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Breaking and entering isn't new.
It's not the first time Dabi's been in a high-end retail either, but it has been some long, odd years. The high streets of Ginza are sleek skyscrapers and modern luxury and yet Dabi is only here with one intent: to steal the perfume of supposed Hawks’ personal scent.
The smell of expensive perfume isn't foreign, but it is unpleasantly stuffy and reminiscent of old memories he has no wishes to revisit.
Not right now. This isn't about his washed out family, this is just Dabi on a hunt of a Friday night having caught wind of a commercial on a certain hero.
He's no stranger to petty crimes; stealing to keep himself fed off the streets has long been in his back pockets. So getting in is easy enough; locks prevent no resistance to the heat of his flames.
To no surprise, he doesn't need to venture far. It's a perfume specialty store and yet at the center of it all is the newest featured scent, Hawks’ smiling vestige almost coy as he poses with the tiny bottle in the brand display.
There's an entire array of them, fancy bottles behind clear cleaned glass. Dabi swipes one with ease.
By the time he makes do with Kurogiri's warp portal to traverse all the way back to his chosen rooftop for the night, the glass bottle pulls back out of his pockets and he's almost... giddy.
Dabi pushes down on the little spritz bottle, the puff of scent misting over his wrist.
Turns out... the perfume smells nothing of Hawks. It's marketed as the famed number three heroes' personal and official scent and yet... it is not Hawks.
This is lime. And sweet pea. Amber. It's decidedly too floral, a little too sweet, too rich, too... artificial.
Dabi wrinkles his nose as he stares, like the scent marketed as Hawks' that now decks against his skin is a personal offense.
Hawks smells crisp like the wind. He's the catch of being out flying all day, fresh mountainous air caressing against his skin and becoming one with his feathers. He's the hint of earth, not strong of soil or the smell of rain, but light and warm like the kiss of sunshine against pebbled river rocks. He smells of a hint of spice, not overpowering, just subtle from the linger of his own personal musk mixed with the places he's been and whatever meal he's indulged himself into that day.
Dabi's not sure he's more mad he knows exactly what Hawks smells like and he'd gotten his hopes up getting his hands on the scent... or that he might actually be secretly pleased the world won't parade around smelling the same specific shade of Hawks.
It's not inherently a bad scent, but alas not the Hawks that he seeks. He shakes his head to himself as he gives the little bottle another spritz.
The wind picks up.
For a moment, he gets a waft of the scent that he knows and his eyes widen as he raises his wrist closer to his nose in misplaced hope.
Dabi makes a face. It's just as bad as the first spray.
But there is a flutter of wings in the distance; there's a pair of gold that spies him out amongst the sea of rooftops like it's the only rooftop in the entire city.
He doesn't believe in coincidences, but maybe the gods do like to pull their tricks. His lips pull at the edges as he pockets the offensive Hawks’ perfume bottle back into his coat. His perfumed wrist hangs back down against his propped up knee as he regards his incoming visitor.
"Stalking me?"
Hawks' boots clasp against the asphalt, the dramatics of his wings spread wide for a moment in a majestic display before it clips back against his shoulders. His eyes are particularly sharp even in the cast of night as his footsteps bring him closer.
"Passing by," Hawks answers nonchalantly. "And what are you hiding from me?"
Dabi scoffs without any real heat, dismissive remark on his tongue if only because it's familiar. Not becuase… it's embarrassing. Personal. He didn't think he'd meet Hawks tonight or chance the comparison to put his memory of Hawks’ scent to the real deal, and yet… here he is.
“None of your business, hero."
It might for once, very well be Hawks’ business but Hawks doesn't need to know that.
Hawks hums as he steps up to Dabi and drapes himself across the ledge of the rails, the city skyline a flickering blur in the distance. There's nothing in his expression that gives way to Dabi slipping up and yet the words come exactly to the point.
"Yeah? You just happen to smell like my new shade of perfume, don't you?"
Dabi opens his mouth to protest as he narrows his eyes defensively, but what comes out instead is, “It doesn't even smell like you.”
