. T-This might sting a little."

-ooo-

The memory of pain followed him back to the dark room and he clapped his good hand against his mouth to muffle a moan.

He couldn't quite bring himself to pull his numb arm away from where it was trapped between his chest and his bent legs, too afraid that it wouldn't be his. That it would be… that it would be… that he would be….

What had he… what... why… why did this keep… why did he keep seeing those things…?

Why?

Why?

Why?

-ooo-

"It'll be like therapy," he explained, his hands spread wide across the table like a peace offering. "It just kind of… allows you an opportunity to make connections, build a support system."

Nagito couldn't help the smile that tugged across his chapped lips. Such a fanciful thought, such a hopeful thought, that all they needed was friends.

He liked it.

Liked that foolish hope shining so brightly behind the eyes of this cheap imitation. "You really believe it will help us?" He asked smiling and he wasn't sure if it looked real or like a cheap put on, wasn't even sure which was actually true.

He looked surprised. Was he the only one who had asked? Or simply the first he'd talked to about it. He hadn't seen the others, but he knew they were here. Some of them, whoever had endured, he supposed.

It didn't really matter all that much who had and who hadn't before, but now with this new shiny hopeful something glittering before him, he wondered.

"I think it's a chance," he replied slowly and Nagito sighed despondently as he dropped his head back against the back of the chair.

It was so difficult to get excited about such a wishy-washy answer.

Just seemed lazy really.

Wasn't this one supposed to be lucky?

Of course, he hadn't ever seemed particularly lucky.

Or at least not lucky like he was lucky, caught in a spin cycle between good luck and bad never able to experience one without the other escalating the situation over and over again.

No, he's just been… a bit of a let down, really.

Just ordinary.

A pale imitation or something else entirely, he wasn't sure.

He….

He hadn't… had he known him? It seemed like he had. Seen him. Talked with him. Something. There was….

His head hurt.

His head almost always hurt, a dull ache that never quite subsided or sharp, throbbing needlepoints of pain scattering dancing puzzle pieces across his vision, making the world around him swim with colors and static and hate.

He wanted to leave.

Why were they keeping him here?

Who was that?

Who was he?

Why had he come here? There was something… someone….

His hands didn't match.

Was this a dream?

Why…?

A terrible whine burned his throat and he scrapped the fingers of his good hand frantically against the pale, slim stranger's hand he couldn't really feel at all.

A girl's hand, her perfect, poison apple red polish glistening in the bright florescent light.

He had to get it off.

His fingers scrambled at his bare arm, at the mound of scarred misshapen flesh where two different shades of pale met.

"What are you…?" Hands reached out to stall him as his short, blunt fingernails carved divots in that flesh. "Oh, hey, no, stop, please don't do that. It's okay, we can… you're gonna to hurt yourself, you…."

Someone was screaming.

No, laughing.

Someone was laughing, but it sounded like screaming.

A door burst open, slamming against the wall, there was shouting, voices snarling hate and rage and the clatter of chairs hitting the floor; the smack and thump of too many footsteps echoing in a too small space.

"You were told not to meet with them alone! What the hell were you thinking taking off the restraints? Do you have any idea who he is? What he's done?"

"He's not- what are you doing? Don't! He's- you're going to hurt him! Let me just-"

"Motherfucker!"

"Don't hurt him!"

"Don't hurt him? That little fucker bit me!"

"Stop it! What are you doing? What- you can't just-"

The give of flesh beneath his teeth is as fresh in his mind as the taste of blood lingering in his mouth and the ringing in his ears. There were hands on his shoulders, on his arms, forcing him down until his cheek hit the cool, smooth surface of the table hard enough to jar a cry from his lips. They twisted his arms around behind his back as a pinprick of pain spiked in his throat and everything began to fade out. A feeling like wool blankets leaping up to wrap round and round, suffocating him within their scratchy folds. He can feel the table beneath him, the rough hands above him, but his muscles feel like pudding, his brain is slowly circling a drain, the drag of water pulling it round and round, closer to the dark fall at the end.

Round and round.

"-angerous! You think just because you're valuable to the Foundation that you can do whatever you want? Do you have any idea-"

He had to move.

"You have no idea what it's like! It's not their fault!"

To get away.

"…class with her, but you didn't-"

To go.

"…on't know what it's like-"

To…

"-won't let you…"

Had to…

"…make people feel better-"

Had….

"-better off dead."

-ooo-

Dead.

That word dogged his heels as silence hemmed him in and darkness swallowed him down.

Rain fell like bullets against the window glass.

The wind crashed and rattled against them as if it were some great monster trying to figure out a way inside.

His heart leapt into his throat, lodging there as the door handle jiggled above him, once and then again. "Mister Komaeda? It's time for you to take your medicine. Mister Komaeda, are you in there?"

Nails scratched loud across the surface and he could almost feel the pressure against his spine, tracing sharp over each bump.

"Just go away, please go away," he sobbed brokenly, the words muffled to inaudibility against the dusty taste of his palm. "Just leave me alone, leave, just leave. I don't want to play anymore, I don't. Please just leave me alone. Please. Please."

-ooo-

He'd screamed and squirmed and writhed as the saw bit into the flesh of his forearm with a terrible squelching noise.

What they'd given him hadn't been enough, not nearly enough and he could feel everything.

Hear everything.

Smell everything.

The wet splatter of blood, the scent of copper and burning as the motor screeched and stuttered protest as the saw blade sliced through flesh and sinew and then caught and gnawed at bone. The world was blurry and he struggled futilely, kitten weak, to escape from the hands holding him down, from the live wire his body had become, conducting agony, sharp and all-consuming black and red hysteria, throbbing across the back of his eyelids, across the ceiling above him as he strained and fought to get away, away, away.

He was sure he was screaming, still screaming, his jaw cracked open wide enough to split his face, but he couldn't hear it, couldn't hear anything beyond the whir of the saw and the squeal and grind of the blade against his bones.

"Jesus fucking wept," a voice snapped, shouting to be heard. "I freaking told you we should have knocked him out!"

"We tried knocking him out! All that drug did was make him loopy and hitting him just made him laugh!"

"You can do this, Komaeda! You're a man, aren't you? Suck it up!"

"We're sawing his fucking arm off, Nidai! I don't think a pep talk is gonna help!"

"The power of the human spirit is perseverance in the face of great hardship!"

"Yeah, yeah, dumbass, we've all heard the propaganda. You're like a broken freaking record. Now shut the fuck up before I have Peko shave your sideburns off!"

"Would one of you just shove a freaking sock in his mouth already? If he keeps making that sound I'm just going to kill him myself and put him out of my misery."

"Why don't you shove a sock in his mouth, if you're so damn keen? The rest of us are a little freaking busy at the moment, huh?"

"Fine, I will!"

Thick soft, salty cloth was pushed into his open mouth, too rough, too far, and he began to gag. He couldn't close his mouth, couldn't breath. He flailed his tongue against it uselessly, but he couldn't push it out, every panicked movement, every scream just seemed pull it further in, further down his throat until it felt like he might swallow it, but there was too much, there was no end to it and it wouldn't go down and it was everywhere and the more he tried to struggle, to cry out, to push it away, aside, the worse it got.

People were still shouting, but he couldn't hear anything at all over the sound of his own silent, muffled, fading screams.

His fingers scrapped futilely, plaintively against the back of someone's hand as his vision swam with more black than color.

Then big rough fingers were there, brushing across his face to pull the cloth free and toss it aside.

The saw spun and ground to a stop.

"It's done," a soft, clipped voice commented, loud in the sudden silence. "Bring the doctor. It's time."

Everything seemed very, very far away.

Everything except the pain which was close and white hot, radiating up his arm like a thousand tiny squirrels were nibbling away at everything from the shoulder down with viciously sharp teeth and claws. He tried to curl around it, but he couldn't manage it.

