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"It's not like he meant it," Keigo is sputtering, manic. Defensive. His hands wound around his own waist, he's coiled tight within himself, veiling a slim, twisting torso. Scars, never from anything specific, always from "this or that," littering his lithe build.
"It was definitely an accident," Keigo settles against the cool beneath Dabi's heated palms. Dabi has never made an accusation of anything otherwise. He's sitting, quiet, shirtless in solidarity as he holds the ice to Keigo's freshest injury.
Not cuts on his legs, or scrapes on his knees, or knicks on his jaw as collateral damage from an arrest. Not bruises, or pieces of glass like he's used to from the clumsy bird. Though the lights in the room are dim, the mark Keigo bares now is impossible to miss.
Dabi covers it, eyes glazing, body distancing itself from his brain as he struggles not to sink into an identity that is not his.
This is Keigo's mark. Five fingers, broad and flat and hot. The wide berth of a palm that could swallow his thin waist, his petite hands, in one grasp. The tip of a blunt thumb, the heat blister of the edge of a pinky finger, permanently singed into the beautiful bird's back.
The muscle underneath is tense and hot, the water beneath his skin boiling and clear and tight, a bubble. And the touch Dabi gives it, when he can stomach the strength or indifference or the gall to look at it, he can feel the heat radiating under the surface of his flesh is not his own body temperature.
Keigo moans.
It's nothing erotic.
Keigo seems out of his brain, his body, mouth running a mile a minute as he struggles to recap what happened. The ice is melting against his red skin, textured from the burn.
"He's got quite a temper. We were out for dinner after patrol,"
As was their weekly ritual. Dabi knew full well of their affairs, their meetings and outings.
"And I--don't remember what happened,"
He can't put the pieces together, or recall the moments leading up to Enji snaking his hand between his wings, or his mouth around him, or his shirt being pried up, or--
The bag holding the ice is melting. The water sizzles, crackles against Dabi's skin. It drips into Keigo's khakis, dampening the material where the water touches down. Dabi's face, his hands, are flushed with red heat as he listens to Keigo piece together the memory of how he got here.
It was their standard weekly date. Hawks rambles, rambles, rambles. Never letting Enji get a word in edgewise, every few sentences ending with a jab--One reference to his wife, to the ring on his finger, to the sordid, extramarital affair he should be ashamed of, and it tipped Enji over the edge. Perched on Enji’s lap, the older man’s hand heated as a flame flickered, matching the annoyance in on his face.
And this is what Hawks had to show for it. Keigo, only in Dabi's company, is Keigo. Enji has no such luxury to his name aside from the legality of signing checks. But Enji was the one to burn him, to mark him permanently.
Nothing erotic.
Sure, they had tested Keigo's limits on temperature before. Heated hands, not scalding. Hot staples and tiny brands. But this was all consensual, safeword "Dolphin," never too much for Keigo. It took effort to reach such a level of comfort, time to learn to compromise with each other.
But this was out of his control.
Dabi, covered in water and melted plastic, only snaps back into reality as he's doused by boiling water, the heat marring Keigo's already burned skin. Keigo shudders, but he's still talking, chattering, the puzzle pieces hardly snapping together. It’s barely coherent, at this point.
Dabi gives him a dose of oxycodone. It's enough he should sleep, at least. He's not dependant, but the constant state of 5/10 on his ambient pain scale keeps him stocked up. The bird's tolerance is low.
Keigo falls asleep.
Dabi falls asleep, too, but much later. The twitching, writhing hero laying next to him is squirming, adjusting frequently to attempt to turn off the discomfort. A stomach sleeper, his shoulder blades flex, turn. Muscular back convulsing as his sleeping body tries desperately to ease him out of this state, Keigo buries his face into Dabi's sole flat pillow, whines muffled.
When sleep finally hits Dabi, it's a train wreck. All at once, his body is different. The world too heavy beneath his feet, and the air is smothered from his lungs. The sensation of drowning is not uncommon in his dreams, few and far between.
He chalks it up to being a smoker. To his quirk burning his esophagus. However, it's a bit different this time. This isn't only a dream, but a memory.
Five fingers, broad and flat and hot. The wide berth of a palm that swallowed, embraced, coiled around his thin, long throat in a one-handed grasp. The tip of a blunt thumb, the heat blister of the edge of a pinky finger, permanently singed into the line of his jaw, his forming pubescent Adam's apple, the fold of his collarbones.
His skin hasn't looked like that in a long time. Familiar with the grasp, this same nightmare, he doesn't struggle.
Touya is learning a lesson on tough love. His mother, horrified, is watching as his skin crackles, flesh sticking to his father's palm as he feels him release. He's bleeding, throat pulsing with heat and his jugular vein pumping to keep him conscious. But the world is hot, and heavy, and dark. His vision is cloudy, even in the dream, sensitive eyes aching as they struggle to focus on the new scar over Enji's face, forming slowly as Touya tries to remember who he is. The mark of the High End’s attack alludes to the future, keeping him alert to the fact that this is a dream. It pulls him away from the past, one heartbeat at a time
The past fades, and brings him to where he is now.
