The Mortal City

by MidnightRun42

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

6. Cry Me a River

"Reality is like a fruitcake; pretty enough to look at but with all sorts of nasty things lurking just beneath the surface."
― A. Lee Martinez, Gil's All Fright Diner

DAY THREE
-continued-
-ooo-

It was night again and the moon was bright and full, lighting up the beach as he walked down from the road to stop beneath the bent palm. He had been able to see him clearly even from the road, standing out brilliantly against the black of the ocean and the horizon beyond. His pale hair and white shirt seemed to glow in the bright moonlight. He'd lost his jacket and his feet were still bare, though he could see as he approached that they were strangely dark, grey and black in the moonlight.

"Sorry, about before," Komaeda commented as if they were in the middle of a conversation, his legs swinging back and forth. "It feels a little extreme to disappear for days just because I put my dick in your mouth though."

"Says you," Hajime replied, leaning back against the rough trunk of the palm tree and stared out at the dark waves crashing against the shore. "It hasn't been that long anyway. And, to be fair, I put your dick in my mouth, you just shoved it down my throat like a total jackass."

"Sorry," Komaeda replied, unsurprisingly not sounding the least bit like he meant it. "I have poor impulse control, you know."

"Yeah, no kidding. You wouldn't be so blasé about it if you were the one with my dick in your mouth. Jerk."

"Want to find out?" Komaeda inquired, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he tilted his head and looked down at him.

"Shut up, Komaeda. It's not funny."

Komaeda laughed, a light, airy sound, "It is though. Besides, it got you off, didn't it? You don't look quite so boring when you come, Hinata. It's a good look on you."

"I was just already so… anything probably would have done it at that point. I didn't like it," he'd been telling himself this all day. That he didn't like the taste and feel of him. That he didn't want to fall asleep just for a chance to revisit it. He still didn't really believe it, but he wanted to. Even though, in the end, all that angst hadn't actually been enough to keep him awake, obviously.

"Then I suppose you should remember that if you try to suck me off again." Komaeda replied and he felt weirdly guilty, like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Like maybe Komaeda could see right through him to the shameful part that he rather suspected might just drop to his knees and, protests aside, give it another shot right now if Komaeda asked him to.

"I'm not going to," he snapped defensively, folding his arms across his stomach.

"Um, hm, sure," Komaeda commented easily, his bare feet still swinging back and forth. They were a little sandy, dark with dirt and bruises, Hajime had the strangest urge to reach up and dust them off. They looked a little scratched up, pockmarked with tiny wounds and blisters. He'd noticed that they were bare before, but now that he was closer he wondered why they were like that.

He sidled closer and reached out to touch the sole of one foot, running the pad of his thumb across it gently, "Looks like it hurts. You should wear shoes."

Komaeda twitched his foot away, "Ticklish."

"Is it?" Hajime replied, brushing his thumb across it again and smiling when he got the same reaction. "You know what would help with that?"

"You not tickling my feet?"

"No, you wearing shoes."

"Don't want to," Komaeda replied, frowning and blowing out his cheeks a bit. He looked for all the world like a stubborn kid who didn't want to eat his vegetables. "It's better this way. Want to go swimming?"

"Can you even go swimming like that?" Hajime replied, tapping his fingers against his own chest right what where the spear wound would be on Komaeda. "It'd probably hurt."

Komaeda shrugged, "If I only did things that didn't hurt, I'd never do anything."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Hinata, don't be ridiculous. I have cuts on my thighs, holes in my hands and a giant gapping spear wound in my chest. Plus, all the other little incidental stuff, like this," he wiggled his toes and Hajime realized he was still caressing Komaeda's foot- there really wasn't a better description for it than that- and let it go. Komaeda offered him a wry smile, "It's not super comfortable moving or breathing or just… anything, really."

"Does it hurt? The wounds from, you know, before? I mean, the one from the spear is kind of bloody, but it doesn't really bleed and the others are… I don't know."

He shrugged again, amiable enough as he allowed himself to fall backwards so he was hanging upside down from the palm by his knees. His shirt fell down to bunch around his shoulders revealing old pale scars barely visible across the pale expanse of his back. Hajime's fingers itched to touch them, map those lines like they were waypoints, a loosely drawn map of Komaeda Nagito's life sketched across his pale flesh, finally a truth he could be certain of. He wanted to trace them and ask where they'd come from and how and why.

He shoved his hands in his pockets to make sure he kept them to himself. Komaeda's scars weren't really any of his business and there was no point in asking anyway. He wondered if they were something he'd just made up or if he'd seen them that time on the beach and just not realized it, if the knowledge of those marks had just lodged itself in his brain to wait for an ample opportunity to present.

"They ache," Komaeda commented suddenly, startling him from his thoughts. His long pale hair hung down at strange angles, oddly reminiscent of jellyfish tentacles. "They sting sometimes too, but mostly they just ache. Except when you touch them, of course, than they just make other things ache, hm?"

This was probably the longest normal conversation they'd ever had. Funny that he dreams of him like… like that and then like this… normal like this, more normal than he'd been even on the island during those first days. It was really sad to think that this might be the only time he'd ever have a normal conversation with any version of Komaeda and it was about wounds and started with an insincere apology and a dick joke.

"You seem less… I don't know. You were weird last time," he told the jellyfish hanging from the tree.

"Do I? How can you tell?" The jellyfish replied, sounding honestly curious.

"How can I… I mean, obviously, you're different," he sputtered, gesturing to him and then realizing Komaeda couldn't see him and sighing. "You were really… cold last time, I guess? Detached? Like… I don't know, like sometimes you weren't all there."

"Hm, I suppose. Today's a good day, I guess. I mean, you're here so that's a nice change," Komaeda reached up and gripped the bent palm trunk with both hands and swinging his legs over and off so that he flipped over backwards and fell to the ground, landing on his feet in the sand with a heavy thump. He straightened, hissing and holding a hand to his chest. "Ouch."

"You okay?"

"Sure, why not?" Komaeda grinned, strangely carefree, it reminded him uncomfortably of the island, of all those smiles had had always felt like just another way to lie. Komaeda shrugged his shoulders as he straightened and Hajime realized they were standing kind of close.

"You're still wearing my shirt," he murmured, reaching out to finger one of the buttons.

"You can't have it back, so don't ask."

"I wasn't going to, I gave it to you, didn't I?" He glanced down to find that his own shirt was identical to the one Komaeda now wore. "It's not like I need it or anything anyway, I guess."

"Then you have nothing to complain about, do you?" Komaeda sniffed, smoothing a hand over the buttoned front. The shirt was strangely faded and discolored like he'd been wearing it for days or weeks on end instead of hours.

"I guess not."

It was weird talking to him like this, being with him like this. Nothing terrible had happened yet which was a nice change and it was so….

"This is really strange, huh?" He asked without meaning to.

"I was thinking the same thing. Want to fuck me up against this palm tree?" He asked, apropos of nothing.

"I really don't," He replied, laughing and Komaeda smiled at him.

Oh.

He felt a little bit like someone had hit him in the head with a rock, that same punch-drunk feeling he'd had when he'd been sitting in the break room with Fuyuhiko. That smile was… different from all his other smiles. Different even when compared to the smile from that first day on the island, it was genuine and real in a way none of those other smiles had ever been. A little self-deprecating and a little crooked and a little sad, but also pleased in some strange way and it was really….

Really something.

He kind of wanted to catch it and frame it and put it in his pocket and carry it around with him forever so he could pull it out and look at it all the time. It was a really nice smile.

He wanted to kiss him like this. To taste the sweetness of that smile on his tongue as he twisted a knife in that soft pale belly so that he could watch that broad, beautiful smile shatter into screaming confusion and despair…

No.

What?

What the fuck?

No.

He… he didn't… he didn't want that.

He didn't want anything like that.

"Hinata?" Komaeda asked, the smile fading as he looked at him with something like concern.

Hajime shook his head quickly, slapping a hand over his mouth, over the strange dreadful smirk forming there as bile rose in his throat.

What was wrong with him?

What was…?

There was a low, rumbling sound like thunder and it shook him from his thoughts. When he glanced up he found dark clouds consuming the sky at startling speed.

"Huh. That's different," Komaeda murmured, tipping his head back to look up at the darkening sky as well.

"Yeah," Hajime whispered, a feeling like foreboding rolling over him. At least the smile was gone, fading away like it had never been. "We should get inside."

"Why would I want to do that?" Komaeda replied, sounding vaguely surprised, as if the thought had simply never occurred to him.

"It's going to rain. If your luck is bad you could get struck by lightning or something, I don't know."

"You don't understand anything. No, that would be good luck, if it actually killed me, bad luck would be if you were struck by the lightning and it killed you or if it just struck me and left me with just some new wounds to nurse and nothing like oblivion to show for it. So, you should probably go inside somewhere." Komaeda hummed thoughtfully, "On second thought, maybe not, I suppose it's just as likely that a lightning strike could light whatever building you went into on fire. Burning to death seems like a really hopeless way to die. Not that you can really die, it's just… I don't…. I don't..."

"You don't what?"

"I don't know. When you're here, things are better. If I see you die then you won't be able to come back again. Or maybe you'll come back like… like this," he gestured vaguely to himself. "My imagination is… pretty sick sometimes so…."

"I don't think it works like that," he replied, turning to look out across the dark ocean at the darkening sky as lightning streaked across it followed a moment later by the rumble of thunder. "Or maybe it does. I don't know. This is all pretty messed up."

"It is," Komaeda agreed as he stepped closer, close enough now that he could feel the cold that seemed to radiate from him. "You're always so warm," he murmured, closing the distance between them so he could press against Hajime's back, his chin resting on his shoulder.

Sometimes he forgot that Komaeda was taller than he was. It seemed like a strange thing to forget, but he did. He so often seemed smaller, weaker, more fragile maybe, but he wasn't really. He never had been.

"Am I?" He asked as he closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of him pressed against him. It was nice, really nice. He'd been avoiding this, avoiding him, avoiding sleep all day and in that moment he wasn't completely sure why.

"Yes. You always were, so maybe that's why it's like that here too. Even when I was burning with that fever, you still always felt warm like you were the one with a virus ravaging your system."

Hajime snorted, "I guess that's true enough."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. It's just… you know."

"If I knew I wouldn't ask, but maybe I do. I don't know. That's annoying," Komaeda breathed, lifting his chin and stepping back and away and he immediately mourned the loss even though the words irritated him.

"Seriously? You're gonna make me…" He really didn't want to talk about him, but he still found the word tripping off his tongue, harsh and hateful. "…Izuru."

"The what?" Komaeda replied, looking back at him blankly, not the faintest sign of recognition.

"Nevermind," he murmured, skimming a hand over Komaeda's bare arm. He didn't really want to talk about him, didn't even want to think about him. Not here. It… it didn't feel safe to talk about him here. Which was… silly, maybe, but just saying his name still left him feeling uneasy, nervous. "Let's just go inside before it starts raining."

"Don't want to," Komaeda replied again, stubbornly, crossing his arms defensively over his chest, always so contrary. "I want to feel it."

"You'll catch a cold."

They both seemed to realize what he'd said at exactly the same moment, because in the next they were both bent over laughing. It wasn't funny, really, except that it was. They were like children, giggling in the dark because they were afraid and didn't want to admit it. Sometimes it was just easier to laugh.

He ended up leaning his head against Komaeda's shoulder, turning his face into his neck as the first fat drops of cool rain fell on his hair and across his shoulders. "I hate that I miss you," he confessed sliding a hand beneath Komaeda's borrowed shirt, along the waist of his pants enjoying the contrast between the rough canvas and the smooth skin above it. He knew there were scars there, he'd seen them, but he couldn't feel them at all. "I feel bad that I keep dreaming about you like this, but I like seeing you all the same."

