Unbeknownst to the two of you, scraggly alley cats were excitedly pawing at a pair of worn-down, black scuffed loafers trying to make their way any further without feline friends trapping his toes. Scratchy purrs reverberated in shaky tones within the depths of must gathering around all of the lonely street's occupants, candy cane curled tails joining scuba diver curved ones in pursuit of their smoky target; a man with an ever changing body temperature that ebbed and flowed towards both the chilliest, frozen iceberg and free, no expenses included human space heater with the habit of drawing his patchwork hands to clutch at an empty box of Seven Star's menthol cigarettes.
Dabi listlessly floundered around the furry clergy taking leaps and bounds to tamper with his normally smooth stride, clutching at the raggedy hem of his obsidian black jeans with gentle claws, however gentle a cat could be in a frenzy to make their way onto his body. It normally didn't bother him that much most nights on the streets, his fuzzy allies making groups to crowd around his form while he made his way further into the pavement, not admitting his soft spot for cats in the travels to get an odd job with odd hours involving arson.
The underground information trade was no joke, neither was Giran's seedy repertoire for getting any and all paid in full jobs done by the best of the best, no matter how much they looked like a raw scab on someone's genitals, case in point his own appearance.
Most people's reactions to his... particular aesthetic were met with jabs done to how he could be a full-time twink son of a bitch sucking dick for coin in cheap motels, his supposed enjoyment for crystal meth or black tar heroin gradually taking over his life until his ex-wife chucked bleach and violet paint onto his face, showing how shriveled his tiny balls were. Of course, a sweep of the hand later, their traps would be melded shut courtesy of his firepower to let patches of skin droop in boiling droves, silent screams accentuated by bulging eyeballs of nobodies who thought they were slick.
The thought of it made his mouth curve up and pull at his grey stitches all at once, pain coercing him to mold his features into a neutral expression in danger of blood seeping onto fresh wounds and old, mottled skin. Boys in blue had no idea what his motives were, not even the tiniest clue to where his macedoine plum scars were leading them to, amusement filling his very being to the very top of his spiked hair follicles. Even the man of the hour, Eraserhead with his tight ass black outfit clinging to his chiseled abs and allowing the folds in his clothing to cover his rounded cheeks, didn't lay a single dart in the middle of the board with all needles pinpricking nothing but the borders.
"Sure hope I got enough money to last me at least a week," Dabi mumbled out lazily, his stride untouched by the pussy cult surrounding him in a swarm, making pointed ears raise them in the direction of his honey-like voice.
He wasn't going back to living on the streets anytime soon, affording a rundown apartment building in one of the worst parts in Yokohama was the saving grace to his needs left long ignored from his familial situation. While he would rather not confirm nor deny the cluttered insults thrown at him when he met up with the broker for the very first time, it's true that when you're running on empty emotionally and there hasn't been a crumb of sustenance in your belly for a solid week and a half, banking on soiled water near the sewers filled to the brim with most likely lead, you get down on your knees and do what you can to survive.
It's as simple as that, as if they wouldn't do so the minute all their savings were gone in thin air, living quarters nonexistent, and family not a place you can afford to live with any longer. It makes him scoff in disbelief, the bunches of hypocrites they are with their counterfeit brand name clothing, showing off how really not well of they are in an attempt to make themselves known as "bigshots."
Whines are dragged on into the brisk nighttime air when his form finally reaches the destination of a set of moldy-grey stairs, steps leading him to welcome them to the last stop of the journey they can follow him to, his front door. Yeah, yeah, see ya later cuties, is drawn out of his pierced lips, blowing an imaginary kiss towards the feline clique he had outside of his door, dangling his keys in front of them before thrusting them into the rusty bronze lock situated on the barrier between the outside world and his humble abode. Shutting the door quickly to not catch any pristine, white whiskers in the motions of the creaky hinges, he starts to proceed with his customary lock and chain, bolting it for a safe measure and then sighing in relief for his aching feet.
Convenience store shoes weren't usually manufactured with the highest quality soles to protect his feet from wandering blisters popping up between his heels and toes, a real thorn in his side considering how much he had to travel each time Giran contacted him on his Mesopotamian Era Nokia phone. Even thinking about how old the device was made a groan start to build up behind his voice box, consciously stifling the noise to instead focus on dropping most of his clothes on his carpeted flooring to comfortably display his naked torso and covered lower body with his pants.
