Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dawn creeps over the horizon, its first light slipping through the hotel room’s windows. But sleep did not find Hawks during the night.

He doubts he could have ever been able to drift off, even if he tried. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to move from where he’d situated himself a few hours ago; with his back pressed up against the bed’s headboard so that he could keep a watchful eye over Dabi’s slumbering form.

Dabi had tossed and turned during the night, managing to shrug off some of the duvet’s covering in the process. It pools around his waist as Dabi sleeps on, curled onto his side with his back towards Hawks. Hawks hasn’t been able to tear his eyes away from his scarred skin for hours now.

He wants to reach out and touch those scars, as if they might actually be able to hold any of the answers to the frenzy of questions buzzing around his head.

Hawks’ golden eyes roam the flame tattoos that map across the expanse of Dabi’s scarred skin. Had the tattoos been intended to serve as a cover-up for the scarring? If so, there must have come a point where Dabi had realised no amount of ink could ever truly hide the damage. When had that come? At what stage did he realise he’d reached the point of no return, and kept on burning himself anyway?

And no one knew about it. If anyone had been aware of the injuries he was causing himself, surely someone would have stopped him. If Endeavor had trained Dabi ever since childhood, if he’d been monitoring his progress as he developed, then how did he not see the wounds on his child’s own skin?

Hawks chews on his lower lip as he watches the sun’s warm light caress Dabi’s silhouette, spilling in through the cracks in the curtain.

It feels so painfully unfair that the hero Endeavor could save Keigo Takami, but not his own son.

Who was Keigo to deserve such grace? No one but the pitiful son of a murderous thief; his own bloodline rotten and black.

Hawks presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and lets his skull fall back against the headboard. The question of Endeavor is weighing heavily on him in more ways than just Dabi, after the events of last night. He hasn’t had it in him to check his phone ever since Dabi showed up on his doorstep, and therefore is unaware of any developments surrounding All Might’s status that might have come to light in the last few hours. But Hawks knows with a strange sort of certainty that the Symbol of Peace’s hero days are over.

The media seemed to think that All Might’s final declaration — ‘now, it’s your turn’ — had been aimed at any fledgling villains out there. But Hawks had seen how the older hero’s frail arm had shook as he fought to stay standing upright.

Even mountains someday crumble. Everything fades, so they say. Even Gods fall to ruin.

All Might had been passing on the torch. Be it to an individual, to other heroes, or to the world at large — the message was that his role had finally become one he could no longer bear.

It was up to them now to somehow fill the unimaginable void he would be leaving behind.

To their new Number One. Endeavor.

Not to mention the fact that Hawks would now be the new Number Two. The thought is a sickly, lingering presence dancing on the periphery of his mind. He knew that this day would eventually come; truth be told, he’d been preparing for the likelihood that he’d eventually overtake Endeavor’s place on the charts once the older man’s physical prowess began to succumb to age. But never had he thought it would be this soon.

Twenty-two years of age, and soon to be the Number Two Pro Hero of Japan.

What a fucking joke.

But those thoughts could wait.

He had more pressing concerns currently lying right beside him.

The morning sun has well and truly crested the horizon by the time Dabi finally stirs awake. Hawks had been distracted by the bedside clock, watching it wink the time in a shade of fluorescent red so bright that it burned the back of his eyelids. He had planned to have left for his stake-out an hour ago, and he’s sure that the President must be blowing up his phone with questions regarding his whereabouts. But he had left the device in the other room, and had chosen not to send Fierce Wings in search of it whilst Dabi slept.

All thoughts of the time, his phone, and even the mission, flee Hawks’ head when he feels Dabi groggily rousing at his side.

Several of his coverts are still splayed over Dabi’s back, curling around the curve of his shoulder. Hawks considers withdrawing them, but figures that will only draw more questions than leaving them where they are.

His stupid, treacherous heart thumps in his stupid, tremulous chest as Dabi scrubs a hand over his face, with his back still turned towards Hawks. It’s unlikely that he realises where he is just yet, this close after waking. He wonders how much Dabi even remembers, given how much he’d had to drink.

Dabi rolls over, and two neon blue eyes peek up at Hawks from beneath a mop of messy white hair. It’s a marvel how vibrant Dabi’s eyes are, even with sleep and an obvious hangover blurring them.

“Hey,” Dabi mumbles.

“Hey yourself,” Hawks answers. He feels strangely exposed, despite the fact he’s still in his clothes from the night before. Maybe it’s because he’s never actually woken up beside another person before; any occasion where he’d wound up in bed with a sexual tryst, he made sure there wasn’t much excuse to hang around and bask in the afterglow.

Dabi pushes himself up onto one elbow, and squints down at his own half-naked body.

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry,” Hawks drawls, nudging at Dabi’s shoulder with his wing. “I didn’t take advantage of your virtue.”

He knows that isn’t what Dabi is disparaging over, but anything to lighten the mood before what comes next.

The corner of Dabi’s mouth twitches up into a wry smirk. It doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“How noble of you,” he rasps, dryly, “preserving my dignity.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

Hawks notices Dabi’s fingers twitching, tapping out an anxious little rhythm on the bed sheets. He recognises it as a tell-tale sign that he’s in need of a cigarette. Hawks can see it on his face, too, the slight furrow of his brow as the canine of one white tooth worries at his lower lip; his uncannily blue eyes darting back and forth. He’s about to use it as an excuse to get out of this conversation, if Hawks doesn’t stop him. He’ll mutter something about not being able to think until after he’s had his morning smoke, hurriedly gather up his clothes and dress himself, then quietly slip back to his room before Hawks gets the chance to protest.

If Dabi does that, he’ll shut the door on the question of his scars forever. Hawks knows this.

So Hawks does what he does best: he strikes first.

Dabi blinks in surprise as a feather zips into the room and deposits his packet of Seven Stars directly into his lap. Hawks holds out his own palm, and accepts the batteries that Fierce Wings have fetched out of the smoke alarm.

Dabi regards him with an expression that manages to look simultaneously impressed and exasperated.

“My bad influence must be rubbing off on you,” he mutters, begrudgingly sitting up. He rolls out his shoulders, grimacing at the occasional click earned by the stretch, before leaning back against the headboard. Right next to Hawks.

He turns the pack over in his hands, tapping one long finger against its base.

“I don’t suppose you’ll settle for me telling you that it’s none of your business, hm?” Dabi asks, a little too casually. He snatches the cigarette that shakes loose of its packaging, and slips it between his lips. Hawks can’t help but smile wryly, in spite of himself.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not gonna cut it,” he replies, balancing his folded arms on top of his raised knees. “Unfortunately, it is my business now. You can’t expect me to work with you and be okay with the fact that using your Quirk is causing you actual bodily fucking harm, Dabi.”

Dabi rolls his eyes.

“It’s not that simple,” he gripes. He presses his index finger to the tip of his cigarette, summoning a single, tiny turquoise flame. Dabi looks at Hawks pointedly as he sucks in a breath, and the taper sparks to life. “See? No harm done.”

“Dabi,” Hawks repeats, firmly. He meets the other hero’s eyes without flinching. “You’re not getting out of this. Tell me what’s going on.”

Dabi draws in a long drag of nicotine, his thick eyelashes fluttering shut as he savours the hit. The peaceful expression on his face is so entirely at odds with the war wounds written across his skin.

He exhales a long plume of smoke, sighing audibly as the back of his head knocks against the headboard.

“It’s not as dramatic a deal as you’re making it out to be,” Dabi huffs, rolling the filter of his cigarette between his fingers. “I’ve already told you most of the basics. Dad wanted the ideal Quirk and bought my mom in order to make that happen. Unfortunately, I came out of the oven with the ingredients all mixed up. Extreme cold doesn’t phase me, but too much heat…”

He shrugs, raising the cigarette back up to his lips. His electric blue gaze is trained ahead of him, on something unseen.

“...I’ve got more firepower than my Dad, you know that? When my Quirk first manifested, he was so sure that I was going to be the one who could achieve his goals — even if it wasn’t the combination of ice and fire that he’d hoped for. But when it came time to teach me his ultimate move — to raising the heat high enough for Flashfire Fist, I…”

Dabi lifts his left arm and eyes the heavily scarred skin with a wry smile.

“...After that, he wanted me to quit training, but I wasn’t really one to take no for an answer. I’m his son, after all. We argued — a lot. He put this fire in me, I wasn’t going to let it go out. He eventually agreed to keep training me, so long as I wore support equipment to counteract the heat. Along with the promise that I’d keep Blue Flame in check: the moment I felt it starting to burn, I was to stop.”

Hawks waits as Dabi pauses in order to inhale another long hit of nicotine. He has an uncomfortable feeling that he knows exactly where this story is going.

“But it became clear very quickly that holding myself back and falling victim to my own limitations was never gonna get me anywhere. A hero’s supposed to surpass their limits, right? If I had to work within the threshold of my own, I would have never even made it into a Hero Academy, let alone cut it as a Pro.”

