Work Text:
your love is a deep incision / but my love's gonna leave the scar
Tedious as it is, Hinata quite likes being assigned to unload shipments from the Future Foundation. It’s a reasonably clear-cut task, and more often than not it gives him the opportunity to be alone alongside his thoughts without blankly staring at a wall and spiraling deep into his own mind. Therapeutic, in a way.
Though ‘more often than not’ isn’t ‘always’.
“Hinata-kun, do you think that if I were to unload all of the boxes, that would make the supply as a whole more lucky?”
Hinata’s eyes roll over towards Komaeda’s wide grin as the other carefully places down yet another box. The combination of Jabberwock Island’s heat and mild exertion against Komaeda’s frail body leaves sweat painted across the lucky student’s brow, plastering his bangs to his forehead. His face is twinged red, and Hinata would be tempted to suggest that he take a break if not for the fact that he just did.
“I dunno,” Hinata finally shrugs after a second, dropping his own boxes to the warehouse ground (did nobody think about this when they assigned Komaeda here??) and leaving resounding thuds against concrete. “I’ve got luck too, though, so it probably wouldn’t change things much.”
“Ah, you’re absolutely correct, Hinata-kun!” Komaeda rasps cheerily. He drags an oversized sleeve over his face briefly, before turning back elsewhere in the warehouse for a box cutter.
“Just take off your jacket,” Hinata groans while he follows. Komaeda only hums noncommittally and retrieves two box cutters from where they had been discarded onto a workbench, tossing one rather hazardously in Hinata’s direction. Though it’s not a threat. Hinata catches it by the handle, more instinct than intentional movement. Quiet talent in the back of his brain. Odd as always.
He’s still not used to it. Even after months of the former Remnants of Despair living on Jabberwock Island together, piecing back together the beachside paradise and themselves, he struggles to accustom himself to the way that talent (worth, purpose) buzzes between the crevices of his brain. All too easy, all too wrong. Like a parasite, sort of, except it’s one that he can feel the weight of as it presses against the back of his skull, keening at whatever opportunity it can snag to creep back into control. Languid slips into his motions, his words, smooth as butter. Hinata, much as he dislikes it, can’t bring himself to hate it. And that perhaps feels even more wrong.
Though it all feels wrong lately. The world left disjointed, even after everybody (almost everybody, ashy hair leaving an aching gap behind) has reunited outside of the Neo World Program. Hinata wonders sometimes whether it’s fruitless to try and stitch back together such awfully wrecked pieces of fabric, worn edges tarnished by despair. He wonders whether it’s fruitless to stitch him back together, whether Hinata Hajime still really exists beneath heterochromatic eyes and hair that feels darker than it used to. It’s a thought ever present alongside the parasite.
The loud snap of a box cutter sheathing and a bony shoulder knocking past his own rather unceremoniously drags Hinata from his wallowing mind, however. Komaeda brushes past him as though without a care in the world, while Hinata turns to look back at the head of whiteish hair slipping towards the handful of unopened and unsorted boxes.
He halfway appreciates it, would say something if not for that breaking the unspoken truce. It’s an island-wide thing, kind of. Everyone teeters on the edge of uncertainty here, mangled memories making it all the harder to be the humans they once were. So, sometimes (oftentimes), the once-classmates will go dull-eyed and distant, and it’s up to the others to push them back into an almost-right place in whatever way they deem proper. It leaves them slightly less off-kilter, at the very least.
Komaeda’s always better at noticing when Hinata gets caught up in that mess, though. Impossible to read as he is, Hinata still can’t pin down how, but he’s at least appreciative. Far too many times has Komaeda crept up behind him on the sandy beach with some tangent about seashells or stars that practically shoves Hinata from whatever trance he’s stuck in.
He forces a sharp breath before following Komaeda once more, listening to the shred of metal against tape as Komaeda rips one of the boxes open. With the practiced ease of having done this to probably dozens of similar boxes over the last few hours, Hinata starts to break apart his own.
