Archive of Our Own

He aches.

It’s a constant pain that riddles his body, some days so bad he can’t get his hands to move. On other days it’s a low hum in the back of his head, easy to ignore but present nevertheless. Most days, it’s centered in his chest, heavy and compact. It’s a bruise that he doesn’t know how to stop poking at, even when he’s actively not thinking about it. 

Dabi doesn’t burn, he stopped burning a while ago, he just aches. 

(Touya burned, he burned bright and furious, he burned alone and desperate, born into a world he couldn’t keep up with, into a role he couldn’t fit into and he tried. He tried so hard to shove his harsh edges into the perfect circle the old man had carved out for him, but all it did was scrape against his skin until he bled, but he tried. Touya burned, he burned and burned, and no one would look his way, no one would tell him that he’s enough, that he’s burned enough.)

(That he could be a hero, too.)

When he wakes up, there’s a dry layer of debris coating the insides of his mouth, and to say that he aches would be an understatement. It’s more like a sharp, white shooting pain creeping over his body slowly and carefully. His breath is as sharp as the pain, and he inhales, choking on smoke and debris.

Dabi’s lungs have long since gotten used to the smoke, but he finds himself trying to spit it out anyways.

His vision is blurry, and he recognizes the half muffled, half ringing in his ears and fuzzy brain as a concussion or, at the very least, something very close to it. His memories, too, are hazy, nothing but bubbles of question marks in an empty pocket to answer where he is and what happened. 

He remembers being at the shitty apartment, hearing Shigafucki’s dry voice scrape against his ears, but even that is vague and desaturated. He thinks he went out.

Fuck.

Dabi shifts, controlling his breathing steadily. It’s ingrained into his very core, how to breath through smoke and pain. He feels the cool press of cement beneath him, and he uses it as an anchor point. His head hurts, all he can taste is dust and smoke and a hint of blood. He doesn’t hear any screaming and crying, and he can’t see anything but a hint of rubble and shadows. 

Nothing that pokes at his memories.

Fuck. 

Dabi briefly debates falling back into unconsciousness and letting whatever happens, happen, but he shakes it off quickly. His life has always been a ticking time bomb, and he wants to be at the right place at the right time before he explodes. 

He lifts himself up with a groan, vision nearly going white when he moves his head. On the scale of eating sushi and dealing with the consequences afterwards to nearly burning himself alive, he’d say that this is a solid six on the Dabi is Having a Shit Day scale. It would’ve been lower if he hadn’t started the day off with Twice breaking a vase over his head while in a dance battle with Toga.

When and where did they get a vase anyways?

Dabi squeezes his eyes shut to focus. He doesn’t know where he is nor does he remember how he got here, just that he hit his head really fucking hard and he’s surrounded by rubble. 

When he opens his eyes, there’s a shine peeking out of the corner of them, and he turns towards it languidly.

There’s not much light, he still can’t see much more than rubble and dust, like the entire world is painted silver and gray, but he can also see tendrils of ice shining in the dark around him, holding up pillars of cement. He recognizes that he’s in a building as quickly as he recognizes the ice.

Fuck.

“You shouldn’t move,” a voice says drily behind him, deep and hoarse, “you’ll injure yourself further.”

Dabi closes his eyes again. 

Make that a seven on the Dabi is Having a Shit Day scale.

The bright, white light from a phone casts in his direction from his left, and it causes him to lift his hand to shield his eyes, screwing them shut with a wince as a sharp, throbbing pain pulses in his head. He doesn’t close them fast enough to miss the very obvious and very familiar half and half hair of Todoroki Shouto. 

Of all the fucking people, as if his life wasn’t already a cosmic joke, it had to be him. Hell, he’ll take the angry blonde gremlin boy over being stuck under some sort of building, with no memory on how he got there, with his little brother. 

“Goddamnit,” Dabi mutters to himself, his mouth tastes of ash and dust, and his voice sounds like he chainsmoked a thousand cigarettes in thirty minutes, then chewed on sandpaper right afterwards. He suppresses a cough. 

The light drifts closer, along with shuffling sounds, and Dabi stiffens at the press of a cold hand on his temple, jerking away with a hiss of pain.

“You hit your head,” Shouto says, sounding as if he’s talking about the fucking weather.

“No shit,” Dabi hisses, before flicking the kid’s hand, a spark of blue flame erupting from his fingertip. Shouto has the nerve to not seem the slightest bit fazed, even raising a brow like a snarky bitch. It’s nothing like the wide eyed look of wonder he’d give as a child, young and not even having his quirk yet, following his big brother with clumsy feet, or the look of devastation twisting his features at the forest, when he had kidnapped the angry blonde for Shigafucki’s fucked up dreams. 

“I can help.”

Dabi shoots him a look loaded with disbelief, but the kid looks genuine, motioning to his bag on his lap. He’s not in his uniform, or his hero costume, armed with jeans and a hoodie, all caked with a layer of dust still drifting down around them. 

“You can help me by telling me what happened, then by staying the fuck away from me,” Dabi spits, letting smoke snake out of his hands. He’s seen people shit their pants when he does that, he knows his glare is lethal, and Dabi is nothing if not someone who follows through on his threats. He’s a murderer, after all, a villain, even if he sometimes finds himself watching his little bird’s face slack in sleep, or puts Toga’s hair up when she starts complaining about it getting too long, that will never change.

Who are you trying to convince? A voice teases, it sounds suspiciously like Fuyumi.

Shouto, however, rolls his eyes, the goddamn nerve . Dabi doesn’t know what the shitstains at that hero school is teaching them, but it’s clearly not common sense. 

