Chapter Text
Hawks raises his gloved hands to his mouth and cups them so as to exhale into the leather in a futile attempt to generate a little more body heat.
No luck. His breath turns to tiny shards of crystal as soon as it escapes his lips, drifting away on the brisk autumnal wind and leaving him with little more than a brief flicker of warmth around the lower half of his face before the frost snaps up the minimal heat he’d generated again.
He huffs and admits defeat, tucking his hands beneath his armpits and wrapping his wings around himself in a protective buffer against the chill instead.
Fuck. He hates this season.
Hawks curls in on himself, hugging his torso a little bit tighter for warmth as he surveys the bustling crowds below. It’s late, but Kyushu never sleeps for anyone. At least there didn’t seem to be any sign of any major disturbances — he really didn’t need anything distracting him from his task tonight. He needs to be on full alert: this is easily one of the most dangerous jobs he’s ever accepted to date.
Infiltrate the League, he thinks to himself, ruefully shaking his head. Shit. All Might’s retirement really had done a number on the public’s faith in hero society, and the Commission were clearly more than just a little afraid about its repercussions if they’re coming up with plans as desperate as this.
He’d been doing his research on the League even before the Commission concocted this scheme, just like every other good due-diligent hero had been, as the threat against their precious little society grew. And none of the members looked particularly like the kind that could be reasoned with. They were more than just hardened criminals: they were a pack of murderous sadists.
Hawks still recalls opening his phone’s emails the morning after the heroes’ raid on the Shie Hassaikai Headquarters, and the subsequent arrest of Kai Chisaki. He’s seen a lot of deeply fucked up shit in his time as a hero — and long before it, too — but even he had recoiled at the report on how the League had attacked the police escort, killed several policemen and the hero, Snatch, before leaving Chisaki’s body on the road — alive, but missing both his hands and by extension, his Quirk.
His wings give an involuntary shudder at the memory alone. Chisaki is a monster, yes, and Hawks doesn’t hold a shred of a pity for the soulless bastard who had held captive and tortured a little girl, but it’s not an easy thing to think of, the idea of having your Quirk — what makes you you — ripped away from you like that. He struggles enough waiting for his wings to grow back after particularly nasty battles, he can’t stomach the thought of having them torn away from him completely.
It remains unclear exactly why the League had decided to take matters of justice into their own hands — no pun intended — in that case, but an act as ruthlessly vicious and cruel as that, spoke plenty about just what kind of people they were.
People Hawks is supposed to now somehow convince to allow him to join their nefarious organisation. Him, Japan’s number three hero — well, de facto number two now, he supposes — and shining beacon of all that hero society is supposed to represent.
Great. Easy peasey. Hawks is sure all he has to do is put on his best smile and ask really nicely, and they’d be happily accepting him with open arms in no time.
It’s a little shameful just how many knots his stomach is churning itself into, as his keen golden eyes scan the streets whilst simultaneously paying careful attention to the shifts in the vibrations in the air courtesy of the feathers that he’s scattered out throughout the immediate vicinity. Hawks doesn’t like working this way: too much time to himself to get stuck in his own head, caught up in doubts and niggling anxieties. He was a guy who was too fast for his own good, because jumping to action meant actually doing something, not all this sitting around watching and waiting and worrying.
The League are not ones to be trifled with, that much is for sure. Too many people had made that mistake and paid dearly for their missteps. They’d become more active in recruitment efforts as of late too, stalking the streets of the underworld in search of like-minded individuals, and it was thanks to that fact that Hawks had gotten the name of the individual he’s trying to hunt down tonight.
Dabi.
Dabi was the only member of the League — beside Shigaraki himself, of course — the Commission had absolutely no background record of prior to the first time he’d been spotted aligned with the other villains, back when they’d kidnapped that UA kid. That in and of itself had been a shock: the Commission had files on everyone, and Hawks was one of the few heroes who had access to nearly their entire network of information. But there was nothing about the heavily-scarred man, not even when Hawks had gone into health records and tried to cross-reference for extensive skin graft treatments. Not even anything in the database of living Quirk users — plenty of people with fire type Quirks, sure, but nothing on Dabi’s scale. Nor did anything make any mention of the distinctive blue flames that he utilises.
It was as if the man had just manifested from the shadows mysteriously one day and thrown his lot in with the League, for purposes no one was even entirely sure of. Which means Hawks had absolutely no solid leads on how to best garner favour with him — what would interest him, what would anger him, where to gain the best advantage — none of the usual advance tactical knowledge that he has primed and prepared with before starting out on a mission of this kind.
So Hawks would be flying blind for this one — ha — which is already off-putting enough, but he’s seen footage of the villain’s Quirk in action before — as well as seen images of the burnt-up bodies he left in his wake. The unsettling memory has him gnawing on his lower lip, stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets. Fire is his greatest weakness by a long-run, and all it would take would be one powerful blast from Dabi’s flames to potentially render Hawks effectively useless. Of all the villains to try to make first contact with, Dabi is by far the most dangerous for Hawks to have to meet head-on.
But according to Hawks’ underworld contacts, he is the one most active in the efforts to enlist more people into the League, with the others such as Jin Bubaigawara having fallen more or less off the grid in recent months.
Well. If immolating unworthy candidates counts as being proactive.
He curls his wings in a little tighter around him, huddling into the wool collar of his winter coat. Well, fuck it. He’s always been hoping for more independence when it came to handling his missions, and this job meant exactly that, right? It was a little bit more intense than he would have anticipated for his first time going this deep undercover, but Hawks has always been eager to find opportunities in which he can prove himself to his superiors.
Even if it meant having to cozy up to villains. A bunch of mass murderers and violent thieves with a twisted set of morals that seem to be hell-bent on the destruction of society as it currently exists. The same society and ideals that Hawks has been training ever since he was a young child to protect. Saving people who needed saving from criminals that preyed upon the weak and vulnerable, just like he had been saved, back when he had a different name and the concept that heroes that could save you from monsters had seemed like a distant fantasy.
That’s why Hawks chose this life, after all. That’s why he surrendered all personal freedom in favour of committing to being the greatest possible hero he can be: if it means that by following this path, his actions can lead to at least one less frightened child needing to hide in the closet when they heard the sound of familiar angry footsteps crashing down the hallway, then, well —
It had felt like an easy sacrifice to make.
All the same, this whole thing leaves a bitter taste in Hawks’ mouth, although he can understand why the Commission had selected him specifically for the job. Not only did his hero ranking make him a particularly appetising target for the League to recruit, but the Commission knows they can trust him to stay loyal. They’d rescued him from hell, after all, raised him and trained him to be the perfect hero: the embodiment of a person the public could look to in times of need, someone to admire and adore. And so he’d allowed himself to be honed into a finely crafted weapon of the Commission, one that could be wielded to use against the villain population no matter what it takes.
No matter what it costs.
Hawks has done worse things than rub elbows with the enemy: he’s done unspeakable acts, all in the name of maintaining the peace for hero society, and the peoples’ belief in the ones they look up to. It’s not exactly something that rests easy on his shoulders — there’s only so many things you can say to assure yourself at night as you stare up at a blank ceiling in an empty bed whilst recalling all the shit you’ve done, before the platitudes begin to lose all meaning — but something about actually having to try and make nice with one of the most dangerous men in Japan has him especially on edge.
He’s done undercover work before, albeit not for quite some time. They’d had to start sending him internationally for espionage training by the time he turned sixteen, since he’d already earned himself such a reputation in his home country that it didn’t matter how far outside of Tokyo they sent him: those wings of his were known far and wide.
And yet, this isn’t quite the same thing because he’s not trying to hide his identity this time. No, for this, the Commission are planning to actively exploit his renown in order to make him all the more appealing for the League to want on their side as a spy. As a harbinger of upheaval to the world order when it became revealed that the precious prodigy hero, Hawks, was a member of the League of Villains too.
Something that would shake not just Japan, but the entire world’s faith in heroes right down to its core.
Provided he succeeds at finding and convincing Dabi of his stance, that is. The psychological profile the Commission had put together of the man was severely lacking, with not much more than warnings about both his intelligence and capability in battle. In fact, the folder was mostly just blurred CCTV footage of the man and witness reports, with big red glaring stamps all over the papers reading: ‘WARNING: HIGHLY DANGEROUS.’
It’s not exactly the most promising briefing to a mission. Either he manages to make Dabi believe that he’s sympathetic to the League’s message, or he’s going to end up incinerated in one of these dark back alleyways.
Just another day in the life of a Professional Hero, he supposes.
The icy chill of the wind whips through him again, and he winces, trying to hug his wings a little tighter around him. Unfortunately, they don’t provide as much warmth as usual — he's sent out as many feathers as he can spare to act as listening devices throughout the city. He can’t distribute them that far from his body — not if he wants to actually be able to overhear anything, anyway — but it’s a method that he relies on heavily when it comes to these kinds of stealth missions. Given how damn obstructive his wings can be, it’s ironic how useful they prove to be during recon work.
Still, having this much of his plumage sent away and scattered, is having something of a draining effect on Hawks. His head hurts from the overstimulation of trying to concentrate on every exchanged hushed whisper that he can detect rippling through the shift of voices via the vibration of each individual feather. He doesn’t usually spread this many so thin, but finding Dabi is becoming an increasingly urgent matter given that the man never sticks to one district too long. Hawks only has a small timeframe in which to work, and if that means pushing himself to the brink in order to achieve his goal, then he’ll do exactly that.
Because that’s what heroes do.
Suffice to say that when the remaining feathers attached to his back suddenly tremble at the sensation of a shift in the air in his immediate surroundings, Hawks is considerably caught off guard. Albeit, only for a moment before whirling around and lunging at the approaching other, telepathically recalling all of the plumage that he’s spread out across the district.
Hawks snarls, grasping one of the feathers that’s still immediately ready to him and willing it into a razor-sharp blade, which he uses to spin around and press up against the intruder’s throat.
“Don’t move,” he growls, grasping the stranger’s shoulder with his free hand and pulling them a little closer, threateningly, against the keen edge of the feather’s blade. “If you try anything, then I’ll —”
“Oh? A hero openly willing to get his hands dirty? My, what will the people say?”
Wait.