It’s an easy rhythm to fall back into, at least. Cut, open, sort, next. They move through the current stack of boxes just as quickly as every stack before, conversation much the same. Relatively barren and sparse, which is rare for ever-rambling Komaeda. There’s still the occasional comment on a particularly ‘hopeful’ object—he starts stumbling over his words at the sight of seed packets to help the ex-remnants begin sustaining their own food source—but it’s peculiarly quiet as a whole. Maybe it’s just a consequence of Komaeda’s people skills improving or something.
“Hinata-kun,” Komaeda finally hums after awhile of silence, a mildly comforting reminder that he’s still alive, “where do you think nail polish would go?”
“Huh?”
“Nail polish,” repeats Komaeda, and he gestures down with his head. “They sent us some.”
“Um,” hesitates Hinata while he steps over. His eyes catch onto the inside of the box, rows of glass bottles shining under the bright-white warehouse lighting, a wide assortment of colors gleaming beneath. “That’s… weird. Maybe we can just put all of that with hygiene products?”
Komaeda nods his head and hums quietly. “Alright. Though it’s rather odd that they’d send us this, no?”
“Could be some attempt at making us feel normal again,” Hinata suggests. “Or they’re just using the island as a deadstock spot.”
“It would be a rather fun activity, so perhaps it is the appeal of normalcy!” Komaeda says. “Painting nails seems like an enjoyable chance to spend time together. Maybe we could do so sometime.”
Hinata doesn’t miss, exactly, the way Komaeda looks directly into his eyes as he says that. He just can’t decide what it’s supposed to mean. Maybe it’s just a suggestion for the rest of the island, some kind of group therapy-slash-bonding. Or maybe, potentially, possibly, an offer. The latter in particular sounds rather nice, but he’s never been confident when it comes to reading what Komaeda means. So maybe he’s just getting his hopes up that Komaeda even wants to be around him.
He realizes too late that Komaeda is staring.
“Uh. Yeah. Would be.” Which, if Komaeda’s words really did mean the latter, most certainly destroyed Hinata’s chance at accepting. So. Great. Awesome, even.
Komaeda rises with a contented smile and the box in his hands now, without sparing an awkwardly-standing Hinata more than a passing glance. He kind of wants to explode and die now—and it wasn’t even that embarrassing of a moment. Maybe it’s something to do with how much more sensitive he feels around Komaeda, though, how much more vivid his emotions are. He’s unfortunately all too aware of how easily his cheeks heat in the white-haired boy’s presence and his heart’s tendency to stutter. Worse, Komaeda’s effect has only risen in impact now that they’re out of the simulation.
(Though the escalation’s not really because of Komaeda, is it?)
(Maybe something more to do with long nights staring at computer screens, empty pods except one, world destroyers again and again and again and again-)
Hinata forcibly spins back to his own pile to resume working. It’s mostly a desperate ploy to reaffix his mind, but whatever. It works. He’s able to fall back into an easy rhythm of unpacking, and the thought of painting nails next to Komaeda only lightly traces around the back of his mind on occasion.
It’s not too much longer before all of their work is done and Hinata bides a slightly-too-quick farewell to Komaeda. As if he has anything better to do. He can’t help the near-overwhelming sense of relief that crashes over him when he takes in the salty air outside of the warehouse, though. Or maybe it’s more of an ocean wave of gratitude, knowing now that he shouldn’t be bothered by it—a humming opportunity, something easy, carefree, light—anymore.
Read: shouldn’t.
Because he damn well is.
The rest of the day makes it feel like Hinata’s brain is cleaved in half (ironic, because it kind of is)—one side does everything normally, and the other hyper-analyzes raspy words, running through scenarios over and over like some kind of catastrophizing robot.
Every attempt of Hinata’s to quiet his mind is futile. He skips lunch to meditate, wears headphones that he scavenged from the third island, even suggests that Mioda and Saionji have a screaming competition. But exterior noise doesn’t do anything to silence the persistent buzz of maybe he did want to spend time with you, you would’ve enjoyed it too, though it’s really quite stupid of you to expect that anybody at all would want to waste their breath talking to you-
Anyways, he’s here now. In front of Komaeda’s cottage. He might throw up. Overreaction much?
