[ To his eyes, Dabi looks more miserable than the last time. At least then, he'd kept himself upright; now, Tomura finds him slumped over the top of the bar counter with his head tucked in his arms. He can't tell if that's just the calling of Dabi's mood or he's already that fucked up on drinks; he might have underestimated the amount of alcohol the other had from how coherent his texts read.
A peek of a blue eye greets him when he settles in, a little wary, a little tentative. It's the kind of look that makes Tomura want to reach out a hand, to stroke and caress until Dabi opens himself fully and leans into the touch, but Tomura restrains himself. Here it's too noisy, too public, and he doesn't know if his touch would be welcomed anyway, so he slides himself in the next seat over. For his own part, he tucks his chin into his hand, propped up against the counter, gaze focused unwaveringly on Dabi all the while. There's not so much as an inclination to look around him at all the other supposedly eligible guests around them, regardless of what Dabi suggests. ]
I want the hot guy in front of me right now.
[ The edge in his eyes softens a touch, his lips slightly curling. He only glances away to see what drink has been set beside them, but his attention returns to Dabi again when the man finally sits up. Tomura can finally study him better like this, noting the daze in his eyes, the slower reaction speed. Dabi might not be a mess yet, but it sure seems he's on his way there. ]
As much as you want. As long as you don't throw up.
[ He's not one to restrict what Dabi does or preach about finding healthy coping mechanisms. It's just that battling an alcoholic nausea the rest of the night sounds like a recipe to make an already miserable situation worse. ]
( there's at least some measure of humor forced into his voice, even if it's just by instinct; it's a shitty joke, a shitty pun, and they both know it, by the slight graze of tomura's mouth up into a smile. there's something to be said for finding comfort in the familiar, where he's been a person that's never really had anything familiar to lean on in his life; having tomura here next to him, acting just the same as always, helps settle him a little, grounding him in the moment. he'd never thought he'd have anything close to full trust in the guy, during their first meeting: but they've been through hell and back, and tomura is much more of a leader than he often gives him credit for.
at the very least, he's willing to sit with him and mooch off free drinks, and he likes that about him, even if he won't say it out loud. misery loves company, and even if tomura isn't quite as miserable as he is, at least he's here to help make it less of an overwhelming weight on his shoulders.
with a long breath, he pushes his elbows into the bar so that he can sit up, properly. it won't be good if he takes a shot and spills it all over himself; long fingers reach for the glass, holding it up to eye level to ascertain the contents. )
If we're sticking with this stuff, I got...what, another three shots in me before I puke.
( a drawling estimate, which maybe betrays how much he's had to drink already: even sitting up for this long is making him want to slump back to the bar. )
A toast, yeah? To stupid fucking heroes sticking their fucking noses everywhere they shouldn't.
( a little jingle of his glass in the air in indication, before he tips his head back and swallows the shot--immediately sliding the glass back onto the bar top. at this point, it doesn't matter how nasty it tastes. )
Can't believe I'm stuck seeing him fucking--walking around--everywhere. ( the words blur together in disgust, anger, a little excitement. ) Just wanna kill everyone he touches.
[ It's a shitty pun, but there's more to it—more meaning, more truth. He lets Dabi have the joke though, doesn't insist on whatever authenticity might lay behind it—insisting makes too big a deal of it, and, again, it's not why he's here. He quietly settles in beside Dabi and takes the shot, holding some kind of alcohol he can't identify. It seems Dabi's already had plenty, if he can make a call on how much more drunk this shit's gonna get him, but whether or not this drink is the primary culprit, there's excess to be seen. Even without alcohol coursing through his system, Dabi's mind is clearly elsewhere; it feels safe to observe, watching with the thoughtful intensity of someone trying to appropriately decipher the mess they're in—the way Dabi lifts his head like it's heavy, the long, dragging manner in how he reaches for the shot glass.
