SkellSeerWriting

In the inky blue of night, a figure stood on your balcony.

Your chest went tight. “Dabi?”

He opened the glass door and slid it shut behind him; his posture hunched and his hands buried in the pockets of his grungy trench coat. You shivered from the rush of night air. He looked completely unashamed at showing up unannounced—not that you expected anything more from him.

It happened to be one of his better qualities.

“What?” He rasped playfully. “They aren’t done. The least you could do is finish what you started.” His voice was fried with the effect of someone who smoked a pack of cigarettes every day. You shuddered to think what his lungs looked like. He even smelled like smoke, but that was a natural consequence of his quirk.

Setting down the plate of your midnight snack (cookies), you flicked on a light and went to find your sewing kit. Distantly, heavy boots entered your living room.

“You could at least pretend you missed me,” he called out, his vocal cords scraping against each other. One day he would burn a hole through that throat.

“Of course I did,” you whispered painfully to yourself. There was so much you had wanted to say before he left you by yourself—so much you feared you never would. It had taken root inside you and started to fester. Now it was being torn out all at once, leaving a gaping wound.

You went on as if it wasn’t there.

Your hands were buried in the floor of your hallway closet, rummaging for your special needle and thread. When you were kidnapped by the League of Villains and held captive, you were lucky enough to have your kit on you, but by the time you were rescued and brought home—rescued by some of the very members of the League, whom you’d grown to love and cherish—you had tossed your belongs aside. You couldn’t bear to look at them. Not when they reminded you of what you’d gained and lost.

The steel-based thread gleamed silver in the moonlight. The curved needle did the same; reflecting quiet, intimate memories you shared with Dabi before he helped release you from Shigaraki’s grasp. Clutching it close to your heart, you stood up and returned to the living room. He wasn’t there.

A quick search found him in your bedroom. He stood by your bed, staring at some old pictures on your nightstand. It was unusual, seeing him fill up a space you’d never seen him in. But at the same time, you’d grown used to that stance, that silhouette in the dusty warehouse, and in your present vision he fit here perfectly like a puzzle piece clicking into place. He belonged.

“I found it,” you called gently, waving the kit, making sure you didn’t scare him away like some frightened bird that could take flight any second. It was funny—you used to be scared of him.

That was before the silent tests of trust. The nights you slowly bonded together over the splinters of this broken world. The nights he kept you safe in his room from Shigaraki, and the nights you spent replacing his staples for something more comfortable. You had started with his wrists to adjust to the material difference. Then his left bicep. Then, with sufficient warming up, you were confident enough to stitch each suture on his face to perfection.

“You deserve to have a job done well—even if your face will still send children crying.”

You’d said that a month ago as a joke, but you meant the first half with all your heart.

Dabi laughed—wheezed—and nudged you with his knee from where he sat on his dirty mattress. “At least I’ll have your quality craftsmanship to make me prettier.”

You already are pretty.

You bit your tongue then, and you bit it now as you attempted to thread the needle. When Twice had once called him both devilishly handsome and horrifically ugly in the same breath, Dabi chuckled and dismissed it. “There’s very few people with this ugly of a mug. Though Shigaraki’s master might be a contender.”

It made you think again over the idea of complimenting his appearance.

You shoved down those current thoughts while you washed your hands and disinfected the needle, though they inevitably resurfaced when he shed his coat and shirt; revealing what laid underneath.

You softly gasped.

The worn purple skin grafts travelled down his entire neck, stopped just above his chest, covered his right shoulder, and went all the way to the wrist you completed so many nights ago. Another patch of grafts wrapped around his abdomen, framed by those awful staples you hated to look at. You knew they made him uncomfortable. They moved with each shift, each bend, digging into his skin and reminding him of the prison he would never escape.

Your fingers quivered when they brushed against his fragile neck. Dabi grabbed them—not forcefully—and led you to feel along the rest of the grafts he never let you see until now. It had taken him some time to understand that you weren’t disgusted with him as he thought you would be, but he still didn’t know the extent of how untrue it was. How much you were drawn to him.

