Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Don't you love how life works?

You probably said no. Nor do I blame you—some of us have been dealt a cruel hand in life. If only we could pick the lives we desire to fulfil, but instead we just have to conform to the ones we have and try to make some meaning out of them.

Today, dear reader... we are about to unfold a "simple" little story about you—a young woman with a rather lovely name I think you'd definitely like. You, with your oh-so-wonderful name. And your soon-to-be-lover, Touya Todoroki, who you find in a situation called serendipity through your reckless actions of vandalism, crime, murder—oh! Getting a bit too ahead of myself. Let me rewind about three years ago. Let's start with you.

You were a (you guessed it) young and, may I add, successful girl living in a very luxurious penthouse with your very wealthy celebrity parents. Your mother, M/N, was the number 11 pro-hero blessed with a darkness manipulation quirk, which enabled her to play around with the shadows around her.

Your father, F/N, had an extreme intelligence quirk, making a name for himself across the hero agency by coming up with branding ideas, battlefield equipment, and strategies to combat villains. But most importantly... finding a way for M/N to fall in love with him. You're either gagging or cooing right now, and I don't care which. It's true though—after all, you exist for a particular reason.

The critically acclaimed, highly influential, and respected Shihai family held a special place in the hearts of the public in Japan. By that logic, you'd expect the announcement of their firstborn child to cause extreme amounts of joy and excitement across the country.

You bet your ass it did. Thousands of people applauded your parents on their child—one of the most talked-about events in the nation. But really... the most passionate topic of discussion was: what would the quirk of their offspring be?

I mean, your mother had immense control over shadows and all things dark, and your father possessed incredible intellectualism. An unusual but powerful combination of quirks, right? So naturally, it was predicted your power would be formidable.

Wrong.

You couldn't be more wrong in your entire life. And that's not my opinion—those were your own words at age nine, to your uncle, when he asked. You're a tricky one. I'll let you explain it yourself.

"Quirks tend to appear through the involuntary influence of one's emotions, and through our practical approaches, there appears to be no sign of any quirk within."

You'd read those words from your file, which you found alone in your father's office, curled up in his black leather chair. "However, unlike most quirkless people, you do not possess two joints in your pinky toe." That's a key physical trait of people with quirks. Still, nothing remarkable ever spawned from that discovery.

Time and time again, your mind never stopped replaying that statement like a stupid melody stuck in your head. You always deemed yourself a 'stain' on the family tree—especially when your mother was pregnant with your first brother, Kuroiro, the darkest-skinned boy you'd ever laid eyes on. You didn't even look related.

He became the poster child of the family, which inevitably pushed you to the sidelines. Great. Just great. As days went on, you fell into a deep depression and grew a pure rage towards yourself—but you were willing to share that emotion with your mother, who fuelled your negativity about your "quirkless" state.

Well, there was one person who indirectly stopped you from kicking the bucket.

"What are you doing here?" your smartly dressed father asked, leaning against the doorway with a confused expression—until his eyes fell upon the red file with your name plastered on it. "Oh..."

"It's been 12 years since that appointment," you cut him off, shutting the file and placing it beside the laptop on the desk. You sat up straighter in the chair. "Wanted to refresh my mind on my failure of a life." You smiled through your sarcastic joy.

Your father sighed. He knew he couldn't reason with you, even if he tried. You'd embedded your mother's feelings about your quirk into your own mind so deeply that even your sarcastic comments couldn't hide the brokenness behind them.

"Your life isn't a failure, N/N," he said firmly, a new sternness replacing his usual gentle-parent approach. "I know one day you'll do amazing things."

"But—"

"No. That's not for debate," he cut you off this time. "Anyway... you need to get ready for your brother's birthday."

"I'm not going." Your flat reply came across as rude to your mother, who'd just walked in.

She raised a brow. "That is highly disrespectful! You must attend—you're his sister."

"Mother dearest, to put it bluntly, the boy has been having birthdays since day one, and I've never missed a single. Fucking. One." Your tone softened into something sorrowful.

You were extra sour because your parents had done nothing for your birthday—they'd gone abroad for work—and didn't bother to rearrange your eighteenth celebration for another day. But conveniently, they'd been able to celebrate Kuroiro's the day before because their schedules "worked better."

It's not that you didn't care about your brother... Well, actually, you didn't. You believed your life started to go downhill because of him.

