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My dear ex-boyfriend

Summary:

In the past, Kamukura Izuru wanted to experience romantic love.
What was his idea? Take her class leader's best friend and force him to be her partner? Yeah, that sounds good.

Some time after the terrible end of that couple, that peculiar boy appears.

Notes:

My writing is crap. I haven't written in years. English isn't my first language either. Everything points to this story being awful. You choose whether you want to read.

Also, I love Hajime, so I want to make him suffer.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Trial and error

Chapter Text

The feeling of loving someone is very hard to understand if you haven’t experienced it firsthand. Many describe it as a tingling sensation similar to butterflies fluttering in your stomach; however, that’s just a metaphor for nerves and their effects on the stomach. Others say it’s the happiness and comfort you feel next to someone; but that’s just the feeling of getting used to someone.
“Love is a magical feeling,” other people say, but magic doesn’t exist. “It’s the safety of being with someone and being yourself,” Sonia replied to me, with Ibuki, Mahiru, and (to nobody’s surprise) Souda backing up her hypothesis. But they all ended up saying the same thing: “You’ll never understand the feeling of loving someone more than yourself, at least not from a book or a scientific study.”

Those were the words everyone told me in the end—empty descriptions of what love was supposed to be.
Izuru Kamukura still doesn’t understand the birth of what it means to “love someone special,” and why it seems to be the only thing that can’t be grasped through logic or psychology. You can have a thousand ideas of what it is, but you’ll never truly understand it if you haven’t felt it.

That’s what led him to his current situation.

Alone in his classroom, alongside Hajime Hinata, a boy from the reserve course who had been introduced by one of his classmates, Chiaki Nanami, assuring everyone he was her friend and that their class would get along with him, integrating him into their recreational activities every now and then. At first, that happened quite often, with at least four activities alongside him guaranteed. Luckily—or unluckily—that number had dropped to one or two (if they were lucky) per month, and today was one of those days.
Today they’d just finished one of those group activities: pair baking, directed by the Ultimate Chef. A promising idea with terrible execution.
You didn’t have to be a genius to know it would be a disaster, the main result being the classroom turned into a total mess from all the dry ingredients, eggs, chocolate, and countless other things that, in his infinite knowledge, he knew a cookie should never have.
At the end of what he classified as a culinary massacre (committed by his classmates, not him—he had made the best dark chocolate mousse in history), most people fled, either voluntarily or forcibly (as in Nagito’s case, who ended up in the infirmary because of his homemade bagels), leaving only two students in charge of cleaning the mess: him and Hinata. He’d expected as much, so he wouldn’t complain.

“I didn’t think making cookies could be… this chaotic…” Hinata muttered, taking his time to pick an adjective that wouldn’t be too insulting toward the class, sweeping up a lot—a lot—of flour, baking powder, and other… questionable powders, most likely the work of classmates with a very questionable sense of morality.

“It was to be expected from my group. This was a horrible choice of activity,” he replied indifferently while cleaning the windows, which were covered in raw batter with a terrible burnt-rubber-and-egg smell from when they’d been thrown during a food fight, ending up everywhere. The unique, slimy feeling of raw egg was deeply unpleasant to the touch, even with a rag over his hand. (Strangely enough, seconds later he found himself playing with the egg white, trying not to break the yolk and make an even bigger mess. It was entertaining.)

Hinata took his response as the end of the conversation, so he just nodded with slight hesitation and went back to his battle to remove every single speck of powder from the floor, getting frustrated at how the dust rose up and filled the air instead of letting itself be swept away, making him cough and forcing him to sweep the same spot again (as well as leaving dusty marks on his face and white shirt; luckily, he’d been smart enough to leave his blazer aside to avoid those accidents on his black uniform jacket). With great patience, he brushed it into the dustpan and threw it into a trash bag, then repeated the process several times, taking more time than he would’ve liked. He glanced at Izuru, who had apparently worked some sort of magic on the windows, leaving them cleaner than before.

“Could you bring the water for mopping?” Hinata asked while putting away the broom and dustpan, also taking a mop from the same locker assigned to cleaning supplies. Izuru just made a vague affirmative sound as he climbed down from the bench he’d been standing on “to reach the higher windows that, surprisingly, had been hit with food.” He made his way toward the school faucets, bucket in hand.

He took his time walking, setting the bucket under the tap and filling it with water, watching and analyzing the pressurized stream as it hit the bottom and sides of the blue plastic bucket, along with the rusty-colored faucet just above it. Bored, he shifted his gaze to his reflection in the crystal-clear water, which spread ripples whenever a stray drop fell after he turned the tap off—a problem caused by poor plumbing.

