Chapter Text
Attending Hope’s Peak Academy was nothing short of irrelevant to you. And at the fresh age of 18, you already felt like you had heard it all. ‘How could you be so ungrateful? People work their entire lives to get what you have now.’ You know, they could be right; but it’s hard to care much when the only thing you’ve seen in adults is greed. They were not successful in their teenhood as you are, so they decided the closest thing was parading a teenager around for money.
But you’ve never cared about that. You never cared about the grand venues, intricate orchestras, hours of practice, not even the plane your manager insisted you take. She said it would ensure your career, and expand your knowledge. Hope’s Peak classes provide next-level education, personally catered to your strong suits and career aspirations. Professionals from all over the world are set to teach in each classroom, and even being invited as a teacher here is an instant trophy to your legacy.
Hope’s Peak Academy and their faculty practically begged you to join them, even if it meant flying you halfway across the globe. They promised new heights for your career, and you promised them the right to boast about “securing a bright new future for its brilliant youth.” It’s ridiculous, and much too ostentatious for your tastes.
Why should all of that matter, when all you’ve ever wanted is to be left alone to play your cello?
You’ve learned enough to know it can’t always be that simple, which isn’t the nicest way to kill your wildest dreams. Society functions for show, money, and power. Being unfortunate enough to be a genius in your field only makes you a cog in a machine. At least, that’s how you view it. Although, people tell you that you’re melodramatic. You suspect they see the cello in your hands, the way you move gracefully through the music, and not much else.
A pen is drawn across the margin of a blank paper, writing down nothing that important. Your signature, a doodle of a cat, and broken-up recitations of your teacher’s useless lesson. It’s calculus, and you don’t think that has anything to do with playing cello. At the end of the day, this is still a school.
About seven minutes to lunch now, your teacher wraps up her lesson, leaving the rest of you to your own senses.
“Review notes! Don’t forget the quiz on Thursday! Last call for finishing assignments!” She reminds the class while jotting down partway unintelligible cursive on the board.
A heavy sigh escapes you, your head perched against your palm as you observe your barren notes. You could say your excuse is that it’s hard to suddenly have to comprehend a new school, language, and country, but that would only be about an eighth of the truth.
“Hey. Can I borrow your notes?”
You whisper over to the boy sitting beside you. He’s currently gazing out the window, and you can’t seem to remember his name. You can remember speaking to him a time or two, casual conversations in passing. In some attempt to “get yourself out there,” as people tell you to do, and out of genuine interest in chatting. You remember seeing him beside you for the first time, and thinking he was surprisingly pretty before going about your day. You aren’t sure if he knows your name either.
“Oh,” he pauses, turning his attention from the window to you. His wavy white hair, something you can’t say you see often, is especially wavy today. If you had to describe it, you would probably say… A fluffy Persian cat. Maybe rude to say, but you find it strangely endearing paired with his delicate features and pale skin. His muted green eyes soften for a moment before trailing away from yours. “They probably won’t do you any good.”
Hm, what could that mean?
The rest of the class has begun to quietly chatter amongst themselves, so you figure there’s no harm in indulging.
“You didn’t finish them? Ah, it’s no problem. My bad.” You respond. It’s a bit informal, but you don’t realize.
The boy smiles, and an airy laugh follows. “No, it’s not that. I’m just talentless, so I couldn’t serve an Ultimate much good.” There’s a strange tinge of genuine sadness in his voice despite the gentle smile.
“Talentless? I thought everyone had an Ultimate here?” You ask curiously. The boy seems a bit stung by your words, even despite the clear cluelessness on your end.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m only lucky. I just won a lottery to attend classes here.” There’s a smile on his face, but no self-deprecating humor with it. He still looks genuinely sad. Maybe even guilty.
Ah. That’s sad. Not because he’s “talentless,” but because it seems like he truly believes he’s a nuisance.
“Well, I only play cello, so you’re probably just as good at calculus as me, if not better.” You bring your arm down from your head to flatten against the desk, fixing your posture nice and straight to face him properly. He sits right beside the window, with you to his right. The two of you are positioned in the very corner of the room, with your own quiet pocket of space to chat. “To clarify, if you couldn’t tell, I’m terrible at calculus. So please, spare me?”
