[ His eyelids droop, falling into some ambiguous, somber gaze cast down at the man half-sprawled against the bartop. His fingers twitch and clench—he wants to reach out, to reach for Dabi's arm, his shoulder, his face, to wipe that discontent from his features. He hates feeling helpless. He usually isn't. There's usually something he can do to get rid of the feeling—something to break, a plan to advance, a direction to give. It wouldn't mean shit? He would've been content to keep Endeavor locked up in the basement, bound up like a punching bag, like an animal carcass, if that's what Dabi wanted.
But it isn't. He doesn't know what he wants, and that's a problem. What can Tomura do for someone who doesn't even know what he wants? All he can think of is himself—how he's the one who wants to draw the conflict out of Dabi's mind, to coax him back into that casual, languid mood they shared before it all went to shit. As much as anything can go more to shit beyond being trapped in this nonsensical place. How selfish is that? ]
You know it does.
[ Drives him crazy. Like he hadn't done his time ranting in Dabi's room when he heard about it, that piece of shit no. 2 showing up. It's salt in the wound not to be able to get rid of him here, secure the proper send-off for Twice, hoping it might lighten their load in the original world if they could pick off the pros here, one by one. Instead of doing any of that, by all accounts there's nothing to do but sit and twiddle their thumbs. Even if there are ways around it—around the death and revival mechanic—it's difficult to make a move himself, without the involvement of the others. When Dabi had explicitly ruled it out himself.
What a joke. To only be good as a drinking companion, and not even really that. ]
No way the bartend's gonna let me put that on her tab. Remember what rank I am?
[ Tomura doesn't often play by the rules, but there's a time and a place for a commotion and a fight. Sure, maybe Dabi would feel better, torching the whole bar, but maybe he might just puke in the middle of it. ]
no subject
But it isn't. He doesn't know what he wants, and that's a problem. What can Tomura do for someone who doesn't even know what he wants? All he can think of is himself—how he's the one who wants to draw the conflict out of Dabi's mind, to coax him back into that casual, languid mood they shared before it all went to shit. As much as anything can go more to shit beyond being trapped in this nonsensical place. How selfish is that? ]
You know it does.
[ Drives him crazy. Like he hadn't done his time ranting in Dabi's room when he heard about it, that piece of shit no. 2 showing up. It's salt in the wound not to be able to get rid of him here, secure the proper send-off for Twice, hoping it might lighten their load in the original world if they could pick off the pros here, one by one. Instead of doing any of that, by all accounts there's nothing to do but sit and twiddle their thumbs. Even if there are ways around it—around the death and revival mechanic—it's difficult to make a move himself, without the involvement of the others. When Dabi had explicitly ruled it out himself.
What a joke. To only be good as a drinking companion, and not even really that. ]
No way the bartend's gonna let me put that on her tab. Remember what rank I am?
[ Tomura doesn't often play by the rules, but there's a time and a place for a commotion and a fight. Sure, maybe Dabi would feel better, torching the whole bar, but maybe he might just puke in the middle of it. ]
I'll make it up to you. At your place.