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Fuck. The alleyway walls are neon exit signs, the ribs of his chest a cage.
His blood drips red flags on the concrete. His hand; a knife tucked carefully into his waist. It's stuck in, deep. He considers himself armed, a danger to those around him.
Hands grip the cool metal of the fire escape in the screaming night. Tomura understands why you shouldn't remove an object from the penetrating wound, yet he needs the stability. Two hands on the cool metal fire escape.
First aid is barely a floor away.
His legs haven't slept in months; he rested just yesterday. Feet do nothing but stumble. Fall up one step, trip on another. The balcony door reflects the streetlights.
Face and palm smack against the window, copper smearing on the glass pane.
It clicks open.
He's falling into cool arms, his eyes are falling closed.
One minute he's on a couch. One minute...
His eyes are a bonfire to the morning sun's arsonistic desires.
Throat arid, longing for water to quench the fire. Instead, eyes lock with Natsuo's. Stormy greys are gasoline, pouring over him.
The fire surges through his abdomen when he sits up, vision flickering. Natsuo catches him as he sways with the flames, dragging the bin over and his hair back. Tomura huffs over the edge of the couch, lungs suffocated in the smoke of blood loss.
A plate is shoved in his hands by noon, accompanied by a glass of water. It's too little, too late. He recognises as much. The spark has already been doused, trickled down to nothing more than mere embers. Liquid slugs down his throat with tapered urgency, and it tastes as unwelcome as he feels.
Fingers grasp the chopsticks gratefully, trusting the last hand that dares to feed. What else could he do? It'd be rude to bite. He's already bitten this hand before, painfully familiar with it's foul aftertaste.
His friend acquaintance pokes and prods at his own food, plate and chopsticks clanking. Tomura's red eyes look up.
Bags have made their homes under Natsuo's eyes while he's been gone. His smile has been eaten. A permanent furrow has etched its way into Natsuo's brow in just a few months. As young as the week they met, it's clear their days apart have aged him.
The room around them hides the home he knew before. Beer cans and fizzy drinks curve the corners, the coffee table warped with dust. Mario Kart lap and coin counts remain stained on the TV screen, an old ghost in need of exorcism.
Natsuo's cheeks move as he chews the words in his mouth, stomach still empty.
Raspy words flee Tomura's cracked lips before he has chance to think them over.
"Are you okay?"
A cold, shaky exhale leaves Natsuo's parted lips in response, white lashes clench closed. He swallows hard.
Grey eyes flick open towards him, wet and glossy. "Are you?"
Tomura's breath catches in his throat, lungs plunging into the ocean between them, saltwater drowning his lungs.
He still thinks about him, at night, laid in his bed and hypothermic in the absence of Natsuo's cool touch and warm smile, the way their shoulders brushed when they gamed together, thighs pressed close. He misses being called in between Natsuo's classes. He still remembers his schedule. Tomura will kill a man, and picture Natsuo's disgusted face, will plan his attacks during his lectures when he knows Natsuo won't be nearby, yet his stomach will churn all the same. Their Stardew Valley farm still remains incomplete, fields Natsuo ploughed waiting to be sown. His steam achievements remain locked.
Drenched in cold water, stood in the pouring rain.
"I'm sorry."
Natsuo remains quiet, turning back to stare at the coffee table, expression blank. Tomura sinks into his meal.
He wakes up hours later, unsure of how long he's been out. Natsuo is sat on the floor by the base of the couch, white hair lightly brushing up against his feet, and wearing a fresh set of clothes.
Tomura attempts to sit up, careful of the wound wrapped so neatly at his waist. Limbs feel as though they've been torn from his body, world spiralling and heart beating out of his chest. His ribs ache like they've been broken, yet he knows they haven't. Unsurprisingly, his actual injuries hurt the least.
His face scrumples up in a grimace as he lets out a groan, pushing the heels of his hands into his brow. His head: a murderer. Natsuo: his witness.
Cold fingers bat his own away, the backs touching his forehead. Grey eyes are back on him.
"You've got a fever."
Natsuo's expression is one of a concerned lover, lips pursed and slightly bitten. It's reminiscent of their old days, Tomura returning battered and bruised, Natsuo caring for his wounds. The only difference now is that Natsuo knows their origin. His face is so close to his, looking at him with gentle eyes. Tomura's heart lurches in his chest.