Dabi examines the cigarette held between his slim fingers. Now that he’s stripped of his usual long-sleeved clothing, and the gauntlet sleeves that hook around his palms, Hawks can see the burns that creep up the back of Dabi’s hands. He realises with a start that he must have purposefully designed his entire hero costume with the idea of concealing the scarring all over his body. How old had he been, then, when he committed to maiming himself for the sake of his father’s dream?

“Once Shouto was born,” Dabi continues, his voice cracking ever so slightly, “I knew I didn’t have a choice anymore. I had to find a way to overcome this…deficit.”

Silence, except for the sound of the embers of Dabi’s cigarette crackling as he takes another drag.

“Dad’s all about brute force when it comes to fighting. Maybe it’s because he’s too caught up obsessing over what All Might does, that it means he’s never really valued precision. So I focused the heat of my flames where he couldn’t see them, and claimed my ongoing prowess was all thanks to the support equipment’s help.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, bitterly.

“Can’t even give me that much credit, I suppose.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Hawks asks, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. He feels like he’s been hit by the shock of seeing the other man’s scars for the first time all over again.

Dabi glances at him. The sunlight that spills in through the curtains bathes him in a warm glow, making him look softer than usual. It takes away some of his harsher edges, casting him instead in a sepia shimmer.

“It used to,” Dabi answers, heaving a one-armed shrug. The tip of his cigarette glows blue as he takes another puff of it, holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat. He tilts his head back when he exhales, watching the grey tendrils of smoke rising into the air. “But you’d be surprised what you can get used to. Still stings a little when I go all out, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

What must it be like to have a Quirk that hurts your own body? Hawks feels his wings twitch at his back, unconsciously trying to curl around his shoulders at the very thought. His Quirk is as much a part of him as any of his limbs, or his vital organs, and the thought that it might rampage against him to the point of physical harm is too much to bear.

Liar, whispers a bitter voice buried in the back of his head — the voice that he tries so desperately to push away in order to do his job. You know what it’s like to use your Quirk to the point of pain. The only difference is that you use it to harm others rather than yourself.

All in the name of that same dream. To be a hero.

“No one else knows?” Hawks asks, pointedly ignoring that uncomfortable train of thought. “Not even your sister?”

Dabi breathes in a last drag of his cigarette, before extinguishing it in his trademark manner: incinerating the remains in a small burst of vibrant blue flames. He pulls his legs up towards him, and narrows his eyes at Hawks.

“Nobody knows. Especially not Fuyumi. And it’s going to stay that way — understand that, birdie?”

“Your doctors,” Hawks protests, weakly. “The ones at the Agency, they must have…”

Dabi snorts, derisively.

“You think I’d trust any of them to honour their Hippocratic oath over risking my dad’s wrath? Fuck that. I have my own guy I see, if I ever need more than a basic check-up. He knows how to be discreet.”

He pauses, scratching irritably at his neck. He looks like he’s already in need of another cigarette.

“Look. I put you in a bad spot, and I get that. Coming in here drunk, exposing you to…” Dabi makes a vague sweeping gesture over his scarred torso. “All this. I was pretty messed up last night, and I didn’t mean to drag you into the fucking…burden of this knowledge, or whatever you want to call it. So I’m sorry, I genuinely am. But you need to forget about it. This shouldn’t change things between us.”

Hawks lets out a scornful laugh of disbelief.

“Are you fucking serious?” he huffs. “You want me to forget? Damnit, Dabi, you can’t ask me to be okay with you hurting yourself.”

Dabi’s cool gaze falls on Hawks, his blue eyes smouldering dangerously.

“I’m not asking you to be fucking happy about it,” Dabi snaps back, “I’m asking you to leave it alone. I'm an adult, and it’s my choice. I know what I’m doing.”

The most annoying fucking thing is that Dabi is ultimately right: it is his choice. And as much as Hawks had protested otherwise, this really isn’t any of his damned business. He shouldn’t have even pressed upon it as much as he already has, because what does it matter? Dabi and him are only partners until this job is done.

We won’t be friends after this, Hawks laments to himself as he meets Dabi’s gaze, matching its intensity. We can’t be. I got too close, and I’m going to have to burn it all down completely once the mission is complete. That’s the only way to make sure this ends.

Yet here he is, digging them both that bit deeper.

Dabi reaches out and lightly grasps Hawks’ hand, squeezing it gently. Hawks recognises it as a gesture of reassurance, and it almost breaks his heart clean in two.

“I’m not looking for someone to save me, Number Three,” Dabi murmurs, not unkindly.

Hawks takes a moment to look at Dabi; to really look at him, stripped back in both the physical and metaphorical sense.

He takes in the scarring that wraps itself around Dabi’s chest and torso, before completely engulfing the entire length of his arms. They look like old war wounds, discoloured by age and the passing of time. The dark ink tattooed across Dabi’s body seems to ripple over his skin with each inhale and exhale, like a hearthfire flickering in the shadows. Hawks wants to ask him about the tattoos, but he needs to curb his own treacherous curiosity. He’s not going to create any distance between himself and Dabi if he keeps asking questions that don’t serve the mission.

Hawks watches as dust motes dance around Dabi’s silvery hair, caught in the slants of sunlight falling across the room. It gives the illusion of a shimmering halo, burning all the brighter next to his pale skin.

Dawn’s light suits Dabi. It’s a crying shame that Hawks will never see him like this again.

Finally, Hawks looks at Dabi’s fingers wrapped around his own. Dabi, holding Hawks’ hand, even as he tells him that he doesn’t need Hawks to save him.

Unfortunately for the both of us, Hawks thinks to himself, I’m a hero. And that means giving help even when it’s not asked for.

Extracting himself from this fucking mess is going to be hell, but that’s a bridge Hawks will cross when he eventually comes to it.

“Right,” he sighs, lifting his gaze to meet Dabi’s. “I won’t say anything about…this. To anyone. But don’t think I like it.”

Dabi snorts, his nose wrinkling in amusement.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Speaking of dreams…”

He stretches out his arms overhead and yawns, squinting one eye shut and peering at Hawks suspiciously.

“Did you even sleep, birdie? You look wrecked.”

“Fuck you very much,” Hawks snarks in response. He knows Dabi must be right: now that some of the fight has drained out of him, exhaustion is beginning to set in. Between everything that happened at Kamino Ward last night and then his concern over Dabi, it feels like weeks since his head last hit a pillow.

Dabi snickers, before giving Hawks’ hand another light squeeze. His free hand reaches up so that his thumb can gently graze over Hawks’ cheek, doubtlessly tracing the dark shadows forming in the hollows beneath his eyes. Hawks blames the fatigue for allowing himself to melt ever so slightly into Dabi’s touch, his wings slumping around his shoulders.

“I know you better than you think,” Dabi teases, and oh, Hawks wishes that his tiredness took some of the sting out of that. “Get some rest. I’ll handle this morning’s stakeout: it’s my fault you didn’t get any sleep, after all.”

Hawks finds himself reaching up to grasp Dabi’s burned wrist, inches away from where his hand cups Hawks’ face.

“Here’s you concerned about my sleep schedule,” Hawks complains, “meanwhile I’m expected to ignore you burning yourself alive?”

Dabi grins, mischievously.

“Yup,” he asserts, “life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

And here they are again. Far too close, and far too intimate.

Dabi’s skin is hot, hotter than it should be. Knowing what he knows now, Hawks can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling the live fire of Blue Flame coursing through the other hero’s veins; thrumming through his pulse and drumming a steady beat against Hawks’ fingertips, where they’re wrapped around Dabi’s wrist.

Hawk can tell from the way that Dabi’s cerulean gaze is lingering over the shape of his lips that Dabi is considering kissing him. Hawks can’t really blame him: he’s thinking the exact same thing.

Hawks gently eases Dabi’s hand away from his face. The hollow ache he feels at the loss is an easy enough thing to ignore; he has a wealth of experience in deprivation, after all.

Dabi’s disappointment, however, cuts him deep, no matter how familiar the expression is starting to become. He shrugs it off quickly enough however, and sinks back down into the pillows with a yawn.

“Let me get a shower and some coffee, then we can both get to work,” Hawks suggests, knitting his fingers together before extending both of his palms in front of him. He holds the stretch for a moment, then raises his linked hands up above his head — wincing as he hears several joints pop in protest. He cracks open an eye, and grins at Dabi. “You can pick up my slack as compensation for the sleepless night you caused me.”

Dabi peers up at Hawks from behind the hand that he’d thrown over his forehead to shade his eyes from the sunlight’s glare.

“I’m causing Japan’s new Number Two Hero to have sleepless nights? How scandalous.”

Hawks feels his cheeks flush at the suggestive note. He’s uncomfortably aware of the fact that he’s still sharing a bed with a half-naked man. He rubs at the back of his neck, and grimaces when his cramping muscles complain.

“Don’t remind me,” Hawks groans, knuckling at the crease of one tired eye, “I still haven’t checked my phone yet.”

