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As he scans the greyed horizon, Izuru decides that he’d taken the Tragedy for granted.
He’d relished in the days when the world first plunged into despair. The chaos that surrounded him had finally enabled him to feel something other than a miserable sense of boredom. But now that the world has settled in to its post-apocalyptic dystopia, he was cursed once again by his own indifference to everything.
Well, almost everything.
“Komaeda-san.”
Izuru was certain that he was the only person left on Earth who still referred to Servant by his name.
“Komaeda-san. Servant.”
Nagito, crouched on the floor and hand outstretched to rummage through debris, freezes solid. His movements are delayed, and it takes him a moment before he slowly turns to face Izuru, who can finally get a good look at him. Izuru spots multiple bad areas of matting in his greyed hair, the patches of dirt and grime littering his body, the way the bags under his eyes had puffed up so badly it left him with a permanent squint. His lips are chapped and slightly agape, and his eyes are wide and glazed over.
He must be having one of his episodes, Izuru realises.
“What’re you looking for, Komaeda-san?”
“I…”
Izuru watches Nagito’s face contort, eyebrows pinched and face focused. Eventually it falls flat again, and he simply stares at Izuru, as if he’d never been asked a question. Blank, again. Izuru sighs and walks closer, offering him a hand and pulling him to his feet.
It’s the middle of winter, and yet here Nagito stands in the same jumper he has worn every time Izuru came to check on him. It’s old, worn, and thin. It has multiple holes the size of Izuru’s fists, both sleeves were frayed almost up to his elbows, and it had been stretched so widely it hangs off of his right shoulder, revealing a myriad of purple blotches. It’s now that Izuru notes the blueish tints around his lips and fingers.
“Are you not cold, Komaeda-san?” Izuru asks, taking his blazer off and wrapping it around the boy in an almost instinctual-manner. Nagito smiles at this. A juvenile kind of smile, more straight than upturned, as if somebody had just told a child to smile for a photo. He stares at Izuru, transfixed, and instead of putting his arms through the sleeves, his spindly hands pull the blazer closer to his chest like a blanket.
“When did your hands get so bony?” Asks Izuru, resuming his walk down the streets of Towa City. Nagito doesn’t respond, and Izuru isn’t sure whether it’s down to choice or his disease. Despite being the Ultimate Hope and being able to recognise the symptoms of frontotemporal dementia in Nagito within days of meeting him, Nagito had been so quick to openly divulge the details to Izuru that it was pointless. He certainly has his good days, but it's getting to a point where Izuru has to admit that they were getting few and far between. He’s glad to see that Nagito follows him, albeit slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, Izuru watches as Nagito places his feet down a little too forcefully, arms betraying his cool façade as they stuck out wearily. Izuru pretends not to notice how often Nagito bumps into him, or how with each step he leans closer towards Izuru.
If only the circumstances weren’t so dire, Izuru might’ve found himself blushing.
Izuru had been interested in Nagito since the day they’d first met. Nobody had dared stand up to him, save for Enoshima. People would stand clear, back away, cower in his presence. But not Nagito. Izuru could still remember the barrel pointed right between his eyes, Nagito’s finger wrapped decidedly around the trigger. And even when it jammed, giving Izuru precious time to grab the weapon, Nagito didn’t flich. Even after being shot, he’d thrown his pale hand out towards Izuru, eyes gleaming with adoration. His friends had escorted him out, and Enoshima went off on some monologue about despair, and yet Izuru found himself staring into the hallway, watching the unconscious boy’s friends carry him away. His hair was only slightly whitened at this point, it had still been mostly brunette, and his curls had been healthier, bouncing with every step taken by his friends. Knowing Enoshima couldn’t see him, Izuru had outstretched his own hand, and he’d vowed to see Nagito again.
