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Komaeda sees Kamukura in Towa right before the Demon Hunting begins.
It’s a rainy, bitter night. The streets and sidewalks are streaked with blood and runoff, grime and bile. The pale red moon is hidden by clouds of smog, the air thick and humid. Komaeda makes sure his footing is careful— he doesn’t want to imagine the world of pain that he’d have to endure if he were to track any of the mud or gore into the children’s base of operations. Who knows when they’ll even realize he’s gone?
It is the state Kamukura is in that he does not expect. It’s enough of a shock that Komaeda can’t believe it’s really him.
A mass of darkness in an alleyway, a huddled, shapeless figure of black. If Komaeda’s ability to sense his presence wasn’t so pristine, he would’ve just kept walking.
(Oh, but of course it is. Because no matter how long they spend apart, he’ll always be able to know when Kamukura is near. It’s a sixth sense, of sorts; one he’s got honed to perfection.)
“Kamukura…?” He says, and his voice is a bit smaller, weaker, than he’d like it to be. “Is that really you?”
At first, there is no response. Not even a murmur. Just the soft patter of rain against asphalt, and Komaeda’s shallow breathing.
And then, “… Yes.”
He smiles. The rush of excitement, of pure elation, is something that takes him fully— and he has to pull at the already bare threads of his sweater to get a grip on himself, because it’s been a long time, too long, so long since he’s seen Kamukura, and he missed him, too much, so much.
(Even though it’s his fault he left. He made the choice to walk out of their hideout, to betray Kamukura. That was him. All him.
For that, he feels the most unimaginable guilt.)
And because Komaeda has no self control, and it’s too quiet for him to fully be at peace, he permits himself to talk. “Oh, how wonderful it is to see you again! Though, I would’ve preferred it would’ve been in a less… disgusting environment, as I’m sure you’d agree. Things really have changed, haven’t they? Your hair looks a little shorter, and— Oh.”
Kamukura faces him now, the hand pressed to the inside of his dress shirt sticky with his own blood. His face is a little less stoic than usual.
“You— You’re wounded.”
“Yes.” His voice is perfectly even. “I am.”
He can’t just ignore that. It’s his first time seeing Kamukura in a year, and one of the first things he could do is gloss over the fact that he’s bleeding out in front of him? He couldn’t do that. He can’t even entertain the thought.
“Can I…?” Komaeda asks, but the rest of his words never come out. When his eyes lock on with the gash in Kamukura’s side, he doesn’t bother finishing his sentence.
Carrying him is a little harder than Komaeda remembers.
Of course, Komaeda’s memory is god-awful. He doesn’t know if he’s ever had to do it or if he’s just remembering something that never happened.
They’re soaking wet from the drizzle that escalated into a downpour, and Komaeda is hopelessly trying to keep Kamukura pinned by his side without jostling him around too much. Kamukura is heftier than him, not ripped to shreds but certainly not a bag of skin and bones like Komaeda is. (Nothing that he minds. He quite likes that, actually. Because Kamukura could crush him, could just kill him at any given moment and— really, this isn’t the time to think about such a thing.) All he can attempt is just slinging his arm over his shoulders and holding him as close to his body as he can.
When they come across an abandoned pharmacy nearby, Komaeda wonders if that’s his or Kamukura’s luck before deciding that it simply does not matter.
He pushes open the door with his hip, faintly hears Kamukura mutter something intelligible under his breath before lugging him to the very back of the building, where the outside smog and the heavy rain can’t reach them. When Komaeda returns with a relatively unharmed first aid kit, he kneels in front of Kamukura as obedient as he ever has.
The clasps of the kit open with a soft click. “I’m sorry Kamukura, but you’ll have to speak up if you want me to hear you. My hearing isn’t what it used to be.”
Kamukura lags just a bit. It takes a while for him to respond to Komaeda, but when he does—
“I don’t need you to do this for me.”
—It’s nothing Komaeda wants to hear.
He gives him a puzzled look. “Is that not what I’m here for?”
“I can function just fine on my own… I have been for a while now.” Something in Kamukura’s glare flickers like a flame. “A minor wound like this isn’t going to kill me.”
