Archive of Our Own

Nagito thinks that if he has to hear Hajime Hinata’s name one more time he is going to set off a bomb in this school.

“Komaeda? What do you think?”

Nagito blinks, startled, and finds Nanami staring at him with that look she has when she’s actually engaged enough in a conversation to not fall asleep.

It’s…almost scary.

“My apologies,” Nagito forces a smile onto his face, smoothing down his blazer. “It seemed I zoned out.”

Nanami huffs, a small, almost hidden smile poking at her lips.

“Komadeaaaa, you have to listen!” Ibuki shakes her head dramatically from behind Chiaki. “We’re gonna go out to the Winter Wonderland in two weeks! All of us.”

Nagito is already planning his escape route to the conversation before his reply even leaves his mouth. He lifts his hand, peacefully declining the offer. “Ah, I appreciate it, truly, but with my luck I do not believe it is safe–”

Akane yawns loudly from the desk next to him, cutting him off abruptly. “Dude, you said this last year. Nothing even happened.”

“Yeah! And like, with Hajime-chan there too, we need even numbers!” Ibuki clasps her hands together, almost pleading with Nagito.

Something bitter and ugly twists beneath Nagito’s skin, but he chooses not to display it on his face. “Well, if the Ultimates want me there, how can I say no?”

The words taste rehearsed. His voice is brittle in his throat, his smile sharp.

Akane snorts. “Sometimes, I think you forget that you’re an ultimate too.”

Nagito just smiles.

Sometimes, he thinks that Hajime forgets he isn’t one.

Nagito Komaeda has two weeks to disappear off of the face of the earth.

It’s not like he doesn’t want to go to the Winter Wonderland – he really does. He likes pretty things, and what’s prettier than bright lights, Christmas decorations and festive cheer?

Not Hajime Hinata.

Nagito’s jaw clenches at the thought of him.

Hajime had some nerve, constantly appearing in spaces he didn’t belong in, commanding the attention of the room as if he was some kind of saint.

And now he was forced to socialise with him outside of school? In his own personal time?

Nagito almost snorts.

He could deal with the leech when he was at school. It was an appearance he maintained, and he knew that Hajime was well aware of Nagito’s boundaries surrounding how much time they spent together. In fact, he was almost certain the feeling was mutual.

But to have to spend time with him when they weren’t in the walls of Hope’s Peak Academy?

The thought felt preposterous.

Nagito sets his bag down on his bed, exhaling through his nose.

Two weeks. That’s all he needed.

Hopefully, lady luck was on his side this time.

“It’s just– hard.”

Nagito resists the urge to roll his eyes at Hajime’s incessant whining. The boy acts like it’s some shocking revelation that school involves tests. Truly groundbreaking, as if the very fabric of education has betrayed him.

“Yeah, I bet.” Fuyuhiko frowns, adjusting his sleeves. “Natsumi said you’ve been getting a lot of tests recently.”

“They’re all stupid multiple-choice ones.” Hajime’s eyebrow furrow deepens, a tragic monument to the human struggle against predictable assessment.

Nagito resists the urge to smirk. Complaining over multiple-choice tests? Really, Hinata-kun? The audacity.

Then, Kazuichi Souda decides to open his big mouth. “Hey! Why don’t you ask Komaeda if he can help you guess them?”

Nagito’s entire body stiffens.

No.

He absolutely would not help Hajime with his test. Especially not when the prospect of his luck being misused is on the table. A man has standards, after all. Even if those standards are largely based on keeping his sanity intact.

Fuyuhiko turns, eyes flickering over Nagito in something between hope and reluctance, as if silently asking him to ‘just help him’, without the mortal sin of opening his mouth. Puppy eyes, Nagito thinks darkly, really shouldn’t be legal.

Hajime stares at his paper as if it’s the most fascinating artifact in human history, as if ink and blank space have secrets to reveal that Nagito will never understand.

Nagito shuts his eyes for one, brief, fleeting moment. A micro-gesture of surrender. He doesn’t have to do this. If Hajime gets his answers wrong, it is entirely, absolutely, not Nagito’s problem. A shame it is not quite that simple.

Still, with Fuyuhiko giving the closest thing he can to puppy eyes – which is disturbing enough in itself – and Kazuichi beginning to mimic the expression with uncanny dedication, Nagito feels tactically outnumbered by the Ultimates. The cruel hand of social obligation has descended.

Like clockwork, Nagito forces a smirk onto his face and scrapes his chair back with enough force that at least half of the cafeteria turns toward him with a grimace.

Perfect. Let them marvel at the tragedy of my presence.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he walks around the table, plopping down into the seat next to Hajime.

Hajime still hasn’t looked up. Of course. As if Nagito’s sudden proximity would even merit recognition.

Nagito tries not to sigh. Tries not to curl his lips in disgust. A half-success.

Now he merely looks like a man having a minor existential crisis while simultaneously planning his next misfortune.

“I don’t particularly value my luck,” Nagito begins, voice smooth, dangerously calm. “But I’m sure I can guide you to fortune.”

Hajime side-eyes him, but Nagito is sure he sees a tiny, almost defiant, amused smile on the boy’s face.

It almost makes Nagito freeze. Why the hell is Hajime smiling?

And why doesn’t it bother him?

Some people, he thinks bitterly, are just born immune to common sense.

“It’s…I don’t know how you’ll help, to be honest.” Hajime finally looks up, the smile gone and replaced with a frown. “I don’t even know the questions.”

“Hmm, I see.” Nagito sneaks a glance at Hajime’s paper, which, to nobody’s surprise, is completely blank. Well, that explains everything. “Well, in any case, I have a good feeling! The answer to the first 10 questions is going to be C!”

Hajime blinks. “…I don’t think the teacher’s would be dumb enough to do that.”

Nagito just shrugs, as if shrugging were an art form. “Well, you can only be wrong once, Hinata-kun.”

“I hope you’re not lying.” Hajime mutters.

“Oh, I would never.” Nagito smirks. A real smirk this time. “You should be thankful that I used my good luck for the day on you.”

“We don’t even know if you were right yet.” Hajime bites back.

Nagito’s smirk grows wider. “Well, if it was wrong and I gave you bad luck, then it’s all the more good luck for me.” He taps his fingers lightly against the tabletop, considering the delicious irony.

Hajime’s jaw tightens slightly. “…Sure. Thanks, Komaeda.”

Nagito’s smirk drops slightly, and he feels his fingers twitch. Hajime hadn’t taken the bait this time. Maybe he was genuinely stressed. Or hiding something. Or both. He marvels silently at the boy’s stubborn little heart, the quiet defiance that refuses to collapse under his perfectly honed chaos.

“…Don’t mention it.”

Nagito leans back slightly, eyes scanning the cafeteria. A small, private laugh simmers under his breath.

This is going to be entertaining, at the very least.

Nagito pinches the bridge of his nose as he stares up at his ceiling.

For once – just once – could he not be granted peace and quiet in his miserable little existence?

If it wasn’t Akane bursting through the dorm hallway at the speed of light, it was Teruteru making ungodly noises from the communal kitchen. And if it wasn’t Teruteru making noises, it was–

The banging on his door. A steady, merciless rhythm that had to have been going for at least five minutes. Whoever it was clearly believed persistence could wear him down.

Nagito debates leaving whoever is desperate enough to see him just standing there. Surely, natural selection would take care of them eventually.

But, the mere thought of disappointing an Ultimate stings more than the thought of his own peace, so with a sigh, Nagito swings his legs off of his bed and forces himself to stand. The personification of reluctance stood in slippers.

He pulls his door open with a smile plastered onto his face.

It drops immediately.

Hajime stands there, scowling, with snowflakes still clinging stubbornly to his hair like they’d been granted honorary residence.

“Hinata-kun.” Nagito greets, folding his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t question how Hajime got into the main-course dorms, or how Hajime even knew which room was his. Those answers would surely be more disappointing than the questions. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

Hajime stares at him for what feels like an eternity, probably questioning why Nagito seemed so offended that he was at his door. But Hajime surely knew him well enough by now to recognize a violation when he committed one, and this was a flagrant breach of their unspoken boundaries.

“I wanted to say thank you.” Hajime finally replies.

Nagito blinks. Surely he misheard.

“Thank you?”

“For the…” Hajime trails off, rubbing the back of his neck like the picture of sheepish humanity. “The answers for the test. I got them right – well, the ones you gave. I passed.”

Nagito blinks again. He’s flattered, truly, that even Hajime has the common courtesy to thank the likes of him. But he doesn’t understand why Hajime is now giving his entire life story on passing a test. Surely there are better uses of oxygen.

“You are welcome.” Nagito replies, sounding robotic even to himself. A human-shaped voicemail message.

“Yeah.” Hajime answers, a little too quickly, then blinks in confusion. “…No sarcastic remark?”

Nagito tilts his head. “I’m too tired for pointless social interactions.”

A rare honesty slips through. It tastes strange, like bitterness without sugar. A little too harsh to digest, even worse to spit out.

That, for some god-forsaken reason, earns a half smile from Hajime. The same one that Nagito was sure he saw earlier when he sat beside him.

Nagito decides immediately that it’s infuriating. And dangerous.

“Fair enough.” Hajime replies, his voice less strained than it was ten seconds ago.

“I’m surprised you continued knocking for so long.” Nagito says, then nearly short circuits.

He’d just said he was too tired for pointless social interactions. So why in god’s name was he prolonging this one? Was he addicted to suffering? Probably.

Hajime doesn’t reply, as if he doesn’t even know himself why he knocked for so long. Brilliant. The blind leading the blind.

This is weird. This is awkward. Hajime is stood at his door, trying his best not to shiver from the cold and looking at Nagito as if this is an interaction they have every day. A terrifying thought.

“Well, I suppose that means bad luck is on the way for me.” Nagito shrugs. “Glad I could be of assistance to you.”

Hajime just blinks.

Nagito is sure he must have frostbite on his brain.

He almost offers to invite him inside. Nagito is feeling, against all reason, slightly sympathetic toward his shivering. Then he remembers he is talking to Hajime Hinata, and the thought quickly flees his mind, horrified at its own existence.

“Take care, Hinata-kun.” Nagito starts to shut the door, but his hand catches it just before it shuts. “Sonia-san has the best heating system in the dorm.”

Something finally happens on Hajime’s face that isn’t a blink. His eyes widen in surprise.

Progress.

“Oh– thanks, Komaeda.”

Nagito shuts the door. The silence swallows him whole, and for some reason, it doesn’t feel as peaceful as it should.

Ten days.

Nagito has ten days to think of an excuse to get out of the outing.

Ten days until he would be herded, like livestock, into a social function he had no desire to attend. Ten days until fate shoved him into Hajime Hinata’s orbit again, as if the boy were a star and Nagito some unfortunate speck of dust condemned to revolve forever.

None of the excuses he’d devised so far were even remotely convincing. “Sudden illness” had lost its charm after the third time. “Unforeseen accident” would only be tempting fate. He considered “death,” but that would require follow-through, and he wasn’t quite desperate enough yet.

“You’ve been quiet today.” Fuyuhiko snorts, sitting beside him at his desk. “Never a good sign.”

“I’m questioning my existence.” Nagito replies through the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t a complete lie. He’d been questioning why existence had personally conspired against him since the moment he woke up.

Fuyuhiko snorts again, shaking his head. “Nothing new, then.”

Nagito savours the moment of peace while it lasts – thirty whole seconds without having to deal with another Ultimate’s boundless energy or mindless optimism. A rare miracle.

“DUDEEES!”

The door slams open. Peace is murdered in cold blood.

Kazuichi bursts in, radiating enthusiasm like a nuclear meltdown. Even Fuyuhiko mutters under his breath, which is practically a scream coming from him.

“Kazuichi, there are only three of us in this classroom. You included.” Nagito replies, trying his hardest not to slam his head down into the desk and knock himself blissfully unconscious.

“Exactly. My two dudes.” Kazuichi beams.

Nagito wasn’t sure when he’d been promoted to “dude” status. He would have preferred to remain in his rightful place as “unlucky nuisance” or even “class background noise.” Being Kazuichi’s “dude” sounded suspiciously like a curse. He wanted an immediate demotion.

“Let’s all hang out tonight. All of us – chill in the lounge, get Hanamura to cook something for us.”

“Us three?” Fuyuhiko frowns.

“No, not just us three!” Kazuichi spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the crowd of invisible people that only he could apparently see. “All of us! The whole class!”

Nagito’s ten-day timer suddenly begins to ring in his head like an alarm clock set far too early. Loud. Relentless. Impossible to snooze.

Because “all of us” definitely included–

“-Nanami, Hajime, the whole crew. It’s a Friday anyway!”

Nagito wishes the ground would swallow him. Unfortunately, misfortune seemed to enjoy leaving him alive just long enough to witness his own suffering.

Why did Hajime have to be everywhere he went? Why could he not have a single day, a single hour, without being dragged back into orbit around the one boy he’d rather avoid at all costs?

Still, when Kazuichi confirms that Nagito will be there, he doesn’t find it in himself to disappoint the mechanic by saying no. He forces a thin smile, already plotting his escape.

After all, what was one more evening in hell?

“Oho, if you were livestock, I’d definitely put you in the breeding herd!”

Nagito pauses midstep as he steps into the lounge, unsure if he heard Teruteru correctly. His patience had worn thin enough today, and dealing with the perverted chef really wasn’t something else he wanted to endure.

“Pardon?” Nagito asks, setting his foot down with more effort than he likes to admit.

“You are a fine specimen. Mr Komaeda! My insides feel all tingly just thinking about you.” Teruteru chuckles, his eyes trailing up and down Nagito in a way that makes his skin prickle in disgust.

Right.

As if that was meant to make it sound any better.

Ah yes, Nagito thinks dryly, the highest compliment a human being can receive: being compared to a prize cow. I’ll be sure to add that to my résumé.

“…Lovely. Thank you, Hanamura.” Nagito finally responds, before turning sharply and heading towards the couch.

Thankfully, his luck hadn’t left him with just one seat left that happened to be next to Hajime Hinata. In fact, Hajime wasn’t here at all yet.

Nagito hopes he falls over in the snow on the way here and retreats back to his own dorm.

Or better yet, perhaps he’ll get caught in a freak blizzard and be forced to hibernate until spring. That would be ideal.

Nagito sits on the couch, still trying to decipher why the hell Hanamura seemed to have had that line ready for the second Nagito walked in.

Was Teruteru rehearsing that in front of a mirror? Did he have a whole stockpile of cow-related flirtations prepared for any occasion? The thought alone is enough to make Nagito want to bleach his brain.

“Move your ass.” Fuyuhiko mutters, forcing Nagito to move to the centre of the couch.

He internally screams.

Of course, he isn’t going to deny an Ultimate what they want, let alone Fuyuhiko. The man could probably end Nagito’s pitiful life with a glare if he had the chance to. But, still, he truly wanted the corner of the couch. That meant his social interactions would have been limited.

Now, stuck in the middle, he’s basically a sitting duck, a prime target of an unwelcome interaction. Boxed in, vulnerable, one accidental eye contact away from conversation.

This is what true despair feels like, Nagito thinks grimly, as if shifting two feet to the left has ruined his entire life.

The other Ultimates drift in, clearly much more excited for Kazuichi’s idea of a fun night in than he was. Nagito’s eyes flick, unbidden, to the empty seat beside him.

Because the longer it was left unoccupied, the higher the chance of disaster: Akane sprawling into it and immediately demanding food, Kazuichi squeezing in uninvited to babble in his ear, or worse, Hanamura deciding proximity equalled consent.

“What do you think, Miss Sonia? I even modded the TV so that it’s, like, super loud.” Kazuichi’s voice carries from somewhere behind him like a badly tuned radio.

Nagito exchanges a side eye with Fuyuhiko, who just shakes his head, biting back a smile.

“I think that is brilliant, Kazuichi,” Sonia replies politely.

Nagito doesn’t have to turn to know Kazuichi’s face has gone the colour of his hair. Truly, some things don’t have to be seen to occur. Some miracles don’t require divine intervention.

The weight of the couch dips on Nagito’s left.

Every part of his body tenses, his spine straightening like a pulled string.

Slowly, almost comically slowly, Nagito turns his head.

Hajime sits there, face still flushed from the cold, eyebrows furrowed like usual. Then again, maybe Hajime just came with a default setting of irritation – especially when Nagito was around. Or maybe he wasn’t irritated at all, and Nagito was simply too cursed to imagine Hajime in any state other than mild contempt.

Nagito’s head snaps back forward so fast he half-expects whiplash. Perfect. Brilliant. Just what he needed. A front-row seat to whatever tedious commentary Hajime was going to grace him with tonight.

“I’m…not late, am I?” Hajime asks from beside him. His voice is casual, far too casual. The kind of casual someone practiced in the mirror before deciding it was fine.

“Just on time,” Nagito replies smoothly, though his teeth are clenched behind the words.

Someone really had it out for him today. Lady Luck, apparently, thought this was hilarious.

The movie was playing.

Nagito hopes that if he stares at the screen long enough, he’ll turn invisible. He’s not watching it – not really. Kazuichi’s picked something between action and romance (the latter no doubt for Sonia), but the plot doesn’t matter.

All Nagito can hear is Hajime’s breathing.

Or maybe it isn’t even that loud. But every exhale, every tiny sound Hajime makes slices through Nagito’s skull as though designed to torment him personally. Hajime has been designed to torment him personally. Nagito is sure of it.

“And for you, Hajime!” Teruteru sing-songs, plonking a plate of something directly into Hajime’s lap.

Nagito doesn’t move his head. Doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want to know.

“Oh– uh? Thanks,” Hajime replies. Nagito glimpses movement in his peripheral vision as Hajime steadies the plate.

“I couldn’t let my favourite boy go hungry!” Teruteru squeals before vanishing back toward the communal kitchen.

Nagito’s jaw twitches. Perfect. Just perfect. Now Teruteru had lumped him and Hajime into the same category – the evening’s chosen prey.

The smell of whatever Teruteru had prepared wafts up into his nostrils: herbal, grassy. A little too sweet for Nagito’s tastebuds. Nagito’s nose wrinkles despite himself. Then his eyes flick left – just in time to catch Hajime reaching for a ball.

The words escape him before he can stop them. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

Hajime blinks, fingers still around the kusamochi. “Why?” He frowns. His eyes border on disappointed.

Nagito turns toward him, puppet-like, forced to look at Hajime’s stupid face. “Hanamura probably laced it. He seems to have his eyes set on a few of us tonight.”

Hajime snorts. “Well, it’s a shame that he prepared my favourite, then. Even if it is laced, I guess I’ll take my chances.”

Nagito blinks. His brain trips over the words. Hajime’s favourite? Kusamochi? The knowledge lodges in his chest, stubborn and immovable. It’s far too intimate for a fact so ordinary. It’s also something he has, yet again, unwillingly learnt about Hajime Hinata.

His pale eyes drop to the plate – enough food for eight people, at least. And then some.

Hajime shifts, sliding the plate closer to him. “Want one?”

Nagito nearly recoils. His first thought is of Fuyuhiko, sitting beside him, snapping his neck the moment he leans too close. His second thought is far worse: that Hajime means it sincerely.

“…I don’t like sweet things,” Nagito finally says, each word brittle.

“Same, to be honest. Other than this.” Hajime shrugs. “But I don’t think I can finish this entire plate.”

Nagito stares. He should tell him to give it to Akane, who would annihilate the plate in seconds. That would be the smart choice. The safe one. But then Hajime would be left with nothing, and – for reasons he refuses to articulate – that feels unfair.

He tells himself it’s only because Hajime is insufferable that he notices the food sliding closer by the second. That he has a radar for when Hajime is too close in proximity. Not because he’s tempted. Definitely not that.

Wordlessly, Nagito reaches out and takes one.

He braces himself for disappointment, for a cloying sweetness that will justify all his irritation. Instead… it’s tolerable. Good, even. Which makes it all the more infuriating.

He swallows, turns back to the screen. “Thank you, Hinata-kun.”

His voice comes out tighter than he intends, almost defensive.

Hajime doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to.

Nagito can feel the smile radiating beside him, whether he looks or not.

If he lies here for long enough, maybe the ground will declare him dead and move on.

It was a Sunday – which meant life was meant to be good. Life was meant to be peaceful. Life was meant to be him reading novels in his room and ignoring the existence of certain classmates.

Instead, Nagito Komaeda was lying flat in a snowdrift outside the Main Course dorms like discarded laundry.

He could get up. He should get up.

But he shouldn’t even be here in the first place.

And that makes him angrier than the snow soaking through his clothes.

Hajime Hinata had left his earphones behind after Friday’s movie night. For reasons beyond human comprehension, he hadn’t retrieved them himself. Nagito might have been spared – except Chiaki wandered off mid-delivery attempt because her Gameboy required “urgent attention,” and then the class decided to treat the problem like some kind of charity auction.

Fuyuhiko: an immediate no. Peko: an equally swift no, for reasons Nagito didn’t want to imagine. Akane and Nidai: conveniently absent. Sonia: willing, until Kazuichi nearly fainted at the thought of her stepping outside. Kazuichi himself: useless, shrieking about frostbite after standing three seconds near the door.

And then – like water spiralling inevitably down a drain – all eyes turned on Nagito.

Of course.

The one person who least wanted to set foot in the Reserve Course dorms. Clearly his “luck” found this hilarious.

Koizumi, bless her unshakeable optimism and complete opposition to any of the girls stepping into the snow, had declared his luck would help him “magically” find Hajime’s room.

Nagito had smiled.

Internally, he had screamed.

Which brought him here: five pathetic steps outside before slipping on a sheet of ice like a newborn reindeer and ending up sprawled in the snow.

Nagito sighs. At least the sky was pretty. It would be a lovely final view if he froze to death.

“Uh– Komaeda?”

Nagito blinks, startled, as Hajime’s face appears above him like an unwanted angel of death. He does not have the reflexes to bury himself under the snow fast enough.

“What are you doing?” Hajime asks.

Nagito’s irritation blooms. Cold. Wet. Staring at Hajime’s dumb face. Truly the trifecta of suffering.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Sunbathing.” He tilts his eyes skyward, focusing a little too hard on a cloud just past Hajime, dignified in defeat.

“Right,” Hajime mutters, unimpressed. Then he extends a hand.

Nagito blinks at it, deeply offended. Touch Hajime Hinata? With his hand? What cruel cosmic joke was this?

He was starting to suspect his luck wasn’t random at all. It had a sense of humour, and it was cruel.

“What are you doing?” he asks flatly.

