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They meet in a place that doesn’t have a name.
At least, not one they’re allowed to use.
It’s all white walls and quiet footsteps and adults who don’t smile unless someone important is watching. Toya learns quickly not to ask questions. Questions make his father’s voice echo in his head even when he’s not there—sharp, disappointed, never enough.
Keigo learns faster not to speak at all.
The first time they see each other, it’s in a hallway that smells like antiseptic and something faintly burnt. Toya’s hands are bandaged again. They always are, these days. He keeps them shoved into his sleeves anyway.
Keigo is smaller than him. Too small. Thin in a way that doesn’t look natural, like he’s been stretched instead of grown. His wings—still soft, still uneven—twitch when Toya walks past.
They don’t say anything.
They don’t need to.
—
Toya sees him again the next day. And the next.
The place runs them through tests—endurance, control, obedience dressed up as “training.” Toya burns too hot. He always does. They tell him to stop before he hurts himself, but no one ever tells him how. Just don’t fail.
Keigo never burns.
Keigo watches.
He’s good at it—watching, listening, becoming whatever they need him to be. When the adults speak, he nods. When they praise him, he smiles like it means something.
It doesn’t.
Toya figures that out the first time he sees Keigo alone.
He’s sitting on the floor in a corner they don’t monitor as closely, feathers scattered around him like something plucked them out one by one. He’s holding one in his hands, turning it over like he’s trying to understand why it came loose.
“Does it hurt?” Toya asks.
Keigo startles. For a second, Toya thinks he might run.
“…not anymore,” Keigo says quietly.
It’s a lie.
Toya sits down anyway.
—
They don’t become friends all at once.
It happens in pieces.
In stolen minutes between tests. In the quiet of shared hallways. In the way Toya starts looking for flashes of red wings just to make sure Keigo is still there.
Keigo starts talking first.
Not about himself. Never that.
He talks about small things—what time the lights turn off, which instructors are worse, how to stand so it looks like you’re trying even when you’re too tired to move.
Toya listens. Then, eventually, he talks too.
About fire.
About how it feels when it gets too hot, like his skin doesn’t belong to him anymore.
He doesn’t mention his father at first.
He doesn’t have to.
Keigo understands anyway.
—
Home is a word that doesn’t fit either of them.
For Toya, it’s a house that feels colder than the training facility. His father’s expectations follow him into every room, sit heavy on his shoulders, dig into his bones. His mother looks at him like she’s already mourning something.
For Keigo, it’s a place he doesn’t talk about.
He just says, once, “They sold me.”
Like it’s nothing.
Like it didn’t split him in half.
Toya doesn’t know what to do with that.
So he does the only thing he can.
He reaches out—slow, careful—and takes one of Keigo’s feathers where it’s fallen beside him.
“I won’t,” Toya says.
Keigo looks at him like that means more than it should.
—
They start to sit closer after that.
Close enough that their shoulders touch sometimes. Close enough that Toya can feel the warmth of Keigo’s wings, even when they’re tucked in tight like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
One night, when the lights cut out and the building finally goes quiet, Keigo whispers, “Do you ever think about leaving?”
Toya laughs softly. It sounds wrong, like something breaking.
“All the time.”
“Would you?”
Toya doesn’t answer right away.
He thinks about his father. About fire. About the way the world seems to have already decided what he’s supposed to become.
“I don’t know where I’d go,” he admits.
Keigo shifts beside him. There’s a rustle of feathers.
“…you could come with me,” he says.
It’s such a small thing. Such a fragile, impossible idea.
But Toya feels it settle somewhere deep in his chest, warm in a way his flames never are.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
—
It doesn’t last.
Things like this never do.
The day it breaks starts like any other—tests, orders, the constant pressure to be better. Toya pushes too far. He always does. The flames climb higher than they should, hotter than he can control.
Someone shouts.
Someone else tells him to stop.
He can’t.
For a moment, everything is just light and heat and pain—
—and then Keigo is there.
Too close.
“Toya—!”
The fire catches on the edges of red feathers.
The smell is immediate. Awful.
Toya chokes on it.
The flames die all at once.
Silence crashes down.
Keigo is on the ground, wings curled in tight, shaking.
“Toya,” he says again, softer this time. Not accusing. Not afraid.
Just… there.
Toya stares at his own hands like they’ve betrayed him.
“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.
“I know.”
That’s the worst part.
—
They keep them apart after that.
Different schedules. Different rooms. Different everything.
Toya hears things, though.
Whispers from the adults. Words like promising and asset and hero potential when they talk about Keigo.
Words like unstable when they talk about him.
He doesn’t see Keigo again for weeks.
Months, maybe.
Time doesn’t move right in places like this.
—
The last time they meet, it’s by accident.
A hallway. A corner. A moment that shouldn’t have happened.
Keigo looks different.
Straighter. Sharper. Like someone has carefully sanded down all the rough edges until there’s nothing left to catch on.
His wings are bigger now.
Controlled.
Beautiful.
He smiles when he sees Toya.
It’s perfect.
It’s empty.
“…hey,” Toya says.
“Hi,” Keigo replies.
There’s a pause.
A thousand things they could say.
None of them fit.
“You’re doing good,” Toya manages.
“That’s the point,” Keigo says.
It sounds rehearsed.
Toya hates it.
“…do you still—” Toya starts, then stops. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking. Do you still want to leave? Do you still remember? Do you still—
Keigo tilts his head slightly.
For a second—just a second—something real slips through.
“…I remember,” he says quietly.
Toya’s chest tightens.
“Yeah?”
Keigo nods.
Then the moment is gone.
Footsteps echo down the hall.
Keigo steps back.
“I have to go,” he says.
Of course he does.
Toya nods like that doesn’t feel like something ending.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
Keigo turns to leave.
Stops.
Looks back.
“…you won’t be alone,” he says, like he’s trying to believe it.
Toya almost laughs.
Almost.
“Neither will you,” he replies.
