Chapter Text
Sometime after noon, the 'coffee hours' turn into 'drinking hours' because they're two young men alone in the middle of nowhere with nothing better to do than to see if they can finish off the strangely expansive stock of sparkling champagne in the cupboard. They hold a bottle each, taking long sips and admiring their handiwork.
4 hours of steady decorating and they've got a tree dripping in white and gold, multi-colored lights and strings of popcorn circling about its branches. Hawks like the lights. They start to stretch and look more like little stars after a while, which isn't something he knew they could do.
"Is the couple that owns this place dead?" His words aren't at the point of slurring together, but they're close. He's awfully warm, curling in on himself beneath the blanket. Dabi's quiet for a moment, taking a swig from his bottle as his eyes scan his crossword puzzle.
"...They're alive. They don't come here anymore."
"Do you think we could keep the tree here then? It's too nice to be taken down, don't ya think?"
"...We'll keep it up."
Hawks beams. He curls his wings around himself, tugging the blanket up a bit further as he sets his bottle down on the floor. He lets the conversation breathe for a moment, before turning to a little teasing,
"You're being awfully nice. I bet Christmas is your favorite holiday."
"It used to be."
"Until?"
No answer. There's the sound of a pencil scribbling into the little book. Keigo watches him. He looks lighter. Younger in the light of the fireplace, with his rolled up pants cuffs and fluffy red socks. There's no stress crinkling his brow, just a relaxed pondering as he taps the eraser at the crease between his lips.
Hawks has never known domesticity before, but he imagines that this is what it feels like. He wants to drown in it. To leave his feathers soft and light forever as he lays on this couch with that man sitting fireside, never to enter another battle again.
"I didn't have anyone to spend it with for a while." It takes Hawks a moment to remember that he had asked a question, and that this is the response.
"Until me." he says. Those words are slurred. Dabi snickers.
"Until Toga and Twice ," he corrects. "I was celebrating with them long before you came along."
"But they aren't here now."
"They're not." Dabi agrees. He goes quiet again, filling in a couple more slots in his crossword. Then, lowly, "They got their gifts already."
"You got them gifts?" The last bit of his consciousness rouses for that little detail. "Did you get me a gift? Fuck, was I supposed to get you a gift?"
"You're my gift."
"Aww, that's so swe-,"
"I kidnapped you. So you're my gift. Don't worry about it."
Hawks frowns. Dabi throws a pillow at his face that he barely manages to spear through with a feather. The man snickers and Hawks throws the pillow right back before turning over. He's tired and a little drunk so he's going to sleep it off and deal with the headache of excessive champagne and poorly timed naps later.
He's well on his way into his dreams when he hears it:
"Do you want a gift?"
He does, but he's not sure what he would ask for. He supposes he wants a gift for the tradition of it all, not because the item itself would hold any worth. The things he really does want-time, freedom, peace of mind-cannot be bought, wrapped in red tartan-patterned paper and tied up with a little bow. So he considers the little things. Fried chicken, strawberry shortcake, more champagne, a warmer blanket, a nice warm bath.
He starts snoring before he could name any of them aloud.
When he wakes up, his wings ache. He tries to stretch one out but it makes a cracking sound that dissuades him from doing anymore. Sleeping on the couch is terrible on his back, and to make matters worse, that post-drunk nap headache has settled in with full force, thumping within his brain like a war drum. His mouth tastes like sandpaper. He's cold. This all adding up to create Bad Mood Hawks.
And Bad Mood Hawks is a total fucking psycho.
He turns over, eyes narrowed at the empty hearth. He wants to set out feathers to set things up again, but he needs Dabi's fire to finish the job. And the man isn't here. The crossword sits open on the coffee table, complete. There's his empty Mickey Mouse coffee cup. But the man is nowhere to be seen.
Hawks is starting to get tired of this shit. Plucking his champagne and the veil up from the floor, he nestles the bottle underneath his armpit and the tiara on his head. Lopsided. Irreverant.
