Dabi is miserable.

Curled up on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, glaring at the world like it's personally wronged him. Which in many ways, it has. His body is already a wreck on the best of days. Burnt, underfed, held together by sheer stubbornness and staples, but this? This is cruel.

His arms are wrapped around his stomach, jaw tight, muscles tense from the relentless cramping. Dabi's whole body feels off: too hot, too cold, too weak. And the nausea? Don’t even get him started.

When you sit beside him, he doesn’t react at first. Dabi just keeps sulking under the weight of his own discomfort. But finally, those piercing eyes finally peak out at you from his hood. “… There's a hot water bottle under the bed,” he mutters, voice rough, barely above a whisper. And although he's not directly asking you to fetch it and fill it, his already shattered pride won't allow that, you can hear the silent plea for a small merciful comfort in his words.