ii. cigarette daydreams

He wouldn't call himself an addict, exactly.

It was only when the headaches got really bad – when everything seemed to play out in fast forward while he dragged himself onwards in slow motion – that he used. Doctors were prescribing any number of controversial drugs that didn't help. What made cocaine any less medicinal when it actually made a difference? Of course, Giran had different thoughts on the matter ("no employee of mine is going to be a junkie," he'd always say, "i don't pay you to throw your life down the toilet"). But the only reason Satoshi was able to do the work that he did – keeping on top of the administration that Giran inevitably fell short on, running the errands and doing the dirty work Giran never had time to do – was because his pill-popping and powder-snorting were the only things that allowed him to keep his head.

The headaches came and went erratically, rearing themselves at all the wrong times. Mostly when he hadn't slept in a while. Sometimes in response to certain smells or in a certain light. They came as a prowling black animal: roused at the juncture between his skull and spine; slinking into the crown of his head, digging in polished and poised claws before bursting forth in a flurry of red hot agony. Screeching into his temples. Spitting venom into his eyes.

Admittedly, the cocaine and the pills didn't always work as he would have wanted them to. At best, they tranquilised the predatory pain, put it back to sleep so that it was but a dull weight falling further away until at last it fizzled out entirely after a few hours, a day maybe. At worst, the pain only receded slightly, swirling and shimmering like oil in sunlight in the most intimate, cavernous parts of Satoshi's skull.

In these scenarios – few and far between, but lasting for some days at a time – the best he could do was lie still and quiet in the cool darkness of his studio apartment. Curtains drawn tight. Vinegared cloth over his eyes. Only getting up to smoke or piss or force a glass of room temperature water down his throat, thinking of nothing and everything at such dizzying speeds that he constantly felt himself to be on the verging of puking.

This had been one of the bad ones, and it had started the night that Giran was meeting potential recruits for Shigaraki at that bar in the middle of nowhere.

Specifically, it was when the guy with all the burn scars – Dabi, he'd called himself – had left. He'd slipped out the bar in such a hurry, black figure hunched and formless in the street's purple darkness, that Satoshi hadn't been all that sure it was him at first (see, he'd gone outside for air, for a little peace and quiet before the next client; he hadn't expected to see Dabi leaving so soon [Giran must have liked him] and wasn't exactly keeping an eye out for him). But then Dabi had stepped through the glow of a street lamp, out from and back into the shadows like something from an allegory, and Satoshi had called out to him in a moment of morbid fascination. He was a naturally curious boy, loved prodding and poking and asking questions that would get him into trouble. He liked people that looked like trouble – and god, if that Dabi guy didn't just scream problematic.

Satoshi smiled upon catching Dabi's eye, went up close to him on the street side – "Where are you headed?" he asked.

"None of your business."

"Want to get a drink sometime?"

It was a pleasure, the little flash of surprise this elicited. Dabi only stood there, hands in his pockets, silhouetted by the burning street lights and towering above Satoshi like an idol. "This some kind of joke?" he murmured eventually.

"Do I sound like I'm kidding?"

A car came past, the rumble of its engine slicing through the silence that stood between them – and in the brief swipe of its headlights, Dabi's face stood illuminated and grave: hard, downturned mouth; gnarled flesh like a dried plum; and then, like the spark of a lighter, poisonously blue eyes staring impassively down at Satoshi. He could have been beautiful, beneath all that terrific scarring and ugly attitude. Eyes like that – icy cold colour and flecks of deep feeling. Satoshi smiled wider, pulled the cigarette box from his pocket.

"Want?"

Dabi frowned deeper. "I don't smoke."

"Aww, don't lie." Satoshi opened the box, plucked out a cigarette. "You wouldn't be looking at it like that if you didn't want one."

After a moment's pause – Dabi took the cigarette.

