Work Text:
Funny thing about the apocalypse, the real estate market after the fact is positively abysmal.
It’s truly a miracle that he’s managed to find any place at all. Lucky, even—though that’s by no means surprising. It’s a cute, cozy little beach side cottage in a similarly cute and cozy town nestled in the crook of Stardew Valley. A swathe of land and a collection of people largely unaffected by the Tragedy. People there for a fresh start and new beginnings. People who don’t ask questions.
Yep, he’s really struck gold with this one.
Komaeda doesn’t deserve it.
He knows he doesn’t deserve it. Steps past the threshold and touches his foot to the wooden floor and feels, deep in his bones, a revulsion at the domesticity he’s found for himself. Metal fingers tapping at the hardwood counters in a discomfitingly familiar click click click, yet he can’t find it in himself to stop. The tapping continuing as he parses through the single box of his belongings. He packed light—permanence isn’t something he’s used to—and it only takes a moment to set up the necessities. Placing his pathetic collection of books on the bow buckled shelf with a disgusting level of care.
He stands listlessly after the fact. Uprooted and unmoored as he sits himself down on the perfectly made bed covers, starch and clean with not a wrinkle in the fabric, hospital stiff. He reflects, for a moment, as he gazes out the window and catches the familiar glint of sunlight over ocean waves. And there’s a pang of...nostalgia, or perhaps homesickness, that stabs through his heart as his brain makes the connection to Jabberwock Island.
It’s foolish for him to feel so melancholic about that distant archipelago. There was no abrupt separation, no sudden volcano that rendered the sandy shores to twisted clumps of igneous rock. Just a boat and a destination and no one but Hinata to wave goodbye, the others having long since abandoned the island for greener pastures.
For a single, selfish moment, he wonders if Hinata misses him. He doubts he does.
Not that it particularly matters either way. But a pathetically soft part of him wishes for some sort of comfort in this new place. There’s no telling what will happen when—there’s no if , Komaeda knows better than to deny the inevitability of bad luck—the townspeople unearth his despairful past. Maybe they’ll burn him at the stake, or behead him, or impale him. It’ll be ironic, maybe. Though he can’t find it in him to laugh.
He resolves to take a shower later, just so he won’t be too unsightly at his execution. But that involves mustering enough energy to stand from the bed, and his pathetic excuse for a body refuses to do even that.
He truly is useless.
And, predictably, he does nothing more than sit listlessly till the sun dips below the horizon. Stock still until his tired bones give out and he slumps sideways onto the mattress.
But his agonizing proves pointless, as no one comes for him that night.
Nor the next.
Or the next.
Or the next.
Soon enough he stops staying up all night awaiting a pitchfork wielding mob. Stops picking his outfits with grossly meticulous care so he may die looking somewhat presentable. And he stops agonizing over dying because now he must actually live . And thus arises an existential sense of terror as he realizes he doesn’t know just how long he’ll have to suffer doing so.
At least the backdrop of his depressing existence is pretty. Pelican Town is so far removed from the red atmosphere and burning ozone he’s familiar with that it’s as if he’d tripped and stumbled back into his high school years. There’s an overarching sense of community that makes his stomach churn. Not because it’s something to turn his nose at, but because the mere possibility that it could ever include him is impossible to think about.
(Secretly, he takes a dark sort of pleasure in being new there. In having no one to turn to, to familiarize himself with, to be a forgettable speck on the wall that no one bothers to speak to).
So when the new farmer becomes the talk of the town, and he finds himself dragged into lively conversations he has no right taking part in, he can’t help but be a bit bitter (though he hates himself for it regardless). It’s just…the townspeople speak to him so freely. Telling him how their grandfather died, the poor dear, that’s how they got the deed. You know, George and I grew up with the man, a kind soul he was. Always treated that old farm like it was his own child. It’s gone to the dogs nowadays, real shame… And it’s not like he has the right to shun their kindness, but he wishes they’d understand the fruitlessness of engaging a pitiful slug like him and leave him alone.
At least this ‘Farmer’ character has the sense not to talk to him, he muses, looking out from his window as the farmer in question casts their fishing rod into the sea. They’d spent the past few minutes combing through the sand, shoving shells and the like into the bottomless pockets of their overalls until the fabric bulged. Only to then fumble with their pole for quite a bit before managing to feed the line into the ocean. It’s an endearing sort of struggle, the toes of their work boots sinking into the wet sand as they shift their weight from one foot to another.
Not that he’s been watching or anything.