Then he sets to go take a shower cause he's feeling grimy.
Dabi is found in the hallway. He's shirtless, scars on full display and a towel around his neck. Their eyes meet. Bad Mood Hawks narrows his eyes, going to his tippy-toes to creep around him when the man doesn't get out of the way. Setting his bottle on the floor where he can clearly see it if he keeps the door open (Dabi has sticky fingers), he sets on his way.
"Not that one."
He stops, hand halfway to the bathroom knob.
Blue eyes flicker from his face, to his hand, then to the floor.
"Use the one upstairs," The man mutters. If Hawks didn't know any better, he'd say the guy's embarrassed. But of what? What could be bad enough to bother Dabi of all people?
"Did you back up the toilet?"
"No, fuck you."
"It's ok." Hawks says, but he inches far away from that door as quickly yet subtly as possible. "Just make sure to get Draino when you go back ou-. Ah!"
By reflexes alone, he dodges the towel whipped at his back, forcing his aching wings into action as he flies up the steps. The bathroom up the steps isn't difficult to find. The master bedroom had a door in the corner gone unopened. He figures that's his best guess.
It's been cleaned. It wasn't him. He didn't see the point in making it all look nice but apparently Dabi did. The cobwebs are gone. The sheets have been changed. All the clothes they messed up are folded on the floors, with the wedding dress hung up by the window. The reds and golds of sunset seep through the white tulle, muted but pretty when he looks upon it. He takes the tiara off, placing it on the edge of the hanger, by the gown where it belongs.
Pretty, or whatever.
He opens the mystery door, hoping he hasn't made a terrible mistake and that there won't be a monstrosity of rusty taps and water bugs waiting for him behind the wood. He throws it open, feathers out and ready to give any spiders a beat down.
There are none to meet his challenge.
It's immaculate. All gleaming smooth marble and and golden finishes. It's bigger than the door led him to believe, about the size of another full bedroom.
And at the center of it all is the bath. A huge round circle of white marble filled to the very brim with bubbles. It's bigger than the one he has at home by far. There's more than enough space for him to spread his wings. They're already ripping through the mess of fabric at his back, flapping in his eager to jump right in. Without fanfare, he strips, tossing his clothes to the side before he slips into the bath. It's just right. Not too hot, not too cold with a lovely scent of lavender and sweet pea clinging to the suds.
He dunks his head down below.
CLICK!
Hawks startles. Eyes wide, he whips around, feathers at the ready.
Dabi sits on the counter, one leg braced against the ground as the other swings idly. A photograph sits in his lap. There's an old camera at his face. His thumb makes quick work, getting one more shot in before Hawks fully settles in. Dabi slips the photo from the chute as it prints. He holds it gently, face impassive as he looks it over.
Finally, he snorts.
"...Aren't you supposed to be a model?"
"I do better with creative direction." He replies snippily. Dabi glances up and the look in his eyes makes his heart stutter.
"Do something sexy."
"You're an absolute tool."
Dabi stares at him. Expectant. Unrelenting. Amused.
It's inevitable that Hawks sinks low into the bath, cheeks a vicious red, smile fighting to form at his lips.
"I don't know why you're acting shy. I've seen your Calvin Klein ads."
"With professionals!” Hawks exclaims past the suds. “With people I haven't fucked! Those are work sets! Not something intimate with my-,"
He cuts himself off.
What are they? They've never gotten around to give this thing they have a name. Friends? Fuck-buddies who turn kidnappings into romantic holiday getaways? This man sitting on the counter, camera in his hands, eyes greedy and heated and wanting ; he's seen every part of his body. Hawks could tell you that he hates fish. That he gets car-sick easily so he has to be the one driving.. That he puts on his socks before anything else when he gets dressed because his feet are always the first to get cold. He couldn't tell you his real name. Where he was born. What his family was like. All he's ever been given is what's in front of him.
It doesn't matter whether he's ok with that or not. He's confident he won't get something more anyway.
