𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗

Gintoki is seated at the desk, slouched in his chair with his feet lazily propped up on the table, staring blankly at a dog-eared page of the newest Jump Volume though his mind doesn't seem to be focused on the story anymore.

No, it has drifted somewhere far off, lost in a weightless space he often escapes to when he doesn't want to deal with reality, with old memories that should have been buried a long time ago and yet always seem to return to torture him in quiet moments like these, when the city is at peace for once and there's no one to save. He hasn't noticed you standing in the doorway yet, hesitating for a split second before you finally force your shaking legs to move forward and step into the room.

"Gin," you call out after what feels like an eternity, voice cracking ever so slightly as you stop in front of and twist your hands in anxiety, clawing your fingers into the soft fabric of your clothes as though they're the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground.

He flinches, just for a second, before he blinks and looks up, his eyes briefly sharpening with a certain kind of recognition before slipping back into that familiar careless expression you always despised so much. There was once a time when you could find a certain glint in his eyes when he looked at you, so different from the unheeding boredom you see now — things have changed between you and you still don't know why.

"What is it? If you're here to tell me I forgot to take out the trash again, let me remind you it's part of my master plan to keep the stray cats from invading," he jokes, though there's no spark of humor in his eyes. "They respect a man with a trash fortress."

"Gintoki," you repeat, more firmly this time.

That seems to catch his attention. He sets the magazine down and turns to look at you, his eyes studying your features as if he could figure out the issue through mere telepathy. Something in your tone sounds heavy — too heavy for his usual deflections, for his sarcastic remarks and dry jokes that used to make you laugh quietly. His lazy demeanor cracks slightly, giving way to something more alert, more cautious as his shoulders tense, pulling his feet from the desk to straighten in his seat.

"What's going on?"

"I need to tell you something. It's... It's important," you mutter, swallowing around the stone that settled in the back of your throat ever since you held the pregnancy test in the palm of your hand, staring at the result through a blur of tears. Your fingers fiddle with the frayed end of your sleeve, tugging mindlessly at the loose threads at the seam as you gather the courage to tell him the truth. "I'm pregnant."

The words strike like thunder.

Gintoki's breath hitches. For a long moment, he only stares at you, his usually sharp eyes widening slightly as though trying to piece together what he just heard.

"Pregnant?" He finally repeats, his voice hollow, almost robotic. He blinks, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear some fog from his brain. "You're joking. This is some kind of weird prank, right? Like the time Kagura told me the fridge was haunted so I'd stop stealing her snacks?"

"I'm not joking, Gin," you reply, clenching your jaw to get rid of the overly present tremor that seems to jumble every word you utter. There's a numbness that spreads through your body, cold and terrifying, settling beneath your skin as you stumble closer to him.

He stares at you for a beat longer before he lets out a dry laugh, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes as he runs a scarred hand through his unruly silver hair, over his face — as if he could wipe away the image of you standing in front of him, lost and helpless, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you stare at him.

God, he fuckin' hates how you look at him.

"No way," he finally mutters under his breath, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. "No way. This doesn't happen to guys like me... you've got the wrong fuckin' idiot."

"I know it's a lot to take in, but—"

"A lot? You're telling me you're having a kid and you think that's just a lot?" Gintoki cuts you off sharply, pushing himself up from his chair so quickly it topples over behind him with a loud crash, though he doesn't even seem to register it.

His hand comes to bury itself in his hair, tugging, pulling, yanking on a few strands as if the stinging pain could wake him from the nightmare this appears to be for him. His shoulders heave and his eyes flick towards you every so often as he paces around the room, trying to make sense of it all.

"This isn't just about you and me anymore—" His words die in the back of his throat and for a moment, he grows dangerously quiet. Then, the dam bursts. "This is... This is a kid. A whole person. Do you have any idea what that means? Do you know what kind of world they'd be born into, what kind of life they'd have if they're stuck with someone like me as their father?"

"I know, Gin," you reply, almost desperate now. Your bottom lip quivers slightly, but you bite back the sob that threatens to escape as you reach out for him, trying to grab his hand to pull him back to you. "And I'm not asking you to be perfect. I'm just asking you to stay."