And he’s definitely not watching when they turn their head and catch his eye, sending him a beaming smile unlike any he’s ever seen before.
No one looks at him like that, no one should ever look at him like that. His stomach flips with self-directed revulsion as they offer him a jaunty wave, his arms stiff at his sides as he makes no move to return the gesture. He doesn’t deserve to.
It’s then that their rod jumps, the smile fades, and the Farmer engages the pole in a brutal tug of war until the tension snaps. Sending them tumbling end over end until they wind up flat on their ass. Nothing to show for their efforts except a bundle of green bunched up on the hook.
They laugh uproariously, happily, so loud that he can hear it, and they reach out for the hook and untangle the clump of vegetation and—and—and—
“Oh, it’s not my place to judge, but—and see, it was the strangest thing—they took the seaweed right off the hook and ate it,” Komaeda recounts the story with mild, blustering horror. The muted conversations of the Stardrop Saloon serving as a distant backdrop to his theatrics. The bar isn’t something he frequents, preferring to keep to his own devices. But it’s late enough that only the most war-worn and weary still sit at the polished counters, so he’ll let the indulgence slide.
(Sometimes he likes to entertain the fantasy of them finding out his past allegiances and smashing bottles into his head until his skull caves in. It’s one of his kinder imaginings).
“Eh, I knew a guy who ate someone’s fucking leg once. It ain’t that weird,” his unlucky companion, Shane, responds. Nursing a beer with a grim sense of obligation. The man is a recluse, and the two of them are two crazy eggs in the same mental basket . Meaning that Shane lets Komaeda talk at him for however long he’s sober enough to understand words, and Komaeda loathes how willing he is to do so.
Shane’s one of the only townspeople to talk about the Tragedy, having moved into the idealistic town from the much less polished Zuzu City. Komaeda likes to hear Shane’s ‘war’ stories. It’s a bizarre sort of penance, to force himself to bear the weight of what he’s done on a much more personal scale.
(He entertains the thought of telling Shane just what he is sometimes. He wouldn’t stop him if he were to smash his bottle against the countertop and force the shards into his stomach).
“Besides, the Farmer’s just like that,” Shane continues, a conspiratorial air about him as he hunches in and pitches his voice down as if he were sharing government secrets. “They were fishin’ outside of Marnie’s all day yesterday, thought they didn’t get a single bite. But then Willy tells me he’d never had so much business in one day before. Fuckin’ insane. Where the hell are they hiding all that stuff? They were completely empty handed when they packed up.”
“Their pockets,” Komaeda answers simply.
“Buh,” Shane brings the bottle up to his lips and downs the rest of it in one hearty swallow. Stifling a belch into his sleeve only because Komaeda’s been passive aggressive about his carelessness. “Don’t worry ‘bout the kid. You know where they came from—” He doesn’t. “—They’ll get their farming kick and then fuck off to one of the safe zones. They won’t last long here, too boring.”
He doesn’t linger on why that thought makes something ache in his ribs. It’s for the best.
But they don’t leave. And three weeks later, the picturesque greenery of the Flower Dance gracing Komaeda’s eyes, it seems Shane has changed his tune.
“I’m telling you, Marnie had me drop off half a dozen chickens at their place and the ground’s completely clear ,” Shane hisses, ladling a third serving of punch into his cup and slamming the concoction down. “Ugh, Pam spiked it again— anyways , they’re like a damn machine, the Farmer. There used to be hundreds of trees there. Sebastian, Sam, and Abigail are probably pissed, that farm was their smoking spot.”
Komaeda hums noncommittally, feeling out of place in his shambled together outfit and barely wrangled hair. The air is heavy with the sweet perfume of tulips and blue jazz, fluttery white dresses like the whispering gauze of butterfly wings skimming the tops of perfect green grass. The girls primping their hair as the men fidget uncomfortably in starchy blue suits.
He’s been avoiding the festivals for this very reason. He’s nothing but a blight. Interrupting the atmosphere, interrupting tradition, interrupting—
The Farmer isn’t dressed up either.
He notices them, across the crowd, giving him a nod and flicking the brim of their raggedy straw hat (they’d won the thing in last week's Egg Festival. A brutal, ruthless victory) as if to say look! We’re the same, you and me— or maybe he’s just delusional. He’s always been delusional.
“—if they keep this up they’re gonna be the richest person in Stardew Valley. Fuck, might just shack up with them to get a piece of that pie,” Shane’s been speaking this whole time, but Komaeda’s too focused on the rhythmic plucking of a harp and the Farmer’s clumsy movements to listen. Their laughter ringing over the music as they join his neighbor, that writer character, in dance.