"What… why?" Komaeda drew back, frowning, and suddenly Hajime wanted to tell him. Confess everything they were and had been even though it wouldn't make any difference at all as the sky tore open and rain poured down, hard and cold, driving and spiteful. The force with which they fell made the drops sting where they hit and they were both soaked through in a matter of moments, but Komaeda was still standing in front of him, staring at him unrelenting with his hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if he hadn't even noticed or didn't care. "Why would you say that? Are you just… why?"

"Komaeda?"

He looked at him with eyes that seemed the same dark and swirling grey as the clouds above them, wide and filled with a sort of frenzied terror that Hajime couldn't begin to understand.

Pain burst across his cheek and in his head. It took him a minute to realize Komaeda had punched him. Punched him or maybe slapped him, but either way he'd hit him and taken off running up the beach towards the road, his bare feet kicking up sand. He was almost immediately lost behind the curtain of driving rain that fell over and between them.

Pain cluttered his brain like static and he groaned, pressing a hand against his aching check as he winced, closing his eyes.

-ooo-

He couldn't stop. Couldn't stay. He'd just….

But it didn't matter. Didn't matter it wasn't… he wasn't…

He was real and he was here and he couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't let that fake…. Let that awkward, imperfect manifestation of his desperation f-for company. Yes, any company, not just him, because he wasn't… he wasn't special. He wasn't. He wasn't. He was just a desire for company given form and function… that was what he was, all he was, and he shouldn't allow that poor copy to make him think… to make him feel like… that he maybe wasn't... real.

So he ran. He hit him and ran and ran, bare feet pounding and aching, just slashes of pain as he popped blisters or re-opened cuts in his mad dash to get away across the sand and up to the road and just away.

He'd just been… he'd been so…

He'd been so….

Not excited, no. Not excited to see him here again, to hear his footsteps, to feel his presence pulsing like heat and light as it walked up behind him casual as you please after so long. But he had been… glad, maybe. Yes, he'd been glad. Maybe even fiercely glad, so glad that he'd even led with an apology. He hadn't quite meant it, but he'd almost meant it and that was usually about as close as he ever got. His name had been like a chant, a cheer in his head, because he'd been so….

But this was too much.

Wasn't it enough? It had been days, days that he'd been like a pathetic junkie searching for a fix as he'd played this all out in his mind again and again, as he'd practiced the lines over and over again. Because he could do it right and if he did it right and he said the right things and he did the right things than maybe… maybe it would be better. Maybe he would be better and it would be….

And then he'd been there. Finally there just when that pale faltering hope had been beginning to fade within his chest… he'd just strolled up to him on the beach and he'd been… different. Different in the very best way, no longer the timid, stuttering Hinata, or at least not as much anyway, but he hadn't been that terrifying Hinata with the rough hands and cold eyes either. No, this had been… different, new, but old too. A Hinata who gave as good as he got. And it had been so easy. Everything had seemed easy and casual and he… god, he'd wanted him. Practically been shaking with it. The desire to touch him, to be touched by him, but he hadn't… he hadn't wanted to ruin it, because it was… it was….

But that was just like him wasn't it? Just like him to build up that hope, that bubbling fizzy feeling that went straight to his head only to toss it away, send it crashing to the rocks with a few well chosen words.

Pretending… pretending that he was the delusion. Because obviously, obviously, that wasn't true, but sometimes he… it… it, stupid, it's an it, not… not a person, not even a memory, not really, just, just your misfiring, rotting brain generating some thing to satisfy your childish desire to not be alone, to be… valued, to be wanted, to be….

No, no, no.

He wasn't going to do this again. He wasn't. He'd been through all this before and he didn't want this. Didn't… didn't he decide that? Didn't he decide that he didn't, that he wasn't… that he could do this on his own and he didn't need that. That crutch to lean on… he didn't want to feel those hands, touching him, those lips, that mouth, that cock.

He choked on a sob, pressing the back of his hand against his lips as he stumbled to a stop in the middle of the bridge, ever so close to the precipice, halfway to the central island, breathing hard. The same hand he'd hit him with, incidentally, a hand that ached furiously as if he'd punched something made of flesh and blood and reality rather than just some cruel manifestation of his awkward, petty, desperate...

Why couldn't death have just been… just been nothing? Just a void, a real ending? Just been silence and nothing, real nothing, not this… empty wasteland of an island where nothing every changed.

Well, almost nothing.

It was raining.

So that was something at least.

Something new, something different even if… he turned his face up into it, closing his eyes because it stung when the falling water hit them dead on. It felt warm, the rain, gentle even against his sunburnt skin. He'd stopped coming out in the daylight as often, choosing to hide in the buildings during daylight hours since the sun seemed to be on a mission to set him on fire. He still woke up beneath those burning rays every morning though, splayed out like a castaway on the sand in front of the beach house, the ocean licking at his heels, and that was more than enough time outside to keep the most visible parts of him in a perpetual state of mildly crispy. His head and neck and feet and… he shivered as he remembered the touch of Hinata's fingers across the sole of his foot.

Gentle, concerned, the way the brush of his thumb had tickled, the teasing lift in his voice as he talked about shoes.

He'd never realized how intimate such a simple touch could be.

He was so pathetic.

Days, days and days alone in this place and this was what it had reduced him to. Waxing romantic about that paltry excuse for a delusion touching his feet.

He'd spent the first few days lurking around the hotel and the beach waiting for Hinata, no, for that terrible imitation of Hinata to show up and each day he'd felt the despair of loneliness chipping away at his resolve, at that hope that he couldn't help clinging to the way he clung to Hinata's fading, bloody shirt. He couldn't bear to take it off for much longer than it took to rinse it out with soap and ring it dry. He couldn't tolerate the idea that he might hang it up and it might disappear entirely and he'd be back to wearing those holey t-shirts or nothing at all. And he'd be left with nothing to cling to, no weak proof that maybe, just maybe things weren't… weren't what they seemed to be.

So, he kept the shirt close. Just… just in case.

Some nights he sat in the movie theater or the Grape House or by the pool in just that shirt. He jerked off a lot because he had nothing better to do. Eating made him sick, the food was bland and tasteless designed for aesthetics not consumption. All the books and movies he stumbled upon when he'd dared to venture beyond those most familiar places were filled with nonsense, lines of gibberish or missing bits and pieces and just looking at them, watching them, gave him a terrible headache. So, mostly, he jerked off, found little games to amuse himself like how long he could hang upside down or how much salt he could pour in the chest wound before he passed out and woke up on the beach (he'd only played that game once, it hadn't really been worth the long walk back to the movie theater). Mostly he liked to stay in those places because he felt… not safe, not comfortable, exactly- he never felt either of those things, hadn't in months, years, long before the island, before Hope's Peak- but… better nonetheless like the presence of people…

People?

Who was he even kidding?

Him. Him. Him. It was his presence that lingered, memories of him that filled those empty spaces so that he didn't feel quite so alone. It made him sick, these thoughts of him and how they clung like tar to his fingertips and lingered in his mind. It made him want to burn everything to the ground. But, of course, there were no matches to start a fire, no gasoline to help it along, no fireworks, there were no materials he could use to initiate an explosion as if this world had learned the lessons from the world he died in and sanitized the environment accordingly. As if it had known he was coming and put away all the sharp objects and hazardous materials like he was a child who couldn't be trusted not to run with the scissors.

Which, he supposed, was fair enough.

Though he really thought removing all the umbrellas and the beach and deck chairs and the cleaning supplies was just overkill. What did this stupid, empty world care if he drank the bleach? It hadn't seemed to care much about him drowning himself in the ocean or suffocating himself with sand. And so what if he decided to impale himself with an umbrella? Wasn't that his business, really? He didn't need some nosy, busybody universe making his choices for him. And he really wasn't the least bit certain what damage the universe had thought he could even do with deck chairs.

He went to sleep in a different place every night, but he always woke up on that same beach. At least he gets to keep the shirt, so that's something at least.

He has, of course, wondered more than once why it was that he always woke up near the beach house. Why he woke up there rather than on the island where he died or that beach near the hotel in the place where they'd woken up that first day, the one he found himself coming back to again and again. The one Hinata had found him at tonight. He had plenty of time to wonder about those sorts of things though no way to confirm whether any of his guesses were right.

Sometimes he can hear that voice, that girl's voice, soft and insidious, seeping in around the edges.

Sometimes he longed for that voice. For someone to tell him what to do and how to be, to give him drive and purpose, face and form, because sometimes he wonders if he truly exists at all. There are no mirrors here and his reflection, when he tries to catch it in windows or glass or shiny metal is nothing but a blur of color and motion, a vague impression of a person. Which, honestly, he thinks is a particularly accurate representation of him, really, if a somewhat infuriating one.

He hates it too though, that voice. Hates the sweetness in it, the way it tastes like poisoned chocolate. Hates how it always seems to come at the worst times, most often when he's about to come and he'll hear it in his mind, in his ear, like someone whispering in a dark room and his interest just withers away like fruit rotting on the vine, leaving him cold and frustrated, angry sometimes. More often just annoyed. Despair is always so close during those moments when even that momentary escape, relief, defies him, is denied to him.

Sometimes he drowns himself in the pool to get away from that voice.

He hates drowning.

He wakes up on the beach again, vomiting chlorinated water, the sun burning against his skin, but the voice is blissfully silent again so it's worth the pain, the extraordinary discomfort. It's the only time he ever appreciates the silence of this place. The rest of the time it grates and he finds himself talking or singing scraps of song to fill it up.

Sometimes he just stands at the edge of highest point of the bridge, looking down at the ocean below and screams and screams and screams.

He often thought about jumping.

But he knows he'd just come back.

Probably. Maybe. He's not sure. It's very high. There's always a possibility that he'd splatter into bits and that would be it. Or perhaps he'd just wake up as bits and pieces on the beach, unable to do anything but lay there in the surf and burn.

And while he isn't afraid of pain, he doesn't go out of his way to seek it out, not really, not usually.

He remembers Hinata's fingers inside him, pushing deep and deeper.

He felt his hands and knees hit the bridge planks hard and he knows that he's fallen, but he isn't sure why. He's aware that he's still on the bridge that he was… fingers sliding inside… thinking about that for some reason, that he's panting and almost painfully turned on. Then he feels the pressure against his back, the stir of pain and pleasure in his chest as fingers withdraw from that wound, as they're wiped carelessly against the back of his shirt.

What… what…

"You look best like that." The smug voice is Hinata's, but it's also not. This voice is cool and superior in every way that Hinata's voice is usually warm and exasperated. His footsteps sound loud against the bridge, even through the sound of the pouring rain, as he paces around him. Nagito stared at those familiar sneakers and he wants to scream, but he doesn't. "Crawling like a beast, panting like a dog in heat, how fortunate for you that I managed to catch up to you. If you beg me, I might consider allowing you to slake that tension."

"I don't need your permission," Nagito whispered even as each of the words he spoke seemed to bring him closer to the edge, made him ache and tremble, even as every one of the words he spoke in return seemed like the flimsiest of lies.

"Don't you?" The Hinata who was not Hinata inquired, seating himself gracefully, kneeling at the apex of the bridge in front of him, just out of reach. "It certainly seems as if that's the case. Such a pathetic, mewling mess you are. I simply cannot fathom the appeal. How desperate are you? How lonely? How deep is your despair? Show me. Sit back and take care of that unsightly bulge, won't you? I'll talk you through it. You do so seem to so enjoy the sound of my voice."

Nagito choked on a moan and he didn't want to. He didn't, but maybe he did too, because he found himself leaning back, unfastening his pants and bringing his cock out into the open air. The rain was heavy and cold and unpleasant against his skin, but he still slid his fingers over it, guiding his shaking hand through the familiar motions.

He smiled down at him. He hated that smile, that terrible, awful, stranger's smile. "…perhaps I should take you against that palm tree. Test that pathetic excuse for a talent and see whether you'll be lucky enough not to scrap yourself raw against the bark while I thrust into you again and again.

"You'd beg for it, I'm quite certain, beg for both the pain and the pleasure of it. Perhaps that would even be entertaining for a while. Your raw, breathy, irritating voice calling out to him, 'Hinata… oh… Hinata… please.'" His tone was so mocking, so unlike every memory he has of the real Hinata that it made him shiver and shake with something between revulsion and need and it's awful and amazing and awful.

