The buzz of the needle is a living thing. It vibrates up from the padded table, through Shoto’s ribs, and settles behind his teeth. He lies on his stomach, face turned toward the wall of Dabi’s private studio, his fingers gripping the edges of the leather. The scent is sterile and sharp—alcohol, green soap, the ozone tang of the machine. Beneath that, the familiar notes of Dabi: cigarette smoke ingrained in leather, and the clean, mineral scent of the ink.
"Breathe, Sho," Dabi murmurs, his voice that low rasp just for him. A gloved hand presses warm and firm against the small of Shoto’s bare back, right above the waistband of his low-slung sweats. "The outline’s the worst part. You’re doing good."
Shoto exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His mind, usually a quiet archive of observation, is a riot of input. The sting is bright, concentrated, a hot line being drawn across the small of his back. It’s not like the piercing—that was a single, shocking punctuation. This is a sentence. A story. He focuses on the pressure of Dabi’s hand, an anchor. Two years. Graduation. Boxes finally moved from his old dorm to the apartment they already shared. His whole life has narrowed to this point, this room, this man etching permanence into his skin.
"What’s it look like?" Shoto asks, his voice tight.
"Patience." Dabi’s tone is all focus, the artist in control. The needle lifts, and Shoto hears the soft tap of his foot on the pedal stopping the machine. A cool, wet cloth dabs at his skin. "It’s the sketch you picked. The snowflake. Just starting the outer lines."
A snowflake enclosed in a ring of delicate, licking flames shaped as a heart. Shoto had found the design in one of Dabi’s old sketchbooks, a page tucked between grotesque biomech and traditional dragons. It was small, precise, almost fragile. "This one," he’d said, pointing. Dabi had gone very still, his blue eyes unreadable. He’d just nodded. Shoto wonders, not for the first time, if it meant something to Dabi before it ever meant something to him. The thought is a secret he holds on his tongue.
The needle bites again, tracing the crystalline points. Shoto’s body jerks instinctively. "Fuck."
"I know. Breathe through it. Talk to me. Distract yourself." Dabi’s thumb rubs a slow circle beside the fresh ink. The touch is tender, at odds with the bite of the needle.
"What’s the surprise?" Shoto grits out, focusing on the words. "For the anniversary. You’ve been cagey for weeks."
A low chuckle vibrates through the hand on his back. "Observant. It’s a surprise, Sho. Telling you would defeat the purpose." The needle moves, shading now, a softer buzz. "You’ll see it tonight. After this. After I clean you up."
His words are a deliberate distraction, a practiced seduction. Shoto feels heat that has nothing to do with the tattoo bloom low in his belly. He pictures Dabi’s mouth on the fresh, sore ink, his tongue tracing the lines he just made. The possessiveness of it makes his throat tight. He belongs here, under Dabi’s hands, being remade. The realization is quiet and absolute.
"It feels like you’re writing on me," Shoto whispers, the thought escaping.
The needle stops. The room is suddenly, profoundly quiet. Dabi’s breathing is a soft sound behind him. When he speaks, his voice is stripped raw. "That’s because I am."
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. The machine buzzes back to life, and Shoto closes his eyes, surrendering to the sensation and the silence. He loses time to the rhythmic sting and wipe, the occasional low, approving hum from Dabi. The artist is gone, lost in the work. The boyfriend is present in every careful, punishing stroke.
Finally, the machine cuts off for the last time. Dabi’s gloves snap as he pulls them off. Cool air kisses Shoto’s wet skin. "Done," Dabi says, and his voice is thick. "Sit up slow. Let’s look."
Shoto pushes himself up, wincing at the throbbing heat spread across the small of his back. Dabi is already holding a hand mirror, positioning another behind him. In the reflection, Shoto sees it. A perfect, intricate snowflake captured within a heart of fire, rendered in stark black and subtle grays on the canvas of his skin. It’s beautiful. It’s a brand. His eyes sting.