"What do you want these pictures for anyway? I better not see them on Twitter."
"We deserve memories," Dabi mumbles, adjusting the lens. "If we can't have anything else, then we can at least have these."
(Hawks could tell you that Dabi has a brain underneath all that cheap hair dye and split ends. He could tell you that every once in a while, he'll pull out lines that twist his heartstrings into cat's paw knots.)
"Go over by the window," He says. Blue eyes flick up, brow twitched up in silent question.
"The lighting," Hawks jerks his head to the setting sun, myriad of colors streaming through the open glass. "I can give you better shot if you crouch under the window and let me take advantage of golden hour."
He listens. He goes to his knees before the tub and Hawks practically swims to his end. He moves like a photographer. Expert angles, subtle little directives given in low murmurs and a keen eye on the shots they've already got.
"Where's the veil?" He asks. Hawks doesn't leave his pose, shooting a feather out to grab it. He doesn't want to get it wet but there's a certain light in Dabi's eyes when he looks at it. So he's careful when he sets it on his head-straight on this time, arranging the tulle so it doesn't hide his face.
(He likes how Dabi looks at him, eyes a little unfocused, pupils blown wide as his breath stutters. On his knees like a person of the faith come to worship.)
"I like how this feels." He throws his hand in the air, throwing out the veil as he goes. There's a small burst of triumph in his chest when blue eyes trace the water running down his chest. "I wouldn't mind getting married in a veil."
"You wanna get married?"
"Someday. I like to think I deserve some wedding cake." It's a joke. Dabi doesn't laugh. He takes one more photo, before setting the camera to the side. He stands and for a heart-sinking moment Hawks thinks that he said something wrong. Then, in one smooth step, the man is in his space, a hand at his neck and the other on the crown. He's close enough that Hawks can smell the sandalwood of his own cologne (Dabi's sticky fingers are going to get cut off if he keeps fucking around. Hawks reminds himself to hide his jacket and all the crap he keeps in his pockets somewhere secure.)
"It suits you."
"I know. I tend to look good in expensive things."
Dabi rolls his eyes, but Hawks can see the twitch of his lips. He's laughing. He may not show it, but he is.
"A wedding, I mean." And for the second time, his heart comes to a jarring halt because he's not proposing. Dabi's not the type to do that shit, but he's going to his knees, reaching behind him and-.
He picks up the camera, then starts to walk away, muttering, "Can't wait to meet the sucker that's stupid enough to get caught up in your wedding plans. You'd eat the whole cake before the damn thing even starts."
Dabi's an asshole. Is Hawks disappointed or relieved? He can't tell. There's something swirling in him but, despite the strength of the emotion, he can't place it anywhere. He chooses annoyance. It's the easiest to work with. It's annoyance that causes him to send his feathers out, carrying as much water as they can, dripping wet as they chase Dabi around. It's not until he hears a short, sharp shout that he settles back into his bath, smirking all the while.
He finishes without too much fanfare. The water's not as warm anymore so he loses interest quickly. He has a feather bring him lotion and two towels, waddling out into the cool air with one tied around his waist and the other in his hair.
He should've expected the ambush awaiting him when he got out.
Even his reflexes couldn't get him out of a wet shirt to the face. The thing's cold. Hawks is sure he smells snow on it as it slowly slides off its perch.
It lands on the floor with a plop.
Dabi looks at him from the bed, cross-legged with a word-find booklet in his hand. There's feathers struggling to break free underneath him.
Dabi smirks.
Hawks tackles him, wet towels and all. There's screaming, flailing limbs, Hawks gets a noseful of fresh linens (how the hell did he manage to wash these things without him knowing? they've been living together for days now) and Dabi gets a wing to the face. For each flick to his nose, Hawks gives an elbow jab back.
It's all over when Dabi presses his lips to his stomach and blows.
" I yiel-," He doesn't even manage to say it before he's curling in on himself, a wheeze of laughter ripped from his throat. He tries to reach up, to tear Dabi away but the man is strong, holding him down by the shoulders as his lips shift over his stomach. Hawks is terribly ticklish, thrashing against the touch as much as he can with the space he has.