He’s shocked by his own insubordination; there have been times where Hawks has been unable to make it to the Commission’s beck and call because of a job, but he always checked in as soon as he was able to. He could have contacted the President at any point last night to inform her that he’d found Dabi, and yet he simply…hadn’t.

He can feel Dabi’s eyes on him, considering.

“Reckon you’re ready for it, birdie?” Dabi asks. He sounds almost concerned.

I don’t get a say in that, Hawks thinks to himself. He doesn’t want to lie to Dabi.

“I have to be,” he says instead, plucking at the fabric of his sweatpants. His wings quiver behind his back. “I’m a hero, aren’t I?”

For just a moment, Hawks senses the metallic taste of blood cloying at his teeth and tongue. He remembers Stain’s terrible, rasping voice ringing through the streets.

Fake.

“It’s a hell of a weight,” Dabi remarks, softly. He flexes his fingers over his face, staring up at them before twisting his neck to gaze up at Hawks. “I should know: I watched my Dad try to carry it my whole life.”

Dabi pushes himself back up into a seated position all of a sudden, then swings his legs off the side of the bed. He stands himself up and stretches, grunting as his joints crack.

“No point even trying to convince you to take a nap or anything, is there?” Dabi grouches, as he scrutinises the floor with his hands on his hips — searching for his shirt, presumably.

Hawks manages a small smile.

“Nope,” he chuckles, sending a covert feather out to collect Dabi’s discarded clothing from the floor. The quill scoops the shirt up with ease, before swooping over towards the other hero and nudging his shoulder. Dabi glances up in surprise, then notices his article of clothing hovering in the midair in front of him. He shoots Hawks a look of wry amusement, before snatching the shirt back into possession and pulling it on over his bare chest.

Hawks flits his gaze away, not wanting to appear like he’s staring. Out the window, a new day is dawning over on a whole new world: one without All Might at its helm.

“S’pose I should get going then,” Dabi announces, hooking the sleeves of his shirt over his thumbs carefully. The scars are completely concealed again, with no trace of anything hidden beneath his clothing other than the tattoos creeping out over his collar. “I should see if the old man is picking up. I’m sure he’ll be in flying form.”

Hawks eyes him curiously. He wonders if his suspicions surrounding Endeavor’s reaction to the news might be right.

“Not the victory he would have hoped for, huh?” Hawks asks.

Dabi scoffs, a bitter smile plastered on his face.

“What, winning like this? Please. Being handed the title is a damn insult.”

Hawks follows Dabi back out into the front room of the hotel suite, dispatching another feather to collect the other man’s dark leather jacket from the armchair he’d left it on the night before. Dabi shoulders it on, and slips his cigarettes back into the pocket.

“Well,” Dabi declares, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He suddenly looks uncertain of himself. “I, uh — I wanted to say thank you. For last night. It was a dick move of me showing up here drunk like that, and I’m sorry.”

Hawks folds his arms over his chest and grins. Dabi looks remarkably cute when humbled.

“I’m glad you came here, idiot. Better here than whatever trouble you would have doubtlessly landed yourself in elsewhere. I will, however, accept an apology for worrying me out of my damn mind with the radio silence.”

Dabi chuckles and rubs at his neck. He glances at Hawks, his blue eyes sparking with amusement.

“And for the radio silence,” he huffs. “Seriously, though. I appreciate you not kicking me out on my ass like I deserved. Not to mention the discretion that you’ve promised. Thank you.”

Hawks sighs, his crimson wings twitching in agitation at his back.

“It’s not something I can ignore, either.”

Dabi shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and shrugs.

“It is what it is. I already told you — I don’t need saving.”

“Don’t I get a say in that?”

Dabi only smiles at him by way of answer.

“Give me thirty minutes to shower and change,” he tells Hawks as he turns towards the door, “and I’ll be ready to hit the streets.”

Hawks trails after him as Dabi opens the door and steps out into the hallway. Hawks leans against the doorway, unsure what to make of the unease that’s gripping him. It feels like he’s missed something, or rather, that he can’t find the right words when they should be readily available to him.

He realises with a start that he doesn’t want Dabi to leave.

When I close this door, Hawks thinks, we’re going to have to go back to acting like I don’t know all of his secrets. Once he’s gone, I’m going to have to call the President and face everything that’s happened since last night.

This strange little haven that they’d inadvertently crafted together last night will vanish, as if it had never existed at all.

Dabi lingers in the doorway, his azure blue eyes studying him intently. Hawks wonders if Dabi feels the same way.

Someone down the hallway shrieks.

“Oh my God!” squeals an excited female voice, before being interrupted by someone else giddily trying to hush them. Dabi rolls his eyes, and looks down at Hawks with a wry smile.

“It would appear we have an audience,” he chuckles, speaking in a hushed murmur so that only Hawks can hear. Hawks feels his face burn red when he realises that these passers-by had just glimpsed Dabi stepping out of his hotel room, and were no doubt revelling in the implications of that fact. He huffs a laugh and allows his head to rest against the open door.

“It’s never simple is it?” he remarks, ruefully. He can hear their onlookers trying to stifle their giggling, with very little success.

“Wouldn’t be any fun if it was,” Dabi practically purrs as he reaches out to caress the side of Hawks’ face. Hawks’ golden eyes widen as Dabi steps back into his space, sliding a finger beneath his chin to tilt Hawks’ face up to meet his gaze.

“Dabi—” Hawks tries to ask, his wings fluttering tremulously with anticipation. Dabi simply grins and shakes his head, tapping his finger against Hawks’ jaw.

“C’mon, birdie,” he hums, slipping his other arm around Hawks’ waist. “Let’s give the people a show.”

Hawks is frozen in place, but there’s no Quirk he can blame for the fact this time. He’s already stopped thinking about the eyes trained on the pair of them; all he’s aware of right now is the heat of Dabi’s body pressed against his own. The slow, steady thump of his heartbeat behind his ribcage, his palm splayed over the small of Hawks’ back as the fingers of his other hand lightly brush Hawks’ fringe away from his face. His face is close, too close, and if there was ever a time to push Dabi away, it would be now.

Hawks’ trembling hands lift of their own accord and grip the lapels of Dabi’s dark leather jacket.

Warm breath gusts against his ear as Dabi chuckles, and a shiver ripples through Hawks at the sensation. He feels powerless to do much else other than allow himself to be held, and surrender to the other hero’s touch.

Dabi’s fingers drift down Hawks’ face, and Hawks’ eyelids flutter shut. It feels so good to be touched.

Especially by Dabi.

“One day,” Dabi murmurs against the shell of Hawks’ ear, his lips barely an inch away from Hawks’ skin, “you’re going to stop thinking about doing the right thing.” His fingers lightly tug at the ruby stud that pierces Hawks’ earlobe. “And finally start doing what feels right.”

Dabi tilts his head, and for a split second, his lips hover over Hawks’ own. His breath feels like a furnace against Hawks’ mouth, but Hawks doesn’t shy away from the heat. No matter how much he should.

But then Dabi is pulling away, taking a half-step back from Hawks. Hawks feels dizzy, like he’s just been pulled out of a fog. He doesn’t even realise he’s still clutching Dabi’s jacket until Dabi reaches up and gently wraps both of his hands around Hawks’ wrists.

Hawks flushes and abruptly yanks his hands away. It’s only then that he hears the muffled giggles and squeaks from further down the hall, and oh, yeah, that had been the whole point of this little display, hadn’t it?

Dabi grins, looking far too pleased with himself.

“See you soon,” he chuckles, raising two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute. “Number Two.”

He winks at Hawks, before turning on his heel and sauntering down the hallway in the opposite direction from their small audience. Hawks stands in the doorway watching him leave, his head still ringing. He wants to blame the lack of sleep on how very disoriented he feels, but knows damn well that the fault is entirely his own weak will.

Hawks blearily blinks down the hall at the pair of fans still gawking at him. They have their phones out, but whether or not they had been snapping pictures or videos, he can’t be sure.

He manages an awkward wave at them, along with a tired smile, before retreating back in the room and slamming the door shut behind him.

“Fuck,” he curses, smacking the heel of his hand against the surface of the door. “Fuck!”

Hawks sighs and turns around, slumping back against the doorway and sliding down the sleek wood until he’s sitting on the floor. His wings twitch at his back, awkwardly trying to rearrange themselves as Hawks hunches over and rubs his tired eyes.

You’re going to stop thinking about doing the right thing, Dabi had told him, and start doing what feels right.

When is it that I started wanting all the wrong things? Hawks wonders, when did this all become so difficult?

“I want to save you,” Hawks mutters to the empty room. “I know that’s the right thing to do. You can’t stop me from trying, you asshole.”

The silence offers him no reply.

Hawks pinches his brow and fights off a yawn. He directs a feather off in the direction of the coffee machine whilst he drags himself back up to his feet, another quill already delivering Hawks’ phone into his hand.

The puzzle that is Dabi will have to wait.

Duty eternally calls.

