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The only sound aside from wind and waves is the quiet hum of an escalator.
A rather terrifying one at that, given the way it just spewed out from a gruesomely-carved mountain. Hinata really doesn’t feel like dwelling on the surreal way the faux-Monokuma shook and warped despite being made out of stone. There’s far too much absurdity he’s already shouldering—neon pink blood beneath a dining table, power outages and talking rabbits—for anything like that. Trying to figure out whether the towering mountain above him might also be animate would simply be too much.
The class (minus one, soon to be minus two with what Monokuma has said) is unnaturally silent following the escalator’s appearance. Hinata can’t remember any other time on the island where everyone seemed to be at such a loss for words. Normally, it’s like his classmates revel in running their mouths. The quiet feels off-putting. Nobody wants to move.
But it’s not as though there’s much of a choice, right? The quiet is more resignment than anything, a bubbling pit of fear that Hinata is quite sure resides in the back of everyone’s mind right now as they stand helpless to Monokuma’s whims. Their wants no longer matter here.
So, he steps forward onto the ridged metal. First in a line that everyone else has no choice but to follow.
It halfway feels like he’s leaving his stomach behind when he does so, as though with each foot his body rises, the pit of anxiety deep within him grows ever larger. But there’s no going back, not with the way Hinata’s hapless classmates start to file on as well. The sandy island slowly shrinks away as step by step by step by step, the escalator rises. It’s like some kind of death procession, bleak and grim and rather ironically leading upwards rather than down—though perhaps that’s because their worlds have been turned upside down, so now hell seeps out from the sky and heaven is buried in the earth. Hinata can’t help but feel his judgement is accurate when he finally reaches the room at the top of the mountain.
Metal railings line the walls, shining the slightest bit with the dull green color of the floor. It’s plenty big, and yet still feels claustrophobic when Hinata moves forward, all the more so when one by one, the others walk in. Suffocating and still so silent.
They take their places, high schoolers scattered around without much more than a foot or so between one person to the next. The escalator continues to hum from outside as Owari finally steps in, completing the fifteen. The instant she spins around, exuding a kind of confidence Hinata can only dream of having at this moment, railings slam shut and enclose them all within.
If Hinata twitches a little at the rail’s sudden movement, then he damn near jumps when the floor beneath them all lurches sharply downward. It’s a second before his mind is clear enough to realize the obvious. An elevator, he realizes at the same time Nidai shouts something about it.
“So the whole rock’s an elevator!” he continues, loud enough that if not for the elevator already rumbling, Hinata is pretty sure the ground would be shaking.
“Once again,” Nanami sighs, “Monokuma is doing entirely as he pleases with us.”
“The way he’s gone so far as to make something like this, however…” Pekoyama replies. “I don’t believe he’s playing around.”
“We’re goin’ pretty deep,” says Owari, more to herself than anyone else. Her eyes are fixed forward onto the dark rock that they’re shooting through.
“We are,” Hinata breathes. His voice feels far weaker than he’d like, especially as it’s enveloped once more by that unsettling quiet. His hands clench into fists by his sides. As they plummet deeper down, he’s still put off by the stomach he’s now positive is miles away, leaving a gaping hole in place of his innards. Hinata’s head spins, his knees tremble, something is rattling and it’s either the metal surrounding them or his teeth. Or perhaps both. The mumble of conversation and whispered anxieties rising in the elevator makes it hard to tell.
“Hinata-kun,” mumbles a rasping voice just behind Hinata, drawing his attention away from the shaky cube entrapping everybody. It’s quiet enough that it could have slipped between the floor tiles, probably, lost to be trampled upon whenever they get out of this likely death trap. Hinata carefully turns his head to meet wide eyes.
“…Yeah?” he prompts Komaeda, quiet but not as quiet.
“Hey,” Komaeda says softly. He pauses for a moment, blinks. Either the lighting of the elevator isn’t doing him any favors, or he’s really washed out right now. Hinata is about to ask whether everything is alright when he finally speaks again.
“Can you hold my hand?” he says. The shadows across his face don’t do him any favors when he smiles, really only emphasizing his slightly-uncanny ghoulishness.
“…What?”
“Ah, it’s completely alright if you’d rather not touch something as pathetically worthless as myself, of course. I simply thought I might ask. Don’t mind it!” Komaeda’s smile notches upwards. “I’d hate to be so presumptuous as to expect something like that of you, especially in a moment where your hope will be all the more important later! So you should probably just ignore me.”
Hinata stares quiet and dumbfounded for a moment, his already anxious brain stumbling to keep up with Komaeda’s nonsense. And before he can try very hard at comprehending anything-
“Uh, sure.”
“Hm?” Komaeda tips his head a little, still grinning.
Christ. “I’ll- I’ll hold your hand.” The other’s eyes widen at that, a very genuine shock blatant across Komaeda’s face. His lips part slightly like there are words he means to say but simply can’t fathom. With a slight grimace at his own dumbassery, Hinata shifts slightly in Komaeda’s direction and reaches for the pale white hand at his side. He very lightly grabs onto Komaeda’s hand, loose, barely noticeable, really. Their fingers aren’t even intertwined. More like mittens vaguely clasped together. Insignificant, in a way.
