Hi! Just like- okay- hear me out! A fic where Nagito wakes up from the Neo World Program first and is left waiting for everyone else to wake up and during this time he visits all the locations that he recalls on the island (in the OVA it seems as if they remember there time in the program and as remnants of despair) but he ends up being triggered by the factory because that is where he died in the Neo World Program so he kind of starts spiraling again and eventually Hajime wakes up second to Nagito like after a few weeks and finds Nagito in shambles over everything and instead of World Destroyer having to help Nagito with his trauma Hajime helps him through it while learning more abt himself and Izuru which also lives in his brain and it being like a healing moment for them both I’m sorry this is so long okay BYE COMMISSION OR REQUEST IS FINE JUST LMK
-- no longer comatose
⋆ summary: an au where nagito wakes up first.
Crossposted on AO3
⋆ pairing: nagito komaeda x hajime hinata
# post-game, temporary amnesia, resurfaced memories, hurt/comfort.
⋆ word count: 6k
⋆ a/n: thank you for requesting! (: I tried my best to fill all the boxes you asked for, and I hope it doesn't disappoint.
masterlist | requests open!
⋆ taglist: @moonlit-raven-haven
The first thing Nagito feels when he opens his eyes is pain. A dull, faraway ache wraps around his left wrist, enough for him to squirm and groan at the blurry view of a metal ceiling.
The first thing Nagito hears is a low, rhythmic beep. He first registers it as tinnitus, because it indiscreetly fades when he twists his head to the right. But it fades right back in, confirming the stiff, staccato beeping to be outside his body.
The first thing he sees— really sees— is blue. His right hand is at his side. And just beneath it, what he’s presumably laying on, is a flat surface emanating blue light. The screen covers the entire pod he’s laying in.
Pod. Where is he?
A crackling static sound bursts into the space. Nagito anchors his right hand further back to push himself up. He has to suppress a surge of dizziness while the sound tunes into a quieter buzzing. The air is startlingly cold.
“Hello? Hey, can you hear me?” A voice comes on. It echoes against the metallic walls of the wide building. Nagito turns to the left, to the source of the sound, and eyes a small podium-like control panel attached to his pod. Atop it, a small speaker-like device sits.
“... Hello?” Nagito finds his voice to reply. It’s ten times more torn and husky than anticipated. He coughs the discomfort from his throat.
“He’s responsive,” The voice fades as if backing away from their microphone. It returns to full volume: “Can you say your name for me?”
Nagito opens his mouth. But his throat is dry. And the question sparks no connections.
“Alright,” The voice says. “That’s okay. My name is Makoto Naegi. We’ve been monitoring all your pods over here at Future Foundation, and— Well, we didn’t expect any of you to wake up yet. You must be feeling pretty confused.”
Nagito frowns to himself. Future Foundation. It sounds like something…
“Do you know what year it is?”
“...”
“... Can you tell me the last thing you remember, Nagito?”
Discomfort sprawls in his chest and tightens his lungs. He shakes the feeling.
“Nagito?”
“Servant,” He mutters automatically. He repeats the word without thinking, even quieter, “Servant.”
“I-I’m sorry, Nagito,” Makoto replies, the static still refusing to let up, “I can’t quite hear you. If it’s not too much, can you speak up a little?”
Nagito blinks at the speaker. “Servant,” He repeats. Familiarity satisfies the syllables. “Call me Servant.”
It’s quiet on the other end of the line. For a second, Nagito wonders if he’d hallucinated the entire voice. If he’s been talking in Makoto’s place and is pathetically imagining a human interaction. He seals his lips tight and keeps his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth.
When the voice cuts the silence, Nagito’s sealed mouth is evidence enough that it’s real.
“Don’t stray too far, okay? We’re sending dispatch over there.”
