Chapter Text
The buzz of the machine is soothing to Touya's nerves. He shouldn't be there and he knows it, but he doesn't care. He likes the studio and the owner likes him enough to let him hang out there even though he's just sixteen and he's ran away from home again because his father beat him up for his grades. He failed the year and that gained him a probably broken rib or two and a few new bruises and tender areas on his body. He doesn't care about this either, too busy with the sketch he's working on to really think about the sharp pain that kicks in at every breath or the throbbing ache of the bruises. It's a rose, because beginners start with flowers and butterflies before jumping to something more difficult and elaborate, but he's adding his own twist on it, engulfing the petals in flames that, in his head, he pictures as blue. They will be his sign, he decided a long time ago, blue flames to mark every piece of art that requires fire that he'll permanently put on someone's body. People will know him because of that and will praise his work and it'll be the perfect fuck you to his cop dad who wants him to become a cop even though they both know he would be a terrible one and Touya doesn't even find the job appealing anyway. Yeah, no, thank you, the stability is nice but he doesn't care about it, never had. He prefers pursuing a more artistic career, as risky and unstable they can be. He wants to make art to live, he wants to work with people with his own interests that he can freely speak to, without filtering every single word like he did with his father when he was younger. He doesn't bother anymore, and that's how he broke his forearm four years ago; the trip to the hospital has been fun, Enji completely red and still angry but among too many people to do something at the moment. Touya has been insufferable all the time. Almost worth it when, after, Enji finished the job uncaring of Touya's brand new cast.
The only drawback to the experience has been the fact that he couldn't write or draw for a month and a half because the asshole broke his left arm, so school became even more annoying than before.
Touya isn't stupid and everybody who cares enough to look past his facade of an uncaring and lazy person knows it. He's smart, he's a quick-thinker and he's adaptable. He learns fast and learns well if interested in the subject, and his old classmates knew it. He put up this farce to not be asked anymore for homework and stuff, because he was tired of it and just wanted to be left alone.
His sketch is almost complete when the buzz stops. Touya looks at the chair where a woman's being tattooed and she's admiring her new piece - a portrait of her dog with some kind of pop art spirals-something twist that links it with Giran's style - with a small smile. It's perfectly done, the swirls of black and greenish ink make the pup look almost like the Grinch, and the colors are sort of de-saturated, as if to give the piece a filter that ages it. Almost like looking at an old TV.
Giran wraps it, then reminds her about how to take care of it while they go to the desk for the payment. That's Touya's clue to make himself invisible in the back. It's just a few minutes until Giran comes back, stretching his back with a slight grimace, and starts to clean up. "You'll bring me trouble on day, kid," he absently tells Touya, and the teen grins,
"Yeah, lookin' forward to it, old man."
"Who the fuck thought ya your manners should be thrown in jail."
"I know, right? But not because of that."
Fuck, wrong thing to say. Now Giran's looking at him way more closely, and Touya knows he's fucked.
"What did he do this time?"
"Nothin'."
" Do not lie to me, kid. 'S he only damned rule I gave ya to stay here."
What an asshole, Touya's tempted to go away and never come back. But he looks around, and the simple thought of losing such a familiar place just because of his stubbornness makes something he doesn't like scream in his chest, so he takes a breath, "Nothing, really. Just threw me around a little. I'm fine." His ribs protest, but he's better day after day at ignoring them, so it's no trouble.
Giran sizes him up, then sighs, "Okay, fine. Wanna take a smoke?" Asks, because he learnt long ago that Touya has smoked since way before he should have, and he's not his father, so it's not his duty to make him stop. Even if it's clear that Giran himself thinks he would do a better job than Enji. Yep, the bar's that low.
Touya simply nods and puts away his sketchbook; sometimes he asks Giran for an opinion, but today he just wants this day to end. He smokes with Giran, helps him a little around the shop to clean up everything before closing the rolling shutter on the big window on the street and call it a day. Or a night, since it's two a.m., but Giran likes to work at these hours, and Touya likes to break rules, and curfew is the easiest one so far, along with the swearing one. So, it's fine.
He walks home, across the city, reaches the gate of his mansion, pulls out the key, chooses the right one and puts it in the keyhole. It doesn't enter. He checks again, but yes, that's the right one. The ugly one with the square part where's connected to the set, seven teeths on the actual key. Maybe he put it the wrong way. But no, the teeth are up, the first two enter, it's the rest that doesn't work, like there's something obstructing the way.