(If it’s insignificant his chest probably shouldn’t feel so tight, but whatever. Anxiety for the first trial or something.)
Komaeda shuffles a little bit closer, mainly to make the line of their connected arms a little less strained. He smiles in Hinata’s direction, eyes that teeter on the edge of sage narrowed and shining under the elevator’s artificial lighting. Hinata glances away slightly, though he notes clearly the way Komaeda’s grip tightens a little as he grows more comfortable. A soft thumb presses into the side of Hinata’s wrist, rubs it softly. Hinata kind of likes the sense of its presence, like a quiet reminder that the icy palm against his own isn’t that of a dead body. There’s been too much death already, anyways.
They’re quiet and unnoticed the short rest of the ride down. There’s not much anything else to say, after all—this is simply Hinata providing some kind of rock for his friend in a moment that’s terrifying for everyone. It’s completely normal. Even if his hand feels oddly clammy upon releasing Komaeda’s while the elevator hisses open.
Komaeda’s eyes are kind as he parts from Hinata without a word, off to find someplace to stand in the foreboding trial room. Hinata watches the back of his head for a moment before doing the same.
It’s hard to believe that those are the same eyes as the ones spiraling midway through the class trial, that the boy who spoke of Ultimate Serenity and quietly asked to hold Hinata’s hand is the same as the one with a manic cackle and murderous foresight. But a lot of things are hard to believe when you’re thrown into some wretched, bloody killing game, huh?
Hinata’s hands instinctively slip into his pants pockets when the class reenters the elevator. Hanamura’s screams ring in his ears, and he swears he can hear Komaeda’s trembling breath someplace a few feet behind him.
The anxiety from earlier doesn’t totally dissipate when he eventually steps out of the mountain.
The second time that Hinata watches the escalator fling itself from a stone Monokuma’s mouth, he’s just as unsettled as before. It’s unfortunate, honestly, because he’d quite like to feign some sense of unaffectedness or stoicism—but that’s never been a strong suit of his.
Komaeda is the first to step on this time, a coolly unsettling smile now stretched across his lips. Dread pools in Hinata’s stomach as he stares down the bruised, jacketed silhouette, already unprepared for whatever nonsense Komaeda plans to bring into this trial. His excited rambling about Twilight Syndrome Murder Case still circles endlessly around Hinata’s brain, icy and deranged. A forever-raspy voice looping like it’s a song stuck in his head and not the quite-potentially-dangerous ramblings of Jabberwock Island’s resident madman.
Maybe it would help his nerves if Hinata simply thought less about Komaeda, but that’s proven a more difficult task than he ever would have imagined. He still vividly remembers staying awake far too late into the evening evaluating the merits of ‘should I just check on him, make sure he ate something, I mean I don’t want him to die’ a few nights ago, and he’s entirely unsure as to why.
Maybe he’s just as depraved and unstable as Komaeda. Maybe that’s why this is such a struggle when it shouldn’t be.
Maybe that potential insanity is why it takes him a solid thirty seconds to realize that something (someone) is holding onto his hand, long after the elevator has started to plummet down.
Hinata’s head jerks to the side, eyes wide and unfocused in the direction of a white-haired boy with an awfully chipper grin and dead-coral irises. Komaeda doesn’t say anything. His smile simply twitches at its corners. Without thinking about the far more reasonable option of ‘let go of his hand, dumbass’, Hinata whips his gaze around towards his fellow students. Perhaps it’s a plea for help (or perhaps just him making sure nobody is paying attention). When he looks back, Komaeda’s sharp gaze is narrowed slightly, only lathering on an additional smugness to his expression. Hinata’s heart crashes around in his chest.
“Everything alright, Hinata-kun?” Komaeda rasps delicately. Hinata’s mouth hangs agape before he can muster up a response.
“No, I- you’re holding onto my hand,” Hinata hisses out in a mildly-pathetic whisper. He’s glancing around, rather intently praying that nobody will notice their hushed exchange—and, to his undeserved credit, Komaeda keeps his voice low.
“How astute!” Komaeda grins. “Perhaps you’re the Ultimate Observationist, Hinata-kun. It would explain all of your spectacular detective work thus far.”
“Shut up,” Hinata flushes, and it’s only now that he remembers he can realistically just, you know… pull his hand away. Except Komaeda beats him to the punch, letting go of him a mere second before the elevator pulls to a sharp halt in its descent. After taking a long stride from the elevator, Komaeda twists a quick, knifelike smile in Hinata’s direction before spinning to his place in the trial room. Hinata might die for embarrassment or something of the like. It feels like the weight of the world is perched on his shoulders as he moves to take his spot. Which. Stupid, right? An incredibly over-the-top reaction. And yet Hinata feels helpless to it nonetheless, suffocated by the remnants of warmth against his palm, soft, un-worn fingers delicate across his own.
All throughout the class trial, it feels as though Komaeda’s gaze is stabbing something into Hinata’s chest. Which makes him glance awkwardly down to his hand. Which isn’t great when his attention needs to primarily center around the murder of a classmate right now. But whatever. He keeps himself from wallowing too much, forcibly redirecting his mind each and every time that green-gray starts to seep through.
