Work Text:
Breathing.
Harsh, gasping, red through gold and black through blue. There’s someone to his left, the heat of their body quickly leaving and seeping onto Dabi’s cold, dying skin. He’s been in this position before, but it’s never been quite like this. He knows what dying feels like but he’s never died before.
He hates it but his eyes burn. He blinks. They keep burning, screaming, crying out for something he never thought he could do again.
Something scuttles across the dirt floor—no, rubble. A hundred buildings all crashed into one, a hundred timelines finding their closure in one instance of gravity and space-time. Dabi can feel the weight of it on his chest, caving in the bones making up his ribcage. There is no more space between him and his heart. There is no more room to bleed out.
But the scuttling is warm. Warmer. It’s something he’s held close to his chest and kissed with his lips and tore through with his teeth. He’s licked the wounds with his tongue and nuzzled a cheek with his own. He’s dug his fingers into flesh, pressed his fingernails deep enough to lacerate and tear. The heat is soothing as it spreads all over him. He thinks he’s in love.
“I think—”
“I know.” Dabi has to cut him off. He has to. There’s no use saying it; they both know this is the end. The world has never been clearer. Dabi has never cried as an adult.
“I-I’m sorry,” the blonde man—half a man. Half a harpy. Half a monster of a human being of a superhero of a whatever is meant to hold up the golden standards of the world. He will never smirk down from the spread of a billboard again. He will never soar through the clouds and Dabi will never hold up a gun of his own making to play Shoot the Bird.
There’s no point in saying anything. The ash is settling deep into their lungs and the blood meant to keep it from collapsing is spreading all around them, melting, melding. Kissing and touching and hugging, and doing everything they never could because the alleys were too dark and there wasn’t enough time and they were just two guys, two spies. Two sides of the same coin but always facing opposite directions.
In another world, Dabi thinks.
But there is no other world. And maybe all worlds lead to the same resolution. Maybe the tatami mats are the same no matter what room or house they enter. Maybe Dabi was always going to die at twenty-three and Hawks was always going to kill him at twenty-two. Maybe this is the way things were always meant to be.
He wants to say something but his mouth his heavy. He wants to look to his side but his eyes can’t move.
A red feather floats in front of his face. There are scorch marks patterned over the line of red, blood, dust, dirt, and stray organs that don’t belong to either of them. Dabi isn’t the only murderer in the room, but this is the way it was always going to be.
Dabi was always going to kill his father and Hawks was always going to kill his best friend. They were always going to be stuck under the same pile of rubble with blood crusting along the creases of their lips, sealing words that can never be said together forever.
In another world, Hawks thinks, but he has never been an optimist. He has never been a dreamer. He knows even in the sky there are chains holding everything down. As long as they occupy Earth, gravity can reach them. The consequences of their actions can reach them.
But he can use his final breath to say the words he has never said to anyone before, not fans or handlers or even his mother.
“I—”
It dies on his lips.
Dabi’s eyes are glassy. Maybe he’s burnt through his retinas. Maybe the fire has consumed everything in his perimeter, Hawks included.
Maybe this was the way it was always going to be.
Love is for people who belong dancing across neatly cut grass and large trees with secret markings hidden all over the bark. Hawks has never seriously prayed for the new year. He has never seriously prayed for anything but a break. But peace. But quiet.
He supposes that also means death.
He can smile when no one else is.
He can smile because Dabi’s fingers are frozen under his. They can both go cold together. This is the way it was always going to be.
He forces his mouth open wider than it has ever stretched before. He screams but all that comes out is a hiss of a whisper.
The words get lost to the air. They fall on deaf ears. Dabi was meant to die long ago, and Hawks wishes he was the first to go.
But it’s easy. The hand that holds him, even though it’s as cold as ice and scorched darker than the scars under Dabi’s eyes, is tight. It’s the only thing Hawks has ever truly wanted to keep with him.
He remembers holding onto his plush when he was younger. It would trail in his right hand, held tight in the palm as if heroes could ever let him go. He remembers thinking, this is it. This is who I’m meant to be. I want to be just like him.
He remembers watching the sun shine behind his head. He remembers the fire that burned when it all came crashing down. He remembers finding out the difference between true love and adoration. Between something that is curated and something that is nothing but a measly hope. Between fantasy and reality, and the harsh truth that lies in between both.
I love you, he thinks, and turns his head.
Dabi can’t hear him, but Hawks heard his reply anyway.
He closes his eyes and lets the sun wash him away. He’s never wanted to burn before.
In another life, under another set of rubble and another bed of ashes made from people he’s never thought he actually cared about before, Hawks and Dabi will think something different. Their mouths will open and their lungs will breathe. They’ll choke together, and even if they don’t hear each other, they'll know.
This is the way things were always going to be.