Archive of Our Own

Hawks is a careful person. He always has been, molded so since he was young. As quick as he was, the boy he used to be was clever. He learned how to keep his head down and what to say. He knew when to approach his father and how to act around his mother. Neither wanted him, but he was resilient against the face of unholy beseeched anger, the demands, the threats. Every talon placed to his throat he grit his teeth and powered through with faux courage. By the time he was five he had a meticulously crafted mask of inexpression, painted with gentle strokes of a steadied brush, with the eye of a hawk and a bird's eye view there was no mistake when he looked in the reflection of empty bottles that scattered the tiny place he once called home.

He was completely unreadable.

Uncaring, yet nosy neighbors who prodded at their business occasionally could never tell what his home life was like based on his actions. Then again by the time his father reared his ugly head they were hardly an issue. The handful of times he left the house no hero could pick up on what was off about the kid. No one who passed by seemed to notice him. It was as if he was invisible despite his staggeringly disheveled and brightly contrasting appearance. Though his parents were the main ones he had to fool anyway. As long as he was out of sight, whether that means standing directly in front of them or hiding in a rickety cabinet. As long as he wasn’t an issue, despite the fact he should have been screaming for help, straining his wings in the process, his very being, as he was hit, or if the problems he faced that day were benign. As long as they didn’t take notice of him, it would have all been alright.

Who knew a mask a kid wore acted as a cloak of invisibility. 

Of course he wasn’t invisible to the government. The commission. No matter his quirk, they all seemed to have better trained eyes than his own, able to pick out the very kid who saved so many lives from what would have easily been a fatal accident. The wings were easy enough to pick out on camera. They had a rough idea of what he looked like and a potential connection via his recently arrested father so they had a general area. They didn’t even need the power of anyone's quirk to realize where he and his mother were residing on the streets. He sometimes wondered if it was their plan. To watch their barely there life fall further into nothing and scoop him up as his savior.

He sometimes wondered if they were waiting for him to be abandoned. Completely.

It wouldn’t be until his teenage years when he realized how close of a visual they have on society. 

Once that sunk in he was sure that they in fact waited for him to lose everything.

Hawks was always a careful person and every bit of this was attributed to that fact. How to act. How to be invisible. How to speak. His mask. They were all factors of his very person. He knew where to step, where the cracks of lies and personalities lay, waiting for him to make a mistake. Hawks almost never did. There were a few stumbles in his career, but none that he hasn’t been able to bounce back from. The worst of the stumbling was his head on fight with Dabi. A pyromaniac and one of the more flammable heroes isn’t exactly a fair fight, though said pyromaniac didn’t have much of a care for technical statistics, and Hawks wasn’t as careful with himself as he prides his persona to be.

He had just killed Twice, and for some reason he was so sure he could’ve saved that man.

He could feel the back of his jaw grit at the thought of the villain, the way the blood smeared on his feather and filled the gaps of the barbs along the vane. How warm such a chilling action felt. Hawks could have saved Twice. Could have offered genuine rehabilitation and help. Professionals who could have turned the tides of a ruined life. Hawks took that chance away from him, and that tore Keigo apart. Then there was the overwhelming warmth of blood which had erupted in a blazing heat as he screamed, each feather, down to the afterfeather turned to ash. The coverts, the primaries, the secondaries, and the worst of all were the tertials which he had never lost. With the base gone he feared for the worst. That they wouldn’t grow back.

For a moment in time, as he had laid barely conscious in Tsukuyomi’s arms, his subconscious hoped they wouldn’t regenerate. As he was taken to get medical help a part of him prayed he would never have to act as a hero again. Even if it meant the Commission would finally have to put their dog down. Even if it meant the world lost another hero. Even if it meant his mother would have to bury her own son. There was a level of exhaustion that he could not find a parallel to after that day. While the breathing mask wore him down the bags beneath his eyes pulled his face past ground level into a weighted vortex of numbing weariness. When Dabi revealed his identity to him the man wasn’t sure if he could have continued on. His mind was far from a good place. 

He was no longer a man. He was a freshly hatched chick left to starve. He was a boy who sat in a lonely nest. Maybe even a stillborn had it not been for the stubbornness of a beating heart.

It just seemed as though he was five again.

Though the world kept turning. His wings were fine. Took longer to heal than normal, but they came back anyway. Just as adamant as he is. They itched like wildfire and felt as though they dug into the space they grew in from. Some days the feeling left him breathless and irritated in his own flesh.

Some nights he itched. His back craved the violation of dulled talons. Yearned for the comfort of bloodied nails. Begged for scars to line the anomalies that sat on the center of his back. They were no longer normal to him. They no longer belonged on his body. The wings once consumed him whole and now he wished for nothing more than to be completely unextraordinary. He didn’t want to be Hawks. He didn’t want to be Keigo. He wanted to be nothing. Not dead. Not alive. No longer a dog. No longer a Hawk. Nothing.

There was a soft whisper of pure relief in that ideation. 

