( fucking coward couldn't even look him in the face any other time, there's no way he'd see him and come running--like always, he had to put himself in front of him, and even then, he couldn't get anywhere. )
the war must still be going. he didn't tell me anything useful.
( it's shaky, a struggle: trying so hard to compartmentalize it. as if it helps. )
[ there's a small lapse in time as he tries to figure what to say, whether he should say anything at all. maybe he should just let it lie, the way dabi wanted in their own world. not to interfere, not to pry. but they're not in their own world now, haven't been for about half a year, and things are different—the rules, the impossibilities, what they can and can't do. even so, it's not without significant doubt, significant awareness that he might just get shot down when he edges closer to that line in the sand. ]
will you tell me what you're thinking or what you want
even here you're my ally so I'll back you, you know whatever you wanna do
[ being stuck in a cage with someone you hate, where no amount of damage would erase their presence? nowhere to go to never see them again? it's the kind of thing that makes him eager to bring the roof down over the heads of the House yet again, and—
it's funny. every inch of him is screaming to do something, to make someone pay for this, and he's just sitting here, tapping away on a holographic keyboard. ]
[ that's what he says, at first. isn't it better for both of them this way, the meaning of it left in the air between them, to be interpreted however dabi wants. tomura still doubts that dabi likes being chased, likes being reachable. that's the opposite of how things always went, isn't it? not answering his phone, going off on his own, pursuing his own goals, that's how dabi liked it—maybe even now—the rest of them relegated to whatever spare room was left over.
tomura had accepted that's how things were going to be, but he doesn't know anymore. does dabi want his attention, or does he hate it even now? even though dabi had always maintained that firm boundary wall between them, it feels like there's something unpleasant and bitter about it, when tomura himself retreats behind it. his fingers hesitate on the keypad, but if he's going to waste time like this, he'd rather get moving instead. second-guessing is worse than useless. ]
( the last time this happened--well, it didn't work out all that great, and that had been mostly due to his own attitude. so why does he feel so hopeful? why does it feel good, to have tomura wanting to come to him again, like this?
he hates leaning on people. doesn't trust anyone. but tomura-- )
promise i won't lay on the floor til you get here.
[ When he makes his way to the Gilded Cage, it isn't without some trepidation. He's well aware of his limitations when it comes to people—he brings with him an inflexible sense of ego and an inclination towards honesty that can be as scathing as it is clueless. He's clueless: there are too many thought processes he doesn't understand and can't work out on the spot, and they turn him confused instead, defensive instead, pissed off instead. The last time he'd found Dabi drinking, he became imbued with a painful awareness how unsuited he is for this, as much as he tries otherwise. There's nothing short of a dozen ways this could go wrong, that he could say the wrong thing in ways he can't even predict, and those possibilities circle his mind as relentless buzzards as he steps onto the floor housing the restaurant.
The only thing he has going for him is that he's not easily turned away from what he's already decided he has to do. He has no idea of where to start or what he might say once they begin talking (if they even will); he can only hope they won't start off poorly again, that he can play this by ear well enough to... give Dabi what he needs. Whatever he needs. Easier said than done, when it sounded Dabi himself probably didn't even know.
Once inside the lavish surroundings of the Gilded Cage, he Searches Dabi out from the crowd gathered for the high-flying guest's extravagance. Once he's locked on to his target, he moves in, pushing through bodies to slot himself right between two bar stools carrying Dabi and another guest. It doesn't matter to Tomura if they were talking or not—whenever he sees Dabi, he wants to take up his attention as wholly as he can. Tomura sighs, a small breath of air that puffs through his nose. ]
Drinking by yourself? Handsome.
[ It doesn't sound flirtatious coming from him. It sounds monotonous, but it might do the trick anyway. ]
( it's almost like some poor, cheap mimicry of the last time they'd been like this: he's still in a sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over his dark hair, and he's still sulking at the bar, hunkered down against it as though he could rightfully disappear. but there's no blood, this time, no mug full of saliva-slicked petals; instead, there's a couple empty shot glasses, a glass of half-drunken beer, and an ashtray, the butts of at least four or five cigarettes smudged down into the dirty bottom. there's a girl about four seats down who's cheerfully declaring another round for everyone! in a voice that seems to betray just how drunk she is--all the syllables slur together, and the laughter of the guests that have gathered around her are noisy enough that it feels like a warm blanket over his nerves. he's by himself, but not by himself, really: there's life around him, even if he feels like he's achingly hollow.
tomura's there, he knows, by the heat that slides into the stool beside him. his own arms are folded, his head pillowed down into them, and when he lifts, it's just his eyes, at first, rimmed with a little dried blood, that watch warily, as though to ensure it's really tomura. funny, that a compliment like that makes him want to smile; his cheeks shift, but the sight of the smile is hidden by his sleeve. )
Here for a date? ( as if they're roleplaying something; he finally lifts his chin, pinning it against his arm. ) Might have better luck with one of those hot guys down the bar.