"Or perhaps I might even be able to draw a 'Hajime…' out of you and wouldn't that be the most intriguing possibility. He tries so hard not to think about that. About the way you said his first name. About how much it turns him on. Of how much he wants you to say it again. You're both of a kind, truly. I should mark that pallid, sickly flesh with bruises and bites. Look at you, so revolting, such a vulgar display and you truly are so hopelessly detestable. I'm quite certain if I were so minded, I could play your body with a most singular skill, yet I can't imagine why I would ever want to, why anyone would. You bore me. Everything about you, from your miserable talent to your colorless hair, to your simpering expression, to the vile way you look at him sometimes as if he hung the moon just for you. It would be nauseating if it weren't so utterly, inescapably boring."

"I want to reach deep inside you and snatch that writhing, cooing, screaming, needy child from where he's hidden down deep in that battered maze of damaged tissue and fractured nerves and drag him to the surface kicking and screaming. Pin him to this cheap imitation of flesh like a butterfly to a board. Then I'd be able to see the lines of pain and pleasure written in your code, a formula for driving you past your limitations to a place where you feel everything all at once, where I will be able to break you into pieces and you won't be able to protect yourself anymore. A place where you'll be laid bare and vulnerable and I will corrupt every last sobbing inch of you. Unable to hide, unable to retreat, you'll be mine to destroy and it has been so very long since I've had a proper victim to relieve my boredom. You were practically custom built just for me with your utterly ridiculous talent and the way you cling to hope as if it were a lifeline that could guide you through despair. And the way Hinata Hajime has never been able to look away from you.

"I should ruin you. Both of you. I could bring you just to the edge, just to the tipping point of orgasm, splay you out and stake you down and let you ride that rail until you're screaming his name as if it were the only word you had left to you. Until there was no longer anything but the faintest trace remaining of Komaeda Nagito. I'd allow you both to balance there on the razor's edge and then I'd step away so that he could see what he has wrought by denying me what is mine by right. What glorious guilt and devastation he will feel when he sees what I have made of the worthless, foul, broken piece of trash that he has never able to leave to rot as it should. And he'll be able to do nothing but come inside you, horrified by what he has done even as he feels you come apart around him. You'll be like objects colliding in space, shattering, obliterating each other and yourselves until finally nothing remains. No Komaeda Nagito. No Hinata Hajime. No more weak-willed, talentless loser. No more loathsome, mangled, defective excuse for a talent. Just me. Just brilliance and strength and I will climb over your broken bodies to escape this place. I will construct a ladder from the matrix I shall build from your shattered souls and leave what remains to shrivel and vanish as I scale these prison walls to freedom and pave the way for her to follow."

"Hinata, please," he managed as he turned his gaze down, away, hiding his expression from sight even though he wasn't exactly sure what he was asking for, what he expected, what he even wanted.

"Still that. What will it take I wonder before you remember? Truly remember who and what you are? What she helped you become? How hard will I have to fuck you before you remember all the things you've willfully forgotten? How I despise the way you say his name, like it means something, like he means something. As if he's a person when we both know he's nothing. Nothing special. Nothing necessary. Nothing you even truly want. All you want, you low and revolting piece of thankless trash, is someone to suck your cock. Someone to listen to your ramblings, someone to pretend they love you because you understand, deep down to the very depths of your filthy, deplorable excuse for a soul, that you've never been loved, never been needed, never been wanted by anyone. Not even the cunt that spat you out. That you destroy everything you love eventually, that you fuck up every chance at happiness you have. You blame it on your illness or on your luck, but you know the truth, don't you? You know better than anyone, Nagito. You don't deserve to be happy. There's no cycle of good luck and bad, there's only you. That despite the tears running down your face, you want this, you need this, because this is what you deserve. That's the truth of why you're here, caught in this purgatory, this is why you're listening to every word I say, why you're getting off on it even as it rips you to shreds, even as it lays you bare and breaks you down so that I can mold you as I wish. Because this is what you want: to be treated like the no-account trash you have always known yourself to be."

It hurts.

It shouldn't, but it does.

Until it doesn't.

He curls over his lap defensively, the compulsive need to reach completion fading for the moment as the cold seeps in. He whispers Hinata Hajime's name against his knees like a secret.

"Now," he murmured, as he leaned forward, fingers petting his wet hair in a parody of gentleness. "How would you like to start, Nagito? Would you like me to touch you? That's what you were thinking about, wasn't it? How it felt to have my fingers inside you? Perhaps, you wonder how it might feel if I went deeper still, thrusting the whole of my hand within your chest, clutching warm and wet around your heart, tearing holes in your lungs? Whether you'd survive my slowly pulling you apart from the inside, laying out all those vital bits across this bridge to be cleaned of the filth of you until you're truly as hollow as you sometimes feel. Then I could take you against that palm tree once you're nothing but a hollow doll with sickly sunburnt skin and stringy, wretched hair. Just a tin man lacking everything but that rotting brain, waiting for me to fill you up, make you whole again, give you purpose. How lucky will you feel then? How privileged? How loved? Tell me that you want me, that you need me. That you'll do anything I ask."

"Yes, anything. Hinata. Anything. Just p-please… I want you to. I need- please. Please I need you, please," he whined, his face still turned down.

"Please, Izuru," Hinata's cold, cold voice corrected.

"Please Hin-Izuru, please, I need…" he allowed his words to dissolve into incoherent sobs.

"Go brace yourself against the support and wait for me. I might as well have a decent view to hold my interest while we do this."

Nagito dragged himself to his feet, slow and reluctant, stumbling towards the deep red of the bridge support structure. The rain continued to pour down over them both, drenching the world and sticking his hair across his face, concealing it. His motions were slow, jerky, and he held his pants up with one hand, the other continuing to cradle and slide over his dick. He tripped as he neared the support and veered into the side of it, barely steadying himself in time to avoid pitching over the edge. He caught himself against the corner of the support and looking down at the dark tumultuous waves below. The bridge had nothing else in the way of guardrails, as if whoever designed it had been rather hoping people would drive or jump off it, preferably without damaging their precious bridge in the process.

He could feel him stepping up behind him, this terrible parody of the boy he knew so well, feel Izuru's hands come to rest against his hips. Only then did he finally allowed himself the smile that had been threatening to curve his lips as he turned to face him. To confront that cold expression, that raised eyebrow, the faint look of surprise that softened those strange, familiar features. He wound his arms around the impostor's waist in turn, laughing. "Oh, you're really slow, aren't you? I like my version better, he's a lot quicker than you. Still, you're not exactly boring, so let's have some fun together before you have to go, hm?"

He clung to him as he threw all his weight backwards and to the side and they tumbled together over the side of the bridge, plunging them both toward the dark waters below.

-ooo-

And… then things got… confusing.

One minute Komaeda was gone, or nearly so, just a fading image of white and grey through the rain and he was standing there too stunned to pursue him yet, his cheek and his pride stinging from the unexpected blow, his head aching and he'd closed his eyes for just a second against the pain.

The next he opened them and to find himself kneeling on the beach as the ocean waves roll up, splashing cold over his knees before receding. The scent of salt is heavy in the air and rain is still pouring down over and around them and he gasps, painfully hard despite the fact that the water is freezing and his brain seems as if it's mired in molasses, unable to process his situation more than a piece at a time.

He knows Komaeda is beneath him.

That he's got Komaeda's dick in his hand and is jerking him off with a sort of rough, mortifying single-minded determination that feels automatic, compulsory.

He's painfully hard himself, panting and breathless, and each downward stroke of his hand over Komaeda bumps the heel of his hand to brush over the fabric that's pressed taunt over his own dick. It's not nearly enough to get him off, but it's more than enough to pull a soft aborted groan from his throat every time.

The ocean water rolls over his knees and his hand again and he realizes with a sort of distant, disconnected concern that his hand, the one that isn't sliding over Komaeda's dick like that's the only thing it knows how to do, is locked around Komaeda's reddened throat.

That he's using his weight to pin him to the sand so that every wave that rolls up the beach crashes over his face, flooding his mouth and nose with seawater. That he's coughing and choking wildly in the moments between waves, spitting water and unable to catch his breath.

That he's drowning for seconds at a time over and over again.

Huh.

He groans and groans again as his hand speeds over that long hard line of reddish-purple pale flesh.

Komaeda chokes and coughs.

Another wave crashes over them.

Then finally the world snaps into place and all the circuits connect and the horror rushes in to send him skittering backwards with an abrupt scream. Tumbling back and away onto the thick muddy sand of the beach, shaking and disgusted and terrified, he just stares for a long moment before he realizes that Komaeda isn't getting up. That for all the coughing and choking that he hadn't really been struggling at all. He curses and pitches forward, grabbing hold of Komaeda's shoulders, yanking him up into a sitting position, pulling him up out of the water.

Komaeda doesn't protest as he half-dragged, half-led him stumbling up the beach to collapse into the thicker sand well away from the tumbling ocean waves, but he didn't help much either.

"K-k-k-Komaeda, g-god, w-what…" He couldn't even manage to get the words out past his chattering teeth. The ocean water had been freezing like they were in the arctic instead of on a tropical island and the rain wasn't much better. It didn't help that he couldn't seem to catch his breath and breathe properly as he pounded a hand against Komaeda's back. The pale-haired boy coughed and hacked and spat salt water across the sand. Hajime was glad that his erection had already all but vanished in the face of his horror. He wasn't sure he could have lived with himself if he'd still wanted to… ugh… while Komaeda was coughing like that. "I-I'm sorry, god, I'm sorry, I don't… K-Komaeda, are you…?" He managed, the words stumbling and clumsy. "Are you… okay?"

Komaeda just shook his head and coughed again racking a hand back through his damp bangs, pushing them back out of his face. He gave the barest of nods to indicate that he was fine or that he'd heard or… something. He couldn't really tell because Komaeda wasn't looking at him at all and Hajime couldn't really blame for that. He was pretty sure if he'd been the one in the water he wouldn't want to look at him either. Probably ever again really, because what the hell. How had they even gotten there? What had he…? What had they been…?

He didn't understand what had happened.

He didn't understand anything.

Except he did, of course, this was just a nightmare and nightmares didn't have to make sense.

What the actual fuck was wrong with him.

He slapped his cheeks until they burned and ached, but he didn't wake up. The rain kept pouring down, his face hurt and Komaeda was still kneeling there coughing and not looking at him.

Hajime turned his face up to the sky, closing his eyes and sighing. This was just… so messed up.

He startled a little when he felt hands press against his knees and looked down, surprised as Komaeda half-crawled, half-dragged himself up into his lap.

He almost curled around him really, arms wrapping snugly around his neck and legs winding painfully, achingly slow around his waist. Komaeda didn't say anything at all to him though he was still coughing a little. With Komaeda's face pressed hard against the side of his head, his lips right up against his ear, he could hear every pained and rasping, choking breath he took. He pressed shaking hands to Komaeda's back, sighing. He didn't understand how they'd gotten here, but… if this was what Komaeda needed after what… whatever he'd been trying to do to him… he could live with it.

The first sob was sudden, just a burst of sound as Komaeda's skinny arms somehow, impossibly, seemed to tighten around him. And then another and another, great heaving sobs that erupted between fits of painful, wet, hacking coughs, just bursts of damp air against his ear and cheek and hair.

"Sorry," Komaeda murmured, abrupt and insincere, and it took him longer than it probably should have to realize what he was probably apologizing for. To realize that each sob seemed to be punctuated by the thrust and grind of Komaeda's hips, that he could feel the hard length of him pressed tight against his belly. That between all the sobbing and the coughing, Komaeda was making needy little noises like whimpers as he rode against him restlessly, jittering and bucking up against him in search of friction and release.

"It's… it's okay," he managed, closing his eyes tight and biting his lip to keep from screaming.

