black hope;

TO: Komaeda FROM: Nanami

TO: Nanami Chiaki | FROM: Komaeda Nagito

TO: Komaeda FROM: Nanami

TO: Nanami Chiaki | FROM: Komaeda Nagito

“It’s not that he doesn’t get along… it’s just,” and here Shannon bites her lip for a moment, to think. “He’s very outspoken… and very angry. At his age,” and there it is, the apology, “I suppose it’s normal, right? But those girls… they didn’t treat him very well, either.”

A relief? Hardly…

      Usually.

      He spins to stop her in her tracks, to stop them both from walking along the coast, and stands there in front of her with his hands in his pockets. He stands and he doesn’t say anything at first, waiting for her stutters to stumble into something of a response before deciding to give her a little bit of help.

      “Are you alright?” The day is hot, she’s wearing clothes on the beach, and the winds are less than favorable. They could come up with all kinds of excuses, together. “Want to sit down?”

For the short pause where Izaya says nothing (because all good speeches need a moment of silence, he thinks) – he considers geniuses, hope, the universal average and the people who would think this boy is crazy. And what he decides is –

‘Say. You’ve got a phone, right?’

– if he’s not crazy, then Nagito-kun isn’t, either.

‘For here.’ He waggles his own phone to demonstrate; he thumbs through the universal directory, but there are easier ways to find people, and he’s not about to waste his time. ‘Because it sounds like you and me are going to have a lot to talk about. Minus a couple disagreements,’–fundamental ones, actually, but Mr. Vice Captain is more fun than threatening–’Which is just fine. Honestly – I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but,’

‘You know what you’re talking about.’

And considering he doesn’t think he’s anything special, it’s cute. It’s funny, but more than that, it’s interesting, to meet someone who thinks on a grand scale and does not consider himself a god. It’s the difference between an observer and a tyrant, and it’s familiar – relatable, in a way that maybe he should find scary. 

But Izaya leans forward, and there is no trace of fear in his expression, only the ghost of a laugh.

‘If you and me don’t get a chance to trade stories, I’ll be seriously bummed out. And you’ve got to tell me about your girlfriend sometime. I’ll even tell you about mine –’

– all seven billion of them –

      Only when the other leans forward does his gaze slide off the phone, and he blinks at this man both entirely serious and not at all so. “I wouldn’t mind.” Understatement of the year. Girlfriends or no, there’s a lot to say, and he’s got ambitions just as powerful as any love, if not more so. “I’d be honored!’

      He brings up his contact information on his own cell, holding it next to his face with a cheeky smile.

      “It’s funny, actually-- I’ve been here a long time. Months and months and months... and I still run into interesting people.” New people. Some that come and go and some that remain, always around, always influencing others in some way. He’s more inclined to find the latter, and it shows when he decides to stare back unblinking.

Komaeda was trying to get under his skin, something he did easily by existing in the same space and opening his mouth, but really, truly, Hinata felt it didn’t bother him as much anymore. Maybe he was just getting used to Komaeda’s antics again. Honestly, if that were the case, it would be for the best. Especially since Komaeda was one of the few closer people he had left, though he’d never admit it to Komaeda’s face.

“They’re really fun. I mean I admit I was a little scared the first time I rode it but now riding it is just a second nature, you know?”

Kicking off the kickstand and getting on, looking at Komaeda through the visor of his own helmet, he laughed.

“Yeah, you sit there and hold onto me so you don’t go flying off. A SHSL Biker Gang Leader huh. Something tells me a guy like that wouldn’t wear a helmet at all.”

Turning the bike itself on, he braced himself.

     -- he’s so embarrassingly average, he just blends in with the NPCs.

      It’s worth a laugh, but he doesn’t mean that. Not when he’s kicking his feet in the second seat like a child, reaching for the other’s waist slowly but surely with all the nerve in his system. Yes, Hinata is special-- if only for the fact there’s no one else that makes him question himself more with a fast beating heart in his mouth.

      “Ready!” he shouts over the engine, clutching the boy’s figure with all the hope in the world that they make it. Without the ability to differentiate between excitement and fear, he does what he does best, and looks carefree to a fault. “Full speed ahead!”

“I lack that fear. Pushing forward is what I strive for. And I find myself more apt to help those who would submit themselves completely, no matter the cost,” he said plainly, his chair creaking ever so slightly as his weight shifted in the seat. “It makes decisions so much easier in the long run, believe me. And to that end…” 

Without fanfare, he reached into a drawer out of immediate sight and rifled through its contents, producing a thin stack of papers that he slid across the desk to the young man.

      “I’m fond of taking risks,” he starts, nothing but honest. “It’s exciting... and for someone with luck like mine, it’s actually the best way to live!” 

