Chapter Text
The bar was drearily dark and soundless in the beginnings of the cold season, no illusion of light nor could warmth hide the harsh stings of the autumn chill. It wasn’t unusual to him, the freezing feeling and breeze that would send him to a shivering mess, nipping at his drier than dry skin, making his hair stand on its end. It was certainly better than the sticky and sweaty feeling, of glistening skin and strands of hair sticking to him at a rather sickening and gross way. Far more comfortable than the muck sweat and dampness in the summer air and heat, making him feel tons itchier than it usually would.
Of course, the cold is not much of a problem as the heat–other than, well… the cold– the chilly gust making his skin feel rather pleasant at times. More so as he basks in the brisk wind in the still empty bar. It feels nice, just being here, him and the cold– the cold and he. Sitting on one of the stools, arms sprawled and stretched like a cat, his uncovered hands hanging by the other side of the counter– it almost made him forget the reason why he was alone on this particular day– …almost.
It was Sunday afternoon after all. That meant his adviser and confidante was out to restock empty alcohol bottles and not unexpectedly, sustenance. As for his other subordinates, ah well– that’s none of his business, whatever they do, he could not care any less. So long as they return to him, they may as well snag a couple of yen from a few unsuspecting civilians.
The light haired villain chuckles at the thought– it goes without saying that his initial thought would imply criminal acts, whoever may think otherwise, it was foolish. What else would he think of?
“Aaahhh…-“ The villain stretches, shivering as the bottom hem of his shirt lifts, allowing the cool and unwelcomed sensation to flow over his abdomen. “Shit- Ow shit! That’s too cold!” he winces, crunching in as quickly as the wind hits him. His cheeks and neck turning red with the unexpected decrease in temperature. It was becoming annoying now– the wind and autumn air– no longer pleasurable as it did just moments ago. Ah right… he takes it back, he hates the cold as much as the heat. It makes him want to hide under a ton of thick layers. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any more bothersome, the bar door slammed open, surprising the shivering mess that is Shigaraki; allowing a harsh gush of wind to sweep through and claw at his already freezing skin.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell?!” the villain curses, swiftly turning to face the newcomer and berate whoever entered so barbarically.
“It’s Dabi, not Jesus,” came the disinterested reply, “- and what’s up with you? You look like shit.”
Of course, it had to be the fire wielding bastard. But he was more surprised at the lack of bite in his words; he had expected worse, so the sudden progression was quite shocking.
“It’s like 20 degrees in here, asshole,” Shigaraki answers, “-and where’s Toga?” he adds, frowning when the dark haired man starts stripping off his dark and shabby coat, closing the door with his left boot, emitting a click sound when it does. Could he not feel the cold at all? Though it should have been obvious already– he is a pyro after all. He would unmistakably use it on cold seasons.
The pyro sighs, shaking the fabric and folding it, “Toga’s fucked off to somewhere. God knows what that woman does,” his brows crease, a brief disturbed looked contorts on his face, before schooling himself back to a blank expression. “-also 20 degrees? That enough to turn a villain like you to a quivering mess?” The arsonist taunts, a sly grin now replacing the aloof expression. On one arm drapes his coat, and the other awkwardly dusting himself of dirt and soot.
“Not everyone is capable of keeping themselves warm like you,” Shigaraki grumbles, raising both hands to rub at his arms, justifying his rather trivial point. But it was true, however the pyro sees it, Shigaraki and other non-fire-wielding persons could simply not produce enough body heat to keep themselves warm in the dreaded seasons.
“No, guess not. But that’s what jackets are for,” he says, walking forwards to the man on the stool, unfolding the coat he had just removed, and placing them on his shoulders in a fairly artless manner. The lapels of the coat envelopes his dry and scarred neck, the sleeves hanging loosely on either side of him, weighted by the metal braces on it.
It was startling. The villain leader didn’t quite know if he should be offended or grateful for such a measly attempt at…– or well… pitiful way of concern. Since when did his subordinate ever show a noticeably atypical behavior? Did all those times of getting thrown off his balance finally got his head and started messing with his perception of things? The sudden behavior was novel and he’s doubtful if he should think of it weird or be worried.
“You should really start investing in a coat rack,” the fire-wielder says, now parallel on the couch, seemingly comfortable just lying down there almost bare and half naked – seriously, how is he not feeling cold at all? That tee is too thin! “It’s inconvenient when I have to put them on you,” he adds.
Like the statement made his act any less generous. Shigaraki may be bullheaded, but he wasn’t stupid.
“You s’pose I should thank you?” he pried, ignoring what the pyro had said, testing the waters, seeing how far he can stick his leg and not get bitten. He stares at him, observing the little movements, any hints– any at all– of rancorous intent. The little changes in breathing, a twitch in his arm maybe or even a tensed muscle.
Yet he didn’t move from where lies, none at all, no conspicuous act of any animosity. He could have jumped in the ocean and swam with the sharks and none of them would think of him so tasteful.
