Archive of Our Own ^beta

It never gets very cold on Jabberwock Island, even at night, but Hajime still shivers when he wakes up with his arms empty, the legs that had been intertwined with his own pulled out. Scrunching up his face against the chill, he reaches out instinctively, pawing at the empty sheets. Still nothing. Rationally, Hajime knows there are plenty of reasons why Nagito might have gotten out of bed at this hour, but his sleep-logged brain can only register mild irritation at the inconvenience.

Pulling against the comforter, Hajime curls into a tighter ball in an attempt at preserving heat, but his brain continues to wake the longer he lies here. It occurs to him to wonder, too, what exactly it is that Nagito is doing, when the bathroom light is off and he can’t hear the shower or the sink or the toilet or anything. Grumbling to himself, Hajime nudges off his blankets and starts to sit up, rubbing at his eye with the side of his hand. It’s early enough that the cabin is still shrouded in darkness, the only light being the bits of moonlight that reflect off the water Hajime can see out the window, but he can make out the vague shape of his partner seated on the edge of the front porch.

What he’s doing out there, it’s hard to say. Could just be as simple as wanting fresh air. But it’s been a while since Nagito has spent so long out of bed in the middle of the night, and now that Hajime is properly awake his indignation has given way to concern. He swings his legs out of bed, shivers when his bare feet hit the floorboards, and wraps a blanket around himself before he pads out.

The door creaks when Hajime opens it, giving him away. Nagito turns to stare up at him, the moonlight reflecting off his glossy grey eyes, sort of like it would off a cat’s. It’s shitty lighting, but plenty enough for Hajime to see the way that Nagito’s lips crease at the edges in an apologetic smile.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Hajime half-lies, voice still gruff with sleep. Nagito’s absence naturally drew him back into consciousness, true, but it’s not like Nagito did anything wrong. He’s allowed to get out of bed whenever he pleases. Rather than verbalise that thought, Hajime makes his way over and plops down to sit next to Nagito, legs hanging off the edge of the porch. He leans into Nagito’s side, and Nagito winds his non-prosthetic arm around Hajime’s shoulders.

As Nagito threads his fingers through Hajime’s hair, Hajime feels his eyelids start to flutter again, earlier sleepiness crashing over him in a wave. He’d come out here with some intentionality though, intentionality that is rapidly starting to slip away, so he shakes his head slightly to still the movement. The cool weight of Nagito’s hand in Hajime’s hair serves as a distraction, but it’s not so bad that he can’t gather his thoughts enough to speak.

“So what’s the matter?”

“Aha. Does something have to be?” Nagito looks away. He doesn’t have his prosthetic arm to fidget, so instead he plays idly with pieces of Hajime’s hair, his lower lip drawn between his teeth. “Maybe I just felt restless.”

Hajime prods at his side. “Yeah. Hence my question.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Nagito chuckles sheepishly, twitching away from Hajime’s fingers. Hajime prods at him a few more times until Nagito is really laughing, hand falling from his hair so he can push Hajime’s arm away. “Really, I’m okay. Just having some old dreams again, I didn’t want to wake you.”

They’ve had the whole You’re not a nuisance for asking for help talk more times than Hajime can count, so he doesn’t bother trying to chastise Nagito for his instinct. It would be asking a lot of him, to expect that he never fell back on old habits, never tried to make himself scarce, never acted in the interest of not disturbing Hajime’s life—nevermind that their lives are already intrinsically intertwined, given everything that’s happened to them. Hajime likes that, and has said as much before. Likes Nagito, likes how far they’ve come, likes that they’re together, still, after everything—

But it’s harder to be sure of that in the dark after a nightmare, and harder still to bring yourself to act even knowing it. Hajime settles against Nagito’s side, and Nagito allows it once the threat of further pokes has passed. Hajime lets his arm drape loosely around the small of Nagito’s back, flattens his palm between his shoulder blades and rubs up and down. Nagito shivers.

“Well, you woke me.”

“I thought you said I didn’t.”

“Changed my mind.” Hajime yawns. “Anyways, I’m here now if you wanna talk about them.”

Nagito is quiet. Hajime doesn’t push him, although he will if he needs to. The simple fact is that Hajime has nightmares too, and when it happens there are fairly decent odds he’ll just keep them to himself—not because he fears burdening Nagito, who only seems happier the more Hajime relies on him, but out of a sense of embarrassment. That he has them at all, that he continues to have them despite how long it has been. No matter how many Future Foundation therapists tell him it’s only natural to continue to struggle with what they’ve been through, the feeling of shame persists. It burns in Hajime’s chest, along the column of his throat, tickles at the back of his mouth.

How dare you suffer, it whispers, persistent even despite years of clarity, when you were the one causing the suffering in the first place? What do you have to cry about? What did you really lose?

Everything, Hajime reminds it, and will remind Nagito, too, if he must—but Nagito hasn’t said anything concerning yet, and Nagito’s silence feels contemplative rather than self-hating, so for the moment he lets it rest. He lets everything rest.

