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Maybe it's being in a hospital—being in that environment that leaves Komaeda with a bitter taste in his mouth. Or, maybe, it's the reality of their situation dawning on him, a slow, agonizing pressure that's beginning to crush him minute by minute.
The air tastes of disinfectant and a sterile nothingness—an empty, liminal feeling he's always hated about hospitals. It doesn't help that this one is technically abandoned, even if it's been cleaned up and taken care of by Future Foundation in anticipation of their stay here.
The initial surprise, and overall warm feeling that had filled him upon waking was starting to fade—it’s difficult already, piecing together memories from the real world and the digital, and trying to make sense of just who exactly he, and all his classmates, are. Including Hinata.
"Are you feeling better today?"
Hinata’s at his bedside, even as Komaeda’s gaze drifts far off, visibly sinking into his own dark thoughts.
"...Mm," Komaeda hums noncommittally, blinking a few times as he tries to dig out of his head enough to respond. Does he feel better? Not really. Worse, in fact. "Do you really need to worry over me like this, Hinata-kun? Shouldn't the Ultimate Hope spend his time on something more important?" His voice is sharp suddenly, like thorns in Hinata’s palm.
"No," Hinata’s patience already wanes, but he keeps his voice firm. "This is important. I choose what I do with my time, and I'm choosing to make sure you're okay."
"A waste of time," Komaeda answers coolly. "Don't you know I'm broken beyond repair? Fundamentally corrupt."
Hinata takes a deep breath. "That's not true—"
"So if you want a pet project to fix , you should go for someone else."
Hinata’s patience snaps, and his expression of frustration glazes over with a look of overwhelming boredom. It’s methodical, then, the way he goes quiet and turns to the tray of medical equipment at Komaeda’s bedside, sifting through everything he’d brought in. Komaeda expected more, which is why he’s similarly stunned silent, watching the other carefully as he prepares to check his vitals.
“Breathe,” Hinata instructs him, and his tone is dull yet firm, enough to keep Komaeda from wanting to fight it further. He takes a deep breath as Hinata’s hand sits at his lower back with a stethoscope.
Then he’s done. “Give me your hand,” he tells him, and Komaeda offers his good one, looking away as Hinata checks his blood pressure. It’s all very standard doctor stuff; for a moment, Komaeda feels as if he’s back in a much more normal time, before society collapsed, in a stuffy doctor’s office for his routine check-ups.
By the time he’s done, they’re both dead quiet, until Hinata speaks up again. “Your other hand,” he tells him, and Komaeda pauses.
"...Why?"
"I need to assess its state. It's a wound, Komaeda."
It stings. Komaeda hesitates, but ultimately raises his hand—limp, mangled, rotting—from where it's tucked beneath the hospital blanket across his lap, and holds it out to Hinata. Lets him unwind the bandages as he hangs his head in shame, not even wanting to look at it himself. The other man’s fingers brush over the poorly done stitching, and the pain is so dull and long gone by now that it’s barely a whisper; he turns his wrist in his hand to expect it - unevenly chopped, the flesh blooming in shades of red and purple where the stitches sink into it, and mostly untreated.
Hinata’s aware of it, had been aware of it, and had done what was necessary in the past to keep it from killing him, despite his apathy. A part of him had always despised it, found it grotesque and difficult to look at, despite the fact that he’d been scientifically engineered to not feel those things. It always angered him, but not enough to get him to do something about it.
Now, though, Hinata’s irate . He hates it, hates knowing that she had a hold on Komaeda in any capacity, that even now, despite everything, she’s influencing him to such a degree. Can see it in how Komaeda’s shoulders tense and pull together, putting prominence on his sharp collarbones, skinny and frail. The way his head hangs low, messy white hair obscuring his face, shame dripping off of him. An effect she had on him, too, even if Hinata - or Kamukura, rather - had never wanted to admit it.
And maybe there’s jealousy, too, something he won’t admit, and perhaps it had always been there. Knowing Komaeda had such strong feelings for her, even if they had been manipulated and construed, and that those feelings had certainly been misplaced.
After a moment, Hinata lets go, and turns to leave. “I’ll be back later for your medication and physical therapy,” he tells him, and pauses. “...But these should help, with the state your mind’s in, being alone in here.”