Hawks’ hand tightens around his foe’s shoulder, and he squints into the darkness, relying on his Quirk’s ability to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark a little quicker than it would the average person. He’d expected some idiot mugger who had somehow managed to not catch sight of Hawks’ wings when sneaking up on their foe, or an overambitious idiotic villain who had noticed them and gotten notions in their head of being the one to take down Japan’s number three hero.
But if that were the case, they’d have been thrown off balance at Hawks’ sudden movement, stumbling backwards, crying out, or even reaching for a weapon or Quirk of their own. The person he’s holding is just standing there, calmly, their muscles totally relaxed even as Hawks lays the cutting edge of his sword against their jugular. He even makes out a flash of bright white teeth, drawing back into a smug grin and that’s when he sees the metal buried in the other man’s face, the discoloured, dead flesh around his eye sockets and jaw, and most of all, those eyes that burned a blue almost as unnatural as the flames he’s capable of summoning.
Dabi.
Hawks only half lowers the blade, using his other arm to herd Dabi back and up against a wall. Dabi’s grin broadens, although there’s no warmth to it — it’s more like he finds this whole exchange amusing rather than personally perilous to him. Hawks has extensively studied what little footage and reports they have of Dabi, and knows that for all his Quirk’s strength, he excels at long-range and he’s sure someone like Dabi has done his fair share of research into Hawks as well. Enough to know just how quickly he can move, how deep his feathers are capable of cutting.
And yet, here he is, his body totally relaxed and his lips twisted in amusement as if Hawks is nothing more than a child threatening him with a wooden stick.
It’s unnerving.
Which begs the question as to why Hawks finds it strangely thrilling.
Dabi’s back finally hits the wall with no resistance, but Hawks pins him there with one arm across his chest all the same, his blade held aloft and ready to strike should the villain give him any reason to. This is maybe not exactly starting out on the right foot, but the fact that Dabi had known to find Hawks here is setting off all of his alarm bells and damnit, he had been trained to trust his instincts. Is there a plant at the Commission? Had they warned Dabi about their plans for Hawks, that Hawks would be hunting him down with the intent to deceive him? Is Dabi here to stop him before he could even get started?
If he is, it would be impossible to tell from the way the taller man is smirking at Hawks, acting for all the world like he isn’t the one with a knife pressed against his neck. He also doesn’t particularly look like he’s planning on killing Hawks, but Hawks has seen CCTV footage of Dabi burning a whole gang of thugs alive with an utterly impassive expression as he gave a single flick of his wrist.
There's no letting your guard down around a man like this.
If he could even be called a man at all.
“You know,” Dabi drawls, “I don’t really go out of my way to socialise with heroes, but I thought you guys like to follow the usual common courtesy that the rest of the world does. Introduce yourself to a guy before you slit his throat, yeah?”
Hawks flushes and takes a step back, dropping his arm away from Dabi’s chest. He doesn’t dismiss the blade, however, keeping it clasped in his fist as he casts a sweeping gaze over one of the most dangerous men in Japan — possibly even the entire world.
Dabi realises immediately what he’s doing, it seems, his smirk only growing as he digs his hands into his coat pockets. Hawks doesn’t have to worry about him reaching for weapons — his hands are his weapons, and from all the investigation he’s done into the guy, he’s confident he’s not the kind of villain who would debase himself enough to rely on man-made tools, such as knives or guns. No, it’s clear the guy took too much pride in the work that he does for that — why, it’s written all over his skin.
It’s hard not to stare. He’s seen countless pictures of the villain, watched the rare footage that they have on him more times than he can count — on his phone in between breaks during patrols, on TV at home as he kicks back with a bottle of beer and a pile of paperwork, hell, even pulling it up on his tablet in the kitchen when making breakfast and studying them over a mug of coffee and bowl of granola. He’s committed Dabi’s image to memory now, enough so that if he had to, he thinks he could even manage a pretty damn good artist’s rendition of the guy. But it’s one thing seeing the man through the lens of a camera, it’s quite another up close.
For one, he’s much slimmer than Hawks would have thought. His clothes all hang off him in a way that would make another person look like a child playing dress-up, but on him, it’s strangely flattering in a way that Hawks can’t really put words to.
And then, of course, there’s the scars. There’s no amount of studying a person that could prepare you for encountering those up close.
They should be hideous, monstrous. So much flesh burned clean away, crudely held together with silver staples that look like they have a precarious grasp on his skin at best. Hawks has seen a lot of grizzly injuries, but he’s not sure he’s ever seen anyone quite like Dabi, with dead flesh stretching across the lengths of his arms, around his eye sockets, his entire lower jaw bone and criss-crossing across what little he can see of his chest. He can’t help but wonder how far the injuries stretch — his entire torso? His legs? What had actually happened to him? Did it have something to do with whatever has driven him to become the guy who gave little thought to burning innocent people alive?
“Eyes up here, hero.”
Hawks blinks, and feels that flush creeping higher as he shakes himself out of it and fixes his attention back on Dabi’s amused expression. Where he should have been looking the entire damn time, because the other man could have easily roasted him where he stood whilst he’d been distracted studying the patchwork of his skin. Going by the arrogant gleam in his eyes, Dabi is thinking the exact same thing.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to stare at a person’s scars?” Dabi snickers, pulling his hands from his pockets. Feathers shoot out of Hawks’ wings and hover threateningly in the air, all pointed towards the villain as he carefully watches his movements. Dabi shakes his head, grinning, and holds up his hands slowly in mock surrender. He’s grasping a pack of cigarettes in one of his hands, but that’s it.
“You can put those away, hero. Just looking for a smoke.”
Not bothering to check if Hawks has dismissed the feathers, Dabi flips open the box and shakes out a single cigarette before stuffing the pack back in his pocket. He slips it between his lips, then holds up both of his fists, one sheltering the other from the wind. Dabi lowers his head to meet his hands, before hesitating and glancing at Hawks beneath hooded eyelids, arching a single eyebrow at him in question.
It takes Hawks a second, and once realisation hits, he feels all the more abashed. God, for a hero that’s supposed to be known for his charm, he is making an absolute mess of this espionage job. He gives a nod.
It’s hard to tell, what with the marred skin, but Hawks thinks the corners of Dabi’s eyes crinkle in a way that suggests he’s grinning behind his cupped palms. His face is suddenly illuminated in a brief, bright flash of blue, so startling that Hawks feels his breath catch momentarily in his chest. The tiny flame that Dabi summons to light his cigarette casts the most interesting shadows over his face — before getting face-to-face with the villain, Hawks might have thought it made him look that bit more skeletal, frightening, the kind of visage that would strengthen his resolve that men like Dabi don’t belong in the kind of world he and the other heroes are fighting to protect.
It’s so much easier to do this job when you think of the villains as monsters, capable of blood-curdling atrocities with no remorse or sane purpose behind their deeds. The Commission had always been strict in reminding Hawks throughout his training that it didn’t matter whether or not villains got around to committing the crime, what mattered was that the Commission knew they were capable of doing it. They were capable of thinking it. If they didn’t catch them before they acted, then you were just delaying the inevitable.
Strike first and strike hard. That’s the way they’d raised him to act.
But now, watching Dabi’s maimed cheeks hollow as he inhales a long drag from the cigarette, its tip glowing a smouldering azurite in the darkness, Hawks is struck by just how very human this particular monster seems to be. He never even attempted to put up any fight against Hawks’ manhandling of him, just submitted to it and now watches him with that unsettling blazing blue gaze of his.
Ah, fuck. Hawks hasn’t even fucking said hello yet.
Talk about a master strategist.
Fortunately, the embarrassment that he feels is very much real and works well with the act he’s going to have to put on in order to backtrack the many mistakes he’s made leading up to this moment. He releases his hold on his sword, shaking out his wrist as he mentally wills the feather to return to its rightful place nestled amongst his wings. He hunches over, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand and flashing Dabi his most charmingly apologetic smile.
“Ah… Sorry about that! You know how it is — plenty of people out there who would be all too happy to see my brains scrambled across the pavement. Instinct, yanno?” He winks. “Hope I didn’t give you too much of a fright.”
Dabi’s expression remains utterly impassive. He simply holds the cigarette away a few inches from his lips and exhales a thick cloud of smoke directly into Hawks’ face.
Hawks struggles not to choke as it inevitably wafts up his nostrils, and takes two staggering steps backwards, slamming his chest as he coughs. Goddamnit.
“That’s for standing too close,” Dabi hums, and when Hawks’ eyes clear, he can see that the villain is smirking at him around the filter again.
Hawks should back down. Hawks should play it considerably nicer, Hawks should make a better effort to curry favour with this particular villain after the colossal fuck up he’s already made of things. But he has the strangest hunch that his usual brand of charm is going to go utterly to waste on someone like Dabi, that playing it tactfully is only going to serve to make the man lose interest in him entirely.
There’s this terrifying pull Hawks can feel behind his ribcage, lurching him forwards like the draw of a magnet, and it’s all gravitating towards this man with the twisted smile and cold, cold eyes.
It puts Hawks in the mind of times he’s stood on the edge of buildings, cliffsides, staggering heights and peered over the edge wondering what it would be like to take the leap, without the security of his wings promising to save him.
He knows people would think him crazy if they heard these kinds of thoughts, and it’s not like Hawks wants to cause himself any actual harm.
It’s just that he’s never been able to resist the curiosity of that strange force of gravity his Quirk rages against.
He wants to feel the fall.
He manages to keep his feet in place however, ducking his head with a low chuckle before raking his hands through his thick blonde hair as he raises his chin to meet Dabi’s watchful gaze once more. Hawks flashes him his most dazzling smile, shrugging his shoulders with a casualness that he absolutely does not feel.
“Those things will kill you, you know.”
Hawks nods at the cigarette hanging loosely between Dabi’s fingers. Dabi snorts.
“Do I look like I’m worried about what’s gonna kill me, hero?”
“Apparently not,” Hawks huffs, fluffing out his feathers with a touch of faux indignance. “Otherwise you’d have the grace to look even a little bit scared by getting cornered on a rooftop by Japan’s Number Three Hero. Even if you did manage to catch him mostly off guard. Mostly.”
Dabi looks amused, his face haloed in the light of his burning filter. He holds the smoke in his lungs for a moment, eyes locked on Hawks’ as he runs his tongue over his maimed lower lip.
A-ha. So they’ve found the rhythm to this dance they’re caught up in. Good.