Touya's mother does not step in for him. She does not comfort him, unsure of what to say. His little sister, Fuyumi, isn’t absent, but she does stand behind their mother. Natsuo isn’t in this dream, presumably in another room, innocent to what’s happening. He’s much too young, in this memory.
Touya's hands are around his father's throat. Squeezing tight, his fingers are bleeding blue flames, Enji's clear eyes rolling back, face purple from oxygen deprivation. His eyes wide, brows furrowed, concern and worry on his face. He knows full well he went too far. He knows it should have never gotten to this point. But, Touya will not accept an apology, much less Dabi.
Dabi’s eyes snap open to Keigo, his whole body lurching off of the twin-sized bed and onto the wooden floor a mere 4 inches below. The room smells of smoke, but that might just be Dabi's standard. The smell of soot fills his senses, and he knows it’s not his hair, as usual. Absorbing the scene in front of him, he’s finally aware of the waking world in front of him.
Keigo's feathers are on fire.
Ejecting them, his wings are stripped nearly naked, only the thin muscle intact, tinted grey with ash. They'll grow back, sure. But it will be weeks until then. Only when Hawks is stripped, plucked, his frame so much smaller without the wings that gave him such a powerful silhouette, does Dabi notice two more handprints on his forearms.
Keigo is preoccupied, stamping out the broiling blue flame with bare feet.
Thinner, longer marks. Much less sturdy, much less broad, they're around the outsides of Keigo's arms. He can barely feel them aside from the dull throb. Dabi had been holding him in his sleep, from the looks of it. A comfort had turned into an ache, as had most of his unhealthy coping mechanisms in the recent years.
He didn't mean to. As quiet as he had been through all of this, verbal self-defense does not come naturally to Dabi. He wants to say something, moments passing as the smoke reaches the alarms, turned off for nights when Dabi would smoke in bed, much to Tomura's annoyance.
He wishes he could speak. Say anything. But there was not a single word between the two, the quiet leaving a heartbeat pounding behind his eardrums. Slow exhales as the smoke failed to dissipate. Dabi turned away to open the window above the mattress, the remnants of the curtains flicking through the frame as the room cleared.
“Dabi.” The long silence interrupted, Keigo's shoulders slump. His body is sore all over, and he sounded upset, sure. But the despairing, and most of all, twinging disappointment cracked something within Dabi. Yet with all of this, still no words, no communication, no willingness to break the quiet. No cocky taunts on either end, no intimacy or delicacy or closeness or teasing. For once, Dabi was frozen, completely.
The bare wings twitched uselessly. It was damn near painful to watch, the discomfort settling in Dabi’s stomach.
“Hawks.” Finally, the hero's public name surpassed his chapped, scarred lips, burning like the reminder of the hand around his throat. ”I’m..” Ugh. With a grunt of annoyance at himself, he tugged his hands through his own hair, palms resting on his temples.
He's hesitating. He knew this wouldn't really help.
"Sorry.“ Dabi turns to avert his gaze and covered his face with his hands. Not as hard as he’d like to, hands gripped at his stapled jaw. His dirty nails pried for the staples holding him together.
He knew better than anyone how hot the flame within his family tree burned. The wilting branches of the Todoroki line turned to ash. The last thing Keigo needed was to be burned by someone like him again.
“Not your fault. It’s mine. I know better than to get too close.” The hero presses. It may be an attempt at comfort, but it’s definitely a shitty one. Hawks is holding his frame once more, chest swelling with shallow breaths as he tries to assess the situation. The blanket is burned, mattress springs visible through holes burnt in the shape of Dabi's hands.
The same marks that stain the tanned, freckled skin. Keigo could easily replace the mattress Dabi likely found in an alley somewhere, but these marks were much more permanent.
"I'm not-" Like Endeavor. But that wasn't the comfort Hawks needed. Cooling palms were slipped into Dabi's tattered pajama pants, and he struggled to relax. Heaving breaths slowed as he fixed his terrible posture, lowering his head as the stalemate eased.
A hesitant touch to Dabi’s shoulder, Hawks smoothed his thumb over the mangled collarbones. He paused as he closed the distance, approaching to make an attempt to comfort him. He knew better than to get close, but he still followed through. Hawks’ arms wound around the other’s neck.
A tender kiss placed dead in the center of Dabi's throat makes the stitches under his eyes feel tight. The kisses follow a trail, down to his collarbone, up to his jaw, settling on the hot staples sitting along the edge of his inner ear.
"You're not." Keigo affirmed, knowing full well he didn't completely understand the context.
But, with the way Dabi embraced him back, pulling the hero into his chest, he must have known enough. There were few and far instances of gentleness like this, so he would take what he could get.
Maybe one day Dabi would tell him. But, today wasn't that day.