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Something is wrong with Hawks.
Well, more so than usual: there are plenty of things Dabi can think of that are wrong with Hawks. The way he holds no anger or resentment towards the shambolic hero society that stole not just his childhood, his personhood, but his very identity from him, all in the name of shaping him into being their ultimate weapon. And worst of all, they made him think that this was something he should be grateful to them for.
Oh, how Hawks likes to pretend that he’s changed his mind. That he now sees the shackles around his ankles that keep him tethered to the ground, no matter how freely he might think he’s allowed to fly. That his magnificent wings belong to him and him alone, and are no longer carefully clipped by his Commission handlers.
Hawks doesn’t know that Dabi knows all there is to know on Keigo Takami: how through the help of Skeptic and a few well-placed threats, Dabi had been able to uncover some of the Commission’s darkest secrets. Which included how their golden boy was not just the son of a villain, but also a spy and an assassin that took care of any little messes that might threaten to tarnish the good names of heroes all around the world.
Truthfully, that’s when Hawks had really caught Dabi’s interest. It had been all fun and games playing cat-and-mouse toying with Japan’s Number Three - no, Number Two Hero now - seeing how far he could push him till he broke. But when Dabi had found those files, ran his slim fingers down the long lines of kanji recording in methodical detail the daily progress reports of the hero-in-training from the age of five, all the way up to seventeen, and then those oh-so-fascinating case reports about heroes and villains that had disappeared under mysterious circumstances…the stories that accompanied their cover-ups…
That’s when the little pet Pro started getting interesting.
For a while, Dabi had been able to successfully kid himself into the idea that his draw to Hawks was solely because he finally had such a solid ace card up his sleeve to expose the hypocrisy of the hero society that had so thoroughly destroyed the lives of him and so many others. The ugly little failures that got cast to the wayside if they didn’t live up to the perfect standards that their current societal structure set. The evidence of the existence of heroes like Hawks — much like his own monster of a father — were all just additional tools in the arsenal that Dabi could ultimately use for when he forced the world to confront the ugliness of the people they believed were protecting them.
He’d been able to hang onto that thought the first time that had slipped one hand around the small of Hawks’ back, felt him shiver under his touch as Dabi cupped his cheek with the other. When those molten pools of gold had stared back up at him with a fervid wanting that seemed to echo the same desire that had clouded Dabi’s head ever since he first laid eyes on the hero, Dabi could at least assure himself—
This was for his mission. His own personal quest to rip away the blindfold that the public so happily, willingly walked around wearing. Feeling wrapped up and safe in the lie that all the state propaganda and schooling fooled them into: that heroes would keep them safe.
What a fucking joke.
Almost as much of a joke as Dabi being stupid enough to let things get this far. To allow himself to find a practised ease, a familiar routine — shit, how long ago has it been since he had one of those? — between the two of them.
To here, right now in this present moment.
To Hawks sliding open the door to his balcony and not even batting an eyelid at the sight of Dabi sprawled out on his couch, his feet kicked up on the coffee table as he turns the pages of one of the many untouched novels that the Commission had filled Hawks’ penthouse apartment with.
Dabi had snorted when he’d first broken in here and ran his fingers down the uncreased spines. It was clear whatever interior designer or whoever the fuck they had hired to fit the space had just done a perfunctory Google search of ‘greatest works of literature’ and just run wih that. The books looked like they hadn’t been touched since the day they’d been put up on the shelf; which was unsurprising, really. Hawks was not the type to slow down enough to allow himself the luxury of little indulgences such as reading.
(Sometimes, Dabi suspects that he might be the only indulgence Hawks has ever allowed himself. It’s a thought that squeezes painfully behind his chest; both out of rage for all the things that Hawks has been robbed, and fear over what that could mean.)
When Hawks had returned home that evening and found for the first time Dabi standing in his living room, he had baulked before shooting multiple serrated feathers in his direction.
Dabi hadn’t even looked up from the copy of To Kill A Mockingbird that he was leafing through.
