-1/17
His quirk works through him like a disease. It always has.
After it happened he wakes up feverish, every day. His flames refuse to leave him, hiding under his skin, vomiting smoke through every stitch, making the room smell like a crematory. An ounce of shame he didn’t know he still had unearths itself, making him curl up on the mattress, then making him leave the bed altogether, shutting himself away in the hero’s immaculate bathroom, too ritzy and beautiful for the rotting likes of him.
Dabi braces himself against the wall, panting. He clutches blindly at his shirt, feeling the fabric soaked with cold sweat and blood. He doesn’t want to look down and see the damage but he doesn’t exactly have a choice, does he?
He hisses in a few more breaths before-
Fuck.
He grimaces, reading down to dig into the metal surrounding his newest injury. His quirk is fighting its damndest to eat straight through his stomach, it almost seems. There’s a new patch brewing on his belly, skin slowly but steadily decaying, turning as dark as the rest of the ruined parts of himself. The newest staples he’s branded himself with slip from the skin, loose and leaking. He swears at the sight of them, grimacing as he presses a shaking hand over them, trying to keep them in place.
He’d have to redo them. Hopefully he has the time.
