"I know, sweetheart." The woman gathered her daughter in her arms. Ayumu's mother always wore long sleeves and either skirts or pants that covered to the ankle, that way their skin-to-skin contact was more easily controlled. Other children didn't seem to grasp the problem with touching the shy girl, and even some adults refused to change their behaviors. "I know. My poor girl. Last night was a hard one, then?"
She clutched the soft material of her mom's shirt. "Uh huh."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Her mother never judged Ayumu for the memories she experienced in her dreams, unlike the few others she'd made the mistake of telling before she realized those were private moments. Moreover, many of Ayumu's earliest memories were shared with her mother; there could be no shame between them when both were stripped so bare.
"Nuh-uh," she whimpered.
Her mother continued to soothe her with gentle, but firm strokes against her back. "That's okay." The woman hummed and rocked, kissed the hair atop her daughter's head. In return, Ayumu braided a strand of her mother's midnight hair. "Maybe there's another way to get the memories out. Better than hurting yourself. Do you want to try?"
The girl turned wide, tear-brightened eyes to her mother's. "How?"
"There are some people," the woman considered, "who have experienced things, or seen things, or done things that leave scars in them. They have to find a way to deal with it, so they turn to different methods, like therapy. We will take you to therapy, but I also want you to try another way." She stood, cradling the small girl, and carried her to the play area. There she set Ayumu down, and began ruffling through the arts and crafts supplies. "Here. You can try drawing and painting. You can use it to express however you feel, or however those memories feel in the moment. Not all pictures have to be pretty, so you can make them however you want."
She sniffled. "Okay." Ayumu took the cheap construction paper and the washable paints, the brushes that shed and left their bristles to dry and set forever. She gnawed her lip and studied the blank expanse, closed her eyes, and a flash of memory hit in the silence of the moment. She swirled black on the paintbrush until it was nearly dripping, then dragged it across the page to make glaring black Xs in dominating in not-quite-a-pattern. Blue was next, and it mixed with the edges of the black and the darkness still on her brush so that it was like the blue of the ink pen her mom kept next to the phone. Red and grey (with black and white mixed since there wasn't an actual grey). When she was done, the paper was heavy with layers of aggressively applied color.
She passed it to her mother, who took it quietly and set it safely aside, then Ayumu grabbed another page and began again.
Art was her saving grace throughout the years. For her tenth birthday, Sayuri, her mother, bought her real acrylics and watercolors instead of the cheap childrens paint. She had brushes and pencil and charcoal and paper specifically for each medium. At fourteen she received oil paints, an easel, and canvases.
A teacher told her once, after she'd placed first in a school-wide art contest, that, in a way, her Quirk was a blessing. "Look at the gift it inspired in you."
Her mother made sure she wasn't in class with him the next year.
Her small studio was filled with her art projects now. Her furniture consisted of a futon that was both bed and couch, a small "entertainment system" with her television and gaming systems, a side table, an easel, and her drafting table. That table cost more than the rest combined, but it was well worth it.
She was more of a painter than anything else, but Ayumu had worked with nearly every art form over the years. Sculpting was fun and it helped immensely with thinking of her work in three dimensions. Ink was a painstaking, but sometimes fulfilling, challenge. Oil pastels were preferred to chalk, charcoal to pencil, and oil paints were home.
Ayumu sighed and set down the paint brush she had been using, stretching shoulders and back and hands. It was a small piece, so she had hunched in close. How long had she been painting?
Her gaze darted to the canvases she'd worked on; there were three in total. With oils she often had more than one going at a time. They dried slowly, and wet-on-wet painting wasn't always what she wanted.
Her eyes dropped to her phone for the time (well past when she should have stopped to eat and take care of herself), and a smile overtook her concentrated expression. She had a text.
how bout we meet for coffee. got sumthin i wanna discuss w/ u
That was about two-ish hours ago.
-Uh oh. Sounds serious
His response was immediate and ridiculous.
yeah im pregnant n ur the mom
-lol, okay, weirdo. How's your schedule look?
for u doll? pretty fuckin open. how bout 2morrow
-Sure. Send me the address of a coffee place and a time and I'll be there
Her heart stuttered as she contemplated what he might want to discuss. It shouldn't be anything overly serious; Dabi didn't seem the serious type when it came to… whatever they were doing. Still, who didn't get nervous when someone wanted to talk with them?
That's a problem for tomorrow, she reminded herself. Don't borrow trouble from tomorrow to worry about today, or something like that.
She needed food.
When wrapped up in a project, hunger was a distant sensation. She could paint for hours upon hours, breathing in the fresh air through the open window mingling with the earthy scent of oil paint. Then Ayumu would stop and the needs of her body would crash down- hunger, thirst, toilet, sleep. It had been manageable when she lived with her mother; Sayuri would stop her for meals, remind her to take care of herself. Her ex-girlfriend had done the same when she'd been over, which was increasingly less often as she cheated more and the chance of getting caught rose.
"It's like I have no privacy! You can just- just touch me and get my secrets."