Before Hinata leaves, he presents Komaeda with a small pot of lavender, setting it near his bedside. It’s cheesy, and Hinata seems aware of that as he tries to dodge eye contact as he does so, muttering a quiet goodbye as he departs. But. Komaeda silently appreciates it. He has always liked pretty things.
- - - -
It’s humid; Komaeda can feel the sweat clinging to his forehead and back, making his thin t-shirt stick to his skin. The earthy smell of dirt fills his senses as he kneels in the garden bed, surrounded by newly planted seeds slowly beginning to sprout. With a heavy sigh, he reaches behind himself to tie his hair in a loose ponytail at his neck, the thick, white curls no longer crowding him and making the heat all that much more unbearable.
There’s weeds growing already. Of course, it’s just his luck. More amusing is that the weeds are clovers - sprouting up in tiny green clumps with small, white, pink-tinged flowers. This won’t do. If he wants to actually succeed at this job he’s been entrusted with, he’ll have to give the plants space to grow and flourish. Pesky weeds will get in the way of that, no doubt.
Komaeda buries his hand into the green foliage and takes a fistful of the clovers and pulls , the roots coming loose and unearthing the spindly, weak clusters from the dirt. It stains his hands, having forgotten to bring any gloves, and when he opens them, he finds a cluster of clovers in his palm—atop them sits a single four-leaf clover.
He wonders how many, in his lifetime, he’s picked. They lost their wonder ages ago. Still, he thinks he could mildly impress someone if he kept pulling and pulling, and counted just how many managed to grow at his behest, despite him not even seeking them out.
“Are you doing alright out here?” Hinata’s voice interrupts his thoughts, soft in tone but still rough—not unpleasantly at all, to the contrary. Hinata’s voice reminds him of sunshine, it’s warm and comforting, like lying in a bed of sunflowers while the sun sets.
He thinks he might’ve refused to sleep again, and that’s why his voice sounds so tired. Hinata’s made a habit of that since they’d all woken up.
“I’m fine,” he chirps, a smile playing on his lips as he sets the fistful of clovers aside, and goes in for more. “Are you worried about little old me, Hinata-kun?”
“It’s hot out,” Hinata points out, matter-of-factly, moving to kneel down beside him, eyeing Komaeda with no shortage of scrutiny. “And, we’ve already been over how you’re supposed to be careful with yourself….”
“I know. Don’t you trust me to be truthful about my condition?” he prompts, and Hinata squints , his lips forming a pout and brows just so slightly furrowed. As they always are. Seeing through his obvious tease - they both know that Komaeda’s not fond of being considerate of his body’s limits.
“...Anyways,” he skirts past that, probably out of mercy for Komaeda, despite the fact that he couldn’t count on one hand how many times he’s downplayed or lied about his well-being. “Weeds already?”
“Mhm.” Komaeda yanks another clump of green from the ground, and holds it out in his palm toward him. This time, there’s no less than three four-leafed clovers. That alone manages to get Hinata’s eyes to widen fractionally, brows raised.
“Wow,” Hinata picks one out gently, admiring it. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually… seen a real one?”
“No? You have the same luck now, don’t you? But I guess there hasn’t been much opportunity to find one,” he muses, setting those aside and going for more.
Hinata shrugs. “I don’t think that… I would’ve been looking for clovers, for any reason. But it’s still cool… you found a lot ,” he points out, emphatically. “That’s really rare.”
“And yet they’re pesky weeds,” he complains, tossing them aside carelessly; four leaves or three, they’re all the same to him at this point. Things to be rid of. “I’m not impressed by them anymore.”
There’s a brief silence where he can feel Hinata’s eyes on him, watching him as he keeps pulling and grasping at foliage, tearing it from the dirt and making a mess as he works to clean up the garden. “Well,” he eventually starts, picking a few more. “I think we should keep them.”
“...Don’t you have an Ultimate Gardener talent? You’re not supposed to keep weeds,” Komaeda teases.
“N-No, I meant… After you pull them, couldn’t we… press them? Or something like that,” he suggests. “I mean, it’s just nice to keep memories like that. Especially lucky ones.”
The luckster hums thoughtfully, digging his hand into the fragile bed of clovers once more, but instead of pulling harshly, he gently runs his fingers across the foliage. “...If Hinata-kun wants to,” he finally answers. “I don’t see why not.”
- - - -
The hand rots at his body. Hinata wants to remove it, naturally - it’s going to pick him apart eventually, whether it be mentally or physically, its presence is outright harmful. A virus— a very literal and physical image of the despair she’d rooted in his brain, like poisonous weeds and thorns splintering through the crevices of his mind.
