Work Text:
Nagito only has one tradition for his birthday: an hour alone with his thoughts.
It’s hard to guarantee more than that, since the only thing more consistent than his luck is the chaos that follows it. One year he’s in the hospital, the next he’s getting dragged by Chiaki into a classroom that’s only really celebrating as a good excuse to have cake and derail the lesson, and then the world has ended and everyone’s back to ignoring his existence. So he keeps his expectations simple.
In his earlier years, it seemed a bit like mourning. He’d consider different scenes, first of his parents in the throes of excitement, streamers glittering in vibrant colors. Then, later, they’d realize he was never made for such excitement, bone-deep weakness and frail constitution befitting more of a quiet, companionable day with small celebrations of candles and light cake. Those faded away along with his grief, pulled into the fold and tossed over and over again like clay molded anew until you can’t find the fine separation line anymore. On many years it served as a moment to look again at his purpose, of which he barely had back then. To set his sights on a goal he couldn’t reach, so he’d stop looking back.
The single birthday he had while in the throes of despair, he considered Kamakura, and wondered if the man would care if he threw himself off the highest building in Towa City.
This birthday, compared with all his birthdays, is not the worst by far. He woke up to a small celebration prepared by Hajime, and later reluctant gifts from half his classmates of sorts. Fuyuhiko wanted nothing to do with the affair, and he could tell Kazuichi had been strong-armed by Sonia. It had been too early in the morning to get his thoughts in order before he was dragged out the door, and he can’t think straight when Ibuki’s music is loud enough to give him a migraine, so he hasn’t gotten the chance yet.
Still. It’s only a little past noon- he’s got plenty of time.
Currently, someone’s dragged Hajime away- he thinks it was Mahiru muttering something about pictures and authenticity, but can’t be sure with all the commotion- while Peko and Mikan sit at a table with him. Neither will let him escape, he knows, because Peko’s eyes are too sharp and Mikan has dealt with many a wandering patient, but it’s not so bad. In fact, compared to all his other birthdays, he should be ecstatic right now.
But, as always, it feels like something’s wrong with him. There’s a strange thing in his chest he can’t identify, and of course that lingering headache.
Pushing it aside, he asks plainly, “Are you sure neither of you want any cake...?”
Now this, he will admit, is a bit of a cry for help. The cake is good- not too sweet, rich and filling, and somehow someone knew that he has the inverse of a sweet tooth, so it’s a rather tart raspberry and lemon, decorated with minimal buttercream in a thin layer atop and little green flowers. He’d feared something over-the-top sweet and sugar when he was first told there would be a celebration.
Except this is the third slice he’s been forced today, and he really will get sick if he eats it. The second was already pushing it.
“It’s your cake,” Peko responds politely. “And I do believe you have had the least.”
“I wouldn’t w-want to take more than I already have!” Mikan insists, the quiver in her voice omnipresent no matter how much confidence she seems to get.
Unfortunately, he’s been saddled with two brick walls. Peko, who it’s impossible to convince without roping Fuyuhiko into it, and Mikan, who wouldn’t accept anything more substantial than a cookie if her life depended on it.
The cake will just have to go uneaten. It’s a pity, because he’s sure Teruteru put plenty of effort into it, but he really will throw up if he eats the whole thing. At least neither is commenting on it- perhaps he looks worse than he thinks. Which would explain why everyone has given him enough distance to breathe, finally, save for his two wardens keeping him in the room.
His heart aches a little, knowing they were silently assigned this duty, and here he is making it worse. That thing in his chest grows knotted and ugly, insisting he leave; it’s a familiar feeling. Too many people in one place make him anxious for reasons he’s never bothered to unpack, if only because the baggage it’s buried underneath is already piled to the ceiling and spilling out the sides, but it’s rarely this strong. Only when his body is weaker than usual, pain flaring up in his stomach or a dizzy spell he can’t quite shake persists through the day, does it ever quite prod at his ribs like this.
Not to mention, this is barely a crowd. The busier and less willing participants have largely filtered out, leaving a small host of people sitting nearby. Close enough that if he speaks freely they’ll hear, but far enough to have their own conversations that feel like whispers. Unsurprising- Hajime really did drag everyone into it, likely bribing them with the promise of cake and some rousing speech about companionship.
As for how many people said yes just to get him off their tail, that remains to be seen.