“Uh– helping you? You’re gonna get sick if you just lie here.”

Nagito stares for an eternity, calculating exactly how many germs might be living in Hajime’s glove. Then, with all the reluctance of a someone sentenced to death, he grabs it. He prays his luck doesn’t betray him thrice by dragging Hajime down into the snow with him.

It doesn’t. Nagito lands gracefully on his feet. Almost disappointing.

Then he realises Hajime had been heading toward the Main Course dorms anyway. His irritation doubles.

“Why are you sniffing around this building?” Nagito asks, blunter than he intended to.

Hajime laughs softly, cheeks pink. Cold, surely. “I forgot my earphones. Thought I might as well come and collect them.”

Nagito blinks. So I nearly died for nothing. How fitting.

“Here.” He reaches into his pocket and shoves the earphones at Hajime. “Take them.”

Hajime’s eyebrows raise. “Why do you–”

“I was bringing them to you. Hence why I’m outside in the snow.” The words tumble out too quickly. He did not want Hajime questioning why he, of all people, had become the errand boy.

To his credit, Hajime doesn’t push it, though his expression said he wanted to. “Thank you, Komaeda.”

Nagito nods once, firmly, and strides past him toward the door. He taps his ID on the scanner, then pauses.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

But his bones ache from the cold, and if he was freezing, Hajime must be half-dead already.

“…Hurry up, Hinata-kun. I won’t hold the door open for long.” His voice was tight, clipped.

He braces for Hajime to make a scene, to point out how unprecedented this was. How this was possibly the first time Nagito had willingly invited Hajime into the dorms. But Hajime doesn’t. He just shuffles forward, brushing close enough that his hand accidentally presses against Nagito’s as they push the door open together.

Nagito doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t stare. He simply walks ahead, ignoring the way his hand tingled, traitorous and warm.

It’s nothing. Just bad circulation.

Seven days.

Seven days and Nagito Komaeda still had not manufactured an excuse convincing enough to escape the so-called Winter Wonderland escapade.

“We should totally get food when we go!” Akane grins, hands linked lazily behind her head.

Of course that was her suggestion. Food was her answer to most life problems, from midterms to existential dread.

“TO PROVIDE YOURSELF WITH FUEL IS OF IMPORTANCE IN WEATHER LIKE THIS!” Nidai bellows beside her.

Nagito sighs inwardly. Nekomaru really did have a talent for rephrasing Akane’s stomach into noble strategy.

“I think I would like to go ice skating.” Sonia smiles, warm as ever. “I do not often have the time for such novelties in Novoselic.”

Kazuichi practically combusts. “SURE! Ice-skating will be super fun, right guys?”

Nagito quietly declines in his head. He had visions of himself tripping on the ice and somehow triggering a natural disaster. Headline: Local Student Causes Avalanche Through Poor Balance.

“You mortals do not have the balance to accompany Dark Queen on her ice adventure,” Gundham intones from the sidelines.

Nagito wasn’t sure whether Gundham was mocking them or volunteering Sonia for solo performance art. Kazuichi makes a strangled noise but, blessedly, doesn’t argue.

Fuyuhiko brushes snow from his coat with a scowl sharp enough to cut glass. “What about you, Komaeda?”

Nagito blinks. “What about me?”

“What are you gonna do?” Fuyuhiko leans closer, voice lowering as though offering a black-market deal. “I think we should stick together and just do nothing. I can’t be fucked with this.”

Nagito pauses. An out. A miracle in the form of one grouchy teenager. And, honestly, Fuyuhiko – when alone – wasn’t even the worst company this class had to offer.

“I did want to see the lights,” Nagito says, almost cautiously. A compromise in exchange for giving Fuyuhiko the out he clearly wants as much as Nagito does.

Fuyuhiko gives a small nod. “Great. We’ll look at the lights. Let these sons of bitches freeze to death together.”

Nagito bites down on a smile at Fuyuhiko’s desperate escape plan, the world’s most violent introvert finally cracking.

Perhaps he would be spared of Hajime Hinata for the night.

Perhaps. Which of course meant he absolutely wouldn’t be.

The snow fell heavier as Nagito trudged forward, his own footprints erased the moment they appeared.

Of course it had to be today. The storm had shut down classes, sent his classmates scattering to celebrate their surprise freedom, and yet he was here, trudging through slush like some tragic Dickensian orphan.

He wasn’t sure where the rest of his classmates had gone – probably rejoiced at the idea of getting a random Wednesday afternoon free and disappeared off the campus grounds.

Nagito didn’t understand it himself, willingly choosing to be in the snow. He understood the appeal – the snow made things pretty. It was nice to look at. It was not nice to stand in, however.

Plus, his luck increased the chances of catastrophe whenever he was out in this weather for too long.

Nagito shoves his hands into his pockets, hood low over his ears, when his eyes catch a lone figure loitering by the main course dorm entrance.

Frowning, he moved closer. His eyes widened – then narrowed to slits.

Hajime Hinata.

Of course. Snow, locked doors, and Hinata Hinata-ing his way through life.

Nagito increased his pace, stepping up beside him, lips twisting into a smirk. “Couldn’t sneak your way into the building this time, reserve?”

He doesn’t even glance over, already satisfied with his own taunt.

Except Hajime doesn’t reply.

Nagito raises an eyebrow. Strange. Hajime usually at least managed a grunt of disdain, sometimes even a full sentence if he was feeling generous.

Annoyance prickles in his stomach. Annoyance at being ignored. Annoyance at the fact Hajime is stood behind him like a living statue. Nagito turns, sneer ready on his lips, a biting remark preparing for flight on his tongue.

He immediately drops it.

Hajime looks… wrong. Not the usual flushed-cheek winter wrong, but blister-red skin, lips somewhere between pink and grey, his entire frame shuddering like a brittle leaf in the wind.

For a terrifying second, Nagito’s thoughts flash to headlines again: Hope’s Peak Academy, One Student Down. Cause of Death: Snow, and Nagito Komaeda Standing Right There Like an Idiot.

“Hinata-kun?” He can’t hide the edge of panic in his voice. Hates the way it comes through a little too willingly. “What are you doing?”

“I…” Hajime’s teeth clatter against each other as he blinks slowly. “Cold.”

Cold. Brilliant observation. Thank you, Hinata.

Nagito’s heart lurches. He grabs Hajime’s arm without another word, tugging him toward the door. Hajime’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t resist, his body moving pliantly under Nagito’s grip.

“Come on,” Nagito mutters, his tone sharp to cover the worry clawing at his ribs. “I don’t want another dead body on my conscience.”

My luck’s bad enough without having Hope’s Peak accuse me of murdering you via frostbite.

Nagito released Hajime once they got to his room.

This is weird. Hajime has never been inside his room before – few had. Ibuki, when she decided doors were mere suggestions and privacy was nothing more than a concept. Fuyuhiko, recently, if he needed someone to rant to who wouldn’t argue back. Nanami, when she wanted quiet company while she pressed buttons and ignored him.

But not Hajime. Never Hajime.

Nagito glances at him. Hajime blinks, still half-conscious, standing as rigid and out of place as a statue someone had dumped beside his bed.

Nagito doesn’t bother to address it. He turns to his radiator, cranking it up, then switches on both of his portable heaters until the room hummed with artificial warmth. He disliked it – heat clung in the wrong way, like a fever he couldn’t sweat out – but Hajime, inconveniently, was not allowed to freeze to death in front of him. Not in his room. Not when he would inevitably be blamed for it.

When he turns back, Hajime still hasn’t moved a single step closer to the heaters.

“You are allowed to move,” Nagito mutters, stepping nearer to Hajime. Against his will, of course. It’s simply the fact he would rather, for some reason, see Hajime alive. “I know my room is rather unsightly, but I’d much rather you don’t die and make it worse.”

Somehow, Hajime – despite the grey lips, despite the shaking – manages a small, unhidden smile. Slow, tired, but real.

Nagito freezes. He stares for a second too long, the curve of Hajime’s mouth catching him off guard like a tripwire. Then he shakes it off, irritated at himself. Why was Hajime smiling at all? Was hypothermia contagious?

Nagito grabs Hajime’s wrist again. He doesn’t flinch, though the cold bites through the glove like it wanted to crawl into his bones. He tugs Hajime to the radiator, pressing firmly at his shoulders until the other boy sinks down into a sit onto the carpet.

“You should…” Nagito starts, then falters. There isn’t a polite way to phrase it. And since when had he cared about being polite? To Hajime, of all people. “You should take off your clothes.”

That got Hajime blinking fast, startling him out of his frostbite-induced daze.

Nagito’s ears burn. “I mean,” he rectifies a little too quickly, “your outer-clothes. Like your jacket. It’ll slow down the process of you warming up.”

Hajime hesitates, twitching his fingers like his body was still debating whether movement was worth the effort. Nagito bites back a sigh and crouches, peeling the jacket from his arms. Hajime shifts just enough to let it happen, allowing his arms to be pulled through. Snowflakes still cling stubbornly to his hair, so Nagito brushes them out without thinking. His fingers linger a fraction too long before he snatches them back, horrified at himself. At Hajime. At both of them. Neither of them comment on Nagito’s wandering fingers.

Nagito folds the jacket far too neatly, laying it on his drying rack. When he turns again, Hajime still looks half-frozen, half-confused, and not nearly inclined to explain why he’d been standing outside like an abandoned snowman. Not yet, anyway.

Nagito’s eyes flick to his cabinet. He retrieves a sachet of lemon tea, then grabs a blanket from his wardrobe and tosses it over Hajime’s lap. At least the boy had thawed enough to wrap himself without Nagito having to tuck him in like a child.

“I will be back,” Nagito announces, shaking the sachet lightly. “Try to… warm up, Hinata-kun.”

Hajime just nodded, and Nagito inclines his head before turning on his heel and walking toward the door.

He doesn’t know why he cares enough to do all this. He tells himself it was just compassion – anyone can manage that much. You don’t have to like someone to not want them to die.

But as his hand lingers on the doorknob, Nagito catches his thoughts drifting. Of course his luck would force him into this. Of all the people to nearly freeze on his doorstep, it had to be Hajime Hinata.

Because apparently, fate thought the world wasn’t entertaining enough already.

Nagito returns with a steaming mug of lemon tea, balancing it carefully as if one wrong step will make him the villain of this little tragedy.
He sets it down in front of Hajime, wary that Hajime’s fingers – already stiff and red – might shatter at the sudden heat, and then Nagito will have to explain frostbite and third-degree burns to the nurse.

For a brief, fleeting moment, he debates just climbing onto his bed, cocooning himself in blankets, and ignoring the fact Hajime Hinata is occupying oxygen in his room. Silence is his usual weapon. If you pretend hard enough, people vanish. But, despite everything, pretending Hajime isn’t here feels impolite.

Nagito shuts his eyes, curses his sense of manners, and sits beside him.
“You should drink it,” he says, gesturing to the mug. “It will help.”

Hajime nods, obedient in a way Nagito isn’t used to seeing, and for a few stretched seconds they sit in the kind of silence that crawls under his skin. Not peace – awkwardness. Awkwardness so thick it deserves its own chair between them.

“Thank you,” Hajime murmurs at last.

Nagito presses his lips into a thin line. Thank you. Two words, somehow more unbearable than all of Hajime’s usual irritation. He can survive total silence. But gratitude? That’s uncharted territory, the kind with dragons on the map.

The silence stretches to the point where Nagito almost wishes for someone to burst into his bedroom. At least then he’d have something to react to. If that interaction didn’t involve questioning about why Hajime Hinata was sat beside him on the floor, he would happily take it.

Of course, no such thing happens. He supposes that there is a silver lining for every misfortune.

He eventually caves first. “Why were you outside, Hinata-kun?”

Hajime blows over the steam before sipping, and Nagito looks away, already bracing himself for an answer he will deem ridiculous.
“I forgot my key.”
Nagito frowns, eyebrows pinching. “…You don’t live in this building, reserve.”
“Nanami had it.”

That stalls him. Nanami? Why on earth–
“Oh,” is all he manages.

“I gave her my blazer this morning,” Hajime explains, lifting a shaky hand to gesture vaguely at himself. Only now does Nagito notice the absence: no ridiculous black blazer, just the white shirt beneath the coat he’s hung to dry. The shirt clings faintly to his shoulders and chest where the damp has seeped through.

Nagito’s eyes flick away immediately. Wonderful. As if this situation isn’t awkward enough, now his brain wants to catalogue how Hajime looks without the extra layers. Exactly the sort of thought he doesn’t need. The kind that can spiral into… complications.

“She left her coat, so I offered her my blazer. My keys were inside.”
“Ah,” Nagito says, swallowing down a hundred questions. “And you couldn’t have given your coat instead? Or… I don’t know, removed your keys first?”

“I wasn’t–” Hajime starts sharply, then softens, almost sheepish. “I wasn’t thinking. Just didn’t want to see her cold. And I had my coat in my bag, so… I thought I’d be fine.”

It doesn’t quite add up. Surely, Hajime would have just offered said coat that was in his bag. Logic caves under sentimentality. Nagito could point that out. In fact, he isn’t even sure he saw Nanami in the black blazer, which suggests she returned to her room and replaced it with her own coat anyway. Nagito could point that out too.

But for some reason, the thought of stomping on Hajime’s little gesture feels unsporting.

“You must prepare for all events, Hinata-kun,” Nagito replies instead, the ghost of a smile tugging his mouth. “Especially with me around. The weather can never be too predictable when I’m near.”

“Yeah, I’ll remember that for the next time a blizzard strikes,” Hajime snorts, shoulders loosening as he nurses the mug. “I suppose you are lucky after all.”

Nagito blinks. “Well, yes. We already knew that.”
“Well, you found me,” Hajime says simply, with a shrug that brushes his shoulder closer to Nagito’s. “In the cold. Good luck, for me, at least.”

Nagito bites back the immediate urge to laugh in his face. Hajime, seeing him as good luck? That’s absurd. He wants to correct him, to remind him that being tied to Nagito Komaeda is a guaranteed shortcut to disaster.

But Hajime is leaning a fraction closer now, the steam of the tea fogging lightly between them, and Nagito realizes that saying so would mean dragging that warmth away.

So he swallows the retort, lets it curdle in his throat, and turns his eyes back to the mug in Hajime’s hands instead.
If Hinata wants to misinterpret this as good luck…

Nagito supposes he can live with being wrong about that, just this once.

It is later in the evening, and Hajime still hasn’t left.
Nagito isn’t sure why. Surely, he isn’t that pleasant of company – unless Hajime secretly enjoys silence, which Nagito doubts, considering most of Hajime’s silences are filled with judgmental staring.

The mug was drained hours ago. Twice refilled, twice emptied. The blanket has slipped from Hajime’s shoulders. His colour has returned. By all logical accounts, he should have gone back to his dorm.

And yet he’s still here.
And – against all odds – so is Nagito.

“So, like, what do you do?”
Nagito blinks. What does he do? Hajime has a talent for pulling the most absurd questions out of thin air.

They have already slogged through small talk: Hajime talking about the Reserve Course (Nagito heroically resisting the urge to sneer), Hajime asking about the Main Course (Nagito equally heroically resisting the urge to gloat). For some reason, Hajime always manages to provoke his worst instincts, like a talentless button pusher.

And yet, beneath the posturing, Nagito realises something unpleasant: he and Hajime aren’t so different. They both want talent, admiration, proof that they matter. The difference is that Nagito was given his “talent” by the whims of chance, while Hajime… wasn’t.

But that doesn’t stop Hajime from looking at him with a flicker of something like admiration, even if it’s reluctant.
“What do I do?” Nagito echoes, realising his silence has stretched too long.

“Yeah.” Hajime taps his fingers on his thigh. “I probably know the least about you. Hobbies? Sports?”

Nagito snorts. “Sports? I think I’d trip over the ball before I even touched it. My body coordination is better suited to – well, dying in avoidable accidents, really.”
Hajime gives him a look. “Hobbies, then.”

Persistent. Of course. Hajime has that irritatingly stubborn streak, like a dog gnawing on a bone, except in this case the bone is Nagito Komaeda’s inner life.

He can hardly admit the truth – that most of his free time is spent staring at the ceiling and wondering when exactly he became so unremarkable. So instead, he shrugs with exaggerated nonchalance. “I… read, sometimes?”
The tips of his ears betray him by warming.

“Yeah?” Hajime tilts his head, curiosity sharpening his expression. “What do you like to read?”

Nagito almost laughs. Hajime isn’t mocking him. He’s… interested? Earnest? Surely he has brain damage from the cold.
“…Old books,” Nagito admits cautiously. “Literature. Poetry, sometimes. I even write some, but…” He shakes his head quickly. “It’s nothing worth showing anyone.”

“I’d read them.”

Nagito nearly drops dead on the spot. That has to be a joke, but when he searches Hajime’s face for even a trace of mockery, there is none. Just plain sincerity.

“Really?” The word slips out smaller than he intends.
Hajime smiles. Not his usual smirk, but something genuine. “Sure. I think you’d be a great poet.”

Nagito’s fingertips curl against his trousers. That is – objectively speaking – the nicest thing anyone has said to him in months. Maybe years. He hates how it lodges itself under his ribs like a hook.
“…Then I suppose I’ll write you one,” Nagito manages, turning his eyes away before Hajime can see his expression.

“I’ll look forward to it.”
Nagito can feel Hajime’s gaze on him. Can feel their shoulders pressed together, steady and warm. Can feel the heat in his own ears betraying him.

What he can’t feel – strangely enough – is irritation at Hajime’s proximity.
And that, Nagito decides, is a very dangerous problem.

Three days.
Nagito Komaeda still doesn’t have an excuse.

And honestly? He isn’t sure he’s looking for one anymore.

At least he has Fuyuhiko now – an ally of sorts. If things get unbearable, they can both slip away early and nobody will notice. Well… except maybe Pekoyama. Nagito isn’t blind to the way she is almost always in the shorter man’s proximity. He also isn’t blind to the fact that Fuyuhiko doesn’t seem to mind.

“Hey, Komaeda.”
Akane Owari plops into the seat beside him with all the grace of a falling sandbag.

“Morning, Owari,” Nagito replies with forced cheer, casually trying to push his notebook up his sleeve like a magician hiding a rabbit.
It doesn’t work.

“What are you writing?” Akane leans over, curious as ever.

Nagito freezes. Of course. Why wouldn’t the world conspire to expose the one mildly personal thing he’s bothered to do in the last decade? Privacy, after all, is only for people the universe doesn’t despise.
His brain scrambles for an excuse. Any excuse.
“Christmas list,” he blurts, snapping the notebook shut.

Akane frowns. “Christmas list?”
“Yes. Presents. Shopping.” Nagito nods with manufactured confidence, already regretting the words. Truly, he has chosen the worst and most ill-timed excuse in human history.

Who writes Christmas lists when they don’t even know someone who would willingly take a present from them?

Akane tilts her head. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to buy presents.”
“I’m not,” Nagito answers immediately, before pasting on his usual smile. “But I suppose everyone deserves presents, even from the likes of me.”

To his surprise, Akane’s lips curl into a grin – not mocking, but genuine. “Heh. That’s sweet of you. I still gotta buy my kid-siblings presents.” She groans, slumping against the desk. “It’s torture. I barely have money for myself.”

Nagito’s smile lingers, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He hasn’t bought presents since his parents died almost ten years ago. Now he has too much money and nobody to spend it on. At least Akane still has family. Something to complain about, something to go home to.
“I’m sure they’d just be happy to have their sister home,” he murmurs.

Akane brightens at that, smiling wider.
Before the moment can deepen into anything too heartfelt, Nidai calls across the room, challenging her to do press-ups across three desks. Akane lights up instantly, leaping to her feet and charging toward him like a soldier sprinting into battle.

Nagito allows himself a small, fond smile. Then his gaze drops back to the closed notebook.
The poem still hasn’t come. But maybe, just maybe, it will.

“I used to think your gaze was a knife,

Sharp enough to cut through my rotten luck,

A reminder that even I could bleed,

From something as simple as your distrust.”

Nagito bites his lip, staring at the verse scrawled in uneven lines.
Is this really what Hinata wants? A poem? A piece of his warped little soul pressed into paper? He doubts it. Hinata is probably just being polite. Everyone is polite, before they realize what a mistake it is to get close.

Still, here he is. A Friday night, alone with his ghosts, scratching out drabbles nobody will ever see.
His eyes trace the words again. Not tender. Not soft. But then, Hinata didn’t ask for tenderness, did he? He asked for Nagito’s poetry. And Nagito’s poetry is like everything else about him – bitter, jagged, half-rotten at the core.

He exhales, dropping his forehead to the desk with a dull thud.
How pathetic. In all his years of writing, the words have never fought him like this. Even his thoughts are conspiring against him now, leaving him stranded in silence when, for once, someone has actually asked to hear them.

Nagito pauses just outside the lounge, ears straining.
Voices.

“Mhm, I must say, if Miss Nanami does want a partner to skate on the ice with, I would happily volunteer myself.”

Nagito resists the urge to laugh. Hanamura is predictable in the way a stray dog is predictable – chasing anything that moves, wagging his tail the entire time. Now Nanami is his target? The man truly doesn’t have a type.

“Ew, gross, dude.”

Nagito blinks. Souda? Actually offended by Hanamura’s perversion? That’s a rare event. He half-expects celestial trumpets to blare.

“You’re fuckin’ disgusting,” Fuyuhiko mutters.

Ah. There it is. Explains everything. Souda is only pretending to have standards because Kuzuryu is in the room. Self-preservation makes hypocrites of us all.

Nagito’s lips quirk in faint amusement before he brushes imaginary dust from his sleeves and steps into the lounge.

“Komaeda! Hey!” Souda grins, waving like an overeager puppy.
Nagito tilts his head, smiling brightly back. “Souda-kun, how sweet of you. I almost believed that you’re actually happy to see me.”

Kazuichi doesn’t reply. Figures.

It’s still strange, being treated with friendliness by him. Nagito has never been unpopular with his class, but lately it feels as if someone has yanked a curtain open and left him exposed under the stage lights.

Fuyuhiko pats the spot beside him, and Nagito obeys, sliding in neatly. Sitting next to Kuzuryu has its perks – namely, Hanamura will think twice before leaning too close.
Unfortunately, it also means he’s now trapped in whatever this conversation is.
But, better this than writing poetry about Hajime Hinata.

“What’s a fine man like yourself doin’ wandering around all lonesome?” Hanamura leans forward, grinning in a way Nagito suspects violates at least three health codes.
Nagito presses a hand over his heart, feigning flattery. “Oh my, Hanamura-kun. To think you’d call me fine. My luck really is terrifying.”