You couldn’t be injured. You couldn’t feel most forms of physical pain. Your skin would forever remain flawless. Despite the deep distress you experienced whenever you gazed upon the evidence of his past, another part of you relished in the sensation of something damaged. Something imperfect. His rough skin was beautiful to you. And if you ever said you loved it more than his unblemished skin, he would rightfully call you insane and disappear from your apartment, your life, forever.

So for now, you cherished it silently.

He sat next to you on your bed, watching your every lamp-lit movement as you started the process—tying the knot, looping into good skin, looping out of bad skin. You were careful, ever careful. If blood started to leak, you wiped it up and continued on. Dabi never moved, only followed your hands with his eyes while his own hands rested beside him. If he spoke, it was a warm breath on a breeze.

“The heroes keeping you safe now that you’re home?”

You nodded tentatively, trying to get the right depth near his collarbone. He didn’t trust heroes to do their job—that you knew for certain. He definitely wouldn’t have appreciated the eight-hour interview that felt like an interrogation once you were free from the League of Villains. Or the five-hour one the day after. They wanted to know everything about the League you’d learned as a hostage, since you’d been with them for over a month. There wasn’t much to give except for the noteworthy fact that some of the members grew to care for you and helped you escape.

You did leave out the personal detail of your less-than-platonic feelings for one of them.

“Yeah. I don’t suppose you’re choosing to stick around my block for the same reason?” you jokingly whispered, but it had an inkling of desire. Not a day passed since your departure that you didn’t think of him, desperately needing to see his face again. And now, here he was, in your bedroom.

Silence followed.

Your eyes began to widen, and you looked up from the metallic thread and staples to find a stitched face that was completely bare to you. Blue flames burned bright in his eyes before he ducked his head away, reminding you of shame or bashfulness.

“I already told you, it’s only fair you finish what you started.”

Biting your lip from nerves, you returned your focus to sewing his mismatched skin together. It didn’t take too long to wrap around his body and finish the seam above his chest (though it was awkward for him to lift his arm so you to reach underneath it). For the seams around his abdomen, you kneeled to the floor to reach the lower of the two. He continued to look away, an uncharacteristic thing, and turned around as you instructed so you could reach his back again. Legs crossed, he dragged out a deep, heavy sigh.

“I left the league.”

Your hand slipped.

“—Ouch!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” You fumbled to realign the needle. Your hands started shaking. He’d revealed that out of nowhere—how did he expect you to react? Certainly not with composure. Trying to sound calm, you responded in the only way you could think of. “Why?”

He ignored the question; instead counting off names with a nod. “Toga, Spinner, Twice. We all did. I know you were there for the big fight the night we let you go, but you didn’t see the real fight after.” He laughed dryly. “There was nothing left of the warehouse. That lousy theater kid didn’t care for the drama and dipped before everything went seriously downhill, but the rest of us stuck around long enough to give that crusty sicko a piece of our mind.” His hand blindly reached out behind him, so you reached back and he took it—then squeezed hard. “I wish I had just killed him. He deserves it for trying to hurt you.”

“I don’t want to talk about him right now,” you said, shifting to rest your heavy forehead against his back. You craved this closeness, this rare moment with him. “I just want to be with you.”

It had a dangerous double meaning, but he either didn’t notice, or agreed enough that he replied, “Yeah, me too,” and let go so you could continue stitching him up.

His and the others’ allegiance to Shigaraki grew thin over the course of your stay as Shigaraki’s behavior grew more and more concerning. He’d been the one to accidentally discover your immunity to his Decay on a chance encounter, the one to kidnap you, the one to keep you captive for his master who (luckily) resided in prison. It was no question he was deprived of affection. It was no question why he felt a growing pull to you when you could be touched by him without turning to dust.

For that same reason, Dabi’s inner inhibitions relented to your emotional security. He could never harm you, intentionally or otherwise, so he couldn’t help but find peace in your close company. Being nigh invincible, you allowed yourself the same, and actually enjoyed your time there. Those feelings also went for the others you befriended—and they had no reason to keep you hostage for your quirk. So, it was no question that, when Shigaraki’s creepy attachment and disturbing behavior escalated to the extreme, they rescued you. They swept you from his grasp, stood up for you, and put a stop to it.

