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It starts with another one of the stupid beach parties Sonia insists on throwing. They’re never insufferable, Hajime would give her that - the little lights she strings up in the palm trees and Hanamura’s spreads of appetizers make them almost fun, sometimes. He just isn’t as eager to celebrate their survival as the rest of them seem to be, and certainly sees no reason in repeating this high school movie bullshit once a week the way they have been. For once in his miserable life he’d been looking forward to sinking back into mediocrity, maybe even slinking off to the library to peruse the self-help section if he really got desperate. He didn’t have anything against all this community building, really, but sometimes a man wants to deal with his trauma in the comfort of his own room, god-dammit.
To the others’ credit, he knows that not all of them are here out of a genuine passion for partying. Mioda and Owari, maybe, but he suspects the whole constantly-organizing-social-events means that even Sonia’s heart isn’t in this, that it’s more of a desperate grab at something to feel in control of, and that the rest of them are either too tired or too polite to do anything but keep attending.
Whatever.
Hajime swirls the dark liquid in his cup around and tries not to scowl, scanning the party for someone whose company might keep him from spending the entire evening sulking and psychoanalyzing his former classmates. He mentally runs down his list of go-tos - ruling Fuyuhiko out when he spots him blubbering into poor Peko’s shoulder a little ways away, in the midst of some breakdown he’d try to drink away (probably) and then deny remembering in the morning (definitely). God, these parties got grim awfully fast.
That wasn’t always the case. Sometimes Mioda got a hold of tracks catchy enough to keep everyone’s spirits up, and watching Nekomaru laugh and toss around the nearest willing participant in what always looked a bit too aggressive to really be called dancing was enough to keep everyone smiling. He’d slow danced with Komaeda at one of these, once, tucked away from the others behind a smattering of trees, though it still makes him half-grimace to think too hard about. It had been a complicated night. It was always a complicated everything with Komaeda. Hajime sips his drink and finds a crumb of relief in how strong it tastes going down, the subtle burn of vodka tossed on top of whatever fruity, syrupy nonsense they’d snagged from the vending machines.
It still amused him that they never seemed to run short on alcohol, made him laugh that it wasn’t Naegi bending over backwards to get it to them regularly but Kirigiri. Hajime has a sneaking suspicion that she’s only so diligent because in the handful of times he’s spoken with her she’s always looked vaguely like a night of hard drinking might do her some good. She’s overworked, probably. It’s a baseless guess, they’re not really close enough that he would consider asking, but if the context Naegi has given him applies to all the Future Foundation workers, then it’s definitely true.
His thoughts wander back to Komaeda and he scans the small crowd again, not really sure if he’s dreading or hoping to spot him. He doesn’t see his messy curls anywhere, and after another second of searching realizes that Souda’s eye-searing pink also isn’t around. That's odd.
Considering his discount-frat-boy personality, he was usually all too eager to be abundantly present whenever there was drinking involved. Maybe he’d finally learned his lesson? After so many nights anticipating ‘brotastic drunk shenanigans’ ended in Souda’s incoherent crying about the power of friendship or whatever the hell else, Hajime could only hope that maybe he’d finally wizened up and taken the night off. That’s stupidly optimistic of him though, and he knows it. If Souda isn’t around, it’s probably cause for concern, not because he’s all of a sudden on top of coping healthily. Ugh, coping healthily. That’s a thought. Like any of them are managing anything even close to that. Hajime exhales a scoff and takes another long drink.
He supposes that means his options are track down Souda, track down Komaeda, or stay on the beach. Fuyuhiko sobs louder and Hajime grimaces, feeling like a real asshole when his gut response is repulsion rather than sympathy. It makes ruling out staying at the party an easy decision.
If he were looking to further avoid emotional outbursts, Komaeda was probably his best bet. The guy’s inner turmoil seemed to rage little stronger than the others’, but he was usually good at packing up his emotions and hiding them behind a neat little smile for the sake of Hajime’s comfort. He feels bad for enjoying that, sometimes, knows that he should be encouraging Komaeda to open up more about his feelings, but also knows that they’re both shitty and scared of that actually happening. Not to mention the impromptu making-out that had occurred the last time Hajime had gotten him alone… ugh. He’s really not in the mood to deal with the slew of frantic apologies for ‘sullying his light’ or whatever the fuck else Komaeda went on about following any remotely romantic(???) encounter they had.
Given their history, he should be seeking out Komaeda. Souda would be fine on his own - a little emotional, probably, but nothing he couldn’t sleep off, and Komaeda had a ridiculous history of acting up when left to his own devices, but… Hajime groans under his breath, not sure if he’s frustrated with himself or with the nonexistent trouble theoretical Komaeda is getting up to in his head.
The thing is, he’s not drunk enough to really be nice. After kissing Komaeda like that he knows he has to approach with caution if he doesn’t want to colossally fuck things up between them, and with the mood he’s in now there’s no way that would go well. Komaeda would say something offhandedly nihilistic, probably try to coax Hajime into saying he should die or something, and Hajime would get pissed and leave and there would be another week of weird tension between them. He doesn’t think he could stand that. He wants to be close to Komaeda, dammit. Or at least… he thinks so? Stupid Komaeda.