Natsuo stands, looming over him for a moment with a look of hesitancy and moving to the kitchen. The cupboards are opened and closed quietly, the crinkling of the metal wrapper as Natsuo pops out the pills. Water runs from the tap, filling a cup fresh for Tomura. He returns with both pills and drink in hand.
"Here, take these."
Pills drop into Tomura's palm and he chucks them into his throat. Natsuo's fingers cup his head and lift him slightly, propping the glass onto his bottom lip so Tomura can sip as he pleases. A thumb runs over his cheek as Natsuo waits, soothing and tenderly massaging scarred under-eyes. He can't help but melt into the cool touch, allowing comforting fingers to quell the heat radiating from his clammy skin.
Lips finish drinking. His throat coughs up in a stifled whine as Natsuo pulls away, removing his caring palm from his face. Tear-choked eyes follow his body as he retreats back. There's a trace of reluctance in his movements, something still clawing it's way back to him after all this time. His face says he would if Tomura would just ask.
Blood reds switch focus to the Tv in the background, severing their eye contact, effective in pulling away. He doesn't deserve his forgiveness. Cold warmth lingers for a second longer before moving back to the sink and topping up the glass.
Natsuo should have left him outside and kept the door locked, further than arm's length, where Tomura wouldn't be able hurt him. It's the reason he'd stayed his distance, the reason he'd not come back. He was made for destruction, moulded and shaped to damage and break.
Tomura had wounded Natsuo before.
Never again.
Footsteps return, stepping around the couch for the second time, plonking his cup down on the coffee table alongside Natsuo's own. Fluffy hair tickles at his feet once more as Natsuo shuffles into his earlier position. The Tv volume remains low, just loud enough to hear without straining, quiet enough to not aggravate his head. Stations flick over as Natsuo finds something for them to watch. Eyes idly trace over moving pictures, the volume entertains his ears. Heated cheeks rest on the couch cushions to the sounds of the show's plot, and eyelids flicker open and shut in feverish absence. Outside, the skies begin to darken.
Hours pass, Tomura slips in and out of consciousness. Sometimes Natsuo brings him his water, other times he doesn't. There's a textbook on the table now, open to pictures of anatomy and bones and words Tomura doesn't understand. Occasionally the page changes. The channel on the tv has switched to some old comedy and Natsuo laughs along with it, smiling at the words in the textbook. Tomura slowly stretches his neck and legs, careful to not be noticed and disturb the peace.
Natsuo's eyes flick to his, head turning to face him. Level failed. Dismally.
Lips remain in their curved smile, pulling tighter at his cheeks but it's softness still the same. It meets his eyes, greys warm in the fading sun. Beautiful. He turns back to his textbook a reasonable amount of time later, continues laughing, pitch low and carefree, like he's at ease in Tomura's presence.
Tomura folds half his fingers up and rests his palm on his chest. His heartstrings tug inside.
The moment breaks as Natsuo's phone pings from down below. It's pulled out from his jeans' pocket, bright screen harsh to his eyes in the evening light. The picture of the two of them is blinding, his own cracked smile next to Natsuo's happy one.
"Just Fuyumi. Don't worry, I've not..." said anything.
"I know."
He's still Natsuo's home screen.
Natsuo is still his.
Tomura rolls over on the couch, turning to face the pillows to shield the wetness of his eyes from Natsuo's own. He can feel Natsuo's gaze on his back, can see the way white eyebrows fall in his mind's eye, head turning back around, Natsuo's grey eyes drifting back to the Tv.
By the 4th day at Natsuo's apartment, he's feeling a little better.
Tomura had stumbled his way to his phone to message the league at an ungodly hour the night before, and Natsuo had found him at 7 o'clock that morning slumped against the kitchen cabinets. Natsuo currently holds him hostage in his bed to keep him from any further adventure.
One cool arm wraps around him, a bare thigh against his leg. Fluffy white hair nuzzles in to his neck, warm breaths caressing his collarbone, his whole body cuddling, draped on top of Tomura's left side as he stares at the ceiling. The gentle rhythm of the rise of his chest is a comfort as he wakes up, Natsuo's figure holding him down like a weighted blanket and easing years of built up strain in his muscles with a simple, unintentional touch.
Maybe if everyday started like this...