Hinata knocks on the cottage door before he can stop himself, willfully turn away and be spared from the embarrassment of mildly hoping Komaeda actually said something he meant or whatever. His hand stops somewhere on the third rap, though, because of course it does. Because maybe he really had just misread everything, and Komaeda hadn’t meant to say that, and he doesn’t want to be around Hinata, ex-reserve-course, questionably reliable and barely a person-
“Hinata-kun?” Komaeda says when the door cracks open, orange-ish sunlight spilling onto his pale skin. Less pale now, though, than when they first met. Hinata wonders whether he’s been outside more lately.
“Um,” he swallows. The weight of everything feels like a chain around his throat. “I just. Wanted to see whether you’d like to, uh, actually do the whole painting nails… thing? With me? ‘Cus it seemed, uh, fun, I guess…?” Just kill yourself now holy shit what the hell was that oh my God-
Komaeda’s face cracks into a bright smile before Hinata can dig himself yet further into the hole that he’s decided will inevitably be his grave. He opens the door wider, even more sunlight pouring over his hair and glimmering onto his eyes. It brings a strangely angelic glow to the boy, which makes him look really pretty, which is not aiding in Hinata’s emotional state.
“If Hinata-kun would like to do something like that with me,” he starts, chipper even through the mildly deprecating words, “then of course I’d accept! When would he like to?”
“I mean, I’m free whenever, so we could…” Hinata trails off momentarily into a half-hearted shrug. “Like, now? Unless you’re busy or something”—Komaeda is nodding vigorously before Hinata even finishes his sentence, so that’s at least a good sign—“alright, do you wanna, uh, come with to grab the stuff?”
It’s an easy three seconds before Komaeda is out the door, excitedly jamming his ugly shoes on while he already moves past Hinata. With a soft smile and a sigh of relief, Hinata starts to follow, the tension in his chest unwinding with each step.
“So have you ever done this before? Like, painting your nails?” Hinata asks once Komaeda slows his gait ever so slightly.
“Ah, no,” replies Komaeda. “Before, I was always afraid that I would die from the fumes or something like that. And besides, I knew it would be a waste for somebody as putrid as me to participate in an aesthetically-focused activity when there’s nothing that could make me any less of worthless scum!” He smiles wide before catching Hinata’s narrow gaze. “Or- I thought it would have been a waste, in my eyes,” Komaeda corrects, eyes shining with a mild pride at the takeback. Hinata caves and gives him a small smile back.
“‘Cause you’re not worthless scum,” Hinata continues after a moment, to which Komaeda slowly bobs his head. It’s not completely believable, but it’s something—and, regardless, Hinata is genuinely happy about the slight adjustment. Komaeda’s biting and constant self-deprecation has been one of the many things Hinata has pulled out the Ultimate Therapist talent for recently, and while progress is slow, it’s still progress. It’s sort of nice to see him genuinely try and speak better about himself—though Hinata is 90% sure most of the effort stems from a pep talk of Naegi’s that left Komaeda’s eyes shining for days. So long as it’s working, he supposes.
“Have you?” Komaeda asks after a moment of quiet footsteps against sandy pavement. “Painted your nails, I mean?”
“Nah, not that I remember,” Hinata shrugs. His school memories are muddled enough as is. The most he has is the recollection of a quietly giggled proposition at some point, but even that’s unclear in his mind, slipping through his fingers like the shoreside.
“So it’s a learning experience for the both of us!” Komaeda claps, rather kindly avoiding the fact that buried somewhere in Hinata’s brain, there’s probably some kind of Ultimate Nail Tech talent.
“Guess so.” Hinata smiles, easy, carefree, light, because that’s what this is supposed to be.
Once they make it to the warehouse, he holds the door open for Komaeda, the other slipping in and making his way to the box with Hinata trailing behind. Hinata hefts it up in his arms, to which Komaeda holds the door this time with a bright grin. It’s probably unnecessary to bring a box filled with an entire salon’s worth of bottles back to the cottage, but Hinata quite likes the tradeoff of the door held open for him, so… what else is he supposed to do, really?