His feet carry him a little unsteadily towards Souda’s cabin and Hinata does not argue. What’s left of Souda’s bright pink dye pops into view, seated on the front stoop in front of his cottage. It’s unusual for him to be anywhere but inside screwing around with the pile of spare parts he keeps adding to, and Hinata is confused for a second until he sees the red cup he’s holding, matching the half-full one he’s still holding.
“Hey, Souda,” he starts, though he maybe sounds a little too apprehensive for it to count as the cheerful greeting he’d intended it to be.
His answer is a sharp sniffle, and as Hinata takes the last few steps up to the door, he’s met with big, watery eyes and a trembling lip.
Fuck.
Hinata swallows the overwhelmingly tempting urge to turn on his heel and bolt, because he’d really been banking on Souda’s stupid jokes as a distraction from the melodrama of the night, and if he can’t have that, he’d really like to just go the fuck to sleep… but Souda’s lip trembles again and then he gives him a grin that’s kind even if it is clearly forced, so Hinata rolls his eyes and move to sit beside him, resigning himself to a night of being relatively close to people being sad.
“Mm, Hajime, hey man,” Souda’s voice sounds sort of thick, like he’s trying to hold back tears, though from the red under his eyes Hinata can gather that he hasn’t been doing a particularly good job. Souda’s fingers drum without any rhythm against the plastic of his cup. Hinata used to think it was some nervous tick, the way he was always fidgeting with his hands, but now he’s known Souda long enough to have learned that it was simply a constant, regardless of the other man’s mood.
They sit in silence for a minute or two - er, well, Hinata sits in silence, Souda sits in something sniffly close to it, until Hinata caves and decides to bite the bullet. Souda is his friend after all, his best friend, and he’ll feel like a real jackass if he doesn’t at least try to engage with him a little.
“So… uh, you okay, buddy?” Hinata could cringe at his own awkwardness, but Souda doesn’t. He gives a small shrug and stares hard into his cup, like he’s waiting for some secret message to appear scratched into the plastic, some superhuman force telling him the secret to happiness via engraving his solo cup. Actually, Hinata wouldn’t mind that. But the plastic remains smooth, and Souda doesn’t look any happier than he did a second earlier.
“Just… dads, man,” is Souda’s eventual response, and his voice has gone a little softer, a little smaller.
“…Dads?”
“Yeah, dads.” Souda shrugs a second time and his eyes start to look wet again. Hinata is intoxicated enough to notice the way his stupid wife beater makes his shoulders look awfully broad, but sober enough to at least feel bad about thinking that rather than paying attention to Souda’s apparent paternal problem. “Just, uh, Akane mentioned somethin’ about her dad and it just, it got me thinkin’ about my old man.” Souda continues, and Hinata abruptly forces himself to focus.
Souda didn’t talk about his father often, but Hinata had been told enough over a handful of previous evenings of drinking to know he’d been a real piece of shit. Hinata hadn’t exactly been fond of his own father - he was stern but unassuming, always expecting more from Hinata that he was able to give, and yet simultaneously waiting for him to give up and accept his own monotony - he sort of resented the man. So he understands, but only to a point. His vague recollection of their mutual distaste for each other had nothing on Souda’s scars and stories. Pushed down a flight of stairs, spit at, backhanded more times than he could count…a cracked rib once, too. Souda’s retelling had had Hinata wincing.
“Well… he’s probably dead, at least, right?” It’s not exactly eloquent, but part of adapting to this new world meant having to pretty quickly come to terms with just how many people had been wiped out, their parents most likely included.
Souda’s answering laugh is almost chilling. “Oh, yeah, definitely dead.”
“Definitely..?”
Souda laughs again, though the tail end of it sounds closer to a sob. “I killed him.”
Hinata is a little surprised. Not entirely - it’s no secret that everyone on the island was capable of murder. Souda may have been peaceful in the program, and his time under Junko meant he’d been heavily manipulated, but that didn’t change the simple fact that his hands had ended lives, just like the rest of them. Still, as far as he could recall, Souda’s focus had been mainly mechanical - big weaponry that took dozens of lives at a time, maybe even hundreds - and it wasn’t like they’d ever buried the dead. Hinata’s not sure how he would know whether or not one specific person was still alive or not, he has no idea whether his own parents are - though it’s not like he cares much either way.
“What’d you do,” Hinata asks, “bomb his neighborhood?”
Souda shakes his head and shoots Hinata a toothy grin that’s stuck somewhere between smug and heartbroken. “Nah.” He shakes his head again. “Nah, I hunted him down myself, old bastard.” He snickers, but Hinata can see two tears streak quick down over his cheeks. “Shot him right between his sorry fuckin’ eyes.”
Hinata is still trying to figure out how to respond when Souda’s expression twitches, and before he can react he’s burying his face in his hands and crying even harder. Hinata places a tentative hand on his shoulder and frowns when he can feel Souda shaking under his touch.