As soon as your fingers brush over his wrist, right where his pulse flutters beneath his skin, he stops pacing and turns around to face you — his expression raw and unguarded in a way you've never seen before. There's a glint of fear in the crimson of his eyes, quickly hidden behind a façade of anger as he yanks his hand away and takes a step back as if trying to get some sort of distance between you and him.

"You don't get it," he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've lost too much, too many people. Do you know what it's like to hold someone in your arms and watch them die because you couldn't save them? Because you weren't good enough?"

"Gin—"

His name barely leaves your lips before he cuts you off again. His voice is low, strained — like he's forcing the words out through clenched teeth.

There's a roughness to his tone, a weight dragging down every syllable. He’s not just stating a fact — he’s condemning himself, carving the words into his own flesh. His hands clench at his sides, fingers twitching as though they remember the grip of a sword, the sensation of blood slick against his palms. His silver hair falls into his eyes, hiding whatever emotion lurks there, but you can see it in the tight set of his jaw, the way his shoulders tremble just slightly.

"Because you've been doing it your entire life," you snap and the frustration in your voice surprises even you. "You've been raising Kagura and Shinpachi ever since they showed up on your doorstep. You've been protecting them every day, even if you refuse to see it."

His breath catches, but he doesn't look at you.

"No, that's different," he mutters, his voice turning hoarse, fraying at the edges. "I'm just waiting for the day something happens to them. Waiting for the moment I fail them... just like I failed before."

There's a pause — he kind that stretches, suffocating in its silence. When he speaks again, it's barely above a whisper.

"You’re better off without me. Both of you are."

The words hang between you, bitter and raw. His hands unclench, falling uselessly at his sides. He looks exhausted, hollow — like he’s already convinced himself of this truth, like he's been living with it for far too long.

"Don't say that," you plead, shaking your head as your throat tightens, the weight of unspoken words pressing against your chest. Your vision blurs and tears well up, stubbornly clinging to your lashes but refusing to fall. "You're not alone anymore, Gin. You don't have to keep running from everything. You're stronger than you think and I—"

"Stop."

The word slices through the air like a blade — cold and final. His jaw tightens and his hands curl into fists at his sides, digging his fingernails into the skin of his palms with enough force to draw blood. For a second, something flickers across his face — hesitation, perhaps even regret — but it's gone before you can grasp it.

"I need time," Gintoki mutters, so quiet you barely catch it. His voice is rough, frayed at the edges as if it physically hurts to speak. "I need time to think."

The silence that follows is deafening and yet you wait - for him to say something else, to look at you, to give you anything, but he doesn't, and deep down, you know he won't. Instead, he turns away and his shoulders slump, subtly but enough for you to notice, crushed under the weight of everything he refuses to share. His steps a slow, reluctant, but unwavering nonetheless.

Then he walks out the door.

The sound of his footsteps fades into the night, leaving only emptiness in their wake.

And you — his friend, his lover, his something — are left standing in the hollow silence of the room, fighting the urge to chase after him, to fall to your knees and beg him if that's what it takes to make him stay. Your arms wrap protectively around your stomach as if bracing yourself against the ache that threatens to consume you and then tears begin to fall, unchecked and unstoppable.

Fuck, it hurts.

And yet, you refuse to give into the despair completely.

Because even though Gintoki is gone now, you believe — hope —that he will come back.

It echoes through the abandoned building and fades into ever-lasting nothingness, a desperate cry that remains unanswered as he sinks further into the cushions of the old couch he found in the new hide-out of the League, hoping the cold leather might soothe the unbearable ache that keeps tormenting him.

It's a futile attempt that reminds him how pathetic he's become — unable to control his quirk and forced to suffer with the shame of it.

Dabi is convinced ripping his failing organs out of his own abdomen would feel more pleasant than this. It would be easier to bear, removing parts of this pathetic body that is causing him so much pain, dismantling himself into small pieces like a puppet — without a heart that feels and a brain that thinks — and putting them back together until everything fuckin' works how it's supposed to do.

Until his body obeys.

