Work Text:
Dating an author like Nagito Komaeda was strange. He was proud of him, of course. The amount of successful titles under his name seemed to grow more each passing year. They’d gone from a tiny studio apartment in a shitty part of town to a real house, a Postmodern marvel of sharp edges and reflecting glass. Komaeda had fawned over it with the realtor-- gasps of “all the rooms!” or “look at this panelling, Hinata-kun!” as they toured the space. He was happier then, too, and he was excited about it all because Komaeda was excited, and he would pretend that the bamboo panelling was the best thing he’d ever seen.
When he’d go to bed at night, he’d press his head against that bamboo panelling separating their bedroom from Komaeda’s studio. He’d listen for the sound of a mechanical keyboard, loud like a gunshot in their little apartment. The hammering would never stop until he was finished. He would never stop until he was finished. Weeks spent in front of that computer, until blood vessels in his eyes would burst from staring at the screen, until his fingers were sore, until the story was done. Sometimes it scared Hinata, but you can’t pull away a man like that. You just wait for him to be done.
He would feel single again, at times. Cooking meals for two but eating alone. Komaeda wanted his meals delivered with a sharp tap on the door, and a careful placement of the plates on his desk. Hinata thought this was a joke at first. That was until Komaeda stopped eating entirely, until he stopped existing outside his studio. Sometimes Hinata would stand outside the door to see if he would stop for a moment to eat, but the hammering never stopped. He would return hours later to the food gone, and the man he wanted to touch feeling so close but so far away simultaneously.
A staple of the Nagito Komaeda writing, he’d been told, was its realism. He had read some of his novels in the beginning, when Komaeda was just making a name for himself. He dislikes horror. And he dislikes the feeling in his stomach the books give him, a jealousy--their ability to control his partner’s life.
He had a morning news story interview for his last book, smiling pretty with his unruly hair fluffed for the camera.
“How do you come up with these plots?” the interviewer had gushed, her blush heavy under the studio lights.
And he had said, “Nothing you can’t do with your imagination and research,” and smiled, that smile that made Hinata remember who’d he met so long ago.
His research has him buying anything related to his books he can get his hands on. Guns, locked up in his studio safe, a database of crime scene photos, and most recently, a collection of poisons. They sit in their fridge like they’re mocking Hinata. Their brown bottles make the liquid inside look murky.
He prepares dinner, a simple meal of curry and rice. Komaeda has been locked in his studio for a week now, leaving the home devoid of himself like a ghost. His belongings still lay around these rooms, his reading glasses still perched on the arm of the couch where he left them when he got his next idea. Creativity hits him like a truck. He’d say it’s just how he works, his brain a ticking time bomb, and you have to write it all out before the memory explodes.
He brings a plate to Komaeda’s office, knocking the door. He receives no answer. A press of his ear to the door brings silence. He feels panic, red hot and searing, turning the door knob to find it unlocked. The computer is shut off. The room is dark.
“I’m finished,” Komaeda says.
He jumps, the contents of the plate nearly ending up on the floor. Komaeda stands behind him, the bags under his eyes turning purple like a bruise. His hair is wet and he smells like Hinata’s body wash and he wants to do a lap around this apartment in joy.
He hugs him and kisses him and forces him to eat at the kitchen table, Komaeda downing the curry like a rabid dog. They can be normal again, a real couple, Hinata’s life back in balance for the precious time until the next story must be written.
“I have a plan,” Komaeda says, his head rubbing up into the palm of Hinata’s hand as he strokes his hair, “for the poison, now that I’m finished with the story.”
“You do?” Hinata says, and his hand falters.
“An interesting theme, to me,” Komaeda begins, “is the idea of luck.” He drags a bony finger down Hinata’s arm, his skin clammy to the touch. His stomach feels uneasy, like a stone setting in his core.
“I think I’m very lucky,” he continues, “to have you, to have my career, to have everything.” He opens the fridge and Hinata sees him pick up that little tupperware box he despises, and he has to train every muscle to not smash the box out of his hands and onto their new kitchen tile.
“One of the bottles isn’t poison. It’s an aphrodisiac,” Komaeda says, whirling one of the bottles in his hand, the liquid bubbling and then settling, “Do you know where I’m going with this?”
“You want us to drink it?” Hinata asks, quietly. It’s not that simple, it can’t be that simple, because nothing with Komaeda is ever that simple.
“I’d like to,” he says, and he smiles, the stupid fucking sweet smile, “but I want to try something I’ve written about.”
“Your writing is different from the real world,” Hinata says, but he knows it’s no use. The mind bomb is ticking, Komaeda itching to try. Hinata watches his hands run over the tops of the bottles over and over, like they’re precious.
“Close your eyes. You’ll pick.”
Komaeda closes his own, shuffling the bottles. They clank together in his hands, all identical, like a sea of tiny bottles. He closes his eyes and puts his hands over Komaeda’s. It feels like minutes of shuffling, of moving the cold glass.
“Pick.”
He moves his fingers against the multitude of bottles, the condescension beginning to form on their outsides. He picks.
He opens his eyes, and finds Komaeda smiling.
--
Their bodies mash together like animals, like a desperate frenzy of more, more, more. Sweat coats them and makes them slide against each other, slick like snail slime. Hinata thinks he might die. Each stroke of Komaeda’s hips drives pathetic sounds out of his throat, a babble of: “Harder, Ko, please,”. His bangs stick to his forehead and his body jerks as Komaeda fucks him with glassy eyes and a practically drooling mouth, his legs pushed back toward his chest.
“We’re meant to be,” Komaeda chokes out, swallowing the drool in his mouth, “even the universe knows it.”