“Gross,” Fuyuhiko mutters, and Nagito decides to graciously interpret it as a defence on his behalf.
“I was just stretching my legs,” Nagito adds with a soft yawn. “After such a long nap, you see.”
A white lie, but lies come so easily when no one cares to check the truth.

“Well, you came to the right place!” Souda beams, leaning back comfortably. “We were just talking about Monday’s plans.”
“Oh?” Nagito asks sweetly, folding his hands in his lap.
“Yeah, dude. A little birdie tells me you and Kuzuryu are planning to ditch early!”

Nagito and Fuyuhiko exchange a look. Busted.
Nagito smiles, brittle but unwavering. “Souda-kun, I didn’t realise you were on such good terms with little birds. Please do pass on my regards.”

Souda waggles his eyebrows, as if the two men have intentions other than getting a relatively peaceful night. Hanamura chuckles, and Fuyuhiko pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Well, I wouldn’t object to tagging along with you two,” Hanamura smirks. “Just to make sure you don’t sneak off.”
“I’d rather not,” Fuyuhiko replies flatly, his irritation barely masked.

“Welp!” Souda chirps. “In that case, if I think you guys are ditching, I’ll send Hajime with you.”

Nagito’s smile freezes. “Why… Hinata-kun?” His voice comes out sharper than intended, but the edge in it is impossible to sand down.
Souda snorts. “Well, I would’ve said Nidai, but he’ll probably be too busy helping everyone else skate. Hajime’s, like, almost as tall as you, Komaeda. He’s the only one who could drag you back.”

For a fleeting, traitorous second, Nagito’s mind conjures the image of Hinata’s hand closing around his arm, tugging him back in close. His chest tightens, nausea blooming. He shoves it down with a brittle laugh.
“Ah, of course. Hinata-kun as my watchdog. Truly, I couldn’t ask for better company.”

“Tch.” Fuyuhiko snorts, shoulders relaxing slightly.
Nagito leans back into the couch cushion, plastering on his usual smile.
For just a moment, though, he almost wishes Hanamura had been the one assigned to chaperone. At least his brand of disgust is simpler to endure.

Nagito stretches, joints popping in protest as he rolls onto his side. His body isn’t built for comfort. Which is convenient, really, since he rarely deserves it.

The notebook glares at him from the bedside table. Not literally, of course, though if any object has the right to start judging him out loud, it’s that one. A bomb disguised as a journal. A trap he’s set for himself with the charming belief that words will somehow save him.

He plucks it up anyway. A pen tumbles onto his chest, accusingly light.
Still blank. Still useless. Just like him.

And then, as if summoned by his worst instincts, his mind drags him back. To Hajime, teeth chattering, shoulders hunched beside him in the warmth of his room. To that strange, brief conversation where neither of them spat venom. Where, instead, something dangerously close to understanding had crept in.

Wonderful. Now he’s being haunted by Hinata before breakfast. Not even awake ten minutes, and already his brain has scheduled him for misery.

Nagito pinches the bridge of his nose, smirking faintly despite himself. “Pathetic,” he mutters, though he isn’t entirely sure who the insult is meant for.

His eyes drift back down to the notebook. Against his better judgment, words stir.

“But somewhere between our bitter words,

The silence began to change.

Like glass turning to sea-glow,

Like hatred losing its age.”

Nagito stares at the lines for a long while. Too sentimental, too revealing. The kind of thing someone might mistake for hope – and he can’t afford to let anyone do that. Especially Hajime. The boy already clung to hope as if it was the only thing left to save him.

Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? The voice in the back of his head snarls. Nagito tries to ignore it.

He clicks the pen shut and drops it on the desk. Let the bomb tick a little longer.

Two days.
Forty-eight hours.
The countdown to hell disguised as “festivities.”

Nagito can already feel the dread calcifying in his chest. Monday night promises too much noise, too much cheer, too much humanity. He’s always been bad at that part.

And then there’s Hajime Hinata.
His dumb, gravity-defying hair. His dumb, suspiciously green eyes that seem to glow whenever they catch the light. Hope-coloured eyes on a boy without talent – isn’t that irony’s cruel little joke?

Nagito’s fist curls at his side as he glares up at the ceiling. Hajime’s existence shouldn’t bother him this much. It’s irrational. Pathetic, even.
(Just like him, whispers the voice that never shuts up.)

Of course, he can excuse it. Hajime is talentless, and Nagito has always hated what he can’t save. But unlike him, Hajime refuses to accept it. Instead he clings – leeches – to talent, hovering around anyone who embodies the hope he could never hold himself. As if brilliance is contagious. As if you can just catch an Ultimate by proximity.

Nagito almost laughs. He, of all people, knows better than anyone that talent is not something you can win just by luck.
And yet.

His eyes betray him, flicking back to the cursed notebook on the nightstand. The one he’s filled and gutted and filled again, all for Hinata’s sake. Words carved out of him like splinters, words he will never admit are written with Hinata in mind.

Something twists low in his stomach. Not disgust – though he almost wishes it were. Not even envy anymore.
No, Hajime’s lack of talent isn’t what gnaws at him now.

Nagito swallows.
Because whatever it is…

Whatever it is must be worse.

Nagito folds his arms, nodding politely as Kazuichi rambles on with all the grace of a broken record.
“And then we’ll head over to the Ferris wheel! I bet Miss Sonia’s never been on one, and she’d love for someone to hold her hand when we’re up that high!”

Fuyuhiko groans like he’s just been sentenced to death.
Nagito mirrors the expression inside. Truly, Kazuichi’s devotion to Sonia is a tragic story of unrequited love – though it might be less tragic if he noticed her eyes are already reserved for Gundham Tanaka and his jet-black eyeliner.

Or perhaps it would be more tragic. Nagito isn’t exactly willing to find out how Kazuichi would react to direct rejection.

“I’m not goin’ on a fuckin’ Ferris wheel,” Fuyuhiko mutters, raising one hand like he’s swearing it under oath.
“Oho, what’s the matter, short stack? Afraid of heights?” Teruteru chimes, smirking. “I could sit next to you. Keep you company.”

The crimson that shoots up Fuyuhiko’s face could melt the snow outside. “No need. I’ve got Komaeda.”

Nagito blinks in surprise. Then smiles faintly.
How curious. He hadn’t realized he’d been promoted to official Ferris wheel companion. A rare privilege, considering most people want to push him off one.

“Sorry, Hanamura,” Nagito says lightly, shrugging. “Looks like I’m booked. Maybe next time, hm?”
Teruteru groans theatrically but doesn’t push.

For a fleeting moment, Nagito almost feels included. Strange. Comforting, even.
And then, as always, his mind betrays him – conjuring a pair of dumb green eyes, dumb spiky hair, and that frustratingly earnest frown.
Hinata.

Nagito’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding. His brain really ought to apply for a restraining order against itself.
It’s just one night, he reminds himself. You already see him too much as it is. What’s one more day?
If Nanami were here, she’d probably call it “bonding time.”

Nagito nearly laughs aloud. Bonding, with Hajime Hinata? He’d sooner bond with frostbite.

Twenty-two hours.
Not that Nagito is counting. Of course not. That would imply he cares.

He groans into his pillow, burying his face like he can smother the thoughts rattling inside.
Why is he so worked up? Why is his ridiculous brain dedicating this much real estate to Hajime Hinata, of all people?

Hinata doesn’t deserve this kind of attention. He doesn’t deserve Nagito’s scorn, let alone… whatever this is turning into.
Even so, his mind betrays him. A fleeting, treacherous thought sneaks through: maybe the night won’t be terrible. Maybe he and Hinata can survive a few hours without snapping at each other’s throats. Maybe, by some miracle, they’ll end closer to “acquaintances” than “acquaintances with a mutually agreed upon desire to strangle one another.”

Nagito sits up and smacks himself lightly on the forehead. Hard reset. Absolutely not.
Best case scenario, he’ll catch one glimpse of Hinata’s messy hair from a safe distance, and they’ll go the entire night without speaking.
Yes. That’s the outcome he wants.

So why does his chest tighten at the idea of Hajime not speaking to him at all?
Nagito scowls at the ceiling, as if he can pin the blame there. The universe is clearly conspiring against him. Again.

Nagito’s eyes flick open just as the sunrise paints his ceiling a pale gold.
Today, he needs an excuse. A good one. The kind of excuse no one can argue with, the kind that wraps around him like armour.

Naturally, his brain has decided to abandon him. He can recite the Greek alphabet backwards, name every single Hope’s Peak talent in order, and yet, when he needs one shred of creativity? Nothing.

He drags himself to the mirror, scanning his reflection like a detective at a crime scene. Pale skin? Permanently included. Dark circles? Variable, and unfortunately they tend to fade once he actually sleeps. His hair? Always a disaster. Hardly a revelation.
Pathetic. Not even his flaws are consistent enough to save him.

Nagito shuts his eyes, waiting for something to arrive. And then – like a divine spark, or more accurately, a match struck in a dumpster fire – it comes. Even if he’s used this excuse far too many times this year.

He doesn’t need to be sick. He just has to look sick enough that nobody will want him around. A rasp in the throat. A faint shiver. Eyes blinking just a little too slowly, like he’s perpetually two seconds away from fainting.

And if he lies against the radiator before class until his skin is uncomfortably hot? Perfect. Instant fever.

It isn’t a lie. It’s a performance.
And Nagito Komaeda has always been excellent at playing the part of the unwanted.

Nagito trudges to class trying to hide his smirk.

As he pushes the door open, he’s instantly greeted with a chorus of “Good morning, Komaeda!”. It almost feels like an applause.

He weakly waves a frail hand in greeting, before slumping down into his chair far too theatrically.

Kazuichi is the first to pounce.

“DUDE!” He jumps onto Komaeda’s desk. “Aren’t you excited for today?! It’s gonna be AWESOME!”

Nagito blinks slowly. Resists the urge to clear his throat. “Mm.”

Kazuichi, undeterred and clearly not listening to Nagito’s answer, nods happily and jumps to Ibuki’s desk, giving her the same exact speech.

Nagito suspects that he has given it to every individual in the room.

Akane turns in front of him, cracking her back. As she turns, her eyes lock onto Nagito and narrow suspiciously.

“You good?” She asks.

Nagito blinks slowly again. “I’m…fine.”

Akane raises an eyebrow. “You don’t look it. HEY! TSUMIKI!”

Tsumiki screams from the other side of the classroom, before rushing to Akane’s side. “I-I’m Sorry!” She wails. “I took t-too long.”

Nagito almost feels pitiful that he is dragging Mikan into this performance. She was jumpy at the best of times.

Akane blinks at her, ignoring her wailing. “Komaeda’s, like, not looking good. Glassy eyes and shit. Do you think he’s okay?”

Mikan turns, looking on the verge of tears, and gently pads to Nagito’s desk. “M-May I t-t-touch your f-forehead?” She asks, gently raising a hand.

Nagito nods, not trusting his voice is still raspy, and allows Mikan to press her hand to his forehead.

She jumps back immediately. “WAH! K-Komaeda, y-you’re too warm!”

Nagito internally rejoices. Perfect. He won. No skating, no Hajime, no problem.

That is, until Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu singlehandedly crushed his hopes beneath one sharp snort.

“Sick, my ass.”

Nagito freezes. He hadn’t even noticed the entire class had gathered around him, but Fuyuhiko was glaring down with an eyebrow arched somewhere between irritation and reluctant amusement.

Of course. The boy is allergic to bullshit. Admirable, in the most inconvenient way imaginable.

Fuyuhiko claps Nagito’s shoulder like he was handing down a prison sentence. “You ain’t getting out of being my partner tonight that easily, Komaeda.”

“B-But,” Nagito rasped, giving a deliberately weak cough. “I-I’m sick.”

“BOO, YOU WHORE!” Ibuki shrieks from somewhere behind him, laughing so hard she nearly falls off her desk.

Nagito shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back against his chair.

Rotten luck, indeed.

Nagito Komaeda is not giving up that easily.
Fine. He may have been exposed as a total fraud this morning. But that is hardly his fault. Even Tsumiki, the Ultimate Nurse, believed him. No – the blame lies with the blonde boy whose temper is somehow shorter than his height.

Nagito Komaeda did not deceive them.
Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu simply saw through him.
A true display of hope.

Undeterred, Nagito tugs his scarf tighter around his face, until only the tip of his nose sticks out. If they won’t buy the fever, they’ll buy the plague. Cough once or twice, keep a suspicious distance, and insist on “not wanting to endanger” Hajime Hinata. It’s perfect. Selfless, even.

His gaze slips toward the notebook. He shouldn’t. He has an act to maintain, a performance of illness to rehearse.

Nagito sighs and flips it open. His eyes catch on the jagged verses he’s scrawled, bitter and sharp. He isn’t even sure when he’ll give this poem to Hajime. Maybe Hinata has already forgotten he asked for one. Maybe he never cared to begin with.

Nagito’s fingers curl tight around the spine, knuckles blanching. That familiar weight coils in his chest, crawling up his throat like dread.
Because Nagito Komaeda knows the problem isn’t seeing Hajime tonight.
The problem is imagining not seeing him at all.

Not that he could admit that.

A loud bang at his door jolts Nagito out of his thoughts. He startles like a guilty teenager, tossing his notebook onto the bed without care for where it lands. A poet caught red-handed, except the only audience is his door.

When he opens it, Fuyuhiko is already doubled over, laughing.
“Wow. I’ll give you that, Komaeda, you’re committed.” His grin looks half feral, half boyish. Nagito isn’t used to seeing it directed at him.

“I am sick,” Nagito insists. The words sound thin even to his own ears. Unfortunately, lies work less well when your eyes betray you – it’s difficult to feign death’s door when they keep crinkling with amusement at Fuyuhiko’s grin.

“Sure you are.” Fuyuhiko crosses his arms, the Kuzuryu authority sitting awkwardly beside his smirk. “Come on, dumbass. We’re leaving soon anyway.”

Nagito sighs, dragging himself out of the room like a martyr on the way to his execution. He locks the door behind him – because if he dies of “Ferris wheel exposure” tonight, someone will surely rifle through his things, and his notebook is far more dangerous than his corpse.

As they walk down toward the dorm entrance, Fuyuhiko shoots him a sidelong look. “So, what’s your excuse this time?” Amusement drips off his voice like he’s enjoying watching Nagito hang himself.

“I’m contagious,” Nagito replies gravely, furrowing his brows. “It’s not an excuse, it’s a public service.”

“Sure, sure.” Fuyuhiko rolls his eyes. “I’m sure Teruteru would make you a lovely soup. That’d really help your recovery.” He pauses, then cups his hands around his mouth. “HEY! TER—”

Nagito’s body moves before his brain catches up, instinct overriding dignity. He lunges, clamping a hand over Fuyuhiko’s mouth with the desperation of someone holding shut the lid of Pandora’s Box. Teruteru materialising from the shadows, ladle in hand and lecherous grin in tow, is not a fate Nagito wishes to risk.

Fuyuhiko bursts out laughing against his palm, muffled but relentless. Nagito pulls his hand away, scowling, though his chest feels suspiciously lighter than it has all morning.

An evening tethered to the mafia heir’s side is much preferable to orbiting within Hajime Hinata’s gravity.
At least with Fuyuhiko, he knows what kind of trouble he’s in.

The Winter Wonderland far exceeds even Nagito’s cynical expectations.

Bright, fluorescent lights flicker against the inky night, scattering across the fairground like constellations too artificial to guide sailors. A Ferris wheel looms, lit in soft pinks and blues; a skating rink glimmers, sharp as a mirror; food stalls smoke in the cold air; and of course, the usual gallery of rigged games leer at him with their stuffed hostages dangling just out of reach.

Nagito smirks faintly to himself. He can already predict the future: someone – probably Ibuki, maybe Sonia – will demand he try his luck for them. And, being the Ultimate Lucky Student, he’ll win. Not because of skill, not because of effort, but because fate has a way of letting Nagito bend probabilities.

So far, he has achieved the impossible: no contact with Hajime Hinata. He glimpsed him earlier, trailing toward a food stall with Akane and Nidai like a weary babysitter, and Nagito had promptly turned on his heel and went in the opposite direction. Victory is his. So far, he’s winning the game Hajime doesn’t even know exists.

“Man, it’s awesome,” Kazuichi breathes, eyes glazed with wonder at the glowing Ferris wheel.
“Indeed!” Sonia claps her hands, practically glowing herself. “We shall all have to go on it together.”

Nagito follows their gaze and allows himself a thin smile. It is pretty, yes. Even Fuyuhiko, still standing with his arms crossed, looks less like a sulking guard dog and more like a teenager out past curfew. How remarkable: even the stubborn are softened by fairy lights and commercialised holiday cheer. Christmas is the only mafia stronger than Kuzuryu’s.

“Ah! Hello, Komaeda.”

A block of ice drops down his spine.
No.

He hasn’t heard the footsteps. Hasn’t had time to hide behind Kazuichi’s ridiculous hair or throw himself theatrically into the skating rink. He hasn’t even had the decency of a small earthquake to save him. Fate, it seems, wants him here.

Nagito turns slowly, lazily pasting a smile on his face – too thin, too brittle, too obvious. His stomach tightens in recognition, like it has been waiting all evening for this ambush.

One–one, the voice in his head mocks, tallying a score he is destined to lose.

“Hello, Hinata-kun.”

Hajime’s smile stretches as he nods back at him, stepping forward.

Nagito wants to scream. Or run. Or conveniently trip into one of those flashing cotton-candy machines and disappear forever. Him greeting Hajime had been a simple courtesy. A hostage act performed because their classmates are here. not an open invitation for Hinata to walk closer.

Still, Nagito’s heels remain stubbornly glued to the ground. Cowardice dresses itself as courage sometimes, and his body, it seems, is very invested in humiliating him tonight.

“I thought I hadn’t seen you all night,” Hajime says, scratching the back of his neck.

Nagito forces his lips into a polite curve. “We have only been here for twenty minutes, Hinata-kun.” His eyes flick anywhere but Hajime’s face, silently begging the universe to keep Hajime from pointing out the obvious: that Nagito has been checking the time with the desperation of a condemned man watching the clock strike midnight.

“Well, yeah.” Hajime laughs lightly. “Still. Was wondering if you were gonna ditch.”

Oh, wasn’t I just? Nagito thinks, biting back the laugh that wants to claw its way up. He imagines telling him, yes, Hinata-kun, you’re the reason I memorised all the exit routes, but that would be far too honest.

Fuyuhiko, ever the saintly interrupter, snorts from beside him, apparently drawn into this cruel little theatre of theirs. Nagito could kiss him. If Hajime drags him into one more moment of one-on-one sincerity, he might actually combust.

“He’s ‘contagious,’ apparently,” Fuyuhiko says, shaking his head with a grin sharp enough to cut. “Didn’t seem very contagious when I tried to shout for Hanamura.”

The tips of Nagito’s ears burn pink, though thankfully the crisscrossing glow of carnival lights paint his face enough to blur the betrayal. Fate is mocking him again. Hajime’s gaze slides back toward him, and Nagito catches the exact second that a small, infuriatingly genuine smile curls Hajime’s mouth.

“Contagious, huh?” Hajime asks, voice carrying that irritating blend of amusement and curiosity. “Sounds like you’re trying to avoid someone.”

Nagito blinks. Once. Twice. His brain empties itself like a magician’s hat with no rabbit inside.
Hajime keeps smiling.

And if the world chooses that moment to end – meteors, earthquakes, divine punishment, anything – Nagito would gladly accept. Because at least then he won’t have to figure out why one smile from Hajime Hinata makes his stomach twist more violently than any disease he could fake.

Nagito forces a laugh, too brittle at the edges, flicking his hand dismissively as though Hajime’s words haven’t just lodged themselves like glass in his chest. “Well, I don’t think my luck would have let me have my way even if that was the case.”

“Yeah, maybe not.” Hajime shrugs, casual, unbothered, but the small smile stays. It clings stubbornly to his face, refusing to slip away, and Nagito hates how much he notices it. Hates more that he can’t stop looking at it. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

I’m. Glad. You’re. Here.

Nagito’s body betrays him in a thousand tiny ways. His eyes want to widen. His feet want to bolt. His skin prickles like it’s about to catch fire. And somewhere, deep in his ribcage, something fragile threatens to explode.

Glad he is here? Hajime Hinata? Is he concussed? Delirious? Is this some elaborate fever dream brought on by licking too many doorknobs in his youth?

Hajime is the entire reason Nagito nearly staged a convincing medical drama to avoid this night. And yet here he is – standing in the middle of gaudy Christmas lights – being told Hajime is glad he came.

Nagito pulls a wry smile onto his face like a badly tailored coat, one size too tight. The knot in his stomach pulls tighter and tighter. “Feeling’s mutual, Hinata-kun.”

The lie tastes sweet and bitter all at once.

Before Hajime can say anything else, Nagito’s survival instinct finally kicks in. He lets his gaze snag on the neon-pink display of cotton candy spinning behind Hajime, plastering on an expression of sudden fascination, and drifts toward it like it’s the most enthralling spectacle on earth.

Better to feign interest in overpriced sugar than let Hajime’s smile unravel him any further. He leaves Hajime behind in the great company of Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu – who, for once, looks almost friendly. Or at least friendlier than Nagito feels capable of being.

Nagito Komaeda cannot run away if he tries.
No amount of intense, academic staring at cotton candy will save him. No amount of strategically slipping away like a coward in the night will help either.

And Fuyuhiko – his supposed lifeline, his anchor of the evening – where is he? Right. Over at the basketball hoops, being… uncharacteristically kind. To Pekoyama of all people. Nagito has watched him awkwardly insist on helping her win some atrocious rabbit plush, and for once, he hasn’t looked like he’s about to knife the person he’s speaking to.

Nagito sets a mental timer of two minutes. Inevitably, Fuyuhiko’s patience will snap, he’ll start cursing at the rigged machine, and storm back over here to drag Nagito by the wrist into playing for him. That has been the rhythm of their night. He counted on it.

But the timer ticks down uselessly.
And that is when the voice arrives.

“Are you going to stare at that all night, or are you actually going to buy some?”

Hajime’s tone is light, teasing – too light. Like he’s figured out how to make friendliness sound casual instead of desperate. Something Nagito will never master. Something Nagito has no intention of mastering.

Nagito forces a thin smile, brittle enough to splinter at the edges. “I’m just looking.”
Hajime snickers. “You don’t even like sweet things.”

