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Hina thought that being in a killing game, living every single day, every single moment scared out of her mind that something might happen to her or her friends, would be the hardest thing she’d ever have to go through.
That thought, she thinks, was only made worse by the fact that there were moments — more than she cares to admit to herself — that she was afraid every day would be her last. Maybe death, she’d thought to herself a few times, wouldn’t be so bad after all. At least it would serve as a respite from the fear, the stress. There were times that she thought the fear would be the thing to kill her instead of one of her fellow classmates.
Her classmates. It’s impossible not to think of them as that, to think of them as anything else — even though she doesn’t have a single memory of them all ever even attending class together. Nothing but a handful of photos filled with smiling faces, depicting a happier time.
Honestly, she’s still not convinced those weren’t photoshopped. After all, how was it possible that they’d all lived alongside Junko for so long, and not one of them had suspected even a single thing about her and what she intended to do: to them, to herself, to the entire world?
Now, technically safe from the killing game in the supposedly capable hands of the Future Foundation, Hina wishes someone had told her how hard this part was going to be. Not being in the killing game, but the aftermath. The part where everyone’s expecting her to go back to something resembling a normal life — pretending like such a thing is even possible in the first place.
At least it’s not just her, not now and not ever. She’s not alone, and she knows she won’t be ever again. The others are still by her side, even if they’re all in different rooms and the nurses are insistent on them all staying apart in order to get as much rest as possible.
She isn’t the only one who wakes up screaming. She isn’t the only one who has to stop herself from attacking and lashing out when the doctors get too close. She isn’t the only one constantly looking over her shoulder, convinced that she’s seeing someone who isn’t there, who can’t be there because they’re gone and they’re not coming back.
Still, even though she’s with people who know her better than she could ever know herself, Hina is the loneliest she has ever been.
How long has it been since she’s felt the touch of another human being?
The nurses touch her, but she’s come to associate that touch with pain, with discomfort. When they touch her, it’s usually accompanied by the sharp sting of a needle, or the prodding and poking associated with their routine physical checkups. The others, when she sees them, brush their hands against hers in a show of solidarity, but that’s all.
Maybe that’s all they need. Maybe they’re not like her, who needs physical touch from someone she loves like she needs air to breathe; after all, she can’t imagine Byakuya or Kyoko needing comfort or reassurance from another.
Whatever they share — whatever they are involved in with Makoto — it’s something different. Hina’s seen the way they look at each other: the longing glances, full of understanding and a dozen emotions that she knows they’d rather die than figure out how to put into words.
She knows those all too well. She still sees the same look on her own face every time she looks in a mirror — every time she can stand to look in one. It’s hard to, when she doesn’t recognize the girl she sees: someone half starved, half exhausted. Half dead.
Here in the Foundation, Hina is suffocating.
If she stays here alone in her room for one more second — like she has yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that — she thinks she’ll go crazy. Crazier than she already is, anyway.
Kicking the sheets off of herself, Hina pulls her robe further around herself and pads off down the hallway. She’s memorized the locations of the others' rooms already. In her dreams, when she isn’t trapped in those four walls of Hope’s Peak, she visits them. Sometimes they’re the ones convincing her to run; sometimes it’s the other way around.
The end result is always the same: the six of them burst out of the Foundation, hand in hand, and run off into the distance. Into freedom, together.
The dream always ends there, though. She never gets to see what exactly freedom would look like. Maybe it’s because her brain has no idea, no image to fill in even for her subconscious.
Now, there’s really only one room to go to, one path to follow. She doesn’t want to intrude on the trio — that’s what she’s taken to calling them in her head — when they’ll no doubt be together right now. And Toko...that’s complicated. She feels for the other girl, she really does, and while they’re both survivors together, Hina still doesn’t trust her. She wonders if she ever will.
Her last remaining option — though it feels rude to think of him as such — is sitting up on his bed, gazing at the crystal ball perched in his lap. He’s so engrossed in whatever he sees that he doesn’t even notice she’s there until the click of the door closing makes him nearly jump.
“Hina!” he says, pasting on a smile to hide his sudden alarm. She pretends she doesn’t notice it; that’s the only apology she can offer. She doesn’t think he would appreciate a verbal one. “I knew you’d come!”
“Really?” asks Hina, taking a seat on the chair next to his bed. They all have one, mostly used by the doctors whenever they come by to give test results, or other news that they know isn’t something anyone likes to hear. She wonders if Hiro prefers her sitting here instead of them — someone who isn’t just here to tell him how far he is from recovery, to chide him to eat more or sleep more. “Did you see it in your crystal ball?”
“Sure did,” says Hiro.
Honestly, Hina had her doubts about his Ultimate Talent at the beginning. She’s peered into his crystal ball at his invitation more times than she could count, and never once has she seen anything. It’s nicer, though, to believe in him and what he can do. Besides, the effects of it are still clear.
“So, what’s up?” he asks. “Wanna sneak down to the kitchen? I hear the nurses have a hidden stash of donuts down there.” The end of his sentence turns up enticingly, but she shakes her head anyway.
“I just…” Hina trails off.
She doesn’t even know why she came here, how to ask for something she doesn’t even know is an option.
“I can’t sleep,” she says finally. It’s not a lie — and by the dark circles under his eyes, he’s no stranger to that either — but compared to what she needs, it’s an understatement, merely skirting around the edge of the problem.
Hiro watches her for a moment, surprisingly shrewd. She’s told him before, in bits and pieces, about all of the things she’s done with Sakura, but it still doesn’t prepare her for the way he scoots over, gesturing to the empty half of his bed with a knowing look. She wonders if he saw this in his crystal ball too.
She doesn’t hesitate before taking him up on the offer. He’s warm and tall by her side, and even without her asking, his arms come to wrap around her. Hina rests her head on his chest, averting her eyes so that he won’t see her cry.
The touch helps, more than she thought it would — more than she let herself hope it would — but in its absence, the emptiness leaves behind a whirlwind of questions. Hiro holds her tighter, almost like he knows. Tracing a stray thread on his hospital gown, Hina lets herself wonder.
If things had been different, could she have fallen in love with him instead? Would things have been different if she had loved someone who was still here, someone who she could see and touch and who could wrap their arms around her, instead of a ghost she’ll be chasing forever?
“Hiro,” she asks softly. “Have you ever been in love?” He’s silent for so long that she wonders if he’s fallen asleep, but finally, he speaks. His other hand comes up to softly card through her hair, nails scratching against her scalp. He’s good at this, she thinks; her eyelids begin to droop.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe.” He doesn’t ask her the same question back. He doesn’t need to.
Hina wonders, for a moment, if there’s something he’s keeping from her, something he’s not telling her. Something his crystal ball would have been more forthcoming with revealing.
She can’t help but think too that maybe she’s taking advantage of him by being here; no sooner has that thought occurred to her, though, Hiro’s arm tightens around her waist, as though he knows what she’s thinking and is trying his best to push that thought out of her head. It works, surprisingly enough.
Maybe she doesn’t need to talk herself out of this. She’ll deal with the consequences later — but maybe right now, she can just let herself enjoy this moment. Just let herself feel.
Hina closes her eyes. Hiro’s heart pounds rhythmically against her ear, and it sounds like hope.
Tonight, she thinks, she’ll dream of freedom.