－－－－－－－－－
Kyoko Kirigiri should not have worn heels today. She forgot the expanse of Jabberwock, she forgot how wide the islands are, how long the walks are to get to any buildings established. Then again, this trip was unexpected. Makoto had been the one coming every week, but due to unexpected hurdles, she’ll have to fill in. She couldn’t have known she’d kill the soles of her feet by noon with such little warning.
“How’s the patient, then?” Byakuya chirps up from behind her. She sighs, spinning to look at him.
“Nagito,” Kyoko glares at him while supplying his name instead of ‘the patient’, “You need to start calling him Nagito. I can’t imagine it helps his identity crisis when you refuse to use his name.”
“I never use anybody’s name,” Byakuya snaps back. “It’s a waste of time.”
“Aren’t businessmen supposed to be personable?”
Byakuya looks unimpressed. Kyoko gives him a finalizing glare before spinning back around, continuing towards the supermarket. The pharmacy on the other island would make sense to store pill bottles, but for sheer convenience, Future Foundation has been keeping supplies in the old supermarket building.
Every week since he’s awoken, Nagito is interrogated about his memories. Makoto usually measures his mental state and holds informal therapy sessions. The Future Foundation cameras set up across the island monitor enough of his behavior, but direct contact is much preferred when assessing how he’s doing. Makoto had handed his file about Nagito to her before she departed. She’s only had the plane ride to go over the details written inside. And based off sheer circumstances alone, Toko has suggested anyone in Nagito’s place needs medication.
“You never answered the question,” Byakuya joins her stride. “About the patient.”
“Nagito is… stable,” Kyoko tests the word on her tongue, “He is not currently a threat to himself or others.” She pushes the door in and doesn’t hold it for him.
“A miracle,” Byakuya says under his breath while he follows her. She decides to ignore the comment.
“He’s piecing more together,” Kyoko says, walking to a shelf stocked with medicines. “He remembered Izuru Kamukura during his first session, after all.”
“The first one?”
She doesn’t reply. She skims the bottles and grabs an anti-depressant that Toko had recommended after her research, and moves on to look for supplements.
“Why did the first one remind him of Kamukura?”
“We transported him to a different island temporarily,” Kyoko says, “The boat ride must have reminded him of their interaction.”
“How much has he remembered, exactly?”
“A lot of things. His name. His location. His hand.”
Byakuya does not react. But Kyoko still catches the nervous micro-movement of his jaw.
“Do you ask him what he remembers during every session?”
“Yes,” Kyoko side-steps to the right, picking up the bottled vitamins, “Makoto has noted that bringing him to different locations will jog his memory more. He recalls the beach of the Neo World. He’s been remembering the deaths of his classmates. He remembers a few of their names, the way their bodies looked.”
“What about…” Byakuya trails off.
Kyoko turns to him. “Off-limits. Makoto fears that being reminding of his traumatic death will reverse all the progress he’s made. Nagito’s fragile enough. We’ve seen the way he breaks down ourselves. We can’t risk it happening again.”
Byakuya upturns his nose. “I can assure you, ignorance is not bliss in this situation.”
“I never said it was.”
“Then when will we expose him to his death? Or are we waiting for him to stumble on the memory himself? We don’t know the recovery process of this amnesia, especially not in a circumstance after a virtual-reality killing game. Jogging his memory little by little could trigger an avalanche in the same way direct exposure would. When can we know he’s safe to learn about it?”
Kyoko places the bottle of vitamins beside the anti-depressants, settled between the clipboard she’s holding and her own front.
“We won’t,” She answers, “We won’t know when he’s safe to learn about it.”
－－－－－－－－－
While they’re submerged in the water, Nagito kicks one leg up, then the other. The splash of the movement is quiet among the cottages. His pants are rolled up just above his knees. The sky is nearly black with cloud coverage. If Nagito didn’t know any better, he’d assume nighttime is right around the corner.
