The Mortal City

by MidnightRun42

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

4. Liar, Liar

"If you think anyone is sane you just don't know enough about them."
― Christopher Moore, Practical Demonkeeping

DAY TWO
-continued-
-ooo-

And he was gone.

Again.

Nagito blew out a breath and flopped back against the bed. His heart still felt like it was going to pound out of his chest. He wouldn't be surprised if it happened that way and what difference would it make really? It would be just another bloody hole to ache and bleed, just another place to imagine Hinata touching him, giving him pleasure where otherwise there was only pain.

The room stank of spunk and blood and he could barely smell that lingering scent of Hinata beneath it now even lying on his bed. He knew later he'd regret that. Later when he was capable of it, he'd probably regret a lot of things.

He usually did.

Sometimes he really was far too sentimental which was why he liked it better like this. Better when he could just think about things logically when he could focus on feeling what he wanted to feel rather than what he should feel. He'd had a doctor once, he couldn't remember their face anymore, but he could remember the hands. How the skin had looked soft and crinkled like paper as they grasped their clipboard or pressed against his thighs when he slid down in the chair or held him around the waist sometimes.

Though maybe he was just imagining that, maybe that hadn't happened at all. Maybe that had been someone else. Maybe that had been something he'd seen in a film once. He could be making it up. He made up a lot of things.

Maybe.

Sometimes.

The point was he remembered this doctor telling him that he shouldn't think of it as a liability, a disability, a failing… these times when his brain was cold and calculating and practical and casually cruel.

She said he should think of it as his truest most authentic self.

He'd folded his paper-wrinkle hands in his lap, over the bulge there like maybe Nagito might not notice that he was getting off on this, but he always did.

His truest, most authentic self… desire detached from ego free from social convention.

That it must be very thrilling to be able to experience things without conscience. Without that little cricket chirping away on his shoulder telling him when to stop, when to be good, when he'd gone too far.

Nagito was pretty sure he liked the cricket. The cricket kept him out of trouble, kept him from that feeling of shame later and after and again and again and again. Kept him feeling worthless like he deserved nothing, like he was nothing, scared to touch things, people, because he'd just contaminate them with his… he wasn't okay.

He wasn't okay.

He knew that.

He knew that.

He did.

There was no one to look out for him to tell him that he was bad, but he knew. He knew. He knew after and later and sometimes during for just a moment or two and sometimes he wanted to die. Sometimes he remembered hands on him and he couldn't be sure if he'd asked for them or invited them or hated them or loved them.

Funny how it could eat away at his brain like this, chomp holes straight through so that he couldn't remember the things he'd done, so he could never be sure if that was him, if that was something he'd want, if that was something he'd done, if that was someone else, if….

Hinata had kissed him, hot and wet and he had never wanted anything, anything, the way he had wanted to climb inside Hinata and just never leave. Because Hinata was there, he actually wanted him and he, maybe, even cared about him. He didn't feel useless or dirty or terrible when Hinata touched him. Hinata's fingers were inside him, a part of him, and he knew that was wrong, weird, but he didn't care if it meant he could be closer to him.

Only he couldn't, because Hinata wasn't really there.

Hinata had never been there at all.

He wasn't altogether even absolutely sure that there was a Hinata. He thought there was, he was almost sure there was, but there was always a chance that Hinata was just someone, something, he'd dreamed up to pass the time. That all of this was something like that.

That he wasn't really here at all except that he was.

Maybe.

Probably.

So, he laid in that room that wasn't really a room and he could feel the emotions poking in at him again like feathers from a cheap pillow, needling and sharp and unexpected. He could probably stroke another one out before the floodgates opened, probably, if he were quick. The bandages would catch and chafe, but he thought that would probably feel good too.

Like punishment.

Like something he deserved.

Maybe something he even wanted.

But doing that would erase that ghostly warm, damp feeling imaginary Hinata's mouth had left behind and so in the end he didn't. He left it alone to grow soft and small with the memory of Hinata imprinted on his flesh for safekeeping. Stroked a hand across his belly instead, across his thighs, for want of something to do.

-ooo-

The cuts he'd made in his legs had hurt, impaling his hands though… that had been far, far more painful than he'd anticipated, but no more than he deserved. He was one of them after all. If he were… better… braver he could have just killed them all himself.

Let Hinata…

Because obviously it was Hinata…

Probably.

Maybe.

Stupid, normal, beautiful, boring Hinata, who wasn't anyone or anything except himself.

He had to be the spy, so he'd let him live. That was easy. Let him convict him, execute him, let Monokuma drag him off to face some convoluted punishment.

Easy.

But that wasn't who he was, was it?

No.

He wasn't so selfless as that.

He didn't do anything the easy way.

He didn't remember the spear hitting, it must have, but he doesn't remember it. Just the throbbing pain in his hands, in his head, and the warm lick of flames, and then choking, gagging as he breathed in what he assumed was the poison. There had been nothing after that but darkness.

And then… Hinata.

He knew the smell of him, strange that he should forget so many things, but this one piece of knowledge should stick with him even after death. And he knew he had to be dead, but the dead didn't dream so he imagined it was Hinata's dream even if it made little sense that Hinata would waste a perfectly good dream on him. Why Hinata would even bother to think of him at all made no sense to him at all.