Besides, the darkness that falls over the room after Pekoyama’s execution is more than enough to hold Hinata’s attention in an unforgiving grasp. Stepping into the elevator afterwards is heavy. Suffocating, even though theoretically the lack of two more classmates would leave more air behind. But instead, Pekoyama and Kuzuryu’s quiet absence burns.
Ice cold touch does, at the very least, detract from oxygen-hungry flames Hinata is half-positive are being stoked someplace in the elevator. His eyes dart over to meet Komaeda’s, but his mouth stays shut.
Something about the way Komaeda is so casual about it makes it hard for Hinata to let go. At least, that’s what he tells himself. The way he slips next to Hinata and grabs onto his hand is bitingly simplistic—even though, realistically, that should only make things weirder. After all, when is Komaeda ever simplistic?
Maybe there’s some long-constructed plot at hand that Hinata is inadvertently playing into. Or it could all be mind games to make him think there’s a long-constructed plan, so he slowly loses his mind stumbling over why Komaeda’s palm feels so nice against his own. Whatever it is, whatever it could be, Hinata can’t find himself relinquishing the grip.
“I’d hate to hold the hand of someone as worthless as Hinata-kun,” Komaeda bites out, any sharpness in his tone greatly dulled by circumstance. Pale skin lightly flushed and covered in sweat, thin hospital sheets surrounding him. “It would absolutely disgust me. He’s such an awfully hopeless person—it makes me feel sick even being near him!” He laughs, wheezy and rasping.
Yeah, I don’t think I’m the reason you feel sick, Hinata half-wants to snap back. He’s not stupid, of course. It doesn’t take a genius to attach some antonyms to Komaeda’s words and better decipher them, especially with the confirmation that it’s a liar’s disease. He just doesn’t particularly want to deal with this at the moment, feelings being conflicted enough as is. Besides, what’s the expectation? Hold onto Komaeda’s clammy hand with his own (probably equally clammy) hand, and… sit there? Wallow in impossible emotions while Komaeda rambles about disgust and pitifulness? Hell no, so long as he can help it. And he would be able to, if not for how he practically implored Tsumiki to take a break and swore to keep watch over their classmates with Kuzuryu’s aid.
Groaning, Hinata leans further back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair. Komaeda grins over at him, all narrowed eyes and a sweaty brow while he pushes himself against the back of the bed.
“It might be even worse if you told me what’s on your mind,” he adds thoughtfully. Almost sarcastically. It’s a weird tone, which… fitting.
“Nothing’s on my mind,” Hinata replies flatly.
“Ah, because you’re a brainless moron?”
It’s gratingly hard for Hinata to remember that everything’s a lie and hold his tongue. “Yup.”
“So Hinata-kun’s a worthless, hopeless, brainless moron? How despairing! Thank the heavens that you aren’t holding my hand then. I would truly despise that.”
Cool. Because of course Komaeda is going to keep bringing that up, incessant for no damned reason whatsoever. It’s in character, Hinata will admit, but that’s not necessarily a good thing when it comes to the question of Komaeda’s character, forever cryptic to the nth degree. Woefully indecipherable, which Hinata can attest to with the utmost assurance because of how much time he has (mostly) inadvertently spent trying to pick apart the other boy. Searching for answers as though someday he’ll stumble upon a truth bullet that ties everything together, makes Komaeda make sense.
He’s well aware of how unrealistic that expectation is. He still hopes for it, a little. Komaeda would probably like that, honestly, holding hope for something most likely unattainable. He’d call it admirable or something, with that dizzying look in his eyes and thin lips stretched into a quivering smile. Rasping in a way that traces shivers down Hinata’s spine like the touch of light fingertips. His light fingertips, against Hinata’s hand, maybe even soft against his wrist when they slip down to interlock all together in a knot of bitten fingernails and gentle touch-
This is stupid. The situation itself is stupid, the way Hinata’s brain works is stupid, the way Komaeda is peering into his soul with not-quite-green eyes and a robe slipping down to reveal a trace of his pale collarbone is stupid. So stupidity is what Hinata attributes the scuff of a chair against tile floor to while he moves it next to Komaeda’s bed and sits back down.
After a moment of staring, almost at a loss, he moves a hand to rest half-atop Komaeda’s own against the paper-like bedsheets. It’s like he’s nervous, somehow, all-too-slowly moving to actually hold Komaeda’s hand. Hinata’s stomach twists slightly at the movement. He doesn’t let go. Komaeda clings onto his hand the same, far warmer than usual, which only disconcerts Hinata further.
“So awfully despairing,” he hums softly. His thumb caresses back and forth, languid and gentle. “You’re so awfully despairing. I wonder whether your mere presence might use up all of my bad luck forever and ever.”
“Probably not,” Hinata says, mostly in response to the truth. He sincerely doubts that he’d actually be important enough for that, even with all of the praise Komaeda lathers upon him.
“I think it will,” Komaeda concludes. “It must. I’ll only have good luck for the rest of my life now, all for this utterly worthless moment.”
“Maybe something will happen to even it out,” suggests Hinata. His eyes are fixated on the point where tan skin meets something far paler, nearly blueish for the veins sprawling across Komaeda’s hand. “Isn’t that what normally happens?”
