Claire Keane
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@relativenormalcy-blog
And everyone CONTINUES to make things my problem. I want to reach a resolution to this nonsense without having to beat people with a rusty branding iron verbally until their faces look like newsprint.
But the situation continues to deteriorate and apparently Chris and I are the only people with a functional approach to fucking problem solving.
Or with a functional sense of self-awareness.
Fine, you titanic ass bags. I’ll be your bad cop. Again.
You bring this on yourselves.
. . Awake
His cold gaze lowered to the stump at his wrist. He’d cauterized Her hand to his wrist, if his feverish recollections were to be trusted. Neighboring flesh to the burn that sealed them together would bleed in the process of removing it all.
His eyes slowly trailed up his ‘nurse’ once more. Izuru Kamukura, most talented of all. Hajime Hinata the Friend Nothing. An amalgamation of the two? Was such a thing possible? Perhaps Izuru Kamukura was capable of pushing through, of wrapping himself back into the woven existence of ‘Hajime Hinata’. Both? But would one so talented deny his presence by cutting his hair and molding it back into a style of older days, long gone?
The bluntness was characteristic of both, certainly.
Both were equally capable of being cold to someone as worthless as Nagito Komaeda. In fact, that was welcome. His lips started to curve slightly, slightly, cutting into the previous ice in his gaze. After all, it was safer that way. Enjoying Komaeda’s presence was purely insensible, after all, and breaking that good sense would only cause an individual harm in their future…!
And Hinata, “not remembering” his talent, allowing them all to believe they were walking with an equal, when he was just another member of the meaningless many.
“It’s useless, Hinata-kun. You’re,” a brief, wheezing chuckle, “amazingly, even less capable than someone like me. No matter what you do to try and be useful to everyone, you won’t suddenly have a single skillset rise to their level. I suppose it’s only fitting that you’d be playing the attentive nurse to me, serving them in the little, useless ways that you can.”
The charcoal-haired boy’s red eyes followed Komaeda’s ashen gaze to the void at his wrist. That look of loss, like a child looking alone at a graveyard, baffled him.
How the hell could anyone miss something as disgusting as a dead hand fried onto your wrist?
He remembered the horror that he’d fought out of his mind when he saw the hand crudely bound to the child of luck’s wrist, carved in heat and flesh like a twisted road map.
Hinata also dimly remembered fighting bile from rising up his throat when he saw the useless red-nailed fingers sag like wilted petals when they’d finally managed to cut it off.
Nagito Komaeda was certainly someone important to him, but that didn’t stop him from being a profoundly messy individual.
Hinata’s musings were abruptly silenced when that cold glare rose up slowly towards him, like those volatile eyes were putting the very thoughts in his head on ice.
Cool sweat trailed down his cheeks like creeping insects at Komaeda’s debilitating expression. Few things in this world unnerved him more than the marshmallow-haired boy when a mood like this overtook him. It was like staring into some void that could not be described, a personal wormhole.
Anger, dammit. Bring the simplicity of anger back. Fear was crippling, anger could be motivating.
This inaction was seizing him like that fear had sunk its claws into his lungs.
Then a hawking, wheezing breath escaped the emaciated boy mid-scathing-rant, and instinct trumped the turmoil casting the waves about inside his head.
Hinata needed to help him. Inner conflict could come later. Walking forward without listening to the entirety of the penultimate statement, the former reserve course student unceremoniously (albeit gently) seized Komaeda and laid him back against the pillow, careful not to rip out any more IVs, were there any still attached.
The struggle was brief, Hinata giving inaudible thanks that the boy probably wasn’t altogether there, yet. The altercation could’ve been much worse.
After he secured him to the sheets, he sighed, staring down at him at wiping at some of the accumulated sweat under his brow.
“I warned you.” He said, finally.
“You’re right about what you said, by the way. I’m not the most capable. Not as much as anyone else here, probably.” The scarlet in his eyes didn’t waver, nor did his tone.
“Serving you is a use, though. Making sure you didn’t bleed out is a use. I know you don’t have a high opinion of yourself, but I and everyone else obviously cared enough to keep you alive.”