They leave Sapporo without making any arrests, but the mission is far from a failure.

Hanabata was a careful man, rarely venturing anywhere without his army of guards and supporters. It made getting close to him virtually impossible, and so Dabi and Hawks had been forced to observe from a distance. They had spent the days taking careful note of who the politician met with, as well as who he surrounded himself with.

It had been Dabi who had first identified the man who soon became their primary person of interest.

“I know that guy,” Dabi had muttered one day, as the pair of them kept watch from the rooftop of a nearby building. Hawks had blinked, looking up from his own pair of binoculars to tilt his head inquisitively at Dabi.

Dabi’s face had been knit into a pensive frown, his forehead furrowed as he continued to watch their mark. Inside the other building, Hanabata was supposed to be meeting with a party donor, but they had been unable to learn the identity of the benefactor.

“You’re sure?” Hawks had asked, taking another look. Hanabata was enthusiastically shaking the hand of an impeccably dressed older man, with a beak-like nose and a receding hairline. Not exactly the kind of person Hawks would expect Dabi to be rubbing shoulders with.

“Certain,” Dabi replied, lowering his own binoculars. He chewed his pierced lip thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off the people in the other building. “His name’s Yotsubashi — Rikiya Yotsubashi. He’s the CEO of a support gear company for lifestyle products: Detnerat. Mostly clothing for mutants and people with troublesome Quirks.”

He absently brushed his hand over the front of his hero costume, over the glowing neon blue coolant system fitted into his compression shirt.

“But they’ve been wanting to expand into the hero support sector for a while now. He’s been barking around our agency for the last few years about wanting to make my gear, given the company’s own ‘expertise’ in catering to the ‘extraordinary’.”

Dabi snorted, his lip curling in a dismissive sneer.

“Or some pretentious spiel like that. Practically grovelled at my old man’s feet.”

“Let me guess: you didn’t switch suppliers?”

“They’ve no fucking experience in producing battle equipment, but seem to think it’ll be a simple switch. Idiots.”

Dabi screwed up his face, as if the memory had left a bad taste.

“Still…” he had muttered, raising the binoculars again and peering in on the clandestine meeting. “What the hell is a guy in this line of work doing, making such major donations to the Hearts and Minds party? And why all the secrecy?”

Hawks watched as Hanabata bowed to Yotsubashi, and ushered him into the next room. Out of Dabi and Hawks’ sight. He pocketed the binoculars, and pulled his visor back down over his eyes.

“Something tells me,” Hawks sighed, “if we dig deep enough, this guy is gonna have some lively opinions on the right to freely wield Quirks.”

Hawks’ instincts had once again been proven correct.

He had rang the President that very night, and reported back their findings. Her voice had turned surprisingly sharp when Hawks had mentioned the name of Yotsubashi, but she had refused to elaborate further.

The next day, Dabi and Hawks were pulled out of Sapporo with the instructions to report back to the HPSC immediately.

The official line was that the pair of them were required to return to Tokyo in order to debrief, and to plan their next steps in the wake of All Might’s retirement. Endeavor was apparently keen to have his son back home too.

But Hawks knows the President.

Something about the name of Yotsubashi and his company Detnerat had shifted things, one way or another.

“Detnerat,” the President murmurs, knitting her fingers together and propping her chin upon the shelf that they form. The pearl bracelet she wears on her left arm perfectly matches the opalesque shade of polish coating her fingernails. “I knew Yotsubashi had ideas above his station, but I hadn’t considered that he might dare to dream so high.”

Hawks shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to not let his impatience show. Outside, the sun hangs high in the Tokyo sky, but it’s impossible to tell from the interior of the President’s office. Glass walls were expressly forbidden in the HPSC Building: they, more than anyone, knew how secrets could kill.

The President sits behind her desk, mulling over Hawks’ report. She had instructed Dabi to return to his father’s agency once they arrived back in Tokyo, leaving Hawks to report to her alone.

“Dabi says they’ve been looking to move into the line of hero support items,” Hawks declares, “although he believes they’re far too inexperienced for the task.”

“In that, young Todoroki and I are in agreement,” Madame President replies. “Detnerat has made great strides in the lifestyle sector, certainly, but that does not make them in any way capable of moving into hero support. Yotsubashi has been personally sending us research reports on their creations thus far, but I’m sceptical of the data’s authenticity.”

She smooths her hands out over the file on her desk, gazing at it with an impassive expression.

“We’ve looked into the donations he’s made to the Hearts and Minds Party. Suffice to say, Yotsubashi has made sizeable contributions to the party’s funding, although he appears to be keeping his support relatively private. From the outset, at least.”

“With all due respect, Madame President, does this lead have anything to do with the Meta Liberation Army or not?”

Her cool grey eyes lift from the set of papers and fall upon Hawks. They make him feel as small as ever, but he takes some solace in the fact that he no longer cringes away, like Keigo used to.

“Would I be wasting both of our time on this matter, if it were not important?” she asks, mildly.

Hawks seethes. Turning Hawks’ questions back on him in order to belittle him had always been one of Madame President’s favourite tactics. Answering her will only serve to make him feel like a scolded child — which is, of course, her intent — and so he holds his tongue, fighting to keep his irritation from showing on his face.

The President draws out a single sheet of paper from the folder that she’s been studying, and sets it down on her desk, facing Hawks. She folds her hands neatly on top of one another and waits.

Hawks eyes her warily before snatching it off the desk with a covert feather. The quill delivers it into his gloved hands, and his aureate eyes quickly skim the page. The document does not appear to be of any relevance at first — merely a letter thanking someone for their support — until he stumbles across a very familiar name.

Himura.

It takes Hawks a moment to understand what he’s looking at, and another few reads to properly put the pieces together.

Tokyo Orphanage. Gifted Youth Programme. Patronage.

The words continue to jump out at him, until he flips over the page and discovers a photograph clipped onto the paper.

A young teenage Geten shaking hands onstage with a man that Hawks recognises as Koku Hanabata.

And behind them smiling broadly at the camera: Rikiya Yotsubashi.

“Imagine our surprise,” the President remarks, wryly. “It has to be said: it fits the profile perfectly. Whoever leads the Meta Liberation Army, it’s clear that Geten is utterly devoted to them. The fact that Yotsubashi is a man with such incredible wealth and influence only strengthens our suspicions: how else could he manage to win over the trust of so many people? How else could he manage to corrupt the beliefs of actual Pro Heroes?”

The President sighs and pushes a loose strand of silver hair away from her face.

“We now know that the villain ‘All For One’ is the real leader of the League of Villains, and that Tomura Shigaraki is but one of his pawns — but who is to say that Shigaraki is the only one? All Might and Detective Tsukauchi have been compiling reports on this villain for me, and everything in them points to the fact that All For One tries to plan for every outcome. He does not rely on only one contingency plan, and so it would be foolish of us to assume that Shigaraki is the only shadow in the dark that we need to worry about.”

She passes Hawks another page, which he accepts, wordlessly. It’s a newspaper article, with a headline that boldly proclaims ‘CONNECTING JAPAN’. He’s more interested in the accompanying photo: yet another image of Yotsubashi and Hanabata, this time joined by another man with long black hair and a painful grimace, as well as an attractive, smiling blue-skinned woman. The background of the photo is out of focus, but Hawks doesn’t fail to notice the distinctive white hair on the young man lingering in the background behind Yotsubashi. He would stake his life on the chance that it belonged to Geten.

“You see now,” she continues, “that there’s too many pieces in place for us to ignore.”

Hawks recalls the silver haired youth he’d seen in Tartarus, beaten but not cowed. He remembers his sharp grey eyes glinting like steel as he faced off his cousin, venom dripping off his tongue with each word.

All you heroes, he had hissed, you’re a damned con, each and every single one of you.

The heavy stomp of Stain’s boots, sounding like thunderclaps with each step he took.

Just try me! he had roared, you fakes!

Hawks forces himself to draw in a steadying breath.

“Consider your point duly made,” he mutters, laying the papers back down on her desk. He feels a terrible itch clawing beneath his skin, digging furiously beneath the epidermis as if it were trying to burst its way out. “What exactly is it that you need me to do?”

“For now?” the President replies, refolding her hands over one another on top of her desk., “Nothing. We’ll trust you’ll keep your eye on things whilst we run our own investigations and formulate a strategy.”

She studies Hawks calmly; watching him the same way that she used to when he was a child. When she would visit the training facilities at the end of the day, and listen to his instructors deliver her a vigorously detailed report on each and every single one of Hawks’ training sessions.

He recognises the expression that she’s wearing. It usually means that she has more to say, and that he won’t like it.

Hawks instinctively tenses, waiting for the blow.

“We find ourselves in a time of rather remarkable opportunity, I have to say,” she remarks, inclining her head. Her spine is poker-straight — Hawks has never seen her so much as lean back into the expensive leather high back chair that she sits in. “Your team-up with young Todoroki was already a fortunate circumstance for us, but the timing could not be better. Especially now that he has your trust.”