He told him so.

Hinata's fingers tugged at his hair a little as they spoke, little sparks of pain that lit up the dark. It felt… all of that… had felt intimate in a way he'd thought of sometimes at night in his cabin and in the darkness of his room in the Strawberry House.

He'd been the one to wake him on the beach that first day. Not because he was kind, but because everyone else had been so caught up in themselves and each other that they hadn't even seemed to notice him. He'd been a little away from the others, under a palm tree, laid out with his hands folded so neatly over his stomach. And he'd looked beautiful sleeping there in the sand. He'd liked the crisp white linen of his shirt and the dark of his tie and his dark, dark hair. He remembered, vaguely, his mother reading him fairy tales when he was small, before the plane. And he thought about how this boy looked like something out of a fairy tale and it made him hopeful. Hopeful that he would like it here at this Hope's Peak that wasn't Hope's Peak. Hopeful that maybe his luck would be good for a while, even if it were just for a while.

He'd wanted to kiss him then, when he was just a pretty boy lying in the sand, but he hadn't because he wasn't sure that the boy would like it, that the others wouldn't laugh at him. He'd been lying to people about that for a while, the wanting to kiss boys thing, because he wanted to be normal. He wanted to be accepted. Hope's Peak was supposed to be a hopeful new beginning. He was in remission, probably, maybe, and he was taking his medication and everything was supposed to be good there, he was supposed to be good there. He'd been really lucky to have been accepted. Really lucky and he couldn't waste it. But wanting to kiss that boy, that beautiful boy on the beach, that hadn't changed after he'd opened his eyes and blinked up at him, eyes narrowed against the brightness of the sun shining down on his face. He'd liked that he was the first thing Hinata Hajime had seen, that he'd been the first one to know his name. It was like having a secret, even if it wasn't really, it was still something he could hold onto that made them special to each other, even if he was the only one who thought so.

He'd lain in his cabin that night and, even though he'd barely known him or anything about him, he'd imagined what it might be like to knot that long tie around his hands and press biting kisses across his chest, whether Hinata would like it, would like him. How much better it might be if Hinata used the tie on him instead, bound his hands behind his back so he couldn't touch him, couldn't hurt him, couldn't even touch himself. How good that might feel. If Hinata treated him like something barely deserving of his attention, like the trash he thought he was sometimes, just used him as he liked or maybe just refused to touch him at all. Left him bound and writhing, seeking a release he couldn't quite reach alone without even a free hand to help him along. Maybe he'd end up humping the bedpost or a pillow or just the bed itself, so desperate for just a little pressure to help him get there. Maybe Hinata would watch. Maybe Hinata would stick his dick in his mouth, let him suck it, maybe that would be enough and he'd….

He came all over his bare belly and hand thinking of such things, vaguely curious as to when he'd started stroking himself, when he'd lost the clothes. When he'd forgotten about the camera in the corner of the room. He wondered whether he might have said Hinata's name when he was thinking all those dirty thoughts about him, when he was frantic for release. Whether, if he did, anyone had been walking by and overheard him moaning that name. It was possible since the window was propped open to let in a breeze and that ruined the soundproofing… probably.

He'd probably never know unless someone said something to him about it.

That would be a really terrible way to start out his school term.

He winced a little as he realized that he was still stroking himself even though he was oversensitive and the cooling stickiness made it rough and unpleasant so it was beginning to hurt a little. Of course, sometimes he liked that too. Sometimes he could come again even if it hurt. Sometimes he thought it was because it hurt. Though he knew it was just biology, just having a short refractory period, he was a teenager after all, nothing to be ashamed of… probably.

He'd come again, just a little, across his fingers and he let it go at that. Lifted his filthy fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean as he stared up at the camera, at the little blinking red light. He really hadn't meant to do any of that. But sometimes that happened. An urge would strike him and he'd just go with it, only realizing later what he'd done. Most of the time he didn't mind, there was no point to minding, it didn't change things. Maybe he liked it. Maybe that was why he did it. Because he liked the idea of someone watching him though… it was probably just that bunny thing, so maybe not. Maybe if it had been Hinata… no, he needed to stop thinking about Hinata. He wanted to be normal, to be just… friendly, he could do that… maybe, probably.

But that was then.

Then was when he was alive and now he was dead and in the dark with Hinata and even if he didn't understand it, he liked being in the dark with Hinata. Even if the dark made him think about things, dirty things, about wanting him even if he was just ordinary.

Now that he thought about it. He thought he could hear a girl's voice urging him on. Telling him to do what he wanted, that nothing mattered, that he was dying anyway so who cared? What was the point of caring? Like a ghost from another life, a life of blood and carnage and a terrible hungry void that could never be filled.

Her voice felt like snakes in his brain, slithering through the holes and licking at the walls that rose before them. He wanted to moan, to shrink away from the feel of it, but how could you escape something in your own head? He was probably just imagining it anyway. Or maybe he'd seen it in a film. Something.

He had a picture in his mind of red, red nails scrapping up and down his back, of a word like 'Master' on his lips and it tasted bitter and sour and terrible.

He couldn't escape the things in his head. So, he did the next best thing and turned his attention back to Hinata, who smelled nice and whose fingers were still in his hair. He shook them off and returned the favor, rolling up and over Hinata's warm body and letting his own fingers settle in Hinata's hair. It was softer than he would have thought, kind of nice really, and Hinata felt solid and real and nice beneath him. Different from what he had imagined, but better too.