This time, a genuinely amused laugh comes from him.
You are oddly proud to finally have a conversation with a new person that is actually enjoyable compared to the dozens of awkward conversations you’ve had since attending these past few weeks.
The boy gives in, passing over a couple pages of scattered notes, which you immediately start hurriedly transferring to your own papers.
“You play cello? That’s amazing.” You hear from beside you.
“Yeah. I guess.”
That’s your usual response. There’s not much else to say, and saying anything more feels too close to boasting. You’d prefer not to let your skills overshadow your real personality.
“It must take a lot of discipline to be so skilled in cello. I think I can see the grace already! Gosh, I’ve never met an orchestra musician...” He sounds thrilled, much too thrilled for your liking. Although, it’s not fair to think so when he means nothing but good.
You take a moment to finish scribbling down your notes before collecting the papers he provided.
“Not really. I just like cello.”
Your words come out a little too curt, and you notice the surprised look on his face beneath the wonder.
“There’s a lot of weight in saying you’re in orchestra, because it sounds so fancy and high-end. But I don’t care about any of that, y’know? I just like my cello.” You repeat, maybe over-explaining yourself this time.
You suppose you have a bad habit of that, but it’s better to speak your mind than pretend. At least, that’s what you’ve decided now.
The boy seems oddly awestruck for another moment. A bit strange, you suppose, but anything is better than the empty conversations you’ve been forcing yourself through with classmates as of late.
“I admire the hope your cello inspires in you. Unfiltered passion for the craft is admirable.” He says, somewhat mumbling under his breath, but loud enough to hear. Whether that was intentional or not, you don’t know. And if you understand what he means by ‘hope’, you don’t know either. But he seems genuinely touched, and it’s nice to hear something other than the constant empty flattery that serves no one.
“What’s your name?” The boy asks.
Plainly, and a bit unenthusiastically, you answer with your name.
“What about you?” You ask in return, placing the papers he’d given you back on his desk as you begin collecting your belongings into your bag.
“Nagito Komaeda, but you shouldn’t feel bothered to remember. It doesn’t matter much.”
He really does like making little comments that drag himself down. It’s quite strange at first glance, but you like strange better. It makes for a genuine person, and Nagito seems to fit the role well with his quirks.
“Komaeda-san, you would be the first friend I’ve made, so I think I will remember.”
The boy, who you now know is Nagito, forms a small ‘o’ with his lips, his expression softly surprised.
“Friend?” He asks, and the surprise seems to strike him so deeply that he can’t find the words to put himself down again.
“Yeah. I haven’t had much success in any other class.” You stifle out a half-scoff, half-laugh, which Nagito smiles at.
The bell rings out, and the shuffle of students rushing to their feet echoes across the room. You follow suit, rising from your seat while slinging your bag over your shoulder. Nagito does the same before the two of you turn to face each other.
“Could I sit with you at lunch? I haven’t had anyone to sit with.” You ask as you both head for the hallway, still beside one another.
The sun shines through the row of windows lining the hall, overlooking the school’s back courtyard. It’s a beautiful garden of rose bushes and flowering trees. Stone benches are scattered amongst the paths, and a fountain sits in the middle. You take notice of the way golden rays of light shine against Nagito’s pale skin.
“Ah... I don’t know. I wouldn’t want the other talents to see you with someone as useless as me.” Nagito says, casting his gaze downward. His voice is unbearably apologetic, and sadly polite. Enough to make you feel genuinely bad for him.
“Hey, half of these people are stuck-up snobs. I don’t care much about what they think.” You say. It’s partly an attempt to make him feel better, but also the truth, at least to you. “Nobody else has really been nice to me either, because I think some of them believe they’re better than me.”
Nagito looks gloomy now while the two of you travel down the bustling halls. Uniformed students chatter and yell as they pass by.
“I don’t think anyone should treat a musician as gifted as you that way. It’s just crass.”
You shrug, having already learned not to take his words too seriously. But then, a little epiphany strikes you. If you’re going to make a friend, you should probably learn to speak their language.