And that was it. That was when the headache began to shiver to life, twisting and turning with a lavish yawn at the top of Satoshi's spine. A little later, he watched Dabi leave with the horrifying sensation that all life would leave his body in the next few hours, listening to the blood rushing into his ears and the bile rising into his throat – and at the very first opportunity, he tumbled into the bathroom in an anxious flurry, grasping at his pockets for the little baggy of cocaine, almost smashing his forehead against the mirror when he bent down to snort the powder from the edge of the sink. It didn't get bad for another few hours. But the threat of it was there, and Satoshi had to sit through another three clients – making small talk, sipping drinks, mustering his deductive prowess with great effort in order to decide whether or not it was worthwhile sending the clients on to Giran – with a butchering fear at the pit of his stomach that, oh god, he was going to topple over in the middle of a business meeting.

It all ended around one or two in the morning. Went off without a hitch, Shigaraki would be pleased, good job, blah blah. Giran drove Satoshi home. He was going to drop him at the entrance to the apartment block when – "You okay there, kid?"

"Just grand, thanks for asking."

"Been awful quiet."

"Have I?"

"You look like sh–"

Satoshi threw open the car door and vomited into the parking lot.

That had all been three days ago. Now, morning or afternoon, Satoshi couldn't tell, the pain had finally begun to skulk back to its nest. He sat up in bed, neck flimsy and weak, and glanced around the apartment with a morose, slightly stupefied air. Everything was still, stagnant, empty. Dust drifted in the sickly yellow light around the curtains. There were unwashed dishes in and around the sink. Open pill bottles spilled across papers on the coffee table and bedside. When last had he had this place cleaned? The TV was on, he realised. Somewhere (not in his apartment, surely?) a toilet flushed.

Sighing, Satoshi reached for his cellphone. Dead. Had he not plugged it in to charge? He groped for the painkillers he kept in his side drawer (what other shit did he keep in there? hand cream; some razor blades; condoms; half-eaten chocolate bar, maybe; guitar picks and electric metronomes), and swallowed two of the powdery white pills dry. He hung his legs over the edge of the mattress, sat there pathetically for some moments with a dead, detached feeling until his bathroom door opened, startling him. Out stepped Giran, zipping his fly and grunting to himself. Upon seeing Satoshi, he paused in the doorway and grinned.

"Hey now, what do we have here?" he said.

Satoshi tried to smile.

"Hungry?"

"No," he murmured, pressing his bare feet to the wooded floor and mustering the enthusiasm to stand. Just then, his stomach twisted and made a very impolite sound. "Well... I don't know. I think I still have some of the ramen from that izakaya the other night. In the fridge. Will look later."

"Here–" Giran sauntered over to the lone kitchen counter (Satoshi owned only a mini fridge and a microwave; there was no oven, no dishwasher, no freezer) and began to rifle through a brown bag that had previously blended in with all the other junk Satoshi had lying there: mugs, a mouldy loaf of bread, receipts, cash. From the brown bag, Giran produced a croissant in a plastic packet and a store-bought fruit salad. He held these in one hand and took up a takeaway coffee cup in the other. "Thought you might want something, so I took the liberty of getting you breakfast."

The coffee was cold. The fruit salad was warmer than it should have been. "Breakfast for how many days ago?"

Giran gave Satoshi a wounded look. "This morning. You were up and about just a few hours ago. Remember, I stopped by?"

Had he? Satoshi couldn't remember much from the past few days – too doped up on painkillers, probably. He looked down at the fruit salad in his hands – browned and unappetising – and shook his head. "Sorry about the hassle. You didn't need to make a fuss."

"I didn't."

"Anyway." Even though the headache was largely gone, Satoshi felt as though he'd been hit by a truck. His back ached. His stomach hurt. To sit straight, stretch his neck, make conversation, was a dizzying exercise. "So what has Shigaraki got to say about the recruits?" he asked. "Have you introduced all of them yet?"

"You've asked me that already."

"Ah! Sorry. You'll have to tell me again~"

Giran rolled his eyes, taking a seat at the dining table. "It's all that shit you're putting into your body, you know. Screwing with your memory. It keeps getting worse, over time."

"It's only when the headaches are bad."

Dismissive wave of his hand. Yes, yes. Heard this all before. "I'm taking through the first batch tomorrow night," he said of the recruits. "Would have waited a little longer, but of course, Shigaraki-san's an impatient guy. On that note though–" Rifling through the papers. Pulling out his cigarettes. "I'm here on business as much as I am out of the goodness of my heart. Need to hear your opinions on some things. You up for a quick business discussion?" After taking his own cigarette, Giran threw Satoshi the box and the lighter. "I'd say it wouldn't take long. But you never give me short answers even when I ask you to."

