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peacockstop2024-06-15 12:00 pm
goldmods) wrote in peacockstop2024-06-15 12:00 pm
TDM 04
【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-star resort and casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
Due to a high volume of check-ins, temporary accommodations have been made on our brand new beachfront for new guests. We will endeavor to have all guests moved into their reserved rooms as soon as possible. We apologize for any inconvenience. Affected guests may convene with the nearest lifeguard or reception for a complimentary swimsuit, at their earliest convenience.
Please remember that beach-appropriate attire is mandatory. Guests found breaking dress code may be escorted off the beach until they return in proper swimwear. We hope you enjoy your stay, and have a beachy keen experience. 】
BEACHFRONT PROPERTY
A BRAND NEW DEVELOPMENT
As the resort moves into what it claims is summer, the days grow longer. The sun is projected well into the evening, the heat of its warmth dialed up to a level some guests complain is unreasonable. Then there’s the most excessive transformation of all – half the Cloud Dwelling Gardens have been transformed into a sparkling beach of white sands and blue waves, seemingly overnight. Statues nearby have been dressed up with wide hats and stylish sarongs. Upbeat music fills the air without any discernible source.
A section of the beach has been reserved for a collection of bungalows. These cute pastel homes open straight onto the sand, and are comparable in size and amenity to a rank 7 or 8 suite. All screens within these bungalows are fixed to a channel that airs reruns of Boobwatch around the clock, a classic TV series about blue-footed boobys running in slow-motion across the beach. Staff and long-standing guests all agree — there’s no better summer programming than this!
A section of the beach has been reserved for a collection of bungalows. These cute pastel homes open straight onto the sand, and are comparable in size and amenity to a rank 7 or 8 suite. All screens within these bungalows are fixed to a channel that airs reruns of Boobwatch around the clock, a classic TV series about blue-footed boobys running in slow-motion across the beach. Staff and long-standing guests all agree — there’s no better summer programming than this!
FUN IN THE SUN
DON'T FORGET TO OIL UP
What’s a beach without fun and games? Dreadfully boring! That’s why all of the beach classics have been expertly set up by staff, including strip volleyball nets, giant boob-shaped beach balls, and plenty of floaties for use in the shallower areas of the temporary ocean. A row of parasols with paired lounge chairs underneath them are placed in some prime viewing areas for festivities. Any time you get thirsty, there’s always a cooler full of canned drinks conveniently nearby, courtesy of Cock-a-Doodle-Doo’s. Sometimes you can hear the staff whispering to each other, “What if it’s too perfect? We won’t be able to deal with the ratings dip once the beach ends!”
Seashells have been arbitrarily scattered along the shoreline, coming in both natural shapes and ones a little more... erotic. The sexiest ones of all are conch shells that let you hear the moans of another guest when held up to your ear; supposedly, if you hook up with the person on the other end of the shell, you’ll be extra lucky in the casino for the rest of the summer. All in all, it’s a carefully tailored creation that can be called nothing short of paradise.
Seashells have been arbitrarily scattered along the shoreline, coming in both natural shapes and ones a little more... erotic. The sexiest ones of all are conch shells that let you hear the moans of another guest when held up to your ear; supposedly, if you hook up with the person on the other end of the shell, you’ll be extra lucky in the casino for the rest of the summer. All in all, it’s a carefully tailored creation that can be called nothing short of paradise.
NOTES
▶ All new arrivals have been issued four food and four clothing vouchers. These vouchers are as good as money around the resort. The staff will strongly insist on characters picking out "summery" attire with it, though.
▶ Existing characters may be booted into the bungalows or locked out of their room against their will. We leave it up to player discretion if this happens and the degree to which they're removed from their normal suite.
▶ For the Daydream Parasols, wildcards may be afflicted by whichever suit their player prefers for the duration of the dream. This will have no bearing on their suit selection when applying, and suit effects should not manifest once back in the waking world. It's just a dream, after all!
▶ The dreamscape has no explicit time limit, so feel free to make them as long or as short as desired. Dreams should also be sexy first and foremost. While you can include your mom dying in the background if you'd like, you have to be horny about it too.
▶ Existing characters may be booted into the bungalows or locked out of their room against their will. We leave it up to player discretion if this happens and the degree to which they're removed from their normal suite.
▶ For the Daydream Parasols, wildcards may be afflicted by whichever suit their player prefers for the duration of the dream. This will have no bearing on their suit selection when applying, and suit effects should not manifest once back in the waking world. It's just a dream, after all!
▶ The dreamscape has no explicit time limit, so feel free to make them as long or as short as desired. Dreams should also be sexy first and foremost. While you can include your mom dying in the background if you'd like, you have to be horny about it too.
TWINKLING CURRENTS
THE PARTY NEVER STOPS
As the sun sets in a cascade of colors over the water, lamps are lit and floating lights surface from the depths. Stars twinkle in the sky, and Steve is finally released from his smoky shackles. Though the daytime amenities have gone to sleep, the night promises its own set of beachy wonders sure to please even the most distinguished of vacationers.
Flyers posted in the lobby and in the hallways promise of a bar ran by the most enchanting mermaids you could ever want to fuck, as well as a fireworks show in every color, including ones you’ve never heard of. With the seagulls gone to bed, peace settles across the sands, tinted blue, yellow, and pink from the myriad of lights. For those seeking a more subdued, romantic air — this is the beach for you.
Flyers posted in the lobby and in the hallways promise of a bar ran by the most enchanting mermaids you could ever want to fuck, as well as a fireworks show in every color, including ones you’ve never heard of. With the seagulls gone to bed, peace settles across the sands, tinted blue, yellow, and pink from the myriad of lights. For those seeking a more subdued, romantic air — this is the beach for you.
SANDY SCAVENGING
A GAME OF BEACHES
It wouldn't be the Golden Peacock without a game for guests to play! All guests that wander into the beach area may find themselves receiving one of two Watch messages. Some very special guests may even receive both challenges — or continuously receive a new challenge when the last 24 hours is up. The resort just wants you to have the most fun possible!
NOTES
▶ All effects from the swim-up bar last around 2-3 hours, but may be extended by having another drink.