Tomura's going to consider veto-ing that last shot, if they get there. They're not there yet though, so he obligingly raises his glass in a mockery of celebration, downing it when Dabi does. It goes down harsh and burning, the kind that he can almost feel fizzling through his nose, but he lacks the sensitivity toward this kind of thing that might trigger a gag reflex; at most, the drink gets a wrinkled nose in protest of its taste before he too slides the empty shot glass back across the counter. Then, his eyes are back on Dabi—observing mostly, and evaluating partially, trying to determine if he should predict Dabi taking to a frenzy that would unleash all his temper and flames. ]
You could, if you wanted to. It wouldn't take, but it still feels like something.
[ He knows that much. He can't kill, but he can hurt, he can threaten, he can maim—sometimes it scratches the itch, even if he knows his opponent could come back around afterward. There's no principled opposition for him to take against Dabi's inclinations, and they know what they are, both of them. People who've killed, without second thoughts, without remorse. It doesn't make much sense to drag him back from those impulses now, but it... doesn't feel quite right. Doesn't feel quite right to let Dabi barrel headlong into reckless self-destruction when there's no war to be fought, when he's right within reach.
It's funny. It's when Tomura thinks about trying to play it safe with his ally's well-being that his words fail him. He's never protected a single thing in his life. ]
Not tonight. You're drinking with me.
[ It's weak, but it's the only thing he can spit out in the moment. ]
I could, but you and I both know it won't mean shit.
( a low mumble, as he settles for folding his arms on the bar, pillowing his chin down against them. if he were younger, more naive, a little more innocent, he might look like a sulking child, someone that's been told they're wrong or that they can't have what they want. but those are years and experiences that have been mostly robbed from them both; hell, he spent three years in a coma, and he can only imagine what tomura must have experienced growing up with that guy, there.
it's frustrating. back home it's easy to justify: a kill is another strike against endeavor's perfect little record, another travesty caused by the domino effect of his actions. does he fully believe it? no matter what he'd said, showing the public some kind of demure side to his poor insanity, a part of him knows that a lot of that had been false. killing had felt like winning something back, in a way, something he doesn't know how to identify. but killing someone here will just bring them back again, and bring them back wrong. and then what? the resort can label him some kind of ruthless murderer? even if he is.
a soft breath, amused, into his arms. )
Doesn't it fucking drive you crazy? I bet it does. There's no fucking point to this place, no point in being here other than to fuck our lives away while we wait to go back to the most important thing we've ever done. Some free fucking vacation.
( his eyes close, but he's still talking. )
If you're gonna stay with me tonight, you're gonna have to catch up. Do about three or four of those in a row and then we can say we're drinking together, leader.
[ 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
A peek of a blue eye greets him when he settles in, a little wary, a little tentative. It's the kind of look that makes Tomura want to reach out a hand, to stroke and caress until Dabi opens himself fully and leans into the touch, but Tomura restrains himself. Here it's too noisy, too public, and he doesn't know if his touch would be welcomed anyway, so he slides himself in the next seat over. For his own part, he tucks his chin into his hand, propped up against the counter, gaze focused unwaveringly on Dabi all the while. There's not so much as an inclination to look around him at all the other supposedly eligible guests around them, regardless of what Dabi suggests. ]
I want the hot guy in front of me right now.
[ The edge in his eyes softens a touch, his lips slightly curling. He only glances away to see what drink has been set beside them, but his attention returns to Dabi again when the man finally sits up. Tomura can finally study him better like this, noting the daze in his eyes, the slower reaction speed. Dabi might not be a mess yet, but it sure seems he's on his way there. ]
As much as you want. As long as you don't throw up.
