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Nagito wakes up in a cold sweat. His breath comes out in shallow, laboured gasps for air. His eyes are wide open, staring at the ceiling in the darkness of his cottage.
He places a hand on his chest where his heart resides, shocked by how fast it's pounding, as if it could tear through his skin and bones and burst right out. No matter how hard he tries to control his breathing, to slow down his erratic heartbeat, nothing seems to work.
It happened again. Another nightmare. The third one this week.
On the surface, life on Jabberwock Island is peaceful—almost laughably so. Sunlight, ocean breeze, the distant sound of waves lapping against the shore. No killing game. No bloodshed. No despair.
He should be fine. He is fine. So why does this keep happening to him?
The details of his nightmares slip through his fingers every time he tries to grasp them. Faces blur and voices distort before he can fully recognize who they belong to, and the setting dissolves into something shapeless and wrong.
But the feeling remains—cold hands around his throat, the certainty that something precious is about to be ripped away, that he will once again be the harbinger of someone else's misfortune. The feeling that he will ruin everything. Just like he always does.
Nagito’s fingers curl into the sheets, then his breath hitches. Something is missing. "No. No, no, no—" He moves his hands frantically across the bed, searching in the dark. Blanket. Pillow. Empty space. "Where are you—?"
His fingertips brush against something soft and small, dangling precariously off the edge of the mattress. He snatches it desperately, a wave of relief washing over him.
The plushie is slightly squished from being slept on, its little fabric body warm from Nagito's lingering body heat. Brown felt hair sticks out in uneven tufts. A tiny collared shirt and green tie have been stitched with surprising care. Dark green button eyes stare back at him, round and unblinking, and a simple stitched smile curves gently across its face.
A miniature, harmless version of Hajime Hinata.
Nagito clutches it to his chest as if it might disappear. He stares into its button eyes for a long moment. They don’t judge. They don’t look confused. They don’t look at him the way the real Hajime sometimes does—half exasperated, half concerned. They just look.
At that moment, Nagito notices his breathing begin to slow, his heart gradually settling back into a steady rhythm. He lets out a shaky sigh that melts into something soft and dreamy. A faint smile tugs at his lips as he presses the plush closer, burying his face in its soft fabric hair.
“Oh, Hajime…” he breathes, thumb stroking gently over the plush’s stitched cheek. For a fleeting, self-indulgent second, he imagines the real Hajime in its place.
“You’d tell me I’m being dramatic, wouldn’t you?” Nagito murmurs quietly. “You’d say it was just a bad dream. That I should stop overthinking it.” His voice grows softer, more vulnerable. “But… you’d stay, right? You wouldn’t leave me alone after something like that.”
Nagito doesn't expect the plushie to suddenly gain sentience and respond, so he fills in the blanks in his head. He shifts onto his side, curling around the plushie protectively. “I know you would,” he whispers. “You’re kind like that. Even to someone like me.”
A small, fragile laugh escapes him. “Ah, listen to me… talking to a toy as if it can answer back. How pathetic.” But his arms tighten instead of loosening, holding the plushie like a lifeline.
A few months ago, Nagito had snuck out after hours to the small plushie workshop near the island’s shopping district. It had been reckless—breaking in, fumbling with unfamiliar machinery, pricking his fingers more times than he could count. But he’d been careful, determined.
Every crooked stitch and uneven seam on the custom plush had been made with trembling hands and far too much affection. It was the only selfish thing Nagito allowed himself. Holding it now, the lingering chill of his nightmare fades completely from his mind.
It’s ridiculous, really. A lucky charm. A tiny beacon of hope in his arms. As if by holding this soft, simplified version of Hajime, he can borrow even a fraction of the real one’s warmth.
Dear, sweet Hajime Hinata—so steady, so stubborn, so unbearably earnest. Someone who carries hope so naturally that Nagito can’t help but be drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Someone he had fallen in love with before he even realized it was happening.
“But you can’t know that,” Nagito murmurs into the plush’s hair. “That would be unfair to you.”