And then they did meet again, when Enoshima introduced Izuru to the Warriors of Hope. They’d baptised him as Servant, chained him, and – judging from the cuts and bruises – injured him. He’d grinned when he saw Izuru, audibly gasping and clapping his hands together in delight. They’d stolen a moment alone whilst Enoshima spoke to the children, sitting on the broken single bed in Nagito’s dingy excuse of living quarters. Nagito had almost exclusively carried the conversation, Izuru content to just listen. He’d found himself interested, actually interested, in Nagito’s words. His diagnoses, his obsession with hope, his grief of losing Nanami. And then Nagito had turned to Izuru and told him he was forgiven for killing her. Tears pricked Izuru’s eyeballs as they always did when Nanami was brought up, and once again he could not understand why. Nagito had leaned forward and wiped Izuru’s tears, and hugged him. And even now, Izuru’s heart speeds up just at the thought of Nagito’s shaky hands pressed tightly against him.
“Cold?”
Nagito’s voice pulls Izuru from his thoughts. His expression is wide and childlike, lips open but teeth pressed together. The blazer had fallen off of one side, hanging only from his left shoulder, but he didn’t appear to notice.
“Yes.” Izuru sighs, “Are you cold?”
Nagito stumbles over his words for a second, before he settles on, “I don’t know what you mean.” His words are jerky and his voice catches quite a bit, as if he’s not quite sure how the words sound.
Shaking his head, Izuru moves behind Nagito to get to his other side and fix the blazer, “Keep that around you.”
Nagito tilts his head to the side, eyes darting around as if looking for answers. He’s so fixated on his own decaying thoughts that he neglects his attention to walking, and he trips. Izuru grabs his choker – and accidentally takes with him a few clumps of hair – and pulls him by it until he’s upright. Nagito seemed not to care very much, cloudy eyes looking off into the distance. He’s now pressed against Izuru’s left side, as if Izuru were some sort of wall he could guide himself against. Looking down, Izuru surveys the bunches of snowy hair wrapped in his fingers. He balls it up and drops it, allowing it to catch onto the wind.
They’ve arrived at Nagito’s – well, the Warriors of Hope’s – house. Nagito insists on going through the front entrance, but Izuru knows better than this and drags him around the building’s exterior until they arrive at the back door.
“If you go through the front door, the Warriors of Hope will see you and hurt you.” Izuru murmurs, “Don’t you remember?”
When Nagito fails to get out his keys, scratching the back of his head with such vigour it flashes a hot shade of red, Izuru realises that it’s a rhetorical question.
“Let me see.” Izuru says, tone uncharacteristically gentle as he squats down and fumbles around in the pockets of Nagito’s cargos. He grabs a pinecone, a couple of stones, and a feather from a bird, “Komaeda-kun, where are your keys?”
Nagito looks down at him, opening and closing his mouth but failing to form words. Izuru steeples his hands and brings them to his face, a loud exhale erupting from his lips. He stands back up and spins on his heel, walking back towards the front entrance. He puts his talents to the test, working out the best plan of action to minimize whatever punishments await Nagito on the other side of the door.
“Hey, where are you going?” Nagito calls, and Izuru shakes his head when he sees that the other had made zero effort to follow him. Nagito reaches out to him, fist clenched. He walks back to Nagito and attempts to grab his hand to guide him, and once he busies himself trying to straighten Nagito’s fingers to hold them, he feels something metallic brush against his palm.
The keys.
Izuru tries his best not to snap at Nagito – he realises it’s not his fault – but he can’t stop himself from yanking the keys a little too forcefully. One hand rigidly wrapped around Nagito’s wrist, Izuru opens up the door and begins his ascent up the stairs.
They enter Nagito’s makeshift bedroom, and he seems to come-to for a moment.
“I’m sorry it’s so messy,” For the first time in a long while he speaks fluidly, “I wasn’t expecting a guest, otherwise I’d have cleaned up.”
Izuru knows that no amount of cleaning could fix this room, but he plays along. Nagito’s living quarters are in the attic and consist of a bed, a microwave, two buckets, and a chest of drawers. A number of the bed’s frame slats had snapped, so the mattress lies in a V shape on the bed. One of the legs had chipped, slanting the whole thing towards the right. There is one pillow, one duvet without a cover, and no mattress topper. The microwave is covered in so much filth that Izuru fails to identify its original colour. It’s plugged into a socket that is barely even attached to the wall. One bucket is filled with soapy water, and Izuru makes the conscious decision to not even look at the other one. The chest of drawers are fairly big, though they’re missing two drawers entirely. The top two drawers have been left open and Izuru spots a couple pieces of underwear in one, and a collection of rocks, pebbles, and other trinkets in the other. Now, the items in his pockets makes sense.