“So, extend an Ultimate some grace? Sitting alone is sort of depressing.” You ask hopefully. It’s not entirely Nagito’s language, but it’s close enough to be implication.
He seems receptive, taking a moment to think with his chin held between his fingers.
“You’re right.” Nagito finally answers. He seems partially lost in thought, though. Probably thinking up something like ‘It would be low of me to treat an Ultimate with such disrespect’. But that’s only a guess based on pattern recognition.
Finally, he turns to look at you. A kind smile rests on his face, with the faintest blush dusting his cheeks. If you had to guess, the blush is probably more noticeable because of his pale complexion, but it’s charming nonetheless. “Alright. You win.”
You smile back, and he seems strangely pleased with your reaction.
After weeks of waiting around at school, talking to no one in particular, you’ve finally made your first friend. Perfect timing, actually. You were beginning to think you would go insane if it meant continuing to stay isolated and doing nothing but homework.
In Japan, you’ve learned it’s more common for students to eat lunch in their classrooms, but Hope’s Peak doesn’t do this. You aren’t entirely sure why, but you assume it has something to do with the school’s contemporary reputation. Being a fresh, modern academy is part of the appeal for those who attend, and they are wealthy enough to have an extravagant campus to match.
Though today, the lunchroom is especially noisy, and even more crowded. Students from all grades and classes congregate together, buzzing with chatter—and you could’ve sworn you saw a rice ball get launched across the room...
You and Nagito seem to immediately agree it’s too much for the both of you, and instead wander out to the courtyard together. Though it isn’t entirely empty, it’s large enough to find a secluded bench nestled between hedges at the end of a stone path. The chatter of noise is quieter here, replaced by hushed conversations and birdsong. A birdbath sits some feet away, with a sparrow or two swooping down every now and then to splash around.
Today, you decided to bring a more familiar lunch: grilled cheese and tomato soup. Usually, out of convenience, you bring rice balls and edamame. But truthfully, you’ve missed the familiar foods you used to eat back west.
“Ah, just my luck.” Nagito says from beside you on the bench.
You look over to find the bento box in his lap entirely empty. “Somehow,” he continues, “my lunch has disappeared.”
“I thought you were supposed to be lucky.” You joke. It’s meant to lighten the mood, but he seems to take it seriously.
“The thing about my good luck is that the bad always comes first.” He sighs, putting the lid back onto his bento. He already looks completely dispirited, and that alone is enough to make you feel bad.
“Hey, I can share with you.” You begin, picking up a slice of your grilled cheese and presenting it to him happily. “Actually, I want you to. I’m sure you’ve never had this before, right?”
“No...” he replies, taking it carefully into his hands and examining it. Lucky for him, you perfectly crisped the bread and used your best cheese.
You pick up the thermos of tomato soup and eagerly hold it toward him.
“So, you dip the sandwich in the soup,” you explain while he carefully follows your directions, “and then eat it!”
He seems hesitant at first, but takes a bite.
You wait patiently, watching his face as he chews. His gaze instinctively shifts to the side while he thinks over the taste. Finally, his expression softens.
“Wow, this is good.” He says between another bite. “Not only are you a skilled cello player, but a great cook as well!”
You laugh softly at the comment, and at the way his cheeks flush when he smiles.
“It’s really not hard to make, though.”
He doesn’t pay much attention to your reply, too preoccupied with dipping the sandwich back into the soup.
“I suppose this is my good luck after the bad.” Nagito says, turning toward you with a soft sincerity in his expression. That same gentle look he always has, part of the reason he resembles the ‘pretty boy’ type of look.
You return the look warmly; happier than you’d like to admit over how pleasant the day has become.
“I’m glad you think so, Komaeda-san.”
You happily spend the rest of lunch chatting with Nagito. The two of you fill the hour with small stories and easy conversation. Talking about classmates, a movie that just came out, how different your home in the west is from the east. Nagito, despite his odd politeness and habit of being too hard on himself, is enjoyable to talk to. He listens to your rambling, and never seems to mind your own eccentricities. Much like how you don’t mind his.
Walking home, the birds chirp and sing just as they did in the courtyard, and you watch the sun set over Tokyo streets while hoping you’ll hear from Nagito again tomorrow.