but if you send for me, you know i’ll come
and if you call for me you know i’ll run
characters: shigaraki tomura, dabi
genre: bittersweet, kinda fluffy, kinda angsty
notes: this is the epilogue for my break my bones but act as my spine series!! and, with this, the main series is officially done!!! wow, i actually can’t believe it. this series genuinely means so much to me; it’s so special, so personal, and i truly appreciate every single person who has read the entire thing. thank you so much for sticking with it!! i love you!!! and, as always, please heed the warnings below! stay safe everyone | title cred: old money by lana del rey
warnings: no smut but still 18+ minors do not interact, discussion of mental illness, an altered (and kind of unrealistic) inpatient program in the psychiatric ward of a hospital, visitations to the psychiatric ward at the hospital, talks of medications used to treat mental illness (non-specific), mentions of doctors and nurses, implied poly relationship, implied cheating (and confession of such), brief discussion of fucking and implied explicit audio recordings being received, a fear of tense rickety relationships being triggering, codependency, tomura’s father is one again referred to as The Boss, daddy kink without the kinkiness
words: 3.9k
part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part four ⋆ part five ⋆ epilogue ⋆ series masterlist
synopsis:
You always smell like him, every single time you emerge.
It only hammers that spear piercing his heart further into incessantly pulsating flesh, saturated with guilt and remorse, with longing and desire, stinging the wound as it burrows into the organ.
That aroma will always smell like home to him; the only home he’s ever known, the only home he’s ever been a part of creating, of maintaining, built brick by conscientious brick, mortar infused with graceful tiger orchid and saccharine toffee gluing together blocks of sweet hickory and spicy nicotine, warm and waiting for the final element to return back to the two of you, to complete it.
The Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa Hospital is a mammoth, boxy building, all slabs of white concrete and glistening glass, bordering the edges of Setagaya City, just before it morphs into Suginami.
You know the grounds intimately by now, could navigate them with your eyes closed if you had to, having spent many hours strolling among the grassy knolls and shaded stone pathways, sheltered by the large oaks stretched and arched across the landscape, with Daddy’s large hand clasped firmly in your own, always babbling on about how amazed you are by the sheer quietness of the place, how remarkable it is that the sounds and bustles of the busy city can’t seem to penetrate the thick shrubbery and vegetation shrouding the hospital, lending to its tranquil nature.
Humming in time to the gentle pat-pat-pats of your shoes against the manicured rock, you allow your mind to drift, to reflect, as your feet carry you towards the far end of the structure, a route you travel three times a week, directions ingrained in the tissues of your brain, nothing more than muscle memory at this point.
Genuinely, you hate to admit it, but you had been pleasantly surprised by just how fast Tomura went from unwilling and difficult to compromising and cooperative.
I told you so, Dabi had bragged with a playful sneer, index finger booping your nose. Tomura’s smart, Tomura adapts—I knew he’d figure out the system, the quickest way to get out of there, within weeks of being committed.
You knew that, too, knew how clever and crafty your Daddy was, knew he’d get the hang of the whole thing and conform to the exactly what the situation necessitated to ensure his release as soon as possible. You did.
You just didn’t think he’d be able to reign in his feelings so rapidly, so efficiently, when you had never seen him do anything like it before.
That’s because you’ve only ever seen him with you, Dabi had rolled his eyes. You don’t know how he can get when he works, when he’s got an idea—a motive, a goal—hatching to life in his skull.
You suppose that’s true, as well. Tomura has always considered himself King of the World—and for the most part, he was—and despite his explosive, hair trigger anger and innate brattiness (a result of rarely being told no in his life), he was intelligent and sly, cunning and practical, always devising a new plan to get him exactly what he wants, failure and you being the only two things to send his emotions awry. And yet, you can’t help but wonder if this entire incident—episode—has knocked him down a few pegs, has humbled him just a little.
Dabi doubts it, but you think it might be a real possibility; Tomura had already surprised you once before, near the start of his treatment, when it had been decided that you and Dabi would confess to your sins.
He had been astonishingly calm, when you had told him about it over a year ago, fingers twisting into uncomfortable knots and crystal dewdrops decorating your smooth cheeks, stammered words fractured with guilt, remorse weighing on your tongue.
