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“Mind if I join you, Shigaraki?”
You stand by the top of the bar, book tucked under your arm, head tilted inquisitively as you wait for his answer. Most of the league members were sensible enough to give him a wide berth when he was brooding and stewing in the bar alone — even Kurogiri had disappeared somewhere tonight — but not you, no; you seemed to forgo every other available spot in the hideout in favour of actually sitting in the bar with him. His eyes flicker over you with a mix of disdain and curiosity.
“Go ahead,” he says eventually. It wasn’t like he was going to talk to you anyway. You’d get bored, or unnerved, and leave soon enough.
There’s a quiet part of him that really wouldn’t mind if you stayed, though.
You smile softly, settling wordlessly into one of the seats along from him and opening your dog-eared book.
He’s always liked looking at you, and tonight is no exception. He makes it covert, of course: sneaking glances at you from over the top of his glass; pretending to check his phone when he’s really checking you out of the corner of his eye, your head bowed as your eyes scan the page lazily, the curve of your nose, the little pucker of your eyebrows as you read something you obviously don’t agree with, the warm glow of the lighting above you reflecting against that horrible, horrible layer of gloss you always insisted on applying to your lips.
And oh god, your mouth is definitely his favourite, he thinks. Then he wonders when and how he’d started to develop a favourite thing about anyone. He takes another big swig from his glass.
“You’re staring,” you say, eyes not wavering from your book. “Again.”
His eyes blow wide, and he splutters the remainder of his drink back into the glass. Again.
Maybe he wasn’t so covert after all.
“I am not,” he snaps, slamming his drink onto the counter. Fuck, he hopes the dim lighting hides the fact that his face is burning. He turns his head away, suddenly developing a keen interest in analysing the contents of the bar.
“It’s okay,” you say softly, “you can stare if you want. I don’t mind.”
He snaps his furious gaze back to you. “I told you already: I wasn’t fucking looking–”
You withdraw from the book, head tilted knowingly as you finally meet his gaze, a teasing smile playing on your lips.
“Shut up,” he snaps. “Just stop talking.”
Then you frown slightly, leaning in closer, eyes narrowing in on his face under the poor lighting.
“You’ve got something on your lip.” You tap your upper lip with your thumb, then drag the plush of your bottom lip downwards slowly as he stares, spellbound by the shape of them. “Right here.”
It takes him a few seconds to draw his transfixed gaze away from your lips.
“It’s not—“ he rubs a thumb self-consciously over the cut. “It’s just a—”
The metallic, tangy taste of blood explodes on his tongue. He draws his hand away, cursing as he sees the streak of red racing down his thumb. Shit. He’d been prodding at the perpetual wound above his lip all morning: twisting at the skin, worrying his lip, lathing his tongue over the cracked skin — he never left it alone long enough to heal.
And now the fruits of his labour are rolling down his chin, all scarlet and raw as it trails rapidly down the column of his pale throat. Now it’s your turn to stare.
“Shit,” he murmurs, trying to staunch the bleeding with his palm. He turns his head away, uncharacteristically self-conscious under your transfixed eyes. They follow the fresh pearl of blood as it blooms on his lip and races downward. He licks his lip, trying to soothe the cracked skin.
“That’s only going to make it worse.”
“What?”
“I said, that’s only going to make it worse.”
You sigh, pulling yourself from your seat, closing your book, and sliding into the seat next to him. Your knees knock against his as you lean in close.
“What are you—”
“C’mere.” You catch his chin in between your thumb and forefinger, gently pulling his face towards you. Your own lips press into a thin line of disapproval as you study him, tutting. You softly dab a crumpled tissue from your pocket over the cut. “You need a lip balm to stop them getting so dry.”
His entire body shudders with the impulse to push you away; to smack your hand off his face, to wrap all five of his fingers around your wrist and watch you crumble into a million pieces. How dare you touch him like that? Who do you think you are, bounding over to him and grabbing his face so gently, and acting like you care?
“Get off me,” he snaps suddenly, slapping your hand away. “I can do it myself.”
You lean back, nonplussed, handing him the tissue. “If you say so.”
He applies the tissue back to his lip, staunching the worst of the bleeding and waiting for you to go, but you pull out a little bright yellow tube with a red lid from your pocket. It’s that shiny, tacky shit that you’re always applying to your lips. It drives him crazy watching the way you pout as you slowly apply it, mouth parted and all wet and shining. And you must read his mind, because you see him swallowing and you smirk, untwisting the cap and applying a small bead to your finger, and then around your mouth.
“You need some of this, Shiggy. It’ll soothe them.”
“I’m not putting lipstick on.”
“It’s not lipstick, idiot. It’s lip balm. It just stops them from cracking.” You jerk your head to the window, where the hail and rain rages outside. “It gets worse in the cold, right?”
He says nothing, just turning his face away, willing you to leave him alone. Why were you even still here? Didn’t the sores and cuts on his lips repulse you? The stream of red running from them, staining his chin and neck — wasn’t that nauseating to you?
You hold out the tube to him. “Come on, Shigaraki. It’s not gonna hurt you, promise. It’s even cherry flavoured, see?”
“I don’t want that gross stuff all over my lips.”
You roll your eyes, applying more to your own lips. “Guess I’ll just have to put it on you myself.”
You tear the tissue away from him, and before he can even yell at you, you’ve grabbed his face between your hands again, turning his head towards you and slotting your glazed, honey-soft lips over his. The soft scent of cherry bursts into his senses, mingling with the unsavoury taste of blood. It should be a disgusting combination, and maybe it’s more the velvety feeling of your lips against his, or the cooling feeling of the gel against his cracked lips, or the way you tilt his head upwards and sigh in pure contentment, one hand carding through his hair, but fuck does he want more. In that moment, it might be the most addictive, beautiful thing that he’s ever tasted.
But he’s frozen solid under your touch: he stills, his body completely unacquainted with being handled so sweetly, so delicately. It was used to fighting; destroying; bringing others pain, because that’s all he’d ever received himself. He didn’t know what to do with you and your gentle hands and silken lips.
You pull away all too soon, withdrawing slowly as you open your eyes to meet his gaze. You trail your thumb under his bottom lip, wiping away some of the stray gloss, smirking at his dazed expression.
“See?” You smile. “Much better already, don’t you think?”
And annoyingly, you’re right. The balm seemed to cool the irritation, smooth the jagged and broken skin, and yeah, actually kind of tasted pretty fucking good. But he’s not going to let you have that satisfaction.
“Tastes and feels like shit,” he says, meaning to sound snarky, but his voice is all shaky and pitchy. Fuck, he sounds like a nervous child.
You laugh, rising from the seat. “Sure it does, Shiggy. Sure it does.”
“You’re really starting to annoy me now,” he grits, and he really has to fight the urge to decay the smug, knowing look off of your face. “Get the hell out of here.”
You throw a tender smile over your shoulder as you leave, flashing him the yellow tube.
“You know where to find me when you need some more, Tomura.”