"Being lost isn't the same as being nowhere. Being lost is worse because there's the false hope that you might be found."
― Paul Tremblay, The Little Sleep
-ooo-
DAY THREE
-continued-
He's kneeling on the bed as the red light pulses through the room, using the grate to saw through the cheap mattress, to tear frantic chunks of foam and fluff away, piling them on a sheet. He's aware that he's doing it so he can haul them to the grate more easily, but he can't quite remember why. Only that it's important, necessary, vital to the plan.
What plan?
Whose plan?
Hers? His? Is he dancing to his own tune or is he merely a puppet on a string? Her string? His? Does it matter? Does he even care?
Maybe.
He can hear her fiddling with keys outside the door and dread makes him feel like he's falling.
He's running out of time.
By the time he remembers to call out to Hinata again he's already gone, passing once more back into memory with the blare of that strange warning in his ears.
-ooo-
"...evel...ive...ector...teen...rantin...inent..."
-ooo-
"It's okay, we'll just… we'll be okay," he murmured, scratching behind Rakkii's big soft ears as he buried his face against his neck.
It had seemed so easy when he was leaving the house, but now….
Now he didn't really know where they were or if he was going the right way or if there was even a right way to go.
He'd never really been anywhere on his own before and the world… the world hadn't ever seemed quite so big or so scary when he was with Mama or Papa or even when he was seeing it on the TV or out the window of their car.
Everything was just… a lot bigger and busier and louder than he'd thought it would be and the cars went by so fast and he'd gotten splashed twice so his shorts and his shirt and his hair were damp and filthy and he was way too hot, his arms tinged an angry pink by the summer sun.
His head hurt a lot too.
Maybe… maybe he shouldn't have done this.
Maybe he should just go home, only… he wasn't really sure which way they'd come and all the streets and houses looked the same here and none of them looked anything like his house which was so, so big and a long way from the road.
This hadn't been a very good idea at all.
But he couldn't let Rakkii know that, he didn't want him to be scared.
He gave his neck a last squeeze before drawing back, offering him his best smile and as much cheer as he could muster.
"We'll be okay. I packed your favorite food and if we go to the country we can steal carrots and things from farmers so we won't go hungry and we can find a nice barn to sleep in, maybe, or a tent."
Rakkii smiled back, his tongue lolling out of his mouth to lick a quick stripe across the tip of Nagito's nose. He wrinkled it, laughing, "Gross, Rakkii."
Encouraged by his laughter, Rakkii nudged him back out of his crouch to land on his butt on the sidewalk so he flop down on his chest and lick his face. He giggled, pushing his muzzle away and wiping his now slobbery cheek against the sleeve of his shirt, "Knock it off, Rakkii."
Another swipe of the tongue and he gave in and rolled over to hide his face in his arms against the sidewalk, still laughing, batting blindly at the muzzle trying to nudge it's way in around the circle of his arms, nuzzling his hair, intent on licking the salt from his face. "Stop it, it's not funny. Mama will…."
His laughter died away slowly and his tummy felt sick like it did sometimes when he knew he was going to be in trouble.
Oh.
Right.
He frowned, swallowing hard and barely noticing Rakkii's plaintive whine as he sat up slowly, staring sightlessly across the road.
That's right.
It didn't matter what Mama thought now.
He didn't have to worry about Mama being mad because he was dirty anymore.
Running away meant no more Mama and no more Papa and no more Sensei hitting his knuckles with the stick and no more Tanaka yelling at him when he tracked mud into the house or ran in the halls or broke things.
Papa and Mama had wanted to send him away.
Away and Rakkii…
They would send Rakkii off to live with some other family and he'd never see him again. He was his friend. His best and only friend. And it made him feel sick and weird to think about the empty space he'd leave behind. He wouldn't mind going away if he could go with Rakkii, but without him... without him seemed scary and awful and sad.
He loved Rakkii.
The idea of never seeing him again... hurt. It hurt so much when he'd heard them say it and so he thought... maybe...
Maybe if he went away on his own with Rakkii… they'd be happy, wouldn't they? Not to school. He didn't know very much about schools, but he was pretty sure you weren't allowed to have dogs there, probably, especially not at the sort you went to Iive at. Except maybe at magic school like the one on the tv, but that wasn't really a proper school and even there you couldn't have dogs...just cats and rats and birds and things. But he could go somewhere else, somewhere far away and it was the away part that probably really mattered anyway. If he went away, that would make them happy and he could be happy with Rakkii and everything would be okay, wouldn't it?
They could live in the country somewhere and find work on a farm or something. Or maybe they could go to cat island and live there. It seemed like a nice place and Rakki liked cats.
And maybe some day soon Mama and Papa might realize the house was just too quiet without him and they might even miss him a little and come look for him and they could come home. Come home to stay because they wouldn't want to send them away anymore.
Rakkii panted beside him, nudging his nose against his neck with a plaintive whine.
"It's okay," he whispered though it was more reflex than reassurance.
His throat hurt when he swallowed and his mouh was dry.
It was hot and he hadn't thought to bring any water.
Oh.
That wasn't good.
Water was important.
Rakkii liked water and so did he. He liked juice more, but water was good too. Especially on hot days, but it was good on cold ones too. He'd have to….
His thoughts were broken by the slamming of a car door and a sudden squeal from across the street.
Oh.
It was a park.
He'd seen them before, but he'd never actually been to one.
He smiled, scratching Rakkii's neck as he wiped the sting of dripping sweat from his eyes, his mind already spinning with possibilities as he squinted across the street at the kids running up the well-tended path towards the gleam of brightly colored metal in the distance. He'd seen other kids before, but never so many and mostly from a distance or in stores and though there was a swing at home, he'd never been very good at making it move much on his own. He mostly hung over it on his belly and ran it up so he could fly back on it though he usually lost his grip and fell off when it started forward again.
Maybe they could stop there for a little while.
Parks had drinking fountains and they let anyone in so he wouldn't have to spend the little money he'd brought with him.
The kids were laughing and chasing each other and calling out to each other and smiling.
He was pretty sure everyone there was smiling.
They all seemed to be having a lot of fun.
He hadn't even realized he'd stepped off the curb and drifted across the street or that Rakkii wasn't right beside him until he heard the squeal of tires and that sickening thump.
That pitiful whine that seemed so loud.
So loud like it could swallow up the whole world.
And so short.
And then it was so quiet, too quiet with just his heartbeat thundering in his head.
Ba-bump.
Bump.
He couldn't breathe and tears were burning and blurring his vision, but he couldn't… he couldn't turn around. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't turn. Couldn't move. Just stood there frozen in the middle of the road.
Ahead of him… ahead of him kids were playing. Swinging, sliding, smiling, throwing balls and sand and he'd…. he'd just wanted to be a part of that.
He'd just….
He'd just….
Mama was right.
He was….
Really awful.
Someone was honking.
Someone was pulling him out of the road, asking his name, gripping his shoulders, shaking him. He felt someone take his wrist.
He hadn't taken off the bracelet.
He couldn't undo the clasp by himself.
They'd call his parents.
Not that it mattered.
There was a mass of dirty fur and red, red, red in the middle of the road.
He didn't even really look like Rakkii anymore.
Not really.
He barely even looked like a dog anymore.
He….
He shuddered as the first sob tore its way free of his chest.
There were hands on him, voices asking if he was okay and he couldn't… he couldn't answer at all.
There was a really terrible noise and he couldn't really hear anything over it.
It was his fault.
It was all his fault.
Hours later he was home again, quiet, numb, tucked into bed by the policeman who'd brought him home because his parents were… he wasn't sure.
It didn't matter.
One of the fancy parties, maybe?
He curled in tighter around his knees.
He was so cold without the weight of Rakkii's body pressed in against his back.
He was lucky really.
Dog heaven was probably really nice.
He'd been really selfish.
He couldn't take care of him, not really. He was just… Rakkii didn't even like carrots and he'd forgotten to take water or any of his toys. Rakkii probably would have just been really sad and he might have died anyway.
So, maybe… maybe it was lucky he went quickly like that.
Even if had hurt…
It had really sounded like it hurt.
Maybe… maybe he was lucky too.
Now there was…. there was nothing to worry about. He wouldn't have to worry about what would happen to him when they sent him away. Whether they would really have sent him to live with another family or not or if that was just a thing they would say. They'd never liked him. He got hair all over everything and sometimes he peed on the expensive rugs. Papa had even kicked him once when he'd chewed up one of his shoes.
He wasn't even sure why they'd let him keep him in the first place.
He'd been very lucky to have him at all.
And he… he hadn't always remembered to hug him when he'd come from lessons or brush his hair like he was supposed and he didn't give him baths like Mama told him to either so Rakkii… Rakkii was probably happier without him.
He'd liked him.
He'd really liked him, but… maybe he hadn't deserved him.
So, maybe it was better like this.
Maybe Rakkii was lucky to be free of him.
-ooo-
"...tion...rder:...ector...t..eventee...ntin...nen..."
