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"I always tell them to surprise me," Nagito says. "Usually I find something new that I like!"
The cashier looks bored. "Got it. Surprise. Regular sweetness, regular ice?" she asks, monotone.
Nagito pulls out some cash. "Half sweet. Extra ice." He turns back to Hajime. "What do you want?"
The menu has too many options. Hajime always gets overwhelmed. The different options almost look like they're floating off the page. Taro. Mango. Caramel. Matcha. "Uh, milk tea with pearls. Regular sweetness. Regular ice."
"Of course you would get that," Nagito says, and turns back. "I'll buy his, too."
He counts out the money. The cashier takes it, puts it in the machine. It makes a ding noise that almost seems to echo as they turn around and take a seat.
It's snowing outside. It's getting darker. It's evening in December, and the sun went down hours ago. The bell above the door rings as a woman in a red coat steps inside, frosty air and snow swirling in around her feet before the door closes.
The booth is small. Hajime's knees knock into Nagito's, and Nagito slides around the back of the booth, to sit closer to Hajime. He puts his backpack up on the seat next to him, but doesn't open it.
Hajime clears his throat. "Homework?"
Nagito's knee bumps into his, again. Nagito smiles at him. "We haven't even gotten our drinks yet."
They're supposed to be studying, but Hajime can't remember for which class. When he opens his backpack, looking for his notebooks, there's nothing in there.
The tips of his fingers are very cold. It must be the snow.
He zips his backpack shut, puts it on the ground between his legs. He sees their drinks being placed on the counter, so he gets up to grab them, almost tripping over his backpack as he does. He grabs them, grabs two straws, and heads back.
Nagito's is filled with toppings—pearls, popping boba, grass jelly—and the tea itself is a vivid orange. He stabs in his straw, stirs, and takes a sip.
"I never would have thought of this flavour combination! Inspiring…"
Hajime's is purple. He doesn't think he ordered taro, and it says milk tea on the sticker. He takes a sip.
It tastes like milk tea.
The bell rings again. A woman in a blue coat steps out into the night. Cold air and snowflakes hit Hajime's ankles, and he crosses them.
"We should study," Hajime says, and reaches into his bag. This time, his hand closes around a notebook, and he pulls it out. BIOLOGY, it says on the front.
"I thought we were doing math…" Nagito says, and reaches into his own bag. He pulls out a biology notebook. "I guess not."
Nagito opens his notebook, makes a noise of confusion, and bends down, looking closer at the page. The writing is miniscule, so tiny that Hajime can't even read it, and he's sitting right there. The artificial yellow light from a dangling ceiling light makes Nagito's pale hair look vaguely jaundiced.
There's a pen between Hajime's fingers. He flips it, clicks it open, clicks again to close it. "Do you have the textbook?"
"No," Nagito says. "Don't you?"
He shouldn't. His bag was empty. He reaches back inside anyway, and pulls out a textbook. It's heavy, so heavy he wonders how he possibly didn't feel it before. He drops it on the chipped laminate table, in front of both of them, and opens his own notebook.
It's blank. It's entirely blank. It's December, and he doesn't have any notes.
"I'm screwed," he says.
"Hey," Nagito says, and puts a hand over his. Nagito's hand is so much warmer than the rest of this place—this shop, this city. "I'll help you."
"But look at yours," Hajime says.
Nagito closes his notebook, and opens it again. The writing is normal-sized. "It's fine. Check yours again."
Dubiously, Hajime pulls his hand away from Nagito's, and closes his notebook. He opens it again. It's full of notes, neatly labelled, with detailed illustrations.
"I knew it," Nagito says.
Hajime didn't know it. There's something wrong here. He can't figure out what it is. He's getting colder and colder. "When is the exam?"
"I don't know," Nagito says, and panic flares in Hajime's chest.
"How are we supposed to study?"
"Relax," Nagito says. "It'll work out." He puts his hand on Hajime's thigh.
