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Hajime glances at the clock, and suppresses a groan.
11am.
It begins, he thinks, dragging himself to his feet.
And even though he doesn’t want to go through this, Hajime wanders into the kitchen and takes the bottles of medication from the cabinet. Now to locate Nagito.
“Nagito, where are you?” he calls, wandering through the apartment.
Unsurprisingly, Nagito doesn’t answer him. But their apartment is pretty small, so it doesn’t take Hajime long to locate him. He finds Nagito sat in the bathtub, and rolls his eyes.
“Not your best hiding space, is it?”
Nagito looks up at him. He smiles, but Hajime sees the fear behind his grin. “Hey, Hajime.”
“Come on, you need to take your meds.”
“No I don’t.”
Hajime sighs. “Nagito, I’m not in the mood for this shit. Just take the pills.”
“Hajime, I’ve been lucky to survive three months past my proposed life expectancy, probably thanks to my luck. But I’m still terminally ill, and my luck will probably swing the other way and cause my death soon. So what’s the point of taking those horrible drugs when they won’t change my fate?”
“Not everything is about hope—”
“Yes it is. Hope is everything, Hajime. Hope is why you look after me despite me being an annoying bastard, because you hope I will get better. Hope is why I hate my drugs, because they make me feel even worse than my illnesses do. Hope is why you’ll be better off when I’m dead.”
“Don’t fucking talk like that,” Hajime says, glaring at him. “Shut the fuck up. I won’t be better when you’re dead. Look, you… you don’t have to take the pills if they make you feel sick. Just, please… hope that you’ll stay with me.”
Nagito sighs, but squeezes his hand.