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The pathway up may be far more weathered now than it'd been however many decades ago, but even now, the soupy and charred marrow glued to the insides of Dabi's bones hasn't forgotten the way. It's kinda strange considering these femurs and fibulas aren't even the same ones that rattled around in him back before all those clocks had burnt out their batteries, but he supposes that muscle memory doesn't really account for the bones; as long as the same nerves web 'round their exteriors, it'll be just the same as before. A frightening thought, all things considered, but it's all assured and alright. Dabi's own shell's all but Theseussian by now so he can appreciate the leftovers for what they are. Seems like nobody ever got around to scraping those stumps from their own china.
He doesn't know what he's expecting by coming back. His grave is nonexistent and all that's left of it is a tired black frame accumulating dust faster than anyone could wipe away, if they ever did-- and his jawbone, the one that used to cradle his tongue and teeth so harshly before it snapped off and gummy plaster dripped down his chin instead, tasting sick of paint and wet and moldy algae-- it's already long since been snatched and plasticked for its similarly nonexistent dental records. The enamel had held but the bone hadn't; isn't that backwards somehow? Maybe not. Plaque and plague are only one letter apart anyway. His feet nudge him on and shepard him forward as if possessed and he wonders fleetingly if they are. You sorta lose your shock after a while living in this kind of world. Whatever kind that may be is entirely up to you and your own-- if you've got one. That's debatable for some people too.
But whether or not this one Dabi drifts upon exists to begin with is irrelevant, if only for now. Any other life blooded blue or red strays within miles of the grass flattened beneath his boots and he supposes that makes sense. It happens everywhere else too; or rather, he flints that himself. It's so much simpler when there's only so much to scrub out of your dry and scaly seams. Even moreso when there's only one other temple to suck it from.
The chuckle that smogs out is rich with soft mucus. It tastes briny and beespit the same as it always does beneath a hawkish moon.
As if summoned by the soil's very memory of the cells flaking off his limbs like a butchered fish, the acute curve of this quiet and concave cemetery seems to deepen with every inch the patchy dirt and gravel ziptie hooked under his staples draw him forward, reaching to welcome their scraps back to bed amongst warm eggshell and fruit peel compost, promising hands for his wrists and the nape of his neck-- and for one solitary and silent moment, Dabi lets it. Up to the edge now eroded from any clear border with eyes gone droopy at the corners, he peers inside. Laid within the humble beginnings of a hole to hell, he gazes half-focused at the sprouts that have made this their home in his absence.
There are leeches, of course, ragweed and horsetail ferns and schizophrenic cloverfields, dandelions sunny and cottonpuff bandaid, but the most striking part is the meadow that has flourished its way up to brimming. Some he can recognize, pastewhite calla lilies and tigerstripe with full, narrow leaves stretching out for one another; dahlias, heads lysergic geometric and deep red, wine red, too wet to fit in any forearm; bright yellow yarrow squirming to tower over indigo dotted phlox netting the grasses that have made this place their mattress; daisies too haphazard to distinguish; wildflowers he's never held much less seen before; orangemango kniphofia; fireworks grass too nostalgic to be mistaken-- overflowing, overtaking not just this horrible sanctuary but the trees too, the forest, the city and this whole damn planet too and webbing mycelium into its molten-death core-- spreading and enshrouding and bleeding buttercup pollen--
Dabi knows before the brush behind him rustles and parts again. He'd already known the very moment he came here. The only thing he hadn't known was why.
Maybe that's a question for Shouto. But Dabi'd never ask either way. He wouldn't say a single word.
Tamping down foamy moss as he steps forward to stand at Dabi's side and shower his eyes across the shallow and blossom-stabbed pit like a quiet and gracious waterhose, neither him nor Shouto say anything for a moment. His white-toed sneakers are stained with grass and blades both just as the soles of Dabi's boots are but Shouto's have the plantsick to prove it. The blue sides are soaked with still fresh rain and he's not wearing socks. Dabi doubts he's cold but he still ponders if only one foot is. Selective footwarmers-- that'd be kinda funny. Or maybe his humor's gone a bit drier since last time. Maybe Fuyumi wears boots now too.
