Chapter Text
Keigo’s life officially ended when he turned eight.
It ended the second the Hero Public Safety Commission’s new President offered his mother a business card, a suitcase, and a check. To this day, Keigo never knew how much was on that check. All he knew was that it served two purposes: it was his official government receipt and his mother’s golden ticket to the good life.
After that, Keigo was no more, and Hawks was born.
And unlike Keigo, Hawks grew up strong, healthy, and resilient. He grew up with a proud smile on his face and with wings that would one day save hundreds, thousands, millions of people. Hawks would be the fastest hero Japan had ever known and Keigo would stay buried in a dirty corner of a subway on the outskirts of Fukuoka.
At least, that’s what Hawks thought.
“Four more years?”
An eighteen-year-old Hawks raises a bushy eyebrow as he reads through the newest piece of paperwork his handler has given him. He’s been going over it for a while now, but he still can’t wrap his head around the shocking revelation. “That’s… quite a delay for a hero’s debut.” With a nervous chuckle, Hawks props his cheek against his hand and gives his handler his best puppy-dog eyes.
“Did I mess up that badly? Am I being punished? I swear I would’ve worked harder if I’d known I was being a bad boy.”
His handler, Yukimura, merely gives Hawks a chilling look. “Plans have changed,” he says icily, “these are orders from The President herself. You are to continue your training and debut at age twenty-two.”
Hawks whistles, his gaze sinking back to the document in his hands. The bolded words of “four additional years” mock him as he rifles through the other pages.
Twenty-two. Twenty-two.
There was a big difference between eighteen and twenty-two. For one, high school graduates were known for making their sidekick debut at eighteen, and it was almost unheard of for any future hero to debut past that age. It was either debut as a sidekick then or never show your face in heroics. Ever. After all, twenty-two was the age when the average citizen graduated college. That was when people began job searching. It was also when those who debuted at eighteen-year-old switched from fighting at someone’s side to standing on their own.
Hawks frowns. Can he really risk a debut that late? Can the Commission risk a debut that late? What can they possibly gain from doing this?
His eyes then suddenly catch a stray sentence and he frowns at it. “Hey Yuki-chan—”
“That’s Yukimura-san to you, Hawks.”
“Yukimura-san,” he corrects, “what’s this asterisk over here mean? The one at the end of this statement about my training.”
“That’s in case things change,” Yukimura says smoothly. Too smoothly. As if he’s been anticipating this specific question. Warning bells go off in Hawks’ head as he continues to speak. “There have been several issues that The President has been trying to sort out these past few months. If she sees fit, she’ll call you for assistance in these specific … missions.”
Hawks snorts. “Always calling about missions,” he jokes, “doesn’t she ever call to say ‘hi’?”
Yukimura’s brow twitches, the only ‘expression’ his seemingly stone cold face has had in the entire hour he and Hawks have been together. Once again, Hawks wishes he was talking to Mera instead. He’d rather speak with the sleepy, complain-y guy than the one with two icicles up his ass. “If you’re finished with your tomfoolery, I suggest you sign the document now, Hawks ,” Yukimura stresses, tone exasperated as he thrusts a pen into Hawks’ face and narrowly misses his eye. “I’m sure The President won’t be happy about how long this is taking.”
Damn. Looks like he’s seen right through Hawks’ facade.
Slowly, he takes the pen. He then leafs through the pages at a crawl one more time and sighs. “Do I at least get to talk to someone about these new conditions?” he inquires, making sure his tone is somewhere between bratty and casual, “like my lawyer or a friend or—?”
“You don’t have anyone, Hawks,” Yukimura hisses at him, and Hawks’ mouth snaps shut. “And if you don’t sign this, you won’t have the Commission either. So shut up and write .”
Hawks does as he’s told. He shuts up.
Because even though Keigo’s been dead for years, his sickly soul still haunts him. And, for a split second, that ghost emerges. Like an ugly shadow, Keigo whimpers as Yukimura’s words tear open old wounds that never truly healed. Hawks can feel Keigo—weak, pathetic, empty —crying pitifully as he begs not to be thrown away. Because if he’s thrown away, what then? Keigo has no friends, no family, no love. He has no one.