( the bartender sweeps by, taking up his empty shot glasses, placing two each in front of himself and tomura. hazy, he pushes himself to sit up fully; his eyes are glassy, and it takes a moment to focus on the drinks through the alcohol-laden blur. )
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( fucking coward couldn't even look him in the face any other time, there's no way he'd see him and come running--like always, he had to put himself in front of him, and even then, he couldn't get anywhere. )
the war must still be going.
he didn't tell me anything useful.
( it's shaky, a struggle: trying so hard to compartmentalize it. as if it helps. )
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the last time I saw him should've been around the time you did
his arms were intact
[ he lets that stand for a moment, then, against his instincts, tacks on: ]
you're unhurt?
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do you want me to stay away from him?
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could still hurt him
or at least keep him out of our way.
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as long as you're still around to state your wishes.
[ all bets are off if dabi becomes incapacitated or vanishes. ]
I can't promise anything for his friends or lovers.
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he'll wither and die here before he fucks anyone.
he says it's all assault.
fucking rich, coming from him.
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if he can really die like that, it would make some things easier for us
[ would he still be there once they returned to their own world? ]
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he'll just come back.
i fucking hate this place
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"eve"
there was something about turning to stone
maybe that'd be different than dying normally
if he sticks by his convictions
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will you tell me what you're thinking
or what you want
even here you're my ally so I'll back you, you know
whatever you wanna do
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don't know what i think. i can't think. it doesnt make sense
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I think I can get that
[ being stuck in a cage with someone you hate, where no amount of damage would erase their presence? nowhere to go to never see them again? it's the kind of thing that makes him eager to bring the roof down over the heads of the House yet again, and—
it's funny. every inch of him is screaming to do something, to make someone pay for this, and he's just sitting here, tapping away on a holographic keyboard. ]
have you wiped out your minibar yet?
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some idiot is buying rounds at the gilded cage, i'm just taking advantange.
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[ not that it matters what the idiot thinks. tomura would show up anyway. he just wants dabi to know in advance. ]
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she's fucking blasted.
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[ that's what he says, at first. isn't it better for both of them this way, the meaning of it left in the air between them, to be interpreted however dabi wants. tomura still doubts that dabi likes being chased, likes being reachable. that's the opposite of how things always went, isn't it? not answering his phone, going off on his own, pursuing his own goals, that's how dabi liked it—maybe even now—the rest of them relegated to whatever spare room was left over.
tomura had accepted that's how things were going to be, but he doesn't know anymore. does dabi want his attention, or does he hate it even now? even though dabi had always maintained that firm boundary wall between them, it feels like there's something unpleasant and bitter about it, when tomura himself retreats behind it. his fingers hesitate on the keypad, but if he's going to waste time like this, he'd rather get moving instead. second-guessing is worse than useless. ]
just keep your ass in that chair til I get there
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he hates leaning on people. doesn't trust anyone. but tomura-- )
promise i won't lay on the floor til you get here.
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The only thing he has going for him is that he's not easily turned away from what he's already decided he has to do. He has no idea of where to start or what he might say once they begin talking (if they even will); he can only hope they won't start off poorly again, that he can play this by ear well enough to... give Dabi what he needs. Whatever he needs. Easier said than done, when it sounded Dabi himself probably didn't even know.
Once inside the lavish surroundings of the Gilded Cage, he Searches Dabi out from the crowd gathered for the high-flying guest's extravagance. Once he's locked on to his target, he moves in, pushing through bodies to slot himself right between two bar stools carrying Dabi and another guest. It doesn't matter to Tomura if they were talking or not—whenever he sees Dabi, he wants to take up his attention as wholly as he can. Tomura sighs, a small breath of air that puffs through his nose. ]
Drinking by yourself? Handsome.
[ It doesn't sound flirtatious coming from him. It sounds monotonous, but it might do the trick anyway. ]
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tomura's there, he knows, by the heat that slides into the stool beside him. his own arms are folded, his head pillowed down into them, and when he lifts, it's just his eyes, at first, rimmed with a little dried blood, that watch warily, as though to ensure it's really tomura. funny, that a compliment like that makes him want to smile; his cheeks shift, but the sight of the smile is hidden by his sleeve. )
Here for a date? ( as if they're roleplaying something; he finally lifts his chin, pinning it against his arm. ) Might have better luck with one of those hot guys down the bar.
( the bartender sweeps by, taking up his empty shot glasses, placing two each in front of himself and tomura. hazy, he pushes himself to sit up fully; his eyes are glassy, and it takes a moment to focus on the drinks through the alcohol-laden blur. )
How fucked up do you think we should get?
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