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“You have a key, y’know,” Dabi said, a cigarette in his mouth, as he fished for a lighter in the couch cushions. He rummaged between the cushions for several minutes, as Shigaraki shut the window behind him, scoffing in reply. They tossed the bag of cheap takeout on the kitchen counter, the discolored linoleum nothing like the polished marble at their adoptive father’s estate. Shigaraki’s eyes came upon the large black form propped up on the fridge. Their guitar was still right where the guitarist had left it, safely hidden from their adoptive father. It was an old acoustic piece still covered in Disney stickers and old boy band labels; it was a gift from Toga, a foster kid in the apartment that spent more time in Dabi’s apartment than her actual house. Shigaraki knew she had been here, store-bought cookies with cheap frosting on the counter - half of them were missing.
The kitchen was still warm, likely because of the cheap toaster oven that overcooked hotdogs and burnt toast. The kitchen was familiar and homely, air bubbles forming under cheaper plastic tiles, with years of stains despite various attempts to get rid of them. Shigaraki liked Dabi’s apartment, it was inviting and lived-in, it was nothing like the estate, and Dabi being there made it feel almost like a home. It felt like they were welcome, that they belonged. The guitarist would never say it aloud; words still felt weird in their mouth and Dabi made their chest feel different in a way that Shigaraki wasn’t sure they liked.
“Fuckin’ finally,” Dabi shouted from the couch, the click of the lighter, and immediate smell of cigarette smoke wafting over to the kitchen, as the man let out a long exhale. Shigaraki rolled their eyes, opening the fridge to grab a cup of yogurt, they didn’t bother with getting a spoon; the guitarist thought they remembered that the yogurt was actually from Dabi’s roommate but couldn’t remember if these were all free for sharing.
Dabi had already taken another drag from his cigarette before he had got up from the couch, adjusting the fly of his jeans, as he saw Shigaraki coming towards him. He rolled his eyes at seeing Shigaraki with the yogurt, heading over to the laundry bin to find a clean shirt. He started cursing as he realized the laundry bin was full of dirty clothes, moving the clothes by the door to take down to the laundry room later. He went off in the direction of his room, turning on the hallway light. He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling through his nose, before he called over his shoulder, “Grab me one of those too, would ya?”
“Fuck no,” Shigaraki replied but turned around anyways, grabbing a flavor that they knew Dabi didn’t like, second guessing and then grabbing their guitar as they were leaving the kitchen area. Dabi was already returning from his room, cigarette already half-spent, as he tried to fix something in his hair. He saw Shigaraki, making eye contact, and he offered a huge shit-eating grin as he opened his arms for the yogurt.
When Shigaraki tossed the yogurt cup, Dabi’s smirk fell as he saw the flavor.
“I fuckin’ hate banana,” the man complained. “Was this the only one left?”
“Yup,” Shigaraki lied, smoothly, slurping down another mouthful of their own. They checked the label, blueberry. Figures.
“You have the berry one, trade,” Dabi started, reaching for Shigaraki’s cup as the guitarist was throwing themselves over the arm of the couch. The elder didn’t bother to wait for a reply, grabbing the cup instead and chugging the rest of it despite the immediate outry. Dabi laughed, licking over his scarred lips, silver piercings reflecting off the light from the television. He belched, laughing while Shigaraki pouted.
“Much better,” Dabi smirked, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Shigaraki started to scratch at their neck before Dabi tipped their head back, blowing smoke in their mouth in an almost loving kiss. When they pulled apart, Dabi still gave them a long look, always turning away before Shigaraki could get a good read of his facial expression. So the guitarist chose to savor the remaining taste of blueberries amidst the nicotine still itching the back of their throat. The guitarist had no interest in smoking, usually detested the smell, but Dabi had his vice and he wasn’t planning to stop anytime soon.
“You’re in your head again, mophead,” Dabi said from the corner of his room. He cursed, hissing in pain, “Fuck you too, little bitch,” he said, swearing under his breath as he was forced to put out his cigarette. Shigaraki looked up to see the man cooing to his pet rats, trying to coax them to climb into his hand, convincing three to scamper up his arms. But there was one rat that Dabi was taking special care to whisper towards, the guitarist’s interest piqued, as the man shut the cage and walked over.
“Hm?” Shigaraki began, offering a hand to take a rat, a familiar white rodent jumping into their hands as the guitarist gave a soft smile. The rat immediately climbed up their hoodie sleeves, settling around their shoulders, as the rodent tried to groom loose strands of hair.
“Yeah, we got a new one,” Dabi answered. “I wanted to name her ‘Freak. Maybe Lady Frankenstein or some shit.’”
Shigaraki raised a brow, looking back at the white rat on their shoulder, now fascinated with the gold ringlet hanging in their ear.
“She’s got odd eyes and an extra finger on her paw,” Dabi said, petting over the rat’s brown fur. “She was all alone in the corner,” he said the last part softly. Shigaraki hummed in reply, leaning over carefully as to not dislodge the now-recognized “Blondie” from their shoulder, almost sighing in relief when they reopened the guitar case.
“Y’know ya could just take it home,” Dabi spoke up, flicking at a rat trying to paw at his eyebrow piercing. “It’s a gift-”
“Master wouldn’t approve,” Shigaraki spoke quickly, the same response as always, and it made something in Dabi’s heart shift as he heard the barely-concealed pain in that voice.
“And you like playing over here, yeah,” Dabi replied, turning over the conversation to ease the tension. Shigaraki’s shoulders relaxed, Blondie’s pink nose almost visible as she hunted around in the guitarist’s hair again. “Can you play that one song? The one with the funky beat,” the man tried to imitate the tune, before Shigaraki kicked him.
Dabi laughed, several rats turning up their heads as his chest rumbled. There came the sound of several test strums and then familiar notes filled the apartment living room. Dabi smiled at himself, relaxing into the couch, idly playing with two rats, batting at them with his fingertips. At some point, he was singing softly to no one in particular, different lyrics from the last time that Shigaraki had played the song.
“I wanna add that one to the band list,” the man said aloud. “I should have gotten my notebook,” he groaned. “Muse always fuckin’ hits when I’ve already gotten comfortable.”
Shigaraki gave him a look, but continued playing idly, and Dabi eventually picked up the song again. There were still remnants of classical voice training still visible in his singing, something that Dabi both complained about but was thankful to have; his smoking habits would eventually catch up to him, but for now, he would sing subtle love songs to the guitarist in his living room.
The takeout had long gone cold by the time that Dabi had put the rats back away in the cage. The pair had washed their hands, Shigaraki purposely splashing Dabi with water when they had caught him with a spring roll in his mouth.
“Mine,” Shigaraki said, hand outstretched, coming in close to take the remainder of the spring roll from Dabi. Something in the man’s eyes flickered, his face shifting slightly, too fast for the younger adult to process, but then Dabi was smirking again. He held the spring roll in his teeth, leaning in close, and cornering the guitarist in the tiny kitchenette. Scarred and tattooed arms barred both sides of their vision, and Shigaraki didn’t find the various chain tattoos subtle in the gesture. Dabi was still smirking so Shigaraki rolled their eyes, leaning forward to bite off part of the spring roll from the man’s mouth. Something else passed in Dabi’s eyes again but Shigaraki missed it again. Taking the frustration out on the spring roll, the guitarist refused to let it cool in their mouth, chewing it messily through harsh breaths.
Dabi eventually pulled away, licking over his lips, as he went back to the takeout bag. Shigaraki didn’t miss the way that the man had almost lingered this time. They missed the other's warmth immediately.