Sometimes, Izuru thinks that it should be the Warriors of Hope caring for Nagito, and not the other way round.
“Please, make yourself at home.” He hums, stumbling over to his drawers and opening one towards the bottom, “I haven’t got much food in, I’m afraid, but I can microwave some rice for you.”
“I’ll be quite alright, thank you.” Izuru answers, and he shoots a glance at the soapy bucket, “When was the last time you showered?”
“Hm? Oh, the Warriors of Hope forbid me from it. So I use a sponge!” He was quick to answer, but Izuru is confident that the bucket hasn’t been touched in an alarmingly long time.
“Come on.” Izuru shakes his head. Nagito didn’t move from the chest of drawers, and the packet of rice had been left on the floor. It takes him a moment, but he eventually realises what’s happening and he joins Izuru.
Izuru is thankful that the only Warrior of Hope in the house is Nagisa. Nagisa is the most rational, and Izuru knows what they’re asking for isn’t unreasonable.
That doesn’t stop Nagito from holding his breath and tensing his shoulders, however.
“Kamukura-san.” Nagisa begins, bowing, “Thank you for bringing Servant back to us, however he was given clear commands to not show his face again until he finds ingredients for milkshakes, so I would appreciate it if you could please take him back outside.”
“And who gave him those orders?”
“Monica, of course.” Nagisa smiles, “And I will enforce whatever she says.”
Izuru frowns, “Don’t you think ice cream will be quite hard to find, given that the only places in Towa City with functioning electricity are here, where he’s not allowed, and in the Towa Tower where I assume Nagito is also not permitted entry into due to his affiliation with the Warriors of Hope?”
Nagisa pouts and shrugs, turning his head away from the pair and closing his eyes indignantly. Izuru crouches to meet the 12 year old’s level.
“We’re causing no trouble. If you want milkshakes, I’m sure I can arrange that.”
His resolve begins to falter, “It’s not up to me! It’s Monaca’s orders, I already told you!”
“Well it’s a good thing that I don’t answer to Monaca, isn’t it?”
Nagisa stomps his foot and opens his mouth to speak, but decides against it and grants them passage. Nagito is frozen in place, and it takes quite a bit of tugging before he moves.
Eventually they reach the bathroom, and Izuru sends Nagito in there alone, hoping he has at least enough function to shower unassisted. He’s lucky, because Nagito does, and after around 45 minutes he emerges, wrapped in a towel with Izuru’s blazer carefully folded over his forearm. They return to Nagito’s bedroom just in time, because as he closes the door, Izuru hears Masuru and Kotoko’s voices downstairs.
Nagito walks towards his drawers and puts the blazer on top of it. Izuru just about manages to turn around before he drops the towel. Izuru busies himself by looking at the boxes of medication on the floor.
He’d been quite insistent on acquiring them for Nagito, to the point of cornering the Ultimate Nurse. He recalled how she’d told him of a common combination of four drugs used to treat lymphoma, only two were given as pills, and the other two needed injecting into his veins. He also remembered how she’d explained that giving him injections in the filth of the post-despair landscape would be playing a dangerous infection roulette, and then cowered and screamed and begged for his forgiveness. Truly pathetic. Izuru had always found Tsumiki pathetic, though he knew to keep his mouth shut lest she tell Enoshima. The Ultimate Despair herself was no idiot – she’d figured out Izuru’s Achilles heel months ago – and he knew that retaliating to Tsumiki would no-doubt result in Nagito getting injured, or worse. Izuru surveys the boxes again. They were hardly an adequate treatment for his lymphoma, but he figured that something was better than nothing. Izuru had got his hands on a bulk package of them, a good couple of years’ worth. Tsumiki had advised him that it was overkill, that Nagito would most likely not survive long enough to finish them all, but Izuru had stood his ground.
They’re stacked in two neat piles, and both of the top boxes had been ripped open, blister packets balancing on top of them. Izuru notices that the tablets haven’t been taken in a linear order, instead opened at random as if Nagito had just opened whichever one his fingers landed on first.