He's too delirious to remember when the pain started, doesn't recall what he was doing before it began to unwind in the pit of his stomach earlier that day, but he's still capable of noticing how his skin begins to feel like it has grown too tight for his bones — a prison of flesh he can never escape.

And it's not like he wasn't expecting this day to come. On the contrary, he was always aware of the ticking time bomb buried behind his ribs, the can of gasoline pulsing through his veins, waiting for the light of a burning match to blow everything up and engulf the entire world in a hailstorm of violent destruction.

That's how it was always supposed to end.

Dabi knows his fire will seal his inevitable demise in a blaze of cerulean blue, swallowing him whole and wiping him off the surface of this godforsaken earth. Still, nothing could have prepared him for the torture he has to endure until that day arrives.

His fingers twitch, blackened at the tips and trembling unsteadily, reaching towards the ceiling as if he'll find something to hold on to or perhaps someone who'd reach back and grasp his hand to pull him out of the delirium that fogs his usually so clever wit - he finds nothing but a shattered lightbulb hanging above his head, the lampshade covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, a single spider dangling from it in the corner.

He faintly wonders, if it feels just as lonely as he does.

The pain caused by his movement twists through him like barbed wire, slicing into every muscle and every nerve until his mind becomes a blur of feverish thoughts, jumbled together until he can barely form a word.

Oh, he's awfully aware he's burning out — a collapsing star on the verge of a supernova. He expected his life to end this way, should have made peace with the fact that he'd never get a happy ending, but—

The sound of footsteps pulls him back from the brink of his madness, light and deliberate, like whoever is approaching is trying not to disturb him as if he's a mere child slumbering innocently in his crib. The door creaks open, rusty hinges protesting as a figure silently slips into the darkened room.

Dabi doesn't have to look up to know it's you — he'd recognize your presence anywhere.

He always does.

"Hey," you whisper softly, your voice cutting through the haze of his pain, soft and steady, like the soothing caress of calm waves washing over his frayed nerves. Carefully stepping into his line of sight, your features deepen with a certain kind of concern — through his blurred vision he can still make out the fine line between your cinched brows, your lips curved into a small frown as you brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Though there's no pity in your eyes.

There's never pity.

It's the only reason he lets you stay.

Immediately, he grits his teeth and tries to sit up straighter, digging his fingers into the cushion for some kind of support, but the effort causes his skin to scream in protest. Before he can even realize what's happening, you're already rushing to his side and crouching beside him on the dirt-stained floor, your hand hovering near his face like you want to touch him but aren't sure if he can take it.

"You look like shit," you mumble as he catches his breath, a weak attempt at humor that coaxes a ragged chuckle from his coarse throat despite the searing heat pulsing through his entire being.

"Feel worse," he rasps, his voice barely above a whisper. The corners of his chapped lips twitch into a half-hearted smirk, a ghost of the maniacal grin he wore earlier when he watched his flames consume another one of the inglorious heroes he always despised so much.

You don't laugh.

Instead, you reach out and tentatively brush the tips of your fingers against his unscarred skin, right above the silver staples that glisten faintly in the dim light creeping through the wooden planks nailed across every window of the room.

It's the barest touch, but it sends a wave of something strangely comforting through him — something that seems to extinguish the fire for a split second and settles deep in his chest, cradling his stuttering heart like a fragile butterfly with broken wings.

You're using your quirk, he notices far too late, the realization crashing down like a sledgehammer to his skull, leaving his thoughts shattered and bleeding. His body stiffens beneath your careful touch, a primal instinct to recoil sparking somewhere deep in his aching limbs, though even as his pain screams for him to move, he stays frozen in place.

He's certain now because he can feel it — the subtle, almost imperceptible shift as your energy flows into him, soothing the jagged edges of his agony. It's not enough to heal him completely - nothing could undo the damage he's done to himself - but it dulls the worst of it, like a cool cloth pressed to his fevered brow.

You’re taking it from him. The pain that is meant for him to feel, the agony that is his to own (or perhaps it owns him).

Then Dabi sees it.