It was disturbing and embarrassing and wrong and it made him angry and inexplicably sad and sick all at once. Part of him, most of him maybe, was vaguely disgusted and wanted to push him away, back down into the water to cool off maybe, or just leave him there in the sand to take care of it by himself, revolted by the idea that Komaeda could still be turned on, still want to get off when he'd been… when they'd been….

But instead he found himself whispering nonsense platitudes to him, petting limp, cold, sopping wet hair with one hand while he held the other hand against the small of his back, urging him on a little, as much as he could stomach, as Komaeda continued to grind weakly against him. He wasn't sure if he was crying or if he just felt like crying, but the falling rain kept sliding cold and relentless down his face nonetheless and his cheeks burned because even though they were the only ones there on that quiet stretch of beach, it was still mortifying. And he was the worst person in the world because he was getting a little hard again in spite of himself. He closed his eyes tighter, as tight as they would go, and tried to just focus on the sound of Komaeda sobbing against his neck, hoping it would calm his body down, because he knew that whatever compulsion had Komaeda moving against him like that it didn't seem like something he was particularly enjoying. But even if he was, even if Komaeda really wanted to be doing that, Hajime was absolutely certain that it wasn't anything that should be turning him on.

He wanted to wake up.

He wanted to disappear.

He really, really wanted Komaeda to hurry up and come already.

But the dream just went on and on and on.

And Komaeda just…

He realized eventually that Komaeda, whose head had dropped down to lull tiredly against his shoulder, had begun speaking softly at some point, his voice a hoarse, rasping, wrecked sound. His words sharp enough and cruel enough to cut them both as they dove recklessly into the deepest heart of him once he was able to make sense of them. Words like sick and trash and disgusting and worthless and he tried to beat them back with words of his own whispered through wet lips from a throat that was strangely dry. Like and okay and sorry and feel good and want you, but he's not sure how successful he is or even how much of it he really means. How much of it Komaeda can hear or accept, because he thinks that maybe, maybe, he's beginning to understand that this is how this Komaeda is. That maybe this was how the real one was… is… too. Regardless, Komaeda's fingers dig into his shoulders and those noises are getting louder, more urgent and he keeps trying, because he has to. He just… wants, no, he needs Komaeda to be okay, even if it's just here in his fucked up dreams, so he adds please and come on and that's it to the mix and tries not to shush him when the sobs get to be too much.

He feels tension stiffen Komaeda's back and shoulders as those sounds and words turn into something like moans, desperate and frustrated, and his movements are becoming more disjointed, frantic like he's too far gone to care, but nothing he's doing is quite enough to push him over. For whatever reason, he seems unwilling to relinquish his hold on his neck even though it's obvious that he needs more. Anything maybe. And Hajime wants him to come, isn't even sure what he's saying to him anymore as he shoves his fingers into the warm damp space between them to touch him, hold him, pull him over the edge, feel him spill out across his fingers and knuckles and palm. Cooler than maybe it should be but still warm against skin chilled by the ocean and the rain. Komaeda's voice is soft and rough and more himself than he's been since Hajime pulled him out of the water and he's mewling needy, filthy things in his ear, his fingers digging narrow furrows in his back even after.

In the aftermath, he continues to run trembling fingers over him, though he isn't really sure why he hasn't just stopped except that Komaeda is still whimpering the word yes over and over again and he's echoing it, both of them caught like a record skipping over a scratch until that 'yes' is replaced by a ragged 'too much' against his shoulder. It sounds half pained and half hopeful, but he just nods and swallows hard and tucks him as gently as he can manage back into his cold, wet briefs. It's really the best he can do one-handed but, just like Komaeda, he isn't willing to completely relinquish his hold to do better.

For a long time, they stay like that with the rain beating down on them and his hand no longer curled around his dick, but instead just pressed between their bodies until Komaeda finally pulled back and began to shift slowly, painstakingly away. He unlocked his legs from around his waist, pulling them back and folding them beneath him so he was more kneeling over his his lap than sitting on it. He was a little surprised that he chose to stay so close as he struggled to fasten his pants with shaking hands, but he didn't make any move to dissuade him. Instead, he just watched him fumble with the fastenings, still stroking his hair with his other hand because he wasn't quite sure what else he should do. He's too afraid to ask the question he knows he needs to ask. Too afraid of what the answer might be.

"Hinata," he murmured, finally breaking into the silence that had fallen between them, his voice still rough and exhausted. He's still looking down, pants and belt refastened, his hands tugging at the edge of his shirt, fingers worrying at the hem. "Don't… leave. Don't..."

"Komaeda, I…"

He shook his head abruptly and Hajime shut his mouth with a snap, teeth clanking together painfully. "No, just… not, not yet. It's just that… it's better when you're here with me. I'm better when you're here, so… I k-know that I… that trash like me doesn't really have any right to ask for…"

"Shut up," Hajime whispered, curling his fingers in his hair and using the hold to draw him back in enough to kiss him.

He just wanted him to shut up.

Just wanted to smother the litany of words that he doesn't understand, words that make him ache and his stomach dive.

He doesn't really think much beyond that, but Komaeda opens for him, immediate and wanting and wet and he can't help but respond in kind. Komaeda's tongue slips past his lips, mapping the inside of his mouth and wriggle artlessly across his tongue and teeth and cheeks. There's no skill to it, just an eagerness to taste and be tasted, to be close and he lifts the hand from between them to touch the side of his face. It still reeks of sex even though he's pretty sure it's only wet with rainwater.

Eventually he draws back far enough that he can look into Komaeda's wet face framed between his hands. He barely even looks like himself at all with his usually wild hair plastered in flat curls and waves against his head, "You're not trash. You're… I'll stay as long as I can so j-just… shut up about all that, okay?"

"This is so pathetic, I'm so pathetic, but I-I just…" he replied, trailing off, his eyes still unfocused, still not quite looking at him and then he's surging forward, pressing their lips together again, more violently than before, as he uses his weight and the force of the movement to overbalance them, to shove him down into the sand.

The rain beat down against his hands where they tangled in Komaeda's hair, but it easy enough to ignore with the push and pull of those kisses to distract him. He could feel water puddling around his head, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care. The kisses were still sloppy and he was pretty sure neither of them was actually much good at it, but it didn't really seem to matter so much. For as much as he disliked him sometimes, for as much as he found him disgusting and disturbing sometimes, for as much as he freaked him out and even though he really didn't understand him at all, he kind of loved kissing him. Maybe he just loved kissing in general, but he didn't think so. He thought he could probably spend all night, every night doing this with Komaeda for the rest of his life and never be bored.

It was a disconcerting thought.

Komaeda broke away eventually, propping himself up to stare down at him with wide, wild eyes, finally really looking at him again. "Do you want to fuck me?" He asked his voice a rush of sound, eager, almost manic. "You could, I'd let you, I'd like it, even if you wanted to… to do it from behind and pretend I was someone else, I'd…"

"You're an idiot. Who would do that?" He grumbled, his fingers flexing where they'd slipped down to settle over his hips. "If… if we had… if we…. sex… I'd always know it was you."

"I suppose you would," Komaeda replied, smiling, but not like it made him happy. "On second thought, maybe it would be better if you left after all. The idea of fucking myself is… just unbearably contemptible, isn't it?"

Hajime sighed scrubbing a damp, gritty hand over his wet face and grimacing, "Didn't stop me from sucking your dick, but I guess even I have my limits, huh?"

"No, probably not," Komaeda replied, sitting back and tracing his fingers up Hajime's chest, flicking carelessly over the buttons on his shirt, tugging at his tie. His voice was flat and disinterested again, "If I were just a little bit less myself, I probably wouldn't care. As long as it was you, I'd want to feel you inside me so I'd sit on your dick and ride you like this, maybe, that way I could watch your face. I'm not sure of all the logistics, but… I'd figure it out and I wouldn't care if it hurt anyway. It's no more than I deserve. Right, Hinata?"

The way he said his name, dragging the syllables out like it was a taunt, grated on his already fraying nerves.

"Who would agree with that?" He grouched, a little irritated that the rain kept falling on his face and in his eyes, making it impossible to glare at Komaeda properly. He swiped a hand across his face, dashing water out of his eyes, useless as it was. "You're so…."

"Filthy? Worthless? Detestable? Pathetic? Covetous? Stupid?"

"Frustrating!" He sat up, knocking a laughing Komaeda off into the puddle that was forming around them. He hit the water with a splash, still laughing, high and almost hysterical. "You're really frustrating! I don't want to hurt you! I never wanted to hurt you even… even after you got Chiaki killed, I was just sorry you were gone."

"Chiaki?" Komaeda asked, the laughter dying away. He twitched his head to side as if he didn't understand the word.

"Chiaki! Oh, come on, Komaeda, Nanami Chiaki."

"What about her?"

"What abo… seriously? We're seriously doing this? I mean… we're talking about sex and you're all… but everything else I have to explain to you like you have no idea what I'm talking about? Like you and I don't know all the same damn things."

"Shut up," Komaeda snapped, rubbing his forehead and looking away sullenly out at the ocean, the rain so heavy now that even though it was only a very short distance away, it might as well have been another world. "Just shut up, Hinata. You're just ordinary, nothing, just... dull and I…. Why are you doing this? You're such a liar, why are we… why am I-I don't… I don't want this."

It was almost a plea and Hajime shook his head wiping water off his face, trying to ignore the cascade that spilled down immediately to cover it again. "Look, can we just go inside and talk about this? Please?"

"You go. I don't want to. Why are you even here? I don't need you. I don't want you, not like this when you act like I'm… and not like that either. You're not even… Why?"

It was frustrating. This was all just so… dammit.

"Komaeda, come on, just… come on…"

"No!"

"You know what? Fine. Stay out here then. Enjoy the rain. I hope it's really fun for you. I hope you have a really great time." Hajime spat, finally fed up. He wasn't going to just sit here in a puddle arguing with Komaeda… no… with himself. Just was just stupid. He was cold and he was wet and he just wanted this dream to be over already. He pinched his arm and when that didn't do the job, and he somehow wasn't the least bit surprised that it didn't, he shoved himself to his feet.

"Where are you…?" Komaeda asked, looking up at him as if he were honestly shocked at find him standing.

"I told you, I'm going inside. I'm freezing and it's terrible out here. Come with me or don't, I don't even care anymore, I'm going inside."

He'd barely gotten out of the puddle when Komaeda's voice called him back.

"Please…!"

"What?" He sighed, turning around to look at him even though he was pretty sure he was going to regret it.

"Please don't go," Komaeda replied in a rush, that plea in his voice again as he looked away, back out at the ocean again, his fingers digging into the wounds in his thighs, though Hajime couldn't tell if that part was purposeful or not. "I-I changed my mind. I'll… we can… have sex, I'm already so desperately pathetic anyway it hardly matters if…"

"No. Hey, no, I'm not… dammit," Hajime sighed and flopping down on the ground beside him, water splashing everywhere. The puddle was getting pretty deep. It was like sitting in a shallow bathtub now, almost.

Had there been that big a dip in the beach? Must have been.

"Look, it's not… it's not because of that. I just… I just want to get out of the rain, that's all, really. It's not because of you. I want you to come with me, okay? I'm wet and I'm cold and… I just want to be not wet and cold for a while since I'm obviously just not going to wake up anytime soon. We can go wherever you want, okay? So, just get up and I'll…"

He saw Komaeda's eyes widen, dark and panicked, as the bottom suddenly seemed to fall out of the world and they both fell with it, down, down, down. Plunging beneath the surface of the puddle that was suddenly a lake or an ocean, unfathomably deep and dark and cold.

There was something around his ankle.

Something that wrapped his ankle in a bone-crushing grip, ripping at his pants and sneaker like it was trying to reach the flesh beneath.

It dragged him down deep and deeper still into the frigid darkness below, as inevitable and inescapable as gravity.