The short walk back between islands is more or less the same—lighthearted, all things considered. Simple, even. Komaeda buzzes about his prospective work in the garden now that they’ve received some equipment, and Hinata can’t help the small smile across his face at the thought of Komaeda contentedly gardening, long afternoons shining in the sun with sweat across his brow, a loose tank top against his lanky torso-
He definitely isn’t blushing a little when the two reach the door of Komaeda’s cottage.
“Did you have someplace else in mind?” Komaeda asks, his hand already moving for the door.
“This works great.” Komaeda nods happily and pushes the door open, yet again holding it for Hinata—which shouldn’t make his heart skip a beat, but it does. Because it’s nice, or oddly considerate, or something like that. Totally.
“We can use the table over here,” he gestures as Hinata takes in the cottage. The last few months have given Komaeda ample time to refashion it to some degree, between small collected trinkets and mild rearrangements. It doesn’t completely settle the ache in Hinata’s stomach as his vision swivels, fully expecting a refrigerator or gas mask to show up someplace, but it helps. Just the slightest bit. Because things are different now, can be different now, no more fire and neon blood and poison flung.
Hinata still can’t scrub the memory of Komaeda’s torso impaled on the warehouse ground, though, even as he watches the very much alive boy shuffle around and set up cushions for them to sit on. Eyes wide and forever unblinking, far different from the ones that blink up to him now.
“Hinata-kun,” Komaeda says, intonation flat and patient.
“Sorry,” Hinata breathes.
“We can go someplace else.” Either Hinata is way too easy to read, or he’s way too easy to read for Komaeda in particular. He leans towards the latter.
“‘S fine,” Hinata shrugs, some attempt at a reassuring smile tracing around his lips as he places the box down. It is, after all. Because they’re both here now, alive and well, and damn it all if he’s going to let a world where they weren’t ruin this (something easy, carefree, light) for him.
“Alright,” Komaeda hums, and the trust layered behind his words makes Hinata’s head go woozy with something unfamiliar for a blinking moment.
They both take seats across from one other while Hinata pulls out the array of colors, glass bottles lined across plastic casing. There’s a lot of colors, for some reason or another (still such an odd item for the Future Foundation to ship out, but Hinata can’t complain at this point). The hues are carefully arranged, a fading rainbow of sorts between the plastic layers that Hinata lays out.
“Can I paint your nails first?” Komaeda asks once the colors are set up. “That way there’s no expectation for me to abhorrently attempt to meet.”
“Sure,” says Hinata. “Abhorrently, though? Really? Seems dramatic.”
“Poorly is a more boring word.”
“How about badly?” Komaeda just scoffs at that, too-pretty grey-green eyes narrowing to contrast with the grin tugging at his lips. Hinata smiles back and starts to look over the colors lined up, grabbing out a bottle after a moment.
It’s a nice hue, one of his favorite colors, which is most definitely the sole reason he chooses it. Light, something nearly grey if not for the hint of green buried in it. Almost an otherworldly color, too in-between to be fully reminiscent of anything natural. Like storm clouds and sage leaves, dead coral and washed-up kelp.
It’s also nearly the exact same color as Komaeda’s eyes, a fact that Hinata is reminded of the instant he passes the bottle over and makes eye contact again. Either Komaeda manages not to notice, or he simply chooses not to comment on that fact that Hinata is now asking him to paint his nails in the same color as Komaeda’s eyes—which is perhaps the gayest, most hopelessly-pining action ever.
Fuck.
It’s too late though, because metal fingers are already wrapped around the bottle, cracking the lid open while Komaeda gestures down with his head for Hinata to lay out his hands. Ignoring the burning against his ears as best he can (which isn’t by much), he complies and splays both hands against the wooden table. Komaeda places the bottle down and carefully takes Hinata’s hand in his metal one, bringing it rather close to his face. Hinata’s stomach flutters way too much at the almost-holding-hands of it all, and the butterflies swarming around are frenzied even more at the cool tickle of Komaeda’s breath because he’s so close oh my God oh my God oh my God-
With the brush held firmly between pale fingers, Komaeda starts at Hinata’s thumb. His movements are achingly deliberate and slow, his grip around Hinata’s hand at once grounding and sending Hinata to another plane of existence.