But the thought—just the suggestion that he be rid of her, is enough to make him seize up. It’s senseless, he knows it’s bad for him, knows that he despises it, that he can’t even look at it , and yet.
He’s bitter about the thought of parting with it. Despite the sight of it being enough to make him spiral, to make his mind feel like it’s being pulled back into the haze she’d dragged him under, enough to feel her nails on his skin dragging him down, the scent of her drowning him. A potpourri of rot and oleander, the fumes choking him alive, stealing his breath, poisoning him .
She still has a hold on him, figuratively and nearly literally. Her hand grips him tightly, as if to keep him in place, as her servant.
It's even more suffocating when Hinata reveals his true intention—not just to be rid of her, but to replace her.
He presents him with it a little while after he's out of the hospital, when Komaeda’s holed up in his cottage, trying to decide where to put the small pot of lavender.
Matte metal, intricate wiring, a sleek design—it's an arm, all made for him. Komaeda’s stunned quiet, a look of almost-horror on his face as it settles on him. No, he's not horrified, he's not upset, but such a sincere act of kindness may as well rip right through him. It's devastating, the way it makes him shake.
Because—because Komaeda’s in love with him. In a way that makes his heart seize up and beat out of his ribcage. In a way that makes him choke and cough up poisonous petals until he simply can't breathe. Hinata is his whole world, has been since the moment he met him, but he still —
He still can't let go. Can't let himself be happy. Enoshima hadn't ruined him—she'd simply picked at his already rotting corpse, warping an already disfigured Komaeda beyond recognition. Only reminded him that he did not deserve love, or anything good—that it was too uncertain. Too dangerous. He knew what he was going to get, when he hurt himself, or let himself be hurt. But he didn't know what would happen, if he let Hinata be good to him.
Komaeda would ruin him—would only stain his life. But Hinata’s so kind, burns so bright, and doesn't let him hide in the shade.
Hinata must see him crumbling, starting to wither, because he ushers them back into his cabin, taking the arm with them.
“ Why? ” Is the only thing Komaeda manages to croak out, and it stuns Hinata quiet for a moment.
“Because,” Hinata starts. “You’ll need it. You deserve it , despite whatever you want to say about it being a punishment. You’ve atoned already, there’s no need for you to keep punishing yourself over and over for what happened. For what she did to you.”
A laugh tumbles out of Komaeda’s chest. “You’re still wasting your time, your talent, on someone like me ?” he wheezes, hugging himself with his one hand, digging blunt fingernails into his skin. “ I don’t get it .”
“What is there to get, Komaeda? I care about you. You’re not going to stop me from feeling that way,” Hinata sounds exhausted to repeat it, but his voice is still firm. “It’s not a waste if it’s what I want. Unless you’re going to try and tell me that you know what’s best for me, and my ‘talents’?”
Komaeda’s quiet, pursed lips, staring at him with wide eyes.
“You can deny it, if you want. I’m not going to force you to accept it. I-I didn’t even tell you I was making it, so I’ll understand if that’s what you do, but-” he sighs, so heavy that it drags his shoulders down. “It doesn’t change the fact that I did it, and I’m going to keep doing things for you. Even if you keep denying them. Even if you keep shutting me out. Because I want you to get better, Komaeda.”
Once again, as if ashamed, Komaeda’s head hangs low, at a loss for words. Hinata sighs again. “You can decide later. I won’t make you now,” he says, and moves to set the arm down on a table in Komaeda’s room - it’s then, that he realizes, a single potted plant of lavender sits square in the middle. Briefly, a smile twitches at the corner of his lip; it’s been a while since he’s done that, it feels foreign. “Just tell me if you do, because we’ll need to do some tests with it. Okay?”
Komaeda’s still quiet. But when Hinata looks at him, he nods.
Hinata rubs at his neck, starting to feel like the tension’s actually going to have an effect on him, like Tsumiki warned. “...Okay. I’ll leave you alone then.”
“Ah-” Hinata stops when he hears the other’s voice, sounding uncharacteristically small. “...I just want to go check on the garden, but after… I’ll come see you, Hinata-kun.”
For the second time since Komaeda woke up, Hinata smiles . Komaeda looks at him as if he’s the sun. “...Okay. Okay . I’ll see you later, Komaeda.”