Well, plan B.
He hits the intercom. Pushes the button and keeps the finger there. His mom will kill him for waking up everybody, but the key doesn't work, so he doesn't have an actual choice.
Nobody answers tho. Huh. That's strange.
He lets go of the button, tries again, then decides that it's not working and decides to takes an alternative way. He walks by the fence until he reaches that spot that it's in the back, hidden by the view by some trees from the outside and the shack from the inside and tries to climb over. He's never been the most athletic one in the family, not when Enji is a fucking brick wall, but he's agile and fast and usually he doesn't have any problem with that, he's done it a thousand times, he could do it with his eyes closed.
Except that today he can't . He can't fucking reach the point where the metal is bent due to the tree that fell on it years and years ago, when he was way to little to actually remember it. He's fucking done with this shit, so he takes out his phone and lights up the torch to take a better look. And, fuck. Fuck the railing has been fixed. The metal is still of another colour than the rest of the fence, the grainy texture from the sandpaper visible where the brand new welds links the new piece in its new spot and he's just too fucking short to reach for it, and why the fuck did his parents fix it when they didn't even knew it was his way in and out. He goes back to the gate and tries again, this time lighting everything up with the phone torch, and. And. There are welds all around the key thingy.
Like it's been replaced.
But that's not right, that's wrong, nobody told him that. Never. Not Natsuo or Fuyumi, nor his mom. What the fuck?
Touya looks at his phone, finally taking in all the notifications he ignored all day long, after skipping school in favour to go to the skate park and borrowing a board from someone since his fucking father broke his own against him.
> Mom2.0: Touya, come to school you're still on time
> Mom2.0: Touya please
> Mom2.0: Touya
> Mom2.0: Dad will be mad please
And,
> Nat: Tou where the fuck r u
> Nat: Tou he's mad
> Nat: What did you do
> Nat: Come home like rn he's scaring me
> Nat: Niisan
And,
> Mom1.0: Touya don't provoke your father
> Mom1.0: The school called. Where are you?
> Mom1.0: Touya
> Mom1.0: Answer your phone
> Mom1.0: Touya
> Mom1.0: Touya please please answer your phone where are you
> Mom1.0: Im sorry touya i love you
All the messages are from this morning, received in the span of a few hours, but not even one is past two-thirty p.m. And the profile pictures of his siblings and mother are blank, he can't see the last access.
< You: Mom?
< You: The fuck mom why did you called fifteen times
< You: You natsuo and yumi
< You: Mom
< You: Open the door i'm out here the key doesn't work
Nothing, not even the received tick comes out. Only the 'sent' one. What the fuck. Touya opens the call app and looks briefly at the twenty eight- twenty fucking eight missed calls, nineteen from his mother, four from his sister and five from his brother. And he didn't answer a single one, because his phone is always silenced because nobody ever looks for him anyway, and just the fact that they actually tried to contact him is enough to raise his anxiety to alarming levels. Because his keys don't work, the fence has been fixed and he can't get inside the house if nobody opens to him.
He calls his mom. The call drops. He tries again. It drops again. He tries Fuyumi, Natsuo, even the fucking landline that nobody cares about.
Nothing. Every call is dropped after the first ring, as if somebody on the other end of the phone ends the call without answering.
Dread crawls its way inside his lungs as he stares at the only number he hasn't tried to call yet. He only has lost calls from it, the last one dated a couple of months ago, when some snitch at school told his homeroom teacher that he was smoking weed in the bathroom during recess.
Touya doesn't press the call button. He chickens out- no, he mantains his fucking dignity , and goes for a text message instead. He opens the archived chats, and, yep, Enji's one doesn't have a picture, either. Touya swallows dry and opens it. The words are blurred,
> Bastard: You're no longer welcome in our home, Touya. If you want to do what you want, you'll do it on your own.
If I find you near my children again I will not hesitate to arrest you. Do not contact any of us anymore until you fix your behavior.
Touya is fucked. Is utterly fucked. He looks at the mansion; he doesn't even have any of his shit, only the school uniform he's wearing, his backpack with his sketchbook, a few pencils, his phone, a bottle of water, a few yens, his headphones, his pack of cigarettes and those fucking useless keys. Nothing else. No clothes, no food, no fucking charger . No shelter.