-ooo-
"Oh, thank you! Yes, yes, of course, I'll find him. I'll help him, you'll see. You won't be disappointed!" She called as she hobbled back across the room to the door.
He heard her pulling it open, heard it fall shut behind her and he finally allowed himself to take a deep, shuddering breath that shifted the pile of blankets he'd hidden himself beneath and sent some of the papers fluttering to the floor.
He could hear her mismatched footsteps fading into the distance, but still he waited. Blood leaked from the scratches on his arm, soaking into and through the papers he'd eventually used to try and clot the wounds, to make sure they didn't drip and soak into what was left of the mattress and give away his hiding place.
His arm ached and his head hurt from all the tiny, quiet gasps of air he'd been taking while she'd been fumbling around the room.
He could be patient.
He could make it a little bit longer.
He could wait and be still even though the mattress stuffing made his skin sting and itch. Even though the muscles in his legs were cramped and screaming, fuzzy pin and needle pain running through his shoulders, his good arm. He had trusted in his luck to see him through and so far it had. She'd been so close, so terrifyingly close, knelt just inches away from where he had hidden, talking to herself, saying things that made him feel… sick, uncertain. That made something deep down inside his chest burble with hysterical laughter.
He trembled, curling tighter, arm clenched around his stomach as he forced himself to stay still, to wait.
To wait just a little bit more, a little bit longer.
Just long enough to be sure.
He needed to be sure he'd have the time he needed to figure out a way to escape, to go…
Where?
He wasn't sure. Not really. If he was right… if he was right than it's all the same and if it's all the same than there is no escape there's only…
What?
Him?
Her?
No, not her, if he wanted to go to her, to be with her… he could have just stayed put, could have reached back inside that hole and let her tear him apart, maybe. Or he could have just saved himself all this trouble by letting Tsumiki take him to… wherever she wanted to take him. Stripped himself naked and let it happen, let her come inside and carve away all the soft, useless bits she didn't need, didn't care for.
But he wasn't… he didn't want that.
Don't we?
No, definitely not, definitely….
-ooo-
"...arning...cuation...ector...antin...nent..."
-ooo-
"I'm dying, you know."
"We're all dying, you giant drama queen," she replied, digging beneath his bed, pitching the things she found there over her shoulder. Mostly books, some spunk-covered tissues, a stuffed bear.
She paused with the bear in hand, "Seriously, what the hell is this?"
He shrugged, looking away from the offending object, "It's a bear."
"Yes, I can see that it's a bear, smartass. I meant, what the hell happened to it? Did you light it on fire?"
He hadn't meant to bring it, but there had been people to pack up his things and send them on to the school and they'd just packed most of what was left in his room. The things he hadn't destroyed. Sehnsucht had been one of them though he couldn't imagine why. She certainly wasn't much to look at. If he'd been a packer, he'd have definitely tossed her in the bin. Perhaps the packer had been the sentimental sort. Who could say?
He wasn't sure why he hadn't just thrown it out himself.
"He was tucked into bed with me when I woke up the morning after the crash. He probably belonged to one of the other kids on the plane and they just assumed he was mine for some reason, I don't know. I suppose some well-meaning emergency worker thought I could do with a friend so I woke up with fifteen stitches, a few broken bones and that. I've been meaning to throw it away."
"No," Junko squealed, hugging the offending thing to her chest. He winced as it crinkled in her grasp, leaving little black soot stains against the white of her sweater. "It's perfect! Can I have it?"
He shrugged, "I guess. Why?"
"Oh, no reason, I just like the look of it, don't you?" She grinned as she danced the partially blackened white bear up across the edge of the bed. "Don't you see it, Nagito? Isn't it amazing? All this black corruption consuming the pure white innocence of a child's plaything? Could anything, anything, be a more perfect representation of despair?"
He frowned, sighing, "I've changed my mind. Give it back."
He really should have known it was a despair thing. It was almost always a despair thing.
"No way! You gave it to me! No take backs," she replied, springing up and racing from the room, leaving only her laugh and a disorderly mess in her wake.
He sat up suddenly, erupting from beneath the mess of damp blankets and pillows, fighting free of the sheets, the trappings of memory clinging to him like spider webs.
It was getting worse.
It was getting worse and worse and worse.
Before he hadn't… he hadn't been able to remember anything at all, nothing but vague feelings and ever since Tsumiki had touched him he'd been… like this. And ever since she… those scratches had appeared he hadn't been able to stem the flow of inconvenient… delusions? Recollections? Some of them felt so real and others… others felt soft and mushy, gritty and rough, like applesauce.
No, it had started before that, hadn't it?
It had started the moment he'd left Hinata behind and stumbled away into the dark.
No, even before that.
In the diner?
In the warm dark of the beach house?
In the water?
On the bridge?
On the beach?
In Hinata's cabin?
In that close, dark space that had marked the beginning of all... this?
Somewhere in between?
Or maybe he'd always, always been remembering things in bits and pieces? Little scraps that came and went, slipping away almost the moment he'd begun to grasp them, what they meant, who he'd been… who he was becoming.
Did it even matter?
They were sticking now- those little chunks of memory- gumming up the works, making it impossible to take a breath, to think, making his chest tight with something like anticipation.
It had just been those little things at first, things he should have known, should have always known. Just places he'd been, things he'd done. The hospitals, his parents, the crash, the days after, sympathy and reporters sneaking into his room while he slept, the way it had felt to be shoved in that garbage bag, the suffocating weight of it.
He remembered vomiting across his knees because the smell had been so bad, rancid sour milk and rotting meat, the sickening sweet of spoiled fruit. It had been so hot and he'd felt things moving with him in the dark, wriggling against his skin and he'd screamed and screamed until someone had come and hit him to shut him up.
That had been lucky.
He'd been knocked unconscious. He might have died in that bag if he'd kept screaming that way and even if he hadn't they might not have opened the bag to make sure he was still alive and he might have suffocated.
He remembered waking up, his head sticky with blood, lying on an oil-stained tarp in a warehouse. He could still feel things wriggling against his hands, up his sleeves, he was still half in the trashbag since they'd only bothered to rip it open enough to check his head wound, to make sure he wasn't dead or dying, maybe.
That was so… lucky.
-ooo-
"...rning...cuatio...der...ector...rant...inent..."
-ooo-
He was on the bed again, rain splattered against his face by a particularly violent gust of wind. He could still feel things crawling on his skin, under his skin.
It wasn't real.
He knew it wasn't real, but he didn't look.
Couldn't look.
Because he might be wrong and they might be there, he might see those fat, little white bodies spilling from his veins, little bumps inching along beneath his flesh. Might be able to feel them if he touched his fingers against his forearms.
He choked back something that felt like a sob.
Why was he… why was he like this?
He didn't want to know, didn't care, at all.
Why should he?
What was the point?
He just….
Pain burst behind his eyes, choking a cry from his throat as he clawed uselessly at the sheets with his good hand and flailed pathetically with the bad one in an attempt to cover the sound, muffle it so she wouldn't hear, wouldn't come back and find him there.
You can't escape your own head, you know.
"Stop it," he sobbed, face buried against the wet sheet as the memory faded to something less real, something almost bearable as it tucked in beside all the rest.
Who he had been, where he had been, what he had done… wasn't it better not to know? Wasn't it better if he never had to know the despair he'd brought the world? Wasn't it better if he never had to know anything?
Is it?
-ooo-
"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."
-ooo-
"What is the most important quality in a leader?"
"Talent."
"What is the most vital resource in the world?"
"Talent."
"How does one cultivate talent?"
"Talent can not be cultivated. Talent must be born, nurtured, valued."
"What will save this hopeless world?"
"Talent."
"Very good. You may return to your room. You will be retrieved for supper in thirty-seven minutes. You may not sleep. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Kamukura Izuru lied, his hands tightening into fists at his sides.
The door slid closed behind him and he was left in darkness.
His room was small, cramped, but there was enough room to sit down if he pulled his knees up tight against his chest.
"Talent is born, not learned," he whispered against the rough canvas of his pants. "Those born without Talent are worthless. They are jealous and they are vain and they are cruel."
-ooo-
"...uation...order...vel...ector...quarantine...inent..."
-ooo-
He would have vomited if he'd had anything left to vomit, instead he heaved the ghost of sharp, bitter bile against the cold tiles of the floor, shivering and trembling as he knelt before the black nothing of the ventilation shaft, pieces of blood-stained fluff caught between the fingers of his good hand.
Outside thunder crashed and the wind blew another spattering of cold water across his bare legs and ass, he shivered harder, choking back a scream as he went back to shoving fluff as deep into the hole as he could manage.
That wasn't his memory.
It wasn't his.
Wasn't his.
Wasn't.
And yet he remembered what it felt like to be shut away in that little cupboard, the strange hollowness where fear or anger or resentment should have been.
How wrong it had seemed, like he was constantly grasping for something that should have been there, unable to stop reaching for it, as if he were always, always in search of some echo, some ghost of a feeling, but all he ever found were dead ends and hollow spaces.
