The Mortal City

by MidnightRun42

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

3. Wanted

"Maybe ever'body in the whole damn world is scared of each other."
― John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

DAY TWO
-continued-
-ooo-

The room was quiet, almost unnervingly so, with just the soft hum and glow of the pod to cut through the darkness and the silence. He sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his hands gripping the blanket as he stared across the room at that pod, at the dark shadow of a person within it. Here in the dark, alone with only his thoughts, he couldn't help dwelling on his dreams. On the sound of Komaeda's voice as he spoke, as he moaned, as he continued to make his life more difficult just by virtue of his existing just as he always had. It was funny how sitting in this quiet room made him glad for that. He wished he would just wake up. It would be easier if he were awake, he could take his frustrations out on the real thing.

Not that he ever, ever, ever wanted the genuine article to know he'd been dreaming about him, much less what he'd been dreaming about him. Komaeda would never let it go, he'd use it to justify every nasty thing he ever said about either of them. And he'd want to argue, of course he would, but then he'd remember the way Komaeda's voice had broken in his mind across that moan and he wouldn't have a leg to stand on. Or maybe Komaeda would use it to breach the divide between them, to bridge that gap with intimacy that had only existed in dreams, would use that knowledge to sidle up close and whisper filthy things in his ear and maybe he'd like it. Maybe they'd finish whatever they'd half started on the island and it would be frightening and exhilarating and…

He shifted, uncomfortable, realizing belated that he'd been thinking too much and his body had started reacting to his thoughts, to the half-formed image of Komaeda whispering in his ear, good hand braced against his hip. Not the Komaeda he'd known on the island, but the version of Komaeda as he'd been in that brief vision he'd seen near the end of their time in the machine. A little older, a little taller, more man than boy, his hair a little wilder and longer than it had been before, but otherwise just the same if you left out the bad hand. He shook his head hard as if that might be enough to banish the image from his mind.

It wasn't, of course.

He adjusted himself irritably, wincing as pleasure twinged through him even at that light touch. What the heck was wrong with him? He couldn't imagine why every little damn thing that happened was suddenly turning him on. It wasn't even like he'd been super interested in sex before. Sure, when he was going through puberty, he'd probably spent a fair amount of time banging away at it, but those memories were distant, foreign almost, buried beneath all that had come afterwards.

At Hope's Peak, at least while he'd been in the reserve course, he'd rarely touched himself at all, too caught up in the stress of not being good enough. He'd tried once or twice, but more often than not all he'd managed was to chaff himself raw and fall asleep sobbing into his pillow while the moans of his seemingly carefree neighbors echoed around him. Another failure for the pile. He was sure, looking back, that they'd all probably just had different ways of dealing with the stresses of the reserve program. That they'd all been freaked out and stressed just the same as he had. It had seemed like the rest had had an easier time, had been less dedicated to Hope's Peak, to success, to all those ideals, but… that probably wasn't fair or true. He'd probably just never noticed because he'd been too caught up in his own problems. He remembered being sick, often, spending a lot of time on his knees in his bathroom at night as the stress turned his stomach inside out. He'd hidden it pretty well, buried it by studying harder and longer than anyone else, by being the first to classes or tests, by being the first to volunteer for the trial program.

He'd been so honored when they'd told him he was chosen. It had seemed like all his hard work, his devotion, all that stress and sickness were worth it, so worth it. He was going to be special, he was going to become their great hope and he couldn't think of anything better than that. After all, what good had Hinata Hajime ever been to anyone anyway? He'd never been smart enough or good enough or special enough so if the best he could ever be was the ground in which they were planting and growing the seed of hope that would become Kamukura Izuru that was what he wanted. At last he would finally be good enough, even if he wasn't quite himself anymore.

He hadn't understood at all really.

He hadn't understood so many things.

After that, everything from the last few years was a blur or just vague, ghostly images that he couldn't quite touch, probably locked away with Izuru in the back of his head somewhere, lurking. He remembered the pain of the surgeries, the memory wipes, but even that felt less like something that had happened to him and more like something he'd seen in a film and after a certain point there was only the haze. So, he had no way of knowing what Izuru had been up to in the years between. No way of knowing if he'd been having sex with everything that moved. And that was a terrifying thought, because would he have cared enough to use protection? To avoid diseases? Would he have bothered to be careful or would that have been too boring?

Hajime shivered, crossing his arms over his stomach protectively and leaning down to put his head between his knees, breathing slowly so he didn't just throw up all that stale junk food he'd eaten with Akane all over the floor. They'd probably have told him if he had something really nasty, wouldn't they? Even if just to make sure he didn't pass it to anyone? Yeah, they'd probably done a health work-up before they put them in the pods. It was the only way to make sure they gave them what they needed while they were under. Maybe. Probably. Still, that didn't mean he didn't have half dozen kids running around out there with his unruly hair and some stranger's eyes. He could be a father and he'd never know it. He'd never know for sure unless Izuru's memories came back to him and he wasn't sure if he could deal with that. He didn't want to know and he couldn't stand not knowing all at the same time. Either option was terrifying in its own way.

Suddenly being a little fucked up about Komaeda didn't seem quite so awful.

Maybe he'd get lucky and find out that Izuru had found sex as boring as he seemed to find everything. That would be the best thing. Then he didn't even have to think about it or wonder about it, he could just assume he hadn't gotten off since he was in junior high and that was messing with his body chemistry or something. Sperm count was too high or something. Unless what they'd done on the island had been….

While he'd been on the island, in the game, he hadn't thought much about sex except in passing. He'd jerked off a few times, hurried and almost panicked, but not much more than that. Just stress relief, really, for an incredibly tense situation. Funny that the stress of a killing game hadn't broken him to pieces like the stress of Hope's Peak had. Hadn't made it impossible to get outside his own head long enough to actually get himself off. Apparently he just dealt better with murder related stress. Or something. At least he'd never felt like he wasn't good enough on the island. In a lot of ways, always being able to find his way to the truth had actually been the best confidence boost in the world. Which was in turn both sad and kind horrifying all things considered.

Still, with all those cameras around, he'd been too self-conscious to do anything more than just that. Not that he would have anyway, just… there'd never been any inclination with everything that was going on. Even if he had thought a little too much about Chiaki in her bathing suit and how nice she was, how cute she looked when she was sleeping. Or how confusing Komaeda was, how he would lean close and smell so amazing and then say just the most horrifying, awful things. How those things would stick with him afterwards and echo in his brain at night and he'd wonder how he'd ever thought he could like, could understand, someone that was so extraordinarily fucked up.

He stood up, irritated and paced across the room to the pod, running his hand over the top of the plastic casing. It was warm to the touch, probably from the liquid inside, which Kazuichi had explained served a lot of different vital purposes, but the warmth specifically was because it was calibrated to regulate their body temperatures. There were a ton of numbers on the side of the thing and though Kazuichi had explained most of them, he'd only caught about half of them and he wasn't even sure he had all of those straight and correct. Acidity levels and heart rate and brain activity and BPM… though Kazuichi hadn't been all that clear on how someone could breathe in that gunk either, just that that was what the number was. That all these numbers and graphs and beeping things were all he had to tell him that Komaeda was in this box. That he was still alive and he didn't even understand half of what it meant. And even if he did, there was nothing he could do to make it better, make him better.

He'd take the Komaeda who made him feel terrible about himself and guilty and awful over this sleeping Komaeda any day. He wanted a chance to yell him for being such an asshole, for killing Chiaki, for everything.

And then maybe…

Maybe.

He thought about walking back downstairs to where he and Akane had finally found the snack vending machine in a room that had probably been a break room judging by the dust-covered couch and microwave. There'd been an old coffee machine in there so there was probably some stale coffee in the cupboards somewhere. He could loiter around down there for a while, but eventually he'd still have to come back here. Eventually he'd still have to lay down in that cold bed and go to sleep with the soft hum and occasional beep of the pod for company.