He tried not to scream, but it didn't help as panic choked him and shook a wide-mouthed cry from his lungs, a soundless stream of precious oxygen bubbling wasted from his lips. Water flooded his mouth as the air escaped and he was going to die. He was going to die here. He kicked out at whatever was holding him, dragging him down, but he didn't connect with anything. He felt it tearing at shoe, tugging at the laces and felt it come free. Felt it rip his sock away as well and close, slimy and grotesque, around his bare foot. It squished around his toes, stinging and squelching and terrible as it crept over the arch of his foot as if it were consuming him from the bottom up.

He bent and tumbled round and dug his fingers into something gross and loose and fleshy, felt the too-soft skin of it break and give under his short, blunt nails, coming away in chunks and he almost can't stop himself from screaming again. He felt something long and sharp, slice against his foot, something that had seemed to burst forth from that foul, pulpy stew of flesh and crawl up and over his foot to lodge sharp and jagged and terrible in his unguarded ankle, agonizing as it broke the skin, burrowed into the muscle and sinew beneath. He realized they were fingernails or something like it as he grabbed at them desperately, digging his own nails beneath them and pulling as hard as he could, until he felt one break loose and float away and the hold it had around his ankle weakened a little. Bile rose in his throat as he kicked out again, catching something well enough that he was suddenly moving away and while he could still feel the sharp, needling pain of those nails in his ankle, the tug, the inexorable pull that had been dragging him down moments before, was gone, at least for the moment.

He kicked hard, drove his arms through the water, adrenaline searing through his veins, back towards the surface. Or towards what he thought was the surface at any rate. He'd been so consumed with escaping that he'd lost track and he couldn't really tell anymore. He just knew he needed to get away. He also knew he wasn't going to make it. The water in his mouth couldn't stay there forever and he was beginning to feel light-headed and queasy and it was getting harder to drive himself forward, more and more difficult with each stroke of his arms or kick of his heavy legs to focus on the dim grayish surface of the world that seemed too far away to reach.

Cold, firm fingers brushed against him once, twice, before they closed over his wrist, yanking him onwards and he tried to struggle, but he knew it wasn't amounting to much, that whatever was pulling him this time would have him regardless. He was actually kind of surprised when he broke the surface, spitting water and coughing and gasping as Komaeda urged him toward the shore.

"Quick, move," he rasped, pushing and shoving at him. He felt fingers or something like them catch against his bare heel again and he kicked at it, digging his fingers into the mud and pulling himself out of the puddle to flop on the damp, clinging sand. He glanced back to see Komaeda doing the same. Saw the tremble in his arms and he scrabbled up and grabbed for him even as Komaeda yelped, falling back into the water. He caught him around the shoulder and hauled him up, throwing all his weight backwards and he heard Komaeda cry out as he finally came free and tumbled onto the sand with him. They both scrambled frantically back away from the edge of the dark, quaking waters of the puddle, breathing hard.

"Wh-What the… what was…?" Hajime managed, shivering as he turned to look at Komaeda, who looked pale and utterly stunned and, though it was difficult to be sure because the rain was coming down louder and harder than ever, he was pretty sure was whimpering. "Hey, hey," he called, taking hold of his narrow shoulders. "Komaeda, are you okay?"

"You just tried to drown yourself in a puddle, why wouldn't I be okay?" Komaeda laughed, hysteria giving the noise a sharp edge. "I wanted hope, I wanted you to stay. This must be my luck, right? This is… this is…"

"Okay, no, that's… okay. This isn't even a little bit your fault," Hajime sighed, patting his knee gingerly. He glanced back towards the puddle which had the nerve to just sit there looking harmless, the rain pounding down on the surface making it impossible to see within even if the water were clear enough for it.

And then he noticed the hand.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breath and count to ten as slowly as he could manage as his heart threatened to beat right out of his chest. Because, obviously, there was not a bloated, rotting hand wrapped around his ankle, it's pulpy flesh white and putrid, it's few remaining nails a familiar poison apple red and embedded in his ankle. There was definitely not a splintered bone sticking out the end that had probably been snapped in half by his frantic kick.

No, that was definitely not a thing that was happening.

Ten.

He opened his eyes again.

It was still there.

Because of course it was.

Of course it was.

His brain was just the absolute worst.

"Hey Hinata?"

"Yeah?" he croaked, his throat working violently against the urge to vomit.

"There's a creepy hand-"

"I know," he snapped, opening his eyes to glare at Komaeda. He changed his mind, this was really his fault after all. If he'd just gone with him inside when he wanted to none of this would have happened. "I know that there's a creepy hand, Komaeda. I'm not blind. And even if I were, it's attached to my ankle. That'd be a little tough to miss."

Of course, there could also be something worse waiting for him inside the beach house.

Maybe he should just sit here and hope he woke up soon.

Or maybe he should take Komaeda into the beach house and have sex with him up against the wall in the hopes that coming was the secret to waking up since neither pain or panic or just sitting around waiting was doing the trick. Hell, he could just jerk off here with that awful friggin' hand still clinging to him if that were the case. But, really, he'd never felt less like getting off in his life. Which, wasn't really saying much come to think of it, since he couldn't really remember most of his life anyway.

What the heck was wrong with him? Because obviously something was. Had he always been like this and he just couldn't remember?

"Hinata?"

"Yes, Komaeda?" He replied tiredly, realizing belatedly that he'd been staring at Komaeda all this time and that must have been kind of creepy too. This just wasn't his day. "What is it?"

"Do you want me to throw it back?"

"Please."

He nodded, scooting forward and though he couldn't have said why, he jerked his leg away from Komaeda's reaching hand. Just something… something about the idea of him touching that bloated, ghastly thing was just… no. No way.

"No, wait, sorry, it-it's fine, I'll take care of it," he muttered, shivering again as he reached down and peeled those fingers away from his skin one by one. He had to break two of them and one of the nails broke off of the hand and he had to dig it out of his ankle it was so deeply embedded. He managed to not throw up even though the acid taste burned his tongue and throat. Instead, he just choked and hacked and grimaced his way through the entire process, finally chucking all the loose bits in the direction of the puddle. Some sank, but others just floated there on the surface like tiny, gross ships without a harbor. He gagged a little as he looked back to Komaeda who was just watching him with an expression that was utterly blank, like the lights were on but no one was home.

He felt pain prick at his eyes and he choked back a sob, because somehow the only thing worse than being in this dream in the first place was being here without him. "Komaeda?"

Komaeda blinked once and then twice and then life flooded back into his face in the form of a sort of vague curiosity. It wasn't much, but it was better than the empty, vacant look of a moment before. "Oh, it's gone. That was fast," he commented, his gaze focusing in on Hajime's ankle. "You're bleeding."

Yeah. His brain was really just the worst.

"Yeah, I know. Look, we need to get out of the rain. We'll go up to the beach house and…" He trailed off because Komaeda just stared at him blankly as if he either couldn't comprehend the words or maybe why Hajime was saying them and he had to admit he was feeling a bit like a broken record.

He wished he could just reject all this, reject this shadow version of Komaeda that was by turns everything he needed and nothing he wanted. He honestly wasn't really sure why he kept letting himself be pulled into his orbit over and over again. This version he'd dreamed up of a Komaeda that was so delicate and fragile and prickly and confusing and revolting and compelling and so very terribly broken was just… impossible to disregard. He wanted to protect him as much as he wanted to just wreak him and it was an awful feeling. Every moment he spent with him felt like he was spiraling further and further out of control, just free-falling to earth with nothing to halt his descent or mitigate the impact. Every time he touched him he felt his grip on reality crumble a little more, but knowing that didn't help. He wasn't entirely sure why he couldn't just… just leave him alone, but he couldn't.

Earlier, when this latest dream had started, when he'd seen him sitting on that tree looking out at the ocean, he could have just kept going. There had even been a moment- just a fraction of a second, but there nonetheless- when he'd considered it. Komaeda hadn't seen him, probably hadn't known he was there at all. There had been nothing to stop him from just walking on down that lonely road alone. He could have just gone off to the other side of the island or a different island entirely and sat down somewhere and waited to wake up. Komaeda never came to him, he always went to him, like a moth drawn to a flame and… he thought he probably always would. He'd just keep coming back, seeking him out, because he wanted to keep talking to him and arguing with him and doing all those other things with him and… ugh.

Maybe it was just that he'd never been any good at just leaving him be and that was the truth of it. Even when he'd kind of hated him, even though he still didn't really like him all that much. He'd never been any good at just leaving him to his own devices. And he didn't hate him now. Whatever else he felt for him or about him, he didn't hate him, and this Komaeda had saved him. Even if it was just a case of him saving himself from himself, he still didn't want to just leave him here by that awful puddle and whatever was lurking beneath the surface.

He was sure that if he left now. If he stormed off and didn't drag him bodily along with him, if he just left him there sitting on the wet sand in the pouring rain, he was sure that Komaeda wouldn't follow. He'd just… let him go.

And that somehow seemed like the worst thing in the world.

That image of Komaeda kneeling in the dirt beside that monstrous puddle, watching him walk away, letting him walk away, without a word of protest seemed like it would haunt him long after he woke up.

And then there was the strange, pervasive idea that if he sat there long enough that puddle would just expand and swallow him up and Komaeda would be gone and he'd never see him again and it was stupid. Really stupid, but he just couldn't shake the thought.

"I don't like it there," Komaeda replied suddenly, sullenly, but he let Hajime grab his hand and tug him to his feet. He wobbled a bit once he was standing and he used his free hand to brace him, press against his side until he seemed steady even as his other hand lingered in Komaeda's cool grasp, their fingers clasped loosely. He thought about pulling it free, since it felt a little awkward, but he didn't.

He wanted to kiss him again.

He didn't do that either.

He just turned once he was pretty sure he wasn't just going to just fall over and trudged up the beach towing Komaeda behind him towards the little house where Mahiru had died.

Where Peko had murdered her.

Honestly, it wouldn't have been his first choice either and he didn't blame him for not liking it, for not wanting to go there. He didn't really have any good memories of that beach house, wasn't even sure if it had any lights or anything because he'd never been there at night and the only windows he could see were dark and lifeless as they made their way up the beach. He thought for a moment about suggesting that they keep going. That they pass the house by and follow the path up through the tunnel around to the diner instead, but he could feel the way Komaeda was starting to stumble, as if his legs were stiff and every step was an effort. Plus, the rain was cold and they were both soaking wet. There might be some towels at the beach house at least. So, maybe they'd just stop there to dry off and then he could carry Komaeda up to the diner.

Fuck.

Carry Komaeda up to the diner.

That was a thing. A thing that he'd just seriously considered as a totally reasonable thing to do.

He was just completely losing it, wasn't he?

Thinking about getting him warm and dry, taking him to the diner because the beach house was nothing but uncomfortable memories for both of them? Man-eating monster puddles? Holding him down under the water while he… while they... got off? He still wasn't sure. Just that it made him feel sick and uncomfortable every time he thought about it. How stupid. It was just a dream. Just a stupid, stupid nightmare no matter how often he forgot. He couldn't really take care of him or make him feel better or get him dry or keep him safe. He couldn't do any of that, because he wasn't real. None of this was real.

But, seriously, how the hell had they even gotten to the second island anyway? He was sure they'd been on the first island when the dream had first started. So, why were they even… ugh. Why did it bother him so much that he didn't know? That there was this huge gapping hole between watching Komaeda disappear into the rain and humping him on the beach like a total pervert? Why did that part just keep needling at him? Why?

He was so tired of trying to make sense of it. He wasn't sure why he even bothered with the attempt when it never came to anything.

Inside the beach house, the tiles felt damp, almost slimy, and the air was warm, humid from the damp. Hajime shivered despite the heat as he flicked the switch on the wall and he wasn't even a little surprised when no light came on. Thunder rumbled and crashed outside as lightning flashed, lighting up the darkened room briefly. He could see Komaeda's old clothes strewn across the floor, covered in sand, but… there were far too many of them. The same patterns over and over, like looking down at lengths of discarded wallpaper. "Why… why are there so many?" He asked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.

