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kmhnsecretexchange · 2 years

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Title: Clean Wounds Author: @vampireghostlawyer For: @_stelitsa_ Pairings/Characters: komahina, kamukoma Rating/Warnings: M, tw talk about Komaeda's arm and prosthetic, tw mentions of blood, tw stitches, tw suggestive language Prompt: kamukoma daily life, post canon sharing a bed Author’s notes: I tried to combine two of the prompts you gave, I hope that's okay :'0. Your prompts were all really fun and I had a tough time deciding which ones to go with, so I hope this is something you end up enjoying!! I wanted to include your details about Komaeda's prosthetic and Kamukoma's apartment being both nice and not and I had a lot of fun getting to write Kamukura. I really hope you like it! ; o ;

“...Hey.” Hajime hadn’t meant to wake up Nagito when he got back into bed. He’d left the lights off, crept across the cottage in his socks, and spent a full minute just slowly pulling the blanket back in hopes of letting Nagito sleep. Nagito didn’t sleep nearly enough.

“Hajime?” Nagito’s eyes had opened as soon as he’d felt his weight on the mattress. “You’re back late.”

“Naegi called, there was a thing at Future Foundation, it-” Hajime shook his head and pulled the blankets farther over himself and Nagito. “It was nothing. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“Don’t apologize.” Nagito sighed, leaning closer to the warmth of Hajime’s skin. The top of Nagito’s hair tickled Hajime’s nose, but he didn’t mind. He wrapped an arm around him, feeling Nagito’s breathing slowly deepen and even out until he was fully asleep. He breathed in Nagito’s scent, his flowery shampoo and the detergent he used on the pillowcases. Hajime had learned after they’d moved in together that Nagito had sensitive skin. He’d started buying a better detergent, purposefully not telling Nagito so he could avoid the “oh, Hajime, that’s not necessary, it’s probably a bother-” speech. If Nagito noticed Hajime went out of his way to make his life easier, he did his best to ignore it and pretend it was an accident -- an attempt at keeping away the terrifying thought that Hajime was treating him too nicely, that everything would end how his luck always did.

Hajime watched Nagito’s sleeping form for a moment, until he was satisfied Nagito wasn’t going to suddenly disappear or change, or turn out to be another simulation. He moved to his back, staring up at the blank ceiling with the empty feeling he’d grown used to since the game ended. Piece by piece, that emptiness had taken a name: Izuru Kamukura. He’d come to realize that all of those moments when he’d leave his own mind, only to come back to his senses a few minutes later, confused and dizzy, were Izuru. Every once and a while, his voice would creep back into Hajime’s head with cold observations and cruel suggestions. Hajime did his best to ignore them. Ironically, what was even worse than Izuru’s voice were his memories. Those memories clawed at Hajime, like they wanted not just to crawl back into his head, but to rip a piece out of him to make room for themselves. He ran a hand through Nagito’s hair, looking for a distraction. He shivered and blinked, the room suddenly much older and colder, the walls painted gray. He shook his head and swallowed. Would it be better to just entertain those memories? Hajime wondered to himself. He clutched a hand in the blanket and squeezed his eyes shut.

Normally, he tried to avoid them. He’d turn on the television or open one of Nagito’s many books. If that didn’t work, he’d walk somewhere else on the island, listening to music loud enough to hurt until he found someone else awake with nightmares. He avoided caffeine and alone time and any other thing that might let him be alone with his memories, even if he knew they were inescapable. But that hasn’t worked for me. Like… at all. Hajime grimaced, thinking of all the times the stress had been enough to make him vomit or develop a migraine severe enough that he couldn’t get out of bed. He laced his fingers through Nagito’s, which made his arm twitch, but he stayed asleep. Hajime sucked in a breath. He closed his eyes.

---

“Izuru?” A quiet, raspy voice echoed through the apartment when Izuru shoved the door open. Neither of them bothered with locks anymore. The only item Nagito cherished was sewn to him and Izuru both cared little for his possessions, and also knew he could easily kill anyone who dared to try and take something from him.

Izuru tried to step into the apartment, but his foot hit flesh and he sighed, scowling down at the mess in front of him. Nagito was laying on the hardwood of the apartment, eyes half open and staring at Izuru with fascination. There was something written on his face in marker, half smudged away. The first few times Izuru had found Nagito collapsed around his apartment, there’d been shame and never ending babbling about how sorry he was for intruding. Then eventually, Nagito had been somewhere in his apartment every night and shame turned out to be one of the many emotions Nagito wasn’t sure he could feel anymore.