It’s a promise.
It’s a lie.
They both know it.
—
Years later, when the world burns and heroes fall and villains rise, they meet again as strangers wearing familiar faces.
Fire and feathers.
Ash and sky.
And somewhere, buried under everything they’ve become, two boys still sit in a nameless hallway, close enough that their shoulders touch—holding onto something soft and fragile and already breaking.
Neither of them ever really lets it go.They don’t recognize each other at first.
That’s the easiest part.
Names change. Faces change. The world forces you into shapes you don’t get to choose, and if you survive long enough, you learn how to wear them like armor.
So when Hawks meets Dabi, it’s just another job.
Another villain.
Another lie.
—
Hawks notices him because of the fire.
Not just the quirk—he’s seen plenty of fire users—but the way it moves. Unstable. Beautiful in a way that feels wrong, like it’s always one second away from devouring everything, including the person wielding it.
It makes something in his chest pull tight.
Familiar.
He ignores it.
He’s good at that.
—
Dabi notices Hawks because of the feathers.
Bright red. Controlled. Effortless.
Everything Dabi was never able to be.
He watches the way Hawks smiles, the way he talks—easy, charming, like nothing in the world has ever touched him hard enough to leave a mark.
Dabi knows better.
People like that don’t exist.
He decides, almost immediately, that he wants to ruin him.
—
Their partnership—if it can even be called that—builds on half-truths and careful distance.
Hawks plays his role. Loyal. Curious. Just reckless enough to seem real.
Dabi plays his. Detached. Amused. Dangerous enough that no one looks too closely at anything else.
They circle each other.
Always just out of reach.
—
It happens in pieces.
The first crack is small.
A habit.
Hawks lands too quietly one night, slipping into place beside Dabi without a sound.
Most people don’t notice.
Dabi does.
“…you always move like that?” he asks, voice low.
Hawks shrugs. “Like what?”
“Like you’re trying not to be seen.”
The words land heavier than they should.
For a second—just a second—Hawks forgets how to smile.
“…occupational hazard,” he says lightly.
Dabi hums.
But his eyes linger.
—
The second crack is worse.
They’re alone again—seems like they always are, somehow. Rooftops, empty alleys, places where the city hums below them but never quite reaches.
Dabi is leaning back against a wall, staring at the sky like it’s something he’s trying to burn holes through.
Hawks perches nearby, wings shifting restlessly.
“Ever think about just leaving?” Hawks asks, casual.
The moment the words leave his mouth, something in him freezes.
He doesn’t know why he said that.
Dabi goes very still.
“…what?” he asks.
Hawks forces a laugh. “You know. All this. Villains, heroes. Seems like a lot of work.”
Dabi doesn’t laugh.
There’s a long, stretching silence.
“…yeah,” Dabi says finally. “I used to.”
Hawks’ throat feels tight.
“Yeah?”
Dabi turns his head slightly, not enough to fully look at him.
“…had someone once,” he says. “Thought we could.”
The world tilts.
Just a little.
Hawks’ feathers twitch, barely controlled.
“What happened?” he asks, softer now.
Dabi lets out a quiet, humorless breath.
“We were kids,” he says. “Kids are stupid.”
There’s something under it. Something sharp. Something breaking.
“They grow out of it.”
Hawks looks at him.
Really looks.
And for a moment, the firelight catches wrong—illuminates scars, shadows, something achingly familiar in the set of his jaw, the way he holds himself like he’s always bracing for something that’s already happened.
A memory stirs.
White walls.
Burnt air.
A boy with bandaged hands.
Hawks looks away first.
—
The third crack shatters everything.
It’s not dramatic.
No big reveal. No perfect, cinematic moment.
Just a name.
They’re mid-mission—chaos, noise, everything too loud and too fast. Dabi overextends, flames roaring higher than they should. For a split second, control slips.
It’s small.
Most people wouldn’t notice.
Hawks does.
He’s already moving before he thinks.
Feathers shoot forward, cutting through heat, wrapping—protecting.
Too close.
Too familiar.
“Toya—!”
The name rips out of him like it’s been waiting there for years.
Silence crashes in around them.
The flames stutter.
Die.
Dabi freezes.
Hawks freezes.
They both realize what just happened at the same time.
Slowly—too slowly—Dabi turns his head.
“…what did you just call me?” he asks.
Hawks’ heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape.
He shouldn’t have said that.
He never says things like that.
But it’s too late.
Dabi is looking at him now.
Really looking.
Not at the wings. Not at the smile.
At him.
“…say it again,” Dabi says.
Hawks’ mouth is dry.
“…I—”
A memory slams into place.
A hallway.
Soft feathers in his hands.
A voice, quiet and certain:
I won’t.
Hawks’ breath catches.
“…Toya,” he says, barely audible.
The world breaks.
—
Dabi laughs.
It’s sharp. Wrong. Cracked down the middle.
“No,” he says immediately. “No, that’s— that’s not funny.”
But he’s staring.
Searching.
Hawks doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
“…Keigo?” Dabi says.
The name sounds foreign in his mouth.
Fragile.
Like it might shatter if he says it too loud.
Hawks flinches.
That’s all it takes.
Dabi’s expression changes.
Not all at once.
It’s worse than that.
Piece by piece.
Disbelief.
Recognition.
Something dangerously close to hope—
—and then something that crushes it just as fast.
“…no way,” Dabi whispers.
Hawks tries to speak.
Nothing comes out.
Because what is there to say?
I remember you.
I didn’t come back.
I became exactly what they wanted me to be.
Dabi takes a step back.
Then another.
Like distance might fix this.
Like it might undo it.
“…you,” he says, voice shaking now, anger bleeding in around the edges. “You’re—”
He gestures, wild and sharp.
“—this?”
Hawks forces himself to find his voice.
“It’s not—”
“Don’t,” Dabi snaps.
The word hits like a strike.
“Don’t lie to me.”
Hawks shuts his mouth.
Because he can’t not lie.