And way before Makoto is anywhere nearby, Nagito can hear his footsteps approaching. Living on such an inconsequential environment with no other conscious soul drenches the island to eternal silence. Even a miniscule shuffling in bushes a mile away could trigger Nagito into turning its way.
The footsteps strengthen on the wooden planks that branch into the cottages before solidifying on the concrete surrounding the hotel pool.
“Hi, Nagito,” Makoto greets him.
Nagito turns to look at him and offers a grin.
“Enjoying the pool?” Makoto is visibly nervous. Nagito can tell by the forcefulness of his smile, the fidgeting of his fingers as he holds a nondescript binder, and the shifting of his weight from one leg to another.
Nagito languidly moves his left leg up, then alternates and raises his right one. His legs feel light in the water.
“Yes, I am,” Nagito responds, hoping his smile communicates enough reassurance to calm Makoto down. It doesn’t seem to work. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, of course!” Makoto walks up to him. He kneels down in order to sit cross-legged next to him. “I really had to pressure some co-workers to get this pool cleaned up. But it’s clearly paying off, so I’m glad I did.”
Nagito continues the rhythmic movement of raising his legs before letting them float back down. Up and down. Up and down.
“You know, I’m happy to see you out of your cottage,” Makoto comments brightly. Nagito still senses tension in his cheer. “Not that I blame you for staying inside. The air isn’t always pleasant.”
“Yes, it’s not,” Nagito nods at the clear water, “It didn’t smell as smoky today. I thought I’d take advantage.”
He’s also been disassociating all day and thought the sensation of water would bring him back to Earth. But he’s not about to worry Makoto by mentioning that.
“So…” Makoto’s voice tightens. “I found something I thought I could show you.”
Nagito looks at him. Makoto adjusts, scooting a bit closer. He positions the binder between them both and opens it cautiously. As if it were classified information.
The second Nagito’s eyes lock onto the first image, he thinks it may as well be.
“This was taken during your second year at Hope’s Peak,” Makoto fills in. He points at Ibuki, who’s tossed herself midair in the middle of the street market. Just behind her, Hiyoko stares at her with an expression that earnestly looks worried. Lining the vendor’s stalls, more of his classmates can be seen in the background. Mikan, Mahiru, Fuyuhiko, Peko, and…
“That’s me,” Nagito points at the side profile of himself. He’s in a yukata, smiling at the plushie behind a stand.
“Yeah, that’s you,” Makoto replies warmly. Nagito’s eyes drift to his two hands in the picture. Healthy and normal. Not discolored. He suppresses the urge to hide his amputated arm further against himself.
Only shortly after waking up, Makoto had brought Nagito the best medical professionals he could find to remove Junko’s hand. And they’d done it successfully with minimal damage. But Nagito’s been left alone on an island with nothing more than his fragmented memories. Staring at the amputated spot while knowing he’d attached the limb of a dead woman always makes his chest tighten.
“What year was this, again?” Nagito continues staring at the picture.
“Your second year at Hope’s Peak Academy,” Makoto smiles. He pages to the next picture.
The next one is of a snow trip. Ibuki had taken the picture herself— she’s holding the camera and flashing a peace sign. Behind her, more classmates can be seen enjoying themselves. Kazuichi is gliding down a slope, Sonia not far behind. Akane and Nekomaru seem to be competing for who can glide down the small mountain in the most creative way.
Second year. They must have been sixteen or seventeen. And without the ability to fully fill in the gaps, it’s hard to believe he’s almost twenty-two.
Makoto glances at him nervously before turning to the next picture.
In the forefront, Nagito is sitting on a small hill. His classmates are to his right, looking in the same direction, admiring the fireworks in the sky. The smile on his face is peaceful. He recognizes nearly everyone again. Ibuki, Teruteru, Gundham, Sonia…
His eyes lock onto a girl with short pink hair.
“This was the same night of the market,” Makoto says, “It was a New Year’s event.”
He stares at her. His chest starts aching and his eyes start burning, as if the need to cry was a life-or-death decision. He forces a gulp to look away from her.