Is he mad? He can’t be. A very hopeful part of Komaeda prays that he’s only in pain, but even that is ludicrous. Because Kamukura doesn’t get mad, or injured. That’s just not how he is. Komaeda knows him like the back of his hand, he knows Kamukura better than anyone else— better than Kamukura knows himself— he doesn’t get angry.
Maybe Komaeda’s departure was enough to finally tick him off. Or perhaps Kamukura isn’t mad, but bitter and holding a grudge against him.
He can’t blame him. Even if Kamukura hated Komaeda with every fiber in his being, he wouldn’t be able to find it within himself to return that aggression. He’d still love him all the same.
He still loves him all the same.
“‘A minor wound?’ You’ve bled through your shirt.” Komaeda tries to laugh off the trembling of his body, though even he can tell it feels a little inappropriate. “Besides, what good am I to you right now if I don’t help you?”
To that, Kamukura says nothing. So Komaeda reaches forward, gives a familiar look that he knows screams permission, and moves on when Kamukura returns with a singular nod. He hikes his dress shirt up to his ribs and takes a good look at the gash in his side, skin smeared with drying blood and the rawness of his wound fully exposed. Even in the dim lighting, Komaeda sees something silver glint within it.
“The bullet is still there,” Komaeda looks up at him. “Should I—“
“No. That’ll make it worse, since the bleeding has stopped. I can remove it and stitch it closed later.”
For some reason, Komaeda doubts that he will. But he’s never one to disobey an order.
He smiles. “I’ll just put the gauze on there. Is that alright?”
Kamukura nods again, so Komaeda gets to work. A pad of gauze goes flat against his wound and strips of white bandages from the kit press it into his skin, differing in length and size. His hands tremble the entire time; he doesn’t remember the last time he even touched Kamukura.
Komaeda wonders if he notices. How his fingers shake, how his hands are damp with sweat. How the heat radiating from his face is surely felt against his skin.
He’s probably disgusted. It would be shocking if he wasn’t. Komaeda has never changed. Maybe Kamukura hoped he had in the time he was gone, but some things are just impossible.
“So what have you been up to?” He asks, and maybe his voice is too chipper, but he’ll do anything to fill in the painfully awkward silence.
His answer is just as expected. “Nothing.”
“Really? You haven’t talked to any of the others recently?”
“I prefer not to.” Kamukura nearly winces as he tries to fix a bandage. “They are… insufferable.”
“Well, I’m glad to know we both haven’t changed!” Komaeda puts his hands up to his sides with another tone-deaf laugh, and Kamukura goes to replace where his hands once were. His face burns with embarrassment and he scrambles to do the same. “T-Though to be fair, I believe the others want nothing to do with me, just like they always have.”
Kamukura readjusts his hand over Komaeda’s. “They don’t like either of us.”
They don’t, and they both know that well. Kamukura is the most notable neutral party within the group, stand-off-ish and intimidating. None of the Despairs could hurt him even if they wanted to. Komaeda was different. He hated— hates Enoshima just as he loves her. It’s been something obvious from the start, and none of them took kindly to that.
But when Enoshima handed him over to Kamukura, none of that even mattered. If they wanted to deal with Komaeda, they’d have to go through Kamukura first; and virtually no one wanted to do that.
He doesn’t know what they’re up to now or how they’ve been holding up since her death. He hasn’t been in Tokyo since the final episode aired.
More importantly, he hasn’t seen Kamukura since that episode aired.
“I’m sorry for leaving.” It comes abruptly, but he hasn’t apologized and he needs to make sure he does before Kamukura gets sick of his idiocy. “I was upset and I took it out on the wrong person.”
“It’s fine.”
“But it isn’t!” Komaeda sits up on his knees, and despite casting a shadow on Kamukura he’s never felt so small, “I left you without warning, I disobeyed your orders, I ruined whatever use I had left and I fled here. This—“ He gestures to his left arm, “—This is blasphemous, Kamukura! There’s simply no excuse for something like this! I chose her over you; you know what that means, don’t you—?”
“Komaeda, be quiet.” His voice is barely above a whisper, and he strains to hear him properly. Kamukura sighs, and his head lolls to the side ever so slightly. “… I have a headache.”