INTO THE DEPTHS
IT'S HIGH TIDE WE GET OUT OF HERE
Though the beach experience is perfect on the surface, things are less elegant behind the scenes. Wave-making machines pulse and rattle down below, shaking the ceiling of the basement suites. Water leaks from pipes, streaking across walls and pooling on the uneven floors. The maintenance levels are abuzz with staff setting out buckets and pans, shooing lost guests away with a heightened level of urgency. Someone got a little too enthusiastic with mopping, they claim. Nothing to worry about at all!
Even the ocean itself isn’t without its issues. Despite appearing as a boundless expanse from the shore, the walls of the Golden Peacock are a very real factor. To avoid any undue damage to the screens that comprise the sky, the sea stops abruptly before it reaches them, cascading into a waterfall all the way down to the depths of the resort. Gentle currents become swirling vortexes and choppy waves, sure to pull down any guests that aren’t careful about where they swim. A few gull-guards patrol the line of buoys that mark the end of the safe swimming area, but the primary line of defense the resort relies on is the utter disinterest most of its guests have.
Even the ocean itself isn’t without its issues. Despite appearing as a boundless expanse from the shore, the walls of the Golden Peacock are a very real factor. To avoid any undue damage to the screens that comprise the sky, the sea stops abruptly before it reaches them, cascading into a waterfall all the way down to the depths of the resort. Gentle currents become swirling vortexes and choppy waves, sure to pull down any guests that aren’t careful about where they swim. A few gull-guards patrol the line of buoys that mark the end of the safe swimming area, but the primary line of defense the resort relies on is the utter disinterest most of its guests have.
NOTES
▶ Any amount of standing water is a valid target for a character’s resurfacing, even something as minor as a glass of water. For situations where a character would not actively fit into the source of their arrival, they will be violently flung out of it, knocking over or spilling it in the process if that’s possible.
▶ As always, players are free to control the level to which their individual characters are affected, and being flooded out of their space is not mandatory.
▶ As always, players are free to control the level to which their individual characters are affected, and being flooded out of their space is not mandatory.
OOC NOTES
▶ BLANKET CW: alcohol; altered states; aphrodisiacs; breeding urge; delusions; forced clotheswearing; hallucinations; harassment and bullying; jealousy; thalassophobia; transformation; unreality
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. The house is still observing and deciding. As rank and suits are assigned upon acceptance your character's suit will not manifest until they are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's June event. The beach will ICly be present from June 15th - June 30th.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention!
▶ If you aren't satisfied with these prompts, please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort! There are recent additions to the locations page as well, for those who have yet to see them!
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ Don't forget your sunscreen! We'd hate for any chicken wings to come out burnt.
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. The house is still observing and deciding. As rank and suits are assigned upon acceptance your character's suit will not manifest until they are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's June event. The beach will ICly be present from June 15th - June 30th.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention!
▶ If you aren't satisfied with these prompts, please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort! There are recent additions to the locations page as well, for those who have yet to see them!
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ Don't forget your sunscreen! We'd hate for any chicken wings to come out burnt.
no subject
He'd just been putting the empty glass back down on the bartop, swiping his hand against his hoodie's front to wipe off the condensation wetting his fingers, but Fuuta squints at the questions. The easy demand of payment. Brow furrowed and lips pursed, he considers it for a moment before glancing aside, checking how crowded their surroundings are; not very, at this time of evening, most others still populating the beach busy with their own conversations or just strolling by. Then finally, he huffs before saying, with the sort of casual loftiness that has to be feigned: ]
Fine. [ He tugs down the zipper of his hoodie hastily enough that it snags for a moment before sliding the rest of the way down. ] You're a guy, so I guess I wouldn't have had to pay for you on a date, anyway.
[ This is a date, then. The date. He'll talk. So Dabi better be prepared to as well.
Fuuta peels his hoodie off, balling it up and placing it in his lap before grabbing up the fresh drink that's been placed before him and taking a big gulp. Drinking a cocktail this quickly is probably a bad idea, especially when he's been losing water all day; his T-shirt's practically plastered against his body with sweat, his skin flushed all over, and he comes up with a gasp after draining half the glass in one go. But the night air feels nice and cool against his damp T-shirt, and the heady punch of alcohol admittedly helps smooth out his thoughts. The words come a little easier when he just starts talking. ]
No outside time. No windows, no doors. I told you it wasn't just a normal prison -- it's not like I was arrested. I didn't get a trial or anything. Just ... woke up there one day, and there was no way out. Kind of like this place, actually -- there not being any way out at all. [ So a part of him can't let go of the thought that maybe, just maybe, this place is related to it. ] Milgram, if you've heard of it. -- you know a lot about prisons?
[ What he's actually getting at: 'have you ever been in one?' ]
no subject
his hand curves in around his own drink, but he doesn't take another sip. he watches, waits for that hoodie to come off, piled into kajiyama's lap; he should probably get him some water, but he's not sure he trusts what they might give at this place--better to wait until he's dragging him, or walking him, back home. at the very least, the ice in the drink will give him something to chew on--something to hopefully cool him down. maybe he's too used to the feeling of burning up on the inside, but he feels relatively comfortable, even in the muggy night air.
his tongue works at the inside of his cheek, across his teeth, considering. no trial means that he was probably kidnapped and dropped there--but then again, funnily, he thinks: do villains get trials? no one asks them why they did it, no one tries to defend them. regular people, petty crimes, those might get trials; but since he'd been a kid, he'd always just heard of the bad guys going away to prison, and that had been that.
there's a faint shake of his head. )
Never heard of it. Milgram. But then again, we already know our Japans are different, yeah? Not like you have people with quirks running around.
( --which falls out of his mouth before he realizes it, quickly rolling his eyes to take a small sip of his cocktail. )
You were alone? Did anyone tell you anything, once you woke up there? Sounds like someone might've had it out for you, if you were kidnapped there. ( oddly, weirdly, he doesn't like that idea. doesn't like the thought of someone keeping tabs on kajiyama like he's some kind of lab rat. )
no subject
At least Dabi will be getting great bang for his buck this time, maybe even more than the previous times Fuuta's mooched off him, at least in terms of gleaning new information. ]
Not alone. There were others -- nine other people. Ten of us in total.