It’s what he is.
What they made him.
Dabi laughs again, softer this time. More broken.
“Of course,” he mutters. “Of course it’s you.”
Hawks’ chest aches.
“…I thought you were dead,” he says quietly.
Dabi’s eyes snap back to him.
“Yeah?” he says. “Funny. I thought you were free.”
The words land harder than anything else could have.
Hawks flinches like he’s been burned.
“I—”
“I waited,” Dabi cuts in.
The confession slips out like it wasn’t supposed to.
Like it’s been rotting there for years.
“…for a while,” he adds, quieter.
Hawks’ throat tightens.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
It’s not enough.
It will never be enough.
Dabi knows it.
“…yeah,” he says.
Fire flickers at his fingertips again.
Unsteady.
Familiar.
“Me too.”
They stand there, the space between them filled with everything they were and everything they became.
Too much.
Too late.
Hawks takes a step forward.
Dabi steps back.
That’s how it is now.
“Kei—” Hawks starts.
“Don’t,” Dabi says again.
Softer this time.
But it hurts more.
“…that’s not my name anymore,” he adds.
Hawks’ chest feels like it’s caving in.
“…I know,” he says.
A pause.
Then, barely:
“…Toya isn’t yours either.”
Dabi smiles.
It’s the saddest thing Hawks has ever seen.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
—
When they leave, they go in opposite directions.
Of course they do.
But something lingers.
Something broken and breathing and impossible to ignore.
Because now they know.
And knowing is worse than not.
Because somewhere under the fire and feathers, under the lies and the roles and the years of becoming someone else—
they remember what it felt like to not be alone.
And that’s the one thing neither of them can survive having again.They shouldn’t be here together.
That’s the first thing Hawks thinks when the mission briefing ends.
The second is worse:
They did this on purpose.
He doesn’t let it show.
He never does.
Across the room, Dabi looks like he couldn’t care less—leaning back, half-lidded eyes, that same detached expression he wears like a shield.
But Hawks knows better now.
He knows what sits underneath.
And Dabi knows that he knows.
That’s what makes it unbearable.
—
“It’s a temporary arrangement,” someone says.
It’s a lie.
Everything about this is calculated.
A joint operation. Limited space. No room for backup without blowing cover.
Two people who shouldn’t be able to stand each other—forced into silence, into proximity, into something dangerously close to trust.
Hawks smiles like it doesn’t bother him.
Dabi doesn’t smile at all.
—
The safehouse is small.
Too small.
One main room. One window. One narrow hallway leading to a bedroom that clearly wasn’t meant for two people.
Hawks steps inside first, scanning automatically—exits, sightlines, anything to give himself something to focus on that isn’t the person behind him.
The door shuts.
The sound echoes.
Loud.
Final.
“…cozy,” Dabi mutters.
Hawks lets out a soft breath. “Could be worse.”
“Could it?”
Hawks glances back.
Dabi is already looking at him.
Not past him.
Not through him.
At him.
It’s too much.
Hawks looks away first.
—
They fall into something like a routine.
It’s strained.
Careful.
Wrong.
Hawks takes the couch.
Dabi takes the bed.
Neither of them sleeps.
Not really.
—
The first night is the worst.
Because silence has weight now.
It presses in from all sides, filled with things unsaid, things almost said.
Hawks lies on his back, staring at the ceiling.
He can hear Dabi breathing.
Uneven.
Awake.
Of course.
“…you used to talk more,” Dabi says suddenly.
Hawks’ chest tightens.
“…yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“You don’t now.”
Hawks lets out a quiet breath.
“Occupational hazard,” he says.
The same line.
The same deflection.
Dabi lets out a soft, humorless huff.
“Still hiding behind that, huh?”
Hawks doesn’t answer.
Because what is there to say?
I don’t know how to be anything else anymore.
—
The second night, it rains.
Hard.
The kind of rain that fills the space, drowns out the city, makes everything feel smaller, closer.
Hawks is by the window when it starts.
Dabi joins him a few minutes later.
Not close.
Not far.
Just… there.
They stand like that for a while, watching water streak down the glass.
“…do you remember it?” Hawks asks before he can stop himself.
Dabi goes still.
“Which part?”
Hawks swallows.
“…any of it.”
There’s a long pause.
Too long.
“…yeah,” Dabi says finally.
Hawks nods, even though Dabi isn’t looking at him.
“Me too.”
Another pause.
Then—
“…you said you wouldn’t,” Dabi says.
The words are quiet.
Sharp.
They cut deeper that way.
Hawks closes his eyes.
“I know.”
“That wasn’t a complicated promise.”
“I know.”
Dabi turns his head slightly.
“That’s it?” he asks. “That’s all you’ve got?”
Hawks forces himself to look at him.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know,” Dabi snaps. “Something real, maybe?”
The frustration in his voice is raw now.
Unfiltered.
It hits harder than the anger.
Hawks’ wings shift restlessly.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he says.
The moment the words leave his mouth, he knows it’s the wrong thing to say.
Dabi’s expression darkens immediately.
“Yeah?” he says. “Funny. Neither did I.”
Silence slams back into place.
He’s right.
Of course he is.
That’s the worst part.
—
The third night, everything cracks.
It’s late.
Too late.
The kind of hour where defenses wear thin whether you want them to or not.
Hawks wakes to the smell of smoke.
Not strong.
Just enough.
He’s on his feet instantly.
“Dabi—”
The name feels strange every time.
Wrong.
Right.
He finds him in the bathroom.
Small space. No window. The air thick and wrong.
Dabi is leaning over the sink, hands braced against porcelain, shoulders tense.
There’s fire flickering low in his palms.
Uncontrolled.
Familiar.
Hawks’ chest tightens.
“…hey,” he says, softer now.
Dabi doesn’t look up.
“Go away.”
Hawks doesn’t move.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
Dabi laughs weakly.
“Then why are you still here?”
Hawks steps closer.
Careful.
Measured.
