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So close, yet so far. He’d heard the phrase plenty of times. Mostly when he’d still been Touya and chasing his father’s approval. But Dabi had never applied it to anything in his own life until half an inch of acrylic separated him from Tomura.
He brought flowers with him to the lab again. As expected, the old ones had dried up. Trying not to think about how much it had in common with making offerings to the dead, Dabi pulled the withered bouquet of azaleas from the slim vase sitting on top of the machine monitoring Tomura’s vitals. In went the new bunch. Forget-Me-Nots this time. One good thing about the PLF gig was money longer being an obstacle. He could have whatever shipped in and put it all on President Dickhead’s tab. It was the least the simpering shit bag could do in return for Dabi not roasting him over a spit. Especially after what he did to Tomura’s hand.
Tomura.
Dabi stopped fiddling with the flowers. Forced himself to take a deep breath. Finally looked at the suspension tank.
It was better than nothing, but Dabi still hated seeing him this way. Floating in whatever liquid filled the thing like some weird jellyfish. Tubes shoved down his throat, breathing for him. IVs poked all over, pumping fluids in and sucking out others. Under the black compression suit, Tomura’s body had gained a bit of bulk. Probably just from receiving decent nutrition again. Above the oxygen mask, his eyes moved back and forth behind closed lids. Whatever he dreamed about didn’t dent his brow with worry. Despite the gross medical equipment he looked healthy. Peaceful.
Dabi shook with the suppressed urge to slam his fist into the acrylic anyway. Tomura needed the rest. He’d earned it ten times over. But why did it have to fucking be this—as one of Ujiko’s science projects? Sure, Tomura had explained the situation about his quirk outpacing his physical limits. About All For One. That didn’t do a damn thing to soothe the need to do something howling inside of Dabi like an angry ghost. If Tomura were in a bed, at least he could’ve touched him. Held his hand. Breathed in the dry parchment scent of his skin and hair. Rested his head on his chest and listened to the tempo of his heart. Tasted the familiar tang of salt and blood on his lips with a kiss. As it was, all Dabi could do was seethe. Stare. Bring some sorry ass flowers that would never be seen. A whole lot of fucking nothing, in other words.
He finally understood Tomura’s need to scratch. Just a little. The desperation to release the festering rage and poisonous knowledge that he couldn’t do anything. Plenty of things were coming into focus now that Dabi had fewer crises to distract him.
Placing his hands on the tank, Dabi rested his forehead against it and closed his eyes. “Miss you,” he said quietly. Tomura couldn’t hear him, but he wasn’t so sure about the nomu around them. “We all do. The others keep finding reasons to pester me even though they literally have their own armies to run. They’re trying to keep me from moping, I think. Can’t say I blame them. I’m a fucking drag to be around when I’m feeling sorry for myself.”
He opened his eyes and stared up at the beloved face. Not a twitch. Even if there had been, it was only random nerves firing. Dabi had spent enough time around hospitals and dying people to know that.
“I wasn’t supposed to live this long.” It’s like walking through the woods and tripping over skeletons buried in shallow graves, these little revelations. “I don’t know what to do with myself. But I can figure it out as long as you’re a part of it.” A smile quivered on his lips for a moment before collapsing under the strain. “Not sure whether you’d laugh or slap me if you heard me say that. Guess I could wonder when I’d gone soft, but we both know the answer to that one. So, just…” Dabi swallowed hard, fingers curling against the thin but insurmountable barrier between them. “Just come back. To us. To me. Okay?”
He left after that. Ujiko had plenty to laugh about already if he’d been watching on camera. And he needed to check on Twice—Hawks had taken to hanging around him too much for Dabi’s taste lately. Like a fucking vulture. Anyway, Compress insisted on having an after dinner drink with him. A not-so-sneaky way to make sure he ate and was unable to curl up in a corner and die somewhere.
For all the frustration, though, Dabi couldn’t really complain about either situation. If he was going to get used to this whole living business, he needed the practice.