His smile turns faintly self-deprecating. “I’m not someone worthy of standing beside you. I’d only drag you down. Ruin that beautiful, shining hope of yours.”
He brushes a thumb over one of the button eyes. “So this is enough," he says. "You’re enough.”
The confession lingers in the quiet cottage, swallowed by the distant sound of waves.
Nagito's breathing is slow and even now, so he feels safe enough to fall asleep again. He presses a gentle kiss to the plushie’s soft forehead. “Goodnight, Hajime.”
Cradling it securely against his chest, Nagito lets his eyes flutter closed.
This time, when sleep takes him, it is mercifully empty and dreamless. And for a few peaceful hours, there is no despair—only the fragile comfort of hope stitched together in his arms.
***
Nagito smiles faintly as he stands by the window of his cottage. The thin curtains are pulled aside just enough for him to watch silver streaks of rain cascade from the night sky.
The island is hushed beneath the storm, palm trees swaying, the ocean dark and restless in the distance. The steady percussion of droplets against the roof has a calming, hypnotic effect.
Most people find storms unsettling. Ominous, even. But Nagito has never been most people.
To him, rain is proof that the sky can break open and be clear again. That the world can pour itself empty and somehow return brighter than before. The sun is always waiting beyond the clouds. And sometimes—if you’re lucky—there’s a rainbow afterward. A bridge of colour carved from gloomy shades of grey.
Hope born from despair.
By the time Nagito slips beneath his blankets, the storm has settled into a steady rhythm, showing no signs of stopping. He gathers his Hajime plush into his arms automatically, tucking it beneath his chin. The fabric smells faintly like detergent and something distinctly his.
“Looks like we’ll get clear skies tomorrow,” he murmurs to it, brushing a thumb over its button eye. “A rainbow, perhaps. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Hajime?”
Of course, the plush doesn't respond. It just smiles its adorable, stitched smile.
Nagito’s eyes flutter closed easily, and sleep takes him without resistance.
At first, his dreams are peaceful. The sky is blue and endless. Sunlight glints off the ocean’s surface like scattered diamonds. Warm wind flutters through his fluffy, white hair, and the scent of salt and possibility floats on the breeze.
He’s laughing—actually laughing—as a small plane hums steadily beneath him.
Then, out of nowhere, there is a sudden, violent jolt, and the sky fractures.
Sound disappears for half a second before the world erupts into screaming metal and fire. The plane tears apart around him, shrieking as it descends. His body is weightless, suspended in a nightmare of spinning sky and ocean and debris.
This again. Of course. His luck is consistent, at least.
The impact steals the air from his lungs. Saltwater engulfs him. When he resurfaces, coughing and gasping, the wreckage is scattered across an endless expanse of ink-black sea.
The sky is wrong now. Bruised purple, the clouds heavy and ominous, as if they are about to fall.
Something streaks overhead. A meteor. Then another, and another. Flames carve through the clouds, slamming into the ocean with deafening explosions. Waves rise violently, tossing him like driftwood. He clings to a jagged piece of debris, knuckles white.
Everything begins to blur. The meteors. The fire. The sky collapsing in on itself. But one thing—one person—remains painfully, sharply clear.
“Hajime—!”
He’s there. Not far, but impossibly far. He struggles against the waves, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wide with effort. His tie is gone. His shirt soaked and dragging him down.
“Hajime!” Nagito tries to swim, but the water feels like tar, thick and unyielding. Every stroke is agony. Every second stretches unbearably long.
Finally, he reaches him. Their fingers brush, skin cold as ice. “Hajime, take my hand!”
For one fragile, fleeting moment, their palms press together, and Nagito sees a tiny glimmer of hope on the horizon. He can help him. He can save him. For once in his life, he can finally do something right.
Then Hajime slips. Nagito’s grip fails. And Hajime sinks. He doesn't thrash or scream at all. He just sinks beneath the surface, eyes locked on Nagito until the ocean swallows him whole.
The water closes. The world goes silent.
Nagito dives, lungs burning, vision blurring, but there is nothing—only endless darkness swallowing the only light left in the world.