It really was too bad that Hinata was so dreadfully ordinary, but maybe that was part of his appeal. He gripped that hair tight in his fists and shifted to settle over Hinata's hips and that was nicer still. He wanted to press all along the length of him and so he leaned forward as if to kiss him and he felt him panic a little, his heart beating faster, his breath coming in pants and he wondered if he scared him. He wondered why Hinata didn't push him away, why he didn't seem as disgusted with him as he'd been before. They were still talking. It was distracting and he wasn't sure he wanted to be distracted.

He leaned forward a little more and pressed his lips against Hinata's, cautiously, because it was difficult to gauge distance in the dark and he didn't want to hurt him by accident. He whispered words against those lips and it wasn't quite a kiss, but it felt like it could be, like the potential was there and Hinata might not push him away and he wanted, wanted, wanted.

Then he was waking up on the beach, his lips pressed against the damp, gritty sand and everything hurt, everything ached and he was alone. He screamed, curling empty hands into fists in the mud, ignoring the pain even those small movements brought. He was sobbing and he didn't mean to, wasn't sure when all those feelings had flooded back in, when he'd stopped being a creature of physical desires and logic and become completely himself again, this pathetic, writhing mess that ached with the loss of something he'd never even had. That had never even really existed maybe. He didn't know Hinata, had never known the real Hinata at all, obviously. If there even was a real Hinata, because Hinata might not ever have been anything real or important except in his mind. He didn't know anything, anything, anything.

Time passed or didn't and he wondered if he'd always been mad and was only just now noticing it or if dying had driven him over the edge and that's what Hell really was. If Hell was just a name for a lonely place reserved for the mad and the wicked and the damned to live with their wounds and their pain and their regrets and unfulfilled desires for all eternity until they were nothing but a gibbering mass of contradictions and misplaced want.

Hinata hadn't dreamed of him. Of course, he hadn't. He should have known that from the beginning. Hinata wouldn't dream of him. Hinata didn't want him, love him or need him. Didn't care about him at all just like he didn't care about Hinata. Couldn't care about him. He was ordinary, boring, nothing if he was anything at all. Everything else. Everything he had thought made him special was just all in his head. Everything was in his head and dying was just another way to suffer and there was no escape.

The beach was cold and dark until it wasn't and then it was sunny and hot and terrible and he could feel the bright, bright light burning against the back of his hands and his scalp and it hurt just like everything hurt. He wanted to burrow into the sand and disappear, roll beneath the ocean waves and drown because then maybe he wouldn't feel so….

Then maybe he wouldn't feel so much.

So he did.

He rolled down the beach into the warm water, dragging himself inch by painful inch down beneath the waves where he could swallow that salty water down, where he could scream as it burned his eyes and the wounds his death had left in his hands and legs and stomach. He choked and gagged and every time darkness ate at his vision and he was certain he'd managed it this time he woke back up on that beach, vomiting seawater and feeling weak and worse and aching and even more scared than before, but always, always, always waking up.

He sobbed again for minutes or hours, pounding his aching, bleeding fists against the damp, hard-packed sand. Then, eventually, he tried again.

He woke up again in the same place, the same way. Because of course he did.

Of course, of course, of course.

He dug up stones hidden beneath the sand. It hurt and his fingernails ripped and bled and he didn't care. He filled his pockets with those stones until the coat was so heavy he didn't think he'd be able to crawl out to sea.

It hurt, his shoulders ached, his fingers bled.

He managed.

He woke up on the beach again, vomiting sea water again, his pockets still filled with rocks and he could swear he heard laughter, rough and high-pitched and hysterical and it was a long time before he realized it was his.

He tried to smother himself in the sand, dug a hole with his aching, bleeding fingers and buried his head, packing the damp sand in around his head and face and mouth like a helmet, gasped and suffered and twitched and managed it by sheer force of will.

Woke up again lying on the beach with drying sand caked in his hair to the words 'it won't work' drawn in the mud near his head and he screamed and screamed until the horror and the shame and the despair drained away like the tide receding from the shore.

He hadn't known it would be like this.

The sun was low on the horizon when Nagito finally picked himself up off the sand, grimacing at the gritty texture of it in his underwear, in his hair, everywhere and trudged up to the beach house. There were clean clothes there, of a sort, in the form of an exact copy of what he was wearing, perfect right down to the bloodstains and the holes. The sort of thing that would have sent him into hysterics ten minutes before, but now he could observe the presence of the clothes, make the decision to change into them after he'd cleaned up and moved on.

The shower was cold which he didn't enjoy, but since the dirt and grime were more uncomfortable, he dealt with it. He was shivering when he stepped out of the shower, toweled off, put on the new/old clothes and walked back out of the beach house. He didn't bother to put his shoes back on. He'd never liked them much anyway and he'd rather go barefoot. The air was still warm though the sun had set while he was changing. He went and stood at the edge of the sea and stared out at the darkening horizon and wondered idly if this was going to be everything he knew from now on. If it would only be the sun and the ocean and the sky and him alone with these aching wounds until the emotions returned and he tried to bash his head in with a rock or jump off a cliff and just made things worse. He could manage well enough with the current wounds, but he doubted he'd do as well with a bashed in skull or broken limbs. He couldn't die here, obviously, but he doubted he could heal here either. Maybe it wasn't Hell so much as Purgatory. And he would linger here, lost and waiting, until some greater power that he didn't believe in got tired of watching him squirm.

