Work Text:
The first few months to Hinata were nothing but a cotton filled blur; and the doctors were starting to give up on him.
Sleep came forcefully, pushing him into void filled dreams. Food came often to sustain the needs that his body required more, now. And his thoughts felt so far away.
Sometimes Hinata wondered if he’d ever see his parents again. His Mother, who was so full of love, and care. Who smelt like vanilla and home , and his Father, whose expression always held stern, though his eyes forever gave away the sheer amount of pride he had for his son. If guilt was something Hinata could remember to feel, he would feel it. His parents didn’t know what they were doing to him there. But at this point, neither did he.
A sad smile crosses his thoughts sometimes, too. Strawberry kissed hair, eyes tired but never too tired to express care towards him. Briefly, Hinata remembered why he was doing this.
So he could be something more than the nothing he was.
So he could look her in the eyes, and know that they were equals.
But now he wonders if that’s ever going to be the case. If he’s lucky, perhaps he would. They’d said if his surgeries were successful, if he responded , he’d be transferred into the main course. And then he could be equal. He could be a better person for himself, to fill the void that had settled into his chest the moment he’d realised that he was ultimately… Worthless.
Today was a day that Hinata was allowed time to rest. No drugs, no restraints. His thoughts felt so far away, like he was losing himself. He didn’t even remember what he looked like anymore, as his eyes drifted to the window, to the pale sunlight drifting into his room lazily. They’d allowed him a room that let him see the sky. It was supposed to aid in his recovery, to keep his mind from panicking.
His body feels heavy as he dragged himself out of bed, pulling the IV alongside him. Like the limbs he was using were not his own. Each muscle screamed, each nerve on fire, but Hinata couldn’t sleep. The surgeries had stopped for a while, and in a drug filled haze, Hinata had heard the doctors muttering amongst each other.
"It’s not working. He’s not responding."
"We may have to look at getting a new subject for the project."
But those thoughts were far away as he caught a glimpse of himself in the window’s reflection. His own eyes stare back at him, but they feel forigen. Alien. Like he is looking at someone else, or at himself from outside his body. He could wear that as they catch the sunlight, they gleam red. What was the colour of his eyes?
His hair is growing abnormally fast, too. It hangs around his chin in awkward lengths. He’d ask for a haircut, but more often than not, he was denied any sort of request. He wasn’t allowed to call his Mother - despite his pleas almost every time he awoke.
They’d taken his phone, his belongings from him. It wasn’t like he could remember her number anymore, anyways. Did they even know he was there?
As Hinata’s fingers sift through unfamiliar hair, his eyes focus on the things he can see outside, rather than on his (?) own reflection. The building, wherever he was, wasn’t anywhere familiar to him. Briefly, he wonders if he is somewhere in the school. But he’s struggling to remember what school he’s even thinking of, struggling to remember where he is. The doctors never spoke to him. They spoke about him, spoke through him. But never asked him any questions. Never asked how he was feeling, if he was recovering. The only person who did was the nurse that came in far too often for Hinata’s liking, who’d change his IV, his bandages. He didn’t want to think about who bathed him, or who changed his hospital gown.
It wasn’t like he could remember, anyways. Not like he ever had the energy to look after himself anymore. If he wasn’t asleep, he was simply just… Existing, recovering from the immense pain they’d subject to his arms, his legs, his back - his mind. It wasn’t uncommon for Hinata to be experiencing some kind of chronic migraine. He had them a lot. And if it wasn’t the drugs that bothered him, it was the migraines that took his consciousness from him.
His eyes drift to the trees. As he looks outside, something in the back of his head seems to stir. Like a child being awoken for a new day - ready to play. Hinata quickly learns that he cannot stop this thought from coming to the forefront of his mind. There are birds fluttering amongst themselves in the trees, and with a start, he realizes that he can distinguish each and every bird there.
Hinata isn’t sure if he knew this before. If he was able to tell that the tiny chestnut coloured birds with the black cheeks were Eurasian Sparrows, characterised by their untidy nests and sweet birdsong. He’d never really paid attention to the birds before. At least, he didn’t think so, as he watched a greyish brown bird fly overhead, singing out to it’s brethren with a squeaky call.
A brown eared bulbul , his mind explained. They adapt to urban settings. Their call is a familiar one in Tokyo.
Scared and bandages hands reach for the latch on the window, moving before he can process it. His thoughts drift to the sounds he needed to make to draw one of them closer. Did he always have this knowledge? Was he always able to do this?