Nagito freezes. How–? Hajime remembered that? That half-forgotten, throwaway line he said once, when Hajime offered him kusamochi with that same careless generosity Hajime seems to wield everywhere? Nagito hadn’t thought the words were worth holding onto.

Hajime had anyway.

Nagito’s throat tightens. “…No, I don’t. I might try my luck with the salted popcorn.” He makes a clumsy attempt to pivot away, anywhere away, but Hajime steps closer.

The overhead lights catch in his eyes, making them look startlingly green. Nagito’s fingertips twitch uselessly inside his pocket. He blinks, and suddenly Hajime is too close.

Far too close.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something.” Hajime shifts awkwardly, rocking on his heels.

Nagito raises an eyebrow, instinctively stepping back to dull the effect of those bright, Christmas-green eyes. “Yes?”

“About the poem.”

Nagito’s chest clenches, sharp and fast, like someone has pulled a thread tied around his ribs. No. Hajime remembered. Worse – he cares enough to ask. He must be about to laugh, or tease, or tell Nagito not to bother after all. That would be logical. Sensible. A kindness, even.

“Am I going to get it soon?” Hajime asks. Polite. Careful. And if Nagito isn’t mistaken, tinged with something dangerously close to hope.

He chooses not to dwell on that. He chooses not to breathe.
“You can consider it a Christmas present,” Nagito finally says, words clipped, before his voice betrays him.

“Ah? So I’ll get it before Christmas?” Hajime’s brow quirks, his tone light but expectant.

Nagito winces inwardly. Four days left until the end of term. Four days to finish bleeding into a notebook and then hand the mess over, only to have it tossed into a fireplace as a substitute for kindling. His luck won’t allow anything else.

“Yes,” he says simply, deliberately unelaborate.

But Hajime’s smile softens anyway. Softer than it has any right to. And that is unbearable, because Nagito’s mouth keeps moving.

“I apologise it has taken so long. I suppose you are-” He stops himself. Dangerous territory. He can’t say Hajime is a difficult person to write about, not when that is exactly what he’s doing.

Plus, that would imply that he is writing about Hajime and not for him. Hajime doesn’t need to know the intricacies. Not before he receives the poem, anyway.

Hajime tilts his head, waiting.
“…You are not easy to write for,” Nagito finishes, flat.

Hajime chuckles, easy. “What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t often write for people. Possibly my first time. And I cannot disappoint you, Hinata-kun, can I?” The words fall from his mouth almost automatically, like he hasn’t meant to say them. He feels the corner of his lips curl into an actual smile as he does.

Hajime smiles back. For a terrifying second, Nagito thinks they might actually stay there, locked in some unbearable exchange of sincerity. Hajime’s mouth opens to reply.
And then Owari’s voice shatters it.

“HEY! YOU TWO! FERRIS WHEEL! NOW!”

Nagito almost thanks her out loud. Almost.

Sometimes, miracles truly do happen.

They are rare, dazzling phenomena. A once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. The kind of event that makes people believe in something greater than themselves. The kind of things that could change someone’s life if they let it.

Nagito Komaeda, unfortunately, does not experience miracles.

“Well, this is absolutely the foursome of my dreams!”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Third time this week. Third time consecutively. Hanamura has a remarkable talent for turning every sentence into something predatory, and Nagito has a remarkable talent for being within earshot of it.

And to think – just five minutes ago, he convinced himself he was going to get through this Ferris wheel ordeal unscathed. He had been so careful: blanking out the memory of Hajime’s smile, sliding in beside Kuzuryu and Souda, already calculating how best to endure whatever awkward conversation the ride might demand. Manageable. Bearable.

But then Souda spotted Sonia boarding with Gundham. And, because his radar for “hopeless and one-sided” is broken beyond repair, he leapt ship in a tragic display of chivalry. Straight into their carriage. A self-inflicted third wheel so blatant it could be a performance art piece.

Fine, Nagito thinks. Fuyuhiko is still beside him, tugging his sleeve in their unspoken pact of the night: any unbearable social interactions, find each other and suffer in solidarity. Perfect. Two people in a cart.

Except, of course, the festival worker decides their cart can’t possibly be wasted on just two passengers. Not when there’s a perfectly good queue waiting. No. Two isn’t enough. Four is so much better.

And who, exactly, is standing right behind them?

Hanamura.

And Hinata.

Naturally.

Nagito’s luck is not simply cruel. It is theatrical.

Now he’s wedged against Kuzuryu, shoulders pressed uncomfortably tight, Teruteru’s running commentary buzzing like a mosquito in his ear. And worst of all – every time he lifts his gaze, no matter where he tries to angle it, he lands squarely on Hajime’s eyes.

Hajime, who doesn’t look particularly thrilled either, though Nagito suspects that’s because of Teruteru sitting beside him. A small, venomous voice in his head points out that Hajime is probably relieved not to be alone with him, either.

A slightly larger voice whispers that his luck will decide to be efficient and kill all four of them in a freak Ferris wheel accident before the ride is over.

Honestly, that seems preferable.

Because as the carriage lifts slowly into the glittering night sky, Nagito’s chest tightens with that same suffocating awareness: no miracles here. Only inevitabilities.

Three-one, the voice in his head mocks again.

“Hanamura, shut the fuck up.” Fuyuhiko growls as the Ferris wheel lurches into motion.

“Oh, no, no, no, I simply cannot.” Teruteru spreads his arms like he’s delivering opera. “This is truly the stuff of dreams! Me, backed into a corner, surrounded by three delicious–”

“I’m going to drive my foot so far down your throat it’ll come out your ass.”

Teruteru practically squeals. “Aha! Kinky! I’ve never swallowed something so huge on a Ferris wheel before, but–”

“For the love of God.” Hajime cuts in, voice sharp as he shrinks back against the glass. “Please. Stop.”

Teruteru deflates in a sigh that’s far too dramatic to be sincere, but, for once, he shuts up.

The silence that follows is suffocating. Claustrophobic. Tense because Fuyuhiko’s anger radiates like a space heater. Tense because Teruteru is still thinking his filth even if he isn’t saying it out loud.

And tense because Nagito Komaeda is failing, rather spectacularly, at pretending Hajime isn’t sitting right there.

The wheel carries them higher, lights of the Winter Wonderland shrinking below into a jewelled blur. Nagito forces himself to glance outside. Bad decision. His skin prickles. His stomach drops.

He doesn’t like heights. No – he fears them in the way prey fears a predator. The way someone refuses to step near the edge of a cliff even when there’s a railing. His parents’ accident burned it into him. He hasn’t set foot on a plane since.

And now here he is, at a festival, locked inside a glass box crawling skyward. All because he hadn’t wanted Fuyuhiko to be stuck alone with Hanamura.

He deserves this. Obviously.

His hands dig into his thighs, fingers pressing hard enough that his knuckles turn white. He focuses on the pain, willing it to ground him. Focus. Don’t breathe too fast. Don’t look down. Don’t let anyone notice.

Fuyuhiko is still muttering under his breath. Teruteru is probably dreaming up the world’s worst innuendo. Good. Distractions.

But Hajime…

Nagito doesn’t even have to look to know. He can feel it. The steady, piercing weight of Hajime’s eyes. Not mocking. Not irritated. Concerned.

Of course. Because Nagito can’t even fall apart in peace without Hinata noticing.

Nagito clenches his jaw, willing his breath not to stutter. He wishes, more than anything, that he really were contagious. That Hajime would catch whatever poison clings to him and back away.

Instead, all Nagito can feel is that unrelenting stare.

The silence stretches, taut and unbearable.

Nagito’s skin is split between extremes – frozen beneath the surface, fevered to the touch. He keeps his gaze fixed to the floor, teeth clenched hard enough that the bile stays where it belongs. No one can see. No one can know.

“Hey, Komaeda?”

Not now Hajime. Not ever. Don’t speak to me at all.

He doesn’t look up. Can’t. The air in his chest comes thin and shallow. He thinks he’s about one more sharp intake of breath away from collapsing.

“Komaeda?” Hajime again, closer this time.

Neither Fuyuhiko nor Teruteru stirs – oblivious, wrapped in their own storms of temper and perversion. Only Hajime’s voice cuts through. Only Hajime’s attention, unwanted but immovable.

Then he feels contact.

A warm hand, sudden against the edge of his knee. Not gripping, not forceful. Just there. Anchoring.

Grounding and alarming in equal measure.

Nagito’s body jolts like he’s been struck. Every single one of his nerves scream to recoil, to fling himself backwards through the glass and plummet to blessed silence. But his eyes snap up instead, locking on green.

And just as quickly, Hajime’s hand is gone.

The absence burns worse than the touch. His knee still throbs, heat seared into it like a mark – like the brush of hands in the dorm doorway a week ago, an accident he’s thought about far too many times since.

“Can you smell that?” Hajime asks. His tone is even, almost casual, but the concern still threads through.

Nagito blinks, thrown. Smell? What kind of absurd question is that? Has Hajime finally gone mad enough to start talking nonsense?

But Hajime is watching him expectantly, so Nagito inhales. Shallow at first, then deeper. He smells Fuyuhiko’s sharp cologne. The faint metallic tang of snow in the air. The sterile scent of cold glass.

And Hajime. The faint, clean trace of his shampoo.

The thought should make Nagito recoil. It doesn’t.

“Can I smell what?” His voice scrapes out quieter than he means. Too intimate for this cramped box, far too intimate when two others sit only inches away. Teruteru hasn’t noticed – by some miracle – or the filth would already be pouring from his mouth.

“Just…smell for me.” Hajime leans back, gaze steady, giving him space.

So Nagito does. Breath by breath, slow and deliberate, each inhale stretching longer than the last. Somewhere between one and the next, he realizes the dizzy edge has dulled. The vice around his chest loosens. The air returns to him.

Hajime has stopped his panic attack.

Effortlessly. Quietly. Without demanding anything of him but to breathe.

And Nagito has no idea what to do with that.

Their carriage reaches the top of the Ferris wheel and halts, swaying faintly in the wind.

Nagito’s breath catches in his throat.

This is it. The inevitable. The universe finally cashing in on his wretched existence. He half-expects the entire frame to collapse in on itself, the metal shrieking as it tears free, their bodies tumbling from the sky in a tangle of glass and flesh. He can already see the headlines: Four dead in Winter Wonderland disaster. Hope’s Peak students among the victims. He can already imagine the irony, the poetic justice, his luck twisting to remind him that survival is never guaranteed.

He doesn’t have to look to know the others are bracing themselves too. Fuyuhiko is weirdly red, jaw clenched and hands gripping the seat until his knuckles match the snow outside. Teruteru, for once, has something closer to fear than lust flickering across his face. Hajime–

Nagito forces his eyes downward. Hajime is staring out the window, green gaze fixed on the glowing sprawl of lights below.

Nagito decides that Hajime’s averted eyes are a mercy. He can’t bear to meet them, not when his own are wide and white with panic.

Something in the structure creaks.

A single note of doom.

Nagito’s chest seizes. This is it. This is the drop. This is the punishment. He can already hear bones shattering, already see Hajime’s body broken in the snow, already feel the bitter hilarity of it – Nagito Komaeda, finally useful as a cautionary tale.

But then, impossibly, the wheel groans, and keeps moving.

The carriage lurches forward, the descent beginning.

Nagito exhales, dizzy with relief. For once, just this once, his luck decides not to be cruel. It reminds him, instead, of the single truth he can never hold onto for long: sometimes, not everything ends in disaster. Sometimes, survival itself is the miracle.

And Nagito, choking on the warmth in his chest, almost hates how grateful that makes him.

“Well, that was definitely my most… lacklustre foursome.” Teruteru is already grinning by the time their feet hit the ground, sleaze oozing like grease from a pan.

Nagito resists the urge to laugh – not because it’s funny, but because the word foursome is now seared into his brain as one of the last things he’ll ever hear if the Ferris wheel collapses after all.

“Can you stop calling it a fuckin’ foursome?” Fuyuhiko growls through his teeth, no longer bright red and now steady on his feet.

“Aha!” Teruteru beams, eyes flashing with mischief. “But you did offer to put something in my throat, Mr. Kuzuryu.”

“I will end your bloodline.” Fuyuhiko mutters, dead serious, already scanning for an escape. “I’m getting food.”

Nagito should feel comforted, anchored by Fuyuhiko’s dependable rage. But his chest is still burning, his pulse still racing. His lungs haven’t caught up with the fact that he survived. And Hajime–

Nagito doesn’t dare look.

“You coming?” Fuyuhiko asks, glancing at him with an eyebrow raised, tone sharp but not unkind.

Nagito blinks. Bright lights, swirling voices, laughter, and Hajime’s eyes. Hajime’s stupid green eyes that had looked at him with something dangerously close to care. He can’t shake the weight of that hand on his knee, the warmth that steadied him more than it had any right to.

His throat dries. His stomach drops. If he notices how much I’m shaking, if he asks again – if he dares to show me kindness in public–

Nagito pales. “I’ll– I’ll catch you in a second. Just need a drink.”

“Sure.” Fuyuhiko shrugs, but the look in his eyes lingers longer than the words. Concern, sharp and knowing. “Don’t run away. Five minutes, I’m dragging you back.”

Run away? If only it were that simple. Nagito feels Hajime’s gaze burning between his shoulder blades, searing through his coat, pinning him in place. He wants to melt into the snow, vanish into the crowd, never be seen again.

“Ah, don’t worry.” His voice comes out too bright, too light. He’s already turned, already stepping away, the performance of composure slipping as fast as his luck. “I won’t be long.”

He hears Fuyuhiko bark something about his drink better not be alcoholic, but the words dissolve into noise.

Because by then, Nagito Komaeda is already bolting. Away from Teruteru’s grin, away from Fuyuhiko’s stare, away from Hajime’s unbearable eyes.

And if he runs fast enough, maybe he can outrun the truth pressing in on him: that it wasn’t the Ferris wheel that almost killed him.

It was Hajime.

Nagito drags in a breath, slow and deliberate through his nose. Hold, release. Again. Pretend it works. Pretend he isn’t trembling like a child who just saw a ghost.

A panic attack. In public. On a Ferris wheel, of all places. And of course – of course – the only person to notice, the only person to reach out, had been Hajime Hinata.

The one person he’d spent the entire evening strategizing to avoid.

Nagito shuts his eyes, but that only makes it worse. Because behind his eyelids he doesn’t see darkness – he sees green. Wide, worried, unbearably human green.

He resists the sudden urge to slap himself across the face, right here in the middle of the festival. Maybe a little pain would knock Hajime out of the corners of his brain. His thoughts didn’t need tenants, least of all him.

Straightening his back, Nagito forces his posture into something resembling composure, turns on his heel, and walks. Every step is a performance: steady, casual, controlled. Every step is a lie.

Find Fuyuhiko. Anchor himself again. Reset the evening.

From this moment on, he decides, Hajime Hinata is nothing. A phantom. A shadow he’ll walk through as easily as mist. If Nagito tries hard enough – if he wills it, prays for it, begs his luck for it – then Hajime will vanish.

Just another ghost in a crowd of strangers.

“It was so lame! I felt like such a third wheel!” Kazuichi groans, arms folded like a sulking child.

Beside Nagito, Fuyuhiko snorts, tearing another bite of cotton candy. With his cheeks puffed full of spun sugar, he doesn’t look remotely intimidating. Nagito briefly considers that this might be the universe’s cruellest joke: Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu, heir to the yakuza, reduced to the image of someone’s baby brother being dragged along on a night out.

“Well, maybe you should’ve thought of that before ditching us,” Fuyuhiko shoots back through his mouthful.

“Dudes! I had to take my chance! This is Miss Sonia we’re talking about!”

“You left us with Teruteru.” Fuyuhiko scowls, sticky pink sugar clinging to his lip. “Pretty sure he popped a boner just from breathing the same air.”

Nagito almost smirks. Almost. He also doesn’t have the heart to tell Kazuichi that Sonia’s interest in him is about equal to a lion’s interest in a carrot.

“Yeah, well, at least he was probably better company than Gundham Tanaka.” Kazuichi spits the name like it poisons him, before launching into a breathless rant about how Sonia’s heart would surely be his if he could just win her a plushie.

Mid-rant, Fuyuhiko cuts his eyes toward Nagito with a look that says escape while you can. I’ll cover you.

Nagito catches it instantly. In five seconds, Kazuichi will remember that Nagito is unnaturally lucky and try to conscript him into Operation: Plushie.

He starts edging backward. Fuyuhiko’s mouth twitches into an almost smug grin around his cotton candy.

Sure enough, Kazuichi’s voice sharpens. “Hey, Komaeda–?!”

Nagito is already pivoting on his heel, heading for the skating rink. Kazuichi’s shout trails after him, but Nagito keeps walking, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Nagito stares up at the ice rink, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

Ibuki is dragging Mikan in uneven circles, practically skating for the both of them. Akane and Nekomaru look seconds away from breaking into a brawl on the ice, though they somehow move with an accidental elegance, like a fight choreographed into ballet. On the sidelines, Peko speaks quietly with Chiaki – but of course she’s angled perfectly, so she can keep Fuyuhiko in her line of sight.

Nagito almost laughs at the predictability of it all. Fuyuhiko, the poor soul, is enduring Kazuichi’s rant like a man locked in an endless hostage situation.

Nagito’s chest aches with jealousy. Everyone else seems to skate without fear, without the constant certainty that every step could splinter into disaster. That every touch might burn. That existing itself isn’t an imminent threat.

“Hey! Komaeda?”

The sound of his name. Hajime’s voice. His spine goes rigid; his lungs forget how to function.

No. Not him. Not now. The one person he’s been failing to avoid all night. Of course, his “blessed” luck makes Hajime appear again the second Nagito lets his guard down.

He doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to see those eyes that burn holes through him, eyes that linger too long, too gently.

Still, against his better judgment, Nagito tilts his head slightly. Hajime is beside him, breathless, cheeks tinged pink from either the cold or running – or maybe something else Nagito refuses to acknowledge.

“Hinata-kun.” His voice comes out steady, polite, as if Hajime hasn’t just kicked his pulse into chaos. He fixes his gaze on the rink again, as though staring hard enough might turn Hajime into a ghost.

“You… okay now?” Hajime’s voice is quiet, softer than it has any right to be.

Nagito’s chest squeezes painfully. His brain screams, begs, for something – an explosion, a fire, an act of God. Anything to break this unbearable closeness.

Nothing comes.

“Better now, yes,” Nagito replies, though his fingers twitch at his sides, betraying him. The words that follow catch in his throat before tumbling out, foreign and bitter-tasting. “…Thank you.”

Why did I thank him? Why would I ever thank him? He shouldn’t waste his time worrying about me. He should hate me. He should ignore me. Why doesn’t he?

“You don’t need to thank me,” Hajime says quickly, shifting a little closer. “Just checking on you.”

Nagito nearly laughs. Checking on me? Hajime always has this ridiculous compulsion to fix broken things, and Nagito is practically a landfill. The thought almost makes him grin. But the grin would’ve cracked, so he swallows it down.

“Why are you so breathless?” he asks instead, sharper than intended, the words his shield. “You sound like you ran a marathon. Honestly, Hinata-kun, you have the stamina of a cow.”

Yes, good. Tease him. Push him away. Don’t let him think he matters.

But Hajime only blinks, ears turning red. “I– uh. I was looking for you. When you ran off, I… got a bit worried.”

The words land like a knife in Nagito’s chest. His stomach twists. He wants to laugh, to scream, to shake Hajime until he realises how stupid it is to waste worry on him.

Why? Why me? You could worry about anyone else. Someone useful. Someone who isn’t poison.

“Well, still alive,” Nagito forces out with a brittle laugh. “That’s something.”

“Yeah.” Hajime’s eyes drift back to the rink. “Wanna skate?”

Nagito nearly combusts. “I would be a terrible partner.”

“Huh? Why?” Hajime blinks, genuinely baffled. “You look like you’d be graceful.”

Nagito almost chokes. Graceful? Me? What a horrible miscalculation, Hinata-kun. If you think I’m graceful, you should see what happens when my luck gets bored. We’d end up as tragic headlines before the night’s over.

“Well, Hinata-kun, looks are often deceiving.” Nagito’s lips press into a thin, dangerous smile. Yours certainly were, the day we met.

The day I didn’t see your blazer.

“You don’t know if you don’t try.”

“I can’t.” His voice is clipped, every muscle in his body tight as wire. He can feel Hajime’s eyes tracing his face, and it’s unbearable. “I’d only cause problems. You know how my luck works.”

“You can’t let your luck dictate fun,” Hajime replies, maddeningly optimistic. “Come on. Let’s do it.”

Let’s. Together. Hand in hand. Like some grotesque parody of normalcy.

“Hinata-kun, please–” The words crack. What he wants to say – what he should say – is I’m terrified for you. If I touch the ice, if I touch you, the world will punish you for it.

But Hajime’s voice cuts through. “Komaeda, come on. We can…help each other.”

Nagito freezes. He knows what that means. Helping each other means holding hands. Touching. Being seen. Hajime’s warmth pressed against his skin until it brands him.

He should say no. He wants to say no. Every rational part of him screams that he should run, hide, laugh in Hajime’s face.

And yet – despite everything – the words slip traitorously from his silence.

Nagito nods. Slowly.

And follows Hajime toward the shoe rack.

Nagito is, surprisingly, very graceful on the ice.

He moves cautiously, each push deliberate, as though skating too quickly will trigger a chain reaction that ends in fire, brimstone, and the obliteration of humanity. Still, he doesn’t fall. Not once. Luck, apparently, has chosen not to humiliate him tonight.

That alone is unusual. His luck rarely allows him to look competent.

Hajime, however, is another story.

He hasn’t…fallen. Not technically. But he hasn’t moved either. He’s glued to the railing, hands white-knuckled, his legs jerking beneath him like a newborn animal testing its legs for the first time. His face carries an expression Nagito has never seen before – genuine panic.

Well, Hinata-kun, you are definitely not the secret Ultimate Figureskater.

Nagito finds himself watching, a smirk tugging at his lips. So much for the “reliable protagonist” – Hajime Hinata, saviour of the Reserve Course, undone by frozen water. Perhaps Nagito should feel vindicated. This is, after all, the boy who dared to steady him only an hour ago. Now the tables have turned.

He could leave. Right now. Skim backwards across the ice, let luck carry him just far enough away to vanish into the crowd. Avoid Hajime, as he’d promised himself he would.

Yes. That would be the smart thing to do. The right thing.

And yet.