He finds his hand digging out from underneath Natsuo's body, initially aiming to wiggle his way free and stretch. Instead, his hand wavers over Natsuo's head, fingers careful as they brush the floppy spikes from his forehead. His thumb smooths over the space between his brows, shushing away the creases from his calm expression. Natsuo's so young yet lived through so much, wise with years he wasn't meant to have. Tomura supposes he's much the same himself.
It had always felt that way before he'd ruined it. Two versions of the same story. Natsuo's father was his All for One, quirk training, grooming children, the neglect. Natsuo's dead brother, Tenko's family. They were built from the same material, could understand one another in ways no one else could.
His chin rests in Natsuo's hair, letting red eyes fall back closed, hand still loosely smoothing through the soft white locks.
"Mmfph."
The little morning grumble brushes Tomura's skin, huffing a small, petulant breath at having woken up.
Tomura's heart simultaneously freezes in his chest and aches all over again, biting his chapped lips as they curve up at the edges. His hand stills in Natsuo's hair, lifting slightly, pinky pointing to the ceiling for safety.
Natsuo's head moves, pushing back into Tomura's palm subconsciously as his body wakes up and limbs limply stretch.
"Tenko?" The deep baritones of Natsuo's sleep-laden voice rumble in the space between them.
Tomura's breath catches, eyes now wide open and searching for an escape route. His body tenses, and Natsuo's seems to hold him tighter in response, confining him to the mattress.
"Yeah?"
The slightest twitch of Natsuo's eyebrows symbolises his mind waking up, becoming aware of the situation and just who he's with, before they fade back to a calm neutrality.
"...Mornin'." Natsuo snuggles further into the crevices between his neck and shoulder.
Tomura sighs in relief. "Morning, Natsuo."
It seems like hours, just the two of them, their sleepy breaths filling the expanse of the room. Eventually, one of them moves to get up.
Natsuo rolls off of Tomura's body and onto his back beside him, head far from the pillows from how he'd drifted in the night. Bulky arms stretch out in a 'Y' above his head and all the way to his sides, passing over Tomura's chest only to flop down back onto him. The rays of sun pass through Natsuo's lashes as he watches, blearily blinking open those grey eyes to meet the morning light.
Natsuo twists around a second time. One arm curves over Tomura's body, Natsuo propping himself up on his other elbow and leaning into Tomura's space as he reaches for his phone. Their faces are so close, Natsuo's morning breath mixing with his own, their lips a mere inch apart. Natsuo doesn't seem to realise until his phone is in his hand and he's pulling back, warm eyes meeting his for the first time that morning.
"Uh—" Natsuo hesitates, still holding himself up partly over his chest. His eyes flick to cracked lips, lingering on the scar Tomura knows is there before darting the growing grey storms emerging in his eyes back up to his guiltily.
Red eyes stare back up at Natsuo, wide and his mouth dry, lips parted. His ex-friend's gaze follows the lump of his Adam's apple as he swallows, tracing the path of his tongue as it wets chapped lips. For a moment, Natsuo dips closer, their faces almost touching, then he's pulling away, shuffling backwards on the bed, his voice dropping low and weak with the "Sorry" that falls from soft lips.
Dismay clumps up in Tomura's throat, his body lurching up to distract from the gaping hole stretching wider in his heart. He shouldn't have expected anything. Natsuo doesn't— couldn't. Not him.
"It's okay."
Natsuo's back is to him when he chances a glance over at him again, legs swung off the edge of the bed, skin clean and unmarred. Tomura clears his throat, scanning the room for a second before speaking up, "What— um, what time is it?"
He turns his neck to look back at him, grey eyes meeting his once more then snapping back to fumble with the phone he'd forgotten was in his hand.
His eyes flick back over again as he responds. "10:39." White brows raise in question.
"It's Monday, right?"
"Yeah, wh—" Natsuo's eyes gape, brows flying as his face pales. He jumps up and swivels round, dashing out the bedroom doorway in only his underwear and fleeing down the hall. Seconds later, he comes scurrying back in, tripping on a pile of dirty clothes as he gathers fresh ones from his wardrobe. Out the door again. Tomura hears the bathroom door slam closed and click back open, a muffled "Thank you!" shouted down the hall before it's closed and locked once more.
He can't help the smile that crawls its way up his cheeks, rubbing his palms over his face and chuckling into his hands. Natsuo's such a love interest stereotype, somehow managing to perfectly recreate the transition cutscenes so commonly used in dating sims. Tomura swings his legs off of the bed and stands up himself, careful with his wounds yet still mirroring Natsuo's earlier actions.