Dabi watches his face in the mirror, his blue eyes intense. "Well?"
Shoto turns on the table, ignoring the pulse of pain. He reaches for Dabi, pulling him in by the straps of his leather apron. He kisses him, hard. It’s an answer. When he pulls back, he’s breathless. "It’s perfect."
Dabi’s smile is a rare, true thing. He brushes Shoto’s dual-colored hair back from his forehead. "Good. Now for the surprise." He steps back, his hands going to the pockets of his jeans. He doesn’t pull out a key or tickets. He goes down on one knee, right there on the polished concrete floor of his studio.
Shoto’s heart stops. The world narrows to the small, black velvet box in Dabi’s scarred palm. Dabi opens it. A ring sits inside, simple platinum, but set with two stones side-by-side: a fiery orange sapphire and a icey blue diamond. It winks under the studio lights.
"Shoto," Dabi says, his rasp scraping bottom. His other hand comes up to cradle Shoto’s knee, his thumb pressing into the joint. A possessive anchor. "Marry me?”
"Yes." The word tears from Shoto's throat, raw and immediate, before his brain can even process the question. It's not a decision. It's a fact. He slides off the table, the fresh tattoo screaming in protest, and his knees hit the polished concrete beside Dabi. His hands come up to frame Dabi’s scarred face, his thumbs brushing the rough texture of grafted skin. "Yes. Of course."
He kisses him. It’s deep and desperate, a collision of lips and teeth and the salt of the tears that have finally broken free to trace hot paths down Shoto’s cheeks. He tastes peppermint and iron and the shared breath of a silent, two-year prayer. Dabi’s mouth opens under his, a low groan vibrating between them, and the ring box is crushed between their chests.
When they break apart, both are panting. Dabi’s blue eyes are wide, stunned, as if he’d braced for a rejection that never came. His gaze flicks over Shoto’s face, tracing the tear tracks. "You're crying," he rasps, his voice wrecked.
"It's the tattoo," Shoto whispers, the lie automatic and flimsy. He swipes at his cheek with the back of his hand. "And you. On the floor. With a ring." His heart is a frantic bird against his ribs. He feels unmoored, euphoric, terrified. He’s going to marry this man. This mysterious, scarred, beautiful man who is his entire world.
Dabi lets out a shaky breath that’s almost a laugh. He pries the box from between them, his scarred fingers nimble. He plucks the platinum band from its slot. "Give me your hand, baby."
Shoto extends his left hand. It’s trembling. Dabi’s own grip is steady, a warm, sure anchor as he slides the ring onto Shoto’s finger. It fits perfectly, the cool metal settling against his skin as if it had always been there. The orange sapphire and blue diamond catch the harsh studio light, a tiny, brilliant collision of his colors. Shoto stares at it, mesmerized. A promise. A question he’s still too afraid to ask out loud.
"It’s you," Dabi murmurs, his thumb stroking the gems. "The fire. And the ice." He brings Shoto’s knuckles to his lips, kissing them. His piercings are cool against Shoto’s skin.
"It’s us," Shoto corrects, his voice thick. He looks from the ring to Dabi’s face. The love there is so fierce it’s painful. It fills the hollows Dabi’s secrets have carved inside him. For this moment, it’s enough. He leans forward, resting his forehead against Dabi’s. "When?"
"Soon." Dabi’s hand cups the nape of Shoto’s neck, possessive. "I don’t want to wait. City hall. Just us. Then a party after, for the shop regulars if you want."
"Just us," Shoto echoes, the words tasting like salvation. But then another thought surfaces, cold and unavoidable. He looks down at the ring on his finger, the gems winking. A promise requires witnesses. Or at least, an origin. "But… what about family? I'd like you to at least meet mine. My mom… she'd want to know." The sentence feels naive even as he says it. A normal problem for a normal engagement.
