Chapter Text
I love you.
It’s a thought with chilling implications that steals the breath from Dabi’s lungs.
No matter how fucking dumb it is, no matter how much it twists his heart with a terrifying mix of joy and agony, he loves Hawks.
No I don't.
What the fuck is love, anyways? Isn’t it just a cage, a way to excuse shitty behavior and to trap someone, devour them like a snake? That’s all it’s ever been to him. He refuses to let himself be ensnared in the same neverending vortex of terror that his mother was, he’ll take his feelings and burn them to ash before he lets that happen to himself.
Except that’s not what Hawks feels like. Hawks feels like sunshine and warmth, boundless energy and open affection. Thoughtfulness and kindness wrapped up in a deceptively scarred package. He feels like the best kind of pain, the first few minutes of a tragedy when everything seems perfect right before everything goes wrong. This kind of story can never end in anything but heartbreak.
So why can’t Dabi look away? Is it how Hawks is earnest, happily helping ordinary citizens with the most mundane things, his desire to help others so painfully genuine? How his sense of humor is surprisingly sadistic and twisted? How he shoulders everything with a smile, but at the end of the day chooses Dabi to flop over sideways onto? How he gets up when he’s been knocked down, smiles with blood in his teeth and wildfire in his eyes?
(Several weeks ago, some news station had gotten a shot of Hawks mid-fight against a villain that could shoot off compressed blasts of air. Hawks had been thrown through the reinforced windows of a high-rise office building in an explosion of glass, and when his gloved hand emerged to grip the jagged edge, his smile had been nothing short of feral, predator's eyes pinned and trained unblinkingly on his target. Blood poured from a wound on his forehead and nose, staining the cream fur lining of his jacket, smearing across his face in a ghastly display. It took him less than seventy five seconds after that to incapacitate the villain, and something in Dabi had twitched hungrily as he watched with rapt attention, wanting to pull the man through the television and kiss his bloody mouth. Hawks is terrifying, and it turns him on)
He’s so fucked.
It’s a good thing Hawks doesn’t love him back.
Dabi doesn’t know what he’d do if Hawks looked at him like that.
Waking up in a soft bed next to him always feels good, like a preemptive balm on the open sore that comprises his waking hours. He's unedited and unpretty, with lines from the pillow and dried drool on his face, bangs flopping in his eyes, and oh his eyes , honey with warm cinnamon flecks. Big, golden eyes that absorb the morning sun and practically glow from within, soft and devoid of any carefully crafted hero persona. Then Hawks sits up and stretches and his toned back clenches , revealing even more muscle definition hidden in his slim body. Dabi always has to fight himself to let Hawks go to work on time.
He’ll lie there in bed, wondering how this became his life. He has to remind himself that Hawks is a fake.
It hurts, Hawks is a liar and a traitor, he’s everything that’s rotten with hero society, he’s--human. Dabi gets it, he really does. Just like Touya, Keigo had been born with a kind heart and powerful quirk, and had been snapped up early on by power hungry bastards who comparatively knew nothing of humanity. Hawks hadn’t chosen his quirk, and when he’d chosen this life, he had been too young to know better. They’d both grown up to be the monster in the closet, though; hunters of men, chasing after some nebulous better future.
Dabi groans, throws an arm over his eyes, peeking over at the quickly cooling spot where Hawks had lain only minutes before. He glares at the spot for all of ten seconds before he rolls over into it, shoves his face into Hawks’ pillow and feels himself immediately relax at the familiar scent of Hawks’ shampoo.
Fuck, he’s pathetic.
Does this mean he’s just like his mother? Just like his father said he was? That he’s weak and useless and destined to be garbage? Love for his siblings, for his mother, he understands. Romantic love though? What does that feel like? Does he even have any basis to identify it correctly?
How does Hawks make me feel?
Hawks makes him feel….happy. No, that's too vague. Hawks makes him feel quiet, but not like "hiding in a corner and hoping to blend in with the wall." Quiet like the noise in his head decides to take a break, like he doesn't need to have a purpose or be strong when he's around Hawks. He doesn't need to be perfect or even talkative at all, he's good enough just being….whatever he is when he's not on the warpath. Hawks gives him the space to be quiet and makes him feel worthwhile.