      And the only way, but maybe that’s implied. Komaeda casually takes a pen, flipping it around his fingers while attempting an air of calm. That way of thinking-- pushing boundaries others hesitate to touch-- is as impressive as it is dangerous, but he’s always been a boy of thrill. He thinks now, more than ever, that he was right to assume the other was someone special.

      His situation is a mystery that digs into the foundation of the city, but it never did well making sense outside the Hive regardless. With his life destined to change drastically from one moment to the next, signing something like this was just his way of tempting fate to crash.

      One way or another, it’ll have served some purpose.

      “I’m grateful you’ve given me so much to think about!” The doctor’s concern is cold, fleeting, and likely recited several times before, but it’s professional nonetheless. “But since I don’t know how much time I have--”

      He signs his name on the dotted line, scribbled in gross handwriting that could only be his.

Maybe it is… maybe that’s why he’s laughing. Maybe that’s why every heave and sob catches and crumbles, maybe that’s why, wet-eyed, Kanon—or someone wearing Kanon’s face—looks up at him. Maybe that’s why his gut twists.

      Conclusion. Like this is the end; something this melodramatic, something this anti-climatic. He couldn’t imagine it. They’re having tea, taking shelter from the rain, sharing chuckles and voices and memories and trauma; it’s all just conversation, nothing has ended.

      “What, do you want to know?” He’s conceited, smiling briskly, like his laughter decided to try hiding behind his lips. His island-- it’s a nice story, one filled with drama and deaths and mysteries much like a work of fiction, but that girl is too brilliant a mastermind to be contained by pages, too sharp and clawing at his chest to be imaginary. “You don’t, right? Not really. Hasn’t it always been about you?”

Joke’s on him, then.

They stare when he says it, they don’t move, they’re wondering, maybe, if this is some kind of elaborate performance art piece, because the whole of it just doesn’t seem to make sense. And they’d be right. But she adjusts the gun again, pulling it away from him–pulling him closer–flicking the safety off, casually, with her thumb. She can’t feel her cheeks anymore, or her teeth, so when she fires a single bullet (like a thundercrack) into the rough tiled floor between the pair of them and the pair of desks, she doesn’t even flinch. 

The wailing one has given up wailing and taken up a hopeless keen. The bowl cut has gone pale.

“You two,” she says, voice languishing in its own generosity, “are getting off easy, today, and you,” punctuated by a rough jab of the barrel to his throat, “you,” and it prods at his teeth, “are coming with me.”

Stupid. It echoes almost gleefully in her ringing ears. Disappointing. 

      The jabbing of her gun smacks uncomfortably against his jaw when he turns away, but there’s no fear to swallow thickly, only a low buzzing of childhood memories whispering to be acknowledged. ( what rotten luck his kidnapper had then, once upon a time, taking a child no one would pay ransom for, dead as they were )

      “What?” He thinks he welcomes being thrown into the trash now-- at this point-- and ignores the need to cringe. “What I wanted?”

      “You really... have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” He still doesn’t fight back, blinking at the people who walk by and triple check what they’re seeing. There’s something bitter in the way he laughs, even as his tone is all mockery. 

…for the most part.

      He doesn’t mention that he’s tried, doesn’t mention the need to that scratches at the back of his mind just from the thought of her, vague and obsessive and growing.

      “If I’m going to find out one way or another, then wouldn’t this way be better?” He has to pause and wonder if that sounds any less like blackmail before starting again. “I want to always, unmistakably be on the side of hope... so the idea that I wronged you somehow-- someone who’s surely on the side I want to support-- it makes me curious.”

      Not guilty, per se, nor surprised.

      “Would you rather I guess? Hmm...” Suddenly it’s a game-- something worse than a conversation. But if sympathetic, self-deprecating attempts don’t have any effect, then his hand is forced to pull what it can from her outbursts, her expression, and those few moments she flinches mid-sentence.

      “The reason you don’t want to talk about what I did... is because it’s related to that ‘business’ you mentioned earlier.” Probably. “Business that maybe... you’re ashamed of.” Plausible. “Business that you’d rather forget ever happened... or that you don’t want anyone else to know about.” Likely.

He talks about hope, but he’s scary.

‘You’re going to be one hell of a school director,’ he comments idly, watching the boy, watching the kid who shines bright in a place that’s supposed to be black and white. How long before he fades out and pulls back? ‘Well, you know. If you don’t get killed in some weirdo’s scheme. Which would be sad,’–his voice tightens like he’s exerting himself, but he’s just playing with his ring–’Because I kinda like you. You’re interesting.’

– like all people are, but in a different way – unique.

Everyone is unique but Nagito is unique.