Because he remembers this.
Not the room. Not the moment.
But the feeling.
“…because you’re not okay,” he says.
Dabi’s grip tightens on the sink.
“Yeah?” he mutters. “Took you long enough to notice.”
The fire flares.
Then stutters.
Hawks moves without thinking.
He reaches out—
and closes his hand around Dabi’s wrist.
It’s a bad idea.
A dangerous one.
Heat licks at his skin instantly.
But he doesn’t let go.
Dabi freezes.
The flames falter.
“…what are you doing?” he asks, voice quieter now.
Hawks swallows.
“I remember,” he says.
Dabi’s breath catches.
“Stop—”
“You used to do this,” Hawks continues, barely above a whisper. “Push too far. Like if you burned out first, it wouldn’t count as failing.”
Dabi’s hands shake.
“Don’t—”
“And I—” Hawks’ voice breaks, just slightly. “I didn’t know how to help. I still don’t.”
The room feels too small.
Too full.
“But I’m here,” he finishes.
Silence.
The fire dies.
Slowly.
Piece by piece.
Until there’s nothing left but heat and breath and the space between them that isn’t space at all.
Dabi doesn’t pull away.
Not immediately.
“…you don’t get to do that,” he says finally.
Hawks’ grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go completely.
“Do what?”
“Act like—” Dabi cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Like you can just step back in.”
Hawks shakes his head.
“I’m not trying to.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I know I can’t fix it,” Hawks says. “I know that.”
Dabi lets out a shaky breath.
“Good.”
But he still hasn’t pulled away.
Hawks notices.
He always notices.
“…but I meant it,” Hawks adds quietly.
Dabi frowns.
“What?”
Hawks hesitates.
Then:
“Back then,” he says. “I meant it.”
Dabi goes very still.
“I wasn’t lying,” Hawks continues. “About not leaving you.”
Something in Dabi’s expression shifts.
“Then why did you?” he asks.
There it is.
The question that’s been sitting between them all this time.
Hawks doesn’t look away.
“Because they didn’t give me a choice,” he says. “And I didn’t know how to fight it yet.”
Dabi’s eyes search his face.
For lies.
For cracks.
For anything.
“…and now?” he asks.
Hawks exhales slowly.
“…now I do,” he says.
The words hang there.
Dangerous.
Hopeful.
Terrifying.
Dabi stares at him like he doesn’t know whether to believe it—or destroy it before it can hurt him again.
“…you’re an idiot,” he says finally.
Hawks huffs out something that almost sounds like a laugh.
“Yeah. Probably.”
A pause.
Then—
“…you’re still holding my wrist,” Dabi mutters.
Hawks blinks.
He is.
Heat still lingers under his skin.
But it’s not burning anymore.
“…right,” he says.
He doesn’t let go immediately.
Neither of them does.
—
Later, when they finally step apart, nothing is fixed.
Nothing is easy.
They still stand on opposite sides of something too big to cross in one night.
But the silence feels different now.
Less like a wall.
More like something waiting.
And for the first time since they found each other again—
neither of them walks away first.Rebuilding doesn’t look like much.
That’s the first thing Hawks realizes.
There’s no moment where everything shifts. No clean line between before and after. No sudden understanding that makes the past easier to carry.
It’s smaller than that.
Quieter.
Fragile.
—
It starts with distance.
Not the sharp, deliberate kind they used to keep—measured, defensive, safe.
This is different.
Now, they just… don’t move away as quickly.
—
Morning comes slow in the safehouse.
Gray light filters through the window, soft and dull. Hawks wakes first—he always does—but he doesn’t get up right away.
Dabi is still asleep.
Or something close to it.
He’s on his side, facing the wall, shoulders less tense than they usually are. His breathing is steadier. Not even. Not peaceful. But… better.
Hawks watches for a second too long.
Then looks away.
That’s new.
Before, he would’ve forced himself up immediately. Put distance between them. Pretended none of this mattered.
Now, he stays.
Just for a minute.
Just until Dabi shifts slightly, like he’s surfacing.
That’s enough.
Hawks stands, quiet as ever, and moves to the kitchen.
—
They don’t talk about the night before.
They don’t talk about any of it.
Not the wrist.
Not the fire.
Not the way neither of them pulled away.
Instead—
“Coffee’s terrible,” Hawks says, setting a cup down.
Dabi eyes it suspiciously. “You made it.”
“Wow. Harsh.”
Dabi takes a sip anyway.
Makes a face.
“…yeah, that’s bad.”
Hawks huffs a quiet laugh.
It’s small.
But it’s real.
—
Trust doesn’t come back.
Not like it was.
It grows in strange places instead.
Like this—
Hawks leaves first that afternoon, slipping out to gather information. It’s routine. Expected.
Before, Dabi wouldn’t have cared.
Wouldn’t have wondered.
Wouldn’t have noticed how long Hawks was gone.
Now—
Now he does.
He tells himself it’s tactical.
Annoyance.
Suspicion.
Not something else.
He doesn’t pace.
He doesn’t look at the door more than once.
He doesn’t—
The lock clicks.
Dabi exhales before he can stop himself.
Hawks steps inside, shrugging off his jacket like nothing happened.
“Miss me?” he asks lightly.
Dabi rolls his eyes.
“Took you long enough.”
It’s not a question.
Hawks pauses.
Just for a second.
“…yeah,” he says.
Something settles between them.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But something that leans in that direction.
—
It happens again that night.
Not the same.
Not as bad.
But Dabi’s control slips—just a flicker, a flare, enough to leave the air too warm, too sharp.
This time, Hawks doesn’t wait for it to get worse.
He moves closer without thinking.
Stops just short of touching.
“…hey,” he says.
Dabi stiffens.
Not pulling away.
Not leaning in.
Just… there.
“I’ve got it,” Dabi mutters.
“I know.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“…just don’t burn yourself out.”
Dabi glances at him.
Something unreadable passes through his expression.