Satoshi smiled around the cigarette as he lit it. "I'll do my best, boss. What do you want to know?"

"We didn't get to finish our talk the other night. Well, you know I don't like making a call on things without some of your input first. Unfortunately, you zoned out in the car before I got to pick your brain."

"Ah."

"So?"

"So?"

"So what did you think? Of the guys?"

He dragged deeply, let his head fall back on his shoulders as he blew out a silvery bellow of smoke. "Ah. Them," he said. "Well, let me start by saying I definitely didn't like the last guy. What was his name again? Imasuji? The big one, you know? He seemed like a bit of a cunt. I mean, that's just me personally, of course. But I hated talking to him. Too... I don't know," he swirled the cigarette thoughtfully, "burly. Unhinged. But again, that's just on a personal level, really. I'm glad I don't have to deal with him. For Shigaraki though? Eh, he'll probably do alright. Can't imagine he'll last long though. Totally on his own mission."

"Mmm," Giran hummed. "A pity you think so. I thought the group could do with a bit more muscle. They've all seemed a little squishy thus far."

"What about the guy with the teeth? In the straight jacket? God, he gave me the creeps."

"You say unhinged..."

"Yeah. Well, anyway, you've got my opinion on him already. Who else did we meet with? Spinner, right?"

"Yes, that's what he called himself. The mutant-type."

"I liked him. He was cool. I think he's got the right mindset, you know? He responded very enthusiastically when I started talking about Stain."

"Mmm. Very agreeable character, that one. I just hope Shigaraki-san will be able to see past the Stain obsession. You know how he is, at the moment."

"I mean, Spinner's a gamer, I think. The way he talked gave me that impression. Shigaraki should like that."

At this, Giran smiled. "Ah, yes. Got to relate to the child in everyone, don't we?" He leaned onto the table, blew a cloud into the already cloudy air. "And what about Dabi? I couldn't quite gauge with that one."

Oh, yes – Dabi.

He'd taken the cigarette from Satoshi's fingers, a little apprehensively at first, and had stood with his body turned stiffly away. Blue eyes staring out into nothing. Blue eyes glimmering bright and brooding with each passing car and then receding back into obscurity. He didn't look at Satoshi for a long time, although it was all too obvious in the tight line of his back and the sharp, quick movements of his hands that he was all too aware that Satoshi was there. Indeed, he flinched away every time Satoshi inched closer, angled himself ever further towards the road the longer they stood there smoking.

What was it about Dabi? Something that Satoshi just couldn't put his finger on. Dabi had done the expected thing – eyes widening ever so slightly, hands unclenching imperceptibly around his glass of whiskey – at the mention of Stain. Oh, Stain, Stain, Stain! God knows it wasn't what Shigaraki wanted. Shigaraki was probably going to shit himself over the sort of characters Giran was bringing him. But that was the best sort of bait there was. It was what they all seemed to be after: to be the one to bring down hero society, the one to take it all on and bear the burden and the glory that was the legacy of Stain, Stain, Stain!

Really, Dabi wasn't as different as he obviously thought he was (edgy boys always thought they were different and so terribly misunderstood). Not that Satohsi didn't think it was a noble goal, of course. But really, it was just another fad. put my convictions to good use. It was the saddest thing Satoshi had heard all evening, if only for the sincerity of its sureness and determination, the sort that would fizzle out with just the right amount of disappointment.

"So," Satoshi said eventually, hoping Dabi would look at him. "That drink?"

"I don't swing that way."

"Huh?"

And then Dabi did look at him, a hint of irritation in his voice. "I'm not into guys."

"Oh!" Satoshi laughed, admittedly concealing some disappointment. "Oh, no. That's cool. Don't get the wrong idea. It's not like I'm inviting you to a gay bar or anything. You just interest me, is all."

Dabi turned away again, smoked quietly. And then, "Is that guy in there your boss or something?"

"Yes, he's my boss."

"What sort of business is it that he's running?"

"Oh, this and that. Recruitment, in this case. Some other trade on the side. Didn't he already tell you? I mainly just help out with the administrative side of things."

