Of course he doesn't, and it's not for lack of trying, not just that the punch of alcohol settling over his brain like a heavy blanket is dulling his thoughts. It's more that what Dabi says is too far beyond his understanding of reality for him to truly understand what position Dabi must be coming from. Burning almost to death and returning, clinging to life just for the sake of snuffing yourself back out again? (Though ... he understands a tiny bit, on some level, he supposes. The allure of death. It's not like he hadn't harbored those own thoughts himself, when the relentless flood of accusatory whispers back in Milgram had been at their worst.)
Fuuta is silent for a long moment as he struggles, really struggles and really tries, to understand the emotions that fuel Dabi's words. He needs to grasp them, he thinks -- wants to understand them, to almost make them his, because that's what feels right.
But in the end what leaves his lips is a plain -- ]
But you're here now. You're not dead right now. [ 'I already died,' Dabi had said. But those words lose a little bit of their weight when Fuuta can lean in close and feel the warmth of his body like this. ] And if ... if you really don't have that much time left ... [ His voice wobbles a little as he says it. It's a frightening thought to vocalize, that Dabi might have to die before long, whatever the cause. That he's going to lose Dabi. ] ... wouldn't you want to get what you can out of that time.
[ It's here that the alcohol really pulls its weight. Because while Fuuta's sentiments are genuine and rooted in his true feelings, he's never been the type to be good at communicating his intentions in any clear way. It's purely the drink and its influence driving him to shift how he sits, tucking himself even closer up against Dabi's side -- turning so he can wrap his arms around Dabi's waist, tugging close up against him in an embrace, face buried in his shoulder. And it's in that position that he muffles his words quietly into the very real, very tangible warmth of his presence: ]
I jus' don't want you to die. S'not like I can stop you, but ... it wouldn't be right for you to just disappear like that.
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Of course he doesn't, and it's not for lack of trying, not just that the punch of alcohol settling over his brain like a heavy blanket is dulling his thoughts. It's more that what Dabi says is too far beyond his understanding of reality for him to truly understand what position Dabi must be coming from. Burning almost to death and returning, clinging to life just for the sake of snuffing yourself back out again? (Though ... he understands a tiny bit, on some level, he supposes. The allure of death. It's not like he hadn't harbored those own thoughts himself, when the relentless flood of accusatory whispers back in Milgram had been at their worst.)
Fuuta is silent for a long moment as he struggles, really struggles and really tries, to understand the emotions that fuel Dabi's words. He needs to grasp them, he thinks -- wants to understand them, to almost make them his, because that's what feels right.
But in the end what leaves his lips is a plain -- ]
But you're here now. You're not dead right now. [ 'I already died,' Dabi had said. But those words lose a little bit of their weight when Fuuta can lean in close and feel the warmth of his body like this. ] And if ... if you really don't have that much time left ... [ His voice wobbles a little as he says it. It's a frightening thought to vocalize, that Dabi might have to die before long, whatever the cause. That he's going to lose Dabi. ] ... wouldn't you want to get what you can out of that time.
[ It's here that the alcohol really pulls its weight. Because while Fuuta's sentiments are genuine and rooted in his true feelings, he's never been the type to be good at communicating his intentions in any clear way. It's purely the drink and its influence driving him to shift how he sits, tucking himself even closer up against Dabi's side -- turning so he can wrap his arms around Dabi's waist, tugging close up against him in an embrace, face buried in his shoulder. And it's in that position that he muffles his words quietly into the very real, very tangible warmth of his presence: ]
I jus' don't want you to die. S'not like I can stop you, but ... it wouldn't be right for you to just disappear like that.