"He blamed every fucker available excepting, of course, the one who was actually to blame, the one sitting in his saddle and getting colder, hungrier, and more lost with every unpleasant moment. 'Shit!' he roared at nothing."
- Joe Abercrombie, Red Country

DAY THREE
-continued-
-ooo-

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"War….acuation…orde…evel…four….ecto….t…thirt….arantin….minent."

Teruteru lifted his head from his knees, blinking blearily at the jukebox, "What was…?"

But the jukebox was silent except for a soft clicking noise and the gentle, constant hum of electricity.

Not even a hint of static.

He shifted his tired gaze back to the faded image of the girl at the bar, "Did you say something?"

Nothing but silence answered him.

Not that he'd been expecting anything.

Not really.

Still… he could have sworn he'd heard somethin-

Somethin-

Somethin-

Somethin-

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Sexy.

She sat on a stool, leaning casually back against the bar.

Her long, long legs were crossed elegantly at the knee. Her thighs were smooth and pale against the pleated edge of her skirt.

He could almost imagine them wrapped around his waist.

Imagine pressing into her.

Moist and warm.

Trying to grab those thighs, sink his fingers into that plump pale flesh only to find his fingers passing through something as insubstantial as air to find there'd never been anyone there at all, just another figment of an overactive imagination.

After all, she couldn't be real.

She and her beautiful legs were translucent as a sheet of foggy glass.

He'd been able to see the blur of the bright red vinyl of the stool and the checkerboard pattern of the counter behind them as clear as day through their milk pale sheen.

Still, she'd been really sexy.

And he had been so….

Ever since…

Since.

He'd swallowed around the sudden rise of panic tightening his throat with tension.

Pu-pu.

He'd whimpered, a whiff of burnt hair caught in his nostrils like a warning, there and gone in a moment.

Leaving him shivering as he continued to stare at her, at the edge of that short, short skirt.

At how that sweater clung so tight across her tits.

She was really….

He'd licked his lips, wincing as his tongue dragged across chapped, blistered flesh.

It ached.

Everything ached.

One of the remaining blisters on his palms had popped beneath the press of his anxious fingers and he whimpered again, closing his eyes and clawing desperately for a calm he couldn't find, couldn't feel.

The pain had become familiar.

An old friend.

And he… he didn't have many friends.

Never had.

Even before.

But that had been fine.

He'd never been lonely.

Pu-pu.

After all, he'd always had his ma-

He'd always ha-

He'd always ha-

He'd always ha-

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He'd never been lonely.

The other kids had always been so immature and he'd always been too focused.

He hadn't had time for friends.

He'd had his dreams, after all.

His eyes had always been locked on the horizon, on the future.

A future where his mam-

Where hi-

Where hi-

Where hi-

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His eyes had always been locked on the horizon, on the future.

He'd swallowed hard over the lump forming in his throat. Ignored the queasy, uneasy feeling brewing in his gut as sweat dripped down his back, cold, and he shivered violently.

"Come here often?" He asked her instead, his voice cracking and rough with disuse.

She didn't reply.

No surprise there.

Her expression, just like the rest of her, had been frozen in place since the last burst of static, that last frantic flurry of movement that had turned her around on the stool as the translucent image of Hinata had jittered across the room in the blink of an eye to set the bells on the door tinkling again.

Her lips had been parted in a grin, stretched wide to reveal white, white teeth.

So wide that it almost seemed like she had more teeth than she should.

Like she could have eaten him alive with a look.

But, of course, she wasn't looking at him.

She wasn't looking at anything.

Not really.

Pu-pu.

Or, maybe, if she was, it was something beyond him, beyond the diner, something beyond what he could see and hear and feel.

Something beyond that fading image of Hinata that lingered at the diner door still, barely visible, just a sketchy afterimage burned into the air, his usually placid features caught in a snarl, his translucent fingers dipping through the rain-streaked glass into the dark of the night beyond.

As he'd watched, that image had continued to fade until there had been barely anything left at all beyond the suggestion of color, the vague impression of lines.

A dirty smudge obscuring the air.

Until she was all that remained.

Almost as clear at she'd been when she'd first appeared there.

Like her image was somehow more substantial than his had been, burned in more throughly, like her presence had more weight.

Hinata was gone, but she remained, a nameless figure frozen in time and space, so still that even the memory of her jerky, inconsistent motion seemed unreal.

Like something he'd dreamed up.

Her image was just there, trapped like a fly in amber, all shade and no substance.

Her teeth were the only thing that hadn't faded at all.

They had seemed so brilliantly white… like the Cheshire Cat's smile, hovering disembodied in the air.

As if they were the only thing about her that was real.

She looked so familiar.

Pu-pu.

Like a dream he'd had a thousand times.

Or a nightmare… maybe.

He wasn't sure.

He wa-

He wa-

He wa-

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He was cowering on the floor, under one of the tables in the restaurant, but he could still smell the thick, heavy, cloying stench of smoke. Feel the sting of it in his eyes, the heat of distant flames against his skin.

The hotel was burning.

And in an instant he couldn't feel the boards beneath him anymore. Instead he was there again, flying through the air again, helpless, dangling, the roar of the helicopter's blades and the wind in his face, catching at his clothes. Then there was that terrible bubbling sound and the blast of sudden heat searing his skin as he screamed for help, for mercy, for anyone.

Pu-pu.

For his Mama.

His poor Mama.

Who he'd never see again.

Who might already be….

The way everything had seemed to go numb in those last moments, how he'd almost been able to feel nothing at all… nothing as he choked, gasped, as his lungs ached for oxygen that wasn't there, as the heat seared down his throat and everything went bla-

Bla-

Bla-

Bla-

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Ceiling.

He was lying on his back staring up at a ceiling.

The floor was cold.

Hard.

Ha-

Ha-

Ha-

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He was… empty.

Completely empty.

A dish washed clean.

He wa-

He wa-

He wa-

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He woke on the kitchen floor and it had come back in a rush, pouring in to fill him up with terror. Not all of it, not even most of it, but the last of it. The horror of the volcano, of the rope around his ankles, of dangling, of being carried, being lowered, of crying for his mother, then… agony.

But it was still… distant.

Like something that had happened to someone else.

Like someone else's problem.

Just a terrible dream.

And he'd breathed a sigh of relief even as his heart raced, as he swallowed hard against the rise of panic, because he was… he was fine.

He was alive and he was fine and it had all just been just a terrible….

And then he'd tried to sit up.

Tried to sit up and the pain had been everywhere.

Pu-pu.

In every muscle, across every last inch of skin, white hot and blinding.

Mama!

Someone was sobbing.

Please!

Someone was screaming.

Help!

The world was so, so loud and full of agony and he couldn't breathe.

He coul-

He coul-

He coul-

He coul-

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Ceiling.

He was lying on his back staring up at a ceiling.

The floor was cold.

Hard.

Ha-

Ha-

Ha-

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He was...

Was...

Was...

Wa-

Wa-

Wa-

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He woke up.

He was lying on his back and things came back faster this time.

Waking.

Moving.

Burning.

The volcano and ropes tight, so tight around his ankles that he if it weren't for the occasional spill of pain he would have doubted that his feet still existed at all. He'd dangled upside down, the blood rushing to his head, dread and horror and fear strangling him before the heat of the volcano ever touched him.

He was on the floor of the kitchen.

If he moved, it would hurt.

It would hurt.

Pu-pu.

But he didn't have to move.

He could just stay there.

Stay there until he woke up.

Woke up from this terrible dream.

So he didn't move.

Didn't move at all.

Just laid there staring up at the ceiling.

He fell asleep, eventually, exhausted.

And he woke up.

Eventually.

Still exhausted.

He was still on the floor.

It was cold.

It was hard.

He stared up at the ceiling, unmoving, waiting to wake up, to really wake up, clinging stubbornly to the hope that he would.

Eventually.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed or if any time had passed at all.

He didn't get thirsty.

He didn't get hungry.

He didn't have to take a piss.

He didn't think about anything.

His mind was empty.

Pu-pu.

Time passed.

Or maybe it didn't.

There was no way to tell.

There were things… things that lingered at the edge of his thoughts, shadows flickering just at the edges of consciousness, but he couldn't touch them, couldn't reach them, didn't want to.

He didn't move at all.

He didn't have to.

There was no reason to.

He fell asleep.

He woke up again.

He was still on the floor.

Minutes passed like that.

Hours.

Days.

Pu-pu.

Or maybe they didn't.

Either way, nothing changed.

The world was silent around him and he was silent too.

Sometimes he cried, but he couldn't say why.

The tears fell unbidden.

He was no one and he was nothing and the world was empty and so was he.

No on-

No on-

No on-

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He'd found the diner on maybe the third or fourth night after he'd started wandering around the island and for the longest time he'd just stood there staring at it, his heart beating way too fast, fists knotting in his apron as he stared up at the sign.

He couldn't even imagine that the similarity to his own outfit wasn't on purpose.

That stupid, no good bear….

He could almost hear it's laughter.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

Hadn't it been enough that he'd deep-fried him in a damn volcano?