“There isn’t a lot to say,” Nagito finally admits, and this feels like a candid response rather than a reduction. “A lot of blood. Sometimes I—” He cuts himself off with a light, shaky laugh, his hand falling against Hajime’s shoulder and squeezing, as if for stability. “Sometimes. I dream of—before. Even before the Tragedy. And it’s still—” Nagito clears his throat. “Those dreams are the worst.”

Hajime thinks he can understand that, or at least rationalise it. Nagito’s life was shot well before he fell into despair. They’ve found a balance now, with Hajime’s implanted luck more or less managing to counteract Nagito’s natural luck, but the shadows of everything he’s been through—everything he caused, as Nagito would describe it—have never really vanished. Only been dispelled momentarily by strong beams of sunlight. But the sun’s position in the sky is ever-changing.

And, when it comes to their time in despair—well, at least they weren’t themselves them. Kamukura Izuru is a part of Hajime and always will be, but he is confident and assured in who he is now. Nagito still has his familiar old infatuation with hope, but he doesn’t have the same desperation that he once had, the same need to do anything in its service. They’ve found… stability. When it comes to his past, though, the people he loved and lost… Nagito was just Nagito, back then. A child. There’s no way to excuse or work your way through what happened to him. It was just shit bad luck.

“Is that…” and Hajime falters, because he wants to find a word that encapsulates what he, empathetically, imagines Nagito must be feeling about it without implying that he himself has an opinion, “is that embarrassing? Or does it feel like…”

“Small potatoes? I mean, a little. I know that Koizumi-san would say that it’s still allowed to hurt no matter what came after it, though.” Nagito smiles wryly.

Hajime nudges his arm. “Well, Mahiru’s usually right about that stuff.”

“She is.” Nagito takes in a deep breath, tenses, and then lets it all out, slumping against Hajime’s chest. Hajime adjusts so that he’s sitting up properly, no longer leaning his body weight into Nagito so he can accommodate the change in position. Nagito’s eyes close, pale lashes fluttering against Hajime’s collar. “But they’re old dreams. I’ve made my peace with them. It just…”

They’re miserable to relive, Hajime imagines. And he imagines that Nagito doesn’t want to say as much for fear of sounding like he’s complaining, even if he would have every right to complain under the circumstances. Hajime understands, though, so again he doesn’t push, just grabbing the other end of his blanket and putting it around Nagito’s shoulder. He’s gotten a little chilly sitting out here on the porch, even though it really isn’t that cold out.

When he’s done Hajime cradles the back of Nagito’s neck in his hand. “Is there anything that I can do?”

“This isn’t so bad,” Nagito offers against his chest.

“Well, sure. I’ll do this as long as you want,” Hajime says, “but… anything else?”

Nagito is quiet again as he considers it. It’s this familiar, careful, quiet consideration he always gives to Hajime’s words—has always given to Hajime’s words, ever since they were teenagers, even when he was sneering at Hajime down the bridge of his nose. It can be kind of embarrassing in the daylight, even after three years together, but now it just feels reassuring. It’s nice to know that Nagito is really thinking about his offer in lieu of just dismissing it out of hand.

“No,” Nagito finally decides. “This is plenty, Hajime.” Softer, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Hajime yawns and leans his cheek into the crown of Nagito’s head. “You can wake me up any time this happens, you know that? It’s better for me than waking up cold.”

“Ah,” Nagito says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Wasn’t a genuine complaint,” Hajime snips, lightly pinching the back of Nagito’s neck. Nagito exaggerates a yelp, then giggles, slumping against Hajime’s chest. Hajime just sighs and rubs his palm along the skin he just pinched. “I’m just saying. It’s fine. You can wake me and I won’t be mad. At the most a little grumpy.”

Nagito hums up and down, his smile sneaking into his voice when he speaks. “Nothing worse than a grumpy Hajime in the mornings.”

“You think it’s any better for me?”

Hajime just can’t muster the appropriate indignation for their back and forth, not with Nagito laughing like that. Even in the sombre early-morning-darkness, there’s something so peaceful about this. About having Nagito so close, about the distant sound of waves crashing against the beach. They’re okay, and have been for a while. Maybe a year or two from now, they’ll be even better.

This is more than enough for the moment, though.

“Hajime” Nagito prompts after a longer silence, one of his grey eyes peeking open to stare up at Hajime’s face.

“What is it?”

Nagito’s eye crinkles at the edge. “Thank you.”

“Not sure what you’re thanking me  for,” Hajime mumbles, but nonetheless dips his head to kiss Nagito’s temple. He does, actually, but that goes without saying. A few nights from now, when it’s Hajime’s turn to be woken up from nightmares and Nagito holds him through it—they’ll have a pretty similar back and forth. If not identical. Just how they operate.

Hajime really wouldn’t have it any other way.