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The night sky is wide above Musutafu, stretching into eternity as wind carves through the city. Dabi stands alone on an abandoned rooftop, head tipped back as he stares sightlessly at what stars are visible. Smoke curls into the air around him, both from his cigarette and his skin still burning from overuse. The acrid scents of singed skin and tobacco are underscored by the scent of cooking blood seeping out around the edge of his stables, and the burn in his lungs is nothing compared to burning alive.
It’s gotten harder to control himself since Tomura sent him away.
It isn’t as though he doesn’t understand — Tomura’s goals come first, even at the cost of whatever nebulous thing had begun to bloom between them. Tomura has better things to do than worry about a man who’s going to kill himself for the cause.
The black polish on his nails peels and curls as a fresh wave of heat sears through him. Blue shimmers across his fingertips as he holds a hand up to the blackness above, and he resents that to anyone else, it would be a beautiful sight.
To him, it’s the latest in a long line of failures.
He steps back to lean against a crumbling wall and watches orange suffuse the space between his cupped hands as he takes another drag. It isn’t like there’s anything fun to watch down below, anyway. He’s holed up in an old warehouse with nothing but a shitty little cot for comfort, but that’s nothing new. He’s been stuffed into worse places with more people and lived to tell the tale.
(He thinks of the softness of Tomura’s hair under his cheek as they laid together in a safehouse, Twice snoring loudly in his ear on the other side. Of the way Tomura’s hands curled between their chests, of the way his face is almost kind when slack with sleep.
Of Toga’s look when he crawled over the pile of bodies to shove himself beside Tomura, citing that it’s cold.
Of wanting.
Of need.
Of him.)
He should text him, but he won’t. Not tonight. He’s discarded villain after shitty villain because Tomura deserves the best for his army, but when all the chaff’s burned away, it turns out there’s very little in the area to work with. Tomura deserves better than what Dabi can give him. He’s probably busy anyway — the clock may be pushing 2 AM, but Tomura’s no stranger to sleepless nights, especially if they mean marching toward where he wants to be.
It isn’t often anymore that that place is by Dabi’s side, but that’s…fine.
It’s fine.
Dabi pulls out his phone, but doesn’t bother swiping it open as he sinks to sit on the rooftop. There’s only a few pulls left on his cigarette and he takes them in quickly before incinerating the butt. Ash dances like snowflakes on the breeze, and he lets out a dry, rasping sigh as he lets his head tip back against the brick.
It isn’t as though Tomura would call him home, anyway. It’s a fool’s errand to think otherwise, even if he’s breaking.
What’s another man down to Tomura?
Someone cries out on the street below. He doesn’t care who it is — they’re not worth wasting time on.
They cry out again, voice morphing quickly into choked panic.
Good.
The world blurs in kaleidoscopic colors as he rises, unable to focus his gaze on any one thing until he looks down to see a body lying in the pooling light of the streetlamp. They’re slowly crawling forward as though anyone’s coming to help; a spider, six legs broken and waiting to be crushed by a boot.
Another person skitters out from the shadows. They’re in all black, a hood covering their face even though it’s the middle of the night. There’s a low hum of indecipherable conversation before the newcomer reaches for the dying person’s hand, and Dabi’s heart stutters as he watches the body collapse into nothing.
“Creep,” he manages to croak out before his knees buckle. He crashes to the roof, swallowing down a pained grunt as several staples in his stomach tear loose. The world dims as he just lays there, curling in on himself as the fire licking through him burns brighter.
Fuck, Tomura shouldn’t see him like this, but soon enough red eyes cut through the darkness.
“Where the fuck have you been,” is the first thing Tomura hisses. He squats, and Dabi leans instinctively away as a hand snakes toward his forehead. Tomura’s faster, though, and the papery skin not covered by his glove is freezing. “What’s happening?” he asks then, and Dabi tries not to let the sudden concern root in his chest. “What have you done?”
“My job,” Dabi whispers.
“Liar.”
“I don’t lie to you,” Dabi says. “Ain’t my fault no one in the area’s worth taking the chance on, Hands.”
(((they get down from the roof and into one of the offices in the warehouse Dabi’s staying at)))
“No wonder you look like shit,” Tomura says, glancing furtively around the dank room Dabi’s holed himself up in for several weeks now.
