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Komaeda was never especially religious. He figured that no God would ever play so fast and loose with their subject’s life, or that if one such being did truly exist, there was nothing praying could do to make them be any bit kinder towards him.
But even so, he was fairly sure that he had to be in Hell right now.
An IV was strapped to his arm, haphazardly taped several times too many around his elbow when Tsumiki wasn’t sure that he didn’t plan on ripping it out the second she left the room. The assorted medical equipment in and outside of the room alike all made varying degrees of unsettling noises, machines that visibly hadn’t been properly looked at in years clinking oddly and others beeping intermittently, the pitch and volume different with each and every tick. It was all more familiar than he would’ve liked. It didn’t really matter.
Each and every little gust of wind that slammed into the thin glass of the window caused him to flinch, delicately woven spiderwebs spanning from windowsill to the very corner of the ceiling beside him shuddering when the panes collide with their own frame. He paid it little mind ; he had no intention of spending what could be his final days worrying about mild winds, of all things.
He could hear someone talking outside the door.
Tsumiki, maybe, or someone else there to visit Mioda and Owari. Without a clock in the room, he couldn’t really tell if it was time for Tsumiki to check on him or the others, and if it weren’t her, it certainly wouldn’t be a visitor for him . Not unreasonably so, they’d all chosen to spend as little time around him as possible after the first trial. He could understand — he’d do the same, especially in times like these.
It was a shame, really. He would’ve loved to talk to someone right now, but he wouldn’t want them to tear their attention away from what mattered most. The motive, the other two who were assuredly suffering more from this disease than he was, and anyone who could possibly be inclined to take advantage of the time of unrest — between those three things, he figures their concerns are already split up plenty enough.
Two voices, now. Close to his door, quiet enough that he almost misses both. They would surely pass him by any second now.
Both male. Not Tsumiki, then.
He wasn’t unused to it, though. The machine hooked up to him would beep shrilly at seemingly random intervals, shocking him out of hard-fought unconsciousness, and even the slightest implication of a whisper beyond the door had him waking up at the faint possibility of a visitor. Gentle and careful footsteps pittering across linoleum flooring that always made him roll over in his bed, clinging desperately to the hope that someone would come check on him before they walked right past him and down the hall. Whispers that were always loud enough that he could strain his ears and try to listen ; yet always quiet enough that he could quickly gather that it wasn’t meant to be heard by him.
..Was that Hinata?
With what little strength that could be expected of someone in his state that he could muster, he quickly propped himself up on his forearm, snapping his head towards the door and listening carefully. It was. And someone else — Kuzuryu, he thinks, but his ears feel like they’re full of water from not being able to pop them in hours — it’s strange to him that any of the other students would bother visiting the clinic considering they know next to nothing about the disease, but the excitement that floods him when he considers that maybe, maybe they were there to see him erases all of his higher brain functions in an instant.
The footsteps were getting closer. His arm finally gave out. The doorknob began to turn.
He.. really could not be sure if maybe the musty air of the hospital had finally caught up to him when they entered, the atmosphere suddenly stale and unwelcoming, or if it was the result of that shared look on their faces that spoke to great displeasure at having to be in the same room as him, but he also wasn’t entirely sure it mattered either way.
Hinata was the first to enter the room, Kuzuryu reluctantly trailing behind him and hesitating in the doorway, his hand never leaving the knob so as to hold it slightly ajar. He looked disgusted, like he’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else other than visiting him right now — a not dissimilar look was on Hinata’s face, but with his vision as blurry as it was right now, he couldn’t discern what made it different.
No matter what it was, the fact remained that they had now been standing there for well over a minute and he still didn’t know why they were there. Whatever conversation they must’ve been having before they came in seemingly died when the door opened, and not a word had been spoken since. There were words to be said. Neither of them seemed to want to do the honors of speaking them aloud.
Hinata, for all of the perceived discomfort he could glean from his expression, cleared his throat first, wringing his hands and looking anywhere but him. “So, uh. How are you.. Uhm. Feeling? Any better than before, or..” He trailed off, the starts of a frown inlaid on his face.
The room was starting to spin, his guts churning with it. Whether it was because of the sudden influx of movement being too much for him right now, or because Hinata seemed legitimately concerned regarding his wellbeing was unclear. Final death rattle or not, he was keen on ignoring it. He grips onto the edge of the bedframe, metal digging into the skin of his palm, and brushes off the way his stomach flips when he leans on it for support and tries to maneuver himself into the closest approximation of sitting up that he possibly can.
Horrible. Thanks for asking, though. Will you be staying long? “I’ve never felt better! I don’t know why you’d ever ask that. You can go now,” he chokes, a steady stream of bile rising up his throat and flooding his mouth.