"You're insufferable," your mother spat, eyes wide with frustration. Your father placed a calming hand on her shoulder before turning back to you.

"I can trust you alone then, right?" he asked.

You nodded with a wide smile. "Of course! I'm a responsible young woman."

"Don't do anything stupid, sweetheart," he murmured, kissing your forehead before leaving.

You always felt closer to your father than your mother, simply because he accepted you for who you were. You couldn't change yourself, no matter how hard you tried—and you did try, for that grasp of acceptance. You didn't need to with him.

Walking to the window, you looked down at your family, smiling and getting ready for Kuroiro's 15th birthday celebration. Watching them without you felt bittersweet. You wanted them to be happy—but you were the odd one out.

Eventually, you decided to take pride in that oddness.

And so, you waited for them to return, spending the last weak strands of Halloween alone in your unapologetically you-styled bedroom. Your gaze drifted to the empty diary on your bedside table. You'd sworn to write in it eventually, but nothing in your life felt interesting enough.

Until now.

A thought had been forming in the back of your mind for a long time, but tonight it solidified:

You needed to find a place where you belonged.
Maybe it was time to run away.

Chapter Text

it was bright... had he reached it. has he reached heaven, so soon? if this place was truly heaven, touya thought this place did not deserve the praise it gets. it didn't take the boy long to realise that he was very much alive, but his status didn't concern, it was his new surroundings that resembled the environment of a children's hospital ward. the boy gasped at the surreal reveal of his skin, his once almost-pale skin had dawned a contrastingly dark shade, almost purple, bruising. not only was his arms affected but from the feel of his jaw, legs to his chest underneath a lifeless light blue shirt.

Now he was alone, lost in some hospital. An opportunity was wasted, again.

cautiously, touya left his bed and walked down the corridor. his fingers traced the many child-like drawings on the wall, some of them had dates that date back to three to four years ago. he found himself following chatter from a room with a handful of children of various ages playing games.

"ah, he's awake!" a girl squealed with a large grin on her round face. she was sitting at a children's table with her friend.

"mr sleepy-head woke up!" announced the friend giddily.

"what is this place-" touya shut himself up. he inhaled sharply at the sound of his voice, for a second he didn't even recognise his own voice.

"you're at home, silly," the first girl declared as if it was obvious, as the other girl called for the sensei.

"mr sleepy-head?"

the girl explained, "you were asleep for three long years! i didn't know since i just got here, but the sensei told me!"

three whole years. three whole years. it's been that long, touya was baffled as to what happened to him to be cursed under a three year coma. within his foggy memory, the only thing that lurked was his presence upon sekoto peak when he... burned up.

It was flashing in his head again, the peak... the burning, the flames blinding him with violent reds and blurring blues until utter darkness took its course. It happened so fast, he couldn't even show his father his true potential, how amazing he was, how proud his father would have been. Touya could have beaten shoto, no endeavour, no all might, fuck everyone!

touya announced loudly in quite the panic,"i have to go back!"

"huh, you can't do that!" the (touya assumed) owner declined, his head shaped like a child's drawing of a sunshine. His expression froze forever in a constant smile, touya found it rather unsettling.

"Why not!?" the boy argued, it only internally occurred to him the raspiness of his voice, let alone the deepness of it.

"You'll be living here with everyone else now, sunny!" the man declared delightfully as if this was todoroki's ultimate dream, "this is your new family, I'm sure it'll feel like home soon!"

A new family? Touya didn't need a new family, he already had one, a sister, brothers, a mother and father... a family.. He left a stain on. A forever burning stain corrupting every last bit of the todoroki family tree, he could see it in his own eyes, the entire tree burning down to nothing but ash, and his hands covered in their blood.

"Wait a minute, i have to get home!" touya begged urgently. Why couldn't he understand the seriousness of this situation, he needed to get back home.

"My dad, he probably just had work and couldn't come.." a soft weak optimistic smile curled onto touya's scarred face, "I'm sure he's worried, i mean.. I did and said terrible and unforgivable things.. I need to apologise to my mom and the others! I need Dad to see what I can do, I'm gonna be a he–"

"Unfortunately, I don't think that can happen anymore," a deep monotone voice interjected the conversation. Touya's shaky blue eyes darted towards the monitor. A face belonging to the mysterious voice wasn't present, merely a "sound only" text appeared.