It was rare to find Nagito actually in bed. Most days, he didn’t come back to the apartment until he was so exhausted and sick that he could barely stand. He’d make it to some corner of Izuru’s place and collapse, passing out until Izuru was annoyed enough to wake him up, or a few days of sleeping passed. Somewhere, distantly, Izuru was aware he should probably have been wary of how exhausted Nagito was, considering the instructions Junko had left for him were far less exhausting than what she’d entrusted to most of his peers. It was clear that Nagito was doing something on his own, pulling some other unfortunate souls’ strings because he had no more control over his own. Izuru, however, could not bring himself to care.

“Get up.” Izuru sighed and stepped over Nagito.

“You know I would love to do whatever you asked, Izuru, but I can’t.” Nagito closed his eyes and let his head rest back on the floor. “I hurt my legs.”

“How did you get here, then?” Izuru narrowed his eyes. That explains the smell of blood. He glanced at Nagito’s thighs, where deep gashes in the denim of his jeans confirmed his story. Izuru, with an indignant puff of air, picked up Nagito. The man had been skinny even before the tragedy, and now that he rarely ate and let himself waste away most days, he was almost laughably light. It took little effort for Izuru to carry him to the apartment’s bed and set him down unceremoniously. “Turn on the TV, I want to watch the news.”

“Of course.” Nagito reached for the remote as Izuru walked towards the kitchen.

The apartment had previously belonged to some wealthy stock broker, long dead in one of the piles of bodies outside. Izuru had looked through his paperwork when he’d first moved in, the Ultimate Economist inside him making hundreds of silent corrections to his work. It was a penthouse apartment, all gray and black in what the Ultimate Interior Designer told Hajime was a surprisingly tasteful take on modern decorating. He hadn’t changed much when he’d moved in. He couldn’t even be bothered to scrub away the large blood stain that had covered one of the walls. Nagito had done it for him one day, without being asked. That was when Izuru had realized Nagito had some uses besides babysitting.

In the kitchen, Izuru was comparing those uses against the ease of just letting Nagito die of blood loss in the bed. He didn’t want to necessarily kill Nagito, despite Nagito’s fairly constant pleas for him to strangle him, smother him, stab him, or whatever other method Nagito could think of that day. Unlike most people, Izuru struggled to predict Nagito’s exact actions, which made it hard to ignore the small possibility he would one day be useful and Izuru would regret killing him.

So, Izuru knew he wasn’t going to go out of his way to kill Nagito, but it still left the decision of whether Nagito was worth expending effort to actually keep alive. His hand ghosted the thin scar on his cheek, from Junko’s first true killing game. He inwardly groaned at the fact that of everyone to have been useful, of course it had to be the member of class 77 who would be the most difficult to take care of. Nagito held no care for himself. He was constantly getting injured or injuring himself, not to mention at some point, Izuru knew his cancer would have to start causing problems. At least the others can keep themselves alive. Izuru reached for a high shelf to grab his first aid kit. A moment passed before he could force himself to open the fridge and make the easiest combination of items he could find. Expending so much effort for someone who wasn’t himself felt like a waste. He did it anyway. He wasn’t sure what compelled him, but unlike despair, it felt like the sort of unknown that was embarrassing to dwell on, not interesting.

It was only a few minutes before he was back in the bedroom. Nagito watched him approach with curious eyes. He didn’t have the decency to look wary. The others, even in their despair, knew to look away or flinch when Izuru was too loud or too close, when his attention was focused on them and them alone. Nagito, however, was either unafraid of whatever Izuru could inflict on him, or knew Izuru had no plans to hurt him. Izuru wasn’t sure which was more humiliating.

“A new game was organized.” Nagito gestured towards the television with Junko’s hand. Her fingers, in their rigor mortis, seemed like they were vaguely pointing. Izuru couldn’t help but remember how that hand had felt before it was detached, rotting on Nagito’s arm. “I don’t know who the players are, you’ll have to forgive me.” He continued.

“Responders who tried to prevent the tragedy or help the survivors afterwards.” Izuru only had to glance at the screen to know.

“Ah.” Nagito watched the screen with bored eyes. “So, are you going to kill me? I’m very weak right now, it would be easy.” The boredom in his eyes was gone.

“You’re always weak. I could easily kill you whenever I wanted to.” Izuru said, as if he hadn’t tried and it had been his own foolish hand that stopped himself from doing it. “Eat.” He shoved the plate towards Nagito, who looked bewildered at being offered food. He immediately tried to hand it back.