Dabi’s hand, still cupping the nape of his neck, goes rigid. The possessive warmth drains from his touch, leaving behind a pressure that’s just… tense. He pulls back just enough for Shoto to see his face. The raw, joyful openness of a moment ago is gone, sealed over by a familiar, shuttered blankness. His blue eyes, which had been so warm, turn flat and distant. "No."
The word is a stone dropped between them. "Dabi—"
"I told you." Dabi’s voice is low, the rasp scraping like sandpaper. He lets go of Shoto’s neck, his scarred hand dropping to his own knee. He won’t meet Shoto’s eyes. "I don’t have one. Family." He spits the word out like it’s bitter on his tongue.
Shoto’s stomach knots. He’s heard this before, in the dark, when questions veered too close to the past. *Orphan. Estranged. Doesn’t matter.* Deflections wrapped in cigarette smoke and a turned back. But this is different. They’re getting married. The ring is a cold, beautiful weight on his hand.
"I know you don't have one," Shoto says, his voice softer now, a careful counter to Dabi's stone. He looks at the ring, then back to Dabi's shuttered face. "But I do. And they'll be your family, too, now. I'd just… I'd like you to meet my mom at least."
Dabi’s jaw works, a muscle feathering under the scar tissue. He looks away, his blue eyes scanning the sterile studio as if searching for an exit. "Shoto."
"It's one dinner."
"It's not." The rasp is final. Dabi pushes himself to his feet, the movement stiff. He turns his back, walking to the counter where his tools are laid out. His shoulders are a tense line under his thin black shirt. "You don't get it."
"Then make me get it." Shoto stays on the floor, the concrete cold through his jeans. The fresh tattoo is a brand of heat, a counterpoint to the ice spreading in his chest. "We're getting married. This isn't just… us in a hotel room anymore. This is a life. My life has other people in it."
Dabi’s hands brace on the stainless steel counter. His head drops. For a long moment, the only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator under the sink. "Those people," he says, the words muffled, "have nothing to do with me. With us."
"She's my mother."
"And I'm your future." Dabi turns around. His eyes are blazing, but the fire is cold, defensive. "That's the family that matters. The one we make is. Not the one you came from." He runs a hand through his black hair, the silver roots stark under the lights. "Why is this so important to you? Two years, and you've never pushed this hard."
"Because I'm marrying you," Shoto says, the words simple and heavy as stones. He looks down at the ring on his finger, the twin gems a cold fire against his skin. "That makes it different. This is forever. I want a forever that doesn't have a locked door in the middle of it."
Dabi stares at him. The blue of his eyes is like fractured ice. His throat works, the scars pulling tight. "A locked door," he echoes, the rasp hollow. "You think that's what this is?"
"What else am I supposed to think?" Shoto's voice rises, a crack in his usual control. He pushes himself up from the floor, the fresh tattoo screaming in protest. He ignores it. "You give me this... this promise. You put a brand on my back and a ring on my finger. And the second I ask for one normal thing, you shut down. You tell me no. So yes. It's a door. And it's locked. And I'm standing on the other side of it."
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. Dabi’s gaze drops to Shoto’s left hand, to the ring he just placed there. His own hands curl into fists on the stainless steel counter. Shoto can see the tension corded in his forearms, the way his piercings catch the light with every shallow breath.
"You want normal," Dabi finally says, the words ground out. He looks up, and his smile is a bitter, twisted thing. "Baby, you lost any claim to normal the second you slid into my DMs. The second you let me fuck you in that hotel. The second you asked me to pierce you and then took my cock in your ass on that chair." He pushes off the counter, taking a step closer. The air between them crackles. "Our forever isn't gonna look like anyone else's. It can't."
