Archive of Our Own ^beta

He was just trying to pick a mug.

The task was simple enough. Mundane enough. Routine, really. Just part of the everyday process of waking himself up, not that he was sure the nap he took really counted as sleep. But, insomnia was nothing new, though a lot less self-inflicted these days. And a lot less…beneficial.

The concept of coffee was also nothing new, so it really shouldn't have been such a struggle for him. But - But the mugs were still new. His, by technicality, but not yet by familiarity. And the brand of beans were new; not particularly bad , but also not nearly as bougie as the brand Mr. Yotsubashi’s pockets had once provided him. And, while he buffered at the cupboard, those beans percolated away in a coffee machine just as new to him as everything else around here. New clothes, new kitchen, new house. He’d already been here for weeks, though – long enough to better be counted by months. He should be used to it, even if he didn't like it. Change had always been unavoidable, inevitable, with a lifestyle such as his. With a career such as his. Stability had been a luxury not even Mr. Yotsubashi managed to afford, and it’d never bothered him before. 

However, he’d always been busy before. 

Too busy to pay much mind to the shifting scenery around him. So long as he had his laptop, or even just his phone, it didn't matter where he was. Or even how comfortable he was. An office above ground, an office underground; on the back of a living, breathing mountain, or even in a cave.

If there was a crate and an internet connection, Tomoyasu had shit to do. 

And now…there was nothing to do. No boss, no meetings, no job. No nefarious but noble cause to fight for, no reason to use his quirk. No laptop, no phone, not a single drug stronger than ibuprofen or melatonin. He couldn't leave without permission, appropriate purpose, or a chaperone. Apparently, he couldn't even pick a single fucking mug. Which was pathetic, but in his defense? Only half of them were his. Six in total, all varying degrees of generic, pleasant pastels sitting on a shelf. Were some of them black, or even gray, he wouldn't be in such a predicament; since he would’ve just picked those out for himself from the very start. And one might argue it shouldn't really matter when he could just wash the stupid thing right after. That seemed reasonable, right? But, he wasn’t exactly keen on suffering through the possible, potential consequences of picking the wrong porcelain cup. Not when those that weren't his belonged to the likes of his new roommate –

“Have you made enough for two?” 

Kai Chisaki.

Tomoyasu drummed his fingers against the cabinet doors and rolled a shoulder in a vague shrug. “I suppose so.”

He then moved out of the way and let Chisaki pick out a mug, the other unknowingly evening out the odds of this early morning draw just a tad in his favor. Almost purple . The color of the chosen cup was almost purple. So, when there was room again, Tomoyasu reached into the cupboard and took his chances with slightly orange. Chisaki didn't even bat an obscenely long eyelash at him, so he figured he was in the clear. He poured his coffee, black, then sat himself down at the small kitchen table. Just like he has almost every day now, since he’d oh, so graciously been granted rehabilitation.

Instead of incarceration. 

Sometimes, he wondered if Tartarus wouldn't have at least been less boring. If it'd been rebuilt. Not that he was sure the crimes he’d committed even amounted to a sentence so serious as that. In the grand scheme of things, and when compared to someone like All For One or Shigaraki, what had he really done? He’d pressed a few silly buttons. 

Outside of the company, the most he’d done was help D –

Chisaki sat down across from him in the only other available chair, and though poised enough, there was no helping the way the metal of his prosthetic arms screeched, like nails dragged down a chalkboard. Tomoyasu shuddered. And the uncharacteristically heavy sigh that followed made his eye twitch. 

Living with someone like Chisaki was…fine. He’s surrounded himself with far worse company before, and for the most part, Chisaki just quietly kept to himself. As much as he could, anyway, considering they lived in a rather tiny two-bedroom, one-bathroom condo with a barely-there balcony. Tomoyasu didn't have much more than the clothes on his back yet, but still, he’d stand out on that balcony in the buff if it meant he got a smoke. It's not like their neighbors weren't just more villains. They’d either get a kick out of seeing his cock, or simply look the fuck away. Chisaki seemed like he could use a cigarette today, or maybe something stronger. He didn't know if he smoked or not – he didn't know anything, actually. Not outside of the obvious, anyway.