Wasn't it punishment enough that every inch of his skin felt as if it had been flayed raw?

That even moving was pain?

That the feel of sunlight on his skin was torture?

Wasn't it enough?

Wasn't this place enough?

Wasn't it?

But no matter how long he'd stared at it… that stupid sign remained.

Glowing bright in the dark.

Mocking him.

Like he didn't know that he….

Right.

But that's what he was, wasn't it?

That's what he'd been.

What he still was.

What he'd always be.

A pig.

A greedy pig who'd dreamed too big and wanted too much.

He'd wanted to be someone.

To be admired.

To be desired.

To be someone she could be proud to call her son.

He'd wanted to be famous.

He'd wanted to stand on top of the world.

He'd wanted to make food so delicious that people would do anything, anything at all for just a taste of it.

He'd wanted to be wanted.

For his talent, yes, but for himself too.

Pu-pu.

He'd wanted to know what it was like to take and to be taken.

He'd wanted to… to... fuck on the floor of his own kitchen after a good meal.

To suckle at a tit or a cock.

To know what it felt like to have someone slide inside him.

Or maybe both at once.

Wanted to press his face between a girl's legs and pull moans from her lips, feel the burn of fingernails against his shoulders as he teased her over the edge.

Wanted to lose himself in the heat and fervor of someone's mouth.

To feel strong legs wrapped around him.

Feel gentle arms holding him tight.

He'd just… he'd just wanted everything.

He'd wanted to be loved.

To be wanted.

Was that really so bad?

Was it really so much to ask?

To have someone to hold his hand.

Someone to talk with late into the night.

Someone who would try his dishes and give him honest criticism.

Someone who would help him be better than he was.

To have someone he could bring home to meet his mother.

He'd just wanted….

He'd just wanted.

Everything.

He'd wanted to open Hanamura Diner locations all over the country, all over the world so that his mother would never have to worry, so that he could share her cooking, their cooking, with everyone.

He'd wanted to see her smile.

To let her live a life of ease.

To help her.

To help himself.

He'd wanted it all.

He'd wanted and he'd wanted and he'd wanted.

He'd made himself a stranger, polished and primped and poised to face the world with flare. He'd lost his accent, dressed up his back story, done everything he could to assure he'd be taken seriously, to assure his success.

For Mama.

Pu-pu.

It had all been...

For her... hadn't it?

He was a good son... wasn't he?

Wasn't he?

Was-

Was-

Was-

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It hadn't been his fault.

None of it had been his fault.

It was Komaeda.

It was all Komaeda.

It had all been Komaeda's fault.

He was the one to blame.

Pu-pu.

That dirty no good traitorous... pig.

He'd never have done it if it weren't for him.

Never.

He was a good person.

He was.

He was.

It wasn't his fault.

It was-

It was-

It was-

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He'd been Icarus flying too close to the sun, the molten drippings of his hope scalding his skin as his ambition sent him plummeting back to earth.

And he'd… lost everything.

Lost everything before he'd even really begun.

Lost everything the moment he'd opened that letter.

The moment he'd given into temptation and accepted their offer.

It was their fault.

Their fault for offering him the world.

If that letter had never come...

He'd always been greedy.

If he'd just been satisfied with what he had.

If he'd just…

But he hadn't been.

Of course, he hadn't been.

No one was.

It wasn't his fault.

Anyone would have done the same.

Anyone would have.

It wasn't his fault.

He just... wanted to be... more.

And now all his dreams tasted like ash, gone soft and bitter on his tongue.

He'd only wanted….

He'd only wanted.

Pu-pu.

When he'd been young… too young to be a help in the kitchen and too old to be anything but a nuisance to the customers, he used to sit in the corner of the kitchen while Mama cooked and Ren and Miyumi flitted in and out of the kitchen carrying steaming plates and delivering fresh orders during the dinner rush.

He'd mostly just been expected to stay out of the way so he'd sat there in that corner flipping through Mama's recipe books.

She'd never had the bound, fancy, expensive sort. The sort with the glossy pages peppered with images of perfectly lit, perfectly displayed meals like he'd seen in the shops.

Nothing like those books had ever made their way into the Hanamura kitchen.

No, all her cookbooks had been old and handmade, loose leaf papers shoved haphazardly into a book with crumbling binding. Papers that were thick with lines of kanji he couldn't read and katakana that formed words he couldn't yet make sense of, but every few pages there was a paperclip in the corner holding fading pictures to the page of the various dishes.

There was never any particular order to them, no theme, no rhyme or reason, as if they'd just been added as they'd been remembered or thought of.

Desserts and meat pies, soups and sandwiches, chicken and fish on skewers or laid out across beds of rice.

Heaping piles of fried chicken.

Salads with bright garnishes.

Recipes for cookies laid out beside recipes for unagi and pasta and pork belly and scones.

French.

Japanese.

Korean.

Jamaican.

Chinese.

Italian.

Hundreds of different recipes from all over the world, piled together haphazardly in those old, frail pages.

So many delicious looking dishes.

He used to dream about those pictures.

About making all those dishes and serving them to famous people, important people, yes, but also just the pictures themselves.

The stiff feel of polaroid plastic and the strange glossy, rough texture of thick development paper. Sometimes the edges were worn or frayed from years of rough handling, the pages stained with the occasional splatter of grease.

Spots that made the thin, cheap, aging paper almost translucent.

"Mama, you should let me rebind these; make them nicer so they'll last."

He'd asked again and again over the years and she'd always just laughed.

"Teru," she'd always said, smiling at him so sweetly, fondly, wiping sweat from her brow. "Things aren't supposed to last forever. If you want the recipes just write them down for yourself somewhere new. No need to waste money on something like that."

But he could always tell that she loved them.

Could see it in the way she caressed the pages, so gently, as if she were thanking them or perhaps apologizing that she hadn't taken better care with them.

The way she always seemed to know exactly where the recipe she was looking for was; as if they were ordered in a way only she could fully understand.

He'd always promised himself he'd have them rebound someday.

Someday.

Pu-pu-pu.

Later, so much later, he'd wake in his bed at Hope's Peak to sweat-soaked sheets and a tearstained pillow, to sobs that would shake him until his alarm went off minutes or hours later. And his dreams were always of those pictures.

Of watching them crinkle and curl and blacken as they burned.

Eventually he'd drag himself from bed and shuffle off to the shower.

Scour his skin with soap and a rough sponge.

Wash his hair twice, three times.

Nothing helped.

Everything had still smelt of burnt paper and plastic.

Himself.

His blankets.

His food.

The pretty girls and boys who sat around him in class.

Everything.

Everyone.

Burnt and burning.

Pu-pu-pu.

Because he'd been greedy.

Because he'd wanted it all.

He'd wanted his dreams and Mama.

He'd wanted money and fame.

He'd wanted food and sex.

He'd wanted girls and boys.

He'd wanted everything all at once and he….

He-

He-

He-

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It had still been there the next evening and the next.

The diner.

The sign.

That dull ache of frustration he'd felt as he'd glared up through the darkness at that tawdry, blurry, neon monstrosity.

The way it seemed to taunt him with its very presence as his head spun and his chest tightened and his skin felt like it was on fire even beneath the weak light of the moon.

Mean.

It was just… mean.

Me-

Me-

Me-

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It had still been there the next evening.

The diner.

The sign.

Pu-pu-pu.

That dull ache of frustration he'd felt as he'd glared up through the darkness at that tawdry, blurry, neon monstrosity.

The way it seemed to taunt him with its very presence as his head spun and his chest tightened and his skin felt like it was on fire even beneath the weak light of the moon.

Mean.

It was just… mean.

Mean.

Me-

Me-

Me-

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It had still been there the next evening.

Diner.

Sign.

Pu-pu-pu.

Pink and red lines glowing like jewels, like the embers of….

O-

O-

O-

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Grease fires weren't like that.

Didn't glow like that.

Grease fires were orange and red, flaring bright and wild, out of control even without the addition of water to allow them to blow out, to expand, to allow the fire to feed and expand and flourish. To catch hungry flames against apron strings and old paper, to roar across counters and floors, consuming towels and paper napkins, famished, starved for fuel and insatiable, swallowing everything in its path….

He shivered, the chill in the air almost unbearable.

He could see the glow of neon even from the bridge.

There was no need to go any further than that.

And yet he always did.

Always slipped and slid across warm, damp wood as he made his careful, cautious way down the bridge to the island below, down the road and across the parking lot, to stand in silence as he stared up at that familiar, obnoxious glow.

Every night it was still there.

Pu-pu-pu.

And every night it seemed brighter than the night before.

Was it a taunt?

A gift?

A punishment?

He wasn't sure.

He wasn't even sure that he wanted to know.

Whatever it was meant to be, it felt like it had been there, always, just waiting for him to find it.

And the more he thought about it…

The more he'd thought that, maybe, it had been.

That maybe it was supposed to be… a sign, some kind of warped reward for being good, for being brave enough or… or selfless enough or… something.

Something he hadn't been.

But now…

Seeing it like this….

Felt… cruel.

Like a reminder.