Something tightens in his stomach as he lingers on Hajime’s face. The wide eyes, the shallow breath. The same boy who pressed a steadying hand to Nagito’s knee as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

It feels cruel to abandon him.

Nagito sighs, the kind of sigh meant only for himself, and skates back. His arm lifts before he can stop it, hand outstretched, treacherous.

Hajime blinks at it, confused. “Huh?”

“Are you blind, Hinata-kun?” Nagito snaps, too harsh to disguise the nervous flutter in his chest. “I’m giving you my hand.”

“You said you were bad at this.”

Nagito smirks. “I lied.”

A half-lie, really. He isn’t good at this – he’s good at pretending his luck will hold long enough. He just doesn’t want Hajime to know how much of his balance, of his life, is borrowed from that fickle, cruel coin flip called luck.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Still, Hajime hesitates. His hand hovers just shy of Nagito’s, as though wary this is a trick. That stings more than Nagito wants to admit.

For one awful second, he considers withdrawing – shoving his hand back into his pocket and skating away before Hajime can leave him hanging. But then, slowly, Hajime reaches forward. His palm presses into Nagito’s, tentative, warm, too warm, and Nagito has to bite down on the laugh rising in his throat at the absurdity of it.

He pulls Hajime toward him gently, almost delicately. Too delicately.

“How are you…so good at this?” Hajime mutters, eyes darting down to their joined hands.

Luck, Hajime. Luck, the cruellest joke of all.

“Just…move your feet like this.” Nagito demonstrates, toes in, heels out, pushing smoothly. He isn’t even sure if he’s doing it right. But he hasn’t fallen, and gravity is one of the few things even his luck struggles to betray.

Hajime mirrors him clumsily, but the death grip on the railing loosens. He stands straighter. He’s learning.

“You know,” Nagito murmurs, the words slipping out like smoke, “you should hope my luck doesn’t decide to interfere.”

“Why?” Hajime asks, gaze flicking down again. This time, it lingers far too long on their hands.

“Because it will take both of us down with it.” Nagito forces a laugh, thin and sharp. “Let go of me while you can, Hinata-kun.”

He doesn’t want him to. He wants Hajime to hold tighter, absurdly, dangerously tighter.

“…I think I’ll take my chances,” Hajime says.

And maybe it’s just Nagito’s fevered imagination. But Hajime’s grip feels firmer, as though he’s staking a claim.

Nothing remarkable happened while they were skating.
Nothing worth mentioning.

Other than the fact that Hajime hadn’t let go of his hand once.

Even after his steps grew steadier. Even when he could’ve balanced without help. Even when every reasonable excuse to release Nagito’s hand had already passed him by.

He just kept holding on.

Nagito can’t understand it. He can’t understand why Hajime hadn’t let go, why Hajime hadn’t bolted the moment Nagito gave him the chance. Why Hajime, of all people, seemed intent on tethering him here tonight.

More unsettling still, he can’t understand himself. Why he wasn’t irritated. Why the weight of Hajime’s hand didn’t suffocate him but instead sat there, warm and present, like a stone in his chest.

It’s…nice. Unacceptably nice. To have a shadow following him that isn’t named luck.

But this shadow has a name, and it’s Hinata Hajime. That fact should have spoiled it entirely. Hajime is supposed to be worse than his luck. Infinitely worse.

So why isn’t he?

Why did it feel like the opposite?

Nagito’s thoughts loop uselessly, chasing themselves until he almost laughs. Maybe this was what “friendship” was supposed to look like – Hajime circling closer despite every warning sign, and Nagito failing, miserably, to repel him. That is the only explanation that fits.

The voice in his head has long since stopped keeping score. He knows that he’s lost the game. He has not managed to avoid Hajime tonight.

And the worst part – the most unforgivable part?

He isn’t sure he minded losing anymore.

Of course the night can’t end with just an outing. Not even on a Monday.

When everyone finally regroups, Kazuichi announces there will be an “after party” in the lounge.

Spectacular.

Nagito realises that even if he had managed to avoid Hajime tonight, he would have been forced to see him here anyway.

He also realises – uncomfortably – that he isn’t even avoiding Hajime out of dislike anymore.

The truth is far worse, though he can’t name it.

The group spills across the couches and chairs in the lounge. Koizumi and Saionji have already gone to bed, the latter loudly bemoaning her missed bedtime. Gundham has vanished to tend to his “sacred beasts,” and Nanami is asleep in her seat. Nothing unusual there.

Nagito slumps down next to Fuyuhiko, who for once looks less sour than usual.

“Well, we might not have ditched together. But tonight was… fun,” Fuyuhiko mutters, scratching at his wrist.

Nagito gives him a small smile, ignoring the faint burn on his own wrist where Hajime had touched him earlier. “Mm. It was good.”

“I’m never going on a Ferris wheel with Hanamura again.”

Nagito lets out a short, surprised laugh at that. He half expects Fuyuhiko to be keeping his distance from himtoo after he nearly caused the Ferris wheel to implode. But apparently, he isn’t lumped in with Teruteru’s blacklist.

Kazuichi crashes down opposite them, wedged between Sonia and Hajime, and thuds a box onto the coffee table.

“…The hell is that?” Fuyuhiko frowns.

“I need it,” Kazuichi says miserably, pulling out a can with theatrical despair. His eyes flick to Sonia like a wounded puppy.

“HEY!” Fuyuhiko barks. “The hell are you doing? Underage drinking’s not allowed!” He crosses his arms, all bark and bristle.

“It is fine, Kuzuryu,” Pekoyama interjects, though her eyes linger on the box with distaste. “They are safe in the lounge.”

Fuyuhiko’s ears burn red. But he doesn’t argue. “…Tch. Fine. But I’m not looking after any of you later.” His gaze snaps to Nagito. “Are you going to drink?”

Nagito drums his fingers against his thigh. “I’m not particularly fond of beer.”

His eyes slide – just for a moment – to Hajime. The boy is already tilting back his can, drinking as though the bitterness might wash something out of him. Nagito’s mouth tightens. Hajime always moves as if he’s chasing something. Tonight is no different.

“Yeah. Figures,” Fuyuhiko snorts. “At least you’ve got a better brain than these dumbasses.”

Nagito only smiles faintly, rising to his feet. “I’ll grab a Dr. Hopper. Want one?”

“Sure. Get Pekoyama one too,” Fuyuhiko adds quickly. “I don’t think she’s drinking.”

Nagito’s smile lingers as he turns away. Better to busy his hands with soda cans than let them dwell on the memory of warmth still ghosting his wrist.

Hajime Hinata is a bigger lightweight than Nagito has anticipated.

Not that Nagito has sat around pondering Hajime’s alcohol tolerance before tonight – but somehow, watching him teeter dangerously on his third can is still… disappointing. Reserve Course students aren’t good for much, but Nagito had assumed at the very least they could hold their liquor.

He isn’t sure how long he has been in the lounge. Time has blurred into the muted clatter of cans and the rise and fall of increasingly stupid laughter.

Nanami has shuffled off to bed without fanfare, Sonia has quietly excused herself after her first can, far too polite to admit she didn’t like the taste, though her tight smile says it all.

Akane and Nidai have grown bored of sitting still and vanished into the hall.

That leaves the stragglers: a half-asleep Kazuichi clinging to his drink like it’s life support, Teruteru nursing his own with the kind of leering self-satisfaction that makes Nagito’s skin crawl, and Hajime… laughing far too loud, cheeks red, trying to pretend he’s handling this better than he is.

On the other side of him, Fuyuhiko pinches the bridge of his nose like a man twice his age.

“You’re all a buncha dumbasses,” he mutters, rising to his feet. “I’m heading to bed. Drink yourselves into a hole for all I care.”

Nagito expects him to storm out without looking back, but as he passes, Fuyuhiko’s hand brushes Nagito’s shoulder in a brief, grounding squeeze.

“Goodnight, Komaeda.”

Nagito blinks, startled into silence. That is… new.

So he’s officially on Fuyuhiko’s good side now? Remarkable. Must be good luck. Which means something equally opposite, or much worse, to “gaining a friend” is on the way.

“Goodnight, Kuzuryu,” he answers, still processing.

Pekoyama lasts exactly five minutes longer before she too excuses herself, clearly unwilling to leave Fuyuhiko unsupervised even in sleep.

Nagito lingers, though he doesn’t know why. He has no interest in babysitting drunks, and yet something in him stalls. As if leaving too early would feel like surrender.

The only people left are Hajime, Kazuichi, and Hanamura – truly the holy trinity of people Nagito least wants to babysit.

Hajime is laughing again, leaning back on the couch, waving his can like a flag of victory. His words slur together into incoherence, but his smile…

Nagito looks away before he thinks too hard about it. Something about it knots his stomach.

Then Hajime lurches upright, swaying.

“I, uh… bed,” he announces.

Brilliant. Poetry in motion. Truly, the Ultimate Wordsmith.

“Huh?” Kazuichi cracks one eye open. “You can’t go to the Reserve Dorms in that state.”

“Why?” Hajime frowns, as if the concept of gravity has suddenly become negotiable.

“You might…” Kazuichi yawns mid-sentence, “…fall. Or something.”

Nagito almost claps. Such wisdom. Such foresight. Truly, he is surrounded by prodigies.

Hajime, apparently emboldened by this stellar advice, snorts and begins to turn toward the door, only to stumble on his own feet, catching himself with a graceless sway.

So much for “or something.”

Nagito sighs internally. He can already see where this is going, and he doesn’t like any of the options.

Hanamura catches his gaze across the room, and Nagito’s stomach twists tighter.

The realisation sinks heavy: if Hajime can’t walk home, then it falls on either him or Hanamura to deal with him.

Nagito would rather not step foot into the snowy dark with his luck balanced on a knife’s edge – least of all with Hajime Hinata staggering beside him. And the thought of leaving Hajime in Hanamura’s care is…

No. Absolutely not.

It isn’t that Hanamura would necessarily do anything – but Nagito isn’t willing to gamble Hajime’s safety on the word “probably.”

He shuts his eyes briefly, exhaling. He doesn’t have to do this. He could stay seated, sip his soda, and let fate chew Hajime up. That would be the sensible thing. The fair thing.

But instead, with a sigh, he pushes himself to his feet.

“Come on, Hinata-kun.”

Hajime blinks, swaying. “Where are w-we going?” He hiccups.

Nagito curves his lips into a thin smile. “We’re going to bed.”

Teruteru snorts, leering. “I must say, I am jealous of the both of you. Do I wish to be Hajime, or Komaeda?”

Nagito’s smile thins to a blade. “Goodnight, Hanamura.”

He doesn’t wait for Hajime to catch up. He turns on his heel and walks out of the lounge.

But he knows, without needing to look back, that Hajime will follow. He always does.

Nagito pushes his door open with far more effort than he’d ever admit.

Something about the prospect of Hajime Hinata in his room – in his bed – makes his chest tighten in a way he hates.

Two weeks ago, he didn’t even want to hear Hajime’s name spoken aloud. Two weeks ago, if anyone had suggested this outcome, he would have laughed in their face.

And yet here he is, about to share a bed with him.

Amazing. Utterly spectacular. Luck really is a comedian.

His gaze sweeps automatically over the room, checking for… what, exactly? Contraband? Hazards? Traces of himself?

That’s when he sees it: the notebook lying innocently on his bed.

Alarm jolts down his spine. A cold wave of panic. He snatches it up faster than he should, shoving it into his bedside drawer like it might burn him if Hajime’s eyes linger on it for even a second.

Too fast. Too obvious. But Hajime is too drunk to notice. Hopefully.

He should know better than to leave personal belongings lying around at all – any of his personal belongings – but never once did he imagine Hajime Hinata would be standing in this room tonight.

Hajime stumbles inside, half-heartedly tugging at his shoes.

“Where a-am I… sleeping?” he slurs around a yawn, eyes glazed and heavy.

Nagito stares at him, unblinking, for several long seconds. The floor is the obvious answer. The sensible answer. The correct answer. He even considers saying it, just to test how far luck will punish him for being rational.

Instead, what comes out is, “You get the right side of the bed.”

Quiet. Controlled. Like it isn’t already driving him insane.

He turns the lock on his door without ceremony. The last thing he needs is an early-morning audience for this absurd situation. Hanamura’s tongue wags enough without photographic evidence, and Kazuichi – hopefully – is too drunk to remember Hajime left at Nagito’s side.

He forces his voice into something dry, detached. “Would you like a pillow wall?”

It’s a reasonable offer. More reasonable than anything else about this night.

Hajime, naturally, ignores reason entirely. He launches himself face-first onto the mattress, immediately rearranging the pillows like a territorial cat. Nagito cringes internally at the disorder but keeps his expression level.

“No,” Hajime sighs, sinking into the bedding with something dangerously close to happiness. “I’m good here.”

Right.
Because “I’m good here” is an adequate answer to a yes-or-no question.

Nagito swallows against the tightness in his throat, pretending the sound is irritation rather than anything else.

He lies down slowly, as if testing the structural integrity of his own choices.

He hopes – fervently – that sleep will take him quickly.

Because if it doesn’t, he has no idea what else tonight might take.

Nagito has stared at the ceiling for twenty-five whole minutes.

He isn’t asleep yet.

And neither is Hajime.

Out of all the awkward situations in his pitifully short life, this has to take the prize. Lying in bed next to the one boy he swore he hated. Trapped in silence with his supposed nemesis. His greatest humiliation yet.

Nagito prays that if they stay still and quiet long enough, maybe they’ll both forget they’re beside each other at all.

Naturally, the universe denies him that luxury.

“Hey, Komaeda?”

Nagito resists the urge to roll over and punch him in the ribs. Hajime always has a question. Always. As if Nagito is the world’s most tedious crossword puzzle and Hinata is hell-bent on filling in every blank square.

“Hinata-kun,” Nagito says, voice clipped, a warning disguised as courtesy.

The warning goes ignored. Hajime’s voice is low, raspy. Tomorrow, he’ll pay for every can he’s swallowed with a pounding headache Nagito would have enjoyed watching from a safe distance.

“You’re a liar,” Hajime whispers.

Nagito freezes. His blood runs cold, every muscle wired tight. A liar? What? What has he lied about this time? He hasn’t even had the chance to. Unless Hajime truly cares about the cotton candy incident, which would be hilariously pathetic – and yet, somehow, perfectly in character.

Nagito tries to pretend he hasn’t heard. Ceiling. Focus on the ceiling. But then his eyes flick sideways, against his will. And there Hajime is.

Smiling.

Soft. Too soft. An expression Nagito doesn’t deserve to be near, let alone receive.

“…A liar?” Nagito repeats, and his voice – damn it all – comes out smaller than he intends.

“You told me Sonia had the best heating system in the dorms.” Hajime’s words slur at the edges, but his smile stays steady. “But when you brought me in that day, your room was way hotter.”

Oh.

That’s it? He’s been bracing for a guillotine, only for Hajime to present a thermostat complaint. Does Hinata seriously spend his spare time cataloguing radiator quality?

Still, his tone is too light. Too easy. He’s smiling at Nagito like they’re friends, and something about it tugs at a thread in Nagito’s chest he can’t quite ignore.

It drags the faintest smile from him – traitorous, small, but there. “I couldn’t expose myself, Hinata-kun. Then you’d have been in my room constantly. A man needs his privacy.”

Hajime laughs.

He actually buries his face into Nagito’s pillow and laughs.

And Nagito hates – absolutely hates – that he isn’t irritated by the sound.

Nagito will never admit how long it takes him to look away from Hajime’s face.

Seconds, minutes, lifetimes – all wasted staring at a boy who should mean nothing to him.

He tells himself it’s exhaustion. Sleep deprivation making his eyes lazy. He tells himself maybe he really is contagious, that his earlier lie has turned karmic, and illness makes it incredibly difficult to shift his gaze.

But when he finally wrenches his eyes back to the ceiling, his chest feels oddly hollow.

“Thank you,” Hajime whispers.

Nagito’s throat crackles when he swallows. “For what?”

“For helping me skate earlier.” Hajime shifts closer. Not much, just enough for Nagito to notice. Which of course means Nagito pretends not to. “I know you dislike me, but I’ve always wanted to skate and… yeah. Thanks.”

The air thins. There isn’t nearly enough oxygen in the room.

Hajime wanted to skate. And Nagito helped him. Hajime held on the entire time. Nagito should mock him for it – call it pitiful, call it clinging, call it weakness. That’s the script.

But his brain snags on a single phrase: I know you dislike me.

And the worst part? Hajime sounds like he believes it.

That’s the truth, isn’t it? Nagito doesn’t like Hajime – hasn’t, not since he found out about the Reserve Course. He doesn’t like how he can never avoid him, no matter how hard he tries. He doesn’t like the desperation in Hajime’s eyes, the way he hovers around Ultimates like a starving man outside a bakery window.

But maybe, maybe that’s because Nagito hates seeing himself reflected back. Because Hajime’s flaws are his own flaws, stripped of talent and prettied up with determination.

And hating “Hajime” means hating himself. Which, admittedly, is nothing new.

But disliking Hajime himself? That’s harder to pin down. That’s harder to cling to.

“I…” Nagito blinks up at the ceiling, forcing the words past his lips. “I don’t dislike you, Hinata-kun.”

Hajime mutters something under his breath. Soft. Too soft. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Nagito feels something pinch deep in his ribcage, sharp and unpleasant. Hajime sounds sad.

Why does it bother him so much that Hajime sounds sad?

“I don’t,” Nagito presses, quieter still. “I’m… a difficult person to get on with. That is not your fault.”

Silence.

“Do you think we would’ve been friends if I wasn’t on the Reserve Course?”

Nagito almost begs for lightning to strike him. How is he supposed to answer that?

No, because that would be cruel.
Yes, because that would be crueller.

It’s a trap either way.

And he finds, to his own disgust, that cruelty comes harder with Hajime these days.

The boy beside him sounds tentative. Almost frightened of the question he’s asked. Like it’s been smuggled out only because alcohol has weakened the locks.

“I…” Nagito starts, then shuts his mouth. He can’t look. Can’t risk those green eyes staring back and dismantling him piece by piece.

So he goes with the half-truth. The coward’s answer.

“The Reserve Course doesn’t define you, Hinata-kun.”

Not an answer. Hajime will know that. But Hajime, mercifully, is too drunk to push.

Nagito’s palms sweat. His chest tightens. If Hajime won’t press, maybe he can offer… something. Something small. Something Hajime won’t remember tomorrow.

“I think I judged you too harshly,” he admits, fists shaking where Hajime can’t see. “Perhaps we will be friends eventually.”

“You think?” Hajime’s words slur, softened by a yawn.

“I don’t know. I think my luck would curse you.” Nagito forces a bitter laugh. It sounds uglier than he means it to.

But Hajime only sighs, sinking deeper into the pillow. “I told you earlier,” he murmurs, voice fading. “I think I’ll take my chances.”

Nagito’s lungs seize.

His whole body goes stiff, like someone has carved the words into him with a knife and left him bleeding out silently on the sheets.

Take his chances? With me?

Hajime’s breathing steadies, indicating he’s close to sleep, utterly unaware of the devastation he’s left in his wake.

Nagito stares at the ceiling again, but the hollow in his chest is gone.

In its place is something heavier. Denser.

Something dangerous.

But sleep doesn’t find Hajime just yet.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, voice heavy with exhaustion.

Nagito’s gut clenches. No. He doesn’t want to hear it. Hasn’t Hajime said enough already tonight? His chest can’t take more prodding, more words that feel like kindness but land like bullets.

Still, his eyes flick over to Hajime, who is far too close, far too comfortable in his bed.

Nagito’s nod is slow. Reluctant. A doomed man stepping forward for his execution.

“I think,” Hajime begins, stifling another yawn, “I think you have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen before.”

Nagito blinks rapidly.

What?

Now Hajime is… complimenting him? Him?

His hands tremble against the sheets, traitorous. Why aren’t they curling into fists? Why aren’t they clawing at his skin until the compliment feels properly defiled?

Why isn’t he disgusted?

Why isn’t he fighting back?

Why is he just lying here – silent, undone – while Hajime Hinata spins the cruellest fantasy of all?

“…Thank you, Hinata-kun.” The words come out brittle, like glass cracking in his throat.

Hajime laughs again, softer this time. “You don’t need to thank me for being honest, Nagito.”

Nagito.

Not Komaeda. Not the distant, formal last name. His given name, wrapped in Hajime’s voice.

Something inside Nagito snaps clean in half. He knows – knows – Hajime has never called him that before. Because he would have remembered. He would have carved it into his bones, burned it into his skin, built entire shrines in his ribcage around the sound.

Then Hajime shifts closer. Closer still.

And before Nagito can move, before he can even think, Hajime’s lips brush his temple. A kiss – soft, delicate, devastating.

“Sleep well, Nagito,” Hajime whispers, as if it’s nothing.

Nagito freezes.

Hajime has kissed him. Kissed his skin. Touched him in ways Hajime shouldn’t. In ways Hajime isn’t allowed to. He’s complimented him. Called him by name. Torn through every barrier Nagito has spent years constructing.

“Goodnight,” Nagito whispers back, voice hollow, knowing Hajime has already slipped beneath the tide of sleep.

Nagito won’t sleep tonight. He knows it. The pressure builds behind his eyes, sharp, unbearable.

This. This is why he’s spent the whole evening trying to avoid Hajime.

Not because he dislikes him.

No.

Because his luck is the cruellest joke of all.

It will let him believe, for a fleeting, impossible moment, that Hajime Hinata could want him.

Nagito blinks awake far too early for his liking.

It doesn’t matter. Nobody will be attending class today anyway.

The sun hasn’t even risen yet, which means he’s had perhaps four hours of sleep at most. A pitiful amount for most people. For him, it’s a blessing.

Because Hajime is still beside him.

And Hajime has complimented him. And Hajime has kissed him on the temple.

And Nagito can no longer pretend to dislike him.

Even if Hajime never remembers the words he whispered, or the way his lips pressed against Nagito’s skin, Nagito will. Nagito will remember.

Something as tender as that isn’t the kind of thing his brain will ever let him forget.

Which means, now more than ever, he has to avoid Hajime. Because looking into those green eyes after last night is a spell for disaster. Being around Hajime means the risk of more… developments.

Hajime doesn’t have to remember. He can go about his day, unburdened, unaware.

But Nagito – Nagito is condemned to carry it. And though a small, desperate piece of him hopes Hajime will remember, that’s the worst part. Hope is always the sharpest blade.