Then Dabi stops.
"...Is that a shampoo bottle or are you happy to see me?"
"Fuck right off . I'm a human being you prick-."
Dabi jabs him in the armpit like the jackass he is. Hawks gives a squawk, but that's cut off by lips on his. The sound is swallowed, leaving behind a buzzing quiet that he feels rather than hears. They kiss lazily, mouths already open for the other to take their place between jaws and entangle tongues, pink tips flicking over the backs of teeth.
There's a hand inching under his towel, loosening the knot as it goes. The touch is teasing, a brush of knuckles against his inner thigh, pinky finger running over thin golden hairs till they hit their target.
Hawks groans, arching his back a little as Dabi finally takes his cock into hand. He breaks off from the kiss, turning his head to the side, but Dabi's in the mood to take today, so the man continues pressing his lips against his neck, nipping his way down the column with a roughness that would bruise over.
(he wants to look in the mirror and see it. All of the evidence. He wants to walk around in a low-collar and not worry about concealer for once. So when Dabi rests at his collarbone, nose against the right nub as his teeth begin to get at his chest, Hawks doesn't complain. He wraps a hand in the man's hair, split-ends and all, whispering little encouragements.)
"Off," he makes the demand, because he's allowed. He tugs at Dabi's waistband because he can. He's ready to go but his partner is set on taking his time, slipping out of the slacks with a lazy-almost catlike-ease. He even takes the time to fold them, uncaring of how Hawks's dick twitched, aching for his touch.
"I hate you."
Dabi smirks, removing his socks one at a time, balling them up. Hawks nearly climbs into his lap, but he's shoved back again, set upon with that same toe-curling heat.
When they kiss, it's a Nascar crash: an utter clusterfuck of a collision that neither come away from unscathed. Dabi's got a staple tugged out. There's a cut on his lip from where Hawks bit too hard. He's sure he doesn't look any better. Blue eyes promise revenge as the man makes his way down, nipping down his sternum, mouth skating over the smooth expanse of his belly till he's reached his goal.
He doesn't look away once he takes Hawks whole, tongue flicking against his shaft in a way that makes him clench the sheets, throwing his head back. Dabi moves like he's curious, taking his time to tongue the slit, giving an experimental suck before inching his way down. It's lewd; wet, sloppy sounds fill the room closely followed by little sighs and groans that he refuses to take ownership of.
Dabi makes a pretty picture down there, smirk lazy, lips shiny with spit. Utterly unaffected everywhere but the eyes, twin blazes of blue beneath thick white lashes soaking up every reaction Hawks lets out.
"Focus up," he says, just to be annoying. Dabi punishes him by letting him go, mouth sliding off with an abrupt pop. The absence of heat immediately has him wincing, dick twitching between the man's fingers as Hawks leers down at him.
Dabi arches a brow.
Hawks huffs.
Dabi cocks his head, thumb swiping a bead of pre-cum from the slit as his lips pull into a smirk.
'I'm waiting' it says. And though he seems pleased to wait there, Hawks is not a patient man.
"...Please." It's a low, velvety murmur, but it's enough to make blue eyes flash with promise. He doesn't complain when Dabi dips his head again, spreading his legs like an obedient little whore when the first finger brushes over his hole, wet with spit.
One is joined by three more till Hawks is loose and wanting. He clamps his teeth down on a moan when Dabi slips his hand out, gripping his ass to lift him up-,
“I wanna hear you, Birdie.” It’s a demand. A low, rich tone and nickname combo that makes him sigh when the man switches up their angles,
Hawks lets him have his way, tilting his head back to enjoy the ride. Little gasps and fumbled groans leave him every so often, a low hiss here when Dabi thrusts. He has to fight against swallowing a whimper when Dabi hits home, sending a burst of electricity through his body.