Beat.
“We want you to live, Komaeda. I want you to live. You matter to me.” Hinata found himself mildly startled by the truth in that statement.
Another solid beat. Hinata’s impetuous stare became slightly harder, chiding in a semi-paternalistic manner.
“And if you continue to talk shit about the hard work everyone did, especially Tsumiki, I’m going to hit you when you’re well enough. Hard.”
A pregnant pause.
“Even if I am ‘normal’, I survived. I beat Enoshima and her stupid despair, along with everyone else. And you did too. That matters. So quit moping around like a sullen little brat and get some rest.”
. . Awake
White hot pain seared across his mind as he tilted his head, turning it just enough to look upon Hinata with that feverish gaze. Pale skin flushed; sweating from the sudden physical exertion he’d been forcing upon it so quickly. The frail muscles, the prominent collarbone sticking out further than it ever had in the Neo World Program…his body wasn’t prepared for what he was dragging it through upon waking from his prolonged sleep.
His fingertips twitched when he heard that familiar voice, his brows rising slightly, then creasing in the middle. Feelings from when he was a child rose, filling cup upon cup in his chest; the waterfall from a thousand broken goblets where he’d ceased to care. Not with this one. Not this person, then. No, this one…this voice…
Familiar. Memories cascaded down a river of heat near his temples shortly after flooded feelings, furrowing his brow as he continued to look at the figure. Didn’t look like the photo he’d seen. Unexpected. Had he cut his hair to fit his older self, the ‘self’ he valued most? He hadn’t dyed it, so either there was no dye available or he didn’t desire to hide from the past. No matter. It wasn’t as though he’d ever seen the one he’d looked upon in that file…had he?
“Izuru Kamakura. Hajime Hinata. Which do I call you, I wonder?” he murmured. His arms dropped, for the moment, to rest lifelessly at his sides. He looked back to the camera. "Were you there when they removed her?“ he lifted the stump at his wrist, his lips cutting a cold smile. "Did you think of it as punishing me, taking it from me? Do you think I care if rot comes to my skin?”
The name Komaeda spoke first was like a frigid icepick raking across Hinata’s spine.
Knowing that that was the intent helped enough to translate the shock into the bland anger he could function with, however.
Their ultimate trial in the coded tropical hell made it clear who had laid down in the tube and the different who that ended up on the other side. Waking up to some serious psychological fuck-ups and way too much hair didn’t help being in denial about it any, either.
The only outward consequence of the grating remarks was Hinata’s passive scowl deepening a few centimeters. His posture retained its neutrality, the crimson in his eyes trained on Komaeda like a man face to face with a cornered, wounded predator.
Glossing over the first question, he followed the marshmallow’s gaze towards the cool mechanical sheen of the camera lens and took the second instead.
“I was there. I was the one dabbing at the stump with a moist towel so you didn’t bleed out between incisions.” Hinata replied, tone impassive. He wasn’t altogether confident that the grisly description would bother someone who could turn themselves into a human shish-kebab, but hoping for the impossible was something of an occupational hazard.
“It sure bled a lot for a fake limb.” He added after a minor pause. Was that a stab at humor, or just his blunt-as-rocks personality shining through? Could’ve been both.
“That’s stupid as hell. If I wanted to punish you, I wouldn’t have bothered with that revolting process in the first place and just let it rot.” Fortunately, shutting down moronic tangents was also an occupation he concerned himself with.
“Making you go back to bed is about the last thing in the world I want to do right now, but I will if you don’t do it yourself.” His tone possessed a textbook firmness, one he wished he felt more deeply.
. . Awake
[ @relativenormalcy ]
What was that beeping sound? It actually felt quite taxing to start opening his eyes - though he felt like cringing immediately at the sudden colors, the brightness, he accepted the pain as the price to pay for glancing around the room he was in. His mind felt cloudy, his movements slow—ah, no. More than slow. With a tug, his eyes narrowed at restraints on his legs. How disappointing. A kidnapping, again? How would someone benefit from that? No…that wasn’t quite right.