Bare feet pad down the hall, passing by the bathroom and into the kitchen near the entrance.
Bread. Eggs. Juice.
Cooking had been his favourite thing to do with his hands since they first began hanging out in person. Natsuo taught him, basics at first, then together they had worked their way up to full meals. Hands over his as Natsuo guided his movements, pinkies raised, learning how to create with his touch.
Scrambled eggs had been their starting point, moving onto larger, more complex meals and stir-fries, progressing to trying new things together and laughing at their mess-ups. Sometimes though, when things get out of hand, you have to return to the basics.
Two clean glasses from the back of the cabinet, plonked down on the side to the hum of Natsuo's singing. Clean bowls stack up on the countertop beside the dirty ones, having not quite made their way back home. Tomura multitasks. One hand grabs a half-empty bottle of juice from the fridge, the other sets on rearranging things back to their correct positions, fruit in bowl, tins out of shopping bag and into the cupboard. Bread is tucked neatly away in the toaster. Their eggs sizzle in the pan. Salt, pepper, a whisk from in between the knives instead of hung up on the rack. It feels right in his hands, customary itching fading into something familiar and intimate.
"It's fine. I'll just end up breaking something."
Matching plates are taken from wherever he can find them. The room smells like the peaceful domesticity he's been craving since he left. Like homecooked meals, like the smell of kind gestures and affectionate touch.
"My quirk, Natsuo. Everything around me crumbles! It's what I was made for, to topple everything down so someone else can build anew."
Eggs are whisked to perfection, toast jumping out with a mechanical flick.
"Why can't you do both?"
"...What?"
"Destroy and create. You're human. If you can break, you can build. No one is born just for one or the other."
Both are neatly arranged on the plates in perfect time for the bathroom door flying open. Natsuo patters into the kitchen to join him, white hair still damp, face pink and refreshed. Hands fumble through the cabinets in search of food, halfway through when Tomura physically sees him pause, head turning at the smell of a warm meal.
Cracked lips remain quite. He pushes one of the plates towards him, offering a knife and fork with his spare hand.
His world lights up.
That wide, all-consuming smile overtakes Natsuo's face, a golden retriever, his sun, beaming over at him. Tomura can't help smiling back, a shy, ugly thing, wrinkling his cheeks and stretching dry lips, yet Natsuo remains unfazed. Instead, he digs in, wolfing food down in the way only a college student running late to class could, downing his juice like he'll never drink again. He chokes a little, Tomura thumping him on the back to clear his airways, Natsuo already running to grab his sneakers mid-thump.
Bare feet follow, plate in hand. He's not about to miss the free entertainment of Natsuo flubbing about when a few steps means it can accompany his meal.
Feet toe on shoe after shoe, Natsuo's fingers swift, lacing them up with skill that only comes from a running-late speed buff. Backpack is flung around broad shoulders like collateral damage, hopping the straps into place. Natsuo's flushed face leans into his, placing a soft peck to his cheek before white hair is out the door and out of sight.
Tentative. Killer fingers brush against his own face, tracing the chill where ice-cold lips had been.
Alone again, he's itching to find something to do. His new-found mobility allows for greater freedom, more option, fresh opportunities to make things right.
The entire room reeks of his fuck-up.
Trash cans are full, the corners of the room, curving inwards, closing in on him with junk. Shelves have become burdened with dust, the lingering mess of life mingling with the last remnants of his presence. Papers border the edges of the coffee table, work and study built up in a thick wall creating an impenetrable fortress around the couch.
The task seems impossible from a distance, but maybe, if he could just tidy a little, it might start to look like some semblance of what they had before.
Paper by paper, word by word.
The growing pile of pots stares at him from the sink and counter, the efforts of Natsuo's care stacked up without even a 'Thanks'. It'd be a good place to start, without having to worry about straining his injury and undoing Natsuo's progress.
Water runs warm. Bubbles froth and foam with the pearlescent sheen of a dating sim, crumbs scraped off of plates and into the bin, leaving him a clean slate to work from. He dunks his hands into the bowl, soap slicking and pruning his fingers as he puts in the necessary effort needed to return the plates to their original state.