[ It's partly thanks to the alcohol that Fuuta's dropped his usual skittish attitude for now, speaking frankly, if wearily, plowing through his words at a gritted deadpan. Though honestly, it's more that ... there's a certain catharsis in giving up on his usual secrecy and just laying things out. Talking about it frankly for once. He sighs briefly, fishing the blackberry from his drink to eat before continuing with a frown. ]
And there was a warden to explain things. Lined all ten of us up and gave us a lecture. Hated the warden, they were a fucking brat, like, sixteen or something. -- before you ask, I did try attacking'em, to see if it would get us out. Nobody else was doing anything useful, so I figured I was the one who had to. Didn't do shit, though. There was some ... forcefield. Made it so I couldn't even touch'em. So we really were just stuck there.
[ It's abrupt, when he tacks on the next bit, before Dabi can raise the very reasonable question of what the warden had told him: ]
What's 'quirks?' [ He tries to say it plainly, feigning casual, but Dabi might notice the way Fuuta's fidgeting with the little pick the blackberry had been speared on. Nervous, testing the waters instead of just saying whatever comes to mind in his usual bold fashion, because he now knows this is testy territory. ] S'it what you meant by your family ... being messed up?
[ Is that wording permissible? His shoulders are a little tense as he gauges Dabi's reaction with a sideways glance. ]
no subject
his mouth opens, and closes. kajiyama isn't giving him the chance to question it, which is a smart tactic; he would have kept gently prodding him, would have kept gently leading the conversation along until all of kajiyama's secrets were pooled on the bar top, mixed with the condensation from their drinks. he knows he's fucked up as soon as kajiyama fidgets with the little wooden pick from his drink; he's not going to let him get away with not giving his own secrets away to the space between them.
that's something he finds he doesn't like, really. their stools aren't close enough, and with one foot hooked around the leg, he slides and drags himself forward until they're sitting nearly knee to knee; the arm nearest to kajiyama drapes, casual and light, along the back of the stool, pressed lightly to the sweat-soaked fabric of the back of his shirt. idly, his thumb brushes, back and forth, a small touch near kajiyama's ribs. considering, worrying, wondering. )
A "quirk" is a... A super-human ability. Meta ability. They've called it a bunch of shit. I'm guessing where I'm from is far in the future from where you are, probably... Or maybe it's starting where you are, and neither of us know it.
( this is the part he's always dreaded, somehow. kajiyama pushes so hard for things to be 'right' and 'normal'--and there's no part of him that's normal, no part of him that could ever be normal. he doesn't have the right to be here, doesn't have the right to be thinking what he's thinking, doesn't have the right to even consider what he's feeling, if he's feeling, or whether it's fabricated by the resort, somehow. the person he told about this, here, had seemed to understand him: he doesn't know if kajiyama will, and that's fucking terrifying, somehow.
his free hand works at his own drink, dipping and stabbing the blackberry pick in towards the ice at the bottom of his drink, pushing it around idly for something to do. )
Not everyone has one, but most people do. I think they said like 80% of the population has one. You're either born with it or you're not, and you only get the one. ( --which isn't necessarily true, but it's not worth it to get into that, here. ) Usually manifests when you're a little kid, you know, four years old or something. Hereditary.
( his gaze is focused, solely, on his fingers, now twisting and working around the inner perimeter of the glass, the drink swirling slowly. )
You're probably thinking it's like, superhero shit or whatever. Sometimes it is, some people have those kinds of quirks. Superhuman strength, huge wings and sword feathers... But then sometimes a person's quirk is that they can, I don't know, stretch their fingers really long. Nothing particularly helpful.
( the hand at the back of kajiyama's stool shifts, a warm palm that presses in against his back, a little possessive. ) Is it my turn or your turn, now?
no subject
Hard to get too upset about any of that now, though.
Fuuta just spends a moment digesting that information, intertwining it what he's heard of Dabi so far. A world where people are born with superpowers. Dabi's parents having created him. Dreams of becoming a superhero squelched after being replaced by a 'superior' younger siblings. His shitty attitude, the rage clearly bubbling below the surface, his resentment -- everything clicks together in a way that starts to make sense, and there's something admittedly satisfying about that. It doesn't feel nice per se, but there's something oddly rewarding about feeling like he's gotten a better grasp of what kind of person Dabi is. Having a better hold of him. (How many other people here know this stuff, he wonders. Other than the people he was brought here with. Not many, he hopes. Something about the exclusivity is appealing.)
Thoughts organized, Fuuta abruptly throws back the remainder of his drink; the ice piles at the bottom when he plunks the empty glass down and shoves it across the bar for the bartender to take. Then, as he leans back into the warm press of Dabi's palm, tells the bartender, ]
One more. [ A clear of the throat before he looks to Dabi. ] I'll pay for it. Credits, or whatever you want. 'm not taking my shirt off, though.
[ Already, he sounds a little tipsy; a third drink in such quick succssion is definitely a bad idea. Fuuta's hardly the type to get drunk drunk on a regular basis, to boot. But -- he needs it in this context. Muddying his brain like this helps him forge on and keep talking before his own thoughts can choke him. His turn to talk, so he can address the remaining questions Dabi had laid out. Dabi's turn will be after. ]
-- I dunno if the warden had anything out for me, specifically. But ... they said we were there to be judged. [ His posture's starting to slump. His knee knocks against Dabi's when he slouches in his seat, and he keeps it there; that little extra spot of physical contact helps ground him here, in this moment, away from Milgram, and it soothes his nerves. ] We'd be tried three times -- not that we knew what'd happen after those three times. But still, there'd be three trials. The warden interrogated us a bit, then there was this machine ... supposedly it extracted our thoughts? Our memories? Something like that. And the warden used that to decide whether we were innocent or guilty. [ Fuuta sighs, though it peters off into a bitter laugh. ] S'all bullshit. One person getting to make that decision. They said I was guilty, the first time. I finished my second interrogation before ending up here.