There should be something wrong about that, but it doesn't feel wrong. His hand is warm, and Hajime is so cold. Nagito's hand runs up and down his thigh in slow, sweeping motions, and Hajime relaxes, leaning back against the wall of the booth.
"What school do we go to?" Hajime asks. It feels like he should know that—it's a stupid question—but somehow, he can't.
"Hope's Peak," Nagito says, "of course."
Of course. He remembers now, or thinks he does. The bell rings. The door opens. Two students walk in, two girls giggling over something as they approach the counter. The cashier is gone, but they start ordering anyway, and a moment later she pops up from behind the counter. She must have been hiding, because Hajime blinked and suddenly she was there.
Nagito's hand, still on his thigh, stops right at the top. The weight of his hand is steady, almost comforting. Has it been here before? Has Nagito touched him like this?
His tongue is thick in his mouth. "Are we," he says, and stops, because there's no way he can ask are we dating.
He can't be. He would know. And he doesn't have time for dating, does he? Certainly not with someone like—
A sharp bolt of pain cleaves his head. The table in front of him almost seems to shake, or twitch. He would say glitch , but that's not—if his vision is doing that, he's seriously fucked. Seriously, seriously fucked.
Nagito leans his head in close to Hajime, and puts his unoccupied hand over Hajime's again. His breath is light against Hajime's ear when he whispers. "Do you remember?"
His vision blurs. He sees blood and fire, and then he sees a dorm room, himself on the bed, Nagito on top of him, and then he sees sand and ocean in every direction, the glare of sunlight blinding him.
The hand on his thigh tightens its grip. He tries to breathe. The cash register dings as it opens, and then it dings again, and again, and again. He sees the ocean. He sees Nagito's smiling face against a pillow as he leans in, and a moment later it's Nagito's face with blood-splattered duct tape over the mouth. He sees a dying girl at his feet, and then the same girl looking up at him with a smile. A laughing bear. A stampede. A bloodied baseball bat. Nagito's hand in his. A desert. A world in flames, seen from above.
Hajime is drowning. He's choking. Is he Hajime, anymore?
The cash register dings again, and stops. He opens his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. In front of him is his notebook, the textbook, and their bubble teas.
"Where are we?" Hajime asks. His whole body is going cold. Outside, the snowflakes are whipping into a storm.
"I don't know," Nagito says, and takes his hand off of Hajime's thigh. His vision jolts as the contact is taken away. Nagito is the only thing tethering him to reality, and as he thinks that, he gets an overwhelming urge to laugh. He doesn't know why. "Tokyo, maybe?"
Hajime looks around the shop. There's no one else. It's dark behind the counter, and the light above them clicks off, suddenly, like the power has been disconnected. The only light is from the windows, the streetlights and the moonlight bouncing off the snow. Very suddenly, Hajime realizes that he knows, in his bones, that they're alone. They'll step outside and there will be no one there. They could walk all night and never find another person. Maybe there's no one left in the city except for them. Maybe there's no one in the world.
"I think that's our cue to leave," Nagito says, and pushes at Hajime until he stands. He picks up his bubble tea and takes a sip.
It tastes like taro now.
Outside, the moon is massive. Really massive. Unrealistically so. They step out into the snow, and Nagito grabs Hajime's hand. It's the one warm thing in this freezing place. They look at the moon, and as they watch, it blinks out.
Hajime is falling. He's nowhere. He's no one. He's falling and falling and—
"Hey… can you hear me? Are you okay?"
Hajime opens his eyes. He sees the sun. He smells the ocean. Someone is looking down at him, someone impossibly familiar, someone he's never seen before in his life.
He swallows. His mouth tastes like taro. He thinks of snow, a hand on his leg, a notebook—and then it's gone. It's like grasping at the memory of a dream once you've woken up, the images slipping through your fingers like sand.
He is lying on a beach. The unfamiliar person above him looks concerned, and for some reason, Hajime trusts him.
Maybe everything will be okay this time.