It sounded as though it felt like flying without wings. Feeling the wind brush your hair back as death carts gentle fingers across the sides of your neck before reaching down to intertwine each other's hands, ready to lead you to something better. Yet that better will never come. That idea of falling will never come true. He isn’t the nothing he wants to be. He was groomed too well to fully fall.

Hawks always bounces back. Even if the man he once knew turned on him so coldly with such harsh flames. There was a time Keigo introduced Touya to his mother. There was a moment they sat down and ate as some strange amalgamated family. Three people would sit at that table. A boy with bright red wings, who had a villain for a father, and a dream to do right by the world. A boy with bright blue flames, who had a hero for a father, and a dream for the world to do right by him. And a healing mother, who learned to love the boys as she came to her own realization of what life was for, even if she lost her husband in the process.

His mother was complicated. She hated him. Her sharply disinterested looks accompanied by her strong dislike for her son and her words of confirmation, letting him know directly how unwanted he was. An accident. A failure. A flaw of the family. A being never meant to be made. A wasted set of lungs and a misplaced heart.

After a particularly bad night of drunken one liners he remembered swearing to himself that he would never let another soul fall for such an abused life. Hawks would almost say that he tapped into his inner Icarus for not securing with that ideal, if it wasn’t for the fact that he worried for those who would fall victim to the commission first. Only reassured by the fact that he could do both anyway, couldn’t he?

Either way after their financial situation was finally settled she seemed to give into a sort of grief. Realizing her mistakes over time and apologizing to her son with each successful therapy session over the course of a decade and then some. She was upset and angry with herself for losing out on so much of their time together. To have thought such things over her own blood. To have given him away and realized how little she would see him. To grieve over the piece of himself that had fallen during his training period. To hear him cry from the separate room when he visited. To see a ghost of Keigo walk her house as if he didn’t even want to exist anymore during his teenage years.

While she never said anything she always ensured that he knew that his mother was there for him, even if that version of company was separated by months of time.

He forgave her, little by little. Letting her come back in small waves. They had their simple ritual when they were together. Small intimate moments lead to happen by their dynamic. Quiet sentences were never spoken, but bold declarations were made in gentle hugs. Tears only found a home between them once. Keigo once had a friend over because they had no family to visit.

He died by burning from his own flames. At least as far as they knew.

It was the only time he sobbed in front of her in their new life.

It was the first time he cried since he was six.

She didn’t realize the subtle bird traits he inherited from his father until the two realized he physically couldn’t let go of the pillow he gripped that night, dulled talons cutting into the fabric. The panicked thrashing helped none, and the tears poured harder as the screams wrecked his vocal cords. Tomie, in a fit of her own worry, tried her best to help him dislodge his unbearable grip. It only seemed to make it worse. It only seemed to cause pain. 

Hawks doesn’t remember much of that night.

And now he’s here. Back in the commission provided building for a hero meeting post magnum prison break to discuss large scale plans as smaller heroes act as defense to basic criminal increase for the allotted time. The tension that resided in the air between heroes was nothing he had ever felt before. Some names and faces who would typically be in attendance were nowhere to be seen. They never would be again.

While time has passed the weight of their absence seems to press harder with each second that ticks away. Several heroes almost seemed checked out, others were conversing with each other quietly, discussing their agreed upon territories and damages they have recently faced, and the influx of crime. A few mention the exhaustion they now feel. Even fewer are able to try and look up on things.

Far better people than Hawks is.

They were able to speak as if the fight was winnable, while typically he would fake some kind of agreement, he couldn’t help but feel as though it would end up as nothing more than wishful thinking. Maybe he was still lightheaded from his lack of wings to push him down despite them having grown back, or pressured too far into the ground with uncemented guilt. A whirlpool of emotions that manifested itself as severe nausea that rested in the bottom of his gut.

He had failed.

And while he knew he would bounce back the emotions of the present would refuse to let themselves go unnoticed. They imposed themselves far too harshly on his measly numbed heart. Dug freshly sharpened claws into a bleeding soul and refused to let go. He was left gripping the beasts by its sides and yanking, ripping tears into his soul's form.

Though something made him look up. An awkward shuffling of sorts. It was down the hall but Hawks’ feathers picked up on the vibrations, ticking him off to the approaching figure. Lifting his head and adjusting his gaze from his intertwined fingers he looked past the heroes, grieving and optimistic all the same. Staring the doors down he peered between the small opening. No other beating heart seemed to notice the newcomer as the other man peered in.

Though Hawks did notice his gaze being followed by Detective Tsukauchi. Tsukauchi was there to help delegate the future plans of action and to act as a connection of information for the rest of the police force. The detective was curious about what caught the number two pro hero's eye, and the two seemed to feel their eyes need to narrow at the sight.

It was a delivery man.

Simple as that. Uniform spiff enough to act as perfect juxtaposition to the tension in the air. Hawks looked over at the detective and the detective looked back at the hero. There was some level of understanding in their gazes. Something in acknowledgement that the man was off. Completely misplaced.

Foreign eyes scanned the room and more people took notice of the out of place scene. Eyes narrowed on the body that did not belong. 