Palms raise from the comforting heat to reach for the scouring pad, sinking back into the water and letting it absorb until it's soft and dripping wet. Natsuo's apartment has a chill in comparison to the hotness at his hands, the cool air reminding him of the frosty weather creeping into the air outside. Cold days were always warmer with Natsuo, radiating heat despite his snowy physicality. Never frigid, always welcoming, no matter Tenko's mood. If only he hadn't fumbled and thrown his save, maybe Natsuo would have continued to swaddle him in his jacket when bitter and cold on their trips to the arcade, would've kept wrapping his arms around him while eating takeout on the bench outside, and suggest 2-player Dance Dance Revolution to keep him snug, always. If only they were still friends, making their way to the arcade together, Natsuo might still have held his homicidal grip in his.
His cheek tingles, skin ingrained with the feel of Natsuo's lips.
Hands slip.
The plate plummets back into the bowl at speeds, hands reaching out, grasping it with all five digits on the way. Water splashes up, drenching the front of his shirt. One misstep. One accident and it was all over.
Eyes drop to the bubbles. Hand clears a gap to see through to the water. The plate remains whole, intact, sturdier than he'd thought. Water had prevented quirk activation, chemistry, or maybe he's just plain lucky. Either way, his breath shudders with relief.
Keys jingle in the apartment door, the familiar sound of Natsuo returning after a long day. Fingers pause his Slime Rancher playthrough as the door opens, Natsuo's form slouched, weary from a full day of classes and his hospital internship. His rucksack is dumped on the freshly-cleared coffee table, a smaller, paper bag placed beside it. Shoes are toed off in careless fashion, socked feet nudging them under the table and flinging himself down on the couch beside him.
White hair lands in his lap. Elbows stretch up under Tomura's own, Natsuo's palms dragging down his tired face.
"Welcome home."
Natsuo huffs, hands falling from his cheeks to make way for a toothy smile.
Tomura's lips tug up with something soft at the edges to mirror. "Long day?"
His ally lets out a breath. One long exhale, all the day's woes seeming to leave his lungs, bleeding from his exhausted carcass. He fidgets in his lap, one arm stung up above his head and over the armrest, then two, trying to get comfy. Big stretches that pop his back, hummed moans at the release of pressure. Natsuo finds an agreeable position with his head resting on Tomura's thighs a few minutes later, shoulders rolling back to paw into his flesh like a cat as he finally quiets and settles down.
Tomura's game resumes. "That bad?"
Natsuo grumbles out a groan into his thighs in response, balanced halfway on his side, his voice a worn out rumble. "T'was busy."
Calm silence falls over them for the next half an hour, light dwindling, the evenings coming sooner with each passing day. Red eyes begin to strain as they stare at the Tv in the lowering light.
Natsuo's soft breaths have him pondering whether he's fallen asleep in his lap. Long limbs stretch again, disproving his theory. Out towards the coffee table, Natsuo's neck falls off the edge of his kneecaps. Tomura makes a noise of questioning surprise, eyes flicking away from the screen to check Natsuo hadn't just almost rolled off of his lap in his tired state.
"'s fine. 'M just—" Fingers brush the straps of the rucksack sat patiently on the table, hooking through the loops and dragging it towards them from his half-on-the-couch position. Natsuo hesitates when no papers tumble with it, neck twisting to peer up and meet Tomura's eyes. "You tidied?"
Tomura's right hand drifts off of the controller and to his neck. Eyes dart away from Natsuo to the screen instead.
A firm hand on his upper thigh has him halting before he can scratch, chewing his lip between his teeth in lieu to relieve the feeling. "Uh. Yeah." He's not sure why he feels nervous admitting so.
Natsuo twizzles his body to have a further look around, eyes scanning over the multiple stacks of papers arranged neatly into projects on the table's far edge. It's amazing how the corners of the room feel like worthless apologies under Natsuo's civilian eyes. Tomura can hear the answer before lips move, can feel it stalking behind the tension in the air.
You didn't have to.
Watery vocals meet his ears, unable to see Natsuo's face. "Thanks."
Natsuo rotates back to lie on his spine, palms immediately coming up to press into and shield his eyes. Shoulders hunch and draw in, knees slightly curled, legs and elbows held tightly together. His gentle voice cracks. "I'm sorry." Chest shakes in Tomura's lap. "I shouldn't have— shouldn't have let it get that bad. When you— I should have—"
Hands pull Natsuo up and into his chest, uncaring for the unpaused game he tosses aside. "It's okay." Natsuo coils further in on himself in Tomura's arms, one holding him close, his right resting over Natsuo's shoulder, fingers running through white hair. His breathing shudders. Damp spots seep through the fabric of Tomura's borrowed tee.