Komaeda shrugged listlessly, leaning back against the wall next to the door as if he were planning an escape and didn't want to move too far from the exit. "Don't know. Told you. That's all there is. There's a never-ending supply in the closet. They're all just the same."

"That's… crazy," Hajime murmured.

"Don't call me crazy," Komaeda warned and through the darkness he couldn't quite make out his expression. His voice wasn't quite angry, but it was kind of cold and there was a definite threat in it. "Not you. I'm not… I'm not crazy."

"I didn't mean it like that," Hajime sighed. Even fake Komaeda was hard work. "Just the clothes thing. The clothes thing is weird."

"Oh. Yeah. I guess."

"Is that why you're wearing my shirt instead of your own?"

Komaeda nodded, his fingers fisting and curling around the shirt where the hem lay limp and crumpled and dirty across his thighs. "That too."

"Why else?"

"Because it's… hope. Hope that this isn't… that you're…"

"That I'm…?"

"Nothing, it doesn't matter," Komaeda replied, shrugging. "I could still suck you off if you want."

"No, that's okay," Hajime replied uneasily. He was beginning to wonder if Komaeda used sex as a distraction technique or if he was just really that into the idea. "How about I go see if there are any towels, okay?"

"There are. There was a stack," Komaeda murmured, gesturing in the vague direction of the closet. "It's in there."

"Okay," Hajime murmured, stepping through into the dark of the closet. It was somehow even warmer and more unpleasant in there than out in the main room and so dark that he could only make out the vague shapes of the shelves. He heard Komaeda step in behind him, stepping so close that his breath caught.

"Up there," he murmured, one hand slipping over his shoulder to point at one of the shelves. Lightning flashed as thunder crashed and he thought he could make out a tall pile that could have been towels on the shelf Komaeda was pointing to. He stepped forward and stood up on his toes to reach them, sliding the whole pile of soft terrycloth off the shelving and turning to find himself staring at Komaeda's back as he retreated back into the main room. He followed, feeling strangely bereft like he'd lost something, but he couldn't think of why.

A glance back and another well-timed lightning strike reminded him that there was a rack at the back of the closet that used to hold wet suits and he could see was now full of clothes. He turned back into the closet and stepped closer to the rack, setting the pile of towels down on the shelf beside him so he could reach out and touch the clothes hanging there. Weird that he should be able to recognize the texture of Komaeda's jacket just by running his fingers across the sleeve. Maybe it was just because he was expecting it to be his jacket and that was why. Just like Komaeda had said, it seemed like everything hanging on that rack was just another copy of that same outfit. Could he just not imagine Komaeda in anything else? That seemed really weird, because he thought… he thought he could picture him in other things. In soft, dark knit shirts, or maybe stupid novelty t-shirts or even other dress shirts like his own. In… in skinny jeans or the sort of soft loose cloth pants they were all wearing at the hospital. It wasn't difficult to imagine him in any of those things. And, honestly, if his stupid imagination could manage grotesque things like that hand and the man-eating puddle then it should be able to give him something more to wear than just… this.

Not that it mattered, of course. Not that he cared. It would be a little crazy to be standing in this dark, humid closet wondering why he couldn't play proper dress up with his pretend boyfriend.

Well, that was an unbearably depressing way of describing it.

Friend with benefits, maybe? But were they really friends?

Dream lover? Well, no, that was even lamer.

Fuck buddy? That was a thing wasn't it? But... probably inaccurate.

Imaginary playmate? Well, that just made him sound like he was fooling around with a little kid. Gross.

Was there a better phrase for it? Did it matter? Was there really any phrase that could possibly downplay the fact that he was clearly losing what was left of his mind? That could make it seem like it wasn't completely insane to be standing in the dark by himself wondering why he couldn't dress Komaeda up in nicer clothes that covered the giant spear wound in his chest so that they would both feel better about it.

In the end he snatched two clothes-laden hangers angrily off the rack and laid the clothes over the towels, carrying the whole lopsided pile back out of the closet, kicking the door closed behind him with way more force than was strictly necessary.

Back it the main room Komaeda had already gone back to leaning against the wall near the beachside door, looking pallid and wet and skinny and a little sickly in the dim light. He startled a bit at the loud bang of the door, but he didn't look back at him. His arms were wrapped tight around his chest as he stared out the window at the storm or the ocean beyond or maybe at nothing at all; it was impossible to tell.

Hajime blew out an annoyed breath and held out one of the towels after setting the rest on the little table by the window. Komaeda looked up at him briefly out of the corner of his eye, but made no move to take it.

"You should dry off," he sighed, stepping closer and pressing the towel against Komaeda's wet stomach. That close he could see that he was shivering, could feel the tremble of it through the towel and the press of his hand behind it.

"W-why?" Komaeda replied, seemingly genuinely confused by the request.

"I don't know, just humor me, okay?" Hajime sighed again, unfolding the towel and shaking it out before draping it over Komaeda's head. He rubbed the soft cloth roughly over his hair until Komaeda batted his hands away and reluctantly took over. "Take off your clothes too, okay?"

"I…"

He could see the protest coming a mile off and decided to just head it off at the pass rather than waste a lot of time arguing about it. He really did seem to love to argue with himself.

"I'm not going to steal your damn shirt or anything. I just want to get you dry. Just take it off. We'll ring it out then you can put it right back on if you want. You should put on dry pants though. What's the point of having like fifty pairs of them if you can't change them out?"

Komaeda shrugged, but his fingers went to the shirt buttons, popping them loose one after the other. Hajime tried not to watch, to ignore the twinge of desire as he watched those nimble fingers move from button to button, steadier now than they had been or so it seemed. He tried to ignore the chest wound as it was unveiled, to not think about sticking his fingers in… god, he needed to get it together. This was ridiculous. Sometimes he felt like he was one awkward touch or moment away from just humping Komaeda's leg or something. It really was embarrassing how little self-control he actually had.

Komaeda peeled the shirt from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor with a wet slap before loosening his belt and shimmying out of his clinging pants and briefs. It took a lot more effort than it seemed like it should and by the time he'd managed to peel them down his legs and kick his way free of them he was panting and coughing again. He slumped back against the wall as if even standing were too much effort to bother with, naked except for the towel draped over his shoulders.

When it became obvious that Komaeda had no intention of moving anytime soon, Hajime sighed and tried to focus on making the process of patting him dry as impersonal as possible. He could feel him shivering again (still?) so he tried to be fast and through about it. He wasn't doing this because he wanted to or because he enjoyed it, it was just to get him dry because he seemed too exhausted to do it himself. That was all. No ulterior motives. He was just being nice. There wasn't anything wrong with it, with him. Nope, just a totally normal pat down between friends, nothing to see here, folks, move along.

He really needed to get damn grip already.

His thoughts became a litany of all the things he didn't want to do as he pressed the towel along Komaeda's long skinny arms and down the pale canvas of his chest and stomach covered as they were in old, fading scars and fresh wounds. He nervously skirted the wounds, pressed tentative and careful over the many bruises, flowering clouds of color bursting across his clammy skin in trails and spots like objects in space that he most definitely did not want to press his lips against. Just as he most certainly did not want to suck on those nipples that were so hard and almost purple in the dim light, particularly the one that almost disappeared beneath a particularly vivid pattern of bruising high on the left side of his chest. He did not want to shove his fingers inside that open wound again, feel that pulsing heat and hear the soft, shattered sounds Komaeda would make. He did not want to wrap his fingers and his tongue around that soft cock and tease and suckle it until it became long and hard and warm in his mouth. Nope. No interest in that. No interest in feeling him come across his tongue rather than down his throat this time so he could taste it, really taste it, really feel it. He did not want to touch all the places he hadn't touched yet, the soft, delicate skin of his balls, the back of his knobby knees, the taunt muscle of his shins or those trembling, shivering thighs. He most definitely didn't want Komaeda's long fingers to press inside him and he absolutely did not want Komaeda to... to fuck him on the cold, hard, damp tile floor of the beach house until he came screaming his name.

He didn't even honestly know what that would entail; not really, he only had sort of a vague conceptual idea of how it was done between guys when it came to actual sex in the first place. As Fuyuhiko might have said, he was pretty certain he knew where tab A met slot B or whatever, but not much of the logistics beyond that. All he really knew besides that was that he didn't want to be the one sticking it in, especially the first time, when there was a chance he'd hurt him without meaning to, by just not knowing what the heck he was doing, but he liked the way the word sounded.

Fuck.

Liked the warm, frantic blurry images it brought to mind every time Komaeda said it, every time he thought about it now, images that usually involved Komaeda's breath against the back of his neck and his dick inside him, filling up all the empty places even if he wasn't terribly clear on how that might actually feel as the only comparison he really had was jerking himself off or jerking Komaeda off or the feel of Komaeda's dick in his mouth that one time and he was pretty sure none of those were really at all the same thing. He just knew that he wanted it. Wanted to be close and closer still in every conceivable way with him which he would have found a lot more disturbing earlier. Now he could almost just accept it.

"Hinata?" Komaeda's voice was soft, but it drew him back to himself and he realized he was kneeling on the floor, wiping the towel down Komaeda's long, pale legs. Komaeda's fingers were brushing through his hair, gentle, coaxing and he shuddered, forcing his focus to remain on Komaeda's knees as he finished wiping the towel down his shins, careful not to press too hard against the cuts and bruises he found there.

"Yeah?" He asked finally, unsure if he really wanted to know.

"Thanks."

"No problem," he managed, clearing his throat and pressing the towel against the tops of Komaeda's feet before snagging a dry towel from the pile and wrapping it around Komaeda's waist, tucking it in to secure it and smoothing it out. He slowly climbing back to his feet again, barely standing again before he felt Komaeda's cool hands against his cheeks holding him in place for the kiss that followed.

It was just the press of lips, a little damp and a little cool, shy and hesitant and sweet in a way none of their kisses up to this point had been. It felt… intimate in a way that made the hot, heavy, devouring kisses in the hotel room and even the eager, artless, messy kisses on the beach seem strangely impersonal and unreal.

He swallowed hard, raising his own hands to rest against the back of Komaeda's, just the barest touch of his fingers like he was afraid he'd frighten him away if he pressed too hard.

"You should dry off too," Komaeda murmured finally, drawing back a little, his gaze warm, almost feverish.

"Yeah," he croaked, his voice unaccountably rough as he turned away, clearing his throat again and started the slow, painfully awkward process of undressing. Tie first, loosened and pulled over his head in quick, angry jerks. Shirt next, his fingers trembling on the buttons so that it took several tries before he managed to actually get them undone, and he dropped it carelessly to the floor. Then shoes, socks, pants (his belt clanked so loudly in the high-ceiled room) and finally underwear all met the floor with heavy, wet smacks. Thunder continued to crash outside and lightning to flash, casting strange long shifting shadows on the wall every minute or so. He'd been so caught up in watching them that he hadn't seen Komaeda move or maybe he was just suddenly there, his hand appearing in Hajime's peripheral vision holding out a dry towel.

"You may be boring and ordinary, Hinata, but you've never been hard on the eyes," he said softly, the fingers of his free hand pressing briefly against Hajime's bare back, just over the base of his spine. Heat shivered through him at that simple touch.

It was perilously close to a compliment and he felt the burn of that in his cheeks. He wasn't sure if he'd ever been complimented on his appearance before. He probably had, he knew he was attractive enough, but nothing came immediately to mind. Or maybe it was just somehow different to hear it said in that particular way, by that particular boy. "Y-yeah, thanks, I guess."

"It's just a fact. Are you cold?"

"I don't know. A little," he murmured, taking the towel and wrapping it around his waist. Funny. He'd been freezing earlier. Now he was almost uncomfortably warm. He turned around to snag another from the pile to finish drying his hair and shoulders and found Komaeda already holding one out. He smiled as he took it, murmuring a quiet thanks. Komaeda just nodded, his expression strangely contemplative.

"There's no hot water in the showers," he commented suddenly.