It’s alright, he knows, he had said, beckoning you over with an easygoing wave of his hand. He had an inkling, he had told you, tone tender with confounding clemency, a merciful little smile adorning his face. He’s glad you told him.
It hasn’t been explicitly discussed since then—not with you, at least, though you’re unsure what Tomura and Dabi speak about during their private weekly phone calls—but you’re not quite sure it needs to be, at this point. It just…is.
Tomura doesn’t like to talk about that time, those harrowed, anguishing months, and you and Dabi had collectively decided that it was best to spare him from the details, unless he one day specifically asks for them. As far as you were all concerned, knowing something happened, and that something is still happening, seems to be enough; there’s no need to detail the past, not now, not anymore.
Like clockwork, you visit, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, never once missing a day in the whole year and a half he’s been committed, routinely climbing that white linoleum staircase to the west wing—Tomura’s wing, now—the stairwell illuminated by bright, organic sunshine, streaming in through the massive glass panels that line the walls, floor to ceiling.
You don’t kid yourself into thinking that Tomura doesn’t have special privileges—special dwellings just for him, special visiting hours extended and increased in frequency—knowing well by now the type of things riches and prestige can buy you; knowing well by now just how powerful a man like Tomura’s father is.
Not that you’re complaining.
Today is a Monday. Monday’s, you think, are the best. Because Monday’s are when you get to see him after two full days of being restricted, of not seeing him, which makes Friday’s, your last visit before those two full days of yearning, a specific type of longing procuring an ache in your chest—dull and throbbing at the core of your soul, radiating a painful pining throughout your limbs, infused in your blood and flesh and bones that can only be cured by your Daddy’s presence—the worst.
Beams of gold filter through the large bay windows, catching in the delicate lace of the curtains and casting intricate shadows across the upholstery of the plush window-seat cushions. They dance across the fabric, dainty and graceful as a breeze twines itself around the thin drapes, an ever-changing myriad of shapes swaying elegantly to their own silent beat, a special song played by the wind just for them.
But their beauty is nothing compared to the man standing in front of you. No, he’s a piece of art all on his own.
Strands of pure silver, having lost their boyish blue tinge during Tomura’s acute phase, frame his temples, bangs pushed back from his forehead in thick waves, leftover tufts curling around his cheekbones and highlighting those brilliant rubies, shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight.
Every time you see him, he looks better, you swear to God.
Knitted cream cashmere envelopes his chest, stretched across prominent shoulder blades and blanketing his chest in its knotty embrace, intricate plaits of wool stretched perpendicular along the expanse of his torso, a sharp collarbone peaking out from beneath the braided neckline.
You’re powerless to stop the soft giggle that bubbles past your lips as your eyes continue their journey down his form, noting the way his charcoal trousers clash with the fluffy blue bunny slippers adorning his feet—an impromptu gift from Dabi, which he had sworn Tomura had to own.
Finally, your gaze flits back up to meet his, chapped lips still quirked up into that small, knowing, painfully familiar smile, and then you’re running, colliding against him with such force that he sways on the heels of his feet, the impact knocking a fond laugh from his chest.
His embrace is soft and plush—not as much as it used to be, before the episode, before his muscle had melted off his bone, dissolved by delirium, but enough to be comforting, to be remindful.
Inhaling deeply, your chest swells against his, saturating your lungs with his unique scent—fresh summer linen and sweet-sour lemon and the ghost of sandalwood cologne, clinging to all of his fabrics—perfusing your organs in a saccharine embrace.
“I missed you,” you whimper into him, fingers curled in his thick sweater. “So much,”
“It’s only been two days,” he teases, though his arms are wrapped around your waist tightly, crushing you to his body, warm and secure, home.
“Doesn’t matter, don’t care,” you retort simply, nuzzling into his sternum. “It’s always two days too long,”
A chuckle pries its way past his lips and he nods, because it’s true, because you’re right, giving you one final squeeze before finally releasing, large palm skimming down your bare arm to lace your fingers together, leading you towards your favourite seat, one of those opulent little nooks nestled against a large window.
In the stark summer rays, his eyes look almost rosy, glittering jewels encrusted in flakey flesh and ivory bone, an eternal sunset etched into his irises—corals and cherries bleeding into salmons and scarlets, barely dimmed by the slight mist cast across his gaze by his prescribed medications.
And, God, you fucking love him.
