It smells of antiseptic.
Enji isn't new to this. Part of the job, though he's ashamed to admit it. Injuries happen, in this line of work, and it's not his first time staring blankly at white walls, as a patient or a visitor.
But, still.
Antiseptic.
He's spoken to police. And then those above the police. And then those above those. The recommendation there and stern. See him. You likely never will again.
Frankly, Enji hasn't thought of it. Was much too focused on the here and now and war. He knows if he said it aloud, Shouto would give him one of those painfully blank looks. Wise beyond his years.
And so Endeavor waits. Hulking form hunched over in a stiff metal hospital chair.
White walls.
Antiseptic .
It's awfully routine. Nurses paying him no mind other than a hiss to extinguish himself, or a moody point toward a chair half heartedly shielded from the press.
He thinks of Touya, for lack of anything else to occupy his mind. Thinks of Touya for the first time in an incredibly long while.
Small. A boy. A child. But sweating, nose bleeding, chest heaving and fists clenched like a man. A Hero, maybe, if pushed to breaking point and rebuilt. Yet still, painfully, weak. A stupid boy, an even more foolish man.
"Todoroki? Endeavor, sir?"
He jolts and quickly stands to conceal it. Towers to full height and blinks away. The temptation to ignite. A nurse, clipboard in hand and eyes peering sternly over a medical mask.
"Endeavor." A one word sentence. She seems remarkably unimpressed.
"He's stable, though unconscious. We've given him a sedative-"
"Hm, I wanted to speak to him-"
"He was screaming."
"Ah…"
She breathes. Let's him revel in the silence a bit, seemingly keen to frustrate. "I'm required to inform you about the severity of his injuries," she coughs and glances at her clipboard, though Enji suspects it's more so for something to do than any professional reason. His heart sparks with something odd at the thought of others being uncomfortable at the thought of this. "His body has around seventy percent burns, including the face and head. They're all at different stages of severity. If you need any help or support we have a leaflet-"
"I do not need a leaflet."
"Right."
She levels him with a stare and suddenly he wishes he'd brought Shouto along. Just to present him with his apparent rival.
The nurse gestures awkwardly and Enji follows.
Enji expects the area to be heavily guarded. But still has to school his expression into professional nonchalance when presented with the sheer amount of security.
"Endeavor, sir," they greet and he feels exposed.
He steps past two armed Heroes on either side of the door, into a private room.
It's white and bare. Only the bare necessities available and everything else removed. The one bare window is the one above the central bed, leading to the outside. Though any access to it has been sealed off and made thoroughly inaccessible.
Then there's him.
Dabi.
The first thing Enji notices is the deep rise and fall of his chest.
He's seen him. On television, maybe. Breaths but not breathing. Always stunted. Lungs half full. A struggle. A pain. Logically he knows the burns must be agony. Never quite healing.
There are Quirk suppressant handcuffs. Two sets. Each circling one bony wrist and attached to the handrail of the hospital bed. Ankles too, Enji can see the outline of a cuff under the thin hospital blanket. It's not, even remotely, overcautious.
Enji thinks this must be the first time he's truly experienced life without the dull sizzle of skin in the background.
Oh, shit.
He suppose he has some nerve to be shocked. Shoutos little face comes to mind, again.
Dabi appears to be sleeping. Motionless bar for idle arm twitches, a cocktail of irritation or damaged nerves. Enji bends down to get a closer look at his face. Painfully young, younger in sleep. Eyelashes sticky against cheeks from irreparable tear ducts. Saliva seeping from slack lips because the scarring prevents them from pulling together correctly. The face of several expletives Enji doesn't want to think about.
Dabis body is somehow worse. The hospital gown has been ripped from his chest, left a crumple of fabric over his groin. Enji wants to vomit, almost. His neck and shoulders and pecs are all in different stages of sickening decay. Charred like a cigarette. Left to blacken around the seam lines where fresh skin meets burn. Wiped clean but still blistering, bandaged but pulled away.
He's damaged all over. Not one area left unmarked. A crash test dummy for the worst of the worst. Endeavor feels anger, sickness. Because looking at this was never necessary. Never needed. He's disgraced. Because despite it all, despite the trauma and gore worming its way across a young mans skin. Dabi did this to himself. Has hurt no one but himself in his pathetically desperate cry for attention.
Stupid, fucking, boy.
He reaches down with a big, calloused hand. Smoothes stained, greyish bangs back. Doesn't move when he flinches awake. Gasping and groggy and covered in spit.
"Are you going to be sick, boy?"
Dabi grunts, attempting to pull his hands up in some uncoordinated attempt to move. Endeavor leans down and pulls a cardboard sick bowl up from the small pile of items still allowed in the room. Snaps, "stay still."
The boy stiffens, then retches.
It's not Endeavor's job. It's not his job to sit here and cradle the head of a villain in his hands while he vomits. He grapples with 'villain' and 'son' as one. Feels sick to his core at the thought.
Dabi finishes. Shoulders shaking as he pulls and pulls at the restraints, skin splitting around the cuff.
"You're pathetic."
Proven by the stiffening of his shoulders as he lays in the bed.
Dabi looks at him. Or past him, though him. Eyeing his silhouette more than his face. Thinking, feeling, lost, drugged.
Stupid.
Dabi screams.
He continues screaming even when his voice goes hoarse and trickles into insane laughter.
Continues laughing even as Endeavor walks away and those cackles diverge into sobs.