“There was a villain attack, then a building fell on us,” he deadpans, and Dabi’s fingers twitch to gouge his own eyes out, and the urge is only strengthened when Shouto adds, “I used my ice,” like the unhelpful little twat he is.

He notices, without really noticing really, just a casual observation, that Shouto doesn’t appear to be hurt. Dabi didn’t realize there was a small knot in the center of his chest until it partially unravelled. He swats it away.

“Yes,” Dabi forces, “I got that, but I don’t get where the hell I am and how I wound up with some wannabe hero underneath a building.” 

“Oh,” Shouto blinks, shining the phone’s flashlight back in Dabi’s eyes again, who groans, “you don’t remember.”

Dabi isn’t known for his patience, Touya wasn’t either, but he had found it easy to find under the force of his little siblings and their eager questions, from Fuyumi asking why snow was pretty, to Natsuo asking what flavor rocks was, and Shouto pointing eagerly at a squirrel and shouting chicken with all the confidence that only three year olds can have, then immediately asking how the moon doesn’t fall from the sky without any strings attached to it. 

Touya had to sit down with them, skin burning and rotting beneath, and try to withhold his laughter, and the tiny, guilty bubble of disdain, while he explains that snow is pretty because it’s the moon shedding it’s pretty skin to start anew, and that rocks tastes like strawberries dipped in matcha cream, and that the moon does have strings, they're just invincible. Touya was the oldest brother, and while his mother wouldn’t look at him and the old man would only use him to sharpen a broken blade, his siblings looked at him with awe, and he wanted to capture that look and keep it safe. 

He was foolish.

Dabi is still foolish, but he’d like to think he wisened up somewhat. 

“I wouldn’t be asking if I remembered, you brat,” Dabi shifts, biting back a hiss of pain as his head protests to the movement. In the light of Shouto’s phone, he can see glistening red staining his hand.

“You’re bleeding,” Shouto points out, once again stating the obvious and once again reaching his hand towards him. Dabi smacks away and the kid pouts, actually pouts, like he used to when he was four years old and couldn’t have any more dessert. His pout now is almost as lethal as it was before, which should be impossible on a whole ass teenager, but here they are. 

“What part of don’t touch me do you not understand?” Dabi snaps.

“You never said that.”

Great, little fucker grew up to be a smartass. 

Dabi releases a groan, squeezing his eyes shut to control the pulse of pain in his head. Perhaps if he keeps his eyes closed, Shouto would disappear or, even better, Dabi would disappear. Out of sight, out of mind and all that.

“I’ll tell you what happened if you let me treat you,” Dabi’s brain itches at his monotone voice and he turns to stare at the kid disbelievingly.

“Are you trying to negotiate with me right now?” 

“It’s not negotiating if I don’t accept any other option,”  Shouto provides, unzipping his bag. He doesn’t look concerned in the slightest, the little shit, even though there’s a very dangerous villain right next to him. In fact, if Dabi didn’t know any better, he would swear that his little brother looked almost content. Which is bullshit because they’re both stuck underneath a stupid building for who the fuck knows how long and the only thing that’s keep them from being crushed is Shouto’s ridiculous ice. 

Dabi pushes away the stray question of how much air they have here, instead scowling at the kid while he shuffles through his bag, phone in his mouth to light the way while his hands are occupied.

“How about you tell me and I don’t turn you into ashes,” Dabi offers and hell, even he can hear how unconvincing he sounds, voice raspy and with a hint of a slur that makes him want to bash his head in. Except his head is already bashed in, which is the fucking problem. 

“Fire consumes oxygen, that would be a bad idea,” Shouto points out after taking his phone out of his mouth, pulling something out of his bag. Dabi can only catch a glimpse of silver, everything around him is silver. Even his blood looks silver in the slight glow of the ice reflecting the light of Shouto’s phone.

Or maybe that’s just his vision.

A cool touch presses against his head and Dabi leans into it without thinking. His skin is always heated, he doesn’t sweat that much but right now he can feel the slight sheen of sweat cool from the touch. For a brief, weak moment, Dabi thinks of a lifetime ago, of a hesitant mother with a hesitant touch, of a caring sister with a soothing touch. He pushes it away, those memories don’t belong to him anymore.

“I said don’t touch me,” Dabi growls, pulling away. He hates how slowly he moved, blinking away the black spots in his vision. Shouto makes a noise that’s partly amused and the other part is way too close to concern.

“You know, you still haven’t actually said that.’

“Well, don’t touch me.”

“No.”

Dabi groans, leaning his head back and nearly falling back to the floor, but Shouto grabs his shoulder with his other hand before he can knock his brain back into place. He can feel the warmth of his palm through his jacket, like the dual quirk weirdo he is. 

“You’re hurt,” Shouto says, Dabi pushes away the sense of deja vu, “let me help you.”

Dabi can’t claim to know Shouto anymore, not when a lifetime stands between him and his little brother. He’s bigger now, his expression isn’t as open. His hair is longer than the old man would let it be and he’s wearing a black and orange sweatshirt that’s slightly too big for him. Despite all that, however, the unfathomably honest look is still the same, like he genuinely means everything he says. 

A true hero.

The thought tastes bitter on his tongue.

“Fine,” he scowls, Shouto brightens and Dabi feels a surge of annoyance. Little brat is much too trusting around villains. Shouto lifts up the silver thing, it’s small and shaped like a-

“What the fuck is with the weiner?”

“It’s not a weiner,” Shouto says seriously, “they’re peepees.” 