It was like a weight on his chest, a weight that made it tough to breathe, made it even tougher to get up off the floor each morning.

Made it more difficult to move and bend and just continue to exist in that lonely, silent place.

And yet… he'd still found himself coming back again and again to stare at it, to edge ever closer to it without ever going inside.

Even with the moonlight glinting off the windows he could see that the inside was… beautiful.

Perfect.

Pristine and untouched.

If he could ignore that stupid sign it almost felt like….

Home.

Like he could walk through those doors and leave everything that had happened behind him, find himself fourteen again with neatly trimmed hair and a black school uniform, coming home to work an evening shift with Mama before they shut down for the night.

Like he could-

Like he could-

Like he could-

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It had been days, a week, maybe more, before he finally managed to work up the courage to enter.

When he'd pulled the door wide it was to the sharp striking of bells against glass that seemed to echo impossibly loud around him as he'd stepped inside. He'd jumped, gasped, startled by the sound, the first sound he'd heard in such a long time that hadn't come from himself or the sea. Fingers clutched painfully at his apron, blisters straining, popping beneath the pressure as he let the door fall shut carelessly behind him.

The bells clanked with the sudden reversal of motion, but the sound was softer, gentler, this time… more like an afterthought than an announcement of presence.

As to the diner itself….

It hadn't… it hadn't really been anything like the Hanamura Diner had been, not really.

It had been gaudy and overdone. A thousand ideas of what should go into a dinner crammed into a space built for ten.

Everything had been shiny and bright like it had just been pulled from the packaging, like it had never been used, never felt a human touch. Even the vinyl on the seats of the counter stools had been pristine, glistening, as if they'd never been sat on.

The register till had stood open and empty as if it were waiting to be used.

No, it had been nothing like home.

Home had been… worn and warm, well-used and homey.

Pu-pu-pu-pu.

He was sure everything there had been new once, but he'd never seen it. Everything had been worn and strained with years of use by the time he'd come along.

The island diner had been nothing like that. It was cool and sterile… like it wasn't a place made for people.

Like it was just a… display model, a proof of concept. Less a functioning restaurant and more the idea of what a restaurant could be. Something to sell investors on the concept.

Style-wise… it kind of reminded him of American theme diners, but it still… there was still something about it that felt hopelessly familiar. Like he'd been there before, cooked in that kitchen, eaten in those booths, so it was… comfortable in a way that nowhere else on the island had ever been.

But that first night… he'd just stood there by the door, staring at it, taking it in.

But th-

But th-

But th-

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Maybe he'd fallen asleep just like that.

Wavering on aching feet in the entry waiting to be seated.

Or maybe he'd just left after a while, taken himself elsewhere to curl up and fall into a dreamless sleep… he couldn't remember and it probably didn't matter.

The next night he'd explored the interior.

Marveled at the lack of bathrooms, at the knob-less stove in the kitchen.

At how there were too many pots and not enough pans.

At how all the flatware was unbalanced and too heavy.

How the knives were all too dull.

It was like whoever had designed that place had never been in a real kitchen, had only even seen them on television, maybe. Had never used a knife or even held one in their hand.

The cutting boards were all plastic and cheap.

He could never use a kitchen like this.

Pu-pu-pu-pu.

It wasn't anything like the kitchen in the….

It wasn't anything-

It wasn't anything-

It wasn't anything-

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He woke up on the floor of that kitchen each morning.

Every morning.

He always left as fast as he could, scrambled from the room with his heart in his throat every time. More than willing to brave the burn of sunlight to reach the main hotel lobby.

At least there he could breathe.

At least there he could….

At leas-

At leas-

At leas-

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Ever since he'd managed to talk himself into breeching the door and slipping inside, he'd returned to the diner every evening without fail.

He'd stopped bothering with exploring the islands.

There hadn't ever been any point to that anyway.

Pu-pu-pu-pu.

There was no one else there.

He'd been abandoned.

He was alone.

Alone.

Each new island only seemed to give him a fresh rush of disappointment and an ever-growing list of deserted, empty places where he could while away the long solitary, dreary hours until exhaustion claimed him and he woke on the kitchen floor again.

And again.

And again.

So it had seemed better to just spend his nights at the diner, spend hours tucked into the red vinyl-covered booth seat in the back nearest the jukebox.

It made him feel bad, being there, sick and guilty and sad, but even that had still been better than all those other places.

Better than the stillness of the supermarket or the deserted farm, the beach where they'd played for those few hours before everything had gone to hell, the empty façade of the airport or, worst by far, the horror of the blood-splattered banquet hall.

For a while, he'd fooled himself into believing that maybe this was all just a bad dream, that any moment he might wake up at home or in his dorm room at Hope's Peak or even just back on the island to find he'd dozed off in the restaurant and everything else had been just a terrible dream, but…

But.

He never did.

He never-

Neve-

Neve-

Neve-

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There was no one there.

There was no one anywhere.

Pu-pu-pu-pu.

The first few nights he'd run all over the place, exhausted himself searching all day for someone, anyone, in the hope that it had all been just…

Squish.

Just a big joke.

That it wasn't, that none of it had happened, that he hadn't….

Squish.

He shivered against the chill in the air, pulling his knees in tighter against his chest as he stared out the window.

For the moment, he ignored the fading image lingering against the counter. Instead he chose to watch as rain pelted the glass and another bright flash of jagged lightning cut across the cloudy sky outside the diner window.

Squish.

The only time he bothered to leave the diner at all anymore was when he had to.

When he fell asleep and woke up on the floor of the banquet hall kitchen.

He used to run.

Hadn't he?

It seemed like he had.

At least at first.

As if the second he woke up to find his face pressed against those familiar tiles, panic would seize him and he'd scramble to his feet and hightail it for the hall.

He could almost remember what it felt like to slam into the wall, to ignore the pain that spiked through his hands, his joints as he tumbled full speed down the corridor, as he slammed through the fire doors and into the entry hall beyond.

He would just… run.

Run.

Straight out the building, tripping down the stairs towards the pool and sprawl exhausted across the sun-warmed cement beyond where the sun would sear across his bare skin and dozens or hundreds of blisters would pop upon impact, streaking his brain black with agony.

He'd wake up on the floor of the kitchen.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

And run.

Again.

Same thing.

Same result.

Shock and pain always delivered him back to that room, that pristine floor.

Over and over again.

Until he'd learned to stop running.

Un-

Un-

Un-

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He had watched Komaeda scrub it that morning.

Watched him strip off his coat and roll up his pants and drop to his knees to scrub the floors without compliant.

He'd cleaned the counters and utensils, but Komaeda… Komaeda had scrubbed down the floors, the larger appliances while he'd brought food over from the kitchen at the restaurant.

And if Komaeda had noticed the way he sometimes lingered longer than he had to, felt the weight of his gaze on his ass… well, he'd never said anything about it.

It wasn't like he meant to watch him. He'd just made such a pretty picture, hair tugged back in a knot at the back of his neck as he'd worked, sweat sticking the pale of his t-shirt to his back and shoulders.

"I'm sorry that took so long. I'll leave you to your work," he'd commented when he'd finished up wiping down the fridge and tucked the towel over his shoulder.

"No, no, it's fine, you did a great job," he'd replied absentmindedly, only half paying attention because he'd been busy mixing up a marinade for his meat.

"Oh, I, uh, thank you," Komaeda began, stumbling over the words and he glanced up from his mixing bowl to find Komaeda's face flushed, his gaze trained on the floor, a bright smile dancing across his lips. "Cleaning is… one of the only things I'm good at."

There had been a dozen possible pick up lines he could have thrown out to play off that line, but… that smile stalled them all on his tongue. It had just… it had been so bright and wide, but somehow it had….

It had just seemed kind of… sad.

So, in the end, he hadn't said anything at all and Komaeda had slipped away out into the hall with his cleaning supplies.

It had been the memory of that smile that had had him sneaking into the dining hall later that morning, a glass of water in hand to offer an excuse.

He wasn't worried exactly… just… maybe a little… concerned.

If not for that smile he'd probably never have known.

Never seen him taping the knife to the underside of the table.

Never have been tempted.

It was his fault.

All his fault.

That he was...

That he-

That he-

That he-

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Every morning he picked himself up off the floor slowly and methodically as if each day he'd spent there were an ache building up in his bones, slowing him down, gumming up his works until just sitting up was a Herculean task.

Still, every morning without fail, no matter how long it took to pull himself together, he'd still get to his feet and trudge off.

Because he couldn't stay there.

Couldn't stay in that building.

In that building where he'd….

Couldn't stay there with the stench of blood and raw meat still so heavy in the air.

Could-

Could-

Could-

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He'd returned to the diner again and again.

Night after night.

It wasn't quite like home, but it reminded him of it a little and if he closed his eyes, squeezed them shut as tight as they would go, he could almost hear the clatter of dishes and the sizzle of pans in the kitchen. Like maybe if he opened his eyes at just the right moment he'd find Mama leaning through the little window from the back calling him to come help out.

Those had always been his favorite times.

Cooking with Mama in the kitchen of their little restaurant.