“Oh- uh, not to drag the atmosphere down, but, um- can I ask you something?” Mikan’s quiet, high-pitched whisper comes with concerned eyes and a little fear. She’s always afraid of something- pain, maybe, rejection, a sudden whiplash from someone who isn’t there anymore. Eyes that always seemed to be over their shoulder that have long since been crushed. He can’t blame her; even without that gaze, there are still a thousand eyes on them, and Mikan has had even more for even longer.
“Sure.”
“Um- are you feeling alright?”
“Hm?”
“You just seem a little...quiet?”
“Ah, it’s nothing. I simply don’t have much to say in the presence of so many excellent minds.”
“Not good with crowds, hm?” Peko mercilessly translates, cutting through any argument he was about to follow with.
“I wouldn’t call this a crowd,” he tries, but she’s already caught on well enough. “No, but you are the center of attention.”
“That must be stressful!” Mikan squeaks. “Ah, I sh-should’ve brought it up to Hajime...”
“No, that’s alright!” Her guilt is inevitable, even if everything went right and the day was perfect, being that it seems sewn into her blood by now- but Hajime is impossible to face, all puppy-eyed and deflated when he’s disappointed in himself. Worse yet, he might decide to do something more extravagant, and that might really throw a wrench into things. “Really, I couldn’t appreciate this more. For everyone to gather around just for me- that’s more than I could have asked for.”
“...I understand how you feel,” Peko nearly murmurs. Her words are clear and sharp, if low and heartfelt; though it’s hard to quite forget she’s been a warrior since birth, her cadence now fully embodies those lessons of discipline and focus. “Gathering with friends, as friends, is a gift that is often overlooked.”
“...That’s true,” Mikan mutters, voice a little distant.
There’s a reason the three of them get along easily, he supposes. Birds of a feather, all bonding over similar wounds. Few things are so universal, even with their differences; it’s easy to forget sometimes the more they heal, but there will always be a scar or seven there.
A camera shutter clicks. He pretends not to hear it, even as Mahiru titters over the shot- perfect composition, she’s saying, and a genuine look on his face. He doesn’t want to know what he looks like, and won’t ask; whatever she sees in it, he will not.
So it’s best not to try.
“Hey,” Hajime starts, finally rejoining them. Likely this means he won’t get left alone until he’s been well and truly dragged into Foundation problems; his moment alone will have to be past sundown, he suspects. This was an obvious inevitability when he was dragged out this morning, even if he was foolish enough to think the celebration would peter out of him past five, if that. Dedication can make Hajime into something otherwise unseen, especially now, with latent memories of talents and Kamakura’s intertwined memories. They’re two and one all at once; both have parts of the other, and yet there’s a definite difference. Some days he wakes with a faux-acerbic frown and everything passes him by in a dull haze, others he puts his everything into a skill he forgot he’d mastered long ago.
Pointlessly, Hajime continues, “Had enough cake, huh?”
“I’m not used to so much sweets in a day,” he uses as the excuse this time. Even if the tart sour is overpowering most of the sugar, there’s still plenty pushed into a cake on necessity, he knows; regardless, pity is taken on him and the plate is slid from his spot to Hajime’s, now sitting at the previously empty fourth spot.
Nothing about that should be worrying, but even still, whatever sharp thing curls around in his insides pulses in a dull ache. His veins feel twisted, and perhaps he could excuse himself under the guise of his health- but everyone put so much effort in, and really, it’s little more than a strange flare of anxiety and fear.
Hopefully. And if not, he’s in as good medical hands as he’s going to get anyway.
“Are you sure?” As if he hasn’t already taken it, knowing the answer.
Nagito shrugs. “Aren’t you supposed to share the cake, anyway?”
“I guess so.”
Mercifully, Peko asks: “This tea was a gift from you, Mikan, right? Where did you get it?”
That spurs a long, slightly laborious tale about her small gardening project, first recommended by Sonia and Gundam after theirs started flourishing. A beautiful ceramic pot, courtesy of Sonia, still steams gently, though his own cup has gone uncharacteristically cold. Usually he enjoys all sorts of teas, the warmth more fulfilling than meals to his eternally cold veins, and drinks them quickly to preserve that.
