Chapter Text
Soft. That was a good word for Makoto.
Not physically soft, but soft.
Internet was spotty at best on Jabberwock, par for the course of having too-few routers and too many cottages. Kazuichi had done his best in salvaging up whatever scrap of crumbled-up rusty junk he could dig up, but it was nothing compared to what a fiberoptic network could put out. Not that FF would ever bother to finance something as costly as that for a handful of motley forever quarantined thirty-somethings.
Out of sight and out of mind, that was what they were.
Hajime sat at his desk, his hands resting at his sides and wringing the fabric of his dress slacks from a lack of knowing what to do with them. He stared at his laptop with an expression that he hoped came off as neutral (but who was he kidding? Nagito was always teasing him for having a resting bitch face).
It didn’t help that his laptop was a full-screen video call with Branch 14’s hotshot puppy-eyed director who somehow still looked fresh out of high school despite having just turned fucking thirty, the benefit of having one of those cherubic baby faces.
“I’m just saying,” Makoto said. His voice came in tinny from the laptop speaker. Though a little fuzzy at the edges, his facial features came in clear enough. “It would be a lot more cost-effective on our end to go monthly instead of biweekly. Those freighters don’t come cheap, Hinata.”
He was using that pissy ‘let’s be reasonable, now’ tone of voice that made a red film run over Hajime’s vision.
Soft. Coddled. Enjoying a life of easygoing non-profit work on the mainland with regularly available healthcare and fresh food that wasn’t whatever artful arrangement Teruteru could create from rations.
That was Makoto Naegi, the posterchild of idealism, the baby-faced sweetheart who had kept them all alive by way of tropical quarantine.
Hajime hated him more than anyone else.
Something tapped at his ankle, the tip of a foot. Hajime glanced down and tried to keep his head from turning.
Nagito sat on the floor to his left, just out of frame from whatever Makoto would be able to see. These impromptu video calls were always meant to be confidential, something strictly between the former Remnants’ Leader and Future Foundation. Not that Hajime ever cared about bureaucratic bullshit like that. If his husband wanted to listen in, who was he to stop him?
“Relax,” Nagito mouthed to him. He leaned over and squeezed Hajime’s ankle, his brow raised.
Hajime took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and exhaled through his nose. He tried to keep his tone even. Maybe the shitty connection would help smooth over how pissed he really was.
“Naegi, we’ve only ever done biweekly shipments, ever since we got here… so you know, I can’t help but question why cost is suddenly getting brought in as the explanation for your decision.” There we go. Keep it formal and reasonable.
Nagito kept his hand on his leg and slowly hiked up the cuff of his slacks. He kept darting his eyes from the laptop screen, to Hajime, and back again, like an anxious spectator to a tennis match.
Makoto was only visible from the chest up in the video feed, his shoulders drowning in a black suit that was way too big for him. The line of his mouth was pulled back and taut. Strained. “That’s because it wasn’t a factor then. We had the budget to allocate for it, but with the mainland’s recovery phase nearing kind of like, a tail end, we’ve been getting less grant donations from our local partners. Even less-so from the private sector.” He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair (squirming, Hajime thought). “All of our departments need to have cuts made, not just you all.”
“Oh, but I bet Jabberwock was at the top of the list.” Hajime blurted it out before he could think of a way to filter himself, but he just barreled on and ignored how Nagito’s nails were digging into his skin.
“I didn’t have any part in the decision to cut your shipments, Hinata,” Makoto’s voice was getting all trembly. “Besides, all of your reports have indicated that your agricultural efforts have been pretty promising for your self-sufficiency!” He smiled like he was being held at gunpoint.
Hajime chewed at the inside of his cheek. “Those reports I’ve sent you also pretty clearly state that the soil quality here is substandard at best. It’s not sustainable for long-term crop yields even with a rotation schedule, and even if it was, we don’t have the equipment necessary to maintain it.” He couldn’t help a bitter smile. “Did your intern leave that part out when they were giving you a summary?”
From the floor, Hajime heard Nagito hiss his name in a warning. Hajime ignored it. He could feel shoulders square up in that stupid instinctive caveman fighter’s stance as he glared into the screen.