It’s only after the Farmer stumbles over, only after they extend an invitation to their farm to him, and only after the townspeople head off into the night that he realizes just what Shane said and almost falls flat on his face with the realization.
It’s when he remembers the Farmer’s invitation that he actually falls.
And maybe that crash has finally sloughed off his rotting brain from the softened insides of his skull, because he later finds himself following the worn path up to the farm with the same cadence as those marching to the guillotine. A conflicting sense of obligation and utter self loathing slowing his steps to a snail's pace. Because how dare he refuse the invitation, but also how dare he accept. How dare he turn his nose up at such kindness, and how dare he receive it in the first place.
Those thoughts swirl in his head until his brain is nothing but a bubbling miasma of pitious sludge. But all comes to a halt when he steps foot on the grounds and realizes the full scale of what the Farmer has accomplished. And the sight knocks all thoughts from his heavy head.
Shane was right, the dense forest is completely cleared. The soil lovingly tilled in neat rows that stretch across the farmlands up to the surrounding stone walls. Plants peek up from the earth as the greenery sparkles with a dewey freshness that speaks of quality care. Animals roam across the plains with meandering steps. Barns and coops and other such buildings already erected in random spots in the square. There’s a scatteredness to the placement of it all, but it hints to some grander plan that he can’t begin to imagine.
He thinks, nostalgically, of blooming things and hope bursting forth from the earth. Of disgusting naivety and optimism that shattered like glass beneath the pointed tip of a dangling spear. Sunlight tickles his cheeks with a lighthearted threat to turn pale skin crimson, and for a moment he thinks of fire. Fire that stinks of sweet gasoline, fire in his legs, fire in his lungs, fire that…that…
The Farmer waves from one of the soil beds and memories of cloying smoke dissipate in the breeze. They fix him with the same beaming grin they wore at the beach, dirt smudged on their cheek as they uselessly wipe their hands on their pants and bound up to him enthusiastically. He’s still struck dumb when they grab his hand and pull him along, their skin calloused and rough as the grit of dirt rubs between their palms. The radiating warmth of touch all he can focus on as he’s herded from one landmark to another. Somehow, he’s roped into the harvest as heaps and heaps of strawberries are loaded into the basket he’s suddenly been made to carry. The simplicity of it all making something within him turn to mush. Like fruit warmed beneath the sun, skin ready to give beneath your teeth.
And when evening turns to dusk and the farm is lit with the soft glow of torchlight, he suddenly snaps back to awareness with a warm bowl of soup in his hands. Sitting on the edge of the farmhouse porch with the Farmer it belongs to, knocking knees. Such sweet familiarity that it makes his insides crawl up his throat with shame. Choking him as he fights not to buckle over and spill the bowl perched atop his lap.
Because how could he forget . Forget who he was, forget what he is. Forget the despair that shadows his footsteps like a salivating dog ready to sink its teeth into every precious thing. He’s so stupid, useless, can’t even abide by one simple rule.
Shame curdles in his gut when he agrees to come back again.
(Selfish, selfish Komaeda. They should slit his throat and bury his emancipated corpse in the compost. Leave him with the worms like he deserves).
And he comes back again, and again, and again. Each time vowing that it will be the last, but ultimately finding himself trudging up that familiar path regardless. Slipping into normality with such ease that it scares him. Reminds him of a simulated world without talent he's convinced himself was a farce. A ruse, a reflection of nothing but his greatest fears (not his greatest desire. Couldn’t be, can’t be. He refuses to think of it).
He’s truly useless when it comes to this Farmer. Utterly and completely without shame, without restraint. Without the careful walls of distance he’s built up to keep people safe.
The Farmer isn’t safe. Not when they smile at him like that, not when they press delicate fruits and blossoming flowers into his hands with a glint in their eyes, not when they collapse feet from their bed and have to be tucked beneath the sheets. Not when they’re, not when they’re…
(Couldn’t be, can’t be. He refuses to think of it).
Months pass, the sweltering heat of summer cooling to fall, and he once again wallows in pity at the Stardrop Saloon. The familiar sight of Shane at his side almost comforting as Komaeda stagnates and draws flies with his filth.
“So, uh, you catch the gridball game?” Shane asks half heartedly, clearly not into the whole comforting business.
“No.” Komaeda hasn’t trusted TVs since…for awhile. Always afraid that Monokuma’s Gloomy Sunday will start playing and he’ll choke to death on his own spit.