Because when she was cooking, Mama forgot all her other worries. Forgot about all those envelopes that arrived stamped with words like 'final notice' or 'urgent' in bright red ink.

Forgot about how sick she was or how easily she tired.

Forgot about Daddy and the funeral they still hadn't been able to pay for.

Forgot about how much she worried about Ren and Miyumi out in the big world and so busy working they never came by to visit, just sent home money from time to time like that was any kind of substitute for their presence.

Forgot about the chain restaurant that had opened up down the road and how every day it seemed like they had fewer drop ins and like sometimes even their regulars didn't show up for breakfast or lunch as often as they used to.

When she was cooking, Mama never seemed to remember to worry about any of those things.

When she was in the kitchen, all she ever worried about was if the fried rice was done just right or if she'd gotten the perfect sear on the fish.

She'd only ever cared about whether her food would make the customers smile., whether they'd want to come back and see them again.

Everything she made was delicious, but she always worried that it might not taste as good as it could if she'd only made that little bit of extra effort.

It was silly, but it was what made her such a good cook.

Least that's what he'd always thought.

Though he probably hadn't told her that even though he should have.

There were a lot of things he should have told her.

A lot of things.

A lot.

But he'd….

There'd just… there'd always seemed like there would be time.

That there would always be next times and tomorrows.

She'd wanted him to go out and make something of himself, to share his gift with the world.

"You're gonna be great," she'd said to him with a smile when his acceptance letter had arrived, her rough hand against his cheek. "Don't you worry about things here, your old Mama is tough, I'll be just fine. I'm so proud of you, Teru."

And he….

She hadn't cared about fame or money or looking good.

All she'd cared about was that they were happy.

Even Ren and Miyumi.

When he was younger, before Hope's Peak, he used to get so mad every time they'd send a letter or call with excuses as to why they weren't gonna be able to make it back for this holiday or that. He'd be so angry and she'd always just smile.

"But they sound so happy, Teru, like they're really enjoying their lives," she'd say, smiling even as she dashed a sleeve across her cheeks to wipe away the damp. "What more could a Mama want for her babies?"

She'd been so proud of them.

So proud.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

And he'd been... embarrassed.

Embarrassed to be himself, embarrassed to be from some little village in the middle of nowhere, embarrassed to be Hanamura Teruteru.

Embarrassed to be her son.

He'd been so… scared.

Hope's Peak was just so damn… fancy, so prestigious. Going there was practically a guarantee that you would succeed in life no matter what you wanted to do. No one would take him seriously if they knew he was just some… country bumpkin.

He'd spent the six months after his acceptance to Hope's Peak losing his accent, practicing and practicing in secret so he wouldn't sound… so he wouldn't sound so….

And she'd known.

Of course, she'd known.

She'd caught him practicing, styling his hair, buying new clothes, fancy clothes, with the living stipend they'd given him.

And she'd just….

Smiled.

She'd never said a word about it.

She'd only ever wanted him to be happy.

And he'd….

He'd-

He'd-

He'd-

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That girl was still there.

Enoshima Junko was still there.

Like something out of magazine, a wet dream given fading form.

Still there.

At least for the moment.

More than beautiful enough to steal his breath away.

And he was so lonely.

It had been easy to lose himself, to forget himself in the flare of instinctive want and flimsy fantasy.

Her sweater fit so snuggly, stretched taunt across her ample breasts and he was pretty sure he could see the bump of her nipples pressing against the fabric.

Could almost feel the soft give of the knit beneath his fingertips as he shoved it up out of the way and laid his lips around one pert, perfect nipple, rolled his tongue across that puckered flesh.

Her hair shone like spun gold where her pigtails spilled across her shoulders and he could imagine that they were as soft and silky as it looked.

That it would feel good wrapped around his fingers, dragging across his cheeks as it fell to frame his face when she kissed him.

Would she smell like strawberries?

Vanilla?

Coconut?

He could imagine her climbing up to straddle his lap, clever fingers tracing over his kitchen whites, dipping beneath and….

He whimpered, wincing as the fantasy fell apart, shattered around him, as pain lanced through him, as the beginnings of arousal wilted beneath the ache of stretching, irritated skin.

His fingers trembled as the momentary thought of another's touch dissipated leaving only the cold reality of his red, blistered, broken fingertips pressed against the tabletop.

He was alone once more.

She wasn't real.

Just… his foolish heart, his lonely mind playing tricks.

That's all it had been.

None of it was real.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

Not even them.

Especially not them.

As the first sob choked him, he let his forehead fall down against the tabletop. He felt a blister pop as pain rocketed through his head, an instinctive cry of pain tangling together with his sobs into a noise that echoed loud in the abandoned diner.

She was beautiful.

She'd always been beautiful.

It was almost enough to make him forget how she'd looked in the end.

Bloody bits and pieces strewn across that filthy room beneath Hope's Peak.

That thick, cloyingly sweet stink of rot and spoiled meat.

But in the moment it was difficult to remember that.

To even remember who she had been at all.

Sometimes he looked at her, that frozen image of her, like a faded photograph from another life, and he couldn't remember her name at all.

Couldn't see her as anything but a stranger.

A stranger who made his blood race, made his body ache, but a stranger nonetheless.

He licked his lips, stomach queasy and unsettled. His fingers ached, pain lancing through his veins where he pressed the reddened, abused flesh of his fingertips against the tabletop.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't-

Was-

Was-

Was-

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Hinata.

He thought he could see him through the window, just make him out through the dark, rain-splattered windows. Could just the shadow of him kneeling in the parking lot, but he wasn't certain.

It was still raining.

It made it difficult to see.

And even if…

Even if it was him.

It didn't really matter.

It wasn't really him.

Just another weird image of him.

So, why was he even bothering to look? Especially when thinking about Hinata always seemed to lead to thinking about him.

And he didn't want to think about him.

He didn't want to think about those brief flickering moments, those images layered one atop the other, stuttered out in silence across the tiled floor of the deserted diner, heralded by the clank of the bells at the door.

The way it had felt like his heart had stopped in chest when he'd seen that strange jittering image of Hinata behind the counter.

Seen him leaning over the jukebox.

How pale he'd seemed.

Like a ghost come back to haunt him.

How he'd jumped and squealed when that sudden bang had resounded through the silent room followed by the crash of cracking glass. How he'd watched in horror as the one blow became two, three, four. How terror had banished the air from his lungs as he'd watched the damage appear beneath the blows rained down by Komaeda's pale, translucent hands.

Watched napkin holders and condiments leap off the counter to scatter and shatter against the floor. How his heart had raced as Hinata had appeared in the next moment, barely more than a blur of dark hair and skin wrapping around the pale blur of Komaeda, drawing him away from the jukebox.

The way they'd vanished as the abused music box clicked and rattled, lights flickering as it creaked to ancient, faltering life. The grind of reluctant gears turning as a needle screeched across ridged plastic and the air filled with sound.

A grabbled, tuneless mess of static like a distant radio transmission, cutting in and out, the words mostly lost, ground down to indistinct syllables, melody made disconcerting by unfamiliarity and too much noise.

It had been so loud.

Loud enough that he'd slapped hands over his ears to muffle it, winced as agony shot through his head and hands, molten and prickling through his veins, the throbbing pain of tender, split skin and and weeping blisters.

He'd probably cried out, but it had been hard to tell, so easily lost in the cacophony of sound.

They'd flickered back into life the image of them cutting in and out in time with the pulsing static of the jukebox as they moved towards the table, his table.

He'd yelped, scrambling to his feet and stumbling away from them until his back had slammed into the cracked jukebox. It was so much louder up close and he'd held his hands over his ears, but he'd still been able to hear the screaming static and the words buried within it.

They sounded like a foreign language, alien and unsettling.

His hands were shaking as he watched Hinata lift Komaeda up onto the table and then he was gone, the image of him fading away like he'd never been there at all and only Komaeda remained.

Only Komaeda, leaning back across the table's surface.

Wearing a bloody shirt and ragged filthy pants and… smiling.

Smiling.

Smiling.

It wasn't fair.

He didn't deserve to smile.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

Bitterness welled up, clawing up his throat in the form of a directionless sob.

Then he was gone too.

He stumbled back to the table, shaking hands landing against the cool surface where Komaeda had been sitting a moment before.

No heat.

No mark left behind.

As if he'd never been there at all.

His eyes burned.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

It wasn't fair.

It just…

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair. that he should be stuck there, suffering like as he was while he lived.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

While he got the things he wanted.

While he smiled.

That he should be the only who was punished.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair.

It was his fault, after all.

Everything, everything was his fault.

Everything-

Everything-

Everything-

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He'd never made friends easily.

Not even before.

He'd always tried too hard.

Come on too strong, maybe.

He wasn't sure, but it had never been easy.

Whatever the reason, he'd just never fit in with his classmates before Hope's Peak.

His dreams had always been… bigger than they were, his ambitions and goals beyond them and so he'd studied harder than anyone, worked harder, to reach them. He'd wanted so many things and he'd always felt like the expectations of their tiny town and all the tiny people in it were strangling him, were keeping him from reaching out for what he wanted.