“What can I say,” Dabi drawls, breathing out a billow of smoke through his nostrils this time, “maybe you’re not a very good hero.”
“Maybe you’re not a very good villain,” Hawks retorts before he can stop himself. His handlers would be pounding at the glass, slamming the ‘abort’ button if this was some kind of training exercise, he knows. They’ve never been particular fans of his methods of charming people. But throughout all his years of work, he’s learned to get a pretty good read on people, and he can already tell that Dabi enjoys this strange push and pull between them as much as he does.
His suspicions are confirmed as the flesh around the staples holding Dabi’s cheeks together strain a little tighter as he grins.
“Now, what makes you think that? I’ll have you know I committed at least four felonies on my way here.”
“Bullshit. Maybe my wings being displaced managed to get you to catch me off guard, but I’d know if anyone had been killed in the area.”
“Who said anything about murder?” Dabi lifts up his other hand, holding it directly in front of Hawks. “Felony number one: I stole this pack of cigarettes.” He folds down one finger against the flat of his palm. “Two: I didn’t pay my train fare. Three: I jaywalked. And four…”
His ferocious blue eyes glint in the moonlight as he watches Hawks.
“...I broke into a private building in order to make my way up to the roof, because I’d trailed a certain hero here. Do I qualify as enough of a bad guy for Mister Number Three just yet?”
Hawks fails to bite back a smile. None of the intel he’d collected on Dabi prior to this encounter had mentioned that the villain had such a sense of humour.
All the same, the question hangs between them. Dabi would have already at least attempted to kill Hawks by now if he wasn’t nursing some deeper curiosity. Sure, he strikes Hawks as the kind of guy who likes to toy with his prey before ripping its head off — or roasting it alive in Dabi’s case — but Hawks’ keen intuition tells him that’s not what’s going on here. At least, not yet.
So what the hell is Dabi doing here?
“Make it five,” Hawks breathes, “tell me how you found me.”
Dabi’s eyes burn like dead stars.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he all but purrs in a low rasp. There’s something strangely intoxicating about that slight growl in his voice, and Hawks finds his gaze inadvertently dipping down towards the vast stretch of burned skin that ravages the long line of his neck. Were those burns the reason behind the gnarl of his vocal chords?
Better question, why was he even fucking entertaining notions such as these?
He snaps his eyes back to meet Dabi’s, but the smirk he’s wearing tells him all he needs to know: yes, Dabi had caught him staring and no, Dabi was not going to just forget about that.
“You’re not the only little bird that likes to skulk about rooftops and dark alleyways, listening out for valuable information, y’know. I have my own, and I gotta say… Yours are pretty damn lacking in subtlety. Bit heavy-handed with the requests, I gotta say — you really oughta teach those sidekicks at your agency a thing or two, if you ask me.”
Dabi wryly shakes his head, easing himself back against the wall he’d been previously shoved against. He slouches, kicking back one foot so as to balance himself better, taking another long drag of his cigarette and watching idly as the smoke is whipped away with the brisk breeze. For the first time, it strikes Hawks just how little the cold seems to affect Dabi, despite how light his clothing is — especially compared to Hawks’ own winter coat’s fur lining. It’s strange: he’s not an expert in fire Quirks, but he does know that their users’ bodies are built to withstand overheating and therefore supposed to be more vulnerable to colder temperatures.
Not Dabi, however. Just another oddity to add to the long list he’s beginning to accumulate about this man.
“Lots of shit gets back to me, y’know? Most of it useless. But when the Number Three Hero is making a point of looking for me through underworld contacts, I can’t help but take an interest.”
Dabi examines the embers of his cigarette, and Hawks finds his eyes following the trail of the lucifer.
“Asking about how people go about getting recruited. Where have folk encountered me before. When all I’m trying to do is have a couple of conversations with like-minded individuals, you know how it is. But then I catch word that the Pro Hero Hawks of all people wants to know about me — little old me!” He flourishes his hand, sweeping it in a downwards gesture as if to encompass his entire figure. “Just a guy looking for some friendly faces. Anyway…”
Dabi brushes his dark fringe away from his face.
“But those contacts of yours, they just have too much damn hero in them to really rub shoulders with the likes of us low lives, you know?”
He snorts, and shakes his head.
“I swear to God, some of the ‘disguises’ your rookies came up with…Like there’s any hiding a hero. Your kind practically sparkle.”
His hand drops away from his face, curling into a fist directly in front of his chest as a startling blue flame suddenly engulfs it. Dabi’s already impossibly blue eyes seem to glow several shades brighter as he drinks it in, a soft smile playing around the corners of his burned lips.
“Got the name ‘Hawks’ out of them in the end. Can’t say there weren’t any casualties — not sure what you bribed them with in order to keep their mouths shut, but hey, they were loyal. But even supernovas eventually burn up.”
Dabi holds his hand up in the night air, watching the flames dance around his fingers. He looks at Hawks, grinning as he raises his other maimed hand to his lips, inhaling deeply from the cigarette he’s still smoking .
“Ever been burned, hero? And I mean properly burned, not just the brush of a flame, I mean feeling the flesh slough away from your bones until all that’s left is…”
He drags his thumb over his discoloured chin.
“...muscle and tissue and whatever else your body can salvage? You’re such a pretty bird, though. A beautiful, well-kept canary, sitting so very comfortably in the cage it’s been raised in, not ever wanting for anything. A picture fucking perfect poster boy of a hero.”
Dabi holds his gaze as he exhales yet another plume of smoke directly into Hawks’ face.
This time Hawks is ready for it. He does not flinch, no matter how much Dabi’s words make his stomach churn, bile rising in the back of his throat.
“So I have to ask myself, what’s a good boy like you doing going around asking questions about a guy like me? First I just thought it was some clumsy manhunt looking for the League in general, but the more I made people talk, the more it seems like it’s just you interested in finding me.”
Dabi bares his teeth again, in an approximation of a smile. Hawks can see where the staples holding his jaw together begin to stretch and tear, and it should disgust him, but it doesn’t.
“So tell me, hero. What are you looking for? Me? Or something else?”
Hawks takes a deep breath.
Here it is.
“I’ve been training to be a hero ever since I was five years old, and I was sought out and recruited into the Hero Public Safety Commission’s special programme.”
He swallows down the lump of lead that feels like it’s constricting his throat, fighting with all his might to get the words out.
“The home I grew up in… Let’s just say that it wasn’t the happiest of childhoods. So when they came to me and said I could be someone that helped kids like me… Hell, I was still a damn child myself. So of course I said yes, of course I dedicated my entire life to becoming their poster boy, just like you say I am. Moulding myself into whatever shape they needed me to be, They needed the perfect hero who could do whatever they commanded, and still come out looking good. And that’s exactly what I am.”
He gives a faux bow, knowing damn well Dabi will be unimpressed. He can’t help it. He’s never told anyone this before, and even though the best lies are always underscored with a dash of truth, speaking this reality is provoking a bitter bubbling in his gut. There’s no need for performance when it comes to the acrid bite to his tone.
“I broke out of one cage, only to fly right into another,” Hawks continues, feeling his fist clench. Strange. That wasn’t part of the act. “And I’m sick of it. I’m so fucking sick of it, I’m so tired of the bullshit, all the damn lies about hero society that I’ve become so wrapped up in. I’m just…”
His wings half-heartedly batter behind him, before he slumps back against the wall beside Dabi. Dabi offers him a cigarette, but Hawks gives a tired shake of his head.
“...I’m so tired of how broken this all is. And it’s not just a case that I can quit, because hell, what if I do and then someone ten times worse than me takes my place? Fuck.”
He buries his face into the fur lining of his jacket, taking some small relief in the shield it provides against the cold whip of the wind. He is at one point going to have to finally concede to his agency’s costume department that his winter outfit may indeed need some extra insulation.
If he survives the night and ever sees them again, that is.
“...Then there’s all those kids in the Hero Academies, you know? Shit, I never went to any schools, but from the stuff I’ve heard, it doesn’t sound that much better than the Commission.”
Dabi’s bright blue eyes flicker towards him, only the faintest hint of a furrowed brow giving away any particular interest.
Huh. Hawks tucks away the implications of that reaction for another time.
“...All these…children. Forced and conditioned into being heroes, just because of how they were born: something they’ve no control over. It’s not right. And if they don’t make it into a good Hero Academy, or if they end up failing...”
Hawks’ wings flutter, wrapping in around himself against the chill. Almost all his feathers have made their way back and been restored to him now, bar the several dozen he typically keeps spread out across Kyushu.
It’s always been an uncomfortable feeling, having his feathers not always with him. Constantly needing to be spliced and sent in a hundred different locations at once, in the name of keeping the peace. But it didn’t matter, really.
He had learned long ago how to not be whole.
“You said…you said you’re trying to make a new world order, right? You and the rest of the League? Reshaping the way the world thinks about heroes?”
Dabi examines the burning end of the taper held between his fingers.
“Something like that.”
“Can’t say I know what that will involve, but, well… Look, I’m just trying to say — I wanna help, okay? It’s up to eighty percent of kids being born with Quirks these days, and they say the numbers are only gonna go up, and their Quirks will become even more powerful… I’ve seen how things are run. There’s no way this won’t end in disaster, unless things are drastically changed. The HPSC can’t continue the way it’s currently going, not without lapsing into some kind of authoritarian dictatorship controlling what Quirks are acceptable or not, and who is worth wielding them. I just…”
Hawks clenches his gloved fist and tilts his head up to stare up at the distant dim glow of the moon hanging over the city. The words taste like acid, like deceit, like poison on his tongue, but he has to remember why he’s here. Who he’s here for.
Anything for the Commission.
“...I can’t keep going down this same path, not like this. Not with the way the world’s turning. I look at you guys, and I see the chance for real change, you know? I see people who actually want change, who recognise that we need it. And that’s worth something. It’s something, when no one’s doing anything to reform this damn system that’s causing all the fucking problems. And I’m tired of being kept on this tether. They give me the illusion that I’m my own person, but even if the bars of this cage I’m stuck in aren’t visible, I’m still trapped within it. I want to be able to fly free. I want a world where everyone gets that chance — to live life on their own terms.”
Hawks lets out a long breath, his solemn expression turning slightly bashful. He brings up a hand to scratch the back of his neck, tilting his head to try and steal a glance at Dabi.