An icy chill ripples through Hawks, ghosting down his spine and raising heckles on the back of his neck.

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning, Madame President,” Hawks lies. He knows what she means perfectly well. He simply doesn’t want to think it into being.

She sees through his deception, of course. The look she gives him is almost sympathetic.

“You do yourself a disservice, Hawks,” she says, chiding him lightly. “I know you must have already thought about this. This mission and the proximity that it puts you in to the Todorokis provides us an excellent chance to learn how prepared Endeavor currently is, for his new role as Number One.”

The terrible thing is that she’s right: Hawks has already thought about this. It was one of the first things that crossed his mind when he was told about All Might’s retirement, and he hates himself for it.

“I must admit,” the President continues, “I have my doubts at how long he’ll be able to hold the position. His popularity rankings are currently being hit hard, as public approval continues to dwindle in the wake of so much uncertainty. On the contrary, thanks to your efforts in the capture of the Hero Killer, Touya Todoroki has become a rising star. Jumping from Number Six to Number Four in only several months is an impressive feat, and it’s entirely likely that he’ll climb to Number Three once Jeanist’s heroics in Kamino Ward begin to wane from the public’s memory.”

She takes a fresh file from the stack piled upon her desk, and smooths her hand over the manila covering before flipping it open. Hawks spots a headshot of Dabi pinned to the top of the folder, and realises with a sickening feeling what is happening.

“In truth,” she begins, “the public’s lack of faith in Endeavor may come as a blessing in disguise for us in the long run. Touya Todoroki is young, malleable — and rather taken with you, by the looks of things.” She taps her freshly manicured fingernail next to the picture in his file, before skimming it down over the page. “We’ll need that, in the weeks to come. We always knew you would some day outrank Endeavor, Hawks, even if we didn’t expect it to come so soon. It’s not ideal, but if we handle this correctly, we can manoeuvre Dabi into the Number Two spot: after you in the rankings, but ahead of his father.”

Something within Hawks snaps.

“You cannot be serious,” he exclaims, somewhat breathlessly. His head is reeling with the implication of everything that she’s saying. “You want to — what? Sabotage Endeavor, so that the Number One spot goes to me instead? Have me seduce his son, and sway him over to our side? Have him betray his own father?! Please tell me I’m not understanding this correctly, because the things that you’re saying…”

Hawks trails off, gritting his teeth as he feels the words he’d wanted to say dry up on his tongue.

The things that you’re saying sound a lot like treason.

But what do words like ‘treason’ matter when he’s talking to the very person that makes the law?

The President looks at him, her gaze as impassive as ever.

“You’re letting your emotions get the better of you,” she tells him cooly, not batting so much as an eyelid at his outburst. “Both myself and the Commission are being pragmatic: we think and act with only the wellbeing of Japan at the forefront of our considerations. This is not some churlish whim or greedy power-grab, Hawks, this is our organisation understanding how to respond to a crisis. Because that is what the country of Japan is in right now — a crisis. One that we can deliver it from.”

The President splays both of her palms flat across the varnished surface of her desk, before pushing herself up to her feet. She’s a middling woman, only a few centimetres shorter than Hawks in her high heels. She carries herself with a striking grace, however, the kind that manages to command a room no matter how many people might be in it.

She reaches for a small black device on her desk, and taps a series of buttons. Behind Hawks, a screen built into the wall suddenly flicks on. He jerks around, struck by the sudden whirring buzz of the audio spilling into the room, and is faced with old news footage of Endeavor. He vaguely recognises it — one of the numerous incidents where the Flame Hero had come under criticism for handling criminals with too much violence.

“...it’s true Endeavor’s record of resolving incidents is impressive, but…”

He recognises the voice as belonging to the popular newscaster Daikaku Miyagi. Sees the chart projected onto the screen behind the panel, illustrating the lack of faith in Endeavor’s ability as Number One.

“...there are too many cases when he took things too far with his violent temperament…”

“I know what the people are saying,” Hawks snaps at the President. “I know that everyone has their concerns. But what you’re suggesting… It’s not right.”

Madame President hits the mute button, her point well and truly illustrated. She offers him a rare sympathetic look.

“I understand that you feel a degree of gratitude for the role that he played in arresting your father,” she offers, her voice taking on a softer tone that he recognises from his childhood. The kind she used when she had to break hard truths to him. “But you can’t allow sentiment to trip you up at a time like this. Don’t let your personal attachments cloud your sense of duty here. I know you want what’s best for your country. The people are afraid, Hawks.”

She drifts out from around her desk, stepping into the middle of the room. She watches the television rather than Hawks, offering him a view of her side profile. Her strong nose and swept-back hair has always reminded Hawks of a portrait relief, like a monarch etched into the side of a coin.

“Enji Todoroki doesn’t care about being a good hero: he cares about being the strongest. That’s the mistake he’s always made: thinking that’s what makes a person Number One.”

On the television screen, images of All Might begin to fade across the screen. All Might, easily lifting several people out of a crash site with a smile on his face. All Might flashing a peace sign at the camera, whilst children laugh and hang off of his thick muscular arms.

“Strength alone is not enough,” Madame President murmurs, clasping her hands together behind her back. “Yes, people want to feel safe and protected, feel assured that their leader is physically capable of providing that for them… But what use is that ability if they don’t trust him? If they don’t believe in him? If they doubt him?”

All Might on the screen takes a knee, offering one massive hand towards the camera. His lips move, and despite the fact the television has been muted, Hawks hears the words he’s saying as clearly as if they were booming around the room.

I am here.

Madame President turns to face Hawks, her keen eyes watching him carefully.

“Do you honestly think, as things currently stand, that Endeavor is the right person to lead Japan during this time of uncertainty and crisis?”

Hawks blanches. Just like she knew he would.

He wants her to be wrong. He wants it so fucking badly that he might even be able to argue her further, if it weren’t for the fact his head is filled with thoughts of Dabi.

The terrible scarring that covers over two thirds of Dabi’s body, the burns that somehow had gone unnoticed over the course of twenty years.

Dabi’s electric blue eyes cutting at Hawks in the darkness. So terribly proud, even at his most vulnerable.

I don’t want your pity, he had told Hawks.

When was it that Dabi had come to think of his own vulnerabilities as a source of shame?

“Maybe Endeavor’s not cut out for it just yet,” Hawks finally answers the President, “or maybe he needs a little fine tuning. Tossing him aside feels premature, whatever way you dice it.”

“And who said we were doing that?” the President retorts, a slight wrinkle creasing her brow. “Must I repeat myself? We’re exploring all options to us currently, and your closeness to young Todoroki is simply a potential avenue to one of those.”

She plucks off an imaginary piece of lint from her lapel, and lightly flicks her fingers.

“You will stay close to Touya Todoroki,” she tells him, “and in doing so, you will observe. Continue to nurture the relationship between the pair of you — see if he will open up to you more about his father, and assess his own suitability for the role of a high-ranking hero.”

The images displayed on the television cut to footage of Endeavor unleashing an inferno of fiery hell through the streets of Naruhata Ward. Hawks recognises the clip: it was taken during a villain attack five years ago, back before he himself had even debuted.

“We’ll be keeping you close to the Endeavor Agency for the time being,” the President continues, “I want you to keep your eye on Endeavor. That youngest child of his as well: we need to discern whether the attitude he was displaying during the Sports Festival was simply a fit of childish rebellion, or if something more troubling is afoot.”

Hawks’ mouth twists in distaste.

“And if there is?” he asks, sourly.

“Then we’ll know more than we did before,” she answers, her voice as calm as ever. She glances at the television, her expression unchanging, before making her way back over to her desk. She rests an elegant hand on the back of her magnificent leather office chair, and turns her gaze upon him.

“I shouldn’t need to spell this out for you, Hawks,” Madame President tells him, tilting her head ever so slightly. Hawks knows that the mildly confused expression that she’s wearing is entirely meant to disarm him; to invoke a sense of guilt that he can’t keep up with her line of thinking. He hates that it’s working. “This mission you’re on is important — with this latest lead you’ve brought us, we might have a real chance at learning who is spearfronting the Meta Liberation Army. I expect you to give it your full attention.”

She pulls out her chair from behind the desk, and slips back into it.

“However, you must not squander the chance that you’ve been given. You have every reason to stay close to the Endeavor Agency right now, and I want you to use it. Watch them, Hawks. Watch them, and use your own judgement to tell us what kind of heroes you think they’re going to be.”

Nausea rolls in Hawks’ stomach. He swallows it back down and clenches his fists, feeling his fingernails scrape against the thick black leather of his gloves.

“And if Dabi finds out?” he manages to growl, “that you’re using me to get to him? To possibly usurp his own father?”

Madame President picks up her expensive fountain pen and gently presses the nib against the paper laid out in front of her. A dark navy blue splotch pools out from the tip, and she clucks her tongue in disapproval.

