Burry Shigaraki Tomura six feet deep and tell them it has always been this way.
Somewhere in the alley, where dogs die of rabies.
Somewhere in the park, where kids buried a chick.
Somewhere in the warehouse of forgotten things.
But it is better not to bury him at all because no one is going to do it better, than Shigaraki Tomura himself.
It all starts with a burnt skin and a nastily-smelling like smile that hits him like a fucking hatchet and hears:
— I want to join.
Shigaraki thinks: I want to kill you, and then says:
— Get out.
And catches glances from Kurogiri. He just rolls his eyes and slowly climbs down from the high chair. Destroying potential allies when there are no more than five people in the League would be a stupid move and Shigaraki didn't think of himself as a fool. He nods to his thoughts and swallows the bitter saliva.
Shigaraki Tomura is a ticking time bomb, Dabi only lights the fuse.
Being ceremonious is a thing of Kurogiki. Gnawing throats is a thing of Toga. Dabi just burns down everything and spits his pity on the grey ashes. Behind walls of his existence, Shigaraki embraces death from Monday to Friday and sometimes on the weekends. He grinds through the existential mincer and just fucking sinks.
It all ends when Shigaraki catches himself thinking that Dabi's eyes mirror hell — a color of Cote d'Azur, bathed in the rays of the rising sun, and his pupils like fucking black pools, reflecting infinity. Something is burning inside of him, and besides the eternal deaf pain, Tomura feels like someone is placing the last nail under his skin. Shigaraki thinks that when he kills Dabi off, he'll leave his eyes as a souvenir.
He leans onto the broken sink, looking at himself in the mirror and sees a gigantic whole nothing - nothing in the square cube, and then touches his reflection. It cracks and Shigaraki looks at how the object crumbles to ash, how he crumbles to ashes, how his life crumbles to ashes, and all his actions are limited by the observance of his crumbling world. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears a hysterical cry of a child.
— Destroying mirrors won't change your face.
Tomura knows the owner of this arrogant, sour voice, but still turns around and his look burns in Dabi a hole the size of a solar system.
— Fuck off.
But Dabi doesn't move an inch and only leans on the doorframe, staring at him like he is a fucking Mona Lisa in the Louvre. Shigaraki feels like someone else's hands get under his skin and are scratching, scratching, scratching and he winces in pain. He's looking for a way to retreat but only stumbles upon dirty, cracked walls.
— Even though you're freak, you have beautiful eyes.
Tomura falls out of reality for a second, two, three, and his thin eyebrows raise in silent surprise. His tongue is tied in a huge tangle of unspeakable whatthefucks and Shigaraki wants to sink into the ground, into a crater of some volcano, to burn before he would destroy himself.
He squeezes:
— What are you on about?
Clenching his fists, he crosses the bathroom, looking into the corridor; away from here, away from all mirrors, away from places that have a distinct sickening smell of burnt flesh. He thinks of a cigarette, he thinks of a drink, he thinks of a place where he can just disappear to where no creature in this world could find him.
— I'm saying, that if it wasn't for your fucked up temper, I could've, probably, fallen for you.
Shigaraki drowns in this nonsense: no gills can help him. He throws a careful glance at Dabi to make sure that everything is just a very poorly played joke, but the look he gets in response is calm and phlegmatic, and impassive, and sees a fire. It feels as if the room sucked up all oxygen, and the ceiling crumbles to the floor. Shigaraki doesn't breathe.
— Breathe, Shigaraki.