His man's pretty, with his long white lashes and big blue eyes and sex-mess hair. His man’s a tease that knows how to rock his hips, where to kiss, how to push him down by the hips and grind till he’s on the edge, the need for release hitting its peak.
But Hawks finds his teary eyes wandering.
Somehow, someway, he’s distracted.
There's a portrait on the bedside table. A woman holds her toddler and a baby, all three are white-haired with the same toothy smile aimed at whoever the lucky photographer is. There's a spark of recognition in him. He wants to take a closer look, slake this sudden curiosity of the family that owns this place.
Then Dabi does something genius with a twitch of his hips, quickening the tempo to something borderline brutal and Hawks forgets all about the strange woman and her children. There are hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise and lips latched onto his pert nipple. He shuts his eyes, grabs Dabi by the hair and spurs him on.
Christmas morning finds them dancing in their living room. The fire crackles and roars, safe in its hearth. There's a snowstorm raging outside, wind fighting the branches of tall, green-needled trees, some tapping against the glass windows.
But they're safe in the middle of the parlor, dancing like drunk grandparents as the record spins on. Hawks wears the wedding dress, but the bodice keeps slipping off, leaving his chest open to the air, nipples stiff and standing at attention-rebellious little things that hurt everytime he tugs the damned thing up.
Dabi's stolen his veil. He doesn't make it look as good as Hawks did, but he's still charming, dancing in a suit that loose in the shoulders and too short in the legs. They must look like idiots but it's Christmas .
If they want to finish off the last two bottles of champagne, fling strawberry shortcake at each other, jump on the couches and scream lyrics to songs embedded in their minds by now, then they will do it.
And if Hawks wants to pretend this is his wedding day, that this dress slipping off his nipples is instead a pure white suit and that he's wearing a pair of Gucci loafers instead of doing the shimmy with his bare feet, black talons scratching against the floorboards then by all means he will do it. Dabi's a shit husband but if he closes his eyes and uses his imagination, he can replace the man's face with any k-pop star he wants.
But when they kiss, that's all him. All fire and biting heat. He couldn't pin this tongue to anyone else, couldn't give credit for the way his chest tightens when his lower lip gets nipped, or how he chases after him when he pulls away for air.
At least until a phone rings. He hasn't heard the sound of a phone's ringtone in a long while so the jingles are alarming at best, terrifying at worst. His own is dead, so it can only be Dabi's. Sure enough, the man stops mid-swig of champagne, and goes to his things. It's a bit of rustling, but he uncovers the thing eventually, scanning the Caller ID before picking up.
Shigaraki then.
Hawks tries to eavesdrop but the man walks outside before anything of substance can be said. He's tempted to open up a window and try anyway, but something holds him back.
It's strange, hearing from the 'real world'. It's like the suspension of disbelief has been stopped. They're bound by logic once more. Society and all its silly rules kicks a hole into their little bubble and Hawks- this Hawks , the one that drinks before noon and does puzzles and has the time to just sit and do nothing- is struggling to breath as all the air rushes out into the void.
He's alone in the middle of room that's simultaneously too large for him alone and too small for him to feel anything other than an acute sense of entrapment.
So he dances on, shutting his eyes to the sight of the empty doorway and focusing on the music instead. He gives in to the sway, letting his hips carry the strum of the bass line as his hands weave through the air, carefree and simple, wings curled in to block off the worst of the cold as the winds bluster through the door. A simple twitch from his feathers and the bodice of the dress is tattered. It's more a skirt after a while, a shame that he can't bring himself to care about, taking another swig of champagne in the hopes that the burn in his throat would fight off the sudden biting emptiness in his chest.
(is it fear? of what's to come? of what's waiting for them? how long could one phone conversation last?)
The bottle's halfway gone by the time Dabi reappears. He looks like a ghost, a figure of black against the stark white of outside, veil floating around his face with the strange lighting of a will o wisp.
For a moment, they simply stare at each other. The man doesn't tell him what that phone call was about. Hawks doesn't ask. The record plays on. The singer’s croons are terribly loud in their silence.