Shouto cracks open the canister, leaving Dabi to try and figure out if he hit his head a little too hard and had hallucinated Shouto say peepees with a completely straight face. Come to think of it, the silver world around him does seem to be shifting oddly, blurring together into one giant plane of existence or like those monsters in Shigafucki’s stupid games he yells about. Creatures that combine into bigger, stronger monsters. Dabi has a brief image of the building turning into a giant monster and consuming them whole.

He doesn’t want to be shitted out of a giant building monster.

“Stay still,” a hand creeps up behind his neck, “I have to disinfe-”

He comes to the feeling of a slight breeze on his face. For a split second, Dabi thinks he dreamt the whole thing and that he’s at the apartment. Not the shitty, cramped apartment where Toga likes to sneak stab people, but in a more spacious apartment, with the windows cracked open and the sound of offkey humming filling his head. The subtle throb in his head brings him back and Dabi is distinctly aware that he’s sitting up and leaning against the hard surface of cement. 

The air tastes like the worst kind of ass. 

A pained noise is drawn out of him involuntarily and he reaches for the pain on instinct, only for his hand to touch bandages. Memories fall back into him in a rush, waking up to his annoying little brother, talking to his annoying little brother, and then passing out like a loser. In front of his annoying little brother. 

His head hurts.

“There was a villain attack,” Dabi cracks open his eyes to give Shouto a dumbfounded look. Shouto looks at him expectantly, but Dabi honestly has no idea what is going on right now. Shouto’s penis canisters are cracked open on the floor and his legs are crossed in a way that their old man would have glared at while making noises of disapproval. Dabi wholeheartedly approves.

“What?” 

Shouto’s expectant look turns pointed, it’s eerily similar to Fuyumi’s whenever Touya or Natsuo had said something stupid. Dabi has to resist the urge to smack it off his face.

“I said I’d tell you what happened after I treat your injuries,” Shouto explains, tilting his head to look up at him, “there was a villain attack and-”

“Why the hell would you want to help me anyway?” Dabi interrupts impatiently and for the first time since he woke up in this damn place, he sees something vaguely resembling irritation cross Shouto’s features. It fills him with satisfaction. 

“Because,” he says in the long suffering way that sends Dabi vividly back to when Touya would explain every question Shouto had in the same tone. There’s a weird and unwelcome feeling centering at his chest that Dabi quickly decides to ignore, “you were hurt and I don’t like it when people are hurt.”

It’s so simple and honest that Dabi can’t help but believe him. What a strange creature his little brother has become, to be so openly honest. Dabi can’t imagine being that honest to anyone, especially a stranger. Then again, he’s lived his whole life burying one lie after another until he ended up burying himself in the process. 

“Do you have any other questions or do I have permission to continue my story,” Shouto says in the most passive aggressive monotone he has ever heard. Dabi refuses to admit that he’s kind of impressed. 

“Don’t be a smartass,” Dabi bites, leaning his head against the cracked wall. His head does feel better but there’s still a dull throb that’s more annoying than painful. He closes his eyes tiredly, hearing Shouto shuffle closer for a reason that he can’t understand. It makes him feel overly tense and hyper aware of the sound. 

“I’m not?” There’s genuine confusion in the kid’s turn and Dabi snorts. 

“Shut up and tell me what happened.”

“You’re the one that interrupted me,” Shouto points out plainly and it’s infuriating because it’s true. Shouto continues before he can respond.

“The building collapsed due to a villain attack, I managed to get people out with my ice,” he sounds as if he’s reading from a textbook or writing a report. It’s disgusting. “I also managed to support most of the building's infrastructure, but it wasn’t enough to keep the building together,” finally there was a change in his tone, a hint of frustration that caused Dabi to crack open his eyes. He sees Shouto frowning down at his hands, brows creased, “I was.. too distracted to notice the ceiling collapse, it would have crushed me and the rest of the people who haven’t escaped yet if-” there’s a pause where Shouto turns to look at him fully, Dabi feels a dawning realization come onto him. It’s also a horrifying one.

“If it wasn’t for you,” Shouto says and he sounds more curious than anything. Dabi blanches, not wanting to hear anymore. Shouto continues ruthlessly.

“You pushed me aside and incinerated enough debris to allow everyone to escape, but then a piece fell and hit your head,” he pauses before finishing with a lame, “and that’s it.”

“Thank you,” Shouto adds after a beat of silence, Dabi still processing the fact that his dumb ass would ever do something as ridiculous as save people, it’s unbelievable. He was not expecting the gratitude at all and it pulls him out of his sea of denial with a nasty taste in his mouth. 

“Don’t,” Dabi snaps, voice sharper and louder than he expected. He grimaces when Shouto looks at him, head tilting like a dumb cat who hears something no other mortal can hear. He doesn’t say anything about it, instead reaching down to tap his phone, their only source of light in this hell hole. 

“My phone doesn’t have service, so I guess we’re stuck here,” he says nonchalantly, before casually digging through his bag. He doesn’t look like he’s scared at all, if Dabi didn’t know any better than he would think that Shouto almost looks pleased. He pats down his pocket for his own phone, before distinctly remembering that he left it by the fridge. Toga probably already has her greedy, bloody hands all over it by now. If he would to call then-

Dabi thumps his head against the wall with a groan, ignoring the pulse of pain that it caused. His dumb ass forgot he was supposed to meet Hawks today. He has no idea what time it is, but he’s probably late to it. The pretty bird deserves it anyways, since he’s the one who’s always late. He claims it’s because he “has hero work” and can’t let anyone get suspicious, but Dabi knows it’s because he knows it pisses Dabi off. Why he tolerates the dumb blonde he’ll never know.

