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Hawks knows it isn’t real – it can’t be – when Dabi curls his long fingers in his hair, pushing past the knots created from hours in the air, the hair strands getting abused left, right and centre by strong gusts and even stronger quirks. He knows he shouldn’t close his eyes and lean back when Dabi places those same hands on his shoulders, applying just the slightest bit of warmth to melt away the tension that never seemed to be able to go away before. It’s safe, and it’s warm, and it’s–
Hawks doesn’t let himself finish the thought. Instead, he lets them slink away like water dribbling down the sink, overflowing onto the floor and making a mess of everything. Dabi leans down, scarred lips brushing against the outer shell of his ear. Hawks’ heart leaps and jumps in this throat, threatening to join his melted mind on the carpet. What a mess they would both make, oozing pink, gold and purple.
He blinks and presses his eyes closed as Dabi’s blunt fingernails drag slightly over his scalp, digging in just enough to make Hawks sigh and lean back further.
“How are you feelin’, birdie?” Dabi mumbles against his neck. Hawks just hums, allows the incoherent sounds to answer for him. He doesn’t really have wings anymore – they’re just two tiny stubs that get swallowed by the nonexistent space between his back and Dabi’s chest. It’s weird. He can now feel the hard press of cold staples against his skin. That was never there before.
One of Dabi’s hands drops from Hawks’ hair, resting at his hip. Hawks eyes are still closed but he can feel the slightly scratchy material from Dabi’s cheap and worn-out trousers brush against his bare legs. It’s comforting to know something’s there, but Hawks knows that soon it will just be cold whispers from the air.
This can’t last forever. They can’t stay like this forever even if it’s the exact kind of days Hawks always dreamed about.
There’s a tickle on the side of his neck as Dabi peppers a trail of light kisses down, one hand still massaging his scalp and the other rubbing slow circles into his wrist.
Hawks is just in a simple t-shirt – one of his old ones from too long ago that he never had the time to throw out. It still has rushed holes cut in the back for his wings, stretched from use and the number of washes its been through. Dabi pats his arm, soft fingers that wouldn’t ever seem gentle to anyone else but here, on Hawks’ living room floor in the security of the night, away from everyone else, Hawks feels all the care through his soothing palms. The cold from the staples doesn’t startle him.
“Come on, birdie. You don’t have a fire quirk; you’ll get cold. Let’s get you to bed,” Dabi whispers in his ear, words as soft as the pillow Hawks lays his tired head down on. Those same fingers brush the hair out his eyes, pushing them back with careful movements so they rest behind his ear, gold against a muted peach-pink.
If Hawks wasn’t so tired, he’d smile.
A breath of a sigh escapes into the air behind him and lips of contrasting textures press against his shoulder.
“Goodnight, birdie.”
Even though Dabi never says it, Hawks knows. Hawks can’t say it either so he repeats it in the dark caverns of his mind, letting it tangle with all his other thoughts until all the strings are so knotted, it can’t escape.
Good. Hawks doesn’t want this thought to escape.
The cool duvet presses down onto his skin and the weight next to him shifts. Quiet overtakes his small bedroom, resting comfortably like his stable, slow breaths.
It’s safe, and it’s warm, and...
It’s home.