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It hadn’t started as anything special. Just the popular boy and the quiet new kid, forced into proximity by sheer circumstance.
Tenko was obviously different from the others Dabi hung around, that much was obvious from the start. And at first, Dabi hadn’t known what to make of him.
He’d been distant, almost cold, watching the boy who didn’t talk but instead relied on a notepad to scribble his thoughts, or the occasional hesitant hand gesture to (try to) communicate.
The other kids had found it weird. Dabi had agreed—out loud, at least.
“Look at him,” Dabi had said, leaning back in his chair as Tenko shuffled past their group in the cafeteria, clutching his tray like it might vanish if he didn’t hold it tight enough. “Always off in his own little world. Doesn’t even try to fit in.”
He hadn’t meant anything by it. It was the kind of thing Dabi said to keep up appearances, to maintain the image of someone too cool to care.
But then, a week later, he’d seen Tenko sitting on the steps outside the school, completely surrounded.
Three guys. Typical idiots, too big for their own good, shoving Tenko around and laughing every time his hands jerked up in that defensive way of his.
Dabi didn’t think. He didn’t have to.
“Hey,” he’d barked, storming over. “The hell are you losers doing?”
The three bullies had looked up, their expressions shifting from amusement to unease when they saw who was approaching.
“Just messing with him,” one of them said, holding his hands up like he was innocent.
“Yeah?” Dabi had said, stepping between them and Tenko. “Well, now you’re done. Get lost.”
They’d left, muttering under their breath, but it didn’t matter. Dabi had turned around, expecting to see Tenko grateful or maybe relieved.
Instead, the kid just stared at him, wide-eyed and quiet, like he didn’t know what to make of Dabi either.
“You okay?” Dabi had asked, scratching the back of his neck.
Tenko had nodded, then hesitated before pulling out his notepad. He scribbled something, tore off the page, and handed it to Dabi.
Thank you.
It was such a simple thing, but it had hit Dabi like a punch to the gut.
“Yeah, sure,” he’d said, trying to sound casual as he stuffed the note into his pocket. “Don’t mention it.”
But he’d kept the note.
It wasn’t like they’d become friends overnight. Dabi still thought Tenko was weird—too quiet, too withdrawn, always on the edge of things like he was afraid to take up space.
Dabi started noticing things:
The way Tenko’s hands fluttered nervously when he was overwhelmed. The way he scrunched his nose when he was focused on something. The way he smiled—soft and tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to.
And somehow, without meaning to, Dabi found himself looking out for him.
Sarcastic comment here, a teasing jab there.
“You’re not seriously eating lunch by yourself again, are you?” Dabi had asked one day, plopping down next to Tenko without waiting for an invitation.
Tenko had blinked at him, confused, before shrugging and taking another bite of his sandwich.
“Well, scoot over,” Dabi had said, nudging him. “I’m keeping you company.”
Tenko had looked at him like he’d grown a second head, but Dabi just smirked, leaning back on his hands and pretending not to notice.
There were times when Dabi followed Tenko around between classes, pretending it was because he had nothing better to do.
Or the way he started snapping at anyone who so much as looked at Tenko the wrong way, claiming, “I’m the only one allowed to pick on him.”
But the truth? The truth was that Dabi didn’t want anyone else near Tenko.
Not because he was weird, but because he was his.
The moment Dabi realized he was completely screwed, though, was during a random late afternoon when he’d stumbled across Tenko in the library.
Tenko hadn’t noticed him at first, too busy flipping through a book with a tiny crease between his brows.
And Dabi watched.
Tenko’s lips moved faintly as he read; his hair fell into his eyes as he tugged on the sleeves of his sweater like he didn’t want anyone to see his hands.
It was adorable.
Too adorable.
Dabi had ducked behind a shelf before Tenko could see him, his heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t explain.
Or maybe he just didn’t want to admit it.
From there, it had only gotten worse. Every little thing Tenko did became Dabi’s new favorite thing.
The way he signed Dabi’s name—sharp, precise movements that softened just slightly when Tenko realized Dabi was watching.
The way he tilted his head when he was confused, like a curious little bird.
The way he whispered, “Touya…” in that quiet, breathy voice that made Dabi—Touya feel like his chest might explode.
It was maddening.
And maybe Dabi should’ve been scared, but he wasn’t. Because somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, he’d stopped seeing Tenko as just the quiet kid who didn’t talk.
Tenko was everything.