He was too tired not to sleep and too weak to do it anywhere else, they'd all agreed to stay in these rooms. And… he wanted to be here. Wanted to be close to him. Just as badly as he wanted to be in the break room brewing that stale coffee. Or out on the beach listening to the waves break against the shore, just anywhere else at all really. He wanted to be as close to him as possible and as far away as possible all at the same time, every moment.

"Sorry," he murmured, laying a hand against the green glowing lid of the pod against the shadowed form beneath it. "It's not like I want to dream about you or anything, but… sorry anyway. Hurry and wake up, okay? I… just hurry and wake up." He felt stupid talking to the pod. It might have been easier if he could see him, touch him, take his hand or whatever; as it was he couldn't even see him so he felt like an idiot talking to a plastic coffin like it was a person. Though, then again, it might have been too creepy if he'd been able to see him. To see Enoshima's hand on his wrist, to be able to touch him whenever he wanted… yeah, that would definitely be worse.

"Sorry," he muttered again, patting the top of the box. Maybe he'd get better with practice or it would get easier or something.

Maybe.

-ooo-

He opened his eyes to find himself on his knees in one of the hotel cabins as something thick and wet and salty sour splattered across his face, his lips, and into his mouth. He gagged at the unexpected taste and again as he realized exactly what it was, wiping frantically at his mouth even as another spurt hit his cheek.

"Huh. That's unexpected." Komaeda's voice commented, sounding vaguely surprised and a little short of breath but generally unmoved by Hajime's sudden appearance. He didn't sound happy or annoyed or anything else he was used to hearing from Komaeda. "It's like I made you appear by coming. That's a funny sort of thing."

He didn't sound like he actually thought it was all that funny. He didn't sound like he thought it was much of anything, his voice was bland, almost bored like he'd been watching paint dry instead of jerking off.

Hajime glared up at him, still wiping at his face irritably, feeling more than a little sick. He gagged and spat the mouthful he'd ended up with onto the floor beside him, grimacing at the glob that splattered across the wood. Komaeda was sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, his head bowed so Hajime couldn't actually see his expression at all through the cloud of pale hair. "This is a little much, Komaeda."

"Sure, I can see that," he replied conversationally, nodding, his fingers still working loosely over himself… which Hajime was very pointedly not looking at and only happened to see out of the corner of his eye and that movement was difficult to mistake for anything else. "No one likes that in their eye, do they?"

"You didn't get it in my eye," Hajime grumbled as if that distinction were of any importance in the grand scheme of things when you were covered in someone else's spunk.

"Oh? That's too bad. That would have been funny too."

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"So many things," Komaeda replied, finally raising his head to meet Hajime's disgruntled gaze, the mild hint of a smile on his lips marking the first hint of actual emotion he'd seen or heard from him so far.

"Truer words," Hajime sighed, wiping his now sticky hands against his pants. It didn't really help. His hands were still sticky and now his pants were kind of gross too. He looked around for a towel or something and frowned as his gaze settled on the half-full shelf of Monokuma figures. "Is this my room? Why the hell were you doing that in my room?"

Komaeda shrugged, the brief flicker of amusement gone as if it had never been there at all, his expression so bland and uninterested that they might as well be talking about the weather. "You weren't using it. Besides, it seemed only fair. You stuck your fingers inside me and disappeared before we could do anything interesting. I wanted to jerk off and this place still smells a little like you. Or at least I think it does. Could just be one of those things."

"What the hell, Komaeda?" Hajime yelped. He knew his face was bright red with embarrassment, he could feel the heat blazing in his cheeks hot as a four-alarm fire. "And I did not stick my fingers inside you! You stuck my fingers inside you."

"Semantics." He shrugged again before scooting back to lean back against the wall, pale legs still spread wide. Hajime couldn't help but notice that he'd only bothered to strip off his pants and underwear, he was still wearing his parka like he couldn't be bothered to shed it and he'd just rucked his shirt up, it was still bunched up high enough that Hajime could see his belly button, a shallow indent of shadow in all that pale, pale skin. At least he couldn't see the gapping chest wound, for the moment at least, with the shirt crumpled across his stomach the way it was. That would have been too much but, as it was, he could see the deep wounds Komaeda had made in his thighs and the puncture in his hand. He'd at least covered his dominant hand with a bandage though- as Hajime watched- he loosened the bandage and unraveled it, discarding it on the bed beside him. He must have noticed the direction of Hajime's gaze because he shrugged again. The shrugging was beginning to seem like some sort of involuntary twitch. "It's rough enough doing it with the bandages, it'd be rougher rubbing against an open wound though, probably. If you want, you can whip your dick out and we can find out together?"

"God, no, fuck, gross, Komaeda."

"Your loss," Komaeda replied, sitting up a little straighter and Hajime was grateful when he smoothed down the front of his shirt so that it fell down into his lap to cover him, but also disconcerted as the falling hem of the t-shirt revealed the gaping bloody hole the spear had left in the shirt and the chest beneath.

"Why did you do it that way?"

"Why do you keep asking that? You know why, don't you?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't ask."

"Ah, I see, I'll play. Well, let's see, I suppose it was punishment. Anything that brings such great despair into the world deserves to be punished, don't you think?"

"You didn't deserve that, it wasn't your fault," Hajime answered and it was as automatic as breathing and the same answer he'd have given to any of them. Because Togami had been right, though they had each played a part in all that had happened, it was Enoshima who made it possible, who set them on their paths. At least that's what he wanted to believe. "Komaeda, it wasn't-"

And, of course, Komaeda was staring at him as if he were stupid or at least functionally deficient in some vital way. When he spoke, his voice still seemed vaguely disconnected, as if he were there, but part of him, the part that was anger and humor and manic glee, just... wasn't. "Really? That's what you're going with? It wasn't your fault, Komaeda? That's a poor argument. Trash like Komaeda Nagito never deserved to live in the world because all he's ever done is inspire despair in himself, in others. His luck is a curse and a constant and he is the lowest of the low and if his death could bring the slightest flicker of hope than that might make his life worthwhile because at least then it would have served a purpose. That's the truth, Hinata. The indisputable truth."

"No, it really isn't," Hajime replied, setting his hands against Komaeda's bare shins, over the red marks there that had probably been caused by the ropes he'd tied around himself, there were darker, rougher red marks on his wrists as well. He probably struggled at the end, even if he didn't intend to, even if that torturous death was what he chose… it would have been hard not to struggle against the pain, alone in the dark. He looked up into Komaeda's cool, superior face. He wasn't sure why it was suddenly so important to him that Komaeda understand. "We all did things, bad things, but it was Enoshima who made us that way. It wasn't your fault, okay?"

"…Enoshima?" Komaeda asked his voice soft and his eyes losing focus. "Who… what is… I don't…" He raised one wounded hand to touch against his forehead, gently, puzzled. "Why does that name sound so familiar? I don't… I don't…."

"Komaeda?"

Komaeda blinked at him once, twice, and then the puzzlement faded, replaced by a wry smile, "I see. Yes, I remember now. Enoshima Junko, she's famous. Sure. Why wouldn't a model be to blame for all the despair we caused? Seems reasonable. It's a nice joke."

"It's not a joke. I… god, why am I even arguing with you about this?"

"Why indeed? Seems hopeless, right?"

"Stop it. You're just the worst. And why don't you just change your clothes or something? I mean, even if you're stuck with the wounds, are you really stuck with the clothes too?"

Komaeda laughed suddenly, somewhere between a giggle and a sob, but he slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the vaguely hysterical sound.

Unsure, what else to do Hajime just waited expectantly for Komaeda to pull it back together and answer the question or at least tell him what the joke was this time.

"You're going to make me say it?" Komaeda commented finally, his expression carefully blank. "I can't. These are the only clothes there are."

Maybe his imagination was just so horrendously bad that he was only capable of picturing Komaeda wearing this one outfit. Only one way to find out. "Here," he stripped off the shirt he was wearing, unsurprised to find it was the white dress shirt from the game rather than the black t-shirt he'd fallen asleep in. Because, of course it was, his brain was horrendous and twisted and a glutton for punishment apparently.