“Or, uh, something like that. Sorry. Didn’t mean to get so deep. Floodgates kinda opened, huh?”
Dabi is studying him with that same apathetic expression, the last embers of his cigarette burning down to the filter. He exhales heavily through his nose, and, rather than stamp out the remains of his taper, conjures up a small burst of fire to burn it away completely. Hawks can’t help but watch in rapt fascination as the blue flames devour the cigarette’s ends greedily, reducing it to ashes in less than a second. He should be alarmed, should have already reached for one of his feathers to serve as a weapon — Dabi is technically brandishing one of his own by summoning his Quirk in his presence — but he doesn’t.
That doesn’t fail to escape Dabi’s notice, judging by the slight arch of his brow.
“Nice story,” he says eventually, after several moments of silence. “How long did you spend working on that?”
A flash of irritation passes through Hawks at that jab.
“It’s not a story!” he snaps, scowling. “I’ve been a pawn of the Commission for nearly my entire damn life, hell, you can even find half of it on public record, what I’m saying is —“
Dabi waves a hand at him dismissively.
“Yes, yes, I’m well aware of how fast you rose to glory, golden boy.” Dabi sighs, tucking both his hands behind his head and leaning back against the wall. Hawks finds himself feeling somewhat affronted. Is he boring Dabi? “I mean that little speech about ‘spreading your wings’.”
His voice takes on an exaggerated breathlessness when he puts the emphasis on those final words, and Hawks bolts upright, filled with indignation. He is mocking him!
“Very poetic. I see now why the crowds are so fond of you; you’ve a real way with words, y’know? You know exactly how to tug on the heart strings. The thing is, hero.”
Dabi straightens up as well and turns to face Hawks. He’s not that much taller than Hawks is, only a couple of inches more than him in height, but he has a way of holding himself that makes it seem like he’s towering over the other man.
That gruesome grin returns, flesh straining against the staples holding it together where his lips split into his cheeks.
“You forgot one crucial detail. I don’t have a heart.”
Hawks meets his blazing turquoise gaze and takes a deep breath, calling upon all his many years of training that’s prepared him for moments like these.
Commit to the act, his handlers would tell him. Keep pressing this line of attack, convince Dabi to open up his heart to him until he would have no choice but to believe Hawks. Make a connection. Find common ground. There had to be a reason as to why Dabi is as committed to his cause as he is: he’s clearly not driven out of pure insanity, there’s an end goal buried there somewhere. Hawks just has to find out what it is and then exploit it to the best of his ability.
And it wasn’t such a bad idea, because after all, this isn’t even an act — the story of Hawks’ past is true, and he knows how to spin his upbringing with the Commission in a way that would make it enticing for the League of Villains, keep twisting it to fit the narrative they espouse.
Alternatively, his handlers would suggest imploring to Dabi the benefits that Hawks could bring to the League. The insider information, the methods he could exploit to make himself useful by playing both sides, all the ways he was ready and willing to prove his loyalty to the man and to the cause. They had told Hawks to stop at nothing, and so he knew he would have to find a way to do each and every despicable thing the League asked of him, whilst yielding the flimsy shield of his role as a double agent to prevent him from having to do anything too morally reprehensible.
That’s what the Commission would urge, anyway.
But Hawks is the one that’s here now, Hawks is the one staring up at that smug smirk plastered on the other man’s face, the mocking glint in his fiery eyes, the expression that clearly spells out that Hawks is completely and utterly fucked.
So instead, Hawks smacks him.
It’s not a particularly impactful attack; he wasn't acting with any intent of hurting the man in question, no matter how infuriating he is. It’s more of a statement — an answer to the question he could see being posed in that sardonic smile.
Hawks has only known Dabi for under an hour, but he can already tell that violence is a language he speaks more fluently than any other. One that he respects more than this damned dance of messy words and heartfelt tales of past woes.
Dabi staggers back, and Hawks relishes the look of genuine shock on his face. He folds his arms over his chest, grinning as Dabi pulls himself back upright and runs his thumb over his bloodied lower lip. It appears that Hawks had split it. Good.
Dabi laughs. Actually laughs for the first time since they’ve met, a genuine actual laugh, his whole body shaking with the force of it, to the point that Hawks can’t help but find himself snickering along with it. All the more when Dabi uses the heel of his wrist to wipe the blood from his lip, and only succeeds in smearing a dark crimson smudge across the burned skin of his jaw.
“And that,” Hawks says dryly, giving a pointed flap of his wings, “is for being an ass. Plus, you say I have cheesy lines? Please.”
Dabi heaves a final ‘heh’, fixing his gaze upon Hawks as he darts his tongue out to lick some of the blood away from his wrist and oh, no, that was going to be very hard to not think about.
He straightens up and shakes his head, a small smile still playing across his lips.
“Well,” Dabi announces, regarding Hawks with an amused expression. “Look at you. I suppose you’re capable of surprising me after all, hero.”
“The name’s Hawks, not ‘hero’. It’s possible that you’ve maybe even heard of me.”
“Hawks,” Dabi repeats, swirling the name around his tongue like he’s savouring the taste of a fine wine. And god, there’s that tug again, the irresistible drag of gravity pulling him towards the brink. Hawks enjoys danger, sure: it’s all part of the job at the end of the day but there’s danger and then there’s Dabi. The man is a criminal — no, not just that, a villain, a murderer — he’s everything that he devotes his life to fighting against. Dabi represents all the chaos that would be unleashed if the HPSC wasn’t around to protect citizens from him and his ilk.
But he also represents freedom — a wild sort of liberty to be sure, but freedom all the same. The kind that Hawks has always witnessed and privately, secretly, envied, because it’s the kind that someone like him could ever even dream of embracing. He’s the Commission's Golden Boy after all, just like Dabi had said; the prodigy that they’d taken in and raised to become everything a hero should embody. It’s a path he knows he can’t ever stray from, because there is no alternative. He’s a hero, it’s what he was born to do. He may have wings, but there’s no flying away from the responsibilities that he’s chained to.
Yet, when he looks at Dabi, meets that fierce glint in his eerily brilliant blue eyes, he sees for just the briefest of perilous moments —
He sees the infinite stretch of blue skies. The kind that he’s always dreamed of reaching.
Dabi rolls his neck from shoulder to shoulder and shrugs it out. He regards Hawks with a final appraising look, tonguing the wound in his lip that Hawks had left him with before breaking back out into a grin and offering him a hand.
“Well, Hawks,” he practically purrs. Hawks wings’ tremble in a way that has nothing to do with the chill. “I suppose there’s no harm in getting to know one another.”
Hawks flashes him one of his trademark dazzling smiles, and wraps his gloved hand around Dabi’s.
When their fingers close around one another in a handshake, Hawks is grateful for his wings for keeping his balance.
Because when Dabi touches him, that treacherous bitch gravity pushes him closer to falling than ever before.
Dabi’s trust is not easily bought.
No, the truth is that each and every fucking ‘trust-building’ exercise Dabi assigns Hawks seems to grow increasingly more and more excessive, to the point that Hawks can’t help but wonder if he’s fucking with him for the hell of it.
Such as the whole business with the High-End Nomu. Yeah, fine, Dabi was right — Hawks had kind of begun with an unfair hand by bringing Endeavor along with him rather than someone like Kamui Woods, or even Edgeshot. He could sing pretty stories to Dabi about how he’d actually done him a favour by bringing him the number one hero, how he’d figured it would be a win-win situation: they’d either learn the extent of the High-End’s abilities, or the High-End would succeed in killing Endeavour and begin the collapse of hero society that they were supposedly striving towards.
But as soon as he’d stepped into that deserted warehouse a few hours after the battle, the moment that he’d caught the fiery glint of Dabi’s startling eyes reflected in the moonlight spilling through the windows, he’d known that those excuses weren’t going to cut it.
All he could do was save face for the time being, and vent some very real irritations with the other man in the aftermath of that absolute shitshow of a battle. His handlers would have disapproved of his attitude, but Hawks knew Dabi better than they did.
Knew him well enough that when he laid the sharp edge of his feather’s blade against his jugular, that he’d earn a smirk rather than a fist full of flames.
The language that Dabi speaks is a particularly bizarre dialect: one full of loaded silences in place of words, and grunts that could only be deciphered by tone alone. But Hawks has been trained for exactly this, and whilst Dabi is an enigma of the kind he’s never quite experienced before, he still thinks he’s getting a decent handle on the strange machinations of the man’s mind.
And yet, Dabi does not trust him.
This level of suspicion can only be expected, really, when the number three — no, number two now — ranked hero in the world comes looking for an invite into your villainous organisation. Dabi isn’t stupid, and Hawks has to begrudgingly admit that in Dabi’s position, he would be running a turncloak in just as many circles until he was truly certain of their affiliations. And even then, he wouldn’t trust them.
That’s the first time he realises that himself and Dabi are not as entirely different as he thought they were. He prays it’ll be the last.
(It’s far from it.)
And yet, Dabi always has an air of amusement around him whenever he meets with Hawks, like he’s enjoying some secret that Hawks isn’t in on. It’s very irritating — all the more so because Hawks can’t shake the feeling that maybe it means Dabi’s always had him figured out, never believed his act for a single second, has always recognised him as a tool of the Commission. That he’s well aware Hawks is using Dabi just as much as Dabi is using him.
It’s absurd just how frustrating that particular uncertainty is, given what a massive fucking hypocrite it makes Hawks. Sure, Dabi is getting more information from Hawks than he currently is in return, but something about the idea that Dabi is making him run through these various assignments like he’s some kind of trained bird for his entertainment is especially vexing.
But.
At least, at the end of the day, he can’t complain too much because there’s also Dabi.
Hawks should be horrified by himself for just how much he’s come to enjoy the other man — villain’s — company. And he is. He’s spent more hours than he’d care to admit struggling with himself as he tries to deny the eager fluttering in his gut that always accompanies him on his journeys to rendez-vous with the man– the catch in his breath when his feathers prick up upon sensing the now-familiar click of Dabi’s steel-toed boots against the pavement, the shiver he can barely fail to repress when he meets that brilliant turquoise gaze, sees Dabi’s lips curl into what could be a smile, could be a sneer, as he murmurs ‘hello, hero.’