They let you go.

Your apartment now had never been so empty, or so cold.

“Agh—“ You winced. Foolishly, you’d lost focus and pricked your thumb on the needle. Blood started beading up, and when you brought your thumb to your mouth, it was quickly moved to a different one as Dabi dragged the pad of it down his tongue. Fire flooded your face as he looked askance at you, slowly lapping the wound once more before releasing your wrist.

Since the upper seam of his abdomen was done in the front, you relocated behind him on your bed. The mattress was not only more comfortable than kneeling on the cold floor—you could hide your face from view. While you worked around his staples, he removed the ones that were rendered obsolete and set them on your nightstand. The rhythm became calming, and you basked in the growing, comfortable silence once he finished. He leaned onto his knees, baring his worn back in the moonlight, and you had to resist gasping at its beauty. At one point, he would have never let you touch him—but now? Now, he was making himself vulnerable, letting his guard down, trusting you like an animal exposing its throat.

You fell in love even more.

He flinched when your palm pressed between his shoulder blades, but instead of pulling away, he nestled into it with a deep sigh. You made a risky decision. There was no way for him to feel the kiss you stole from his shoulder, especially when your needle was still digging in and out of his abdomen. Every part of him was pulling towards you like a magnet; drawing closer, hand creeping across the blanket, letting out a shudder when you pinched a seam.

Everything suddenly seemed calm as you tied off the thread and snipped the excess. You carefully removed the remaining staples, ran your fingers along the smooth stitching, and pondered how much better he must’ve felt with the change. You hoped it helped. He deserved it, after everything he’d done for you.

Fondly, you rested your palm on the purple of his back.

He was colder than you expected. There was none of that smoky heat that often wafted off of him or curled out of his mouth like a western dragon. Perhaps he became cold from your absence, just like you did him. It was more than enough though. Dabi was more than enough, and he was all you would ever need.

And he was here, but you had finished your job. You had no idea what would happen next.

As if careful not to stir the waters, he slowly turned around. Your hand fell away, but it didn’t matter, because he was closing the distance again and stealing your breath within an inch of your lips.

There was a moment, just a moment, of hesitation.

Then it was gone.

He became fire seeking out oxygen, and his only source was you. It left you breathless. Every touch burned, but not in the way you expected. Whether it be his lips dancing upon yours or his fingers digging into your waist, he banished the cold with his warmth, leaving only thoughts of him.

Dabi.

Cerulean blue filled your lovestruck vision. Flames of passion swirled around his arms, leapt up his body, and caressed your features in flickering wisps. There was no pain, only that beautiful warmth. Even as he leaned back to grant you a second to breathe, he continued to captivate your every thought.

Flame-tipped fingers tilted your chin up. He didn’t say anything—only admired your face and the way his quirk caressed you without harm. What’s more, you could appreciate the way it amplified his affection, allowing you to feel him touch your arms and face all at once and be consumed by his love.

Gently wrapping your arms around his neck, you devoured another kiss. He returned the fervor, and you savored the chapped surface of his upper lip with the roughness of his lower one. A perfect combination.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered against his mouth, going back for more.

He pulled back—face unreadable. Your arms were removed by him and he stood up suddenly. “I should go.”

Having no idea what to do, you lurched into the freshly-empty space. “Wait.” He was desperately pulled back. “Wait, Dabi.”

He grabbed your hands, but he didn’t remove them. Not yet. His eyes burned something fierce at you. Be it passion, be it rage, you couldn’t tell.

You worried you would cry. “Dabi please, don’t go.”

He feebly tugged at the hands dragging on his skin grafts. You let go only to snatch him by the fingers.

“Please, Dabi.” The first tears started to prick. “It’s become hard to sleep without you.”

He slipped from your grasp and almost stumbled. Your pain reflected in his eyes. He was going to walk away with all the warmth and every ounce of hope you ever had. You would probably never see him again, not now that you finished his sutures. Your heart was breaking—no, he was tearing it out and taking it with him.