He’d lost his arms, but could he activate his quirk through his feet? Tomoyasu doubted it; it seemed much too dangerous a quirk to leave so unattended and unsupervised. Then again, maybe he just didn't have the desire . He could ask, of course. But, they never really talked. And that seemed like a topic far better suited for friends. Much too delicate for a couple of criminals forced to cohabitate. Tomoyasu was curious, but not enough to find out the hard way. 

For all he knew, Chisaki could be drinking out of him next. 

No thanks.

Chisaki sighed again, down into his coffee, the sound of it only amplified by warm ceramic and steam. Tomoyasu eyed him warily, from behind the curtain of his bangs and around the rim of his own mug. It was well too early to be putting on such an unusual performance. People only sighed like that when they had problems. Problems they weren't looking to solve themselves, but for others to fix. People only sighed like that when they wanted attention. When they wanted to talk. Which was a thing they just. Had not done. Did not do. He could count on one hand the amount of people that he ever let talk to him, and even less than that, the people that he talked to. There was Hanabata, there was Mr. Yotsubashi, and then there was – there’d been D –

It was on the third loud, weighty sigh that Tomoyasu put his mug down onto the table, with just as much obvious and audible emphasis. Yes, it was petty. But, he hoped it would prove a nonverbal point, which…went right over Chisaki’s head, if he were to guess by the distant and dull look in his eyes, or the thin downturn of his mouth on either side. Was Kai Chisaki, the former leader of the fucking Shie Hassaikai and personal enemy of what had once been The League of Villains , sitting across from him and sulking? He couldn't believe it.

And if anything, if anyone should be sulking, it should be him! After all, he was the one having to put up with the other – and the constant fear of what upsetting him might just do. To him and/or their current government provided accommodations.

Living with Chisaki was fine , yes, sure, but Tomoyasu had to be careful to pick the right cup, keep his meager toiletries in the bathroom away and unseen, wash the washing machine between uses, etcetera , etcetera , etcetera. He wasn't a messy person by any means, especially when he owned so little. And he appreciated some good ol’ organization. But, one wrong move might result in hives and then who knew what else! Not to mention those prosthetics. The things were so damn cumbersome. Clunky and noisy, not just for Chisaki, but Tomoyasu, too. Deemed a necessity, but nothing near top-notch, they were both still getting used to them. Chisaki, getting used to wearing them, navigating and controlling them. Cleaning them. And Tomoyasu, getting used to the creaks and the clinks and the clunks; moving them off of tables and counters and couches, or wherever else his… companion liked to leave them, whenever he grew sick and tired of them. 

So, really. What did Chisaki have to complain about? 

Tomoyasu, begrudgingly, was going to find out.

“What, pray tell,” he broached, while working the hair tie he often wore around his wrist up into his hair. “Is the problem?”

If he was going to dig, he might as well look the part.

Chisaku seemed startled by the question, as if he hadn’t been subconsciously fishing for it, and had to blink himself back into his body. Before fully present and fully focused, there were an anxious few seconds it looked like he might break that mug he was holding, and Tomoyasu braced himself with baited breath. But, the drink was carefully freed from metal fingers before he had to duck and cover.

“There’s a problem?” Chisaki asked, his morning monotone rasp laced with a little confusion.

Even if Tomoyasu’s eyes were exposed, he was pretty sure Chisaki would’ve still looked right on through him. It irked him. So much so that he pressed his palms down flat on the tabletop until he felt the stretch in his fingers, then sucked in a measured breath through his teeth. One, two, three…

“I’m led to believe so, what with your rather pitiful display this morning. So, out with it.”

Chisaki breathed in, deep enough to shift his shoulders a bit before responding.

“I’m sorry. I wish it was a problem, since the existence of a problem implies its inherent solution. But, there’s no solving this.” He sighed again, though softer this time. “There’s no fixing this.” He finished with a whisper.

And if that wasn't just blatant melodramatics – Tomoyasu hasn't felt the hot rush of his blood pressure like this since before the war was lost. His tolerance for such bullshit had apparently weakened. The same tolerance that -

that Dabi had helped him build up. 

