Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

[ TEN ]

Two months after his therapist signs off on his return to the field, Hawks decides to visit Touya.

Even with his clearance status, he’d had to hack into the Commission’s system to get the room number and name of the hospital. Akayama Gakuin Hospital, one of the city’s leading private universities with an exceptional medical school, a gigantic, centrally located major hospital with world-class medical facilities. The tenth floor, a vast, largely empty floor, is reserved for celebrities, politicians, and other elites of society. Or, as in this case, seven empty rooms and one lieutenant of the Paranormal Liberation Front.

Hawks, no stranger to hospitals whether as a visitor or as a patient, doesn’t remember the hospital ever feeling this suffocating before. The walls feel too close to him, like they’re closing in. The hallways seem impossibly long, the elevator ride impossibly slow. The lighting above, stark and clinically white, casts a pallid, sickly glow on every face that he passes. He feels his throat start to close and his heart rate climb as he makes his way to room 1008B.

Hawks isn’t required to take out his Pro Hero ID or show any identification as he passes guard after pro hero after guard. There is no need to. None of them look surprised. They turn, bow, and go back to their phones, magazines, books, or conversation partners. They all know him, after all. Wing Hero: Hawks—the fastest man alive, the Number Two Pro Hero. It matters little that his hair is shorter, his crimson wings smaller to ward off unwanted attention on the streets, a now old scar crawling up the left side of his neck. Newer scars from the most recent war quirked away. He’s Hawks, Number Two. They take everything in their society at face value. No one looks past the surface, no one bothers to notice minute changes, and even monumental issues can be forgotten within days. Hawks smiles and bows at everyone, pushing his thoughts away. They’ve come too often and too frequently recently, making him feel sick and clammy. His therapist will not be happy with the regression.

Hakamada sits by the door to 1008B, magazine in hand. He looks up as Hawks approaches slowly, expression unchanging.

“Good morning, Jeanist,” Hawks smiles easily, raising one hand in a small wave, the other casually tucked into the pocket of his Jeanist-approved jeans, “you look well.”

“Good morning, Hawks. You’re looking well too,” Hakamada says, before turning back to his magazine. Hawks stops next to him, leaning forward to catch a better look at the glossy pages. Angular and lanky D&G models clad in denim stare back at him, sultry expressions on their faces, their bodies positioned in provocative poses meant to incite. The latest issue of Vogue, undoubtedly, meaning that Hakamada is in a good mood. Or, at least, not in a bad one. Hawks clears his throat, a chipper tone to his voice.

“I’m here to pay Todoroki Touya a visit. What do I have to sign?”

Hakamada doesn’t bother to look up from his magazine.

“Hawks, I have a list of people, minus his medical and nursing team, that are allowed in. It’s a very short list, and your name isn’t on it.”

Behind the sliding door to his room, less than ten feet away, lies Touya. Close to four months after the war, the only post-war note the pro central system has on Todoroki Touya holds a hospital name and room number.

“There’s nothing on him,” Hawks says, and this time Hakamada looks up, “which means that either he’s dead, unlikely given where we are, or he’s not awake.”

Hakamada’s silence continues, though his expression shifts slightly.

“Why are they bothering to keep him alive?” Hawks asks. His heart hammers wildly in his chest. His expression remains carefully schooled.

Please— he thinks, what if— he thinks, they might— he thinks, I’ll—

“To show that society is just.”

Hakamada closes his magazine and places it in the basket next to his chair, moving across the hall to a makeshift table set up with an assortment of hot drinks and snacks. He hands Hawks a cup of hot coffee, which Hawks accepts gratefully, before pouring himself one.

Hakamada takes a sip of his coffee, pausing to frown, then turning to look out the nearest window at the end of the corridor. The sakura season had come earlier than expected again this year, blossoms nearing full bloom despite only being just mid-March. Passers-by and tourists alike stop to admire the blooms, and to snap a few posed shots with the trees outside the hospital, a long row planted along the small stream running by the back of the building. All of them blissfully unaware and ignorant of the suffering present in the building a few metres away. A world apart, separated by a few slabs of concrete and the smell of disinfectant alcohol.

“They’re doing this to show that everyone is judged fairly against a legal system that represents all of society, and that the Number One Pro Hero and a villain are treated the same once they’re on the stand.”

Coffee in hand, he moves back to his seat by the door and picks up his magazine.

“And also, at his family’s request. They’re paying for most of the treatments which aren’t covered.”