"What makes you think I would want that?" Komaeda asked, his voice cold and remote again.

"Just put it on, okay?" He grumbled, shivering a little as he fumbled over the buttons and finally shrugged the shirt off and offered it to Komaeda.

Komaeda stared at him for a long moment, but finally, slowly, sat up and shrugged out of his parka. He pulled the t-shirt off over his head, tossing it aside, and Hajime politely averted his eyes from the gaping chest wound, from the too-thin, too-pale nakedness of Komaeda's body now that he was stripped totally bare. His face and neck felt warm again, but it was more the warmth of mild sunburns, strange and almost pleasant. He shook the shirt at him when Komaeda didn't reach out to grab it immediately.

"You're such a hopeless virgin, Hinata," Komaeda murmured, taking the shirt finally and slipping it over his shoulders. He did up the bottom two buttons before glancing back over at Hajime, toying with the third. "You sure you don't want to give it another shot?"

"Shut up. I'm not sticking anything in you, Komaeda." Because it wasn't hard to guess what he was referring to.

"Really? You seemed pretty into it last time."

And the mild burn became uncomfortably hot, as he gapped and stuttered a response, "I… I… I didn't… you just stuck my fingers in your chest, I wasn't…"

"You weren't turned on by it?"

"No!"

"Liar," Komaeda looked so damn smug it made Hajime kind of want to punch him. Yes, that was a pretty familiar feeling as well. "I might be a little off, but my eyes work just fine. I could see how you looked at me. You never looked at me that way, before, but you did then. You looked at me the way Hanamura looked at the girls. You looked at me like you wanted to eat me."

"I…" And it was probably true. That was always the worst thing about Komaeda: how rarely he actually lied. Why bother to lie, after all, when an uncomfortable truth will do? So, it was probably true, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Didn't want to admit how much he'd wanted him in that moment. Because that would mean admitting to Komaeda and himself that nothing they'd been doing had been enough to turn him off. Or that maybe that that was what had turned him on in the first place and just… no. "It wasn't that. I mean it… it wasn't that."

"Oh, what was it then?" Komaeda inquired, leaning forward a little and he knew that expression. It was the expression Komaeda wore when he'd found a weak point to exploit.

"Nothing," he replied immediately, a knee-jerk reaction.

"Nothing?" Komaeda leaned all the way forward, getting as close to Hajime as he could without scooting forward. Hajime was suddenly very aware that he didn't have a shirt on at all anymore and that Komaeda hadn't ever bothered to actually finish buttoning the shirt he now wore so it gaped open obscenely. Hajime could see down the long pale line of him, see the hard peaks of his nipples, the red wound that made him feel vaguely ill, the press of his ribs against his skin and the subtle swell of his belly. His stomach flip-flopped uneasily with the knowledge of the one thing he couldn't quite see from this angle. Somehow peering at Komaeda through the gap in that shirt felt dirtier than sneaking a glance at him when he'd just been naked.

"It was that sound," he confessed though he hadn't really meant to say that out loud or at all. "You made this sound like…"

"Do you want to see if I'll make it again?"

"No, I… of course, I don't," he managed, swallowing hard, his throat suddenly bone-dry. Because part of him desperately wanted to hear that sound again, to know what might have happened if Souda hadn't shaken him awake when he did. Part of him wanted to dive headfirst down that rabbit hole and follow it to its inevitable conclusion, consequences be damned.

Part of him was obviously deranged.

Komaeda fell back away from him, leaning against the wall, a cruel smile playing across his lips and Hajime felt the butterflies in his stomach turn to slugs; an awful feeling of dread, cold and heavy and slimy, lodged in the pit of his stomach. Komaeda lifted a hand slowly, languorously from his side, placing his fingers against the edge of the wound framed by his borrowed shirt. "Listen closely, Hinata, you're the only fair judge after all."

"What are you doing, Komaeda?" He whispered, but he already knew the answer even as his fingers plunged into that gruesome wound.

The world seemed to stutter to a stop around him and the sound that tore itself from Komaeda's throat was something between a scream and a sob and there was nothing of desire in it, only pain. Hajime was up off the floor and flinging himself onto the bed in an instant, fumbling and pulling his bloody hand out and away from the wound as Komaeda panted, weak little wounded cries that painted the air between them with agony.

"It didn't hurt when it was you. It felt good when it was you," Komaeda confessed, shivering, his words a jumble and his voice soft as a whisper between them. "I just want to… I just want, I don't… I don't understand how this game is played."

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay," Hajime murmured, petting Komaeda's soft pale hair with fingers were sticky to begin with and were now covered in blood as well. His heart was in his throat and he was only half listening to what Komaeda was saying, still too freaked out by the way he'd cried out. He was going to have nightmares about that sound. Well… more nightmares, anyway. Regardless, that sound was going to haunt him, waking or sleeping.

"It's not," Komaeda hissed, his voice cool and almost even once again as the pain presumably faded and he got himself under control once again. He sounded vaguely disgusted, but Hajime couldn't be sure if that disgust was for either of them or both. He didn't pull away though, just pressed his face against Hajime's chest and let him continue to run vaguely panicked hands over his hair. His voice when he spoke again was muffled and low, like he was speaking to himself more than Hajime. "You make me sick. Your lies make me sick. Why won't you just do what I want you to do? What you want to do? You're here, aren't you? Why are you even here if you're not going to be what I want? If you're here to make me feel good than do it. If you're here to hurt me than hurt me. What are you even here for if I have to do all the work?"

"I don't-"

"Liar, stop lying, just stop lying to me, don't you think I know what I want? I know what I want," Komaeda rasped, short, blunt nails scrapping over Hajime's bare shoulders, over his back, and it hurt, but it also burned through him, real and wanted. Heat pooled in his limbs, between his legs, dragged a stuttering moan from his lips. The world seemed to spin around him and he closed his eyes to keep it at bay. "Yes, like that," he groaned, his voice still muffled as he pressed against Hajime's chest, raising one trembling hand to run a thumb over one nipple, already painfully tight. "That's what I want to hear from you. I'm tired of arguing with myself. It's boring. It's such a hopeless thing to argue with oneself. You can never really win."

"I don't understand anything you're saying," Hajime panted as those blunt fingernails scored his chest so hard that he was pretty sure that if he wasn't bleeding it was only because this was a dream. "I don't understand you at all," he rasped, blinking his eyes open and trying to focus past the desire to find a way to climb inside Komaeda and never come back out again.

"You never did," Komaeda replied, leaning back to offer Hajime a smile that was bitter as it his voice was caustic. "Nothing new there. Just touch me, Hinata. Just touch me. Don't you want to hear me moan for you again?"

And he did, help him, he did. It was all he could think of and before he'd made a conscious decision about it, the world shifted around him and their positions were almost reversed. He was just suddenly kneeling on the bed over Komaeda, inches away, straddling his lap and Komaeda had his back to the wall again. That was the way of dreams sometimes, he was discovering, or maybe it was something he'd always known. Perhaps, he'd just needed reminding that you didn't so much go places as you just showed up there sometimes in dreams. So there was no pushing Komaeda back against the wall, no slow crawl across the bed after him, no time to think and rethink what he was doing, just suddenly there kneeling over him with his hand resting against Komaeda's chest, tucked just inside the shirt, framing that bloody reminder of how sick, how depraved they both could be.

"Go ahead," Komaeda murmured, watching him with cool, assessing eyes. A gaze that spoke of challenges and dares, the same look he'd always had in trials when he wanted Hajime to speak against him, to rise to the occasion, to push through his lies or truths and find the hope he thought would come from all those terrible things. As if he hadn't stuck his own fingers in that wound and screamed bloody murder two minutes ago. As if none of that had happened at all. "I want you to."