There he was, standing in his school uniform, hair tied back in a ponytail with his long fringe loose in front (a hairstyle provided by Sonia), in a curious perspective angle that made his legs appear larger—since they were closest to the water—while his torso and head looked smaller as the image receded. He couldn’t resist playing with the perspective for a while, until the ripples ruined his reflection. The only sounds were the occasional splash of water and the distant shouts of children who lived nearby—even though the school grounds were huge and they shouldn’t have been audible, kids are loud—probably out playing even if it was getting late.

Returning to his thoughts, the question of what love was and how it felt had been haunting his calm mind for a long time. He couldn’t really complain—it gave him something to think about, pulling him out of the fog of boredom that had become his life. He had something to research, study, and analyze. But he lacked the materials—or rather, the capacity—to carry out his investigation: he lacked love, both platonic and romantic, and falling in love wasn’t part of his plan. If there was a way to study love without feeling it, he’d do it, and he certainly had a reputation for doing the impossible. He’d figure something out—and in fact, he already had something in mind.

The last drops of water stopped falling, meaning the faucet had finally shut completely. He’d wasted a lot of time because of that leak, but he didn’t care; Hinata would understand. With that in mind, he lifted the bucket with one strong hand and headed back without hurry. It’s not like Hinata was going to complain—he’d analyzed the boy enough and, although he’d been surprised by their strange similarities, he’d quickly been disappointed by Hinata’s normality. Still, he appreciated the peace he brought to a classroom full of lunatics, as he called them. And, of course, he knew Hinata well enough to know he wouldn’t speak while they cleaned. Better that way.

When he returned, he glanced for a couple of seconds through the glass pane of the door, analyzing the only boy inside, and then stepped in. It seemed Hinata had made great progress, leaving the desks spotless (had he really taken that long? Or was Hinata just ridiculously good at cleaning?). The desks had also been moved to the edges of the room, presumably to make mopping easier. Without a word, he set the bucket next to Hinata, ignoring how the movement sent droplets splashing onto the brunette’s feet. Hinata only gave him a mildly frustrated look and nodded, muttering what sounded like a sarcastic “thanks.” He didn’t bother replying, just climbed onto a desk and sat there, legs swinging, leaving space for Hinata to mop and, in effect, leaving the rest of the work to him.

Unfair, yes, but he wasn’t in the mood to clean and mopping was all that was left. Besides, Hinata had already volunteered. Maybe he’d reward him by starting a conversation. That sounded fine.

“What’s the Reserve Course like, Hinata?” Apparently, Hinata hadn’t expected him to speak, as he’d already started mopping. He even jumped a little, the wet mop spreading the clean scent of some chemicals he’d likely added after getting the bucket. Hinata didn’t look back at him (he was moving with the mop, and at one point had his back to him).

“Uh… Well, they’re kind of strict, but… it’s fine, yeah, nothing special. Sorry I don’t have anything impressive to tell you,” he took his time to answer before moving again, apparently confident and with a touch of charisma in his tone. But Izuru didn’t miss how his ears seemed to flush red and how he avoided his gaze with a frown.

Still with his back turned, Hinata mopped from corner to corner in a back-and-forth pattern, then wrung the mop out by hand, letting the dirty, flour-gray water drip into the bucket. He then began drying the excess water with solid technique. Experience, Izuru supposed.

“I’ve heard rumors they’re very demanding, but rumors are never a reliable source of information,” he spoke after a moment of silence, lifting his feet when Hajime mopped under the desk where he was sitting, their eyes finally meeting.

“You could say they are, but that’s the least you’d expect from a course that’s part of Kibougamine. You know, even if we’re just reserves. Cheer up—the rumors weren’t lying to you,” he muttered with obvious annoyance. Clearly, he’d been mocked a lot for being in the reserve course, partly thanks to Komaeda and partly thanks to all those students and staff who insulted him whenever he came to hang out with their class. Izuru knew they were demanding enough—the poorly concealed dark circles under Hinata’s eyes gave him away.

“I don’t see why I’d cheer up about that.”

The conversation ended there. Neither tried to continue it, and a few minutes later, with the cleaning done, Hinata let him down from the desk, since the floor had dried. They both put away the used rags, cleaning liquids, degreasers, and the bucket with the mop. Hinata sighed from the effort of mopping, Izuru assumed, as he wiped sweat from his forehead. Izuru watched from a few steps back and, while the brunette was still turned away, spoke:

“Hinata, do you like me? Romantically, I mean.”