Makoto looks up at him. Uncomfortably, he seems to understand why Nagito looked away. Even while staring at the pool water quaintly lapping, Nagito can’t stop trembling. He tries to kick up his legs in the water again, as if it’ll distract him from anything.
“She was your class representative,” Makoto whispers.
Nagito closes his eyes in hopes it’ll quell the swelling in them. “I know.”
“...How much do you know, Nagito?”
Think about her.
The thought of digging for any memories of her is sending an alarm to blare in his neurons. He shakes his head quickly and scoots away from Makoto.
His old instructor saying, “I think you’d be the perfect fit for class rep, Nanami!”, the sound of Nanami yelling his name after getting shot, the inflection of her crying in a maze right before—
Nagito inhales sharply and digs his nails into his thigh. He blinks forcibly. A sharp pain edges into his heart.
Makoto gently puts his hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Nagito. I thought it might help to remember more, even though I knew it’d probably be painful too.”
He doesn’t reply.
“...Do you remember anything about her in the program? Do you recall any feelings you felt towards her?”
“Guilt.” He doesn’t hesitate.
Makoto raises his eyebrows. “Guilt?”
Nagito rubs the base of his throat, his eyebrows knit tight. He can’t often name the feelings from his memory. A lot of them muddle together, blend with confusion, and leave him at a loss. But this one is so clear it’s hard to ignore.
“Yeah,” His voice quivers. “Guilt.”
－－－－－－－－－
Breaking into the warehouse is not as easy as he thought it would be. It takes a crowbar, a small axe, and an amount of physical force that Nagito has not possessed. Ever.
He’s even surprised when the leverage of the crowbar makes the door budge. Because yes, it’s physics, but Nagito has lived most of his life thinking he can’t carry as much as his own weight. Which isn’t a lot.
There must be something pressed against it because when Nagito pushes, it barely moves. He has to back up from the door, survey the wood, and decide if this is worth pursuing anymore. But he walked all this way. He took a boat over here. He can’t refuse to answer his own questions.
For a long time, he’s wanted to visit the fifth island. Makoto had been granting him access to the others, one by one, and right before letting him peruse the fifth one— he withdrew. He never arrived with a boat specialized for the trip, and he never brought up the prospect with Nagito again.
Nagito wanted to ask about it to put him on the spot. But he could never bring himself to. He had an inkling it would be the wrong move somehow.
And it seems he made the right decision, because today, a boat arrived at Jabberwock seeking to escort him to the fifth island.
Whenever Nagito is given a tour of the islands, he’s never alone. Makoto is usually the one to step in and act as a makeshift tour guide. One out of the three other times, it was Kyoko who walked him around.
This time, nobody is waiting on the boat. No one is there to guide him down the right paths or off the surfaces he should avoid due to overexposure of an active apocalypse. Only the captain of the boat is aboard, with two security personnel from Future Foundation. Nagito tried asking them about their summons— about why they were instructed to send a boat for him out of the blue. They had no clear answer.
They didn’t even follow him off the boat. The land became free rein for his exploration. He wanted to ask them if Future Foundation was purposely sending him to die in uncharted territory for legal reasons, but he reasoned they’d have even less answers for that.
From Nagito’s foggy memory, the Neo World’s fifth island was crowded with structures, large antennas, and working warehouses. In the real world, it’s just another defunct island taking after its neighboring land masses coated in years of dust, debris, and ashes. The only structures in sight when first arriving is a vast single-story building (Nagito presumes this was a factory), and the storage warehouse near it.
The factory was a disappointing exploration. If a bunch of rubble and broken pillars were more interesting, he’d have been captivated. And from the outside, the warehouse looks just as uneventful. But something about it forces Nagito’s hand. Enough to garner the energy to shove the door in and open a gap wide enough for his body.