"Well, I don't want me to," Hajime whispered, but it sounded weak even in his own ears. A mewling, whining sound in the dark without any real weight or desire behind it, a token protest at best. His thighs were shaking, quivering with the effort of kneeling over Komaeda, of not touching him. His stomach roiled, queasy and uncertain, but it was difficult to tell if it was disgust or nerves or something else entirely.

"Just a little," his voice was gently encouraging, coaxing. His hands settling over Hajime's trembling thighs, rubbing gently over the length of them from knee to hip and back again. "I know I'm the lowest of the low and trash such as I shouldn't be asking favors, but it wouldn't hurt just to touch it a little, would it? Just at the edge, just for a moment. Please?"

Wet, wet, wet and warm and just a fingertip, just tracing around the ragged, inner edge and Komaeda makes this noise. It's not quite the same noise as before, as the first time, but in some ways it's better. Pained, but thick with need and Hajime is diving forward to catch that noise on his tongue, to lick the echoes of that sound from the inside of Komaeda's mouth as it opens for him, hungry and wanting, and he feels his fingers slip into that terrible, wet, pulsing heat and he tells himself it's an accident even as he devours the sounds Komaeda makes. Even as he presses closer, aching, hungry, sucking hard at Komaeda's tongue, licking frantically across his teeth and the inside of his cheeks and as far down his throat as he can manage even though their teeth cut and tear against their lips painfully and he can taste the sharp bitter of copper and it's all too much and not nearly enough.

He draws back just enough to attack Komaeda's chin, his cheek, to nip at his earlobe and lick down his throat searching for new tastes, the salt of sweat and the sour tang of sunscreen. For new sounds like the rasp and curse he hears as he bites at the juncture of neck and shoulder, worrying it with his teeth as Komaeda's cries echo through the room along with yes and more and deeper and harder and Hinata, oh, Hinata, please. He knows, distantly, that his fingers are still inside him, deep and lingering in that throbbing, ghastly warmth and he can't bring himself to care, not with Komaeda sobbing out his name and pawing clumsily at the front of his pants and it's almost enough.

Almost.

Nearly there.

He's so close to the edge and tipping over into the abyss beyond is all he cares about. If he can just… if he can just get there then maybe it will burn this terrible hunger out of his system. Release him and absolve him and maybe he'll stop dreaming about these things. So he thrusts his hips into Komaeda's frantic touches and kisses him again, sucking his tongue into his mouth and licking and suckling and biting at it. His free hand slides between them, beneath Komaeda's borrowed shirt, over the curve of his hip….

And then the world shifts around him and Komaeda's fingers are suddenly in his hair, yanking so hard he sees starbursts, black and white behind his eyelids, and he's pretty sure he screams or at least cries out, pretty sure he lost more than a little hair to that grip as he's wrenched back. And it should be nothing but pain, but it isn't. It isn't. And Komaeda uses his distraction to force him back, away.

His knees hit the floor hard, banging painfully against the hardwoods, hands scrambling for purchase against the bed; one hand dark with blood, the other clean. He looked up, tears blurring his vision as Komaeda used that grip on his hair like a handle to steer him, his expression arctic cold. As cold as it had been after, when Komaeda had known there was nothing special about him at all. As remote as an iceberg, as an island in an uncharted sea, so far away from him that he couldn't begin to fathom the distance. As if nothing they'd been doing had affected him in the slightest.

As if he weren't even there at all. At least not in any way that mattered.

Which, Hajime supposed, was actually true so it made sense that his demented mind would shove that fact in his face like this just when he'd forgotten to care about it.

"Just a pale imitation, just desires painted on an empty canvas. Every inch the disappointment and you inspire not even the tiniest iota of hope. I understand now. You're just here to add to my despair. Maybe that's what I feel when you're inside me, not pleasure, just the satisfaction of having things I always knew true fulfilled. Maybe that's what it feels like when all the hope is gone and there's nothing left but despair," Komaeda commented, idle and bored, releasing his hold quite suddenly. Hajime's stomach was plunging again, a riot of feeling as Komaeda drew his borrowed shirt up and held it crumpled and damp with sweat and other things against his belly, exposing himself to Hajime's gaze once more.

He'd never actually spent much time examining his own dick. Often as not it was an annoyance at best and downright inconvenient at worst. He knew the shape of it by touch, vaguely, but he didn't really have a clear picture of it in his mind, just sort of a hazy impression and he'd never really been the sort to watch porn or look at dirty magazines or even look at other boys in the showers or communal baths. But he must have done at some point, must have spent enough time to get an idea of what other boys looked like in detail or his imagination was better than he'd given it credit for, because what he was looking at now wasn't just a vague impression or a shadowed suggestion briefly glimpsed as it had been earlier. It was too close for that. He was staring at it from inches away and it was flushed and slightly curved, bobbing just a little when Komaeda leaned back to snatch up the bandage he'd discarded earlier, the head glistening a little in the moonlight that shone in through a crack in the curtains. It wasn't something terrible or anything, just a dick... just Komaeda's dick, but it made him feel queasy and unsettled nonetheless.

This was a dream, he knew this was a dream and that none of this was real, but….

"Komaeda, I…"

"You don't have to, of course," Komaeda added conversationally, winding the bandage back around his palm and tucking in the loose end before sliding his hand around the shaft and pumping once, slow and loose. And somehow watching someone, watching Komaeda, touch himself like that made him feel nervous and awkward and like there wasn't enough air in the room. "I can finish this way instead. It's pretty much the same thing anyway. You might as well go, hm? This is about where you came in."

His thumb slid over the head and Hajime was vaguely aware of the fact that he was breathing hard and fast, as if he'd been running a race rather than just kneeling on the floor. His focus had narrowed to that point, to that thumb running up and over and down and lingering a moment too long. He was still painfully hard and his trousers felt like they were two sizes too small and watching Komaeda like this wasn't helping matters.

"This is really wrong," he managed finally, forcing his gaze up.

"Is it?" Komaeda replied, his eyes narrowed and a little glassy. "I don't know that someone who still has my blood all over his hand really has much room to talk about what's wrong and what isn't. Or is it that it's fine for you to be inside someone like me, but perhaps I'm too filthy to be inside you? I suppose I could understand that reasoning."

"No, it's not… it's not that, I… dammit, Komaeda," Hajime sighed, remembering distinctly another reason he'd always found him irritating. His personality was terrible, but he was rarely wrong or at least not totally wrong and that made him all the more annoying. Shame pooled fresh in his belly and he wiped his red, blood-covered hand against the sheets. "You don't make any sense at all."

"Don't I? Th-that's… uh… funny, isn't it? I-I'm close, I'm really close," Komaeda murmured, voice hoarse. Hajime opened his eyes, surprised to find that he'd closed them at all and downright shocked that Komaeda had thought to warn him, give him the chance to move. He never did anything he expected, nothing, even when he wasn't really him at all.

He glanced up into Komaeda's face and it was… he was really….

Lips barely parted, eyes closed, cheeks flushed…

Really... sometimes... kind of...

Stunning.

And maybe that was what made him do it, what let that mad impulse over take good sense and had him swaying forward, his tongue darting out to taste him, hesitant and unsure. Komaeda's sharp intake of breath was intoxicating and he let that noise draw him in, close enough to wrap tentative lips around the head, so much smoother than he'd thought it would be, but strangely cool and salty sour. Komaeda's fingers slid around the back of his head again and he shuddered, suddenly anxious because he had no idea what he was doing. And he was more than a little freaked out about how badly he wanted to taste more of him, all of him, of the way he ached with wanting him when only a moment before he'd been irritated with him.

"Curiosity killed the cat, you know," Komaeda breathed, his tone flat and dead and Hajime moaned as apprehension crawled up his spine. He rolled his eyes back up to find Komaeda looking down at him as if from some great height. Whatever emotion he'd thought he heard in his voice, whatever he'd seen in his face before might as well have been imagined and he shuddered, revulsion slithering through him as he realized that he was an idiot. This wasn't real and it wasn't even a dream, this was a nightmare and he kept forgetting. Kept forgetting that and letting his dreadful desires lead him about when he should damn well know better.