Were keeping him from being the person he wanted to be.

People in his hometown thought that he was… queer and… uppity.

The queer part bothered them, probably, though no one had ever said anything to him about it. It was easy enough to ignore, he supposed.

It wasn't like he'd ever dated or anything.

Out of sight, out of mind, maybe.

But, even if he had been dating boys or girls or anyone at all, it still probably wouldn't have upset them nearly as much as the idea that he thought he was too good for them had seemed to.

It didn't help that it was true.

He was too good for them.

He was talented.

He was ambitious.

He had plans.

So, of course he was better than them. All those people with their small minds and their limited prospects.

That wasn't his fault.

But it had made it… hard to relate to other people, to make friends.

Not that it had mattered much.

He'd had Mama and their diner and that… that was all he'd really needed.

Just Mama and cooking.

Everything else had just been… gravy.

Still, he'd thought Hope's Peak would be different.

That everything would be different for him there, that everything would change.

And so he'd wanted to change too.

He'd changed his look, lost his accent. He'd worked really hard to become the person he wanted to be, but he'd still been…

Awkward.

He'd messed things up right in the beginning, putting on airs and struggling for a smoothness, a maturity he hadn't earned and all it had done was drive people away.

He could admit that now.

But…

But.

It still didn't make that bitter pill any easier to swallow.

He was suffering.

He was in pain.

And it just wasn't fair.

Squish.

It wasn't his fault.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

He hadn't wanted to hurt anybody.

He'd just been…

He'd been trying to protect them.

He'd just… wanted to go home.

He buried his face against his knees, a sob catching and rattling in his chest as he remembered the soft juicy, meaty sound as flesh and cloth gave way before the force of his thrust.

The soft grunt of pain that had seemed so, so loud in the dark.

Drawing the skewer back and punching it in, up, again and again, faster and faster.

The weight of blood dribbling down against the heavy tablecloth he'd used to shield himself.

That brief moment when he'd felt… righteous. Like he'd done something good, something necessary, because Komaeda had been a terrible person.

A terrible person who deserved to die, probably even wanted to die since he'd practically gift-wrapped this opportunity for him.

No one could blame him for taking it.

In fact they should all have thanked him.

Thanked him for saving them.

They'd have all probably died anyway if Komaeda had gotten his way.

He'd have been the only one who'd have known the truth about Komaeda.

And they probably wouldn't have believed him even if he tried to tell them.

After all… Komaeda was a heck of a good liar.

He'd fooled all of them into believing he was a good person.

A nice guy.

Even that skeptical sourpuss Hinata Hajime.

So wasn't it better if he were the one going home instead of Komaeda?

At least they'd all be dying for someone who deserved to go home.

Anyone would have done the same in his shoes.

No one could blame him.

Anyone would have done the same.

Anyone-

Anyone-

Anyone-

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Maybe he'd felt a little bad about it when Hinata had stepped into the kitchen after the blackout, his gaze scurrying over every inch of the room like he thought Komaeda might be hiding on top of the fridge.

He didn't blame him.

They had seemed so close and all, even though they'd only known each other for a couple days.

Though that had been kind of irritating too.

But that hadn't been Hinata's fault.

Komaeda had fooled all of them, after all.

He'd just been so darn friendly, so complimentary, when he'd introduced himself that first day. Had grabbed his hands and smiled and been so quick to tell him that he'd heard all about his talent and couldn't wait to taste his cooking.

"Oh, you're Hanamura Teruteru! You're the ultimate cook, right?"

"I prefer chef," he'd managed, stumbling back a step, overwhelmed, as warm hands clasped around his own.

"Oh, they didn't mention that, sorry, sorry," the pretty boy had replied quickly, his smile wilting a bit at the edges. He released his hands, laughing awkwardly and glancing away, brushing his hands against his long jacket."That was… I shouldn't have… sorry. That was too presumptuous of me, wasn't it? I should have asked, of course. They're saying online that your cooking is so good that it gave a dying man the will to live just for the chance to taste it once more."

His voice was so breathy and excited, all the words running together as if he couldn't quite say them fast enough to keep pace with his enthusiasm. There'd been something unsettling about the way he'd looked at him, so attentive, but it had also been… exciting.

Flattering.

It had reminded him of every fantasy he'd ever had about Hope's Peak.

About how different things would be.

About how different he would be.

"-Specialize in French cuisine? No one seemed very clear on that point so I was wondering if you would-"

The pretty boy was still talking, rattling on endlessly about what he'd heard about online or something, but he couldn't quite focus on the words.

He had such lovely lips.

So pink.

And his skin and his hair were so pale… was he foreign? He had to be foreign. Probably. But he had spoken like a native, hadn't he?

It had been a little hard to tell.

Were there a lot of foreign kids at Hope's Peak? It would have made sense if there were. After all, if they'd wanted the best of the best, the most talented individuals, they'd have to look at the whole world, wouldn't they? They couldn't just limit themselves to a single country.

They probably weren't all as pretty as this boy though.

Hopefully.

He'd never get anything done if he had to suffer through the constant distraction of being hard as a three-day old baguette all the time.

Still….

His stomach had twisted and squirmed at the brief fanciful image that had flitted through his head of what that pretty boy might look like on his knees, licking a spoon clean.

Yeah.

He could go for that.

If that was how things were gonna be, he could most definitely get used to Hope's Peak.

Definitely.

Maybe being turned on all the time would be good for his cooking.

Or maybe he'd just have to figure out a way to get a little relief.

"I have a little something you could try right now, if you're hungry for some lean pork," he'd commented, interrupting his newest fan's ongoing commentary.

The line was out before he'd fully thought through the consequences.

And the boy had just stared back at him, uncomprehending, his expression utterly blank as if interrupting him had caused his enthusiasm to falter and break.

Like the system had crashed and he needed to reboot.

Weird.

Had it been that surprising?

He'd licked his lips, run nervous fingers back through his hair and tried his best not to fidget.

Had he come on too strong?

Crap.

"Look, I-" He began, awkwardness and the beginnings of shame making the apology slow to emerge so that he was only two words in when he was interrupted by a sudden burst of high, unnatural laughter as the boy came back to life as suddenly as he'd fallen silent.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot to introduce myself, didn't I? That was rude of me. Maybe it's a bit presumptuous of me to assume you're interested, but I'm-"

He'd rattled off his name and talent, not quite looking at him while he did so, his cheeks flushed with color, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants.

It had been a little weird, but he hadn't thought much of it afterwards, because Komaeda had just gone back to talking about him as if nothing had happened at all.

He hadn't been sure whether Komaeda just hadn't been interested or if maybe he'd just come on a bit too strong.

Either way, it hadn't mattered that much in the grand scheme of things.

He'd still been there talking to him after all and he wasn't the sort to get discouraged by a single rejection.

Nothing worthwhile was easy.

And being tenacious had always been one of his best points.

Being a chef was all about failing and coming back stronger every time.

He figured dating was probably the same way.

Either way it had been a heady feeling to have someone look at him like that, with that kind of focus. It was definitely something he could get used to.

And gosh darn it, it was supposed to be a vacation, wasn't it?

They were meant to be having a good time weren't they?

But Komaeda had just continued to ignore every overture he'd made no matter how overt. Just kept giving him that same blank expression like he couldn't even comprehend the compliments and innuendo being thrown his way with increasing fervor and, far too soon, Komaeda had left him behind with a vague promise to taste his cooking later and wandered off to greet some of the others who hadn't yet scattered to check out the rest of the island.

It was disappointing, sure, being given the cold shoulder like that, but hardly worth dwelling on.

It wasn't really a big deal.

After all, they were on a beautiful tropical island and most of the girls were wearing short, short skirts and most of the guys were pretty good looking to boot.

So there were plenty of other fish in the sea.

The world was a place of boundless opportunity and before long he'd forgotten all about pretty, kinda weird Komaeda Nagito and instead gone off on his own to explore the bountiful opportunities their island paradise had to offer.

The world-

The world-

The world-

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The hotel had been pretty fancy, not as fancy as it could have been, maybe, but nice enough. The restaurant had been good too, but the best thing about it by far had been the beautiful girl who'd wandered in while he'd been fussing with the centerpieces.

"Oh, hello, I did not expect anyone else to be here," she'd commented, offering him a tentative smile. "Allow me to introduce myself, I am Sonia Lola Michalina Isabella Marieke Eliana Nevermind and I… oh, goodness, that was too much, was it not? It is customary to only introduce oneself with a given and surname here, is it not? Oh my, that is… I apologize. I will start again."

Her smile had trembled for a moment before solidifying, her spine snapping straight as she held her hands together at chest level, knuckles white with strain, head held high as if she were about to deliver a state of address to a nation rather than simply introduce herself to a classmate.

"My name is Sonia Nevermind and I am a foreign exchange student from the kingdom of Novoselic. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance and hope we will get along."

"Yeah, me too," he'd replied, offering her what he hoped was a winning smile. She was a real beauty and the awkwardness was pretty cute too. "I'm Hanamura Teruteru. They call me the Ultimate Chef and it would be my absolute pleasure to serve you, Mademoiselle."

