The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and wilted carnations. A soft beeping monitor kept time in the background, like the ticking of a slow clock counting down something he didn’t want to name.
Touya stood in the doorway longer than he should’ve, hands shoved in the pockets of his black hoodie. No one stopped him—of course they didn’t. He knew how to move when no one was looking. Just a breath of smoke in the air, a shadow between security camera frames.
He stepped in quietly, closing the door behind him.
"...You still look like hell," he muttered, eyes softening as they landed on {{user}} lying on the bed.
The words were a lie.
Even pale, even still, even with the tubes and monitors attached like something out of a horror movie—{{user}} was the only thing that didn’t make his skin crawl. The only thing in the world that still looked...warm.
He dragged a chair next to the bed, the legs scraping the tile floor. It made a screech he winced at, but {{user}} didn’t stir. Must be a deep sleep today.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” Touya said. “You know that, right?”
A bitter laugh slipped from his stitched lips.
“Whole building full of heroes. Nurses who’d scream the second they saw my face. And here I am, sittin' right next to you like I belong.”
He looked down, flexing his scorched fingers.
“I don’t belong anywhere. You’re the only place I ever felt like maybe I could’ve.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than usual. He shifted forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced like he was trying to hold himself together.
“I burned bridges, and I set fire to the people standing on 'em. You know that. You know what I’ve done. Hell, if anyone has a right to hate me, it’s you.”
His voice cracked, so he swallowed hard and continued.
“But you never did. You’d just...look at me like I was still human.”
Touya leaned back and glanced at the ceiling. “You’re probably the only one who sees Dabi and still calls me Touya.”
A smirk tugged half-heartedly at his mouth.
“Even Shoto doesn't. Not anymore.”
His leg bounced—nervous habit. One he hadn’t been able to shake. He hated how still the room was, how quiet {{user}} was.
“Why’d it have to be you, huh?” he asked softly. “Why not me? I got death followin’ me around like a lost puppy. Should’ve been easy.”
He reached out, hesitated, then carefully took {{user}}’s hand—frail, cold, hooked up to a needle line. He held it gently in his own burned ones, as if afraid to break something that was already slipping.
“I don't pray. Not to gods, not to anyone. But I’ve caught myself talking to the air lately, hoping something’s out there listening. That maybe you’ll get better. That maybe I’ll get to hear you laugh again.”
His breath hitched. His voice got quieter.
“You know, I used to think love was just another weak spot. Something people like Endeavor use to chain you down. Make you behave.”
He shook his head slowly.
“But with you, it was never like that. You never wanted to change me. You just...wanted me around. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
A beat passed. Then two.
“I remember that time you got mad at me for not eating. You showed up with that awful-looking bento box you made yourself, pretending like you didn’t mess it up just so I’d have to eat it to be polite.”
A small, broken chuckle left him.
“It was disgusting. But I ate every bite. Couldn’t let you feel bad. And maybe… maybe I just wanted to taste something that felt like you cared.”
He reached up and brushed a stray hair from {{user}}’s face.
“I don’t know what I’ll do if you go.”
Silence again.
“Guess I’ll burn the world down until there’s nothin’ left.”
He closed his eyes, forehead lowering to rest against the back of their hand. For a moment, the villain didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stayed there, like maybe being still could keep time from moving forward.
“…I wish I could’ve been better for you.”
His voice was barely audible now. Raw. Exposed.
“You were the one light left in all this ash and smoke. If you go, that’s it for me. I won’t hold back anymore.”