they get touya's obituary all wrong.
you read it on the train, the blur of the city whooshing past. you've been resisting this day, resisting the very idea that touya—dabi, you remind yourself, that's what everyone calls him now, ever since that video came out—probably wouldn't survive.
but it doesn't hurt any less to see the years he was alive stand so impersonally on your phone screen.
you dig the palm of your hand into an eyeball. tears form regardless, hot and fat, spilling down your cheeks and into the soft down of your scarf.
they don't mention that he used to leave out cans of food for the stray cats. he'd stand outside shaking the bag if one of them was late, hands on his hips like a disappointed mom.
there's nothing about how much he liked having his hair played with, that whenever he laid on your chest and you stopped fluffing it, he'd pull back and glare at you until you started again.
nothing about how he used to call you 'love' when he was tipsy, 'my darling' when he was drunk.
not a word about how sore of a loser he was in mario kart, or that he told you once that he'd like to be a really good dad.
"might be cool." you can still remember the sly glance he sent your way. "you know. if the world was different."
they get touya's obituary all wrong.