Weight shuffles closer, legs changing position on his thighs and accidentally brushing against his bandages. A hiss escapes his teeth.
Cold arms fumble, scuttling back, nearing his knees in a frantic retreat.
Tomura halts him, a hand on each of Natsuo's wrists, pinkies raised. His gaze drops to his subconscious hold, wavering for just a single moment.
Red eyes are firm when they peer back into raging storms.
"Natsuo, breathe."
A second passes, then a minute.
In.
Out.
Grey eyes blink, and some of the unshed tears fall, rivers trailing over pink undereyes and plains of soft skin. His thumb wipes them away, lukewarm, glossy liquid spread thin.
In.
Tomura readjusts so his hand rests tenderly but secure on Natsuo's lower back, easing him back into his arms with a light, easily-escapable hold.
Out.
Icy limbs relax in his embrace. Thighs on thighs, head next to his. His fingers migrate back to soft white locks, chin hooking on a cold shoulder, Natsuo's resting on his. Natsuo's breathing slows into steadier exhales, his body sinking into Tomura's own. Tomura burrows his face in the crook of Natsuo's neck, and it's there he can smell the scent of a difficult day, mixing in with the fabric softener of his clothes and Natsuo's usual soothing musk, body swaying gently, rocking the two of them back and forth. He doesn't think twice, cracked lips pressing to the tender skin there in a small, delicate kiss.
"It's okay," he repeats himself. I've seen worse. "I don't mind."
"I still— I should have—" Natsuo trails off.
"I showed up unannounced." And again, "It's okay."
Natsuo sniffles and sits back, allowing Tomura to see his face once more. "Thank you." Cold lips offer him a weak smile.
Tomura smiles back.
Another minute goes by, Natsuo's upper teeth pressing into his lower lip in a shy nibble. Tomura's eyes follow the action, watching as the edges of his smile quirk further up, morphing into something less timid and more mischievous.
"You stink, by the way." Natsuo's chest wobbles up and down in a silent giggle.
Red eyes widen, affronted, embarrassed before his brain keys in with a snort of amusement. "I'm on Doctor's orders not to shower. You wouldn't let me if I tried!"
"Maybe we should change that."
Heat surges to his cheeks, mouth opening and closing at Natsuo's bold suggestion. Natsuo takes in his expression and drops his cool forehead to his, closing his eyes, his chuckling vibrating his body in Tomura's lap.
White lashes reopen and look into Tomura's gaze. "I bought shower wrap. You can shower now."
Cracked lips snap shut with the realisation Natsuo hadn't meant it like that, face only burning hotter at the misunderstanding, causing Natsuo to laugh even more. "You're adorable."
'You're adorable.' It's all Tomura can think of as Natsuo finishes sealing over his bandages.
His tee is on the floor, Natsuo's overlarge joggers sinking low from where he'd tightened them at his waist. Nimble fingers fiddle away across his stomach and hips, readjusting, smoothing plastic flush to exposed skin. With every touch, Tomura's heart flutters. It's mere seconds until Natsuo's hands peel away, standing back and offering him some room.
Tomura's eyes meet his. Natsuo's smile is still soft, cheeks lightly creased, domestic. His whole body yearns each time he sees it, every gentle touch, waking up to sleep-laden breaths and white lashes fluttering open under the warm morning light. Every little detail that had him missing him so dearly, his first friend. His first everything.
Natsuo patters out of the room to fetch clean joggers a fluffy towel, and Tomura is struck with a stab in the guts. He doesn't want to leave him. Not again.
It takes him a while, but eventually he makes it out of the bathroom door.
Wet curls drip, hair soggy, draping heavy on his bare shoulders. The fresh set of borrowed joggers fit better than the last, resting comfortably on his hips as he pads sock-footed into the lounge.
Natsuo sits cross-legged on the couch, the controller from earlier in hand. He's feeding the slimes Tomura had spent all day collecting, sucking up the plorts from the ground and depositing them in his in-game silos. Tomura's lips curve, wrinkling his cheeks and undereyes as he smiles. Teamwork. Working on something together, the two of them. His Stardew Valley farm comes to mind, their black and white dog Natsuo had appropriately named Barkode. A single part of him hopes.