“It would have to be the most hopeful and lucky event in history. I can only imagine Hinata-kun’s death would fit the bill.” Komaeda’s voice goes every so slightly cold and wary while his slender hand clutches barely tighter onto Hinata’s own. His fingertips press into the divots between Hinata’s knuckles.
Hinata makes an in-between noise, acknowledgement but not agreement as he looks up to meet Komaeda’s eyes, having been intently set on him for probably the entirety of their conversation. Komaeda smiles towards him.
It’s strange. Scary as he is, Hinata can’t help but think that, at least right now, the boy next to him looks almost angelic. It could be the way that seaside light spills in from the window, coating his alabaster complexion in gold that pools up in the hollows of his neck, his exposed collarbone—or perhaps the way that his oft treacherous smile here looks content, almost soft. All chapped lips and a muted cupid’s bow, upturned in an oddly natural manner. His hair glimmers too, surrounding his face in such a way that it borders upon being a halo, bringing a light to his face that drags over the typical gauntness, dark and pasty and cold. Even the touch of fever against his face just ends up reminding Hinata of a watercolor painting, the way it dances across his cheeks and shines beneath a sheen of sweat.
Hinata kind of wants to curl up next to Komaeda, wrapped next to his bony body. He kind of wants to brush away some of the barely-matted hair from Komaeda’s face, watch the way that the other’s eyes would most assuredly trace over his every movement. The way Komaeda’s lips would part to say something and Hinata would quiet him. Soft and warm, never letting go of his hand all the while. Quiet words, or a squeeze of his hand, or a touch of his lips-
It’s only when Komaeda shifts a little, shimmying partway down from where his back was resting against the bed, that Hinata realizes he’s been staring. He drags his eyes away sharply, maintaining his grip on Komaeda’s hand. Every breath he takes feels like it has to make a journey through thorns and vines entwined all throughout his chest just to escape from his lips.
“I’m so impossibly ungrateful for this,” Komaeda mumbles. Hinata chances a glance back over, but Komaeda doesn’t meet his eyes. “I doubt there’s anything more worthwhile for you to do.”
Honestly, there probably isn’t, but Hinata isn’t going to waste time going in circles trying to explain to a sick Komaeda how this is (technically) a favor for an Ultimate. The normal Komaeda would probably like that a lot, though—Hinata shouldering a brief ‘burden’ so as to sustain further hope through Tsumiki or whatever.
Maybe Komaeda is rubbing off on him or something. That might explain these uncharacteristically hope-centric thoughts.
Komaeda shifts yet further under the sheets, his hair pushed up slightly against the pillow. Still a stark color against everything. Still kind of a halo. “I feel rather energized,” he says in Hinata’s direction. “Maybe I’ll run a marathon or something of the like.”
“You should get some sleep.”
“Perhaps.”
Though when Komaeda’s eyes flutter closed, tranquil face still painted the hues of the sun, Hinata doesn’t manage to let go of his hand. He loosens his grip when Komaeda does, but he doesn’t let go. It feels nice, he reasons, being there for someone else (a friend? classmate? something else entirely?). Komaeda’s hand feels nice, too.
So that’s probably why he doesn’t pay too much mind when Komaeda’s hand grips onto his own as they yet again step onto the elevator. He considers not even acknowledging it at all, actually. Letting it pass by, tumbling through time with the wind. Because it’s the same as before, isn’t it? Something that doesn’t really mean much of anything, acting as a source of comfort in a trying time or whatever. Hinata doesn’t have to make any kind of a deal about this, so he won’t. Even if his mind might.
And apparently even if Komaeda might.
“I wonder whether my illness might have impaired my usefulness to this trial,” he says, voice the perfect volume for probably only Hinata to hear, buried slightly under the hissing elevator.
Utterly against his better judgement, Hinata laughs. Not a particularly noticeable one, bordering more on a sharp exhale and his face cracking into a smile, but it’s about as much of a laugh as he can manage in these kind of circumstances.
“Yeah,” he says, “‘cause you’ve been really useful up until this point.”
Komaeda’s lips curl at the corners. “Ah, you’re so correct Hinata-kun! Worthless scum like me could probably never be truly useful in circumstances such as these.”
“Jesus, that’s not what I mea-” Hinata starts to grimace.
“Hey, do you still have that movie ticket?” Komaeda interrupts, his face in a stagnant smile. Hinata’s brow furrows.
“…Yeah.”
Komaeda’s smile upturns yet further. It’s the same smile, actually, that he shoots Hinata when he uses the ticket as evidence. Thin lips stretched even thinner, the barest show of teeth between them. Green-gray eyes shimmering and narrowed beneath sparse lashes. Arrogant and smug and stupidly offsetting Hinata’s typical heart rate.
This asshole.
“What’s with the elevator thing?”
“Hm?” Komaeda asks, tilting his head in Hinata’s direction. They’re lounging about Strawberry House now. Hinata can’t remember much for how or why, a fairly reasonable consequence of blurry days beneath neon lights. He glances over to a nearby clock—almost night, thank god—before responding.