“I expect we won’t have to worry about that,” she remarks, plucking a tissue from the box on her desk. “The only way he would learn such a thing is if someone told him. I certainly don’t have any intentions of doing so — do you?”

Her steely grey eyes study him.

Hawks, to his shame, looks away.

“No,” he mumbles. What else can he say? “You’ve made your point. Am I dismissed?”

“Not yet,” she replies, blotting the nib of her pen. “Whilst we’re on the subject of you and Dabi, you should know; you’ve been scheduled to both appear on Masked Report the day after tomorrow. The hook is the matter of the pair of you rising in the hero rankings, but they’re also eager to learn more about your supposed relationship. This will be a good opportunity to tackle both.”

Hawks feels a ripple of disgust shudder down his spine. He’s used to this kind of thing, sure, but for himself — it’s another thing entirely dragging someone else into it. Especially someone who had shunned the media up until Hawks had barged into their life.

“Dabi might not agree,” he warns her. He tries to keep the disdain out of his voice, but he doubts it’s successful.

The President raises her gaze from the document she had been signing, and the thin line of her lips speaks volumes.

“Then it’s your job to make him want to agree,” she answers sharply, her words cracking like a whip. Somewhere inside of Hawks, he feels Keigo flinch. “Get him to fall in line, Hawks. This is not a request: it’s an order. Do we have an understanding?”

Hawks swallows thickly. He hates how easily she can make him feel like a child — like he’s five years old, clutching his shabby plush toy and peering in awe at the woman promising him a better life.

If only he had known.

“Yeah,” Hawks finally relents, forcing his fingers to ease out of fists. “I get it.”

What other choice does he have?

He sighs and scruffs the heel of his hand across his forehead, rubbing irritably at his tired brow.

“I’ll admit,” Hawks huffs, gritting his teeth and peering across the desk at the President. Where she sits in her magnificent leather chair, as she signs her papers deciding people’s fate. “I thought you’d be in favour of having me distance myself from Dabi.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” the President asks, not lifting her gaze up from the documents that she’s studying.

Hawks bites his lip. He knows that he should have left already; knows that the President is patiently waiting for him to leave.

“I thought you would have taken issue with what he’s overheard,” Hawks replies, picking his words carefully. “Whilst we were in Tartarus and Dabi was interrogating Geten… The prisoner made some pretty startling accusations about heroes. The kinds of rumours that you usually use me for, in order to ensure those stories don’t spread.”

He shifts from one foot to the other, agitation bubbling beneath his skin. He’s already regretting having said anything: what if she had somehow forgotten up until now? And Hawks had reminded her?

Stupid, Hawks tells himself, she never forgets anything.

Pathetically, Hawks realises that this feeble display is for one reason, and one reason only.

He needs to hear the President explicitly tell him that Dabi won’t be harmed for the crime of what he knows.

She looks up from her papers, looking mildly perplexed.

“Hawks,” she begins, setting her pen aside before folding her pale, wrinkled hands over one another on her desk, “are you asking me if I view Touya Todoroki as a threat, in light of the information he gleamed whilst at Tartarus?”

The amused note to her voice should be reassuring, but Hawks doesn’t feel any more at ease.

“There’s certain secrets that I know you believe are worth keeping above all else,” Hawks answers, struggling to keep his voice even. He doesn’t want her to know how much this means to him. “You always told me that preserving the people’s faith in heroes is one of our number one priorities. I thought—”

“—that learning about the existence of such outliers would call for elimination?” The President sounds mildly amused. “It’s a closely guarded secret, Hawks, and one I trust you’ll keep to yourself. However, heroes are aware of the fact that such corruptions do happen: they simply believe it’s a rarer occurrence than the unfortunate reality of the statistic. I have no concerns over young Todoroki’s current knowledge, fear not.”

Hawks feels like he’s just been punched. The relief is such a physical thing that he almost sags over, his head feeling stupidly light-headed with the shock of it all.

But he continues to hold himself upright, watching the President with a wary stare. He won’t let himself fall prey to a fickle notion such as hope, not now.

“So you’re saying that Dabi won’t be targeted,” Hawks asks her with a frown, “the information relayed to him by Geten — you’re not going to try and silence him. Right?”

She surprises him by laughing.

Hawks has known Madame President for almost two decades, and he can’t remember the last time that he heard her laugh.

But she’s laughing now as she shakes her head and picks back up her pen.

“Of course, Hawks,” she replies, still chuckling beneath her breath, “I’m not a monster.”

Dabi continues to surprise him.

Hawks had expected the other hero to put up resistance to the proposed joint TV appearance. He had thought that a flat out refusal would be likely, and that a great deal of disgruntled complaining was guaranteed.

He had not expected for Dabi to simply agree without so much as a question.

Or at least…he had agreed.

Hawks sighs and passes his gloved hand over his face. He squints up at the overhead light of the green room between his fingers. Twenty minutes, the assistant director had told him. Twenty minutes until showtime, and still no sign of Dabi. Nor had he troubled to message Hawks, explaining any possible delay.

It bothers Hawks more than it should.

His contact with Dabi had been rather limited ever since they returned from Sapporo, as they both returned to their respective agencies and the work that they had missed whilst away. Hawks had been surprised to realise how accustomed he had grown to Dabi’s presence in his everyday life; too often he catches himself reminiscing over the other man’s company whilst he’s out on patrols.

It’s the strangest thing. Working alone has always been Hawks’ preferred modus operandi. Not only is it the most efficient strategy, Hawks has never exactly craved the company of another. He’s spent almost his entire life as a solitary creature; it’s discomforting to consider disrupting that.

As much as he’s sometimes envied the closeness between other hero teams, it’s not something he actually wants. Merely a concept to admire, the same way he observes happy families together at the parks. Fathers tossing footballs to laughing children, whilst mothers smile and fondly apply sunscreen to glowing faces.

His own sidekicks trading stories with one another back at the office, snickering over some shared in-joke. Whilst Hawks shuts the door to his office behind him, among them but not one of them.

Experiences he’ll never know or understand. But he can still watch and wish.

Hawks idly kicks at the base of the makeup chair that he’s sat in, causing it to lilt to the right. A small monitor in the corner of the ceiling is playing an old episode of the host interviewing Edgeshot, but Hawks isn’t paying it any attention.

What is it about Dabi that grabs him like this?

Certainly it helps that Dabi is damn good at his job. There’s few people that have ever been able to keep up with Hawks, but Dabi’s skill is truly remarkable. All the more so because they can compensate for one another’s weaknesses so well: Dabi boasts the brute strength that Hawks lacks, whilst Hawks has superior speed. Dabi’s offensive capabilities are stronger, whilst Hawks excels at support.

They’re the best possible match in more ways than one, and it’s becoming a problem.

Hawks thinks again of what the President has asked of him and grimaces, knuckling his forehead.

He had planned to end this entire charade with Dabi once this mission ends, as difficult as that might be. But Madame President not only wants Hawks to maintain the relationship, but use it to continue spying on the Todoroki family as a whole. To possibly even bring Dabi over into the HPSC’s clutches.

Hawks rubs at his eye, feeling fatigue weigh heavily on his body.

Because clearly the situation’s not already fucked up enough as it is, he thinks, irritably, and it doesn’t matter whose feelings end up as casualties. Anything for the Commission is always for the mission.

What a fucking mess.

He’s troubled still by the things that the President does not know. The tapestry of scars etched deep into Dabi’s skin. The promise that Hawks had made, to not say a word to anyone else about them.

Is that really the right thing to do? he wonders, absently watching the bubbles rising in his glass of sparkling water. To look away from someone hurting?

In his mind’s eye, the bubbles turn to flecks of ash. Smoke rising from charred skin, a child’s cry falling on deaf ears. He thinks of the heroes he used to think of as mythical creatures; the giant of a man made up of fire and flame, but with the most chilling of glares.

How could he not know? Hawks asks himself for what feels like the umpteenth time, but his vision changes as he does: the bubbles are no longer ash particles but eyes. Multiple pairs of floating eyes hanging eerily in the air, always watching but never seeing.

Keigo’s cries of pain had gone unheard too.

He grits his teeth and shakes his head, trying to clear it. A stray feather is sent to whisk the glass of water away to another surface, somewhere he cannot see.

Hawks checks his phone.

Fifteen minutes.

Behind him, the door opens.

Hawks watches in the mirror as Dabi steps in from around the door, dressed in his full hero costume. He’d even gone to the trouble of remembering his coat this time.

Hawks lifts his eyebrows at him through the mirror’s reflection by way of greeting, not moving from where he’s seated on the revolving chair with two fingers pressed against his temple. Dabi takes quick note of Hawks’ unimpressed expression, and puts on his best conciliatory face. Which — given that it’s Dabi — amounts to a smile that borders on wicked.

“Mind if I come in?” he asks. When Hawks’ eyebrow only arches higher, Dabi holds up his palms in mock surrender. “I promise to keep my clothes on this time.”