He was talented.
He could do anything.
He could be anything, but there was no joy in it, no wonder. He understood what those things were, understood how they were defined, how they looked on the faces of others, but he couldn't… couldn't find anything to match them within himself.
He was hollow.
Talented, but hollow, more puppet than person, more doll than human.
Everything was… boring.
And so was he.
Everything was just the same. It didn't matter if he was sitting his lessons or shut away in that uncomfortable space like a toy being put away for the evening.
It was all the same.
Had always been the same. Meaningless. Empty.
How was anything supposed to mean anything if everything felt just the same?
And yet it wasn't… he wasn't… he didn't… he didn't understand why he knew what that felt like.
Emptiness had never bothered him.
For him, emptiness had always seemed a relief.
To Kamukura Izuru, it had only ever been a burden.
-ooo-
"...warning...evac...rder...arantine...imminent..."
-ooo-
He was kneeling on the floor again.
She was scratching and muttering outside the door again.
She was dead and he was dead and Hinata….
He pulled his arm away from his chest, only faintly relieved to note that the scratches had stopped bleeding, had just become another open wound, raw and bloody and static just like the others. It ached just like the others too.
If he touched it would he feel that same awful, seething pain… that same wrongness that he'd felt when he'd touched his fingers against the wound in his chest?
Would Hinata touching them be the same too?
He shook those thoughts away, forced himself to take a breath, to blow it out slowly and then take another. Panicking wouldn't do him any good, wouldn't make the memories easier to deal, wouldn't bring Hinata back, wouldn't get him out of that room. He needed to figure this out. There had to be an answer, had to be, otherwise what was the point?
All games required rules.
She'd taught him that.
"What do you want?" He asked aloud, because it was… easier that way. More like he was having a conversation with a friend instead of talking to himself.
"Out. I want out."
That question was easy enough at least. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be trapped in this place, he didn't want to be separated from Hinata, he wanted out. For a start though, he wanted out of this room, out of this hospital.
He could try to get out, get past Tsumiki.
Out.
It was difficult to take a breath and when he finally managed it his breath blew out in a white fog.
When had it gotten so cold?
It had never been cold on the island.
Not that that mattered just… it hadn't been.
He hadn't been cold here either.
Not… not before.
She was still knocking on the door, a persistent and unrelenting threat to his peace of mind.
What did she even want?
He had nothing to give her. He had nothing to give anyone anymore, not even his life and yet… and yet….
"What do you want from me?" He yelled, voice breaking halfway through. Of course it didn't matter anyway since she just kept on as if he hadn't even spoken.
Just blathering on endlessly outside his door.
"Just shut up! Why won't you just leave me alone? I don't want to do this anymore! I don't want to play anymore! Please just-"
Hinata had been screaming.
Hinata was….
-ooo-
"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."
-ooo-
"What is three times three?"
"Nine."
"What color are ripe strawberries?"
"Red."
"Given the choice to save a talented adult or a untalented child, who would you choose?"
"I…."
"What is your name?"
"….Kamukura Izuru."
"Who is Hinata Hajime?"
"No one."
"Who am I?"
"Sensei."
"Why were you born?"
"I don't know."
She smiled, slim and tight, but she didn't look pleased in the slightest. "Put him back in. We'll try again."
He doesn't struggle.
Struggling is pointless.
This was what he wanted after all.
The pod casts a shimmering green light against the pale walls as they hooked him up and helped him to sink into the thick liquid within.
His long, long hair clung to his face and shoulders as he was pressed below the surface and liquid flooded in to choke him.
-ooo-
"...arnin...uation...ctor... ...ent..."
-ooo-
The first sob was a surprise.
The second seemed inevitable.
His arm ached from the jagged cut of her nails and he couldn't hear Hinata anymore, but Hinata had been screaming.
Somewhere he was probably atill screaming.
He'd been the only good thing. The only good thing and he was probably… and he just kept remembering all these things and they just confused him. And every time he was somewhere different like he kept stumbling in and out of existence.
He didn't understand.
He didn't understand anything and his head hurt.
His head was full of static and nothing made any sense.
Nothing was going to be okay.
Nothing was ever going to be okay.
"Please come back," he whispered, forehead pressed hard against the floor, tears and snot drizzling freely. As if he needed further validation of how revolting he was. "Please, I… I don't want to feel like this anymore. I don't want to do this anymore. Please, please. Please."
A squeal broke the relative silence, sending a bitter chill crawling up his spine, as a cold breeze cut across his bowed back and the storm grew louder, so much louder than it should be.
He sat up with a start, almost falling backwards as he stared at the open window, at the curtains lashing back and forth in the gusting, unsteady wind as rain blewd into the room, splattered against his face.
Thunder rumbled and lightning crashed bright across the sky, almost blinding.
It felt like hope.
It also felt like a trap, a cheat, an engraved invitation to disaster.
And as he watched with horror another window crept open, inch by painstaking inch as if drawn by unseen hands and all he felt was horror as they were all opened in turn. Each one squealing the same note of protest, each one stopping at just the same point, a quarter-inch from the top, each somehow worse than the last as the curtains blew and whipped and faltered in perfect sync.
He felt sick.
But he couldn't help laughing all the same.
His door was blocked so the universe had opened a whole bunch of windows.
He really was lucky, wasn't he?
"M-Mister Komaeda," she called. "You should really come out now. It's time to take your medicine."
It seemed like she'd said that before.
"Don't want to," he replied between giggles, but the protest still felt weak, feeble and familiar on his tongue.
He couldn't stop staring at the windows.
Wondering at the possibilities, but unable to bring himself to move out of the way so that he wasn't being constantly bombarded by the spray of icy rainwater.
"H-He's not here, Mister Komaeda. He was never here. There's no one here, Mister Komaeda, no one at all, but you and me. No one is coming to save you, to save us, and, even if they were… would you really want that? Aren't you tired, Mister Komaeda? Aren't you tired of being lonely and afraid? Aren't you tired of hoping? Aren't you tired of pretending to be something you're not?"
And he was.
He was so unbelievably tired.
But he knew… or at least he hoped that wasn't true.
Hinata had been there.
He could still remember the taste of him, the sound of his voice and his screams. There were marks on his arm and they hurt, they ached, but they were as real as the ache in his knees and the cold on his skin and the shirt he wore. They were as real as anything else in this place and if those could be real, why not Hinata? Why did it have to be only the bad things?
He could hope.
He could still hope.
Even if it didn't come to anything, he could still do that much.
He didn't want to believe that he wasn't… anything.
And the more he listened to her wheedle and beg as his wrist ached and his heart raced and the more and more he thought about it, the more and more certain he was that that wasn't what she was really asking.
Not really.
What she was really asking was a much simpler question.
The only question that had ever mattered for any of them, really: "Are you ready to surrender to despair?"
The hole where the grate had once been gaped huge and black like a portal to the darkness of space as the storm continued to rage outside.
He couldn't stop staring at it. Couldn't look away. He thought about the puddle, about dark water made turbulent by the relentless fall of rain. The way it had swallowed Hinata up like a hungry mouth and the sudden surge of panic he'd felt.
Not like this.
He hadn't even thought about it, just plunged in after him, arms sweeping wide, searching for purchase in the muck. Hadn't been surprised when he found him, dragged him free, gasping, into open air. The way that hand had been clinging to his ankle, broken and gross and, looking back, so undeniably hers.
He remembered the hand and he wondered.
Wondered what would happen if he stuck his arm back inside the hole in the wall. Would she take his arm? Claw it free and whisk it away? Would he shrink down to nothing and be able to escape that way? Would he crawl through the dark and find himself where Hinata had been? Where he was maybe? Or would it be nothing more than an empty hole, a false hope, nothing more than another dead end to frustrate him.
His arm ached and he pressed it harder against his blood-soaked shirt. At this point it really was more gore than shirt.
Which, come to think of it, was pretty fitting.
"So, now what? What do I do now, Hinata?"
There was no answer, but then he wasn't really expecting one.
Not really.
Hoping, maybe.
Maybe.
He struggled to his feet and walked unsteadily to the nearest window, leaning his forehead against the glass.
The night was still dark, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning to reveal nothing but the muddy island beyond and the driving rain.
What to do?
Sleeping was out. He was too keyed up, too jittery to doze off even if his arm weren't throbbing an unforgiving beat through his nerves.
He could kill himself. The grate was sharp enough to do the job, probably, and if not he could always bash his head open against the floor or bite his tongue off and hope to bleed to death. Not the most appealing options, but….
He wanted to see him again.
It felt like he was standing on the cusp of something. That with each new memory things were falling into place, an answer to a question he didn't know how to ask. Like if he saw him again, if he could touch him again, he would understand. Like there were answers to all his questions lingering just there and Hinata was the final hurdle he had to surmount to reach them, to feel something real against his fingertips. To know what was real and what was fantasy. To know why he was still here. What it all meant or whether it even meant anything at all. Like if he could just… just get there, he would be able to be… whole. Or himself. Or someone else entirely. Someone better. Or worse. Or just… different.