“Hey, that’s - that’s good, isn’t it?” Hinata tries, but Souda seems beyond answering his shit attempt at being comforting, muffling curses and sobs into his palms. Not sure what else to do, Hinata leans in a little closer, moving his hand to Souda’s other shoulder so he’s got an arm around him and tugging him more snugly into his side.
They sit like that for a while, until Souda’s crying trails off into snotty little hiccups. He leans more sturdily into Hinata’s side and, after shuddering an exhale, lifts his head up. He looks terrible, Hinata notes, but at least has the sense to keep his mouth shut about it.
“…It is good.” Souda’s voice is a tiny rasp of a thing, but it sounds steady, which is a relief. Hinata isn’t sure he’s emotionally fluent enough to properly handle more than one sobbing fit in a night. “He… yeah, you’re right. It’s good.” He nods, though it looks more like he’s trying to reassure himself than anything else. “Thanks, Hajime.”
Souda turns and looks him in the eye and Hinata suddenly becomes acutely aware of how close they are. He can count the subtle freckles that dot themselves across the bridge of his nose - eleven, two darker than the rest - and practically see himself in Souda’s big, adoring eyes. Ugh - he and Komaeda had that in common, always staring at him like he was a goddamn shooting star or something, not Hajime Hinata, certified fuck-up and recipient of what was probably the world’s shadiest lobotomy.
“You’re a really good friend, you know that?” Souda croaks. He leans in further still and Hinata can smell the alcohol on his breath. Between that and the way Souda’s eyelashes are so close they’re starting to look a little blurry, Hinata is feeling mildly dizzy. Dizzy enough that he doesn’t think to protest when Souda closes the last inch of distance between them to press their lips together.
The first word that comes to mind is salty, the dried tears on his face making the slide of his lips surprise Hinata with the flavor. The second word that comes to mind is ow, because Souda is nipping at his lip in a way that’s got his heart doing a weird fluttery thing in his chest and he’s clearly forgotten how sharp his teeth are, but then he sucks Hinata’s lower lip just slightly into his mouth and any other coherent thoughts he might have been having sort of melt away.
He’s not sure exactly how long it takes him to stop sitting there like an idiot and actually kiss him back, because everything feels sort of slow and syrupy. It’s not exactly romantic, because Souda keeps breathing into Hinata’s mouth, making these little almost-whining sounds, and his hand is fumbling at his thigh trying to find a place to grip without severely escalating things. This whole scenario has completely blindsided him, but he’s oddly alright with it.
Hinata knows he should probably feel guilty, because it feels a little like he’s taking advantage of the situation here, what with Souda being tipsy and emotionally vulnerable, but it’s just a bit of kissing. The drinks in his system make it easier to justify. He can kind of tell that Souda doesn’t have a ton of experience - namely the way his tongue is very abruptly in Hinata’s mouth, which makes him pull back to exhale a laugh. It’s not like Hinata does either, but he figures those weird spur-of-the-moment Komaeda makeouts have to count for something.
This feels different than those times, though. With Komaeda it’s always mounting pressure, a tension between them so thick and heavily it’s practically tangible. When their mouths meet it’s like a thread snapping. Kissing Souda is like anything else with Souda - fun, easy. There’s no overlying feeling that there’s things he needs to do or say to explain this, no barely suppressed panicking over whether or not there are boundaries he might be pushing. Souda pulls him into another kiss the way he’d pulled Hinata to his side that first day in the program. With warmth and smiles and casual touches. He puts his hand against Hinata’s neck, just under his jaw, and Hinata sighs and leans into the touch. It’s a pleasant reminder that Souda is still his best friend - after everything, he’s still got a pair of arms to fall into.
Souda’s face still bears the remains of his crying, the skin just under his eyes rubbed raw and red, but his smiling is genuine, or at least Hinata thinks it is, from the glimpses he keeps catching between the shorter, sweeter kisses Souda’s taken to pressing to his lips.
He’s not sure how long they stay like that before Souda pulls back and stays back, still breathing obnoxiously loud. Hinata can see that he’s blushing, even in the dark, and the big goofy grin he gives him is such a weird combination of conspiratorial and giddy that he can’t help returning it.
“Hajime, Hajime, Hajime, dude,” Souda giggles. Hinata is expecting a friendly punch in the shoulder, and feels his own eyes go wide at the intimate way Souda pets the backs of his knuckles down his cheek instead. “Was that like… did I just totally ruin everything?”
Hinata blinks, blinks again, and shakes his head. “Uh, no. That was okay.” He might feel differently in the morning, and fuck, he’ll definitely feel differently the next time he sees Komaeda, but for now he feels… good, actually. A little lighter than he had at the party, that’s for sure.
“Will you stay, then?” Souda asks, and just like always it’s that earnest expression, like he could get rejected a hundred times over and still be as eager and friendly as ever. Like he’d forgotten about that cracked rib as soon as it had healed. Hinata knows that’s not the case, but something about Souda’s face makes him think a little harder about healing, really healing. He thinks they could probably do it together.