It’s hard to believe he isn’t boiling in that heavy Aran sweater and those woollen slacks, body draped with a warm quilt of sunlight, but you know he’s still having trouble eating, even after his ceaseless complaints about the bland food served here had earned him the right to a personal chef—a donation, The Boss had called it, to the hospital and its patients; his way of reassuring them that this was not just for his son, as if they’d ever believe that.
A mild gust drifts in through the open window, playing with the tendrils of his hair, those loose tufts that contour his bright eyes, ruby stare still directed out the window, surveying the grounds.
And you wait. You always wait, the pads of your fingers tapping lightly against the back of his hand, idly tracing the veins and the bones, until he’s ready to begin.
“So, they…” he stops, clearing his throat, shifting his jaw, blinking twice. “They, uh, they put me on new meds—more meds,”
“Oh?” The question is soft, gentle and unobtrusive, an invitation for him to continue, should he wish to divulge.
“I don’t like them,” he frowns after a moment of silence, nose scrunching in distaste, eyes drifting to the tangled mess of hands, cradled tenderly in your lap. “They make me feel…foggy,”
Concern tugs at the corners of your lips, a tender thumb rubbing soothing circles into his knuckles. “Did you let the doctors know?”
Nodding, he looks away, front teeth nibbling at the dry skin of his lips, tugging thin pieces free, blood immediately pooling in their absence. “They said they’d lower the dosage, and to ‘give it some time’,”
“Sometimes the side effects become more manageable, right?” you ask, and he nods again. “You can always stop and try something new if they don’t subside,”
His head quirks slightly, a poor imitation of agreement, and you can sense his irritation, seething just beneath his skin, a powerful aura that embraces him like a cloak, or the familiar arms of a much beloved friend, cracking around him like strikes of crimson lightning, that ebb and flow, pop and fizzle, with each of his measured breaths.
You can see it: in the way his eyes narrow and twitch, in the way his nostrils flare and his lips press together, forming a sharp hard line, in the way his molars grind together and his jaw flexes under the force of the action.
And there he is, the man you met all those years ago, the man who’s brutally influential and maliciously insatiable, the man who gets what he wants with nothing more than a tilted head and a sharp smirk; only a mere wisp before he’s gone again, reigned into the recesses of Tomura’s chest, shackled behind a cage of bone.
“I just—” he begins after a moment, exhaling harshly to calm the tremble lacing his tone, eyes slipping shut. “I’m sick of—of all of this,"
And it’s difficult to watch—difficult to watch him cycle through meds in constant search of a cocktail that works efficiently, paired with the least side effects; difficult to watch the way this illness evolves to fight against him, his own mind sprouting claws and tearing through the manufactured solace encasing his brain; difficult to watch him stumble through pitfalls of suffering and despair, to dig himself out armed with his own determination and the unwavering love of his babies, just to slip back into it again.
It’s a long process, the road to getting better—he knows it is. It’s a lifelong process, managing this illness, learning how to cope, how to control and care for it all—he doesn’t need you to tell him that.
It doesn’t mean it sucks any less.
“I know,” you whisper, working hard to keep your voice light, to keep from too much sympathy leaking into your tone, taking his other abandoned hand between your own and cradling it like it’s precious. “But you’re doing really well, Daddy. And we’re all so proud of you,”
It’s evident that he has more to say, but you don’t push, watching with a sinking, tar encrusted heart as he shakes his head a little—to deny your statement, or to void his mind, you aren’t entirely sure. Clearing his throat, his fingers tighten around yours, and he changes the subject.
“So. How is he?”
And that, that manages to restore your smile.
“He misses you a lot,” you tell him honestly, both hands squeezing his. “A lot. As always. You know, he’s a bit like a lost puppy without you,”
Tomura snorts a little at that, but you can still see the melancholy hidden behind that thin veil of amusement. “I believe it,” he says softly. “You can tell him I miss him, too,”
“I will,”
A beat of silence passes, and it’s nice, it’s pleasant, blanketing the two of you in each other’s cozy presence, comfort accentuated by the toasty afternoon sun.
“The nurse, um, the nurse says that maybe next week he can come up with you?” It’s supposed to be a statement, but it’s phrased as a question, imbued with the inquiry for your opinion.