Hawks sips his coffee, watching Hakamada flip past the D&G spread. He had been unconscious when the broadcast had been made, and the Commission had seen fit to inform him the minute he had regained consciousness. He’d had a panic attack after watching the video, and needed to be sedated lest he reopen the healing wounds on his back, to which he had received an email the next morning with no thread subject and a single line of text: Hawks, you were trained better than this. Please ensure that you do not make the same mistake next time.

The Todorokis, insofar as he could tell, had been left alone by the public but not by the media. The ongoing concerns raised about trust in Pro Heroes, though Endeavour’s name hardly came up, were quickly silenced or squashed by the HPSC-allied media moguls. Freelance journalists flying solo, or independent broadcasting companies though, were another matter entirely. Occasionally, a gossip magazine would trail Todoroki Fuyumi as she left work, hoping to catch her “insider view” of the big Todoroki Touya Reveal. Todoroki Natsuo was hardly spotted outside of his university campus, and it was poor form, even to the media vultures, to swarm on campus grounds. Todoroki Shouto remained protected within the walls of UA. Now, amidst the rubble and carnage left by the war, the Todorokis were old news. The foundations of pro hero society were being questioned left, right and centre, and it didn’t seem like a topic to be forgotten by anyone anytime soon.

“That sounds very rehearsed. I wonder how many people have asked you the same question.” Hawks says, finger absently scratching at the seam of the paper cup.

Hakamada flips a page, “I’ll be honest Hawks, you’re here later than I expected.”

Hawks exhales softly, smiling despite himself for a non-existent audience. “Surely you don’t believe in the system, do you? After everything, and after all this?”

Finally, Hakamada looks up, regarding him through his side swept blond bangs. Hawks has always had difficulty getting a read on him, despite trusting him with his life, as he knows Hakamada does with him.

“I do believe in it,” he says, voice clear and unwavering. “This is the society that I live in, and I believe in protecting our peace, in protecting our people, and in protecting the laws designed to keep our society safe.”

Hawks hums, remembering cradling a young boy to his chest, terrified that he had lost him; remembering a burning man saying his final farewell; remembering torn limbs and blood everywhere; remembering a villa on fire; remembering being ordered to be a traitor; remembering soft, scarred hands and bright eyes, and the searing pain of his wings on fire. He swirls the black coffee in his cup, willing himself to speak in a levelled tone.

“That we’ve designed, yeah.”

Hakamada doesn’t reply to that. He stays quiet for a long time, fingers unmoving over his glossy magazine. Hawks continues sipping his coffee silently, the caffeine making his already overworked heart thrash wildly against his ribcage, pulling him towards the door that Touya lies behind.

The sound of pages flipping brings him back to the hospital, coffee cold in his hand.

“You’re not getting in today, Hawks. Send in your paperwork and try again.”

[ ELEVEN ]

Todoroki Touya is being guarded round the clock by eleven S-ranked agents and four Pro Heroes, with one of the top ten permanently stationed directly outside the door.

Hawks had applied immediately after Hakamada sent him away from the hospital, as the second highest ranked pro, for shifts to watch him. He did not ask why the job had not been offered to him, and why he had been given no news relating to Todoroki Touya nor Todoroki Enji since he was cleared to return to the field. The multiple attempts to serve him a subpoena at his agency were probably reason enough, but Hawks isn’t a man who knows how to quit. He’s the fastest man alive, too fast for his own good, optimistic to a fault.

His application had been rejected on the grounds of his previous mission as a League infiltrate and double agent, and the fact that the last known time he had interacted with Todoroki Touya directly, Hawks had suffered major injuries—there was no guarantee that he would be able to ‘impartially guard the villain’ and, in not so many words, that it was possible that he might try to kill him. He had then applied for visiting rights which had been rejected without reason the first time. The second time he applied, citing his rank and the fact that he still had information to add to his PLF reports, even though Todoroki Touya was in a medically induced coma and had a zero percent chance of divulging useful information until he was awake, alert and medically stable, his request had been granted. Hawks didn’t know whether to laugh or trash his apartment at the absurdity of it all.

The first day Hawks visits, official visiting rights papers tucked safely into his jacket pocket and trying to calm his heart and not to throw up, with a plastic smile and empty, cheery greetings to anyone that greets him, Nishiya Shinji is seated outside the door, and surprisingly, without his mask. The irony of the situation—a tree guarding a firebreather—would have made him laugh if his insides didn’t feel like a bunch of knotted up rope swirling in a blender.

Nishiya smiles warmly at him.

“Hello Hawks,” he says with a small bow of his head, “I’m glad you’re well.”

Hawks smiles back, his smile genuine. “Hey man. I’m glad to see you’re well, too.”

Nishiya takes a small device out from the inner pocket of his jacket. He hands it to Hawks, who scans his right thumb and his irises. The device beeps twice quietly, and the door next to him slides open. Hawks steps in, and the door slides quietly shut behind him.