Hajime.
No.
No no no no—
Nagito wakes with a violent gasp, eyes wide open. His body is drenched in sweat. His breaths come in sharp, broken pulls. His hands shake uncontrollably as he bolts upright.
“Hajime—” The name tears from his throat before he can stop it. "Hajime…"
Somehow, he manages to gain awareness of his surroundings, realizing he's back in his bed. The cottage is pitch black, rain hammering against the roof.
It was just a dream. Just a dream. But it hadn’t felt like a dream. It had felt inevitable.
Nagito's heart pounds painfully against his ribs as he fumbles desperately across the mattress. "Where are you? Where are you?"
His fingers catch the familiar fabric. He drags the Hajime plush to his chest and clutches it tightly, frantically. His nails press into the soft stuffing as if he can anchor himself to it.
“It’s fine,” he whispers hoarsely. “You’re fine. You’re right here.”
He waits for the familiar comfort to bloom in his chest. For his breathing to slow and his heart to settle down. But it doesn’t happen this time.
The image won’t leave him—Hajime’s hand slipping from his, the quiet acceptance in his eyes as he sank to the depths.
“If only I’d been faster,” Nagito murmurs, voice trembling, eyes burning with unshed tears. “If only I wasn’t so useless…”
He squeezes the plush harder. Usually, this is enough to calm him down. Whenever his mind spirals into despair, Plush Hajime's small stitched smile always reminds him that hope remains.
But tonight, it feels hollow. Because it wasn’t this soft, harmless version of Hajime that had been drowning in his nightmare. It was the real one. And Nagito had failed him.
The thought coils tight around his chest. He can’t breathe.
Before he can think better of it, he throws the blankets aside. The plush falls abandoned against the pillow.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, already moving toward the door. “So selfish.”
It’s the middle of the night. Hajime is asleep. Nagito shouldn’t be doing this. But he steps outside anyway.
The rain soaks him instantly, cool and relentless. His pajamas cling to his skin, his hair flattening against his forehead as he makes his way across the wet boardwalk toward Hajime’s cottage. Each step he takes feels both foolish and necessary.
He reaches the door and hesitates only a second before knocking. The rain nearly drowns out the sound.
He waits for what feels like an eternity. Nothing.
A strained laugh escapes him. “Of course. What was I thinking?” He turns slightly, ready to retreat and wallow in his own worthlessness.
Until the door creaks open.
Warm light spills out into the storm like the gates of Heaven opening to welcome him in. Hajime stands there—a drowsy angel—blinking sleep from his eyes.
“Nagito?” His brows knit together immediately. “What are you doing here? It’s pouring outside—and it’s one in the morning. Are you okay?”
Nagito lets out a mirthless chuckle. He must look absurd—thin pajamas plastered to his frame, hair damp and unruly, eyes wide and glassy.
“I’m so sorry, Hajime,” he says lightly, though his voice wavers. “I didn’t mean to disturb your beauty sleep.”
Hajime’s concern only deepens.
Nagito hesitates, then swallows. “Would it be terribly selfish of me to ask… if I could come in? I’d rather not be alone right now.”
As he expected, there’s confusion in Hajime’s expression, but no hesitation. “Yeah, alright. Come in.”
Warmth envelops Nagito as he steps inside, taking off his slippers at the door. It shuts against the storm with a groan, muffling the sound of the downpour. He drifts toward the bed almost unconsciously and sits on the edge.
“You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?”
Hajime gives him a look. “Well, you’re already sitting there, so…”
Another soft, self-deprecating laugh. “Right. Forgive me.”
Hajime moves closer, studying him carefully, like Nagito is a puzzle that he has spent ages trying to solve. “Nagito, what’s wrong? You look… shaken. Did something happen?”
The attentiveness makes Nagito’s chest ache. “It’s nothing worth troubling you over,” he begins automatically. "I don't want to be a burden to you."
Hajime doesn’t seem to buy it. "So you came over here in the rain for no reason?" He huffs out a sigh. "Please don't be like this now. It's way too early. Tell me what's going on with you."