“Like, why do you hold my hand in them? You don’t talk about it at all when you do.” Even in the Funhouse, Komaeda has maintained the habit, each and every time they've been in the elevator together having easily slipped his hand into Hinata's.
“Ah,” hums Komaeda, “it’s because they scare me. That’s all. Someplace like an elevator seems an awfully apt place for bad luck to be summoned up, no?”
“So you hold my hand?” Hinata says, still confused.
“You’re a rather comforting person, Hinata-kun! I’m sure I’ve told you so before.”
“…Got it.” Honestly, this is probably one of the least befuddling answers Hinata has ever received from Komaeda. Clean and direct, almost shockingly so. Which is the exact opposite of comforting, coming from Komaeda—though maybe the unpredictability of this answer is simply indicative of his unpredictability as a whole. Or something like that. There’s too many layers there for Hinata to want to deal with, especially while his stomachs twists in on itself with hunger.
“Was there a different reason you were hoping for?” Komaeda lilts.
Hinata’s nose scrunches up a little. “No. Don’t be weird.” As if Komaeda could ever manage that.
“What’s weird about that?” says Komaeda, tone still airy and teasing. “Ah, was Hinata-kun thinking about the romantic implications? Don’t worry, I would never expect something in that regard!”
That doesn’t help at all actually, Hinata notes painfully while his eyes dart away. Komaeda’s words make Hinata’s face flush almost instantly, kicking up a swarm of butterflies in his stomach, because he wasn’t thinking about romance and totally doesn’t want that and wouldn’t like it either, especially not from Komaeda, Komaeda with fluffy white hair and eyes that resemble sea glass and hands that end up fitting so perfectly into Hinata’s own like twin stars-
“Or perhaps are you worried about what our classmates might think? I’d hate to embarrass you, Hinata-kun! Just say the word, and I’ll never dare-”
“It’s just-” Hinata starts, awkwardly cutting off the foundation of Komaeda’s rambling, “like, strange. Kind of. So I asked.” Hinata finally looks back to him, meeting a thoughtful gaze.
“If it’s strange,” Komaeda says, voice buzzing, “perhaps you could help me eradicate the fear! That way I’d never have to bother you with it again.”
“…How?”
Komaeda’s lips purse, cheek pulling a little where he bites it. “I think it’d probably be best to use the elevator here, no? You could accompany me to Grape House, and then I’d come back here all on my lonesome. That way I’ll have no choice but to confront the fear, with the memory of your hope still nearby!”
Before Hinata can come up with any kind of response, Komaeda is already on his feet, gesturing out a hand for Hinata to take. Which he does, causing Komaeda’s smile to turn almost unbearably sweet. In an instant, Komaeda pulls Hinata up with the grip on his hand and steps forward, leaving Hinata no real choice but to follow the long-striding pace Komaeda sets. Strangely enough, he doesn’t really mind too much, what with the delicate touch of the other’s hand to his own.
With their fingers loosely entwined, Komaeda guides Hinata through the main room and towards the elevator. His grin doesn’t falter at all with each random wayward glance he shoots in Hinata’s direction, the occasional spin of his head only ceasing when they step through the elevator door and it slides shut. It’s then that his slender fingers slip down and cling onto Hinata’s all the tighter.
The way they’re standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder, hands now held in a tight grip, is doing something to Hinata’s ability to speak. Every word that tries to creep up his throat dies somewhere along the way.
“Hinata-kun’s pulse is racing so fast,” Komaeda hums, and Hinata feels his face heat immediately in response. “Is he scared of elevators now, too?” He cocks his head in Hinata’s direction, off-color eyes wide and innocent even as they bore into Hinata’s soul, thin lips curved somewhere between a smirk and an honest question. Hinata tries fruitlessly to loosen his own hold on Komaeda’s hand while his eyes glance away, but the other’s grasp is far too tight for that.
“No,” he mutters.
“So is it me then? Has Hinata-kun finally decided I’m a danger to him? Do believe me, Hinata-kun, it would be all the more hopeful for you to kill me.”
“No, that’s not-”
Komaeda spins to Hinata’s front and smoothly grabs his other hand as well. The way they’re facing each other now makes any of Hinata’s attempts at aversion all the more pointless. Especially with how Komaeda encompasses most of his vision, frazzled white hair and almost-green eyes, his slender torso mere centimeters away from being pressed against Hinata’s own.
“It’s completely reasonable to be afraid of someone worthless and depraved as myself,” Komaeda says, and Hinata swears his voice drops a fraction, each word deliberate and too quiet for comfort. A shudder wracks up Hinata’s spine.
Komaeda’s hands are cold as always, slightly clammy—though not to the same egregious degree as Hinata’s. His breath, however, is warm and wavering and intense. Something about the way it almost physically presses his words against Hinata’s mouth makes the other’s presence feel ubiquitous, overwhelming. Like if Hinata dares to breath in warm air, he would be breathing in Komaeda’s solid entirety. The elevator rumbles beneath their feet.
“I’m not,” Hinata swallows back a shallow breath, “afraid. Of you.”
“Ah, then it is the elevator? Or perhaps you’re worried about starving, Hinata-kun? My offer still stands, you know.” ‘I don’t mind if you guys use me for food, okay?’
