![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Really rude OT3 fic
I guess after Thursday this is an AU. Please take care, the beginning is intense. Also, I’m sorry.
Oh. You’re having another garbage bag dream.
It’s more a memory than a dream, but you still know that you’re dreaming. You’re a bit part actor in your own play, and you don’t have any control over the ending.
…You don’t have control over a lot of things. That’s fine, though.
Thoughts are chased out of you as you’re suddenly moving within the bag, tumbling around in the inky blackness and hearing the plastic crinkle all around you.
Over that cacophony, you can hear the voice that you loathe.
“Mine, mine, mine, all mine… Pretty pretty pretty.
My pretty little piece of trash.”
And even though you know what’s coming, even though you’ve done this dance a million times – you still act out your part.
The material of the trash bag makes its way towards your throat as you try to scream.
But it’s okay – because despite the panic that’s rattling in your chest in spite of knowing this was years ago, when you try to grip what’s in front of you, there’s a feeling of paper in one hand and the sound of tearing coming from the direction of the other.
You’re so fortunate. You’re so lucky.
~
…Wait.
You shouldn’t be dreaming anything.
You already killed yourself.
~
Consciousness feels weird, when you think you should be dead. Or at least, that’s what you think.
You’re in a hospital bed, but not like that’s anything new. By now you know your way around a hospital, and this could definitely be the one in Jabberwock, but something is different if it is. There’s a constant hum of machinery that’s probably going to drive you mad at some point, and it looks like things have been shoved into the room without much thought involved. Almost like someone was in a hurry, perhaps.
…But why? This shouldn’t have happened like this.
Your thoughts are a rush of real or not real as your damaged brain wars with the memories it’s been presented. There are notable holes you can recognize, and you struggle to find the order of events. You’re a student at Hope’s Peak Academy. You are Super High School Level Luck, and also Super High School Level Despair. You agreed to be part of a program- you killed yourself- you had a school field trip- your parents died from a meteor- you met Hinata and-
You have to shut your eyes. Your head hurts, and you know what’s going on even less than you did before.
When you’re able to look around again, you do, actually turning your head more fully – and you find something that you didn’t see on your first inspection.
You find Someone.
He looks… almost unchanged from the last time you saw him, which is strangely fuzzy. Your eyes run over him, inexplicably drinking in the sight of him even though you know who he is. He’s in a strange position in the chair he’s seated in, head lolling on one arm of the chair and legs flopped over the other, and you don’t want to admit it but the way his feet stick in the air is… cute. Really cute. He also has a small bit of drool escaping from his mouth along with his soft snores, and that’s cute also.
What you find that isn’t cute is the visible smudges of dirt on his face, and the tear tracks that carve a path down his cheeks.
“Hi-” His name catches in your throat, not only because of disuse, and you hate it. “Hinata-kun-”
Like you’ve summoned him, his eyes snap open.
Red on his left, green on his right.
Oh. You’re having another garbage bag dream.
It’s more a memory than a dream, but you still know that you’re dreaming. You’re a bit part actor in your own play, and you don’t have any control over the ending.
…You don’t have control over a lot of things. That’s fine, though.
Thoughts are chased out of you as you’re suddenly moving within the bag, tumbling around in the inky blackness and hearing the plastic crinkle all around you.
Over that cacophony, you can hear the voice that you loathe.
“Mine, mine, mine, all mine… Pretty pretty pretty.
My pretty little piece of trash.”
And even though you know what’s coming, even though you’ve done this dance a million times – you still act out your part.
The material of the trash bag makes its way towards your throat as you try to scream.
But it’s okay – because despite the panic that’s rattling in your chest in spite of knowing this was years ago, when you try to grip what’s in front of you, there’s a feeling of paper in one hand and the sound of tearing coming from the direction of the other.
You’re so fortunate. You’re so lucky.
~
…Wait.
You shouldn’t be dreaming anything.
You already killed yourself.
~
Consciousness feels weird, when you think you should be dead. Or at least, that’s what you think.
You’re in a hospital bed, but not like that’s anything new. By now you know your way around a hospital, and this could definitely be the one in Jabberwock, but something is different if it is. There’s a constant hum of machinery that’s probably going to drive you mad at some point, and it looks like things have been shoved into the room without much thought involved. Almost like someone was in a hurry, perhaps.
…But why? This shouldn’t have happened like this.
Your thoughts are a rush of real or not real as your damaged brain wars with the memories it’s been presented. There are notable holes you can recognize, and you struggle to find the order of events. You’re a student at Hope’s Peak Academy. You are Super High School Level Luck, and also Super High School Level Despair. You agreed to be part of a program- you killed yourself- you had a school field trip- your parents died from a meteor- you met Hinata and-
You have to shut your eyes. Your head hurts, and you know what’s going on even less than you did before.
When you’re able to look around again, you do, actually turning your head more fully – and you find something that you didn’t see on your first inspection.
You find Someone.
He looks… almost unchanged from the last time you saw him, which is strangely fuzzy. Your eyes run over him, inexplicably drinking in the sight of him even though you know who he is. He’s in a strange position in the chair he’s seated in, head lolling on one arm of the chair and legs flopped over the other, and you don’t want to admit it but the way his feet stick in the air is… cute. Really cute. He also has a small bit of drool escaping from his mouth along with his soft snores, and that’s cute also.
What you find that isn’t cute is the visible smudges of dirt on his face, and the tear tracks that carve a path down his cheeks.
“Hi-” His name catches in your throat, not only because of disuse, and you hate it. “Hinata-kun-”
Like you’ve summoned him, his eyes snap open.
Red on his left, green on his right.