He’ll blame it on the cake if anyone asks, or perhaps the excitement. Anyone bold enough to ask will likely back off quickly, and anyone determined enough to smart enough to gauge the answer if Mikan’s constant glances are anything to go by. If she started pulling him into an infirmary bed over concerns about his health he wouldn’t be surprised.
Still. He does his best to put on a smile, reacting with a non-committal hum or nod as if he’s listening. As bad as it feels, his migraine has only gotten worse, and listening to anything longer than a few sentences has his brain swimming and worsens the thing stuck in his lungs, all black-tar sticky and oily and angry.
Really, he could go out and insist he just wants some fresh air, despite the air inside the building being leagues better than the smog that often clouds outside. Except he doesn’t quite feel like breathing that in, either, lest he turn the feeling of clogged lungs into something real.
Maybe he’ll get out of here when Mikan finishes her story, claiming he’s got something to do. (Much to the Foundation’s chagrin, he does get wrapped up in the strangest of problems.) Doubtful anyone would fight him on it, particularly when he’s barely necessary for the celebration itself. Likely Kazuichi and Mahiru see it more as an opportunity to slack off from work, and wouldn’t mind his absence.
Except he might have to consider this a day of terrible luck, because Sonia, Gundam, and Akane, who had left quite a while ago, come back to announce: “That should be everything for the day! Shall we continue?”
He catches a wink from Sonia, although it could be directed at just about anyone.
Much as dread begins to fill his heart, he smiles along.
---
There are three problems he has with this birthday, and none of them are really anyone’s fault.
First, the celebration. Grateful as he is, it has lasted much of the day, and at no point has he been allowed to leave for very long. He tried once to excuse himself to go to the bathroom, but just as he was about to escape down the hallway he caught sight of Ibuki and had to come back to the small off-shoot break room they’ve been using as a cafeteria ever since they got here. It’s large for a break room but small for its purpose, and thus feels more cramped than it should, too far to border on cozy with everyone in it.
Second, the presents. Generally, he’s indifferent to presents, except this is far too many of them and far too good for him. A few- the tea, the teapot, a new set of pens- are easier to accept, being fairly benign. The tea will grow anyway, and he’s been sharing it, the teapot is ornate and best suited for gifting anyway, and the pens are a necessity with so much paperwork around. Utilitarian- easy to accept. Except some of the gifts- a high quality camera, for instance- left him feeling overwhelmed and rubbed a bit raw in the aftermath. He can’t regift that one in particular, either- Mahiru’s name was on the tag.
Lastly, and likely the most important: he hasn’t had a moment to himself.
This is intentional on Hajime’s part, definitely. Normally by now it’s easy to sneak by everyone and simply disappear for a while, eventually coming back with an excuse on the tip of his tongue. And while the others who could have orchestrated this, were the culprit not otherwise obvious, obviously know of his proclivity towards self-detriment while left alone, they’re the sort that would confine their efforts to a few hours of the day. Even Sonia would not go to so much effort.
So that leaves the only- and most obvious- culprit. Organizer of the whole thing and the one sticking to his side the closest, who asks him for perhaps the twentieth time today, “You don’t mind if I keep sitting here, right?”
“Here” must refer to the other part of the booth tucked into the corner, installed sometime after this became the defacto “cafeteria.” It’s a cramped thing with two people, but so long as it’s the smaller members of their group it’s not untenable. Only, Hajime is determined to make the space seem even smaller, cooped up next to him like Kazuichi- who currently sits next to him, arrms flailing as he exclaims nobody knows anything about cars down in the garage- might hit him if he moves a centimeter away.
Which might be true, with how much he’s moving around. If he didn’t know better he’d think someone snuck hard liquor into the drinks again.
Normally, that sort of contact is strangely soothing. Warm against his side, sometimes a hand reaching over to move a glass, keeping his heart steady with another rhythm to keep it consistent. Here and now it feels like dying, barely breathing and panic simmering on medium heat in the depths of his lungs.
Fortunately or not, Hajime’s been distracted enough not to notice his smiles might be a little strained. Nobody else bats an eye; this was never really about him, after all. Not really. It’s for everyone else that needed a break, and his birthday happened to land on a good day in the spring-summer transition, a light chill and semi-frequent rainfall giving way to hot days spent wasting away in front of air conditioning and worries about computer towers overheating. In this way he can be useful, he reminds himself; the people around him are happy. That’s enough, surely.