“That’s wonderful news, Daddy,”
And your voice is so soft, so warm, so heart-wrenchingly sincere that it hurts, twinkling sparks emitted from the ball of fire roiling in your chest scathing his skin as they pour from your glimmering gaze and shimmering smile.
But it’s beautiful, it’s comforting and familiar, and he welcomes the sting readily, basking in the way your buzz bubbles his brain and boils his blood.
“Yeah, I—” swallowing thickly, his grip on your hand tightens, crimson eyes looking away, stare darting across the large rolling hills of jade, cushioned by dense pine. “I want to see him. I—I’m ready, I think,”
“He’s gonna be so happy to hear it,” you giggle, and it’s hard to keep from gushing, it’s hard to suppress the wide smile excitement carves into your face, saturated in adoration and admiration, in hope and honour, a special type of pride reserved just for him, just for your Daddy. “He says the phone conversations just aren’t the same,” you pause, little fingers moving to brush silver strands from his brow, tips tracing the curve of his face, eyes following their languid movement. “I agree. It’s not the same,”
Tomura nods, giving you a small smile, before that pleasant stillness drapes your forms again, enveloping you in its amicable embrace.
“I’m nervous,” he whispers after a while, so quiet you barely hear it at all, though his hand is gripping yours with such strength that it procures dark fingerprints of periwinkle painted across your flesh, the nubby pads of his unoccupied fingertips rubbing against the thin skin of his wrist, chafing streaks of red against ivory, his nails trimmed meticulously short.
And it feels like old times again, like those lazy afternoons and late evenings where Tomura would disclose all of his fears and anxieties to you, all of his hopes and dreams, sentiments peppered between kisses and whispered into your hair, or your neck, or your lips.
It’s still true, that you’re the only one he truly feels comfortable talking about such vulnerabilities with; you always have been, you always will be. But that doesn’t discount the progress he’s made in his year and a half spent in this building, that doesn’t discredit the great strides he’s made in getting better, the astonishing advancements he’s made in cooperating with his doctors.
“That’s understandable, Daddy,” you respond softly, gentle fingers beginning to tenderly uncurl his own, stiff and rigid, pressing lovingly into the joints to relax them, an instinctive reflex by this point. “But you’re making fantastic progress—no, really, you are, Tomura—and this is the next step, right?”
Shakily, he hums, fingers twitching against your palms, a phantom urge to scratch again.
“And if you feel like you’re ready then…” you trail off, shrugging a little, a gentle thumb running across bony knuckles. “Then you’re ready,”
“But what if I—What if he—I’m worried it might—” chapped lips pull into a deep frown, forehead crinkling with the effort, and he looks away with a scoff, body beginning to quiver with infuriated annoyance. “That he might, y’know,”
“Trigger it?”
He grunts out an affirmative, accompanied by a single jerk of his head.
“It’s okay, if he does,” you tell him, sure to keep your voice calm and vindicated. “He isn’t going to be upset with you, or angry, if that happens.”
“I really want to see him,”
“So we’ll give it a try. And if it isn’t the right time, then we’ll wait,” you pause, allowing your words time to snuggle into his brain, to soothe his anxieties and smooth his worries. “We’ll figure it out, together, the three of us,”
“The three of us,” he murmurs. “Like the sound of that,”
“Yeah,” you murmur, bringing his hand to your lips and embellishing it with chaste pecks, speaking through your kisses. “Me too,”
It isn’t long after your pact that the nurse moves to retrieve you, gently uttering that your visiting time is up before retreating, allowing you some privacy for your temporary goodbyes.
“I can’t wait to—can’t wait to fuck you,” Tomura breathes into your hair, nuzzling against your scalp as he presses your body to his. “Honestly, princess, I’m going fuckin’ crazy,”
“It’s been way too long,” you murmur into his chest, nostalgia and longing stinging your eyes, voice high with a perpetual whine. “First thing when you get out,” looking up, your gaze searches his face, almost urgent, frantic, in its endeavours. “Promise me,”
He chuckles a little, pulling back slightly to stare at you, his soft laugh conjuring a bought of pure sunshine, embellished with pretty rubies and silver ribbon, to bloom in your chest, fizzing and warm as it furls into a ball and sends warmth radiating through your veins.
Holding up his pinky between your chests, he nods. “Promise,”
“Pinky promise,” you giggle, twining your pinky around his and squeezing.
