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Happiness is a lot smaller than he expected.
He realized it far too late in his life and he knows this. But for once he doesn’t blame himself. He just observes.
It’s the details, he eventually decides. The smallest details that most would overlook but he just can’t. The exhaustion you rub from your eyes in the morning. The wrinkles in your nose as you laugh. The stained and baggy hoodie he let you borrow on your first day at the League, which you now wear all the time. He doesn’t understand how such mundane things mean happiness, but he doesn’t complain. He just allows himself to feel.
He’s never been good at understanding himself. Some days, he feels one way, other days another. Sometimes he wants to do bad things, other days good. Does he want to be a hero or a villain? Sometimes both, sometimes neither. Good, bad, hero, villain. It's all the same to him. And it's all so wildly different. He does know one constant though and it’s those minute details of happiness. It’s you.
In theory, you’re unreachable for him. A trophy high up on a pedestal. A dream that he’s been chasing for so long, even though deep down he knows he’ll never get there. He understands now just how long he’s been reaching for you, yet the distance hasn’t once become any shorter. You’re untouchable.
And you’re not. His fingers run through your hair and he can feel the strands beneath his fingertips. He can touch the way the follicles twist together as they lie against your scalp. You’re right in front of him, pressed against his chest, against his heart. And your eyes are bottomless.
He’s thought it before and he knows he’ll think it again - your hair smells like charcoal and satin.
He’s never known what love is. Not really. He’s caught glimpses of it before, way back when. Before his name was Dabi and his skin was scarred and his world was dark and full of pain. No, that’s wrong, he realizes. He was in pain even then.
He remembers the warmth of his mother’s eyes on him. He remembers the awe in how his siblings looked up to him. He remembers the admiration in the gaze of his one true friend in the world. But he struggles to recall their love.
He isn’t sure they loved him at all. Or maybe he’s just forgotten.
He thinks he knows love now. It’s the same as happiness but not quite, though he can’t decide what distinguishes one from the other. All he knows is that he feels both, sometimes together, sometimes separately, though neither can exist completely without the other.
He sees it in you too. The love. And the happiness. Do you feel it the way he does? He doubts it. He doesn’t know much but he knows that love and happiness mean something different for each and every person. He does wonder though, what they mean for you.
It scares him in the way most good things do. Does he deserve it? Probably not. Does he care? Definitely not. It’s something he’ll admit only to himself, deep into the night as he lies awake while you sleep on his chest. He’s a selfish bastard. You’re the only one who could make him do anything.
He’s told you this before. Once, weeks ago, as you lay on your back with your chest heaving, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He doesn’t think you remember though. And if you do, you don't understand. Though, he reasons, who else could understand? Happiness is subjective, is it not?
It's now, as he sits alone in his room, that he realizes what you’ve been teaching him. Not how to love and not how to be happy. Just to feel. You’ve done it patiently, softly, slowly, and probably unconsciously. But he’s noticed.
And patiently, softly, slowly, and definitely unconsciously, he’s found himself understanding and feeling back.
It does scare him. But in a good way.
He can’t sleep now. And he knows you can’t either. He can hear you moving in the next room, your room. And he wants you.
His text message is brief. - "Come here.'
When you reply, he smiles. Just a little. Just enough.
- 'Why aren’t you sleeping?'
- 'Because I’m not. Come here.'
You’re at his door in a heartbeat. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t reply immediately. You’re wearing his t-shirt. It’s an old one and it hangs off your body like a curtain. He can see one of the scars left by a particularly tough job on your shoulder and it distracts him.
“Dabi?”
He blinks. Then he pats the bed beside him. “Sit.”
You do and instantly he reaches for you. There’s a string bracelet looped around your wrist and he plays with one of the knots in it idly. “I wanted to see you.”
You snort. “You saw me three hours ago.”
It’s only been three hours? He didn’t realize. It felt much longer.
“You’re turning soft,” you tell him. He knows he is. Is it a bad thing? Maybe so, he supposes. If he turns too soft, he’ll just crumble eventually. But maybe it’s for the better. He reaches out to guide your head to rest on his chest.
“Why are you awake?”
You shrug. He can feel the way your eyelashes flutter against the skin of his shoulder. “I was just thinking.”
He doesn’t need to ask what you’re thinking about - he knows you well enough to understand by now. But he also knows that if your positions were reversed, he’d want you to ask. So he does.
“About?”
You press the pads of your fingers over his heart. “About before.”
About before.
Before all of this. Before the League of Villains. Before hero society was in shambles and All For One was in power.
You touch his skin softly. He puts his nose in your hair, takes a deep breath. His shoulders relax.
“I actually had a dream about before,” you continue. “Before I woke up. At least, I think it was a dream. It could have been a memory.” You sigh and snuggle closer to him. “It doesn’t really matter.”
Dabi knows what it’s like not to understand the difference between a dream and a memory. He also knows that it doesn’t matter. Dream or memory, both are in the past and neither will change the future. He kisses the top of your head.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He’s glad. He’s not good at talking. Instead, he lays his hand against your leg. You’re not wearing pants and he can feel the goosebumps that mar your skin. His palm warms.
Is this the moment to tell you? He’s not sure. You haven't said it yet, haven't even hinted at it and yet… he feels it.
He looks down at the top of your head. Moonlight from the open window beside his bed is reflecting off your hair.
Your breath comes out in a deep, relaxed sigh and he suddenly realizes that this is the moment to tell you.
“I love you.”
You don't respond at first. He can’t see your face, your eyes. But he feels the way your fingertips cease drawing aimless patterns across his scars. Then you shift, turn, and he catches a glimpse of your expression.
“You what?”
You look surprised. He wonders why.
“I love you.”
It’s simple, the way he talks. Casual. Like a greeting, nothing more, nothing less. Surface level. And it’s also not. He can feel it deep inside him as the words slip past his lips and he knows what he’s saying is the truth. So much the truth, in fact, it almost makes everything else he’s ever said feel like a lie.
You catch him off guard when you kiss him.
He can feel it through you - the way your heart is bursting. He knows you can’t contain it now that he’s said the words. And he knows you feel it too. And when his brain puts this together, he kisses you right back.
He’s blushing, he can feel it. You are too. But he doesn’t fight it because he doesn’t want to miss anything, not the feeling of your fingers in his hair or the weight of your body as you turn and seat yourself across his lap.
When you pull back, his lips are tingling.
“I love you.” You say it like a release, like it’s been bottled up inside and you’re finally allowing it to escape. He can feel the way your heart jumps as it finally does.
His grip is gentle when he pulls you back down to him.
Happiness is small, he knows that now. But at this moment, it’s also all-consuming. A raging fire that doesn’t scar but rather heals his heart, just a little. Just enough. And while it may not be the most monumental thing, he knows he’ll never let go. If it’s this kind of fire, he’s happy to burn.
And burn he does.