It was weird to think about him now. Then again, it'd been weird to think about him before, too. Just for different reasons. Dabi. Touya. Weird, and disgusting, and distracting. And there was no good reason to think about him now . Not that any of his past reasons had been all that good, either...But, that damned dog was finally sleeping, so best to let it lie. Instead, he tuned into the whistle-whir of some of the robotics that ran up and down, throughout Chisaki's arms. Fleetingly, as he figured out what to say, he pondered if that felt something like a pulse. 

“I’ve never been known for my generosity, Chisaki. But, for the time being, you've got my ear. Whether you waste such a rare opportunity is up to you, but maybe a fresh perspective could help keep at least some of all that hot air in your lungs.” 

Well.

He’d kept the offer relatively civil, all things considered. After all, he didn't want to listen. He just wanted Chisaki to stop fucking wallowing on a perfectly decent Wednesday morning. But, if he treated it like a business meeting, like a necessary evil – 

Chisaki chuckled.

“I'm just missing someone I never thought I’d miss.”

Oh.

Oh, ew.

Tomoyasu instantly regretted, and almost rescinded, his rather selfless offer. He did not care enough to participate in a conversation like this. About this. Missing someone. That could be anyone! He knew Chisaki had a daughter – no, a sister, maybe? A niece? No matter. Not his monkey, not his circus. He shouldn't have even poked the bear. He should’ve just taken his coffee out to the balcony and let the birds bother him instead. He still could, Overhaul be damned. 

But, before he could stand up, Chisaki dangled a fat, juicy worm between them with his words. 

“I thought I hated him. I did hate him.”

So, not the daughter-sister-niece- cousin? Okay, that narrowed it down to – literally the rest of the world. The Shie Hassaikai had to have had countless connections. But, there was something in the way in which Chisaki talked about this guy. Something sad, but also something fond. Over a guy he’d hated? 

Tomoyasu decided to take a metaphorical nibble, while physically sipping his coffee.

“It was impressive, I’ve got to give him that. Like he’d been hand-crafted for me, personally, just to piss me off. ” Another little laugh, but at least it wasn't a sigh. “I know a thing or two about what goes into making a person. And then re making them. I always threatened to turn him into something better, something useful. But, I was never quite sure there were enough base ingredients to even make the effort worthwhile. He was hardly human on his best days.” 

Chisaki tapped his heavy fingers against the table, and Tomoyasu arched an unseen brow. Was this mystery man that he missed a mutant?

“Still human enough, by the sound of it.”

“In the worst ways imaginable, yes. He knew just what to say to get under my skin, to get what he wanted. He saw me at my weakest, most vulnerable, because he helped push me to it. I made some of my worst decisions because of him. But through it all, he still stuck around like some kind of leech. ”

Metal fingers creaked and curled into fists. Admittedly, it was morbidly fascinating to see Chisaki getting so worked up. Mildly entertaining, even. And maybe, just maybe, Tomoyasu could sympathize some.

In hindsight, Dabi had also been endearingly annoying, frustrating, infuriating. A constant nuisance, but a constant nonetheless. And a constant that had cared , as much as a sentient slab of jerky could. He’d also been a decent lay, amidst slim pickings , but he digressed. 

“Don’t leave me hanging, now. What happened?”

Chisaki took a moment. Gathered his coffee, gathered himself; took a gulp, then shrugged. His eyes seemed to shake, and his arms, as if he was struggling to keep himself tethered to the table, to keep himself from drifting away again, to wherever he’d been before. In the past, probably, with this man he claimed to hate. When he finally spoke, it was clipped and closed-off. 

“We went our separate ways, and then he died in the war. That’s what he’d wanted, though.” And that seemed to be the end of it, until he added, “He’s lucky he even made it that far. I would've killed him myself way sooner had I not needed him.” 

Needed him.

Tomoyasu wondered just what kind of need a guy like that could have filled. Had Chisaki needed him more for work, or more for pleasure? Was it his body that'd needed him, or his heart? ‘Need’ was such a simple, yet strong word. It simultaneously meant something as intimate as sharing one’s insides, and something as impersonal as sharing a handshake. 

He hummed.

