[ 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. ]
( it's said with a bitter swallow, muffled into the sleeve of his sweatshirt as his head twists, there, as he shakes his head. another stupid, pointless feature of this place, another dumb thing that doesn't make any sense, that sets them worlds apart when the whole point is that they're supposed to be together. tomura in the basement, compress somewhere arbitrarily in the middle, and his own sorry ass shoved up to some 'important' rank as though it could matter at all. as though being a former todoroki meant something here. as if the resort's trying to tell him where he does and doesn't belong.
and he hates it. he hates the implication, hates that they're all cast out to sea, here, left treading water for little purpose other than to bide their time past one more day. and then another day, and another--and what's the point? if there's nothing to burn, nothing to destroy, nothing to cut into pieces, why are they here? it's like the resort should have spat them back out the moment it swallowed them down. bad apples, or something of the sort.
with a slow breath through his nose, steadying the lurch of his stomach, he pushes to sit up again. he doesn't mind the offer. it's almost like a oar stuck out to save him as he's drowning; his suite is dark, his suite has a bed, has all those pretty bottles they can drink until tomura's as far gone as he is. if tomura's there with him, then he doesn't mind being there--it's not the opening maw of silence, even loneliness, if tomura is there. )
Well that's fuckin' forward. ( a drawling tease, exhausted--but the slight smile on his lips, even forced, feels genuine. ) Inviting yourself back to my bed and all.
( it's not forward: not with who they are, not with what they've done. he just wants to see that disgusted little wrinkle of tomura's nose at the words. )
Let me close this out. ( his hand lifts, a tap of his watch to the bartender for the rest of the drinks; the woman down the bar has started sobbing, as though laughter easily bleeds into tears, as though happiness is some small, fleeting thing that can't be found at the bottom of some glasses. once the bill is paid, he pushes back to slide off the stool--and immediately latches an arm out to grab for tomura, steadying himself. )
[ 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. ]
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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.
no subject
( it's said with a bitter swallow, muffled into the sleeve of his sweatshirt as his head twists, there, as he shakes his head. another stupid, pointless feature of this place, another dumb thing that doesn't make any sense, that sets them worlds apart when the whole point is that they're supposed to be together. tomura in the basement, compress somewhere arbitrarily in the middle, and his own sorry ass shoved up to some 'important' rank as though it could matter at all. as though being a former todoroki meant something here. as if the resort's trying to tell him where he does and doesn't belong.
and he hates it. he hates the implication, hates that they're all cast out to sea, here, left treading water for little purpose other than to bide their time past one more day. and then another day, and another--and what's the point? if there's nothing to burn, nothing to destroy, nothing to cut into pieces, why are they here? it's like the resort should have spat them back out the moment it swallowed them down. bad apples, or something of the sort.
with a slow breath through his nose, steadying the lurch of his stomach, he pushes to sit up again. he doesn't mind the offer. it's almost like a oar stuck out to save him as he's drowning; his suite is dark, his suite has a bed, has all those pretty bottles they can drink until tomura's as far gone as he is. if tomura's there with him, then he doesn't mind being there--it's not the opening maw of silence, even loneliness, if tomura is there. )
Well that's fuckin' forward. ( a drawling tease, exhausted--but the slight smile on his lips, even forced, feels genuine. ) Inviting yourself back to my bed and all.
( it's not forward: not with who they are, not with what they've done. he just wants to see that disgusted little wrinkle of tomura's nose at the words. )
Let me close this out. ( his hand lifts, a tap of his watch to the bartender for the rest of the drinks; the woman down the bar has started sobbing, as though laughter easily bleeds into tears, as though happiness is some small, fleeting thing that can't be found at the bottom of some glasses. once the bill is paid, he pushes back to slide off the stool--and immediately latches an arm out to grab for tomura, steadying himself. )
Yeah. My place. Good idea.
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. ]