Chapter Text
Much like all those who have the ill fortune of meeting him, Dabi’s gaze first fell to the wounds that covered her body; his eyes trailed the small, strange bruises on neck, moved down to the bandaged nubs this Miira girl called her hands, then darted up to hold her gaze when she caught him staring.
But unlike what he had done to those who dare hold his gaze, she smiled up at him, her eyes giving him a once over before pointing her strange little nub-of-a-hand at him. A handshake greeting, perhaps? A high-fiv—high-one?
He didn’t take it.
She didn’t seem to care if he did.
Miira, which he was sure was not her real name but had heard a group of high schoolers call her as such, and she had never corrected him, was as curious about his scars as he was about hers. No, she was ever more so. What he had mistaken for a probable handshake was actually her trying to caress the bottom of his chin, but she was shorter and very obviously missing a hand which to caress his face with.
“For someone with rot on her hands,” Dabi took hold of her forearm, Miira no longer having a wrist he could imprison like he’d done so before. “You sure like to touch everything you’re not supposed to.”
“Don’t be silly,” she tried to touch his face with her other arm. “I don’t have hands to touch anything with. Now, let me poke you.” She didn’t poke him, simply touched her bandages to the scars on his jaw, caressing his cheek. Reflected in her eyes, in detail, were his scars and stitches. He heard her softly whisper, “Yours never grow.”
Hers never stopped.
The more he touched her, the more flesh it consumed.