“You don’t have to cook for me, surely these ingredients could be better used sustaining you, someone far more important than-”

“I wouldn’t eat something so simple and tasteless.” Izuru let go of the plate, forcing Nagito to grab hold of it to stop it from falling onto the comforter. “Your bruises are taking longer to heal than they should and you’re losing weight rapidly. If you die of malnourishment, you can’t fulfill Junko’s goals for you.”

“You’re so kind Izuru, to think of Junko’s will and my own, failing health.” Nagito smiled brightly, but still didn’t start eating. Izuru sat on the bed next to Nagito and pulled his legs over his lap. He unbuttoned Nagito’s jeans and started pulling them down. Half of him wondered why Nagito would wear such tight jeans when they were clearly inefficient, but somewhere in him, the Ultimate Fashionista chided him for such a thoughtless comment about fashion. He hated hearing from her the most. The other ultimates were just sort of vague visions in his head, knowledge that he somehow had, or his own voice reminding him of something, but Ultimate Fashionista was always different. Girlish, high, purposefully drawn out to be underestimated. A voice he knew well. He grimaced and continued pulling off Nagito’s pants.

“Oh-” Nagito watched for a second, before reaching for Izuru’s fly. Izuru swatted his hand away. Nagito’s eyes went wide, a thousand questions threatening to burst out of his mouth if Izuru didn’t stop him.

“You need stitches.” Izuru didn’t bother explaining more. Nagito seemed relieved that Izuru had swatted him away for something that wasn’t his fault.

One of Nagito’s many uses was the fact that he offered Izuru an easy way to get off. They rarely fucked, that would take too much time from Izuru’s schedule, but Izuru knew that despite not feeling like a human, he still had the needs of one. Nagito had made it clear from his first night in the apartment that he was more than happy to offer a hand or a mouth whenever Izuru desired. At first, Izuru had assumed he was just easy. Nagito Komaeda wasn’t exactly chaste, especially not since the tragedy had caused him to leave his shame and decency behind most of the time. But despite Nagito’s best efforts to continue his self-deprecating, apathetic schtick, Izuru was aware enough to catch the moments when it slipped, and he realized Nagito Komaeda had a crush on him.

Even just thinking the word felt juvenile. Izuru could laugh at the idea of still being able to feel anything resembling such emotions after everything they’d been through, but somehow, despite his attempts to be turned off by it, it was even more intriguing to Izuru. It meant that no matter what sort of front Nagito put up, no matter what he said, there was still enough of him left to experience such a weak, human emotion. He was less bothered by everything than Izuru had assumed.

“You don’t have to bother with that, infections aren’t that serious.” Nagito looked at his legs. “My luck makes it difficult to die from something like that. Of course, you probably know that even better than I do. I’m sure your luck is even stronger at preventing injuries…”

Izuru ignored him and reached for the first aid kit. “Eat and watch the television. Tell me who dies.” Izuru started with cleaning the wounds, which were surprisingly deep. Maybe it was just Nagito’s luck that they barely skirted his femoral arteries, leaving him alive. Even his major tendons were left untouched, just fat, muscle, and skin torn by something incredibly sharp. Izuru inspected one of the wounds, pressing on either side of it to get a closer look at the edges. Nagito winced, but didn’t move. There had been two blades, he could see, each working at the same time, perfectly even. One side of each blade was duller than the other side. Scissors? He wondered with curiosity. What was Nagito doing to himself with scissors? Did he do this to himself or was this someone else?

“Your talent as Ultimate Chef is truly amazing, Izuru.” Nagito pressed his luck by saying something unrelated to what Izuru had asked of him. Izuru ignored him, beginning to suture the wounds shut with a steady, even hand. “And of course, you even have a talent for that-” Nagito smiled widely, watching Izuru work. “Compared with my own handiwork, I should be ashamed.” He lifted Junko’s hand again and it sagged downwards, pulling on already uneven and superficial stitches.

“A dog could stitch better.” Izuru agreed without looking up. Nagito blushed at the insult, cradling Junko’s hand to his chest. Izuru didn’t point out that Nagito had done it one handed, likely in a state of shock and severe blood loss. Nagito was grateful he didn’t, reveling in the chance to let someone else confirm his constant deprecation.

“A priest and a surgeon were killed.” Nagito looked at the TV.

“Who killed them?”