He knows exactly why.

“Gummy worms?” Shouto offers. Dabi lazily turns his head to see him holding out a packet to him, he swears he can hear wii music coming from inside his head. A bubble of amusement rises in his chest but he shoves it down before it can appear on his face. He’s beginning to think all heroes are airheads, or maybe he attracts them like flies to a dead body. 

His stomach makes a small noise. 

“Fine,” Dabi sighs, snatching the bag. They’re sour gummy worms, which Dabi appreciates, and chewy like udon. Dabi misses udon, he hasn’t had any since last week when Hawks ordered some for takeaway at his apartment. Which had been strange because he had thought Hawks don't like noodles that much. 

Shouto makes a satisfied noise, bringing out a container from his bag eagerly. Dabi stares as he sets the container down, then a smaller container, then chopsticks placed neatly on top. It’s not until he pops open the container does Dabi realize what is happening.

“Seriously?” he asks in disbelief, “you’re eating cold soba right now?” 

Shouto arches a brow, casually dipping his soba then meeting his gaze while he loudly slurps it down. Dabi makes a face of disgust, fingers twitching with the urge to pour the container of soba over his little brother’s head. 

“Why do you even have that? Were you going on a fucking picnic?” Dabi won’t be surprised if he pulls out a TV and couch from his bag at this point. 

“No?” Shouto’s brow furrows in confusion, “Ka- someone made it for me.”

Dabi’s eyes narrow in suspicion as Shouto ducks his head, but not quick enough for him to miss the pleased smile curling on his face. Something old yet familiar bubbles in his chest and he ruthlessly pushes it down where the rest of his idiot emotions go, the ones that belong to Touya and not him. 

“That someone has terrible tastes,” is what he says instead, letting his voice dip to a lazy drawl as he pops another gummy worm in his mouth, “udon is better.”

Shouto frowns, slowly setting his chopsticks down. He levels Dabi with a narrow glare and Dabi meets it with his own. 

“No,” Shouto declares, “udon has the texture of an eel.”

Dabi scoffs, sitting up, “soba is like chewing on wet cardboard, except that I would rather have the cardboard.”

“At least soba has a taste,” the bitch actually turns his nose up, “other than sadness, that is.”

Dabi is officially offended, he has been ever since Shouto gave him gummy worms then proceeded to pull out an entire container of the inferior noodle, it makes Dabi want udon all the more. The nice, chewy texture and light, subtle taste. 

“The only sad thing about udon is that I don’t have any,” Dabi mutters, and it’s not until he can feel the pout on his face does he realize what he’s doing. He’s arguing with his dumb little brother about noodles under a collapsed building, he hasn’t had such a useless argument since the peanut butter incident with Toga and both of Twice. Even when talking to Hawks he occasionally becomes aware of how terribly comfortable he is in the pro hero’s presence and drags himself out of it. Now, however, there’s traces of warmth leaking past the gravestone he built of Touya, and he’s viciously reminded of a similar argument with Natsuo. He remembers Natsuo waving his arms in the air as he aggressively defends his precious ramen. Dabi snorts. 

“At least udon is better than ramen,” Shouto points out as if reading his mind, there’s a fond, distant look in his eyes, it makes Dabi wonder if they were thinking of the same thing. There’s nothing behind his eyes that says anything, except maybe a glint of sadness that could easily be the light of the phone. 

“You got that right,” Dabi snorts, dumping the rest of the gummy worms in his mouth, “only bitches and himbos eat ramen.”

“Then how come you don’t?”

Dabi casts him a dirty look, but Shouto just blinks innocently. Except it’s anything other than innocent, Dabi can sense it. 

“Are you calling me a bitch or a himbo?”

“Yes.”

Dabi laughs. It comes as a surprise to the both of them, escaping past his lungs forcibly. It wasn’t loud, barely more than a small huff, but they both heard it. Shouto’s mouth twitches subtly, a bright sparkle in his eyes that Dabi clicks his tongue at. He crumbles the empty packet of gummy worms in his fist and turns it to ash, but that doesn’t wash away the lingering feeling of being caught out of- what? Getting into a useless argument with his little brother and liking it? As if.

“Actually,” Shouto hums thoughtfully, disrupting Dabi’s thoughts, “I’m not quite sure what himbo means, is it an emotion? A car? Do you hit someone with it? The himbo, not the car.” He pauses, then adds, “unless a himbo is a car.”

“No,” Dabi says flatly after a series of internal thoughts that all combine together to form one giant what the fuck. 

“No?”

“No,” Dabi repeats forcibly, then groans, “ask someone else your stupid questions.” Nii-san, do flowers have feelings? Nii-san, is my tongue real? Nii-san- Dabi shakes off the dumb thoughts gathering in his head, thinking of younger Shouto’s little head tilt that apparently never went away or Natsuo’s wide eyes or Fuyumi’s faith in her older brother. 

“But I’m asking you,” If Dabi looks over, will he see Shouto pouting like the brat he always was? The answer is most likely a yes, so Dabi makes sure to tilt his head up and watch flakes of dust and cement flutter around him, glinting silver in the light. They’re like ashes, silver ashes ready to bury Dabi until he can no longer breathe past it. He feels something dark and full of amusement bubble up in his chest. Dabi is bound to death anyways, even as he walks forward and feels warmth return to his blood, he knows that he will die with the taste of ash on his tongue, staining his hands until there’s nothing left. 