It’s infuriating. He wants to loathe Dabi, but it turns out that’s a task that’s too difficult for even the number two hero in Japan. Which is ridiculous, really, because there’s plenty to dislike about Dabi: he’s rude, he’s smug, he’s callous, he’s a goddamn smart ass — not to mention the whole fucking mass murderer thing. These are the qualities of the other man — the villain — that Hawks should be focusing on, especially given how goddamn glaringly obvious they are.
And it would be easy to hate him if that’s all there was to him.
But unfortunately, there’s so much more.
Dabi makes you work for it. He doesn’t just easily give away the parts of himself that keep drawing Hawks in, and maybe that’s just another one of the things that Hawks likes so very much about him.
Dabi freely throws around smirks and sneers, using them like they’re just another weapon he can brandish. Hawks has learned the careful art of managing to eke an actual smile from him — slowly, cautiously, never pushing too hard or giving away just how eager he is for the sight of them.
Never forced. That was important, too. Dabi didn’t care for falsities or platitudes, grew quickly bored by efforts to flatter his ego, and easily lost interest in people altogether. Push too hard with Dabi and he’d tear away completely. It’s a delicate tether to keep a hold of, but Hawks works hard on learning how to carve out a careful balance between them.
The surprising part is just how naturally it ends up coming to him.
Dabi is funny. He’s very fucking funny, because he doesn’t give a damn about who might be listening — a trait that’s so utterly foreign to Hawks, who has lived almost his entire life being eternally cautious of his own words because he was always being monitored — and if you didn’t like it, then Dabi would fix you with that smug grin and ask you what you were going to do about it. He would twist his wrist, palm facing upwards as heat rose from it, curling his fingers in on themselves — not a threat, but a reminder of what he could do if you care to put up too much of an argument.
And so Hawks would lightly smack his hand away with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
“You are so damn dramatic,” he’d tell him as he collapsed back into the couch. “I’m just saying, I’ve got all these stupid devices rigged into my damn wings, so maybe keep your remarks on exactly what Re-Destro’s receding hairline reminds you of to yourself — even if you’re right.”
And that’s when he’d earn one of those rare smiles, the ones that don’t pull against the corners of his mouth quite so painfully, the ones that find a home in what’s left of the wrinkles around his eyes.
Hawks likes that. Likes being the one to make Dabi smile that way. Likes trying to entice those small moments of sincerity from him, even though these aren’t the kind of secrets he’s supposed to be focused on extracting from the villain.
He tells himself that it all serves the purpose of the mission. Breaking down the sturdy walls Dabi has built around him is no easy task, and can’t be achieved by the kind of brute force most heroes would usually resort to. No, Hawks is the perfect man for the job for a reason, and it’s because he can be trusted to use the gentlest possible touch to pick even the most impenetrable of locks.
It’s a pleasant lie, that. Telling himself it’s all for the mission, and not because that every time Hawks catches Dabi’s eyes glinting with a glimmer of interest, he feels the unfamiliar sensation of his balance teetering, his wings suddenly feeling heavy and useless against the unmistakable siren’s call of gravity.
Dabi’s hand brushing against his as he accepts a handful of documents, all carefully signed by various high-ranking members of the Hero Association, fingertips grazing as he lifts his own to follow the path of highlighted text that Hawks is tracing his thumb over. Their shoulders bumping as Dabi leans over him, his breath dangerously close to Hawks’ ear whilst Hawks does his best to keep his voice steady as he lays out the details to security points at a location the Paranormal Liberation Front plan on targeting. The way Hawks catches Dabi’s brilliant blue eyes lazily lingering on the curve of Hawks’ neck after several beers. The dangerous smile, sharp as a switchblade, that he’d flash Hawks as he kicked his boots out in front of him, languidly stretched out on the luxurious sofas dotted throughout the living areas in the PLF’s villas as Hawks dealt another hand of cards. Dabi, Dabi, Dabi—
More and more, Hawks finds himself perched on the top of rooftops, peering over and trying to reconcile the feeling of that dizzying drop below him with how it feels to look into those aquamarine eyes. If he closed his wings and let himself simply drop, would he be able to resist the descent? Would he fight against it, and fly away from danger as he always does or would he, could he, simply for once in his life, allow himself to fall?
When he lifts his eyes and drinks in the vast sight of the horizon, he can’t help but think of the colour of Dabi’s eyes.
One thing he knows for certain, is that if he falls —
The drop will be lethal.
Another Saturday evening, another round of beers and another round of cards.
It’s a little past one in the morning and Hawks is sunk into the couch, comfortably buzzed as he uncaps a fresh bottle of beer. Dabi is sprawled across the other side of the sofa, nursing his own drink and Hawks can tell that he’s doing his very best to appear bored.
It’s an attitude that Dabi generally tries to pass off as his natural state, and one he works mercilessly to maintain around others, but Hawks isn’t so easily fooled.
Neither are Dabi’s peers, to their credit. Over the course of the night they’d laughed and poked fun at Dabi’s apparent lack of interest each time they shot a question his way or aimed a joke at him. When Hawks had first started getting invited to these little gatherings that the original members of the League organised between themselves in the villa, he’d been surprised to see that Dabi attended at all. And then rather confused as to why he even bothered, given that for the most part, he kept to himself; drinking beer, ignoring the conversation and occasionally joining in a round of cards. But, only when the stakes were high.
At first, it had felt like Dabi was there out of sheer obligation, almost like he was being forced to attend. Which made absolutely no sense, because he’s a fucking adult with his own damn room in the villa — and it was Dabi, who did whatever the hell he damn well pleased — so why? Especially when his most common contribution was a scoff, or a disgusted noise, or the occasional cutting remark.
But Hawks had soon come to realise that that was simply Dabi’s way of socialising, strange as it might seem. Much as he might roll his eyes and grunt in disapproval, he actually enjoyed sitting around the table with them, feigning disinterest as they drank and bantered with one another.
That wasn’t the only discovery, however.
It dawned on Hawks one evening that Dabi always seemed to carve out a spot for himself near Hawks. He’d never really taken notice of it before — Hawks simply preferred the sofa because it provided the space for him to be able to stretch out his wings as much as he liked. Dabi was, without fail, always the last person to arrive to these hangouts with the group, and as such, would usually just throw himself belligerently onto the empty seat on the other side of the couch.
And that had been that.
Except, Hawks had begun to wonder.
He’d begun to experiment with this delicate tether between them in small, subtle ways. The obvious step had been to change up the seating arrangements, opting one day to slip into one of the armchairs that Spinner or Atsuhiro usually occupied before they could take a seat. Neither of them had found that particularly remarkable, sitting themselves down on the couch without any comment.
Not Dabi, though.
He’d swept into the room about forty-five minutes after the rest of them had gathered, his expression as impassive as ever — that is, until his gaze had absently swept over the spot on the couch that Hawks usually sat. When he discovered the back of Spinner and Atsuhiro’s heads instead, his eyes had shot up abruptly, searching the room until —
His gaze landed on Hawks, and his face had seemed to soften ever so slightly. Without any preamble, he strode across the room, snatched a bottle of beer from Twice as he was still drinking from it, and lazily rested his hip against the arm of the chair Hawks was seated in.
“So,” he had asked, taking a long sip of beer and ignoring Twice’s protests. “What are we playing?”
And so the force of gravity’s pull grew heavier and heavier.
Hawks has always been a flirt. It’s part of the persona the Commission spent so long carefully crafting. He's young and good-looking, and that was something they had known they could capitalise on. Both for his popularity ratings, as well as in some of the more…complicated places that his work took him.
But it’s not something that he really utilises or takes advantage of outside of work. Romance is simply a foreign concept to him and, in all honesty, that suits Hawks just fine. His lifestyle didn’t allow for additional complications such as love and all the kind of messiness that accompanies it.
Flirting is more like a casual sport for him: fun to do every now and then, and a handy skill to have, but not anything he takes remotely seriously.
It is most definitely not something he should engage in with a fucking villain. Not even if it benefits the mission, not with what’s on the line and someone who is clearly as dangerous as Dabi is.
Yet, there’s no denying the giddy twisting buried somewhere low in his gut when he comes to realise some of the lengths Dabi goes to in order to remain physically close to Hawks. And the heat that radiates off his body each time he so much as bumps elbows against him is just too damn intoxicating to forget.
Hawks is well aware of just how well the metaphor about not getting too close in case of getting burned applies here, how especially apt it is in Dabi’s case, but —
He’s spent so damn long being such a perfectly well-trained pet, being so damn obedient for his handlers, living the life they told him to without any complaint or question. And that was the shittiest part: he hadn’t questioned it, because why would he? They told him that this was what a hero did, and a hero was what he’d always dreamed of being. Even when he was being assigned missions that didn’t feel particularly heroic, he had swallowed that discomfort and reminded himself over and over the Commission’s words.
Always for the greater good, he’d repeat to himself as the blade of his sword cut across the neck of a corrupt hero in the dead of night. They’d been stupid enough to collude with villains to stage a couple of crimes that helped bolster the hero’s reputation, as well as line the villains’ pockets. If their crimes were exposed, people would lose faith in the system. He had to do what the Commission told him. The ends justify the means.
Shaking the blood from the honed blade of his feather, and getting to work disposing of the body, his golden eyes glazed over.
Whatever it takes.
All the things he had done in the name of keeping the peace. Everything he’d sacrificed. The iciness he’d had to wrap around his heart in order to live with the things he’s done.
When he looks at Dabi, all wildfire and blazing freedom, he can’t help but wonder if it’s so wrong of him to want to be warm?
This tether. This balancing act between them, hovering precariously on a rope over dizzying heights.
Just how much weight could he put on it before it snaps, and the ground rushes up to meet him?
And so, Hawks goes back to taking up his usual spot on the sofa, and Dabi resumes strolling in late and settling down on the opposite end. So it’s nothing, really, for Hawks to start kicking up his legs and laying them across Dabi’s lap.
The villain tenses up at first, and Hawks wonders if maybe he’s pushed it a little too far too fast — especially when he feels the rush of heat radiating off the villain’s body.
But he can feel the sharp, steady exhale that Dabi finally releases, the unclenching of his fists as he roots into his coat pockets for his cigarettes. And soon enough, it’s like nothing had even happened, like this was nothing out of the ordinary as he snaps at Spinner for a jab about his poor Mario Kart scores, and snickers along with Toga as she triumphantly flourishes Twice’s hand to show off the elaborate nail art she had been practising on him.