His sweaty skin clung to the plastic they'd laid down over the covers, the springs of the cheap hotel bed squeaking protest as he struggled to move against restraints that pulled tight as his ankles, his stomach, his arms, legs.

It was so quiet he wasn't sure where everywhere had gone, couldn't quite manage to open his eyes enough to see. He kind of hoped he was alone when the first terrible grunting, hiccupping sob escaped his throat. When his teeth began clanking together, chattering like he was freezing even though everything seemed far too hot.

It was annoying, but he couldn't seem to stop.

His hopes were dashed as laughter, high and childish, rang out. "That'll do, pig. That'll do."

"That'll… fucking seriously, Saionji? Why are you even here?"

"Moral support."

"Oh, fuck off. C'mon, let's get out of here so they can get to work before he bleeds out or something."

A door opened somewhere far away as big, rough fingers tousled his hair, "You did good, kid. You did real good."

-ooo-

The wind seemed louder now, howling outside the window, so loud it seemed like he shouldn't be able to even hear himself think.

Mismatched footsteps lumbered away down the hall accompanied by that soft, murmuring voice.

Maybe she'd gotten bored with listening to him cry.

Not that it mattered.

She'd be back.

She always came back.

And the memories, they'd just keep coming back too, more and more and faster and faster, triggered by… what? Stray thoughts? Silence? Luck? All he really knew for certain was that they were getting worse.

Worse and worse and he couldn't understand the point.

Was this really Hell after all?

But that didn't make sense did it, not… not if Hinata was…

Nothing made any sense.

They couldn't both be real.

Not unless Hinata was dead too and even then… even then it didn't make any sense.

He was missing something. He had to be missing something.

He…

He'd really liked detective novels best.

He'd read dozens and dozens when he was in the hospital, because he liked them and they were easy to find used.

He could usually guess who'd done it, most of the time.

Not always though.

Sometimes it was because the novel had been really clever, more often it was because the author had left out some critical piece of information and it felt like a cheat, a cheap trick, like watching a bad magician pick an obvious plant out of the audience.

It wasn't his talent, of course, but he'd still thought it'd helped a little during the killing game.

He'd liked investigating, liked it best when Hinata had been with him, but… mostly he'd just liked it. Figuring out the who and the how and the why, thinking about how best to use the information he had to create a greater challenge for them and how to use it to help when it was necessary.

It was… really fun.

He'd really liked that part of the game, especially those moments during the trial when it felt like he and Hinata were the only ones playing and sometimes… sometimes he thought he'd seen the hint of a smile on his face, like he was really enjoying himself too. And he'd thought in those moments that they weren't so different.

Of course, he'd immediately realized how foolish such a thought was, because they were all so fantastic and surely they'd have managed to find their answers without his meager contributions. Still, it had still been fun to pretend, even if it was only for a little while.

But during the last investigation, after he'd found out the truth about them, about himself… it hadn't been fun anymore.

Nothing had been fun anymore.

This wasn't much fun either.

It just… didn't make any sense.

Why now? Why was he thinking about this, remembering all these things now?

Were they even really all memories? Wasn't it just as liking that they were just delusions rather than actual memories? Wasn't that more likely with the way they kept jarring loose and falling to the ground like coconuts?

But if they were memories…

Why now?

What had changed?

He'd been there for a long time, hadn't he?

Such a long, long time just… stuck. Stuck in a moment that never ended, reliving the same stupid day over and over and over again and then… and then…

Hinata.

It didn't make sense, not really, but it was the only difference that had ever seemed to matter.

Hinata had come to see him again and again and then Hinata had overstayed his welcome and then the rain fell and everything began to change.

He began to change.

Was that what Hinata wanted?

"You're special to me."

He felt suddenly sick again, nauseous.

Was that why he'd been there? Was he doing this to him on purpose? Was that why he'd kept coming back again and again? Why he'd stayed with him on the beach, in the hall? Why he'd been willing to touch him in the first place? Why he'd said all those things?

Now that the idea was there he couldn't stop thinking about it. Couldn't stop it from spinning around and around in his head like a top.

Because it had never made sense, none of it had ever made sense, but he hadn't… he hadn't wanted to see it. It was easier to pretend that he was a delusion, just his wants and desires brought to life to torment him.

But if he wasn't... then it didn't make any sense at all.

He was… no one wanted him. Not really. No one ever had.

If this Hinata were real, if he wasn't just his delusion then why would he do everything he had done?

What did he get out of it?

Out of leading him on?

Out of getting him off?

Out of pretending like he mattered? Like he was important?

Why would Hinata bother to act like he actually cared what happened to him?

What was the point?

What did he want?

Of course, that was only if he were real which… didn't make any sense at all, did it?

Wasn't it easier just to think it was all just… just… what?

"Get it together," he grumbled, dashing an arm across his eyes, before letting his head drop back against his knees.

It didn't matter.

None of this really mattered.

He was… he was dead.

Dead.

He remembered killing himself.

He remembered how much it hurt.

He couldn't have survived that.

He'd made sure of that.

And if he were dead then it shouldn't matter at all, nothing should.

Nothing.

Not even Hinata.

So, why did everything still hurt? Why did he keep remembering all these things? Why was she here? Why was he? Why did he keep running, hoping?

What was he even hoping for at this point?

Why couldn't he just let go?

Stop thinking about it, stop thinking about him?

Why had it hurt so badly to think that he might be a figment of his imagination?

Why did it hurt even more to think that he might not be?

Why…?

What was he hoping for?

"Can you really hope for anything like this?"

The thought floated up from somewhere deep inside like a single red balloon released to fly off into the sky to live out the last of its bitter, lonely existence.

"Shut up," he whispered, thrusting his face harder against his bony knees.

"You're no one and nothing, not worth even the flesh your features have been printed on. Are you even a person like this? Bits and pieces melting away to reveal the dark underbelly, the despairing horror of who you once were. Letting it bleed through into your welcoming body. You won't be able to stop it, you know. You won't be able to do anything, but…"

-ooo- "Just shut up!" -ooo-

He was standing in the third floor hall at Hope's Peak outside the game room and he felt sick, sick and exhausted by the outburst and his hand was clenched tight in his sweater. He was too hot, sweat gathering at the stiff white collar of his shirt and rolling cool and unbidden down his back. He shivered as a sudden chill gripped him, his cheeks felt numb, his tongue swollen as if he'd bitten it. His mouth was dry and he was breathing too much, too heavily. He could tell he was scaring him, but he… he didn't know how to stop.

He hadn't come here to scare him, didn't want to, didn't.

That wasn't… he'd… he'd come here… he'd come here…

Her.

Right. He'd come here to warn him about her, because she was in their class now, his class, and so she was going to do... something. Something... he didn't know the whole plan, the full plan, but with a little bit of luck he could still foil it.

Just… just a little luck, that was all he needed.

So he thought… he thought… he thought….

Had they always had a pool table in there?

His father had had a pool table. He'd scratched the delicate green felt surface and though he couldn't really remember what the sting of the belt had felt like, he could remember curling his fingers around one of those shiny balls years later when there had been no one left to stop him or caution him or care. Curling his fingers around the smooth surface and pitching it out the fancy stained glass window that had dominated the room.

He'd cut his arm accidentally on purpose with on one of the broken pieces when he'd picked it up off the lawn sometime later.

The scar was thin and white. They'd thought he was trying to kill himself. It wasn't the first time he'd been checked in for observation. It had been the last. He'd been more careful after.

Killing yourself wasn't very hopeful at all.

Or maybe it hadn't been a window he'd broken at all or a ball he'd thrown. No, maybe it had been a painting and he'd torn through it with a thrown broken cue and found a safe behind it and the code had been his birthday and inside there had been another million yen and a diamond as big as his little toe.

He was lucky, after all.

Which was true? Either? Both? None of the above?

What was the right answer?

Was there a right answer?

Had there ever been?

Did it matter?

Did he?

"Are you okay?"