But he wouldn't ever get there if he couldn't at least get past her and away from the hospital.
-ooo-
"...cuation...evel...ctor...teen...arantine...nent..."
-ooo-
"Yes," he breathed as rain soaked through his shirt, the closed window suddenly open once more, blowing a bitter wind across the bare skin of his thighs, he dropped his hand to shield his cock and balls from the uncomfortable chill.
Or maybe it had always been open.
Or maybe it was still closed.
Or maybe there was no window at all.
"I want to help you, Mister Komaeda, all I've ever wanted to do was help. All you have to do is let me in."
He can hear her talking again, talking, talking, but the door is standing open and there's nobody there.
Nobody anywhere.
He's trapped in box in a room in a building in a box and there's no exit and he's already dead.
No mysteries, no ends, no beginnings.
No one and nothing and time passes and the lights change and the world isn't what it seems.
He doesn't understand anything at all.
"Hinata… I don't think I can do this."
If he thinks about him, he can almost, almost feel him, rough gravel pressed against his cheek, can almost hear him.
"Don't be stupid, Komaeda."
"I think you're the stupid one."
"I'm not the one giving up. I'm coming to find you. I'll always come to find you."
"Why?"
"Because you're..."
The rest is lost to the improbable static of a bad connection.
"I'm sorry, Hinata," he whispers, though he's not sure what he's apologizing for.
"Apologies should be made on your knees."
It's not Hinata's voice, but his own, echoing cool and unfamiliar around him.
There's an image in his head, fractured but clearing, a faltering image of a Hinata he's never known. An image of pale, desperate eyes blazing, of an unfamiliar expression on a familiar face and then he's falling.
Down.
Down.
Down.
-ooo-
"...uation...sector...quarantine..."
-ooo-
A hand cupped the back of his head and he heard a soft grunt of pain as the hand was crushed between his head and the edge of the step, the jolt was still painful where his back and butt and legs slammed against the stairs, but not as bad as it would have been if his neck or head had hit the stair directly.
It might have even killed him.
He was really lucky.
He'd been running down those stairs trying to get away, away for those words, from that inevitability, from his own weakness, taking them too fast, too fast to really look, really see, too fast to stop when he'd registered the person in front of him too late. He'd tried to throw himself back and away, but it was too late to avoid the inevitable collision. They'd slammed into each other and he'd been falling, falling back and sliding down, pain lancing through him and it seemed to be everywhere all at once even in the soles of his feet as they'd slammed to a stop by sliding into the far wall of the landing below.
He'd taken to wearing a bulky sweater vest lately under his uniform jacket. It makes it easier to hide the wasted body beneath. Plus, he's cold all the time so it helps with that too. It cushions his fall, but not by much. He'll have bruises tomorrow.
His ears were ringing and at first he could only hear the volume of the panicked voice in his ear, the words hazy and red and tasting like static.
"…rry… tri… top… I… okay?"
He huffs a laugh, offers a careless smile, as he struggles away from the steps enough to prop himself up on aching elbows before allowing his head to fall back enough to look up into the face of the boy crouched awkwardly over him, fingers still braced behind his head, tangled in his hair. He can't remember the last time he was anything like okay, isn't even really sure what that means for him anymore.
What was okay when you were dying?
What was okay when there was no hope left?
But the boy above him didn't know anything about that and even he had he wouldn't care. No one would and rightly so. He didn't deserve to have anyone care about him. Not even strange, clumsy, careless….
"Are you okay? I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," the boy repeated, more slowly and the desperation in his tone made him really look at him for the first time.
Oh.
His pale eyes are rimmed in red and there's something about them that felt terribly familiar. It's not the color or the shape, but it's something about the look in them. They look as crazed as he feels inside sometimes, wide and frantic, almost feverish. His bottom lip was bleeding freely, blood dripping down to fall unnoticed against the crisp white of his shirt.
"Apologies should be said on your knees," he murmurs in reply and as soon as he does he realizes that he had meant to say something else and while he's busy being surprised about it, the boy's lips split into a wide grin, revealing teeth smeared with blood and he laughs.
He laughs and the familiar sound reaches into his chest to stop his heart.
The boy above him laughs as if he finds nothing and everything amusing, as if he's losing his grip on sanity, as if he has nothing, deserves nothing and knows it. It's desolate and terrible and teetering at the edge of an abyss called Despair.
It feels like an echo of his soul caught and complete in a singular sound and it's so achingly lonely that he couldn't have moved away even if he'd tried, even if he'd wanted to.
And he doesn't want to, not at all
He's so…
Lucky.
"You're..." He begins hesitantly, unsure how it will end, unsure what he wants to say, if he wants to say anything at all.
His stomach is squirming and wriggling like he's swallowed a bowl full of bugs.
He feels him shift, hand still cradling the back of his head as he legs rearrange themselves to kneel between his thighs.
The stranger above him is still laughing, still chuckling, his mouth curved in a strange, weary smile. "I'm so sorry my careless actions have caused you pain."
He reaches up to trace unsteady fingertips over the dark shadows beneath his eyes. "We match," he murmured and the boy's smile goes slack with surprise, a startled exhale puffing against his lips.
When had they gotten so close?
Had he leaned up?
Had he leaned down?
Fingers slide against his cheek, tentative, drawing a line of warmth across his skin. "I guess we do," he replies as his hand falls away. Nagito wonders if he even realizes that his other hand lingers still against his scalp, fingers tugging and pulling at his hair whenever he shifts above him.
"Do you forgive me?" He asks quietly, seriously, as if it matters, as if he truly cares about his answer and he can feel the warmth of that idea tugging at his lips, summoning a crooked smile that feels startlingly real.
When was the last time anyone really seemed to care what he thought?
He doesn't mean to spoil it.
He doesn't mean to at all, but he still finds himself leaning forward to catch those serious lips with his own. It's little more than a touch, just a moment of contact, a strange hopeful connection that set his entire body trembling and then the boy is shoving him away with both hands, hard enough that his head bounces off the stairs again.
It hurts.
Because this time there's nothing there to cushion the blow.
And it's no more than he deserves.
He always pushes too far, wants too much, hopes for better than he deserves.
Always.
He has no one to blame but himself.
And now he's the one laughing and it's a creaking, terrible sound like a rusty gate squealing. He hates his laugh, hoarse and rasping and more cough than anything else because he can't ever seem to catch his breath fully these days.
He's not sure why it hurts so much, but he lays back against the steps, staring at the underside of the stairs above and it feels like that pain is going to eat him alive.
Ah.
Well, it was only to be expected, wasn't it? After all, who would want to be kissed by someone like him? Wretched and woefully inadequate and quickly approaching his expiration date. He wondered if people could smell it sour and sickeningly sweet stench of something already beginning it spoil. If h'd been able to taste it in even that brief press of lips. It was a wonder anyone even bothered to speak to him at all, much less touch him. It had been presumptuous, ridiculous, impulsive nonsense. He was…
"Did they tell you to do that?" The boy snapped breaking through his thoughts and the suddenness of the accusation chokes the laughter in his throat, but the bitterness of it, the barely leashed rage, lets it fly again.
The very absurdity of the idea that there was some strange kiss conspiracy happening, that anyone would want to loop someone like him into the plot even if there was.
How stupid.
"You… you kissed me." The boy accused, as if he were likely to argue the point. As if he might quibble about whether that brief press of lips truly qualified as a kiss at all or maybe just say he was lying or imagining things. "I'm not... I'm not going to change my mind. This is what I want. No one's making me do it. I don't want to be satisified with what I have. I want... this is... I don't need their pity or yours."
The boy's entire face seems to redden with embarrassment, but his cheeks and forehead bear the brunt of the stain with a deep red to match the blood on his lip. He looks so confused that he might have almost felt sorry for him, but there's no room in him for pity.
There never has been.
"Pity?" He echoed still laughing a little because it's so… he's so… broken. He feels broken, like an egg dropped on the floor with all the gooey insides seeping out. But then he's always been this way, always been like this since the very beginning, hasn't he? He's never been worth anything to anyone, not even himself. The only good thing about him was his luck and even that... even that was...
He'd always had this idea that when you kissed someone... it was like having a conversation, a connection that went beyond words, understanding. Something special. Like even someone like him, someone so unnecessary, so worthless as he, could be...
It was disappointing to discover it wasn't true.
That there was no magic in it really, nothing special at all, that it was just a touch like any other.
That he'd shared his first kiss with some beautiful stranger and it had left him cold, annoyed and just as alone as he'd been to begin with, that the world hadn't changed at all and neither had he.
Frogs could never become princes.
The ordinary could never become extraordinary.
The useless and unwanted would only ever be that.
It had just been… like a bad joke, a poor punchline and he wished he could take it back.
He wished the floor would just open up and swallow him whole.
But it won't.
There were no take backs or do overs.