A beat passes. Two.
Hawks keeps dancing. He keeps his hips in that steady back and forth rhythm, letting his eyelids fall to half mast as his wrists tilt to beckoning. Dabi joins him of course, nicking the bottle away first for a swig before taking a hand into his, pulling the man till their foreheads brush.
(he's not making eye contact. that's how Hawks knows something's up. he's looking at the floorboards. there's an exhaustion that seems to wear down his very bones. Hawks holds him up regardless.)
They sway. Winter rushes in but they stand against it, letting the wind howl and the music play on.
"Present time." is sullenly announced at precisely 2:30 pm. Hawks stirs but doesn't raise his head from Dabi's shoulder. The wedding dress is slung over the back of the couch. The veil sits at the top of their tree. Four finished books of crosswords and one half-finished puzzle sit on the coffee table. He looks to the image of half a Santa Claus beaming up at him as Dabi squirms to get out from under him. Eventually, he manages to roll off the couch, sending Hawks to the floor as he crawls on his hands and knees to the tree.
Hawks wonders why he's chosen now. They were perfectly content on the couch. It's as if he, too, is aware of what's waiting for them when they get back. There's a not-so-distant future that'll rip them apart. They're not idiots. They know that this moment isn’t forever.
But for now, his not-so-boyfriend is crouching beneath the Christmas tree, tugging a box out from beneath the little tree skirt. It's wrapped in newspaper and finished crosswords, haphazardly thrown together with too many bits of tape to look aesthetic. The sight of it makes Hawks's chest tight anyway.
"I thought we weren't doing presents."
"You're not." He holds it out, "And I didn't pay for this so I don't think it counts."
Hawks laughs. It's wet, a little choked, but it's sourced from a warm little nook in his heart. He accepts the tiny thing. Turns it over. Rattles it to hear what's inside. He rarely gets presents he can keep- let alone Christmas presents- after all; he wants to savor this moment. So with delicate fingers, he undoes the shoddy work, lifting off the cover of the black box to reveal:
Rings.
Simple silver bands. One with a diamond encrusted at it's center and the other just smooth metal. They're old. They've got scratches and dinks and the like but that doesn't matter.
Hawks picks it up and, naturally, looks to see the inside.
"...R-Rei?" He reads, brow furrowed. "Who in the world is Rei-?"
The ring's snatched before he can finish. Dabi looks to see for himself, expression unreadable. Without a single word, he holds the thing steady, and sets it on fire.
It's a focused flame. A welder's blue sharpened to a point directed at the interior. Hawks has never seen him control his quirk like this. The strain of it-the heat of the flames and the strength required to keep it from spilling out beyond that finger-is obvious from how his arm begins to shake. The quivers continue even after he's done, steam rising from the limb carrying the stench of burnt flesh.
"...You didn't have to." Hawks murmurs.
He lets a feather take the ring, wincing as it burns the tip before shooting it out into the snow, forcing the thing to cool. He sends out more and has the bunch bring a hefty amount in. Unceremoniously, he dumps it on Dabi's arm, ignoring the man's hiss as he pulls him into a reclining position, head on his lap.
"This is the part where you thank me, and wish me a Merry Christmas."
Hawks hums, running hand through dark locks, fingers scratching at the bright white roots. His eyes are on his feathers, idly watching the red and white blurs as they continue to dump more and more snow on the arm.
"...Merry Chrysler," he says eventually. Dabi swats him with his good hand, but he lets the palm linger on Hawks's elbow, squeezing for a moment as his eyes flutter shut. Hawks is caught up in his eyebrows again. White as the snow, long and thick against the sliver of red on his cheeks
(and once again he's struck with the realization that Dabi's pretty. He's got burns and staples and scars and scratches but he's still terribly attractive. he wonders what his parents look (-ed?) like. this can only be the production of good genes.)
"We should get our shit and go home."
"Now?"