As soon as he’s inside, dust and filth irritate every inch of his lungs. Everything smells of rotting wood and locked up mold. He has to squint at the floor to check where to step: the light is limited, and the likelihood of something crawling about seems high.
The warehouse is a much smaller structure than the factory. It’s spaced like a garage with random stacked crates crowding corners and piling into the space. Old cabinets and standing shelves are haphazardly thrown in across the room, cardboard boxes cradling them. From the information he’s gotten from Makoto, the Jabberwock project was in the works for a solid year before anyone initiated the collection of the remnants. Makoto himself had to sneak around Future Foundation officials to get things rolling. Nagito wonders what if this was a makeshift storage unit for them, or if this clutter was here before the organization decided on the land.
Nagito steps further in, walking towards the only other visible light source. A faint, shadowed outline of a fan is reflected at the center of the room. He cranes his neck to look up at the built-in ventilator installed in the wall. He can see the layer of dust atop the rim of the blades. He inhales deeply, hoping to find some oxygen— only to cough out the grime in the air.
Other than the oppressive, unhealthy air quality, something in here is caving his chest in. He’s always somewhat doubted the paranormal, but is this how it feels to walk into a haunted room?
Near the back of the room, a black curtain cuts off the rest of the space.
His stomach flips while he stares at it. His legs move on their own toward it.
What else could possibly be behind this other than a few more storage items? Even while raising his hand to pull the curtain back, his fingers can’t stop twitching. He clenches it into a fist to stop it before forcing himself to reach out and yank.
Nothing is there. The walls at the back of the warehouse are still lined by a few shelves and empty boxes, but save for that, there is nothing there. There’s an empty clearing of floor with in-tact pillars framing it.
He can’t figure out why he’s still shaking. He tries to trace back memories of the Neo World, as limited as they are. Why does he feel so scared?
He lifts his head. Centered and above the space, there is a rectangular beam connecting two pillars on opposite sides.
It’s all he stared at while waiting for them. The boom of the door caving in. The rush of their voices when the fire started. The heat and sweat he endured. The grip he kept on the rope, until…
By the time he snaps back to reality, he realizes too late that he’s started laughing.
－－－－－－－－－
The sunrise would be mesmerizing to watch were it not purely and strictly red. The silhouette of someone sitting along the edge of the lapping coast would enrich the view to anyone who didn’t recognize them— but Hajime Hinata knows Nagito Komaeda’s outline like the back of his hand, and while they’ve been granted a new beginning, he can’t shake the anxiety bubbling in his bloodstream.
Irrational.
God. He can’t even feel emotions in peace anymore. Maybe it’s because he only woke up this morning and consciousness is not doing a great favor to him, but he cannot catch a break from the intrusive thoughts he’s labelling as Izuru.
Every movement, every item, and every atom triggers some level of recognition from Kamukura. Maybe suppressing this part of himself during the virtual reality is having unexpected consequences. Maybe the injection of Izuru’s talents became his base code and Hajime can’t forget everything that’s been put in his head, not anymore. Or, who knows, maybe Izuru is simply itching for attention.
Hajime stares at the ocean. The water is a violent shade of red. He can’t imagine Nagito is sitting on the beach for the sake of the view.
What would Nagito be doing? What has he been doing?
Makoto arrived in a helicopter after Hajime woke up. He was assured more answers, more clarification on the situation at hand. He was also alarmingly surprised at the amount of details Hajime could recall about everything— the killing game, Hope’s Peak, and their treacherous life prior.
“Only two of you have woken up so far,” Makoto had filled him in, “It’s been nearly three months since the other woke up.”
“Who was it?”
Makoto had looked to the side as if scared to admit it himself. “Nagito.”
“He’s been awake for three months?”
