Chapter Text
Hajime feels icky.
His legs are aching, his fingers twitch as he pulls the covers up onto his body. It’s too warm, he thinks.
He should really clean himself up, get a glass of water, maybe even change into some of the clothes Izuru had asked (nagged) him to wash this morning.
Too much work.
He’s practically sinking into the bed at this rate. Hajime squeezed his eyes shut, his head throbbing. If he doesn’t move maybe the feeling will pass. Maybe everything will finally quiet down.
He knows it won’t.
It clings. It crawls underneath his skin and it settles somewhere deep inside his chest like something rotting.
His stomach twists.
“…gross.” He mumbles under his breath, voice hoarse as he tries to curl into the mattress. He drags a hand over his face, his nails digging into his skin slightly.
‘If it’s gross, why are you still lying here?’
A familiar monotone voice speaks to him.
Hajime clicks his tongue, rolling over onto his side as he pulls the blanket tighter around him, as if it might block the voice out.
“Because i’m tired,” he snaps under his breath. “God, can you just — not right now..?” He almost sounds like he’s begging at this point. It’s laughable.
He’s met with silence, but not absence. Izuru never really truly goes away, he realizes.
His fingers twitch again. He presses them into the mattress, grounding himself, focusing on the texture. Ah. The sheets are warm. Too warm. His skin feels wrong — too sensitive, too aware, it all just seems to pile up on him.
‘You should get up.’ Izuru’s tone is flat, not to his surprise. It’s not unkind but it’s not exactly gentle either.
Hajime lets out a weak laugh at Izuru’s statement. “Yeah? And do what? Pretend I’m normal for a few hours before I end up breaking down again?”
A pause.
‘You are failing to take care of yourself.’
Hajime swallows, his throat dry.
“…I’ll get up later…” He mumbles.
‘You said that about an hour ago.’
“…Shut up.”
But theres no bite to it.
Theres silence again before Izuru’s voice speaks up again, just a but gentler this time.
‘At least sit up.’
The room tilts.
Hajime exhales slowly, like the air even weighs something. His body protests as he moves, muscles stiff, his head spinning slightly as he pushes himself upright in his bed.
He doesn’t feel real. Nothing feels real. He almost feels nauseous as he stares at his lap, a few faint healed scars on his legs.
‘There. Progress.’ Izuru snaps him out of his thoughts. Hajime exhales shakily, his shoulders slumping as he stares at his lap for a moment longer. It certainly doesn’t feel like progress. It’s barely anything to him.
He moves. Slow and unsteady.
He swings his legs fully off the bed, feet hitting the floor with a small quiet thud. The cold makes him flinch, toes curling slightly against the ground. He forces himself to stand, one hand bracing against his nightstand as the room tilts again. His vision swims for a second before settling into something dull and manageable.
He takes a step. Then another.
Each one feels wrong. Like his body isn’t synced up with him properly, like he’s a second too late with everything he does. (And maybe that’s true.)
He doesn’t remember reaching the kitchen, his chest feels tight again but luckily not as bad before. Hajime grips the edge of the counter, staring down at it like it might ground him in some way. It doesn’t, of course.
He feels like a small child, freezing, shaky and wanting nothing more than to cry. A small gross and incompetent child — he corrects himself.
He winces. “…You think i’m gross too, don’t you?” The words come out before he can even stop them. He’s met with silence, nothing but the slight humming of his refrigerator in his kitchen. His chest tightens more, breath shaky.
He lets out a bitter weak laugh, shaking his head. “I mean… you’d have to, right..?” He continues, voice low. “We share a mind. You hear everything. You see—“ He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.
“All of it.”
His grip on the counter tightens. “There’s… no way you don’t think somethings wrong with m-me…” He trails off, honestly, he can feel his body sway a bit. Was he truly even here right now? Was he even speaking? Was he even real?
There’s still no answer from Izuru. The pause stretches long enough for Hajime. He digs his nails into the palm of his hand, feeling the sharpness dig into his skin.
Of course. Of course, Izuru doesn’t answer.
That’s basically an answer on its own— Izuru is disgusted by him. Disgusted that Hajime would even begin to have those kind of thoughts. He should know, Izuru sees everything, hears everything, knows everything—
‘No.’
Hajime freezes, his nails slowly pulling away from his palm. He feels like someone just poured cold water on him. “…No?” he echos, like he didn’t hear it right.
‘I do not find you disgusting.’
Hajime’s hand loosens slightly against the counter. He swallows hard, his throat dry. “But you—“ He falters. “You hear everything…even the stuff I don’t even want to think about.”
‘Well, yes.’
“…and it doesn’t bother you…?”
A short pause.
‘It is simply not relevant.’
He frowns faintly, shaking his head. “H-How is that not relevant? It’s—“ He exhales sharply. “It’s… me.” He sounds so pathetic right now, so miserable, so weak.
‘It is your mind producing involuntary output. That is not equivalent to your character.’
He goes quiet, his faze dropping to his hands, fingers twitching faintly before stilling. Honestly, he isn’t even sure how to respond to that.
‘…You are not responding because you know I am correct.’
Hajime’s eye twitches at that. “…Be quiet,” he mumbles, but it lacks any real anger. If anything, it sounds a little embarrassed.