Luck is cruel like that. Nagito Komaeda is not allowed to receive kindness unless it’s barbed and jagged, wrapped in enough pain to cut him open from the inside. That’s how his luck works.

No, he has to avoid Hajime.

Not out of dislike. Not anymore.

But out of protection.

His eyes flick over to Hajime despite himself. Hajime is still buried in the pillow, face serene, lips parted slightly as he breathes. Yet even in sleep, his brows draw together in a faint crease, as if Hajime’s natural state is quiet frustration with the world.

Nagito’s lips twitch upwards against his will. The ghost of a smile he quickly smothers.

Why is he watching Hajime sleep? That’s Hanamura’s territory. He isn’t that kind of creep.

With an exhale, Nagito tears his gaze away, fumbling for the drawer of his bedside table. The notebook sits there like a sin waiting to be confessed. He cracks it open, pen trembling in his hand. His eyes betray him again, sliding back towards Hajime as the words spill out.

“I still trip over my heart when you speak,
Clumsy, foolish, unworthy.
Yet you drag me closer no matter how I resist;
Your voice feels like gravity.”

He reads it once. Twice. Three times. The words don’t get any less damning.

Snapping the notebook shut, he shoves it back into the drawer like burying evidence of a crime.

And with a sigh, Nagito leans back onto his pillow, forcing his body into stillness, pretending to be asleep again.

As if pretending hard enough might undo the fact that Hajime Hinata has kissed him at all.

Nagito hears the soft groan beside him and his eyes instantly snap open.

No. Too soon. He isn’t ready.

His gaze locks on the ceiling, rigid, as though if he keeps still enough the world itself might overlook him. He does not need to see Hajime waking up. Does not need to confirm whether it matches the dozens of visions his treacherous mind conjured overnight. Does not need that image seared into memory alongside all the other things he can never have.

“Hm.” Hajime’s voice is rougher now, sleep still dripping from its edges. Nagito’s resolve cracks just enough for a glance: Hajime, rubbing at the side of his head, hair mussed beyond repair. “…Morning, Komaeda.”

Nagito’s chest pinches, sharp and precise. Back to Komaeda. Not Nagito. The warmth of last night’s syllables already scrubbed away.

He forces his lips into something neutral. “Good morning, Hinata-kun.” He blinks once, twice, feigning the sluggishness of someone only just stirred, instead of someone who has been lying awake for hours cataloguing every breath beside him.

“Shit, uh, what time is it?” Hajime yawns, dragging his palms over his eyes and then burying himself further into the pillow, as though he could crawl back into unconsciousness.

Nagito checks his phone and grimaces. “Ten A.M.”

He grimaces harder at the thought behind it. Four hours pretending to sleep. Four hours watching shadows creep across the ceiling just so I wouldn’t risk watching him instead.

“Fuck. I’m late for class.” Hajime groans, muffled by cotton.

“I wouldn’t bother.” Nagito’s voice holds a thread of amusement. “Nobody from our class will be there.” A pause. Calculated. Careful. “Except maybe Kuzuryu.”

Hajime gives a short laugh, quiet but genuine. “He’s a stickler for the rules.” Then his expression shifts, soft confusion etching into his features. “But I’m not in your class.”

Two weeks ago, Nagito would have sharpened the knife without hesitation, reminded Hajime of his Reserve Course status with a smile too thin to be kind. The words would have rolled off his tongue smooth and effortless, because cruelty came easy when wrapped in truth.

But now, after last night, his throat refuses. The familiar script dissolves, leaving only silence and an ache. His own luck betrays him, supplying nothing snide, nothing bitter.

“You may as well be,” Nagito says instead, softer than intended.

Hajime blinks, clearly surprised. For a moment Nagito thinks he’s said the wrong thing, but then Hajime’s lips tug into the faintest smile. Small. Uncertain. Quickly hidden by sinking deeper into the pillow as though embarrassed to show it.

Nagito pretends not to notice. Pretends not to care. Pretends not to feel the dangerous warmth curling low in his chest.

Nagito Komaeda is good at pretending.

It’s survival, after all.

But God, it has never felt harder.

A brand-new timer has started ticking in Nagito’s head.

Three days.

He has three days until the term ends.

Three days until Hajime inevitably asks about the poem again. Three days until Nagito has to hand it over, a fragile piece of himself disguised in ink. Three days until the world splits open under the weight of his mistake.

Nagito is fairly certain the minute Hajime reads it, the universe will combust, every star collapsing in on itself until all that remains is proof that Nagito Komaeda has dared to want something.

Still, some traitorous part of him doesn’t want to disappoint Hajime.

He should. He should disappoint him. He should keep his distance, let Hajime drift away before Nagito’s curse claws at him too.

But that part of him – the one that leans towards Hajime like a plant to sunlight – keeps tugging him forward.

Hajime had left at lunch, slipping away before anyone could comment on how he’d ended up in Nagito’s room the night before. A small mercy.

Nagito slumps on the couch in the lounge, expecting the worst company fate could throw at him. Hanamura with his lewd insinuations. Souda whining about Sonia, Gundham, life, the universe.

He does hope for Fuyuhiko, an odd ally he’s made, but Pekoyama has already informed Nagito that Fuyuhiko has somehow dragged himself to class, and that, in the yakuza’s words, Nagito “better get his arse there soon.”

Nagito does not get his arse to class.

Fuyuhiko will understand. Hopefully.

Instead, he finds Sonia Nevermind and Ibuki Mioda, chatting over half-finished lunch. Not the company he’d usually choose, but at least the girls are tolerable. Safer.

“Good afternoon, Komaeda!” Sonia greets brightly, setting down her glass.

“Hello, Sonia-san,” Nagito returns with a smile too practised to be real.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks, gaze earnest as ever.

Nagito hesitates. “It was… decent.” If four hours of staring at the ceiling and memorising the sound of Hajime’s breathing can be called that.

“Ibuki slept SOOOO well!” Ibuki announces, throwing her arms up like she’s declaring victory.

Nagito nods politely, unwilling to match her energy.

“I must admit,” Sonia adds thoughtfully, “the beer that Souda-kun procured last night was… disappointing. Perhaps my palate is unused to such beverages. In Novoselic, beer is not commonly consumed.”

Nagito chuckles faintly. “Don’t be fooled, Sonia-san. Souda rarely buys things suitable for anyone else’s taste.”

Sonia blinks in surprise, then stifles a giggle behind her hand. “My, Komaeda-san. What a sharp tongue.”

“AHA!” Ibuki suddenly shoots forward, bulldozing the careful conversation, finger aimed like an accusation. Nagito stiffens. “I saw you yesterday, Komaeda!”

He schools his face into calmness, ignoring the prickling beginning to sharpen beneath his skin. “…Did you.”

“You were skating~!” Ibuki sings, leaning closer, eyes narrowing as though to pry secrets out of him. “With Hajime-chan!”

Nagito’s throat clicks around the swallow. “Yes. He had the balance of a newborn mule.” He brushes the comment off, ignoring the warmth crawling up his neck.

Ibuki hums suspiciously, still squinting. “Hmmmmm. And here Ibuki thought you two weren’t friends.”

“We’re not,” Nagito says too quickly. Too sharp.

Not friends.

Not enemies anymore, either.

Just something else. Something worse. Something fragile.

The timer in his mind ticks louder.

Three days.

Three days until collapse.

Nagito thuds into his seat, forehead pressed against the cool surface of the desk.

Two days.

Two whole days.

Forty-eight hours until disaster.

“Hey, bastard,” Fuyuhiko hisses from the desk beside him. “You were supposed to show up yesterday.”

“Was I?” Nagito murmurs without lifting his head, silently begging Fuyuhiko to abort this attempted conversation.

“Yes, you were,” Fuyuhiko shoots back, voice sharp as a blade. Nagito can practically feel the kid’s arms crossing, scowl carved into place. “The hell’s wrong with you anyway?”

“Tired,” Nagito mutters into the desk.

“Mm.” Fuyuhiko’s unimpressed grunt says it all. “Well, tough. Look alive.”

Nagito wishes he wouldn’t. Wishes lightning would strike the classroom, or the floor would crack open and swallow him whole. Anything to avoid being here, with his lungs tight and the countdown ticking in his ears.

“Man, I can’t wait to go home,” Souda groans from a desk up front, chair leaning so far back Nagito wonders if his luck might finally intervene and send him toppling.

“Second that,” Akane mutters, half-asleep on her arms.

A sudden weight presses down on Nagito’s shoulder. His head snaps up, pulse spiking.

Only to find Sonia standing beside him, her smile a little startled.

“My apologies, Komaeda,” she says gently, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you… well?”

Nagito finds it so much harder to lie to Sonia than to Fuyuhiko. Her gaze is steady, cutting straight through the cracks in his mask.

“Fine, Sonia-san. Just tired.”

“Are you certain?” she presses, brow furrowing with concern. “You look a little… under the snow?”

“…Under the snow?” Nagito repeats, blinking at her, eyebrows pinching in slight confusion.

“Yes!” Sonia brightens, clearly pleased that Nagito is giving more than one word replies now. “When you are not feeling your best.”

Nagito’s lips twitch into a weary smile. Under the weather. He doesn’t bother correcting her. Kazuichi would probably shout at him if he tried.

“Well, if I’m lucky,” he says, voice light as air, “I’ll be under a mound of snow before the week ends.”

Sonia laughs softly, relief smoothing her features as though he’s said something charming instead of grotesque. “You are back to yourself again, Komaeda.”

Nagito smiles back at her.

It doesn’t reach his eyes.

Nagito stares down at the poem, fingers curled into tight fists as the sunset bleeds into inky black beyond his window.

“I used to think your gaze was a knife,
Sharp enough to cut through my rotten luck,
A reminder that even I could bleed
From something as simple as your distrust.
But somewhere between our bitter words,
The silence began to change.
Like glass turning to sea-glow,
Like hatred losing its age.
I still trip over my heart when you speak,
Clumsy, foolish, unworthy.
Yet you drag me closer no matter how I resist;
Your voice feels like gravity.”

It wasn’t finished. Not yet.
It also felt far too intimate, far too dangerous, to give to Hajime.

The very idea of giving Hajime something – something that wasn’t barbed, wasn’t mocking, wasn’t twisted – still feels foreign. He doesn’t like Hajime. Of course he doesn’t.

…Except he does.

Somehow. Somewhere between today and two weeks ago, Nagito’s dislike to the reserve course student had all but crumbled. Maybe he’d never disliked Hajime. Maybe it was just easier to convince himself he had.

Nagito sighs, tearing his gaze away from the paper before his fingers betray him yet again and write another stanza. He leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if it will provide some neutral ground.

For once, he lets his thoughts spiral unchecked. For once, he lets the memory win.

~~

It was early June, first year at Hope’s Peak. The day the heavens decided to split open, unleashing the kind of torrential downpour that felt less like weather and more like a personal vendetta.

Luckily, Nagito always carried an umbrella. He’d learned long ago never to trust forecasts; his luck had a habit of denying physics its basic rights.

He had barely taken five steps out of the Main Course building when he noticed him: dark, spiky hair plastered to his forehead, white shirt clinging to his chest in a way that screamed tragic weather commercial.

Nagito had approached without hesitation.

“You know,” he’d smirked, tilting his umbrella just enough to cover them both, “you should really carry one of these.”

Startled green eyes blinked up at him. “I–”

“Don’t worry,” Nagito cut in, words smooth, easy. “We can share. You’re heading to the Main Course dorms, right?”

“Y-yeah.”

And so they walked. Small talk, clumsy but genuine. Hope’s Peak. Classes. Nagito explaining how it was terrible luck to be caught in such a downpour in summer, but brilliant luck that it had brought them together.

When they reached the dorms, Nagito stopped, smiling softly. “Ah, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Uh– Hinata. Hajime Hinata.” The boy’s cheeks had flushed pink, whether from rain or embarrassment Nagito couldn’t tell.

“Hinata?” Nagito repeated, furrowing his brow. “Forgive me, I feel I’ve heard that before. I’m Nagito Komaeda–”

He almost extended his hand. Almost. But the name twisted, ugly, in his mind. Hajime Hinata. Nanami’s friend. From the Reserve Course.

Nagito’s gaze swept him quickly, hunting for proof. No blazer. That told him enough.

“You’re from the Reserve Course, aren’t you, Hinata?” His tone slipped, the contempt slicing through before he could catch it.

The boy paled. “…Yeah.”

He almost sounded ashamed. Almost.

Nagito’s soft smile had twisted into something crueller, an ugly sneer masking the sharp pang in his chest. “Figures. Guess the rain was the good luck after all.”

He didn’t bother to say the rest. That meeting Hajime was the bad. He didn’t have the courage to admit it was a lie anyway.

From then on, Nagito hadn’t been kind to Hajime. Not really.

~~

Nagito blinks at the ceiling, chest heavy. Maybe Hajime had been right all along.

Maybe if he hadn’t been in the Reserve Course, they could’ve been friends.

Or maybe, if Nagito liked himself even a little, it wouldn’t have mattered where Hajime came from.

He swallows thickly, eyes tracing meaningless patterns in the plaster. Because he had liked what he saw that day. Before the truth slipped out. And perhaps, deep down, that first impression had never really gone away.

But that is exactly why he needs distance. Why he can’t let himself hand over poems and smiles and hope. Because Nagito Komaeda isn’t capable of liking, let alone loving someone, without dragging them into disaster.

And Hajime Hinata – reserve course student, or not – didn’t deserve to be ruined by him.

Nagito hasn’t been listening.

It’s Thursday afternoon, and all he can think about is that he has one day left. One day to finish the poem. One day before he accidentally ruins Hajime Hinata’s life with the power of badly arranged metaphors.

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to make himself sound like a “good writer,” whatever that even means. If that’s even the point anymore.

The loud slam of a tray hitting the table snaps him out of his thoughts.

Akane has arrived. With food. Enough food, in fact, that Nagito briefly wonders if the cafeteria staff have mistaken her for an invading army.

“You could feed an entire family with that plate,” Fuyuhiko grimaces from beside him.

“You’re the reason they’re starving, Yakuza.” Akane smirks, and Fuyuhiko rolls his eyes. For someone with a permanent scowl, he takes her jabs surprisingly well.

Nagito almost smiles. Almost.

“So, like, is everyone packed?” Kazuichi asks through a mouthful of apple.

Across the table, Nanami yawns – something Nagito translates as either “yes,” “no,” or “I stopped listening ten minutes ago.” Teruteru gives a thumbs-up that Nagito immediately wishes he hadn’t looked at too closely. And Nidai… makes a noise. Loud. Motivational, probably. It sounds like agreement, or possibly like a bear falling down a staircase.

“I have,” Fuyuhiko says, arms folded. “Can’t say the same about Natsumi. She’s gonna hold us up.”

“The joys of having siblings,” Akane smirks through a mouthful of rice, her words muffled but clear enough.

“What about you, Hajime?” Kazuichi asks suddenly.

Nagito freezes. Of course. Hajime. He’s here too. Sitting there with that same half-asleep, disinterested look that manages to make Nagito’s chest ache and stomach twist at the same time.

Sitting in the main course cafeteria. Not that Nagito even cares about that anymore.

Yes. Hajime is here. And Nagito is trying very hard to pretend he isn’t. To pretend they hadn’t shared a bed three nights ago. To pretend Hajime isn’t in the corner of his eye, or the back of his mind, or lodged somewhere inconvenient in his chest.

Hajime will thank him for it one day. For being ignored. For being invisible. For being spared.

“I mean, mostly,” Hajime shrugs, voice low, unbothered. “Still got a few things to do. Might finish them tomorrow after class.”

Nagito lets out a slow breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Even Hajime’s shrugs have the power to undo him. Pathetic.

“Better than me,” Kazuichi groans. “I’m just gonna shove all my shit into a bag tomorrow morning so I can leave right away.”

Nagito watches the conversation play out, quietly. Thoughtfully.

He’s already packed. Of course he has. Not because he’s excited to go home like the others, but because he isn’t. He never quite sees the rush.

It’s not like anyone is waiting for him.

He’ll arrive at his multi-million-yen penthouse (alone). He’ll unpack his luggage (alone). He’ll look down at the people bustling in the streets below (alone), flick through TV channels (alone), maybe glance at pictures of his dead dog and frown for a while (alone), and repeat this every day until classes resume.

The point is: alone. At Christmas, in summer, in every in-between. Alone has become its own routine.

And it’s safer that way. Always safer.

Of course, if anyone asks, he’ll lie. Something glamorous, something untraceable. “Oh, I’ll be on holiday in the Caribbean,” he’ll say lightly, with a smile that makes it sound like a joke even if it isn’t.

That way, no one will ask why he hasn’t messaged them back.

No one will notice the silence.

No one will notice him.

Ten minutes of lunch remain.

Ten minutes until Nagito walks himself back to class, probably with Fuyuhiko scowling beside him because apparently that’s his life now – a duo, as Kazuichi has pointed out with thinly veiled jealousy. (Nagito still isn’t sure if that’s because Fuyuhiko has chosen him, or because Kazuichi wants to be chosen himself.)

Ten minutes until Hajime disappears for the day, and Nagito can stop pretending he isn’t staring at him in his peripheral vision.

Ten minutes.

He can stay invisible for ten minutes. Surely.

“Komaeda, sweetie, what are your Christmas plans?”

Nagito tenses. Of course. Of course it would be Teruteru. Who else would pull him into the spotlight with a pet name that sounds less like affection and more like the opening act of a humiliation ritual?

And of course, now everyone is looking at him.

“Ah, I don’t know yet.” Nagito forces his lazy smile into place and tilts his head towards Teruteru. “I may go on holiday.”

“Ooooh, fancy!” Teruteru claps his hands together, leaning so far over the table Nagito half-expects him to slide into his lap. “Where? Who with?”

Nagito’s smile tightens. He isn’t sure when answering a simple question turned into a courtroom cross-examination.

He lets the silence drag, as if building suspense. Really, he’s just deciding which lie will sound most believable.

“The Bahamas, this time.” He finally settles on it like someone choosing a dinner option they aren’t particularly hungry for. “But I’d need to check – I haven’t finalised the booking yet.”

Kazuichi’s jaw nearly dislocates from the speed it drops. “Dude, I forget how rich you are sometimes.”

“Mm.” Nagito shrugs, lazy as ever. “Money doesn’t buy everything.”

Certainly not relationships. Or companionship. Or happiness. Or the ability to look Hajime Hinata in the eye without his stomach folding in on itself.

“But, like–” Kazuichi leans across the table, practically vibrating. “You literally just said you haven’t finalised the booking. So you’re telling me you just… have that kind of money sitting around? To blow on, like, sand and coconuts?”

“Well, it would only go to waste otherwise.” Nagito smiles faintly. He hates the way the air shifts after he speaks, the way everyone looks at him as though he’s started reciting in binary.

Thankfully, Teruteru spares him from a second round of “who with.” A small mercy, but Nagito isn’t picky about those.

He sags back into his chair, relieved as the table chatter moves on without him.

“Bring me with you,” Fuyuhiko mutters, voice low enough for just Nagito to hear. “Better than being stuck with a load of batshit morons for weeks.”

Nagito actually snorts, a sound startlingly close to fond. “You should be used to that by now.” He gestures vaguely at the table.

Fuyuhiko chuckles and bumps his elbow against Nagito’s arm.

But mid-gesture, Nagito’s hand freezes. Only for a second. Long enough that he has to manually drop it again.

Because Hajime is looking at him.

Not in awe of his wealth, or curious about exotic travel plans, or any of the shallow things the others see. No, Hajime’s eyes have that same furrow – that quiet, infuriating question mark – aimed directly at him.

Hajime doesn’t believe him.

He doesn’t believe in the Bahamas, or the luxury villa, or the fake itinerary Nagito has conjured out of desperation.

He sees through it. Through him.

And they both know it.

Nagito isn’t sure when Hajime decided it was his divine right to see through Nagito’s incredible, flawless storytelling abilities. Really, he should be honoured. Not everyone gets front-row tickets to the grand production of Komaeda Lies Through His Teeth: A Tragedy in Fourteen Acts. Very few stay to reach the finale where the Grand Exposure of Deception takes place.

He isn’t sure when Hajime decided to become so invested at all. Surely, it wasn’t three weeks ago, when Nagito vowed – like a man under oath – that he would avoid Hajime Hinata at all costs. (More than usual, that is. Which is saying something, because “usual” already involves evasive manoeuvres worthy of military training.)

It can’t have happened during those three weeks either. Nagito was very committed to his mission: keep his distance, keep his head down, and definitely do not think about that moment Hajime leaned in too close and left something burning on his temple.

(He failed. He failed catastrophically. He deserves an award for failure, really.)

The dread in his stomach twists like a knife.

Yes, Hajime has always been inquisitive. Nagito finds it irritating, like a cat pawing at a closed door. But Hajime has never been particularly inquisitive about Nagito himself.

At first, Hajime tried. Nagito was sharp, prickly, impossible. Hajime pushed, poked, attempted to peel him open. Nagito, in turn, shoved back so hard he might as well have spray-painted “KEEP OUT” across his forehead.

And that was their dynamic.

Hajime leans too close, and Nagito throws himself over the ledge.

Simple. Uncomplicated. Manageable.

But now? Hajime seems dissatisfied with that system. Any time Nagito leans too close to the ledge, Hajime reaches out, grabbing him by the jacket fibres like an overzealous lifeguard, and refuses to let him fall.

And Nagito doesn’t like it.

He doesn’t like that Hajime is successful.
Doesn’t like that he’s letting Hajime have that power.
Doesn’t like that his brain has turned into a twenty-four-hour Hinata Broadcasting Station, all Hajime, all the time.
Doesn’t like that Hajime is suddenly everywhere, lingering in his peripheral vision, in his head, in the phantom memory of lips brushing his temple.

And perhaps that’s why it stings the most.

Because for one absurd second, his luck convinced him that Hajime wanted him. That the kiss meant something.

But if Hajime remembers, he doesn’t seem particularly keen to rectify his “mistake.”

Which means it wasn’t a mistake at all. Or Nagito is, once again, the punchline.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even like Hajime, let alone like that. It’s simply his brain reacting to being kissed for the first time in his entire life. That is all. It is quite a shame that the person the lips belong to is none other than Hajime Hinata. That’s why it’s all he thinks about – because it’s Hajime, and Hajime is insufferable. And Hajime doesn’t have soft lips, or a dry sense of humour that Nagito actually likes, or–

“Stop zoning out,” Fuyuhiko hisses beside him as Chisa drones on at the front of the room.