He takes a deep breath that's way more trembling than he wants it to be. Okay. Okay, he'll find a way, he's always found a way. He found a way to be himself even with Enji trying to smother him down, he found a way to learn how to draw even though Enji has the habit of making ribbons of every page Touya has ever shown him since the day he was five and told his dad that he wanted to be an artist. He found a way when the man broke his phone and refused to buy him another one because you have to get used to being poor with the career you're trying to pursue , he found a way when his mom told him that maybe your father is right, maybe he's really doing it for your sake after being screamed at for trying to defend him for the umpteenth time when Touya was ten and he didn't want to start taking karate lessons instead of the art course he wanted.
He doesn't have so many options now. He could wait here and risk it, he could go to a police station and try to tell them that he's the son of the chief of the one next door and ask if please will they let him in for the night? It won't work, he knows it.
So, he reaches out to the only person he knows could help him at the moment. Well, the only one he trusts, even if only a little.
"The fuck, kid, it's four in the morning, if ya forgot somethin' in the shop jus' come back tomorrow." Clearly sleeping, Touya is already bothering him and he can't help the little sob that leaves his lips. He won't help him too, not even Giran, he made him mad by waking him up.
The sound seems enough to wake the man a little bit more, though, "Kid? Hey? You alright?"
"Giran," he pleases, "Can, can you come? I need- I can't go home, I, I need a place. Please. For tonight, I'll go away tomorrow, I just- please, please ? I can't-"
"Hey, 's alright. Are you okay? You hurt?" Touya can hear some rustling from Giran's side of the phone.
"No, I'm, I'm fine," even if his sobs seem to tell another story. Maybe he's fine physically, but he feels like someone ripped his heart out of his chest to replace it with dry ice. So cold it turns his stomach from inside out, his lungs too, the tears that fall on his face so hot in comparison to be almost pleasant against the chill of the night.
"Good. 'Kay, go to the studio. I'll pick you up there."
"Yeah, okay. Uhm, will," he's asked this man so much, but Touya is selfish, never denied it when somebody accused him to be, so he takes another shuddering breath, "Will you stay on the phone, please? Jus' for the walk." I don't wanna be alone , he doesn't say, but he's sure Giran heard it anyway. He's way way smarter than what his style choices make him appear to be.
"Sure thing, kid. Talk me about that bitch that tried to copy one of your pieces at school. Happened like, a month ago? Never finished to tell me the story."
Touya starts walking and he can hear Giran walking on the other side, too, then the rumble of a car door being opened and closed, an engine being started, and the sounds of driving, muffled because of the windows closed - because Giran is a heathen like that and never opens them, except for when he smokes, but he doesn't smoke in his car anyway so he never opens them at all -.
So, Touya walks, and while he walks, he starts telling his story.
~~~
The buzz of the machine is soothing to Dabi's nerves. He's right where he should be with both the timetable for this new piece and the positioning on the client's lower back. He wipes off the little beads of overflown ink from the skin and continues the lineart, being extra careful with all of the little details of the center of the sunflower he's tattooing. His client says something bitchy about an ex, but the guy was an ass so Dabi laughs and shares his experience with one of his own former flings. Not a partner, he's never been somebody able to settle down, not when he likes what he likes. He finishes one third of the seeds before stretching his back with a slight grimace.
"Fix your posture, you'll have a hunch before ya reach my age."
Dabi rolls his eyes and flips Giran off. "You're the last fucking person on this planet that can give me shit 'bout my posture," he comments, and yep, his client muffles a little laugh. It's a win then.
"Not my problem. You're old enough to do the fuck you want, kid. Don't give me shit when you'll need to ask me for money for the orthopedics or whatever."
"Not in a million years, old man," and, to his client, "I think that's enough for today. Don't want to irritate the area too much. 'S going to look funny with only like, half of it done, but it'll be fine, gonna finish it in the next appointment."
"Can I take a look?" they asks, sitting up very, very slowly. The lombar area is surely aching, and raising to their feet is going to be an interesting experience for a few days, but that's fine. It's not their first rodeo, the art that peeks out from the neck of their shirt is quite old, it seems. A few years at least.