(He isn’t scared of dying so much as he is at what he might see. He’s not ready for that torture).
As if reading his mind, Shane continues. “Pelican Town isn’t like that, believe me, I wasn’t eager to turn the thing on either. But they have their own channels here, reruns and the like. None of that kooky brainwashing shit…”
His sentence trails off, the man visibly perking up like a trained dog as the door creaks open and loping footsteps come nearer and nearer. It’s then that the Farmer eclipses their little corner with a lopsided smile, pulling out a plate of food from some forsaken pocket of existence and setting it in front of Shane. The smallest slip of a grin passes over Shane’s face as he grabs one of the steaming peppers from the dish and shoves the cheesy mess into his mouth, garbling a thank you that sounds far too sincere for the man Komaeda knows.
The Farmer smiles, and Komaeda ducks his head sharply even though the look isn’t even aimed at him. Staring intently down at the knotted wood of the bartop as the Farmer makes their rounds across the bar, handing out gifts and trinkets to an audience of happy gasps and gratitude.
“Mm, the Farmer really is kind,” Komaeda observes placidly, tracing a dark whorl with the tip of his finger. Something almost like jealousy piercing his insides with a sharp, ugly stab. “To even breathe the same air as someone like me…”
Shane makes a mocking noise in the back of his throat, though it’s muffled around a mouthful of pepper poppers. “Look up, dumbass.”
And he does, regretting it almost immediately as he’s met with the Farmer in all their glory mere inches in front of him. His heart does a wheezy little stutter that tattoos an uneasy staccato beat against his rib cage. Hammering so loud he worries they may hear it.
“Ah, hello…” an awkward smile slips across his face, pleasantly neutral in the hopes they won’t notice his still pounding heart. “What brings you— oh!”
Any hopes of simple niceties crumble underfoot as he’s faced with the Farmer’s open fist right under his nose. Sparkling blue overtaking his vision as the heavy weight of a gemstone is passed into his limply awaiting hands. The thing is heavy , and unbelievably big. It’s roughly the size of both his fists stacked atop each other, he can’t even fully wrap his fingers around its circumference. His reflection catches on the polished edges, a look of wide eyed astonishment mirrored a thousand times over in the refined cut of the gemstone.
“Hah, what is this…?” He turns the stone over in his hands, the weight of it threatening to tip over his shaking fingertips and fall to the floor.
The Farmer grins, proud and beaming as they shake their head and rock his world with just two syllables.
Komaeda pales. “A diamond!?” Suddenly the stone— diamond —becomes that much heavier in his hands. “Is this…did you really intend to give this to me? ”
Their smile only seems to widen, unaware of the roiling tangle in Komaeda’s stomach as they jauntily nod, tugging at the ends and drawing the ropes of his intestines into a Gordian knot. A twitching bundle of something impossible to name. Gross and wet and better off left in the bin.
It’s then that Shane looks over and whistles, the sound low and admiring as his eyes lock onto the glimmering jewel. “Now that’s one hell of a rock. Lucky find, Farmer.”
“Mm, lucky indeed,” Komaeda murmurs, the edges of the diamond winking at him beneath the buttery barlight. Ringing with tinkling, distant laughter that makes his hair stand on end. “…thank you.”
With that, the Farmer’s toothy grin softens and curls into a gentler, but still immeasurably fond, smile. Warmth dappling their cheeks as they squint from the sincerity of their expression. They reach up to readjust the drooping brim of their straw hat, pressing their lips together in a way that seems so inviting and he’s suddenly struck with the urge to—
He flushes just remembering that moment. Sinking further into the pool as the steam of the bathhouse curls in the air, nose skimming the top of the water as warmth cocoons him from below. There is no sound except for the rush of the pipes, an echo chamber for his thoughts to violently ricochet.
(To fantasize like this so shamelessly, he should drown himself. Or no, boil alive like some knobbly headed crustacean. That’d be more fitting for a pest like him).
Pelican Town’s spa is rundown, but familiar. And blissfully, thankfully, empty. At this point, he’s not sure if anyone else knows it’s here. But perhaps that’s for the best. He pities whoever would be so unlucky to see him in this state. His sickly, unsightly body on full display.
He cuts his hand through the frothing water to punctuate that thought. Purposefully ignoring the stump of his left arm (his prosthetic is safely detached a few feet away. Hinata swore up and down that it was waterproof, but he’s learned not to take chances) and the phantom twang it emits as he sends waves rippling in his wake. His fingers distort under the surface of the water, skin washed out and eerily pale beneath the lights. Ghostly in color like the bleached underbelly of a clam shell. Gross, so gross.