“…Gross. I’m not eating your- your flesh or whatever.”
“There’s other things you could try eating.” Komaeda’s stare is unwavering, a not-entirely-unserious smile on his face. Hinata should say gross to that too. But he doesn’t, for some reason. Maybe it’s because the way Komaeda’s head has tipped forward ever so slightly is distracting him. Or the tight grip on his hands. Or something like that.
Hinata smiles nervously. “What, you want me to drink your blood or som-”
He’s cut off by lips jammed against his own, words and breath swallowed up by Komaeda’s mouth. His very hot mouth, and wet, and his tongue is wet too, which Hinata only notices because it slips past his still-stunned lips two seconds into making contact. It licks up against the roof of his mouth and makes Hinata shudder again. Almost instinctively, he stills and clings tighter onto Komaeda’s hands in some frail attempt at grounding himself, while the other’s tongue continues to creep around, languid, teasing, soft. Maybe embarrassingly good.
For better or for worse, Komaeda keeps the kiss chaste. It’s only a few moments before he pulls away, awfully gleeful as he licks his wet lips.
“That was closer to what I meant,” Komaeda smiles finally. “I was more so referring to saliva, Hinata-kun, but if you would rather try and drink my blood, I would never decline!”
“You-” Actually, Hinata really doesn’t need to deal with the embarrassment of saying something like ‘you were hungry so you drank my spit???’ or ‘you want me to drink your spit?????’ He’s going through enough right now—that might cause him to combust.
“Does Hinata-kun not want to do this?” Komaeda hums, which, fuck, means Hinata will have to say something stupid and embarrassing regardless. Because it’s not like he can say he doesn’t want this, especially not now, not with the way Komaeda’s lips are still shiny and slightly parted, barely-lidded greyish gaze set intently on Hinata’s face.
“I- do,” which he halfway whispers, “just-” Here? Now? Me? Whatever words he could, should say, are unfathomable. Speaking to Komaeda is difficult enough in normal circumstances—trying to do so after a devouring kiss while trapped in the slowest-moving elevator of all time is damn near impossible. His stomach is coiling with something not fully unpleasant that distracts all the more from coming up with a coherent sentence.
Though.
Hinata supposes that there’s not much warrant in whatever he was going to say, anyways.
With a shaky inhale, Hinata closes the distance between them again, half-warily even though, realistically, Komaeda isn’t going to push him away. Tentatively reconnects their lips. Squeezes Komaeda’s hands. It’s far less intense than before, even though Hinata feels Komaeda’s lips part a little more against his own, a quiet beckoning.
“I don’t- I dunno,” he breathes against Komaeda’s mouth upon drawing back. His head feels oddly light. Their noses are still barely pressed together.
“I’d probably recommend a different technique should you intend to be utilitarian about it, Hinata-kun!” Komaeda chirps as he draws further back, smile smarmy and razor-sharp. “Unless you’re not trying to be utilitarian, that is,” he notes like an afterthought. He releases one of Hinata’s hands to reach into choppy brown hair, tipping Hinata’s head slightly up while he yet again leans close enough that their noses bump. Hinata’s stunned quiet leaves his smile curved yet further, pale eyes uplifted that make him the quintessential image of sardonicism. “Ah, so Hinata-kun doesn’t solely inten-”
Hinata kisses him again, mostly so he stops saying stupid, embarrassing things that leave Hinata’s ears burning like the pits of hell. (Mostly? Maybe partially. Like 30%.) Though he might be trapped in hell anyways—at the very least, on a fast track there. Especially with how immediately the kiss turns ravenous, like he’s trying to swallow up chapped lips, drink away all of Komaeda’s air. He feels starved in more ways than one. Maybe Komaeda was onto something.
Komaeda is deliciously eager in returning the kiss, if not somewhat sloppy. His hand in Hinata’s hair is firmly entrenched in the spiky locks, which acts as a surprisingly nice sort of stabilizer while his tongue readily entwines with Hinata’s. They roll together rather nicely, links of the same chain with their held hands and torsos lacking much room for anything in-between.
When the hand in his hair urges a little forward, Hinata stumbles into Komaeda a bit—and with the stumble, something falls from his throat all the same. A sound, a maybe slightly-embarrassingly high gasp. Though he can’t focus all too much on it as the hiss of elevator doors swallows it up.
Both Hinata and Komaeda drag back from each other, olive and sage spinning towards the neon green light now treading along the line of the elevator’s entrance. Hinata stares into the empty center room for a moment, heart still pounding in his ears and his face surely flushed to high heaven. He feels Komaeda’s torso start to pull away slightly, hears a quiet almost-laugh that flushes warm against his lips. The hand locked onto his own starts to slowly loosen its grip—but before Komaeda can pull all of the way back, Hinata drags himself so his back is facing the wall and next to the elevator buttons, pulling Komaeda alongside with him. His free hand jams out against the ‘door close’ at the same time that he presses back into Komaeda’s lips.
Komaeda accepts the kiss for a moment as the doors slide and the elevator starts to shake again. When he separates from Hinata, however, his face is shining with a deliciously coy smirk that leaves Hinata’s heart fluttering.