"Tonight." Hawks is a good soldier. He can recognize an order when he hears one. Even if he wanted to argue, there's no basis for him to argue from.
Hawks doesn't respond. They don't say anything for a while. A feather brings in his ring and he tries it on. The metal's freezing cold but he slips it onto his finger anyway. Smooth from the flames. Shiny in the light of the afternoon.
A perfect fit just below the knuckle.
They don't have much 'shit' to gather. Hawks came with nothing but the clothes on his back. This stuff isn't his so he doesn't have to pack anything away. He starts to clean at least. He figures it would be disrespectful to leave the house a mess in case the owners do come back. He packs away the faithful record player, cleans the dishes, clears out the hearth and is about to start on setting up a laundry pile for the clothes they borrowed when Dabi stops him.
"Don't do useless shit. Do you have everything you want?"
Hawks looks down to the blanket in the man’s hands, spread to hold a few crossword booklets, the photos they took, the only record they've been listening to and a bunch of leftover food.
"...You're robbing them?" There a cold feeling in his chest. Dabi shrugs. Bunching the blanket into one hand to make a sack, he throws it over his shoulder.
"Those people....They're not coming back here." He picks the crown and veil from the coffee table only to set it on Hawks's head. The weight of the crystals is terribly heavy all of a sudden. He has to duck under the force of it, hands in his pockets as he follows Dabi out the door.
The car's already running. He sits warm and snug in the front seat this time, watching through the rearview mirror as Dabi throws his sack of shit in the trunk, then strolls back into the house.
He's in there for a couple minutes, doing god-knows-what as he emerges empty-handed. He doesn't explain as he pulls into the driver's seat. He slips sunglasses that definitely belong to Hawks from the cup holder, onto his face as he drives them out of there. His ring is cool silver against the black of the steering wheel. Hawks rips his eyes from the clash to look at the sudden blaze of blue behind them. A roar of flames, crackling wood and melting snow as the entire lodge comes tumbling.
(it's for the best, he supposes. he lowers his window to smell the smoke.)
Christmas burns down behind them, piles of ash and wood and memories all gone to crisps in a blaze of sweltering blue so great it seemed alive, flames swaying along to the melodies that same old record
The dashboard spreads wide to a cool gray sky. They drive into the sunrise, a great ball of white behind a screen of clouds.
"Eh? Burned down?"
Natsuo looks up from his bowl of oden. Fuyumi's face is doing that thing it does when she's confused. Snub nose scrunched up tight, usually kind eyes narrowed into skeptical slits. It's a rare sight: one seen when she's grading a particularly stupid child's test or when Endeavor starts talking about work politics during one of their 'family dinners'.
The stranger on the phone says a few words; all he hears is deep-toned garbling before his sister cuts in with little hums and an 'Oh, I see'.
It wraps up pretty quickly. Fuyumi nods to an unseen conversation-partner before saying,
"Yes. Thank you for informing me. I assume that my father already...? Yes. Yes of course. Thank you so much."
She hangs up. Turns to him.
"Did you know we had a winter lodge in Niigata?"
"Sounds familiar." He sets down his fork, thinking back. "Mom's mentioned it before, when I first talked about wanting to propose. I think they were there for their honeymoon…?” She stares. He shrugs. “ I've never been though. You should know it better than me. You and Touya were the only ones to..."
He trails off. Fuyumi gingerly sets her phone down, turning her back to him and setting her attention on the dishes once more.
"Well it's too late now." Her voice is high. Chipper. Fake. "The place is gone. Burned down in some freak accident. The insurance company wants to have a talk about 'next steps'."
"...Well, we never really used it. I’m sure those two even forgot they owned it...Hey, we can donate the money. Spread a little Christmas cheer to some orphaned kids or inner-city schools or somethin’!”
She'd like that. Sure enough, she turns, wry little grin on her face. Natsuo smiles back, resolving to find a charity that suits them later.
That settled, they go back to their normal routine, all thoughts of a winter lodge they never knew and the life they could’ve had fading into the night.