“…you always say that,” he says.
Hawks’ chest tightens.
“…yeah.”
“Never worked.”
Hawks shrugs slightly.
“Still gonna say it.”
Dabi huffs out a breath.
Not quite a laugh.
But closer than before.
—
The next step is accidental.
It has to be.
Neither of them would choose it otherwise.
There’s only one bed.
There always was.
They just… didn’t acknowledge it.
Couch. Floor. Distance.
That was enough.
Until it isn’t.
The mission stretches longer than expected. Sleep deprivation hits harder than either of them admits. One night, Hawks comes back late—too late—and doesn’t even make it to the couch.
He drops onto the edge of the bed, just for a second.
Just to rest his eyes.
He doesn’t mean to fall asleep.
He does anyway.
—
Dabi finds him like that.
Half-curled, wings slack, breathing uneven in the way that means he’s actually out.
For once.
Dabi stands in the doorway for a long moment.
Watching.
Something twists in his chest.
Annoying.
Unwelcome.
Familiar.
“…idiot,” he mutters.
He could wake him.
Should wake him.
Tell him to move.
Keep things the way they’re supposed to be.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he crosses the room.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like this is something fragile.
He sits on the other side of the bed.
Not close enough to touch.
Not far enough to pretend it doesn’t matter.
He leans back against the wall.
Closes his eyes.
Just for a second.
—
Hawks wakes up to warmth.
Not burning.
Not sharp.
Just… there.
It takes him a moment to realize why.
Then he stills.
Dabi is asleep.
Actually asleep.
Closer than he’s ever been since they found each other again.
Their shoulders are almost touching.
Almost.
Hawks doesn’t move.
He doesn’t trust himself to.
Instead, he lets his eyes close again.
Just for a minute.
Just this once.
—
When they wake, neither of them mentions it.
Of course they don’t.
But the distance doesn’t come back the same way.
—
Later, when the mission finally starts to wind down, something shifts again.
Not better.
Not worse.
Just… clearer.
They’re standing by the window again.
Same as before.
Rain hasn’t come back, but the sky looks like it might.
“…what happens after this?” Hawks asks.
Dabi doesn’t answer right away.
“You go back,” he says eventually. “Play hero.”
Hawks winces slightly.
“…yeah.”
“And I don’t,” Dabi finishes.
It’s not bitter.
Just factual.
That somehow makes it worse.
Hawks nods.
Silence stretches.
Then—
“…you could leave,” Hawks says.
There it is again.
That dangerous, fragile idea.
Dabi lets out a quiet breath.
“You never let that go, huh?”
Hawks shakes his head.
“No.”
Dabi glances at him.
“…why?”
Hawks hesitates.
Then:
“Because it was the only thing that ever felt like mine,” he says.
Dabi’s expression shifts.
Softer.
Just for a second.
“…it wasn’t,” he says.
Hawks frowns slightly.
“What?”
“It wasn’t just yours.”
The words land gently.
But they hit just as hard.
Hawks looks at him.
Really looks.
And for the first time—
it doesn’t feel like looking at a stranger.
“…yeah,” he says quietly.
A pause.
Then, careful:
“…it still could be.”
Dabi lets out a soft, disbelieving huff.
“You don’t give up, do you?”
Hawks smiles faintly.
“Not on this.”
Dabi shakes his head.
But he doesn’t say no.
—
When the mission ends, they don’t make promises.
They don’t pretend anything is fixed.
They don’t lie to each other about what comes next.
But when they part—
it’s slower this time.
Less final.
And just before Dabi turns away, Hawks says, “I’ll find you again.”
Dabi doesn’t look back.
“…yeah,” he says.
Not agreeing.
Not refusing.
Just—
not closing the door.
And for now—
that’s enough.It doesn’t happen all at once.
Of course it doesn’t.
With Dabi and Hawks, nothing ever does.
—
It starts the same way most things between them do now—
too late at night, in a space that feels too small for everything they’re trying not to say.
The safehouse is quiet.
No rain this time. No noise to hide behind.
Just the low hum of the city and the steady, familiar tension sitting between them.
Hawks is by the window again.
Dabi is closer than usual.
Not touching.
Not quite.
But close enough that Hawks can feel the heat of him without looking.
“…you’re staring,” Dabi mutters.
Hawks huffs softly. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to.”
A pause.
Hawks doesn’t look away this time.
“…just thinking,” he says.
“Dangerous habit.”
“Yeah. I’ve been told.”
Dabi glances at him.
“…about what?”
Hawks hesitates.
He could lie.
He should lie.
Instead—
“About you,” he says.
The air shifts.
Dabi goes still.
“…that so?”
Hawks nods slightly.
“Yeah.”
“Why.”
It’s not curiosity.
Not really.
It’s something sharper.
Hawks exhales slowly.
“Because I don’t know what we’re doing,” he admits.
Dabi lets out a quiet, humorless laugh.
“Glad you finally caught up.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Hawks turns fully toward him now.
“Then what is this?”
Dabi meets his gaze.
For once, he doesn’t deflect.
Doesn’t look away.
“…a mistake,” he says.
The word lands flat.
Wrong.
Hawks’ chest tightens.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?”
“No.”
Dabi’s jaw tightens.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“And you don’t get to lie about it.”
Silence.
Sharp.
Tight.
It snaps.
“Why do you keep doing that?” Dabi demands suddenly.
Hawks frowns. “Doing what?”
“Acting like you know me,” Dabi snaps. “Like you didn’t just—” he cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. “Like you didn’t leave.”
There it is.
Hawks doesn’t look away.
“I didn’t forget you,” he says.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like it is.”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are—”
Hawks steps closer.
Not fast.
Not aggressive.
But enough.
Enough that the space between them disappears.
Dabi doesn’t move.
“…then what do you want from me?” Hawks asks, voice low now. “Because I’m still here. You’re still here. So what is this?”
Dabi’s breath is uneven.
His hands twitch at his sides, faint heat flickering—gone just as quickly.