And then Hawks feels the weight of Dabi’s hand coming to rest upon his shin, as casual as if it were nothing. Which it could be, really — he’s taking up enough of Dabi’s space that it’s not like he has very many other places to settle his hands, but he’s certain that Dabi isn’t blind to this charge between them.
When his gaze flickers towards Dabi, and he finds that blazing blue searing into him, Hawks know that he is well and truly fucked.
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not!” Hawks insists, digging the heel of his foot into Dabi’s ribs. Dabi lets out a snort, and grabs his foot, wrestling with it, before — to Hawks’ surprise — settling it on his lap.
It's just the pair of them left iin the room now, the others having gradually staggered off to their own rooms to sleep some time ago.
“Yes it fucking is. No way did you save a runaway train and a sinking ship at the same time. That’s beyond bullshit.”
Hawks kicks at him with his free foot, which achieves nothing more than Dabi grabbing hold of that leg too and scooping it up onto his lap along with the other.
“You can literally Google it, if you’re such a skeptic,” Hawk pouts, nestling his head back against the sofa’s armrest. He gives Dabi’s lap a nudge with his heel, with what limited movement he can manage. “I don’t know why it’s so hard to believe.”
“Oh, it’s not,” Dabi retorts, rolling his eyes. “It’s very fucking in keeping with Mister Goddamn Number Two Hero.” He takes another long sip of his beer, the fingers of his free hand idly beginning to rub Hawks’ shin. Hawks fails to suppress a shiver. “You’re just such a… I don’t know.”
Hawks props himself up on his elbows, and furrows his brow at him.
“A what?”
Dabi bites down on his burned lower lip, the barest hint of a smirk playing on the corner of his mouth.
“...just such a fucking hero, no matter what you say to the contrary.”
He lightly skims his fingers up Hawks’ shin, all the way to just above his knee and then back down again, in a manner that has Hawks feeling like he’s going to melt into the goddamn cushions beneath him.
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to save people,” Hawk hums, settling back down and stretching out a little more pointedly across the couch. “I thought we’d been over this. I’m not here because I just want senseless destruction or chaos. My problem is with the way things are run in hero society — it’s got nothing to do with the people caught up in this cycle. They’re all just victims of its propaganda culture — dismantling it like the League wants to will help save them too.”
Dabi arches an eyebrow at him, his fingers sweeping over his tibia.
“Oh? And what about all the people who aren’t worth saving?”
Hawks scoffs.
“What, so I’m supposed to take out a checklist and interview them before I rescue someone from a disaster now? Give me a break, Dabi.”
Hawks sighs, taking another swig of his beer bottle before settling it on the ground and snuggling a little deeper into the couch.
“‘Sides,” he murmurs, letting his eyes hang heavy, half-shut, “not like I can afford to think like that, y’know? I gotta believe everyone is worth saving. Otherwise…”
He trails off, gnawing at the corner of his lip as he struggles to parse together the rest of what he’d been intending to say. The alcohol has made the rest of the world take on a pleasant blur around the edges, and it would be very nice to just let himself sink into the comfortable fuzz of his surroundings, the warmth of the room, the pulsing music playing on a low volume over the bluetooth speakers and of course, the sensation of Dabi lightly stroking his fingers up and down his leg.
“...if I give up on anyone, then I’m pretty much condemning them myself. I’ve got to do my best. I’ve got to try.”
The trail of Dabi’s fingers over his legs pauses and Hawks’ heart jumps so high that it feels like it’s lodged in his damn throat.
“So damn idealistic,” Dabi hums in a voice so low that even Hawks’ feathers quiver. “What made you this way, little bird?”
Hawks shifts on the couch’s cushioning, disguising his discomfort by moving to snatch his beer back off the floor in order to take another drink It’s not like Dabi to ask such personal questions — it’s not like Dabi to be asking questions full stop, but here he is, aiming them towards Hawks as if this is a tried and practised part of the little routine between them.
There’s an uncontrollable fluttering that feels trapped beneath Hawks’ ribcage, something wild and ragged and hungry, like it’s desperate to burst free and simply devour. Which is all the more reason to swallow it back down, as difficult and painful as that might be.
How he wishes he could tell him.
Hawks thinks of the mission and feels his wings instinctively curl a little bit tighter around him.
“I already told you,” he replies, holding up the beer and squinting at the label. “I got caught up in it all pretty damn early.” He shakes the bottle, trying to judge how much is left inside. “Indoctrinated, I guess. But I still think there’s a way for people to do some good — just in a way that doesn’t ignore the people who need that help the most, y’know? Just because they don’t conform to the way the Commission and the government and all those bigwigs want society to look like… That kinda thing.”
Dabi chuckles, and Hawks can feel him throwing back the rest of his drink before leaning over Hawks’ legs to set the empty bottle down on the table.
“No,” Dabi murmurs, resuming the act of massaging Hawks’ leg. Hawks has to squeeze his eyes shut, throwing a clenched fist over his forehead. Damnit, that feels good. “I don’t think that’s it. There’s something…”
Hawks’ breath catches in his throat because fuck, Dabi isn’t wrong, there is something, and he feels it burning all the way from where his palm rests against his thigh, snaking its way through his bloodstream and flooding through him. He’s sure that Dabi isn’t using his Quirk, yet somehow he feels the heat of his touch everywhere.
“...something,” Dabi continues, drinking in the sight of Hawks sprawled out across the couch. He reaches out a maimed hand, brushing it curiously over Hawk’s abdomen. Oh, fuck. Hawks’ wings give an involuntary twitch, feathers rustling and it would be too much to hope that Dabi doesn’t notice that, but of course he does.
Dabi’s tongue flicks out to the corner of his mouth, no longer bothering to even try and hide his wicked grin.
“Something the matter, birdie?”
Hawks’ mouth feels dry, but he does his best to keep it together.
He’s a damned good actor, after all. And an even better liar.
“It’s two in the morning and we’re nearly out of beer and some pain-in-the-ass villain keeps pestering me with annoying personal questions, then has the audacity to question my authenticity,” he retorts, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “You’re a damn pest.”
Dabi snickers, curling his fingers lightly into the thin fabric of Hawks’ shirt. Hawks’ breath hitches and Dabi’s smile only grows.
“Is that so?” Dabi purrs, watching Hawks’ face in amusement. “Funnily enough, I don’t believe you.”
This is beyond dangerous territory. This is the point where any sane person would be declaring this mission beyond salvaging. This is going beyond enemy lines. This is the place where Hawks needs to fucking put an end to this strange game they’ve got going on between them and walk away.
This is the point of no return and Hawks is unbearably aware of it. Dabi’s heated gaze is as violent, unpredictable and enticing as the vast stretches of ocean that Hawks has soared over countless times. He’s equally entranced by the possibility that lies deep behind those burning blue depths. It’s becoming more than just a pull, now. It's increasingly feeling like an urge to stop battling the natural forces that grip him by the throat, drag him down and hurtling from the skies. He’s cheated the natural order of things for far too long, surely he should be allowed to finally surrender to nature’s will?
Let go, he hears that same voice in the back of his head whisper. Fall.
He has to make a decision. Either he ends this here and now and for good by refuting Dabi and stressing the importance of keeping their relationship strictly professional. Or he gives in.
Hawks has to end it. It won’t affect the mission — he doubts the rejection will even affect Dabi. Knowing the other man, he’d hold eye contact for a few more seconds, then shrug it off and resume their previous conversation as if nothing had ever happened. Then he would cease making any further advances towards Hawks in the future.
Hawks has to end it.
Instead, he sets his beer bottle back down on the ground and stretches himself out pointedly, before curling a wing around Dabi’s back.
“Don’t believe me?” he teases, laying his hand over where Dabi’s rests on his stomach. “How could you not? Just look at this face.”
He bats his eyelashes exaggeratedly, peering up at Dabi from under them as he bites down on his lower lip.
And oh, Dabi is most definitely looking at his face.
The hand on his thigh grips it a little tighter at that, his tongue flitting out over his lips dangerously. Hawks’ heart is drumming so loudly that he can no longer hear his brain trying to rationalise with him, begging him to pull away from the brink, desperately struggling to talk him out of this wildfire that he’s so freely walking into.
All his years of training, all the skills that he’s so carefully honed throughout his life, have faded into a dull, thudding background noise that he can’t even begin to process when faced with the pressure of Dabi’s fingers kneading into his flesh, the intense burn of his gaze, the ache of just how close their bodies are. Yet still so painfully far apart.
The lure of falling is overwhelming now: like his wings aren’t even there to hold him back, like there’s no surface beneath him, like there’s nothing but the draw of the man with the eyes that smoulder with an intensity that he’s sure could devour him entirely.
“Didn’t anyone ever warn you about little birds that like to play with fire?” Dabi rasps, one hand sliding up his chest and hovering around the hollow of his collarbone. His touch is surprisingly light, and it’s infuriating, because Hawks really doesn’t want to be the one who breaks first.
If he stays like this, though, supplicant and teasing, then he can’t blame himself if anything ends up happening.
Which means there’s no excuse for the way he props himself up on one elbow, and reaches out for Dabi’s face, smiling hazily as Dabi’s eyes widen. He cups his chin, his thumb gently brushing over the staples that hold the flesh of his cheek together.
“Don’t tell me…” Hawks practically whispers, “...that you still don’t trust me?”
Dabi’s mouth falls open, but no words come out, and so Hawks’ fingers graze over the burned flesh of his jaw, tracing the scar tissue with a kind of reverence. What had happened to him to cause this? He doubts Dabi would tell him the truth behind the story of the tapestry of his skin, but Hawks finds himself leaning in a little bit closer as his thumb skirts over the dip of his Adam’s apple. Dabi’s breath catches at that, and that is such an intoxicating sound that Hawks finds himself overwhelmed with the compulsion to dip his head and see what kind of noises Dabi would make if his mouth brushed over his throat instead.
Not yet.
He can’t be the one to send them tumbling together into the unforgiving abyss.
Dabi reaches up between them, grasping Hawk’s wrist and softly scrapes his thumbnail over his pulse point. Fuck.
“You might be a pretty pet,” Dabi practically purrs, rubbing light circles over the sensitive skin of Hawks' wrist. “But how am I to know just who you belong to?”