Hawks turned his gaze from the detective, and as soon as he did the man met the bird's eyes and he seemed to light up. Just before another hero was going to stop him he was quick on his feet in Hawks’ direction. Blinking back a bit the hero took in the man's appearance. The roughly dyed hair, paired with thick skin given from long hours outside, as well as the heavy bags beneath his eyes. Practically purple with lack of sleep. There was no light in the whites of his eyes. No sign of life in the man's view. 

Something was wrong. Though that could have already been told by the given situation. Downy feathers sharpened from their hidden home, a sense of dread with unmatched urgency filled his veins. While in theory the sudden appearance is supposedly harmless, the blanked gleam in a lifeless eye set off every instinct within him.

Something was wrong. Hawks feared it was because of the package the man held with both hands.

“Hawks!” He exclaimed, pushing past every hero with a meaningless smile, “I have your delivery!” The left side of Hawks’ face twinged with phantom burns, now replaced by clear skin as his former sins paint where the scar should have been laying. His instincts won at that moment. A feather no longer than his glove detached from his wings, moving to carefully press itself at the man's sternum, a quick sign that Hawks doesn't want the other to step any closer than he already has.

Eyes were watching them. Pouring in from every corner of the rooms. Burning into his sides as he took in a quiet breath. The room was still, fierce gazes pulled taunt in a singular direction. Eyes were guides to the soul, rowing its knowledge across a stream of insight, pulling the edges of the water closer in understanding. Hawks would annoy and cause scenes in his life, with grand gestures and a loud presence. Enough to look, but never to see. Hawks was nervous of being seen. Keigo was terrified of being noticed.

“I’m not expecting anything,” the words slid off his tongue as easily as melted butter, yet the aftertaste was akin to sandpaper. The bird's gaze was surrounded by an easy going and lighthearted façade, yet his eyes were darkened. His eyes spoke. Songs, poetry, and plans. They spoke every word to those who knew him. Heroes who didn’t were still tensed by the crease that strained beneath the others waterline, and those who did felt their heart drop, “Let alone having it delivered here.”

The mailman seemed to be taken back, “Wh-, I was given very special instructions to hand this to the number two hero, on this day, at this building. My supervisors are very strict over specifics! Plus this is the only address made available.” There was something in the way that he spoke of Hawks’ status that made his spine crush into itself. The offness of the situation just made itself even more known, screaming at him that everything was out of place. The way the nameless figure was shifting in his spot expressed worry, but not the kind he was aiming to “expose” of himself. The man wasn’t worried about Hawks grilling him down, he was worried about something else. He was worried about being caught. That much the hero could deduct.

“You can leave the box at the front,” Hawks tried to offer, going on to say he could pick it up after the meeting and everything could be properly settled, despite the shadiness of it all. Yet, given his most recent infiltration mission it would be smart to say he’s dealt with shadier. It would have been a simple fix. It would have gotten the eyes off of them.

Everyone was watching him. 

His gut churned at the thought.

Though of course, things never seemed to go in Hawks’ favor. Especially considering in response to the offer of the idea the other jumped, quickly shaking his head, “No!” Before realizing where exactly he was, realizing the scene that he was making, yet the disregard seemed firm, “I was told to hand this to you directly.”

Hawks narrowed his eyes.

As did everyone else.

He was being seen. Or at least they were trying to.

The mask wasn’t flush against his face like always, the stress was too much for him to be able to keep it in place, and the others were trying to peer between the crack between skin and porcelain. Trying to look at the marred flesh he desperately tried to hide.

Yet along the same end, the whole ordeal was strange. Dangerous. Threatening as it danced talons along the base of barely there wings, dragging up to the nape of his neck. Whispering to him that there wasn’t a single moment that he felt like he should be able to breathe.

" They're watching,” It whispered, “and you’re worried. They can see that.”

His expression remained trained, eyes locked on the target in front of him.

“If you move first,”

Spoke the voice of his former trainer,

“Then you have the opportunity to kill them before they kill you.”

His facial features didn’t even twitch as he considered his options.

“Anyone who helps his friends can’t be all bad.”

Hawks felt sick at the familiar echo in his head.

“You’re a kindhearted person.”

He killed a man.

“I don’t want to fight you, Bubaigawara!”

Hawks calmed himself. He didn’t want to. He knew he didn’t want to, no matter what the public screams. No matter what his colleagues see. No matter what that insecure part of him says. He didn’t want to. Tokoyami was close enough to save him. What would he have done if Twice got to him? If he hurt an innocent teenager? A teenager being put on front lines at the command of the commission. He killed a man, but saved countless lives. He tried to talk him down until the last moment Hawks deemed favorable. Hawks wanted to be a proper hero and save him, and help him, and see him get better. If he had tried to keep it up and someone else died would he even be considered a hero?