"Sure. Mirror's that way." Dabi holds out a hand and helps them to position themselves in front of the big mirror hung on the opposite walls, and then holds a second one, smaller, to help them see their back. The immediate smile on their lips combined with the amazed look in their eyes is enough to tell Dabi that he's done a great job. He's fairly young, but his style is already defined, it seems: inanimate objects or plants, done in a realism so good - because he's not going to downplay the shit he's worked on so hard for all of those years - that it seems a printed photo, almost, black and white, with the only splashes of colour given by his blue flames, agreed upon with the client, obviously, and some hints of yellow in the petals of the flowers. The client is happy, Dabi is happy, and Giran, who came nearer to inspect his work, being Dabi his trainee, still, is happy. Every critique about Dabi's needlework will be done when the client won't be able to listen to them, but his words are never about Dabi's style, just his technique.
"You need to clean the skin more often, kid. 'S gonna help you a lot and it'll take less time to do the same amount of work," he predictably says while the little bell over the door rings to announce the exit of his client.
"Yeah, I'll keep it in mind," but as flippant as he can sound, he'll do as Giran said. That's the bare minimum after what the man did for him, what he's still doing for him, so he will repay Giran as much as he can in these little things until he can do it properly.
"Let's close up. Tomorrow you have an appointment in the morning, a consultation. It'll be fun."
"What. Why in the morning. The studio doesn't open until five in the afternoon!"
"Yes, but it's my studio and I do what I want. And payback, you little asshole, I know it's you who smoked my pot and not Jin."
Dabi can't deny it, nor can deny the fact that yes, he deserves it. He just groans and rubs his face with his hands, then passes a hand through his hair and goes to finish tidying up his station. He throws away the used gloves, the used cups of ink and paper and puts the needles in the machine that washes, sterilizes and re-seals them. Cleans up the chair and the stool, puts away his machine - the same one Giran gifted him at his eighteenth birthday, alongside the course to obtain the license and an internship at his own studio -. Really, he owns the man way way more than he could ever give back.
So, he helps where he can: he cleans up the studio's floor, then back at the apartment he lets him take a shower first, starts cooking, wipes the floors, starts the washing machine and takes a shower himself. When he goes back to the kitchen he just sits down to eat with Giran, then washes the dishes and goes to the sofa, opens it up to make it a bed and turns in for the night. Sometimes he smokes a joint to relax himself, but today he feels tired, so he just curls up under the sheet and lets his mind drift.
~~~
When he wakes up is at an ungodly hour of the morning. The light is filtering through the curtains and he checks the time on his phone with squinted eyes, hating everything and everybody as his sluggish brain registers that's just a quarter to eight. Fucking Giran, fucking client, fucking everything. Dabi forces himself to get up and start the coffee machine, then he goes to take a very cold shower, trying to connect his brain to the rest of his body. It's not early per se, but the prior night he went to sleep at three a.m., but Dabi's never been a morning person, and six something hours of sleep really aren't enough for him.
Fucking Giran, he knows it. He makes a mental note to scratch the paint of his car, then discards it as he takes the first sip of coffee. Maybe it won't be that bad.
~~~
Yeah, no, it's even worse . He doesn't mind using public transportation, usually, but today everybody seems to have twisted a ball or something going out of bed because they're giving him so much shit for just being . He's sitting and a pregnant woman gets on the wagon he's on. He does the thing that's right and socially acceptable to do and stands to let her sit. An older woman looks him up and down and says something to the bitch seated beside her thinking he can't read lips. Well he can and he does, and he's being called a fucking kobun and he knows it's because of his sleeves and he'd like to spend a few hours to educate them about it because the style and the placements are all different, but he doesn't have any breath to waste with those two, so he just turns up the volume of his headphones and minds his own business, like the twenty four years old man he is.
Fuyumi would be so proud of him.
He gets off at the right stop and walks the remaining part of his way to the shop. It's in the suburbs, and the suburbs look so different in daylight. Dabi is used to them being all lighted up with neon signs and loud sounds and people walking from bar to bar, junkies talking in a group at the corners of the streets, people entering casinos smiling and exiting crying, all of that stuff. At this time of the day it's almost desolate, and the walks through the little part of suburbs he has to do is uneventful and boring.
