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Dabi’s never been big on celebrations, holidays, and bullshit like that. Useless waste of time and money, laced with hypocrisy and fake feelings. Christmas, Valentine’s day, spend-your-money-day, thank you but really, fuck you.
The thing is, when you more or less live with gross-feely-weh people like Toga or Twice, you might find yourself involved in that crappy stuff, no matter how much you despise it. Dabi has received chocolate from Toga on Valentine’s day, a stupid keychain for Christmas from Twice, and random stuff here and there, whenever one of them came back from a mission outside of town like they were friends or family, or whatever. They were just a bunch of lunatics sticking together because they didn’t have another choice. Thinking they were more than that was just a pipedream. Dabi was done with pipedreams. He’s been done with them for years now and it was better like this. No more disappointment, no more distraction.
However, despite Dabi shoving them away, Toga and Twice hounded him down multiple times for his birthday but Dabi never relented. That was none of their business. And his birthday was completely irrelevant. Touya was no more and Dabi didn’t have a birthdate. None of that mattered anyway. It shouldn’t matter.
Dabi wishes it was that easy. Despite his best effort, the days leading to the 18th of January tended to make him even harsher on anyone coming too close to him. Most of the weirdos populating the PLF mansion learned it the hard way, even Crusty McHand had understood that Dabi was best left alone for now. Did he connect the dots? Probably. But he didn’t comment on it. He probably didn’t care enough for that, too busy with his world domination plans or whatever. Obviously, Toga and Twice didn’t care. Ice Fucker Geten didn’t either, getting on Dabi’s nerves at any given occasion. Weirdly, only the flying nugget was bearable. But that was a whole other can of rotten worms Dabi refused to touch.
When he wakes up on the morning of the eighteenth day of January, frazzled after a shitty night with too many nightmares and a hellish hangover, the result of the bottle of cheap whiskey he downed the night before to pass out before midnight, he’s not exactly in the perkiest mood. He blindly shoves his feet in his boots and shrugs his coat on, and almost tripped on a small pile of gifts stacked in front of his bedroom door. He blinked in confusion, his retina attacked by shiny, colorful paper and clumsy bows wrapped around small packages of all shapes and forms. This —
It’s too early for this shit.
Way too early.
He carefully steps above the pile without disturbing any and locks his door behind him before rushing out of the mansion. It’s early, barely past dawn. The hallways are quiet and empty, to his greatest relief. He can’t be assed to deal with anyone right now. Not today.
He made sure to clear his schedule today, aside from a meeting with the oversized chicken around lunchtime. Again: he’s not dealing with the fact that the fake-ass bitch is the only one he agrees to meet today of all days.
By the time Dabi reaches downtown Tokyo, the coffee shops have opened their doors, getting ready for the rush of half-asleep workers looking for their fix of caffeine. Dabi likes that quiet moment when the city is not quite awake yet, a bit like that barista who serves his jug of fresh coffee with the traces of the sheets still on his cheek. Dabi indulges himself with a cinnamon roll to go with his coffee and goes to sit by the river, looking at the winter sun rising and darting its gentle rays on his face. The frost on the grass around the bench Dabi picked sparkles, reminding Dabi of another garden, behind another house, in another life, where he would have woken up to the smell of karaage his mom would have cooked specially for him. Dabi shoves away the memory of hushed voices in the kitchen and of him pretending to sleep just so his father wakes him up with a hand in his hair and an amused “I know you’re awake ”.
It doesn’t matter.
He ignores the buzz of his phone in his coat pocket, going slowly but surely through his pack of smokes, one after the other. The acrid smoke irritates his weakened lungs but it doesn’t matter. It’s not as if he was going to use them for much longer anyway.
The packs of teenagers strolling on the riverbank, bundled up in their winter coats and scarves distract him from his wandering thoughts. He watches the mothers walking with babies and toddlers in strollers, their rosy cheeks barely visible under the layers of plushie clothes. He looks at the old people, extra-careful with their steps as they avoid the half-frozen puddles. All those people, leading normal lives, unaware of Dabi’s presence, unaware of most things that were going on in the world, of the monsters lurking in the shadows or hiding behind the glitter and the spotlights of a corrupted system.
Sometimes, Dabi envies them and their ignorance. His life would be so much more simple, but he doesn’t let the feeling linger. It’s no use. He was born in a fucked-up family with a fucked-up Quirk and with the inability to let go of things. Thanks, dear old dad, for your stubbornness.