Hawks feels a surge of irritation at that question, enough so that he wrenches his arm away from Dabi — only so that he can use the strength of his upper body to push himself upright and onto his knees. He shuffles, moving so that he can throw a leg over Dabi’s lap and straddle it, before looping his arms determinedly around the back of his neck.
He lightly rakes his nails against the back of Dabi’s neck, relishing the ragged gasp that drags out of the other man.
“I belong to me,” he all but snarls, digging a hand into the hair at the base of Dabi’s skull and wrenching it back so as to force the villain to meet his golden gaze. “I’m no one’s pet. Not anymore.”
The surprise in Dabi’s gaze soon gives way to a pleased glint that promises absolutely nothing good.
“Prove it then,” he murmurs, his hands skimming Hawks’ hips, “Hero.”
Fuck.
To hell with it. To hell with all of it, because Hawks has spent his entire life just trying to keep the damn peace, never mind his own damn desires. After nearly twenty-three damn years, he just wants to experience what it feels like to take for once in his life.
So Hawks does the unthinkable.
He lets go.
There’s no mutterings in his head about just how wrong this is, no self-admonishments as to what the public would think if they saw him now, no thoughts about the mission, his responsibilities, none of it.
All that exists is Dabi’s breath hot against his lips, the press of his body against his own, the feel of his soft hair twined between his fingers. For once he’s not thinking about what he needs to do in order to better help other people, help society: he’s thinking about what he, himself, needs.
For the first time in his life, Hawks finds himself realising that he really can just want something for himself.
And what he wants — who he wants — is the man before him, the villain, the mass fucking murderer, with the heavily scarred skin yet surprisingly soft touch. Dabi keeps one arm wrapped around Hawks’ waist, whilst the other explores his face, taking his time as he runs his fingertips over the sharp lines of Hawks’ cheekbones, lingering on the curve of his ear, the thick muscle of his neck. His caress is unexpectedly delicate, but what really thrills Hawks is the potential that lies beneath each brush of Dabi’s fingertips. The power that lies there, the unholy blue flames that are rumoured to burn even hotter than Endeavor’s, the very element that is Hawks’ greatest weakness. Dabi could burn him up right here and right now before Hawks even has the chance to react, and that fact alone should have him especially on his guard.
But instead he’s practically fucking melting into Dabi’s touch, humming a little as Dabi brushes a strand of his wild hair away from his face, tucks it neatly behind his ear before trailing his fingertips down the long line of his neck.
“Don’t you sing so prettily, little bird?” Dabi murmurs against his lips. They still haven’t closed that distance yet and it’s maddening. All Hawks wants to do is to feel the press of Dabi’s mouth against him, to claw at his back as he drowns in it. But he still refuses to be the one who crosses the threshold first. “I like you better like this. Not like the ‘Hawks’ I see on the TV or read about in the papers — all the picture fucking perfect smiles and sweet words. No, I like this side of you.”
Dabi’s thumb lightly presses over Hawks’ carotid artery, the space in which to find his pulse on his neck, and Hawks’ wings begin to involuntarily flutter again with the thrill. Dabi has clearly picked up on this particular trait of Hawks’ because his turquoise gaze flickers momentarily from the bob of Hawk’s throat, to his trembling wings, and then finally back to lock eyes with Hawks, his lips twisting into a broad smirk.
“Yeah,” he repeats, breathlessly, “this suits you much better. Away from all the bullshit. Here in the dark, away from the watching eyes of the rest of the world…”
Dabi cups his jaw, his thumb splaying out to snag his lower lip, catching it so that his mouth opens ever so slightly. A small breathless whine escapes Hawks’ throat, and he realises that he should be more embarrassed by the sound, but he isn’t — especially not when Dabi’s grin only grows.
“...I can see just how much you’re just like me.”
And it’s like a dam just breaks.
Fuck self-control, fuck self-awareness, fuck what the public thought of him and especially fuck what the Commission wants.
There’s only so long that you can struggle against the natural order of things and Hawks is tired of fighting it.
He slides one hand into Dabi’s thick black hair and seals what little distance is left between them with a kiss.
Dabi — the bastard — actually manages to huff out a laugh as their lips crash together, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards as he whispers ‘easy there, hero’, before digging his hands into Hawks’ hair and tugging him closer into a hungry, devouring kiss.
Dabi’s mouth feels as hot as his flames, his tongue just as fervid as it greedily curls itself over the roof of Hawks’ mouth, and fuck, Hawks realises that he’s falling, plummeting towards the earth, his Quirk useless against the force that drags him under, and he couldn’t be happier to give in.
Surrender has never felt so good.
Dabi drags his blunted fingernails over Hawks’ scalp and down his back, only pausing when they reach Hawks’ trembling wings. Hawks lets out a little gasp as Dabi skirts the pads of his thumbs lightly over the fabric of where Hawks’ shirt is slit for the purpose of freeing his wings, and Hawks is once again struck by just how gentle Dabi is capable of being.
He’s loath to admit it, but he’s pictured moments like these with Dabi more often than he likes. In his imagination — he’s absolutely not going to think of them as dreams — Dabi was always rougher, more demanding, more focused on taking than anything else, hard and fast and with little to no consideration to Hawks’ own wants.
But he’s pleasantly surprised to discover that Dabi is actually capable of a kind of soft touch that he never would have expected from the man, his teeth lightly biting down on Hawks’ lower lip and gently tugging it as his fingertips graze over his shoulder blades, hovering delicately around the scapula from which his wings protrude from.
People manhandle Hawks’ wings all the time. From adoring fans, to stylists on photoshoots, to — and most importantly — his handlers. Back when he was still a child he had come to accept that when he surrendered the name of Keigo, one of the many things he’d have to shed along with it was a great deal of his bodily autonomy.
He hadn’t really truly understood what he was signing away.
And he had done it, of course. Anything for the cause.
No matter how much it still makes bile prickle the back of his throat at the violation of the sensation, even though he still has to clench his teeth or bite down on his tongue to stop himself from gagging at the uninvited intrusion. Not many people knew people with avian Quirks, let alone ones that actually possessed wings — how were they to know the sensitivity of each and every single feather? How could they possibly understand how, by digging their obtrusive hands into them, it was like laying a searing brand against the most intimate parts of Hawks’ body in a hundred different places all at once?
His mother’s Quirk brought an extra layer of complication to his heteromorphia — he was hyper-sensitive to subtle changes in so much as the ways in which sound reverterbrated in a room. So, even after almost two decades of training and work, he’s still never been able to quite overcome the repulsion that accompanies the overstimulation of people touching his wings that way.
All he could do is handle it much like he handles most things. Grin and bear it and do his best not to choke on the rising wave of nausea creeping up his throat each and every time the walls of his life begin to close in on him.
For as long as Hawks can remember, the rest of the world has claimed a degree of ownership over his body.
So the last person in the world he expects to suddenly pause in their administrations as soon as their hands come close to skirting over Hawks' wings, is Dabi.
“Can I…” Dabi murmurs against his lips, lightly grazing his knuckles over the cut in his shirt from which his wings protrude — close but still taking care not to brush against them. That act itself is enough to draw a full body shiver out of Hawks. “...Can I touch?”
Shit. Shit, fuck and damn because in all the things he’s learned about Dabi, he’d never seen anything that would suggest that he could be this damn considerate and fuck, Hawks really doesn’t know what to make of it.
He’s not going to kid himself that he’s getting some sort of special treatment here: Dabi is still an enigma to him, and whilst yes, he can begrudgingly admit there must be something here because Dabi certainly doesn’t pay this level of attention to anyone else he’s ever seen him around - he’s not going to go and be stupid enough to get any ideas about what this could mean.
No, this doesn’t mean anything. All it is is two sort-of coworkers who kind of sort of get along better than expected, who are both bored and a little drunk and maybe both in need of a little physical intimacy. All this is is a mutual itch that they’re in a position to satisfy for one another, and he’s not going to think about how long he’s felt this impulse, this urge, to feel the heat of Dabi’s skin pressed against his own, this need to be closer to the other man ever since he met him. This undeniable pull he feels towards the other man, towards another person for the first time in his life.
No, this doesn’t mean anything at all.
Hawks nods in answer to Dabi’s question, biting down on his lower lip to suppress the whimper that he can feel ready to rip from his throat in anticipation, and then oh God, it bursts forth anyway as Dabi brushes his hand through his wings.
Dabi chuckles, pressing a kiss to his chin.
“That sensitive, hm? I’ll keep that in mind.”
Hawks wants to bite back with a smart remark, but then Dabi is lightly tracing the bone of the coracoid that sprouts from his back, the very thing that’s marked Hawks as so distinct from the rest of the world ever since he was born. The look of genuine wonder on Dabi’s face as he traces the line of his humerus all the way to the radius and skirting over his feathers, is causing Hawks’ head to spin, because he can’t reconcile that expression of awe with the disgust in his mothers’ eyes when she reviled him for the very existence of his wings.
Dabi is far from repulsed, however, his fingers gliding down the wing joint to lightly stroke across the vane of one of the feathers, smirking a little when Hawks’ entire body trembles beneath his touch. Dabi lightly rakes his fingers through his secondaries, and Hawks’ wings instinctively curl around him, chasing the intimacy of that touch. Dabi looks momentarily surprised by their sudden movement, but then grins, surging forwards so that he can capture Hawks’ lips with his own once more.
The absurdity of the situation strikes Hawks then: Dabi, the fucking fire Quirk user, handling his wings and Hawks is just letting him. No, not letting him: that was what he allowed everyone else to do to his wings. Hawks had explicitly consented to have Dabi dig his deadly touch into the most vulnerable part of him, and was exulting in the act. He’d wonder what his friends would say if they could see him now, but then again, he doesn’t even really have any friends.
Friends were luxuries you can’t afford when you’re the pride and joy of the Commission, the child prodigy whose public approval ratings rivalled almost even those of All Might’s, the perfect hero that they had found they could utilise in so many different ways. Friends were all well and good, but they carried too much risk: other people could get wrapped up in scandals, could develop unfortunate attachments, or — worst of all — become someone who the Safety Commission no longer saw of value to Hero Society.
It was better to avoid such complications altogether. Otherwise, you ended up in predicaments like…
Well, exactly like the one he’s currently very literally wrapped up in right now.