Hawks grits his teeth.
And signs the contract.
Hawks think about that contract every day. He thinks about it with every extra rep he does after his nineteenth birthday. He thinks about it after every nosedive he executes after his twentieth birthday. He thinks about it with every dummy he decapitates with his feather sword after his twenty-first birthday.
Why? Why another four years? Why delay the inevitable? And most importantly, why did he sign damn thing? Why did he cave and listen to Keigo when Hawks is so much bigger, faster, stronger, and better than that little shit?
All he can do is wonder as he counts the days on his calendar: a frosty January, a partner-less February, a windy March, a somber April, a dusty May, a burning June, a boiling July, a miserable August.
Closer… closer… a little more.
September. October. November. A little more—
“Hawks.”
A voice calls out to him. Yukimura’s voice to be exact. The sun has long since set, and in the twilight, Hawks can’t sleep. So, he trains. Because everyone knows that the best remedy for insomnia is training. It’s how he got past his previous birthdays and how he’ll usher in his twenty-second one. He stands from his cooldown stretch and cocks his head to the side.
“What’s up?” he asks, sweat sticking to his skin and making him shiver, “Didn’t know that handling me involved overtime. How much are you guys being paid anyway?”
Yukimura wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Get showered and put something nice on. You have a meeting with The President in five minutes.” Before Hawks can even metaphorically squawk, Yukimura spins on his heels and walks away.
Hawks stands there, shocked, for all of ten seconds before stumbling into the changing room. Taking the fastest shower of his life, he curses himself for not bringing anything but gym clothes and sends half his wingspan back to his dorm room to search for an outfit. By the time he’s dried himself, his feathers have returned with an acceptable white button-down shirt and a pair of slacks. “Ms. President will just have to just deal with my stinky sneakers,” he tells himself as he yanks on his shirt. He cringes when he realizes he forgot to bring clean underwear and prays that for whatever reason, The President won’t ask for him to take off his pants.
Exactly five minutes later, he’s in front of The President herself, hands behind his back and what he hopes is a confident grin on his face. The last thing he wants is for his boss-slash-parental figure to smell his fear.
“Howdy Pres!” Hawks says cheerfully, “Yuki-chan here says that you were looking for me?”
Yukimura’s lips seem to tug down even lower. “It’s Yukimura—” he hisses only to get cut off by The President’s raised hand. Yukimura glowers at the hand for a split second before his face melts back into cool, calm creepiness.
Hawks tries to hold back a snort, but unfortunately, The President has the uncanny ability to sense fun.
“Hawks, we didn’t bring you here to joke. We brought you here to discuss your future,” The President says, and Hawks can feel all his muscles tense at once. He straightens his back and can barely contain the PR grin on his face. Finally! It’s finally happening!
“Oh? Is it that time of year already? I didn’t even notice,” Hawks remarks as casually as he can. “But, we all knew this was coming. Can’t say that I’m too surprised. But time flies fast when you’re training your tail feathers off—”
“Hawks,” The President interrupts him, and Hawks’ mouth clamps shut. But try as he might, he can’t stop the smile that suddenly crawls across his face. It’s not a ‘Hawks the Hero’ smile either. No. It’s a tiny, barely there smile that’s more pursed lips than a happy, U-shaped curvature. The feeling of it makes Hawks’ stomach churn with uneasiness and even disgust. But still, he can’t help himself.
The President then frowns and ‘Hawks the Hero’ returns. “Sorry, had to sneeze,” he lies smoothly, and Yukimura scoffs in disgust.
“Hawks,” The President repeats, and there’s a tiredness to her voice that reminds Hawks that cheekiness is allowed, but being an annoyance would never be accepted. “May I continue?”
“Of course,” Hawks responds, steeling his expression. Internally, he’s still doing cartwheels but externally, he’s as cool and calm as Yukimura on a Monday. “Please carry on.”