"Your burned up body was extremely hard to repair," they continued, "the missing parts were filled in with regenerative tissue, and your face makes you like someone different, but even so, you survived."

"What are you saying.." touya began to trembled, his hands untouched by the scars on his face, reaching for his neck softly, "i don't understand... someone different?"

"You can't use your power like you did before," the stranger explained, "there was damage to your organs, your senses, including your sense of pain, has been dulled. Your body is weakened. It will never go back to how it was before. We would like to receive you in full health, too. We did our best, but unfortunately, we failed."

Touya couldn't believe what he was hearing, the one thing he was praised since birthed, the one thing he trained for years since the mere second he manifested it, the one thing he needed to overthrown all might's reign, the one thing he fucking needed for his father's approval become his ultimate downfall. All that work, all that time, all that blood, all that pain, suffering, panics, crying to natsu, harming himself constantly just for an ounce of his father's approval– no mere attention regardless of it was positive or negative, all for fucking nothing. Doesnt anyone in this building understand the mere reason for his existence was to be the best? You can't tell touya todoroki, the true successor of endeavour, that his power was his self-destructive comeuppance!

No one should dare to do such a thing.

"It's hard, isn't it? You poor thing." the voice continued, his empathy sounding forced.

You don't understand a fucking thing.

"But we might be able to make your flames go back to normal," the voice struck a deal, "how about it? Will you try to join our family and learn with us, together, young touya?"

"Shut up." a deadly whispered escaped touya's lips. His head rose from his hands, his icy cold stare pierced the sunny man before him. "I dont want to learn from anyone else,the only one who can teach is endeavour."

With a touch of irony, I'll inform you, dear reader, that the news of the arson attack on a children's hospital spread like wildfire across the local area. Because, quite literally, it did. As you waited for your bus by the shelter, you just so happen caught the news on your phone. A soft scoff escaped your lips as you read the headline.

"They really went all out," you muttered to yourself, oddly impressed. "Guess the hospital didn't get the memo about not playing with matches."

Chapter Text

Let me tell you something, dear reader—at first, your parents weren't too concerned about your absence. You had a habit of being away from home for long periods of time, usually out at parties or crashing at friends' houses for a break from your celebrity family.

Emphasis on at first, because days turned into weeks, weeks became months, and now...

It's been a whole year since you left home.

The house feels empty now—lifeless, even. Your mother has always been well aware of your rocky relationship. She loves you, truly she does and always will, but looking back, she wishes she'd shown it more. Ever since the appointment where they told you that you were quirkless, her sadness turned to disappointment. And at the end of the day, it wasn't your fault. Deep down, she feels like it was hers.

Press conference after press conference—begging and pleading for any sign of you returning home—but nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You've seen those public appearances, of course. That... or the public funeral of some kid called Touya Todoroki. By that point, you'd been working in a local supermarket on the outskirts of the city—the east side, known for its mostly quirkless population. It functioned like the world before quirks existed. The downside? High crime rates. With so many quirkless people, criminals with quirks saw it as easy prey. You always kept your distance from that mess, focusing on getting through your day.

With the little money you earned, you supported yourself—clothes, rent for your shitty apartment, food, the essentials. Your apartment was nothing like the home you'd grown up in. Hell, it was the size of your old bedroom. But you didn't mind. You were happy alone, in your bubble, with no one to bother you and no one for you to bother either.

"Two hundred?" You slammed the check down on your boss's desk. "I need more money than that!"

"Sato, I'm not going to pay you more than the rest of my employees," your tired, monotone boss sighed. He'd heard this before. He knew the lines, and so did you.

Oh—and since you were a runaway child celebrity, you'd changed your name so no loose ends could lead back to your family.

"But you know I need more money, Daisuke. This barely covers my rent—never mind food or water!" You leaned forward, practically begging, as he stood up and walked around the desk.

Daisuke stopped in front of you, glancing down at your desperate state. "You know... you're too young to be living like this." His hand caressed your face softly. You stayed silent, eyes locked on his every move.

"With a face like yours, you could make millions..." he murmured, perversely.

You immediately slapped his hand away.

"Then give me millions," you shot back, rolling your eyes.

