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Beneath a moon that waxes and wanes as reliably as death and gunfire, Dabi sits with his fingers twined in his lap as he gazes out into the abyss before him. It's full of an absolute nothingness that's forever blinded to the naked eye and it is everything a void could possibly define. Total blackness, not unlike the stars when they retire behind a fog too consuming to seep through. Almost endless. But Dabi isn't sure anything could compare to this.
Emptiness isn't anything new to him. It catches up to everyone; young or old, rich or poor, civilian or criminal-- like most things too ubiquitous to call variable, it doesn't discriminate. You don't need holes in your lungs to know it, because you don't need to be anything special. It'll hit you one day; someday. At least the latecoming solace can fit into that guarantee too.
There are a number of things one can depend on before that final descent, and catharsis is one. That the definition is universal, however, will forever be up for debate. As most things are. And will be.
Drool slips out the slack corner of his mouth but his wrists, though green and yellow with porcupine pricks, are still lucid enough for one to raise and wipe it away, smearing it across the thick hide of his jaw. This kind of half-consciousness, while it may not be familiar to those that await this sort of pit only towards the very end of their very last shed skin, or perhaps just to any unlucky enough to remain chained to a hospital cot by a catheter in the back of their hand and an IV in the inside of their elbow, those kinds of people that Dabi will never be but could spare camaraderie for when they get that far-- this is what he knows, so this is what he takes. Because nothing else can feel more like home.
But that's a lie, because beyond this black place that enshrouds him as if iron curtains in and of themselves, a world less metaphysical and more tangible, or perhaps literal, awaits him as it always does-- the degree to which feeling awaits, however, is forever dependent upon just how many red giants Dabi missed while tied up underground. But it comes back slowly, as it always does. As it always should.
"You awake?" Tomura asks, his voice somehow equally quiet and jarring. Dabi sucks up all the spit that's pooled in his cheeks and swallows it down before it can dig its way out down his chin. "Yeah." He answers. "I'm back."
It really can't be anything other than ironic when the poison becomes the medicine, but even prescriptions got schedules and oopsies thereof, so housecall phlebotomy can't be that out of the ordinary. Certainly can't hurt for someone lacking half a high school education to pick up on skills befitting that of medical students without any of the debt weighing down their shoulders. Even if he's lacking textbooks too, knowledge is still knowing. It's why Tomura's grown to trust all he does and the methods he chooses. But he probably trusted him already 'cause he knew Dabi wouldn't dare damage something Tomura holds close enough to share a closet with.
That's someone, the itty-bitty bossman on his shoulder huffs. But Dabi's been getting better with that lately too-- not even because of Tomura. Sometimes you just gotta make peace with what you're always poking into just to stay alive. Sometimes you gotta let the thing that's got you living in the first place be recognized as something worth living in.
But anyways. That's enough about a poppy called a cure-all. Thanks a lot, all you dead German chemists. Cheers.
"If you're up, then stay up." Something like a crawdad sings. "You had your twenty minutes."
And when Dabi pries his peepers open and thumbs at his phone, he sees it's actually been twenty-six-- so yeah, time to seize the day, or maybe just the afternoon. Time for lunch, at least. Gotta keep eating 'cause you can't always stay sleeping.
When the weather gets colder everything gets slower, but even with your blood all cozied up to its flighty roommate you still can't be all up and neglecting the condo itself, no matter the time of year, actually, for that matter-- this is why Dabi pulls himself up from where he's lain comatose against the back of the couch despite his movement looking more engineered by puppet wires rather than the very muscles he nicks half the time. Surprisingly, nothing roils in his stomach in greeting but instead gurgles in want as if from a gut not corroded by white bulbsap. Or maybe that's not surprising-- it's when the reserves run low that all those baselines give way to acid. So there's a schedule now and it keeps Tomura's meals consistent too. It's easier to keep it down when there's a clock ticking so it seems everything's still lining up peachy and perfect subjective or not. Serendipitous enough to sit up.
"Wha's in the fridge?" He slurs. Tomura snorts 'cause he thinks it's cute when Dabi's tongue's still goin' slow up on the uptake but won't admit it, and goes, "See for yourself." It's clearly a ploy, but who ever said that everything from that mouth was made of proclamations alone?
Well, actually. There was a guy who said that and he didn't just beat that horse corpse-- he dropped it in acid-- metaphorically speaking, lucky for the horse-- but unlucky for the guy himself, 'cause he wasn't exactly the most charming motherfucker out there, and that army he dawdled around waiting for his ward to amass was much more inclined to the ward himself than any jackass too haughty to bother asking their names. Which is exactly how they should've been. How they are.
And so Dabi rises and trudges into a kitchen that can only ever welcome him, regardless of groceries. "How y'feel 'bout fried rice?" He yells. From the living room where he's still snuggled up comfy-cozy and much more awake than Dabi'd been, Tomura yells back, "Add bonito flakes."
"Go fuck yourself." Dabi scowls. "Fuck me yourself, asshole." Tomura laughs and it's stupidly amused for someone who just owned himself whether purposefully or not, but you just might be able to call that cute too. Or just stupid.
But he still lumbers forth and cranks up the stove once he's got a fresh bag of peas and carrots ripped open and the old corn in the freezer unclipped and dragged out too, accompanying the muscle memory of his knife into scallions. He doesn't nick a finger while cooking because that never happens, not even while fucked up, because if there's one thing Dabi can do, it's cook.
Even with all that dopamine weighing him down he doesn't falter-- just grabs two plates while the freshly steaming wok offers up its insides and is left on the stove after, cast iron still too familiar to his own grasp to head straight to the sink. But it just needs a few more minutes to cool down enough to touch. As many good things are once you wait long enough.
Tomura slides into the seat opposite him at their measly little kitchen table and sniffs in the same way a hungry animal would with red meat on the breeze. Too easy. Yet before he brandishes his spoon, he looks up, looks up and looks Dabi square in the face. He does that a lot when he's trying to figure something out, some action or swear. Somehow even moments like these can give him pause-- or maybe Dabi just forgot the MSG. Oops.
He's about to ask what's y'r problem, you not hungry after all? when Tomura finally pipes up with something: "Not even any bonito just for me?" He grins. Knowingly. Because Tomura knows he can read between the lines just as well as he can do them.
Dabi tsks. Asshole.