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The thought flows into his mind without heed to his slumber. Is the door locked?
Tomura rouses slowly, groggily, among the birds chirping their beaks off at the ripe hour of four in the morning. Dabi is fast asleep right where he left him; a mess of limbs and torso clad in only boxers, clinging the slightest bit to Tomura's arm. Shy even in sleep. Tomura thinks it's cute, but Dabi might close off on purpose should he bring it up, so he says nothing. He says nothing and extracts himself from the bed, and he goes to check the door.
The knob is locked, and the chain is pulled across the seam between it and the wall. Of course it is, since Dabi always makes it a priority whenever he comes home to do so. Tomura blinks in the bare darkness, and he runs a hand through his hair. The door is locked. But, why wouldn't it have been?
He decides to make himself some tea. He keeps a box of teabags in the pantry for nights like this, fruit flavored black tea, his favorite. Even when the box is near empty it never seems to run out. He'll open it one day and it'll be full again, as if it was never even close to empty. There is never an empty box to be found. It's sweet of him.
Before the kettle can begin to whistle, Tomura turns off the knob and waits a moment before pouring the water into his awaiting mug. He doesn't feel like setting a phone timer or the like, so he just watches the teabag send out tendrils of amber into the surrounding water, until it's all burnt sienna and brown and soil. He throws the teabag in the trash can, and takes a sip without heed for temperature.
The sun has just barely begun to rise, reaching its arm weakly just above the horizon to hoist itself up. The humble beginnings of sunrays stream through the kitchen window, dyeing the sky a deep grey lavender. There must be mourning doves nesting in the tree beside their complex, because their distinct coos are relentless. Tomura doesn't mind. He sips his tea and counts the white spots on his fingernails.
Dabi used to be more proper about grooming than he is now. He used to take great care trimming Tomura's nails with a manicurist's scissors, and buffing out the harsh edges. He used to spread oils and creams across Tomura's cheeks, and keep him from wiping them away until five minutes had passed. He recalls Dabi's thumbs rubbing lotion as gently as humanly possible into the sensitive, perpetually bruised skin below his eyes. He recalls every single ridge in Dabi's fingertips as it passed over the blemishes and scars in his skin.
The tea has gone a bit lukewarm. The morning light has grown brighter. Tomura has been left behind again.
Against his better judgment, he unlocks and opens the door to the veranda. He takes a seat in one of the crummy plastic chairs, mug cradled gently in his rough hands, and watches the precursor to the sunrise. He leaves the door open, because the temperature is a blessing from the usual blistering ones during the daytime. Only when night arrives can Tomura allow himself the outdoor air. He inhales deeply, filling his lungs to the depths and releasing it all at his whim, because this is all just a whim, isn't it?
This apartment, this feeling. This sense that there is no future left here. At some point, on some faraway day, Tomura will have to leave Dabi behind. Because it isn't his choice. Because fate has already scribbled up a plan grander than he could ever imagine.
All for One is gone. He may as well be dead by now. Shigaraki Tomura lives on.
Again, an errant thought tugs at his consciousness, along the borders of his brain. Is the front door locked?
Of course it is. He'd checked only thirty minutes ago. Dabi is sound asleep; he couldn't have fiddled with it. There is no one else here who could've. Yet the words taint him like ink in water, and he rises abruptly, the chair squeaking slightly against the concrete. He tiptoes as quickly as possible to the entrance.
Sure as snow, the chain is pulled tight into the mechanism, and the knob is twisted so nobody could hope to enter with less than kicking the door down. Yet Tomura's heart doesn't settle. The turbulence fills his ears just as loudly as the coos of the doves outside. The air from the veranda wafts inside, dousing the living room and kitchen with the scent of an oncoming drizzle. Tomura runs a hand through his hair. He is still clutching his mug, and his tea has gone cold. He takes a remorseful sip.
Tomura decides to check on Dabi. Maybe even attempt to fall back to sleep. He takes a moment to piss, then he wanders into the bedroom.
Dabi, sprawled against the mattress like a particularly active starfish, is a sight to behold. The barest beginnings of sun flickering softly through the drawn blinds catch his staples, and they glisten, as if wet. White roots are beginning to come in, right at the base of his scalp where he usually parts it. Tomura distinctly remembers Dabi mentioning he'd had red hair as a child. There is a story there, he knows almost instinctively. Maybe they'd match.
He'll go buy dye when the store on the corner opens for the day. Dabi'd thrown out the last tube he'd been using.
Tomura draws closer, as if confirming everything and nothing at all. He places his mug gently on the sidetable, and wriggles out of his shirt, and his underwear. He's glad Dabi isn't awake to glimpse yet, because he feels the slightest bit self conscious, shimmying his way back into bed completely naked. It's not like Dabi's wearing anything other than boxers, but still.
The covers are bunched around their ankles, because it's been hot lately and Dabi always bitches when it's hot outside. There's a fan in the corner blowing their way specifically because of this. Dabi will bitch and moan about it, but Tomura could hog them if he wanted to. Yet he lies there, exposed. Dabi's forearm brushes his torso, and he nearly jumps in surprise. But no. It's just his reclaiming his memory foam territory.
Tomura turns his head, rests against the pillow, his gaze lying atop Dabi's sleeping visage. The forever present wedge of annoyance between his eyebrows is gone. His mouth is closed, and breaths echo through his nose. Every now and then he makes a quiet, near inaudible noise. As if reasserting his place here. As if reminding Tomura he isn't alone.
Come morning, Dabi will pour out his tea and wash the mug, and leave it upside down in the sink rack to drip-dry. He won't ask him a thing, because he respects Tomura's privacy. But he will notice the crack in the balcony door, and he will notice the natural temperature filtering in through. And when Tomura wakes up, he will grasp his hand tightly within his own, and--
And what? Did I forget to check the door again?
Sleep claims him before he can answer. He falls asleep, naked and vulnerable with Dabi's arm thrown over his soft chest.
(And, he will drag him towards the bathroom, and place his head below the tub faucet. He will wash Tomura's hair like there is nothing else in the world. He will clear away the sweat, the dirt, the oil, and Tomura will be born anew.)