As expected of Hajime, so stubborn and persistent, always searching for the truth and refusing to back down until he finds it. Nagito practically has no choice but to come clean, at least a little bit.
“I had a nightmare,” he admits quietly. “Actually… I’ve been having nightmares for a while now. Very vivid, horrible nightmares." He exhales, shoulders slumping. "They always leave me so… petrified. I hope you understand.”
Nagito purposely avoids mentioning the ocean. That Hajime was there. That he'd failed him, and that's what had scared him the most.
Hajime’s expression softens immediately. He takes a seat next to Nagito, facing the window with a pensive expression. “Yeah, I get how you feel. We’ve all been through hell, after all,” he says, then turns to face Nagito fully. "I'm really sorry you've been going through that."
There’s understanding in his eyes—no judgment at all. Nagito wonders if he is even worthy of receiving Hajime's sympathy after disturbing him at such an ungodly hour. And yet, this feeling of doubt doesn't put out the spark of warmth in his heart.
After a pause, Hajime asks gently, “Why did you come to me about this?”
Nagito’s fingers twist in the fabric of his damp sleeve. “Because…” he hesitates, then forces himself to continue. “You’re the only person I trust with this. You actually take the time to try to understand me. I feel… closest to you.” His pulse roars in his ears. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”
A faint pink dusts Hajime’s cheeks, and for a second, Nagito thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. He managed to elicit a blush from the object of his hopeless affection that wasn't born out of anger or irritation. This feels like a rare victory in his life.
“No, I don’t mind at all,” Hajime says, voice quieter. “I mean, you still confuse and frustrate me sometimes. That probably won't change. But… I’m glad you trust me.”
Before Nagito can respond, Hajime places a hand on his back. It’s warm and steady, just like the man himself. The hand slides up, curling around his shoulder, pulling him gently against his side.
Stunned, Nagito goes rigid for half a second before melting into him, resting his head on Hajime's shoulder.
They sit like that, watching rain streak down the window. It feels oddly domestic, like they have done this countless times before. A selfish part of Nagito wishes it will happen again.
After a long silence, Nagito speaks softly. “Could we… lie down? If it’s not too much trouble. I’d like to stay here with you. Just for tonight.”
"Stay here?" Hajime looks flustered, but nods. “Yeah, sure. I'd hate for you to go back out there like this.”
Nagito’s heart swells. He knew it. Hajime would never leave him alone in a time of need. And he truly needs him right now. More than anything.
Hajime lets go of Nagito and stands up, circling to the other side of the bed and getting settled beneath the covers. Nagito follows suit, occupying the spot beside him, leaving a respectful distance between them.
Nagito stares at the empty space. It's not a large gap, but it's enough for him to feel like Hajime is too far away, his warmth just out of reach. He can't let him slip away this time—no, he won't let him slip away. He has to hold on and never let go.
Daring to be selfish, Nagito murmurs teasingly, “Could you come a little closer, Hajime?”
To his surprise, Hajime does so with no preamble, the gap between them shrinking.
Nagito blinks. “Oh? I didn’t expect you to listen so easily.”
“No point in arguing with you at one a.m.,” Hajime mutters, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, after a beat: “Do you want to lay on my chest, too?”
It sounds like he's being sarcastic, but his eyes are earnest.
Nagito’s breath catches, but by some miracle, he doesn't dissolve into a pathetic pile of mush. “Yes… please.”
Hajime opens his arms and Nagito settles against him carefully, resting his head over Hajime’s heart. He hears it beating, steady and even, serving as a reminder to Nagito's troubled mind that Hajime is alive. He's not descending into a black abyss. He's right here, safe in his arms.
The sound of Hajime's heart soothes Nagito instantly, his tremors finally fading as their breathing gradually syncs into a single, seamless rhythm.
“I didn’t know you were a cuddler,” Nagito murmurs, tilting his head slightly to look up at him.
Hajime huffs a quiet laugh. “Usually I’m not. But… I’ll make exceptions for certain people.”