Is that what love feels like?
Dabi feels like a person, albeit a very crispy one, and not a shadow of what used to be a prodigy when he's reading paperwork on the couch with Hawks' feet in his lap. Casual physical affection used to make him jump out of his skin, but now he just reaches down with one hand and absentmindedly kneads the ache out of the arches of Hawks' feet, because his bird toes are designed to curl around something on landing, not be smashed flat against the ground.
The dumb chicken will continue to do it though, because he's the Commission's kept raptor. Hawks is a tool, honed to perfection and held to the highest standards of performance. So what does it mean when he chooses to fall apart in Dabi’s arms, cry actual tears about the people he wasn’t able to save, had to leave behind? When he flutters into the apartment after work and lets the hero mask slip from his face, reveals someone else entirely?
Hawks is a threat, a downpour to snuff out every fire Dabi has rekindled in the last year. Keigo, though. Keigo stands by his side and tells him he’s worth saving, that he’s always been worth saving, and then proceeds to back it up by feeding the Commission the wrong information, even when he’s reduced to a shivering, nervous mess afterwards.
It’s so confusing, being lied to and cared for in the same breath.
A chance to off Hawks comes sooner than expected. Usually Dabi walks away from the sounds of fights, not wanting to get involved in others’ dumb disagreements. But he recognizes an agonized groan he hears above the commotion, and he goes to investigate.
He finds an alleyway full of thugs laid out flat, and Dabi doesn’t even bother to check if they’re alive when he sees a familiar man on the ground, huddled up against a wall and shallowly panting.
As he looks down at Hawks, bloody and only half-alive, he realizes that he's become used to him. He's become used to his smiles, his work schedule, his idiosyncrasies, his horrible sense of humor, his more mundane and at-home habits, the darker and more twisted parts of his personality. Hawks has, intentionally or not, woven himself into Dabi's everyday. He’s there in the mornings and at night, rising before Dabi and coming home after. It's sickeningly domestic.
Dangerous attachment. Probably better without the liability. He thinks as he lights up a hand with blue flame and takes a few steps forward.
When he raises his arm to end it, he startles when his fire flickers. He's been trained for decisiveness, to follow through, and yet here he is, letting the what-ifs wash through his mind. What if this is a mistake? What if he doesn’t kill Hawks? What if he just….takes him back to the apartment and fixes him up just enough to keep him ticking? What if--
He moves without thinking, kneeling down beside the fallen hero. He reaches behind him to the pouch of medical supplies he keeps attached to his belt, pulls out an old bottle with practiced ease, twists the cap off with one hand. Instead of his usual three, he tips only one painkiller into his hand. He pushes his thumb against Hawks' split lip, slips the pill inside and commands him to swallow.
He pulls Hawks' jacket and shredded flightsuit back, silently counting down from ten, and then brings his hand down on the wound oozing blood onto the ground. Blood sizzles and steams, flesh bubbles and melts and it’s messy and inefficient but if Hawks doesn’t stop bleeding now, he’s going to die.
Somehow the idea of a world without Hawks in it is wrong.
That’s the only thought he can cling to as he sees the mortal terror in the hero’s eyes when he realizes he’s been rendered unable to do anything to stop his flesh from being seared shut. The painkillers Dabi uses are ungodly powerful incapacitators, and he’s just impressed that Hawks didn’t immediately pass out.
I’m saving your life, dumbass. Dabi thinks as he begins cauterizing another wound. Don’t look at me like that.
Hawks is a normal, a safe harbor in his stormy and violently changing world. For someone so unpredictable, he's very predictable and it's comforting. It doesn't make any sense. And Dabi doesn’t want to let go so easily.
Once Hawks’ major wounds are sealed, it’s a balancing act to pick him up gently enough to not injure him further. Hawks has finally passed out limp in his arms, breathing shallow but even. Alive. Dabi knows he’s got his work cut out for him so he just sighs and follows the path back to the apartment under the watchful eye of the moon above.