No, he’d been on a boat. And then…?
He covered his mouth slightly, sifting through patchwork recollections as his eyes continued to scour for more details about the room despite how sluggish he felt. With enough time, he’d probably be able to figure a way out of this.
How disappointing, to be restrained when he had every intention of help— He had to find— Ah, no, those parts felt wrong. Maybe it was better to simply focus on stopping that annoying beeping sound. Or perhaps he could pull the IV out…? His other hand skirted over the wire, but his fingers didn’t quite move.
…Ah. Ah…!
His head felt like it was burning. His breathing was uneven as he stood despite the chain linking his ankles together, limiting the ease of movement. He ripped the IV out of the arm that was missing a hand, throwing it to the side uncaringly. He either did not notice or simply did not care about the blood that oozed slightly out of his arm from his actions.
His muscles ached from their lack of use; he already felt tired and weary but he continued to stand. He bent down to grip a stool with his good hand, throwing it across the room with a vigor that must have pained the boy. The violent crash as it slammed into the wall might have made some cringe; Komaeda simply went slack.
Rage gone, or perhaps contained the moment his intelligent mind recalled how little use it would be. With a calm tone, he kept the despair barely contained from his voice as his eyes searched for the camera that had to be somewhere on the wall or ceiling. They wouldn’t abandon him to this room to be truly alone. There had to be something monitoring him aside from the medical equipment itself, currently flatlining in loud protest at no longer being hooked to the boy as he’d removed himself from the bed and tore it all off moments ago.
The sound burned his ears and dragged his mind through glass, but he endured it. It was nothing. The weariness, the pain; all of it was nothing. ”Why did you remove her,” he whispered hoarsely, staring at the camera once his wild gaze had settled on it. He glanced down at the wrist that ended neatly, surgically closed. The dead hand he’d removed from Junko Enoshima and put there previously was nowhere to be found. ”I wanted—you wasted resources doing this,” he protested. ”Aah, to waste them on someone like me isn’t a very intelligent act, you know? I’m very disappointed in you all.”
Unbeknownst to the marshmallow-headed menace, his first observer came not from the lens of a camera, but from functioning human eardrums. Said eardrums belonged to one Hinata Hajime, who had been in the fluorescent hell of the infirmary hallways.
He’d been preparing sub-par coffee in surrender to a lengthy evening dozing to the beeping of medical machinery, when his already bored ears had perked up.
They dutifully informed him that Komaeda was making quite a mess within the recovery room he was trekking back to.
Recently spilled hot dampness spread from his collar to his breast. Surprise was melting into a dull annoyance and a bit of indecision.
Should he deck him for being destructive, messy, and indirectly toasting his shirt collar, or for the cutting words he was spewing out in between dribbling blood on the floor?
Decisions, decisions.
He staunched the knee-jerk anger flooding his brain with a deep breath, and stepped into the room, utterly ignoring the pale-haired boy for the moment in favor of napkins and a wet cloth.
After promptly applying it to the stain on his shirt, he at last turned towards the one-handed troublemaker, fixing him with a stare.
Hinata, despite the irritated composure he wore as an expression, was conflicted.
Komaeda had always been an abyss of conflicting feelings to him. Interest had blossomed into friendship, which had been then violently shattered into derision, which had then been tossed around in a sea of confusing occurrences and emotions until he wasn’t quite sure WHAT he felt towards the paradoxical boy.
Interest? Dislike? Care? Sympathy? Companionship? Dependence?
He wasn’t used to this particular brand of internal conflict, and cared little for it.
“Go back to bed, idiot.” Hinata’s voice overwhelmed the annoying contemplating. “We took the hand off because it got infected when you were exposed to the air.”
On top of it being disgusting and horrifying, was left unsaid but implied.
“Souda’s working on something to help. For now, you’ll have to make do.” Hinata continued, arms recrossing. He hoped he wouldn’t have to make Komaeda do as he asked. The boy was alarmingly strong for his slim, almost emaciated frame.