"This isn't about other people," Shoto insists, but his conviction wavers. Dabi’s words land like blows, each one a reminder of the deliberate, desperate abnormality they've built. He thinks of the clit piercing, a secret thrill under his clothes. The tattoo, still weeping on his back. The way Dabi’s eyes darken with possession, not just desire. It’s not normal. He never wanted normal. But he wants... something real. "It's about you and me. And me wanting to share my life with you means all of it. Not just the parts you're comfortable with."
Dabi closes the final distance between them. He doesn't touch Shoto, but his heat is a palpable force. Shoto can smell the leather of his apron, the faint antiseptic, the underlying scent that is just Dabi—smoke and skin. "You have all of me," Dabi rasps, his voice low and desperate. "Right here. This shop. This ring. My bed. What the fuck else do you need?"
"I need to know why!" The shout tears out of Shoto, raw and ragged. It echoes off the sterile walls. His hands are trembling. He watches Dabi flinch, watches the raw hurt flash through those blue eyes before the shutters slam down again. Shoto presses on, his voice dropping to a shattered whisper. "I need to know why the idea of meeting my mother makes you look like I just pulled a knife on you. Is it her? Is it me? What is it about my family that terrifies you so much?"
Dabi looks away. His chest rises and falls in a slow, measured rhythm, a conscious effort to control the storm inside. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and taps one out. He doesn't light it. Just rolls it between his scarred fingers. "It's not terror," he murmurs, not looking at Shoto. "It's preservation."
"Preservation of what?"
"Of this." Dabi’s eyes snap back to him, blazing. "Of you looking at me like I hung the fucking moon. Of you saying yes. Of that ring staying on your finger." He crushes the unlit cigarette in his fist, letting the shredded tobacco drift to the floor. "My surprise for our anniversary, it wasn't just the ring... it's a trip. A week up north, in a cabin. Isolated. Just us. I booked it months ago. That's the family I want. You. Me. Silence. Nothing else."
Shoto’s breath catches. The offer is a peace treaty, wrapped in the exact language of their love—isolation, possession, us against the world. It’s also a deflection. A beautifully crafted wall. He looks at Dabi’s face, at the pleading barely hidden beneath the defensive anger. The love is still there, fierce and real and terrifying. It wars with the cold dread in Shoto’s gut.
He reaches out, his ring catching the light. He doesn't touch Dabi's face. He touches his clenched fist, pries the ruined cigarette from his grip, and laces their fingers together. The metal of the ring presses into both of their skins. "A cabin," Shoto says, his voice exhausted. "Okay."
Shoto leans in and kisses him. It’s not the desperate, consuming kiss from minutes before. This is softer, a sealing of the truce. He tastes the faint, familiar bitterness of coffee and smoke on Dabi’s tongue, feels the cool press of his lip piercings. He pours every ounce of his conflicted love into it—the joy, the dread, the surrender. When he pulls back, Dabi’s eyes are closed, his scarred face tilted down. “I’ll see you after work,” Shoto murmurs against his mouth.
“Yeah.” Dabi’s voice is wrecked. His hands come up to frame Shoto’s face, thumbs brushing the scar over his left eye. A gesture so tender it makes Shoto’s chest ache. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.” Shoto steps back, the absence of Dabi’s heat immediate. He grabs his jacket, the movement pulling at the fresh tattoo on his back. The pain is a bright, clarifying sting. A brand. He doesn’t look back as he pushes open the studio door, the bell jangling overhead. The cold afternoon air hits him like a slap.
He walks. The ring on his finger feels alien, a beautiful, heavy shackle. He turns it, watching the fire and ice gems catch the gray city light. *He’s hiding something so big it could break this.* The thought is a ice pick to his sternum. He’s spent two years accepting the locked door as part of the architecture of Dabi. But marriage isn’t architecture. It’s foundation. You can’t build on a void.
His phone is in his hand before he realizes he’s dialed. It rings twice.
“Shoto! Hey!” Izuku’s voice is warm, slightly breathless. He’s probably walking somewhere, too. “What’s up?”