What if it was two? Three? Four? A dozen? All lost because Hawks wasn’t quick enough to reach the verdict. Too slow in slamming down the hammer. Because in truth a hero did die to Twice at the last second. Who else would have suffered? Would the opposing fate have been worse? Would the potential blood still be on Hawks’ hands? What if talking would have never worked? What if he was also caught, killed, and another off the roster of heroes? Or if he still waited and ended up having to take away a life and play God anyway?

Hawks fell from grace a long time ago. Icarus was played out years before his debut. Whether it was the moment he was accepted into the GT program. Or if it was the day he met Touya, or even the day he died. Maybe it was when his friends were strung by their necks, unable to complete the training. The torture. Maybe it was the day he met the ghost of his past. Dabi standing in Touyas place.

He could feel the breakdown happening, the strain in the back of his neck becoming tighter. The desperate need to grit his teeth. He ignored every moment of it. No hero had any clue that would tip them off to the internal battle he was fighting. Some even held disdain in their eyes. His entire reputation warped by chopped up editing and a move vital to their survival. Yet he wasn’t one of them. He didn’t deserve anything from them. He didn’t even save them all. He was too slow. He failed.

Hawks failed.

His face said nothing.

“Alright,” he mumbled out, moving to stand up. A  candle was lit inside the man, the eyes following his every move, the feather that was pressed against his front was soon crowded by others, bringing the package over to the blond. Before the other could turn tail Hawks spoke up, “Surely you can wait for me to open it at least, right?” A pause filtered through the air, “I have other packages to deliver.” Hawks hummed, examining the information presented on the cardboard, all of it correct.

The box itself was heavy. Heavy in weight and something else. Maybe it was the intangible sense of dread that carried down further than any other emotion he felt, “Well you went to all this trouble to get here, surely you aren’t at least a little bit curious? Maybe even more than me! Though, again, I never ordered anything.” An eased smile presented itself on his face, pinching upwards as his eyes remained relaxed. He pulled one of his medium sized feathers from their spot to slice into the box with ease.

He carefully turned his back to the rest, taking a few steps forward to put a little bit of distance between him and them. Something lodged itself in his throat. Claws digging into the sensitive flesh. There was a neatly placed card on the very top, beneath it was layers of tissue paper to hide the proper contents of the box. Several more feathers pulled themselves from his back to support the cardboard package, a few others filtered around the room, ready should they be needed. He could almost hear what the others wanted to yell out at him, but even they knew that this moment was better saved in silence.

A gloved hand came to meet the flimsy card, lifting it up to read,

“You weren’t fast enough for this one, little dove.”

His breath hitched. It was in Dabi’s handwriting. Suddenly Hawks was even more worried about its contents, its meaning, if it signaled as a warning or a threat. He felt himself still for just a second as his eyes looked over the message again and again. A pain in his chest grew from the fear, the worry.

Slowly he moved to lay the paper down on the table behind him before returning to the box and reaching in, pulling the layers of the wrap back slowly. A sheen of plastic shining back at him, glaring from the bright lights of the room, yet its stored items seemed to be unseeable.

As Hawks raised his flight glasses, Aizawa found himself looking down. The winged hero placed the card next to his seat, and the teacher practically took it as an opening to look. Yet the message stirred fear in him, even though it was blurry due to the damage his eye took from the fight. His brows were pushed together as he turned his head up to face the younger of the two, the feeling of unease ate away at him from the inside out. As the last layer was fully peeled back Aizawa spoke up, “What is it?”

And for a moment Hawks couldn’t see. The shine of the bag was too aggressive to make it out still, the contents squished together. Carefully reaching his hand in, he flipped the sealed bag over in its place. His hand rubbing over the enclosed item, adjusting his grip so the light couldn’t disguise it any longer.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh God no.

“You’re your fathers son, aren’t you?”

There was nothing that he could feel.

“Why were you even born?”

He was numb.

“Why do you even have those wings?”

No amount of training could have prepared him for a moment like this. Nothing could ever match this level of terrored grief. Nothing could fix this level of pain.

“Some scary men came to the house and threatened me.”

He remembered despising her for so long.

“I don’t want to be a burden anymore on your shoulders.”

The flattened emotions that plagued him, pushing him to the edge.

“Take care.”

The suicidal thoughts.

“You make me proud.”

He only once second guessed the emotions once she ran away.

“I’m sorry.”

It all hurt, the sight he was seeing. His body going still as he stared at something he never once thought he would ever have to look at, the fear of this happening never once crossed his mind.

The first wall fell down as his breath verbally hitched.

“Hawks?”

The voice was in the sea, an ocean away, and he was at the very bottom, letting his body succumb to the pressure. Drowning him. Crushing his bones. Eroding away into nothingness. A creature of the skies dead thousands of feet below sea level. A son with no family. A man only known for the limbs that remain behind him. A spirit with no home.

The feathers that were scattered around the room were quick to dig themselves in the loose area of clothes on the delivery man, the group rushing his body against the wall, smashing his head so hard against the material the wall cracked and the man slumped to the floor unconscious. Out of instinct those left on his wings flexed out, completely sharpened to blades, giving him an iron clad overcasted armor, stained with previous blood. His breath continued to hitch as the rest of the heroes were quick to stand, an underlying need for action to be taken yet having no idea how to go about it.