The unfamiliar sound fell from his lips easily as the window opened. It caught on the latch, too small for him to climb out of, but still open enough for him to beckon the sparrow closer. He realizes how desperate he is for this bird to come closer, loneliness clawing at his chest. One of the sparrows tilts her head at him. He can tell that it’s a female, given the stark patterning amongst her feathers. Hinata wonders how he was able to distinguish them by gender, now too. She flies closer as his voice calls to her, her wings fluttering before she perches herself on the window ledge. Hinata stilled.
Somewhere, in the back of his head, he knows not to make any sudden movements as she pitter patters closer, tiny claws tapping against the artificial stone. She seems to be draw to him as he falls silent, and between the two of them, there is a sense of trust as he reaches to touch her feathers.
The bird flutters away almost immediately however, as Hinata’s attention is drawn to the sound of his nurse clearing her throat.
“Hinata.” She says, her voice even. He is unsure of how long she’d been standing there. Had she been watching him? “Close the window. You’ll make yourself sick. Your immune system isn’t quite what it once was.” Her voice is faraway, however, as he complied.
“Come on, let’s change that IV.”
The next time Hinata awakens, it’s because there is a thought in his head that he can’t ignore.
It’s so loud. It’s so, so loud, and he can’t ignore it. He feels like he has some strange energy coursing through him.
The window is locked, now, and the blinds are drawn shut. He hasn’t seen sunlight for what felt like weeks. But that was the least of his thoughts.
He needed to do something. As he scrambled to sit up from the hospital bed, he noticed the tray of food that had been left at his table.
Good.
Hinata pulled himself from the bed, gripping the tray with a reckless abandon, stumbling over to the wall facing opposite his bed. The fixation is sitting in the front of his mind, and he can’t ignore it. It’s so loud. It’s so loud, and he can’t ignore it. Get it to shut up. That’s the only thing he can picture. He dips his fingers into the food haphazardly, and he doesn’t think , he just does. It has to quieten down, the thoughts. Hinata doesn’t even realize the sheer amount of pain he’s in, doesn’t pay attention to the fact that someone is watching him, far, far away.
“Should we stop him?”
“No. Let him.”
He realizes that his finger is not a brilliant paintbrush, but he can’t bring himself to care. All he has is this desire to paint , his mind filled with images of artwork he’s not sure he’s seen before with his own two eyes. Poppy Flowers. Vincent van Gough. The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. Rembrandt van Rijn. Still Life with Lobster. Eugène Delacroix. Impression, Sunrise. Claude Monet. Happy Accident on the Swing. Fragonard.
The paintings flash through his mind at inhumane speeds - faster than he can even process. He can’t even focus on what he’s painting, with food that’s too cold for him to eat now. It’s like he’s moving with monotony, muscle memory easily coming to him like it was something he was always able to do. The thoughts don’t quieten, even as he tries to satisfy them, though. They’re so overwhelming, as his fingers press desperately against the drywall, leaving marks that would later prove to show that the constant surgeries were working.
Impressionism, Expressionism, Fauvism, Cubism, Dadaism, Surrealism, Hypermodernism, Figuration Libre, Minimalism, Stuckism, Vanitas, Pop Art, Neoism, Maximalism, Les Nabis, Mannerism, Macabre, Hyperrealism, Aestheticism.
The painting - if it could be called that, started to become more familiar to Hinata’s eyes, that glinted strangely in the darkness. Picasso.
Art. Noun: art; plural noun: arts; plural noun: the arts. The expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power. The various branches of creative activity, such as painting, music, literature, and dance. Subjects of study primarily concerned with human creativity and social life, such as languages, literature, and history. A skill at doing a specified thing, typically one acquired through practice.
The doctor's stare at it through the cameras. There was no way that he was painting something he’d never seen. One of them pulled up their phone. To cross reference. They’d have to look at it far more closely, but Hinata would have to be moved. He couldn’t stay in this room anymore, not when he was displaying characteristics like this.
Painting. Noun: paint. The action or skill of using paint, either in a picture or as decoration. A painted picture.
Picture. Illustration. Portrayal. Depiction. Delineation. Representation. Likeness. “ This is torture,” Hinata thought to himself distantly. Image. Sketch. Cartoon. Artwork. Oil painting. “ Why won’t the thoughts leave my head?” He thinks. Oil. Watercolour. Canvas.
Paint. Verb: painting. To cover the surface of (something) with paint.
Colour. Apply paint to. Decorate. Tint. “ I don’t even care about art.” Hinata’s voice murmured. Dye . Stain. Distemper. Whitewash. Emulsion. Gloss. “How did I learn how to paint like this?” Spray. Spray-paint. Airbrush. Roller. Coat. Cover. “Who put these thoughts in my head?” Duab. Smear. Plaster.