It's not a denial. Dabi gives in too easily these days; it might be an issue.
Hawks exhales out a laugh. A soft and quiet laugh, not the one he puts out in public. Just... Hawks, finding amusement under the night with only a villain to witness it.
“And you're perfectly acquainted with what I smell like, huh?” Hawks muses.
Dabi sounds petulant so he can't even fault him but irritably enough, Hawks also looks far too pleased if Dabi dares to believe it. His wings do a little flutter against the wind from being this high up on the rooftop as he considers. Or pretends. Hawks is certainly good at that.
“I know,” Dabi starts, as if he's got something to prove. “You don't smell like some artificial qualities of flower or fruit that can be replicated or mass produced.”
Dabi slips his hand back into his pocket and pulls the little glass bottle out. “This?”
He dangles the perfume between his forefinger as he shakes the content and lists, “Is cheap. Fake. Your name, but no real research. And it comes at an outrageous price tag.”
"Hm.” Hawks tilts his head as he turns to peer at him, teasing glint in the gold of his eyes brighter than any city lights. “All fair deductions.”
For a faltering moment, Dabi holds his gaze and all that matters is the gold of Hawks’ unblinking eyes on him, a cage of light he doesn't want to escape even when he knows he's probably said too much.
Something like the reputation of Hawks’ scent against the world and Dabi his defender.
Then he blinks—and Hawks forever too fast, is in his space. The heat of his skin is close enough to touch, the rise and fall of his exhale in post-flight more than noticeable centimeters up against his own chest.
It happens as all of the things with Hawks does, faster then he can register and Dabi's suddenly inhaling all of Hawks. Not some poor imitation of a marketing ploy, but Hawks, fresh off of flight, musk and earth of a long day laced between his last indulgence.
Hawks lives to eat. It is one of life's pleasures he'd forgotten since his days on the streets, but all of Hawks’ eating habits may have started to remind him again. It's hard not to when Hawks shows up too, piping hot takeout ready to split, like feeding Dabi is a part of his meal plan.
Today, Hawks smells like the simmer of dashi, something warm and homey of a small Japanese diner clinging to the coat of his fur mixed to the scent of being outside, particularly fresh like the mountains, and it is, uniquely exactly as he remembers.
That is unique, because there is no way to capture Hawks’ discerning scent. That comes as fast as he goes between cities. From the seaside, reminiscent of salt and afternoon warmed sand, to the scent of the country, untainted by aerial pollution. But most days, he scents closer to the city, the depths of Fukuoka hot on his heels and all that he loves to eat.
Dabi almost smiles as Hawks prefaces, “If I didn't know any better… I'd even ask—you a fan?”
A tongue darts out against his lips, Dabi's eyes drawn to the residual shape of the way Hawks’ lips form those words. Like being a Hawks fan singles him out above the millions that exist.
“Depends,” Dabi tempts. “You've got quite a number of fans. Do I get special privileges if I say yes?”
Hawks doesn't grin, but he does step one impossible step closer, close enough for Dabi to close the gap if he so much as turns.
“A lot,” Hawks answers in agreement. “But none quite like you.”
There's a beat where Dabi isn't sure what Hawks will do next as he stops breathing but then Hawks leans in, lips brushing against Dabi's cheek, his staples and all of his scars as if intent on smoldering Dabi with all that he smells of.
Hawks hums again, light against his lips but loud this close to his ears, “So I'd say you get more than that.”
Dabi exhales.
A feather taps along the side of his cheek, centimeters away from Hawks’ lips and Dabi turns his head on instinct.
Hawks’ lips instantly brush up against Dabi's, still cold from the flight as he presses into the kiss, the scent that's distinctly Hawks’ all that he smells. There's something hungry in the kiss burning like his own insane need to breathe in Hawks bringing him to petty theft in downtown Ginza… only to find there was no need.
“Dabi,” Hawks murmurs against his lips and it sounds almost like a privilege itself, hearing Hawks say his name like that. “If you wanted to smell like me…”
Dabi parts his lips and breathes in lungs full of Hawks as Hawks promises.
“You need only ask.”