His quickly darkening thoughts are interrupted by a rogue splash of water. He jumps, bubbles shooting up his nose as he straightens and turns toward the noise, stomach dropping to his toes as he’s faced with what must be ultimate bad luck. The Farmer, smile wide and unashamed as they dip a tentative toe into the water. They look completely beat, to put it bluntly. His focus narrows so quickly on the bags under their eyes that it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize they’ve come into the water.
A beat passes and all of a sudden they’re so close. Nothing too scandalous, but enough so that he’s now keenly aware of exactly how much space is between them. Of how easy it would be to push off the floor and bump chest to chest.
He bites back the nervous laughter before it can spill past his lips. “What a funny coincidence, eheh, seeing you here. Seems we had the same idea, hm?” Their response is a gleeful one despite the tiredness etched into the lines of their face. Already their spirits seemed to have lifted, surely the warmth of the bath has done them some good. “You’ve been very busy nowadays. Though I guess that’s to be expected, what with the season. Please, ignore me and get some rest.”
The Farmer sighs, blowing bubbles with the exhalation as they sink further into the water. Eyelids flagging at half mast as they blink up at him lazily, each close of their eyes becoming slower and more drawn out until they shut altogether.
“Hey, are you falling asleep?” he drifts forward just a bit, “that’s…really not a good idea.” His hand curls into a fist unconsciously, anxiously fidgeting as he wars over what to do. Eventually, with a gentility he hardly believes he’s capable of, he reaches forward and touches his fingers to their shoulder. “Hey…”
A gentle splash of water smacks his chest and touches his face. He sputters, blinking beads of water out of his eyes as his hair flattens and sticks unpleasantly to his cheeks. His vision clears to a playful smirk and squinted, sparkling eyes, and his poor stomach is made to do another flip.
“Ahah, very funny,” he can’t even force his tone into something reprimanding when faced with that look. “You…uhm…”
He falters, caught completely and utterly off guard as careful fingers touch his face. Warmth bleeds across his cheek as rough knuckles brush dripping strands of hair out of his eyes. The calloused pad of the Farmer’s thumb dragging pointedly across his cheekbone as they tuck a scraggly lock behind his ear. He can’t tell if it’s the heat or the contact that flushes his skin pink, but the very tips of his ears burn and his head spins with the dizzying steam rising around him.
His gaze drops, the heated flush of his skin becoming that much more pronounced as he catches an eyeful of their bare chest. There’s no escape for him, he realizes. Sweat pools on his brow as he watches water droplets gather and drip down their throat. He almost misses their next words, so distracted by the heat broiling in and around him.
“ Pretty? Hah, you flatter me, really, but there’s no need to lie. I know what I look like,” his easy smile wavers as their other hand rises to cup the opposite side of his face. Their palms squishing inwards and forcing his head to shake in a sort of playful admonishment. He can’t stop the nervous laughter from bubbling up now, like carbonation pressing against a cork. Their eyes follow his lips when he talks. “Alright, alright, it seems I can’t account for lack of taste.” A frown curls their lips downwards, and he notes that they’re no longer shaking his head but instead drawing him in closer .
And right then is when the rusted old pipes above them creak and groan and burst.
There’s not even time to blink before a flood of freezing cold water slams into them both, triggering a mad, flailing rush out of the pool and through the door. They stumble out into the main hall, the pounding of water against tile echoing from behind. The bad luck he’d been so anxious about finally arrived. Sputtering wetly, he keels over, spitting up metallic tasting water as he shakes, not with the cold, but with the creeping beginnings of a terror he’s oh so familiar with. Funny, the fear he’s been shackled with all his life has now become so overwhelming after a short period of (relative) peace. Pathetic.
“Ah, I’m sorry for all this,” he apologizes, teeth chattering as he curls his arms around himself. He freezes as the farmer suddenly pulls a random towel over his shoulders, carefully tucking the corners to help stave off the cold. He has no choice but to yield as they grip his arms and guide him down into a chair. The guilt is stifling. “Don’t waste time with me, surely you have better things to do.”
They click their tongue and emphatically shake their head, pressing something cool and metallic into his remaining hand. It’s his prosthetic, forgotten by him in the scuffle. When had they gotten the chance to grab it? He can’t even find the words to give thanks as he slips it on, though he realizes soon after that the machinery won’t respond. Fingers stubbornly locked in an open grip.