Air conditioning was a luxury he could definitely strongnot/strong afford this time of year, as his sagging landlord raised the prices through the roof whenever there was a possibility in the late-springtime to deceive some young tenants, not today satan. Not today, he whispers to himself, raising his arms to place them at the base of the back of his neck, stretching his triceps delightfully in place of actually throwing his body into bed and not crawling out until he has enjoyed a thoroughly long coma. Only 2 and a half more years until your baby brother gets chucked into a state-of-the art hero school forcibly by your father's hands, a traitorous voice in the back of his head pours tangy, rotten milk with clumps of sour dairy, ruining his barely relaxed mood.
He chooses to ignore the damned statement in his mind, instead focusing on anything other than the fact his youngest brother would reach even further courtyards containing gruesome torture methods, all at the control of father dearest. In its stead, the man's mind also chooses to focus on the literal child vigilante he had met one night a month ago, time passing as if nothing monumental had ever occurred in their interesting chat. The person was rather peculiar to him, someone who put on the mask of illegal hero to only turn around and respect his bony buttocks skillfully charring bones to a crisp?
'Ridiculously needed in this world,' is what comes to his bubbling mind, staring out the window of his tiny apartment building window to catch the enthralling sights of a deteriorating brick wall. Dabi lunges towards the shoddy cabinets contained the holy grail to all his needs, iced hot soba that was just missing a bit of microwaveable heat and ice cubes drooping into the warm water of his china bowl.
With that he stirs the noodles as enthusiastically he can get, slamming it into the aforementioned cooking appliance to clock it into its incubator for a total of 45 seconds, any longer and the delicacy would become far too soggy for his liking. Drumming his fingers on an inexpensive granite countertop, he thinks to the fact that that was the first time anybody other than the information broker had treated him like an actual human being and not an indispensible no-name that could drop off the face of the earth without a dime to their body.
It's surprising what years of emotional abuse compounded with fists striking his prepubescent body could do to you, a flick of the wrist and his own father could have beaten him halfway up to Sunday with various blacks and blues seeping into his skin. The mere act of kindness bestowed upon him by you was something that stuck with him for a long time after the fact, even if it happened to be weeks back in time.
He wondered how long you would be able to drudge along roads filled with manure and muck of mankind's design before losing any nuts and bolts that kept your unusual beliefs together, before prejudice took over any unbiased thought processes you held and that the next time you would come to meet him, you would immediately look on in disdain, gritting your teeth in total disgust to the human being he was.
Then again, the way you drilled through his metaphorical walls with ease denote the former being a complete excuse for insecurity on his part, from his first impression you had quickly come to know how he ticked, even if your ways were unknown to him. Quirks weren't everything these days, despite what the overbearing motherload of media may come to say along with aggressive advertising tactics set up by the Hero Commission to recruit child soldiers more often than not.
Maybe the next time the two of you met, it wouldn't be as corpse-filled with an acrid stench filling the air to both of your dismays, and general hijinks would ensue, a glimpse of a white-haired boy tugging ceaselessly on the back of his t-shirt filling his eyelids for only a moment before disappearing into the void. He shook it off as if there was a particularly incessant mosquito carrying malaria trying to plug its miniature needle into his eggplant, burned pieces of skin. Those times were gone and far, far away in the past no matter how much he longed for them. It wouldn't ever be that way again, not now or ever with how his life was treating him so far.
"I'm really that far gone, huh?" he lamely says into the empty air carrying naught but dust particles around his makeshift kitchen and living room. Suddenly flushing his tastebuds endlessly with bundles of slippery soba noodles seems healthier than carrying on with his thoughts and himself alone, slurping filling the once quiet room and steam gingerly rising from the porcelain bowl in his hands.
No one ever mentioned how overthinking was basically the start of ruining your life, he thought incredulously that if it wasn't taught in middle school by some honky-tonk uninformed teacher, then everyone may as well fuck themselves over their own counters using only their anxiety to shove further up their ass.'What a life I'm living,' echoes into his now empty head, the punk man once again choosing to fix his eyes on his target of delicious takeout.