Hinata’s back jolted, his shoulders shooting up and his chest and hips pushing forward and back (respectively). Curiously, that was probably how he was supposed to stand normally, since it was the correct posture, but the boy was usually slouched. Good for him. Izuru could see the signs of nervousness in his behavior and the delay in his response. His ears flushed that wine-red again, and his expression sealed the deal. Seeing Hinata turn around, sweaty, red, and nervous, the answer was obvious, but hearing it might still be interesting.
“W-what the hell are you even talking about all of a sudden?” His voice seemed to fight not to fall apart and, of course, it wasn’t an interesting reaction, but he’d seen it coming.

“It’s quite clear what I’m talking about, Hinata. I mean romantic feelings, or even sexual ones. They often overlap, but there are exceptions.”

Hinata’s reaction was immediate and loud, shaking his hands left and right in a frenzy while shouting nonsense, completely red. An interesting sight, if a bit rude, given he dared to interrupt him.
“I get it! I get it! God, just shut up!”

Izuru simply analyzed the situation, giving Hinata the silence he’d asked for (rudely). To the black-haired boy’s curiosity, Hinata seemed more angry than embarrassed, clearly thinking about what to say next.
“So, what’s your answer?” he asked again, poking at the other’s patience. Even knowing the answer already, he needed the verbal confirmation (for legalities).
“Don’t lie; there’s no point in that,” he warned, leaving the brunette fuming and burning with embarrassment.

“And… and what if I did? I doubt you have anything to say about love…” he replied with a hint of bitterness at the end, his expression pained. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected, but he could work with it. He paid little mind to the hurt in Hinata’s face, who had already turned halfway to grab his blazer, ready to leave. But Izuru couldn’t let him go without one last clarification.

“We can be together; I just have a few conditions. I need something from you, Hinata”—from your emotions, he finished mentally. He knew he hadn’t told the whole truth, but those were details Hinata didn’t need. (Like the fine print in a contract.) Hinata inhaled, his expression clearly intrigued, suspicious of his words. His distrust was to be expected.
When Hinata didn’t answer, Izuru took the initiative in his proposal. The brunette was looking at him over his shoulder like he was some kind of alien.

“Emotions can be understood with psychology, but there’s one feeling I still can’t grasp, and my curiosity led me to months of research that has yielded no results—until now. So I’ve taken measures,” he explained, now in his know-it-all tone, as if his words were being narrated from a science textbook. And Hinata hated how much he liked that tone.
“Which brings us to our current situation, my proposal: you have something I am incapable of having and that I need. I need you.”

The brunette ignored the sting of disappointment in his heart, like a slow poison, making him even more bitter.

“I won’t be your lab rat, Kamukura. If that’s all, I’m leaving. Do me a favor and say goodbye to your class for me,” Izuru looked at the boy who had just rejected him, but quickly understood his pattern of thought and reasoning.
“That’s not what I asked. You and I will be what is defined as a romantic couple, and we will be treated as such. I will be part of the situations typically associated with love and experience that feeling firsthand, and you will be my partner.” He walked forward with sure steps, echoing across the classroom, heading toward Hinata, who had already turned to face him. Izuru cupped the other’s hands, noticing how rough they were (from hard work, he assumed), pressing on and leading Hinata to the edge of the room, up against the door.

“I’m asking you, Hinata. Be my partner.”

Chapter 2: Temptation and denial

Summary:

This is what happened for that messed up duo to form. Also the arrival of that damn albino that I love so much.

Notes:

This is Hajime's point of view, don't trust him.
I warned you that the story was terrible, there are errors in the narration in the first chapter, sorry about that.

If by some miracle you're a masochist and like the story, I invite you to leave comments; they especially motivate me to keep writing this crap.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

"I’m asking you, Hinata. Be my partner."

I repeated the words in my mind, unable to stop thinking about what his face must have looked like when he said them. His expression didn’t match his words at all—his hands were cold and his eyes were completely empty.

Remembering how he said it with such indifference and that arrogant air, as if he was absolutely certain I’d accept without hesitation and throw myself into his arms, made my stomach churn. I let out a frustrated groan into my pillow, trying to muffle the headache that had flared up the moment I left that classroom.

What nerve.

"What—?! No! Absolutely not, how can you even ask something like that?! That’s the same as a damn experiment!"

I cursed under my breath, recalling how my voice cracked at the start. It didn’t surprise me that Kamukura knew about my feelings—for his analysis, reading me must have been easy. But it’s entirely different when, knowing how I feel, he still makes such a proposal, aware I’d be more than tempted to accept just to be with him.