[ The bartender slides him his third drink at this point, but Fuuta doesn't pick it up just yet. Instead leans more firmly into the press of Dabi's palm against his back, mulling over his words for a moment before looking to him. ]
What's your -- ... [ No. 'What's your quirk' feels too easy, after Dabi's asked him to talk about all this stuff. So instead, he asks -- ] What ... was your quirk supposed to be, then. What your shitty parents were aiming for.
no subject
still, even as he works to finish his own drink in anticipation of his next, he can't help but feel a little--well, vindicated. a little relieved. kajiyama doesn't ask, and continues on, and maybe that means he won't have to tell him anything further, maybe that means he won't be interested. it's a story that ends in a terrible way, anyway, in all the ways that he thinks someone like kajiyama will hate: all the crimes, all the plans, all the murder, all the villainy. who's going to keep fucking a guy that wanted--and still wants--to murder his own brother in cold blood? to do anything necessary to make his father suffer?
it's a relief, getting kajiyama to keep talking. to keep spilling his secrets. quiet things that he thinks kajiyama hasn't told anyone else, here--and some greedy, nasty little part of him trembles in excitement at the thought. he's always tried to have some lackadaisical air to their interactions, as though he could care less where kajiyama spends his time, who he lays under, who he talks to in the late hours or when he can't sleep. maybe that's always been a mask for something else, or maybe the liquor is doing something to him: he feels keenly pleased that he's the one here, on this makeshift date, listening to his secrets; he feels like, boldly, he's the only one entitled to them. the only one who should have his arm wrapped around him like this, curled in against him like the wolf circled around little red riding hood.
a machine to prove one's guilt, then? no, something like that couldn't exist. if it did, how would it differentiate the actual guilt from someone's feelings? their perceptions, their thoughts, even their memories would be warped by their own view: or maybe that's the point, in the end. if kajiyama--and the nine others, a sobering number--believed themselves to be guilty of whatever they were accused of, would that not be more important than standing trial in front of a jury of unknown people? naturally the warden could make their own determination based solely on their own beliefs, but why have the machine at all, in that case?
he's mulling it over, considering, his palm sliding, fingers curling in at kajiyama's side, as though to snake him in closer--he knows he should ask it, the question that kajiyama has to know he'll ask: guilty of what?
but he doesn't get the chance. one drink, placed in front of kajiyama, and another few beats later, his own. he's used to drinking a lot--kajiyama already sounds a little slurred. )
...Half-Cold, Half-Hot. ( it's hard to even say the words: they grit through his teeth with a slow drip of ire. ) Ice, to combat the fire. Fire, to combat the ice. To keep balance. Can't overheat or get frostbite if you use either one too much.
( his chin ducks a little, his head tilting in towards kajiyama's, like they might touch there, temple to temple; like they're capable of saying sweet, quiet things in against each other. and maybe they are, maybe they would be, if they weren't both digging into the worst things either of them could want to share; his free hand moves, palms itself open between both of their glasses, wrist bent back against the bar's edge.
just one blossom, one quick puff of blue flame, arced up in a sizzle of smoke past his fingertips before he clenches his fingers in to put it out. )
They fucked up. We'll get to that. What were you guilty of?
cw: suicide reference
[ Maybe Dabi will find some tiny comfort in the fact that Fuuta doesn't sound at all impressed as he echoes those words. It's mostly just confusion tinting the slight slur of his words. -- frostbite? Overheating? What, even if you get lucky and pull an SSR from the hereditary quirk gacha, you might have to deal with mundane drawbacks like that? Life really is unfair, huh. He's not any more articulate at the little demonstration of Dabi's quirk, either. The little puff of flames does earn a start and a soft hiccup, but Fuuta's first thought is admittedly -- 'why didn't you tell me this before?' They've fucked multiple times, and he never knew this guy could produce flames like a fucking videogame character? Again, unfair. Fucking unfair.
He'd thought they were more closely entwined than that. They should be closer than that, right?
There's a flicker of something a touch aggravated and resentful in his gaze when he looks up from the clench of Dabi's fist, and it's not just because of what he's being asked. It's definitely the drink coloring his actions by this point. But also, Fuuta's too tipsy to be cognizant of the fact that he's under any sort of influence when he abruptly leans forward in his seat to close the meager distance between them.
It's hardly graceful when he tangles both hands into Dabi's shirt to yank him close in an embrace, the movement jerky enough that their barstools wobble beneath them. The way Fuuta buries his face into Dabi's shoulder is less affectionate, and more demanding -- ordering Dabi to listen to him properly, hands tugging insistently into the fabric of Dabi's shirt. ]
I -- ... [ His voice comes muffled; Fuuta's next breath huffs hard and anxious against Dabi's shoulder, right in the seam between healthy and scarred skin. It's another moment before he can muster the courage to raise his head, to mutter his words into that narrow, narrow space between them. ] ... some girl d -- ... got hurt 'cause of me. [ His words come quicker now that the dam's broken, though equally, his hands claw and clutch into Dabi's shirt. ] -- it wasn't my fault. I didn't do anything wrong. She -- she was the one who was wrong, first. All I did was say it, I talked about it online, I said she did something wrong, cause she did. It's not my fault people flamed her. It's not my fault she couldn't take it. There's not even any proof she died just 'cause of what I said. It's not like I'm a murderer just 'cause the warden said I am. Just 'cause they said I was guilty once. -- you get it, right?
[ As abruptly as he'd surged forth, Fuuta pulls back a fraction, but just so he can look into Dabi's face. There's genuine desperation in the way he seeks acknowledgement in those bright eyes, though ...
maybe an ugly part of him also expects that validation. Why wouldn't Dabi agree with him? Dabi's also pretty fucked up, right? Talking about how he isn't a good person, and harboring a nasty temper under that languid facade. They're birds of a feather, aren't they? So Dabi will understand, won't he? Dabi's supposed to side with him, they're supposed to stick together. They have to. ]
-- what happened with your family. [ He doesn't pull back any further, blurting out that question with both hands still entangled in Dabi's shirt. ] What d'you mean they fucked up.