All for the greater good, their words echo in his head as he gasps against Dabi’s mouth, delighted when Dabi uses the opportunity to slip his tongue inside of it. Sometimes unorthodox methods are required, but remember that everything that you do for us is for the greater good. For the people that you’re protecting.
Unorthodox methods, Hawks thinks to himself, shuddering as Dabi’s tongue curls against his, one hand buried in Hawks’ messy blonde hair whilst the other continues to card through his feathers. Well, at least this beats assassinating villains that haven’t actually gotten around to committing the crime yet.
Dabi breaks away, which prompts an involuntary whine of protest from Hawks as his eyelashes flutter open to see if something is wrong.
Dabi hasn’t moved away, and his hands remain wrapped in his wings and his hair, but there’s a slight frown etched into his marred features as he gazes up into Hawks’ eyes.
“...what?”
“Something the matter, hero?” Dabi asks, his hand falling from Hawks’ hair to brush his thumb over Hawks’ kiss-swollen lips. Even that has Hawks shivering — damn, what the hell is it about the effect Dabi has on him that even simple gestures such as that reduce him to this state?
When his head clears enough to actually register the question, he’s confused. Why would Dabi think something is wrong? Hawks is sure he’s been pretty fucking enthusiastic in his consent thus far — hell, he’d even let Dabi touch his wings. Why would he think there’s any kind of problem?
“Uh,” Hawks huffs a laugh, cocking his head and smiling coquettishly at him. “Other than the fact I was just getting kissed senseless up until a few seconds ago? Before being cruelly cut off by a particular villain? Who, by the way, is uncharacteristically inquisitive tonight.” He winds his arms a little tighter around Dabi’s neck and flexes his wings, letting them beat against the air for a moment before curling back around himself and Dabi. He bites down on his lower lip and peers up at Dabi beneath hooded eyes. “Why?”
Dabi swallows, and Hawks is triumphant to see his pale skin flush ever-so-slightly as he drinks in the sight of Hawks’ face. Oh, he could really get used to seeing Dabi get put on the back foot more often.
His moment of uncertainty doesn’t last long, however, as he lifts his head to give Hawks one final, all-too-brief brush of the lips, before his hands drop down and away from Hawks entirely, settling instead by his lap. Hawks reels a little, his breath staggered as his brain tries to catch up with his body.
Needless to say, Hawks is confused. Hawks is extremely fucking confused, and already missing the intense warmth of Dabi’s body pressed against firmly against his, the feel of his fingers combing through his wings, the intoxicating weight of his tongue in his mouth. It had been the most keenly alive he’d felt in so long as he can remember, and he almost wants to complain like a petulant child at having it ripped away so suddenly.
“Dabi,” Hawks pants, cupping his cheek. “What’s wrong?”
Dabi is eyeing him with a certain… Something. Something Hawks isn’t sure he has the words in order to attach any sort of tangible meaning to his expression, but in that moment, Hawks feels seen.
It goes beyond all the lies and secrets that they’re withholding from one another: the way Dabi is looking at Hawks has him feeling like Dabi can somehow see beyond all the layers that make up Hawks, can burn them all away in one scorching look and see what lies there exposed in the centre.
Keigo.
Which is stupid. No one knows that name, other than his mother and the Commission. Most certainly not Dabi of all people, He rarely even thinks of that name himself these days.
So why is it that when Dabi stares at him like this, his bright blue eyes glowing as vividly as the wildfires he’s capable of creating, does it feel like he can melt away the persona of Hawks entirely? Like that deadly blue flame can smoke out the truth of a small, helpless boy hiding in the dark corners of his dingy home, cringing away from the threat of whiskey-soaked breath and fists so brutal that to this day, Hawks still sometimes feels like he can feel those bruises seared into his side.
It’s like Dabi is the only person who has ever cared to look at Hawks this closely: beyond all the fake smiles and bravado, the carefully crafted image that’s been curated for him ever since he’d escaped that hellhole of a home. The façade that Hawks has worn for so very long that he’d almost stopped recognising it for what it was: a lie. An image. Someone dressed up to be the ideal hero, an act that he had given away everything for in the sake of the cause — including his own damn name.
“...Dabi?”
Dabi blinks, then shakes his head with a soft chuckle. Hawks can’t help but notice that his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Nothing’s wrong with me, hero,” he murmurs, reaching out and laying his hand against Hawks’ cheek. Hawks can’t help but nuzzle into it, embarrassingly eager for contact after what had just transpired between them. “But I think you’ve got too much on your mind for this.”
Hawks blinks, eyes flying open as he locks eyes with Dabi.
What?
Did he know something? No, he couldn’t know anything — Hawks has been so careful and besides, if he did, why would he have just kissed him? Why would he be allowing any of this to happen?
Dabi’s smirk widens, the staples that hold together the flesh of his cheeks straining against his skin. There’s something almost bittersweet buried in the blazing blue of his gaze.
“See?” Dabi slips his other arm around his waist and presses his mouth against Hawks’ collarbone. He’s so close, and yet nowhere near close enough. “You’re not fully here.”
Hawks shivers, only barely repressing the urge to grab onto Dabi’s shoulders and burrow his face into his neck. As it is, he remains still — well, as still as his wings allow him, given that the treacherous fucking things keep fluttering uncontrollably each time Dabi’s breath ghosts against his skin.
Dabi reaches around him and lightly skims his fingers through Hawks’ feathers again, huffing a laugh when that drags a breathless little moan from Hawks’ throat.
“Next time, hero,” Dabi whispers into his ear, brushing his fingers one final time over Hawks’ plumage before releasing them entirely. “After you’ve had a chance to clear that head of yours.”
It’s more than a little embarrassing just how dizzy Hawks is after that all-too-brief encounter, but he does his best to summon enough brainpower to shuffle off Dabi’s lap and instead collapse into a seat at his side. Which it turns out he’s too boneless to even properly uphold and he finds himself sinking back into the cushions and towards the armrest with a frustrated sound.
“You,” he growls, raking his hands through his hair, “are such a fucking bastard, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
Hawks drags his fingers down his face.
“You’re serious then? That’s it?”
He feels movement on the other side of the couch, and opens one eye to squint at what the other man is doing.
Oh for fuck’s sake. He’s lighting a cigarette.
“Dabi, are you fucking serious, if you stopped that because you want a goddamn fucking smoke —”
Several of his feathers dislodge from his wings and zip into the air, pointing threateningly in the direction of the villain, but there’s no real danger in Hawks’ tone. He’s just being petulant — something Dabi immediately recognises, it seems, judging by the laugh that escapes him. The sound is enough to make the corner of Hawks’ lips come dangerously close to quirking up into a smile, because goddamnit, he likes hearing Dabi laugh more than he should; and it should frustrate him despite how little heed Dabi pays his threats.
But it’s not and Hawks has to struggle to maintain his sulky pout when Dabi bats several of his blade-like feathers away from his face as he takes a long drag from the cigarette
“Don’t be like that, hero,” he purrs, reaching out with his free hand to wrap it around his forearm. God, it’s embarrassing just how easily Hawks can feel all the irritation and frustration suddenly melt away with just one touch, with just one look, with the intoxicating proximity of Dabi alone.
Dabi pulls him up into a seated position with surprising strength, exhaling a cloud of smoke before planting a final lingering kiss on his lips.
“When I have you,” he mumbles against Hawks’ mouth, his breath so hot that it practically feels scalding, “I’ll have all of you. I’m going to be all you can think of.”
And with that, Dabi withdraws from him one final time — albeit not before sneaking in one last gentle stroke of his wings, reaching up to skim his fingers all the way from the tip of the scapula’s blade and down to the end of his primaries. Which of course leaves Hawks trembling as he pulls away because of course, it’s fucking Dabi.
So much for getting him on the back foot.
Dabi squeezes Hawks’ leg, then stands up. His lips quirk around the cigarette as he regards the considerably fucking flustered hero on the couch, blinking stupidly up at him as he still tries to process whatever the hell that was.
“Sweet dreams, hero,” he rasps, breathing out a thick plume of smoke as he speaks. “It was nice to spend some time away from Hawks.”
And with that, he grins and departs into the darkness of the sleeping villa.
Hawks stares after the point where Dabi’s silhouette had melted into the shadows for longer than he’d care to admit.
His head is full of questions and thoughts buzzing around desperately in search of any kind of answer, although the reality of what had just happened is the thought that holds him by the throat.
He kissed me, Hawks thinks to himself, still staring at the door through which Dabi had left. He kissed me, Dabi kissed me, Dabi feels it too, Dabi —
What is it he had said?
I can see you’re just like me.
Words that should repulse him. Horrify him. Words he should rage against and deny but he doesn’t, because everything Dabi is, Hawks envies. Dabi is wild and free and full of convictions that belong entirely to him, and him alone.
Whatever cage had ever tried to contain Dabi, he had broken his way out of it long ago and be damned its makers. Dabi now only ever answers to Dabi.
I belong to me, he had told Dabi, the words themselves tasting wrong upon his lips even as he spoke them and, from the look on the other man’s face, Dabi could see the lie as it had spilled forth.
Hawks stares up at the blank ceiling, his hands folded over his chest as the last few hours play over and over in his head.
I belong to me.
He holds up a hand above him, turning it this way and that impassively. It’s not his palm that he’s looking at, it’s the bars of the cage holding him in that he’s searching for. They may be invisible, yes, but the constraints press against him as heavily as any force he’s ever known.
You’re just like me.
The ravaging pain as his shoulder collided with the table, the splinter of bone. The blood that soaked through his shirt as his mother’s eyes drifted in to ask his father to fix the television, choosing blindness over the sight of her son curled up on the floor sobbing.
His father being taken away. The people who reached out a hand and saved him from a life on the streets. The thrill that he could be the kind of person who could help save others from their nightmares. The endless drills, the tests, the blood and sweat and tears that came with being so carefully crafted into the perfect hero, courtesy of the Commission. The slick of a bedsheet as he used it to wipe blood free of a blade, before going about making the act look like a burglary.
Yakuza, his handlers had told him, leaders with superpowers. We can’t ever allow that to reach the streets of Tokyo. Immediate action is required.
Hawks curls his fingers in on himself, and finds it strange how little blood he sees on them.
At least Dabi wears his atrocities openly. Everything he’s ever done is written all over his skin, clear as day for those who weren’t too horrified to look.
You’re just like me.
Hawks curls in on himself on the couch, and tries to think of a world where that could be true.