Dabi hacks out a laugh. “I’m burning alive. That’s the reason.” He leans back against the wall and lets his head loll to the side, eyes sliding shut. “Feel like shit, too,” he says, but it’s softer. A large part of him hopes Tomura won’t hear; a smaller, more secret part cries out for acknowledgement like he’s a little boy once again. He smashes his palm against his forehead. “Got any painkillers stuffed in those pockets?”
“I didn’t come here with the intention of patching you up,” Tomura says. Then he spits “Freak,” like he’s afraid Dabi might cling too hard to any attention.
“Fuckhands,” Dabi mumbles.
“I’ll leave.”
“You won’t,” Dabi says, because Tomura came here for a reason. He’s a busy man–to come in person means something major has happened. Whether it’s good news or bad news, Dabi isn’t sure. He grins and feels his cheeks begin to split. “I think you missed me~”
“Missing people is for fools,” Tomura replies without skipping a beat. “For losers. It’s a weakness to exploit.”
“Yeah, but sometimes it’s nice to know someone’s waiting, isn’t it?”
Tomura is silent as he roots around in Dabi’s bag at the end of the bed, and the sound of fabric ripping as he tears apart a shirt is thunderous in the stillness. He cracks open a water bottle and douses the pieces before looping one around Dabi’s neck. His fingers linger on ruined skin and warm staples, undeterred by the way steam rises from the cloth even as it soothes the burning.
“You missed me,” Dabi mumbles. He lists to the side, and Tomura catches him, guides him gently down to lay on the pillow before Dabi smashes his head on the wall.
“So what,” Tomura says. “You’re still a pain in the ass.” He sighs, but continues to tend to Dabi.
It’s been a long time since anyone’s done anything so kind for him.
It doesn’t make it any easier to remind himself that Tomura has better things to do.
Dabi lays on the shitty cot quietly, the thick blanket of silence only broken by the slosh of water, the rustle of fabric, and the occasional muttered order from Tomura. In the silence, he drifts. He allows himself to be moved, to be fussed over–
(and wouldn’t that be funny, he thinks, getting Tomura to admit he cares enough to fuss)
–and to let Tomura’s touch tear holes in the fabric of their reality.
They’re not kind; caring is for better people. This is the knowledge that keeps him going, keeps him sane even as he listens to the screams of the dying.
Caring is for cowards and he refuses to add cowardice to his list of failures.
He doesn’t realize his eyes are welling until cool thumbs brush against his under-eye scars.
“Don’t,” Tomura says softly. “You’re stronger than that.”
“Who the fuck else is gonna see, Hands?” Dabi bats Tomura’s arms away, crossing his own and turning away. He plants his face firmly in the pillow and breathes deeply, evenly–anything to help him put the tears back where they belong. “You should go.”
“You’re not well.”
“Do you really care?”
“You’re a fool,” Tomura says. “I don’t enjoy tending to your wounds. Your burnt flesh stinks just as bad as anyone’s, but you don’t see me running to patch up anyone caught in your crossfire.”
“You don’t have to.” Dabi’s voice cracks at the threat of rejection, because of course he’s disgusting. He’s a mess, inside and out, and his face burns as tears turn to steam.
“You never listen,” Tomura whispers.
“Maybe you should just come out and say it,” Dabi says.
“What am I going to say?”
Dabi curls in on himself, knees tucked to his chest and arms protecting his face from the weight of Tomura’s eyes. The pieces of fabric laid across him are beginning to dry and crackle, but it doesn’t deter Tomura from sitting closer and attempting to cool him.
“Tell me.”
“I’m a disappointment,” Dabi breathes. Saying it aloud relieves the tiniest bit of pressure inside his chest, and Tomura’s hand resting on his hip unravels the last vestiges of his self-control. “I’m just trying to be good,” he continues, because now that the words are alive, they won’t stop spilling out. “I can’t control it. It hurts, but it’s for you, and I—” he thrusts his hands through his hair, pulls tighter into himself to try and muffle the words “—just want—I’m good, I’m a good boy, just for—”
He doesn’t get to finish before Tomura’s prying him out of position and pulling him up.