“Do you think the medicines are helping your cancer?” Izuru asks, turning his head to meet Nagito’s eyes. He’d changed into his old clothes; his white t-shirt with the red symbol, black jeans with a little silver chain, and his once-signature green and red jacket. Izuru assumes that this is the only other outfit he has, aside from the jumper and cargos he was wearing earlier. He walks towards Izuru, and bumps into the bed frame in the process. He flops backwards onto the bed, encouraging Izuru to do the same. He sits upright at the edge of the mattress, and it’s at this point he notices the tremors racking Nagito’s body. Izuru knew what Nagito was like, so he couldn’t quite tell what caused him to shake so violently. Was it the dementia? Izuru had read up on it. He knew tremors could develop in the later stages of frontotemporal dementia, but was Nagito really at that point? He’d always been quite twitchy, Nagito, always so skittish and neurotic. The stressors of everyday post-apocalyptic life could definitely be the cause. And he had been out in the freezing January wind in inappropriate clothing. Fear of the Warriors of Hope, the excitement of seeing Izuru, low blood sugar [Izuru doubted Nagito would even be able to remember the last time he ate something substantial], lack of sleep, there are a million different reasons to explain Nagito’s juddering.
Izuru finds himself praying that the answer was anything other than the undeniable fact that he was declining.
“How do you know I have–” Nagito starts, stops, and continues hesitantly, “Can…cer?”
“You told me a while back.” Izuru replies, trying his best to pretend Nagito didn’t just forget how to say a word he’d literally just heard and instead focuses on wrapping the duvet around Nagito’s frame, “You probably don’t remember.”
Nagito’s expression changes from one of neutrality to one of bewilderment, lines form between his eyebrows and his fist taps rhythmically against his chin. There’s no emotion behind his eyes, glassy in appearance.
“Wait, who are you?”
“I’m Izuru. Kamukura.”
Nagito’s eyes light up at this, his lips tugging into a smile. Izuru releases a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, but his relief is short lived when a hand is stiffly brought up to him.
“I’m Servant. It’s a pleasure to, uhm, to…m…meet you!”
Izuru allows himself to be indulgent, and he lies back on the bed with him. He pats Nagito’s hair – he wanted to run his fingers through it, but trying to get through the heaps of knots that still remain seemed impossible – and pulls him closer, something which Nagito doesn’t seem to resist.
“No you’re not.” Izuru whispers, “You’re Nagito.”
“Nagito.”
Nagito repeats his name no less than ten times before the clouds in his eyes fade, “Oh, yeah. Sorry, I forgot.”
“I know you did.”
Nagito snuggles into Izuru’s chest, bringing his knees up into a sort-of fetal position. Izuru hisses as ice-cold skin met his, and he readjusts the blanket to wrap it tighter around Nagito. He kicks it off, and Izuru moves it again. This repeats for a number of minutes, and Nagito starts to get frustrated. He struggles with the blanket until he manages to spill half of it onto the floor.
“Don’t you like it, Komaeda-san?”
“You’re warmer. The blanket is colder.”
Izuru sighs and stands up, and Nagito is quick to copy him. Izuru fixes the bedsheets and walks around to the other end of the bed, getting back in the bed, under the duvet. He crosses his arms and watches how, without instruction, Nagito does the same. The white-haired boy forces his head underneath Izuru’s arms, squirming and wiggling until he manages to press his body up against Izuru’s. He buries his head in the crook of Izuru’s neck, hiding his face under his long brown hair as if it were also a blanket.
The shivering had stopped, and a smile blooms on Izuru’s face before he could stop it.
“Do you remember when we first met, Kamukura-san?” Nagito asks, but doesn’t give him time to answer, “I do. I thought you were amazing.”
Despite the complete disregard for boundaries and socially-acceptable levels of closeness, Izuru thinks Nagito seems more lucid than he had been in months.
“Hey, Kamukura-san, can I ask you a question?”
“Go for it.” Nagito stops, and Izuru worries that perhaps he’s slipping again, but when he cranes his neck to get a proper view of him, he’s surprised to find Nagito’s cheeks are dusted red.
“Do you ever wonder what might’ve happened to us if the Tragedy had never happened?”