It seems they’ve realized too. And with the same care as before, they take his metal hand between their own and gently work the joints of his fingers. Brows drawn in focus as they murmur quietly to themselves. They tap along the metal plates with assured movements, eventually looking up to him with a hopeful chirp of triumph. One that he can’t help but echo in astonishment.
“ You can fix it? ”
And fix it is what they set off to do. But not before drying him off, and getting dressed, and mending the pipes, and combing the beach, and propping up scarecrows, and fishing by the river, and churning eggs into mayonnaise, and stopping by the quarry, and…you get the idea. He follows them throughout the course of the day (perhaps just a touch guilty, a little indebted. Or maybe he’s just lovesick). Thrown by the efficiency he’s seen only in the likes of Hinata-Kamukura. He watches, awestruck, as they hold a shimmering purple pickaxe overhead and slam it down with such practiced precision and measured strength it splits a rock cleanly in two. Gathering dust covered ingots in hand and counting them out like a stingy peddler before shoving them into their pack, shaking their head.
They bid him goodnight with a toothy smile and an arching wave. And he feels, deep in his bones, a blooming acceptance for the love warming his heart.
It rains the next day. Needling pellets that sting even through his clothing. His left jacket sleeve is rolled up and tied into a knot at the end of his arm. He feels far too exposed without it. Too many memories threatening to well up when he sees that starburst of scar tissue.
Lost in thought and moving on autopilot, he marches up that familiar path to the farm, shoes leaving muddy imprints in the dirt as he walks. He steps onto the grounds and follows along the set paths, once empty spaces now filled in with fences and buildings and other such things. The air is still, the animals tucked away in their shelters as a hush falls over the greening crops. Earthy scents perfume the heavy laden breeze, and the sprinklers lay dead where they’re grounded in the soil. There’s no need for them today.
He traces the tops of the fences absentmindedly with his fingers as he walks, turning the bend towards the farmhouse only to pause in step. Where there should be the Farmer stands that bearded man from up in the mountains, gray hair sleek beneath the wet as he hammers away at a splintered fence.
Komaeda’s gut twists as he raises his one hand in greeting, smile no doubt strained. “Hello! It’s coming down hard, isn’t it?”
The man—Linus, was it?—stares at him blankly. Rivulets of water dripping from his sopping wet beard and adding to the muddy puddle beneath him.
“Eheh, you wouldn’t happen to know where the Farmer is, would you?” he asks, voice trailing off at the end with an anxious timbre. Linus’s stoney expression softens once the mention of the Farmer passes his lips.
So then he tells him.
(Oh god. Oh god, oh please. Please don’t be so cruel as to rip this away from him. Not now, not ever, not them. Please ).
And Komaeda runs.
He’s barely conscious of the rain, of the way his footing threatens to slip on the muddy ground. Heartbeat pounding in his skull in a sloshing, panicked beat. He barrels into the town’s clinic in a sopping wet maelstrom of cresting panic, tracking mud across the tile as he paces the waiting room like a caged animal. Awful, prickling static spreads inside him in a buzzing wasps nest of all consuming fear. A phantom hand of analog noise prying through the bars of his ribcage and gripping his heart. He has to keep moving or else the familiarity of this place will consume him like a ship beneath the crest of a wave. Tearing him asunder and leaving him to rot at the ocean floor.
Hospitals. He’s never been good with hospitals.
His frantic pacing soon draws attention to himself, the town doctor stepping out into the waiting room and regarding him with a haggard expression. Doctor Harvey carries boundless weight on his shoulders, anxiety visible in the quivering pupils of his dark eyes. Exhaustion clear in the harsh cut lines of his cheeks. He beckons Komaeda to the back with a tilt of his head, and Komaeda trips over his own feet in his haste to follow after.
The Farmer seems so much smaller here in this hospital bed. Their entire life amounting to nothing more than intermittent mechanical beeps from an indifferent machine. A pavlovian ache stirs in Komaeda’s bones at the sight of those papery blue sheets. He feels sick.
“Linus brought them in last night,” Harvey explains. Komaeda can only stare. “It’s nothing too bad, considering the scraps they’ve gotten into. But still, those mines are awfully dangerous. I’ve told them not to go down there, but-”
Komaeda blinks, only just processing his words. “Mines?”
“Mm?” Harvey pushes his horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yes, the mines. Horrid place, really. All that muck from…the Tragedy…has just mutated the creatures down there to another level of horror. Awful. Like I said, I’ve warned them against going down there, but apparently they need the materials. Metal and the like. I say they should just order in…”
He keeps talking, but Komaeda is already somewhere far, far away. Creeping tendrils of ice cold guilt inching up his bowing spine. It may be presumptuous, or egregiously self-important, but the pieces click together in his mind and unlock a startling rush of realization.