The job starts to look rather well-done, despite the ‘abhorrence’ Komaeda was worried about, each nail having relatively clean and even strokes. His hand falters a few times, which he always counteracts with a quiet hum or an almost-nervous, smiling glance up at Hinata, but it’s not as though he actually messes anything up. Hinata resigns himself to complimenting the other’s work once everything is said and done.
Upon carefully painting Hinata’s pinky, Komaeda dips the brush back into its bottle, his head still tipped low and light bangs mostly covering his face. Hinata feels the soft tightening of metal against his hand, moving it ever so slightly, and before he can say anything-
Soft lips press against the top of his hand, delicate and fleeting. Komaeda all but drops Hinata’s hand a moment later, hurriedly placing it against the table while his gaze flits away to unpainted nails as though nothing happened at all. Though Hinata can hear the quiet laugh that brushes out from his lips, the lips that just kissed his hand and trapped his words in his chest.
Easy, carefree, light, if not for the fact that he can’t quite remember how to breathe.
Which, unfortunately, must be apparent to Komaeda and his uncanny understanding of each and every part of Hinata. The white-haired boy’s eyes glance up, just shy of contact in favor of nearly-sage staring into the wall.
“Hah,” he almost giggles, “my, ah, my apologies, Hinata-kun, I’m sure the thought alone of a mouth as putrid as my own touching you in any way whatsoever is absolutely appalling, to have done-”
Hinata doesn’t let him finish.
With hands splayed flat across the low table, he leans forward, catching Komaeda’s ramblings within the touch of his lips. Komaeda’s lips feel even softer this way. Chapped skin, wet at their slightly-parted seam. Hinata sinks in a little bit further, closing the nonexistent gap between his and Komaeda’s breath.
It’s a jilted kind of kiss, more to the side of Komaeda’s lips than the center and rather awkwardly positioned. Hinata’s nose is partway jammed into Komaeda’s cheek, which is soft too. It’s nice, though. Surprisingly easy (carefree, light). He only falls back away at the cold touch of reality and metal fingers brushing against one of the hands still holding himself upright.
But Hinata can’t bring himself to pull all of the way back, his face staying just close enough to Komaeda’s to be a quiet reminder of a nonexistent normal. Like he won’t let the moment sink into the recesses of time to be forgotten.
“Hinata… kun,” Komaeda whispers first, like he always does. His eyes are wide and entrancing, and Hinata mourns that fact that the colors newly adorning his nails will never quite match the real thing.
“…Sorry,” Hinata breathes after a moment too long of quiet, a moment too long of him drinking in the flush across Komaeda’s face and his lips that refuse to fully close.
“You don’t have to be,” Komaeda says hurriedly. His brow creases the faintest bit in worry or apology. “I just… are you sure?”
“I’ve been sure for a long time,” replies Hinata, and he knows right then that he wouldn’t trade the look of happiness, of hope that flits across Komaeda’s eyes for the world. He’s not sure whether he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.
He can’t stop himself from leaning forward again, like the touch of his lips will preserve the look on Komaeda’s face—but this time, the white-haired boy leans up to meet him. Their lips catch across the table, far more assured, far more centered. Hinata’s unpainted hand reaches to cup the back of Komaeda’s head, fingers entangling into hair that Hinata has dreamt about for much too long. They pull him in nearer, dragging the warmth of his mouth ever closer to Hinata’s.
Everything is so tender and sweet. It’s as though Hinata can feel himself hanging over a precipice and Komaeda is the only thing keeping him from falling, like he’s the only tether to reality Hinata can fathom grasping onto. And grasp he does, and gasp, and sigh, while he sinks deeper and deeper in. Hand tight within hair, tongue between parted lips.