“I guess.” Izuru answers, but he’s selfish to the core and wants to make the most of Nagito whilst his cognition seems relatively intact, “How do you mean?”
Nagito’s finger wraps around a strand of Izuru’s hair, and he sighs, “I, just, what do you think we’d be doing right now?”
“What do you think we’d be doing right now?”
Izuru could curse himself for being self-serving later. For now, he wants to get as many words out of Nagito that he could. A voice in his head tells him he might never get a moment like this again.
“It’s impossible to say.”
“Okay, well what do you wish we were doing right now?”
Nagito laughs, a wheezy sort of laugh that crackles when he inhales again, and his face flushes an even deeper red. Izuru told himself it was because of the temperature, but Nagito’s body was cold.
“To be honest with you, I wish we were just like this. But different.” He sniffs, “I have this dream, sometimes. We were laying together like this, but we were in my old house. It was quite big, I had a king-sized bed. And in my dream we were there, with my white fluffy sheets, and you were wearing your school uniform, and I was wearing my p–”
“Pyjamas, because you were sick.” Izuru finishes, and instantly regrets it.
Nagito gasps, “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.” Izuru spits, “You’re not the only one with Ultimate Luck, you know. What else happens in your dream?”
Of course, Izuru knew. He’d heard this retelling umpteenth times, but he couldn’t remember the last time Nagito was coherent enough to tell it in its entirety.
“Well yes, I was wearing my pyjamas because I was sick. And then I told you about my illnesses. And you told me about all the different ways lymphoma could be weakening my immune system. And then I told you I didn’t want to talk about that right now. You told me I looked like I wanted to tell you something, and you were right.”
Izuru closes his eyes, and pictures the scene. He hears another giggle.
“I confessed my love to you, and you felt the same. And you vowed to look after me, no matter what happens. No matter what happens to the world, no matter how sick I became. And then you kissed me, and I told you that I loved you again.”
One red eye opens at this. In the earlier stages, Nagito had been a lot less willing to talk about that bit. He used to be quite embarrassed, needing some coaxing to admit his feelings, and even then he spoke hesitantly. It seemed that even in his right mind – or, whatever was left of it – his awareness of what is and isn’t socially appropriate has taken an irreversible decline.
Nagito didn’t seem to care that Izuru was taken aback. He could certainly tell – Izuru watches as Nagito scans over each feature on his face – but he appeared to be unbothered.
“And then you gave me a ring. A little silver one.” Nagito sings, “And you had a matching one. You told me you’d been waiting for the right moment to give it to me.”
“I said that, huh?” Izuru breathes, leaning his head into Nagito’s and burying his chin into slightly-less-matted hair. At least it smells fresher – he must’ve got his hands on Kotoko’s shampoo.
“You did. Then you put it on my finger and said if I ever forget that you love me, I should look at the ring for a reminder. I, uhm, I guess that’s what I wish we were doing right now.”
Izuru doesn’t speak. The pair are silent for around half an hour, and then he hears Nagito yawn.
“Are you tired, Komaeda-san?”
Nagito doesn’t reply, and when Izuru pulls away to get a better look at him, his eyes are starting to glaze over again, and his lids are heavy. Izuru decides to take his leave, but spindly fingers grip onto his shirt so tightly that he stays against his better judgement.
“Little bit. Don’t leave.”
“I apologise.” Izuru hums, “I did keep you talking.”
“It’s fine.” Nagito slurs, “I like it when you visit me. I like talking about the dream.”
“You do?”
“Mhm.” Nagito manages, eyes already closing.
Izuru isn’t quite sure what to make of Nagito nowadays. His good moments are certainly good, but he seems to be losing himself more often. He could never admit it, not even to himself, but Izuru is scared of what will happen if he has an episode whilst he’s out traversing Towa City. It’s a dangerous place, and Nagito was vulnerable even without his episodes.
Izuru decides to push his luck and ask, “Why?”
“I like the ring.” Is the last thing that Nagito says before he stops responding. The sound of soft snores pierce the silence.
He wraps one of his hands tighter around Nagito and brings his other hand up to his face. He stares at the thin silver band around his pinkie finger.
“So do I.”