- - - -
The sun hangs low as the day gets quieter and mellow as it approaches night. Hinata can smell freshly unearthed dirt and soil, though he can barely see over the tall stalks of sunflowers towering over the garden. Still, there’s a sense of presence within, so when he ducks his head past a row of sunflowers and finds Komaeda knelt on the ground with a pair of gardening shears in hand, and a half-full basket by his hip, it’s no surprise.
“Hey,” he greets, and his voice sounds a tad nervous, wavering just a little and perhaps not loud enough. Fortunately, Komaeda still hears him, picking up his head enough to see his face and the white, wispy hair beneath the sunhat atop it.
Immediately, Hinata pauses, his eyes locking on the other’s pale cheek, which has a stripe of dirt streaked across it like a comet. It’s so painfully obvious, an earthy brown shade against a sickly pale porcelain, but the other man’s entirely unaware of it. It’s cute, is the thought that flits into Hinata’s head, a marker of his dedication to this garden, his investment, and just how long in his work he must be. (He recalls that the other really doesn’t like mess, so it’s another level of endearing to see him covered in dirt and soil, smattered on his clothes and skin.
“Oh. Hello, Hinata-kun,” he smiles softly. “Did you need something?”
“Just checking on you,” he tells him, hooking one of his hands in his pocket just to occupy them as he wanders closer, getting a peek at what he’s doing.
“...I appreciate that Hinata-kun's thinking of me,” he answers ]gently, turning back toward his task at hand. It’s now that Hinata realizes there’s a small bed of tiny sunflowers hidden within the big ones, currently at Komaeda’s feet.
“You really planted a lot of sunflowers,” he comments, “These ones have gotten really big, too…”
“Isn’t it lucky?” The biggest sunflowers are taller than Hinata is, at least one head taller, maybe two. Looming over him and reaching toward the sky and sunbeams that bathe them in a warm evening glow. “They’re pretty. It’s a miracle I, of all people, was able to foster something so wonderful….”
“I don’t think it's a miracle , but it’s definitely still impressive.” Something pretty could easily create something almost just as much so, is what Hinata wishes he could say, but there’s a lump in his throat. Still, he approaches, kneeling beside the other. “Are you picking some?”
“...I thought they’d be pretty to put in my cabin. But I was picking a few flowers, to see if anyone else wanted any….” Komaeda trails off, worrying at his lip as he glances at the basket beside him, currently stacked with a few different freshly picked flowers. Hinata’s sure an Ultimate Florist sits somewhere in his head, as he notes the bundles of lavender strung up in the small basket at Komaeda’s hip.
“I think I’d like some,” Hinata blurts out, though he’s a bit more sure of his words than most things he tends to say around the man. “...If you want to give me some. I kinda like sunflowers, honestly.”
Komaeda’s trowel digs itself into the dirt around one of the smaller sunflowers—a dwarf sunflower, there’s a small row of them hidden within the large, looming field of them—until he’s able to get beneath the root and scoop it out of the ground. Carefully, Komaeda places it in a tiny pot between his thighs, until it’s sitting nice and pretty inside.
He picks the pot up, and holds it out to Hinata with a bright smile, and the softest flush across his cheeks. Maybe from the heat, or maybe something else, if Hinata’s thinking wishfully.
“Then, this one is for Hinata-kun!” he announces. Hinata gives the tiniest, awkward laugh as he gingerly takes the pot. “The first one I’ve picked. It’s only fitting it goes to you, I think.”
“...Thanks,” Hinata’s voice is sheepish now, low and quiet, but he means it wholeheartedly. He holds the pot up to inspect it, noticing a scrawling of sloppy kanji across the front; “sunflower.”
“I really like sunflowers. They’re so hopeful,” Komaeda’s voice begins to fill the silence as Hinata’s attention stays fixed on the pot. “Always facing toward the sun. The future,” he hums. “It’s an inspiring flower, I think. And they’re very pretty.”
The silence looms over them for a minute as Hinata ponders something, and comes to a realization.
“Hey,” Hinata sets the pot on his lap and holds it up with one arm. He traces one finger across the kanji. “These are the first two kanji in my name.”
“...Oh,” Komaeda initially responds. Hinata swears he can see his face go even brighter, a reddish pink hue burning up to the tips of his ears.