The next day is a long, boring stretch. Hawks isn’t in critical condition, just very badly injured. His skin isn’t even falling off, so it’s not anything Dabi can’t handle. Just a lot of stitches and thick layers of healing salves and bandages that need to be regularly changed.
Dabi glares down at the two jars of salve that Hawks emptied. It’ll be a bitch and a half to get them refilled so soon, but he’ll just have to make do. The irritation slips off his face as he stares down at Hawks, and his gaze slips down to where, under a thick layer of gauze, he knows a new scar in the shape of a handprint is forming. He feels self-disgust simmering, of course he’s just like his father, hurting the people he’s supposed to care about.
The sun burned Icarus because he didn’t know how to love him without hurting him.
He snorts at the thought and shoves the mess of medical supplies to the side, bedding down next to Hawks for the night. The bird is stupidly beautiful as always, even knocked out on illegal painkillers and stained with blood. Faint starshine slips through the curtains and dances through his hair, turning it to spun gold where it splays on the pillow. In this light, he’s washed out by the moon until Dabi can see the freckles that dust across his nose like a thousand kisses. He’s beautiful as always, but Dabi knows he belongs in the daylight, soaking up the sun.
Maybe most importantly, though, Hawks is relaxed all the way down to his ridiculous eyebrows, not pumping out charisma and bright hero smiles for the world to consume. He’s restful in a way that Dabi wishes for him always.
It feels like moments and seconds before something moves against his arm and he bolts awake. Hawks blinks confusedly at him, his expression so painfully vulnerable that it tears at Dabi’s heart.
Before he can think too hard on it, he’s up again, running more checks. It’s the running pattern for the next week, Hawks blearily calling out day after day and staying in bed, only resurfacing to eat and go to the bathroom. Dabi stays too, watching over him when he gets a low-grade fever from a small infection, rubbing more salve that he can’t afford into Hawks' skin and new scars. Fortunately, Hawks is healthier than Dabi has ever been in his entire life so he takes well to the treatments.
All of it reminds him of his mother and the hours she spent taking care of him when he was injured. He supposes it makes sense, that he feels best when doing this for Hawks; he feels useful, his extensive knowledge in the art of back alley healing comes in handy. But also the other, small things he can slip throughout the day to….what? Ease his suffering? Is it anything as dramatic as that?
It surfaces in the form of random meals, another jar of salve acquired for the express purpose of storm-proofing feathers, quirk-warmed sheets on the nights he knows he won’t be home on time, as if his presence really means that much to the winged hero. No, he’s just a bedmate to Hawks. It fucking hurts to think about, so he rubs it into his soul until it’s just a dull ache that echoes through him whenever Hawks smiles.
(At the same time, he’s never going to be able to turn Hawks down. Dabi is used to being put into uncomfortable positions and rawed with little consideration, and he gets off on the pain, on the worthlessness that swirls in his gut and bleeds out through his seams. Hawks though, Hawks takes him like he’s never had sex before, torturously gentle and leaving trails of kisses across his scarred cheekbones, down his too-skinny ribs and onto his hips, where he digs his teeth in until Dabi feels like he’s half out of his mind with want. Hawks fills him with heat until he’s strung tight as a bow, and Dabi falls over the precipice when he’s told that he’s “such a good boy.” )
…. (He’ll never admit it, but the next day he’s still walking weird and Shigaraki makes a snide comment that almost gets him roasted into a shitty ash smear on the floor.)
So of course it fucking figures that the day he’s heading back to the apartment from finally paying his dues for the salves (two whole months of running favors for the local hedgewitch), he’s attacked. Some Overhaul vigilante fanboy who manages to get in too close too fast for Dabi to bring his flames up. He’s fast, too fast, and Dabi only manages to roast the fucker by lighting his entire body on fire.
Flames spill out into the street in a wave, bathing everything in blue that leaves behind melted piles of slag. Dabi must be losing his touch if he had that much trouble against one random vigilante.
The walk home is memorably annoying with his skin crisping at the edges and painful spikes of heat spearing him through the gut as his quirk refuses to settle down, though it’s not the worst he’s had. His legs are stiff and he can feel his face start to peel open, feel a bunch of staples either pulled free entirely or partially melted into his flesh. Everything hurts like a motherfucker, so he does what he does best and just keeps walking.