But... maybe... maybe he could still...
He shoved himself up, ignoring the pain in his back and his hips, the wobbly feeling in his head and leaned forward, crowding into the boy's space. He can feel his smile widening as the boy scrambles back, expression pinched and uneasy as he trips over his own feet and falls, sprawls across the landing.
"What... what are you doing?"
And just like that his smile is faltering, fading to uncertainty, his stomach queasy again. "Can I kiss you again? Just... I think I did it wrong the first time and I should have asked and I'm sorry I... I don't want... I'll probably forget it eventually, but I didn't... I don't want my first kiss to just... sorry I'm... I should..."
"Yes."
It's said so softly, so quietly that he thought for a moment that he imagined it, but he's nodding too, expression still so serious, face still so red. And somehow it's the easiest thing in the world to crawl across the distance between them, to coil a hand in his tie and use it as a handle to draw him up to meet him.
To pause for the barest moment just before their lips touch, "Thank you."
It was only polite after all to thank someone who was doing you a favor.
Kissing wasn't anything special.
Not really.
Nothing worth getting so worked up about anyway, but he still wanted... something. For it to at least be... something more than pain.
More than just a mistake.
Their lips press together, trembling, cut and dry and a little chapped and he's not quite sure what to do next. How he's supposed to turn the touch into a kiss.
He recalls briefly the artful, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses he'd seen on all those dirty videos, but those kisses had never seemed anything close to real so he lets those images drift away. They feel too much like a lie anyway.
He's seen people kiss in the halls, sometimes, gentle barely there touches accompanied by blushes and apologies and embarrassment and, for all that those at least seemed like less of a lie. Those touches had spoken of an affection and a tenderness he's never felt, can't even begin to imagine anyone else ever feeling for him, but he could at least understand that they were sincere even if he can't quite believe they were real.
Instead the only thing that seems real is that foolish notion lingering, unshakable, that lame idea gleaned from all those books he'd read curled up in hospital beds or alone in his dorm. He knows he's doing it all wrong, everything wrong, because he's wrong and broken and desperate for something to hold onto, something, anything, but there's still that silly idea that a kiss could strike passion like a match and maybe it wouldn't matter that he was… that he wasn't….
He opens his mouth just enough to latch onto the boy's bottom lip with his teeth, to worry at that plump flesh, widening the cut there, tasting blood, smelling copper hoping at least for a reaction. It lasts a moment, two, too long and he isn't sure what to do. At loose ends and awkward because he'd expected him to push him away at that, to just throw him off again like he had the first time, but he doesn't.
He doesn't.
Instead the most protest he manages is a hand that scrambles at his hip, flailing like a dying, flightless bird as if unsure whether its meant to pull him closer or push him away.
In the end, he's the one to pull back, staring down at the boy's open, shell-shocked expression and his bruised, bloody lip from inches away. He knows his own lips and teeth are probably ghastly and smeared with red as well, but he doesn't care. Words spill out of his mouth, tumbling like dominos and he's helpless to stop them as they spiral away from him. "I don't pity you, you know. I don't even know who you are. You could be anyone, no one. I could be too. I found out I'm dying today so I used up all my pity throwing a party for myself, but you can come if you want. There's room for two and I don't have anyone else to invite."
"I-" He begins, expression so open and stunned, but he doesn't give him a chance to answer, diving in again for another kiss, but this time he's met halfway, warm lips surging up against his own.
Oh.
Maybe... maybe kisses were something special after all.
It's still uncomfortable and strange, but it's better, infinitely better to have lips pressed, wanting, slipping and a little wet against his own.
The kiss tastes strangely sweet, chocolate-flavored desperation, though whose, he's no longer sure, but it's pain and desperation and want, want, want and he's never felt more alive than he does in that moment. His back still aches from the impact with the stairs and he's certain he can already feel the bruises forming and he knows, in this strange, distant, purposeless way that what he's doing… what they're doing… isn't normal.
Normal people don't go around kissing total strangers in stairwells. Much less strange boys and definitely not like this, bruised and aching from the fall, fingers bloodless where they're wrapped up in his tie, his other hand pawing uselessly at his short dark hair, his shoulder, anywhere he can find purchase to pull him in, yank him closer.
He wasn't normal.
Maybe he never had been.
But it wasn't as if he didn't know that.
He's tried so hard to be something like normal since he arrived at Hope's Peak and it has brought him nothing he wanted. Nothing but dissatisfaction and loneliness. He's only made one friend and he… he doesn't even really like her and she doesn't really like him either. He even knows in his more lucid moments that she's actually probably pretty bad for him, really bad for him maybe, but she's the only one who doesn't make him feel… weird or unwanted. And sometimes he knows that she does it for a purpose and most of the time he doesn't care. Every piece of good luck that's come his way since he arrived at Hope's Peak has felt empty and tainted and vile until now, until this.
This lucky meeting in a stairwell with a boy willing, eager, to kiss a stranger, another boy even, like he's the cure for whatever ails him.
He's not, of course. He's never been good for anyone, not even himself, but for those few hectic moments, it felt like he could be, maybe, even if it's just for a little while.
-ooo-
"...vacuation...level...seventeen...minent..."
-ooo-
She places the collar around his neck with gentle hands, smiling as she snaps it into place."There now don't you feel better? Now there's someone to hold your chain."
She tugs the chain and the collar tightens uncomfortably around his throat, body swaying automatically in the direction of the tug to reduce the discomfort. She laugh that soft, strange, purring chuckle she'd been using lately that was more parody than humor.
"He's not a pet, you know," Matsuda commented, boots thumping loudly as they hit the top of his desk. "Neither is the other one. You've tossed a lot of dangerous balls in the air and if you're not careful you're going to die before you have a chance to execute even half the things you have planned."
"I know! It's exciting, isn't it? Don't be such a downer, baby, this is our time. You should enjoy it while it lasts. Besides this is for his own good, isn't it? You said it yourself, didn't you? He can't be trusted. He's unstable, so I'm just doing my part for the civic good."
"I meant that you should kill him, not put him on a leash," he replied, rolling his eyes. "Don't blame me when he puts a knife in your back."
Junko laughed, grinning wildly as looked back down at him, jerking the collar tighter still. "Do you love me, Nagito?"
"Yes," he replied, more from reflex than any actual feeling, fingers digging beneath the collar to prevent it from tightening further. It was difficult to breathe.
"See? He loves me. What more do you need to know?"
-ooo-
"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."
-ooo-
"Kamukura, right?"
He glanced up at the boy already sliding into the seat across from him, the vinyl squeaking protest as he signaled for the waitress, "Americano, please?"
"Sure, love, won't be a minute," she replied, topping off the cup sitting in front of him though he hadn't asked her to. She'd done so approximately five times in the twenty-three minutes and fourteen seconds since she'd poured the initial cup. He poured in another dash of milk, already vaguely interested in how the taste would have changed this time. It was such a simple thing, but it made all the difference. Kept him from getting bored with the taste.
He liked the dinner. He felt more… normal here than he did anywhere else. People came and went, coins jingled, forks scrapped against plates, spoons clinked against glasses, people coughed or cleared their throats, spoke too loud or too softly, chairs were dragged in and out, the machines whirred, the grill sizzled and smoked. The scents changed from moment to moment, the air quality even changed as people opened the door or smoke hissed in the kitchen. Everything was different, everything was constantly changing from moment to moment. He never got bored in the dinner... or at least not completely.
And now he had an unexpected visitor.
He knew everything of merit about him at a glance, had seen it written in the motion and form of his body when he walked in, but even if he hadn't he still would have known him. Known him for who he was and what he represented even if he hadn't been the Foundation's mascot, trouted out to boost moral, their ultimate symbol of hope.
"What do you want of me, Naegi Makoto?"
"Ah, you already know who I am?"
A child three booths back, dropped a forkful of spaghetti into her lap. "One moment," he murmured, scooting out of the booth and striding back to catch the hand of the father before it could come down across the child's cheek.
The father (boring, ordinary, obvious signs of long term alcohol abuse in broken capillaries and redness of face, current usage over the legal limit for operation of motor vehicles based on slurring of speech, looseness of movements) looked up at him with bleary eyes as he slid into the booth beside him, fingers still locked tight around his wrist. Ignoring the man's protest, he pinched his fingers against nerve points until the man began to squeal.
The girl stared up at him with wide eyes, "Hello, Fujita Aiko, you are exceptionally talented. It is my understanding that you are the best oboe player in the world."
The girl bit her lip, her shoulders hunching and the fingers of her free hand skittering to the little black case at her side. "I just like to play," she whispered, voice almost lost beneath the sound of her father's bleating.
"Yours is a most exceptional talent. The Future Foundation would like to offer you a spot in their program for bright young minds. Your parents will be offered a generous stipend and you will be among a chosen few to enjoy a life of freedom and safety where you shall want for nothing and your talents will be cultivated and appreciated."
"I…"
"You do not have to answer immediately. Take time to think it over and discuss it with your… parents and then contact this number when you have made your decision."