The migraine that had sorted itself out some time ago had not only begun to return, but was steadily growing worse than before as the room seemed to spin in circles, distorting and undulating faster and faster with each passing second. In a sincere effort to ease their discomforts, he tried — tried is the keyword, here — leveling a lopsided smile at the two, their faces contorting with his flimsy attempt at comfort.
Kuzuryu stood stiffly behind Hinata, his posture akin to a scared cat as the already ajar door began to slide open in a way he’s sure he thinks is subtle. The tight grimace on his face only seems to deepen when he figures out that Komaeda is looking at him, and his hand that still holds onto the doorknob turns white at the knuckles with the force he’s putting into gripping it.
Hinata was tense, that same inscrutable look in his eyes as before growing more intense as he stares down at him. What was it? It wasn’t disgust. Why? It should’ve been, should’ve been disgust and hatred and disdain , but it was none of them, and it was almost mortifying because he didn’t know how to act if Hinata wasn’t any of these things. He had to be disturbed, or else Komaeda wouldn’t know what to say. He couldn’t play it up further and force him to leave if he wasn’t already irritated by him. The role he plays is only as effective as the response to it.
His arm was shaking with the exertion, going numb with every second he spent leaning on it. The room was so hot.
“That – alright. Alright. Did you, uh,” he pauses, trying and failing to look him properly in the eyes as his gaze flits around the room. “Should I get Tsumiki? Or, well, do you need anything in particular at all?”
Can you get Tsumiki? No, wait, can you just stay a while longer? Please don’t go. “Don’t get Tsumiki, I feel fine,” he says, shaking his head fervently. The excessive movement sends jolting agony from the base of his neck down the length of his spine, and he holds onto the bedframe for dear life as he forces himself to stay upright. “Please just leave, I don’t think I can stand being near you for much longer!
Despite the clear recognition flashing in Kuzuryu’s eyes, he quickly steps backward into the hall, getting himself as far out of the room as he can in a way that spoke to the relief he must feel to have an excuse to leave. “Well, you heard him. I’m gonna get the fuck out of here,” he says, and slams the door behind him without so much as a second glance toward Komaeda.
It’s just them, now.
Hinata didn’t move a muscle, standing in silence and shifting uncomfortably as he seemed to search for something to say. “Is it any better?” He asks, then quickly adds, “from this morning, I mean. Tsumiki said you didn’t wake up for hours.”
I’m awake. Nothing else has changed. “I already feel so much better , Hinata! I think I could leave the hospital right now!”
He sighed. “I’ll take that as a no, I guess.” He moves to sit down at his bedside, glancing to the other end of the room and noting the pitcher that hasn’t moved an inch since Tsumiki brought it in. “Have you even been drinking water? Obviously I don’t know how this disease works, but it’d probably help you feel a little better, right?”
He laughs airily at that, pushing with it every last bit of air in his lungs when his arm finally gives out and sends him falling back down onto the mattress. Haven’t felt like it, so I haven’t had any. Will you stay with me? I’ll be alright if you stay. Please stay here with me. Please.
“I’ve had plenty of water to drink,” He says, his dry throat starting to cling to itself as if to mock him. “Please leave. I don’t want you anywhere near me!” Desperately, he pulls himself up and grabs onto Hinata’s hand with both of his own, struggling to pull it closer to him. “ Leave. ”
Irritated, Hinata shakes him off, standing and brushing off his jeans. “Okay, okay. I get it, I’ll go. Save your strength and don’t bother repeating yourself.”
I didn’t mean to say that. Please don’t go.
He launches himself forward, nearly hurtling straight to the floor as he does, hands feverishly gripping onto his arm as he tries to pull him back. “Go already! Get out! Leave!”
“Seriously, let go! I already heard you, so just —” He pauses, the irritation on his face abruptly turning to shock. “Oh.”
He slowly lowers himself back down onto the stool, nudging Komaeda back into bed with the arm he isn’t holding in a death grip, a nervous and guilty look in his eyes as he frowns at him. “Shit. Sorry. It just.. No, yeah, I’m just sorry. I forgot.”
It’s fine. Please just stay with me. Don’t leave me alone.
His hands move from his arm to his shirt, holding onto the hem tightly enough that he can feel his nails cutting into his palms even through the layer of fabric. Hinata leans down, scooting the stool a little closer to the bed, and starts to rub soothing circles into his back. Komaeda leans all the way forward, then, resting his head in his lap. “Please leave,” he says, voice small and wretched where it’s muffled into his legs. “Please leave me alone. I don’t want you here.”
“I promise I won’t go,” Hinata offers, a little uncertain. “Can you try to rest a little, please? For me?”
He nods. I really love you, you know.
“I really hate you.”