He closes his eyes. He doubts he’ll die today however, Dabi may be forgotten but there will be people looking for Shouto and he doubts there was anything subtle about a building collapsing in the middle of the city. 

Besides, he still has something he needs to do. 

“Well don’t,” is what he says and he sounds tired even to himself, exhaustion leaking into his bones. It’s not enough to make him fall asleep, his head still throbs and his skin feels too sensitive under the force of Shouto’s expectant stare and the groaning of the building around them, “it’s not worth my time.”

Shouto makes a noise that makes Dabi’s fingers twitch, but he still refuses to look over even as he hears the shuffling noises of a person sliding closer to him. 

“Oh, I see,” Dabi is struck at how much Shouto sounds like Natsuo, or the Natsuo that would tease Touya when his damn growth spurt hit, all mischief and playful and are you sure you’re the oldest, do you need some milk? Dabi doesn’t like milk, but that has nothing to do with his height. Dabi snaps one eye open when Shouto continues in that tone.

“You don’t know what it means either,” he nods solemnly, but Dabi has long since come to the conclusion that Shouto is a certified fake ass bitch and he’s beginning to wonder if he’s being played this entire time or Shouto really is a dumbass or if he’s a dumbass and Dabi is being played. The uncertainty is maddening, what is going inside that squishy head of his little brother? Is there anything going inside at all? Dabi’s head hurts. 

“Bitch,” he says out of pure reflex then turns his head to scowl at Shouto, “a himbo is big, dumb, and soft-” like Natsuo is what he doesn’t say, and also kind of like Twice.

Well one of him anyways. 

Dabi is very much not a himbo. He’s not dumb, for one,, nor is he soft, and his height is perfectly normal and not one of the reasons why he’s not a himbo. He’s not a bitch either, that title belongs to Shigafucki. 

Understanding dawns to Shouto and he nods slowly, as if this was a serious matter that he should be listening carefully about and taking detailed notes on. Dabi wants to scoff. 

“Oh, that sounds like my brother,” Shouto says it like it was a great revelation. Dabi does scoff, because of course it does. Strange that they were both thinking of the same person, except Dabi is catching the contagious disease of memory the longer he spends time with Shouto and he greatly dislikes how many times his other siblings have popped up in his mind over the past- however long they’ve been stuck here for. Dabi is really beginning to feel like he’s enjoying himself, which should be rectified immediately.

“Not my oldest brother, though, he’s too short.”

Dabi is no longer enjoying himself.

“Hey fuck yo-” he catches himself, biting his tongue violently. Thankfully, Shouto doesn’t seem to notice, idly putting empty containers of soba back in his bag. When did he finish eating? 

(There’s a part of him, a small insignificant part, that wonders how much Shouto remembers of Touya, what he thinks of him. Are they good memories? Does he remember Touya sneaking him out of his room at night and climbing out onto the roof, showing him all the stars that Touya knows about or into the kitchen, sometimes with Fuyumi and Natsuo, sometimes just them, and showing him how to make hot chocolate and how to eat quickly and quietly, without any evidence left? Or does he just remember the harsh scrape of Touya’s screams, the stench of burnt flesh and smoke and desperation. Does he remember the resentment Touya held- still holds- or the budding fondness he had to cut? Why does it matter?)

He should change the topic before he says something that even Shouto’s outrageously empty skull will catch onto. 

A surprisingly huge surge of questions pile up in his mind, but Dabi dismisses them quickly because they all amount to shit like how’ve you been and how’s ou-your siblings, does Fuyumi still make different teas depending on her mood, do you still get headaches from thunderstorms and other very not important questions like that. Instead, Dabi takes glances at the loose sweater on Shouto, a little too disproportionate to be his and thinks of the container of soba, of his little brother’s pleased smile he tried to hide.

“You’re fucking someone aren’t you?” 

Well, that’s not exactly how he meant to word it, but he supposes it’s too late for that. At the very least, he can allow himself the surge of triumph at seeing Shouto look well and truly shocked, bag slipping from his grip to the ground in an undramatically quiet noise. 

Unfortunately, the look disappears faster than Dabi is able to memorize it. He wonders how much money Shouto can make off of playing poker. An image of huge, dangerous villains huddled over a tiny table, slowly unravelling while a fifteen year old lays them to waste with an impassive look on his face pops up in his mind. He must’ve hit his head harder than he thought, but the image almost makes him snort. 

“No,” Shouto says, tilting his head, “I’m not-” he pauses, Dabi can tell the exact moment he mentally says fuck it, “fucking anyone.”

Dabi arches a brow, but Shouto continues before he can respond.

“Not yet, at least.”

Damn, who knew the asshole had that kind of confidence. The idea of his little brother getting laid makes his quirk itch and Dabi wonders why he had to choose this subject to die on, he should have just asked the thunderstorm one and live without another urge to pour bleach in his brain- or someone else’s brain. He’s glad he’s not talking about his own love- sex life at least, he already thinks too much about Hawks as it is. 

“We’re not there yet,” Shouto admits, then shifts from where he’s sitting. Dabi stills, noting how Shouto is getting himself comfortable, and immediately wishes the damn building hit his head a little harder. He knows this look, he can’t recall any particular face to that look, but he recognizes it- the look of someone about to overshare. 

Shouto tugs at the sleeve of his sweater, mouth curling up grossly. He rubs his thumb against the orange stripe there. Dabi’s brain ticks, as if the colors are trying to remind him of something, “he made me soba.”

Dabi snorts at his happy tone, as if he had gotten his dick sucked instead of someone cooking for him. 