It was Eraserhead who moved forward to him first, yet Keigo couldn’t make the presence out despite his high alert. His focus was far too drawn to the bag he held and what it contained, he could barely feel his back strain with sudden and subconscious use of every feather his body homed. He couldn’t breathe, no air was allowed to be supplied to him. Every thick wall he had put up over the years of being a pro hero in the top ten, of training underneath a ruthlessly corrupt government, of living under his fathers roof was crashing down in a single moment of perpetrated vulnerability. 

It was his mom.

It was her head.

Decapitated. Lifeless. Still.

The blood that poured from the base of her neck where the sever was met was clotted and blackening. Deep in its own color that stained ragged skin. It moved like syrup, and for a second Keigo could swear he could feel it between his fingers despite his gloves and the plastic. The plastic that was likely only there to contain the wretched scent of copper, death, and despair. Flecks of flesh were hanging on thin ends in the deep end of the pool of syrupy blood, holding onto the edge like a parasite to its host. Eating its way at her in a way that didn’t make her seem human.

She was dead.

Her head was all that was left.

He was holding his mothers remains.

Her left eye was sticking out halfway from the socket, rolling upwards with a yellow fading across the sclera. The ligaments of muscle that would be keeping the eye where it should be were twisted and exposed, the pink having dulled over time. How recent? How long ago did this happen? How long had she been like this? When was the last time he checked in on her before she ran? She may have struggled to be a mother, but he failed as a son to have let this happen.

His hand moved up along the bag to the right side of her face, thumb over the front of her cheek, her bagged head shaking in his grasp. Her other eyes were in it as well. The ones of her quirk. Drowning in the rest of her. Some lost in the sea of hair, each looking in different directions, some were halfway floating, and some were sealed in place.

One was looking directly at him.

She had always been watching him.

Even if she never turned to him as a child, he never left her gaze despite her dislike of him.

There was a new, glaring feature of hers now though. A burn scar, if you could even call it that. As if the right side of her face was melted down to the bone, charred skin slipped a peek of her cheek bone. The white contrast of her skull against the practically liquified skin was nauseating to look at. The way it piled up onto itself, layering in a grotesque manner, if it wasn’t for her left side Keigo wouldn’t have even been able to identify his own mother.

His breath was beginning to quicken in short shots. Body trembling with each inhale. He wasn’t entirely sure how to react. He hadn’t been trained for a situation like this. He hadn’t been trained how to publicly handle grief. All he knew was that he shouldn’t be expressing those emotions to such an array of people. To anyone in fact.

Sharpened and deadly wings encircled him almost like a protective halo of self isolation. Was this his judgment? Was God looking down at him, his mother at his side, and testing him? What kind of test is this? Of faith? Of humanity? Or was there a higher being only giving him what he had done to Jin? Was he being pushed to something else?

Maybe this was simple revenge.

A demon, walking along the Earth, had spotted an angel with blood painted wings, and with a smile played with God's hand in return. A smile that ripped skin and flames that charred wings. Takami felt like Icarus when he was five, never having a moment of control. Hawks fell like Icarus as his wings turned to ash as Dabi burned him, setting him to a fate of never ending pain. Keigo fell into an abyss, the wax holding the wings to his back gone, feathers dispersed; no one else could see that at this moment, Hawks had died, and Keigo stood in his place. 

Five years old, and an Endeavor plush in hand. Hawks had never been nothing more than a faux angel. Those statements claiming he was were lies. He stood in that moment as nothing more than a child.

A presence rounded itself around him. Carefully approaching him as if he was a frightened wild animal, which in hindsight makes sense. Hawks had been acting on instinct and wasn’t responding to anyones yells of questions of what had happened and what he was given. Eraserhead was the one brave enough to approach despite the threat of a hundred blades that could blind him before he could even activate his quirk. Though something tells him if he tries to cut Hawks’ ability preemptively the outcome would only be worse.

Aizawa has dealt with plenty of young heroes who were forced into the midst of uncontrollable panic, Hawks was just like them. Each step Aizawa took forward was slow, dipping forward and down to be in his line of sight so he wouldn’t startle him. The raven haired man couldn’t see what the other was holding, he was too far away to see.

Hawks wasn’t moving. Just staring as his breath continued to grow more ragged. Aizawa tried to call out to him, “Hawks.” Predictably the other remained quiet, the teacher took another step forward, “Hawks.” he said more firmly in hopes that it would snap him out of this trance. Yet to no avail. Taking another step Aizawa had to crane his neck to the side to see the bag. His heart jumped to his throat as he saw a glimpse, no details to be had, just a vague view of scarred melted flesh, singed hair, and an eye barely pushed out of its socket.

“It’s,” Keigo mumbled, only feeling the presence of the other. Keigo was wobbling on his feet, nausea slowly taking over as tears finally seemed to force their way to his eyes, a strain in his throat told him that his body wasn’t going to allow him to speak. But he had to. He couldn’t just keep this in. Numbness crawled over him. Aizawa looked back up with concern flooded in his vision. The hero looked so young at that moment.