Tomura steps forward, his movements catching Natsuo's eye, the game pausing so he can face him. Warm greys find his, voice gentle when he greets him. "Hi."
"Hey."
Water splashes from a dishevelled strand of hair, a tiny damp spot forming on the floor. Lethal hands stretch and press the towel back to his head once more, trying to seep more liquid from the mess. Difficulty level: Nightmare. Coils fall back down over ears and face and continue to drip.
"Tomura?" Natsuo shuffles his feet down onto the floor, gesturing to the empty space between his legs.
"You're—"
"Busy?" A white brow raises, giving him a look. "I can watch."
Tomura hesitates, fingers fidgeting at his sides before his shoulders sag with defeat. "Fine." He sinks down to the ground, turning so his back is to Natsuo and the couch, hair hanging loosely near his lap. Natsuo hands him the controller over his shoulder in exchange for the towel. Death grip makes quick work of unpausing the game.
Cool, gentle hands reposition tousled ringlets. Natsuo blankets his shoulders with the towel, separating damp strands from his back and placing the hair on top. Knees hug at each of his sides, the corners of the towel raising up to press out the remaining water from the lengths. His character on screen runs around through the map, shoulders relaxing into Natsuo's steady touch.
Small, plastic clicks of the controller fill the silence; their combined breathing, Natsuo's hands grazing his neck. Hair is manoeuvred into one large mass, a slight pressure at his crown, Natsuo's thumb holding it all in place. His other arm reaches out in his peripheral vision, picking something up off of the couch, and then the tips of Tomura's hair are being parted into even strands, neatly working his way through his hair with a comb. Hands loosen knot after knot. Tangles slip away as Natsuo patiently makes his way up from start to finish. His head feels clearer than it has in months, tension barely palpable in Natsuo's caring embrace.
Natsuo moves the comb over to his crown in one last finishing touch, sweeping all his wavy locks into one neat ponytail. His grasp is loosened for a split-second, and a bobble is stretched around his hair, holding it in place and out of his vision.
Fingers card through it, dangling over Tomura's neck, trail just brushing the top notch of his spine.
Tomura's vocals are raspy and unused, content enjoyment playing on his lips. "Thanks."
Natsuo's calm breaths are the only response he receives, the comforting silence enough of an answer between the two of them.
Soft lips press to the mole on Tomura's upper back, gentle exhales brushing over the clean skin. Natsuo whispers, voice a shy confession on the tops of his ears. "You're so pretty."
Tomura's inhale hitches in his throat.
"I'm a villain."
Quiet. Silence. A moment too long. Cold breath is still present on his neck, Natsuo doesn't move away.
"I know."
Hands clasp tighter on the controller, barely resisting the gnawing urge to scratch violently at his neck. "I've killed people."
"I know."
Tomura grows frigid under Natsuo's touch, Natsuo's hands raw on his damaged skin.
"—I love you."
Ponytail whirls around, his jaw painfully slack, heart thunderstruck. Red eyes pierce into greys, feverishly searching within.
Natsuo's hand is timid on his neck, his gaze wavers then doubles down, eyes seeking in Tomura's own. Square jaw is locked firm. His lips clench tightly closed, hands ever so slightly trembling in the corners of his vision. Chest rises and falls, growing faster as Tomura takes his sweet time responding.
"I—"
Tomura's lips meet cold.
A huff of air escapes and mingles with his as lips collide, cupping Natsuo's face in his dangerous hand, pinky up.
Natsuo's palm is sandwiched like scrambled eggs on top of his. Their fingers interlocking, holding him close, his hand in his.
Lips part by only a fraction, their touch never leaving Tomura's chapped ones, white lashes fluttering open to gaze longingly into his.
Tomura leans back to re-establish some distance, pulling them further apart for air. Red eyes dip down to where his lips had just been, his palm still pressed against Natsuo's cheek.
A thumb soothes over his knuckles. Natsuo's cheek wrinkles in his touch.
The pad of his thumb traces the curve of soft lips.
His hand drops from below Natsuo's own to his lap, eyes following. Sombre, swallowing to clear his voice of the wet sob residing there. "I love you too."
Palms take Tomura's hand in his, guiding him back to Natsuo's face.
Red eyes glance up.
The first thing Tomura sees is Natsuo's smile beaming back at him.