There was only one thing you could think to say.

“Touya,” you pleaded. “Stay.”

You’d only said his name once before. It was the night he told it to you, whispering it to your ear like a broken lover’s confession, and you’d looked at him longingly as if you could convince him with willpower alone to kiss you. You almost took that leap. He’d leaned in too. And yet, you’d pulled apart that night, and in less than twenty-four hours, your worlds grew miles apart. It seemed like a gap that would never bridge.

Until now.

“Okay,” he rasped, returning to the bed, cradling your head and tilting his forehead against yours. He brushed your tears away. “I’ll stay.”

Your sob was cut off by him joining your lips together, and all your troubles disappeared. His words, his touch, were like magic. A few shorter, sweeter pecks were given to you, and he spent another minute admiring you up close. Apologies came silent in the precious way he held you in his arms. Blood welled up in the corner of his eye and he wiped it away, but you returned the favor from earlier and licked it off his thumb.

“You don’t see me licking up your tears,” he said, observing the wet streaks on your cheeks.

You weakly giggled. “No, but I’m sure you want to.”

He leaned in, and you half-expected him to actually do it, but he switched up and dried them with his hand. “There.” His breath brushed your lips. “All better.”

You smiled. He was amazing at how easily he could calm you with a simple word and action. Something only he could do. Something you only allowed from him.

“How long will you stay?” The question was manipulated with the looming promise of another kiss.

“Depends.” He eyed the promise with great interest. “You got anything I can change into?”

Closing the distance to feel the texture of his lower lip, you said, “yep,” and then led him by the hand to your closet. You revealed washed pajamas in his size. He raised an eyebrow and you sheepishly rubbed the back of your neck. “You can keep them.” It wasn’t often he got to wash his clothes, so you wanted him to at least have something comfortable to sleep in every night.

“Whose are these?” he teased once you were properly in bed, wrapping you in his arms and tucking his warm face into your neck. “Do they belong to your secret lover?”

You threaded your fingers into his ashy hair; feeling the exhaustion finally creep in. “Mhm. I get worried he’s always sleeping in the same clothes, so I bought them to expand his wardrobe.”

Dabi shifted beneath the blanket. “He must be so lucky to have someone like you.”

“No.” You yawned. “I’m the lucky one.” He hummed sleepily. “I get to have him in my life despite all the things that would keep us apart. I hope he knows I wouldn’t trade him for the world.”

The embrace tightened. Then, it loosened and he sighed. Before you could ask what was wrong, he brought his lips to your ear. “I wouldn’t give you up either. Not for any villain, or any hero for that matter.”

Tears welled up, so you buried them in his hair. This was more than you could ever hope—ever dream for. You could wake up in the morning and discover this was some unfortunate well-crafted dream, but it didn’t matter, because he was here now. He was yours. You were his. That would never change, not as long as you could help it.

Dabi fell asleep before you did. His grip relaxed, but he never stopped holding you. His breathing betrayed how safe he felt in your embrace. You soon fell asleep to his natural scent of smoke; inhaling through your nose and delighting in the way he absorbed your senses entirely. His soft snores, the rumble of his chest, the surface of his bare skin. It drowned you in wonderfully warm dreams you never wanted to wake from.

Gentle blue flames.

Gentle blue eyes.

Gentle kisses and caresses.

None of it was better than reality, but the root of it slept soundly with you. All was as it should be.

The cold of morning stayed shielded away with your blanket covering you. Stretching, you reached out next to you—only to grasp nothing. You shot up and scrambled for any trace of him. The sun continued to welcome you through the blinds during your frantic search, and something bright winked at you nearby.

There, on the nightstand.

It was a gray, round little thing. A ring. Forged from blue flames, it wasn’t bright and polished like the staples that were used to make it, but you held it like it was made of gold. Reverently, you tried sliding it on your pointer finger, then your middle finger, then finally found the one it was crafted to fit. The sun caught its imperfect edges and revealed its shallow seams. Thumbing the indents, you felt it seep new warmth into you, thawing your heart and echoing a promise. He would be back. There was no question about it.

You loved Touya, and he loved you.