“It’s, it’s my mother.” 

There was a pause. A moment of processing as Aizawa stood for just a second, eyes flying down to the others hands, followed the pained gaze now filled with weak tears, “It’s,” he started to mumble again, shoulders starting to shake even worse. Eraserheads hands moved to grab the box from the other, to pull it away from his gaze, to relieve him of the hurt that was looking at his mothers corpse. Something seemed to click for Keigo, as the box was being slipped away from him, pain clouded his vision but it broke as he looked up with a gasp. Senses seemed to flood back into him. 

His head moved with his gaze, down to the box, back up to Aizawa. The stress was making him grip the box, instincts taking over every part of him. Taking a deep inhale of air he ripped his hands away, severely denting the cardboard, causing a shot of pain to ripple through his fingers and up to his elbows. Wincing he found himself taking a step back. His gloved hands were trembling even harder now, the tremors wrecking through him as the moment started to set in, “I,” he started only to trail off, not knowing what he was even going to say.

“It’s okay.” His head shot back up to look at Aizawa, face shadowed by Keigo’s still flexed out wings that covered them both. He had never heard the man talk so softly before, “Go outside. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.” One nod, then a second, Keigo was lowering his head and soon enough the bladed wings relaxed back to feathers. Turning towards the door he just walked out. No super speed. No running. No flying.

It was such a humanizing moment. Remembering how he’s just like the rest if not worse.

He answered no questions as he left.

He ignored the hands that were sticking out for him worriedly.

He just walked.

Aizawa on the other hand was quick to return to the table, it was Fatgum who asked first, “What is it? How bad is it?” There was worry laced in his voice, fear lining his eyes. Aizawa could only look at him before his head turned back down to the box, brows pinched as he struggled to find the words to express it. Detective Tsukauchi’s eyes narrowed, less intimidation and more curiosity. Aizawa was hardly one to go quiet, so the fact that he did irked the man, “Eraserhead.” It was a wordless command of confession, and to be honest the teacher felt like he was betraying the young hero by having to expose his current turmoil, but this level of action taken by the opposing side spoke of terms and targets.

With a downcasted look he reached his hands into the box, gripping the sealed bag and moving it to the table for the rest to see. Those closest were able to make it out quicker, with strained teeth and a horrified expression Fatgum seemed to recoil slightly at the sight, “Is, is that…” Aizawa could feel the looks of everyone, Detective Tsukauchi, Endeavor, Jeanist, Mirko, Fatgum, Kamui, Mic, and everyone else in between. His shoulders fell into themselves, “Hawks’ mother.” He gulped down the guilty feeling, “It’s his mothers head.”

Another moment passed.

“Dabi wrote the note as well.”

It was silent.

So silent.

They targeted a hero's parent, their family. What did that mean for the rest of them?

A brief moment passed before Tsukauchi stood, quickly walking over to the head, brows also pinching together as he went to confirm the identity, his breath being taken in shakily. His hands rested on the table as he leaned forward to look at the decapitated head next to Aizawa, quietly he mumbled, “Oh, Tomie.” Barely even loud enough for Aizawa to hear. As his gloved hands reached out to her he spoke to the other, “Can you go find Hawks and ensure he’s alright? I’m taking it he’s not doing well.” Letting out a huff, Aizawa's frown only deepened, “I’m sure the man wants his space-” “Aizawa.” The detective cut him off, turning to him with a knowing expression, quietly he whispered back, “Please. He needs it.”

The pair's gaze held for a few more seconds before Aizawa nodded, “Of course.” His gaze lingered on the bag for a few more seconds, his face twisting at the sight before he turned around. Keeping his head down low he pushed past fellow heroes who were still processing the reveal, worrying over their own families. Him and Mic shared a similar look with each other before he went to find Hawks.

Hawks didn’t know which direction he went when he left. But he managed to end up in some janitor's closet he had to pull close with his feathers out of fear his hands would get stuck. Everything was too much. Everything felt too much. Everything was far too overwhelming. He could feel everything that pressed against his body. It agitated him in ways he wouldn’t explain. Shaking his head violently, enough to make a normal person dizzy, he discarded the snug headphones and the visors that rested on his head. Lifting one of his shoulders with one hand he managed to snag his entire jacket off of him from one side, only to end up cursing at himself for being unable to let go. 

He wanted to scream. Wanted to cry. Wanted to curse every action he took that led him down this path. But all of that had practically been trained out of him. He had no means of proper reaction. And now he was gripping his jacket out of stressed instincts. Gritting his teeth in anger he tried to thrash his arm around, going to grab the other end to pull it out of his hand only to have both holding onto his jacket with a vice grip. The light tears were building up out of frustration, squeezing his eyes shut he tried to free himself from the cage that is his emotions. The darkness only produced images of his mothers head, bloodied and burnt. 