He blinked, looking up to meet his gaze and he wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there lost in his own thoughts, but that… that one was still standing there, lingering beside him even though all his friends had already gone on ahead to class.

Why?

Why had he stayed?

Why had he bothered?

Pity?

Curiosity?

Did it matter?

Did he care?

Probably not.

"You're Komaeda Nagito, right?"

He nodded and it was a quick, jerky, flapping motion like his head was on rusty hinge. He could almost hear the creak.

He was smiling at him. Really smiling. Smiling like he wasn't weird at all, like he was glad to see him, spend time with him. Smiling at him like he was a person, a normal person, not scary or gross or off-putting.

"I'm Naegi Makoto. I've always wanted to meet you. Someone else who was like me, you know?"

He stepped back, shaking his head quickly, his other hand coming up to cradle his aching stomach, "We aren't. Alike, I mean. I'm… I'm not… I'm…"

His head hurt. His head always hurt these days, like there were tiny trolls hammering at his temples, ringing bells in his brain.

His smile faltered. Of course, it did. He was weird. He was weird and he couldn't be normal and he couldn't do this. What had he been thinking? He wasn't… wasn't…

"Oh, um, okay, sorry, I just… you're lucky too, right?"

That was funny, really funny, wasn't it? That must be why he was laughing, but the sound seemed wrong, squealing and broken like a record scratching and Naegi's eyes seemed to get bigger as if he were surprised or amazed and that just made him laugh that much harder.

He couldn't do this. Why had he thought he could?

"You're not lucky," he had managed after a moment, the laughter dying a sudden and unremarkable death consumed by sudden sobriety. "You're not lucky at all."

Now he just looked confused.

"What do you mean?" He asked, like he really wanted to know.

He hadn't remembered stepping close, but he must have because his fingers were trembling and caught in the smooth fabric of Naegi Makoto's shirt. He leaned close, so close that his chapped lips were brushing and catching at the shell of his ear, his short dark hair tickling his cheek.

He smelled like boy and lunch and pineapples.

Why pineapples?

He could feel him try to flinch away from him, but he hadn't loosened his grip at all so Naegi wasn't quite able to pull away. "You should never have come here. If you were really lucky, you'd never have been chosen at all."

"What are you doing?" A stiff, irritated voice demanded and Nagito ducked back, releasing Naegi and stumbling away from the hand that might have settled against his shoulder.

"So, so sorry, Mr. Principal," he forced a smile he didn't feel to his lips as he waved his hands vaguely, unsure what he was trying to convey. "Was I being too loud again?"

The faceless, dark-haired man shrugged his featureless shoulders, "No, but you're supposed to be in class, Mr. Komaeda. As are you, Mr. Naegi."

"No sir, I was just on my way to the nurse's office for my treatment," Nagito replied, his face felt as if it might break into pieces at any moment. He wasn't altogether sure it wasn't already cracking apart, bits of brittle flesh falling away in flakes and flecks. His cheeks felt numb and fat, like they'd been injected with Novocain, so he probably wouldn't even know until he saw pieces of himself scattered like corn flakes across the floor below, fragments of his chin or cheeks stuck fast to his worn sweater. "I'm very sick you know."

The faceless man seemed to sigh, his shoulders slumping as if what he'd said had depressed him. He had that effect on people sometimes, even when he didn't mean to. He really was just the most worthless slime to ever ooze across the earth. What was it she said? He was like her horseman of Despair, spreading it like a pestilence to any life he touched even when he didn't intend to.

He didn't want that.

This.

Didn't… probably, but it was….

He shivered, clutching his stomach as it gurgled and cramped, burbling and uncomfortable. Had he eaten today? Yesterday? He wasn't sure, wasn't even really sure what day it was, week, month? May, maybe? June?

He needed… he needed to go, but… but… there had been something he had wanted to say, something important, something….

-ooo-

The hall faded away and he was on the floor again, a misspent life away from that day.

What had he been trying to do?

He'd thought… he'd been part of Ultimate Despair, hadn't he?

They all had, but he'd….

Nothing made any sense.

Who was he? Who had he been? Who was he supposed to be?

Why did it matter?

Did it still matter?

Things had made sense before… when he'd been with Hinata things had been… better.

Easier.

Cleaner.

Hadn't they?

He'd been distracted at least. It had been easy to just be in the moment, to not think to hard about the whys and wherefores and whodunits.

Why hadn't he just stayed with him?

If he'd just stayed maybe none of this would have…

Or if it did, at least he would have been there.

Or maybe… maybe this was all his fault.

Maybe he'd filled in all the hollowed out places in his brain where there was nothing and no one anymore. Filled in the faded edges of memory with color and sound and distinction, made them real again, made them hurt again. Maybe he'd raised a whole world around him, within him, a piece at a time with songs and touches and all those stupid words. Maybe he'd coaxed the memories back in.

Why had he done that?

Had he done that?

Some of it?

All of it?

None of it?

There were so many things he didn't know, didn't understand.

He just kept going in circles. Round and round. Locked doors and endless halls and the same questions and no answers.

Where was the truth?

Was there a truth to be found at all?

Hinata was real.

Hinata was a lie.

Hinata was here.

Hinata was fantasy.

Was he dreaming Hinata or was Hinata dreaming him?

Did it even matter what was true?

What was the point?

Were they just fulfilling childish, ill-conceived fantasies?

Was it only about fragile intimacy and messy release?

Teasing words?

Pointless arguments?

Sloppy kisses?

Hinata's fingers brushing against his ticklish feet?

Had any of it been real?

Had any of it meant anything?

The frantic worry he'd felt as he'd fished Hinata out of the water.

The way Hinata had pressed that towel so gently against his skin as if he were made of spun glass… as if he were something precious.

The way he'd felt when he'd woken up on the beach to find Hinata's shirt still wrapped around him like a promise.

The feel of the glass of the jukebox cracking beneath his fist, pain springing to life in the soles of his feet, sitting with him in the hall, the ocean, the beach, the bridge, the hotel room and Hinata's fingers in his chest making him feel... feel.

Feel.

He couldn't help but think that if he could just… just see him… if he could just talk to Hinata again than he would be able to make sense of it, that all those discordant notes would finally string themselves together into a melody he could understand.

If he could just…

But that was silly, wasn't it?

He'd started laughing again at some point or maybe he'd never really stopped.

That was probably for the best though.

If he ever did manage to stop laughing, he was pretty sure he'd start screaming instead. Or maybe crying or maybe he'd just throw up in the corner, bite his own tongue off and hope he bled out before she got through the door to stop him.

Maybe he'd wake up on the beach again.

Maybe Hinata was still there, still waiting for him to come back.

That was a nice thought.

Maybe…

"Komaeda?"

He'd thought he was imagining it at first.

That croaking whisper was just barely audible beneath the sound of his own hysterical laughter as he sat up straighter against the door, his numb hand still cradled against his chest.

"Hinata?"

"You okay?" Came the ridiculous reply.

He wasn't okay, he was pretty sure he'd never been anything like okay in his life, but… somehow he wasn't the least bit surprised that Hinata had chosen to phrase it that way.

He didn't understand him, he probably never would, but he knew him.

It was easy to doubt in the moments in between, but… caring about him even when he had given him every reason not to, every reason to hate him, to see him as the filthy trash he was and yet still, after everything, he knew Hinata would always, always, always… care enough to pretend.

Even when he hated him, he still cared.

That wasn't hopeful at all.

That was just stupid.

But that was Hinata.

He didn't want a useless, forgettable, no talent, ordinary everyday loser like Hinata Hajime to pity him like that.

He didn't.

And yet, for some reason, he couldn't stop smiling.

Hinata really was just the very worst protagonist ever.

What was he even still doing there?

If this was all a dream… if Hinata was real… why didn't he just go? Just leave? Why hadn't he woken up?

He wasn't… he wasn't anything worth caring about, but he was still special, talented, in a way Hinata Hajime never could be, never would be, but he still wasn't… worth this kind of effort. He never had been. They were different, so different, like the sun and sea.