Hours passed like that. He wasn't hungry or thirsty. He didn't need anything, want anything, not really since his hair and clothes had already dried in the breeze and the night air seemed pleasantly cool against his skin so he was comfortable enough. He didn't see the point of moving since his muscles didn't ache from standing and the view could be worst. He rocked back and forth a little, because the movement was comforting or comfortable, something like that.

Then, between one moment and then next he heard the rustle of clothing and heard footsteps in the sand. And that figured. The moment he was content there he was again to stir him up. "Back again?" He called, not bothering to turn towards him.

"Shouldn't that be my line?" Hinata murmured, stepping up beside him. "My dream and all."

"Is it?" Nagito replied, tilting his head quizzically as he continued to stare out across the dark ocean. "I thought so too, but I've been here all day waiting for you."

"You were waiting for me?"

"Not because you're special, obviously, just because I thought you might show up anyway so I thought I might as well. It's just my luck that it's you here with me after all," Nagito glanced over, turning towards him a bit, towards this fake, this phony and he doesn't really care what he's saying. He wants to be cruel, wants to see this Hinata wince and grimace at his words and he does, but it's not satisfying because nothing really is.

He finds himself a little annoyed by the way Hinata is staring at his chest. As if it's something horrifying which, he supposes, it probably is, but it isn't as if that's news. He's known about it since he woke up here, he's already screamed and cried and carried on about it like an infant. It irritates him that he's acting like the wound is a surprise. Bringing it back to his immediate attention.

"You're staring, Hinata. Have a got something on my chest?" He asked, soft and wry.

"Why'd you do it that way?"

"Hm?" Because he can't quite believe he's being asked by himself to explain himself. That's irritating too.

Hinata's fingers brushed the sleeve of his coat and then his hand, pausing and lingering against the wound there.

"Ah," Nagito murmured, shrugging his narrow shoulders. "It isn't so bad as all that, here, feel."

It's impulse that has him turning and he doesn't even realize what he intends to do until he steps over to him, snatches up his hand and plunges Hinata's fingers into the aching, bloody, disgusting wound in his chest and….

Huh.

That was… kind of...

That was perfect… that was…

He choked on a groan because that was exactly what he needed. It wasn't quite pleasure, more like satisfaction and relief, like taking off ill-fitting shoes at the end of a long day. And he wanted more, more, more. Wanted him to sink those fingers deeper and deeper into every part of him and he knew he wouldn't. No. Boring, mundane, ordinary Hinata wouldn't want to hurt him, so he would have to help things along. He pressed Hinata's fingers deeper into that wound that suddenly no longer felt quite like a wound at all, slipped them deep with a soft squelching sound that made his stomach tumble over and over like laundry in a dryer.

Nagito opened his eyes, just enough so that he could see him, even though he knew Hinata wasn't really there, that he wasn't really pressing fingers into him, that that panting breath was his own, he still felt compelled to see his reaction.

He wasn't sure what he expected.

Perhaps disgust or hate or fear or anything at all really, but he should have expected it might be something more in line with fantasy than reality. That slack-jawed expression, that unfocused gaze, those flushed cheeks… that wasn't so different from what he'd imagined Hinata must look like when he was right on the edge, so turned on that maybe he'd forget who was making him feel that way, maybe he wouldn't care if Nagito put his hands on him. He was pretty sure he smiled, because that expression was beautiful. Hinata was beautiful and in that moment he didn't care that this wasn't the real Hinata that this wasn't anything but a desperate attempt by his damaged brain to make things better, easier to cope with. He could feel Hinata trembling and he heard his name tripping off those lips as a whimper, as needy as he was beginning to feel from just that look, that touch, just his name being said in a voice that warms him despite everything he knows to be true and it's like being caught between two worlds. Part of him is still looking down on all this with derision knowing it for the hopeless, revolting, pathetic fantasy it is, but the other part… the other part that wants and wants and wants so very badly to be everything to somebody whispers Hajime like a prayer before it's swept away and lost in the flow. Drowned in that endless void of need that rears up within him ready to engulf everything he's ever wanted, ever been, and he doesn't mean to say it or the words that slip free afterwards, but he can't keep them in either. Doesn't even want to.

"This isn't quite how I imagined you inside of me, Hinata, but perhaps this is just right for trash like me, hm?"

And just like that he's alone.

Whimpering and painfully turned on and utterly, utterly, utterly alone.

Just like he's been all along.

His hands are trembling where they rest against his sides and the laughter his back. That loose, painful, loud, hysterical laughter that makes his chest ache and his eyes blur with tears.

He's always known he was… he wasn't right, that his brain wasn't right, that he didn't function like other people anymore that maybe he never really had. That he talked too much and said things he didn't mean to say and did things he didn't really mean to do and sometimes it was hard to remember why he should feel good or bad or anything at all. It was hard to keep track of what was right and what was wrong and what was necessary and what he wanted, but… but he'd had hope. Hope that it would pass that he'd get lucky, lucky like he'd been when survived the plane crash, lucky like he'd been when he won all that money, lucky like he'd been to live this long, and he'd get better.