“I thought there was supposed to be a point to this trip,” he mumbles cheerily as he presses barely forward—just enough that Hinata’s back rests lightly on the wall. It makes Hinata’s heartbeat creep ever further up his throat. “Doesn’t you coming back with me ruin that?”
“Should I have left?”
“Mm,” Komaeda hums as if in thought. “No.” His face shines, the smile stretched across it drawing away from the gauntness in his cheeks and the sallow color beneath his entrancing eyes. Strange looking as always, uncanny, off-putting, but in a way that Hinata can’t peel his eyes away from. That he can never peel his eyes away from. He can’t help but break the moment and lean back in, a hand rolling up to clutch Komaeda’s nearly-white hair, tangled in thin strands.
He savors dry lips against his own, the way that the skin feels chapped and uneven and yet is still addictive for some reason or another. Komaeda’s breath seeps into his lungs between kisses, like irremovable hooks dragging into Hinata’s innards, pulling them ever closer, closer, closer, closer.
Even though Hinata isn’t meant to need this, he does. Not supposed to, maybe. Not supposed to trust shaky eyes and tremorous words that bloom out from Komaeda’s mouth like a garden maze, vines and flowers that Hinata finds himself tripping over time and time again. He does, though, in this moment. As though the bony fingers grabbing desperately onto his waist and unbuttoning partway down his shirt can resolve any of this, can make Komaeda trustworthy. It’s technically unfathomable. It’s not like Hinata truly feels confident enough to say this changes anything, because letting a boy’s tongue creep through his mouth while he does much the same doesn’t undo a wake of invariable destruction left behind.
Maybe it’s a self-centered trust, then, that Hinata places into Komaeda’s waiting grasp each time they hold hands. The knowledge that right now, Komaeda wouldn’t hurt him. That shouldn’t be it, of course, because it’s pathetically motivated, inconsiderate and self-serving. But it’s a hard argument for Hinata to make that he isn’t any of those things as he drinks in Komaeda’s being greedily.
He’s been starved for too long anyways, something always a missing piece in his chest. It’s not a perfect fit, letting Komaeda crawl into an unassured gap within Hinata’s heart, but it sates some part of the feeling in there. Makes the hole a little smaller, at least, filling up questions about worth and talent with dried-out cloverleaves and a voice like grains of sand. Even if the emptiness of starvation isn’t totally staved off, the slight bit is better than nothing. Hinata could delude himself, say that it helps everyone else in the long run if his mind isn’t occupied warding off musings of worthlessness, but that would merely be an empty excuse for the fact that maybe it’s just nice to feel a little less hungry. So it’s not really worthwhile to focus on that. Besides, it feels far better to focus on the way cold fingers bring flushes of blood to his skin, lips teasing out deep shades of sunset while Komaeda so eagerly buries him.
Warmth curls beneath his shirt collar with the tease of teeth, and it floods to Hinata’s head in a way that leaves him drowning and suffocating and halfway to his grave. But. Not starving. A revelation that makes Hinata’s vision spin with stupidly bright colors coagulating like an elementary schooler’s messy paint palette. He wishes his eyes would focus, however, because otherwise he’s left feeling like he’s losing another piece of this when all he wants is to freeze the moment in time. Bottle everything up in a piece of film that he’ll keep in his back pocket for eternity.
He carries Komaeda’s head back up to face his, moonish face the center of his vision. Komaeda’s chest rises and falls with heavy breaths while he delicately pulls away. He’s beautiful like this, in a way, even if it’s something only Hinata might be able to see folded beneath the air of death and ghostliness that hums around Komaeda’s being.
Hinata parts his lips as if to say that, but Komaeda swallows up his words before they can exist in the container they’re for now trapped in. The air feels limited enough. Maybe that’s why it feels so right to practically share sets of lungs. Hinata’s hand finds its way back to Komaeda’s, interlacing yet again.
It’s only when the elevators slide open yet again that the two break apart, almost delightfully disheveled between mussed hair and spit-slick lips. Komaeda grips tight onto Hinata’s hand, lips parted with an unasked question.
“You got the nice room, right?” Hinata mumbles, to which Komaeda’s face immediately goes bright red, soft eyes wide as saucers. “No, fuck, not like that, just for like… privacy?” he stutters, now equally mortified. “Unless you don’t want to, I can just go back if you don-”
“No,” Komaeda rushes out, voice deliciously haggard and wrecked, ”it’s… fine.” He flashes Hinata a small, awkward smile that has Hinata almost immediately moving out of the elevator.
Inverse to before, Hinata leads the way now, thanking the heavens (and probably Komaeda’s luck) that nobody happens to be out to see the two of them hand in hand, Hinata with his partway open shirt and Komaeda with his pink face and far wilder than usual hair. He likes knowing that it’s somewhat of a secret between just the two of them, like they have something small and sacred kept between their palms. It feels nice, contained almost, kicking up something light in his chest that only flutters more when Komaeda moves to open his door, holding it for Hinata to come in the same.
Hinata’s grin only falters slightly when he looks to Komaeda’s owlish eyes, wide and almost blank.
“…You good?” he asks tentatively.