“…I don’t know,” he says.
It’s quiet.
Honest.
And that’s what breaks something.
Hawks exhales sharply.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me neither.”
A beat.
Then another.
Neither of them steps back.
Neither of them looks away.
Dabi’s gaze drops—just slightly.
To Hawks’ mouth.
It’s quick.
Barely there.
But Hawks sees it.
Of course he does.
Everything slows.
“…this is a bad idea,” Dabi mutters.
“Yeah,” Hawks agrees.
Neither of them moves.
“…we shouldn’t,” Dabi adds.
“Probably not.”
Still—
nothing.
The tension shifts.
Not sharp anymore.
Not fighting.
Something else.
Something heavier.
“…you’re still doing it,” Dabi says, voice quieter now.
Hawks tilts his head slightly.
“Doing what?”
“…staying.”
Hawks’ expression softens.
“Yeah,” he says.
Dabi’s breath catches.
“…idiot.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
Closer now.
Too close.
Dabi’s hand lifts—
hesitates—
then catches in the front of Hawks’ shirt.
Not pulling.
Not pushing.
Just… holding.
Like he doesn’t know what else to do with it.
Hawks stills.
“Dabi—”
“Don’t,” Dabi says.
But it’s not a warning.
It’s barely even resistance.
Hawks swallows.
“…okay.”
Dabi’s grip tightens slightly.
His other hand comes up—slower this time—hovering, uncertain, before finally settling against Hawks’ shoulder.
Warm.
Careful.
Like he expects it to go wrong.
Like it always has.
Hawks doesn’t move.
Doesn’t rush.
Just lets him.
For once—
he lets Dabi decide.
“…you’re still here,” Dabi says again, softer now.
Hawks nods.
“I am.”
Dabi searches his face.
For doubt.
For hesitation.
For anything that might make this easier to stop.
He doesn’t find it.
“…fine,” he mutters.
And then he closes the distance.
—
The kiss is not gentle.
Not at first.
It’s messy.
Uncertain.
A little desperate in the way of things that have been held back for too long.
Dabi pulls him in by his shirt like he’s expecting resistance.
Like he’s ready for it.
Hawks doesn’t give it.
He leans in instead—careful, but not hesitant—meeting him halfway, then a little further.
Dabi’s grip falters for a second.
Surprised.
Then tightens again.
The heat is there—faint, flickering—but controlled.
This time, it doesn’t burn.
Hawks’ hand comes up slowly, giving Dabi time to pull away.
He doesn’t.
So Hawks lets his fingers settle lightly at his jaw.
Careful of the staples.
Careful of him.
That’s what changes it.
The tension shifts.
Softens.
Just slightly.
Dabi exhales against him, the sharp edge of it fading into something quieter.
Something that almost feels like relief.
The kiss slows.
Not less intense.
Just… less like it’s about to break.
When they finally pull back, it’s not far.
Foreheads almost touching.
Breath uneven.
“…that was stupid,” Dabi says.
Hawks lets out a soft, breathless huff.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Neither of them moves.
“…we’re still screwed,” Dabi adds.
“Definitely.”
Another beat.
Then—
“…do it again,” Dabi mutters.
Hawks smiles.
Just a little.
“Yeah,” he says softly.
And this time—
when they close the distance—
it’s not out of anger.
Not out of confusion.
But because, for once,
they both choose it.The second time doesn’t happen right away.
That would be too easy.
And nothing about Dabi and Hawks has ever been easy.
—
They don’t talk about the first kiss.
Of course they don’t.
They go back to their routine—missions, silence, careful distance that isn’t really distance anymore.
But everything is… off.
Hawks notices it in the way Dabi looks at him now.
Not guarded.
Not exactly.
But like he’s waiting for something.
For Hawks to mess it up.
For this to fall apart like everything else.
Dabi notices it too—
in the way Hawks hesitates.
Just slightly.
Like he’s holding something back.
Like there’s something he’s not saying.
—
It builds.
Slow.
Tight.
Inevitable.
Until it snaps.
—
“Say it.”
Hawks looks up from where he’s leaning against the counter.
“…what?”
Dabi is already watching him.
Too focused.
Too intense.
“Whatever it is you’re not saying,” he says. “It’s getting annoying.”
Hawks lets out a quiet breath.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“I really don’t.”
Dabi’s jaw tightens.
“Stop lying.”
“I’m not—”
“Keigo.”
The name lands hard.
Hawks freezes.
Dabi doesn’t use that name.
Not anymore.
Not unless—
“Say it,” Dabi repeats, quieter now. “Or I’m done with this.”
The words hang there.
Sharp.
Real.
Hawks swallows.
“…done with what?” he asks.
Dabi laughs once.
Bitter.
“You really need me to spell it out for you?”
Hawks doesn’t answer.
Because yes.
Because no.
Because he’s terrified of getting it wrong.
Dabi steps closer.
Not stopping this time.
Not leaving space.
“This,” he says, gesturing between them. “Whatever this is. The almost—” he cuts himself off, frustrated. “If you don’t even know what you want, then I’m not—”
“I do.”
The words come out fast.
Too fast.
They both go still.
Dabi’s eyes narrow slightly.
“…then say it.”
Hawks’ chest feels tight.
Like there’s not enough air.
“I—”
He stops.
Because this is the part he doesn’t know how to do.
Not the lies.
Not the performance.
The truth.
Dabi watches him.
Waiting.
Not patient.
But not walking away either.
That’s what makes Hawks try.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says finally.
Dabi’s expression flickers.
“That’s not—”
“I know,” Hawks cuts in. “I know it’s not enough. I know I can’t undo what happened, and I know I don’t get to just—” he exhales sharply. “Show up and expect you to trust me again.”
Dabi doesn’t interrupt this time.
“I know I hurt you,” Hawks continues, quieter now. “I know I left, even if I didn’t have a choice. And I know that doesn’t make it better.”