"Oh," she blinked, looking mildly taken aback. "That is a common misunderstanding. I apologize, I am not French and while I do speak and understand it with some degree of fluency, I am afraid you will find me lacking if we were to attempt conversation. That said, while I would like it if we could set my title and position aside so that class barriers shall not be prohibitive to our friendship, I still feel it is important to clarify my standing in order to avoid comedic situations involving mistaken identity later on which I am given to understand are common in situations such as the one we currently find ourselves in. As such, I do not wish my new companions to believe I was, I believe the common phrase is 'trying to put one on you'. Thus I shall clarify that while Novoselic is indeed a European country like France, we are actually located at the junction point between Austria, Slovakia and Hungary. In fact, my country was originally part of Austria before our kingdom was created as a barrier against Ottoman aggression following the Siege of Vienna. That said, while our dialects have evolved and changed a great deal over the years our national language remains German. So, Ihre Hoheit would actually be the more accurate way to refer to me as, though I am a princess, I am the highest ranking member of royalty after my mother and I… oh, goodness, I apologize, was that too much?"

She'd just been so deliciously awkward.

"Not at all, Ihre Hoheit," he'd replied, smiling widely.

Everyone knew that European royalty was kind of dim on account of all those centuries of inbreeding, but he'd never thought he'd have the opportunity to see the truth of that first hand. This was a valuable opportunity and definitely one he had no intention of passing up. Plus, Japanese wasn't her first language so… yeah. Tropical beaches and pretty foreign boys and princesses… Hope's Peak was so much better than he'd ever dared to hope it would be.

"Oh no, no, I did not mean to say that I would like you to call me that. I must insist that you call me Sonia. After all, I would very much like if we might be friends and I…."

He was pretty sure that she'd said something after that, babbled on a bit about the importance of friendship or maybe offered another impromptu history lesson, but whatever she'd said hadn't really mattered all that much since he'd already determined the most important bit.

"So, Sonia," he'd asked, licking his lips nervously as he leaned against the wall beside her. "Do you know much about the indigenous animals on this island?"

"Nothing at all, but I am most eager to learn. Animals are a truly important part of every culture."

"Well, you see," he'd began, leaning in closer to her as if he were going to be imparting vital information. "On this island there's this poisonous snake called the dicksnapper which I had the misfortune of running across when we first arrived."

He couldn't remember most of what he'd told her, just that she'd gobbled it all up, her eyes wide and bright and interested. She'd just kept nodding along as if she understood and believed everything he was saying no matter how far he pushed it.

"I see," she'd murmured, her expression serious. "You are most fortunate the venom has such a low level of toxicity or you would surely be dead by now. Still, it must be quite painful."

"That's right," he replied, unable to keep the smile off his face. "I'm having a hard time because it's full of poison. It really sucks. Speaking of which, it'd be great if you could use your mouth to suck it out…"

"Poison… I see," she'd murmured, looking thoughtful, eyes going distant as if contemplating the idea.

He'd been so lucky he'd found her first.

Or at least that was what he'd thought, right up until….

"H-Hey…do you guys have a moment?"

He hadn't even seen them in and suddenly they were right there beside them, butting into their conversation and he could feel the carefully constructed jenga tower of lies he'd built collapsing around him as the princess turned her attention to the newcomers.

"Whoa… denied," he'd grumbled before turning to look at the… surprisingly attractive intruders.

"Hello, it is nice to meet you," the princess commented, smiling warmly at the newcomers.

He really hadn't been expecting to see Komaeda again so soon since he'd been so firmly shut out on that front, but apparently he'd found himself a friend.

And a handsome friend at that.

Not pretty the way Komaeda was pretty, certainly, but most definitely cute.

Even if he did look kind of uptight.

Still… everyone knew that it was the ones that looked the most straight-laced that were actually the biggest freaks between the sheets.

He smiled wider, slicking a comb back through his hair, his disappointment at being interrupted almost forgotten in the face of new opportunities, "Why, hello there. You must be the new guy. My name is Hanamura TeruTeru. On the streets, I'm known as the Ultimate Cook… but could you guys call me the Ultimate Chef instead? It has more of a… big-city flavor to it, ya know?"

The new guy nodded, giving him a somewhat strained smile.

Yeah.

He could definitely go for that.

"Mmhmhm," he commented, licking his lips, butterflies jittering about in his stomach. "I hope we get along well."

"Oh, that reminds me," the princess cut in, stepping forward and calling the new guy's attention to her.

Not that he blamed him for that.

She was definitely worthy of attention.

Komaeda, however, only seemed to have eyes for the new guy judging by the way he hovered beside him, fingers caught in the crisp white linen of his sleeve.

Huh.

So was that Komaeda's type then?

No wonder he hadn't been able to get any traction with him. Still, just because the new guy was Komaeda's type didn't mean Komaeda was his.

All was fair in love and war after all.

And he was pretty cute, so it was definitely worth feeling him out, finding out more about him, gauging his interests.

The last thing he wanted to do was scare him off and that seemed like it would be pretty easy to do. Besides just seeming kind of uptight, he also seemed kind of… jittery, nervous which was probably only natural since he was new and all, but it also meant he definitely needed to use a more subtle approach than he'd taken with Komaeda.

He'd just need to… beat around the bush a little rather than go straight to the root of the matter at hand.

"H-Hey, you three, am I being left off the menu or something?" He interjected, drawing the new guy's wide-eyed gaze back to him.

"No… that's not it…"

"Oh, Hanamura," Komaeda commented, his voice cheerful even though his expression seemed kind of… weird. "It's so like you to check out the restaurant first. As the Ultimate Chef, do you like it?"

Chef.

Komaeda had remembered to call him chef… nice.

"Mmhmhm… I would be lying if I said I wasn't interested. And since I do not want to be a liar, then truthfully… Yeah, I like it."

Everyone was staring at him.

Had that been too much? Had he laid it on too thick?

Why had he said that about lying?

Dammit.

"Though I like the big-city flavor of my hometown, a country atmosphere like this is also splendid," he added quickly, forcing a smile and what he hoped was a nonchalant laugh.

Dammit.

They were still just staring at him.

What had he done wrong?

Had he given himself away?

Dammit!

"Hey," the new boy began, hesitantly. "Are you…?"

"Refined?" He blurted out, the anticipation of the new guy's slow response too much to bear. "Cultured? Guilty as charged!"

He was pretty sure his voice broke a little on that last syllable, panic swirling around in his belly.

Dammit.

Dammit.

"No, not that… You just… don't seem very worried, huh?"

Worried?

Worried?

What the heck did that mean? What the heck was he trying to say?

Dammit.

"Worried?" He asked, forcing the word out, nervous fingers knotting in hit apron. "What's there to worry about? Actually, I'm really happy."

"Happy? Why is that…?"

He looked so… confused.

Maybe this wasn't about him at all.

Or if it was… maybe….

"If I can get serious real quick…" He beckoned the new kid a little closer, pitched his voice lower. When he leaned down to hear him better, it was the easiest thing in the world to slip an arm across his shoulders, to pull him in close. "I have a sneaking suspicion that Miss Pekoyama is actually a bit of a freak, if you catch my meaning. What do you think?"

"…What?"

He could feel the sudden tension in the line of his shoulders, but it was impossible to tell if it was from surprise, offense or interest or some combination of the three, so he barreled on, speaking more quickly as those nervous butterflies in his stomach fluttered to life again.

"She's probably wearing a black thong, too. What are your thoughts on that?"

He chanced a glance at his face and found his expression curiously blank.

Dammit.

He'd played this all wrong, hadn't he?

"No? Then, shall we discuss this somewhere privately?"

Dammit.

Dammit.

Dammit.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" He'd breathed, frustration coloring his tone as he tried to steer the new guy away from he others.

"…No thanks," the new kid had muttered, shaking his head and shifting a little like he was trying to squirm away from him, to shrug him off.

Dammit.

"Well, putting that aside for now…"

He had known he should quit while he was ahead, should just let it go, but….

Dammit.

Nothing had worked out for him so far that day.

Nothing was going his way.

Not Komaeda, not the princess, not the new guy.

He'd probably even managed to give himself away.

This was supposed to be… dammit.

Dammit.

He just couldn't seem to stop grasping at straws.

It was desperate.

It was stupid.

But he couldn't seem to stop.

"This might also seem unexpected to you," he'd rattled out, his smile feeling pasted on. "But… I feel like Miss Nevermind over there has a good chance of putting out."

Dammit.

He shouldn't have said that.

Why couldn't he just stop talking?

"You see, everybody knows princesses are groomed to lack common sense, right? For example, I could tell her my 'loins' are full of poison and ask her to suck it out…"

He chanced another glance at his face and found the new kid's wide gaze had gone cold and dark, almost forbidding. It sent a chill up his spine, causing him to shiver even given the overwhelming warmth of that summer day.

Dammit.

He'd really messed things up.

It was the kind of look that seemed to say that nothing he could possibly say was of any interest to him.

Like he'd stepped in something foul.

"…Pardon me, what are you talking about?"