Komaeda’s face twitches slightly before he responds, “Something terrible is going to happen, I think.” His voice is grainy still, but sharper than usual. Like it’s forcing its way past his throat to form such unsettling words.
It only takes a second for Hinata to understand. “You mean your luck?”
Komaeda nods slightly, eyes still spacey. “Far too many good things have happened. Things aren’t supposed to be easy like this.” His vision only focuses when he looks directly to Hinata, with an almost sickening smile twisting his lips. “It would probably be something happening to you, realistically. So you should probably leave and never talk to me again, and stay away from anything at all dangerous, because otherwise I could never live with myself if I had to know I caused something awful to happen to y-”
Hinata cuts him off with a kiss, the shape of the other’s lips still familiar against his own.
“It’ll be fine,” he says when he pulls back, even though he himself isn’t confident. But that doesn’t really matter, right? It’s less about confidence in the assured outcome, more about a certain faith placed in hoping things will be fine.
“No, it won’t,” Komaeda laughs slightly, as though he’s appalled at Hinata’s audacity to say something like that.
“Think about it,” Hinata insists. “We’re in probably the unluckiest situation known to mankind. Almost every single thing that has happened here is awful. Even with however lucky you consider this”—he gestures between the two of them—“to be, there’s no way it evens out against a killing game. So maybe you’ll trip over a rock or something, but I’m not gonna die.”
Komaeda doesn’t look like he believes Hinata in the slightest, but he’s listening, which is better than nothing.
“And,” Hinata continues, “if you really want to make me to go away, you’re gonna have to tell me that. Don’t make me do the work of pushing you away ‘cus you’re too scared.”
Komaeda’s mouth twists. “It’s because I can’t push you away-”
“And neither can I.”
Still holding Hinata’s gaze, Komaeda blinks and bites his lip before his shoulders slump in resignment. There’s no way Hinata fully convinced him or anything like that—but the mere fact that he managed to table this kind of discussion, all hope and luck centric, makes a small fire of pride burn in his chest. Then, something else starts to burn near his heart when Komaeda falls forward, pulling Hinata into an embrace that he quickly reciprocates.
“…Do those hurt?” Komaeda eventually mumbles from where his nose is tucked into the crook of Hinata’s shoulder. As if to punctuate, a hand traces along one of bruises Hinata is sure mottle the space just under his shirt collar. The touch makes his breath catch.
“I like ‘em,” he shrugs slightly, which inadvertently makes Komaeda raise his head. His face remains rather close to Hinata’s.
“Can you do me?” he hums, and fuck if that doesn’t make something delicious coil in Hinata’s stomach. He’s barely nodded before Komaeda starts to pull him towards the bed, falling over it while he drags Hinata’s lips against his own with a hand wrapped in brown hair. Hinata drinks the kiss in, slow yet eager, reveling in the way Komaeda’s lips move against his own and the way he’s partway perched over the other, supported by one hand still clutching Komaeda’s and the other firm against soft sheets.
Hinata can’t help but be reminded of Komaeda in the hospital when he pulls back. White curls frame his face, tinted with something bright pink under the pervasive beams of Strawberry House. Simply a differently-colored angel this time around. He smiles before his head dips back down, tracing a path of open mouthed kisses against Komaeda’s neck until he almost delicately latches on. Komaeda shudders under him, which only encourages Hinata further as he sucks a bruise into the slope of Komaeda’s neck, gentle and starved all at once.
Komaeda is smiling when Hinata pulls back to admire the fast-coloring mark, tracing his free hand across it. The hand against his own squeezes at that, and Hinata smiles back at Komaeda.
“These really are nicer rooms,” Hinata says, rather stupidly after a moment of contented quiet. Komaeda’s lips curl playfully.
“Poor Hinata-kun,” he hums. “Didn’t you have the option to choose a nicer place to sleep? And yet your chivalry was simply too strong. That, or your bullheadedness.”
“You say that like it’s bad.”
“It’s not. It only makes you all the more admirable.” Komaeda pauses, eyes narrowing like he’s studying every part of Hinata’s face, before continuing quietly, “You’re rather admirable as a whole. It’s part of why I so truly love… why I so truly love the hope sleeping deep inside you, Hinata-kun.” The fingers intertwined between Hinata’s own tighten.
“…Thank you,” Hinata says quietly. He doesn’t quite know what to say. Something tells him there wasn’t any kind of right answer for this.
“You could sleep here if you dislike your room so badly,” Komaeda adds, the lilt to his voice returning in full force. Hinata grimaces a little before he pushes up all of the way, sitting on the foot of the bed while Komaeda matches him.
He kind of wants to. Like he’s gone fully stupid after just a few kisses. Honestly, he has, but he doesn’t dislike it all that much. Especially when Komaeda’s pink-tinted face tucks itself to lay affectionately on Hinata’s shoulder and their hands interlink between their laps. Hinata’s chest kindles with something warm and soft and sweet, far different than the strawberry drowning him with each and every breath. Something more like a hearth, comfortable and unpredictable between jumping flames and crackling wood logs.
He tips his head next to Komaeda’s, staring quietly at where their hands connect and content letting his mind wander to tune of the other’s breath.