“I came here to get him a gift,” All gloves must be off, Dabi muses, wondering if Shouto knows what keeping a secret means or if he just doesn’t care. Somehow, Dabi thinks it’s the latter. Why the idiot decided to share with a dangerous, murderous villain Dabi can’t even fathom. 

“He likes spicy food and cooking,” Shouto adds, in a tone that’s not unlike his middle school math teacher talking about quadratics with shining eyes and a voice with barely contained excitement of a mindnumbingly boring subject. Dabi has the strange urge to start taking notes. 

“I was going to get him cooking supplies, but he’s really picky about them. The last time I got him a pan and he snapped it half and told me to that if I get him something so half assed that I should just bring him shitty metal for him to make a pan himself” Shouto tilts his head, before frowning down at his palm, “but he didn’t like it when I did that either.”

This, Dabi has come to the realization, is his life now. In truth, he blames Hawks. If only that tricky bird with his fake ass smile that sometimes becomes not so fake had picked another member to infiltrate into the League of Villains with. Better yet, it’s Shigafucki’s fault to forcing the ridiculous recruitment job onto him, because now he’s feeling squishy and listening to his little brother overshare about his boyfriend, who is apparently angry and abrasive and wears black and orange hoodies and-

Wait. 

A piece slides into place in his head and Dabi really didn’t want it to. 

“You’re fucking that angry gremlin boy?” Dabi asks in disbelief, really he shouldn’t be surprised as he is, once he thinks about it. Except Dabi doesn’t want to think about the look on Shouto’s face when he had pulled his apparent boyfriend through the portal. 

“No,” Shouto says slowly, “I told you, not yet.”

Dabi groans. This really is his life and it really is Hawks’ fault. Of course Shouto has to fall for the only kid he has ever kidnapped. Well, he thinks with a deep, intense taste of bitterness, it’s not like he’ll be there at family dinners or whatever the fuck normal families do, he won’t even be introduced to him as Shouto’s older brother. The next time he’ll see the blonde it’ll probably be him trying to blast Dabi’s head off. 

The fact that he and Shouto both share the same taste with unruly, stupidly heroic blondes is not lost to him. 

Dabi groans again.

“Does your head still hurt?” Dabi smacks his reaching hand away without looking, as if something deeply embedded inside him sensed that Shouto was about to annoy him in some way.

“I’m fine,” he doesn’t have to add the dumbass because he can hear it in his voice. Then again, this is Shouto and this Shouto is different from the little Shouto in Touya’s memories, but there are some aspects that have stayed the same. 

“Dumbass,” Dabi adds, letting himself side-eye Shouto in time to see him open his mouth, no doubt to say something that will prove that he is, in fact, a dumbass.

Muffled noises from above interrupts him, Dabi can hear the rise and fall of voices. He feels his muscles relax, finally he can get out of this hellhole and the first thing he’s going to do is get udon, then maybe call Hawks. He can practically hear the stupid bird’s gloating for not being the one who’s late for once. Dabi scowls to hide how his mouth twitches up at the thought.

“Oh,” Shouto drones, “it appears that we’re being rescued.”

“No shit,” Dabi snaps without any real heat in it, then tenses. Rescued. They’re being rescued. He lets out a sigh, leaning his head against the wall. There’s only certain kinds of people that do rescuing and almost none of them would be willing to let a murderer waltz away scot free. 

Out of the frying pan, into the fire and all that. 

Maybe if he smashes his head against the wall hard enough they’ll think he’s dead and leave him be. 

The sound gets louder and clearer, before a small chunk of cement ahead of them falls out, a stream of light filtering in through the gap. Dabi is shuffling through multiple methods to employ to get out of this building and evade the pro heroes, but all he can think of is to use Shouto as a hostage and that thought makes his heart shake the bars of his ribcage. 

Well, Dabi has to do what he has to do. He can’t go to jail, not now, not when he’s not done with what he has to do, he doubts he’ll survive past it anyways, it’s probably for the best.

A familiar red feather slipping through the newly made hole stops Dabi’s thoughts in its tracks. 

Of course. 

It makes sense that Hawks would be here, Dabi knew that he was in the area and those feathers of his can easily detect where the people are without potentially injuring someone. Shouto makes a thoughtless noise beside him at seeing the feather, then gives Dabi a side-eye. He can’t quite tell what his expression says, but it makes Dabi distinctly aware of his own expression and he’s quick to wipe it off, even if it is too late.

Shouto reaches up and taps the feather. It’s a very brief touch, just enough to tell Hawks that someone is down here and that’s it, but it still makes Dabi want to slap Shouto’s hand away. He bites down the urge to slap himself. The feather halts, then it wiggles excitedly like Hawks’ wings do when Dabi makes him yakitori or when his favorite show is about to come on before zooming back through the hole. 

It’s not long after that he hears a familiar, overly excited shout and the flaking cement around the hole tumbles out, the silhouette of a golden figure and shadowed wings rising up. Haloed by the sun, his eyes seem to be glowing. There’s a bright, dopey grin on his face, the one he uses when he wants to reassure people.

What a piece of shit, Dabi thinks, trying to wrangle his heart back into his chest. He wonders if anyone sees an angel where all Dabi sees is a pain in the ass and a terrible cook. He glances at Shouto, but he looks like he’s watching the infomercials on TV at three am instead of the number 2 Pro Hero making a dramatic entrance. 

He must be used to it. 