He'd get better... only he didn't. He never did. He just got worse and worse and worse and now he was… he was this. Hopeless, awful, terrible, disgusting, pathetic trash who couldn't even tell what was real and what wasn't, who wanted these things. Who did these revolting things and sometimes didn't even know they were, didn't understand, couldn't see it at all. He wanted to love Hinata. He wanted to hate him too. He wanted to… to… fuck him or to be fucked by him.

Anything.

Everything.

He just wanted to feel something that wasn't this... emptiness. He wanted to wake up and know he was just himself and he didn't have to worry that he was going to… that he was….

Hope was such a dangerous thing. A beautiful thing, a wondrous thing, but also a dangerous thing as well. At least it was for him. He'd had so much hope for a better future and then Monokuma… Monokuma came in and ruined everything and he thought… he thought if he could just… just make it all mean something that would be enough. If he could just give them hope, if they could just understand...

But they hadn't understood and he'd messed up. His luck had... he'd had a plan and it had been a good plan and he'd just... he'd just wanted to... he wasn't sure now what he had been trying to do exactly, but he thought... thought he'd meant to give them hope. The hope that came from overcoming an obstacle and he was going to be that obstacle. He liked them. He really liked them, Hinata especially and so if he could be... if he could help save someone then maybe...

Maybe.

Maybe they'd like him too and he would give them hope and they'd... say nice things about him after, maybe?

Something.

There had been a plan, at least, he was sure of that.

A plan.

Though maybe... maybe he'd meant to get Togami killed after all. Maybe that had been his intention all along. Maybe he'd known his luck would...

Maybe.

He was sure that it probably wasn't supposed to go like that anyway. But he could fix it, if they'd just let him. He thought he could fix it, anyway. Because he'd messed up. He'd messed up right from the start, but he'd thought he could make it right. They could kill him or he could help them or… but that wasn't right either, was it? Nothing was right and then he was… they were… and Hinata…

He'd hated the way Hinata had looked at him after. Like he felt sorry for him or he was disgusted by him or sometimes like he was something delicate and fragile and crazy and maybe he was.

Maybe.

But who wants to be looked at like that?

No one, that's who.

So, most of all, most of all, he wanted to ruin him. Because Hinata wasn't like them, like any of them. He wasn't Ultimate Despair. He might not have been the spy either, but he definitely wasn't one of them. He wasn't the least bit extraordinary, he was just be normal, ordinary boring. He wasn't the hope he longer for. He was just Hinata Hajime. Just the beautiful boy from the beach and that wasn't enough...

Only it was. And he wanted to drag Hinata down to his level so that he couldn't leave, so he wouldn't want to, because he wanted him close. Needed him. Obviously. Obviously. Why else would he keep imagining him like this? He was an awful person. Terrible, worthless, useless trash who couldn't even kill himself properly.

He realized vaguely that he was breathing too fast, panicked, that his injured aching hands were resting against his knees and he's sucking in breath after breath, but no matter how many breaths he took it was like there was never enough air and his vision filled with splotches of dark and light and he feels himself waver and wobble. His head spins and he feels like he's falling and then, for a while, there's nothing at all.

-ooo-

He woke up alone.

On the beach again with the waves sweeping, cold and unpleasant, over his bare feet, soaking his pants almost to the knee. He wasn't quite sure how much time has passed, but his face hurt a little and he has dirt in his mouth.

And that was gross.

He picked himself up and trudged back to the beach house to shower again. He shivered and shook and froze under the harsh stream of cold water, but it didn't matter. He'd donned another outfit identical to the one he'd been wearing. He leaves off the shoes again, choosing to remain barefoot.

He walked to the Hotel.

His feet hurt by the time he got there.

Everything was dark, but the moonlight was enough for him to see by. He'd gone to Hinata's cabin and he hadn't really been surprised to find it unlocked. Once inside he'd undone the fastenings on his pants and shucked both those and the boxers beneath, letting them fall carelessly to the floor before kicking them viciously at the glass wall of the shower area. They'd slumped forlornly against the glass and he'd thought about kicking them again for effect, but eventually decided against it.

He'd laid down on the bed and maybe he'd fallen asleep for a while, maybe he hadn't, but the next time he really focused in on what was happening to him, around him, he'd been shuffling a rough hand over his dick. He remembers wondering vaguely where the bandages had come from, but he hadn't cared enough to wonder for long and besides he'd done far stranger things than that while he hadn't been paying attention. Instead of dwelling on that, he had shoved himself up and slumped forward, his hand moving fast and frantic, intent on finishing as quickly as possible so he could go back to sleep... or possibly just to sleep at all, maybe.

He came and, for a moment, he'd felt nothing but a hint of relief since he could finally stop and then he'd realized that Hinata was there and it had hit him in the face, splattering across his lips, into his mouth, across his cheek.

It wasn't the best thing he's ever seen, but his body had seemed to enjoy it nonetheless.

The moments after were a blur of talking, talking, talking and he remembers that it was important, that some of it was important anyway, but there was something… something…

Enoshima.

Enoshima Junko.