“How the hell did you even get in here?!” Hawks had demanded, his face screwed up in fury but Dabi hadn’t failed to notice just how flustered he was despite that fury. “Never mind that, how do you know where I live?”
Dabi had clucked his tongue, ignoring the feathers surrounding him and replacing the book back on the shelf.
“Don’t bother with this one,” he remarked casually, throwing a sly smile over his shoulder as he blatantly ignored the question. “The title might sound appealing for a feathered friend like yourself, but there’s a tragic lack of mockingbirds in it. Now this…”
He slipped One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest out from where it was nestled on the shelf — all in alphabetical order, of course. He doubted that was Hawks’ doing, either.
“This one also has fewer birds than the title would lead you to believe, but the whole aspect of never questioning the possibility of breaking the cage you’ve been confined to… That, you might enjoy.”
Hawks had dropped his forehead into one gloved palm with a groan and a shake of the head. But the sharpened feathers he’d sent in Dabi’s direction had fallen away and drifted back to slot back into their natural space within his wings.
The next few times he returned home to find Dabi already in his apartment, he didn’t greet him with razor blades, but still with barbed complaints that Dabi ignored until Hawks grumpily caved into his obvious relief to see Dabi there.
And fuck, didn’t that in and of itself take Dabi’s breath away.
Someone was pleased to see him. Pleased to see Dabi.
Distantly, he recalls the smell of incense drifting from the butsudan in the bedroom that had once belonged to the dead boy Touya Todoroki. The sight of hellfire flames consuming his father’s body to the point that parts of the roofing had started to fall away, the sounds of an eight-year-old child sobbing and pleading ‘no more’ from where he was curled up on the floor.
Dabi sucks in a long drag of the cigarette he’s been nursing, relishes the taste of nicotine and the feel of smoke filling his lungs. His body was never meant to withstand the kind of heat it’s capable of producing, and there’s always been something comforting in the way tar sticks to his lungs. Like some part of his rotten body isn’t actively trying to reject his flames — it’s the closest thing to harmony he’ll probably ever achieve with his own Quirk.
No matter how badly he’d tried to batter his body in order to prove it otherwise.
But that was then, and this is now, and right now Hawks is toeing off his boots, the tip of his tongue running back and forth over his upper lip as he furrows his bushy brows in the effort to remove them. He’s more than aware that Dabi is present in the apartment — his Quirk means it’s impossible for him to so much as miss that fact — but it’s like he presumed as much. Expected as much.
Why wouldn’t Dabi be waiting for him back home?
Home.
Up until recently, it had been a long time since Dabi had so much as turned the concept of that word over in his head. Until he’d fallen in with the League, and found once again what it was like to have another person be a tether to this world.
And then, Hawks. Who had redefined the concept for him completely.
Hawks and the ways in which Dabi hadn’t even needed his flames to burn away the mask that hid the man behind the persona. Just more than enough well-placed jabs to get the real person behind the facade to surface: the anger, the frustration and then ultimately the laughter and the smiles that actually reached Hawks’ eyes —
Those stupidly, breath-taking golden eyes that belonged to Hawks — Dabi more than anyone knows the danger of burning.
But Dabi often thinks that the molten gold heat that blazes in Hawks’ eyes is more threatening than heat of the sun itself.
It threatens to burn away all that he holds dear.
The simmering resentment towards his father, his need for revenge, the hunger to see the current hero hierarchical structure be ripped asunder and exposed—
All of that could melt away in the warm, igneous pools of gold that Dabi so desperately wishes to drown in when Hawks' eyes meet his own.
He's burned up completely once before. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad the second time round. Not if it's like this. Not if it’s with Hawks.
Hawks’ gaze immediately seeks out where he knows Dabi is somewhere in his flat, and the sincere smile of relief that practically splits his face in two is almost too much to handle.
Yet, it’s another clear sign. Something is very wrong with Hawks.
The change had been subtle, but in its own ways dramatic.