Komaeda is an ocean trench, saltwater taste and sea glass eyes, sun-kissed skin that Hinata presses love into. His lips travel across Komaeda’s cheeks and beneath his jaw, and he damn-near shudders when a metal hand carefully guides his head away so that Komaeda can do the same. The delicate graze of teeth and lips against Hinata’s neck makes his heart threaten to leap from his chest. Or explode. Or shatter. Or something else utterly dramatic, and yet still unable to encapsulate just how Komaeda’s touch makes him feel.
A tickle of breath against Hinata’s neck while Komaeda pulls slightly away leaves his stomach floating, mind up somewhere in the cloudy heavens. His hand moves to Komaeda’s cheek, guiding the other’s gaze back towards his own flushed face. Slowly, his lips break into a smile.
“…How long have you… been sure?” Komaeda murmurs. The curvature of his face is so soft in Hinata’s palm, and his red-dusted skin is uncharacteristically warm beneath Hinata’s tanned fingertips.
“There’s always been something,” replies Hinata, rather thoughtfully. He can’t bring himself to break away from Komaeda’s gaze. “I knew I liked you early in the simulation. And even after everything… I think I realized what I felt when I was waiting for you in the World Destroyer. Because I knew then that I’d wait forever.”
He doesn’t have to ask how long Komaeda has known. It feels like an undercurrent of their ever-precarious relationship, feelings that are too much and yet present nonetheless—were too much, at least, since Hinata can’t bring himself to think of them as quite as overwhelming anymore.
Komaeda’s eyes sparkle at the admittance.
“I wonder what awful thing might happen to counteract such luck,” he hums quietly.
“I don’t think it’s luck.”
“…Perhaps not.”
Hinata leans forward again to press a small peck against Komaeda’s lips again. He wonders whether it’ll ever stop sending a stab of dizzying warmth through his heart. Probably not. When he pulls back, Komaeda’s lips are stretched in a beautifully delicate smile.
“…Did you want me to finish painting your nails?” he asks slowly.
“Yeah,” Hinata says. “They look great so far,” he adds, and Komaeda half-ducks his head away—though not before Hinata’s catches a glimpse of his flushed cheeks. He quickly busies himself with grabbing Hinata’s other hand.
“Was the color supposed to mean something?” he finally asks after a quiet moment of starting to paint Hinata’s nails, and now it’s Hinata’s turn to be embarrassed.
“It wasn’t… conscious,” he mumbles. “I just like that color.”
“And it happens to be the color of my eyes?” Komaeda teases. “That’s somewhat desperate, no?” He’s clearly glad to have flipped things around on Hinata, judging from his more persistent gaze and the smirk toying at the corners of his lips. “Did Hinata-kun expect me to do something based on that? It’s not the greatest hint, you know. Quite easy to misinterpret.”
“So you would’ve done that anyways?” You would’ve kissed me anyways?
“…Probably.”
Komaeda finishes off Hinata’s other hand and delicately places it back on the table, studying his handiwork for moment.
“You’re right.” He glances up to meet Hinata’s gaze, which has barely left his face since everything. “…They don’t look too abhorrent.”
Hinata flashes him a warm smile. “I love them. Now choose your colors.”
Komaeda nods and does so, rising onto his knees to look over the array. He glances over to Hinata for a second, eyes narrowed less as if making eye contact and more as if they’re evaluating something. When he looks back down, he grabs out a soft olive color, which makes Hinata’s face break out into an incredibly stupid grin.
It falters a little, however, when Komaeda looks back to the colors, a hand skimming over the red selection and starting to pull one out.
“Do-” Hinata starts. Komaeda freezes and glances towards him.
“…Do you have to have red, too?” Hinata’s voice feels so quiet, meager, frail almost. He doesn’t want it to matter to him, wants to accept heterochromatic eyes as a reminder of his past, not of him, but does that have to mean-
“I love every part of you, Hinata-kun,” says Komaeda. “You know that, I’m sure.”
And Hinata does. He holds the tentative, unfamiliar knowledge in his palms like a pearl he’s wary of tainting, like he doesn’t want to chance smudging a glowing purity. He doesn’t know how long he’s known. He doesn’t know how much longer it’ll be until he can clutch the pearl fully in his hands, either. But it’s there. And that might be enough for a sea-worn, frayed piece of fabric, barely clutching on as is.