“Just about,” Makoto’s voice has dropped considerably. There was no point: the room was empty, all other pods were sealed shut. “But, listen to me, Hajime. He’s in a bit of a fragile state. When he woke up, he didn’t remember much at all. It’s almost like his mind put up a block to forget everything to protect himself. Kyoko and I were having weekly sessions with him, jogging his memory little by little as safely as we could muster. However, we were holding off on talking about how he died in the simulation. It was extremelty traumatic, we weren’t confident about his mental state. But four weeks ago, Byakuya…”
He looks off. It was weird to watch Makoto’s baby face turn irritated, “Byakuya went behind my back and sent Nagito to the warehouse inadvertently. By the time I found out and came here, Nagito was… he’d shut down. I don’t know how else to describe it. I can’t even talk to him meaningfully most days. So when you see him, be mindful of that.”
Be mindful of that. How can anyone be mindful about the fact that your former friend committed a brutal suicide and left their dead body for you to find? How can anyone approach the same person and exercise caution and respectfulness when your last memory of them is that?
Hajime stares down Nagito’s silhouette in the distance.
When he first met him, Hajime would have assumed that in this scenario, Nagito was preoccupied in his head. That he could approach this guy on the beach and genuinely go unnoticed. He’d join him sitting, and Nagito would be pleasantly surprised by the company. That he’d act normal.
Now, after so many encounters with him, and many unpleasant, he knows better. While he approaches Nagito’s silhouette, his footsteps shaky on the sand, he knows Nagito can hear him. Nagito acts preoccupied, in his head, and talks like it too— but more times than not, the thoughts are surprisingly present and relevant. The topics he brought up during class trials initially struck Hajime as frazzled and unrelated, but they always led down the right path.
He’s ever observant and carefully resigned. He speaks when he deems it important, and withdraws for the same reason. Hajime can’t quite decipher why Nagito hasn’t acknowledged him, though. But he can’t afford to get flat out ignored.
Hajime stops to stand right beside him, forcing his body into Nagito’s peripheral at least. Nagito finally complies and starts turning his head towards him. When he looks up, Hajime forgets to breathe.
You’re overreacting. He doesn’t look that different…
His hair has grown out, his jaw more defined. His eyes look more grey than green, and Hajime wonders if it’s solely because of the dark atmosphere.
Nagito’s lips part while he stares at Hajime. Particularly at his left eye.
“Kamukura,” Nagito exhales shakily. His gaze darts to Hajime’s right eye, then flicks between them. A knot between his eyebrows form. “No. Hajime?”
Hajime opens his mouth to reply while Nagito surveys his hair. He feels self-conscious, suddenly. He’d put his hair into a haphazard, lazy bun to get it out of his face more than anything. It’s not like any appropriate scissors or clippers are ready at hand. He’d woken up in Izuru’s suit and tie, as well, but didn’t have the heart to keep either the tie or jacket on. Jabberwock is hot, either from the general climate or the constant fires not far off. He had to undo the first two buttons of his dress shirt to feel like he could breathe. Standing beside the ocean is helping.
He licks his lips when he realizes his own silence. He’s been staring at Nagito without replying. He clears his throat and ignores the nerves in his chest. It was always nerves when it came to Komaeda.
“I’m both,” Hajime manages. Nagito’s expression shifts into awe. Hajime has to tear his eyes away to spare himself the embarrassment.
“So…” Hajime stares ahead, “If I ask to sit next to you, will you not let me?”
Nagito raises his eyebrows. “What am I supposed to say? That the spot is taken?”
Hajime presses his lips together through a suppressed smile. He lower himself and sits, keeping his knees up to wrap his arms around them. “I missed your teasing.” He didn’t intend for the sarcasm to end up so prominent.
“Me? Teasing?” Nagito looks alarmed, “You’ve surely mistaken me for someone. I don’t tease.”
“Right,” Hajime nods slowly. He turns to Nagito, who’s wearing a smile every bit deceitful.
Along the shore, the tide has left a clear line marked between the wet and dry sand. They’re sitting just before the cut off. Hajime watches the water lap towards them, surprisingly quaint, slow and peaceful. He closes his eyes against the red sky to soak in the sound of the ocean. At least for a single moment, he can pretend this is calming. He can pretend this reality is satisfying.