The only warning he got that this latest terrible decision was even worse than he'd thought was a smug quirk of Komaeda's lips before the hand that he'd slipped into Hajime's hair tightened painfully, causing him to cry out again at the abuse of his already tender scalp. Komaeda's hips jerked up, fast and sudden, thrusting his dick further into his mouth, stifling that cry, pressing past teeth that scraped along the length of him. In an instant, he was in as deep as he could go as Hajime's lips and nose slammed painfully into his body, into curling bristly hair and cool skin and the hard bones beneath. Hajime choked and gagged and screamed around him and in that terrible moment he came so hard that the world seemed to narrow and darken even as his hands slapped uselessly against the bed and Komaeda's bare thighs, finding and digging into the wounds there. Warmth soaked through his pants and his hips twitched and quivered in the aftermath as he felt Komaeda spilling down the back of throat.

-ooo-

Hajime woke up sticky and gasping and coughing, hacking, gagging.

His throat ached and his knees ached and his head hurt and he could still feel the delicious burn of Komaeda's fingernails against his back and chest and every part of his body was throbbing and alive with pain and the echo of pleasure. He was soaked with sweat and the inside of his pants and his hands were wet and sticky and his mouth was filled with the salty sour taste of that Komaeda who wasn't Komaeda.

He bent over the side of the bed and threw up everything he'd eaten before bed, vomit hitting the tiled floor with a sickening splat. Even when there was nothing left to throw up, he continued to heave and gag, the taste of bile burning his lips and tongue.

Sometime, probably on the third or fourth shivering, shuddering heave, he'd started sobbing. Ugly, angry wretched sobs that were less sadness and more frustration, because as embarrassing as the earlier dream had been this had been so, so much worse. He should be better than this. Better than dreaming of shit like this. Getting off on things like that. What the fuck was he that he couldn't stop dreaming about Komaeda like that? What was wrong with him? He was sick, obviously, and the worst thing about it, the very worst thing, was that it wasn't real. It was all in his head. He couldn't blame it on Komaeda or Enoshima or even Izuru, no, it was all just him now. Just Hinata Hajime and he was a hideous, monstrous excuse for a person who got off on the thought of hurting someone who wasn't quite a friend, not really, but… who deserved to be treated like one all the same. He deserved better than having Hajime rubbing one out while dreaming about his blood on his hands and the feel of his dick in his mouth while he fought for his life four feet away.

He threw up yet again; his eyes squeezed shut and shame warring with disgust in his chest.

"Oh my dear, here, let me help," Sonia's voice was soft in the darkness and the door swished as it swung closed behind her and she crossed quickly to fish towels from the dresser.

And just when he'd thought he couldn't possibly feel worse. He couldn't stop crying and there was snot and… god… he knew what the room smelled like, between the sweat and the vomit and the- the other stuff. He kind of just wanted to sink through the bed and die. "No, god, Sonia, I'll take care of it-" he managed, gagging again and closing his eyes against the sting in his throat.

"Nonsense, stay right where you are," she commanded in a tone that would tolerate no dissent. "I shall just be a moment and then we will talk about it, yes?"

"I don't," Hajime stopped, coughing and clutching his roiling stomach for all the good that would do him. Every time he moved he felt the wet slickness in his pants and it made him feel sick all over again. He forced himself to open his eyes, to look at her, "I really don't know if I want to talk about it, Sonia."

She gave him a look that spoke volumes about what she thought of that idea, "I understand you might not want to, but that doesn't mean you don't need to."

She knelt down with the towels she'd pulled out of the room's dresser, efficiently clearing away the vomit from the floor as if she did that sort of thing all the time. She tossed the dirty towels into the waste bin and, after a moment of thought, removed the bin to the hallway. That done, she returned to the room and took a seat on the foot of his bed and offered him a small, sympathetic smile. He wondered if they'd had some sort of training in her country that allowed her to be able to clear up vomit and then sit on a bed that stank of sweat and sex dressed in yoga pants and a t-shirt and still somehow look utterly dignified, every inch the royal she was.

"Sonia, I…" he trailed off, uncertain what he'd meant to say. His body was still throbbing a little and his dick was still half-hard and his pants and sheets were sticky and gross. He'd wiped the worst of the tears and the snot off hurriedly on the blanket and he'd managed to pull himself together enough to lean back against the wall, his hands balled into fists in his lap, but he was well aware that he was still an awful mess. "Sorry," he muttered finally, a little surprised when she shook her head almost violently, her pale hair swinging limply around her.

"No, no, you must not apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. I came here because I wished to tell you about an unsettling dream I just had. I woke up and I felt ashamed and I thought that this, this is how we ended up as we were, by hiding away from these parts of ourselves that we found distasteful. That perhaps it was just subtle things such as dreams or urges initially. Little shames that built up within us until we felt we were worth less than nothing or that we hated everything, when in truth we simply could not face ourselves. So we tried to drag the whole of the world into the muck with us because misery, as they say, thrives in poor company."

"I don't think anyone says it that way, but I think I get what you mean," Hajime murmured, staring down at his sticky hands, a physical proof of his own depravity. He glanced back up at her and she gave him a soft smile that said, whatever her reasons might be, that she understood him very well. And even though he still felt terrible… he also felt lucky. He hadn't had friends before, had barely had people he was friendly with at all, he was truly fortunate to have them now. Even if none of the five of them were coming in without ten pounds of baggage and a trunk of bad memories besides.

His breath stuttered out and he realized he was crying again and he wasn't alone, even though her voice didn't waver there were tears coursing slowly, inevitably down Sonia's pale cheeks. "I thought, perhaps, I was not the only one who felt this way and you did say I was welcome so I decided to take you up on your offer. When I heard you moaning through the door and I… well… I understood what that sort of sound meant. I was going to return to my room, leave you to it and perhaps speak to you in the morning, but when I heard you sobbing and being sick, I thought perhaps you might need a friend to confide in as well. It was a dream that incited this, yes? Would you tell me what you dreamt of? I assure you, you will not shock me and I will not judge you no matter the content."

"I…" It was strange. Earlier with Kazuichi, he hadn't wanted to talk about it even as much as he had, but here in the dark with Sonia, with the soft hum of the pod and the whoosh of the air conditioner clicking to life, things seemed less mortifying. Maybe she was just easier to confide in or maybe it was the dark or the fact that if he didn't get it out, let it go, it felt as if this secret knowledge would rot him away from the inside and there would be no escaping it. "I dreamt about Komaeda. About being back on the island with him and having sex with him, sort of, I guess, but also… he had all those wounds, you know, from before? I…" he swallowed, painfully, staring hard at his clenched fists. "I… I hurt him, and I liked it. I liked hurting him and I liked the sounds he made and I liked it when he hurt me just as much."

Sonia nodded as if this made perfect sense. As if it wasn't weird or awful, just… perfectly understandable. "You were very close before."

"Everyone always says that, but I don't think we were. I didn't… he was a hard person to talk to, to be around."

"Yes, I suppose he was, but you were the only one of us who would seek him out. Who tried to reach him, once the killing game started in earnest."

"Did I? I don't know. It just seemed like he was always there, but all I remember thinking was how much I'd never be able to understand him and how much he scared the hell out of me sometimes."

"That is understandable. Komaeda was… a difficult person, even before."

He'd known, on some level, that they would have known him before all this, at Hope's Peak and afterwards as Ultimate Despair, but somehow it hadn't occurred to him to ask about it, about him. "You knew him?"

Sonia smiled, a little sadly, "Not really. It was strange. We were, those of us that were in the same year, all in the same classes, all together in terms of physical proximity, but we were, many of us, also very much alone. We didn't speak much about our personal issues."

"Is that what you dreamt about? Your time at Hope's Peak?"