Dabi’s gaze drops for just a second.
Then back up.
Hawks takes a step closer.
Careful.
“But I meant it,” he says. “Back then. About not leaving you alone.”
Dabi’s breath catches.
“And I mean it now.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Fragile.
“You don’t get to promise that,” Dabi says.
His voice isn’t steady.
“You don’t get to say things like that like they won’t—” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening.
“Like they won’t what?” Hawks asks softly.
Dabi looks away.
“…matter,” he mutters.
Hawks’ chest aches.
“They do,” he says.
Dabi shakes his head.
“That’s the problem.”
A pause.
Then—
“…I waited for you,” Dabi admits.
The words are quiet.
Rough.
Like they’ve been dragged out of him.
Hawks stills.
“For a while,” Dabi adds quickly, like that makes it better. “Not forever. I’m not—”
“I know.”
Dabi huffs.
“No, you don’t.”
Hawks steps closer again.
This time—
Dabi doesn’t move back.
“I do,” Hawks says. “Because I would’ve done the same.”
Dabi goes still.
Really still.
“…don’t,” he says.
But it’s weak.
Hawks shakes his head.
“I would’ve,” he insists. “If it were you.”
That breaks something.
You can see it.
In the way Dabi’s shoulders drop—just slightly.
In the way his grip tightens at his sides like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“…you’re an idiot,” he says.
Hawks huffs softly.
“Yeah. I’ve heard that.”
Dabi looks at him.
Really looks.
“…why are you still here?” he asks.
Not angry.
Not sharp.
Just… tired.
Hawks doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Because it’s you.”
The words land between them.
Simple.
Honest.
Dangerous.
Dabi’s breath stutters.
“…that’s not a good enough reason.”
“It is for me.”
Silence.
Long.
Shaking at the edges.
Dabi’s hand lifts—
stops—
then fists in the front of Hawks’ shirt again.
Less hesitant this time.
More certain.
“You’re gonna regret this,” he mutters.
Hawks’ gaze softens.
“Probably.”
Dabi lets out a shaky breath.
“…yeah.”
And then he pulls him in.
—
This kiss is different.
Not sharp.
Not uncertain.
It’s still messy—still a little desperate—but there’s something underneath it now that wasn’t there before.
Something chosen.
Dabi presses in closer, grip tightening, like he’s done holding back.
Like if this is going to hurt, he’d rather it happen now than later.
Hawks meets him there.
Fully.
No hesitation this time.
His hand finds Dabi’s jaw again—steady, grounding—while the other settles at his side, pulling him just a little closer.
Dabi makes a quiet, frustrated sound against his mouth—like this isn’t enough, like nothing ever is—and then he is closer, closing whatever space is left between them.
It stops being a kiss.
And turns into something else.
Something deeper.
More consuming.
Dabi’s hands slide up, gripping tighter—one at Hawks’ collar, the other at the back of his neck, fingers tangling just slightly in the edges of his feathers.
Hawks exhales sharply, the sound catching as Dabi leans into him like he’s trying to erase the distance of years in seconds.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not careful.
It’s wanting.
Hawks shifts, pressing him back a step without breaking the kiss—until Dabi hits the wall behind him with a soft thud.
Dabi doesn’t pull away.
If anything, he leans in more.
Heat flickers—controlled, but there—ghosting along Hawks’ skin.
This time, Hawks doesn’t flinch.
His grip tightens instead.
Anchoring.
Answering.
Dabi’s breath breaks into something uneven, something dangerously close to a laugh that never quite forms as he tilts his head, deepening it further—
like he’s trying to make up for everything they didn’t get.
Everything they lost.
Hawks follows.
Because for once—
he’s not holding anything back.
When they finally break apart, it’s only because breathing becomes necessary.
Foreheads press together.
Air shared.
Too close.
Not close enough.
“…still a bad idea,” Dabi murmurs.
Hawks lets out a quiet, breathless laugh.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Neither of them moves.
“…not stopping, though,” Dabi adds.
Hawks’ eyes soften.
“Good.”
And this time—
when they kiss again—
there’s no hesitation left at all.It was always going to go wrong.
That’s the thing about secrets.
Especially ones like this.
—
For a while, they get away with it.
That’s the worst part.
Hawks slips in and out like he always does—untouchable, unreadable, the perfect hero playing a dangerous game.
Dabi pretends nothing’s changed—same distance, same sharp edges, same fire that keeps everyone far enough away.
Except—
between missions,
in shadows,
in the quiet moments no one is supposed to see—
they find each other.
Too easily.
Too often.
A brush of hands that lingers too long.
A look that says too much.
A closeness that doesn’t match the roles they’re supposed to play.
It’s subtle.
But it’s there.
And people like them—
people trained to notice everything—
don’t miss things like that forever.
—
The first sign is small.
A glance that lingers.
A question that’s a little too pointed.
Hawks catches it immediately.
Of course he does.
He’s built for this.
He adjusts.
Pulls back.
Creates space.
Rebuilds the illusion.
But it’s already too late.
Because Dabi—
doesn’t.
—
“You’re slipping.”
The words come out low, sharp, the moment they’re alone.
Dabi leans back against the wall, arms crossed, watching Hawks with something dangerously close to irritation.
Hawks exhales.
“I know.”
“Do you?” Dabi snaps. “Because from where I’m standing—”
“I said I know.”
Silence.
Tight.
Frustrated.
Dabi pushes off the wall, stepping closer.
“You’re the one who said we had to be careful,” he says. “You’re the one who—”
“I am careful.”
“Then start acting like it.”
Hawks’ jaw tightens.
“I am acting like it.”
Dabi lets out a harsh laugh.
“No, you’re acting like someone who’s about to get caught.”
That lands.
Because it’s true.
Hawks looks away for a second.
That’s all it takes.
Dabi sees it.
“…you’re thinking about stopping,” he says.
Not a question.
Hawks’ chest tightens.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Dabi’s expression hardens.