He slid a card from his pocket and pushed it across the table with two fingers before turning his attention back to the squirming worm at his side. "You will encourage your daughter to make a decision that will allow her a bright future. You will do nothing to harm her in the meantime. If you do I will come to your home and break this arm in six place. It will be excruciatingly painful and you will thank me on your knees for leaving you with your life"
He released his hold on the man and scooted back out to return to his own booth where Naegi was sipping tentatively out of a tall cup. He didn't look up as he slid back into the booth, but he could feel the pressure of his attention nonetheless.
"Did the Foundation send you?" He asked finally, sipping his own coffee and grimacing to find it had cooled considerably in his absence. It was unpleasant, but interesting enough that he took a second sip.
It tasted the same as the first.
Boring.
The waitress moved past them, topping off his cup again even as he was setting it back against the saucer. He lifted it back to his lips, took another sip. A hot spot burnt his tongue before a splash of lukewarm cooled it.
Surprising.
Better.
"No," Naegi answered finally as he set his cup back down again in the waiting saucer.
They stared at each for long moments.
It was… not quite boring. He couldn't read him. Not the way he could read others. His talents were obvious, but his intentions were unclear it was… frustrating?
Perhaps.
It made him feel… restless, as if his body wished to stay and go simultaneously. It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling and thus welcome.
"Kamukura Izuru, the repository of talent," Naegi commented, drawing his gaze to him once more. He spread his hands across the table, palm up, there were kanji there, stark black against the tan of his skin rimmed in white and red. He had heard of Naegi Makoto's eccentricities in the complaints of his contacts, but he hadn't ever given them much thought.
"Why?" He asked, interest striking sudden as lightning. It wouldn't last, but for the moment the writing on Naegi's skin wasn't boring.
"They're what I want to hold on to most," Naegi answered simply, closing his hands into fists that vanished the characters from sight. "They're what I fight for, what I want to protect, the reason I'm here."
He let the words settle over him, but it was difficult to make sense of them. He understood conceptually the idea of affection, but it was not something he had ever felt. The fervor in Naegi's eyes was as foreign to him as the surface of the moon and just as attainable.
"How many talents do you have?" Naegi asked softly, sympathetically.
He didn't understand that.
Talent was something to be valued, prized, talent was...
He glanced up something like irritation spurring him to speak, "Nineteen. This is in my file."
Naegi smiled, brief and tight, "Yes, I imagine it is. You're their proudest achievement, after all, I'm sure they'd be perfectly pleased to brag about their great experiment to the symbol of hope. If they were willing to admit you existed at all. After all, you're also their greatest failure, aren't you?"
That restless sensation again.
"That's in my file too."
"But that would mean asking questions and accessing your file probably would have brought me unwanted attention. Besides, I'd rather hear about you from you."
"Unwanted?"
Things began to click into place, all the little oddities of Naegi's appearance, his body language, the way he moved, the way his eyes darted across the faces of the diner's patrons, lingering on the one unchanging aspect, the one constant, as she slipped past their table to top off his coffee once more.
"Aren't you tired of living in a cage?" Naegi inquired, leaning closer, his voice pitched low. "Because that's what this is. You'll never find what you're looking for in here."
"What am I looking for?" He asked, fingers clenching on the cup.
That restless feeling again.
She would notice soon.
The impact Naegi's continued presence was having on him.
The next pot would be poisoned. He would need to decide whether to drink it in approximately two minutes and thirteen seconds before not doing so will cause alarm.
She'll hit the panic button.
He'll have fifteen seconds to decide on a course of action.
Five seconds to execute it.
There are fifty-three ways to escape the diner in the next two minutes.
Thirty-two if he wishes to remain unharmed.
Twenty-five if he wants to avoid the complication of casualties.
Eighteen if he wishes to take Naegi along.
Six if he wants them both to escape without major injury.
Three if he does not make his decision in one minute.
"What they stole from you," Naegi answers taking a sip from his cup, oblivious to his calculations. "If you help me, I'll help you take it back."
Coming to a decision and deciding on a course of action takes seven seconds.
-ooo-
"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."
-ooo-
It feels like he's finally going mad in the best possible way, like someone has turned them both upside down and shaken them until all the good sense has fallen out and been crushed between them by groping hands and the slip of lips turned gentle by acceptance.
The thought makes him laugh and the boy makes the strangest noise, like a croaking cartoon frog being squished under a steamroller, and it should be the least attractive thing ever, but it isn't. Instead it's like he's mainlined that sound straight to the pleasure center of his brain as his stomach whirls with scorching unfamiliar heat.
Or maybe he's just that weird because that startled, squawking squish of sound and his own laughter means they both have their mouths open, just a little bit, and he's seen enough porn to know that tongues are usually involved in this sort of thing so he shoves his tongue into his mouth.
He gets bitten for his trouble.
Blood again, wet copper familiarity, and he draws back, panting and breathless.
The boy's eyes are like moons and planets shifting, wide and bright and pale and dark all at once and he's panting too like he's been running a race. Or maybe they've been running a race together because he can't seem to catch his breath and the world around them seems bright and indistinct like it's going by too fast or they are.
"Who are you? Are you even real?" He asks and Nagito can't help but laugh again, falling back against the steps and whimpering a little as pain spikes at the impact.
"Why? Do you see things too?" He asks and he meant it to be a joke or mostly a joke, but the boy looks so twitchy and unsettled by the comment that he knows he's hit the mark without even trying.
Lucky.
He was really lucky, wasn't he?
"Crazy," the boy whispers, but he's already leaning down as if drawn by gravity and he's not sure which of them he's referring to, isn't even sure if he knows.
This time when their lips meet he's the one who slips his tongue tentatively into his waiting mouth. So cautiously, as if he's expecting the earlier favor to be returned in kind, but is willing to take the chance. The temptation is there, but it's easy to ignore, because it's wet and warm and weird, but really kind of nice too like this.
He spreads his legs, reaching for jacket clad shoulders and pulling him in, urging him to settle closer against him, between his thighs, opening his mouth wider instead.
He wasn't normal and he'd never be normal.
Maybe that was lucky too.
Maybe he's sick and he's depraved and his luck… his luck brought him someone to take his mind off of his body's collapse.
Someone beautiful who surges against him as if he were a river on the verge of overflow and the touch of his lips broke the barrier holding it back. He's frantic with the need for more, more, more than this, fingers curling and clawing at the back of his uniform jacket, snatching at it to bring them closer, to bring their bodies together and the boy groans into his mouth, tongue flailing awkward and uncertain against his own and he sucks at it, encouraged by the little panting grunts the boy makes.
And the most miraculous, hopeful thing about it is that he's somehow found the perfect partner. Someone willing to meet him with equal fervor. Like this is their last night on Earth, the last moments before annihilation and they both just… need… someone, something, anything to ground them and pull them through the horror, to make the end easier to take.
It isn't personal, not really, and it is all at once. It's like if they can just stay in this moment, if they can just keep going a little more, a little further, than the all the awful things won't be able to touch them anymore. That they can finally be safe and warm and wanted and that can be enough.
They can be enough.
Even if it's only for a little while.
Fingers are digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises in their wake and he doesn't mind, he's glad even, because he knows this can't last, won't, that this is a waking dream and any moment something will happen to send them spinning apart and he'll be left alone and bereft in the aftermath wondering if it was real, if anything was.
Wondering it was just another useless imagining of a mind riddled with disease.
He drops a hand down between them to press and rub against the ache in his pants and finds he isn't the only one to have done so.
Their hands and fingers bump and it's funny, and maybe a little pathetic, that they didn't think to touch each other, just themselves.
They break away and there's already an apology on the tip of tongue, fighting for dominance with an embarrassed laugh as he drops his head back against the step so he can stare up at drowsy eyes and swollen lips.
"Sorry," the boy says, beating him to the punch. "I just…" he trails off, red-faced, clearly at a loss and…
He's beautiful.
He's just so...
He couldn't help smiling up at him, blurting out: "I like you."
"You don't know me," he scoffed immediately, as if the idea of being liked were completely absurd. "You wouldn't like me if you knew me. I'm not-"
"You wouldn't like me if you knew me either. No one does," he cut in, laughing and glancing away at the wall.
It was white and covered with scuff marks.
Had someone been kicking it?
"I would, I do," the boy replied, quickly, seriously. "And I do know you or... I know who you are anyway. You're Komaeda Nagito."
His smile felt like it had frozen in place on his face, because this couldn't be… he wasn't….
"I really admire your talent," he finished, almost mumbling the last, face turning an even brighter red with embarrassment as he looked away. "You're lucky, right?"
"I'm not lucky, I'm going to die," he can hear himself saying all in a rush, though he can't feel his lips moving at all. Everything feels numb, everything but the ache between his legs and the rioting pain that feels as if it has ruptured his chest, broken him open like a rotting piñata, like his intestines should be spilling down the steps across this stranger's lap instead of just the ugly truth of his situation. His fingers scramble at the front of his crisp, white shirt, though he isn't sure what he's searching for, what he hopes to find.