"No, it was something quite different, but… in order to explain it properly, I should like to tell you about how I was… before. When we were in school. I think I would find it difficult to speak of this with the others, because they were there. I am not certain how much they remember, but they probably saw some of it even though they might not have understood or cared at the time. I… I think we were all very much lost in our own private pain and did not notice much of what went on around us. I do not remember all of those years, though I imagine that will come with time, but I remember enough for a story at least, if you would listen?"

"Of course," he replied, unthinking. "Always. Anything you want to tell me, I want to hear." And he was surprised, a little, to find that that was true. He'd never had friends before, not really, but now that he did… they were the center of his world. He wanted to help them, support them, all of them. He was pretty sure he wasn't going to be particularly great at it, but he wanted to try to be there for them which was more than he'd ever wanted in the years before.

Her smile was wistful, but pleased. "I think we would have all been so much better off if we'd been able to be friends before."

"Me too," Hajime murmured, shifting and wincing a little. "Um, would you mind if I, uh, changed my pants first though? And maybe the sheets? This is kind of…."

"Oh! Yes, certainly, how thoughtless of me not to suggest it. I will aid you with changing of the sheets," Sonia replied quickly, her smile brightening and her manner brisk as she bounced to her feet and crossed the room in search of a spare set of sheets. He could tell she was deliberately taking her time, looking through the drawers, giving him time to sort himself out. He stripped off his pants and shirt, using the shirt to wipe himself off the best he could. It wasn't perfect and he still felt disgusting and in desperate need of a shower, but it was the best he could manage without going out to find a shower room or something as, for whatever reason, none of the hospital rooms had them. He snagged a fresh set of clothes from the pile in the bag beside his bed and changed into them quickly before he started stripping the sheets from the bed. When that was done, he went out and dropped the whole disgusting pile in the hall next to the trash bin, uncaring of what anyone thought if they saw it. He'd deal with that, all of that, laundry included, in the morning. When he came back into the room, Sonia was already shaking out the replacement sheets. Together they put them on the bed and pulled on a new blanket and then they sat down together in the middle of the bed, close enough that their knees touched whenever one of them shifted.

"So," she began, folding her hands primly in her lap, her voice was soft and steady. "Before we were Ultimate Despair I…. Well, you must understand that we of the Novoselic Kingdom have many traditions, as I believe I have mentioned to you in the past. One of these traditions is that lovers cannot marry until they have shown each other their Makangos. However, that is not the only tradition as it concerns marriage. You see, as I believe used to be traditional in many countries, the royals of the Novoselic Kingdom should be untouched before their wedding night. It's an old tradition and not a particularly good one, I think, but a tradition nonetheless so one I meant to honor to the letter. As you know, my duty was really quite important to me and quite central in my life. So, I had known this was the case since I was very small though I didn't truly understand what it meant or why it should be a challenging or difficult thing at the time. When I grew older and my body started to change and I began to get restless as I imagine most children of a certain age do, I went to my mother because I had always gone to her in times when I found myself confused or troubled and she was always a great comfort if, perhaps, not the best at answering uncomfortable questions often preferring to fob such things off on the servants who she deemed better at handling the messier aspects of child-rearing.

"Now, with years between us and the experience of time and life to lean upon, I think that she simply was not ever quite comfortable with speaking of such things to anyone, much less a curious child. I think it is possible that if she had passed off the duty of this explanation to one of the maids, as was her typical want, perhaps things might have been different for me. I do not know. What I do know is that she told me that ladies do not speak of such things and that the best thing to do was to ignore any unfortunate feelings I might have. She made it seem as if it were a thing that no one would or should actually wish to know of so I felt my curiosity about the subject was misplaced and that, perhaps, there was something wrong with me that I should be interested in such things. I refocused by energies elsewhere and resolved not to think about it, but every once in a while I'd be watching one of your dramas or I'd see a film or read a book and it would… it would make me a little… um, hot under the shirt, I believe is the phrase? And I would feel as if I had done something terribly improper. I wouldn't touch myself or anything like that, that was obviously not something I should do, but even just feeling that way seemed taboo.

"When they allowed me to come to Hope Peak's Academy, I had such hope as to what my life would become there. I have always seen myself as a Princess first and a girl second, but I had hoped to be able to enjoy some of the more common experiences I had not been privy too. I had hoped such experiences would broaden my horizons and allow me to be a better leader to my people; that I would gain discipline by exposing myself to a life that would be structured quite differently than my life had been in my country. I also dreamed of having people I could speak to, confide in, much as I am confiding in you now. What I didn't anticipate, and perhaps should have, was how difficult it would be to make friends. My grasp of Japanese was quite good, even then, but I often didn't understand jokes or references and so I was rarely sought out and while my position seemed to confer upon me a status some of the others wished to use to improve their own standing and many of the boys seemed to find me attractive, it was rare that someone was friendly with me without wanting something in return. I remember being quite desperately lonely during those first few months and I considered simply returning home many times, but that felt like a failure and while I could stand to be lonely, I couldn't tolerate the idea of failing.

"So, I continued to attend Hope's Peak and I continued to excel at my studies and I attempted to befriend my classmates with limited success. Eventually, however, I became friendly with one person in particular. He was odd and I didn't often understand him, but he was kind when so many others weren't and he was one of the few boys who seemed only interested in my company so, of course, I adored him. He told wonderful stories and very seemed to be bothered by having to explain things to me when I didn't understand a word or a reference. He allowed me to accompany him sometimes when he was participating in his club activities. Eventually, after some time had passed, I found myself attracted to him in a romantic way and so I thought of this boy in passing often, of his kindness and his humor certainly, but also of his hands and his mouth and I… began to want things. Really quite specific things and I thought about them and sometimes I would get quite… well… excited, I suppose. "I tried to speak to him sometimes about these things that I felt for him, but… he always seemed to misunderstand me. Or perhaps he simply wasn't interested as I had not been interested in all those other boys. It might have been different if we were not friendly or if we had been able to have a frank discourse about it, but… whenever I attempted to do so he would have something else he desperately needed to do or he would change the subject quite abruptly or he would purposefully avoid me in some other way. It… eventually all this little slights began to make it… very difficult to be around him. I still quite liked him and enjoyed his company, but it began to seem false and forced to be cheerful when speaking to him. It is… a dreadful thing to want something and be unable to speak of it. And it… hurt that he was supposed to be my friend, my only friend really, and yet I could not tell him of anything I felt or of my confusion or even apologize for feeling that way. I began to think, perhaps, there was something wrong with me again, something I lacked, something that made me unworthy of time and consideration and love. And once again I found myself so terribly lonely and when one is lonely enough, I suppose, that which once seemed unthinkable, at least for me, began to seem… reasonable. Even desirable. I wanted so very much to feel something pleasant. To feel anything pleasant at all, really, as everything in my life seemed so dull and dreadfully pathetic.

"It was around that time that I began to finally experiment with my body in the way I imagine most young people do. And afterwards I would feel terrible and embarrassed and deeply ashamed of myself for doing such things. Of allowing myself to be so weak and I would vow never to do it again and for a while, perhaps, I wouldn't, but then I would find my thoughts catching on some particular thing about him. Perhaps it would be the fit of his jacket across his shoulders or the gentle way he had with those most important to him or how awkward he was when complimented or a million other subtle things. Eventually any stray thought at all could be enough to give my thoughts an erotic turn. I wouldn't be able to look at him for hours or days afterwards and I'm sure it was very confusing for him because we were still quite friendly at the time for all that he also made me feel quite awful. But I'm quite sure he didn't realize that and that it was not in any way intentional. It wasn't as if he were doing anything wrong simply by not being interested in me, after all. It wasn't any fault of his that I liked him or that I couldn't seem to move beyond it. I felt so desperately guilty, for liking him, for thinking about him that way, but I couldn't find the words to confess what I had done and how I felt. He was the only one at Hope's Peak I felt I could truly call friend and I felt, though I'm sure this sounds a bit silly and overwrought, as if I were betraying both him and myself and everything I believed I should be and it seemed as if the shame of it would eat me alive. And feeling so terrible about it, made it that much more difficult to stop because it was the only time I forgot how awful I felt, how disgraceful a person I had become. It was a… vicious circle."

