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Sleep never came easily. Not after a fight, not after a fuck, no matter how good either had been. Part of it was the burns, sure. The patches of ruined, discolored skin forever stung and bled and stretched too tight over Dabi’s long bones. Especially the seams. He’d accepted they’d never fully graft a long time ago. Didn’t care that much really. Sometimes they were the only way he could tell he still lived at all. They did a hell of a job hiding his identity at the same time they showed the world what sort of person he was underneath too. Better than any lameass mask could have. Neither had been the original reason he’d gone through the trouble of keeping a bunch of extra crispy skin stapled to his sorry carcass, but they worked, in the end.
Still. Being screwed out of a sleep pattern sucked sometimes. Dabi couldn’t do much about it aside from lay in bed and count the hours until exhaustion finally caught up with him. Lately, though, the wait hadn’t been as tedious. Probably because lately he’d had Tomura to help pass the time.
The night never passed any quicker, not exactly. But at least having someone else in his room let Dabi distract himself with something other than an endless loop of thoughts and memories while the minutes crawled by. Focusing on the tickle of Tomura’s ghostly hair brushing his nose was, no contest, a hell of a lot more pleasant. It had taken Dabi a while to figure out what Shigaraki’s scent reminded him of. Long enough to fill up most of a sleepless night, in fact. He’d settled on clean skin with something dry and papery underneath. Not unpleasant. Like a stack of old letters stashed in an attic and waiting to be reread by someone curious enough. Probably connected to his quirk somehow. Dabi’s own made sure he always reeked of molten iron, burning blood. Although, Twice had told him once that he smelled like blown out birthday candles. He still couldn’t decide whether to be amused or disgusted.
A sleepy murmur came from Tomura as he shifted, nosed his way a little closer under Dabi’s chin, and pressed a bare thigh forward. Dabi didn’t resist, opening his legs to let the other settle between them. Both of Shigaraki’s hands remained safely curled into fists, resting against his chest. Tomura’s level of control couldn’t be called anything short of amazing. He’d never accidentally activated his quirk, at least not that anyone in the League had ever seen. When he sparred, dressed, ate, played a video game, whatever, one or two digits always remained up and away, no matter how fast he reacted to something. On the couple of occasions he had reached for someone with his whole hand it had been with the clear intent to royally fuck up their day. Maybe that kind of skill and discipline was to be expected of All For One’s successor. Or just anyone who hadn’t grown up with shitty parents as their first teachers.
One of these nights, Dabi meant to find out how far he could push that control. See if he could drive Tomura wild enough to Decay the sheets or the whole damn bed or even rake all ten deadly fingers down his back.
He took in a long, shaking breath. What it said about him that the thought had put him at instant half-mast he had no idea. He could wake Tomura and find out maybe.
One look dismissed the urge, though. Sleep had smoothed away any cynical creases from Shigaraki’s face. The skin around his eyes had almost fully healed in the past few months; he’d been good about using the salve Dabi had shared with him. His lips kept drying out and cracking, though. Dabi figured he had to take the blame for that—chapstick didn’t work as well when someone was kissing it off at every opportunity. Either way, it was no big. He liked the contrast of soft and rough skin. Just as he liked the vertical scar there too, or any of the details that made up Shigaraki Tomura.
His thoughts finally—finally—going soft and blurry around the edges, Dabi curled his tall frame tighter around Tomura’s more compact one. It got him a mumble of protest. The opportunity was too good to pass up. Smirking, he squeezed with both arms and legs.
“Dabi…” It carried the edge of a whine.
He responded by being a dick and applying more pressure.
“Dabi.” Now the growl of a threat had crept in. Carefully closed fists shoved against his chest until red eyes could glare up at him through a mop of pale hair.
And because he was sleep deprived and amused and infatuated, Dabi said, “Touya.”
Tomura blinked, annoyance fizzling. “Hm?”
Searching himself for regrets, he found none and shrugged as best he could while on his side. “That’s my name. Or did you stop caring after you couldn’t get it out of me when Giran brought us in?”
More blinks, now with mouth hanging ajar. Stunning him speechless wasn’t as satisfying as driving him out of mind with lust maybe, but it made a close second.
“Touya,” repeated Tomura after a long pause. The syllables sounded about as strange coming from him as they did from Dabi. He reached up toward his neck. Not to scratch, not this time, only run a couple of fingers along the old scabs there. “Touya…” His eyes snapped back into sharp focus. “Just ‘Touya’?”
Dabi’s cheeks stung as a growing grin made his skin strain against the staples piercing them. “You can’t figure out the rest, you don’t deserve to know.”
Tomura’s lips curled back in a snarl, a retort ready to go behind them. Dabi cut it off by rolling on top and pinning him to the mattress with a kiss. They stayed that way until Tomura’s squirming became about something else besides fighting. Lightheaded and breathless, Dabi rolled back over.
“Come on. Sleep.” He opened his arms in invitation.
After a yawn ruined his attempt to scowl, Tomura huffed and settled in again. The rhythm of his heartbeat slowed by degrees, matched by his breathing. Soon, both fell into the deep, even pace of sleep. Dabi, doing what he already knew he would until the end, followed him down.