[ It's almost exactly what he wanted to hear. Only those first few words -- 'you reap what you sow' -- send a cold shiver down his spine at first. They're not untrue, after all. It's not like he's blind to the fact that he holds some responsibility for what happened. It's not his fault, he hadn't meant for it to happen, but cause and effect still dictate that he played a part in that girl dying. Even having to think about that again, about the awful messages he'd seen on his phone before ending up in Milgram, has an acrid spike of tension spearing through his gut.
None of that matters once he hears the rest of what Dabi has to say, though.
Fuuta's expression lights up right before Dabi's eyes, brow slowly relaxing and the tension draining from the clench of his jaw. There's no room for even a shred of doubt -- it's relief that has Fuuta giving a long exhale, shoulders slumping and hands loosening from that pale-knuckled grip into Dabi's shirt to something laxer. There's a moment's pause before he nods, swallows thickly, then nods once more, a little more firmly the second time. ]
... yeah. Yeah, it's not like I made her do anything. [ His next breath comes hoarse, edged with a low laugh. ] You get it. It's real messed up that I ended up there, you know? That I ended up like this. You get it.
[ It's weeks and months that he's spent here now, terrified that the first person to learn that he was a prisoner and alleged 'murderer' would rat him out to the population and turn him into a pariah. Someone to be avoided and shunned and punished once more. A gut-churning level of tension and anxiety that's built up over time, only to dissipate in one fell swoop, and the relief that follows is dizzying, like a rush of blood to the head. He feels simultaneously dazed and giddy, and Fuuta has no real complaint when Dabi takes his hand and eases him from the barstool. It's only a vague, lingering awareness of their surroundings that has him making a grab for that third cocktail with his free hand, hurriedly throwing back as much of it as he can in one go so it isn't wasted; he's spilled a little, tracks of sugary-sweet cocktail tracking down from the corner of his mouth, but it's hard to care in the moment.
He barely takes a moment to swipe at his mouth with the back of his hand before slipping away from the barstools to plaster against Dabi's side, like it's the most obvious place for him to be. ]
Yeah? Of course.
[ Maybe that's an insane thing to say. Mortifyingly earnest, and disgustingly clingy. It sort of is gross, he knows, in some distant corner of his mind. But between the alcohol, the drink's influence, and the exhilarating sense of relief that he's swimming in at the moment, the words come easy. Fuuta tucks himself up against Dabi's side almost to a degree that makes it hard to walk, like a cat weaving between its chosen target's legs, keeping his hand entwined closely with Dabi's. And it's from that arrangement, practically glued to Dabi's side that he glances up to slur, ]
I knew you'd be the one I could count on, you know? [ It's a bald-faced lie, said like he hadn't fretted and dodged and skirted around every previous chance to be honest. But drunk, and further intoxicated off the validation that Dabi's so obligingly fed him, Fuuta can't stop himself -- he breathes a wobbly laugh, leaning his head against Dabi's shoulder as they leave the bar. He probably could walk by himself if necessary, but he's tipsy enough that leaning against Dabi makes it a lot easier, and he's glad to have the excuse to stick so close to him. (Not that he should need the excuse? This is right where he should be, isn't it? Who else deserves this spot?) ] Figured if anyone here'd get it and wouldn't give me shit over all of that, it might be you.
no subject
None of that matters once he hears the rest of what Dabi has to say, though.
Fuuta's expression lights up right before Dabi's eyes, brow slowly relaxing and the tension draining from the clench of his jaw. There's no room for even a shred of doubt -- it's relief that has Fuuta giving a long exhale, shoulders slumping and hands loosening from that pale-knuckled grip into Dabi's shirt to something laxer. There's a moment's pause before he nods, swallows thickly, then nods once more, a little more firmly the second time. ]
... yeah. Yeah, it's not like I made her do anything. [ His next breath comes hoarse, edged with a low laugh. ] You get it. It's real messed up that I ended up there, you know? That I ended up like this. You get it.
[ It's weeks and months that he's spent here now, terrified that the first person to learn that he was a prisoner and alleged 'murderer' would rat him out to the population and turn him into a pariah. Someone to be avoided and shunned and punished once more. A gut-churning level of tension and anxiety that's built up over time, only to dissipate in one fell swoop, and the relief that follows is dizzying, like a rush of blood to the head. He feels simultaneously dazed and giddy, and Fuuta has no real complaint when Dabi takes his hand and eases him from the barstool. It's only a vague, lingering awareness of their surroundings that has him making a grab for that third cocktail with his free hand, hurriedly throwing back as much of it as he can in one go so it isn't wasted; he's spilled a little, tracks of sugary-sweet cocktail tracking down from the corner of his mouth, but it's hard to care in the moment.
He barely takes a moment to swipe at his mouth with the back of his hand before slipping away from the barstools to plaster against Dabi's side, like it's the most obvious place for him to be. ]
Yeah? Of course.
[ Maybe that's an insane thing to say. Mortifyingly earnest, and disgustingly clingy. It sort of is gross, he knows, in some distant corner of his mind. But between the alcohol, the drink's influence, and the exhilarating sense of relief that he's swimming in at the moment, the words come easy. Fuuta tucks himself up against Dabi's side almost to a degree that makes it hard to walk, like a cat weaving between its chosen target's legs, keeping his hand entwined closely with Dabi's. And it's from that arrangement, practically glued to Dabi's side that he glances up to slur, ]
I knew you'd be the one I could count on, you know? [ It's a bald-faced lie, said like he hadn't fretted and dodged and skirted around every previous chance to be honest. But drunk, and further intoxicated off the validation that Dabi's so obligingly fed him, Fuuta can't stop himself -- he breathes a wobbly laugh, leaning his head against Dabi's shoulder as they leave the bar. He probably could walk by himself if necessary, but he's tipsy enough that leaning against Dabi makes it a lot easier, and he's glad to have the excuse to stick so close to him. (Not that he should need the excuse? This is right where he should be, isn't it? Who else deserves this spot?) ] Figured if anyone here'd get it and wouldn't give me shit over all of that, it might be you.