There were small signs that went beyond things like no longer being phased by Dabi’s presence in the apartment. Such as the way that Hawks had started laying out ashtrays around the flat, in the spaces he knows that Dabi likes to linger.
Like at the kitchen counter, when Dabi would rustle up something for dinner out of the abundance of ingredients in Hawks’ fridge, whenever Hawks started making grumbling noises about just ordering takeout.
The bedside table, on Dabi’s side of the bed — and fuck, wasn’t that just yet another punch in the chest to think about how Dabi had something as intimate as a ‘side’ of the bed. Yet after the first two weeks of Dabi regularly spending the night at Hawks’ flat Hawks had quietly slipped an ashtray onto the nightstand to save him the trouble of heading out to the balcony.
What made him change his mind about smoking in the bed, Dabi had wondered? The first time Dabi had tried to spark up his usual smoke after a good fuck, Hawks had nearly lit the sheets on fire with the force he’d smacked the cigarette out of Dabi’s hand.
That had changed along the way, however. The more time Dabi spent there, the more Hawks had clung to Dabi in the aftermath of an orgasm and nuzzled into his side, hazily mumbling against his heated skin to ‘stay’.
Just ‘stay.'
That’s when the ashtrays had started to appear. But the changes in behaviour didn’t end there.
Hawks isn’t shy about wanting physical contact as a form of comfort. He’s always been happy to initiate such moments of intimacy, always eager to nestle into Dabi’s side when Dabi flung an arm over his shoulder as they traversed the villa. Or when he’d curl into Dabi’s lap during Games Night with the League, uncaring for their audience, and laying a soft, scarlet wing over Dabi’s lap like a blanket over the pair of them.
But recently when Hawks returned either to the villa or his own home, he had taken one desperate look at Dabi before collapsing into his arms.
And of course, Dabi would hold him, stroking his tousled blonde hair as he hummed reassurances against his forehead, his temple, his lips.
Hawks mumbles into his neck all of his regrets. Or at least, as many as he cares to share.
Lately, he’s begun to open up more about the toll that living life under the Commission has taken upon him. Dabi’s not stupid enough to buy into Hawks’ spiel completely, but when he burrows his forehead into Dabi’s neck and lets out a a shaky sigh before uttering—
“I just thought it would be easier than this,” he would admit, nuzzling into Dabi’s neck. “But even if I leave, they’ll just find a replacement for me.”
“Nothing’s ever easy when it comes to this kind of thing, little bird,” Dabi hummed in return, pressing a kiss into that mess of golden locks. “But when we’re done, there won’t be a HPSC anymore. No more kids lifted off of the streets to have their childhoods stolen away from them for the sake of creating the perfect hero.”
Hawks had lifted his head then, and Dabi was surprised to see that his eyes were wet.
“You say it isn’t easy,” Hawks mumbled, raising a hand to brush his fingers over the remaining healthy skin of Dabi’s cheek. “But you make it sound like it is.”
Dabi had grinned, catching Hawks by the wrist and pressing a quick kiss against his pulse point.
“That’s because I’d just burn it all down,” Dabi chuckled against the delicate flesh. “You still care about saving people.”
Hawks bit his lip, and for a moment, Dabi had worried if he’d said something wrong.
“Yeah,” Hawks whispered, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I really, really do.”
He’d pulled Dabi into a surprisingly fierce kiss then, the kind from which as concerned as Dabi was, it was impossible to pull away from.
So he had wrapped his arms around Hawks’ waist and tucked the sight of that single fallen tear away for another day — added it to the mental itinerary of little oddities in Hawks’ behaviour that have been recently accumulating.
Dabi had been puzzling over them when Hawks stepped through the door that night, as he smoked his cigarette and ponderously brushed his ash-covered thumb over the page of Ulysses that he’d been reading.
Reading and rereading the same line over and over:
‘Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him, or he any son?’