“I knew a guy, once. I didn't need him, but he needed me. And I think he actually liked me, which was pretty outrageous on his part, and kind of crazy. But he was crazy. I made it perfectly, abundantly clear just how much I disliked him. But it never stopped him – it enticed him. Burnt bastard just took it as a challenge. I hope he’s just as comfortable on his deathbed as he was on mine.” 

The sudden sound of shattering ceramic made Tomoyasu jump, and a quick survey of his surroundings with a single wide and exposed eye confirmed that Chisaki had broken his mug. And, unbothered by the mess, he was staring at him. Not through him like before, but right at his eye this time, gold on gray. It was a cold, calculated glare, and Tomoyasu just hoped it wouldn't hurt when he was turned into a cup. He wasn't sure what he’d said to upset him, but maybe it wasn't anything he’d said at all. Either way, he was too scared to move, though he’d play it off as not wanting to step on any sharp shards if he had to. 

“His name.” Chisaki said, low and slow, like a threat. “What was his name.”

Rude. A question should end with the appropriate punctuation, not a period. That sounded like an accusation. What was even the right answer? Dabi? Or Touya? The world might have known him most as Dabi, but did Chisaki - ?

“...Dabi?”

When Chisaki reached for him from across the table, Tomoyasu squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for the worst. He thought the worst would be whatever getting morphed into a mug might entail. However, he was not Overhauled the second he was touched. Quite the contrary – he wasn’t harmed at all . He was kissed. Firm, hard, and right on the mouth. Which was so much worse. The only other person to have ever kissed him with so much audacity was – well. 

So he kissed Chisaki back, but with both his eyes open. That way, he could watch long and thick lower lashes flutter, and switch their position in his head. Dabi didn't have bottom lashes, he had grafts. But his top lashes had been just as obscene. Just as pretty. He couldn't help but close his eyes when cold, stiff fingers slid up until his hair, though. That prosthetic had crushed that cup so easily, and now it held his skull? Then again, Dabi could've always just set his hair on fire. He never did – he liked to play with it too much. Liked to pull it – “ah!” – just like Chisaki was now. And when Chisaki tugged and then shoved him down onto the table, what was left of that mug scratched into his skin and clothes almost like staples. Almost purple, just like the majority of what Dabi’s skin had been in the end. 

It was hard to believe, knowing the little that he did, that Chisaki would've ever kissed someone like Dabi. Let alone fucked him. It was honestly hard to believe he kissed or fucked at all. And were it not for the way he was licking into his mouth, he wouldn't believe it. What was he even doing? What did he want? What did he see in him? Was it his hair, his height, his eyes? Was it his pale skin? What parts of Dabi was Chisaki chasing? Did Tomoyasu want this?

No.

He needed this. 

Needed the way Chisaki growled not his name, but Dabi’s name, into his mouth. It was a toe-curling type of twisted not even his wildest, wettest fantasies could’ve conjured up. Dabi was surely rolling in his grave, if not already jacking off to this. To the way Tomoyasu was manhandled, treated like he could take it , like he was hated . To the way he was flipped over onto his front, moaning as prosthetics pinched his skin and caught his clothes in places, much like staples would. His ass wasn't nearly as nice as Dabi’s, but that didn't seem to deter Chisaki any. Definitely didn’t stop him from groping and spreading, spitting and – fuck,  the cold press of fake fingers were a reality check. A reminder of just what was happening, and with whom. There’ll be coffee stains, blood stains, and cum stains on his clothes when they're done. And here he’d been worried about keeping the bathroom clean?

Chisaki gripped and twisted his hair again, until the ponytail formed a short, messy knot between five fingers. A sixth finger pressed into him, and he arched his back with a hot hiss, not of Chisaki's name, but Dabi’s. 

“You should cut your hair.” 

Tomoyasu glowered through a groan. He would've thrown a glare over his shoulder, too, just for good measure, were his head and hole not pinned in place. But then he had a thought. A sick, freaky, but almost sweet sort of idea. Dabi would've loved to see him so desperate for his dick. A new haircut couldn’t be any weirder than everything else, right?

“I’ll consider it, if you hold those cold hands over the stove.”