One of the feathers Hawks had kept hovering near the doorway catches the sound of someone outside in the hallway letting out a small, surprised gasp upon overhearing that remark. Hawks feels his cheeks burn hot, spinning his chair around to face Dabi before pushing himself to his feet.

“You’re late,” he mutters gruffly, using several other quills to snag Dabi by the front of his coat and tug him inside the green room. Hawks can make out the sound of low whispers out in the studio halls, before the door swings shut behind the other hero. Dabi chuckles, allowing himself to be dragged until the feathers release him. He brushes off his white jacket, smoothing out the areas where Hawks’ plumage had pulled it out of place. “Some notice would have been nice.”

“Now when have I ever let you down?” Dabi hums, lifting his head to meet Hawks’ eyes with a crooked smile. His blue eyes burn with a familiar warmth; the kind that fans a similar kind of heat simmering behind Hawks’ chest. Hawks’ foolish heart flutters giddily behind the trappings of his ribcage.

He is, as always, torn between the desire to exult in the excitement of experiencing an actual crush for the first time in his life — and a reciprocated crush, at that — and the urge to destroy it utterly.

“You don’t want me to answer that question,” Hawks retorts, dryly, “at least not honestly.”

He can tell from Dabi’s grin that he’s failing spectacularly in his attempt at pretending he’s not glad to see Dabi. It’s almost worrisome how easily Dabi can see through almost two decades of Hawks’ training, as easily as if he was peering through a window.

Dabi chuckles and bites down on his lower lip, his sapphire eyes glinting warmly. Cut shards of glass catching against sunlight on water. He approaches Hawks, his smile never fading for even a moment.

Something has changed between them ever since that night in Sapporo. It’s only now, seeing Dabi in the flesh, watching him saunter closer with that stupid fucking grin on his face, that Hawks realises how much everything has shifted.

They share something now — Dabi’s secret, yes, but there’s something else there too. Hawks doesn’t know how to give words to it, this pulsing energy he feels fizzling between them. Crackling and snapping in the air like a wild thing. Hawks feels like he could reach out and touch it, he’s so certain of its solidity, whilst being simultaneously terrified of shattering it completely.

Part of him wants to smash it. Wants to drive his fist through it, pummel it, grind it out of existence beneath the heel of his boot. He could do it in this instance, he thinks, and this thing between them would be done. He could stop thinking of Touya Todoroki as anything more than a competent work colleague, and resume his life much as he always has.

That’s what a good little soldier would do, anyway.

“Admit it, birdie,” Dabi teases, “you missed me.”

Hawks did.

He really, really did.

Stupid fucking idiot that he is.

“I hope climbing so high in the rankings isn’t getting to your head,” Hawks snarks, sarcastically — deflecting rather than answering, as always. “Number Four.”

Dabi snickers and shakes his head, the tip of his tongue flicking across sharp white teeth.

“You’re starting to sound like me,” he chuckles, flashing that brilliant smile at Hawks. “Be careful, dove — I’m told I’m a bad influence.”

“That, I can believe,” Hawks snorts, and oh fuck it, now he’s smiling too. This effect that Dabi has on him is beyond infuriating, even if it’s not entirely unpleasant. “How’s the Agency? I notice your dad is steering clear of any media appearances.”

He’d half expected Dabi to bristle at the mention of his father, but the other hero only looks amused.

“You noticed?” Dabi asks, helping himself to a bottle of water stacked on top of the coffee table. “Or your boss did?”

“I am capable of independent thought every now and then, you know,” Hawks retorts, shooting Dabi an exasperated look. He flops back into the revolving chair, stealing a quick look at the clock on his phone. Ten minutes. “Yeah, I noticed. I’m guessing it’s been busy.”

Dabi gives a half-hearted shrug, snapping open the cap of the water bottle.

“Sure. He’s got big boots to fill. We all do.”

He takes a long drink of water, then sets it aside. He dabs at some droplets stubbornly clinging to the corner of his mouth with his thumb, his blue eyes trained on Hawks the whole time.

Hawks is used to being the focus of people’s attention, no matter how unwelcome he might find it. The Commission had instructed him over the years how important it is to work a crowd, to keep everyone’s eyes on him. It’s not an aspect of his job that Hawks has ever particularly relished, but it’s certainly one he had to quickly grow accustomed to.

Dabi’s attention is a different beast altogether. His gaze feels like magma spilling across Hawks’ tanned skin, easily burning away the flimsy shields that Hawks tries to build up against him. The irritation that he’d greeted Dabi with this evening had been nothing more than a pathetic attempt to hide Hawks’ happiness at seeing Dabi again, and they both knew it.

Dabi looks at him, all fire and flame, and Hawks can’t help but wonder why he even bothers trying to deny him.

It would be so much easier to burn, he thinks. To let himself be consumed by the pyre.

He’d offer himself to it, if he could.

“What about you, pretty bird?” Dabi asks, flicking a stray drop of water from the tip of his thumb. “How are you doing, stepping into the mantle of Japan’s Number Two?”

Hawks grimaces. He can’t help himself — it’s a sentiment that he can’t express anywhere else other than here. With anyone other than Dabi.

“Is it bad if I’m already wondering what I can do in order to get myself demoted?” Hawks quips, running his gloved hand over his eyes. He presses his fingertips against the corners of his brow, wincing at the mounting tension headache he can sense building beneath his skull. He’s joking, sure, but not for the first time he thinks about how much easier all of this would be were he lower in the ranks. Somewhere between the 20th and 30th place would suit him just fine.

Dabi clucks his tongue, grinning wickedly at Hawks.

“Ah, looking for a little scandal, are we?” he snickers. “Hoping I’ll drag you into something indecent?”

Hawks can’t help but laugh.

“Is your mind perpetually in the gutter?” he asks in amused disbelief, folding his arms over his chest. He can feel the worried energy that had been gnawing at him begin to ebb away from his tense body, in much the same manner as it always seems to in Dabi’s presence. The effect that the other hero has on him is almost unnerving, but god help him, Hawks is becoming hopelessly addicted to it.

Dabi has the gall to flutter his eyelashes at Hawks.

“Who, me?” he asks, the picture of perfect fucking innocence as he presses a hand to his chest. “When did I suggest anything of the sort? You’re the one with the filthy mind, birdie. I actually dropped by because I’ve got a little something for you that might even serve the purpose.”

Hawks tilts his head in confusion, genuinely taken aback. He can’t help but narrow his eyes suspiciously — it is Dabi, after all.

“I thought you promised to keep your clothes on,” Hawks huffs, watching curiously as Dabi slips his hand inside the pocket of his white leather jacket. What exactly is the other hero playing at this time?

“What did I say?” Dabi sighs as he pulls a small velveteen box out from the pocket. He raises his eyebrows at Hawks as he holds it out before him, cradled in the palm of his hand. “I’m not the one always thinking dirty thoughts, birdie.”

Hawks blinks down at the ‘gift’ proffered by Dabi, thoroughly baffled. It looks like…a jewellery box?

Hawk pinches his brow.

“Tell me you’re not planning to publicly propose to me on national television,” Hawks mutters. He doesn’t actually put the possibility past Dabi — no doubt he’d actually find such a stunt funny.

“Please, this early in the media cycle?” Dabi snorts. “We don’t want to give them too much to celebrate too soon, do we? Can’t risk burning through our fans’ attention spans so quickly. I’m not a total amateur, you know.”

Dabi flicks open the small black box with the side of his thumb, and Hawks feels his breath catch in his chest when he glimpses the contents. Laid out on a tiny black velveteen pillow were a pair of sapphire studs, set in a platinum trim. Earrings, Hawks quickly realises — an almost identical shape to the pair of rubies that he wears every day as part of his hero costume.

“Dabi,” Hawks breathes, his words escaping him in a gasp. He reaches out, but can’t quite bring himself to take. The gemstones wink at him, catching off the overhead lamps and sending spectrums of blue light reflecting over his hovering palm. “What… Why?”

Dabi smiles at Hawks then; that same surprisingly soft smile that’s so at odds with all the sharp edges that Dabi usually surrounds himself with. It’s the side of Dabi that Hawks knows with a painful certainty that only Hawks is permitted to see. He takes a step closer into Hawks’ space and reaches out to brush some of Hawks’ wild golden fringe away from his face.

“Well,” Dabi begins, tucking the strand behind the curve of Hawks’ ear, “consider it a little gift by way of apology for the other night. I figured…”

Dabi pauses, his fingertips drifting down to find the ruby stud piercing Hawks’ earlobe. He tugs on it, gently — the same way as he’d done in Sapporo, when he’d made such a show of leaving Hawks’ hotel room.

“...I know the main thing they’re going to want to grill you on today is your new ranking, and I also happen to know that’s the last thing you want to talk about. Don’t let it ever be said I’m anything other than a good student — you’re a masterclass in redirection, pretty bird, and I’ve learned rather a lot under your wing.” He winks. “Pun intended.”