This is utterly, undeniably, irrevocably his fault.
Beyond just his luck cycle, this is a domino effect of awfulness triggered not by the hand of an uncaring fate, but his own rotten actions. If they didn’t need to fix his arm, if they didn’t need those metals, if they’d never met him—could this have been avoided? If he hadn’t been so indulgent of his sickening fantasies, he may have never been faced with this harrowing image. With the way the Farmer’s chest skips between breaths, barely moving. Their closed eyes underlined with a sunken pocket of black. He did that. He may as well have given them those bruises, given them those cuts, those scars. At least then they’d have the sense to be mad at him.
And, oh god, that diamond. That cursed stone that warmed his heart is now a dreary reminder of his failings. Of their— his —foolishness. To venture somewhere so perilous, for him? He’d laugh if it weren’t so depressing.
“Good thing I anticipated this,” Doctor Harvey chuckles mirthlessly, nodding towards a fully stocked cabinet of medical supplies. “Bad luck day yesterday, amirite?”
“…what?” Komaeda’s blood runs cold, pulse thrumming with anticipation. All his dreams of being found out are finally coming to fruition. Curtains pulled away to reveal his true identity as a festering scab of blackened despair.
How did he know? How could he know? Even those who had the misfortune of knowing him didn’t understand his luck cycle. So how-
“That fortune teller program on TV sure is something, huh?” Doctor Harvey continues speaking as if he hasn’t shocked Komaeda to his core. “It’s like…the canaries they send into mines, yeah? Oh, sorry, bad wording.” He winces at his analogy.
Komaeda says nothing in response, throat gumming up so that he couldn’t even if he wanted to. He feels gutted, insides scooped out with a spoon, nerves spread thin and run through with an electric current. He needs to sleep eight hours ago. His feet are being pulled down into the earth. He’s barely conscious of himself as Doctor Harvey herds him out of the door. So by the time he realizes he’s no longer beside the Farmer, the door of the clinic is locked behind him.
Thoroughly beaten, he walks back to his cabin without a fight, the rush of the sea at his doorstep perfectly mirroring his buzzing absence of thoughts. Silently, he steps through the doorway and allows the door to fall shut behind him. The click of the lock echoing like a gunshot in the morgue-like quiet of his room.
“Fortune teller, huh,” Komaeda finally speaks, the sudden sound of his voice making him wince. He isn’t quite sure what to feel as he moves to turn on the old analog TV that came with his cabin, fear long since numbed like bleeding gums shot with novocaine as he fiddles with the dial. After all, Monokuma’s Gloomy Sunday pales in comparison to whatever is waiting for him once the static clears.
The screen comes to life with a fuzzy rush over the speakers, blue light revealing a robed woman with a pulsating star symbol clutched in hand.
“ Ah... I sense that a new viewer has joined us. A young man from... Stardew Valley? Welcome, welcome!” Komaeda startles at the otherworldly droll of the woman’s voice, put off by the piercing quality of her gaze as she spears him with her endless eyes. How could she… “ Mmm, yes, the spirits are very happy today! They will do their best to shower everyone with good fortune.”
The screen fades to black and Komaeda dumbly flicks off the TV. He laughs, quietly. More of an exhale than anything. It’s funny, after all. Funny that his latent fears have kept him from finding this channel, of unlocking the one thing that could have eased a lifetime of paranoia. Who is this woman, what gives her the right. The right to uproot and assign reason to the tremulous uncertainty that has dictated his entire life. It’s not fair. Not fair for him to find this now, when it’s far too late to change anything. He can’t even look forward to the good luck that’s sure to come with how low his mood has dropped. Can’t even begin to wrap his head around the logic of this whole mess.
He moves to run his hands through his hair and grits his teeth in frustration when he recognizes the stump of his arm. Thumping the limb against his head as if that would do anything more than knock his brain about inside his skull.
(He should die, right here, right now. He doesn’t care for the means, he simply wants this to stop ).
He doesn’t know how long he remains like that, trapped in the fugue of his own spiraling thoughts. A minute, an hour, who knows. But regardless, he wakes to a gentle rap of knuckles against wood, awareness only returning once he opens the door and sees who’s on the other side.