“In the mean time, keep sending me those recordings,” he commands with a devilish smirk, voice dropping an octave.
“You betcha, Daddy,” you wink, precious bubbles of shy giggles frothing in your throat. “See you on Wednesday,”
“Looking forward to it, baby,”
✰ ✰ ✰
In the hospital parking lot, Dabi leans against the drivers door of his gleaming Audi, lips wrapped around a cigarette, the worn carton of Marlboros discarded on the hood of the car, veiny cardboard box already half-empty.
Perking up when he sees you bounding towards him, he quickly removes the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling smoke out his nose just in time to catch you in one of his arms, laughing a little as your body curls into his, a leg slotted between his thighs.
The zest of lemon, intertwined with the scent of fresh linen and garnished with the slightest whiff of expensive cologne, invades his throat, thick and sticky as it coils into a tight ball and lodges itself between the gummy walls.
You always smell like him, every single time you emerge.
It only hammers that spear piercing his heart further into incessantly pulsating flesh, saturated with guilt and remorse, with longing and desire, stinging the wound as it burrows into the organ.
That aroma will always smell like home to him; the only home he’s ever known, the only home he’s ever been a part of creating, of maintaining, built brick by conscientious brick, mortar infused with graceful tiger orchid and saccharine toffee gluing together blocks of sweet hickory and spicy nicotine, warm and waiting for the final element to return back to the two of you, to complete it.
Finally, his grasp loosens, but you stay clinging to him, leaning back just enough to glance up at his face.
“So.” Dabi clears his throat a little, swallowing past Tomura's scent. “How is he?”
Pressing your lips together, you suppress a small smile at the thought of their similarity, rocking a little on the balls of your feet as tingling excitement races the blood in your veins.
“He wants to see you next week,”
“What?” he breathes out through a disbelieving smile, tinged with hope, the corners of his mouth twitching as his arms slacken for a moment, then tighten again. “He—Really?”
“Mhmm,” you nod. “And I can’t wait for him to get a look at your ridiculous hair,” giggling, you reach up to run your fingers through blended ink and ivory, tousled tufts that flow into one another like soft waves in a monochromatic sea, his half grown out roots melding with the onyx dye.
“Shut up,” Dabi shoots back, but he’s leaning into your touch, neck tilting down and aiding in your ministrations. “You love my hair,”
“I love everything about you, I think,”
“You think?”
“Mmm,” you hum in contemplation, and Dabi rolls his eyes, squeezing you to his form.
“So, he’s, uh, he’s still doing well, then?”
You nod. “Been keeping up that stability over the past few months now. Actually,” you begin, and Dabi just can’t help but melt into you a little, his own gaze softening and grin stretching as your eyes glitter with anticipation, a breathless smile plastered across your face, wobbling with elation, words stuffed full of excitement, letters practically bursting at the seams with precious giggles. “They said—They said if he’s able to continue maintaining it that he might be discharged in time for Christmas!”
Dabi laughs again, a large hand moving to cup your cheek, cradling it in a rough palm like its his most cherished possession, sapphire shining with mirth.
“Well,” he murmurs, knocking his forehead against yours, noses nudging intimately. “We better make it the best damn Christmas he’s ever fucking had then, huh?”
“We will,” you nuzzle into him, the promise nothing more than a delicate wisp of breath caressing his face. “We will.”
And driving home, back to the small flat Dabi had purchased for the two of you—temporary and close to the hospital, nothing more than a placeholder until Tomura returns, until you can really, truly begin your lives together—with Dabi’s hand on your thigh and Tomura’s scent in your hair, you allow that hesitant hope to blossom, glowing and beautiful, embroidered with the prettiest sapphires and the most magnificent rubies, swathed in brilliant silver and striking onyx, rooting at the very core of your soul as it begins to grow.
It’s been a long journey thus far, with much education to be gleaned and growth to be had on all three fronts. And even though it’s just the beginning, even though the road ahead is rich with twists and turns, ornamented with thick thorns and sharp sparks, none of it frightens you—none of it frightens any of you at all; not when you have each other.
Yes, it will be difficult and yes, it will be painful, and yes, there will be tears and trials, clashes and conflicts, but it’ll all be worth it, it’ll always be worth it, you just know it will.
Because the three of you will survive it.
Together.
