come in with the rain - dabi x reader

1. searching for an answer, ain't found one

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i've been searching for an answer, but i ain't found one
i've been known to tear shit up and go off like a gun
i've been drinking way too much, but now i think i'm done

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This is miserable.

Every phase of his life—each act, as Compress would call it—was full of misery, so of course this final chapter is no different. Worse than abuse and neglect, worse than running from the law and starving on the streets, he is now forced to endure the highest form of torture.

"Ready for therapy?"

Dear God, end me.

Touya sighs, slumping down in the hard plastic seat he'd been ushered into moments ago. He grumbles his discomfort under his breath—sure, he can't feel pain, but that doesn't mean he'll take this lying down. His slipper-clad feet tap rhythmically against the cold linoleum floors, a temperature he's not felt since his childhood. Back when his quirk was weak, when he could count on his mother or his sister to cool him off. He glares an imaginary hole into the quirk-cancelling bracelet on his left wrist, one of the many things preventing him from breaking out of this hellhole (the League's locked up, he's got nowhere to go, the heroes are back and better than ever, and who the hell wants to show their face to the world after failing their life's mission?).

The shuffling of paper's captures his attention. He watches carefully as his therapist, some mousy dude dressed in business casual and a warm smile that never fails to piss Touya off. Unable to burn the fucker alive for trying to poke and prod at his brain, he seethes silently instead.

Even if he could, he doesn't think he'd have the energy to fight off the handful of guards waiting outside the room—"They can't hear anything you tell me," the shrink had assured him, "It's just protocol." Right. As if the losers in for tax fraud need guards outside their therapy appointments—as if they need therapy at all. Touya bites his lip until it bleeds. "'Ready's a strong word," he mutters, unable to figure out what the hell this guy's name is. "Just get it over with."

"Well, good morning to you, too," he responds cheerily, settling into the seat across the table and spreading out an array of folders and notebooks. Up close, Touya can make out the name on the clearance card sticking out of his breast pocket—Sato. How the hell did he forget a name as simple as that? "So, did you select a name yet?"

Ah, right. It's been a month since the first session, where Sato asked him what he'd like to be called. His last name was off-limits for reasons that went unsaid, and calling him "Dabi" would only reinforce bad behavior. Besides, he hadn't picked that name for anything other than a practicality; his big reveal would be ruined if he went by his birth name. Dabi was scary, got the point across quite well.

Calling him "Dabi" now would just perpetuate his hatred, his need for vengeance, his wildfire of a legacy that devastated the world—again, Compress's words, once upon a time, or at least something close to it. Even if he wanted to be called that again, the shrink wouldn't let him. If not him, then his supervisor, for sure. He'd explained as much during their second meeting, when he'd tried it.

He inhales slowly, eyes half-lidded as he scans the documents on the table, looking for anything to prove this guy hates him more than he lets on. He finds nothing. "'Touya's... fine."

Sato looks at him for a moment, hums, then moves to scribble the name into the main file. "Your birth name," he comments, lips set firmly as if to conceal his reaction. "Any particular reason?" He wants more than Touya's willing to give, wants him to spill his guts like a couple of little girls at a slumber party so he can report it to his supervisor for brownie points.