Nagito blinks, tearing his gaze from the middle of the room to the clock. Twenty more minutes left. Twenty minutes of pretending he isn’t halfway to crawling out of his own skin.

He can manage that. Probably.

The problem is, it doesn’t matter if he’s in class or outside it. Hajime Hinata has wormed his way into his skull.

And now Nagito can’t seem to evict him.

Nagito has read and reread his notebook twenty-one times.

Not that he’s counting.

Counting would imply investment, dedication, caring. Which he absolutely, categorically, and without a shadow of a doubt does not.

(He has, of course, memorised exactly where each line break falls and which word his handwriting slants on most suspiciously. But that’s just coincidence. Coincidence and compulsive behaviour are very different things.)

Still, his eyes wander back to the page for a twenty-second read-through. A purely scientific reread, obviously. For quality control. Not because his chest tightens whenever he thinks about handing it over to Hajime.

The poem is finished somehow, cobbled together before his self-appointed deadline. A miracle, really, considering his luck usually works best when ruining deadlines. And now the thing sits there, smug and complete, waiting for him to ruin his life with it.

His plan is simple: Hajime will get the poem just before leaving for Christmas break. Which means Nagito will have the joy of watching him walk away with it. Which means Hajime won’t have time to read it until Nagito is safely gone. Out of reach. Untouchable.

It’s bulletproof strategy. By the time Hajime finally reads it (if he ever does), Nagito will be far away, probably drowning in his penthouse silence, unable to be interrogated or mocked.

Because really, what could Hajime do with it? Stare at it? Frown a little? Scratch his head like a confused puppy? Probably march it over to Nanami for a “translation,” as if Nagito’s rambling were a foreign language. Nanami, the kind soul that she is, will squint at it, offer some explanation equally incomprehensible, and Hajime will shrug, toss it on his desk, and never read it again.

Which is fine. That’s fine. That’s preferable, actually.

Because Hajime asked for a poem. And Nagito agreed. And Nagito is a man of his word, even when his words tie a noose around his own neck.

With an exaggerated sigh, he flops into his desk chair like a man awaiting a life sentence. The poem isn’t perfect. But nothing Nagito produces is perfect. Nagito isn’t perfect – and Hajime knows that already. If he doesn’t, then really, he hasn’t been paying attention.

Nagito runs his tongue over his lips once, twice, just to ground himself. Just to confirm that yes, this is what he wants to hand over. A death sentence dressed up in metaphors.

He opens his drawer and pulls out a sheet of parchment. A flimsy little trick to make the thing look presentable. Neat. Intentional. As if presentation could disguise the fact that the words underneath are still his, and therefore tainted.

With his best handwriting, which is still objectively terrible, but passable for a dying poet scribbling by candlelight, he copies the poem, word for word.

Parchment makes it look like a gift. Or a confession. Or a mistake.

Not that he cares.

Not that the knot in his stomach grows tighter with every stroke of ink.

Class is officially over for the term.

Christmas break has officially started.

For the Main Course, at least. The Reserve Course still has about an hour left – not that Nagito is tracking Hajime Hinata’s schedule with the precision of a hitman, of course. He simply… knows. Because Kuzuryu complained about his sister’s timetable. That’s all. Hajime’s offhand comments have absolutely nothing to do with the mental stopwatch ticking in Nagito’s skull.

That means he has approximately two hours to deliver the poem. Two hours until he can slip it into Hajime’s hands like contraband and vanish before Hajime can react.

He calculates backwards with grim determination, as though he’s about to rappel into a vault instead of hand over a piece of parchment with bad handwriting on it.

• Hajime won’t return to his dorm until at least one hour and ten minutes from now.
• Hajime might still be packing (acceptable complication).
• Hajime might immediately open the envelope (catastrophic complication).
• Hajime might frown, tilt his head, and ask questions Nagito isn’t emotionally prepared to answer (worst-case scenario).

Therefore: Nagito has two hours to approach, deliver, and escape.
Operation Poetic Cowardice.

Contingency Plans:

• If Hajime returned early → improvise small talk, pretend it’s nothing, die inside.
• If Hajime opens the poem immediately → fake medical emergency. Seizure? Sudden blindness? Collapse theatrically and crawl away.
• If Hajime asks for clarification → point behind him, shout “Nanami fell asleep standing up again!” and flee.
• If all else fails → emigrate. Preferably tonight. Change his name. Grow a beard.

Yes. Perfect. What could possibly go wrong? His luck is always that reliable.

“Have a lovely Christmas, everyone.” Sonia waves kindly as she and Gundham sweep out of the classroom.

Most people respond politely.

Most people do not include Kazuichi Souda.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Sonia! Stay in touch!”

Nagito nearly winces. Stay in touch. As though Sonia isn’t literally contractually obliged to sit in the same building as them again in a month. Kazuichi’s desperation is admirable in the same way a puppy’s attempt to bite a car tyre is admirable: doomed, mildly embarrassing, but you can’t help but watch.

Nagito supposes this must be what it feels like to pine after someone. Not that he’d know, of course. His current preoccupation with Hajime Hinata doesn’t count. That’s different. A side effect. A mistake in his brain chemistry. A medical condition. An unfortunate by-product of being alive.

Kazuichi, apparently immune to his own shame, spins back to the rest of them with a grin so wide it looks painful. “Well, I’m gonna miss you all, dudes.”

Nagito has just stood up, prepared to make a quiet and graceful exit, when he’s suddenly enveloped in a hug that smells faintly of motor oil.

He is now, officially, one of Kazuichi Souda’s best friends.

That’s horrifying in itself.

“Get the fuck off me.” Fuyuhiko squirms against Kazuichi’s death grip.

“Have a good Christmas, Souda,” Nagito wheezes, disentangling himself before Kazuichi breaks one of his ribs. He chooses to ignore Teruteru’s mournful sighs about wishing he’d been part of the hug. (The day Teruteru Hanamura wraps his arms around him will be the day Nagito finally puts his luck to the test and walks straight into oncoming traffic.)

And then, thankfully, Souda is gone.

The rest of the class offers their goodbyes and well wishes, trickling out in pairs and groups until the room is nearly empty.

Fuyuhiko jerks his chin at him, wordlessly telling him to move. Of course Nagito follows. He always does. At least with Fuyuhiko at his side, there’s no time for his mind to spiral back into dangerous places. Like Hajime Hinata’s orbit.

Not yet, anyway.

Nagito feels like Teruteru Hanamura.

And if that isn’t a clear sign of failure, nothing is.

He’s been loitering outside the Reserve Course dorms for ten minutes now, peering through the occasional window like some kind of pervert, praying Hajime Hinata’s face might suddenly appear between the curtains like a divine vision.

It has not.

Instead, he’s left to his own devices – the worst fate imaginable.

Earlier, he’d walked back to the dorms with Fuyuhiko, who was still in full rant mode about his sister’s time blindness. Nagito had managed fifteen minutes of nodding and the occasional “hm,” which is his personal record for small talk, before being dismissed. Then he’d lingered in Fuyuhiko’s doorway, watching him pack with all the grace of a raccoon rifling through rubbish.

That part was easy. With Fuyuhiko there, he didn’t have to think about the parchment in his back pocket.

Fuyuhiko made him promise to text from the Bahamas or “wherever the hell you go”. Nagito agreed, only because then at least he wouldn’t be doing everything alone.

Now, without Fuyuhiko, the parchment is all he can think about.

Thirty minutes pacing his own room, folding and refolding sweaters as though sweater symmetry is the key to salvation. Ten more minutes making absolutely sure he has packed everything he needs so that, when he returns, there’ll be no wasted time in getting the hell off the school grounds.

Then ten minutes psyching himself up to walk down to the Reserve Course dorms. He still feels a little nauseous at the idea of being surrounded by black uniforms. Even more so at being an Ultimate delivering something to a Reserve Course student.

The thought still horrifies him.

And yet here he is. He left the Main Course dorms exactly one hour and ten minutes after his classroom plan rerun. To the exact minute Hajime is due back.

Precision is supposed to increase the odds of success. That’s the plan. He planned this down to the minute. But somehow his luck has translated all that careful scheduling into standing outside in the snow like a creep.

Perfect. Absolutely flawless.

He hadn’t accounted for loitering like a man waiting to sell illegal goods out of his coat pocket. Which now means he has less time to run away once he hands Hinata the poem that’s sitting in his back pocket.

Nagito had wanted to buzz the intercom. He hadn’t, in fear of startling a random student, or worse, causing an electronic blackout the day the school closes.

So he stands idly kicking the snow and praying Hajime will just appear.

“Are you lost or something?”

Nagito jerks his head up. Definitely not Hajime. The voice is female– sharp, amused.

The girl is short, blonde, and smirking with all the self-assurance of someone who knows how to throw a punch and win. Hazel eyes glitter with mischief. In other words: she looks exactly like Fuyuhiko, if Fuyuhiko woke up one morning and decided to experiment with eyeliner.

Which means the odds of this being his infamous little sister are astronomically high.

“Oh, no, not lost,” Nagito says smoothly, lifting his hands as though she’s accused him of breaking in. “Just looking for someone.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Her eyes flick over his uniform. “Not every day an Ultimate hangs around our dorms like some weirdo.”

“Not every day I come here,” Nagito replies tightly. Correction: never in his life has he been here, unless you count the time he tried to return Hajime’s earphones and instead had an intimate encounter with a snowbank.

“Hm.” She shrugs, starts to walk past, then spins on her heel with alarming speed. “Wait. You one of the losers from my brother’s class? I swear I’ve seen you with him.”

Nagito blinks. He isn’t sure whether to be offended. Loser is objectively rude, but coming from a Kuzuryu it’s basically a term of endearment.

“I am in Fuyuhiko’s class, yes.”

She lights up like she’s solved a riddle. “Knew it! I’m Natsumi. But I guess you already knew that.”

“Mm. He’s mentioned you,” Nagito says diplomatically. “Mostly your time blindness.”

Natsumi rolls her eyes. “Please. It’s not my fault he does everything with a stopwatch like he’s defusing a bomb.”

Nagito, internally: God forbid anyone else care about precision. That would be ridiculous.
Out loud: “Right.”

She leans in, grin curling sharp. “Soooo, what’s your name? Who’re you waiting for? I can grab them for you.”

Nagito’s ears burn. How rude of him, forgetting introductions when he’d been raised to weaponise politeness. “Nagito Komaeda. I was waiting for Hajime Hinata.”

Even saying it aloud feels humiliating. Nagito Komaeda. Waiting for Hajime Hinata. Two weeks ago, the idea would’ve been laughable.

“You’re Komaeda?!” Natsumi’s grin spreads wider, her eyes sparkling with some joke Nagito isn’t privy to. She scans his face once, then twice, and tilts her head like she’s found something she was looking for. “Huh. Guess you do have pretty eyes.”

Nagito blinks.

Pretty eyes.

His brain snags on the words like a record needle caught in the same groove.

Pretty eyes.

Had Fuyuhiko–? No. Absolutely not. Fuyuhiko would rather be thrown off a cliff than describe anyone that way, least of all Nagito. Unless he told his sister in some odd fit of nostalgia–

No. Absurd.

Then his mind jumps to Hajime. Hajime had said that. That night. Slurring it with alcohol on his breath, his voice soft like he didn’t know what he was saying. But Hajime hadn’t meant it. Hajime couldn’t have meant it. It was nothing. Nothing at all.

So why is Natsumi saying it? Why is it following him here, like a curse?

His stomach knots. If Hajime told her– no. Why would he tell her? Why would he tell anyone? Unless he hadn’t, unless she’d heard it from someone else, unless–

Nagito realises too late he’s still staring at her like she’s just read his diary aloud.

“…Thank you?” he manages, though it comes out more like a question than gratitude, eyebrows pinched.

“So, you’re waiting for Hajime?” Her grin only widens, as though this is the single best piece of gossip she’s collected all semester. “What are you doing out here then?! He’ll be thrilled you’re here!”

Thrilled? Really? Hajime?

Natsumi beckons him after her, ID card already pressed against the scanner. “Tell him I said hi! Clearly I need to hurry up with packing before my dear brother explodes.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh – his room’s 108. First floor, to the right. Byeee, Komaedaaa.”

And then she vanishes, leaving him with a chill and the sense that a private joke has just sailed right over his head.

Nagito doesn’t like how she dragged out his last name. As though “Komaeda” is suddenly synonymous with “I know something you don’t.”

Still. 108. First floor. Convenient for escaping.

His luck, apparently, isn’t entirely against him.

Nagito has stood outside Hajime’s door for two whole minutes.

He told himself to knock.

His hand, apparently, has unionised and refused the order.

Deep breath.

Knock.

There. Heroic.

He doesn’t understand why he’s nervous. Why he cares so much about seeing Hajime’s dumb face. The quicker this is over with, the quicker he can escape from the bomb he’s about to throw into Hajime’s room.

The door opens almost immediately.

Nagito nearly bolts then and there.

Hajime, who perpetually frowns, is now frowning slightly harder than usual. Apparently Nagito’s presence manages to upgrade people’s default irritation. Truly, a talent.

Nagito tries not to notice how Hajime has slackened his tie, or how his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, or how his forehead glistens faintly with sweat.

Yes. Tries. Fails spectacularly.

“Komaeda?” Hajime finally asks, his voice caught between disbelief and nerves.

Of course. A Reserve Course student finding an Ultimate lurking outside his door is the kind of sight you only get once in a lifetime. Assuming your lifetime is mercifully short.

“Hinata-kun.” Nagito replies, cooling the absolute terror in his throat. “It’s good to see you haven’t left yet.”

Because I’m about to.

“…Yeah. Packing.” Hajime opens his door a little wider, gesturing to the suitcase behind him.

Nagito nods, feigning disinterest, which means, of course, absorbing every detail of Hajime’s room like he’s archiving evidence.
Not that he’s ever imagined what Hajime’s room looks like before this. Certainly not. He has hobbies. Real ones.

“I see.”

“Did you…need something?” Hajime asks, clearly still buffering.

“Hm?” Nagito snaps back, pretending he wasn’t caught cataloguing Hajime’s environment like an investigator. “Ah, yes. The poem.”

At that, Hajime’s confused eyes light up, green catching the light until they look almost… well. Nagito isn’t going to finish that thought.

“Yes?”

“It’s here. I told you I’d give it to you before Christmas.” He reaches into his back pocket, gripping the parchment with such force it’s a miracle the ink hasn’t smudged.

“I assumed you forgot, to be honest.” Hajime laughs lightly.

Nagito’s smile is tight enough to fracture glass. “You wouldn’t be the first to question my memory.”

He reluctantly hands over the poem, fingers peeling away as though surrendering contraband to a security guard.

“Thank you, Komaeda.”

“You’re welcome. Read it on the way home. It’s nothing special.”

Lie. Command. Both.

Hajime nods, still staring at the parchment like it’s radioactive. His cheeks flush red.

Nagito ignores that. He’s good at ignoring things. Like common sense.

“Well, I suppose that’s all. Merry Christmas, Hinata-kun. Safe travels home.”

He turns briskly on his heel, already plotting the fastest route off campus that doesn’t involve collapsing in front of witnesses.

“You too, Na– Komaeda. Merry Christmas!”

“Mm. Bye now.”

Nagito keeps walking. Does not look back. Looking back is for fools.

Then, halfway down the hall, he tosses over his shoulder in the most nonchalant voice he can muster, “Natsumi said hi!”

“Natsumi? What–”

But Nagito is already around the corner, bolting towards the exit like the world’s most awkward fugitive.

“I used to think your gaze was a knife,
Sharp enough to cut through my rotten luck,
A reminder that even I could bleed
From something as simple as your distrust.

But somewhere between our bitter words,
The silence began to change.
Like glass turning to sea-glow,
Like hatred losing its age.

I still trip over my heart when you speak,
Clumsy, foolish, unworthy.
Yet you drag me closer no matter how I resist;
Your voice feels like gravity.

Perhaps I mistook you for my rival,
When all along,
You were the only proof
That someone like me still had the chance to fall in love.”

Have a Merry Christmas, Hinata-kun.

- Nagito.

Nagito has never run this quickly in his entire life.

Well, maybe he has, but only in controlled chaos scenarios: lightning-struck pavements, bus schedules about to implode, or the occasional lucky avalanche. This is different. This is the possibility of Hajime Hinata chasing him, and that is somehow worse.

His lungs scream in protest, so he downshifts to what could politely be called a brisk walk. The snow, mercifully, falls heavier now, erasing his tracks. At least he has that going for him. His escape plan is simple: reach his room, grab his suitcase, vanish. Fifteen minutes, maybe ten if he runs like a demon possessed.

Hajime, Nagito reassures himself, will probably rifle through his suitcase, ignore the poem entirely, maybe glance at the first line, chuckle, and toss it aside. Perfectly fine.

If Hajime actually reads it, Nagito’s internal organs might spontaneously combust. Or at least, that’s what he’s fairly certain physics allows.

Yes. Now he can breathe. Sort of. Temporarily. But the problem remains: Hajime will return in a month. And Nagito… will be there too. Inevitably. And he knows himself well enough to admit he won’t avoid Hajime successfully. He’ll fail. As usual. He’ll fail monumentally. As he did in the last three weeks. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll contract a rare tropical disease over the holidays. That might buy him a week of distance. Or Hajime might transfer schools. Anything to avoid this… emotional entanglement disaster.

Footsteps sound far behind him.

Faster than a casual walk. Deliberate, but light.

Nagito tells himself it’s Natsumi. That Fuyuhiko has called her and screamed at her and she’s running with her suitcase out of fear.

That’s most likely.

In any case, he’s nearly at the Main Course dorms. Just five more minutes.

“Nagito! Wait!”

Oh no.

The universe has just applied a cruel twist in italics.

Nagito freezes mid-step, chest tightening. He has spent the last ten minutes imagining all possible disasters, and this one – Hajime sprinting full tilt – should have been outside the bounds of probability.

He had briefly imagined the possibility. He had not actually expected it.

He promised himself he would emigrate if this exact scenario occurred. And now here it is. No countries left. No safe passports. No magic teleportation. No time to curse his luck.

So, he sprints.

Burning lungs, flailing limbs, arms pumping like someone has thrown him into a wind tunnel. It isn’t graceful. It isn’t strategic. It’s pure, unfiltered panic. And it’s necessary.

He tells himself Hajime won’t make it past the dorm doors. That’s the one bullet left in his chamber. Maybe he can escape. Maybe, just maybe, his luck will still work in his favour.

But even as he runs, Nagito can’t stop thinking: what kind of life is this where being chased by a spiky-haired, green-eyed boy counts as a threat to survival?

A very, very strange one.

To any passerby, Nagito probably looks like he’s escaped from an asylum.

Which, honestly, is probably where he’ll be spending his Christmas after this disaster.

Reason for self-admit: inability to outrun a single lanky brunette with average stamina and above-average hair.

Still, he refuses to stop running.

Even though the ice claws at his shoes with every step. Even though his lungs feel like they’ve been replaced with broken glass. Even though every second makes him more aware of how utterly humiliating this will look when Hajime inevitably tackles him like a wild animal.

He hasn’t accounted for how difficult sprinting is on snow and ice while also calculating the odds of his luck tripping him into a snowbank that somehow triggers a domino effect of natural disasters – an avalanche, a sinkhole, an earthquake. Which would obviously leave him alive and unharmed, with Hajime standing there to witness the entire thing as the other sole survivor.

Snowflakes stick to his hair. His eyelashes. His jacket. He resists the urge to scream at the sheer insolence of frozen water molecules daring to slow him down. His shoes kiss the ground, though “kiss” is generous; it’s more like they slap wetly against the ice in the least dignified way possible.

How far is his building?

He could have sworn it didn’t take this long to walk to the Reserve Course dorms earlier, but right now it feels like he’s running across continents. He’s certain he’ll pass through at least two time zones before reaching safety.

Behind him, he can still hear the footsteps. Steady. Closing in far too quickly.

In his mind, he can see Hajime’s green eyes, lit with relentless determination, like the lead in a cheap sports movie who absolutely refuses to lose the Big Game.

Nagito has advantages. He’s taller, leaner, and technically blessed by a talent that has, unfortunately, gone on strike at the worst possible moment. But he still has one plan: get to his dorm, slam the deadbolt, barricade the windows, and scream into his pillow until New Year’s.

“Natsumi, hurry the fuck up– Komaeda?!”

Nagito doesn’t spare a glance. Out of his peripheral vision, he can see Fuyuhiko, phone to his ear, staring at him like he’s just seen a yeti in the flesh. Eye contact would cost him precious seconds.

Brilliant. Now, if he slips, his entire tragic downfall will be witnessed by both Hajime and Fuyuhiko. He’ll never live it down. He’ll have to transfer schools. Or countries. Maybe dimensions.

“Merry Christmas, Fuyuhiko!” he shouts, his voice strangled, almost musical in its hysteria.

“You crazy bastard–”

But Fuyuhiko’s words are obliterated by something worse, something far more damning than the half-insult Fuyuhiko threw his way.

“Hajime?! What the fuck–!”

Oh no.

No no no no no.

If Fuyuhiko is already screaming Hajime’s name, it means Hajime is much closer than Nagito has estimated. His internal math failed him. His so-called brilliant escape route has crumbled into ashes in under five minutes.

Why has Hajime read the poem immediately?! Why couldn’t he just be normal?! Why couldn’t he have just tucked it into his suitcase, forget it existed, maybe even let it dissolve in a puddle on the train home? Nagito told him it was nothing special. Nothing! And yet here they are, reenacting a very poorly choreographed wildlife documentary: predator and prey, locked in eternal pursuit.

At last, the Main Course dorms come into touching distance. Nagito’s heart leaps in relief, a momentary burst of triumph. He can feel the doors pulling him in like salvation itself. Just a few more steps, and he can–

Nagito is abruptly hurled face-first into a snowdrift.

Not by choice. Not by bad luck’s fickle hand.

But because Hajime Hinata himself has launched his entire body into him, sending them both sprawling.

Hands clamp firmly around his waist. Hot breath ghosts against his ear.

And all Nagito can think, buried in a mound of snow with Hajime’s weight pressing down on him, is:

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

Nagito doesn’t move for a good twenty seconds.
A statue half-buried in snow, praying that if he stays still long enough, Hajime Hinata might mistake him for some unfortunate seasonal decoration and walk away.

No such luck.

Hajime is still there. Not pressed fully on top of him anymore – thank God, Nagito’s heart would have combusted – but close enough that Nagito can feel him. The weight of his presence is as suffocating as the snow itself.