Like I said—this dance had happened before. Daisuke, for all his age and so-called wisdom, had a "soft" spot for the younger girls he hired. On your first day, you were told to stay away from the owner unless absolutely necessary. He had a thing for young girls, and you—seventeen at the time—were the youngest. That made you a prime target.

He watched you like a predator, licking his thin, chapped lips as he leaned in—

Knock knock.

"Daisuke!" a man's voice called from behind the closed door. "There's a situation you need to deal with."

"Fuck..." the wrinkled owner groaned, then smiled weakly down at you. "Stay here. We're not done." And then he left.

If you're wondering—yes, if he'd gotten any closer, you would've punched the fuck out of that creep. In fact, you'd already planned to knock him out and grab the money from his cabinet. But your plan took an unexpected, better turn.

In a rush, you darted to his desk and searched through the drawers for the cabinet key. But then—the sound of sirens caught your attention. You froze, peeking through the window. Outside, police officers were speaking to Daisuke, showing him a photo of a girl who looked very familiar.

Your stomach dropped.

In an instant, you grabbed the key, unlocked the cabinet, and stuffed as much money as you could into your bag. It was a lot more than you'd expected.

"Ten thousand," you whispered, eyes gleaming as you slipped into the corridor and headed for the bathroom. You locked the door and climbed onto the toilet to push open the window.

It wouldn't budge.

"Y/N Shihai, are you in there?"

You froze, eyes wide.

"We know you're in there," the voice continued, soft but firm. "We're not here to hurt you. We're here to take you home."

"Fuck..." you hissed under your breath, shoving at the window again. The handle groaned. You begged it to give way—

Snap.

The handle fell to the floor with a clatter.

"Y/N Shihai, we're coming in!"

The door shuddered under the force of their ramming. Thinking fast, you grabbed the broken handle and smashed it against the glass. Shards rained down as you squeezed through, wincing when the edges cut into your skin. You dropped onto the rubbish bins below just as the police burst in.

They looked around silently, one pointing to the broken window. Another climbed onto the toilet to peer out.

"She can't have gotten far. Search the area."

By then, you'd already slipped down from the bins, curling up in the alley to catch your breath. You hugged yourself against the cold, wondering if all this running had been worth it. At first, it had been fun—liberating—to be free from the suffocating expectations. But now... after a year... would your family welcome you back? Or punish you?

"What am I doing with my life?" you muttered.

"I ask myself the same question."

The voice came from behind you. You didn't bother to look—just asked, "Who are you?"

"Who you are. A runaway."

You scoffed, finally turning to look. He was tall for his age, with messy, wavy white hair and eyes the color of a clear sky. But his skin... the patches beneath his eyes and along his arms were dead, dark purple—like a walking scab.

"A runaway, huh?" you chuckled. "Guess that's what we are."

"Got any food?" he asked. He was thin—alarmingly so.

"I do—"

"There she is!"

The police's voices echoed from the mouth of the alley, flashlights cutting through the dark. You stood, shaky, beside the stranger.

"Shit."

He stayed calm, stepping in front of you. "Stand behind me."

Then—blue flames. A violent wave of them tore down the alley, reducing the officers to charred corpses in seconds. The heat was so intense it prickled your skin.

The stranger slung a bag over his shoulder, pulling out a container of noodles. "Soba," he said flatly. "I like soba."

"Me too," you replied, still staring at the smoldering remains.

"I'm Dabi."

And that was the day you met your soon-to-be partner in crime. You didn't know his real name was Touya Todoroki, or that he was the one who'd burned down that hospital. All you knew was that he called himself Dabi, and Dabi was exactly who he was—the lord of cremation. He was secretive about everything: his past, his present, his future. You learned to take everything he said with a grain of salt.

The two of you formed an odd relationship built on mutual need and shelter. He'd protect you, and you'd provide for him. That was the deal.

And it led you straight to where you'd be three years later.

Chapter Text

Dabi was weird.

Like, really weird.

Obsessive, too — but not about you, thank God. You've only known him for three years, and in all that time you still don't really know anything about him. Well, except for his borderline creepy fixation on the number two hero, Endeavour.

You've caught him watching grainy fight footage more times than you can count, hoarding newspapers if they so much as mention the man's name, which became your wallpaper against Dabi's will. His excuses? Either "fuck off" or some half-assed explanation about them having the same quirk. Which, yeah... raises a question that always sits in your throat like a splinter whenever he's around.