“Even for people as worthless as me?” The words slip out before Nagito can stop them—force of habit.
Hajime surprises him again when his hand moves to Nagito's hair, fingers threading gently through the white waves, guiding his head back to his chest.
“You need to stop saying things like that about yourself,” he says softly. “You’re a lot of things, Nagito, but worthless isn’t one of them. I hope you realize that one day.”
Silence falls over them. Nagito can’t remember the last time someone spoke to him like that. Hearing those words from someone as amazing as Hajime summons a delightful flutter in his stomach. He exhales slowly, tension draining from his body.
“Feeling any better?” Hajime asks after a moment.
Nagito hums in response, already drifting. He has never felt safer, never felt more at ease than he feels right now. It's almost unbelievable, but at this moment, Nagito feels like the luckiest person in the world.
He loves his Hajime plush with all his heart, but now that he has been blessed to experience cuddling with the real Hajime, it can never compare. This could very well be the only time Nagito will have the privilege of being held by him. So he is going to enjoy it while it lasts.
“Thank you,” Nagito whispers, barely conscious now. "Goodnight, Hajime."
He hears the faint reply above him, warm and close. “Goodnight, Nagito. Sweet dreams.”
And this time, as sleep claims him, there are no nightmares, no despair. Only the steady rhythm of hope beneath his ear.
***
When morning comes, Nagito is the first to stir, lashes fluttering as warmth brushes over his face. For a brief, disoriented moment, he expects darkness—the suffocating remnants of another nightmare clinging to his chest. But instead, he is greeted by sunshine.
Golden-red light streams in through the window, the storm from the night before completely gone. The sky outside is painted in brilliant shades of orange, crimson, and violet, the ocean reflecting it like molten glass. It's almost blindingly beautiful.
Nagito lies still, listening to the waves, a quiet hush against the shore. Just as I predicted, Nagito thinks hazily. After the storm, the world looks hopeful again.
He searches his mind for the jagged fragments of his dreams that usually linger when he wakes—the cold, the dread, the suffocating panic. But there is nothing like that this time. All he feels is soft, bright warmth, like a hug from an old friend.
His mind tries to grasp at the memory. A smile. Green eyes… Hajime.
He vaguely recalls him being there—standing close, looking at him with that small, reassuring smile that always makes Nagito’s chest ache. He wasn't in any danger at all. He was safe, and he was smiling at him.
After so many nightmares, this is what it feels like to rest. The realization is so foreign it almost frightens him.
Then Nagito notices something else. His head is no longer resting on Hajime’s chest. He must have rolled over at some point in the night. That's embarrassing. How careless of him to move around so freely in someone else's bed—especially Hajime's bed.
Slowly, cautiously, Nagito turns, and there he is.
Hajime is sleeping soundly on his side, facing him. His expression is serene, unguarded in a way he never allows himself to be while awake. The morning light traces over his features—softening the sharpness of his brow, catching in his lashes, illuminating the calm rise and fall of his breathing.
Nagito feels his breath hitch. He looks so gentle. So human. So beautiful.
For a long moment, Nagito just stares, memorizing him. The curve of his mouth. The relaxed set of his shoulders. The way his hair falls messily across his forehead.
Nagito lets out the smallest, trembling exhale, feeling his love for Hajime deepen tenfold.
His fingers curl slightly in the sheets, resisting the urge to reach out and brush a stray lock of Hajime's hair aside. He shouldn’t touch him. He’s already taken up enough space. Instead, he leans in just slightly, lowering his voice to a whisper so soft it barely disturbs the air.
“Hajime…” He hesitates. Even saying his name like this feels indulgent. “You look so peaceful. I’m glad.” A faint, fragile smile tugs at his lips. “You deserve to have mornings like this. Not storms.”
His eyes soften.
“I didn’t have any nightmares last night,” he says quietly, almost in disbelief. “Isn’t that amazing? It must be because you were there. In my dreams, I mean. You were smiling at me. You always look so beautiful when you smile.”