It’s them, the Farmer. Smile unchanged as they stand merrily at his doorstep as if nothing had happened. Arms outstretched and gift in hand as if it were just another uneventful day in Pelican Town. He almost doesn’t want to look at what they’re holding, but it's unavoidable once they thrust it straight into his line of vision.
It’s his prosthetic. Polished and glistening beneath the setting sun rays that manage to parse through the rain clouds. But all he can think of when he looks at the metal is the sickly frame of the farmer silhouetted by hospital blue. His fingers limply curl around the metal forearm, but no strength is placed behind the motion. The Farmer still awkwardly holding onto the arm as they wait for him to grab it.
He refuses to do so.
“You should leave,” he says, forcing firmness into his voice that feels awkward around the edges. They frown, pushing the prosthetic against his open palms in a proffering motion. “Please, don’t bother. It’s best if you’d just go.” He’s reminded, suddenly and unpleasantly, of the Neo World Program. Of standing in the Monokuma Archives and watching Hinata leave with only the slightest hint of regret shadowing his smile.
But the Farmer doesn’t leave, lips tugging further downward as they tilt their head and boldly sidestep Komaeda, shuffling past the doorway and into his cabin. Determination sharp in their eyes.
“You—” Komaeda turns, feeling uneasy in his very own home. “You’re not much of a listener, are you? I asked— told you to leave.”
They furrow their brow, extending the pointer finger of his prosthetic and aiming it towards him with a commanding flourish. Gesturing with it as they speak.
“I don’t need to explain anything to you,” he interrupts, gaining his footing and shrugging on callousness as if it were an old coat. “Why would I? It’s not like we’re friends.” The hurt in their expression is enough to cleave his heart in two. But it’s not like it matters, he’s telling the truth. They can’t, shouldn’t, see him as a friend. “You don’t even know me.”
Stubbornly, foolishly, they insist the opposite.
“ You don’t even know me ,” he repeats, “you don’t know anything.” And they don’t, do they. No one does. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you could possibly understand.”
The Farmer throws their hands up—his too, still clutched preciously between their fingers—and brings them down in a pleading motion. There’s no more upset in their expression, that steely determination from before now coloring their face in brilliant contrast. Their voice wavers slightly at the end of their sentences.
He hates it, hates them, hates them all.
(He can’t. Of course he can’t).
“You’re wasting time, both mine and yours. Stop thinking yourself so important that I would just up and tell you everything. That sort of naïveté makes me sick,” his words are getting away from, he’s lost track of just what he’s saying. “The things I’ve done, if you had any idea you’d never have bothered with scum like me.”
They stop, blinking slow as an infuriating look of understanding dawns on their face. Speaking one word that makes him freeze in place.
His throat works around a leaden lump of uncertainty. “Towa City? And what about it?” Their answer makes the world stop spinning on its axis, confidence thoroughly shattered. “You’re… from Towa City?”
They nod, and suddenly so much makes sense and yet nothing does. If that’s the case then…then…
He laughs, quiet giggles escaping him as he presses his fingers to his lips in a vain attempt to quell the sound. “I’m sorry, the tables have turned, haven’t they? Truly I’m the stupid one, shouting at you for not understanding when you know better than anyone else,” he curls his arms around himself, missing the grip around his right as his fingers dig into his left bicep. “But still…it’s best if you leave. Forever, hopefully, for your own sake. Surely you know what a mistake it is to be around a Remnant of Despair? Especially one as horribly unfortunate as I.” They stay silent, he’s not sure if he wants them to or not. “Will you tell the townsfolk? You should. What awful luck for someone like me! Predator turned prey as I’m hunted down and strung up for my crimes. It’s what I deserve, right? After all the people I killed, whether at my hand or as consequence of my miserable existence, there’s no safe haven for me.” He pauses, a furrow digging between his brows as his fingers relax their death grip on his sleeve. “And yet…if you knew this whole time…then why…why…” His voice is pathetically, childishly small. “Why would you grab my hand like that, way back when?”
They say nothing, still. Only reaching out to the stump of his left arm in a silent bid for permission. He acquiesces, and they take it gently in hand as they carefully work his prosthetic into place, already familiar with its workings. Movement returns to his frozen hand as the mechanics whir to life, and he tells himself he can feel it as their fingers intertwine with his metal ones. Their eyes, so gentle, so forgiving, locking onto his own as their opposite hand threads into the fine hairs at the back of his neck. Easing him down into a kiss he eagerly reciprocates.
(In this blissful moment, there are no voices running in the background
And when they hand him the bouquet they’d stuffed into their overall pockets, petals rumpled and stems slightly bent, he can’t say yes fast enough).