The President fixes him with a long, withering look before she reaches down and opens one of her cabinet drawers. Grabbing the first file she touches (Hawks half suspects that she had purposely left it in an easy to reach position for the most dramatic effect) she takes it out and places it delicately on her desk. “Do you recognize this?” she asks, sliding it towards Hawks.
Hawks looks down and his eyes meet the first page of the contact that he burned into his memory. Of fucking course he recognizes the stupid document that’s delayed his debut by four whole years.
“I do,” he says stiffly. He fingers yearn to tear the paper to tiny little snowflake shreds, but he controls himself. “My initials and signature should be on pages five, thirteen, fifteen (Hawks internally winces at that one), twenty-seven, and thirty.”
“You remember. Good,” The President replies, not sounding particularly impressed. “I trust you remember the contents of this contract?”
“Yes,” Hawks says simply until he adds a more confident sounding, “Of course.”
“Good.” The President nods. “Then that makes what I’m about to say easier.” With a manicured finger, she flips through the contract’s pages and comes to a stop.
A weight drops in Hawks’ stomach. Page fifteen. The page with that one tiny black star of an asterisk on it. The page that has haunted both his nightmares and daydreams these past four years.
The weight only increases as the red-colored nail of The President taps the tiny, wretched black mark. “I didn’t want to do this,” she attempts to amend, and Hawks would almost believe her apologetic tone if it wasn’t for the fact that he knows The President never apologizes. “But unfortunately, things have changed. Quirks are developing fast and at a rate none of us could’ve predicted. Our current generation of heroes aren’t going to be equipped for it. And people need to believe in Japan’s heroes, now more than ever. Therefore, you’re being moved to a different assignment, Ha—”
The President then suddenly stops herself and sighs. Not a disappointed sigh. An annoyed sigh.
“Keigo.”
The one, terrible word shouldn’t make Hawks feel sick to his stomach. It shouldn’t because he’s been trained to drink poisons like it was orange juice. But it does.
“… What …?” That’s all that Hawks can say. Then— “Wait, what are you talking about? What are you talking—!”
“Keigo, don’t yell at The President.” The condescendingly haughty voice Yukimura uses drags across Hawks’ ears, and he knows, just knows , the man probably has some type of awful, gleeful expression on his face. Hawks doesn’t care. No. He will not care. He’ll deal with Yukimura’s hostility after he gets his answers.
“What are you talking about?!” he yells, both hands slamming on The President’s desk. All she does is look at him, like he’s a petulant, annoying child throwing a temper tantrum.
“The Flame Hero, Endeavor, recently divorced his wife, Himura Rei,” The President continues, as if that answers all of Hawks’ questions. If this was any other time, Hawks would’ve perked up in interest. Gossip about his childhood hero? Actual news about the world outside of the Commission Training Center? He would’ve loved it.
He hates it now.
“So?” Hawks snaps. “What does that have to do with—?!”
“You’re an avian heteromorph,” The President cuts him off, “and therefore, you possess the correct anatomy needed to produce offspring.”
Hawks flinches back. “E-excuse me?” comes his shocked question, his face suddenly warming. “I… well…” It’s like he’s choking on a very large, very rancid piece of fried chicken. All that escapes him is air and broken words. “That’s private!” he finally spits out.
“No, it’s not,” The President smoothly replies. Too smoothly. “We've had your medical file ever since you were a child. We know what you are inside and out. Your height, weight, blood type, molars. And yes, we even know about your… reproductive organs.”
“She means your cloaca,” Yukimura supplies readily, his voice echoing loudly and bouncing off the walls of the office.
Hawks face burns even hotter, and an icy shudder runs through his body. He… he knows all this. Knows that the Commission knows all about him. But having it all spoken aloud made Hawks feel… dirty. Exposed?
… Violated?
“Yes, your… cloaca,” The President repeats the word with barely concealed disgust. Her eyes then trail down Hawks’ body to his crotch, and she grimaces, as if she can see his secret extra hole through his pants.
Hawks quickly pulls back with a flap of his wings and, instinctively, tries to cover himself with his hand. He suddenly really wishes that he wore underwear. At least if he had, he’d possess an extra layer of protection from whatever the hell this situation is. The President’s unimpressed gaze returns to Hawks’ panicking face.