"Admin."

"Yes. Admin. I guess you could say I do PR too, though you wouldn't guess that's a big thing in this line of work."

"Mmm."

Satoshi leaned in closer. Dabi smelled of smoke and sulphur and sweat. "And what is it that you do, currently?"

"Nothing."

"Where do you stay?"

"Nowhere."

"Really not looking to make friends, here, are you?"

"No."

what was it about Dabi?

To think of it too much made the headache hiss back to life, static-like and with the lingering essence of a hangover. Sighing, Satoshi lay back down on the bed, one arm behind his head and his tongue between his teeth. There were questionable stains on the roof, like days-old bruises gone brown. There were goosebumps on his legs – he was in his underwear, he realised, but he didn't particularly care and didn't think Giran would care all that much either (Giran had seen much more of him than this, after all). He lay still and silent for sometime, chewing his lip in thought while also trying not to think too much more. Dabi, Dabi, Dabi: what was there to say about Dabi?

"I'm not sure," Satoshi muttered eventually, flicking his cigarette into the already over-full ashtray on his bedside table. "I know what you mean when you say you struggled to gauge. He was a lot less forthcoming than the others. But I definitely get a vibe from him... Like, yeah, I think there's something there. But I'd also be nervous about introducing him to Shigaraki. I've got this feeling that they're going to clash." He paused, struck again by the memory of those eyes. It's always the eyes, isn't it? Always the beautiful ones, at least. Windows to the soul, and all. "He's also on his own mission," Satoshi added eventually. "Not like the other guy though. It's something else."

"Something else?" Giran prompted in the silence that followed.

is Dabi your real name? Satoshi had asked.

you can find out when the time comes.

"I don't know."

Giran hummed, looking away and finishing off his own cigarette before snubbing it out on the dining room table, which was already ruined by years of spilled drinks and ash and pen marks. "Seems he made an impression on you," Giran said. "He made an impression on me too. But I agree, Shigaraki-san's not going to take to him easily. I'm thinking of introducing Dabi first so that the others will go by more smoothly. Toga-chan too. What do you think?"

Satoshi rolled onto his side and looked at Giran from across the pillow. "I liked Toga-chan though."

"A bit of a fanatic."

"So was Spinner."

"He's got the sort of personality that Shigaraki will get on swimmingly with though. A certain childishness, don't you think?"

"Guess so."

"Oh, for goodness sake. Eat the goddamn fruit salad, Toshi-kun." Giran stood suddenly from the dining table, went to put on the kettle that he'd bought for Satoshi as a work-anniversary gift the year before (five years this year! and to think it was just the other day that you were a teeny tiny fourteen year old that I found on the street like a stray kitten, Toshi-kun). "You look as though you're about to pass out on me again."

Meekly, while the kettle boiled and Giran stared him down, Satoshi picked out slices of watermelon and pineapple from the plastic container. He chewed slowly, enjoying the sensation of something solid in his mouth while also shivering sickly at the stark, sugary taste of fruit down his throat. The last real meal he'd eaten? Probably two days ago when he'd tried to stomach a bowl of cereal, which may or may not have still been half full somewhere around the sink. He didn't have much of an appetite to begin with, worse still when the headaches were bad, in which case the best he could do was to drink water – and even this was only out of absolute necessity because, if he had to pick, dying in bed of dehydration would not be his ideal way to go.

Giran made them both coffee – black for him; strong, with three sugars and milk, for Satoshi – and drank his cup by the upright piano that Satoshi kept in the corner of the apartment – this was alongside two violins (both of which were stolen) and an acoustic guitar (gifted, by Giran himself). Absent-mindedly, Giran toddled his fingers over the piano's keyboard – F sharp, G, G sharp, A, and then with flourish, C sharp; the piano desperately needed tuning – before getting bored and turning back to Satoshi. "Listen, I need you to contact the recruits and let them know of the arrangements," he said. "I've left a schedule on your table. I'd appreciate if you could contact them all by tonight."

"Sure thing, boss."

"And one more thing." Giran looked at Satoshi sombrely. "I want you to get these headaches checked," he said, voice suddenly quiet and affected. "This is the worst you've had in a long time."