Hinata’s a little dense. That much he’s aware of, and he’d think himself delusional any other time, but as he watches Komaeda’s eyes dodge his own, his hands fidget in his lap, legs shift uncomfortably, looking all but like a puppy caught in the act of doing something that it thought was sneaky, but wasn’t.
“...Liking sunflowers, choosing those, wouldn’t have anything to do with me, would it?”
“Ah- um, well….”
If his initial reaction didn’t seal the deal, this one certainly does. Hinata can feel his own face getting hot now, but he wills himself to ignore it, in the hopes that it won’t be obvious, or it’ll go away.
But he can’t avert his eyes in the same way the other man is, completely caught up in how embarrassed Komaeda looks. Shame, or anything close to it, isn’t something Komaeda often practices, especially not so visibly. He’ll go on and on about how awful he is, but despite all of that, he’s never one to look so bashful about these sorts of things. It’s almost endearing, how cute he looks while completely burning up.
Hinata’s not sure how long he silently stares at the only while he awkwardly squirms in place. Hinata thinks he might be saying something, or at least making a sputtering attempt at doing so, but Hinata’s tuned out everything in favor of studying his soft eyes, pale curls, pallid skin—that he notes, with so much time spent outside, has started to gain a healthy hue to it.
It’s as he’s stuck counting the faint, quiet beauty marks on his face, that he notices the much larger streak of dirt brown across his cheek again, and decides to do something about it this time.
“Uh,” he cuts through Komaeda’s quiet rambling, most of which he didn’t parse at all, and gestures at his own face, before giving in rather quickly, and reaching out to handle it himself.
Hinata’s palm is rough with callouses from a fair bit of hard labor—he’s the strongest on the island, after all his surgeries and experimentation, and chronically overworking himself to the bone out of a sense, a need for purpose and use, so most of the work falls on his shoulders—it’s tanned and his own freckles dot his skin, contrasting quite obviously against Komaeda’s pale cheek.
He cups it, turning Komaeda’s face toward his own, and his thumb lingers idly for a moment as their eyes meet, and Hinata’s breath catches in his throat. It’s like time stops, if only for a moment, before he reluctantly, and gently, swipes at the dirt on his cheek a few times until it’s brushed off his skin.
“There,” Hinata’s voice feels caught in his throat, but he manages it out anyways, “I got it.”
“ Ah ,” Komaeda’s just as out of breath, staring up at Hinata. “Th-thank you.”
Hinata doesn’t pull away, though; continuing to stare. “Uh.” He’s not sure where he’s going with this, but his eyes wander downward in a way that’s telling enough. “Can I-”
Komaeda makes a strange noise, like a quiet, flustered squeak. “I-”
And Hinata backpedals, starting to pull away. Stupid . He’s really anything but smooth. “F-Forget it-”
In a sudden rush, Komaeda’s robotic hand sinks into Hinata’s tie, and pulls him forward, clumsily crashing their lips together in a way that knocks teeth against teeth, and nearly forehead against forehead. It’s uncoordinated, and feverish, but Hinata’s more than eager to melt into it once he realizes what’s happening. Komaeda’s a bit eager, and messy, but Hinata’s not complaining, even if the way he practically bites at him and licks at his mouth is strange. In a good way, though.
It’s over sooner than he’d like it to be, though, both of them parting to breathe. Komaeda’s face is flushed an alarming amount, panting quietly and looking almost dizzy.
“Uh.” Hinata’s at a loss for words.
“ Oh ,” Komaeda gasps, and he falls forward, his face tucking itself into Hinata’s shoulder. He’s pretty sure he can hear him giggling.
“Are you- okay…?” Hinata’s hand travels up Komaeda’s back, keeping him steady, before gently touching the back of his hand to his neck. Burning up . “You’re overheating. Damnit, Komaeda, I told you….”
“I’m fine ,” Komaeda squeaks, though he’s still all giggly, “It’s - I’m just - ah, I think I’m… happy .”
“You’re also too hot. We should probably head back….”
“Mm, but I don’t want to let go of Hinata-kun right now," Komaeda complains, "...and I think I feel a little dizzy."
" Alright ," Hinata sighs in exasperation, and wraps his arms around Komaeda, hooking one underneath his legs so he can lift him up, with far too much ease. "Let's head back."
Komaeda is still giggling as he walks them back, far too unbothered for someone on the verge of a heatstroke, and Hinata doesn’t really have it in him to make him be quiet, when it sounds so nice to hear.