He was almost relieved when the princess' interruption gave him an excuse to ease away from Hinata, to smile and offer a hurried 'we'll discuss this later' even though he was pretty sure they wouldn't. Was pretty sure he'd be lucky if he ever willing talked to him again after that disaster of a conversation.

Dammit.

Dammit.

They were supposed to be having a good time, weren't they?

This wasn't any fun at all.

He'd dropped his arm back to his side, stepping away even as Komaeda stepped in to fill the empty space between them, as if he needed to… to shield the new guy from him.

What the heck?

Komaeda's gaze was narrow and cool and somehow filled with even more condemnation that the new guy's had been.

It felt like he was being observed from on high by that narrowed gaze, like Komaeda's cheerful smile was the gleam of a knife's edge.

He shivered, a little frightened by the look, but mostly just turned on.

After all, the right amount of fear just added a hint of spice to the flavor of desire.

"…I'd better not see you try that again," Komaeda had murmured, his voice pitched low enough that Sonia didn't seem to hear it all.

He'd cleared his throat uncomfortably, stepping away from the pair with as much good grace as he could muster, "Anyway… when I fantasize about stuff like that, I can't help but look forward to living on this island. When it comes to cooking and love, passion is the most important ingredient. Mmhmhmhmhm!"

He'd been grateful when the bell had rung out, distracting them and effectively ending the conversation, but it had still… grated on his nerves as he'd made his way to the beach on his own, the princess having fallen into step with the gamer girl as they all emerged from the hotel.

Dammit.

Nothing was going to plan.

Dammit.

And the way they'd looked at him… like he was beneath them.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

Like he'd done something wrong.

He'd only been playing around.

It was supposed to be a vacation, wasn't it?

They had been there to have fun, hadn't they?

But still they'd looked down on him like he was….

Dammit.

They didn't even know him.

What business was it of theirs anyway?

Still, he was nothing if not adaptable.

He was a chef after all and he'd never have become half as good at it as he was if he hadn't been able to adjust deftly to changing circumstances. Besides, there were plenty of other fish in the sea and more than enough hotties on the beach to make up for the minor disappointment of those two not liking him.

And, anyway, that had all been before he'd known what kind of person Komaeda really was.

If he'd known before, how willing, how eager he'd be to jump in on the idea of killing people… well.

He'd never have been interested at all no matter how pretty he was.

Yeah.

He'd really dodged a bullet on that one.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

And he really… it wasn't like he'd felt bad about it or anything.

He'd only done what he had to do and, really, Hinata would have been lucky.

Lucky he'd never had to know how crazy his… whatever they were to each other was.

He could still remember how sick, how devastated Hinata had looked when Komaeda had let that facade of his slip during the trial.

Yeah.

He'd barely managed to get everything put away before Hinata had been poking his nose in to the kitchen, looking pensive and worried.

He hadn't asked him anything, but he still remembered vaguely having rattled off something about the shoddy state of that hall, nerves driving him to speak far too much and too fast as he leaned against the counter with a nonchalance that he didn't feel.

His breath had still been coming too fast after the dash back to the kitchen and he'd still been shaking a bit with the aftermath of adrenaline that had had him slamming the blood-covered skewer back into the meat much harder than was probably necessary.

He'd been lucky to make it back in time.

Lucky not to be caught.

He still wasn't even sure that Hinata had even heard anything he'd said at all as he hadn't answered him. All he'd done was give him a tight smile before ducking back out of the room, letting the door fall shut behind him.

No, he hadn't felt bad, even then.

He hadn't felt bad.

After all, Komaeda… Komaeda had deserved what he'd gotten.

He'd been so… bad, crazy, awful, whatever.

He'd probably always been that way from the very beginning. Been that way even on that first day when he'd seemed so….

Really, he'd thought, Hinata was lucky he'd never have to know what kind of monster he'd been cozying up to.

It might even have been him that Komaeda killed. Most murderers knew their victims intimately, everyone knew that, and he had a feeling those two were probably getting it on.

They always stood too close to each other, like they had no concept of personal space or maybe like they'd known each other for years rather than just the minutes, hours it had been since they first met.

It was weird.

They were weird.

Except….

It hadn't been Komaeda.

It had-

It had-

It had-

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He'd come back into the dining room and found Komaeda standing with the rest, pale as a ghost, and for a second, a second that had seemed like hours, he'd thought he was.

Thought he was like Banquo's ghost seated at the dinner table, ready to raise his hand in accusation.

He'd startled badly when Komaeda's wide-eyed gaze had risen to meet his own, like he was just as shocked to be there as he was shocked to see him.

Then Hinata had come in, stepping into the room and immediately making his way to Komaeda who had smiled at him as if he'd been expecting him. As if there was nothing strange about him being there, as if there was nothing to worry about at all.

Why was he alive?

Why?

Why?

Why?

It was... had it all been a trick? A trap?

No, it couldn't have been… that….

He felt dizzy... sick.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

He knew what it felt like to punch a skewer through meat and sinew.

He knew….

He kn-

He kn-

He kn-

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….loading….

He'd felt... almost righteous plunging that skewer up through the floorboards as the knife shifted. The paint had glowed so… so bright in the darkness that it had been all he could see as he'd thrust upwards with all his strength again and again and again, because he needed to be sure.

He needed to make sure he was dead.

It would all have been for nothing otherwise.

Nothing.

Only he... wasn't.

Somehow.

He... wasn't.

And he couldn't understand how that could possibly….

"Ah, Hinata! How'd it go?"

Had his voice always been so… grating?

"Well, when I talked with Nanami, she said he didn't go outside…"

He?

Those words were like ice poured down his spine, fingers grabbing and twisting, squeezing his heart to pulp.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

Who?

Who was he?

Who… who was missing?

Because whoever was missing was probably….

Was probably….

Wa-

Wa-

Wa-

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He glanced around the room, quickly, furtively, but he couldn't tell, not at first. Not with people still filtering back into the hall.

All he could think of was the warm splash of liquid slopping down across the tablecloth, the squish and squelch of meat as he shoved the skewer upwards again and again, because he had to be sure.

Had to be sure.

It would all have been for nothing if he was just injured.

But it was… it was supposed to be him.

"Th-That's weird…" Komaeda had replied, fingers trembling as they clutched at his elbows, hugging his arms around himself as if he could gain some measure of comfort from it. "No one was inside the storage room either."

"He wasn't in the kitchen, obviously," he interjected, nerves forcing him to speak when maybe it would have been smarter to just keep his mouth shut.

After all, Hinata already knew he hadn't been in the kitchen.

Whoever he was.

Who was missing?

Who?

Who?

Did Komaeda really not intend to just rat him out?

Did Komaeda somehow not know that he…?

No, that was impossible.

"No one was in the office," Souda offered, shrugging his shoulders as he meandered back into the room.

"Nobody was in the office?"

"Huh?" Saionji frowned, her face screwing up in irritation. "What about Peko? I thought she was supposed to be guarding the area."

"Well… actually, not even Peko was there."

"Eh?" Koizumi exclaimed, fingers white where they gripped her camera too hard. "Peko's gone too?"

"Maybe those two took advantage of the blackout to have themselves a major makeout session in the bathroom…?" Hysterical laughter bubbled up at the thought, "Truly, truly outrageous."

Maybe… maybe he'd been wrong after all, maybe he'd just dreamed this whole thing up.

Maybe he hadn't even left the kitchen at all during the blackout.

Maybe this was all just a terrible, terrible joke.

Yeah, that had to be it.

That had to be….

This was just a prank.

Maybe they were all in on it.

Maybe Komaeda wasn't such a bad guy after all.

Maybe….

"Did something happen, Akane?" Sonia inquired, calling all their attention to where Akane was sniffing the air like some kind of hound catching the scent of prey.

"Well… do any of you… smell something…?"

Mikan's voice was shaky and too loud, fingers twisting together nervously as she spoke, "Wh-When partially digested food is absorbed by the small intestine, it's decomposed by bacteria, releasing gas… which is mostly absorbed in the intestinal tract, but whatever cannot be absorbed is excreted from the anus. Th-Those are the mechanics of farting… but… farting isn't something to be embarrassed about!"

Akane waved her off like her ramblings were nothing out of the ordinary, "No, I'm not talkin' about that… it smells like blood."

"Blood?!"

Akane nodded, quick and certain, still sniffing the air, "It's coming' from over there…!"

She pointed towards the back table.

The table Komaeda had put the knife under.

Who was missing?

Who?

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

"Th-The smell of blood coming from that table… it's best if we go check it out, Hinata," Komaeda commented, his voice soft, fingers catching against Hinata's sleeve to tug him gently in the direction of the table.

It hadn't been a dream at all, had it?

None of it.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

"Y-Yeah," Hinata murmured, his expression uneasy, but he followed Komaeda'a lead willingly enough.

"The smell of blood…?" He swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from the table and the knowledge of what lay beneath it, temporarily obscured by the pristine white of the tablecloth. "That's weird. I didn't cook any dishes that involve rare meat. So there's no way… there'd be any smell of blood!"