That was it. That name, there was something about that name, about the way Hinata had said it, like a curse. It had sounded like a gong in his head, rattling his brain around, stirring things up. He'd felt kind of sick because there was something about that name. Something about that name that made him want to… he wasn't sure. Something. There was something. And it made him feel off-balance… then he'd remembered that it was just the name of some model. The kind that posed for magazines and showed up on the news sometimes, no one worth caring about, just a name pulled from the dingy hallways of memory and he'd felt a little better, a little steadier. But, thinking about it now… it still seemed wrong and the rest of the conversation seemed like background noise by comparison. He seemed to remember Hinata making some stupid joke about his clothes and it hadn't been funny at all, but it had ended with Hinata giving him his shirt so it wasn't all bad. Seeing Hinata's bare chest hadn't been bad either. He'd seen it before and he'd thought about it a lot before, during those days they'd all been together on this island. About Hinata's nipples and rise of his belly button and the faint scattering of barely there hair that trailed down his stomach.

Hinata had shaken the shirt at him impatiently, demanded he put it on and so he had. Had stripped off his parka and his bloody t-shirt and tossed them aside and sat there naked for a moment, marveling at the way Hinata averted his eyes, the way that dark flush had spread across his cheek and neck, how... good it had felt that he was the reason Hinata blushed like that. He remembered making some snide, teasing remark when he plucked the shirt from his hand. He couldn't even remember now what it was, just that he'd wanted to see Hinata blush more. Wanted to see him embarrassed, flustered. There was a conversation, maybe, he couldn't remember what was said, but he remembered wanting him. Wanting this Hinata with his blushes and awkwardness and his excuses. How it had made him feel... good, maybe, powerful, like he was something... special. To be able to make Hinata react like that.

It had been for too short a time like his very best fantasies in that way. Not the usual ones, the dirty ones, the ones where he begged for Hinata's attention and he reluctantly gave it, the ones that were all about getting off. No, this was more like the ones he thought about when he was curled in on himself in the dead of night. When he'd woke up sniveling and lonely and he liked to lay there and pretend that they were... friends. Or friendly at least and maybe something more besides. Those pathetic, sentimental nonsense fantasies. The way Hinata had looked at him as they'd spoken had been just like that. Like he'd... like he'd wanted him, maybe, even if he didn't necessarily want to want him. That was okay, that was exactly right after all, because why would Hinata want to want him? He wouldn't, of course, he wouldn't. So it was more... realistic this way, closer maybe to what it would have been if he were... if he were...

It had been... nice to feel wanted though even if it wasn't real or true and it was almost fun, so much as anything was ever fun really. At least he thought it was now. Maybe. Whatever it had been, he'd wanted to keep that gaze, that interest, the way those eyes had felt skimming over him. The rest was static and noise and it didn't matter so long as Hinata would just keep looking at him like that. He thought that if he just did the right thing, said the right thing, that maybe Hinata might even reach out and touch him if he could just... just...

Then there had been that pain, that terrible pain when he'd touched the wound in his belly and everything had been black and white and wrong and he thought maybe he had screamed, but he couldn't be sure because it had seemed like the whole world had been screaming. Like there was static in his brain, harsh and loud, and it had been worse than drowning or suffocating or dying. There hadn't been anything but the pain. A pain like rage and hate and fear and a thousand emotions he didn't know or want and feeling them all at once. He couldn't help shuddering even just remembering it, an involuntary reaction like his weak, pathetic body remembered that pain and feared it even if he couldn't.

And then Hinata's hands had been there, pulling his fingers away from the wound, drawing him back away from that terrible place and reminding him that he had fingers that he had a body at all when a moment before there had been nothing but that pain, such complete, devastating, screaming torment. And it hadn't been like that before, it hadn't. It hadn't. When Hinata had touched him it had been... good. He knew that. He knew that. And yet this had been... awful. So awful that he ached with the memory of it. And Hinata had held him close like he mattered and that hurt too in a completely different way. To have this cruel fantasy hold him like he mattered, as if anything really mattered at all when it didn't. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered and nothing was real and he didn't understand anything. He didn't... he didn't...

Hinata's fingers had swept through in his hair, easing him through the aftermath. Gentle, so desperately foolishly gentle that it made him feel vaguely ill because he didn't want that. It didn't mean anything. It wasn't real. And he just kept speaking, whispering soft, sweet little lies that were irritating, irritating, irritating. And he hadn't wanted to listen to this Hinata talk anymore. All he did was talk. Talk and tease and disappear and make him feel worse and worse and worse.

He was so tired. He was desperately tired of all of this. It was pathetic. It was pathetic that he needed this. Needed some cheap, tawdry delusion to stroke his hair and tell him everything was okay. So weak. Such hopelessly pathetic trash he was. It wasn't okay. Nothing was okay. He wasn't okay. Sometimes he thought he'd never, ever, ever been okay. And he should know that.

"It's not," Nagito hissed, pressing his face against Hinata's chest which was warm and a little sweaty in the best possible way and once the words started tumbling out, he couldn't have made them stop even if he'd wanted to. "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 then 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," Nagito rasped, short, scrapping blunt nails over his bare shoulders, over his back, drinking in the way Hinata's body lifted up into his touch, the stuttering moan that tumbled from his lips as he closed his eyes.

Beautiful.