But soon, none of this will matter anymore. All of this will be over.
Now that he thinks of it, this is probably his last January 18th.
For real this time.
His phone buzzes again and he finally fishes it out of his pocket. He rolls his eyes at the number of messages, mainly from Toga and Twice, wishing him a happy birthday, then being pissed because he didn’t open his presents, and asking him when he’ll be back.
Dabi doesn’t answer, leaving the two annoying pests on “Read”.
There’s also a message from Compress, and one from Hawks reminding him of their “date” and not to be late this time.
Just for that message, Dabi makes sure to arrive half an hour late. The bird is already there, perched on a pile of crates. He looks a bit grumpy but Dabi brushes it off with a lazy smirk. Hawks shoves a paper bag between Dabi’s hands, demanding that he heats it up with his Quirk because he hates eating cold fried chicken.
“You didn’t have to wait for me to eat,” Dabi answers but heats up the bucket anyway.
“I’m not going to eat your birthday lunch on my own, dumbass.”
Dabi cocks an eyebrow and Hawks shrugs with a smile. “Toga.”
“Of course.”
They eat the spicy wings while trading info, and Hawks doesn’t talk about Dabi’s birthday again, which is probably why Dabi tolerates his presence. Nothing to do with the quiet banter and the lingering touch of a wing against his back. It’s nice and all until Hawks has to leave abruptly, called on an emergency. Dabi doesn’t finish the bucket, his appetite gone.
He wanders in Shibuya for the rest of the afternoon, still ignoring Toga and Twice’s regular messages.
He sees his father’s face on billboards and wonders if the old bastard even remembers that it’s supposed to be his eldest son’s birthday today.
Probably not.
Doesn’t matter.
The night falls quickly, and with it, the cold becomes more intense. Dabi doesn’t mind. It’s easier to keep his body temperature at a comfortable level in winter.
His feet take him away from Shibuya, to the quiet neighborhood around the campus. Dabi shouldn’t come here but he can’t help it. It’s the only time of the year where he indulges himself with this weakness. He stays in the shadows for a moment, waiting for someone to come in or out of the building. Finally, a student steps out of the dimly lit lobby. The young woman is completely oblivious of her surroundings with her music blaring through her bulky headphones, the exact replica of Hawks’ ones. Dabi slips behind her and goes inside before the door closes again. The warmth of the hallway is almost suffocating after being outside in the cold for so long. Dabi takes the stairs slowly but ends up out of breath after two stories out of the six. Damn cigarettes. He keeps going though. The lock on the door leading to the roof doesn’t resist long to his flames.
The wind is stronger up there but again, Dabi doesn’t mind. He leans against the railing of the flat roof and looks down. From his perch, he has a direct view of a living-room where the only light comes from the TV. The couple on the sofa is snuggled up under a plush blanket, their eyes on the screen. The man has an arm around the frail shoulders of the girl. Dabi doesn’t know if he’s imagining things, he probably does, but his brother looks sad.
On the windowsill, there’s a small cupcake with what Dabi knows being strawberry icing. A single blue candle is planted on top of it, burning gently. Dabi looks at it and for once, he lets his locked-up feelings out. The longing, the regrets, the love tainted with bitterness and too many years apart. He wraps his arms around his chest, the ghost of an embrace he will never experience again. He hums the notes of the familiar song his parents and siblings used to sing every year for him and the wind takes them away.
Dabi stays until the candle is completely burned. He stays until Natsuo and his girlfriend switch off the TV and leave the living-room for their bedroom. The pulse of the city slows down as the night takes full possession of it, like a weighted blanket, and Dabi still doesn't leave, lost in a past that doesn't belong to him anymore but refuses to leave him be. He stays, as still as a statue, save from the cigarettes he regularly lights up.
The sun rises once more. Another dawn, another day, another year.
Dabi locks up his feelings again, buries Touya once again. Maybe for the last time. Maybe not.
It doesn't matter.
He glances one last time at the lonely cupcake on the windowsill and the empty living room.
He lights up his last cigarette, shaking his stiff muscles to get the blood pumping and summons his Quirk to warm up.
He wonders if Natsuo will put a cupcake at the window next year, if he will keep mourning his big brother once he'll realize what Dabi has become.
Probably not.
It's okay.
It doesn't matter.
