honestly walt had a point when he said "how are u alive" during the funyun scene in "4 days out". jesse had severe vitamin d and folate deficiency swag throughout the entire show. his dehydration drip. i like to think that the green beans and water he had during the family dinner from hell in season 5 was his first time eating vegetables and drinking water in like 4 years
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idk if ur still accepting requests for the june prompts, but if so can u do #10 dark hair w bmb dabi?
prompt: dark hair
series: break my bones
warnings: just angst!
words: 475
“White roots?”
“Hmm?” he looks over, tipping his head back against the couch as his head lolls towards you, sharp jaw and Adams apple on perfect display.
“Your hair…I just—I thought you had naturally dark hair.”
“Oh,” he leans forward, subconsciously raking a hand through the inky strands, fingers curling at the roots and giving a short tug. “Uh, yeah.”
Why do you dye it? You want to ask him, curiosity gnawing a hole through your tummy as the words crawl up your throat, but he’s staring at you with this look; an expression you haven’t quite seen before, eyes almost pleading with you in desperation not to ask.
Something sinks in your chest, thick and leaden—he looks so melancholic, gazing at you with sparkling sapphire eyes, forehead wrinkled just a little in concern; or maybe it’s fear, afraid that you’re going to ask the question he’s so clearly dreading, lips twitching downwards into a tiny frown.
“Cool,” you say with a shrug, aiming to keep your tone light and indifferent.
Tense shoulders relax as he exhales a soft breath, slow and steady, through his nostrils, and you watch as his jaw flexes twice with a heavy swallow.
But later that night, when the whipping winter winds envelop the condominium and quiver the windows beneath their force, when the veil between night and morning is at its very thinnest, he tells you, sudden and unexpected, confession murmured out into the spacious living room, twining with the mumbling undertones leaking from the flickering television.
“My mother had white hair.”
And even though it’s said quietly, barely more than a singular breath exhaled from his tongue, the gentle revelation makes you jump, serendipitously yanking you from sleeps hazy embrace.
You nod, nuzzling your cheek into his thigh, a silent confirmation that you heard, a soothing encouragement to continue, the moment pregnant with suspense, as if there’s something else clinging to his teeth, fighting to leave his mouth.
“My eyes are from my father,” he grits out. “I wish I could say that’s the only trait we share, but…” he trails off, and you don’t push, instead tracing soft nonsensical patterns on his leg, allowing him the space to think, to mull, to continue if he wants to, or to cut it short.
But that’s all he says, just a shard of his life, sharp and gleaming in your palms, pulled deep from where it was lodged between his ribs.
And you think you’re alright with that. You think, maybe, that you can collect fragments of him—an immaculate jigsaw, gifted and won bit by razored bit—and piece them back together with slow, careful, tender hands, mindful not to shatter them further, not to snap any between your fingers as you return them to their rightful place, gradually revealing the masterpiece that is Dabi.
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