He crosses the last road and enters a narrow alley squished between two big buildings, walks it down, turns to the right, crosses another road and there it is: ' Ashes and Smoke ' Renamed after he gained his license and could work there with Giran. The man says it's cringe, but Dabi likes it. Smoke, as in the studio's original name, and ashes, because this studio, this job, Giran , took him from the ashes of Enji's hate and helped him to reborn, much like a phoenix or some poetic shit like that.
Yeah, he likes the name.
He opens the shutter and enters. The aroma of incense and alcohol reaches his nose and he breathes in deeply, starting to unpack his bag. He turns on the light and the air ventilation, sets the music at a low volume as a background and sits at the front desk, where's almost always. Powering up the computer always takes a few curses, but it's fine, once they get it to work it doesn't give any problems. He checks the time, almost half past ten. Perfectly on time. So, he opens his sketchbook and starts to doodle to spend the last few minutes that he has before the appointment.
He's halfway through his sketch of a drop of water that with the right lighting and a little bit of background can easily become a tear when the bell chimes again. Dabi looks up to greet the customer and makes eye contact with a guy. Doesn't know how to define him. He’s young, maybe even younger than him, with pale azure hair and deep red eyes, and is wearing a black hoodie and black jeans. And he's pale. Like, very pale. Whatever. Dabi rises to his feet, closing his sketchbook and holding out a hand.
"Dabi," he says, eyes wandering on the other's face. He's pretty, Dabi distantly notes, with almost delicate lineaments, but there's something strange about the skin of his lips and around his eyes. And on his neck, now that he can look a little more closely.
The guy shakes his hand, his own a little dry and cold. Huh. "Shigaraki Tomura. Pleased to meet you."
Dabi holds the handshake a little longer than needed, distracted to look at Shigaraki while he looks at him. Like, really looks. And Dabi knows what he's taking in: almost-full sleeves with different themes but same style, some tattoos that climb their way up his collarbone and chest from underneath the tank top he's wearing, too many piercings to count, black dyed hair clearly not professionally done and eye bags. He's sure of them, even though Shigaraki's ones are even more visible. The guy looks like a fucking ghost, but it's fine. Not the most strange person Dabi tattooed.
"So, you booked a consultation. First time, as far as they told me, right?" He asks, going to the little waiting area with two small two-seater sofas and a coffee table holding three big binders full of photos of Giran's works and one smaller, blue, with his own. He's still filling it up, only twenty or so pages, but he's - officially and legally - practicing since only last year, so he's proud of his pieces.
Shigaraki sits at Dabi's invitation and picks up one of Giran's binders, absently flipping through it. "I wanted to get a tattoo."
"Yeah, well, no shit," is his automatic answer, but it gets a look from Shigaraki. Not offended, not annoyed, but a look nonetheless. False step, maybe? They're strangers yet. Perhaps the guy doesn't like sarcasm. "Sorry, sorry, just kiddin'. Do you have any idea?"
"Yeah, kinda. But I don't know if I can actually get a tattoo," one of his hands, the one not busy holding the binder, goes to scratch his neck in a way that tells Dabi is due to some kind of nervous tic, not an itch, and looks away "I have a condition. And I have to take blood thinners. Strong blood thinners. I read that they could be an issue."
A condition, maybe that's why he's so pale, wouldn't it be rude he would ask. Occupies himself with thinking about it, tho, because he's a good professional and his clients' safety comes first, "I don't know, I'd feel more sure asking about it to the owner of the studio. It could be a problem because tattoos are actually wounds that you do- no, better, that you let somebody do on your body that do bleed. So if the bleeding can't be stopped it could become way way more dangerous than what we're comfortable with. And it could lead to an infection too."
Shigaraki slightly nods at his words, like he already knows them. Maybe he did some research like he said, even if Dabi's not that sure about it. On the internet you find some shitty information about everything after all. "They're really strong, as I said, but I am willing to take the risk. As long as you're fine with it, obviously."
That's interesting. "Sorry for the question, feel free to not answer if you don't want to, but why are you so fixed on doin' this if it could be harmful?"
Shigaraki hums at his words, considering them before speaking, "I'm going to answer you if you agree to do it. No need to, otherwise."