“Hey.” Shoto’s own voice sounds flat to his ears. He clears his throat. “I, uh. I have news.”
“Okay… good news or ‘I need to hide a body’ news? Your tone is confusing.”
A faint smile touches Shoto’s lips. “Good news. Mostly. Dabi… he proposed.”
The squeal on the other end of the line is so high-pitched Shoto has to hold the phone away from his ear. “Shoto! Oh my god! Congratulations! That’s amazing! Show me the ring right now, send a picture, I mean it!”
“I will. It’s… it’s perfect. It’s us.” He looks down at it again, the twin stones. For a second, the joy surges back, pure and bright. Then it curdles. “But something happened.”
Izuku’s excitement dials back instantly. “What?”
“I brought up him meeting my mom. Just… a dinner. Something normal.” Shoto stops walking, leaning against the cold brick wall of a closed boutique. He stares at the traffic passing. “He shut down. Completely. Got angry. Defensive. Said our family is just us. Booked us a cabin in the middle of nowhere for our anniversary, said that’s the family he wants.”
“Oh.” Izuku’s silence is thoughtful. “That’s… intense. But you guys are intense. Is this new, though? The defensiveness?”
“The degree of it is. The subject always made him twitchy, but this was… nuclear. He looked at me like I’d betrayed him.” Shoto’s throat tightens. “I don’t understand. I just wanted to share my life with him.”
“Have you ever… I mean, you’ve been together two years.” Izuku’s voice is careful, the way it gets when he’s working through a puzzle. “Has he ever told you his last name?”
The question lands like a physical blow. Shoto’s breath stops. The sounds of the city—the honking cars, the chatter of pedestrians—fade into a dull, roaring static. His mind races, flipping through two years of conversations, of whispered intimacies, of forms filled out for the piercing studio. He sees Dabi’s signature on the waiver, a sharp, slashing ‘Dabi’. He hears his own voice, a thousand times: *Dabi. Just Dabi.*
“No,” Shoto whispers, the word scraping out of him. The cold from the brick seeps through his jacket, into his bones. “He never has.”
“Okay,” Izuku says, his tone deliberately calm, the way you’d talk someone off a ledge. “Okay, so that’s… a data point. People have reasons for changing their names, Shoto. Good reasons. But if you’re feeling this weird about it… maybe there’s a way to ease your mind without confronting him. You live together now, right?”
“Yeah.”
“He must have something. An old driver’s license in a drawer. A piece of mail he forgot to shred. Something with a full name on it.” Izuku pauses. “I’m not saying snoop. I’m just saying… if you’re building a life with someone, knowing their last name isn’t snooping. It’s basic.”
Shoto closes his eyes. The image of Dabi’s apartment—*their* apartment—fills his mind. The sleek, minimalist furniture. The locked filing cabinet in Dabi’s studio nook. The bedroom closet where Dabi keeps a small, battered lockbox on the top shelf. Shoto has never asked about it. He’d assumed it was old tattoos sketches, maybe childhood mementos from the family he claims doesn’t exist. A chill, colder than the city air, traces his spine.
“Yeah,” Shoto says, his voice hollow. “It’s basic.”
“Just… be careful, okay? Whatever it is, you’ll figure it out. Together. He loves you, Shoto. That ring proves it.”
“Yeah.” Shoto pushes off the wall, starts walking again, his steps automatic. The ring feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. “Thanks, Izuku. I’ll… I’ll talk to you later.”
He ends the call. The silence in his wake is absolute. He stands on the sidewalk, people flowing around him like he’s a stone in a river. *His last name.* The omission is a chasm he’s been walking around for two years, politely pretending not to see. He thinks of Dabi’s face, the raw terror masquerading as anger. *Preservation*, he’d said. Preservation of what?
Shoto turns his hand, watching the gems in his engagement ring devour the dying afternoon light. A place to start, Izuku said. The walk home has never felt longer, or more like a march toward an execution.