As Hinata keeps his back turned, all Komaeda can do is watch the way his body moves in the veiled darkness of the mess hall. His shoulders, his back, his head of wild, short-cropped hair—Komaeda merely watches him as if he is the figment of a lucid dream, like he isn't the same person he knew from the simulation. He knows that's wrong, that somewhere in there, Hajime Hinata lives; but he would be a fool to, at the same time, not remember that within him also lies Izuru Kamukura. Beneath the table, Komaeda's good hand grips his gloved shame.
Silence parses between them, drowning out the sound of the crashing ocean waves which seem so much more distant that right outside of Hotel Mirai. The toaster pops up with a heavy click, breaking that silence in a way that causes Komaeda to jolt. But he keeps staring, unblinking, at the silhouette of Hinata. Just how much of him is Hajime, and how much is Izuru?
His gaze lowers as the plate of toast and glass of milk that are set before him, and with an odd weightlessness, he remembers the last time Hinata had brought him food. Wasn't it when he was tied up, in the simulation? Had they really had any meals together alone?]
You know, Hajime... [Komaeda starts as he reaches for the piece of toast. He's not even that hungry, now that he thinks about it.] ...You're a really stubborn guy. I don't know anyone more stubborn than you are. Only you would try to wake up someone who wanted you dead not too long ago — but I guess for you that was a really long time ago, huh?
[His fingertips break off a corner of the bread, and rather than raising his gaze, he watches the way his meal crumbles beneath his touch.]
If it weren't for your stubbornness, I would suspect that I'm actually talking to Kamukura Izuru, you know?
[Komaeda leans his elbow on the table and brings that small piece of toast to his mouth as he does, along with the slow rise of his eyes. Even in the darkness that shrouds them, he can see those mismatched eyes perfectly clear. Like they cut through everything, even the flesh of his body, straight to his soul.]
What a roundabout way of saying you care about someone. Why did you phrase it like that? You don't have to lie to me if you just feel responsible. I won't hate you for being honest.
no subject
As Hinata keeps his back turned, all Komaeda can do is watch the way his body moves in the veiled darkness of the mess hall. His shoulders, his back, his head of wild, short-cropped hair—Komaeda merely watches him as if he is the figment of a lucid dream, like he isn't the same person he knew from the simulation. He knows that's wrong, that somewhere in there, Hajime Hinata lives; but he would be a fool to, at the same time, not remember that within him also lies Izuru Kamukura. Beneath the table, Komaeda's good hand grips his gloved shame.
Silence parses between them, drowning out the sound of the crashing ocean waves which seem so much more distant that right outside of Hotel Mirai. The toaster pops up with a heavy click, breaking that silence in a way that causes Komaeda to jolt. But he keeps staring, unblinking, at the silhouette of Hinata. Just how much of him is Hajime, and how much is Izuru?
His gaze lowers as the plate of toast and glass of milk that are set before him, and with an odd weightlessness, he remembers the last time Hinata had brought him food. Wasn't it when he was tied up, in the simulation? Had they really had any meals together alone?]
You know, Hajime... [Komaeda starts as he reaches for the piece of toast. He's not even that hungry, now that he thinks about it.] ...You're a really stubborn guy. I don't know anyone more stubborn than you are. Only you would try to wake up someone who wanted you dead not too long ago — but I guess for you that was a really long time ago, huh?
[His fingertips break off a corner of the bread, and rather than raising his gaze, he watches the way his meal crumbles beneath his touch.]
If it weren't for your stubbornness, I would suspect that I'm actually talking to Kamukura Izuru, you know?
[Komaeda leans his elbow on the table and brings that small piece of toast to his mouth as he does, along with the slow rise of his eyes. Even in the darkness that shrouds them, he can see those mismatched eyes perfectly clear. Like they cut through everything, even the flesh of his body, straight to his soul.]
What a roundabout way of saying you care about someone. Why did you phrase it like that? You don't have to lie to me if you just feel responsible. I won't hate you for being honest.