Who indeed, Dabi muses to himself as he exhales a thick plume of smoke and watches Hawks shrug off his coat. He wonders how the masterpiece is faring at dear old dad’s agency. Sometimes he thinks about asking Hawks, but that was the kind of question that only invited more questions.
And that was the unspoken rule between the two of them.
No asking questions.
“Eaten yet?” Dabi asks Hawks by way of greeting. Hawks looks up, and Dabi is caught off-guard by just how…fond he looks. Fond, and yet strangely sad.
“No,” Hawks admits, “some late night brawlers then paperwork to write up afterwards. You know how it is.”
Dabi chuckles, reaching behind him to crush out the dwindling blue embers of his cigarette in the ashtray.
“I don’t, actually. That’s one of the nice things about being a villain. We don’t need to write up a report about our wrongdoings for the higher-ups. You should try it sometime.”
Hawks laughs, shaking his head and smoothing his mess of a fringe out of his eyes and back across his scalp. His golden eyes meet Dabi’s, and something dangerously wanting twists behind Dabi’s rib cage at the warmth he sees glowing in them.
It shouldn’t make him feel as thrilled as it does to be one of the few people that can make Hawks genuinely smile. Make the other man drop the facade of Winged Hero Hawks and look at Dabi the way he imagines Keigo would look at him.
Dabi finds himself wondering how Keigo might smile at Touya.
No.
No, no and no. That’s too dangerous a thought to even entertain.
For a multitude of reasons, but amongst them, the current long line of odd habits Hawks has been exhibiting.
It went beyond lingering too long in Dabi’s arms. Beyond even stray tears sliding down his cheeks.
Sometimes in the morning, Dabi can successfully convince Hawks to arrive late to work. It usually took a great deal of cajoling and teasing and licking and biting his way up his neck until Hawks no longer had any breath left with which to make any more weak-hearted protests.
But lately, it’s been Hawks who doesn’t want to leave the bed in the morning. It’s Hawks who nuzzles closer into Dabi, twining their legs together beneath the twisted bedsheets and mumbles into Dabi’s neck ‘just five more minutes’. It’s Hawks who stretches out one brilliant vermillion wing and wraps it around the pair of them in order to create a cocoon of feathers to block out the rising sun from behind the blinds.
And when five minutes passed, that still would not be enough for the other man, nor would another five, until eventually it was Hawks rolling Dabi onto his back and kissing him so long and luxuriously that neither of them paid any attention to how much time was passing
Hawks’ phone vibrating on the nightstand, and Hawks either ignoring it or eventually rolling over to turn the damn thing off before crawling right back on top of Dabi.
Something is going to happen, and soon. Dabi can even hazard a pretty good idea when. He’s not survived this long on his own without some shrewd wit about him, and he knows that if Hawks is deciding to turn traitor on the League, he’ll get no better opportunity than the PLF Conference.
The question is, who exactly has Hawks chosen? Who is he preparing to betray?
Is he steeling himself for turning cloak on the people who saved him from a life on the streets and shaped him into the hero he is today? Is that why he’s seeking out this extra comfort from Dabi in recent weeks, why he’s shirking work, ignoring HPSC calls?
Or is he savouring what little time they have left together before he breaks both their hearts?
Dabi should know better than to get his hopes up. The more that Hawks pulls him closer, the more he should push him away in case his worst fears turn out to come true. That’s what a wiser man would do.
Dabi has spent over ten years pushing people away. It should be easy.
It should be easy to stomp out the small wisp of hope that keeps him tethered here, to Hawks, the whisper of ‘but what if he’s choosing you?’
He should pay more attention to the rational side of his brain, he knows.
But not right now. Not when Hawks’ soft smile only broadens as he practically drifts towards the couch and skims his fingers lightly through Dabi’s dark hair when he passes by.
“Want me to make something?” Dabi asks, watching as Hawks head towards the liquor cabinet.
“Maybe later,” Hawks answers in a soft voice, setting out two glass tumblers and uncapping a bottle of whiskey. “Right now, I just need some company.”