‘You still haven’t said what makes people talented, though. You can’t just chalk it up to a feeling.’ The conversation is winding – winding up, winding tight, who knows. Izaya takes the time to ask his question, enjoys himself. ‘All I’m getting out of you is tacky ideal stuff. Which isn’t bad, but. Ideals don’t make career plans. And you’re about that age, right?’

What’s the full story, kid?

      Izaya’s pretty interesting himself, he thinks.

      “Where I’m from, everyone can tell.” He tilts his head back, looking as if he’s waiting for the sky to agree. “Or, well-- everyone knows. You’re talented if you’re the best in your field... unrivaled. Making history. The top of the top! The kind of person that can inspire hope and awe in others... and then you’re invited to that school... once you’ve entered high school, you get to go to Hope’s Peak, where all the talented gather!”

      When he turns to Izaya, the stars in his eyes make it crystal clear-- he worships the place. “I’ve heard they even had an elementary school set up recently.. isn’t that amazing? A place just for child prodigies!”

      Never mind their situations, their backgrounds-- if they want to do something with their lives outside what they’re good at.

      “Of course, there’s no Hope’s Peak here-- but that doesn’t change the principle. Otherworldly talent... it’s just as exciting! And there’s always a way to tell who’s capable of being a symbol of hope for everyone else-- that is, if they’re still able to go on after horrid amounts of despair.”

      The topic starts to stray as it always does with him, easing slowly and surely back into his fluctuating tone all unsubtle and creepy. 

      “Isn’t this city fantastic...? It’s got its own story, its own experiments... so many trials, so many despair-inducing events, and those students... they persevere no matter what, never give up finding a way out, always trying to cooperate with their fellow citizens... their struggle-- it’s so beautiful!”

Hinata turned to look at Komaeda, eyebrows knitted together when he started laughing at him.

“Hey whats the big idea! I picked a motorcycle because it’s cool and it isn’t as bulky as a car. Plus it’s really relaxing to ride at night. You don’t think someone like me would do something this wild?”

Hinata thrust a helmet into Komaeda’s hands, groaning.

      And yet, it dies down soon enough; he wants to say it’s not a matter of trust, that something horrible will inevitably happen, but he’d just be repeating himself. He’d just be saying what Hinata already knows and-- he’d be trying to change his mind, which somehow...

      “Okay, if you say so!”

      .. he doesn’t really want to do. Not anymore.

      “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, so it’s kind of exciting!” In a life-threatening kind of way. “Let’s see, the helmet goes on like this, and I suppose I sit here?”

      “A battle! How exciting.” The sarcasm is thick as his hand moves through his jacket to reveal the pistol he’d kept on his person just for the occasion, flipping off the safety and taking aim in one swift motion.

Shuu set down his meticulous pile next to him before finally breaking his attention away, not to his patient, but to his computer screen. Moments filled with the sound of delicate typing passed before he finally deigned to even glance at the young man.

“It’s rather fortunate that the technology in this city seems a bit more advanced than what my offices back home would have to offer. It seems to have done wonders in assisting me to assess patients that have wandered through in recent months.” He smiled, but it was a long way from being anything close to comforting. “My point in mentioning as much is that I may have a means of assisting you as well.” 

      “What.. lengths?” He has to wonder of what's correct to say before deciding to scrap all deceit and simply respond as honestly as he can. “Lengths... well, any of them I suppose.”

      His demeanor changes, the glow in his eyes a poor compliment to the darkening of his tone. “I mean... walking into a hospital, you should expect that much, right? The kind of risks involved...”

     ❛ Aha, most seem to refer to me by my surname. ❜ 

   He flashes a small smile, mirroring the other’s demeanor. One of his strengths happened to be his ability to adapt rather quickly, oftentimes absorbing mannerisms like a sponge. This was no different.

    ❛ I haven’t been here for too long, ❜ pausing to finish formulating his thoughts. How long had he been here? It seemed like several months, but he couldn’t be too sure.

      Their talk is small and simple, but he likes it.

      “A few months... congratulations on surviving that long!” It’s hard to tell if he’s joking-- surely people here have endured worse, and even then it’s impossible not to survive in Hive City-- but the tone he chimes with seems genuine enough.

      “As for me, hm.... it’s been well over a year now. Time sure flies by!” He laughs, carefree to a debatable fault. “Makes me wonder why the scientists think I’m worth keeping around, to be honest...”

There’s a pit in his head, under his thoughts, pulling him in, peeling him away. Kanon flakes off like a second skin, and what’s left is raw and writhing. Whose name? Written where? What’s that underneath, what does that mean?

–Despair? Someone like him?

But there’s more, and it tugs and scalds at him…

It’s so much, all at once, and so overwhelming, pressed into the corners of his eyes until it’s all that he–they–can see, droning buzzing just like–the master deeply regretted–the blood of, the child of the child–nothing less than a miracle–

      Despair?