The faint crease of your brow, the way your jaw ticks and clenches to stifle a sharp inhale of breath as your fingers tremble against his mangled skin, ever so slightly, before you finally press the palm of your hand over his sweat-slicked forehead in a motion so gentle that it almost reminds him of a mother tending to her sick child.

"Shit," he croaks, his words nothing but a cracked brittle thing climbing out of his mouth as he tries to jerk back. "Stop, you're–"

"Don't move," you interrupt, quiet but certain. Your voice breaks just enough to betray the strain you're under, though your hand stays firm on his face, even as your breaths start to come out quicker than usual, shallow and uneven like your lungs have unlearned how to function properly.

He supposes that's what his pain does to someone who isn't used to suffering the kind of torment he feels every day.

"You’re feeling it," he growls, though the argument dies somewhere in the back of his throat when his eyes look onto yours and find a glimpse of what is going on in your head — determination, stubborn and unyielding, even as the pain he’s spent years burying himself in bleeds into you.

"I know," you murmur shakily and tight with effort. "Just let me... let me help."

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at you. Dabi watches the thin sheen of sweat gather on your temple, the way your muscles twitch and your shoulders cave in like they're trying to hold back a scream, and he hates it.

More than that, he hates the way you’re looking at him. Not with pity, but with something far worse: care.

Fuck, he wants to tell you to stop — he needs to yell at you, push you away, do anything to make you let go, yet he can't, not when your touch feels like the only thing anchoring him to reality, the only thing keeping him from slipping into the abyss that’s been pulling at him for years.

"You can’t fix me," Dabi whispers after a moment, his voice trembling as his hands twitch uselessly at his sides. A certain kind of guilt cuts through his chest, sharper than any flame ever could and it's strange because he can't remember the last time he ever felt remorse for anything he's ever done, for anyone he's ever hurt. "You can’t—"

"I know," you cut him off again, your tone firmer this time. "But I’m not leaving you like this."

Your words slam into him harder than the pain ever could. Reeling for another argument, he swallows thickly around the stone that has settled in his throat, heavy and suffocating, as he feels the edges of something unfamiliar awaken in the depths of his mind- it isn't anger nor is it hatred.

No, it's smaller, softer, fragile like a flickering candle trying to survive amid a raging storm.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he mutters, his voice cracking with defeat and his eyes dropping to where your other hand has moved to rest against his collarbone. "You're gonna kill yourself."

"Not today," you reply, your lips twitching into that faint, stubborn smile he's grown to like so much. "And neither are you."

He hates how much he wants to believe you, how much he wants to let himself lean into you, let you carry some of his burdens even if it burns you, but as he watches you endure it — every stab, every flicker of heat and pain his body throws your way — he realizes something he’s never let himself think before.

He doesn’t want to lose you.

Not now, not ever.

"C'mon, stop trying to fight me," you mutter, tenderly brushing some tousled strands of hair out of his forehead before you lean forward to press a kiss to his temple, letting your lips linger there for just a moment. "I'm not going to leave you, I promise... Touya."

The sound of his name falling from your tongue so sweetly feels like a soft ripple across still waters.

It seeps into the cracks of his fractured soul, cooling the blistering heat beneath his skin and quieting the flames that have consumed him for so long. His shoulders drop, the tightness in his chest easing as he finally exhales a shaky breath. It’s not a miracle, not a cure — but for the first time, it doesn’t hurt quite as much.

He doesn’t have the strength to answer, so instead, he leans ever so slightly into you, letting your presence hold him together where his broken body and soul cannot.

Finally, Dabi allows himself to lose this battle, letting his muscles relax for the first time in what feels like hours, days, maybe even weeks as your energy shifts around the room and the burning pain has simmered down to a dull tenderness. Cautiously, your hand leaves his forehead to find his and he lets it stay there, lets himself savor the warmth of your touch.

For the first time in longer than he can remember, the thought of surviving doesn’t feel like a punishment. It feels like a promise. Something worth fighting for and it terrifies him.

He doesn’t say it out loud — he can’t, not yet — but the thought burns brighter than his flames and he silently wonders if maybe, just maybe, he can hold on just a little longer.

For you.

Taglist: @justwolosers @jaerang @dabislittlemouse