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Of all places, of all moments, it's halfway through a piss that the thought slips through. Of all times, it's halfway through sobriety and way past waned patience that it crosses Dabi's mind; the sittin'-on-the-shitter part isn't the surprising one, but the comedown is, 'cause, y'see, everything's easier to feel when the world tilts sideways. Feeling sleepy while Tomura runs his thumb mindlessly over the side of Dabi's hand and tasting it stronger only half conscious, that's nice. Rubbing his face up in Tomura's freshly dried and conditioned hair when his words want some rest, that's nice. And yet it is fickle humanity that whispers it.
It still takes a moment to come back. Dabi wipes himself off and washes his hands just the same as every other hydrant, but the soap and water warp bubbly from yards and then miles away this time rather than just centimeters. On autopilot, he dries them and returns to himself, herding his hectic nonsense back to some kinda sanity again. The suds stick on the sides of his head worse than any sink stain, but at least the siamese sky hasn't started sponging yet.
You wanna know the it, don't you? Go check the mailbox and maybe you'll find something. Or at least just a something.
He supposes he could call it spontaneity if he were up to acting as gentle as graciously garbage parents in public, but sometimes you gotta at least try to trash the habit, okay? Baby steps're a hell of a lot harder than any psych major'll tell you but as long as they're steppin', it's cool. So yeah, 't's not exactly an impulse when his skull starts to fluff-stuff in its own solitary and singular volition and he scurries down the hall in speed about as logical as a yid-eaten lobster mac. You ever watch old sitcoms?
Too bad we'll never be that funny. But we can keep replaying them anyway.
So, yeah. Not really a coincidence when Tomura flicks open the second Dabi fills the doorway. It'd be nice if he could've held that part, though. Can't it all go away already? It's been so damn long. Can't it just leave him alone at some point?
"Let's go out," Dabi says, too hurried to be natural. It doesn't read at all as a suggestion; more like want. More like need. Tomura is silent, simply glossing across the slight and scrambled shake in Dabi's hands doubly translated to twitch in his teeth, because lack has taken far too much advantage of love and spilled the overbrewed green inside him into motions that could've only ever been traded with Tomura-- well, not traded. More like troched. At least Tomura's not alone in biting his fingers to beg them frozen now.
He rubs the groggloss from his eyes and for some reason, he reads utterly unbothered despite the uncouth awakening. "Okay." He answers, dumb knowing. Fuck surgical upgrades and all the brains they languish with. "Get me new socks, then."
Dabi complies. Tomura doesn't comment on the cigarette he lights the moment they step out either, inhaling deep to cradle the cherry while the other fiddles with his ritualistic doorlocking. Fuck overlit convenience store tobacco selections.
Though it's bright out regardless of the blunt grey clouds and Dabi's strutting around with his mask mangled down to his chin to make room for twice as much trachea torture as is the norm, it isn't enough roadblock to rev any reservation Tomura could have for shimmying his right hand into Dabi's left, which he does. He opens his speaker too and starts doing just that, and of course Dabi listens, there's nothing in the world he'd want to do more than listen, not even lie down blissfully loperamide-lossy, but he listens and loathes too, because seriously. Fuck upgrades. Dabi knows he can't really blame those for all Tomura's eaten of his liver, but that one's the one he's gonna label legit. Baby steps, man. Baby steps.
It still ain't raining, so that's kinda nice. Tomura's hands are clammy enough to substitute.
A park is what they stumble upon, a park gouged of everything but metal structures splattered with green and yellow and orange paintchips, and the little red and holey-sided hideaway, the domething Dabi's never known the name of 'cause he didn't exactly frequent playgrounds when he'd been the age asked for that-- he notices, he sees and he thinks and he sees, and he yanks Tomura to it by their knotted knuckles. People don't bat two eyelashes at tossing jewelry that's lost its link, but when Tomura breaks away to crawl in after him and sit opposite with his knees pulled to his chest, fitting himself cozy and claustrophilic into the small space, Dabi feels all of no apprehension. There's always pliers. He's needled and barred himself enough times to know.
Tomura wraps his arms around his legs like lounging into himself and glances back up to him, and really, really, really, fuck upgrades. Fuck Tomura's stupid smart brain. Fuck all the sticky notes he's got pasted in Dabi's.
Fuck him. Fuck mixing up his usual cigarette brand. Fuck the rain he's waiting on that isn't gonna show, 'cause it just ain't the day for that. They didn't bring an umbrella anyway, so that's a good thing. Tomura really hates being wet. He really, really, really hates it. So maybe Dabi shouldn't feel so twisted up 'cause he knows that, at least. He's got a pen.
"Say something." Tomura asks. It's odd to hear him query so quiet yet intent, but it's just as enveloping as this tiny pocket of spacetime they've nabbed for now, just as cottony-covering. "Tell me something new."
So Dabi tells him something, and not just one nor solely new, and the unscented soap that crusts formlessly in his staples fades to nowhere unnoticed; it twines itself with his thoughts, and it remains unsaid. Yeah, yeah, it's whatever, sure, it's fine and all that, but it really is, y'know? It really is, 'cause it's nothin' new. He doesn't need to say anything again just 'cause he's remembering over and over again 'cause he's always saying the same somethings over and over again. But the funny thing is-- Tomura does the same thing. There ain't any real difference between stupid and smart anyway. And there's only so much you can idolize in love.
Don't make me say it this time, Dabi hopes wordlessly beneath his jabber, pleading with the notes in his margins. Don't make me say it, Tomura.
Yet there really is only so much you can idolize in love, 'cause Tomura's got a thing about holding hands-- or rather, he does now-- so he reaches over again and lays his claim upon Dabi again like he always does. Tangled up like greasy hair before a showerhead, over and over again. He presses a fingertip to one of the tracks on the back of Dabi's hand and asks about bupe, and-- well. You don't need to ask by now, do you? You already know. You should always know, by now.
But go check the mailbox anyway. Who knows what kind of guts you'll find in there this time.