He swallows the lump that suddenly forms in his throat. His voice wavers, nerves gathering in his stomach, but he presses on.
“This is incredibly selfish if me to say, but… I love you, Hajime.”
The words slip out like a waterfall flowing into the sea, natural and effortless. His heart feels as light as a feather.
“I love you so much it’s unbearable. Not just the hope that sleeps inside you, or the brilliant future you represent. I love you. The way you scowl when you’re embarrassed. The way you get annoyed at my rambling. The way you stay, even when it would be so much easier to leave.”
Nagito's gaze drops to the sheets between them, and a soft, self-deprecating breath escapes him.
“I know I’m not worthy of you. I know I’m selfish for wanting to stay by your side like this... wanting to wake up next to you, wanting to hear your voice first thing in the morning.”
He reaches out just slightly this time—only enough for his fingers to brush the edge of Hajime’s sleeve, barely a touch at all.
“But even though you can’t hear me right now, I just wanted to say it out loud. At least once.”
His voice drops to its softest point. “Thank you for letting me stay. For holding me.” A small pause. “I hope I can become someone who deserves you someday.”
Carefully, reluctantly, Nagito withdraws his hand. He lingers there a moment longer, committing the sight of Hajime to memory—his steady breathing, the sunlight haloing him in gold. Then he slowly slips out of bed.
It would be a shame if he got in the way of Hajime's morning routine by overstaying his welcome. Perhaps it would be best to see himself out now before he inevitably ruins this perfect morning.
Nagito makes sure the mattress barely shifts, moving with deliberate quietness so as not to disturb Hajime’s rest. The floorboards are cool beneath his bare feet.
Before he leaves, he pauses at the doorway, turning around for just one more look. Hajime is still sleeping soundly, unaware of the confession whispered to him only moments ago.
Nagito smiles—soft, longing, and grateful. And then, without a sound, he steps out of the cottage, leaving Hajime to wake to a hopeful morning on his own.
If he can no longer have Hajime, he will always have his plushie.
***
Hajime is slow to wake up. He doesn't move right away, just lays there, feeling warm rays of sunlight on his face through the window.
He feels… lighter than usual. More rested. The kind of rest that sinks deep into his bones instead of skimming the surface. After a torrential storm like that—after Nagito showing up at his door pale and shaking—he would’ve expected to feel tense. But no, there is only peace and quiet.
Hajime frowns faintly, staring up at the ceiling.
He could’ve sworn someone had been talking to him. A smooth yet raspy voice, soft and close. Saying something important. Something that—while trying to recall it—makes his chest feel tight and strangely warm all at once.
Green eyes flash through his hazy memory. A whisper near his ear. Then he rolls onto his back with a sigh. “Must’ve been a dream.”
There's no one beside him now. The other half of the bed is empty, sheets rumpled from where Nagito had slept. The sight makes his stomach flip in a way he doesn’t care to—or doesn't want to—acknowledge.
What had possessed him to invite Nagito in like last night? Not just invite him in. He'd let him stay. Let him climb into his bed. Let him cling to him like that. Worse—he’d held him.
He can still faintly remember the weight of Nagito against his chest, the way his fingers had curled into his shirt like he was afraid Hajime would disappear. The steady rhythm of his breathing once he’d finally fallen asleep.
Hajime scrubs a hand over his face. His ears are burning all of a sudden.
It's not like I wanted to, he tells himself quickly. He was just shaken up. Anyone would’ve done the same… Right?
He swings his legs over the side of the bed before he can dwell on it any longer.
The cottage feels fresh and bright now. The storm has completely cleared; sunlight floods in, illuminating the wooden floorboards. When he opens the window, he sees the ocean glittering under a brilliant red-orange sky. The air smells clean, like salt and rain and new beginnings.
It's almost too beautiful after last night’s downpour.
When Hajime finishes washing up and getting dressed, he makes his way to the door, ready to head to the restaurant for breakfast. Then he stops, noticing a familiar pair of slippers sitting neatly by the entrance. Nagito’s slippers.