“Stop overreacting, Keigo,” she deadpans, unaware that she is parading around parts of him that he buried away years ago. Or maybe she is aware but, like everyone else in Hawks’ life, she doesn’t care about his feelings. Only how he can benefit her .
“With Endeavor no longer married, he is now an eligible bachelor,” The President continues, still bulldozing her way over Hawks’ heart. “And with a quirk as powerful as his, it would be a wasted opportunity not to take advantage of the situation. It’s a good thing that Endeavor never cultivated a ‘family’ image like All Might, otherwise the public backlash would be extremely detrimental to us. As it is now, we’ll be able to move forward without risking his ranking. I suppose we were lucky in that sense.”
“Lucky… in what sense?” Hawks’ head hurts. His body hurts. Everything suddenly hurts as Hawks begins to break down from the inside out, his systems failing as the foundation of who he is begins to decay. “What’s… going to happen to me?” he asks, his voice small and distant and terrible in its familiarness.
The President sighs again. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet, Keigo,” she states, disappointment tainting her voice. Then, very slowly, as if Hawks is young and stupid and a complete idiot— “You and Endeavor will join in matrimony. Then, come next year when public interest has calmed down, you will help to produce the next generation of heroes.”
Matrimony…
Matrimony…
Producing the next generation of heroes…
“Congratulations,” Yukimura snarkily quips.
But Hawks can’t hear either of them. It’s as if he’s slipping, falling, drowning in a sea of disbelief. His eyes water, his ears pop, and he can feel the room expanding, growing larger as something inside him begins to wither. Yet all he can say is a broken, distant—
“ ... What…? ”
He’s getting married…?
He’s expected to get… pregnant ?
But he’s… He’s never been…
Never been with anyone romantically, let alone dating… And he’s never… he’s still practically a… No, he is still a….
… Virgin…
A-and the Commission wants him to… Are forcing him to…
… Sex …
From somewhere outside his drowning, he can hear The President reciting something about how his breed of hawk could lay anywhere between one to four eggs a year and, with that many eggs being produced, surely one of Keigo’s offspring would possess a healthy mix of his quirk and Endeavor’s.
No… no this was... This is…!
“I-I won’t,” Hawks finally denies. He claws out of his internal submersion and gasps as he breaks the surface. “I won’t,” he repeats, “this is… this isn’t right. It can’t be! This… this is a quirk marriage!” His voice rising, Hawks yells, “This is illegal!” He’s panting, his heart beating dangerously fast in his chest, and his vision blurs as oxygen loses its way to his brain. Yet Hawks pushes past all of those things and stares at The President. “I won’t,” he grinds out, standing his ground.
The President doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even blink. “You will,” she counters. “We have the signature of your consent.” She taps the contract with that same crimson fingernail, taps his name written in ink, in his own handwriting. But to Hawks, it might as well have been written with one of his plucked, bloody feathers. “And anyway, you are in no position to deny us, Keigo.”
And just like that, Keigo is harshly grabbed and yanked to the forefront while Hawks is shoved violently back.
Because he knows what he is to the Commission. What the Commission is to him. It’s the ticket. The receipt. The contract. His very life. It's a painful reminder to Hawks that he’s always been a glorified, walking, talking object. A product. Something to be sold, bought, and given away. What he is not, and will never be, is a person .
“I have rights,” Hawks still fights weakly, using the last of his strength even as his world crumbles around him. “I-I have… rights.”
“You don’t.”
He isn’t sure who tells him that, The President or Yukimura. But it doesn’t matter. After all, he was nothing but the son of a killer and a drug-addicted whore. Nothing to his name. No family. No friends. Not even the clothes on his back. Nothing.
And just like that, Hawks dies. Not on the battlefield in an awe-inspiring blaze of glory. But in an office, with wet hair, sweaty sneakers, and no underwear. Hawks dies, on the eve of his twenty-second birthday…
And Keigo is forced back into the cruel world that had, once upon a time, given up on him.