“A fireman… I think.” Nagito tilted his head. “For such a strenuous job, you would think he’d choose a more exciting weapon. There’s a police officer, maybe he has a gun? That would be an interesting weapon for the game.” Nagito’s eyes lit up at the idea. “It was so smart of Junko to plan ahead and even set up a game to punish any of us who try to remedy the damage she caused.” Nagito’s eyes were practically sparkling.

“‘Any of us?’” Izuru questioned Nagito including himself among the traitors. Nagito paused and laughed uneasily. Izuru tied off the knot on the other leg’s stitches and started wrapping them in gauze. “Keep this clean.” He looked into Nagito’s eyes and he nodded. “And don’t pull on the stitches like you do with your arm. You’re lucky it hasn’t fallen off yet.” His voice was cold.

---

Hajime’s eyes opened and darted to where Nagito’s arm ended below his elbow, the clean, healed scars looked so different from the discolored, rotting mess in his memories. He swallowed down the bile in his throat. “Nagito?” Hajime’s voice was quiet, but Nagito stirred anyway.

“Mm?” He didn’t open his eyes.

“How much do you remember? From the tragedy, I mean.” Hajime wasn’t sure how far it was ethical to take his line of questioning. Nagito had just as much pain in his memories as Hajime did. Nagito opened his eyes and rolled over, facing Hajime with an unreadable expression.

“Why do you ask?”

“I…” Hajime trailed off. “I remember sometimes. I dunno.”

“You’re getting nervous over insignificant things.” Nagito sighed and stretched, sitting up slightly. “You probably remember as much as I do, honestly. Most of that time was a blur.”

“Not insignificant.” Hajime shook his head, a hand unconsciously moving to the scars on Nagito’s thighs. Nagito’s eyes flitted to him at the contact, but he didn’t make an effort to move Hajime's hands away. After being under the blanket so long, Nagito’s thighs were warm to the touch. It was a small comfort to Hajime.

“I kept them clean, like you asked.” Nagito’s voice was half a laugh, the quiet, bubbling mirth that was always there. “They healed well, see?”

He swallowed, his throat dry and pricking. His eyes moved back to the scars crawling over Nagito’s arm, to his prosthetic a few feet away. He’d had had to cut off an extra few inches of Nagito’s arm when he’d removed Junko’s, so long ago now. Infection had creeped down from her flesh into his blood and the horribly done stitches, and Hajime had felt a brief flash of irritation that Nagito hadn’t listened to him. At the time, he didn’t even have a memory of telling Nagito off for his poor amputation hygiene, only a faint annoyance in a cold voice at the back of his head that was only half his.

He wondered what it meant that Nagito had been willing to cut off his arm out of dedication to a woman, but he still couldn’t compel himself to make an effort to clean what was left of her, even when it affected his health. Hajime wondered what it meant that he’d made an off hand comment to Nagito about keeping two comparatively minor scars clean and they were somehow the most well healed wounds on his body.

Nagito watched him eye his scars and sighed quietly, pushing the blanket the rest of the way off his body. He stood up from the bed and knelt by one of their bookshelves. “You’re not going to sleep.” It wasn’t a question, Nagito knew Hajime well enough to know that sleeping when he was dwelling on Izuru would just result in a long night of either nightmares or stress headaches.

“But you could. I’ll just go to the hotel or something-”

“We haven’t seen this movie in a while.” Nagito cut him off. He held up a movie from the bookshelf. It was too dark for Hajime to see the cover. A warm feeling washed over him.

“You should really sleep if you can-” Hajime tried again, but Nagito was walking back to the bed, stopping at the TV to put in the movie and start it. He got back into bed with Hajime and pulled the blanket over them both, resting his head against Hajime’s shoulder. The warmth of his body and the blanket, and the even rhythm of his breathing were calming to Hajime. He took a deep breath, relaxing into Nagito and wrapping an arm around him. “Thanks, Nagito.” Hajime pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

Nagito didn’t respond, just buried himself deeper in Hajime’s arms. Minutes passed, and the movie, some random German film Sonia had recommended and Hajime probably would have never bought before Ultimate Film Critic had been injected into him, played on. Nagito watched it, half interested, until he felt the arm around him grow heavier and the rise and fall of Hajime’s chest grow deeper. “Goodnight, Hajime.” He whispered and let his eyes fall closed again.

#kmhnsecretexchange #submission #fanfiction #suggestive #komahina #kamukoma #nagito komaeda #hajime hinata #izuru kamukura #sdr2

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