“Hiya folks, sorry for the-'' Dabi detects the exact moment Hawks sees him, not in the faltering of his words, but in the way his eyes go from cheery, reassuring Hero to surprised Takami Keigo right before his words falter out. The idiot stumbles forward, wings fluttering out to catch himself before he faceplants onto the ground. Then Dabi is forced to see the slight change in Hawks’ expression, the way his Hero smile softens around the corners, the slight loosening of his muscles. It all happens in a manner of seconds but for Dabi, those seconds feel like it could take up the entire universe. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Shouto change channels from the infomercial to a late night rerun of an old soap opera and Dabi wants to bury himself into the earth and hibernate for five thousand years.

Fuck this and fuck Hawks.

Not literally though, he doesn’t deserve it.

Great, now Dabi is having thoughts in his head, or memories or whatever, and Shouto is sitting right there, arching a single eyebrow, while Hawks has yet to notice him. Any other day he would be flattered, he would lightly tug on Hawks’ feathers and tease him about how obvious he is sometimes (other times he’s like a bank vault). Don’t say anything stupid, Dabi sends with all the telepathic power he has.

“Well hello there,” Hawks flashes a grin, his overly flirty one he knows gets on Dabi’s nerves, and Dabi mourns. For what, he doesn’t know, but there’s grief in his heart.

He can see Shouto lift his brow higher.

“You come here of-TEN, ah, Sho-Todo- Shouto?” Dabi very deliberately does not facepalm, instead glaring as Hawks’ wings flutter back in surprise before folding a bit. 

“No,” Shouto says flatly, but somehow Dabi can tell that he’s entertained, “not really.” He pauses, then tilts his head, “do you?”

Dabi can admit, he greatly enjoys the way Hawks flounders, mouth making odd shapes like he’s trying to exorcise a demon, or he’s being exorcised, and Dabi does nothing when the hero looks his way. It’s what he gets for being an idiot. Besides, Dabi isn’t the hero in this disaster pod. 

“Right!” Hawks recovers quickly, throwing on the big Hero smile that causes Dabi’s hatred for it to deepen each time it appears. It’s worse now than it was when he first saw it, because Dabi knows Hawks’ real smile, and this one is like shining a flashlight at the sun. 

“Are you hurt, Shouto?” Hawks casts a wary glance at Dabi’s bandaged head, but Dabi nods at him. He’s fine, his head doesn’t feel like it’s trying to tap dance to heavy metal anymore, “is it just you two?”

Shouto stands up, tossing his backpack over his shoulder like Touya used to do when he went to school. Dabi tunes him out as he gives a report, and that’s what Shouto does, his voice steady and professional like a true hero. From the side profile, with nothing but sun streaming in to outline his features, Shouto looks so much like Rei (he looks so much like Touya). It almost hurts to look, but seeing Shouto and Hawks talking to each other, standing next to each other, it makes Dabi ache in a way he can’t define. 

Dabi doesn’t have a future. If he did, he supposes it wouldn’t be so bad if it looked like this.

Without the bloody bandage and collapsed building though. 

Well, maybe a bit of the bloody bandage and collapsed building. If he had a future full of pure sunshine all the time he’d take a deep dive into the ocean with nothing but his long coat and a bag full of rocks. 

Hawks claps Shouto on the shoulder, his smile turning a little more into the genuine Keigo smile.

“Good job,” he says, simply, but Shouto looks like he’s been handed the deeds to the moon. Dabi turns away before the disgusting moment lodges something deep and unforgivable down his throat. 

“Now get out of here, there’s a medic with your name on it. Sorry-” he rushes the apology, Shouto probably has the stubborn mule look on his face, “but they’ll drag you with them anyways. Trust me, I know.”

The last part is muttered, but Dabi hears it clearly. He rolls his eyes. 

“And don’t worry about him, I’ll take care of it,” Dabi can hear his wink, it's so loud and he rolls his eyes again, glancing over at them disdainfully. He knows they’re talking about him. Shouto blinks and Dabi must be seeing things because he can’t possibly have seen Shouto’s lips quirk up.

“Of course,” Shouto says, smooth and blank, “please do.”

Dabi doesn’t know what to do with that. From the looks of it, Hawks doesn’t either, but Shouto is already walking past him, heading towards the light where he belongs. For a brief moment, he pauses, but that moment is gone as quickly as it began, and Shouto disappears. The ice holding up the building shifts, but doesn’t break.

It’s at that moment did Dabi wonder if Shouto was keeping his quirk activated the entire time. He dismisses that thought before it becomes heavy and acidic in his stomach. 

A low whistle snatches his attention back, Hawks at least as the decency to look sheepish, wings folding up. 

“Well, that could have been worse!” He says cheerfully and Dabi snorts, lifting himself up to stand. His vision wobbles, head going fuzzy and weightless, his mouth feels numb all of the sudden. Hawks’ hand is warm and light on his arm, but it drags him back to his own body, black spots dancing behind his shuttering eyelids. There’s a soft brush against his back, he doesn’t have to look to know that it’s Hawks’ wings. He focuses on the touch.

“Are you really okay? You’re not going to die right? That’ll suck,” Hawks keeps his voice as light and steady as his touch, but there’s a tremble of concern in both.

“I’m sure,” Dabi rolls his eyes, “you going to get me out of here, birdbrain? All the righteousness coming from there is giving me hives.” He glances at the entrance Hawks came through, at the sunlight and the buzz of voices he can hear, the muffled footsteps. 

“Actually, I’m the only hero here,” Hawks says, nudging him slightly. Dabi refuses to sway, but his body doesn’t get the memo. Hawks’ grip tightens around him, a slight squeeze of apology, “but don’t worry, I have a brilliant, foolproof plan.”