"Yes, like that," he groaned. Hinata's nipples were hard and brown, and he wanted to lick them, bite them, but he settled for running a trembling thumb over one. "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," Hinata panted and Nagito dug blunt fingernails as deep as he could Into Hinata's chest and dragged them across, admiring the deep red gashes he left behind and enjoying the way Hinata moaned and arched into his touch. "I don't understand you at all."

Nagito leaned back and away so he could smile at him. It felt bitter and tight though he wasn't at all sure that he felt either of those things really. Not really. "You never did, nothing new there. Just touch me, Hinata. Just touch me. Don't you want to hear me moan for you again?"

And for a moment Hinata just stared at him and then something in his expression shifted. Something he couldn't quite place or name, but it seemed distinctly unimpressed.

"Beg me for it," Hinata replied conversationally and he seemed different, wrong as he shoved him back against the wall, climbing into his lap, aggressive and brisk. one hand diving under the shirt to drag rough and angry fingers over his dick. There was nothing tentative or trembling or meek about Hinata suddenly. Nagito whimpered, dug his fingers into the sheets and squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn't sure how he'd... what it was exactly that had... but he didn't... this wasn't his Hinata. This wasn't even a good imitation. This was...

Hinata's voice had been cool and commanding in his ear, his fingers still rough and vindictive, "Moan for me."

And he had and though he was pretty sure it was half sob it had seemed to satisfy.

"Luck. Such a useless, tawdry, pathetic talent, hardly worthy of consideration. How lucky do you feel right now, hm? If you want me inside you, you'll beg me for it. Tell me how much you need me, how empty you are without me, how unworthy you are, but how much you need it anyway. Do it."

Hinata sat back, releasing him and kneeling up a little so he wasn't quite resting on his thighs any longer.

Nagito swallowed hard, staring into Hinata's face, suddenly so open and at odds with the voice that had been spitting distain in his ear. "I want you to."

"Well, I don't want me to," Hinata whispered weakly and his breathing had been fast and uneven, not quite a pant, but close. So different. So completely different than he'd been a moment before.

"Just a little," he had found himself saying in a gentle encouraging, coaxing voice he hardly recognized. It felt like swallowing broken glass and he hadn't felt desperate, but he'd found himself following Hinata's orders anyway. "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?"

And then Hinata's finger was there, tracing around the wound and it felt like a reward for a job well done because it was just like it had been before. Right and perfect except it also hurt a little, just a little, in exactly the right way. Not like that rough hand on his dick from before which had mostly just hurt even if it had been good enough to turn him on enough to want this again. And he's pretty sure he moaned and then everything became too fast and confusing and too much and not enough all at once. Hinata's fingers are inside him again, slipping and sliding and twisting and at the same time Hinata licked and sucked his way into his mouth like he belonged there and the moan turned into a sob. Because this, this was what he wanted. He opened his mouth wide and wider still; thrust his own tongue out to meet Hinata's and kissing was confusing. He could feel the strain in his lips and jaw from keeping his mouth open so wide and he could feel a little bit of saliva slipping down his chin, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Couldn't get enough because the kiss was never deep enough or wet enough and he just wanted more and more and more and he sucked hard on Hinata's tongue and hoped he's doing it right or at least right enough.

It was pathetic.

How badly he'd wanted him.

Any way he could have him.

How willing, eager, he'd been to beg for scraps from his table.

He'd been so frantic with it that he'd forgotten it wasn't real. He couldn't keep the script at all with that imaginary Hinata's tongue in his mouth and then against his throat and he thought he'd begged and squirmed and been trying to make quick work of his pants with hands that had suddenly grown clumsy and nervous. Like it meant something. Like they were… something.

He'd just wanted to get a hand on his dick so badly as if that would make any difference at all, but it was hard to keep the script when he wanted something so much. It always had been even without the delusions and the death to complicate matters. He had a hard enough time keeping a handle on things, keeping his mind under control on even his best days. But… it was hard to keep track of exactly what he was supposed to be focused on, because sometimes his emotions seemed to flee like frightened rabbits and sometimes he didn't care and sometimes he did and sometimes he just took what he wanted. And sometimes he was in it and present and everything was actually there and he was there and he could feel something like joy edging in because this was different and new and….

And he was…

He could…

Then he felt Hinata's hand sliding between them, beneath the shirt and over the curve of his hip and he was reminded violently of the rough, harsh touch from before and it made him angry, angry because that hadn't… that wasn't….

It wasn't real.

None of this was real.

Hopeless.

He was really hopeless.

He snatched a handful of Hinata's hair and jerked him backwards. Hinata screamed, he was sure of that, startled and pained and he just hadn't cared about that. He still doesn't care. He'd used his hold on Hinata's hair to pull him back, back and away. To force him to the floor beside the bed, because that hadn't been his Hinata. Not at all and he gripped his hair tighter, rage had made him cruel even if it hadn't made his body any less interested in the whole production.

"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," Nagito commented and it felt for a moment like he had spoken from years or miles away, but the distance didn't make it any easier and his dick had still been throbbing, painfully hard, and that had been irritating too. He released his hold on Hinata's hair, shoving back a little as he drew his borrowed shirt up and held it crumpled and damp against his belly. He sighed and leaned back a little to snatch the bandage he'd discarded from the bed. He hadn't been looking forward to the chaffing, but he had wanted to come and needs must.