Curious…
“Get over yourself, mophead,” He grunts instead– well, that’s a fine nickname– shifting to face the backrest of the couch, his back open to the cold air– open to vulnerability. Shigaraki wonders what the arsonist is thinking, but he couldn’t seem to grasp anything. Something about the fire-user has changed– whether or not it’s for better or for worse, the line could not be defined nor where the arsonist lies.
Shigaraki pulls the dark coat closer when it loosened on him, his index untouched by the fabric, remnants of warmth still clinging to the cloth, the cold all but forgotten. He has had a suspicion, but until he could properly lay it down, pin in it like a butterfly on a frame, he would pry.
“You’re not cold at all,” it wasn’t a question as it is more of a comment, and it would have gone ignored if he had said it any quieter.
“Nope,” is all the other says, still facing away and unmoving from his place, but Shigaraki waits, he stills as he watches the other, his hands clamped to the coat tightly.
“My quirk is sufficient enough to keep me going through the cold,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper and breathy when he speaks.
“But..?”
“But my body is resilient to the cold– not really a part of my quirk– you get the point.”
“You could have gone outside in nothing and it wouldn’t have bothered you at all,” he states, an odd realization dawning on him. “Fascinating,” he whispers, pondering how best to exploit such power.
“Does the image of me naked interests you?” the taller grills at him, shifting on the couch to finally face him, though still lying comfortably, a rather peculiar tone laced in his raspy voice– he was teasing him.
“Pshh! Don’t flatter yourself,” he grits his teeth, yet he couldn’t deny the thought of a butt-naked Dabi walking around. It would have been hilarious if the suggestion wasn’t so enticing. The coat slips the second time; he pulls at it again. Well, that was a wrong turn.
“I was just wondering-”
“-of my attractive ass?”
“No, you git! Of your power! Seems to me, it’s more of a double-edged sword, with yours sharper than you mar.”
“Gee, boss. When did you get so insightful?” the arsonists grins, staples crinkling at the corners of his cheeks.
Shigaraki groans, dropping his head to mock slam on the narrow bar counter table. Dabi was…– He was something, and annoying is definitely up there. Say something, anything at all, and you’ll find him saying something back as equally provoking, if not more. It was annoying to a fault.
“Careful, Dabi. One more compliment out of you, and I’d think you’re too in love with me,” he says, the right side of his face flat on the wooden counter, a petty and piss poor attempt of a retort. It couldn’t be true, obviously intangible. But something beams in the arsonist eye, a rather unsuspecting and instantaneous look, one that is revolting and sickening to his core, and it was gone before he could fully process it. He knew that look, wore it too often. Shigaraki contemplates it, wants to know more, and lifts his head to face him, though the arsonist has already gone up, standing up from the couch to leave.
Something has changed.
“M’hungry,” he declares, all teasing and lightness from him gone, replaced by a cold indifference and an unpleasant feel. Shigaraki watches the other pass behind him to walk away, disappearing behind the velvet and tattered curtains of the bar, the dark hallways enveloping the last of him, completely gone until he inevitably returns.
Was it something he had said? Did he go too far? What did he do?
A nasty and uninvited sensation settled in his stomach, churning and vile like tar. The coat that encases him has lost all its warmth, now replaced with nothing but the cold now biting at his ankles and fingers. Dabi has changed and he couldn’t understand why, but he knew and he knew it all too well. The moment he had stepped in, the moment he opened his mouth to speak. Something was awry, of course there was. He lifts his right hand to grate at his neck, nails dug to scrape at his skin– thinking, thinking, thinking.
When the bar door opens the second time that day, Kurogiri had entered along with the young high school woman, Toga. Though the breeze did not feel as cold as it did when it had happened the first time. He pays them no mind, his thoughts still scattered like a raging fury inside him, and if they notice the coat on him, its owner nowhere to be seen in the common lounge nor next to him, they did not say a word.
He remains on the stool that night, alone as he did in the beginning of the day. The autumn air has once again greeted him, feeling him up– raw and bitter, pinching at his skin like needles. The bar is no longer empty– Kurogiri up and wiping glass with a clean sheet of cloth in front of him, but the feeling of solitude stayed, his fingers fiddling with the lapels of the coat, careful to keep one finger afloat. It’s an expensive gear and investment after all– he could not risk to waste such valuable item. He thinks and thinks, but what else is there to think of other than the obvious? His thoughts were everywhere and nowhere, yet dots connect like constellations. A sudden truth coming into fruition.
Dabi has changed.
In the few weeks he had observed him– in the so little time they’ve spent. It was laughable, even repulsive to think. The arsonist was not one to value another than himself, he was narrow, and selfish down to his very core, loyal solely to no one but himself, following only his greedy ideals and judgment. The dark haired pyro has made it clear the moment he had first stepped foot in this room. For him to bow and cave is a marvel upon miracles– to fall is just low and beneath and inferior.
His coat slips the third time and Shigaraki grips it in a passionate hold. Dabi has changed, he realizes.
Dabi has changed.