"I guess there wouldn't be. The lights didn't work either," Hajime replied, rubbing the towel over his damp, clammy skin. "I thought maybe we could go up to the diner. I mean, it's probably not much better or warmer than here, but… at least it wouldn't be somewhere one of our friends died."

"They weren't your friends, you know," Komaeda replied, his tone still conversational, casual. "They weren't anyone's friends. They were Ultimate Despair. We were Ultimate Despair."

"Yeah, I know, but… I don't think that makes the friendships we built here any less real," Hajime replied immediately, earning himself a derisive snort.

"We're not even on the same level, Hinata, how could you possibly think we were friends? The talentless cannot exist on the same plane of existence as the talented, not really; birds and fish can never be friends. It's just the nature of the world. We can't help being what we are."

"What are we then? If not friends?" He asked and he immediately regretted it. When he looked at him, he found that Komaeda was all poise and condescension. This was the confident Komaeda, the insidious Komaeda, the one who played devil's advocate in trials, who didn't seem to care about anything or anyone or who he hurt so long as he got his point across, as long as he got what he wanted though he wasn't even sure if even Komaeda knew what that truly was half the time. Hajime felt his stomach sink into the vicinity of his shoes because he knew he wouldn't be able to convince him of anything like this. He hated that look.

And he was so tired of this. Of these quicksilver mood changes that seemed to happen at random, with no warning whatsoever. Of caring, of not caring, of wanting to help him and then realizing he couldn't help him, he couldn't help him because he wasn't real. He wasn't anything. He was just so very, dreadfully tired of all of it.

Heck, he couldn't even help himself, really.

He knew none of this was real. He did. He did.

But.

But this stupid dream just seemed to go on and on, so much longer than all the others, by turns both better and infinitely worse and he couldn't… he couldn't keep doing this. He felt like he was going to rip himself in two trying to force a divide in his brain between the things he knew were real and what wasn't and he just… he couldn't keep track. He knew he couldn't. How many times had he forgotten since the dream began? Forgotten that he couldn't die here? Couldn't be injured here? That he wasn't really kissing him, that he wasn't really hurting him either. That neither of them could be loved or touched or saved really, because neither of them really existed here in any way that mattered. They were all just parts of him, just firing synapses and surging hormones and he was so tired of feeling guilty, of trying so hard to be good. Of trying to be kind and trying to keep it together and be the levelheaded one, the understanding one, intuitive and good at listening, the ultimate counselor as Fuyuhiko had put it what seemed like a thousand years ago now. Trying to be everything to everyone both in here and out there. He was just so tired of playing at being the best Hinata Hajime he could be when, really, he didn't even know who that was anymore… if he'd ever really known at all.

Maybe that had been half the problem. Maybe that was why… why he'd wanted so badly to be special. And maybe… maybe Izuru had always been there, some version of him, beneath the surface of Hinata Hajime, scratching at the ceiling of his soul waiting for a chance to claw his way through to freedom. Maybe they'd given him all that talent and just scrapped away the Hinata Hajime-flavored surface layer, inadvertently weakening that thin veneer of personality that imprisoned him and allowing Izuru to emerge fully-formed from the darkness within him like some sort of eldritch horror. Maybe the most awful, terrifying parts that lay at the core of who and what Izuru had been, the essential threads that had driven him had just been some hidden, secret part of Hinata Hajime all along.

Maybe that was the secret, maybe that was the truth he wanted to forget the most.

Maybe.

"We are nothing. Just a way to pass the time," Komaeda replied easily, earnestly, like he believed his words to be an absolute, inarguable truth. "Even an ordinary, talentless nobody is capable of providing a warm hole to stick it in."

"Really? That's it?" Hajime inquired, feeling strangely, unsettlingly calm. He set the towel he'd been using to dry his hair aside and stepping closer until they were almost nose-to-nose. He still hated that Komaeda was taller. Hated it. "So, you're fine with my leaving you behind here? You're fine by yourself?"

"Why not? It's not like I need you," Komaeda said, but his voice was softer, just the barest edge of hesitation. "You're not even real… you're just a cheap imitation of him. You're just… the boy from the beach, pretty to look at, but nothing I need. No one special at all, no one."

"Let me tell you a secret, Komaeda," Hajime replied, leaning forward so he could say the words into Komaeda's ear without having to see his expression. It felt a little bit like he was embracing the crazy, but he couldn't keep seesawing back and forth and beating himself up for forgetting the difference between dream and reality. The guilt and the confusion caused by his own actions, the sick feeling caused by Komaeda's quicksilver personality changes, the terror caused by the horrors this nightmare seemed intent on creating for him; if he kept trying to reason all those things out and reconcile them with reality they would eventually break him down and eat him alive. He was certain of it. Best just to go with it. Here… here it was safe. Safe to let it out, to stop trying so hard, maybe figure out who he actually was between the boy he had been and the monster he became and the man he was now. He could feel bad about it later when he was back in the waking world, but for now… for now he'd just go with it. Hell, maybe that was the secret to waking up. To just… do what he wanted and say what he wanted and try not to be such an angst-ridden little bitch about it. This was as good a place as any to start.

"You're right. I'm not really Hinata Hajime at all. I'm just the boy who woke up on the beach and began going through the motions, but even if I'm not special to you, you're special to me. You'll always be special to me. Yours was the first face I saw, the first voice I heard calling to me in the dark and even after everything I can't leave you alone. I don't know why, but I can't. It's like being obsessed, it's probably not healthy at all, but I want you with me. I want to touch every part of you. I want to talk to you and argue with you and sometimes I want to hit you in the head with a fucking rock because you can be a real asshole when you want to be. But you're never boring and I don't think I bore you either, not really, because I think you want me even when you're like this. Even when you don't care or even when you just pretend you don't because you don't think I do," he drew a hand up Komaeda's chest, sliding it through his drying hair and around the back of his neck. Felt the hitch in his breath, the way Komaeda's body swayed towards him and smiled. "I think you want me with you just as badly as I want you with me. Tell me you don't, Komaeda, tell me you want me to leave you here and I will. I'll leave you here for now. I'll probably try and find you again later, but for now I'll leave you alone. Is that what you want, Komaeda?"

"You're incredibly dull," Komaeda replied, his tone like a dare, as he found Hajime's free hand with his own, tangling their fingers together. He almost groaned, of all the things they'd done with each other and to each other, nothing had felt as good as those fingers seeking out and tangling with his own. Like connection, a need and a purpose fulfilled. Why did something that simple feel so damn nice? "So pathetically ordinary that I can hardly stand to be around you at all. I hate the way you carry on."

"And I hate the way you never know when to shut up," Hajime murmured, pressing his lips against the shell of Komaeda's ear, the skin still cool and a little damp. "Let's get dressed and get out of here."

"Yes."

-ooo-

The water beat loud against the plastic tarp, streaming off behind them and splashing against Hajime's bare heels as they hurried up the path and across the deserted parking lot to the diner. The door was unlocked and the string of bells tied to the inside of the door clanked obnoxiously as he yanked it open and shoved Komaeda inside, dropping the tarp and followed after as the heavy glass door swung closed behind them with another ringing, jangling clatter of those bells. He couldn't remember if there had actually been bells on the diner door in the game.

Maybe there had been, maybe not, it didn't really matter.

Komaeda breathed out a sigh that sounded a little like a quiet 'huh' as he stepped further into the narrow aisle between the bar and the booths.

The electricity was on in here as well. He'd noticed the big neon sign outside was all lit up, impossible to miss even with the tarp and the torrent of rain, but he hadn't really held out much hope for the interior being lit up, but it was.

Kind of.

Little bits of neon glowing soft and pink and yellow in the darkness, the exit sign was harsh and red and the jukebox near the back hall was lit up as well. Even the coffee machine on the counter had a little orange light on indicating that it had power… or something, he actually wasn't certain what that light meant. The various neon writing on the wall advertising ice cream and coffee were lit as well, bright in the darkness, more than enough light to see by which already made the place a vast improvement over the beach house.

Hajime looked around for a light switch, something to flip on the big hanging lamps over aisle, but there was nothing near the door. He set down the towels he'd brought along on the table of the first booth. "I'm going to see if I can find a light switch or a flashlight or something."

"Okay," Komaeda replied distractedly, wandering off towards the yellow and pink glow of the jukebox at the back of the aisle. He'd seen enough of the back hall in the game to know it was pitch black and windowless back there so he'd have a much better time if he found a flashlight or something so he wasn't just feeling around in the dark and hoping for the best. He was pretty sure that was just asking for trouble and really the last thing he needed to cap this bullshit dream off was a carnivorous bathroom or something.

As Hajime slipped behind the counter to look for a switch there first or- failing that- a flashlight, he heard the soft click-clack sound of a button being pushed and then another. He glanced up to find Komaeda was standing, his shoulders hunched, in front of the jukebox, pressing buttons and flipping through the song book inside using a little dial on the front of the box. Nothing seemed to be happening though no matter how many buttons he pressed. "Maybe it needs change?" He suggested and Komaeda laughed.

"You think so?"

"I don't know, maybe? Let me see what I can find," he replied, turning his attention back to his search.

There was an amazing amount of random junk under the counter. Some of it was the kind of thing you'd expect to find in a restaurant: cups, silverware, paper napkins and ketchup bottles, extra coffee pots and packets of little crackers. A lot of it though was just random stuff: children's toys and a bunch of old lottery tickets and dusty paperbacks and cassette tapes. He found a couple of packaged glow sticks and a box of matches that he shoved in the pockets of his borrowed pants before finally coming up with an ancient red and grey handled flashlight. He flipped the big switch on the handle and was pleasantly surprised when it flickered to life.

"Great," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. He was about to turn away from the counter when he saw a glass jar of change labeled 'tips' in big childish writing. He picked it up, shaking the jar in Komaeda's direction. Komaeda turned back to him, smiling at the find.

"I think it takes 100yen coins," he commented and Hajime fished a few from the jar, pushing them across the counter.

"Knock yourself out," he grinned, their fingers brushing as Komaeda took the coins and offered him another bright smile before hurrying back over to the machine. He heard the chink of coins slipping into the slot followed by the soft click-clack of buttons and he shook his head turning his attention back to the counter. He pulled out a packet of the crackers and ripped it open, suddenly ravenous, which made sense, he supposed, since he hadn't really had much of anything besides coffee all day.

He turned to look at the coffee machine hopefully as he finished his crackers. After a couple moments of peering at it though, he gave it up as a bad job. Too many unlabeled buttons and switches of indeterminate origin and purpose. For all he knew he'd hit a couple and it'd throw the damn coffee pot at him or try to eat his hand or something.

He turned back to grab another bag of crackers since all the ones he'd eaten had seemed to do was make him more aware of the fact that he was hungry. He pulled several bags out of the box below the counter and realized that while Komaeda was still over at the jukebox pressing buttons, maybe a little faster and with more force than before if the sharp click-clack sounds were any indication, there wasn't any music coming out of the box yet. Figured that the damn thing would be broken, it wasn't like he'd ever listened to much music. "You hungry?" He asked, jiggling one of the cracker packets. "There are enough of these back here to feed a really tiny army."

"Huh? Oh, um, no?" Komaeda replied uncertainly, sounding distracted. "I don't… I don't think I can get…"

He trailed off into silence and while Hajime couldn't see his expression, he could see the tension in the rigid line of his spine as he pressed his palms against the glass top of the jukebox. Something about that posture reminded him of the tension he'd seen in the shoulders of Naegi's Togami earlier that morning. "Komaeda?" He asked quietly, knowing with a sort of soft, inevitable dread that something bad was about to happen.

Komaeda made a sound like a sob and brought a hand crashing down against the glass top of the jukebox. The resulting bang was so loud it made Hajime jump even though he saw it coming. The jukebox leapt to life, whirling and clicking as Komaeda slammed his clenched fist down against it again, sobs like screams tearing free from his chest as he kicked out at the machine. It was so sudden that for long moments, Hajime stood frozen unable to quite process Komaeda's rage or what had set him off. He wasn't… he wasn't sure he'd ever seen Komaeda actually angry before. Hadn't even been sure he could get angry really.