“…Okay.”
Quietly, Hinata takes the red polish from Komaeda and places it next to the olive while Komaeda shifts back. Smiling, Komaeda splays his real hand out, resting his chin atop the metal one to look dreamily up at Hinata.
“What?” Hinata laughs, something nearly-nervous beneath Komaeda’s gaze.
“You just look very handsome, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda hums. His greenish eyes are creased unbearably sweetly while he says that. Hinata’s face rises an easy twenty degrees in temperature, his gaze locking onto the nail polish like aversion might be any help. Hearing that from Komaeda, even after everything, is nearly too much. He might die—but then again, dying would mean never hearing Komaeda talk like that again. So. It’s probably not in his best interest, Hinata decides.
“You’re… you’re really handsome too,” Hinata mumbles once the blood rushing through his ears quiets down and he can bear to look back at Komaeda. “Really,” he pushes when the other’s smile lifts to something sardonic. “I mean, I’ve… I’ve thought it for a while. I like your eyes a lot. Obviously, I guess, but your hair too, and I always thought you being taller than me was kinda hot, and…”
There are plenty other things that Hinata could say he likes too, but the quick red of Komaeda’s face (contesting with the nail polish for vibrancy) is enough of a sign that he shouldn’t push it. Instead, he lets his words hang in the air while he reaches for the olive color.
“How’d you want me to split them?” he asks, which is enough to drag Komaeda from whatever space he’s floating around in.
“Ah,” Komaeda starts, voice light, “just… just put the red on one of them. The rest can be green.”
“Alright,” Hinata nods. He uncaps the nail polish and takes Komaeda’s hand in his own. The touch of a cold palm against his skin is almost enough to distract himself from the practiced ease that he holds the brush with, the careful steadiness with which it brushes against Komaeda’s cleanly manicured thumbnail. The quiet sound of the other’s breath pushes it past the brink though. Enough.
Hinata moves nail by nail, painting on solid layers of olive green and leaving Komaeda’s ring finger blank. “Rather implicative choice there,” Komaeda teases at that, bemusement shining in his eyes. “Was there something Hinata-kun wanted to ask me?”
“Let’s give it more than twenty minutes,” replies Hinata mostly-coolly, though his face flushes the tiniest bit.
“It’s like you said. I’d wait forever.”
It’s fruitless for Hinata to even try and act unaffected by that, hot blush rolling up his cheeks as he reaches to grab the red. “You’re gonna kill me, Komaeda,” he mumbles while uncapping it.
“Let’s not have that!” Komaeda chirps while Hinata paints his ring finger, the red in biting contrast with its olive companions. It’s strange, doing so, but any ache or anxiety Hinata might have held in his heart dissipates when he looks back to up Komaeda. The other’s eyes are shining, radiant almost, and the soft touch of sunset rolling in through the cottage windows only makes him look all the more beautiful. Hinata might simply die for the fact that Komaeda, this iridescent, entrancing boy born of sea foam and clovers, is his in the exact same way that Hinata is Komaeda’s.
With Komaeda’s ring finger finished, Hinata can’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to the face of his hand. He feels Komaeda’s hand shudder against his lips at the parallel. He pulls away, and Komaeda folds his hand up, eyes glancing over the newly-done nails.
“They look splendid,” he smiles.
“Thanks.”
“Do you think we could go a walk while they dry?” Komaeda wonders, his gaze already drawing towards the orange-glowing windows. “I bet Hinata-kun would look extra handsome in the sunset.”
Hinata resists the urge to point out how handsome Komaeda already looks without more than a spoonful of sunset, and nods. Komaeda hops up at that and rushes towards the door, his step uncannily giddy. Beaming, he pulls it open and holds it there, patiently waiting for Hinata to go through with the shadow of a smirk across his face.
“Shut up, dork,” Hinata says once he gets up and steps through.