"Komaeda, I…"

He'd forgotten for a second that that fake Hinata was still kneeling on the floor where he'd left him. He glanced down at him and it… had somehow it had never even occurred to him that when he'd steered him back off the bed he'd forced him down between his legs. He certainly hadn't minded it. After all, Hinata, even a terrible fake Hinata, made a very nice picture kneeling between his thighs like that. "You don't have to, of course," Nagito commented distractedly, winding the bandage back around his palm and tucking in the loose end before sliding his hand around his dick, pumping slow and loose. "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 Hinata shifted his gaze demurely to the floor.

"This is really wrong."

"Is it?" Nagito replied, already distracted enough that he's only half focused on his reply because what did it really matter? He's only talking to himself anyway. He wasn't going to last long at all if Hinata kept kneeling there looking up at him like that. "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, 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," Nagito murmured, voice hoarse, because he was. So close and he shut his eyes so he can focus on something besides Hinata's face and how he really, really wants to come on him again. Even though it isn't him. Not really.

Then something wet and distinctly not covered in gauze slides across him, right up the slit and he gasps and opens his eyes, startled, to find himself looking down just as Hinata's head leaning forward and wrapping his… oh.

Oh.

He trembled and Hinata's mouth was… he knew it wasn't… wasn't… but…

He slid shaking fingers around the back of his bowed head and it's almost enough just looking at him, just feeling him, tentative and almost too gentle. And he wanted… him. He just… wants him.

You want him? Why not take him?

"Curiosity killed the cat, you know," he heard himself say and Hinata rolled his eyes up at him and his lips were still wrapped around him, his tongue still flicking an almost frantic rhythm against him. His eyes were so wide, vulnerable.

And then he'd knotted his fingers in Hinata's hair and shoved his dick down his throat and it had felt amazing. Bumping over his tongue, his teeth a painful scrap across him made all the sweeter because it was Hinata. And he was having trouble remembering again, the knowledge of Hinata's reality flickered inconsistent in his mind like old neon.

He laid back against the bed, closing his eyes and picturing that moment again. Hinata's eyes so wide and panicked and surprised, the way it had felt to thrust inside him. How Hinata's eyes had rolled as he came, screaming around him and digging desperate fingers into the cuts in his thighs as his hips jerked and twitched and how he'd tumbled after, groaning and losing it within the warmth of Hinata's mouth as much from being inside him as from watching him come.

And then Hinata was gone.

Just… gone.

His brain couldn't even be bothered to extend the fantasy long enough for his heart to slow, for his breathing to even out before leaving him alone again without even that cheap copy for company.

He shivered and curled in on himself on Hinata's cold empty bed.

He thought about that voice again as he tugged at the blanket and crawled underneath, pulling it over his head. It wasn't so bad under there. Under there it was dark, really dark, and between the blanket and the sheets and shirt it smelled more like Hinata and laundry detergent than it did anything else and that wasn't terrible.

You want him? Why not take him?

He didn't like that voice, didn't like how familiar and strange it was, how it made him feel, like there were cold invasive fingers wriggling about in his chest just waiting to rip him open, to spread him wide and expose the truest heart of him. To expose the real Komaeda Nagito, the one who was him, but not quite. The one that had lost himself in despair; he didn't want to know that person, couldn't know that person. If he knew that person than he wouldn't be… he wouldn't be….

What was the point?

Why even fight it?

Why….

The shirt Hinata had given him was white and crisp and if he pulled it up around his face and pressed his face to the collar it smelled a little damp and sweaty and a little… a little bit like Hinata. Maybe.

He curled in on himself, tucking his knees up against his chest and touched the pristine lapels gently, gingerly. The shirt itself was already marred by blood, but he thought the lapels were clean still, a little stiff. He couldn't remember if he'd ever actually touched Hinata's shirt… before. He thought so, maybe, during those first days when Hinata still let him close, back when he seemed to like and trust him. They'd sat close together several times during those first days and it had been… nice. He'd thought he might not mind if Hinata killed him, he was dying already after all, probably, and if he could put that death to good use then why not?

Why not?

But, of course, Hinata didn't, because Hinata wouldn't.

Really, the shirt had been a really nice touch.

He could almost, almost, almost believe that it was…

Which wasn't…

Obviously, it wasn't…

But…

It was stupid, really.

To think, even for a minute, that a shirt meant anything.

So stupid.

He was so stupid.

Oh.

There they were.

Those pesky misplaced emotions.

Tears streamed down his face as he gasped, burying his fingers in Hinata's sheets. His chest was an aching open wound and it had nothing to do with that hole left by the spear. It had all seemed so real that he'd almost believed it. Believed in those arms that held him and those words and the way Hinata had kissed him. Like he was wanted, needed, necessary, vital… all the things he knew he'd never been to anyone, not even his parents.

Probably.

Maybe.

And especially not Hinata.

He lay under that blanket for a long time.

And, try as he might, he couldn't extinguish that niggling doubt, that fragile, tenacious spark of hope that had him buttoning up the shirt before he finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

He woke up on the beach with sand in his mouth and the sunlight beating down painfully against his bare legs and arms.

He was naked except for Hinata's now damp and muddy shirt.

The laughter didn't hurt nearly as much this time.