(And if it isn’t, that’s fine too. Paper it over with fake smiles and no one will notice the difference.)
“I am glad you enjoyed the gift!” Sonia now insists to his right, eyes bright. She’s managed to escape from the others for a moment, slipping away smoothly like it’s a ballroom floor and she’s the star of the show, as always. “I was worried it would be not to your tastes.”
“It’s a beautiful piece of art,” he insists, even if he knows it’ll end up forgotten in a cupboard. “Who wouldn’t appreciate it?”
“Even so, I find my tastes are often foreign to other people. So I am glad it worked out!”
“Thank you again,” he finds himself saying, words a little stilted. She must take pity on him, because she soon gets distracted again and floats back over with plenty elegance and grace to spare. On another day he might insist he’s too good for it, but his nerves feel like fraying cords long since snapped and he can’t stomach more conversation than that. Accepting it is faster, and he reasons she might be disappointed with herself if he really tried to refuse it.
Right. Keep up the mood- that’s what this is all about.
He can’t tell if this is supposed to be good luck or bad- though, in hindsight, it’s always been hard to tell. Is dying early a kindness? Did Lady Luck herself curse him with joining a class doomed from the start? Has fate woven him a tapestry in plaid, or is all this meant to curl in on itself in florals?
The only consistency he’s ever had was the back and forth pendulum swing, so label one side and believe in the rotation. Pick an event- his parents dying, that’s unlucky no matter how you put it- and assign the rest.
A sigh leaves his lungs before he can stop it. The clock can’t tick faster.
---
He’d believed, up to this point, that he might have his moment when he goes back to his room. Finally, he could sit down, watch the the stars out the window, and have an hour to himself.
But Hajime asks, “Mind if I come in?,” and what else can he do about that?
Left with nothing else to do, he pours them both a glass of water with ice. Hajime downs half of his by the time he even remembers to take a sip for appearances, the nausea coming back in full force even thinking about. The world is swimming a little, but that’s inevitable; even on good days, he’s never quite alright.
“So? How was everything?”
“More than I could have ever imagined,” he says, and that part’s honest. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”
“Of course I did,” Hajime insists. Strangely, despite the thin couch and coffee table, he feels like he’s on the stand again; this might be worse, actually, because now he’s stripped down to his most raw. “You’re one of us, you know.”
“Still. The whole day was a bit much, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” and sometimes he forgets that it’s not entirely Kamakura’s eyes that he’s looking at, that the green one peering at him can only see what he’s intentionally projecting. “I’d do it for anyone else, if you’re wondering.”
Nagito nearly remarks that he didn’t- but, well, that’d be cruel. Playing with Hajime’s feelings usually results in a cute flush splattering across his cheeks like flicked paint, but it sounds oddly tiring today. Instead, “Ah...Well, if you insist, who am I to refuse?”
That earns him a tilt of the head. Hajime’s eyes narrow.
“You could if you didn’t want it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“...You seem stressed.”
“Aha, you caught me,” he confesses, but only partially. “I’m just tired from all the excitement, that’s all.”
“Hm.” That red eye, though, is always piercing no matter what; it seems there’s a certain holdover from when Kamakura would pull him along like a dog, dissecting him into pieces and rebuilding them, curiosity and boredom warring over whether he was truly interesting or just a toy. Both are better than he ever could have hoped, so he’d complain about neither.
In a near miracle, Hajime’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Then, “Ah, I have to go for a bit. But, um- I did want to talk to you about something, so do you mind if I come back in a bit?”
“Of course. My door is always open for you,” Nagito insists, “Though I don’t know what you could really need from me.”
Hajime frowns, but whatever text he’s just got must be urgent, because he leaves without another word.
Relief floods him once the door shuts. Immediately he lays down on the couch, breathing deep. Whatever filled his lungs is released, and in its place air rushes in; he can finally think properly, unbothered by appearances.
Yet the first thing to fill his mind is heart again is regret.
Of a thousand things, really- he shouldn’t have let the whole celebration go on as it did, should have at least tried to reject some of those gifts. He really doesn’t know what he’ll do with a camera of all things, much less a nicer phone. If anything he’s more likely to break it with his luck; surely Kazuichi wouldn’t mind much if he quietly returned it? Except that, too, comes with shame, because it was gifted to him, and should he not be thankful for all the gifts?