Hinata’s hands shake as he realises he’s vocalising his thoughts. The tray dropped from his quivering hands, the boy stepping back from the wall. To anyone who didn’t understand fine art - the wall displayed nothing but confused, desperate boxes, a strange amalgamation of brown and black.
To Hinata, he knew what he was looking at. It was clear as day. His knees give in, the pain overwhelming him. Le pigeon aux petit pois . Pablo Picasso. It seemed his mind was still fixed on the birds he’d seen before. The strange painting is all he can look at before he feels his vision fade out. Hinata had over exerted himself without meaning to, slumping to the ground, pulling the IV down with him.
The next time Hinata wakes up, he can’t quite remember who he is. What his name is. When he asks his nurse, she just smiles at him, changing the drip and his bandages. She notices the way his fingers tap against the table that sits in front of him. He’d been moved from the room he had been situated in before - residing now in the basement beneath the school. It was necessary for Hinata to have access to the tools he needed to display his newer talents. Just a few days ago he’d broken world records, sprinting faster than anyone had ever expected, and yesterday, he’d figured out how to jam the security cameras sitting in his hospital room.
He wasn’t really allowed out of his bed anymore, not without explicit permission.
“Those without talent are ticks,” one of the doctors had told him. His coat was too stiff, too big. His glasses were too shiny for Hinata to see the malice in his eyes. “They feed off of society without giving anything back. You are talented. You will be talented. You will be the Hope that the world needs.”
He could sing. Dance. He could run further than any known man on earth. He could write poetry that would make even the coldest of people cry. He could tell jokes that would make anyone laugh, charismatic when he chose to be; solve math problems that had stumped mathematicians for years.
It was working.
But there was one thing that Hinata couldn’t do anymore.
And that was to remember his name.
Fingers rhythmically tap against the table. He’s mimicking the hand movements required to play Beethoven’s Sonata, Pathetique . It wasn’t quite the same without a piano, but he couldn’t get the notes out of his head as genres of classical music start to whirl through his head.
Lately it felt like his brain was being filled with so many fixations that he was starting to forget basic things. He was living on a clear schedule, and for the most part, it seemed as though he wouldn’t be coming off of this schedule for a long time. He’d wake up, he’d be fed, have his vitals checked. He’d fall asleep, then he’d get fed again, and he’d have a few hours to mull over whatever new talent presented itself to him. Then he’d get fed again, and he’d fall asleep. Sometimes, he’d awaken the next morning, and there would be a new pain; a new surgery done to him overnight that he wasn’t aware of.
But now he couldn’t even tell where he was, anymore. Why he was there. What he was doing this for. His memory was starting to fill with holes, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t find a way to remember, but it was like the memory was there. Just out of his reach.
“What’s my name?” Hinata (?) asked softly.
“Just wait. You have a very special visitor here for you today. There’s one talent we haven’t taught you, yet.”
Hinata (?) blinked, but he nodded as he returned to tapping his fingers against the table. There were so many things going on in his mind that all he could do was agree robotically. Whatever it was that they had to show him. His mind drifts through the possibilities, but there’s barely anything he doesn’t know anymore.
“Are you ready to go in?”
“Go where?” He asked. He searches her for tells. Oh. The surgeries were not over. He hadn’t been fed today. He rephrases his sentence. “This is the first time you have asked me if I am ready. Is this the final surgery, nurse?”
“We hope so.” The nurse smiled at him as she helps him into a wheelchair, but he cannot find it in himself to smile back. He can’t find it in himself to do or feel anything.
His hair is stupendously long, now. It pools around him, inky curtains flowing far past his feet. The doctors hadn’t bothered to cut it. The nurse would just tuck it into his gown neatly. The constant weight of it was… Familiar. The only familiar thing he had. Everyone knew this - and thus they had decided not to tamper with it. It wasn’t like he had anything left of his former self, now.
And anything that was left, would be removed.
Hinata (?) finds himself in an empty room. It is dark. There is only himself, in a wheelchair, and another woman. His head hurts. She peers at him, blue eyes warm, inviting. A computer rested in her lap; though it seemed this would be the way for her to communicate with him. She too, sat in a wheelchair; blue hair falling to her shoulders in waves.
It is the first time in a long time that Hinata (?) has experienced anything like the emotion in her eyes. Everyone else had looked at him with disdain, or a scientific coldness. He does not know her name. And he would not remember her face.
“I would like you to close your eyes for me.” The woman says though her computer. Despite the voice coming from a computer, it is soft - welcoming. “In your own time, of course. I would like you to be as comfortable as possible. I’m here to teach you your final talent.”
Hinata (?) finds himself closing his eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re here.”
“I am a therapist.” She replied. “And I want to help you, for I know you have been here for a long, long time. If you are willing.”