Though the air is thick with only dead light and potpourri breath, Dabi's nails dig crescents harsher than that hanging above blunt into his palms and swallows back all the nightshade threatening his tongue. Why it's only sprouted now, not across any black silt boundary nor before it'd droughted in the first place, why it inflames his gums bright and angry red-- well. Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps it's the water, the arcticstuffs that sandy clay had lacked, perhaps it's thinning all at once and the dormant roots have seized their spider's thread back up Dabi's esophagus to hang ravenous and slimy from his uvula. But where did the seeds sift from? What trowel and rake amended them? Whose rough hands have found their way into his stomach again?
It doesn't make sense. So Dabi bites his tongue just barely to bloodmeal when Shouto inhales too practiced to be casual. Too nervous to be anything but presentation. Something he surely learned in school.
Why wouldn't it make sense?
"I wasn't-- um," He fumbles with his words worse than the puzzle pieces Dabi grinds beneath his heel. "I wasn't stalking you or anything." A beat passes through the empty space. Shouto seems to wilt just a tad from his own awkwardness but he still straightens his shoulders and tries again. Dabi's failed too many times to care for that anymore. "I come here sometimes to take care of them. We trade off."
He doesn't need to elaborate any further than that. It's not like Dabi's brain was ever functional to begin with but there's only so much that etizolam can erase.
Shouto turns his head to the side minutely, clearly attempting subtlety, but shouldn't siblings always be able to read each other? Sure, he wasn't even seven when Dabi ran off for the end of a witch hunt, but isn't blood supposed to mean something? That's what he's always heard. Blood is thicker than water.
Blood of the covenant, idiot, a grumbling voice mutters into his brainstem. Water of the womb.
Nobody says those parts, though, Dabi counters. The specter doesn't bother answering.
He knows his expression is hiding nothing but this frenzied summer storm raging and caged within his ribs, but Shouto seems to see nothing but exhaustion-- physical or mental, it doesn't matter. Your guess is as good as mine. "What do you think?"
There's no chain nor padlock that could restrain the bark of a laugh that chokes out of him. Steadfastly refusing to glance over, Dabi hacks out, "The fuck you think?" He stops to gulp down a breath and dilute his foggy insides. "Who even gives a shit?"
Shouto's expression remains utterly immovable. The vines at the back of his throat start sprouting wild potatoes and he laughs those out too. Only when his supposed mirth has subsided does his brother talk again-- and though his face is as unbreakable as that of stone, his eyes remain mismatched marbles. Eyes are the window to the soul, his sweet and scratchy ghost murmurs. "We do." Shouto says with perfect nothingness. "You don't have to be such a dick about it."
"Oh, come on, were y'expecting anything else?" It's now that Dabi finally deigns to look over, and upon the stage Shouto's spread beneath them he takes a rickety and graceful step back then spreads his arms open wide. "Big bad Touya's a big bad fugitive now. Were y'expecting a hug and a headpat?" His cheeks contort achy and painful. "You goin' loopy? Already forgot yer buddy 'nd all that?" He smiles. All pale yellow shards untouched by dentistry, he puffs up in a show of intimidation. In an attempt to induce anger or perhaps gloom, perhaps even fear, Dabi raises himself on his hind legs and puts on a show again.
But he was never in theater so it isn't all that surprising when Shouto doesn't bite the bait. Disappointing, yeah-- but not surprising. He's probably fried his shock receptors too. "Would it kill you to act your age." He grouses.
He sounds about as annoyed as if someone'd broke his favorite mug yet somehow it's completely bare of bitter and burnt leaves. Kid must know how to brew his green tea. Dabi acquesies and lets his arms fall to his sides but doesn't drop his grin because he's got someone at home who'd love to know his technique, and despite the wild rainclouds puncturing out from his organs, he feels oddly calm. Refreshed. Stars and moon and black sky all slow and spewing out the storm within to leave him nothing but silent.
Saliva spills down the shovel and leaves nothing but embers in its wake. Razing everything away to make space for next year. Ripping out the roots to let them sleep a little sounder.