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It’s the most excited Tomura has seen the League in weeks. Everyone, including most of their new recruits, is crammed inside the lounge, shoulder to shoulder as they all try to get a good view of the small television mounted above the bar.
Is it a villain fight? No, everyone who could stir up this much excitement is already here. This is much better. And way more entertaining if you ask him.
Two heroes got hit by some kid’s quirk, and now they both think they’re the villains and have been beating the living shit out of each other for hours. It’s one of the funniest clusterfucks he’s ever seen, and none of them actually had to get their hands dirty to make it happen. Sometimes the universe is just on your side, and today must be Tomura’s lucky day.
Dabi sits at the bar, his arms folded on the top lazily as he watches with the same half-lidded daze he gives roaring fires and sinkholes. He’d probably watch the world burn like it’s rocking him to sleep, but they’re all a little primed for destruction at this point.
Tomura, usually keeping his distance, moves towards him, the crowd parting enough to give him room either out of respect for their leader or out of fear that he might touch them and move them himself. Trust only goes so far with people like them, but he can’t help but think that Dabi would just laugh at the idea of Tomura actually dusting him.
He slides in shoulder to shoulder, noticing the neglected, half-finished bottle of beer on the counter in front of him. The napkin Kurogiri gave Dabi as a coaster has been folded into a little origami boat that’s now floating in the condensation. Tomura rolls his eyes and steals Dabi’s beer for a swig before immediately spitting it out.
“Jesus, All Might’s nutsack, what the fuck is that?”
Dabi frowns and grabs the bottle to take a sip. “What? It’s just beer.”
“But why is it warm?”
“It’s not warm, it’s just–.” Dabi takes another sip and smacks his mouth as he tries to come up with a better word for ‘warm as old piss’. Tomura grimaces, wishing he had resisted the impulse both to drink after Dabi of all fucking people and to come over here at all.
Kurogiri comes over with two more bottles and two more napkins. Tomura exhales and mops up Dabi’s puddle with his before slipping off with his fresh cold drink to finish watching the two heroes duke it out alone. Maybe he’ll get lucky and a building will collapse. That always puts him in a better mood.
He moves towards one of the sofas, and the two people already occupying it scramble to get out of his way, muttering their apologies to the boss. Tomura can’t even roll his eyes about it when he knew what he was doing when he walked over here in the first place.
He plops down and takes a long, heavy swig, finding relief when the chill puts a small knot in his chest. This is how a beer is supposed to feel: relaxing and cold. Fuck.
A heavy lump drops into the spot next to him before an arm slings around his neck to put another bottle in front of his face.
“Try this one,” Dabi says, his eyes alight with the kind of smile that says maybe don’t let your kids play with matches.
Tomura gives him a flat look, but he doesn’t swat him away as the bottle is tipped up towards his lips, urging him to take another swallow. He lets him pour it into his mouth, the two of them the only people in the world as Dabi’s wildfire gaze locks onto him, no longer blissfully dulled by the chaos.
And Tomura, for all his defenses, completely forgets who this crazy bastard really is.
Searing hot piss water hits his tongue, nearly burning his lips as he coughs it out.
“The fuck is wrong with you?!” Tomura sputters.
“I figured out the problem,” he says. “It was supposed to be nice and hot, but I nursed it too long and it cooled back down.”
“It’s not supposed to be hot, you idiot,” Tomura wheezes. “It’s cold. Beer is cold.”
Dabi shakes his head, his mouth downturned dismissively. “Nah, beer’s supposed to be hot. It’s better this way.”
“You’re–. Were you experimented on? Be honest.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Not as much as you were.”
Tomura opens his mouth and shuts it again in disbelief, earning a wild grin before Dabi settles in next to him.
“So, who’s your money on? The Dark Night or Captain Shits Himself?”
“Which one’s Captain Shits Himself?”
“The one not wearing the pajamas,” Dabi says, pointing at the screen. “That one with the stupid military hat shat himself about six months ago during a raid on one of Overhaul’s old hideouts.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s my job to know things,” Dabi says.
“No, it’s not.”
“It could be. You don’t know.”
Tomura looks at him in disbelief. “I’m literally your boss.”
Dabi tuts. “Yeah, right. Like I’d listen to you.”
“Yeah, you would listen to me because I’m in charge and you have no choice.”
“That’s what you think,” he says, drawing up Tomura’s temper to a low boil without even having to try.
Tomura instinctively raises a hand, a threat he’s used for most of his life, but Dabi, as true to himself as he is even in Tomura’s worst fantasies, just laughs. He laughs, exactly like Tomura knew he would, but then he catches him completely off guard by grabbing that hand like it couldn’t scatter him into the wind and pulls it down to his leg, squeezing it through the glove like anyone ever has before, and keeps it there.
“You’re missing the show, boss,” he says, taking a sip of the drink in his other hand as his eyes lock onto the screen. “We’re gonna waste all of this good hot beer if someone breaks them up soon.”
Tomura exhales an annoyed breath through his nose, that momentary lapse in his senses immediately dissipated.
“We’re taking you to a doctor. This isn’t normal.”
“Boss, I hate to break it to you, but none of us are normal,” Dabi says, turning to him with a wiggle of his brows and his tongue caught between his teeth. “That’s what makes us fucking legends.”
Tomura swallows, briefly caught up in some instant whirlwind before Dabi’s smile widens.
“A League… of Legends.”
Tomura’s face drops.
“Fuck off.”