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Dabi is sure that if the heartless killer he was a few months ago could see him now, he'd lose his mind.
Tomura tucks himself comfortably against his side beneath his arm, leeching off his unusually high body heat.
Yeah. He'd definitely lose it.
He doesn't get attached, he doesn't care about people, he doesn't let his guard down.
Except Tomura Shigaraki is nuzzling into his scarred neck like a needy, attention starved cat, and Dabi is letting him. In fact, he turns to bury his face in unruly pale blue hair, and kisses the top of his head.
He's gone soft. Maybe not entirely, but enough that the bratty manchild of his boss has wormed his way past his defenses.
Villains don't date. They don't do relationships, they don't care about each other, and they definitely don't love. But Dabi likes Tomura. A lot. More than he should. And Tomura felt the same, or, at least, he said he did, and Dabi believes him.
So… They're dating. And it's weird. Partially because neither of them had normal childhoods; they've never had any relationships, never held hands or gone on dates with anyone.
It's kind of awkward, actually. They're a bit like fumbling teenagers, trying to figure out what to do with their hands and if they're allowed to kiss each other.
Sometimes, it makes Dabi feel like an idiot. He's slept around, and he has no problem with sex, but, god, this? Normal affection? Even just actual intimacy, with feelings? It makes his skin crawl, sometimes in a good way and sometimes in a bad way. He doesn't get it. But he's not willing to let Tomura go.
So they're feeling it out. Like awkward, bumbling teens.
“You smell like burnt bacon.” Tomura murmurs against his neck. “And cigarettes.”
Dabi wrinkles his nose.
“Wow, thanks.” He says dryly. “S'that a good thing?”
“...No.”
Dabi snorts, tugging Tomura a little closer. Tomura hums, the sound barely audible, vibrating against Dabi’s skin. The sensation there is dulled, muted, but not gone entirely.
“But it’s your smell,” he adds after a beat, as if that’s supposed to explain anything. It doesn't, and Dabi thinks it makes no sense, but he doesn’t push him away. He just sighs, the kind of exhale that sounds like surrender. It kind of is. Tomura is weird, he's long accepted that. It's not like he's normal himself.
“Creep.” He mutters. It's too fond. It tastes sour in his mouth, makes his stomach churn a little bit. But he means it, that fondness.
Tomura grins, thoroughly entertained, curling four of his fingers into the thin, worn fabric of Dabi’s shirt. He always does that; as though if he doesn't anchor himself somehow, Dabi might vanish, disappear completely. Dabi gets it. That fear of things slipping away. Of things going too well, too soft, too close. He grips Tomura tightly for that same reason, digging his nails in until Tomura mumbles something about his skin burning.
He gets it.
They sit in silence for a while, the kind that Dabi used to hate, that made him antsy and restless. Now it’s… tolerable. Almost nice. The hum of the hideout’s shitty old heater that Kurogiri acquired is rattling in the background, the occasional sound of Spinner yelling at someone over video games from the other room… It’s their normal. Weird and fucked up, maybe, but theirs. It's comfortable. He's comfortable. Tomura's weight against his side is comfortable.
“Do you think we’re bad at this?” Tomura asks after a moment.
“We’re villains. We’re not supposed to be good at this.” Dabi scoffs.
“That’s not an answer.” Tomura points out. Annoying brat.
Dabi doesn't respond right away. He stares at the ceiling, at the cracks in the drywall and the gray water stains, and wonders what the hell he's doing. What they’re doing.
Tomura shifts just enough to press a small kiss to the base of his throat, where his neck meets his sternum, and Dabi's heart does that annoying fluttery thing again, like a bird is trapped inside his ribcage. It's not really pleasant, and it's unfamiliar and foreign and sets him off kilter. But it also… It doesn't feel all that unpleasant, either. It's warm, in a way that's more comfortable and soothing compared to the sharp, blistering heat of his quirk.
He sighs softly.
“…We’re not great,” Dabi finally admits, carding a hand through Tomura’s tangled hair. He snags on a knot, staples catching on frizzy strands, and his fingers curl to gently scrape his nails against his scalp instead. “But we’re trying. That’s gotta count for something, right?”
Tomura nods against him.
“Yeah. I guess it does.”
His fingers tighten in Dabi's shirt like he’s afraid Dabi might up and leave if he doesn't keep him there. It’s stupid. Dabi’s not going anywhere. Not tonight. Maybe not ever, if this keeps up.
That's an unsettling thought, so he shoves it away.
“…You smell like dusty manga and sweat,” Dabi mutters after a moment, just to be petty.
Tomura huffs, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Rude.”
“Yeah, I am.”
That tolerable silence comes back.
Dabi isn’t used to this—to comfort without tension, without suspicion, without the fear and pain that usually follows anything nice he's ever had. He keeps expecting the other shoe to drop, for Tomura to say something cruel or push him away like everyone else eventually does. But he doesn’t. He just breathes, soft and steady, like Dabi is something safe.
It’s terrifying, really, how easily this has become routine. The way Tomura always ends up curled against him like some kind of oversized pet with boundary issues. The way Dabi doesn’t mind.
The cautious part of him whispers to push him away, burn him before he burns Dabi. He can't get hurt if he hurts him first, after all-
“Hey,” Tomura says after a while, voice quieter now, as if he’s not sure he should speak at all. “You’d tell me if you didn’t want this anymore, right?”
Dabi stiffens.
The urge to make a sarcastic remark, to deflect, to scoff and dismiss the question, rises fast in his throat like bile. But he doesn’t give in to it, nor does he give in to the urge to shut down and pull away out of some fucked up strategy meant to defend himself.
Instead, he exhales, warm breath rustling blue locks.
“I’d tell you,” he affirms, voice low and careful, every word deliberate. “But I don’t think I will.”
Tomura is quiet for a long moment.
“…Okay.”
Dabi closes his eyes, ignores the discomfort and wariness in the back of his mind, and lets himself have this. Just for tonight. Maybe for longer.
Maybe forever.
“Still smell like burnt bacon, though,” Tomura mutters.
Dabi groans. Tomura is so fucking annoying. He wants to kiss him an unbelievable amount.
“You're the worst.”
Tomura grins against his neck.
“Yeah, but I’m your worst.”
“That doesn't even make sense.” Dabi grumbles.
Quietly, though, he agrees.
Tomura is his worst.