[ It's not that he's actually apathetic about Dabi's circumstances; he does genuinely want to know what happened with him. But it would be a lie to say that the selfish desire to confirm their commonalities is a non-factor. ]
no subject
kajiyama's breath clatters over his skin, and he barely feels it above the heat that's already scraping at his insides, trying to break free. barely hears it right, the words, until they're there in his head and he can't stop turning them over. so the guy got someone killed, that's it? and they sent him away to some fucked up prison for something like that? because he called someone out on their behavior and they suffered the consequence?
a good person could recognize the right thing to say, here. he can see it, even if he doesn't believe it: to console kajiyama just as to gently correct him. to tell him that people are responsible for their own choices, but that it's a good lesson to learn, or whatever: something pathetic and trite, like that, isn't what kajiyama is looking for out of him, and isn't what he's going to get, either. those eyes plead as they look up at him, and he looks back; carefully, he takes in the sight of that pretty face, strained over with agitation, desperation, a desire to be understood.
he doesn't think this makes kajiyama a bad person--but it makes him a worse one, not to do the right thing. then again, why is it wrong to be honest? why is it wrong to say what he means, what he believes, which-- )
You reap what you sow, don't you? ( ghosting the words like they don't belong to him, even though they do: there's a calm tilt of his head, eyes narrowing slightly, awash over kajiyama's features. abruptly, he thinks of hawks, thinks of endeavor-- ) You don't deserve to be locked away for something like that. She did something wrong. It isn't wrong to call someone out for that. To show people. That's their fucking fault for doing wrong in the first place, and why shouldn't they have to take responsibility for their own actions? You can't control what they do after that.
( he doesn't seek to disrupt him, doesn't seek to pull kajiyama away--yet. rather, one of his hands lifts, angling his head up, tilted away, so that he can take his drink and down it, swallowing it in one long, smooth pull, puffing breath over the ice once it's drained. then it's set back on the bar, and he's reaching to take both of kajiyama's wrists in his hold, to pull them away only so that he can take his hands, holding them in his own. hot fingers curl in around the skin, thumb pressing over his knuckles-- )
...Come on. We're not gonna talk about all this here.
( he doesn't like the fact that there's people around. not only for his own sake, not only for kajiyama's sake, but--for the sake of having privacy with the person that he deserves to have privacy with. with the person who shouldn't be looked at, by all these people, shouldn't be seen, shouldn't be a temptation that he might be drunk enough to be snagged by someone, eager for a card or a payout or just a fuck for the sake of fucking.
deftly, he drops one of kajiyama's hands, but it's only so that he can take his sweatshirt out of his lap, drape it over his own shoulder despite the weight of it, despite the slightly damp hang to the fabric. that same hand gestures at the bartender to charge out his tab; then he's sliding onto his feet, surprisingly--and almost terrifyingly--keeping kajiyama's other hand in his hold, now pressed palm to palm, pulling him gently off his stool and to his feet. )
You're gonna stay with me, aren't you?
( for the walk they'll take, down the beach. for the talk that he isn't sure kajiyama is ready to hear. for the night. for however long he wants. there's no indication of how deep that question is, or what it's looking for: just that his gaze is focused, molten and quiet, on kajiyama as he waits for it. )
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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.
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why does it matter? why should he be bothered? some twist of his head tells him that's he's won something here, that he's finally got kajiyama, warm and wanting, pressed into his side like he wants to be there, like he doesn't want to be anywhere else. but there's the other twist, some painful knife in the back of his thoughts, that tears them open like a stomach spilling with viscera: he's a terrible fucking person, who has actually murdered people, innocent people, and he's telling kajiyama not to feel guilty for something that maybe someone else in this resort would challenge him about, the way a good person should. give it a few days, a week, and will kajiyama confess to someone else, someone better, come back to him and look at him like he's a monster?
why the fuck does that bother him, so much?
even as kajiyama works against his side, making their steps clumsy as they work across the sand, further away from the bustle of the bar under the fabricated night sky, he tightens his hold. tense, his fingers snake in, a hand that gropes to hold kajiyama's as close as he can, pressed between them; it feels so strange, different in a way that makes his stomach want to bottom out. the problem is, now he's left with only his own secrets, pushed out onto the chopping block: and what's kajiyama going to look like, when he knows more of it? )
Are you gonna give me shit? ( gentle and warmed over by the liquor, his gaze goes out towards the water--like he's dancing around it all, skating around it like he can figure out a better way to put it. some way to twist it all so that kajiyama doesn't pull away, doesn't stop looking at him like he hung the stars. )
If I tell you the rest. You're still gonna want to be here with me?
( with anyone else, he would have already used it like a weapon, would have cut right through it all--god, what the fuck kind of feeling is this? is he actually scared of something, here? )
I've killed people with my own hands. It's not my fault, but I did it. If you can't handle that, I can pretend to understand.
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Though Dabi might note that Fuuta doesn't pull away even upon hearing that, remaining tucked up against him and leaning on him with each wobbly step. They're so close that he must be able to feel the way Fuuta takes a deep inhale, then exhales slowly; there's probably the tickle of flyaway strands of sweat-damp hair against his jawline when Fuuta slumps a little more against him. Even drunk, he knows to keep his voice low, his words confined to the muggy air just around them. ]
... y'know how I told you there was ten of us in there. S'cause we were all murderers, supposedly.
[ It's edged with a bitter laugh as Fuuta shakes his head. Himself, a murderer. He refuses to accept that accusation, even if he'll acknowledge a smidgen of responsibility. ]
We didn't talk about it. I dunno, maybe all of'em were like me. Just accused. But, like ... what're the chances? I bet some of'em have actually killed. Actually. Probably. [ Kotoko for sure. Who else? Maybe Mikoto. It's hard to even guess. He doesn't want to think about it too hard right now. ] An' s'not like I got along with all of'em. Hell, couldn't stand some of'em. But ... I owed some of'em, y'know. For helping me. And there's a few I even got along with okay. Even if they might've been actual murderers.
[ It's the sort of thing he couldn't have ever imagined himself saying before ending up in Milgram. Violence is bad, murder worse. So a willful, purposeful, direct killing is surely unforgivable, right? Only a truly wretched brute, someone irredeemable and undeserving of acceptance, would commit such an act, right? -- maybe. A part of him still wants to cling to that belief, unwilling to completely give up on his understanding of what is and isn't right. But -- ]
So I dunno. I think I'd be okay with it. [ It's said as he sags against Dabi, practically melting into his side and nuzzling into his shoulder, nosing into the fabric of his shirt. It smells of ocean salt and sun-baked sand, with an undercurrent of that strange scent Dabi carries with him; it's an oddly comforting smell in this moment. He wants more of it, all of it. ] S'not like I think ... killing people is right. It's not. But maybe s'not my business.
