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Inside the dingy mansion, the moon seems brighter than most nights. It reflects the dust floating around the room, little blue specks of light complementing the arching windows and decorated high ceilings. It would be a pretty view if the whole thing wasn't half destroyed, chipping paint and broken glass strewn around because none of them have the patience and care to broom it away.
Still, in these silent moments – rare as they are –, Shigaraki knows to feel grateful, if only that his members have somewhere to sleep. Contrary to what the media seems to believe, he does care for the League. He came to, with time. With enough meals shared, beds made, and fights screamed it was bound to happen.
They are not with him right now, though. Most are asleep, a whim Shigaraki cannot enjoy on most days. He's had enough of watching the dusty moonlight a while ago and now browsing the available TV channels seems to be the last option, given that his switch's battery ran out a while ago.
Shigaraki sighs, settling on a cheesy horror movie from the eighties that splashes a little bit too much of a little too red blood every five minutes or so. Not his ideal type of horror, but it'll do.
It's a bit disconcerting how little furniture the room has for how absurdly big it is. Shigaraki guesses it used to be for big meetings and balls, with creeping ceilings and laminated floors, but for now, it just houses an old couch where he half lies, and a coffee table for when they wanna eat together. The TV is on top of some old boxes, and it's a miracle that it works at all.
The lack of things in the room makes way for sound to travel, and that's why Shigaraki hears Dabi as soon as he enters the room.
Of course, Tomura is not big on romantic views, but maybe he is naturally attuned to the way Dabi moves at this point. He is barefoot, socked feet dragging against the floor with his lanky steps. Slow breathing, patiently watching. He is in a good mood, he can't help but notice. Tomura does not turn, waiting for what he knows will come.
Dabi gets to the back of the couch and drapes himself over Tomura, tucking his nose under his jaw and breathing in deeply. A little kiss is deposited under his ear, although he can't feel much because of how dry and scarred the region is. Dabi squeezes his shoulders in a hug, murmurs a “Hey.” at him.
Tomura can't help but smile a bit, relaxed for once. Dabi jumps over the couch before he has the chance to answer, landing directly above him. He ‘oof’s and curses him out, elbowing the taller man, to no avail. Dabi snickers and cuddles up to him like an overgrown cat on top of a sack of catnip and Tomura has no way out besides accepting it.
“I'm dusting you, you little bitch.” he grunts, not moving a muscle.
“I'd like to see you try.” Dabi smooches him on the cheek, turning to the TV, “So, what are we watching?”
“A Nightmare on Elm Street. It's dogshit.”
Dabi hums and lets one of Tomura’s arms free, knowing that the smaller man will take the opportunity to hug him back. Tomura hates physical touch, but Dabi is so absurdly hot all the time that it's impossible not to treat him like a human furnace. Who needs blankets with a whole Dabi on top of yourself?
That and, well, they're boyfriends. Kinda.
Tomura doesnt know how it happened, but between snarky remarks and quiet planning, complicit smiles started to mix in along with roaming hands and flirty teasing. It's hard to escape Dabi's snare, and after a while, Tomura stopped trying. He’s happily trapped.
Some would think that villains as vicious and deadly as Shigaraki and Dabi would never be able to find a pocket of calm and tranquility amidst this turbulent and hateful life of theirs, and Shigaraki would probably agree. He doesn't like the idea of finding happiness, it's contradictory to his beliefs.
But as he lies between the old couch and his lover, he allows himself to be Tomura.
“He's hot.” Dabi lazily remarks as an American actor who probably has three different types of addiction issues nowadays walks around with a crop-top.
“Hm. Didn’t pay attention, I was still thinking about how all the blood looks like strawberry juice. Has anyone on this set ever stabbed somebody in their life? This is criminal. It’s hurting my eyes.”
“Shh, you're disrupting my focus on the abs. Look at it.”
Tomura sighs and looks. Yeah, the guy is hot. “Not better than yours, though.” slips out.
That rewards him a wheeze and scratches on his nape, so he knows he won. Fifteen minutes later, Tomura’s closing his eyes, movie forgotten.
He feels Dabi’s head heavy on his chest, breathing calm. With his index and middle fingers caressing his back, Tomura allows his mind to drift a bit.
They don't talk much, definitely not enough for a couple. They fight and discuss work more than it's healthy in a relationship, and sometimes all they do is have sex and sleep. There are no feelings to be spoken out loud, no fears to be confessed. No heart to beat.
But still, Dabi smells like smoke and mint. Dabi dyes his hair every week and a half. Dabi chronically hurts from his scars. He has nightmares, cigarettes, and deep blue eyes.
His heart beats on top of Tomura’s ribcage.
He's incapable of love, Master says. To love is to be human, and this privilege has been stolen from him early on in his life.
Tomura sighs and hugs Dabi harder, letting himself fall asleep.