Because I really was tempted—for two whole seconds, I wanted to believe it was a normal response to my —forced— confession. But I’m painfully aware of how absurd that was, just by comparing myself to him. The frustration made me press my face harder into my pillow, half-hoping I could just smother myself and stop feeling this awful discomfort.

My whole body felt uncomfortable; my uniform shirt clung to me, and the fabric itched—I blamed myself for buying cheap material just to save a few precious yen. Knowing I’d only keep tormenting myself if I stayed in bed, I reluctantly sat up, lowering my gaze to my hands—the same ones that, just minutes ago, had been held between the hands of the Ultimate Hope. I could still vividly remember the feel of those slender fingers against mine. That thought alone pushed me out of bed, though seeing my tiny dorm only worsened my sense of claustrophobia; I could barely take four steps before hitting the wall.

I chose to ignore the bitterness that thought stirred and instead grabbed my things to take a shower. Not that it was pleasant—the higher-ups apparently thought it best to make the massive tuition fees from the Reserve Course disappear into thin air, because we still had to use communal showers. There were sections for each floor, but that didn’t make it any better.
Maybe I shouldn’t complain—they could’ve easily skipped giving us dorms altogether and left us to fend for ourselves... but that didn’t make me any less indignant.

Shoving my toiletries into a small backpack—because of course, you had to bring your own—I stormed out of my dorm, searching for any relief from my current frustration. If I hurried, I could make it during the open-use hours, and with luck, avoid running into any other students.

In what felt like seconds, I arrived. As I’d guessed, most students preferred to shower right after classes—not that I blamed them; with our schedules, everyone was desperate for a few extra moments of rest. Meanwhile, I’d been like an idiot, cleaning a classroom that wasn’t even mine. I forced that thought away before it dragged me into another spiral of negativity, shook my head, and stepped into the changing room, grateful for the absence of people around me.

I quickly folded my clothes and placed them in the nearest locker.

Fortunately, the showers were set up to ensure privacy for anyone using them. Thank all the gods for the fact that there were options besides the traditional open bath—I couldn’t handle the embarrassment. Maybe it’s closed-minded or conservative of me, but there’s no way you’re convincing me to be naked in front of other students. Not in this lifetime. Not that the school couldn’t afford the option—actually, thinking about it, maybe this is where all the tuition money went: to that fancy bath connected to the showers. A shiver ran down my spine just thinking about the students who walked in there without a care—I admired their confidence.

I let the cold water wash over me, cooling both my skin and my thoughts. I knew I couldn’t just curse and bad-mouth everything that upset me just because I was nervous. At least the itching had stopped before I ended up scratching my skin raw from frustration.

I tried not to linger too long, but I really needed to relax. A few more minutes couldn’t hurt...

And they didn’t. The clean scent and my shampoo’s fragrance calmed me, while the cold water settled my nerves. Wearing my casual clothes and with my things packed again, I left the showers, letting the air dry my hair. I didn’t mind if the water soaked into my clothes—the chill was comforting.

Now that my thoughts were finally in order, I started to seriously consider that stupid invitation. The boy I liked had invited me to be his partner purely to study romantic feelings. Yeah, well... my anger quickly turned into disappointment, and then into a deep, suffocating humiliation.

Was it a joke? Kamukura might as well have been the Ultimate Comedian, but there wasn’t a single thing funny about it. I knew he was serious—that was the worst part. Or maybe the worst part was that, for a second, I was going to accept.

Feeling more pathetic than an overturned insect, I grabbed my phone and sent a quick text. I wasn’t going to join the next class activities. I didn’t want to be rude—I’d already turned down plenty of invitations in favor of studying, just to avoid being kicked out—but I couldn’t trust myself not to cry the moment I saw Kamukura’s face.

I selected the number quickly; I’d gotten used to my older phone model fast—since I’d been forced to sell my original to help pay tuition. Not that I was complaining; it worked fine, and it’s not like I had the time to waste on a fancier one.

[Nanami, sorry for the late text, but I don’t think I’ll be able to join other activities with your class. Don’t worry, I’m fine, I just need to stay and study more lately.] 3:07 p.m. ✓

Worried I’d written too much, or explained something she wouldn’t care about... I calmed myself. Nanami had always insisted I should stop overthinking. Even I was getting tired of my own brain.

I sighed, knowing I’d lied to her about a couple of things—like the real reason I didn’t want to see her class, or the part where I said I was fine. I was anything but fine. But I could handle it.

The only truth in my message was that I would use that time to study—classes were moving fast, and if I didn’t keep up, I’d fall behind and get expelled. I’d chosen this—half-chosen, anyway—so I had to keep my word not to be an elite failure.