"It was Tanaka, wasn't it? The boy you liked?"

Sonia nodded, a quirk of her lips that wasn't quite a smile. "Of course. It seems so terribly obvious now. I remember seeing him the first day on that beach as if it were the first time and feeling nonetheless as if he were a beautiful person. I didn't know him at all, but I think there are some things that must stay with us even in the absence of memory. I loved him as a child, I suppose it was only natural that when brought back to the beginning and given another chance to do so, I would simply follow my wayward heart back down that path once again."

"What's my excuse then?"

"For Komaeda?"

"Yeah."

"As I said, I remember him a little from those early days and you'd think, having known him on the island and having the knowledge that they'd tried to return us to the selves we were just before Hope's Peak, that he was always that way… but he was not. Or perhaps he was and Hope's Peak merely broke him more quickly than it did the rest of us. I do not know for certain. Komaeda- as I remember him- was tired and drawn and so very pale. He'd been sick for a long time, but that was all I knew about it. I remember the way his luck seemed to manifest in very extreme ways and it made him very unpopular even in a class of people who did not truly relate well to each other in the first place. He would trip down the stairs and hit his head really hard against the floor, but then he'd pull himself up and he would smile this sad, knowing sort of smile and the next day he would have this giant bruised bump on his head, but he would score perfectly on a surprise quiz. Some of the others accused him of cheating, but he always just shrugged and told them that it was just luck and that only made them angrier and they would call him a liar. Because everyone knew that the lucky student wasn't called that because they were actually lucky, that it was just because they had won the lottery. It became a nickname after a while and soon almost everyone called him Liar Komaeda. He was treated quite poorly and I'm embarrassed to say I did not deal with him particularly well myself even if I did not participate in the worst of the… bullying, is the word, I think? Like many of us, he didn't seem to connect with people in meaningful ways. I remember trying to speak with him several times over the years and it was as if I was speaking to a different person each time. I found it confusing and disturbing, perhaps a little frightening sometimes, so I eventually just decided to stay clear of him. Even though I had nothing to do with him, I still noticed when he started following her about. She treated him a bit like a favored pet and he seemed to enjoy the attention. He wasn't always with her, but… often as I remember it in those early days and later.

"She could tell I think, about Komaeda and about me. I truly believe, looking back on it now and remembering how it was then, that she had a knack for sniffing out such things. The things we wanted to hide, the things that mortified and humiliated and shamed us. The things we needed, but didn't know how to ask for. The dangerous things and the hateful things and the weakness within each of us, these feelings and desires that she could so clearly and easily exploit to her advantage to make of us what she wished. Looking back now, I think there was an art to what she did to each of us, the way she sidled up to us and found these secret parts of ourselves, these things we hated and these things we longed for. The way she encouraged these things in us. Perhaps that was her truest ability, I can't say for certain, but that's what I think."

"I don't know, but that's probably right." Hajime murmured, "I don't remember her at all, not really, just what she was like in the game and sort of these… random images like faded photographs."

"I hope it stays that way for you. I would much rather not remember her, to be honest. It's… difficult. Not because of the terrible things she did and encouraged me… us… to do. You might think it would be that, but that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was that she became my friend. She made me feel… loved at first. She gave me the friendship, the approval, the support I didn't realize I was looking for. She filled the void within me that Mr. Tanaka had left behind when I'd begun to like him and he'd begun to avoid that aspect of me. She became my confessional, my confidante and it was wonderful and it was terrible all at once.

"She was the first person I told about my feelings for that… for Mr. Tanaka. She told me there was nothing wrong with it, with wanting the things I wanted, that sex was natural and wanting it was natural and needing it was a given. She could be very kind when the mood took her and I think that was easily the very worst thing about her. It's so easy to see cruelty for what it is; if she had just been cruel I don't believe very many of us would have fallen into the traps she set for us. She told me everything I wanted, needed, to hear. She enabled me to give myself permission to do as I wished even if it only made me feel worse and worse about myself. She spoke gently to me about it at first, asked if she could show me a few things, help. It seemed like such a very lovely and understanding thing she did for me. It was very nice, really. Finally having a friend who didn't confuse me, who didn't shut me down or shut me out, someone who I could speak to and who understood my difficulties. She drew pictures or passed me links to do my own reading and research. It seemed quite harmless and it did help, at least a little bit, it made it seem as if it was indeed quite normal and I didn't feel as awful as I had about it. I began to feel better about myself and it became easier to speak with Mr. Tanaka again as a friend and to keep our conversations superficial the way he seemed to want. For a short time, my life truly was… better for having Junko as my friend. It didn't last, of course, as everything could only go downhill from there. But during that time, I became quite dependent on her and I trusted her implicitly and that made everything that happened after a very simple matter for her.

"I'm sorry, Sonia," Hajime murmured, unsure what to do, how to make any of this better when the wounds were both fresh and old at the same time.

"I appreciate that, but… it was a long time ago and I suppose I've gotten a bit off track. I meant to tell you about the dream I had, not quite all of this. All you truly need to understand is that my relationship with Mr. Tanaka had been quite complicated. He was a softhearted boy, beneath all the mysticism and toughness, and also quite fragile in his way. I didn't see it then, of course, so caught up in my own nonsense. But he lived as much in his fantasies as he did in the reality of who he truly was. He loved animals, all animals, and his devas more than all the rest. The school kept a small private collection of animals that he oversaw the care for as the person in charge of his club and then he also trained animals for Hope Peak's alumni and donors. He was always busy and he had a lovely manner with animals, but he didn't relate well to people. He allowed me to accompany him to visit with them all several times when he was doing his care routines or taking one of the animals in for a training session. So, I saw sometimes how brusque he could be with the owners, how furious he would get if he saw even the faintest hint of mistreatment. He was a wonderful person with a very large heart. His devas were wonderful, truly, even cuter and more delightful than they were in the simulation and he loved them so much. Anyone could see that. And… as I mentioned I was very caught up in my own affairs at that time, but we were still on good terms and, in fact, friendlier than we'd been quite some time.

"Friendly enough that I noticed when he showed up in class without them. He was so obviously devastated that I couldn't understand how no one else noticed or cared. After class was over, I caught his hand as he was packing up. You must understand this wasn't the first time I had touched him and though I knew such gestures embarrassed him, he'd never seemed to truly mind. But that day he jerked away as if my touch burned and he looked so panicked and he said something about poison and something about corruption, other things as well, but he was speaking so fast that I couldn't catch all the words. I sometimes had difficulties, you see, when things were said too quickly or the syllables ran together. He knew that and he was usually very good about speaking slowly and clearly for me, but he was clearly upset. I was still trying to puzzle out what he had said when he snatched up his belongings and ran out of the room.

"I… I should have gone after him. I realize that now. It was what a friend would have done. A true friend would not have been so easily dissuaded. I should have gone after him right then and there, but I didn't. I went to find Junko instead, because I knew she was friendly with him as well and I thought… if he wouldn't talk to me, someone at least should be able to be there for him. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing, but it was also the cowardly thing, the self-centered thing. I wanted him to be okay, but I also didn't want to face the possibility of being rejected by him yet again.

"Junko was very understanding. She said she would take care of him and that I need not worry about a thing and went off in search of him immediately. She came to my room late that night to tell me that his devas had all been killed in a terrible battle. That all the animals he cared for were sick, dying, and the instructors believed he was to blame for it. There was to be an investigation and that I must not speak to him until the investigation had been concluded. You see the investigators had already discovered that the poison that was used to kill these animals was one native to my country. If I were seen being overly friendly with him, it might implicate me or make him look more guilty, she said. I didn't want that, of course, I didn't want that. So I agreed to stay away, to treat him coldly and Junko told me that she would make sure he knew it was only an act for his benefit."