Makoto wiggled, settled and re-settled in his seat (wiggling like a fucking worm, more like). “Cutting the frequency of supply runs doesn’t mean that your actual supplies are being cut. We’ll just double-up on them.” He worried his lip and kept his head tilted down (too chickenshit to look a man in the eye).
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Hajime said. “It doesn’t matter if the shipments have doubled supplies. It’s the security of it. What happens if a shipment is delayed and people run out of their medication?”
“We can just double-up on your stocks…”
Hajime grit his teeth and bit the inside of his lip hard enough to make the flesh peel. “Three people on this island need insulin, Naegi. That shit has a limited shelf life and I can’t risk anyone going into diabetic shock from a late freighter.”
“Language,” Nagito whispered.
Makoto’s face was going pink. “But Mikan – “
“Mikan is overtaxed enough as it is when she’s the only medically trained person on the island acting as a PCP for fourteen other people. Even then, that doesn’t mean a damn thing if she doesn’t have supplies.” The tops of Hajime’s slacks were turning gummy and wrinkled from how much his palm sweat was soaking in them. “And what about perishable food? Are we getting more canned goods to compensate?”
“I was going to leave that up to your discretion,” Makoto said, his lips twitching in a mousy smile.
Hajime closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. He held out a hand, tacky from sweat, and felt the cool chrome of Nagito’s prosthetic take hold of it. “I’ll get you an updated inventory by COB tomorrow.”
“Oh, great! Okay!”
“But we still need a long-term solution for insulin.” Hajime’s shoulders seemed to drop down in slow motion, notch by notch. “That’s non-negotiable.”
“I’ll let the philanthropy cadre know,” Makoto chirped. The brightness in his eyes was back. “How’s your husband?”
“Fine." Hajime would have punched him in the throat right then and there if he could.
Makoto wilted a little. “Did you enjoy the wine I sent for your anniversary in the last shipment?”
“Yeah. Good wine,” Hajime lied. “Barefoot Chardonnay, 2004. Fine year.”
Nagito cupped a hand over his mouth, but it wasn’t enough to muffle his snorting. Hajime nudged him with the side of his shoe.
“Okay, well, I’ll talk with Byakuya and Kyoko.” Makoto looked a little hurt (manipulative little fuck). “I’ll let you know if we can find a compromise.”
Yeah, Hajime wasn’t going to hold his breath on that one. He faked a smile and hovered the cursor of his mouse over the button to hang up. “Alright, keep me posted.”
“Absolu – “
Hajime clicked away the window and slammed the laptop shut. “That fucking piece of shit, worthless, limp-dicked asshole!”
“You did a good job keeping your temper in check, bug.” Nagito braced a hand on Hajime’s thigh and grunted as he stood, his knee joints popping. “I’m proud of you.”
“Oh, bite me.” Hajime huffed and slumped back in his chair. He reached up to loosen the knot of his tie. “Sure can’t wait to tell everyone FF’s leaving us in the dust.”
“We don’t know that for sure yet.” Nagito trudged over to their two-seater couch and flopped down on the cushions with a loud sigh. “You just need to keep pushing your case.”
Hajime snaked away the tie from his collar and worked at the buttons of his dress shirt. It wasn’t even noon and already he wanted to go to fucking bed and have Izuru talk his ear off about zir plants, or whatever else zie was getting zirself into in his head. “Yeah, but at what point does that turn into biting the hand that feeds us?”
“Does that matter?” Shimmying himself up to rest his head at the sofa’s armrest, Nagito gave Hajime an even look. “If making some fingers bleed gets the job done, how is that bad?”
“I guess. I dunno.” Hajime sloughed off his shirt and undid his belt. “Not like we’re in a position to do much else.”
“You should have asked him about how the terrorist records clearing was going.”
Hajime groaned. “Fuck, I was going to. Just got, I don’t know, lost in the weeds.” With his slacks crumpling to his ankles, he made for the bathroom. “I’m gonna take a shower.” He felt so tired. Getting a bunch of anger out always exhausted the hell out of him.
“Mhm.” Nagito hummed and took up a book from the coffee table. “You’ll feel better.”
Would he, though? Hajime wasn’t sure.
Well, at least there was still working plumbing. Small favors.