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Keigo has always been exceptionally good at lying.
In his short time on this planet he has worn so many masks that he barely recognises his own face in the mirror anymore. Hero, villain, cheerful media darling, hateful anti-hero, serious contender for number one, ‘Hawks’ - each one slides smoothly into place as if they’re a role he was born to play. On the rare occasion he catches glimpses of the nameless man beneath, often during the early hours of the morning in the polished mirror in the bathroom of his high-end apartment, he isn’t sure that he likes it.
His mask is handsome, pulled intentionally off-centre by an easy lopsided smile that he knows people warm to. He’s learned to feed the right level of emotion into his eyes depending on the situation.
But his real face is something quite different.
It’s ugly.
The hero leans forward over the sink so that his face is illuminated by the light above the mirror and he begins to inspect his features carefully. It’s always the same - eyes, though sharp, are devoid of any emotion, simply flat golden circles embedded in his sockets. There is no trace of his usual joviality around his mouth, his lips are simply set in a hard line. He forces himself to smile - ‘give ‘em a big grin for the cameras, hero!’ - and finds himself despising the way it causes his eyes to light up unpleasantly, almost maniacally. How does anyone fall for this face, he thinks, isn’t it so blatantly insincere? Keeping track of his lies is easy enough, though playing different faces to both sides is somewhat exhausting when one has been doing it as long as Keigo has.
The smile drops back into an emotionless line and he turns on his heel, switching off the bathroom light as he heads back to the bedroom. He barely casts a glance at the body sprawled out on the other side of the bed as he slips beneath the expensive sheets that are rarely slept in. Keigo lays back and rests and arm over his forehead, staring blankly at the ceiling as if the smooth plaster will provide him with the answers and reassurance he’s looking for.
Kind, chirpy, a little sassy - that’s the mask that seems the most apt for the public and the media. It has worked for a while, there’s always been some shred of real interest toward them, some actual feeling that he could use to lace his lies with a little truth. He used the same face with the League, though it annoyed them more than anything. It’s a clever tactic, or at least Keigo thinks so - appear as the charming-if-slightly-dim character, when in reality he is keeping notes on both sides, heroes and villains, plotting his own course as well as taking orders. To Keigo, this is all just another bullshit situation keeping him from the free time he so desperately desires.
There is only one person who might’ve gotten glimpses of the true face beneath the layered masks, the man snoring lightly beside him this very second. It’s a strange relationship they’ve formed, initially out of sheer morbid curiosity, then continued because of the simple pleasure of having someone else around. Loneliness has always been a stark presence in Keigo's life. It’s hard at the top, there’s little time for friends, lovers, family. It comes easily with Dabi because there’s no expectations between them, no real care or love. There’s no sense of longevity. Dabi could disappear tomorrow and Keigo probably wouldn’t lose any sleep over his absence. It’s just sex, just temporary. None of it matters.
Nonetheless, it’s fun. Their relationship is an odd one, built on ‘I don’t trust you’ and ‘I’d sell you out in a hot minute’ and ‘I want to fuck you’, but it works for the time being. Dabi is an oddly decent person to spend time with, likely due to similarities between them, their shared snark, intellect and ruthlessness - similarities Dabi has managed to recognise despite the friendly mask Keigo plasters over his face. The villain sees the bitterness in his eyes, in the creases of his mouth and the crinkles around his brows, he sees, and he doesn’t care. That’s one of Dabi’s best qualities, he doesn’t seem to care about anything aside from the destruction of ‘unworthy heroes’ and even that he half-asses.
Dabi is truly unpredictable, sometimes as wild and manic as a rabid dog and laid-back to the point of absurdity at others. He doesn’t care about Keigo's real face, in fact he seemed to see through his mask from the moment they met. ‘You got nasty eyes for a hero’ – it’s that unpredictability that caught Keigo's eye and has held his attention for all these months. Usually he gets bored quickly, so it is truly a feat that Dabi is still in his bed after all this time. Keigo rolls onto his front, stretching out so that his hips flex down into the bed and his wings can flutter freely above him.
He props himself up on his elbows, chin coming to rest on the heel of his hand as he peers down at the resting villain. How ugly he is, how disgusting he looks even when sleeping, this stitched up mess of a man. Dabi doesn’t bother with wearing a false face, how can he when violence is painted across his skin in startling purples and silvers? He is a man that tears his own flesh apart by the simple act of smiling, lays bare his pain in the gentlest of actions. Hawks doubts Dabi could keep up with the lies he is laden with, doubts that he’d even bother to try.
The hero hums under his breath and reaches forward to brush a few strands of hair away from Dabi’s forehead. He sleeps like death, there’s no waking him as soon as his head hits the pillow. It’s a rather foolish trait considering he’s in bed with a Pro who could choose to arrest him or drive a sharpened feather through his chest at any given moment. But no, Dabi sleeps soundly beside him as he always does and Keigo wonders if he should be worried about that. There’s no way the Dabi trusts him - what a foolish thing to consider.
Right?
Keigo purses his lips, narrows his eyes as he observes the sleeping man further.