The whole situation was… hopeless.

They were hopeless.

They were really, really hopeless.

He couldn't be saved.

He was already dead.

"You're special to me."

But that… that was Hinata, wasn't it?

Hinata wanted to be special, hadn't he? He'd admired talent.

What was more special than a hero?

He laughed again eyes clenched shut as the truth finally, finally, finally found a home in his chest as bile rose in his throat, strangling that laughter until it turned into a great wrenching cough.

Only the real thing could ever make him feel like this.

He really hated that about him.

Pieces were falling, slotting into place and he couldn't quite see the whole picture yet, couldn't quite reach that final truth, but this… this at least he knew.

This he could understand.

This he could play along with.

Just… just for a little while, until Hinata finally realized the truth and left him alone for good.

"Wonderful," he managed finally, muffling his cough against the back of his good hand. "You?"

"Yeah, I'm really great." There was a soft laugh. Hinata sounded as tired as he felt, "I really hate this place."

"Yeah, me too," he replied on a sigh.

On this, at least, they could agree.

Funny.

His chest ached as he dropped his head back to rest against the wall, staring up at the white ceiling, panels pockmarked with tiny holes. He imagined spiders living inside them, hatching and crawling out on long, hairy, spindly legs, thousands and thousands streaming across the ceiling, climbing down the wall to eat him alive.

"I'm so tired of hospitals. Seems like I live in the revolving door, never quite managing to leave before I'm back all over again. Are you in my head?"

He's not sure why he asked, what he expected in answer.

Hinata snorted.

It was a funny sort of sound, one that made his lips quirk and his stomach tremble in response even before Hinata actually replied, "Don't be stupid, I'm right here."

And if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he was. Could almost, almost believe that he was right there, close enough to reach out and touch if he wanted. He could almost see the tight-lipped smile that would curve across his lips, almost feel the press of his forehead as it fell against his shoulder.

That soft, strange thought made him squirm a little, uncomfortable in his own skin.

It was easier when he was thinking nasty things about him. Sex things. So much simpler to imagine jerking him off or licking down his spine, pressing his cheeks apart and licking inside and…

Huh.

He couldn't quite picture it.

The words were there, rattling around in his head like coins in an empty jar, but the fantasy was flat and lifeless, lying limp and impotent in his head. It didn't consume him, didn't distract him.

It was… nothing.

Boring.

Silly almost, like a child playing dress up in too large, ill-fitting clothes pretending at a life he didn't know.

Instead there was only the imagined reality of Hinata's breath blowing warm against the shell of his ear, Hinata's lips pressing chaste kisses against his hair, cool fingers tangling with his own, gripping hard. It was as if the imagined weight of Hinata's head falling against his shoulder had broken something within him, left him raw and bleeding fantasy all over the cool tiles.

Still, he found himself smiling in response, soft and teasing and it… it felt good. It was easier to talk with him like this. Easier than it had ever been when they were face to face, when Hinata was actually close enough to touch. "I don't see you. Are you sure you're not just in my head?"

"Quit it. It's dark as hell so there's nothing to see and why would I joke about something like that?" Hinata replied and suddenly he sounded… confused, uncertain, almost nervous, as if he'd just been told a joke and suspected he might be the punch line.

"It isn't dark where I am or at least not that dark anyway. Are you in the conference room? That's a terrible hiding place," he murmured, though he remembered too late that there wasn't a conference room anymore. Not here.

He wasn't sure what options that left.

It made him feel like Hinata was right.

Like maybe he was in on the joke after all.

It made him feel sick, more uncomfortable than before, the hesitation in Hinata's voice. He'd heard a lot of jokes like that over the years, mean jokes, the kind that hurt, but he'd never been one to tell them.

Well… probably never.

Maybe never, but it was hard to know for sure because everything wasn't where he'd left it and he still didn't know enough and he probably never would.

It wasn't as if he even really wanted to. So maybe he had been that sort of person when he had been lost in despair, when he had broken beneath the pressure of his life, when he had been hers.

Whose?

"Me," that soft, insidious voice called from just beyond the closed door, the click and clack of heels had paused and he could almost feel the press of a slim hand against his back, nails digging into his spine as the doorknob rattled.

His head ached.

"You were, you know," she continued, casually, as if they were speaking of the weather. Words crawling like worms through the wood, boring through the door to slip past the imagined warmth of Hinata into his ear. "Mine, I mean. You cast so many into despair in the search for your precious hope. Oooo… do you want to hear all about it? I wouldn't mind telling you. We have time, you know, we have all the time in the world. I…"

He shook his head, quick and violent, hissing a reply beneath his breath. "Go away, stop, you're not real… you're not anything."

"Oh, come on, Nagito, don't be such a party pooper. Maybe you'd like it better if I told you all about him instead? Boring little nobody Hinata Hajime?" Her voice turned sly, slick as oil, "Or maybe you'd rather hear about Kamukura Izuru?"

Kamukura.

Izuru.

He'd heard that name before. Somewhere….

Oh.

Right.

He remembered the way Hinata had changed. In the bed, on the bridge, in the hallway staring down at him with eyes that felt nothing as he swallowed around him.

Izuru.

Who was Hinata Hajime?

Why did he have something like that living inside him?

What was he?

-ooo-

The boat creaked.

It didn't seem like it should have. It wasn't old or rickety, but something was creaking all the same beneath the purr of the distant engine, the constant slap of the water against the hull.

He'd been sleeping and his head was muddy, thick and slow, and his mouth tasted like cotton, sticky and dry. The constant motion made him feel a little sick, dizzy, made it difficult to focus. He reached out a hand to steady himself and winced as old pain shot up his arm like electricity. He didn't cry out, but it was a close thing. He hadn't been expecting it, but he was used to that sort of thing.

Used to it, because he… it had been like this for a long time, hadn't it?

"Where…?" The question came out more croak than word.

Silence and the splash and slap of ocean waves were his only answer.

He opened his eyes, gazing out the window beside him at the deep blue sea stretching out to meet the perfect blue of the sky beyond. Not a cloud in the sky. He wondered if it were warm out there. If it was that warmth couldn't reach him at all.

It was the soft rustle of cloth that alerted him to the fact that he wasn't alone. He turned his head to find the source of the noise sitting in a dark corner as far from the bright sunlight shining through the window as one could be and still be in the metal box of a room in which they were… trapped?

No, maybe 'trapped' wasn't the right word.

He seemed to vaguely recall agreeing to get on the boat even though he didn't remember coming abroad.

Maybe locked was more appropriate, because he was pretty sure that door would almost definitely be locked.

For a moment the person sitting there seemed as if he weren't even really a person at all, but just darkness weaved into a person's shape, but once his eyes adjusted to the dim he saw it was just a man, young, maybe his age. He was sprawled like a broken doll leaning against the wall, his hands were pale and open in his lap, black-clad legs spreading like shadows across the floor. Long dark hair fell around him, over him, like a blanket, spilling across the metal floor in swirls and swoops like ink, like the characters of a language he couldn't understand. His features were lost in shadow, turned to the wall he leaned against and further obscured by all that dark hair.

He watched him sleep for a long time, occasionally jostled by the pitch of an unexpected wave.

It was…weirdly peaceful, if kind of boring.

At least the view was nice.

Eventually his companion stirred, slowly, the first sign that he was waking up was that his hands had fallen away from his lap to brace against the floor, leaning first this way then that as if trying to get his bearings, gather his wits, before raising his head.

He was beautiful and he had the strangest expression on his face. It wasn't quite a smile, not exactly. It was like the prelude to a smile, the twitch of muscles trying to bring an honest expression to a lie.

It reminded him, absurdly, of Shingetsu Nagisa.