[ What had condemning bad people and calling them out for their wrongdoings gotten him in the end? Blame, punishment, and years lost to a prison where he'd almost gotten beaten to death. Maybe he never should have bothered. Maybe he should've just turned a blind eye to it all. Old habits are hard to break, but a part of him wonders if it's what he should do going forth, especially while he's still stuck here in this madhouse. -- and especially if it's what would help him cement his spot at Dabi's side, where he feels like he belongs. ]
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if kajiyama were someone different, he might taunt him with the realization. but in their own way, they're both the same: it doesn't matter what he did, what he does, what kajiyama did, what he's thinking. they both have the reasons for it, pushed by other people, their hands forced, and why does that make them the bad people? why does that put them in the wrong?
a prison full of murderers, and maybe kajiyama had been the only one that wouldn't be a possible instrument to the league of villains. the only one that probably didn't deserve to be there at all.
with a slow breath, like it's hard to separate, he takes a step back. it's only so that he can shake out kajiyama's hoodie, still draped over his other shoulder, flapping the fabric until he can toss it, gently, onto the sand. then, with a squeeze of his other hand, their fingers still entwined: )
Sit. You're gonna fall over otherwise.
( a soft mutter--it sounds almost fond, in some sickening way, and he forces his hand back, or tries to, anyway, dragging his fingers away from the sweaty space between kajiyama's knuckles so that he can give him a little pat at the back, instead, encouraging. he'll let kajiyama sit on his own hoodie, in lieu of a towel: on his part, he's fine with easing down onto the sand itself, sitting next to the material, his knees bent, bare feet pushed into the sand like he's rooted there. beyond them, the water laps at the shore, but it doesn't seem to be getting any closer: no moon to push and pull, maybe.
his gaze lifts, watching, waiting--it's not that he doesn't trust that kajiyama will sit down with him, but more that he doesn't like the idea of anyone else getting close, doesn't like the idea of anyone else even looking at kajiyama, when he's like this, slightly tipsy, flushed and pliant. with a wince, he glances beyond him, checking, watching the beach, twisting slowly to look over his other shoulder, like a snake that's sizing up its best prey. )
...It's gonna sound stupid. ( he admits, after a moment, like he's reluctant to say it at all. ) I told you there were heroes. I'm not one. Never got there.
( he knows the way it's going to sound, from kajiyama's perspective, but it feels like the place he has to start. ) Villains. I'm a villain. You want me to keep going?
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Then he laughs. Just a little, just a few low huffs, almost muffled into Dabi's side. But, like. How could he not? Dabi said it himself -- it does sound a little stupid. ]
Can't believe heroes and villains are real. [ A bleary mumble as he mashes his face into Dabi's shoulder, dragging against the fabric and smushing his words there. ] Y'know how bullshit it is that you just laid that on me and then said I can't ask questions? Can't believe any of that's real. Can't even imagine what it's like. [ A sigh. ] ... probably would've wanted to be one, if I was from a place like yours. A pro hero.
[ One more slow exhale before he sits up a little, just so he can raise his head. All of that nuzzling's pulled his eyepatch a touch askew, and he wearily fixes it before slumping against Dabi's side once more. Without his hoodie, the air feels chill where his damp T-shirt's stuck to his body; the warmth that Dabi radiates is a perfect counter to it.
And as he makes himself comfortable, settled right there, so nobody else can claim that spot next to Dabi, he mutters, ]
-- anyway, you said it's not your fault, didn't you? What you did. So it's not really your fault people think you're a villain, right?
[ Of course he's going to accept everything Dabi said at face value. Why wouldn't he? Dabi had accepted his own explanation without any doubt, so clearly his self-evaluation will be accurate and trustworthy. Objective, even. If Dabi says that he killed, but it wasn't his fault, then there must have been extenuating circumstances. It was in self-defense, or some sort of complicated situation, or he was punishing people who deserved it ... right?
Dabi might note that, despite what he says, Fuuta doesn't ask for further elaboration. Because even drunk, even pliant and trusting and addled like this, a tiny corner of his mind does still fear what Dabi's status as a 'villain' might entail. It's much easier to put that sort of stuff out of sight, out of mind, and just assume what's best suited for his purposes, after all. After a pause, Fuuta continues quietly: ] I wanna know how your family fucked up. ... and don't get all pissy this time, like during that game. I'm on your side, y'know.
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god, he doesn't understand it. why does it feel so good, being here? having fuuta look at him like he's the only person in the resort, now, like he'd rather not be anywhere else? it makes his heart rabbit, makes his stomach twist in discomfort; he can feel the tears of excitement, beading up behind his damaged lids, hoping for some kind of metallic, tangy release.
he wants to reach out and touch him, wants to pull that eyepatch off; if he's baring himself, here, then shouldn't fuuta bare himself all the same? but he cares, or he's forced to care, or it's the drink, or it's not any of those things, but all the things he keeps denying: he centers his gaze down onto the sand, between his knees, and gently, warily, lifts up the arm that's trapped between them. )
...Quirks. They're hereditary. You know? Like I said already.
( quiet, muttered--as he stretches his arm out around fuuta's shoulders, craning him in against the incessant heat of his side. )
You can inherit your father's quirk, or your mother's quirk, or whatever, a combination. Or even something completely different. My...father. ( his teeth clench a little, like it's hard to admit it: hard to use the word. ) He chose a woman based on her quirk to try to enhance his own, found that her family was willing to sell her off for it. You know, creating a designer baby. The kind of shit that society thinks is disgusting. He wanted that half-cold half-hot quirk, wanted to create a kid that could surpass the strongest pro hero.
Wanted a kid that could make him feel like less of a weak, fucking failure, being stuck at number two.
So they made me. ( his gaze is stuck so resolutely on the sand, almost like--he's afraid to look at fuuta now. ) My father's quirk is fire, my mother's quirk is ice. I only got the fire part, or so they thought, but that was fine. I had more power than he did. More potential. So he thought he'd raise me to be better than him, better than the number one hero, better than everyone.