When he’s not smirking or playing up the big, bad villain, it’s clearer to see that Dabi is a sickly looking thing, delicate almost. He’s so scrawny that the outline of his bones is visible, especially those of his ribs and hips, the skin there looks so tautly stretched that it’s on the verge of snapping. The skin that isn’t burned is pale and sweaty, marred by a few bruises, a few scratches from Keigo's own fingernails. As Dabi breathes in and out, a light rattle sounds in his chest, one caused by years of smoke inhalation. His hands and the corners of his mouth are stained brown by the cigarettes he’s huffing on at every waking moment, a habit that doesn’t help his quirk-wrecked lungs.
Perhaps without the scars Dabi could be considered handsome. His face is somewhat attractive even with the staples lining his sharp cheekbones. The structure is good, he’s got a strong jaw and long lashes and devastatingly lovely eyes. That blue, so familiar but Keigo finds he cannot place it. The hero trails his fingers down Dabi’s forehead to gently trace the staples embedded beneath his eye. There’s blood crusted around the metal where it digs into his fresh skin. It must hurt, being held together like that. Keigo presses firmly against the staple, digging it in. He wonders how much it hurts.
Enough to rouse Dabi from his slumber, it seems. The villain opens his eyes, revealing bleary, yet beautiful blue, and wrinkles his nose, wriggles it as if trying to shoo away a pest. Keigo chuckles lightly and draws his fingers back, slipping them down to rest on Dabi’s naked shoulder instead. He’ll never get used to the strange feeling of those leathery old scars, no matter how many times he reassures Dabi that they don’t bother him. The smile those pretty lies garner is troubling - it’s becoming more genuine by the day.
Dabi doesn’t care, Keigo reassures himself. Dabi doesn’t care about anything.
“Wha’ d’ya want?” Dabi grumbles, raising a hand to scrunch a knuckle into the hollow of his eye socket. “Fuckin’ tired.”
He doesn’t look happy to be woken so suddenly but neither does he look pissed off. Every expression Dabi wears is so blatant, so open, and seeing no trace of a lie makes Keigo's stomach turn uncomfortably. Is it guilt, or lust, perhaps - Keigo doesn't know. The slither of feeling is enough to make him decide to shift closer to Dabi. He’s an ugly sleeper, even uglier when he’s awake but Keigo leans down to press a kiss to his forehead regardless. It’s a test of sorts, an experiment to see what reaction such a tender gesture will earn.
It’s slow, small, but it’s definitely a smile.
Keigo's stomach turns uncomfortably. There’s no trace of a lie in Dabi’s expression, it’s so honest and lovely that for once he doesn’t look so ugly. He forces a smile to his own face, one far less honest, far more strained. It is guilt that settles uneasily on his shoulders, atop the myriad of other things weighing him down.
Why should he feel such a thing, for a man such as Dabi?
“Nothin’,” Keigo replies, quietly. He tilts his head, presses his cheek into the flat of his knuckles. “Just looking at you. You look handsome when you’re not scowling.” Dabi snorts at that remark, wrinkling his monstrous face up into a weak sneer. “Hey, don’t scoff! I mean it.”
The villain flouts him by snorting again and raises a hand to prod a warm forefinger against his cheek. “Wouldn’t hurt you to tell the truth sometimes, hero.”
Keigo tenses, searching those lovely, bleary blue eyes for some semblance of threat. All he finds is amusement, warmth, worrisome things. Things that could quickly become a problem for the both of them were Keigo to slacken his restraint and allow trickles of honesty to seep out. There is so much danger in that option, so much potential for strife and heartbreak - and yet, Keigo finds himself unable to look away from Dabi’s gaze. The blue holds his attention like a car crash, like fire, devastatingly beautiful.
“Go to sleep, Hawks. Too bloody late- too early for talk,” Dabi bemoans, closing his eyes. “Run y’mouth in the morning, after coffee.”
“Oh, making coffee are you? I’ll take one too. Milk, two sugars.”
“Fuck off.”
“You wound me.”
“Fuck off ‘n let me sleep. Make your own fuckin’ coffee.”
“Okay, okay. Get your sleep, Princess.”
The taunting comes easily. The way Dabi reaches for his hand is more difficult. Nevertheless, Keigo takes it, flopping onto his side to rest his head on the pillows. Their fingers remain intertwined.
As he drifts into some semblance of sleep, he finds that he can not get that honest smile out of his mind. What would it have been like if things had been different, he wonders, nuzzling further into the other man’s side. If Dabi wasn’t a villain and he wasn’t a hero, how might they have fared? Would a different circumstance have let him rid himself of such bitterness and allow something genuine into his life? Perhaps they could have had something sweet, something honest and better and good. The hero swallows thickly, ignoring the mixture of guilt and want making his stomach twist uncomfortably.
Dabi doesn’t care about him. Dabi doesn’t care about anything.
.
..
…
In the morning he wakes to an empty bed and a fresh cup of coffee on the bedside table.
Milk, two sugars.
There’s ash on the handle of the mug.