Was Dabi related to Endeavour... or just really gay? Who knows.

You try to mind your business. Focus on keeping food on the table, paying for this shitty apartment, and pretending the constant smell of mold isn't slowly killing you. This place is worse than the last one — broken beds, peeling wallpaper, suspicious neighbors who either scream at each other or moan loud enough to wake the dead. Tonight it's the latter. Lucky you.

So you're in the kitchen at midnight, picking through what little food you've got left. The new job doesn't pay much. Rent's barely covered if you skip groceries. As for Dabi? He does exactly nothing to help — not that he could. Criminals can't exactly hand in a CV.

"You look sad."

You glance up to find Dabi leaning against the counter, same deadpan expression as always.

"What's wrong?"

You frown. "Since when do you care how I feel?"

"I'm trying to start a conversation, Y/N," he says, scolding you like you're a kid who forgot their homework. That's when you notice something new.

"You've got new burns." Your voice drops without thinking. Your eyes catch the charred skin peeking out from the loose collar of his white shirt before flicking back up to his face. "Where were you?"

"Does it matter?" His tone is pure boredom.

"Touya—"

"Change that."

"Dabi," you sigh, hopping off the counter. "It does matter. You're important to me."

"How touching," he sneers, lips twitching into something that's half-smirk, half-insult.

You roll your eyes and start pulling together a sandwich.

"Was in the alleys," he adds casually, running his hand through his white hair. "My power's gotten stronger." He turns his pale hand over, admiring it like it's something fragile, blue sparks skipping between his fingers.

"Maybe you could use that time to make us more money," you shoot back with a wide, shit-eating grin.

He just stares at you — that blank, unblinking expression he's perfected.

"You've got, like, three facial expressions," you mutter, going back to your sandwich. He scoffs, but doesn't bite.

Silence seeps into the kitchen. He stays beside you, staring off into the distance while you finish your sandwich and grab a can of cheap cider. You grab a second one without thinking and slide it over to him.

"It's... been three years today since I ran away and met you," you say once you're both in the living room. You sit cross-legged on the floor; he's sprawled on his back, flicking blue sparks between his fingers like it's muscle memory.

"And some honeymoon this is," he mutters, a faint smirk curling his lips. It's enough to make you laugh — a rare sound around him. Dabi's not usually funny. When he is, it makes him feel less like the cold, sharp-edged flame-thrower he wants to be and more like... well, a person.

You take a sip of cider. "Do you think we'll be like this forever?"

"No." He props himself up on his elbows, smirking at you like he knows something you don't. "Unlike you, I've got plans."

"Oh?" You exaggerate the 'o' shape of your mouth, teasing. You'd expected that answer — he's always moving, always disappearing — so the fact he's actually home tonight and spending time with you is... unexpectedly nice. You'd call him a friend, though that's not a title he'd fight anyone for.

"And what are these mysterious plans, Mr. Dabi?"

Instead of answering, he drains the rest of his cider in one long pull, then taps the pierced side of his nose. That's it. Rude.

You pout up at him, cheeks warming from the alcohol. He rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, heading for the bedroom.

"I need you," he says over his shoulder.

You blink, confused, and follow. Your bedroom, technically — you pay the rent, after all. You'd made it clear that the bed was yours and he could enjoy the luxury of the couch. He'd claimed he'd rather sleep on the wooden floor than share a bed with you. Which is hilarious, considering he's a little spoon.

He rummages in a drawer and tosses something at you.

"Oooo~," you sing, holding up the box of black hair dye.

Dabi brushes past you toward the bathroom. "Changing it up from the white?" you call after him.

"Thought it was time," he says, stripping off his shirt so the dye doesn't stain it, then wrapping a towel over his bare shoulders. He sits back against the tub, silent except for the soft fizz of the cider can beside him.

You slip on the gloves, the chemical smell filling the small bathroom, and start working the dye into his hair, feeling warmth from his chest closely on your own skin. His scars have gotten worse for the years since you've met, you've seen it now spread up to his collarbones and down to his hips and v-line was, where his grey jogger hung dangerously low.

"You've been working out a lot?" you broke the silence once more as you painted his last bits of his hair pitch black.

"Was wondering what you were staring at," Dabi frowned slightly, his blue eyes studied your focused face making sure every last bit was covered in black. He joked, "you think I'm pretty or something?"