( a slight tilt of his head; his fingers tighten in around fuuta's shoulder, like he'll keep him close by force if he has to. )
Started training, and all that. Convinced me to buy into the dream, you know? That I was gonna make it, or whatever. That I was gonna be the son he'd be so proud of, you know? ( a scoff of a laugh--real laughter, like it's actually funny. ) But turns out they fucked up, 'cause I had my mom's body. Tolerant against ice and cold, not heat and fire. I burned myself all the time, training, 'cause my body can't handle it. Still can't. 's why I'm hot all the time.
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... it all makes sense, he thinks.
Not in any way that feels connected to reality, admittedly. Hereditary quirks, fire and ice, half-cold half-hot -- it's all stuff he can only really imagine in the context of fiction. Despite how much time he's spent with videogames growing up, Fuuta's always known that those sorts of stories, with heroes and villains and superpowers and justice, don't really have anything to do with him. But they have everything to do with Dabi, evidently, and boy -- ]
That's pretty fucked. [ He'd also been staring at some indistinct point in the sand, letting his mind paint over that blank canvas with images befitting everything Dabi's been talking about. Designer babies, kids being made just to sate some egotistical hunger, encouraging a dream that can never come true. Fuuta's voice is quiet when he speaks, but the disdain in his words is evident even at that low volume. ] It's messed up enough when parents force their kids to do shit to satisfy their own selfish desires. Telling'em they gotta be a lawyer or a doctor or something. [ More grounded, realistic examples that he can better picture. The principle is the same though, isn't it? Just as unfair, just as unjust. ] But fucking ... engineering kids like that in the first place? That's real fucked up. Can't stand people like that. What do they think they are, fucking with people's lives like that.
[ A little grumble as he nuzzles his head into Dabi's shoulder like he's trying to burrow his way into Dabi's very physical form. ]
An' then calling you a villain, when they're the ones that pushed you like that. ... s'unfair. It's not like they could blame you after they did all that to you. It's really not your fault.
[ 'But does that any of that justify murder? Isn't he still a villain?' It's a persistent whisper that prickles at him from the very back of his mind, but Fuuta forcibly squelches the notion. Because, especially in this moment, the prospect of acknowledging that Dabi is someone irredeemable that he should distance himself is genuinely nauseating. Impossible to stomach. Even thinking about it too hard makes his blood run cold, and Fuuta stifles a little grunt at the back of his throat as he buries his face a little more forcefully against Dabi's shoulder, like he's trying to burrow into him. It muffles his words when he mumbles, ]
-- it's not fair you gotta die 'cause of that.
[ The words leave him before he can even think to catch them. And while they're promptly followed by a touch of mortified regret, the heat of embarrassment creeping up his face, it's not like he thinks he's said anything wrong. Fuuta doesn't raise his head from where he's scrunched up against Dabi's side -- he curls up even tighter if anything, drawing his knees up to his chest and ducking his head even as he remains leaned against Dabi's side. But his hand does come to tangle against Dabi's shirt, tugging tight, tighter into the fabric in accompaniment to his words. ]
... you shouldn't have to die just 'cause they fucked you up. It's like they're winning.
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but that urge to take fuuta up in his hands and shake him, that acid anger to fuel him to hit him, beat into him, light him aflame: none of that stays. unlike that stupid game in the library, he doesn't feel any of that, doesn't want to rip fuuta away from him and say all the words that he knows he could, words that he could force between them to make fuuta turn away. the thing is, he doesn't want fuuta to turn away. it's fucking terrifying to think that it could happen, if he isn't careful--and that extinguishes all that anger like dirt thrown over a campfire.
instead, there's a sort of morose disappointment that he has to tell fuuta things that he knows he won't like. a part of him wonders if it even matters--someday this place won't matter, will it? someday they won't be here, and fuuta won't think of him anymore.
his arm tenses, a little, around fuuta's shoulders, but it's only so that he can tuck him in a little more comfortably into his side. there's a brief shake of his head. )
I already died. ( it's not necessarily true--or is it? he's never really known, despite the scant conversations he's had with garaki, how far it had to go. the organ replacements, the skin grafts: that he can understand, but had he really been alive, when they'd hauled his steaming husk of a body into the hospital? had he ever actually died? given out? had they brought him back? the panic he'd felt waking up in that hospital had overridden a lot of that information he'd been given; he had just wanted to find--
his head shakes again, a little, more like he's warring with himself, rather than anything else. head bowing, cheek brushed against fuuta's hair, he continues: quiet, low, like he's describing scenes out of a book, like they have no relation to him at all. )
--He kept making kids, trying to replace me. I kept training. I asked him to come meet me, to see how much I'd--to see how good I'd gotten, and he didn't come. I was like...thirteen. Up on this mountain near our place, this mountain he used to train at. He never came. He never came, and I lost control. And I burned to death. ...Near death. Whatever.
And now he has to die, and I don't have that much time left, like this. He has to die. And I'm dying with him. ( why does it feel--shameful? to admit that. it's the first time in his whole damn life that he's ever wondered: is this not right? ) That's the only reason I exist.
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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.
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doesn't know how he'd feel, if he looked at him with disgust. looked at him with fear, again. looked at him in any way but this.
there's a soft breath of laughter, through his nose, but despite everything in him screaming that it's wrong, that it's weak, that it's dangerous: he wraps his arms around fuuta's shoulders, tucking him into his chest, holding him there in a half-twisted hug. )
I'm not gonna die here. ( not where fuuta can see it. it's the first time he thinks he's been relieved about being here: by the time he gets home, gets done with everything that has to get done, fuuta will be home, too. worlds apart. too far for him to see it when it happens. ) I am here, now.
( just like he said. with another soft breath, a sigh, he loosens his hold, slightly, just enough to try to lean back to look at fuuta's face, properly, where it's hidden in against his shoulder. )
You wanna find a place to crash out here? Pretty sure they wouldn't kick us out if we slept on the beach, but they have all those little beach houses or whatever.
( he doesn't know the right word for them--just knows that he doesn't want to have to force distance between them, doesn't want fuuta to go back to his little room, doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts, with these feelings, with the heated memory of fuuta pressed so bodily up against him. )
Sorry. I'm the kind of guy that stays over on the first date, you're just gonna have to deal.