This is his version of the walk of shame. Hawks has talked his ear off about killing people, and Dabi knows it’ll only be worse this time because he managed to get himself hurt in the process. He sighs, puts one stupidly painful foot in front of the other and keeps walking.
He doesn’t even bother with the key when he gets back, melting right through the lock in a way he hasn’t done since the early stages of their acquaintanceship, stepping over the threshold trailing soot. Hawks is over in the kitchen fluttering around making some kind of smoothie, home safe and sound from work. Dabi nods, takes a step towards the bathroom, and promptly falls flat on his face.
There’s half a heartbeat between the time he hits the floor and when Hawks appears by his side, feathers darting this way and that. A cool breeze begins whispering through the apartment, fanning away some of the deadly heat trapped in his skin, and he opens his palms upwards, watching the steam curl up from them.
Hawks is everywhere, touching and gently prodding with heroic efficiency. All Dabi can do is lie there, trying to keep his breathing under control as the pain begins mounting. Why is it getting worse now? Is it because his adrenaline is dying down? Is it because he feels safe in the apartment, around Hawks? Is it because he feels like he can show Hawks his hurts and know he’ll be taken care of?
When Hawks accidentally tugs at a staple, the most pathetic whine ever escapes Dabi’s lips. He almost bites his tongue in half snapping his teeth closed, throwing his walls up as cold fear clamps down on his chest. Before he can fully retreat, he sees the look on Hawks’ face that drains the fight out of him. It’s wide-eyed and aghast, stunned and hurt and--
Please don’t cry. What the fuck am I supposed to do if you start crying?
Almost as if in response, a trail of hot, steaming blood seeps from the edge of one of his undereye scars and trails down into the carpet. He lays still as Hawks feeds him one of his painkillers, lets himself be washed away by the numbness until all he can do is stare dazedly at the ceiling. He’ll need more than just the one, but for now it’s okay.
For the next few weeks, Dabi slides in and out of consciousness, barely remembers eating or anything. All he can recall is calloused hands everywhere, caring for his vulnerable body. In some of the quiet moments after he’s been thoroughly checked over, he can feel hands on his face, in his hair, lingering too long on his arm.
It’s in those soft moments when Dabi makes his decision. Even if Hawks doesn’t love him, he’s. He’s.
He huffs in irritation, sending a frustrated puff of steam towards the bedroom ceiling. Sitting up yanks at half-healed wounds and atrophied muscles, but he does it anyways.
What the fuck, can he even love anymore with how mangled he is? He doesn’t know, but he wants to give Hawks everything, wants him to have the few good parts of him left, the parts that mean something.
Would Hawks even want him though? Subsisting on rage, spite, and painkillers definitely isn’t healthy, but it’s all he has. He loves Hawks with his entire patchwork heart. That’s all there is to it.
Hawks finds him like that a few hours later, and together they tug out old, melted staples and replace them. Dabi feels almost like himself for the first time in weeks, in the same sort of way that cleaning after the long darkness of winter clears cobwebs from the mind. He feels good, new.
The next morning, he pries himself out of bed and tugs a shirt and pants on, shuffles into the kitchen and quietly begins preparing breakfast and a lunch for the hero to take. His range of mobility is a little off for now until he can get used to the new scars carving into his flesh. It feels good to be useful again, he thinks as he takes stock of the pantry.
He hears Hawks get up from the couch, groaning and flapping his wings as he stretches. The wind it stirs up sends the smell of sausage around the apartment until Dabi feels a warm weight at his back, leaning on him.
“Morning,” He says, checking on the skillet and feeling Hawks nuzzle into his bony spine. That can’t be comfortable.
“Mornin’,” Is the reply, followed up by some soft mumbling about how good the food smells, all drawled in a morning-husky voice with the heaviest kansai-ben dialect Dabi’s ever heard. Hawks sleepily wraps his arms around him, stroking the new scarring on his hip and completely unaware of how Dabi’s pulse jumps at the contact. Soft, intimate touches like this are gonna fry Dabi’s nerves before he’s able to do anything about them. He reaches back with his unoccupied hand and lays it over the old handprint scar, humming happily when Hawks presses himself closer.