Hajime blinks. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He stares down at them. Did Nagito really walk back to his cabin barefoot? The ground would’ve still been damp and cold from the storm. What an idiot.
With a resigned sigh, Hajime bends down and picks them up. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Who forgets their shoes?”
Still, he doesn’t hesitate long. He steps out and heads toward Nagito’s cottage, slippers in hand.
When he knocks on the door, there's no answer. He waits a moment. “Nagito?” he calls out, but all he gets is silence.
He tries the doorknob, half-expecting it to be locked. But to his shock, it isn’t, and the door creaks open. Hajime pauses, dumbfounded. For someone as paranoid as Nagito can be, it sure is odd of him to leave his door unlocked. Then again, everything about Nagito is odd.
“Guess I'm in,” Hajime murmurs, pushing the door open all the way.
The cottage is empty, no sign of Nagito anywhere. The bed is unmade, and the curtains are half-drawn to let the sunshine in.
Maybe Nagito went to the restaurant early. Or—Hajime glances toward the ocean through the window—maybe he’d gone to the beach to watch the sunrise. That seems like something he’d do. Dramatic as ever.
Hajime steps inside fully and crosses the room, setting the slippers down neatly at the foot of the bed. “There,” he mutters. “Try not to forget them again.”
He is about to turn and leave when something on the pillow catches his eye. His eyes widen.
Sitting haphazardly against the indentation where Nagito’s head had rested is a plushie. Green button eyes. A stitched little smile. Spiky brown hair made of felt. The outfit—down to the tie.
Hajime stares. “What the…?”
He steps closer, cautiously picking it up. It's unmistakable. This plushie isn't a generic doll or some random stuffed toy. It's a plush version of him.
His grip tightens slightly around it as he turns it over in his hands, baffled. “Nagito… why do you even have this?"
The stitching is a little uneven, like it had been handmade—or at least carefully customized. The expression is soft and gentle. Not annoyed or exasperated. Just so.. soft.
Hajime’s chest feels oddly tight. Why would Nagito need something like this?
At that moment, a memory surfaces of Nagito last night, his voice small in the dark. I've been having nightmares…
Hajime’s gaze flicks back to the bed.
Could it be…? No. That's ridiculous. Nagito doesn’t need a stupid doll for comfort. He's probably using it to mess with him somehow. Some elaborate joke. Some psychological trick. That has to be it… Right?
But then again, last night hadn’t felt like a trick. Nagito had come to him shaking, vulnerable. Honest in a way Hajime had never seen before. He’d buried his face against Hajime’s chest like he genuinely needed him. Not his hope. Not his talent. Just him.
“You’re unbelievable, Nagito Komaeda,” Hajime mutters under his breath, though the words lack any real bite.
He looks down at the plush again. Its tiny stitched face stares back at him. He huffs a quiet breath. “You’ve got terrible taste, you know that?” he says softly to it. “Out of everyone here, you pick me?”
His thumb brushes absentmindedly over the plush’s felt hair. “If you’re using this because of your nightmares, you could’ve just—”
He cuts himself off. You could've just what? Come to me?
Heat rushes to Hajime's face unbidden. He shakes his head sharply to rid himself of the thought before he can finish it.
Still, he finds himself giving the plush the faintest, reluctant smile. “At least it’s accurate,” he concedes. “Though I don’t think I smile like this that much. Maybe I should… if it makes you happy.”
Carefully—more carefully than necessary—Hajime sets the plush back exactly where he found it, propped gently against the pillow. He lingers for just a second. Then he turns and leaves the cottage, pulling the door shut behind him.
As he makes his way toward the restaurant, he feels a strange flutter in his chest he can’t quite name. Annoyance, he tells himself. Probably.
But as the restaurant comes into view, Hajime’s gaze instinctively searches the window. And for reasons he absolutely refuses to examine, he hopes there will be an empty seat next to Nagito at breakfast.
And if Nagito ever has a nightmare again, Hajime hopes, somewhere deep in his heart, that he will still be the one he comes to for comfort.