Chapter Text
The white bandage was wrapped around pale skin tightly, the pink blood quick to stain the fabric as soon as it was wrapped around it. Nagito murmured words of thanks to Hajime, who insisted it was what he ‘had to do.’ Nagito highly doubted that. After his suicide plan had ultimately failed, he’d had some time to think. Fuyuhiko had called him psychotic, he could remember that clearly. The rest was a blood, pain, yelling, god, the noise. The way he could scream due to the tape over his mouth and how he’d struggled against the restraints when no poison was released to kill him and instead had to deal with the pain from the injuries and the fear, the last minute hesitation and the sudden urge to back out when he’d saw the spear above him.
Hinata had been nothing but kind to him. He’d took care of him, bandaged him up, helped him in and out of bed and even brought food for him. Something inside him hated it, though. Because of him, they could no longer find the traitor. Or, not the way he had wanted. They still had a chance, yes, but would they manage? He wasn’t sure. Maybe his luck would act up and they’d find the traitor, but he’d get killed for it instead.
. . .
Could he even tell them? Could he tell him that he knew? It would be the right thing, yes, but the hope in their eyes when they realised they’d figured it out, and the despair when they realised who the traitor was. He smiled at the thought. The despair that would soon blossom into a gorgeous hope. He whined, shifting to scratch at where the bandage was. It made him itch badly and he wondered why they made them like this. It was inconvenient and frankly a little stupid, like they were trying to discourage people from wearing them by making them uncomfortable and instead making them just suffer through the pain and bleed everywhere and die.
He wouldn’t really mind that. In fact, it was a nice thought. He wouldn’t have to feel any of this ever again. He’d finally be ‘free’ in a way. Free from the suffering and the long term consequences of being somewhat lucky. The consequence of having no parents to turn to. The consequence of the fact that it was useless to make friends as he would most likely die soon anyways. If he didn’t, more bad things would happen. Bad luck, then some luck, then bad luck, then luck, then back luck, then luck. It was a never ending cycle. It haunted him, never left him alone no matter how much he wanted it to. Maybe death was the only option. The only way to break the cycle was to give in and die.
He’d tried that, just there, when he’d set up the suicide attempt. It hadn’t worked. Now he was lying here, bandages tightly wrapped around his hand, thighs and his arm. It almost made him feel a little hope. Almost. If Hinata managed to have hope in him, how could he not have hope in himself? Hinata was here for him right now, making sure he wouldn’t die, making sure he was stable and his condition wouldn’t suddenly plummet. He knew he should be thankful, but he couldn’t.
When someone with an ultimate talent like him was forced to be cared for by someone as useless as a reserve course student, it was unpleasant. He’d been bitchy, passive aggressive, tried threatening him once or twice but for some odd reason Hinata didn’t leave him alone.
Then he came to the conclusion that the others were forcing him to, like the time Mahiru had made Hinata come feed him toast rather than doing it herself. If she’d just done it, she may have survived at least a bit longer. It was unfortunate, but it was what needed to be done to bring hope to the class. If he couldn’t be the one to bring hope, he’d kneel and allow the ultimates to use him as a bridge to get across the river of despair to find that hope, to find themselves, to understand the glory that was hope. He’d lead them somewhere better, somewhere that could make him useful.
He undid the bandage on his hand, sighing in relief. His skin thanked him, the fabric was uncomfortable, and Hinata had it done ridiculously tight to the point he thought it was unnecessary. It was no surprise though, Hinata was a reserve course student, he probably had no idea how to do any of this stuff and was just winging it and trying to impress the ultimates by being able to keep him alive and well. It was bullshit. Maybe his ridiculous hair was also contributing to his lack of talent? Or maybe that was just because he didn’t have any skill with scissors. Though, was he really one to talk?
. . .
It was different. Hajime wasn’t talented, he was. He had reasons, he was too busy being a stepping stone for hope. That was his excuse. It was feeble and anyone could argue that his talent was no reason for his hair to be the way it was.
A quiet whine escaped him as he moved his hand, the pain from the wound and mess from the blood leaking out once more seemed to frustrate him. If he couldn’t at least keep the place clean while he was being useless, what could he do? Nothing. Maybe he’d make sure to smear the blood into the pillow just to give Hajime a little extra work. He’d say something sarcastic, add a little rude comment about Hajime, and he’d be sure to either piss him off or somewhat hurt his ego. He’d have to wait for Hajime to come back, though.