The entire morning still feels off-kilter, like the world has slid two inches to the left, and Hawks is unusually clingy. Dabi barely manages to kick his ass into gear on time and shove him out the door, lunch in hand. Since when has he become a housewife?
Because the dumbass doesn’t know how to feed himself. And if it doesn’t involve helping someone else, his time management is garbage.
He kisses Hawks before he leaves, easy as breathing.
“Love you,” He says, stealing one more kiss just because he can, and shuts the door.
As soon as the lock clicks into place, he narrows his eyes. That’s not how he usually….
Fucking hell.
It’s a race against time to grab his jacket and jam his feet into his boots, pry open the balcony door and disappear. Behind him, he hears Hawks calling his name, and he has to keep running.
How the fuck did that slip out? The thought isn’t new, it’s been rattling around in his brain for months, why did it choose now to jump out of his mouth? Running from problems had been a Touya thing that he thought he’d left behind. He should have just stayed and when Hawks opened the door, grabbed him and kissed him again.
Nothing to be done about it now, though. He’s got until nightfall to ruminate on all of the ways Hawks has managed to worm his way between his lungs, nesting right next to his heart. Dabi snorts. There’s nothing but inhospitable fireweed growing between his ribs, thriving off of the ashes of a long-dead boy. It only serves to highlight how stubborn Hawks is.
Of course it's just his luck that Hawks tracks him down while he's meeting up with Twice. Their conversation has been a meandering and wildly swinging dialogue of both of Twice's sides giving him orders from Shigaraki and lamenting how he never spends time with them in the PLF mansion. Dabi deflects as always, and is halfway through insisting that he's got his own place when the slightest gust of unnatural wind tousles his hair.
Nosy pigeon.
Twice leaves, and Hawks descends from his perch, and it's like watching some heavenly being deigning to grace a mere mortal with their beauty. The world itself seems to bend itself for Hawks, his wings whip up the stale air, make Dabi's coattails flare and dye the whole alleyway red with the sunlight that passes through his feathers.
Maybe I can get a blessing. Dabi thinks wryly, shoving down the spike of desire that bubbles up in him.
Disappointingly, Hawks lands in front of him rather than in his arms like he wanted, and starts bantering like he does when he’s nervous and trying to hide it. Dabi can tell Hawks wants to talk about it, but neither of them are too keen to broach the subject.
The meeting ends with the morning’s events undiscussed when Hawks manages to finagle some tidbit about Shigaraki’s plans out of him and flits off to do some hero shit, leaving Dabi a flustered, scowling mess. He’ll never understand how Hawks is able to dance him around in circles so easily, he used to be able to keep a secret.
Apparently not anymore, if all it takes is one bird to bat his eyelashes at him to get him to spill. He almost wishes he had a problem with it, but truthfully he doesn't.
There’s no way Hawks will accept his feelings, much less reciprocate them, Dabi knows. It’s never been in the realm of possibility, so he’s never entertained the thought beyond fleeting fantasy. The mere idea of the “what-ifs” feels like a kick to the kidneys, so he’s made peace with the idea of merely being Hawks’ roommate, one of his conquests. Dabi really is the shady flunkie to Hawks’ honor student, and in another life, they’d both be in college and dorming together, kissing and arguing about the steadily growing sock pile by the door in the same breath.
Dabi shakes his head. There’s another one of those impossible what-ifs.
No, Dabi’s a monster, barely human, full-on murderer and arsonist. He’s okay with that, he’s okay being Hawks’ dirty little secret. Hawks would never. Not with him.
No, he and Hawks are good as they are.
He's got a long day of wandering around the city to finish, visits to Ujiko and the hedgewitch to make. It's his first day back on his feet for so long, and his scars, stiffened from not being stretched, aren't very happy with him. Deciding to turn in early, he makes it back to the apartment before midnight and spends a good hour in the bathroom massaging salve into his scars, wishing Hawks was there to get his back.