[ He's not one to restrict what Dabi does or preach about finding healthy coping mechanisms. It's just that battling an alcoholic nausea the rest of the night sounds like a recipe to make an already miserable situation worse. ]
no subject
( there's at least some measure of humor forced into his voice, even if it's just by instinct; it's a shitty joke, a shitty pun, and they both know it, by the slight graze of tomura's mouth up into a smile. there's something to be said for finding comfort in the familiar, where he's been a person that's never really had anything familiar to lean on in his life; having tomura here next to him, acting just the same as always, helps settle him a little, grounding him in the moment. he'd never thought he'd have anything close to full trust in the guy, during their first meeting: but they've been through hell and back, and tomura is much more of a leader than he often gives him credit for.
at the very least, he's willing to sit with him and mooch off free drinks, and he likes that about him, even if he won't say it out loud. misery loves company, and even if tomura isn't quite as miserable as he is, at least he's here to help make it less of an overwhelming weight on his shoulders.
with a long breath, he pushes his elbows into the bar so that he can sit up, properly. it won't be good if he takes a shot and spills it all over himself; long fingers reach for the glass, holding it up to eye level to ascertain the contents. )
If we're sticking with this stuff, I got...what, another three shots in me before I puke.
( a drawling estimate, which maybe betrays how much he's had to drink already: even sitting up for this long is making him want to slump back to the bar. )
A toast, yeah? To stupid fucking heroes sticking their fucking noses everywhere they shouldn't.
( a little jingle of his glass in the air in indication, before he tips his head back and swallows the shot--immediately sliding the glass back onto the bar top. at this point, it doesn't matter how nasty it tastes. )
Can't believe I'm stuck seeing him fucking--walking around--everywhere. ( the words blur together in disgust, anger, a little excitement. ) Just wanna kill everyone he touches.
no subject
Tomura's going to consider veto-ing that last shot, if they get there. They're not there yet though, so he obligingly raises his glass in a mockery of celebration, downing it when Dabi does. It goes down harsh and burning, the kind that he can almost feel fizzling through his nose, but he lacks the sensitivity toward this kind of thing that might trigger a gag reflex; at most, the drink gets a wrinkled nose in protest of its taste before he too slides the empty shot glass back across the counter. Then, his eyes are back on Dabi—observing mostly, and evaluating partially, trying to determine if he should predict Dabi taking to a frenzy that would unleash all his temper and flames. ]
You could, if you wanted to. It wouldn't take, but it still feels like something.
[ He knows that much. He can't kill, but he can hurt, he can threaten, he can maim—sometimes it scratches the itch, even if he knows his opponent could come back around afterward. There's no principled opposition for him to take against Dabi's inclinations, and they know what they are, both of them. People who've killed, without second thoughts, without remorse. It doesn't make much sense to drag him back from those impulses now, but it... doesn't feel quite right. Doesn't feel quite right to let Dabi barrel headlong into reckless self-destruction when there's no war to be fought, when he's right within reach.
It's funny. It's when Tomura thinks about trying to play it safe with his ally's well-being that his words fail him. He's never protected a single thing in his life. ]
Not tonight. You're drinking with me.
[ It's weak, but it's the only thing he can spit out in the moment. ]
no subject
( a low mumble, as he settles for folding his arms on the bar, pillowing his chin down against them. if he were younger, more naive, a little more innocent, he might look like a sulking child, someone that's been told they're wrong or that they can't have what they want. but those are years and experiences that have been mostly robbed from them both; hell, he spent three years in a coma, and he can only imagine what tomura must have experienced growing up with that guy, there.
it's frustrating. back home it's easy to justify: a kill is another strike against endeavor's perfect little record, another travesty caused by the domino effect of his actions. does he fully believe it? no matter what he'd said, showing the public some kind of demure side to his poor insanity, a part of him knows that a lot of that had been false. killing had felt like winning something back, in a way, something he doesn't know how to identify. but killing someone here will just bring them back again, and bring them back wrong. and then what? the resort can label him some kind of ruthless murderer? even if he is.
a soft breath, amused, into his arms. )
Doesn't it fucking drive you crazy? I bet it does. There's no fucking point to this place, no point in being here other than to fuck our lives away while we wait to go back to the most important thing we've ever done. Some free fucking vacation.
( his eyes close, but he's still talking. )
If you're gonna stay with me tonight, you're gonna have to catch up. Do about three or four of those in a row and then we can say we're drinking together, leader.
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. ]