Letting out a frustrated groan, too against himself yelling, he continued to fight himself with his jacket, peeking his eyes open the tears only poured more freely. Snot was falling just as fast, going past his huffing mouth, the thrashing didn’t help with anything. If anything it only made him become even more aware of how it sat on him, the way it felt, it only made him cringe, the gross feeling spread. He let out a yelp as his hands strained when the jacket slipped slightly, “Fuck.” He didn’t even sound like himself, voice too hoarse from the buildup, “Fuck.” He whimpered out, the tears rushing down his cheeks he curled in on himself pressing his head to the floor, “Fuck.”

He sounded pathetic and small.

“Fuck.”

Just a child.

“Fuck, mom,”

He’s a failure.

“I-”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

The door clicked and Hawks shot up, face stained with tears and snot, slumped over himself, hands grasping onto a jacket he’s physically incapable of letting go. His wings flexed out, going to make himself look bigger on instinct as he pushed himself back to the wall. Eraserhead was standing on the other side of the door, a beat of silence seemed to pass between the two of them as Aizawa took the other in. Anguish filled the older man at the sight, no one ever should have to ever go through this kind of grief. The kind where the one you care about is ripped away from you in front of your very eyes.

His head followed his hand that reached into his pocket, stepping closer his hand produced a tissue, “Birds hold onto something when stressed, right?” He asked gently, Hawks felt himself push back even more, the other dropped into a squat in front of him, “And it hurts when you try to let go, right? Tokoyami was telling me about it one night.” He held the tissue up, “Want me to get that?” He asked, gesturing to his face. Keigo wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about this. He just saw his mothers decapitated head and now one of the most notoriously cold U.A. teachers was offering to clean him up like he was some toddler. Yet he was too far in his own head to care, he only knew that the feeling of his smeared face made him cringe.

“I don’t care.”

The other nodded and leaned forward to press it against Keigo's face. His expression remained unmoving yet distressed, only dragging along with the careful rubbing of the tissue. Keigo doesn’t know how he feels about this moment. He’s not even sure if he’ll remember it. But for now, he closes his eyes, not sure he could think of the last time someone got close enough to touch, let alone someone who touched him as if he was a person. After a few moments he lets out a deep sigh, flashes crowding his darkened view once again, his eyes cracked open, looking as tired as the dead.

Every emotion ran through him as his mask barely remained on his face, holding on just enough to keep him from screaming out in the presence of the other. Yet it didn’t stop the weight in his chest from pulling him down further in guilt and grief. Keigo's teeth grit as his head falls to look at the ground.

Silence.

It was an easy accompanied silence.

Though the guilt continued to crush his very being, weighing him down past the Earth's core while simultaneously pushing him out of the Earth's atmosphere. His fingers gripped the jacket's material impossibly tighter, it was amazing how the fabric wasn’t ripping beneath such a stressed hold. Sucking in his teeth Keigo bit along the tip of his tongue, a pained expression tacking itself back on his face as he once again lowered his gaze down.

Dabi was the one to do it. To do such a thing to his mother, yet the fact that Touya met her, knew the woman personally, and he still did such a thing. Keigo felt as though he was the one to blame for this. For ever introducing them in the first place. Maybe Dabi wouldn’t have known who to look for if he hadn’t. Maybe he would still be looking. Maybe Keigo would still have a mother. Maybe he could have told her he loved her at least once in his life.

“You know,” he mumbled to the older hero, the teacher perking up from where he was in front of him, “I used to know him.” There was a pause between the two as the information sunk in. Looking up to meet the others' eyes Keigo tried to force a faux smile, the pair of them both knowing its intended falsehood, “I used to know him. We were actually really good friends when we were teenagers.” The fake smile couldn’t even hold for a second, it was pulled back, bearing his clenched teeth as he sucked in a strained breath, his face twitching as his muscles struggled to remain still.

Curling forward he felt his wings follow him, forming a half circle around him, protective of the person they’re connected to. The fabric shook along with his hands, the overwhelming truth made him want to throw up, “I knew him. I introduced him to my mother,” he continued to whisper, bile rose in his throat, burning him from the inside. A part of him wished for it to burn hotter. To steal his voice and ruin him from the inside out. He wanted to hurt. He deserved it. He failed. He was a fatal failure.

His father was right.

He should have never been born.

“I brought this to her.” he whispered, feeling himself melt even further into the floor, wanting to crumble into nothing. He wanted to disappear. To vanish. The spotlight had always given him a headache, and now he was a target. Maybe this was Dabi’s real plan. To make Keigo crumble so far he does all the dirty work for him.

To end up like his classmates, hanging from the ceiling.

Maybe he deserved it.

Maybe he had to do it.

Maybe I can toni-

A hand fell on his shoulder. Keigo hadn’t realized it, but he had practically folded himself over, forehead to his knees as he tried to make himself as small as possible. Probably some kind of subconscious habit he had formed over a decade ago. Tears were once again streaming down his face and his chest hurt from the lack of oxygen he was intaking. Everything was back underwater, blurry and slow, the formation of a pounding headache helped none. He was so tired. Exhausted. He didn’t want to be here anymore.