A new pair of rounded medical scissors catches his eye next to the rolls of bandages he wraps around his sticky calves. When he picks them up, he realizes they’re reversed, left-handed, and his heart does a little flutter because Hawks is right-handed.
Just a roommate. Fuckbuddies. Calm down.
Except now that he’s thought about it, the thoughts keep flooding in, and Dabi has to jam the stapler unnecessarily hard against his flesh to snap himself out of it.
Another hour of staple maintenance later, Dabi emerges from the bathroom, body stinging all over with antiseptic, and starts dinner. Nothing extravagant, just all the random odds and ends thrown together with some seasoning, enough to have leftovers for lunch tomorrow.
Right as he's adding the vegetables, the door to the apartment opens and Hawks strides in. He's got a look on his face, a determined one that Dabi knows means trouble.
Dabi keeps his face carefully neutral as Hawks strides up to him, stands close enough that he can smell his skin, heated from a hard days’ work, and the musk of feathers. He can see the little furrow between his ridiculous brows, the stubborn set to his mouth, and a glint in those golden eyes that makes Dabi hold his breath. Whatever comes out of Hawks’ mouth next is going to gut him, and he’s waiting for the rejection, for the disgust and anger and contempt.
“I love you too.”
Oh.
His heart jumps into his throat, and a different kind of burning sensation spreads out from his chest, a tangled ball of emotions trying to express themselves all at once. Surprise, self-disgust, joy, fear, too many to count. But he doesn’t let any of it show on his face. He has to ruthlessly squash all of his tells so Hawks can’t tell what he’s thinking, so he can’t see into the jumbled mess that is Dabi’s thoughts right now, it’s dangerous--
But is it? Hawks hasn’t used any of the intel he’s gathered against him, not his nearsightedness or his quirk’s drawbacks or how he sleeps like the dead when he’s wrapped in feathers in the vulnerable quiet of their bedroom. For fuck’s sake, he could have murdered Dabi by now thousands of times, but instead he chooses to tend to his scars, to stay by his side through night terrors and mundane days alike, buy his favorite foods and lie to the Commission.
I must have pretty low standards if I’ve gone for the first guy to not actively be trying to kill me.
He wants to second-guess his hearing, but he knows what Hawks said. Alarmingly, he can see doubt beginning to dim the spark in Hawks’ eyes, can see hope dying out there, and he realizes that he wants to save it. Starting fires is second nature for him, but how to light this one?
“Sappy bird,” He says weakly in lieu of an actual response, and now he’s gone and done it, Hawks is going to think he’s not interested, dammit.
Except when he flicks his eyes back to Hawks’ (when did he look away?), they’re wide and a light pink flush has stolen over his face, one that he knows matches the heat in his own cheeks. Something in his expression must have finally given him away after so many months of keeping his feelings under wraps, and now they’re really just staring at each other like a couple of teenagers, hardly daring to believe that this is real.
Dabi is pretty sure neither of them know exactly what love is, but he hopes what he feels is love, because this is what he imagines it would feel like.
The entire world feels like it’s gone from black and white to full, blaring technicolor high-definition, yet all he can focus on is Hawks, and the little smile that blooms on his lips, gold eyes brimming with warmth, his hands that comes up to caress scarred cheeks tenderly, so tenderly.
“I’m home,” Hawks says softly, contentedly.
This feeling is wholly unfamiliar now that it has a name, but it’s also how he feels when they’re negotiating in dank alleyways, on the couch napping in a pile of limbs. So maybe he had it all along. Maybe Hawks has been freely giving it this entire time and he just never noticed, too lost in his own shortcomings, in his own fear.
All of the emotions he’d been suppressing suddenly burst in his chest, and his eyes burn with unshed tears. Instead, his seams tear and weep blood, and damn if that isn’t going to make Hawks fuss over him later, but he’s okay with that. His brokenness never scared him off before.
Please let me stay.
He wants to hold onto this feeling forever, even if forever isn’t guaranteed for either of them. So he brings his hand up to Hawks’, leans his face into a calloused palm and sharp talons that prick at his skin. His mind is quiet, and he finally finds the words he wants to say.
Dabi takes a shuddering breath and lets go.
“Welcome home.”