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Then eventually, when they're let out of this place, somewhere, back in his world, Dabi will die. Probably on his own terms, but probably cruelly, painfully. The thought of it sends an unpleasant sensation lancing through his guts, sharp and acrid, and Fuuta squeezes his eyes shut. On a rational level, he knows it's not something he can do anything about, and it might not even matter, really. After all, is he in any position to be worrying about the survival of other people, from far-off other worlds? What awaits him on his own return 'home' might be just as bad -- another guilty verdict, more condemnation, more of those voices endlessly whispering in his ears. (Maybe he'll just die, too.)
But even so ... he doesn't want to think about Dabi going away. The understanding and connection forged between them is a hard-won and precious thing, something he's not sure he's found in anyone else before, not really. Isn't it unfair that he's going to have to lose it? It's unfair that he's found something important, something his, and it's destined to be so short-lived.
When Dabi eases that sliver of distance between them, Fuuta raises his head with great reluctance -- just a hint of watery redness lining under his visible eye, brow scrunched in frustration. It's not a sight Dabi will get to take in long, because Fuuta promptly ducks his head aside, shrugging up a soldier to scuff his face into the fabric there. His voice comes tight for just a second when he speaks, before he manages to clear the lump in his throat. ]
Make it up to me, then. [ He sits back, looking at Dabi with jaw set and brow lowered. ] S'not like apologizing for something like that's gonna change anything, so. Make it up to me ... make it worth it.
[ And to make the meaning of his words clearer, he wobbles to his feet afterward -- keeping one hand insistently gripped into the fabric of Dabi's shirt, trying to tug him along as well. He looks away only to scan their nearby surroundings for one of those bungalows he'd spotted while walking around earlier. ]
There's those things over there, so. Let's go.
[ Is it the alcohol emboldening him enough to say these kinds of things, take these kinds of actions? Definitely. Intimacy, vulnerability, attachment -- these are all terrifying concepts, not ones he'd dare approach so easily when sober. Getting hurt is scary, after all. But it's not like his feelings have been entirely born from inebriation, either. It's just that the alcohol and the drink's influence have stirred them to the surface and shaped them into words. Even as he wobbles on his feet, there's a strange, stubborn honesty to the way Fuuta tries to tug Dabi along in his usual bossy fashion. And while even being drunk doesn't him make him brave enough to say what he's about to say while looking at Dabi, at least he can get the words out as he leads them towards the closest bungalow. ]
... you can't go back on your word, okay. You said you're here, now. So. You can't just -- [ abandon me ] go away while you're here, okay.
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but opportunities? he knows how to grab for them. he knows how to hold onto them with everything he has, to latch on with determination. it's all that his life hinges on, now--that almost fragile hold he has over the deterioration of his body, of his head, of his insides.
there's no part of him that wants to leave. no part of him that wants to go away, as fuuta puts it, even if he's talking more broadly, even if he means it in a different sense. as they approach one of the bungalows, his gaze is focused over the messy shape of fuuta's hair, looking, listening, trying to decide which one to go for: in the end, he's gently pulling fuuta in against his side as though to shield him as he reaches with his other hand, hoodie in tow, for the door to creak it open. it's empty--he'd been braced for a fight, but it's empty.
rather than turn on a light, he tosses fuuta's hoodie out into the dark--it lands on an armchair, and the moonlight from the beach pours in through open windows, the distant sound of waves crashing, music playing from one of the bar stands down the way. )
Is that right? ( soft, warm, a little mischeivous--he turns, pulling fuuta into the room so that he can shut the door behind him; then he's getting both hands free to plant them around fuuta's hips, looping around to his back so that he can abruptly, bodily, lift him off his feet. ) Same goes for you, then. Make me want to stay.
( with fuuta's body pressed up against his chest, he takes a few steps back--stumbles, even, a few steps back, knocking into someone's discarded suitcase, or a bag, or something that complains as it's nudged across the floor. )
Make me not wanna leave. ( as he plants fuuta down on the first surface he finds--which seems to be some kind of writing desk, spread out with some seashells and other memorabilia that someone clearly brought back from the beach. he cages fuuta in there, forcing himself between his knees. ) I don't wanna leave, but make it harder for me anyway.
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But also -- there's no room in his brain for those pesky thoughts when the entirety of his focus is on Dabi. The sight of him, the warmth of his skin, the way he moves. Whatever vague observations his brain makes concerning the state of the cabana are completely null the moment he feels those long fingers latch around his hips, feels those sinewy arms squeeze tight around him as he's lifted off his feet. Whatever crumb of indignation he might normally feel about being picked up and carried like he's some sort of child is utterly squelched by the satisfaction of knowing that Dabi is the one doing it, paying attention only to him in the moment.
It feels right. Feels fair. Given what secrets they've shared this evening, of course Dabi should be paying as much attention to him as the other way around.
A shell or two goes clattering to the floor when Fuuta braces a hand back against the tabletop to stabilize his balance, a fact that goes entirely unnoted. And Dabi might be reminded of months back, those sweltering hours at dawn they'd shared in one of those Mating Season pods, given the demanding way Fuuta tugs at his shirt to get him to duck his head down for a kiss. Again, the click of teeth on teeth; again, he kisses hungry and a little hasty, nipping at Dabi's lower lip before pulling back for air. ]
Make it harder, huh ...
[ But this time, he doesn't immediately hook his leg back against Dabi's thigh. The hand he'd wound into Dabi's shirtfront loosens, then drifts down, fingertips dragging against the fabric as he thinks the assignment over for a moment. ]
... 'kay. [ Then he pulls a leg up, shifting aside to slide off the table. Not to pull away, but so he can lean up to say, ] You sit down, then. I'll -- do the work this time.
[ Saying that kind of thing is still difficult for him, evident in the way the words catch at his tongue before he can spit them out. But he means them. Seriously. His fingertips skim down Dabi's front, pulling away only after reaching the waistband of his swimtrunks, before Fuuta steps away briefly. Thankfully, it doesn't take long to find what he's looking for; of course every place on this beach is stuffed to the brim with lube and toys in every nook and cranny. He grabs up the first bottle with one hand, using the other to tug his T-shirt up off over his head as he steps back to the table -- obviously starting to grow impatient, excited. ]
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