When he'd still been playing servant to those hopeless children, he'd noticed little things about them. He'd rarely cared enough for it to matter, but he noticed them all the same. Sometimes something would happen, a child would kill an adult in a particular way or Monaca would show them some off-hand, unintentional crumb of kindness or approval and the others would smile or grin, but Nagisa would always hesitate, lingering on the cusp of happiness as if he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it was real, that it was safe to react to it in such a blatant way. But the idea of joy would linger across his lips, a subtle twitch before vanishing back into his usual scowl.

Still, because he watched, because he noticed, he could tell he was happy, that he had enjoyed whatever had happened.

This was a bit like that. Though he didn't think it was fear that was holding his smile back. It was more like he didn't know how as if the mechanism that allowed him to smile was broken.

It was interesting.

"Do you...like ships?" He asked, suddenly when his companion opened his eyes at last.

Awkward. So awkward.

He could see a note of confusion in the way his brow furrowed just ever so slightly as he looked at him as he turned to stare at him.

His eyes were red, red as apples or blood or the nails on his left hand.

They were disconcerting, but that was kind of nice too.

The sudden scrutiny made him feel nervous and he laughed, but just made him feel more awkward.

"You looked like you were having fun, so that's what I assumed... You do like ships, right?"

"...Ships?" Came the slow, almost cautious reply. Fingers brushed against that furrowed forehead, before dropping to press against the floor again as the boat dipped and swayed around them. "Ah, that's right...that's it. So this is a ship."

He laughed again, surprised. It felt a little easier that time, more natural. "You just realized that now?"

"...is it really that funny?" He asked, as if he were honestly curious as if the concept of humor escaped him entirely.

It wasn't and it was, but something about how he'd said that made him feel embarrassed about it, made him feel uncertain like maybe he didn't understand why he'd found it funny either and just like that the laughter was gone, all dried up like a spill of water in the sun.

Silence lingered between them and as he watched the interest in those strange eyes died away and they were as flat and dead as his own eyes looked sometimes when he stared too long at his reflection in the mirror. He grasped for something to say, anything to bring that spark of life back again, "Hey, if you want, care to talk a little? The silence was starting to bore me."

He answered with silence again and the slightest of nods.

That was lucky.

He smiled, feeling relieved, he'd been so sure he was going to say no or, worse, nothing at all. A nod was still something.

"Nice to meet you... I'm Komaeda Nagito. Anyway... lucky me. It's been a while since anyone was willing to talk to me so to share a room with a person like that... Yep, I'm definitely lucky."

"...Lucky? Ah, so that's your talent then," he answered, gaze shifting towards the window again and away from him. "...what a boring talent."

He didn't disagree, exactly, but still….

"A boring talent, huh…? Well, that's exactly what it is… But for someone I'm meeting for the first time to say that so suddenly…"

"That's because I have luck as well."

"…Huh?"

"Even I possess a talent as boring as luck."

"P-Possess, huh?" He echoed the word, the strange way he'd said it, like it meant something more than the obvious. Excitement simmered in his veins, making him feel antsy, unsettled. "I'm starting to get really interested! Who are you? You're obviously from Hope's Peak Academy too, right?"

Another one of those tiny nods and he felt his smile growing wider, so wide it made his cheeks ache until it fell away a moment later. "So you're one of us? Ah, but that's weird… this is the first time I've ever seen you…"

Silence again, but then he hadn't really asked a question at all, so maybe that was his fault. Maybe he had to be more specific… if he wanted to know.

"Hey, can you tell me why you're here? How did you end up here?"

His gaze shifted away again, falling to study the floor rather than the world outside the window. "…How boring."

Nagito sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall, "Ah, sorry…I'm often told I'm terrible at making conversation…"

"Not you…" He answered, voice soft and almost gentle as he raised his head to meet his gaze again. "…This world."

"Huh…?"

"This world is full of boring people. People who lack talent stick together, and oppress those who do possess talent…" As he spoke he leaned forward, but his voice stayed level, even, as if despite the intensity of his gaze he couldn't quite summon up the emotion to match it, to make that intensity into the fervor it aped. "Even though they know they're insignificant, they don't try to acknowledge their true superiors… they are profoundly desperate to drag them down to their level… and because of these bastards, this world has come to a deadlock. This world has stopped evolving." He dropped his gaze to the floor again, the glimmer of interest slipping away, his gaze going dead and lifeless once more. "…How boring."

"Well," he began slowly, thoughts falling into lines like dominos in a way they rarely seemed to these days. "The world is shaped by the will of the majority… It makes sense that it bends to those who lack talent."

He felt that gaze on him again, that interest, that attention again sparking to life again and it made him feel jittery, excited, like he'd gotten an answer right on a quiz he hadn't realized he was sitting for. "That's why we're in our present situation…"

He trailed off, wondering, but the gaze lingered as if urging him to ask the question forming in his mind. "Ah, perhaps… does that have anything to do with the reason you're here?"

He was silent for long moments as if he were deciding what to say or how to say it. When he did finally speak, it was almost a disappointment: "Boring people make no contributions to the world… not even a speck of dust…."

It sounded like he was quoting someone verbatim, his gaze drifting away to the window again, going vague and unfocused. "That's why my teachers taught me that a certain degree of selection must be performed."

He stared at him for a long moment in silence, wondering who those teachers were, what they'd wanted him to be. Whether those teachers had died in the chaos of the past few years.

He kind of hoped they had though he wasn't quite sure why.

"Looks like they had high expectations for you, huh?" He commented finally, following his companion's gaze to the window, but seeing nothing but the same endless sea. "That's completely different from me."

After all, no one had ever expected much of him or wanted him around at all really. He did sometimes wonder that was like, to be wanted or to have someone expect something… anything from him, but not so often these days as he once had. Sometimes he wondered if that was because he was so hopeful for a future beyond anyone's expectations or because he'd simply given in to the despair of never knowing. "But… what are you planning to do? Now that you've ended up like this, there's nothing you can do, right?"

He was interested again, gaze snapping back to the room, away from the window. His eyes seemed to glitter and glow as he leaned forward, vivid and bright, suddenly teeming with something like life. He was really… something. "Listen well: using people is a talent, too. It is now my turn to use that person just as they used me in the past."

He had a momentary urge to lean forward, to scoot across the distance between them, to kiss the words off his lips, but he had little doubt how that would end. He didn't want to see him that vague, disinterested gaze turn away from him once and for all.

"That person…." He echoed eventually, mind churning, but only one possibility leapt to mind. He looked around the room, just a quick darting glance, but there was no sign of listening devices or cameras to be seen. Just plain, flat, boring metal. "Are you talking about Ultimate Despair?" He asked finally, sly and cautious.

The glimmer in his eyes at that hissed question was more than answer enough.

He could feel a smile trembling on his lips like a song, excitement quivering in his belly. "But how?" He asked, tone still hushed. "I mean, they're already…"

"…I have it with me," he murmured, patting his jacket gently. "The contribution that person left to me…. Even now, it rests in my pocket…."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about…" And he didn't, not really, wasn't certain that any of this made any sense at all, but he liked the sound of it, liked the hope it ignited in his chest. He laughed again, grinning wide and wild, "I'm definitely lucky! I can't believe I'm speaking with someone as amazing as you! Then… will I be able to see her again? Will I be able to see the person I hate with every fiber of my being again? And this time…"

Excitement was bubbling and breaking apart what little calm he'd been able to manage and he couldn't sit still, he needed to get up, to move. He needed to pace this little room that was too small, far too small to contain his jubilance. He wanted to grab his hands, pull him to his feet, spin with him in circles, round and round, like they were little kids until they fell into a heap on the ground.

But when he went to stand, he found he couldn't quite manage it, tipping to the side and catching himself against the wall with her hand, barely noticing the ache of impact. Suddenly he was exhausted as if even this was too much effort for his weak, pathetic body to take.

He breathed out a shaking sigh, steadying himself against the wall and settling back down again before turning his gaze back to the beautiful hope sitting opposite him staring at him with those glittering red eyes, "Will I be able to kill her this time? The person I hate so much?"