“If I had known you were the one who woke up, I’d have… been there,” Nagito speaks so quietly Hajime leans into him to hear it. His voice is lower and raspier than he remembers. “I saw the helicopter coming in, and Naegi rushing off the dock and to the building. I figured someone must’ve woken up, but I didn’t care enough to see who.”
“That’s not a very comforting attitude to come from our first survivor.”
Nagito’s voice sours. “I’d hardly call myself that.”
“You woke up.”
He almost rolls his eyes. “It’s just my luck, huh? To get the miracle of life handed back to me on a desolate island. As if it should be called a miracle. That’s too gracious a term…”
Nagito stares into the horizon. Reflections of red flash in his grey eyes. Hajime traces the bridge of his nose with his gaze.
“What would you call this, then? If it’s not a miracle.”
Nagito gives him an incredulous look.
“Punishment.” He breaks the eye contact to pick at grains of sand and sighs. “I thought I was doing a service to everyone. An act of good charity.”
Hajime looks down. Makoto was surprised at his sufficient memory. Hajime was disappointed.
Well— Disappointed might be the wrong word. He was annoyed. Disturbed.
While recalling most of his life with ease has obvious advantages, he didn’t expect to recall things in such detail. It’s not like the information was at the forefront of his mind, but if he took longer than five seconds to spark a memory, it transfixed itself into a full-sensory experience. The scent of the room rushes back to him, the textured details, the space. The posture of his stance, the direction of his eyes, the weight of his clothes. Everything. He wants to blame this on Izuru’s integration, because his memories get even clearer for any event that occurred after the surgery.
And when it comes to recalling the Tragedy, it is the worst thing he could ask for.
Slaughters and their stench of blood, the rubble and smoke emerging from old playgrounds, the electrical buzz in the air whenever too many robo-bears gathered in one area.
Right now, one memory rushes back: the sight of Nagito Komaeda on his knees with his pants pulled down, adjusting messily-applied blood stained gauze tape on both of his thighs. When Izuru— when he had walked in and observed him callously, Nagito looked up, his eyes peeking out from his overgrown bangs, and blinked.
Of course, their interactions during this time frame stretched further than a single instance, but Hajime is overwhelmed immediately by the overbearing memory of his self-deprecating smile and comments.
Remnant or not, Nagito’s thought process has always been backwards.
“I tried to do the one noble thing I could think of,” Nagito says. “And failed.”
A wave rolls in. A subtle crash pushes the sand and drenches it darker before it recedes.
“Now I’m expected to believe that I deserve a clean slate? A second shot at life?”
Hajime leans forward to glare at him. “You do deserve this.”
Nagito laughs. “Shouldn’t your judgement be better after being injected with every talent in the world?”
He’s jealous.
He closes his eyes to stifle Izuru’s ever-present analysis. He can handle this without its help. He is Hajime. He has gotten through worse.
“You do.”
“Don’t lie to me. It’s hard enough to believe that coming from someone who consented to a lobotomy.”
His shoulders tense. Okay. He has gotten through worse, but fucking hell, if Komaeda isn’t still infuriating when he gets snappy.
“Nagito. I’m not stupid.”
“I don’t know, Hajime, your words say otherwise.”
“Don’t look away from me.”
He’s not sure if the sudden anger in his tone is what gets Nagito to reluctantly comply. To finally make eye contact with him again.
“I am not stupid,” Hajime starts, his words spaced out for emphasis, “I know you love to act like I am, but I’m not.”
He leans in for good measure, more than confident about his next assertion:
“You do not wholeheartedly believe that this is punishment. You do not believe that you deserve to die. That all of us deserve to die.”
“Do I seem like the type to excuse criminals?”
“You seem like the type to have hope.”