Dabi licks his lips and folds over the corner of the page that he’d been reading in order to serve as a bookmark, before settling it back on the coffee table.
“Company,” Dabi hums, pulling himself to sit upright against the back of the sofa. “I suppose I can do that.”
Hawks recaps the bottle and settles it back along with the other expensive liquors that line the bar’s shelves — but reaches for his phone in his pocket before picking up the glasses. With a few quick taps of his screen, Hawks adjusts the lighting in the apartment to a low, ambient yellow glow, and sets it so that slow, lilting pre-Quirk era music is playing through the various speakers in the walls.
When Hawks turns around, a glass of amber liquid in each hand, Dabi’s breath catches in his chest.
Fuck, it never fails to come like a punch to the gut at just how beautiful Hawks is. The sight of him alone in moments of stillness like this: soft, yellowy light playing over his tanned complexion, his flaxen hair and most dangerous of all, those brilliant gold eyes of his glinting like sunlight over water. They’re enough to knock the breath out of any sane person, but the way that they seem to glow a little bit brighter when they look at Dabi—
Dabi’s not insecure about his Frankenstein-ish appearance. He’s read that novel before too, and the metaphor isn’t lost on him. He doesn’t give a shit about his looks and never has, but it still feels like some kind of goddamn miracle that someone like Hawks could take an interest in someone like him.
Hawks’ crimson wings fluff out behind him as he tilts his head to one side with a lop-sided smile.
“Dabs,” he hums, taking a sip of whiskey from one of the glasses that he’s holding. “C’mere.”
There once had been a time where Dabi would have scoffed at him and made a show of not moving. Would have rolled his eyes and lit up another cigarette, maybe even started reading again — smirking as he watched Hawks pout out of the corner of his eye.
He’s not sure when that changed either. Because as soon as Hawks asks, Dabi stands right up from the couch and closes the distance between them in several short strides.
When had it been that Hawks had begun to slip so naturally into his arms? Hawks makes a pleased noise, passing the second tumbler of whiskey into Dabi’s hand before nestling in against his chest with a contented sigh.
Dabi raises the glass to his lips, taking a moment to savour the complex fragrances of the whiskey whilst juggling the feeling of Hawks pressed against him, as well as the weight of trying to untangle the messy web of feelings he has about this man.
He doesn’t want to put his faith in a hero. Not ever again. He doesn’t want to ever be so stupid to let down his guard and buy into their bullshit, just to have his heart burned away into ash much like Touya’s had.
But fuck, Hawks makes him want to believe.
Dabi takes a sip of the whiskey, savouring the burn as it snakes down his throat and lets out a small, contented sigh of his own.
“Everything okay, angel?” Dabi asks softly, his lips brushing over Hawks’ temple. Hawks lifts his head, and it does something indescribable to Dabi to see just how much more relaxed Hawks looks now. Just through the sheer act of being held in his arms.
These arms, burned and stapled together with skin that wasn’t even his own. All the blood that soaks them.
Dabi’s arms.
“It is, now,” Hawks murmurs, looking up at Dabi beneath thick blonde eyelashes. He takes a sip of his own whiskey and bites down on his lower lip, smiling coyly. “It could get a little better though.”
Dabi arches a brow.
“Already? I mean, I’m not going to complain but—”
He’s cut off by the blunted edge of a feather jabbing him in the cheek.
“Not that, asshole,” Hawks huffs, his cheeks taking on the most endearing shade of red. “I just… Dance with me?”
Dabi blinks down at him.
“You’re joking.”
Hawks pouts.
“Come on. We don’t have to really dance, I just…”
Hawks sighs and rests his cheek against Dabi’s chest, his eyelids fluttering shut.
“Just for a little bit. Please.”
Hawks’ voice shakes ever so slightly when he utters that ‘please’, and Dabi’s chest suddenly feels all too tight. There’s that dangerous feeling that he thought he’d rejected ever believing in ever again after Touya died that’s now threatening to sprout in his chest, and he knows that if he even so much as names it, he won’t be able to stop it from blossoming and devouring him even faster than his own flames.