He was so lucky.

So very, very lucky.

His companion was silent for so long this time he thought he might not speak at all.

"Hate…?" He asked finally, his head tilting inquisitively. "Then… explain your hand."

"Ah… this…?" He wasn't exactly surprised to be asked. Most people asked if they saw it, it wasn't exactly subtle after all. It was one of the reasons he usually kept it covered. It was… kind of difficult to explain.

"The end of that bandage… is a woman's hand, right?"

Once the laughter started, he thought it might never stop. He'd said it so uncertainly, as if the answer was anything but obvious. It was… strangely endearing. "…Isn't it amazing?" He wheezed out finally, still choking on little spats of giggles that bubbled up like hiccups. He turned to examine it, neat and perfect and just as it was when it had first been attached. "I can't move it, of course. I mean, it's not my hand after all! But… even now, it still hasn't rotted…"

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, blurred his view of the hand, that last surviving piece of her.

Enoshima Junko.

"Hey, maybe that means it's becoming one with me!" He said, too loudly and clearing the emotion from his throat with another laugh, this one softer and more self-deprecating than he intended. "Isn't it amazing? I have successfully become one with Ultimate Despair, my sworn enemy."

He could remember what it felt like to take her hand when she offered it how warm it had seemed then as she'd wrapped her fingers around his and shook it up and down like she was trying to see if it would come off. It made him laugh and she smiled like that had been the point all along. "It's nice to meet you, Komaeda Nagito. You're the lucky student, right?"

"Right," he murmured, coughing against the back of his hand as he pressed the door to the bathroom open and stepped inside. He wasn't really surprised when she followed close behind him. She didn't seem like the sort of person who cared very much about the rules. "I'm very lucky."

"I'm a model, you know," she commented, ignoring his lack of interest as if it meant nothing at all. She leaned back against the wall beside the sink as he ducked his head under to rinse the egg from his hair. "Pretty great talent, right?"

"Sure," he answered, because he wasn't sure what else to say. He wasn't sure why modeling would qualify as a talent at all, really.

"Nagito. Can I call you Nagito? I feel like we're going to be really close, you and I."

"I hope so," his smile had felt so fragile and he'd been certain that at any moment she'd tell him it was all a joke, that he was ridiculous for thinking she'd want anything to do with someone like him. Then he'd laugh because that was what he did when people did that.

Instead, she'd laughed at his words, long and loud, slapping her bare leg like somehow what he'd said had been the funniest thing she'd ever heard. Which seemed weird. Maybe he'd told her a joke and he'd just forgotten, though he was pretty sure that wasn't the case. "You… you're funny," she commented, smiling manically. "I like you a lot, Komaeda Nagito. I think we're going to be seeing a lot of each other."

"I see, so you salvaged the body…" He commented, breaking through his wandering thoughts. His gaze was cold again, the energy and life of moments before slipping away like a dream. "You really are a boring person."

Huh.

That hurt more than he'd expected it to.

Or maybe just exactly as much as he'd expected it to, either way, it hurt a bit.

Still, he wanted to explain, it seemed important that he should understand even as he was turning his gaze away. "Ah, I don't want you to misunderstand. I just see her as my enemy, you know. Because she's my sworn enemy… because I hate her so much… that's why I took her power. And for that I…"

A memory drifted to the surface, splattering across his thoughts as his eyes caught again on the bright world beyond their little window at the green of the island slipping into view.

"… never had sex, can you believe it?"

Sometimes she talked and talked and he couldn't focus well enough on her words to catch even half of what she said. Not that it mattered. She often talked about nothing at all. Or nothing he cared about. Either or it mattered about the same to him. She'd always delighted in sharing the secrets of others with him, because she knew he didn't care, wouldn't remember even half of them. "I've never had sex either, you know." He commented, because she'd paused like she was waiting for a reaction and she'd just bother him until she got one if he didn't say something.

"Yeah, you have. What's the point of getting nailed by a counselor if you're not even going to bother remembering it?"

"Oh, that… I guess," he murmured, frowning at the vague memory of a sloppy encounter with a person he couldn't quite picture. He remembered it mostly as being sticky and uncomfortable, pain in strange places and an admonishment for silence before he'd limped back to his room.

Had he told her about that?

Had that been real at all?

He wasn't really sure.

"Besides," she continued as if he hadn't spoken or it hadn't mattered that he had. "You jerk off at least. She feels all guilty and stuff when she does it. I told you, I barely even have to do anything. It's like they picked the most dysfunctional talented people they could find for this class. Don't you think so?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Funny," she grinned. "Since you're the craziest of the bunch."

"I don't like that word."

"Whatever," she replied quickly, changing the subject. "So, anyway, I think she's got a crash on that guy with the hamsters. And she-"

He glanced up at her, squinting against the glare of the sun. He could see up her skirt. Her panties had like red cherries on them. He wondered vaguely if he should tell her he could. Was that the polite thing to do or was the polite thing not to mention it? He wasn't sure.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Hm?" He blinked refocusing on the blur of her face.

"I said: do you like hamsters? You weren't listening at all were you?"

"Not really."

She stomped her foot next to his head, the sharp point of her heel grazing his temple. It was painful in a distant way, stinging a bit as the wet of blood leaked sluggish into his ear. He rubbed at it irritably, shoving her foot away hard enough that she stumbled and had to catch herself against the rail. "God, what is wrong with you?" She grouched, tossing a handkerchief at him presumably to blot up the blood. "You're so boring when you're like this. Can't you just play along at least? I'm trying to tell you important stuff, you know."

"Hamsters and Sonia Nevermind's masturbatory habits are important stuff?"

"Okay, first off, it totally is, because I mean I had to draw her a diagram of a vagina. She didn't even know what a clitoris was much less where it was and what she could do with it. I mean, seriously, that's just criminally uninformed."

"I don't know where her clitoris is and what she can do with it either so it doesn't seem so crazy to me," he answered, staring up listlessly at the clouds drifting by overhead.

"I'm surprised you even know what a clitoris is."

"I don't. I just wanted you to shut up about it."

"You're such a dick. But, anyway, no, stupid, I didn't mean any of that. I meant the other thing."

"What other thing?"

"Oh my god, you're completely useless to me like this. I'd take one of your weird little hope conquers all monologues over this any day."

"They're not weird. Hope is what gets me through the day."

"Not if I bash your stupid head in with a brick it isn't."

"Would bashing my head in bring you greater despair?" He asked curiously, tilting his head back to look up at her.

She sighed, flicking her pigtail back over her shoulder carelessly, "Probably not. No one likes you but me and when you're like this you wouldn't even care if I killed you, would you?"

"Hm, probably not. Though my death would probably bring everyone hope for a better tomorrow since they wouldn't deal with me anymore. That might be worth dying for. Go ahead. Bash away."

"Meh, you being up for it makes it massively less appealing. Maybe tomorrow, if you're being less of an apathetic little bitch," she leaned down and pressed her lips against his forehead. "Don't sleep up here. You'll catch a chill and I'll have to find someone else to do my homework for me."

She grinned widely as she drew back. There'd be a big red lipstick mark there now.

"You say that like I bothered to do it in the first place," he answered irritably, rubbing at it even though he knew it wouldn't come off completely until he washed it away with a cleanser.

He hated that… which was probably why she always did it.

"Lame, Komaeda. You really bum me out when you're like this."

"Don't care. I hope you trip over your platforms and fall down the stairs and break your neck. That'd probably be best for everyone."

"You say that like it'd really solve anything. Despair isn't so easily defeated, you know. Catch you later, Lame-maeda!"

"Wait, huh?" He murmured, rubbing his face with his good hand, drifting back to the present. "Do I… hate her? Huh… that's strange… Huh?"

It hurt to think about it.

She'd been…

She'd been…

"Ah, Nagito, poor baby, all alone again?"

He glanced up, startled, he hadn't heard her approach at all. Or maybe he had and just forgotten all about it.