Dabi’s so close that it’s making it increasingly difficult for Hawks to think. How does Hawks keep letting this happen? He licks his lips, his gaze still fixed on the pair of jewels held out in offering. They glimmer as fiercely a shade of blue as Dabi’s flames — as vibrantly as the colour of his eyes.

Dabi releases his grasp on Hawks’ earlobe, only so that he can take hold of his hand instead. He pushes the velveteen black box into Hawks’ palm, and guides Hawks’ fingers to close around it.

“Give them something else to talk about,” Dabi urges, wrapping his own hands around Hawks’. “It’s not quite as much of a headline-grabber as a proposal, sure, but it still should lead their attention away a little.”

Hawks raises his gaze to meet Dabi’s, slightly stunned.

He’s actually good at this, Hawks recalls, thinking back on how Dabi had handled the press attention at the charity gala they had attended together all those months ago. He had not expected the other hero to take so naturally to navigating the public spotlight, not to mention learning how to manipulate it.

But what’s really surprising Hawks is the thoughtfulness of Dabi’s gesture.

For all the bullshit that they were planning to put on display — for all the planning that went into the ‘act’ of their relationship — Dabi’s care for Hawks is genuine.

The way that he feels about Hawks is real.

And isn’t that half the problem.

You need to stop this, Hawks’ conscience begs of him.

You need to nurture it, Madame President whispers in the shadows of his memory.

Hawk swallows, his fingers closing around the small black box. He’s been handed gifts in the past — more times than he can count, in truth — but those had been presents from adoring fans. People infatuated with the persona of the hero Hawks rather than any understanding of the individual that existed behind the costume.

The last actual gift that Hawks can remember receiving is the Endeavor plushie that his mother had purchased for him. The small stuffed toy he’d clung to for so many years as proof that despite the indifference she generally expressed towards her son, there was a part of her that really did love him.

“You want me to wear these tonight?” Hawks asks — stating the obvious, but he doesn’t quite trust his words to say much else right now. Dabi shrugs, watching Hawks with a look of wry amusement.

“Well, you can always pawn them off at a jewellers, if you prefer,” he drawls, teasingly, “but yes, that was the general idea. Is it…”

Dabi hesitates, and Hawks doesn’t miss the way that his cocksure expression wavers for just a moment.

“...is it too much?”

Dabi’s uncharacteristic uncertainty is more than enough to snap Hawks out of his daze. He puts it down to hero instincts, rather than admit his own fondness.

“It’s perfect,” Hawks chuckles, and it really is. Hawks knew the interviewer wouldn’t be able to help themselves: the change in Hawks’ earrings to a colour associated with Dabi would be a far more tempting morsel than the standard soundbites surrounding a hero gaining a ranking. As impressive as it might be that Hawks was going to be the youngest ever Number Two Pro Hero across the globe — it didn’t make for as enticing headlines as the potential confirmation of the relationship between Japan’s two youngest and most desirable heroes. “Seriously — thank you.”

He steals a glance at the earrings again, nudging one stud with the tip of his index finger. The sapphire sparkles brilliantly as he turns it, and Hawks can’t help but wonder how much it cost the other man.

One hell of an investment for a media stunt, he muses.

Unless Dabi believed he was investing in far more than that.

That’s not a thought Hawks cares to linger on, and so he shakes it off, holding out the box to Dabi before gesturing at his own ear.

“Help me?” he asks, and relishes the warm look of relief that he gets to witness washing over Dabi’s face.

Hawks removes the trademark ruby studs from his ears, setting them aside on the nearby vanity table. He vaguely remembers the day that he’d first received them — fourteen years of age and at the mercy of the HPSC’s stylists. He hadn’t even wanted his ears pierced at the time, but both his handlers and stylists had eagerly enthused to him the value of appealing to a young audience. Hawks had reluctantly agreed, even if he hadn’t really understood. He couldn’t see how personal fashion could help save people from harm, but when had the Commission ever been wrong before?

Dabi carefully holds Hawks’ hair back as Hawks pushes the sapphire studs through each of his ears. He can feel Dabi’s warm breath gusting against his skin as he patiently waits for Hawks to set the clasp in place, and Hawks feels a giddy sort of energy pumping through his veins at the proximity.

“There,” Hawks finally exclaims once he’s finished fastening the last earring. “Tell me the truth — is blue my colour?”

He tries to step back, but Dabi doesn’t quite loosen his gentle grip on Hawks. His fingers remain loosely twined in Hawks’ hair whilst his thumbs fall to help him inspect the sapphire studs now decorating each earlobe.

“You know it is, angel.” Dabi hums, idly caressing the shell of Hawks’ left ear with his index finger, “you should try wearing it more often. Live a little.”

The new nickname falls so very casually from Dabi’s lips, as if it were the most unremarkable thing in the world. As if he’s been calling Hawks by the affectionate sobriquet for years

This pattern they’re falling into. Where everything feels so strangely familiar, despite being so incredibly new.

“Angel?” Hawks chuckles. “Giving me a little too much credit here, Dabs.”

Dabi’s smile is soft, fond. His gaze is almost as warm as his touch; it’s impossible to shy away from.

“Ah, but I’ve seen you in the morning, dove,” Dabi murmurs, the fingernail of his thumb lightly skirting over the sharp curve of Hawks’ jaw, “in dawn’s golden light. Angelic.”

Hawks thinks back to Sapporo, and how he’d admired the sunrise bathing Dabi’s pale skin in its warm glow. It’s painful to think that Dabi looks at him and sees something worthy of reverence. Unaware of the ugly truths concealed behind the masquerade of Pro Hero Hawks, but also of what Hawks is now being asked to do.

The President had warned Hawks not to allow sentiment to trip him up, but clearly she’d misunderstood. It’s not Endeavor’s eyes he sees when he looks at Dabi, it’s Touya Todoroki’s. Hawks’ partner. Hawks’ friend.

You deserve better than this, Hawks wishes he could tell Dabi, you deserve better than me. If only you could see that, without me breaking your heart for you.

For once, the knock on the door interrupting them is a welcome one.

An Assistant Director opens it without waiting for an answer, peeking her head around inside.

“Two minutes to stage!” she calls, not looking up from her tablet. “If you can both gather your things and step outside with me, I’ll — oh.”

Her mouth snaps shut once she raises her head and catches sight of Dabi practically cradling Hawks’ face in his hands. His fingers were still twined in Hawks’ golden hair, caressing the nape of his neck, whilst Dabi’s thumbs brushed over the glimmering pair of sapphires now adorned in Hawks’ earlobes.

The AD clears her throat and turns her eyes back down towards her tablet, but Hawks doesn’t miss the small smirk playing on the corner of her lips. Doubtlessly she was already planning out how she was going to relay this story to her friends later: catching two of Japan’s Top Five Heroes tangled in an intimate embrace mere moments before going onstage.

“Ah — my apologies for interrupting,” she states, lifting her eyebrows at the pair of them. Dabi hasn’t moved away from Hawks, nor has Hawks made any effort to disentangle himself from the other hero. “But once you’ve…concluded your business here, please meet me outside so I can escort you to stage.”

She shoots them both a knowing look as she holds up a single finger — ‘one minute’ — before stepping back into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind her.

Dabi chuckles, untangling his hands from Hawks’ hair as he rolls his tongue piercing over his teeth with an audible clack.

“See?” he says, brushing the tip of his thumb over Hawks’ lower lip. The taste of nicotine and smoke that clings to Dabi’s skin is becoming familiar now, and Hawks can’t help but savour it. He’s been so disciplined all his life: surely he can be granted at least one addiction, as peculiar it may be. “No one’s going to bother you with questions about your ranking now.”

Hawks knows it might be hypocritical of him to be glad: he resents the world’s fixation on hero rankings largely because it detracts from the real work that heroes do. Thus, he’s equally repulsed by the obsession with his private life — particularly his personal relationships — because what could be further removed from his hero work than what he does outside of it?

But god help him, answering questions about his love life is infinitely preferable than those about his role as the new de facto Number Two.

“Look at you,” Hawks huffs, teasingly pressing his cheek against Dabi’s hand, “already the guy with all the answers. How quickly the student surpasses the teacher.”

“Oh, birdie,” Dabi snickers, something dangerous sparking in his electric blue eyes, “believe me when I say you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

His hand slips away from Hawks’ cheek, wrapping itself around his wrist instead. Dabi squeezes it lightly, in a gesture that might even be reassurance.

“Trust me?” Dabi asks, lifting his eyebrows as he tugs Hawks towards the door.

He looks so terribly honest. So sincere.

“Unfortunately,” he quips, “I do.”

And he does. If there’s anyone on this planet Hawks trusts entirely, it’s probably Dabi.

He knows Dabi won’t lead him astray. He knows Dabi won’t try to fool him, or ever hurt him.

But it breaks Hawks’ fucking heart that he can’t promise Dabi the same in return.

Dabi throws open the green room door, and Hawks follows him out into the bright lights.

You can’t allow sentiment to trip you up, the President had told him. Hawks has to let go of this guilt before it ruins him.

He has to remember that the show must always go on.