Dabi swallows, and squeezes Hawks’ hip.
“Alright, birdie. If it’ll make you happy.”
He can feel Hawks’ mouth turn up into a smile where it’s pressed against his breastbone.
“The most happy.”
Two feathers swiftly swoop in to whisk away their drinks, settling them on the nearby coffee table so that Hawks can wrap his arms around Dabi’s neck, whilst Dabi slides his own around the hero’s waist. Dabi rests his chin against Hawks’ temple whilst Hawks nuzzles closer into his chest, and the two of them begin to sway to the music.
It’s been a long, long time since Dabi has danced. So long that he’d almost forgotten. Back when his mother’s face was always smiling when she looked at him, holding onto his hands and guiding him into a childish waltz.
Then with his sister, back before the first few strands of white hair had begun to sprout from the formerly fiery red. The two of them giggling as they bounced around one another to some upbeat children’s song — he can’t even remember the tune, let alone the name — whilst their parents laughed and applauded in the background.
Dabi’s never danced since then. Not until now, if this even counts.
Hawks tilts his chin up, and rests it on Dabi’s chest with a smile so warm that Dabi doubts even his own flames could stand a chance against its radiance.
Dabi can only meet it with equal fervency, as their bodies sway to the song’s gentle rhythm.
How do we always do this, the stereo croons, turn ourselves around?
Not for the first time, Dabi thinks about asking Hawks to run away with him right then and there.
It would mean abandoning the bitter quest for vengeance he’s hung onto in order to stay alive for the last decade. It would mean turning his back on the League who had taken him in as one of theirs, and had become the closest thing he’d known to family ever since he woke up in that horror show that called itself a hospital.
And yet, the thing that scares him most is what Hawks’ answer might be.
Hawks’ smile is dazzling as he beams up at Dabi, humming along contently to the music in the background and hell, if there was such a thing as a Quirk that could freeze a moment in time forever, Dabi would make a deal with however many devils it took if it meant getting to keep this moment here and now and forever.
He could ask. He wants to ask. Because he knows that Hawks has made a choice now, and that the countdown clock over their relationship is rapidly ticking down. Just one more week until the conference.
Just one more week until Hawks proves to him that he was right about heroes all along, or else—
Or else Hawks chooses Dabi. And maybe it’ll come down to for once in his life, Touya Todoroki’s overabundance of love had actually been something that was welcomed — not rejected.
Dabi could ask.
But he won’t.
Call it a weakness of character, of constitution, call it whatever the fuck you want, but as he closes his eyes and presses his lips against Hawks’ forehead drinking in the melody of the music:
Time, time, time, oh, sweet time—
Please, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.
I can’t help you leaving me.
This is Hawks’ choice, ultimately.
All that Dabi can do is pray that he chooses him.
And if he does, Dabi will do all that he can to make sure that he never regrets that decision.
“Hawks,” Dabi murmurs against his ear, combing his fingers through his flaxen hair.
“Hm?”
Hawks’ eyes are half-lidded, hazy in the golden glow of the apartment’s dimmed lighting. It practically frames his face in a goddamn halo.
Just ask, Dabi begs himself, holding Hawks a little bit closer and drinking in the sweetness of that smile, the richness of his gaze. Run away with me.
Dabi takes a deep breath.
A weak constitution, the doctors had told him.
They had been right about that much.
“Nothing, angel,” Dabi hums, allowing his own eyes to drift closed. “Everything’s perfect right now.”
In a week, he’ll discover the truth.
Whether these last few months with Hawks were real or not. If this has all been one big deception and he had been fucking stupid enough to believe any one who deigned to call themselves a ‘hero’ could ever be trusted.
If there’s any hero who could have ever been enlightened to the corruption of the current hero society the fight to maintain, it would be Hawks.
Dabi so desperately wants it to be Hawks.
But that was for then. This is for now.
And for now, they’ll just keep dancing.