The bar smelled faintly of dust and stale liquor, its cracked walls and broken neon signs casting jagged shadows across the room. Bottles—some scavenged, some half-forgotten—cluttered the table, their contents dwindling as the night dragged on. The air was heavy, but softened by the warmth of alcohol and shitty company.

Shigaraki had sunk into the battered couch, movements loose and unguarded, his gaze unfocused as if he were staring through the ceiling. Dabi sat slouched beside him, smoke curling lazily from his lips.

It was rare, this kind of night. No plans. No pressure. Just the three of you drifting in the haze, letting the world outside rot while you held onto this fragile, drunken calm.

“Put it out. It’s making me feel sick”

Shigaraki murmured, gesturing vaguely towards the cigarette that perched between Dabi’s fingers. Dabi scoffed, ignored his words, sprawling out further against the couch, pushing against {{user}} and in turn jostling Shigaraki in the process.