Chapter Text
The morning after he awoke from the Neo-World Program, Komaeda brought Hajime a cup of tea.
“Uh,” Hajime glanced up from the machinery he’d been wrist-deep in dismantling. “What’s that?”
Komaeda smiled and lifted the mug. “It's nothing special. Please feel free to dump it down the drain or pour it on me if you don't like it. I just wanted to thank you for rescuing me from the simulation. I'm sure it would have been much easier to leave me comatose.”
Hajime blinked. “Oh. You didn't need to–”
The other boy stepped closer. “I know it’s not much. I apologize, but this was the best I could do in my current state.”
He solemnly lifted and wiggled the stump at the end of his other arm.
“...Oh.” Hajime repeated.
He took the mug from Komaeda’s outstretched hand without touching him. Steam wafted lazily from the liquid within.
Just then, from across the desk, Soda lifted his head and shot Hajime an incredulous look.
“Dude,” he kicked off the floor, propelling his swivel chair next to Hajime's, and whispered loudly. “Don't tell me you're actually gonna drink that. What if it's poisoned?!”
Hajime leant away. “I doubt it.”
Komaeda frowned at Soda. “It's an insult to suggest that I would be able to kill an Ultimate, let alone the Ultimate Hope.”
Soda gaped. “But– you did kill an Ultimate, in the simulation! You got Nanami killed!”
“That wasn't Nanami,” Komaeda reminded him. “It was an AI made by Future Foundation. The real Namami died years ago. Although… yes, I suppose that her death was my fault, too.”
Hajime pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a migraine coming on. He took a swig from the mug, hoping it would soothe him. Instead, he spat out the tea and began to cough violently.
As he hacked and sputtered, Soda pointed. “See? See?”
Hajime thumped a fist on his own chest and cleared his throat. “Was that– salt water?”
Komaeda blinked innocently. “Huh? Oh no… did I mistake the salt for sugar again? My apologies, Hinata. Here, I can brew a second pot–”
“No,” Hajime said quickly. He wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand. “No, that’s okay. This one is… fine.”
Komaeda beamed. Behind him, Soda shook his head with a bewildered expression.
“You're lucky none of that got on the goods, man.” He swept his hand toward the pile of cannibalized circuitry before them.
“Actually, that reminds me. We should take your measurements while you're here,” Hajime said.
Komaeda tilted his head. “I don't think I need any new clothes at the moment…”
Hajime cast a look at the other boy’s mismatched, threadbare outfit, then decided against commenting. “Not for clothes– for the arm. We're working on it right now.”
Komaeda regarded the electronic parts and blueprints spread across the table with a bland, polite smile. “That’s very generous, Hinata. But don't you think your immense talent would be better served doing literally anything else?”
“Not really,” Hajime shrugged one shoulder. Building a fully functional neuroprosthesis out of junk was going to be difficult, but he was looking forward to the challenge. “I offered to build something for Kuzuryu, too, when we first woke up. But he said he prefers the eye patch.”
“We were going to make it shoot lasers and everything,” Soda lamented.
“Right. Anyways, it’s not a big deal. I try to stay occupied.”
The other boy sighed. “Ah, I see. I’m grateful that my failing body brings you so much amusement, Hinata. Why, the joy of being your pet project is worth the loss of any limb!”
Hajime flushed. “That's not what I–”
Before he could say anything else, Komaeda began taking off his t-shirt.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice strangled.
Komaeda tilted his head quizzically. “Didn't you want to take my measurements?”
Hajime swallowed. “You could've just rolled up your sleeve. Whatever– just… lift your arms for a second.”
Komaeda’s skin was pale and his ribs were starkly visible. He'd suffered less muscle atrophy than most of the others despite being comatose for the longest, but you wouldn't guess it by looking at him. Hajime made a mental note to ask Tsumiki about Komaeda's nutrition plan before his next radiotherapy session.
He grabbed a pen from his desk and began jotting numbers down. Komaeda stood with his arms raised obediently.
“Man, you really need to work up a tan. How have you not gotten sunburned yet?” Soda crossed his arms and slouched.
“Well, that should be good.” Hajime set the pen down. “Now I just need to figure out the external BCI.”
Komaeda tugged his shirt back on. “How amazingly talented. Is there anything else you need from me?”
“No. Let me know if you have any questions, though.”
Hajime looked down at the blueprints, but glanced back up when Komaeda didn't move.
“Actually, there is something I wanted to ask. But it's not about the arm," he said.
“Oh, um, okay. What is it?”
Komaeda held his gaze. “I'm just curious which one you are.”
Something clenched in Hajime's stomach. “What?”
“The person I'm talking to right now– is he Hinata, who remembers being Kamukura? Or Kamukura, who remembers being Hinata?” Komaeda elaborated helpfully.
Soda froze, glancing between them both with wide eyes. Komaeda smiled again.
“...It's kind of both at the same time.” Hajime said. No matter how many times he'd had to have this conversation, he never got any better at it. Sheepishly, he added, “If it helps, just think of me as whichever one is easier for you. I know I look different.”