For a moment, Hinata (?) is silent. He nods.
“Relax. Let the tension in your arms… Your legs… Your back… Fade away.” She watches him closely as slowly, he caves, allowing his body to relax. It was as though he hadn’t even realised how tensed up he always was. “Breathe. Deep breaths, slow.”
The boy follows her instructions. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he doesn’t see a point in this. There is no reason for her to be here. It is… Boring.
“I want you to think of a place that is home. ” Hinata (?) nods. “There, you are safe. There are no cameras. Nobody is watching you. No doctors. You eat whenever you like… You sleep whenever you like. Can you tell me where you are?”
It seems as though she’d gotten him into a trance. She’d read his files. Pinpointed exactly what it was she needed to get him to relax. Ethically, she knew this was wrong. To do this without his explicit permission. This kind of thing was all about consent. It was the biggest part out of all of this. But she had to. The surgery - the final one - had made him more susceptible to her words. It was this - this would be what made him… Hope.
“...It’s strange.” His voice is empty. It doesn’t sound like a voice he recognises. “A parents house. Though I… Do not know their faces. There are pictures of someone who looks familiar on the walls.”
“I would like you to focus on these photographs. Who do you see? What is he doing…?”
“He has short hair. Far shorter than my own. His eyes are the colour of olives, and… Though he looks happy, he… His eyes say something else.”
“Good. I want you to touch one of those pictures when you are ready, I want you to look at his face.”
In his mind, he stands in a living room. It is nostalgic - a strange sense of having been there before. Like he belonged there. Why had his mind taken him here, when he was certain this was a place he hadn’t been before.
His hand drifts to a picture of a boy that he’s sure he’s seen before. Scarred, lithe fingers run over his face.
“Izuru Kamukura.” She murmured. “Do you know who this boy is…?”
Hinata (?) blinked. Was this who he was? Was this his name? As his fingers drift over the photograph he holds, his mind seems to warp, and he’s no longer stood in a living room, instead standing in a hospital room. The window beckons him, and he walks over to it. His eyes catch birds in the distance. Birds he cannot distinguish the names of. As he turned his head, his eyes fall to a painting on the drywall. He doesn’t recognise the painting.
“I want you to explore the room you’re in. Why are you here? Why have you chosen this place?”
“I am… Here. Because I signed up to be.”
“Good.” Her voice is soothing, deceptively so. But even so, Hinata (?) cannot tell. Memories are starting to resurface, memories that he cannot align with himself. His hands grip tightly to the photograph he’d taken from the living room.
“Where did you come from, Izuru Kamukura?”
“I… Came from Hope’s Peak.” The mirage changes, and he’s standing in front of a school. “I wanted to attend this academy, and I… I signed up for - I signed up for this, didn’t I? My - I -” Hinata stuttered, and the woman speaks quickly, trying to help him calm down.
“Take your time. You are safe, and we will take as long as you need… Do you remember your name?”
“My name - my name is…”
His eyes drift to the photograph in his mind, quivering hands holding onto it tightly.
“My name is Hinata Hajime. I signed… I signed up for this. To be worth something. I remember now.”
“Good, very good, Izuru Kamukura.” She watches as the boy in front of him seems to slump, his fist clenching at the handle of his wheelchair tightly. “Now… I want you to look at this photograph, Izuru Kamukura. As you look at it, you start to relax.” His hand loosens its grip. “This photograph is you, but you start to remember that you are not the same, anymore. As you look at it, I want you to start seeing yourself as you are now.”
The photograph in his mind warps, and slowly, the face in the photo blurs.
“You do not know anyone by the name of Hinata Hajime. The image is blurring, changing… You are Izuru Kamukura. You know nothing else but these four walls of this room. You are talented… But your existence will only begin when I snap my fingers. I want you to drop the photograph now. Let it go… The life you had before is not of any consequence anymore… You are freed from the past, the past will no longer define you. You are free from the thoughts, from the memories… And you will never remember it.”
It falls into a puddle as Hinata (??????????) lets the photograph drop. Slowly, but surely, the school warps, and he’s alone in the room he’d been in with the woman before. But this time, he is alone, even if he can still hear her voice.
“You do not know who you were before now… The memory does not exist, it no longer exists. You are Izuru Kamukura. You are talented. You are the hope that the world needs. And you have no recollection of who you were before. Hinata Hajime does not exist, and you will never know anything other than who you are now. The name given to you… Is Izuru Kamukura. You are free, and your existence here… Will be the only thing you have ever known.”
She snaps her fingers, and Hinata Hajime slumps in the chair unceremoniously.
Izuru Kamukura awakens in a dark room, alone. There is nothing there, save the bed, and the suit on his back. He has never known anything else.