“Oh.” And, even if Komaeda can hardly hear him, he matches his volume. “Sorry.”
There’s another period of silence, but this time Komaeda doesn’t see the point of trying to fill it. He’s screwed up enough. Perhaps he should’ve never bothered Kamukura in the first place.
It would’ve been better for both of them, wouldn’t it? Komaeda wouldn’t have to be reminded of how he destroyed their relationship, and Kamukura wouldn’t have to see the face of his pathetic excuse of a companion for the first time in a year.
“Do you…” Komaeda’s voice is hoarse, and the words come out much stranger than he wants them to, “Do you hate me, Kamukura?”
Because you should, he wants to add. You really, really should.
His answer is disappointing. “No.”
“Really? After all I’ve done to you?”
“I’m incapable of hate.”
“Oh, don’t lie to yourself.”
The edge of Kamukura’s voice is sharp. “ Komaeda .”
“I find that hard to believe. It would be better not to lie to me, don’t you think? I—“
Kamukura grabs him by the face. (And he might as well have crushed his heart in his fist while he was at it.)
“I’m not willing to let you try and play mind games with me tonight.” He says, and though there’s a noticeable tremor in his grip Komaeda still feels like he’s going to be killed all the same. “I do not care about what you’ve done on your own time. I do not hate you for what you’ve done. Your departure was inevitable and we’re past that now. Do you understand?”
Who cares if his words are empty or not? He can’t tell. He doesn’t want to tell. Forgiveness feels too good, even if it could be nothing but a lie.
Komaeda shivers. “Yes.”
“Good.”
And Kamukura lets go. His hand trails down to the back of Komaeda’s neck and the hook of his jawline, rests there for a moment. Komaeda resists the urge to touch where he once held him.
He hopes it bruises.
The base of his chain is grabbed, and Komaeda leans closer to Kamukura. He can feel the sweat gathering at his forehead. Being in such close proximity to Kamukura after being so far away from him is just a little too much to handle.
And he’s still so beautiful.
Before his thoughts start spiraling, Kamukura speaks up. “I assume you would know whether or not there's a way to get out of this city.”
“On one of the smaller outlying islands, there’s a shrine with a secret passageway back to the mainland. Of course, there’s also a bridge to and from, but I doubt taking that now would be a good idea…”
“I can take you there.” Komaeda tries to give him a less manic looking grin, “It would be wise to leave here as soon as possible. Something very big is about to happen, you know.”
“Not now.” Kamukura shakes his head. “I’m… not now. You look tired. Rest.”
Kamukura yanks his chain again, and this time Komaeda topples onto him. Their clothes are still damp, sticking together in their closeness, and Komaeda can feel his bones digging uncomfortably into Kamukura’s skin. His eyes stick to the labored rise and fall of Kamukura’s chest.
“You should sleep too.” Komaeda says softly, adjusting in place beside Kamukura. It’s horribly, wonderfully familiar. “You’re wounded, after all.”
“…And I can tell when you lie.” Komaeda adds. “So go to sleep now, so that when you wake up, I can lead you out of here.”
And there is no protest. Kamukura stares at him for only a moment or so before he gives in, resting his head against the tile wall and shutting his eyes all with a soft groan.
Komaeda settles against his shoulder. He’s cold, suit and skin slick with rainwater, but Komaeda curls beside him like he’s the sun radiating heat. He is tired, really— but there’s an itching excitement coursing through his veins like electric blood, and he can’t bring himself to sleep. Komaeda stares at the gentle rise and fall of Kamukura’s chest until his eyes burn and glaze over, mesmerized by the easy up-and-down of Kamukura’s breathing, how peaceful he seems to be. It’s infectious too, because even though Komaeda is practically vibrating in place, he’s never felt so calm in months.
Even Kamukura was lying earlier— if he’s truly upset with Komaeda— he can’t find it in his heart to care. He’s right by his side; the chain of his battered collar loosely twisted around Kamukura’s fist. Right next to Kamukura, where he should be, where he’s supposed to be, where he’s meant to be.
He couldn’t ask for anything more.
(When he wakes up, Kamukura is still there.)