"Pretty fucking ugly."

He liked it whenever you were a little shit towards him, makes you fun to be around. Of course, dear reader, he'd never admit that to you. He watched you tower over him to place the transparent shower cap on his hair.

"You suit black hair," you admitted, seeing him examining his almost black hair and eyebrows in the mirror. "why that colour...leaving the past behind."

He was silent, only looking back at you for a moment with that typical unreadable expression that triggered a shit-eating grin on your face.

"So, I'm right!" You smirked, leaning against the door frame with your arms crossed, "y'know, I'd be a great therapist, I can read you like a book!"

"Alright, get some rest, I can sort this out" he cut off, immediately turning around to meet your gaze. He sighed, ending with a half-smile, "you've got work in the morning."

"I do," you groaned, not looking forward to working another day at the convenient store down the road. You yawned as you walked away from him, "night."

"Night, Y/N."

Chapter Text

You blinked, and there you were — stuck in that crappy green-and-yellow uniform, stocking shelves at Kado Mart. Funny enough, you remembered this place from back in the day, when you used to stop by with your friends. Mostly, though, with your boyfriend at the time: Haruto.

Oh, Haruto. What a cutie. He had the kind of soft brown curls you just wanted to run your hands through, and those caramel-colored eyes that were way too sweet to ever look away from. While girls your age plastered their walls with posters of Harry Styles, Jensen Ackles, or whatever Western heartthrob was trending, all you could think about was him — the boy from your high school.

When you left, you didn't exactly leave a note. That's the point of a sudden departure, isn't it? Clean cut, no ties, no looking back. Still, every now and then, you feel that tug, like something trying to pull you home again.

But never mind that. You keep yourself busy here — stocking shelves, wiping counters, pretending this store isn't just a downgrade of the last one. Smaller, yes. Better? Debatable. At least the pay's better. Even if your boss is a creep who spends most of his time "checking in" on barely-legal girls and then vanishing until he feels like complaining about the store's state — which, by the way, hasn't changed since the day he opened it. Whatever. Better pay's better pay.

Better than Dabi's broke ass, anyway.

"Remember to write down your availability for next week, Sato," your supervisor called out from behind you as you stacked cans of All Might's Almighty Energy Juice. You turned, nodded, but your smile slipped when you caught hers.

"Y'know," she chuckled, licking her lips like she always did, "you should come to my birthday party tonight. We booked rooms in Tokyo. Club-hopping. The new guy's gonna be there." She threw in a wink for good measure.

"Nah." You shook your head instantly. Sure, you loved a cheeky night out now and then, but this wasn't it. High school had taught you your lesson anyway — the one time you and your best friend got your hands on a bottle of vodka (no mixer, because you had to prove you were "proper hard"), you'd ended up smashed in some random field, realizing vodka tastes like actual hell and that drunk munchies hit way harder than you expected.

"Not really my scene," you shrugged, pretending to sound casual. Truth was, you weren't close enough with her to go partying, and besides — you were broke. Clubbing on an empty wallet wasn't exactly the vibe.

"But babe, you're like... nine-teen!" she whined.

"And you're nine-ty," you muttered under your breath, turning back to your shelf.

"This is the time for fun — kissing boys, kissing girls, whatever," she continued, clearly on some kind of mission. "What about your boyfriend? That emo guy in the all-black hoodie."

"He's not my boyfriend." You had to force down a gag. She meant Dabi, of course — the one time he'd come storming into the store just to drop off your apartment keys after you'd forgotten them in the middle of an argument.

"His voice was so hot." Her eyes lit up mischievously before she drifted off toward the till, a customer already waiting.

Then, without warning, the ground lurched beneath your feet. A deafening bang split the air. Glass shattered, spraying across the store like shrapnel. Instinct took over—everyone ducked, hands over their heads, hearts thundering.

You barely had time to process, to even begin being confused, when the vibration buzzed against your hip. Your phone.

The screen lit up with a name.

You groaned, curling up with your knees to your chest as you peeked around the corner for threats. "Oh my god, what did you do?"

"I hoped you wouldn't pick up," came his voice, dark and sharp through the static. "Kinda wished you were dead."

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, please. Who else puts up with your bullshit without flinching?"