It washes over him like the tides, pulled by the moon’s allure. Crashes over him with all the strength of a silent night, powerful yet gentle, strong and inexorable but slow. Not so much to overwhelm him, but still oppressive. He closes his eyes; the world disappears, leaving him alone.
Slowly, it fades, just as it came on. There is nothing to be done about the past now; the best atonement, he has always known, is to improve the future. So the guilt serves as nothing but a motivator for future endeavors.
That leaves space for something faintly mellow. It’s a tangled thing, but-
“Hey.”
Hajime’s back. He tries not to be disappointed to no avail.
“Ah, you’re back.”
“Sorry, are you tired?”
“Not particularly,” is his answer. Though maybe he should have feigned exhaustion to get some time to his thoughts; that was barely more than ten minutes, he figures, digital numbers glaring at him from across the room. Always red, he muses, as though time is a bloody thing. “Though I can’t imagine you have anything else planned for today.”
“Ah, yeah. We might as head to bed then.”
Whatever snarling thing that left his chest comes back in full force, except now that he’s not caught off guard, he finally catches a glimpse of it as it burrows back in place. It’s the same thing that left him tilted off balance while he was in Towa city, the same thing that leaves him feeling raw and strange on the strangest of days. An off-balanced awkwardness that never quite left him in his younger years, that most people shed like snake skin coming into adulthood but he’s never managed to get past his shoulders.
It’s the break in the routine. He has few routines, so it rarely happens; even daily things like a shower or meals have hardly been consistent throughout his life, so those don’t bother him at all. But this is one of them, and one he’s deliberately chosen over the years as opposed to a natural pattern settling over the circumstance.
Comfortingly, that means it’s hardly anything to worry about. The tradition was barely necessary to begin with, similarly born out of circumstance. Despite this, his heart doesn’t let up in the slightest, and he’s a little dizzy when he stands at Hajime’s insistence.
In the silent hours of the night, they quietly prepare for bed. Awkward as Hajime’s always been about it, this has been the routine for some time, when he found his bed alone reminded him too much of waking in a cabin on the seaside. Both rationale and an emotional pull found him knocking on Nagito’s door, and he’s never slept well; this works for both of them to a good extent.
Not for the first time, though, it’s a little stifling when he’d rather be alone for a moment. Hajime’s put so much work into the day, however, and surely he’s asking because he needs the moment; he can take a moment to himself anytime, when everyone’s otherwise busy or he’s been sent off to search the area more thoroughly.
But perhaps he’s more open in sleep than he thought.
“...Is everything really alright?”
“Of course,” he answers. They’re both curled up in the small bed, and much as it was a problem earlier, the warmth is comfortable enough to sleep in. What bothers him now is more the strange buzzing under his skin and the urge to flinch that he suppresses mostly with fatigue. “Go to sleep. It’s already late.”
It’s not particularly. Ibuki’s held surprise ragers that last longer than this. But for someone’s been going to sleep later and later, it must seem that way, because the response he gets is sleep-drunk and scratchy. “Y’sure?”
“I’m fine,” he insists.
Because, if he were to tell the honest, most absolute truth: he is.
“Fine” has changed over the years. At one point it meant he wasn’t injured; then it expanded to mean he was mostly uninjured, with only maybe a slight limp in the morning or a phantom pain in his stomach. Later, it evolved to mean he was calm, and then after that he was capable of doing whatever work needed to be done by the Foundation. “Fine” implies a baseline, and his has always been changing.
Now, it means something in between. It means his body is cooperating well, and there’s little more than the common aches and pains of growing into a body that does not wish to, and that his mind is working with him without a headache forming at his temple. But those can be ignored in favor of something much more foreign- an arm around his waist, in this case, and kind words from people who aren’t entirely lying. They may not choose him first for company, but they don’t mind it, and can even find joy while in his presence- isn’t that enough?
He’ll count it as enough. “Friends-” that’s what they used to be, before someone drove them all apart. Mostly, anyway. He knows he’s always been a little off the rest of them, for more reasons than mere talent.
Today was enough. That simple tradition can be laid to the wayside, if every night will end like this.
“I’m just not used to it,” he whispers to the silence. “But...that’s alright.”
It is, by far, not the worst birthday he’s ever had.