Grief had torn Ayumu's heart. "You know I can't control what my Quirk takes. You think I want this-" She'd reached out, but Hitomi had jerked back, and her hand curled in on itself in shame.
"Yeah, well, sometimes I want things like that to stay private," the dark eyed woman had spat.
"You know I would never judge what I see." The familiar guilt ate at her. Tomi had once told her that it was okay, that it would create a stronger bond for the two of them to share those intimate moments. But in the recent months, her girlfriend had increasingly avoided her touch. It was a rejection she expected from others, but she'd allowed herself to be vulnerable with the woman she was falling in love with; now the wound was sharp enough to pierce the skin Ayumu hated.
Hitomi's sneer dropped, her liquid black eyes widening, her lips rolling inward, hands dangling at her sides. "I know you'd never judge my past. I know you've seen worse. I just… I can't right now, okay? I'll see you tomorrow."
That had been just weeks before the last time they connected. It had just been a few soft kisses and handholding, and that night she'd seen what Hitomi was hiding.
The wound still stung.
Ayumu checked the time to see how long she had. She hadn't meant to get lost in memories and brush strokes. Calculating the time the trip would take backward, she did not have time to shower.
She shed her coveralls and slipped into clean clothes- leggings and long fitter tee that fell past her hips. Flat ankle boots, and zippered black hoodie jacket. She grabbed her miniature backpack and her phone, and left.
It was cooling down from the height of the day. Dabi, like herself, was not a day-time being. He was very much nocturnal, and she was crepuscular. There was something about the twilight hours that whispered peace, wrapping her in its hazy arms so she felt like she was less of the world.
She took the underground, which had a stop near the coffee shop the guy had chosen. There were people coming home from work, but most of them were exhausted enough they didn't give the woman a second glance. With her tattoos covered and her hair obscured in the shadows of her hood she was far less conspicuous.
It was approaching full dark when Ayumu slipped into the cafe. Her eyes darted around the close walls and few seats, but she didn't see the burned man. She pursed her lips, but it was still a few minutes early. She'd get herself something to drink. And a snack. How did I forget to eat?
She chose a chocolate crescent and a simple coffee paled out with cream and a touch of sugar.
"You sure that's coffee, doll?" Ayumu's airway clenched shut in surprise before she registered the words. "Got a sweet tooth?"
She glanced back at him over her shoulder. "And if I do?"
"Cute." He swiped the pastry from her and helped himself to a bite. "Pretty good." He stepped away to grab a latte before slipping into the seat beside her rather than across. His knee nudged her own as his neon blue eyes burned into her.
"So," she began.
"So." Dabi's dual toned lips quirked. "Nice to see you again, little thing. Even if you're too covered for my taste." He tugged at the sleeve of her jacket.
"I try to keep as much covered as I can usually; makes it easier to sleep at night."
He hummed and nodded. "Still, I like seeing your skin."
"Is that why you suggested meeting up? You just wanted to look at me." Ayumu felt the thrill of flirtation as he stared.
He bumped her shoulder. "In a manner of speaking." Ayumu frowned and his smirk widened. "I wanna negotiate more play. And this time I wanna fuck you."
Ayumu stared unblinkingly at him for a long moment. He was still, amused, staring right back. "That's not- that's a bad idea."
"Yeah, probably. But I can't stop thinking of having that pretty pussy wrapped around my dick."
She worried at the crescent, flakes crumbling onto the napkin she'd spread. "You really don't want that." Dabi's expression remained flat, expectant. "I told you I see memories. To be specific, I see intimate memories- first kiss, most humiliating experiences, abuse, sex… if it's something private, vulnerable, I might see it. And there's no rhyme or reason to it. I just go to sleep and the memory plays."
His eyes darkened as Ayumu spoke, lids lowering, smirk evening out. He drummed fingertips on the table, then tipped his head as he said, "So you really might see me jackin' it."
The laugh burst from her lips before she could cover it. "You are ridiculous."
"You've had sex before, right?" He said flatly. "You mentioned a girlfriend, so you've had relationships."
"Yeah, and it ended badly because of what I saw."
"It ended badly because she did some stupid shit," he countered. "Not gonna lie, there are definitely memories of mine you shouldn't see." A pink tongue darted across his burnt lower lip. "But I like playing with fire."
Her cheeks burned even as a shiver ran across her nerves. "It's a bad idea," she repeated.
"What're you worried about?"
"What if I see something I shouldn't? Something illegal?" He did illegal work, and Ayumu didn't doubt there was violence involved. "For all you know, I could call the cops."
He quirked a brow. "It's a damn good thing this isn't the cellphone I do business on. I can just toss it, and you'd never hear from me again."
"Aren't there easier ways to get laid?"
Dabi reached over slowly and traced a fingertip down one of the delicate bones of her hand. "I've got my reasons. What d'ya say we get out of here? Go somewhere more private."
Her eyes had fluttered shut at his touch, the first she'd felt in months. It ignited the skin hunger hovering just under the surface, and her lashes batted apart. "Okay."