Dabi blinks, then shrugs. Okay. He can play as mysterious as he wants. Is unsure about accepting or not, so he takes out his phone to call Giran because doing this buys him a few more minutes to think and because he knows that the man's still sleeping. Payback, bitch .
Giran answers at the fifth ring, "Dabi, the fuck, better burnin' up or somethin', was sleeping."
"Rise and shine sweetie, we have a bit of a problem here."
"What kind of problem?" Giran sounds now way more awake, because 'problems' in this part of the city often include the police or some kind of gang that think they can mess with Giran. Exactly only one gang is allowed, with free tattoos in exchange for protection.
"The guy that booked the appointment's on blood thinners. Strong. Gonna text you the name in a few seconds. What are we doing?" Because it's Giran's studio, and Dabi doesn't want to take this kind of responsibility when it could lead to someone's death and a police report and shit like that.
Giran thinks about it for a while. Then, he sighs, "I want the name of the medication and a written laissez-passer from his doctor or who is in charge to monitor the reason why he's taking that drug. And make him sign the documents."
"Yeah, will do," he looks at Shigaraki, who's politely skimming through another binder, to leave him some kind of privacy over the call. "See ya later." Ends the conversation and waits for a few seconds before giving the news to his client.
Shigaraki stops what he's doing, raises his gaze on Dabi, "So? What did the boss say?"
"We're clear as long as you bring over your doctor's permit and give me the name of the pills or whatever." Shigaraki's eyes light up, just a little bit. Or, better, the clouds that hover on his eyes thin out just enough to make the red of the irises more vibrant, more alive. Less dead. Dabi finds himself peeking over the screen of his phone while he's texting Giran the name of the drug to look again at those eyes. They're pretty, he realizes, then scolds himself because he's with a client that's giving him way more paperwork to do than what he likes. Still pretty tho.
"You have to fill in this shit before we can move on," he says, taking out a copy of the standard form that they keep in one of the binders, "Safety, aftercare, regulations, responsibility shit, stuff like that. Read it ", he emphasizes, because people tend to skim through it without actually reading a single line. Shigaraki seems to get the memo though, because he starts to actually read the document, and he signs it at the end, adding everything requested - his phone number, the identity card's one, a contact to call in case of emergency - by memory.
Impressive. Not going to tell him though.
He makes sure that Shigaraki has filled out every blank space and puts the form in another folder. "Alright, we're at the fun part," Dabi says, with a little smile that others have always described as 'mischievous'; he's just amused, though, "What do you want to get?"
Shigaraki slightly raises an eyebrow - almost nonexistent, Dabi notices - and looks back. "Something to suggest?"
"What?"
Now it's Shigaraki's turn to look amused. He doesn't actually smile, but there's a slight change in his posture, something a little different in his expression, "A tattoo artist that doesn't have any ideas for his client. Curious."
"Never said that I don't have ideas, just said that seems strange that you don't have any given the fact that you want to get tattooed so badly to go against what your doc says."
Shigaraki shrugs. He does it with only one shoulder and the gesture seems a little off, a little jerky, like he's mimicking something he's seen people, like it's not a natural act for him, "I do have an idea. That's why I'm in this studio and not somewhere else."
"Is it a portrait?" because those are Giran's trademark and he's fucking good at them. But Shigaraki shakes his head,
"Actually, no. I'm here for you. For your realism skills."
Something in Dabi's brain short-circuit. "Come again?" asks, because that's a first. Usually people come here because of Giran, sometimes see Dabi's work and want one of his pieces. Or his clients are Dabi's own acquaintances, maybe somebody from his course who he's still in contact with or one of his few friends. The fact that this Shigaraki got to know him and his works in another way is good. It's like, really, really good. It means that the word's getting spread, Dabi 's name is getting spread and people are acknowledging his skills in the field.
"Came across one of your pieces a few months ago, couldn't stop thinking about it. I don't know much about art, I did prefer Maths in school, but I was just mesmerized. I could see every single light reflection on the fly's eyes, every single hair on its body. It was almost like a photo. Got to know who made it, got to get in contact with you."
Dabi forces down the flush that threatens to take over his whole face. He knows which piece Shigaraki is referring to, it's the design of a fly that a former member of his course asked him to put on his skin because the moment he saw it in Dabi's sketchbook he fell in love. One of his first pieces, so good because he spent too many fucking hours to be sure that everything was perfect, and he knows for sure that his insistence in some areas hurt like hell to his friend, but he didn't say shit and suck it all up and now the guy's got one of the very very few animal designs Dabi's ever made. Until now, it seems.