“There it is,” he mutters. “Knew it was coming.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
Hawks doesn’t answer fast enough.
Dabi steps back.
Like he’s already decided.
“Right,” he says. “Got it.”
“Dabi—”
“Don’t.”
The word cuts clean.
“You don’t get to hesitate now,” Dabi says, quieter but worse. “Not after—”
He stops.
But it’s already there.
Everything they didn’t say.
Everything they did.
Hawks takes a step forward.
“I’m not trying to stop,” he says.
“Then why do you look like that?”
Hawks hesitates.
And there it is again.
Dabi laughs—short, bitter.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”
—
The second sign isn’t small.
It’s a mistake.
A bad one.
Too much proximity. Too much distraction. A moment where Hawks’ attention is exactly where it shouldn’t be—
on Dabi.
Not the mission.
Not the threat.
Him.
It lasts seconds.
That’s all it takes.
Someone notices.
—
After that, everything unravels faster.
Questions turn into scrutiny.
Scrutiny turns into suspicion.
And suspicion—
turns into orders.
—
“You need to cut contact.”
The words are calm.
Measured.
Final.
Hawks doesn’t react.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
“…define contact,” he says lightly.
It doesn’t land.
“Don’t play games,” the voice replies. “You know exactly what we mean.”
Yeah.
He does.
Hawks looks down at his hands.
Steady.
Controlled.
Lying.
“…and if I don’t?” he asks.
A pause.
Then:
“Then you’re compromised.”
The word hits harder than anything else could.
Not wrong.
Not dangerous.
Compromised.
Like he’s broken.
Like he’s failed.
Hawks exhales slowly.
“…right,” he says.
—
Dabi hears about it differently.
Not orders.
Not warnings.
Just—
“…they don’t trust you anymore.”
He doesn’t react.
Of course he doesn’t.
He just tilts his head slightly.
“…and why’s that?”
A shrug.
“Hero’s been acting weird.”
Silence.
Then—
“…yeah,” Dabi says softly.
That tracks.
—
They don’t mean to meet that night.
They both end up there anyway.
Same place.
Same space.
Like something is pulling them back whether they want it to or not.
Hawks gets there first.
Dabi isn’t far behind.
For a second—
neither of them speaks.
They just look at each other.
And everything is different now.
“…you got the talk,” Dabi says.
Hawks huffs quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Same.”
A pause.
“…so that’s it, then?” Dabi asks.
It sounds casual.
It’s not.
Hawks’ chest tightens.
“That’s what they want.”
Dabi watches him carefully.
“And what do you want?”
Hawks doesn’t answer.
Not right away.
Because the answer is a problem.
A dangerous one.
Dabi nods slowly.
“Yeah,” he says. “Figured.”
He turns slightly.
Like he’s already done.
Like he’s already leaving.
Hawks moves before he can think.
“Don’t.”
Dabi stops.
Doesn’t turn back.
“…why?”
Hawks swallows.
“Because I’m not done.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Then—
“…you should be,” Dabi says.
But he hasn’t moved.
Hawks takes a step closer.
“Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”
Another step.
Dabi’s shoulders tense.
But he doesn’t walk away.
“You said you knew what this was,” Dabi continues. “So act like it.”
Hawks shakes his head.
“I do know what it is.”
“Then say it.”
There it is again.
That demand.
That line he can’t keep avoiding.
Hawks exhales.
“I want you,” he says.
No deflection.
No joke.
No mask.
Dabi goes still.
“And that’s a problem,” Hawks adds. “For them. For me. For everything I’m supposed to be doing.”
Dabi lets out a quiet breath.
“…yeah,” he says.
“Doesn’t change it.”
Dabi turns then.
Slowly.
Looking at him like he’s trying to decide something.
“…you’re serious.”
Hawks huffs softly.
“When am I not?”
“Most of the time.”
“Fair.”
A pause.
Then—
“…you’re an idiot,” Dabi says.
Hawks smiles faintly.
“Yeah.”
Dabi steps closer.
Not all the way.
Just enough.
“This blows up everything,” he says.
“I know.”
“You lose everything.”
“I know.”
A beat.
“…I don’t get a happy ending out of this,” Dabi adds, quieter now.
That—
that hits.
Hawks’ expression softens.
“I’m not looking for one,” he says.
Dabi frowns slightly.
“Then what are you looking for?”
Hawks closes the distance.
No hesitation this time.
“You,” he says.
Simple.
Honest.
Reckless.
Dabi exhales shakily.
“…you’re really not backing out.”
Hawks shakes his head.
“No.”
A long pause.
Then—
“…fine,” Dabi mutters.
And grabs him.
—
This kiss is immediate.
Not hesitant.
Not careful.
It crashes into something already burning.
Dabi pulls him in hard, like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this—like if it’s going to fall apart, he’s taking it with him.
Hawks doesn’t hold back.
Can’t.
Not anymore.
His hands find Dabi instantly—jaw, shoulder, pulling him closer like there’s no point in restraint now.
Because there isn’t.
Because they’ve already crossed the line.
Dabi presses him back, heat flaring sharper this time—not controlled, not entirely—but Hawks doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t even try.
It’s messy.
Intense.
Almost angry in the way it clings—like they’re both trying to prove something neither of them can say out loud.
Dabi’s grip tightens, fingers curling into fabric, into feathers, grounding himself in something real before it gets ripped away.
Hawks answers it—pulls him closer, steadier, anchoring instead of resisting.
Like he’s choosing this.
Over and over.
Even now.
Especially now.
When they break, it’s sharp, breathless, too soon.
“…this is going to end badly,” Dabi says.
Hawks leans in again, barely stopping short.
“Yeah.”
“…you’re still here.”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Dabi searches his face.
For doubt.
For fear.
For anything that might make this easier.
There’s nothing.
“…idiot,” he mutters.
Hawks smiles faintly.
“Yeah.”
And then—
they kiss again anyway.
Because at this point—
there’s nothing left to save but each other.