“I didn’t say anything,” Komaeda hums, eyes shining with faux-innocence while he falls in line with Hinata. “Just holding open a door for Hinata-kun.” Hinata rolls his eyes.
Their path to the beach is light (easy, carefree), the two walking just barely too close together, shoulder-to-shoulder with twin idiotic grins. Hinata wonders whether he’s ever felt this kind of effervescence in his chest before. He doubts anything could quite match up to it. Almost like rather than the sand they reach, he’s walking across clouds, mind floating up someplace in the heavens.
“Hinata-kun,” Komaeda hums, and Hinata looks over as the other crouches down. “Look. It’s a pearl.” He brushes away some sand while saying something else, but Hinata can barely pay attention for the way that his mostly-dried nails flash in the sunset. He quite likes the small touch of red against Komaeda, as it turns out.
Quietly, Komaeda rises back up with his metal hand outstretched. Hinata’s mind stutters a moment before he realizes the shining shape is for him, and he tentatively takes it.
It’s a different kind of pearl than the ones he typically imagines. Slightly mishappen with a darker hue, far from any ‘pearl white’ he’s sure one of the bottles of nail polish sports. But it’s nice. When he rolls it around a little in his hand and brushes a grain of sand off, it’s not tainted. More resilient than that, natural in a way. He clasps his hand around it delicately before meeting Komaeda’s eyes, sunset shining in their wide irises that really does make them look like sea glass.
“Thank you,” he smiles. Komaeda smiles back, and they continue walking.
The waves are soft this time of day, hanging back from the shore, which leaves the sand smooth and unmarred. Hinata and Komaeda’s footprints form a marked path that will only wash away much later. For now though, it’s like a forever-present reminder of them, their trails that spindle together like woven yarn.
“Komaeda, can I… hold your hand?” Hinata asks after a quiet moment, irrationally nervous as a moonish face turns to meet him.
Komaeda’s smile is utterly uncontrolled as he nods and easily locks their hands together, flesh on flesh tied together so perfectly. He’s the slightest bit cold, Hinata notices, but that’s really only an excuse to cling on a little tighter. Hinata carefully rubs the pearl in his other hand.
“If… you want,” Komaeda starts softly, “you could call me Nagito.” His slender fingers squeeze Hinata’s almost anxiously.
“M’kay,” replies Hinata. “Nagito.” He says the name like it’s tentative on his tongue, like he wants to savor the feeling of it. Holding tight onto every syllable like the pearl between his fingers
“Nagito,” he repeats, firmer, and Hinata barely finishes the word before metal fingers fall onto his neck and drag him forward, stopping him in his tracks. Komaeda’s lips carry a kiss to his that he can’t help but gasp into like a drowning man. He willfully parts his lips, reveling in the crash of Komaeda’s tongue within his mouth and the fingers that release his only to grab onto choppy brown locks.
Komaeda pulls away much too quickly for Hinata’s taste, and he chases the other’s mouth just a little too desperately until Komaeda starts to speak.
“Can I…” he begins, deliciously breathless, “can I, ah, call you Hajime?” He says Hinata’s name like he’s afraid it’s some awful, prohibited thing—ironic given the fact that his sand-grain voice makes it sound like the most beautiful word in the world.
“God, yes,” Hinata practically breathes into him, and the fingers entwined in his hair tighten a little.
“Okay,” he nods with shining eyes. Hinata kisses Komaeda again, hands grabbing onto the other’s hips and interlocking like he wants to fuse the both of them together, melded together on the atomic level. “Hajime,” Komaeda says softly once their lips part, as though he’s trying something new. Hinata can practically feel himself melt.
“Nagito,” Hinata says again.
Maybe Komaeda is onto something with the cycles of luck. Because Hinata can’t help but feel like he isn’t deserving of this sort of utter joy, almost like he’s supposed to meet some gruesome demise now to balance it all out.
Except he doesn’t.
Instead, he stands with Komaeda, faces close and hearts closer in the glimmering sunset, endless spills of orange and pink and red across the both of them. He kisses Komaeda again.
my love is a deep incision / but your love's gonna leave the scar