Nagito freezes. Hajime presses.
“Who left the poison bottle perfectly positioned at the center of your fridge? Who left a single foil from that poison under their bed? Who deliberately left that gas mask and gloves lying around?”
Nagito recoils as if he’s being shunned.
“Go on. Answer me,” Hajime continues, “Who did all of that? Because I know Monokuma would not care enough to fabricate evidence for your sake. And I know you’re intelligent enough to know the crumbs you’re leaving behind.”
Hajime doesn’t stop himself even while Nagito refuses to look at him.
“You don’t get to play dumb with me. I have watched you manipulate situations and conversations firsthand. I have seen you in control, you know exactly how to get what you want. You are deliberate in your choices. And while you despised everyone and yourself for becoming despair— You did not make the case impossible.
“You could have left us in the dark. You could have destroyed every single piece of evidence. You could have effectively gotten us all killed. Yet you didn’t. You left just enough so that maybe, just maybe, if someone dared to snoop around enough, they would realize the truth.”
Nagito’s eyes stay glued ahead. As if acting indifferent absolves Hajime’s words of meaning.
“Even after finding out the worst, a small part of you had faith in our hope. It’s what let us win the trial.”
Hajime tries sealing his lips. The next thought is impulsive, and it may be the wrong thing to say, but he can’t stop himself:
“It’s what makes you exceptional, Komaeda. You… For all your talk about hope, you’re not insincere about it. You really do believe.”
Nagito finally turns to him, wide-eyed. He clearly wasn’t expecting a compliment.
“And you couldn’t shake your belief in the people who were trying so hard to stay alive and stay friends. By proxy… call me crazy, but you believe in yourself, too. If you didn’t, you would’ve never dared enact any plan as elaborate and insane as you did.”
Nagito’s staring at Hajime now. The expression on his face is vague enough to remain unreadable.
“If you irredeemably embodied despair, through and through, you would have never died for the sake of hope.”
Hajime takes a deep breath. That was a weight off his chest.
He’d consumed himself thinking about Komaeda after his trial. He never thought he’d get to confront him with all his conclusions. Hajime stares at the shoreline, the subtle movement of the red water rippling while it rises and falls.
It’s quiet for a long moment before either of them speak. The anxiety that he’s been ignoring speeds up his heartbeat. He touches his own chest as if it’ll suppress it.
“That’s an admirable conclusion to make, Hajime.”
When Hajime turns to him, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Nagito so relaxed:
“And from a Reserve Course student, no less…”
“Ha-ha,” Hajime squints at him. “You’re so funny.”
Nagito breaks into a small giggle, ducking his head into his chest. Hajime stares at him and lets his chest fill with relief.
“Admirable?” Hajime repeats. He doesn’t realize until now that he’s smiling, too, “Are you admitting that the conclusion is correct?”
“Now, now,” Nagito says, “Surely the Ultimate Hope can decipher that.”
“Can you pick a side?” Hajime asks when Nagito laughs again, “Am I a talentless Reserve student, or am I an Ultimate?”
Nagito hums, dramatically thoughtful. “That depends. Did Kamukura’s endless knowledge help you make that conclusion about me?”
“No. That was me.”
“Then the answer is obvious,” Nagito’s eyes shine for the first time. “You’re Hajime.”
Objectively, Hajime knows this. He knows his identity cannot be ripped in half. He knows his name.
Still. It’s nice to hear Nagito say it.
For once, the sound of the ocean waves starts to lull him into relaxing his shoulders. Hajime stares at a small gap in the clouds forming, the single parting point he’s noticed.
“So, what do we do? It’s just the two of us here.”
It’s clear that Nagito’s question is more of a big-picture concern. They’re the only two people awake. At this rate, the rest of their classmates will take years to wake up one-by-one. How can they lead such a lonesome life with hope?
Hajime presses his lips together and glances back towards the buildings.
“I guess, for now, we should start with some food.”