Aizawa was looking at him with understanding. Understanding why he felt that way. Understanding the situation. Understanding his pain. Keigo felt his face twist more, “Eraserhead, it’s my fault.” The other hero just shook his head slowly, opening his mouth slightly while finding the words, “No, it’s my fault, you don’t get it.” His voice cracked as his breath hitched, “I was too slow. I was too slow and I should have known! I should have known what he was going to do!” He couldn’t tell if he was leaning into the touch or pushing against the others' support with his shoulders.

“You did everything you could have with what you knew.” The older man's voice was soft, doing his best at being comforting, but Keigo only shook his head more vigorously, “I failed!” He cried out, sniffling harshly, “I did everything for her!” Another yell fell from him, Aizawa’s hand firm on his shoulder still, “You didn’t fail her Hawks. You did everything in your power to keep her safe.”

Keigo went to scream again, wanting to thrash more aggressively, desperately in need of an outlet for everything he was feeling. To hell with his mask, this was the moment he shattered every piece of it to the ground, turning to dust beneath his boot. He needed to feel again, yet everything was too much. Too much information. Too much emotion. Too much of Keigo .

Except, the other leaned in to wrap a protective hug around him, tightly holding on as if to tether him to the tiled floor beneath them where they sat. Keeping Keigo and his soul grounded.

Keigo doesn’t remember the last time he was hugged like this.

Doesn’t remember the last time someone cared enough to.

The anger he felt towards himself crumbled as his chin rested on the other's back, wings relaxing into heavy heaps of feathers that tried to weigh him down, and for a moment his mind recognized that the other was trying to save him. Save him from himself, because he understood. He understood what this moment was like. Tears fell onto the black fabric beneath Keigo's face and at that moment it felt like he got his first Endeavor plush. It felt as though he was told his father was out of his life. It felt like he had just met Touya for the first time. It felt like he was truly Keigo.

“I never told her I loved her. Not once.” Aizawa only held him tighter, the tears fell more freely at the quiet acceptance of the confession, closing his eyes tightly, “I never wanted to take the mission.” Another confession, met with silent acceptance. His body jumped in the hold, not trying to pull away, but because he wasn’t used to it.

“I joined because they said we wouldn’t be on the street anymore, and I just wanted to be a hero.”

Acceptance. 

“I thought Touya actually died that day, I didn’t remember him until he found me with Twice.”

Acceptance.

“I wanted to save Twice, but I knew he would have killed hundreds of heroes if I withheld any longer.”

Acceptance.

“I stopped wanting to be a hero by the time I was fifteen.”

Acceptance.

“I wanted to kill myself when I was sixteen, when, when I saw her I,” he paused, “I wish I had gone through with it. I would have never put her in danger. I could have died never knowing what happened to Touya. I could have died never seeing the aftermath. And to be honest, I still want to.”

Aizawa pulled back at that to look the other in the eye, and for a brief moment Keigo feared he revealed too much of himself. That he should have known better than to go that far with his own expression. That he shouldn’t have said such a thing. Yet when he pulled back his face only held more sympathy than before. As if everything he had said so far he could resonate with on some emotional level. As if he had gone through the same thing, or at least something similar to it. Similar enough to turn his back on judgment for the typically outrageously annoying hero.

Hawks had always faced backlash for being so brash, so loud, so cocky and excessively outgoing. But this wasn’t Hawks. That much Aizawa could tell.

“You never deserved to be put through any of this. You never deserved to lose someone, in any capacity. You never deserved to feel like that. You deserved better in life. You were given a shitty deck in life, you made the absolute most out of it. You focused on yourself, no one in this world has the right to blame you for that.” There was a pause, as Aizawa thought to himself for a moment, “You are a good person. I don’t know how many people have told you, but you’re a good person . Not just a hero. You did everything you could in this life. You tried saving the unsavable. Even when following your dreams you made sure it benefitted someone else.” He was running on the few tidbits the other had told him, but based on the way the other seemed to fall further, face twisting in a way that said he had never been spoken to like this, Aizawa presumed he was saying the right thing.

“You’re a good person, who genuinely worked to get to where you are. Others may not see it. It might have even taken me a while, but you are the only person who needs to truly know that Hawks.”

His wings hung heavy behind him, his face was tired and visibly stressed from the crying, his hands still held his coat as he took in a deep breath. Eyes fully closing out of pure exhaustion. At that moment Aizawa was careful to readjust them, so he was sitting beside the younger hero, and letting him rest his head on his shoulder, visibly tired from the rampant emotions.

The pain was still there as the minutes passed. As the air was only filled with weighted breaths and quiet sniffles, the blond nearly fell asleep in those moments.

Something told him that the others' own recent loss of his childhood friend, made these things easier for him to say. Something told him that these were things the older man needed to hear at one point. Something told him the other truly understood.

That he truly cared.

“Please,” Keigo started, hardly able to hear himself, “Don’t call me that.”

He didn’t even turn his head to the other, instead just letting the dark room be enough of a vision for them both.

“You can call me Keigo.”