"Do d'ya want an animal?" prompts, because he's still not so sure about his skills in animal realism. It's kinda different than with objects or abstract things, or flowers, and he doesn't want to fuck up his first job done on a client who didn't already know him or one of his circle.
"Actually, no. I was thinking about something different," Shigaraki takes a moment, just enough to let Dabi breathe a silent sigh of relief, "Have you ever tattooed marble?"
Dabi blinks. "What do you mean with 'marble'?"
Shigaraki looks amused, "Like the veins that you can find in blocks of marble. Or cracks."
That's... something . Never heard of it, saw it sometimes on some Pinterest's boards, something about some aesthetic shit or whatever, but it's interesting. "Do you have any references?"
And Shigaraki takes his phone, taps the screen a few times and shows him. The pic portrays a guy's neck: the face isn't visible, but the tat pictured is perfectly done, and makes the skin look like it's crumbling, almost like the craquelure in an oil painting. It's an interesting concept, an interesting kind of illusionary texture, and it doesn't seem too hard to replicate since he's used to plants and petals and way way more details and shadows.
And now that's seen a reference, he recognizes the style, "It's called 'cracked tattoo', not 'marble' or some shit."
Shigaraki shrugs just a little, again, and again Dabi feels like he's doing it for Dabi's sake, for letting him know what reaction Shigaraki has at his words, not because it's instinctive. "I don't care about the name, actually. And to me it looks like marble. Since I'm the one that's getting it on his skin, I get to choose the name."
Whatever. "Yeah, okay, as you say. What were you going for?"
At this, Shigaraki stops for a second, a hand making its way to his neck. He drags the nails in the skin until there are little pinpricks of blood blossoming against the surface. "My torso," answers, but he's looking at Dabi like he's asking for his approval. Being the receiving part of this kind of look makes something ugly crawl its way under Dabi's skin. He doesn't like it, doesn't like it at all.
"Yeah, well, we'll have to see if it can be done there. You know, with your condition and everything, but okay." He texts Giran, reads the swears he sent him as a reaction to the guy's meds and waits.
The answer he gets is a plain ' no '.
< You: why?
> Old Man: cause he's gonna die thats why
> Old Man: jesus christ his blood is fucking water
> Old Man: don't you dare doing anything on his torso just arms or legs kiddo i'm not joking
Well.
"The torso is a big no-no, apparently," and he hands his phone to Shigaraki, letting him read the messages on the screen. The hopeful light in the guy's eyes slowly dies down right under Dabi's gaze. The red dulls until there's nothing there, and it stays that way until Shigaraki seems to remember that he's with another person and gives back the phone, putting up a wall between his thoughts and the world, and Dabi.
"I'll think about it, then."
He just nods and texts Giran, because he's down to give him as little rest as possible after booking him an appointment in the morning and then puts away his phone. Looks at the other guy for a few seconds before standing up. Shigaraki does the same after just a second.
"Do you still want to go on?" asks, because sometimes is better being sure than regretting things later on. And he has a bad feeling about this client. Not about him him , more like, vibes. Dabi doesn't know how to explain it, but he trusts his guts, never let him down before.
"Yeah, I'm sure. What about tomorrow, same hour? I'll have the doctor's permission by then," Shigaraki suggests, and Dabi internally groans, because fuck him he's not going to sleep in tomorrow too, but he nods and goes to the desk to book the appointment. Next day, half past ten. He doesn't have anything else to do after all and would be rude telling him no just because he likes to sleep. Not that Shigaraki would know what he'll actually be doing if he postpones the appointment, but still.
Shigaraki simply looks at him while Dabi struggles with the computer and doesn't say anything else until he has finished. "Thank you for your time. See you tomorrow, then."
"Yeah, yeah. Bye, Shigaraki."
"Dabi."
He barely hears the other murmuring his name as a salute before the bell chimes, and Dabi's alone in the studio, with only the sound of the computer's ventilation system and the music to keep him company. Can absently hear the current song being played, and he settles down to draw until Giran comes by to attend the first of his appointments on the notes of Dragula.