"I'm guessing she probably didn't do that," Hajime murmured.

"Certainly not. I do not know what transpired between them then or in the future, I only know that I lost my friend. I… worry that she… that she killed the devas and used that poison so that he would think I was responsible, so that he would blame me for what befell them and the others. I… I worry he will hate me when he wakes up and… I am not certain he would be wrong to. I was selfish and I was foolish and even if it was not I who laid the poison that killed his beloved hamsters I was the reason it was done, or at least part of it. I found myself wondering, as I fell asleep tonight whether, if he remembered both our past and our time within the game, he would want me there. Whether he would be hate me for being in his room, for staying by his side as if we were friends when we so clearly are not or if we might finally be able to understand each other, because I don't believe we ever truly have. I worry that whatever semblance of a friendship we had was broken to pieces by an adolescent crush, misplaced trust and a few simulated weeks of almost friendship won't add up to anything at all in light of that and that thought terrifies me.

"I had a dream, before I came here tonight, about Mr. Tanaka… hm, about Gundham, I should say. If I want to be his friend, I should... should be able to call him by his first name, shouldn't I? I don't know if it means something or nothing, but I thought it was something I needed to tell someone about nonetheless. He was on the island and he was digging holes high up on the shore beneath one of those palm trees, where the shade was the best and it's far enough up from the shore that the water wouldn't reach even at high tide.

"I approached from a long way off, though it seemed to take me no time at all to reach him. When I arrived I asked him what he was doing and he glanced up and he looked so surprised to see me or perhaps that I was concerned, I don't know. He was bruised, bloodied as he was the last time I saw him, at his execution. He told me that his friends at least deserved a proper burial. That if that was all he could do for them, he could do that. And there… there were so many holes. Some were small and shallow, some long and deep. It seemed as if there shouldn't have been room enough for them all in that high part of the beach, but there was. And he kept digging as I stood nearby watching him. He was dressed much how he was in the simulation, though he had stripped off his long coat and scarf and his neck and arms were red from the sun, but he just kept digging for what seemed like hours. Hole after hole after hole.

"Finally he stopped and he looked at me again and said, 'Yours shall be separate from the rest, she-cat' and then he went right back to it."

"I wanted to apologize to him. For so many things, but I simply couldn't find the words. I think I cried, but I couldn't bring myself to cross the distance between us or interrupt him again. Eventually I woke up without ever having said another word to him. Do you think that makes me a terrible person?"

"No, I think that just makes you a person. It was just a dream. When he wakes up, you'll have your chance."

"Yes, I suppose we all will. For the things we have done and the things we wish we had done."

"Yeah, I think so too."

"Do you like Komaeda?"

"I…" He glanced over at the soft glowing light of the pod and it wasn't an easy question to answer. Maybe it should have been, but it wasn't. Komaeda had always been a complicated issue for him. Sometimes he hated him, sometimes he wanted to hurt him, sometimes he liked him and less often he just… wanted him, obviously. There wasn't anything about his feelings for Komaeda that were simple or straightforward that could be easily defined and slipped into a box to be put away on a shelf. He wanted something from Komaeda, had since the first moment he opened his eyes and looked up into that smiling face and during the days afterwards when he spent time with him despite himself. When he'd stood in the building where they'd imprisoned him, stood over him with a tray of food and looked down at him, chained and helpless and still so extraordinarily dangerous and he'd wanted things he hadn't been willing to put a name to. And afterwards, on the beach and in the hospital and at the amusement park and and the restaurant there had been so many times where he'd found himself looking at Komaeda for too long or standing too close to him, wanting to push him under the waves and just hold him there and give him the death he seemed to so long for so he'd just finally, finally shut the hell up because he was driving him completely insane with all his crazy talk.

No, there was nothing simple or easy about how he felt about Komaeda.

"I want a chance to know him," he settled on finally, because that was the truth at the core of it. The truth behind getting off on the thought of his moans and dreaming about pushing his fingers into the depths of him and stopping him from hurting himself and kissing him and all the stuff in between. That was the thing that made all of it possible, maybe. He didn't know him, not really, they'd lied to each other and hurt each other and if… when… Komaeda woke up they probably would again, but he wanted that chance. He wanted to know what made Komaeda the way he was. To know if the real Komaeda was anything like what he imagined him to be and whether he actually wanted that or if he wanted someone who was softer, saner, gentler, someone who made more sense, hell, any sense at all. "I want a chance to really know him and decide whether I hate him or I like him or I want to mail him to Siberia. I want him to have a chance to know me too. Just my normal, unremarkable ordinary self."

Sonia smiled, "I think that is fine. He would probably find it amusing that you're dreaming about him so much, that you were having those sorts of dreams about him in the first place. He'd probably say something like: It really is good luck that I'm being thought of in such a way by such a incredible person as Hinata."

Hajime laughed a little at the impression, the way she posed, finger to her template in mock thought. "Please don't ever, ever tell him. I would never hear the end of it and I'd probably have to kill him for being an ass about it."

"I am quite confident you will tell him about it yourself in your own time. Secrets fester inside us, do not forget."

"Yeah, I get it, I'm just... not looking forward to it. He wasn't actually very impressed with me after he found out I was just a reserve course student. You saw how he acted towards the end."

"I did. I also understand that he found out that he and all of us were members of Ultimate Despair. He placed such extraordinary value on hope. He made it the focus of his world in the game, used it to justify the things he did, the lies he told and all the terrible things that were happening to all of us, but when it came down to it… I think he was using hope as a string tied all around himself, holding him together and Junko cut that string by creating a challenge only he had a chance of passing. That room, that reward, was something she made especially for him."

"I think so too," Hajime whispered, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin against them. "Nothing else could have knocked him over the edge the way that knowledge did. He could turn anything else on its head and find a way to make it work with the way he viewed the world. I don't think she knew what he would do, but I think she was betting on him killing all of us."

"Quite right. Do you think, when they wake up, they will be like us? Remembering both the game world and the real world?"

"I don't know. I'm… I'm not even sure what to hope for. I mean, whatever happens, we'll find a way to help them, but… I don't know what would be easier for them."

"I suppose that is a fair statement. On one hand, it might be easier if none of them remember the horrific deaths they suffered. On the other hand, if they are simply the selves they were before all this, it seems it will be much more difficult to reach them without the bonds we formed in the game, however fragile or temporary they might be in light of everything else that has happened."

"Yeah, I mean… without the memories from the game, they won't know me at all, will they?"

"I fear not. I do not yet remember everything, but I… I don't believe I have any memories of you from before."

"It's okay, I didn't really expect you to. I was in the reserve core class, it's not like we would have been hanging out even in a perfect world."

"I suppose not," Sonia yawned, pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle the motion. "Goodness, I apologize."

"It's understandable. You can't have slept very long."

"I suppose neither of us have," Sonia replied, yawning again as she slid off the bed and stood up, stretching. "I should return to my room."

Hajime nodded hesitantly before offering: "You can stay here. I mean, if you want to?"

"You would not mind?" Sonia asked, her voice hopeful.

Hajime chuckled, shaking his head, as he stood up and pulled down the sheets and blanket. "Not at all. Feel free, as long as you don't mind the smell or the weird looks we'll probably get in the morning."

"I do not, the others will understand, I think. If any one thinks something inappropriate has occurred, I shall be the first to set them straight, fear not."

"I have no doubts."

"Very well. Thank you for your hospitality, my friend," Sonia climbed into his bed with an extra pillow she'd pulled from the dresser, which was proving to be like the giving tree of bedding. Hajime slipped into the bed beside her, turning to face Komaeda's pod even as Sonia turned into the wall so her back was pressed against his.

It was… nice.

He fell back to sleep eventually to the sound of Sonia's soft, steady breathing and the quiet buzz of the pod and if he dreamed of Komaeda again that night, he didn't remember it come morning.