But they weren't listening, no one was.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

They had just kept moving towards the table, their steps growing more hurried the closer they got to it and then Hinata was breaking away from Komaeda, almost running to the table, his hands settling on the tablecloth.

Don't look.

Don't-

Don't-

Don't-

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There'd been a pause.

Like the whole world was taking a deep breath.

Like time had frozen around them or maybe it had just seemed that way, because too soon Hinata had yanked the cloth back, flipped it up with a shout to reveal the bloody mess that had once been Togami Byakuya.

This wasn't….

He hadn't meant to….

He hadn't-

He hadn't-

He hadn't-

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It was supposed to be Komaeda.

It….

Dammit.

Dammit.

He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone.

He'd just wanted to keep Komaeda from hurting anyone.

Had that been so wrong?

He'd never have done it at all if it weren't for Komaeda, if Komaeda hadn't put that poisonous snake of an idea in his head.

It wasn't his fault.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

Togami was….

What had he been doing under there anyway?

Had he intended to kill someone with that knife?

He had to have… hadn't he?

If he'd just left the knife alone…

If Komaeda hadn't put it there in the first place.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't his fault.

It was-

It was-

It was-

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He hadn't….

He'd just wanted to go home.

"This is your fault," he'd hissed, catching Komaeda and pulling him into the kitchen while Hinata poked around, talking to people like he was some kind of junior investigator.

His shaking hands had caught and crumpled the edges of Komaeda's ugly jacket as he shoved him back against the kitchen door. "Togami's dead because of you. This is your fault. It's all your fault. You did this. It was supposed to be you!"

"It was, wasn't it?" Komaeda had asked, huffing out a laugh, eyes focused somewhere beyond him. Like he wasn't even worth looking at at all. "That's just my luck, I guess. Lucky, lucky me."

Dammit.

Was this all just a joke to him?

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

He'd released him, backing away, wiping his hands against his apron. He glared at him, barely realizing his accent was slipping, "You're just totally nuts, ain't ya?"

"I don't really like that word," he'd replied softly as his gaze finally shifted to meet his, his face was weirdly devoid of expression. "I won't say anything, you know. I'll even try to direct attention away from you, if I can."

He'd felt numb, cold, syllables running together as he choked out a reply, "Why would ya do that for me?"

"Does it matter?" Komaeda shrugged, already turning away to slip out of the kitchen, "I don't care if I die, so you should just focus on escaping this island…."

Dammit.

And then Komaeda had been gone, disappearing back out into the hall beyond, the door falling shut behind him with a quiet whoosh of sound.

Dammit.

What choice had he had but to trust him?

For all the good it had done him in the end.

He'd wandered back into the hall, mind running round and round in circles, trying to remember every detail and shying away from all those details just the same.

Had he made any mistakes?

He'd been so careful.

Hadn't he?

Hadn't he?

He remembered the heavy splatter of blood against cloth, the darkness, the sickly green glow of the knife and the strange satisfaction of pressing that skewer up, of pressing it through cloth and flesh until it hit bone and drawing it back out again.

It wasn't as if he'd wanted Togami to die.

He hadn't.

He hadn't.

But what was done was done.

He had just….

He had just wanted to go home and once it was done, it was done and all he could do was try and…

Live.

And if that meant everyone else had to die….

Anyone would have done the same.

Anyone.

When he'd thought about it that way, it had really just been self-defense.

He hadn't had any other choice.

He'd just wanted to live.

To go home.

It had all been Komaeda's fault.

All his fault.

If it weren't for him...

If Komaeda hadn't existed….

Komaeda with his stupid, pretty hair and all his crazy...

He'd never have...

He'd never-

He'd never-

He'd never-

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Maybe none of it would have happened at all.

But...

Then again maybe it would have.

He'd been so desperate, just begging for an excuse.

For a chance to go home.

He'd spent his whole life dreaming of the whole world and, in the end, all he'd wanted was to go home.

Home.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

He curled his arms tighter around his knees, shuddering as he slumped back against the window to stare out into the dark, stormy night beyond.

The diner was silent once more.

The ghosts of his past or his screwed up imagination or whatever they had been were gone, or nearly so, and even the jukebox had finally quieted once more save for a quiet persistent clicking noise and even that was almost lost beneath the muffled sound of the storm outside and the creak of vinyl beneath his butt.

That first day... he remembered thinking how lucky he was.

A beach vacation with all those beautiful people.

Private cabins on a private island… how could anything be better than that?

Back home he'd always been so busy at the diner, he'd never had much time for fun.

Much time to make friends.

He'd been so busy worrying about money and Mama overworking herself that he'd never given much thought to dating either.

Not really.

Not seriously.

But when he'd woken up that first day on island… everything had seemed possible.

Like he'd left all his cares and worries behind.

But everything had changed since his… since he'd been….

Executed.

The burns of his punishment never faded, never healed, never improved at all.

It hurt to breathe.

It hurt to exist.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

Everything ached, but he'd learned to deal with that.

It had taken days, but he'd mostly learned to tolerate the constant ache of burned flesh.

It still… it still hurt, but it mostly existed in the background, a constant undercurrent of irritation.

An itch he could never scratch.

His hands were the worst.

Cracked and peeling, covered with blisters and charred black at the edges. It burned, it always burned, without any release. He'd found painkillers at the pharmacy, lotions, but even if he managed to dull the sensation, it was always quick to return when he awoke the next morning and it never, ever went away, not entirely.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu.

He was burning, still burning, always burning.

He couldn't touch anything without flaring that familiar pain to greater heights.

Not even himself.

Not eve-

Not eve-

Not eve-

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That morning… he could have sworn he'd heard the heavy tread of footsteps in the hall.

He'd peered out the door and he was pretty sure he'd seen the ghost of Togami walking down the hall, slipping into the dining hall.

He hadn't stuck around to be sure.

Instead he'd run as fast as his legs could carry him to the restaurant and hid away beneath one of the tables.

Once or twice, he'd thought he'd heard footsteps, some heavy and some light, fast and slow.

In the restaurant, echoing up from the patio or the lobby below.

Could have sworn he heard voices too.

But they'd been weird.

Really weird.

Too fast or too slow, the words jumbled or strung out, too loud or too soft and never clear enough that he could understand any of it.

In the end, he'd just stayed where he'd been, stayed hidden away, cowering beneath the table, arms around his head to muffle the sound.

But nothing could have drowned out the crackle and snap of the fire as it roared to life.

Nothing could have blunted the stench of smoke and char as the smoke seeped into the restaurant, making the air seem thick, rough and aching in his lungs.

Feeling sick, he'd eased out from under the table, mildly surprised by how dark it had been.

When had it gotten so late?

Was it really late at all?

He wasn't sure.

All he knew was that it was darker in the restaurant than usual and it stayed plenty dark as he crept toward the railing.

He'd been able to see the orange and red juts of flame dancing across the roofs of the cottages long before he got there.

He was pretty sure he'd screamed before he managed to slap his hands over his mouth to stifle the sound.

The hotel was burning.

He was burning.

Again.

It was hot.

So hot.

It was like the flames were licking his skin even though he knew that was impossible.

Knew.

Knew they were too far away.

Knew that the blaze was only burning the cabins.

That there was no way he could really feel the heat of them from so far away.

But...

But.

He must have… run or something.

He wasn't sure.

Everything had just been a blur of panic and fear and red and orange light.

The familiar ache of motion, the sharp, jabbing pain of blisters prickling and popping under pressure. The scorch of heat against his skin and his heart pounding in his head and a scream so loud that it seemed to drown out the sound of crackling and popping, of crashing wood and burning paper.

The next thing he remembered with any clarity had been tripping over his own feet outside the diner, splashing down into a puddle and scraping his abused hands against the pavement beneath the water's surface.

His throat ached and he was soaking wet and there had been rain.

Rain had been pounding down all around him, warm and painful as a rain of needles against the bare skin at the back of his neck and across his unprotected head.

He'd lost his hat and his scarf somewhere or maybe… maybe he'd taken them off he… he wasn't sure.

He wasn't sure of anything.

And it had been raining.

He couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen rain, much less felt it on his skin.

He must have, back before… before everything that had happened, but he… he couldn't remember.

It seemed like it had been raining a long time, because the parking lot was already buried beneath a thick layer of water.

And he… he….

He'd pushed himself up off the ground and run for the dinner, splashing and kicking up water as he made his stumbling, fumbling way across the parking lot to the door, yanking it open as thunder crashed overhead, drowning out the sound of those clanking bells as he ducked inside. As he let the door fall closed behind him as he collapsed into a heap on the checkerboard floor.

Everything had hurt.

Everythi-

Everythi-

Everythi-

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There was nothing left of her now but that smile.

That sharp, white smile.

And he couldn't stop staring at it.

It seemed… brighter, wider than it had before.

Bigger.

Whiter.

Sharper.

There were just… so many teeth.

Outside, the rain was still falling.

It had been falling for a long time and no time at all.

But he couldn't hear it anymore.

All he could hear was that laughter, soft as a memory and crackling with static.

Pu-

Pu-pu-

Pu-pu-pu-

Pu-pu-pu-pu-

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-

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