Maybe he's just scrambling for hope, for a silver lining, for a up side to it, but in that moment there's nothing, nothing at all, just emptiness.
He was going to die.
He wasn't lucky at all.
Maybe he never had been.
"Me too. It's the only way I can be the person I want to be," the boy laughs again and it's a sound like glass breaking and those words might as well be spoken in another language for as much as he can understand of them.
But, at the very least, he finally thinks he understands the desperation in the grip of his fingers. Fingers that are pressing so hard against his hip that it feels like they're going to punch through his skin and drill into the muscle beneath.
He's nobody.
He's just… ordinary.
White shirt.
Dark jacket.
The reserve class.
Right.
Just a member of the reserve class, nothing special at all.
Except….
Except that grip against his hip is still strangely cathartic, as if that pressure is allowing the despair inside to seep out into open air, allowing that heaviness to drain away. He can understand the way the boy lingers above him, staring at his lips as if they hold answers to questions he hasn't asked as he laughs and laughs.
He's not sure why he didn't realize before. Why it took so long to recognize the uniform for what it was.
Well, no, that wasn't quite true… maybe he had known all along and he just hadn't cared.
He still didn't really care.
Maybe he would later, but for now… for now he liked him.
He just... liked him.
"What's your name?"
"Oh, I'm…" his eyes looked distant for a moment as if it was a more difficult question than it seemed. "I'm-"
He lifts a hand to drag uncertain fingers across the front of the boy's slacks, tracing tentative invitation across the fading memory of desire he finds there, startling a sharp inhale out of him and losing whatever he might have said to surprise.
He leaned up to kiss the suggestion of a name from his lips.
It was probably a bad idea.
Sometimes he just does things and he can't bring himself to stop.
He gets hurt a lot, doing those things.
This wasn't one of those things.
Whoever he was, he liked him.
Even if he was just an ordinary, boring nobody from the reserve class, he was still the first person to ever say that to him with any sincerity.
That made him special, didn't it?
More special than anyone maybe.
Even if it's only for a moment.
He kisses him for a thousand different reasons, but they all amount to the same thing: he wants to.
He just… wants to.
And he kisses him back immediately, bringing hands to rest against his cheeks, to cradle his face like there's nothing and no one else in the world.
Like he wants to crawl inside him and never leave and no one….
No one has ever wanted anything like that from him before, no one has ever just wanted him for… for anything really, ever.
He welcomes the invasion, desire catching like wildfire in his veins, fingers bracing the jerk of hips, rising to meet the first tentative thrust and the second, rubbing eager over soft fabric and the quickly reemerging evidence of interest beneath.
There was a right way to do this, probably, maybe, but he couldn't think of it. Couldn't think of anything but touching him, not stopping, not until his hand is snatched out of the way, slammed down against the stair and hips fall against his own and the sound that claws it's way from his throat feels loud and shrill enough to shatter glass, a sob that seems to echo around him like it will never stop, never fade.
He whimpers a broken plea into the air between them, "P-please don't stop."
Or maybe he only imagines he does, because the only response he receives are soft grunts of effort and that frantic press of friction and pressure that's never quite enough to tip him over the edge.
Somewhere far away a door opens and panic chokes him to silence.
The clatter of hurried footsteps on the stairs and they were going to ruin it, ruin everything, and he doesn't want to stop.
Not when he's so...
Just another minute, two, ten would be enough.
Just a little longer.
Just...
It shouldn't be a surprise when he hears a heel break, hears a panicked cry ring out, followed by a series of uneven thumps as that someone tumbled down the steps to land with a sickening crack before falling to silence.
It shouldn't have been a surprise, but somehow it always was.
Lucky.
He'd always been... lucky.
"Was that...?" He murmured, panting as he broke away, lips red and swollen from kissing, the cut on his lip still a ragged bloody wound. He blinks sleepy eyes and Nagito shakes his head quickly, threading fingers in his hair to draw him back down.
"Just... ignore it. They'll be fine," he whispered with a confidence he didn't truly feel, a smile that felt as brittle as glass. "It's just my luck. They'll wake up after we're gone."
The boy smiled down at him, soft and almost fond, "You're a terrible liar."
"You think so?"
"Yeah, I really do," he replied touching his fingers against his cheek, smearing the damp he found there. "It's okay. Let's go check on them."
-ooo-
"...warning...order...sector...rantine..."
-ooo-
He wakes again, hips jerking against the bed as pleasure snaps his spine stiff and spits an aborted scream against the numb of the wrist he's holding between his teeth. He comes with that memory shattering to pieces around him.
Hinata...
That was...
Was any of it real?
Did it matter?
His hips jerked and he whimpered in the aftermath, biting hard against that wrist until he tasted blood and still felt nothing.
Blood again.
Always.
Blood in his mouth, on his hands, in his head, a hole in his chest and in his hands and across his thighs, staining Hinata's shirt, making it as filthy as the rest of him. Blood everywhere and nowhere and the storm raging outside and inside too.
-ooo-
"...warnin...uation...evel...five...t...uarantine...mmin..."
-ooo-
He's laughing as he uses the chain that dangles from the collar around his neck to choke the woman in his arms.
No, not woman.
Girl.
Just a girl with thin pale hands that strike helplessly against his forearms, nails catching, snagged at the weave of his sweater.
Who was she?
What had she done?
Something? Nothing?
He should probably stop and find out.
Too late.
He can't hold her weight and she slips from his grasp to sprawl across the bloodstained concrete.
Oops.
Awkward.
-ooo-
"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."
-ooo-
"You're not supposed to be here," the guard commented glaring down at him, with cold eyes. "How'd you get in here?"
"He's with me," Nagito murmured, shuffling smoothly between them. He didn't like the tall security guard, didn't like the way he looked at him, at them, as if they were all... disappointing or dangerous or... something. "You should probably carry her to the infirmary, right? It's dangerous. She might have a concussion or something."
"Yeah, fine, you get your ass back to your own side and don't let me catch you here again, got it? Otherwise you're gonna be the one with a freaking concussion." He snarled, jabbing a finger at the boy behind him and shooting him a last lingering glare before hauling Tsumiki up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and stomping down the stairs towards the Nurse's office.
"You didn't have to do that. He's right, I'm not supposed to be here."
Nagito shrugged carelessly, turning too quickly and staggering as his head kept spinning, sending him careening towards the steps. He was pleasantly surprised when hands closed over his shoulders to steady him, keep him upright and safe. "I'm glad you are," he answered easily, smiling as red swept over his face. He wondered if he always blushed so easily or if it was just for him.
"S-shut up," he replied, uneasily, hunching his shoulders. "I-I should go anyway. I'm already late."
"Oh, okay," Nagito murmured disappointment heavy in his stomach.
"Can I see you again, I mean... I..." He paused as if debating how much to say or what to say or how to say it. "I... I might not be the same next time," he offered cautiously. "But... let's meet again, okay?"
He stares at the hand offered to him and he realizes that this is the second time someone has offered him their hand, but somehow... it feels completely different.
"I might not remember you," he warns, voice heavy with unspoken apology.
"That's okay, I might not remember you either, but let's... let's pretend we will, okay? Maybe if we hope for it, it'll happen. Do you think that's how it works?"
"Well, I am lucky," he replied sliding their fingers together. "And it would be nice to have something to hope for even if it is just..."
He shrugged, unsure how to quantify a handful of stolen moments that were already taking on a dreamlike fluffiness in his memory. Even the aches and pains of their fall on the stairs seemed distant and unreal, like they'd happened to someone else.
"Yeah, I think so too." He replied fingers gripping so tight around his own for a moment that he found himself swaying into him, close, so close.
Close enough to kiss and so he does and this time...
This time...
-ooo-
"...vacuatio...der...ector...rant...ent..."
-ooo-
"I just really, really love her, you know?" Tsumiki murmured, sniffling as she released the last of the straps that held him to the bed. "I-I don't know what to do without her."
He laughed, staring up at the ceiling, at that brown water stain in the corner that looked a lot like an anteater being mounted by a kangaroo, "She never loved you, you know. You were just a convenience. A lever, a button, a trigger. That's all you ever were. That's all any of us ever were."
"You're a liar. Everyone knows you're a liar. She knew you were a liar. That's why she had me help you. Make you better."
"…Better?" He murmured unable to attach any meaning to those words.
She nodded quickly, enthusiastically, "You were so lucky to have me to take care of you then and now. You wouldn't be who you are today without my help, you know."
He still didn't understand, didn't understand anything. His head hurt, his arm ached, "When I get out of this restraints. I'll be sure to repay your kindness."
-ooo-
"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."
-ooo-
If Hinata was real…
If Hinata was real…
If Hinata was real than he… he wasn't, was he?
He tried to think back over everything Hinata had said, every last detail, all the things he'd half-remembered and everything, everything came back to the machine, to the simulation and he… there was... something... something... something at the edge of his brain just out of reach if he could just...