Komaeda nodded. “Your hair is so short now! When you kept it long, was it to hide the scar on your forehead?”
Putting a hand between himself and Hajime, Soda whispered angrily in Komaeda's direction. “Shut up! Keep talking like that, you might make him snap and turn evil again!”
Hajime winced internally. “I'm not going to–!”
“Ah, my bad. If it helps, I like this length. It makes it much easier to see your face.” Komaeda informed him.
“Thanks, I guess.” He grimaced. “Anyways, I'll stop by your cottage tomorrow morning with the working model.”
“That soon? Wow! The talents of an Ultimate really are amazing.” Komaeda bowed his head, then spun around and walked away.
“Hey, come on!” Soda grumbled after him. “I'm the actual mechanic, here! He's not even a real Ultimate! Uh… no offense.”
Hajime sighed. “It’s fine.”
Steam wafted slowly from the mug. He picked it up and took a small sip as he watched the other boy depart.
-
Many hours later, Hajime pushed open the door to his own cottage and trudged inside. The finished prototype of Komaeda's prosthesis was tucked under his arm. He toed off his wet shoes near the entrance, not bothering to turn the lights on, and set the bundle on his bed before slipping into the adjoining bathroom.
Kamukura Izuru stared at him from the mirror above the sink. Ignoring his reflection, he splashed his face with cold water.
It’d been a long day. He and Soda had mostly gotten used to working with each other in the months since waking up from the Neo-World Program, but they still butted heads every now and then– especially when Hajime was leading the project. Soda was used to making prototypes and improving upon them; he was used to doing everything perfectly the first time. It didn't always make for a cohesive workflow, and Komaeda's comments earlier that morning certainly hadn't helped matters, either.
Hajime’s temples throbbed. He wandered back into his room and paced for a few moments. Extraneous sensory details flooded the undercurrent of his thoughts.
The temperature inside this room is 31 °C. The relative humidity is around 72%. It's raining outside, and will be until tomorrow afternoon. The floorboards are made of oak– imported timber, like everything else in this resort town. The spider in the corner is a common cellar species and harmless to humans.
He opened a window and laid down. Beneath the pitter-patter of rain was the distant crash of waves. Hajime listened for thunder. There was none yet, but he could taste ozone in the air.
The restless itch under his skin had only intensified. He shifted onto one side, then the other. Eventually, he realized he was hard.
Hajime froze, his breath catching in his throat. His body still felt so alien, sometimes.
Maybe an endorphin release will help me sleep, he reasoned.
He dragged his hand between his thighs and popped the button on his fly. Exhaling shakily, he kept his gaze trained on the ceiling.
This wasn’t something he did, as Izuru. He'd notice himself become aroused, occasionally– in the same detached way he catalogued all of his bodily sensations. But he'd never had any desire to do something about it. Not by himself, and definitely not with others.
Hajime gave himself a tentative squeeze through the layers of cloth. He swallowed. Still not looking, he reached into his boxers and pulled himself out. His half-hard cock smacked against his thigh.
Clearly, something had changed.
He spit in his palm and gripped himself with a loose fist. Hajime made a slow, experimental stroke. His hips twitched. He tensed, then forced himself to relax into the mattress.
Hajime couldn't help but feel a little pathetic, fumbling with himself in the dark. Unlike virtually everything else, this didn't come naturally to him. There were no talents in his arsenal to teach him masturbation– it was something he’d had to relearn through trial and error since waking up.
He stroked himself again with a tighter fist. His hips twitched forward and he bit his lip. Physical pleasure was still such a novelty to his numb, aching body.
Suddenly, a cold touch brushed his side. He glanced down.
Lying on the bed, jostled slightly from where he'd abandoned it earlier, was Komaeda's prosthetic arm. It was splayed at a loose angle, metallic fingertips glinting where they peaked out over the tangled sheets. One was poking into his flank.
Hajime’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes and rolled over, still thrusting into his hand.
“Ngh…” He pressed his face into the pillow.
Outside, a breeze picked up. The sound of rain grew louder, hiding Hajime’s muffled panting.
Judging by the direction of the wind, a cold front is moving in off of the coast. One of the walls in the room was set into its foundations improperly, and will eventually collapse without reinforcement. My heart rate is currently 9 BPM above its average. 52 hours have passed since I last slept.
With a final stroke, Hajime came into his palm. The muscles in his legs flexed, and he felt cool metal touch the back of his thigh through the sheets. He panted open-mouthed against the wet spot he'd left on his pillow, toes curling. For a few sweet moments, his mind went almost blank.
He returned to his senses slowly. Hajime listened to his own breath regulate as the dopamine flooded his veins. He peeled off his shirt and wiped himself clean, then balled the cloth up and tossed it onto the floor.
I’ll deal with that in the morning, he decided. His bare chest rose and fell in the dark. After a moment, he tucked himself back into his boxers.
Exhaustion washed over him in a gentle wave. Hajime sprawled on his back and yawned, careful not to crush the piece of technology laid out next to him. Too tired to get up and move it, he closed his eyes.
Somewhere far away, thunder rumbled.