[ If he just wants to see Tomura pout, he turns out successful. Tomura's lips curl and his chin raises, a prideful little tilt, as though taking offense to the concept of needing an invitation. He hadn't even said anything about the bed specifically. He huffs, pushing his own glass away and sliding off the bar stool, giving him elsewhere to look as he makes the off-handed remark: ]
You should invite me first, next time.
[ Not that he's particularly fussy about being invited. Tomura goes anywhere with the attitude of someone who has the right to be wherever he wants to be, whether it's incognito in a crowd or lounging in a mansion of conquered goods—or intruding into someone else's private quarters. It's not the permission he cares for, it's the desire—the desire to be with him, the desire of thinking about him when he's not there—but he thinks expecting that much is like pining after a mere daydream. Just as the thought of getting intimate used to be, he refuses to waste time on wistful fantasies that don't bear fruit. It's too pathetic, too useless for someone like him, whose sole quest lies in destruction and violence. The enormity of it crushes anything else. And for all he knows, that casual remark will be forgotten by Dabi in the morning, maybe in those more clear-headed hours—or maybe struck out by the liquor's vengeance.
Perhaps the latter being more likely, as Dabi stands—and slumps. Tomura doesn't evade the hand that reaches for him, allowing the steadying grip, accepting the weight Dabi wants to lean into him. These days, he could easily wrap Dabi into his hold, bundle him up like a futon to carry back to the room, but Dabi's probably not that far gone yet. Instead, he'll offer an arm, a shoulder, whatever Dabi would rather take on their journey out of the restaurant as Tomura leads again, weaving them through waiters and guests. At least it would be an improvement, if this time they could make their exit slightly intertwined in each other. ]
no subject
You should invite me first, next time.
[ Not that he's particularly fussy about being invited. Tomura goes anywhere with the attitude of someone who has the right to be wherever he wants to be, whether it's incognito in a crowd or lounging in a mansion of conquered goods—or intruding into someone else's private quarters. It's not the permission he cares for, it's the desire—the desire to be with him, the desire of thinking about him when he's not there—but he thinks expecting that much is like pining after a mere daydream. Just as the thought of getting intimate used to be, he refuses to waste time on wistful fantasies that don't bear fruit. It's too pathetic, too useless for someone like him, whose sole quest lies in destruction and violence. The enormity of it crushes anything else. And for all he knows, that casual remark will be forgotten by Dabi in the morning, maybe in those more clear-headed hours—or maybe struck out by the liquor's vengeance.
Perhaps the latter being more likely, as Dabi stands—and slumps. Tomura doesn't evade the hand that reaches for him, allowing the steadying grip, accepting the weight Dabi wants to lean into him. These days, he could easily wrap Dabi into his hold, bundle him up like a futon to carry back to the room, but Dabi's probably not that far gone yet. Instead, he'll offer an arm, a shoulder, whatever Dabi would rather take on their journey out of the restaurant as Tomura leads again, weaving them through waiters and guests. At least it would be an improvement, if this time they could make their exit slightly intertwined in each other. ]