Either way, she was suddenly just there, inches away, seated on the edge of the roof, smiling that wide smile at him. He hesitated, feeling caught, exposed.

He didn't really like it when people watched him eat, saw his sloppily packed lunch. He'd gotten a rice cooker for his room because sometimes that was all he could keep down and sometimes just the smell of other food was enough to make him sick.

Sometimes it felt like everything made him sick these days.

It seemed like dying should be easier. It wasn't like he was fighting it, not really. If he were lucky, shouldn't his body be giving him a break on the backend? No, maybe not. Maybe it was more hopeful this way. This way he could think 'tomorrow will be better' and even if it wasn't, at least it wasn't any worse so he could always pretend that the next day would be better instead and that would be the more hopeful thing and…

"Ko-mae-da Na-gi-to. You're doing that thing again. You know I hate that thing, right? So, knock it off, it's annoying."

He did.

He knew that.

She'd said it before. Many times. How she hated his silences. She was the only one who liked to hear him complain, enjoyed hearing his vicious unrestrained self. He shrugged, the barest lift of his shoulders and it still felt like too much of a bother, "I hope you fall off the roof. It'd be better for everyone if you did," he offered, the words slipping free before he even realized they were there, waiting to be said.

He thought briefly of apologizing, but since that was pretty much how he felt he let the thought pass without further remark.

"Right? That's more like it," she grinned like she'd won some victory, kicking her feet, heels banging against the wall.

He still didn't understand why she was allowed to wear those boots. "But it's not like I'd take all the despair with me if I did, you know. I might help it along, but it's not like I caused it."

"Didn't you?" He asks, disinterested, picking the rice apart with his chopsticks, smearing it against the side of the box.

"Pupupu, oh, okay, you caught me," she shrugged, heels still banging hard against the brick. It was making his headache worse. "I caused plenty, but, honestly, it's not like it was hard."

"Hm, no, I guess not, you've said that before, I think. Do you just like repeating yourself?" He commented, collapsing back to lie flat on the concrete. The sun was bright overhead and even though there was a chill to the air, he could almost feel his skin burning beneath the force of that bright, bright sun. The cold of the roof felt good, but he was sure it would be unpleasant before long. "You need a challenge."

"Did I sound bored?"

"You're talking to me, aren't you? Doesn't that mean you don't have anything better to do? There are tons more interesting people than me to talk to who have more interesting things to say."

"You'd think so, right? Whole school of special people and they're all just so boring. It's just so depressing, isn't it? I mean, really, there's no greater despair than that is there? That awful feeling that you're alone even when you're surrounded by people? That's why it's so easy, you know? No one cares about anyone else here. Doesn't it just bum you out? I mean, there's no sport in it at all. It's exhausting how easy it is to pick them off, pick them apart. This should be harder, shouldn't it? Isn't it weird? Weird that it should be so easy to bring such despair to a place that's supposed to be all about hope? Don't you think so, Nagito?" Junko clicked her tongue, falling back against the concrete herself.

Her hair brushed his cheek as she sprawled beside him. The smell of her shampoo made him gag, as he shoved the offending mass away weakly.

She laughed, bright and loud at the sound, "You're such a pussy! Everything makes you sick these days, doesn't it?"

He found himself laughing as well even though it wasn't really funny.

He'd almost always laughed at her jokes.

Even though they were almost never actually funny.

That's right, she was… something else, wasn't she?

His sworn enemy… and the only friend he'd ever had.

She hadn't been a very good friend, but she'd been his.

It was pathetic, really. It always had been.

Maybe no one was ever any one thing to anybody.

He was staring at him again.

He didn't mean to, at his strange eyes and his dark, dark hair. But at least his companion didn't seem particularly bothered by it.

That was something at least.

He grasped for a distraction and found one once again in the island slipping into view outside their tiny window. "Ah, look out the window. We're finally here! You're starting to see it too, right? That's Jabberwock Island, isn't it? Isn't it exciting? I wonder what's going to happen on that island once we get there…"

A gentle scoff, "…What's going to happen? I can already predict what will happen."

He glanced back at him, surprised, "…Huh?"

He'd brought up his knees at some point and as Nagito watched, he folded his arms across the top of them as he glowered at the window… or maybe the island beyond, it was hard to say for sure. "I already know because I am loved by talent. But… no matter what happens, it's of no concern to me. I will not be able to participate in what lies ahead."

It didn't seem to please him.

"Hm? Really…? I don't understand, but… I guess we have to part ways for a while. That's disappointing… we seemed to get along pretty well." He trailed off, glancing down at where his mismatched hands had fallen into his lap at some point. "…Hey, can I see you again?" He asked softly, hope a fragile bird waiting to be crushed by that blood-red gaze.

"There is no reason we'll ever meet again," was the answer he received almost immediately, but his voice seemed… softer than it had been, a ghost of something like regret and then it was gone as if it had never been there at all. "After all… you are boring… Your talent, your thoughts, your entire existence is boring to me…"

He stayed silent for a long moment, a smile flickering to life and dying on his lips as that fragile hope evaporated leaving not the faintest trace behind. "…You really don't play along, do you?"

For a long time there was only silence.

It wasn't until the boat was docking that he spoke again, so quietly that for a moment Nagito thought he might have been mistaken. "Did you say something?"

"Kamukura," he replied, louder his gaze flat and steady.

"What?"

"My name… you introduced yourself. Earlier. I didn't do the same. Kamukura Izuru."

"Kamukura Izuru," the name tasted… strange, almost unreal on his tongue. "I've heard that name before."

"I suppose you would have," he replied, standing up, brushing dust, real or imagined, from his crisp black suit.

"Are you going to tell me what you're going to do?"

"No."

He sighed, but he couldn't find it in himself to be too disappointed, "I suppose that's just as well. I kind of like surprises."

-ooo-

Something hit the door with a heavy, thunk and he jolted back to awareness. Back to another tiny room far from the remembered reality of that boat, of that man, of that person who both was and wasn't Hinata Hajime.

His head was throbbing and she was still talking, whispering outside the door, but he couldn't make out the words. Didn't want to anyway. He inched away, finally, finally finding the strength to crawl away from the door. To leave it further and further behind until he was far enough away that he could lie down against the cold, cold tiles and not have to hear her anymore.

It didn't matter.

None of that mattered.

He wasn't that person anymore.

He wasn't hers, not anymore. Not her friend, not her enemy, not her anything. There was no her anymore. No more ultimate despair. There was just… them. The remnants, the last reminders and even that… was just embers now.

Even if he remembered everything, remembered all of it, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be that person again. Not now. Now he was his own or maybe Hinata's a little bit, but nothing mattered because if Hinata was Hinata than he couldn't be himself… so what did it matter what he was or wasn't or what he did or didn't.

He caught fingers against his face to smother a moan. It felt like a sickness, the uneasy feeling in his stomach that spread through him like a virus, tendrils sliding through his veins. It wasn't hope or despair, it was just… resignation.

He closed his eyes and if he concentrated he could hear Hinata's voice again as if their conversation never stopped, as if it's been seconds instead of the minutes or hours it seemed had passed.

"Dammit, I should be there with you, but I'm not. I'm not. Komaeda, I…." Hinata's voice was quiet and close, so soft, almost as if he were talking to himself.

Why did Hinata even care where he was?

He was trash, just ragged cheap plastic, spilt and ruptured, spewing its filthy contents along the side of the road.

Unwanted.

Left to rot.

Spoiling in the sun.

He was… he was… just… he was just…

He couldn't answer. Couldn't find the words.

And then Hinata was speaking again, hurried and soft and he didn't understand why.

"No, I'm… I think I'm in the hall, maybe? I don't know. I don't know if things are laid out the same here. I just… I don't know. I don't know."

He sounded so sad, so frantic.

He… Hinata was… so…

He scrubbed his good hand over his face, rubbing at the damp there.

It was stupid, really.