There was a pause. For a second, you thought the line had gone dead.

"...Are you hurt?" Dabi finally asked. You could hear the roar of flames crackling in the background.

"No, I'm fine." Your tone softened despite yourself as you turned away from your supervisor's frantic shouting. "Where are you?"

"Somewhere in the city." His voice was strained, heavy with effort—he was mid-battle, and still talking to you. "Go home. Pack our shit. I'll explain later."

"You'd better," you muttered, before hanging up. Sliding low to avoid notice, you slipped out of the store and broke into a run toward the apartment.

Halfway there, you froze.

A man in criminal getup had been hurled through the glass front of a random shop. Blood streamed down his face, soaking into his collar and staining the knees of his blue jeans. And yet, impossibly, he was still breathing. People gathered on the street, wide-eyed and trembling, whispering in horror. You just stood there, expression flat, deadpan.

When you live with someone like Dabi, scenes like this stop being shocking.

Before you even react, you felt an arm wrap around your shoulders, pulling you back out of the way hot cerulean flames brush past you to finish off the man before you.

"What meaning of 'get home' did you not understand?" Dabi scoffed at you, the warmth from his arm vanished as he grabbed your arm and dragged you back home, "it's not safe here anymore."

"I was on the way, my n-," you paused upon processing his words, "what did you do?"

"Like I said, Y/N," Dabi emphasised a little more serious than previously as they just arrived in the apartment, "I'll explain in a second."

"A second's gone past, motherfucker," you hissed, arms folded across your chest, standing in the middle of the apartment like you owned the floor he walked on.

Dabi sneered, his lip curling. "You're insufferable." He brushed hard against your shoulder as he shoved past, heading for the bedroom. The slam of his boots against the floor echoed like gunshots.

You let out a sharp laugh, one that dripped with disbelief. "Insufferable? Oh my days." Your voice rose, the words shaking with fury and adrenaline as you stalked after him. "I'm the reason you're alive! I'm the reason you eat, the reason you've got four walls keeping your sorry ass out of the rain, you ungrateful prick!"

"Pack your shit," Dabi snapped, ripping open drawers and yanking clothes out. His voice was harsh, commanding. "We're leaving."

"Leaving?" Your voice broke into a snarl. You stepped closer, close enough that your chest almost brushed his back. "Do you have any idea how hard I worked to get this place? Do you have any idea how many nights I killed myself just to make rent? This—this right here—is all I fucking have. I'm not leaving it behind for you."

"Too bad."

The way he said it—flat, cold, final—knocked something loose inside you.

"Too bad?!" The words ripped out of you, raw, your throat tightening as your eyes burned. "This is my home! My one safe thing. And I'm supposed to throw it all away because you're knee-deep in whatever fucked-up hustles you're running? Because you can't keep your hands clean for one fucking second?!"

Dabi's movements stopped. Slowly, he straightened, shoulders rigid, back heaving with each breath.

Then he spun on you.

"They were going after you!"

The shout cracked the air like thunder. You flinched, your body freezing as your heart stuttered. His eyes—those unholy, electric blue eyes—burned with something beyond rage.

"They found out about us," he snarled, every syllable dragging across his throat like broken glass. "They know who you are. You were the target. They wanted leverage against me—and they were going to take it from you."

For a moment, the room was deathly still. The sound of your pulse pounded in your ears, loud enough to drown out everything else.

Then he moved closer. Step by step, until his scarred face was inches from yours, until his presence swallowed you whole.

"Got anything else to say?" His voice was low now, dangerous, vibrating with a fury that could snap in half at any second. He towered over you, a storm held together by thin thread.

You tipped your chin up despite the fear gnawing at your gut. Looking into those eyes felt like staring into a fire that wanted to consume you. And yet—some part of you found it almost darkly funny. That he could kill you with a flick of his wrist, and still... he hadn't.

Your lips trembled, the bravado draining out of you like air from a punctured balloon. "...Nope." The whisper cracked, fragile, but it was the only word you could manage.

For a heartbeat, you thought you saw him soften—just the slightest flicker in his expression, a glimpse of Touya beneath the monster. But then it was gone. He tore his gaze away, his body coiled tight as he threw more clothes into the bag.

"Pack your shit," he repeated, voice flat now.

And just like that, you realised: the home you'd fought tooth and nail to build was already lost.