"You don't have to think about it, you know," the shadow kneeling beside the bed whispered, trailing cold dead fingers across his damp cheek.
"I…."
He shrugged, his eyes a swirling pool of violence and despair, "You could just stay here, like this. Remain here, like this. Everything can just stay like this forever. No tomorrows. No future. Death, sure, eventually, but by the time that happens you won't even care. You won't even be you anymore. You'll be her or you'll be no one at all. A twitching viscous puddle, a useless sack of skin and no one left to care. Do you really think he'll come for you? Fight for you? No one else ever has. No one else, not even your parents, not even her. There's never been anyone who has cared who you are or what you can do or whether you live or die. It would have been more convenient for everyone if you hadn't ever been born at all. So, why don't you just die already? Just let go. Isn't it time? Isn't it past time? Aren't you tired?"
And he was.
Tired.
Spent.
He was…
Done.
It wasn't….
"So?" He asked, clicking his tongue impatiently. "Made a decision yet? Tick, tock, it's almost four o'clock and you're running out of time."
"Decision?"
"Sure. Stay or go? Hope or despair? Me or you?" A hand touched his face and he blinked, surprised to find it was his own, that the shadow that had been looming over him was gone… if it had ever been there at all. "Tick, tock, time's running out. It's a simple question, you know: who are you?"
Who?
Who was he?
"Hey, Komaeda."
He was so cold and his mouth was so wet and his eyes felt remarkably refreshed, they didn't ache or itch at all. He could barely keep them closed and Hinata was looming over him, fingers caught in his hair. His fingers seemed so warm against his frozen skin, so unpleasant.
He was in the hospital bed and the robe was comfortable, so pleasantly dry and smooth as silk and Hinata's fingers were in his hair, rough and painful.
"Why do I have to worry about someone like you? You're just the worst, making everyone worry about you like this. It would be a lot of trouble for me if you died. So you'd better not do it."
Something fell against his lips, a sweet taste that lingered on his tongue.
Hinata's eyes weren't scared at all.
"So, I'll just believe you're going to be fine, okay?"
He turned his face against Hinata's wrist, mouthing hatred against his skin, because he….
He blinked awake.
The storm was raging and he was soaking wet and shivering.
Oh.
He did, didn't he?
"You're special to me."
Oh.
So that's what it felt like.
To be wanted.
Wanted for more than a moment, for more than a purpose, just… just… for yourself.
He sat back onto his heels, wet and filthy and trembling, but for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, it felt like he could breathe.
He stared down dumbly at the space where his hand used to be.
Where her hand used to be before that.
At the neatly bandaged stump that was all that was left behind.
In the end, there hadn't ever really been any choice at all.
He was Komaeda Nagito.
He had done horrible things.
He had done good things too, maybe.
His brain was full of holes.
His heart was full of knots.
But, more than anything else, he was lucky.
After all, he'd finally found something to hope for besides hope, besides despair.
"She wants him."
"She does."
"She'll use me to get to him."
"She will."
"He doesn't know."
"I think you could fill a bunch of books with all the things he doesn't know. He's dreadfully dull."
"But I love that part of him."
"Do you?"
"And I hate it too."
"Well, you're stupid like that."
He was so tired.
Tired of fighting and tired of running and tired of… everything.
He just wanted...
What did he want?
Why did he keep moving? Keep running? Keep living all this time? Why did he keep hoping? Why couldn't he stop thinking about the panic in Hinata's voice?
What did he want?
Hope?
Despair?
To give up?
To stop?
Or did he want…
He remembered standing in the beach house, the warm rasp of Hinata's breath against his ear.
That word.
Special.
Leaping off a bridge with his arms wrapped around him.
That's right.
That.
That was what he wanted.
Hinata Hajime.
Kamukura Izuru.
Whoever he was.
He wanted to see him again.
He was Komaeda Nagito and he wanted a chance.
To know the truth behind who he'd been and who he was and who he'd be now that all those discordant notes were finally, finally coming together to form something new and different than anything that had been there before.
To find out who he really was now… no... who they really were.
Now.
To see if they could figure out a way to meet somewhere in the middle, somewhere between hope and despair.
That… was such a ridiculously hopeful thought.
It was... nice.
"Are you sure?" The fading voice asked, tremulous. "He might not want anything to do with you."
"I hope he does," he laughed, hooking wet hair behind his ears with his good hand. "And that's enough for me."
He crawled to the window and leaned out, squinting down the side of the building. There was a ladder there, rusty and highly suspect, but it wasn't as if he was lousy with options.
He clamored up onto the windowsill with difficulty, bracing against the side of the window with his arm so he could grip the sill with his hand. No matter how careful, he'd still have to jump to make the grab and hope he had enough upper body strength to manage.
He was drenched and freezing and there was really no point in waiting so he pushed off, stomach leaping into his throat as he fell, fingers catching and slipping across the rungs, arm banging against one rung and then another, feet bumping and slipping until he finally managed to find painful purchase in the bend of his elbow and the arch of one foot.
"Told you I was lucky," he breathed, gripping the next rung down with his hand and wincing as he set his other foot against the cold metal and began the slow trip down the ladder. It probably felt like it took longer than it actually but, in the end, he'd probably never know for sure. However long it took there was never any sign of her up above or down below. There was only the storm and his own panting, gasping grunts of effort.
Eventually, he set bare feet down in a puddle, toes squishing into the loose mud beneath the surface. He took a breath and looked around. The rain was still coming down as hard as ever and the world seemed thick with darkness and there was no lightning to provide additional illumination.
Forcing out a shaky breath, he put the hospital at his back and stepped out into the dark.
He managed to make it three steps before that voice rang out again through the darkness.
"Quarantine Protocol JE-5146 is now in effect."
Pain shot through his head, static fuzzing the world to green and black and he was falling.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Falling through space between one step and the next, as the ground just ceased to hold him. It was still there, he could see the patchy, rough texture of dirt and asphalt perfectly well in the instant before he passed into it, through it, before the world went completely dark for the briefest of moments and then there's artificial lighting, blindingly bright after the rainy dim of the night, assaulting him seconds before he slammed hard against the tile floor and then there was only pain, blinding and absolute and everywhere all at once.
He must have blacked out, though he wasn't sure for how long, because when he finally blinked blurry eyes open he's no longer on the floor and nothing hurts, not really, but… it's difficult to think. Everything feels... strange, slow, like he's wading through pudding to string one thought to the next.
He opens his mouth to say… something, but it's so dry that no sound comes out. It feels as if his mouth has been stuffed full of cotton, he can't quite swallow around the lump in his throat. Panic hits him as he tries to sit up and finds he can barely move his arms, can't move his legs at all.
Everything is heavy, so heavy and there's the metallic clank and drag of chains echoes through the room when he tries.
"Finally awake, hm?" A familiar stranger's voice comments, soft and teasing. "I was wondering if maybe she gave you too much or you'd finally outlived your usefulness and been put down like a rabid dog, but I suppose those edicts take precedent even at a time like this."
"That was a pretty good plan, you know?" She commented leaning down to smile at him and for a moment it was her blond hair, thick and soft, brushing against his chin, her red lips smiling wide enough to fill the world. Wide enough to reveal a mouth full of far too many white, white teeth. "But it really wouldn't do to let the big fish escape just because we couldn't hold onto the bait."
"Junko?" He mouths the word, feeling dread pool heavy in his stomach with the shape of each syllable.
The image stuttered and wavered, lines of static noise interrupting the picture as it crackled and spat sparks that stung against his face and throat. It resolved again for just a moment before a screech of sound left him wincing, jerking away from her, chains clattering loud around him.
When he opened his eyes again there was no sign of Junko at all, only Mikan and her uneven hair and her hesitant, lopsided smile. "I'm so glad I was able to finally find you," she commented, clamoring up on the table with him, her skirt riding up as she threw a knee over him so she could settle over his thighs.
She smiled at him as she reached over pull a little wheeled table closer. It trembled across her lips, "Don't worry. I'll have you all fixed up in no time."
The shine of the scalpel in her hand was blinding as she smiled and tapped the point against the tip of his nose, "Let's get started."
END NOTES:
Komaeda's Dog: I went with a briard, because they're super damn cool and a big shaggy sheepdog just seemed to suit him. Again, I make my own fun, sorry.
D3: Alrighty, so I made some decent guesses that have worked out so far on some fronts with D3 (and some things I was way off the mark on so it's really kind of a wash so far). So, basically, this story is going to end up looking like a hodge podge of canon and non-canon things. I'm probably going to add in the things I like that work for the story as I go along, but I'll try to note those out at the end of each chapter for the curious. So, generally speaking, if you're concerned about spoilers just assume each new chapter will have spoilers up to whatever is the current release for D3 (I'll try to note it at the top of each chapter if it's something major) and you should be fine.
Sakakura: I dig Sakakura, so he gets to be the world's worst security guard in this universe too.