Running again is pointless. If he tries to scramble out, Hajime will just rugby-tackle him again, and the thought of enduring a second takedown is more humiliating than freezing to death right here.

His dizzy thoughts betray him, drifting instead to how strong Hajime must be to catch him that quickly, let alone send them both tumbling into the snow without breaking his neck. The muscles in his arms, the firm press of his hands–

Nagito shoves the thought aside with the urgency of a man swatting a wasp.
The muscular composition of Hajime Hinata should be the last thing occupying his brain right now.

Finally, he turns his head. Hajime stands above him, sleeves still shoved to his elbows, chest heaving, breath circling into clouds of white in the cold air.

He looks like he’s run a marathon. Or like he’s about to start a fistfight.
Or worse – like he’s about to have an honest conversation.

“Ah…” Nagito croaks, pasting on his best fake smile. “I take it you didn’t like the poem?”

Pathetic. He even tacks on a weak, innocent chuckle to salvage the entire situation with cheap comedy, as though lying half-buried in snow while Hajime glares down at him isn’t already the dictionary definition of mortifying.

Hajime’s head snaps towards him, eyes blazing. “Didn’t like it?” His voice cracks with incredulity.

“Oh.” Nagito swallows, throat dry. “You hated it. Understandable. I’ll just go collect my suitc–”

“No, you won’t.” Hajime cuts him off, sharp and breathless, his voice slicing through the air. “Why didn’t you stop when I shouted for you?!”

Nagito blinks up at him, stunned. Hajime’s cheeks are flushed from exertion, his eyes too green, too piercing. His whole face is alive, in a way Nagito can’t stand to look at for long. It almost makes him wonder if he hit his head during the fall.

“I… didn’t hear you, Hinata-kun,” he lies smoothly, shrugging as though being tackled into snowbanks is just another Friday. “I was simply cold and running back to escape the weather.”

“Cool,” Hajime snaps. “So now we’re lying to each other?”

“Each other?” Nagito’s brows lift, faux innocence painted across his face. Yes, he’s being difficult. Yes, he knows it. Maybe, if he plays this right, he can irritate Hajime enough that he forgets why he chased him in the first place. “I wasn’t aware you’d lied.”

“Stop.”

The word cracks like a whip. Hajime pinches the bridge of his nose, shoulders rising and falling as he wrestles down his temper. His voice softens, almost pleading now.

“Please.”

Nagito falters.

That one word does more damage than any shouting could. Hajime isn’t irritated. He isn’t mocking. He’s serious. Too serious. His voice cracks at the edges, and Nagito knows there’s no use pretending he hasn’t noticed, because this is exactly where pretending all week has gotten him: flat on his back in a snowbank like some tragic, bulldozed snowman.

Nagito’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. Brilliant. Silver-tongued Komaeda reduced to gaping like a fish, while all he can register is the snow biting into his back. The déjà vu is almost laughable. Practically a rerun of two weeks ago, when Hajime dragged him out of the snow after the Great Earphone Debacle.

Except this time, he isn’t being saved. He’s being cornered. Much worse.

“If I help you up…” Hajime’s voice is firm but steady. “You have to promise me you won’t run.”

“Do I?” Nagito’s lips quirk upwards, because of course he can’t resist. Humour: his last flimsy shield against Hajime Hinata.

It has rarely failed him before. This time, however, Nagito doesn’t think he’ll have that luxury.

“Nagito.”

Ah.
Of course Hajime has to say his name. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Dropping the honorific, weaponising sincerity, hitting Nagito where it hurts. Cruel, really.

Nagito deflates with a sigh. No witty escape routes left. No convenient avalanches to bury him alive. Just Hajime and the unbearable seriousness of it all.

He extends a pale hand to Hajime’s waiting one. “As Hinata-kun wishes.”

He tries not to notice the way Hajime’s arm flexes as he hauls him upright. Tries. Fails spectacularly.

The snow falls heavier now, dusting Hajime’s dark hair until it almost matches Nagito’s. And of course Hajime looks perfectly unbothered, standing there with no jacket, sleeves shoved to his elbows, posture relaxed as though they’re on some boardwalk next to the ocean in July and not freezing to death in the middle of a confession crisis.

It’s worse now that they’re standing.

Because now they’re face-to-face, close enough for Nagito to see the flecks of yellow in Hajime’s eyes, close enough for him to forget every excuse he’d rehearsed in the last five minutes.

Any second now, he’ll be cursed out. Mocked. Publicly humiliated for the crime of feelings. Feelings, mind you, for Hajime Hinata, of all people. His supposed rival. The man he had failed to avoid. The boy who’s somehow become his gravity.

Yes, Hajime will shout, Nagito will implode, and that will be that.

Nagito prays Fuyuhiko isn’t still loitering nearby with front-row tickets to this disaster.

The silence stretches, heavy as the snow falling around them.

Hajime sighs, voice low. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Nagito tries to bite back the ugly laugh clawing up his throat.

Ah, why didn’t I tell you sooner, Hajime? Let’s see – maybe because I didn’t realise I had feelings for you until you kissed me on the temple like some kind of benevolent saint four days ago! Or maybe, on second thought, because I already knew the ending of this ridiculous farce: ridicule and pity, with a healthy slice of revulsion. All the cornerstones of a healthy, thriving romance.

But he doesn’t say any of that. He can’t.

“I couldn’t,” Nagito says instead. A perfect response – explains absolutely everything.

Hajime frowns. His brow creases like he’s trying to solve an elaborate equation. “You couldn’t? Why not?”

“Because, Hinata-kun, I couldn’t!” Nagito repeats, as though an increase in volume is a valid replacement for logic.

“But you– you’ve never even shown that you felt like this–”

“How could I?” Nagito cuts him off, voice pitching sharp. The dam has finally broken,, and Nagito knows there is no point trying to repair it. Hajime will get an answer out of him somehow anyway. He always does.

“How could I? None of it made sense. None of it! I tried, Hajime, I really tried! I tried to ignore you at the Winter Wonderland – failed. I tried to ignore you sleeping in my bed and kissing me on the temple – failed. Do you see the pattern here? All you’ve done for the last three weeks is infest the back of my mind like some… some very irritating parasite with great hair! You existed in places I never invited you to! And you thought I – yes, I!Nagito Komaeda – was going to confront that with a neat little confession?!”

Hajime blinks. Once. Twice. His eyebrows furrow like his operating system just crashed.

Hajime’s voice is flat. “You said my name.”

Nagito frowns. “…What?” How was that the only thing that Hajime managed to gather from his entire impromptu speech?

Hajime steps closer, snow crunching underfoot. “You called me Hajime. Just now. You’ve never done that before.”

Nagito’s eyes widen. “I apologise– I didn’t mean to offend–”

“It doesn’t offend me, Nagito!” Hajime’s voice cracks, his hand twitching like he doesn’t know whether to throw it in the air or grab Nagito by the shoulders. He shuts his eyes for a fleeting second, as if trying to reset himself. “I’ve wanted you to call me Hajime for the longest time. And you never did. Not until now. Not until you’re upset with me, for some reason.”

Nagito opens his mouth to interject, to show some witty barbed-wire defence between them, but Hajime barrels straight through.

“And you know what? I do remember kissing you on the temple. I remember saying you had the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.” His face flushes, like he hates admitting it out loud and sober. “But do you know why I never brought it up again? Why I pretended not to remember?”

Nagito’s heart jackhammers in his chest. He shakes his head because words are impossible. Nothing will come out even if he tries.

“Because I thought you hated me!” Hajime’s voice cracks, raw, honest. “Because that’s all you’ve ever done, Nagito. You’ve hated me since the day we met. And I felt like the biggest fucking idiot alive for having a crushon the guy who ‘hates’ me, just to see that he wrote me a poem about falling in love.”

Nagito’s brain flatlines. Screen blue, system rebooting, no recovery disc in sight.

“You… had a crush on me?”

Hajime looks offended, which is frankly unfair. He’s the one confessing like it’s a weather report, and Nagito’s the lunatic who was rolling in the snow like an unhinged Christmas decoration.

“I thought it was obvious. Chasing you down at the festival, holding your hand while we skated, offering you kusamochi!”

“And I thought it was coincidental!” Nagito shoots back, folding his arms like that’ll hold together his rapidly disintegrating dignity. “I thought it was my luck – my horrible, cosmic curse of a luck – shoving you in my direction every chance it got. I didn’t think you were actually choosing to seek me out.”

Hajime exhales like he’s the reasonable one here. “And I didn’t think you’d fallen in love with me. I don’t even think you know you have.” His voice softens. “But here we are.”

Nagito bites back the retort clawing at his tongue. What would it even be? How dare you reciprocate? How dare you ruin my perfect narrative of rejection? None of it makes sense. They’re arguing about feelings – for each other, no less – like it’s a crime scene and the other is guilty of emotional manslaughter.

“I thought if I could push you away, it would be the right thing.” Nagito’s voice slips quieter. More fragile. “My luck hurts the people I care about. It always has.”

“I’ve told you, Nagito.” Hajime steps closer. Too close. Snow dampens his hair, his breath steams in the winter air. His eyes – Nagito’s nemesis, his undoing – flare a shade of green so vibrant it almost feels cruel. “I’m willing to take my chances.”

“And I’m not willing to gamble your life or safety on the probability of my luck.” Nagito snaps back, desperate. His own voice sounds like glass about to shatter, stretched to thin for him to even recognise it.

Hajime’s eyebrows pinch, his tongue darting over his lips. “You don’t get to make that decision for me.”

“What–”

Before Nagito can assemble another protest, Hajime’s hands – warm, steady, infuriatingly solid – cup his face, and then his lips crash against Nagito’s like punctuation to a sentence he never thought would be written.

Nagito freezes. His brain fizzes and stutters.

Oh. So this is what hallucinations feel like. Vivid. Terrifying. Involving Hajime Hinata’s mouth.

Hajime’s lips are chapped from the cold. His fingers grip Nagito’s face like he’s afraid he might vanish, like Nagito might dissolve into snow if he lets go for even a second.

And yet Nagito can’t tear himself away. Can’t let go if he tries.

Three weeks ago, he swore to avoid Hajime Hinata at all costs. Today, he’s kissing him. No, he’s being kissed by him. No, he’s kissing him back.

(Somewhere, a cosmic scoreboard is tallying this disaster in real time.)

Nagito doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t really know how to kiss. Certainly not in the snow, not with his heart ricocheting around his ribcage like it’s trying to escape. Maybe Hajime’s more experienced, maybe he isn’t. It doesn’t matter. Because somehow, impossibly, Nagito’s lips remember what his brain can’t.

He moves them back once the initial shock burns off. Tentative, clumsy, but real. His hands betray him, sliding up to fist in Hajime’s shirt, dragging him closer as if the fabric is the only thing tethering him to reality. Hajime’s chest is warm beneath his knuckles. Too warm. Infuriatingly warm.

It’s ridiculous. Snow sticks to his hair, seeps through his coat, numbs his knees, and still, all he registers is the heat of Hajime’s mouth. Their breaths mingle, clouding white between them before disappearing into their throats.

Nagito makes a small noise, half-frustration, half-something else entirely, when Hajime tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss. Is this how it’s supposed to feel? The push and pull, the rhythm that’s not quite perfect but too intoxicating to care about?

He thinks he might choke on it. On the warmth. On the closeness. On the knowledge that Hajime’s lips are moving against his like this is something normal. Like it’s allowed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice, or more accurately, a warning begins to scream. Stop this. It’s too much. He’ll realise. He’ll pull away.

But Hajime doesn’t.

If anything, Hajime presses in harder, fingers sliding from Nagito’s cheeks to cradle the back of his head, thumb brushing lightly at damp strands of hair. It’s grounding. Infuriatingly grounding.

Nagito’s lungs ache. His chest ache. His luck aches. But still, he leans into the kiss, reckless and desperate and hungry, as if Hajime is oxygen and Nagito’s been holding his breath for far too long.

When he finally pulls back, barely, only an inch, he immediately regrets it. Hajime’s lips are still there, swollen, parted, impossibly close. Nagito wants to close the gap again before the world remembers he isn’t supposed to have nice things.

“Oh,” Nagito whispers before his brain can censor it. His breath comes out shaky, white against the cold. “That’s very unfair of you, Hinata-kun.”

His voice is teasing, but his chest is heaving, and his fingers still won’t unclench from Hajime’s shirt.

Hajime tilts his head a little, lips still swollen. “I’m Hinata-kun again?” He raises an eyebrow, as if questioning how he’s been demoted from Hajime to an honorific again after kissing Nagito.

Nagito doesn’t reply. He pulls him back in.

This time is worse. Much worse. Because now they’re both expecting it, leaning into it, Hajime’s hand already back on the nape of Nagito’s neck like it never left. His lips taste faintly of winter air, of cold tea, of something unbearably ordinary. Nagito thinks he might die from it.

The kiss isn’t neat. It isn’t practiced. It’s two people colliding in the snow, clinging to each other like they’ve forgotten the rest of the world exists. Hajime tilts just enough that Nagito’s teeth graze his bottom lip, and the embarrassing sound that slips out of him is most definitely illegal.

Nagito tugs harder at Hajime’s shirt, terrified he might vanish, terrified he might not. His thoughts blur together. You’re too close. You’re too warm. Your eyelashes are ridiculous from this distance. Your nose is cold. Why am I noticing your nose right now?

And still, he can’t stop.

Every second stretches like it’ll never end. Snow gathers in Hajime’s hair, melts as it touches his skin, drips onto Nagito’s wrist where they tangle between the strands. His chest still hurts from holding his breath, but pulling away seems like the more painful option.

He’s drowning. Gloriously. Catastrophically. What a way to go–

“What the actual fuck am I looking at?!”

Nagito freezes.
So does Hajime.

Nagito has absolutely no idea when Fuyuhiko walked over. Clearly sometime between Hajime tackling him into the snow like a linebacker and Hajime kissing him like his life depends on it.

Details. Tiny details. Apparently Nagito’s so-called talent has decided to disappear at the exact moment where his new best friend witnesses him practically swallowing Hajime Hinata whole.

Hajime hasn’t noticed either. Judging from the way a flush shoots up his neck like wildfire, he would have preferred being buried alive under the snowbank.

And Fuyuhiko – wonderful, terrifying Fuyuhiko – stands there looking equal parts stunned, appalled, and vaguely entertained. Like a man watching a house fire while also betting on how long it’ll take before the roof caves in.

Nagito wants to disappear. Not from Hajime. Hajime who is still too close and still too warm, but from the sheer mortification of knowing that the person who begrudgingly became his inseparable friend over the past three weeks is here to witness every humiliating second.

“Komaeda.” Fuyuhiko’s voice cracks through the air like a gunshot. “One minute you’re in my room helping me pack. The next you’re sprintin’ outta the Reserve Course dorms like a lunatic with Hajime on your arse. Then you’re screamin; at each other in the snow like soap opera rejects. And now you’ve got his fuckin’ tongue down your throat?!”

Nagito’s brain collapses on itself, merely offering him a blue screen of death.

There is no excuse, no witty deflection. His neurons are too busy replaying the phrase tongue down your throat on loop while weighing the pros and cons of suffocating himself with snow.

Not that he has to answer. Fuyuhiko doesn’t even leave him the room to breathe.

“Don’t even try to tell me this ain’t what it looks like. I’ve seen enough.”

Hajime, bless his useless soul, rubs the back of his neck like that’ll erase the evidence of his mouth still being red and swollen.

Then, because the universe has apparently decided things aren’t absurd enough, Fuyuhiko’s mouth twitches. The faintest crinkle at his eyes. And he laughs.

“Heh. Guess Kazuichi owes me seven thousand yen.”

Nagito blinks furiously, as though clearing snowflakes from his eyelashes might erase that sentence from existence. Seven. Thousand. Yen.

“…H-Huh?” Hajime stammers, his face the precise shade of tomato paste.

“Tch. I knew you two had the hots for each other. We put a bet on it. I said you’d end up–” he gestures vaguely between them, “–like this before the end of second year. He said you wouldn’t.”

Nagito’s voice cracks into a scandalised whisper. “How long has this been a bet?”

Fuyuhiko snorts like he’s just been asked the dumbest question in history. “Since you–” he jabs a finger into Nagito’s chest, “–whined about how the guy with the shirt ‘clinging to him in the rain’ just so happened to be our pal Hajime from the Reserve Course. Last fuckin’ June.”

Hajime makes a strangled noise. “You’re– y-you’re kidding, right?” His face looks ready to combust, and not from the cold.

“Nah. You wish I was. ’Course, my sister catching you makin’ googly eyes at Komaeda didn’t hurt either.” Fuyuhiko smirks, the smug triumph practically dripping from his expression.

Nagito’s eyes snap to Hajime, wide with revelation. “Ah, so that’s why Natsumi-san told me I had ‘pretty eyes’?” A slow, wicked smirk unfurls across his face, the kind Hajime has learnt to fear.

Hajime blinks rapidly, caught between horror and indignation. “You’re both– both completely–”

Fuyuhiko snorts so hard it almost counts as a laugh.

“You bastards are fuckin’ insane, you know that?” He shakes his head, snow falling from his hair onto his eyelashes as his gestures at the both of them like they’re exhibits in a zoo. “Kissing in the snow like you live in a fuckin’ movie. Christ.”

Nagito doesn’t even muster the energy to argue. Yes, Fuyuhiko. Absolutely. They are living in a movie.Unfortunately, Nagito has forgotten to audition for the part where he is remotely competent at intimacy.

Before he can attempt an excuse, a shrill vibration breaks the silence. Fuyuhiko pulls his phone out, scowling down at the screen.

“Great.” He mutters. “Now she’s ready. Perfect timing. Right when the most interesting shit all year finally happens.” He rolls his eyes so hard that it’s a miracle they don’t freeze there. “Can’t wait to fill Natsumi in on whatever the fuck this is.”

“Hey–” Hajime starts, his voice a little too defensive, but Fuyuhiko raises a hand and mockingly zips his lips shut.

“Relax, lover boy. I’ll keep your secret. Enjoy your Christmas – wherever the fuck you two end up.”

And with a crooked grin and a mock salute, he crouches, grabs his suitcase, and trudges off toward the Reserve Course dorms.

Snow swallows the sound of his boots until the only thing left is the faint crunch fading into the snowy abyss.

Nagito stays frozen where he stands. Not from the cold – though his body is screaming about that too – but from the wreckage that is his mind.

Observational note one: Hajime Hinata’s lips are still red from kissing him. Proof, undeniable, irrefutable, that it actually happened. A statistical impossibility, but there it is.

Observational note two: Hajime is still here. He hasn’t bolted, hasn’t stormed off, hasn’t spat in Nagito’s face and declared it all a twisted joke. He’s here, standing close enough that Nagito can count the number of snowflakes melting in his hair.

Observational note three: Fuyuhiko bet money on this. With Kazuichi. Which means other people saw this coming before Nagito himself did. Which, if he thinks about for too long, is going to send him face-first back into the pile of snow he was pulled from so he can suffocate himself.

His brain spins. I kissed Hajime. Or Hajime kissed me. Or we both did. In front of Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu. Who now thinks we’re some kind of walking Christmas rom-com cliché. And he’s going to tell his sister. Who is going to tell the entire school, probably.  And I, Nagito Komaeda, am standing here waiting for Hajime Hinata to come to his senses and laugh in my face.

Nagito presses his lips together tightly, partly to keep them from trembling, partly to hold the taste of Hajime there for just one second longer.

Luck has always been cruel. But right now, standing in the snow, Hajime at his side, Fuyuhiko’s laughter still lingering in the air, it almost feels like it’s playing fair.

“So, uh–” Hajime rubs the back of his neck again, sheepish, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You still going to the Bahamas for Christmas?”

Nagito blinks, caught completely off guard. The Bahamas? Oh, right. That stupid lie he tossed out in front of everyone to make sure nobody suspected him of how miserable he really was. Hajime hadn’t even believed him then – Nagito had seen the doubt clear as day on his face. So there was no chance he actually believed it now, either.

He hadn’t even thought Hajime would remember. Hadn’t thought Hajime remembered anything.

“No,” he says finally. His voice is steadier than he feels. “Guess I have a reason to stay now.”

A small smile curves across his lips.

And Hajime’s answering grin is like sunlight cutting through storm clouds. Bright. Unguarded. The kind of smile Nagito has no business being on the receiving end of.

“Y-Yeah,” Hajime says simply. “You do.”

As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, Hajime slings an arm around Nagito’s waist and tugs him close, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Quick, gentle, so casual it’s disarming.

Nagito’s brain stutters. His cheek. Hajime just kissed his cheek. Again. This time sober. And then pulled away with a shrug like it’s normal.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you at Christmas,” Hajime adds, removing his arm from Nagito’s waist.

Nagito blinks once. Twice. His mind lags behind his body, trying to compute the words. Hajime wants to see him at Christmas? Him? Even though they aren’t… aren’t anything? Not officially, not really, not–

“R-Really?” The word escapes him, raw and disbelieving.

Hajime’s green eyes soften. His smile holds steady, lips swollen from before, snow dusting his hair like it’s been painted on just for Nagito to look at. “Really.”

Nagito’s thoughts collapse like dominoes, too many falling at once. Hajime Hinata kissed me. Hajime Hinata wants to see me at Christmas. Hajime Hinata isn’t running away. Hajime Hinata looks at me like– like–

And suddenly, Nagito isn’t thinking at all. He’s moving. His hands fist in Hajime’s shirt, tugging him close again, lips crashing against his with more force than sense. The momentum knocks them backwards into the same snow mound Hajime had tackled him into before.

Cold explodes up Nagito’s spine, but he barely registers it, because Hajime is chuckling against his mouth, laughter spilling warm and unguarded as he wraps his arms tight around Nagito, holding him in place like he has no intention of letting go.

Nagito doesn’t even think about the fact that he’s clinging to the one person he’d spent three weeks trying to avoid. If anything, he is now ecstatic that he failed.

Snowflakes catch on their eyelashes. Hajime’s heartbeat thuds against Nagito’s chest. And for once, Nagito doesn’t mind the fall.

This time, he doesn’t mind falling into the snow.
This time, he doesn’t mind the weight pressing down on him.
This time, luck doesn’t feel cruel.

This time, Nagito Komaeda doesn’t mind being the punchline to the universe’s joke.

Because if he has to hear Hajime Hinata’s name tomorrow, next week, on some distant Christmas morning, every day for the rest of his life…

That sounds less like a curse, and more like the best stroke of luck he could ever hope for.

That would be more than lucky.

That would be everything.