Something caught my attention as I went downstairs to grab a snack for my next study session. I cursed whoever decided to put the vending machines on the ground floor, even though the dorms were upstairs. With annoyance clouding my thoughts, I pulled out a few coins, fed them into the machine, and considered my options within budget—hoping to god that the person I’d noticed earlier hadn’t spotted me so I could just head straight back to my dorm.

After a short wait, I chose an unsweetened green tea for 120¥, plus a tuna-mayo onigiri for 150¥ as my dinner.

I was just about to stash my highly nutritious dinner into my backpack when a loud crash startled me. If I wasn’t mistaken, I already knew what—and who—it was, but I refused to look at the culprit.

Putting on my best look of indifference, I tried to turn and walk away.

Apparently, luck wasn’t on my side—not with that idiot around.

I barely managed two quick steps before something slammed into my head with surprising force. The sound of a can crumpling told me peace wasn’t in my future.

I tried to ignore the pain blooming at the back of my skull and kept walking despite my dizziness, but then that voice—only worsening my misery—called out to me. I knew that ignoring him would just invite more insults later, but staying would also mean more insults. Die or die, what a choice.

"Ah, Hinata-kun, looks like luck’s not with you today." He wore that damn smug smile he seemed to reserve solely for mocking me. "You look awful, if I may say so, Hinata-kun."

"You may not, Komaeda." I shot back automatically, turning with a face that clearly said I hated being there.
"And I could say the same about you." I pointed out the obvious, trapping the can that had just hit me under my foot while assessing Nagito’s appearance—which was worse than usual, I mean.

His hair looked slightly flattened, his bangs clinging to his forehead. His face was paler—almost greenish—compared to usual, which was concerning, but probably from the food poisoning he’d given himself with his homemade cookies. He wore only his white T-shirt, since most people’s uniforms had been covered in flour and his vest had literally been set on fire in a failed attempt to preheat the oven. He was carrying his backpack full of soda cans of every kind, plus another armful of only vanilla soda. Disgusting.

He’d probably blown up the vending machine again with his damn luck.

"Too bad I don’t care in the slightest what a Reserve thinks, Hinata-kun." He spat every word with that special venom only he could manage. "Imagine being lucky enough to stay behind and clean with Kamukura-kun."

Hearing his name made my stomach twist, but the last thing I wanted was for him of all people to find out what happened. I wouldn’t survive that. I tried to keep my composure, rolling the can under my shoe to buy my brain a few seconds for a decent reply.

"That wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t poisoned half the class with your excuse for cookies." I forced myself to look him in the eye, not wanting to seem nervous, while searching for an escape from this conversation. "And what the hell are you doing in the Reserve building? I thought I heard you say this place was unworthy of any Hope."

"I don’t owe a Reserve an explanation, Hinata-kun. But since I’m in a good mood, I’ll explain—because clearly, your Reserve brain struggles with the obvious." He pointed to the cans in his hands. Damn it. He was right—those sodas were only in the Reserve dorm vending machines—probably because the school didn’t give a damn about our nutrition. My face must’ve given away my realization, because he smiled again with that arrogance I’d never understand.
"Looks like you get it. The soda machine’s in this miserable place, Hinata-kun. For a Reserve, I’m surprised you could figure it out."

I just rolled my eyes and took a step back, then lightly kicked the can I’d been rolling away from Komaeda’s reach.

"If that’s all you had to say, I’m leaving. And you should too—your reputation around here isn’t great. No one would hesitate to beat you up if they saw you." I said, turning and heading toward my dorm, my headache flaring again.

"I don’t need a Reserve worrying about me. But don’t worry, it’s not like I’d want to stay in a dump like this any longer than necessary." His voice carried easily even after I turned away, unfazed by my actions—not even worth getting angry over.

I went back to my room with my calm completely gone and my neck throbbing thanks to that idiot Komaeda. I let out a resigned sigh, set my backpack on my bed, sat at my desk—which was practically glued to the bed to save space, I guess—and took out my food, notebooks, and study materials.

I spent the night buried in math formulas, physics problems, endless history quizzes... and one question echoing at the back of my mind.

Why me, of all people?
Kamukura could have chosen anyone. Absolutely anyone.

I don’t know when I fell asleep in the middle of the night, or when I started crying. I just hoped the tears didn’t stain my notes.

Notes:

I love writing Nagito being an annoying asshole, it's very entertaining.

Also, the story will have sex, or so I planned, hence the warnings. I haven't created a firm timeline yet; any ideas or suggestions will be taken into account.

I use a free translator, sorry for the inconsistencies.

Notes:

I don't think this story is interesting, but I'm an idiot and I already wrote two chapters.

Sorry for making you read this.