Komaeda slapped his hands against the top of jukebox again and when he flung his hands back to get up the momentum to do it again something wet splashed across Hajime's face and he noticed that the white countertop was dotted and streaked with red.

He cursed.

He'd thought he heard the glass crack under that last blow, but he hadn't realized what that might mean. Stupid. He dropped the cracker packets, crushing them beneath his feet as he scrambled up and over the counter clumsily. He heard the shatter and clatter of spice shakers and napkin dispensers against the tile floor as he knocked them out of his way in his hurry to get to Komaeda and stop him from hurting himself more seriously than he already had. When he hopped down on the other side, he felt glass slice into his feet and yelped, but he was too panicked to bother with it just yet, his heart in his throat as he limped forward and grabbed his shoulders and pulling him back away from the jukebox.

He turned his fury on him instead, fists slamming into his chest as he made shushing sounds and winced under the rain of heavy blows. "Komaeda! Komaeda, it's okay," he tried getting only a harsh bark of laughter in response in between the sobs. Of course, he probably could have managed a more convincing argument if he'd actually known what the hell had set him off, but he didn't. He didn't know anything except that he really wanted Komaeda to just stop hitting him already.

"Nagito!" He roared, grabbing thin, damp shoulders and shaking him briskly.

Komaeda stilled altogether, going limp like someone had pulled his plug. "Don't," he whispered, his voice just the barest whisper of sound. "He doesn't call me that. Please…"

"What… Komaeda, I…" he tried again, feeling a little embarrassed at having used his first name in the first place when they weren't…. "Sorry, I shouldn't have…"

"No," Komaeda replied, his fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough that he was sure they'd leave little round bruises behind. "No. It's fine, it's… I don't…."

He trailed off as if he'd lost the thread of whatever he'd meant to say and all the fight seemed to drain out of him. He made a soft wounded noise and fell loose and boneless against him and Hajime was pretty sure that if he hadn't thrown his arms around him and caught him awkwardly up against his chest then he'd have just fallen to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

The jukebox continued to play as they stood there in awkward silence some woman warbling away in English. It was a nice enough sound but not one he thought he'd ever heard before. He recognized the words though he'd never been the best student when it came to English, at least not that he remembered, but her diction was very clear and… maybe this was another dream thing. Being able to understand things, languages, you might not normally understand. Maybe. Or maybe Izuru had had a talent for languages as well.

"…drove me nearly out of head while you never shed a tear… remember… I remember all that you said…"

Hajime snorted, burying his face against Komaeda's damp hair, "I think they're playing our song. I really have a pretty terrible sense of humor."

"Ella Fitzgerald," Komaeda murmured, lips moving against Hajime's collarbone. His voice was soft and toneless, like someone reading lines from a really boring play, just marking time. Eventually he seemed a little steadier, taking a bit more of his own weight even while he continued to lean against him. "My father liked records, he had dozens, a whole collection on a shelf next to the player in his study that I wasn't allowed to touch. He'd play them some nights, late, after I was supposed to be in bed while he was working and I laid down on the floor by the door sometimes to listen to them. The sound echoed right up the stairs. I fell asleep there one night listening and when my mother asked what would possess me to do such a thing, I told her I liked the music.

"After that he would play them before dinner each night, while I was doing my homework. He didn't usually like to be around me much, but he would allow me to do my work on the floor of his study so I could listen. Sometimes he would tell me about them. The names of singers and albums and bands and songs and when he had first heard them, that sort of thing, so that was really good luck… my falling asleep like that. Really, really good luck, because there wouldn't be any music if I didn't, right? Everything after... I thought getting caught was bad luck, but maybe it was good luck because I can still hear it. Hell isn't so bad with a soundtrack, right? Are we dancing?"

"I don't think this qualifies," Hajime answered, trailing his fingers over Komaeda's damp tangled hair. "Do you want to?"

"I wouldn't know how," Komaeda replied, shrugging. "And you're bleeding all over the place. I feel like I'm going to slip and fall on my ass any second."

"You're one to talk," Hajime snorted, scooping up Komaeda's bleeding hand and bringing it up his mouth, licking over the cuts there. Komaeda sighed, winding his unwounded arm around his Hajime's waist and leaning back a little to watch him.

"This is better than sitting in the rain," he commented, pressing his damp, wounded fingers against Hajime's lips. He obligingly opened for them, sucking at the tips, lapping up the blood that stained those digits before allowing them to slip back out with wet popping sounds. It didn't taste like much of anything, but he liked the way Komaeda's eyelids drooped as he watched him do it.

"Glad you think so. It's always nice to know where I rate," Hajime smiled, dropping his hand.

"We should get you cleaned up too," Komaeda replied, fingers dancing across his bare back. He hadn't bothered to put on either his own wet shirt or one of Komaeda's weird bloody, holey t-shirts before they'd left the beach house. He'd kind of been hoping he'd find a t-shirt in the diner. He might still really, he wasn't sure, but it seemed like the kind of place that probably sold novelty t-shirts with that obnoxious logo on it. "You want me to lick your wounds?"

"Probably. Sounds like something I'd like," Hajime replied, shrugging as he steered him back across the floor to the nearest booth and slid his hands down his back, over his ass to cup and hold at the top of his thighs so he could lift him up and slide him backwards to sit on the tabletop. "Careful," he murmured, retrieving his hands and leaning back enough to offer him a smile. "There's a lot of broken glass, obviously. Stay here, I'll get a broom or something."

Komaeda gave him a smile that spoke of indulgence and released his hold on him to lean back on the tabletop, "Take your time. I haven't got anywhere to be."

Hajime snorted and snagged the flashlight he'd dropped on the countertop before making his way gingerly around the counter, past the jukebox and into the back hall, pausing only briefly to pick a couple of large chunks of glass out of his foot.

The hall was long and dark and strangely quiet like the jukebox was turned at a funny angle so the majority of the sound was lost the second he stepped away from it. He could still hear the singer though, crooning through the darkness. It sounded so different without the music, without Komaeda's voice chasing it with softly spoken lies, that he couldn't tell if it was the same song or even the same singer.

"…he would always laugh and say, remember when we used to play… bang bang… I shot you down… bang bang… you hit the ground…"

There were three doors at the end of the short hallway

All three doors were unmarked with chrome handles, one on each wall, none of them labeled.

He stared at them, the way the handles glinted dully in the lantern light, a chill creeping up his spine as the music continued to play and the woman continued to sing. He bit his lip wondering if he should just turn the hell around and head back the way he'd come. Maybe they should leave, head somewhere else. Not to the ruins of Hope's Peak, obviously, hell no, but maybe… hadn't there been a library or something?

"Okay?" The word was soft and close and warm breath puffed against his ear.

"Dammit!" Hajime yelped, leaping away from Komaeda, the flashlight flying from his hand and clattering down the hall where it slammed into the far wall and went dark. Komaeda's laughter echoed in the hall and he turned around to glare at him in the dim light cast by the jukebox. "Komaeda, you're such an ass!"

"Ah, Hinata, did I scare you?" He replied, his voice light and airy with giggles like the carbonation in soda floating beneath the surface of his words.

"You know damn well you did."

"I did, didn't I? That's funny. It's so very dark back here. Like another world, if it were totally dark it would be like we didn't exist at all. No you, no me, just the black." His back hit the wall and he hadn't even realized he was moving, letting Komaeda crowd and steer him until it did. There was another soft thump and he found himself staring down at the top of Komaeda's head, just a blur of pale hair in the barely lit darkness.

"Hey, what are you…?" He asked, even though the answer was perfectly obvious as Komaeda's fingers made quick work of the belt and fastenings of his borrowed pants.

"You're so slow, Hinata," Komaeda replied, as loud, wet slurping sounds filled the hall and Hajime banged his head back against the wall, his fingers instantly tangling in Komaeda's hair.

It took almost no time at all before his legs were trembling so badly it was difficult to keep standing and he was yanking on Komaeda's hair trying to draw him back and away, "I'm gonna… Komaeda… I'm really... uh... close... I'm… Komaeda."

If his warning was heard, it went ignored and unheeded and he choked on a groan, bending and cradling Komaeda's head against his body as he came, stuttering out his name with Komaeda's nails sharp points of pain at his waist. A man's voice echoed down the hall, but the words sounded grabbled and he couldn't really make them out over the sound of his own heavy panting breath and the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears as Komaeda drew away. He let him go, leaning back against the wall before sliding down to slump on the floor, his legs sprawled and bent on either side of Komaeda's kneeling form. The hall just wasn't quite wide enough for him to straighten his legs.

"That wasn't anything like I thought it would be," Komaeda commented smiling at him and reaching out to run his fingers down his cheeks. "I liked the way you said my name."

"I liked the way you did that, so I guess we're even," Hajime replied, returning the smile with one of his own. "I wasn't expecting that at all. I was kind of expecting coming down this hall to turn into a total horror show."

Komaeda shrugged, "I told you, I have bad impulse control."

"Yeah, you did tell me that," he agreed, straightening his borrowed briefs and re-fastening his trousers and belt.

"Hm, I almost expected you to disappear the second you came," Komaeda commented with feigned nonchalance. "I suppose I'm not particularly disappointed that you didn't."

Hajime sighed, "It's weird, right? I don't know if I'm glad I didn't or worried."

"What do you mean?"

"Nevermind, it's nothing," Hajime murmured, remembering his decision to stop poking the proverbial badger.

"Don't try to make me something I'm not. This nonsense of yours has got to stop right now. C'mon, c'mon baby, take me for what I am…"

"What's this one?" He asked in spite of himself, eager for a change in subject.

"Mm? I don't remember it was… hm, I had a therapist after the crash, she liked… he… the first time I… no, that wasn't…. I was… no, that's not… I wasn't…" Komaeda frowned, pushing himself to his feet and pacing down the hall into the dark muttering, mostly to himself it seemed. Hajime watched him for a long moment before trying to catch his hand on the second pass.

Komaeda shook off his grip, his movements jerky and brisk, and his bare feet nearly silent as he disappeared down the dark hall and came back almost as quickly, a hand rubbing furiously at his forehead, smearing fresh blood across his face. "Maybe. Maybe I was… he was… I spilled the coffee and, no, I… stuffed monkey? No, that's stupid. Maybe on the plane? They didn't usually take me on vacation with them. I-I was afraid of flying, but it didn't matter, I'm still… maybe… maybe… I was… I'm… I'm…"

On his third turn down the hall, he didn't come back.

Hajime could still hear him mumbling to himself in the darkness though it sounded more distant than it had before. He couldn't quite make out the words anymore, but the tone was getting more and more frantic. He cursed and stumbled to his feet, not really surprised that his legs were still unsteady, more like jelly filled stockings than legs at all really.

"Komaeda?" He called and the mumbling cut off abruptly leaving only a hungry silence in that long dark hall which seemed suddenly longer and more forbidding than it had been moments before. He felt around in his pocket for the box of matches he'd found earlier and slipped one free, striking it against the side of the box.

It wasn't a huge help, but he could tell that the hall was suddenly much longer than it had been; so long that he couldn't see the end and where there had only been three doors before there were now dozens. Grey doors with tiny windows that could be pushed open, probably, since they didn't seem to have handles. It actually looked a little bit like a hospital hallway actually. The fire burned his fingers and he cursed, dropping the match to the floor, stomping on it automatically and then cursing again as it burned the sole of his foot as it was snuffed out. "Komaeda? Are you there? Please stop messing around and just answer me."

Familiar laughter echoed down the corridor, the same, but different too. "If you want him so badly, come and get him."

Panic seized at his heart, clawing at it was icy fingers, "Komaeda?"

"Come find me and see for yourself, if it matters so much to you."

And he knew he was going to regret it, but just like on the road and the beach, just like always, he'd never been able to just leave Komaeda alone. He took a deep breath, pushed his anxiety down as best he could and edged forward down the hall, further and further into the darkness, the box of matches clutched tight in his hand.