They didn't really know anything about each other. They were practically strangers and he knew that, he knew, but he still… he still wanted to touch him, to lean close to him and press their foreheads together, lean into his strength, offer what little he had in exchange.

It was… really stupid.

He couldn't even imagine Hinata wanting that. Not from him, not from worthless trash like him. Not really, not if he knew it was really him instead of some… dream just there to make him feel better about himself.

Maybe this would be the only way anyone would ever want him for anything.

And even this… was probably more than he deserved.

He was probably really lucky.

Lucky… sure.

Was the Hinata he knew even the real Hinata?

Or was he really Kamukura Izuru?

Did it even matter?

Whether his talent was manufactured or completely lacking, he was still… nothing special. He was still nothing, less than nothing even.

And he hadn't come to the island for him.

Hadn't known him at all before that day in the boat.

So, why had he come?

Did it even matter?

He'd wanted to see her and now he wanted to see him.

Maybe he'd wanted to see someone else entirely when he'd agreed to get on the stupid boat.

Did it matter?

"You're special to me."

Those stupid words just kept skipping around in his head and they just wouldn't leave him alone and he still didn't understand them.

He still didn't understand them at all, but they stuck with him like gum on the bottom of his shoe. He wanted to scream in his face. Tell him to stop. To stop pretending, to stop acting like it mattered, like he mattered. Like either of them mattered. He… he didn't understand. If this was Hinata, the real Hinata, how could he say things like that with a straight face? How could he touch him like that? He didn't even like him. He never had. Not once he'd known him, once he'd seen who he really was...

And he'd felt lucky. Lucky because at least he was still looking at him at least he was still special to him, still mattered to him in that way if in no other.

Special.

That freaking word again.

Hinata had always treated him like he was a nuisance, an annoyance, just… just a danger at best and a pest at worst.

And he hadn't been wrong, had he?

That was what he was.

He was lucky and his luck gave him everything he needed and nothing he actually wanted. He'd wanted to give them hope. He'd wanted Hinata to like him. He'd wanted his friend back. He'd wanted to die in a way that would do some good, in a way that would inspire hope or at least stop the spread of despair. He'd wanted his luck to save someone for once.

He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be with him. He wanted to be safe and loved and cared for.

He'd wanted and wanted and wanted and it never came to anything.

It never really mattered at all.

Nothing did.

He was lucky and all his good fortune tasted like ash in his mouth.

He wasn't worth saving, wasn't worth anything.

He never had been.

But Hinata… Hinata didn't seem to know that at all

And it was beautiful.

And it was terrible.

And he was awful for not wanting it to end.

Laughter again, sudden and inescapable and strangely cathartic, as he sat back on his heels, shaking his head as he stared down at his bare legs, at the boring tiles beneath.

What a hopeless situation.

To want so much from someone that even their hate was still preferable to nothing.

Had it always been like this?

Had he simply been a lost cause from the moment Hinata blinked his eyes open on that beach and winced up at him?

Or had it been from the moment he'd seen that not-quite smile tighten his lips on the ship when they'd both been someone else entirely?

Did it even matter where it began when he already knew where it would end?

"I'd have thought you'd be glad to be rid of someone like me. I only ever cause you trouble," he replied at last, his voice flat as a hundred conflicting emotions tried to beg and claw and scrape their way free in his chest.

"Don't be stupid," he snapped, voice thick with some emotion Nagito found himself afraid to name.

They really were hopeless, weren't they?

"Hey Hinata, I'm really glad I got to see you." He murmured finally, because he was. Even if he was dead, even if he was a dream, even if he never got out of this hospital, even if the world faded to black, even if Hinata woke up and went on with his life and never dreamed about him again… he would still be glad.

It hadn't always been pleasant, but it had been worth it.

To pretend for a little while.

"Then you shouldn't have taken off like that," Hinata admonished and he couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips at his belligerent tone.

"I didn't care for the ambiance," he replied still smiling, fingers of his good hand tracing lazy patterns across the tile. "I liked the way you tasted though. Is it always that sour? Is everyone's like that?"

"How the heck would I know?" He grumbled and Nagito's smile only widened at the sound. "The only dick I've ever had in my mouth was yours."

Maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise, but it was.

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Shit, I don't know. Probably. At least I think so. I still don't really remember everything, you know. Look, can you… I don't know, go look out in the hall or something, open the door? Maybe I'll be able to see you?"

"That's probably not a good idea," he murmured, a little annoyed that he'd forgotten his own situation even if it had only been for a few minutes. She was still out there, after all, still stomping up and down the hall, still complaining loudly to someone.

He didn't want to think about who that someone might be.

"I can hear her stumping around out there. I think she forgot the doors have locks so she seems a little mad about it. Can't you hear her? She's really loud."

"Her? Who her? You mean Enoshima?"

He laughed, loud and uncomfortable, "Huh? What? No, not… who's Enoshima?"

It was stupid, but he didn't… he didn't want to tell him like this… or at all really. He didn't want to spoil the moment. The idea of Hinata knowing for sure that he was real after all they'd done made him feel sick.

That he also remembered all those other things….

No.

Better to let the lie stand.

"Come on, Komaeda. Okay, can you at least tell me what wall I'm at so I can try and get around to the other side?"

Other side?

He glanced around, confused, before clamoring unsteadily to his feet.

That… was a good point, wasn't it?

Hinata hadn't been in the hall, hadn't been downstairs either, but… he could hear him so… they had to be connected somehow, right?

Maybe.

Where was his voice coming from anyway? It had seemed to be coming from right beside him before, when he'd been near the door, but maybe… maybe the acoustics were just weird or… something. He edged around the precarious piles, looking for… there was a vent low on the same wall as the door. He fell down too hard on his knees, catching himself on his good arm as he leaned forward to study it.

It was plain, cheap metal… barely even worth being called a vent, really. It was weirdly simplistic. There weren't even any screws. It was just a piece of shiny, grated metal slapped on the wall with nothing obvious holding it there. It looked completely decorative even though there was a long dark hole behind it.

It was really kind of suspicious, actually.

"Wall? How would I know?" He asked as he slid the fingernails of his good hand beneath the edge of the vent, grunting as it popped free and clattered to the floor the moment he applied pressure.

Huh.

He poked at the fallen vent, frowning.

He'd really expected that to be a lot more difficult. These things were usually a lot more difficult than that, weren't they?

Maybe he was just lucky.

He heard a sharp intake of breath and what sounded like an aborted scream and he glanced back at the grate, surprised. "Hinata?"

Another aborted scream and he found himself reaching for the opening with his good arm, misbalancing and falling flat against the floor as he shoved his arm uselessly into the opening. Pain flared down his forearm, sharp and sudden as his arm scrapped across some unseen something and he jerked it back out of the hole, spilling blood across the floor, choking on a scream.

There was blood everywhere as he scrambled back away from the hole, bleeding arm pressed against his chest, skin sticking and scrapping against the floor as he used his feet to push himself back, away from the wall. His heart was thundering in his head, but he could hear Hinata crying out, somewhere, the sound seemed like it was everywhere, but it was distant, vague, pained. He called for him, once, twice, a dozen times, but there was never an answer.

Only the memory of that one aborted scream echoing around him, within him over and over, throbbing in time with the pain in his arm.

Blood slipped down his skin, soaked the front of his shirt, dripping from his elbow to land against his legs, puddle on the floor.

Eventually the pain faded to a dull throb and the flow of blood became slow, sluggish, stopped dripping altogether. He pulled his arm away from his chest gingerly to stare at the rivets carved straight down his arm, five perfectly straight marks like….

"Junko?" He mouthed the word, unable to bring himself to give it voice.

There was no answer, nothing but the storm outside and the uneven thump of footsteps in the hall.

END NOTES:

As usual, extensive notes can be found on the Archive of Our Own version of this chapter. Link in my profile. Comments/Reviews/Feedback in general are always very much appreciated. Thanks so much for reading.