They both talk more with action than words, a head tilt there, an arm squeeze there, Dabi watches Hawks’ wings for expression more than he watches his face. They’re both distracting in their own way. Dabi is shit at words and Hawks uses them as a shield to say a whole lot of shit and end up saying nothing at all. 

So Dabi sees the flash of mischief in his eyes, the slow flare of his wings, and he glares a heated fuck you before Hawks heaves him up and pushes off. 

It beats walking, at the very least.

“I have a brilliant, foolproof plan,” Dabi mocks, hunching his shoulders. He hates that it worked more than anything else, the damn bird literally just flew out through the backdoor (or back open area of a collapsed building), then dropped him off on the roof of the building next over with a kiss on the cheek. Neither brilliant nor foolproof. In fact, carrying a villain out in the open away from where the police are is the opposite of that.

Hawks just wanted to carry him, Dabi is positive that’s the only thing. 

He sighs as he makes his way out of the building, sighs again when he tucks himself down the dark alleyways to get back to the apartment. Then sighs a third time when he realizes that he left his long coat on the rubble underneath the building. His scars are so obvious he might as well paint I’m a wanted murderer on his back. 

Dabi is getting too old for this. 

He rests his back against a building to catch a break. Dabi is still a little unsteady, but he outright refused when Hawks offered to take him back to his apartment or to wait where he was. The last thing they both need is for Hawks to get caught with him, and right now Dabi has never been more obvious that he’s Dabi. 

He liked that coat. 

It was warm and it had a lot of pockets, even though Toga likes to slip knives in some to see how long it takes him to cut himself on them. It makes getting back to the League a lot harder, too, what with everyone shitting their pants once they see him. 

Mostly everyone that is, Shouto either had balls of steel or all his brain cells died out in his childhood. Both are equally likely, what with the mindless commentary he gave. It was so stupid it was bazarely entertaining. Dabi hadn’t spent that much time around his siblings in- 

A long time. 

It had been easy to bounce words back and forth with Shouto, to feel the kind of annoyance that only siblings can cause, to let his amusement show, little escapes of laughter. It had been easy to slip back into being Touya. 

Dabi can admit now, with nothing but the dark shadows of the alleyway to greet him, that he had been enjoying himself. That the memories that climbed out of the dark abyss in the corner of his mind weren’t all bad. He can admit it, right here, he can let himself wonder what would have happened if Shouto knew, if he would treat him any differently if Dabi had been a little more Touya and less, well, less him. 

“You forgot something.”

Dabi releases a groan so loud it startles a stray cat he didn’t even notice. He takes back everything, he takes back the swell of emotions that was rising up in his gut, he takes back being conscious. 

“You have anything better to do than pissing me off?” Dabi asks, he doesn’t bother sounding threatening because it’d just go over the little shit’s head. He turns towards Shouto when there’s no answer, only to see him frowning thoughtfully.

He’s really thinking about it. 

“Yes,” Shouto decides and Dabi’s eye twitches. His right eye specifically, “but I thought you might want this?”

It’s his long coat, folded disastrously in Shouto’s hands, as if Shouto tried to fold it then given up halfway through. The thought makes his insides twitch, but in a way that isn’t all that disgusting. Dabi snatches the long coat from him and puts it on as calmly as possible, though the whole facade is broken once he feels himself visibly relaxing once it’s on. Shouto mouth twitches to a barely there smirk and Dabi has to resist slapping it off. 

“Well, if that’s all, I’ll be going now and if you follow me I’ll burn your feet off,” Dabi bares his teeth, feeling the stretch of his staples. Most people piss their pants when they see him do that.

“Okay,” Shouto says without blinking. 

Today has just been constant guerrilla warfare on his ego. 

If anyone in the League finds out about any of this, he’ll be forced to put on clown shoes and makeup to match what he’ll become. 

“Fuck this, I’m leaving, go buy your boyfriend a cookbook or something,” Dabi shoves his hands in his pant pockets and swivels away from Shouto, enjoying the way his coat flares out a bit as he does so. He’s going to go home, ignore whatever chaos the League decides to unfold, and take a nice, long nap. Then, he’s going to indulge himself with the best fucking udon he can find. After that, maybe-

“Give Hawks my regards, Touya-nii.” 

Shouto is long since gone by the time Dabi’s muscles unlock themselves and all the things that had attacked him at once settle into a quiet. He wants to find Shouto and shake him until he explains why, exactly, the piece of shit went through the entire time they had been stuck together without telling him that he knew who he was. 

Everything makes so much more sense and Dabi hates it.  Heaving a sigh, Dabi runs his hand through his hair, careful not to snag his staples. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and rolls his shoulders. 

His finger brushes against the edge of a piece of paper. Dabi frowns, feeling his nose scrunch up in a way Hawks calls the grumpy kitten look. He pulls out the paper and unfolds it. Scrawled in elegantly messy handwriting is a phone number and a note.

If you’re not a himbo, that makes you a bitch right?

A bark of laughter forces its way out of Dabi’s throat. He crumbles the paper up aggressively and shoves it in his pocket. Despite that, there’s a stupid curve of a smile on his face. 

He thinks he doesn’t mind being called Touya-nii again. Even if it is by a little shit. 

It’s not until he’s at his apartment, with noises that sound a lot like Twice sobbing into a bowl of pasta and Toga’s maniacal laughter, probably on top of the fridge again, does Dabi remember. 

Not my oldest brother, though, he’s too short.

That’s it, Dabi swears, clenching his fist.

He’s gonna kick his ass.