The first thing he notices are the four cameras installed in every corner of the ceiling. Besides that, it looks like a typical VIP hospital suite; two sofas and a tastefully designed coffee table beckon him to the side of the room with a large, wide window. Next to the window is a small built-in pantry where a kettle, an illy coffee machine and a traditional cast iron teapot sit, neatly lined up in a row. By the pantry, a small, round glass table in the corner with two chairs. Mounted to the wall, facing the bed and one sofa is a flatscreen fifty-five-inch TV, remote neatly placed in the alcove below it. It looks like something out of a catalogue for VIP hospital rooms, pristine and spotless, devoid of any human touch. Hakamada hadn’t been kidding when he said the list of approved visitors was short; it didn’t look like Touya had any visitors at all. Truth be told, it reminds him of his penthouse apartment before he started having regular midnight intruders. Before midnight intruders started sleeping in his bed and adding touches of life to his barren home. Before midnight intruders started becoming… something.

Hawks inhales, steeling himself to look to the bed.

A soft gasp escapes him.

Touya’s hair is snow white, much whiter than what he remembers from the battlefield. There is pink, healthy-looking skin where uncovered by bandages on his face, his neck, his arms and hands, all looking to be healing well. His ears look healthy, without a trace of any pierced holes. Hawks feels a small twinge of disappointment at that. He wishes he could see Touya’s eyes, but he remains asleep, a tube taped firmly to his lips running over the blankets to the ventilator next to the bed. There are other various other tubes and wires; Hawks counts ten lines that he can see. The machines around him beep a quiet, steady beat. Touya’s chest rises and falls slowly.

Hawks then notices the chains cuffed to the bed. There is a cuff on each long side of the bed where the barriers are up, and two cuffs at the bottom of the bed. Hawks scrubs a hand wearily down his face, moving to drag a chair up by Touya’s side. He sits down and holds his head in his hands, going through breathing exercises to combat the onslaught of memories threatening to come on. There is a rage bubbling beneath the surface, though he isn’t sure what it’s directed at. He feels like crying. He feels like throwing up. There is a tell-tale heat behind his eyelids. There is the nauseating, suffocating feeling of emptiness that keeps hitting him when he least expects it, threatening to bowl him over now. He sits there for ages, head in his hands, stewing in emotions he once knew how to barricade and fence out. It feels like minutes, but a soft knock at the door startles him out of his reverie, and a small hiss and whoosh of the door opening is all the time he gets to recover before he hears Nishiya’s footsteps coming in.

“Hawks?” he asks. “Everything alright?”

Hawks lifts his head and flashes him an easy, practiced smile.

“Yeah, I’m great. Sorry, is my time up?”

Nishiya takes a step back, angling his body towards the door. “No, you’re allowed to stay as long as you like, but his medical team is scheduled to come round in the next ten minutes.”

Hawks nods, rising to his feet. He glances over to Touya, eyes closed, white lashes long against his cheeks, and turns to follow Nishiya out the room, ignoring the stinging in his chest.

“Hawks?” a familiar voice asks as he and Nishiya exit. Hawks winces, turning to see Rumi staring at him with a mixture of confusion and anger on her face.

“He-y, Rumi,” Hawks flashes a smile, dragging out his greeting in a poor attempt at nonchalance, “fancy running into you here.”

Rumi isn’t having any of it. “It’s been a long time. I didn’t know you were here in Musutafu,” her eyes narrow, “why didn’t you give me a call?”

“Oh, you know,” Hawks laughs, flapping a hand between them. What the fuck is wrong with him? He was the media’s Golden Boy, for fuck’s sake, not this nervous laughter, clumsy hand gestures, spineless chittering person unpractised at lying to friends. “It’s just a short trip. I’ve been really busy.”

Rumi glares at him, “Yeah. Busy visiting vegetable villains in the hospital, huh.”

Hawks does not take well to that. His eyes narrow too, and his voice comes out clipped, “Busy working.”

Nishiya coughs loudly from the side, interrupting their glaring war. “Well, Miruko, now that you’re here I’ll take my leave.”

Rumi nods at him, eyes snapping quickly back to Hawks, but Hawks hurries off after Nishiya, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s do lunch soon!” Rumi shakes her head as she sits down to take up her post outside Touya’s room.

Inside the elevator, Nishiya replaces his face mask. Hawks clears his throat.

“It doesn’t seem like he gets many visitors, huh? The room looks like it was built and furnished yesterday.”

Nishiya nods, “No, he does not. Best Jeanist must have already informed you, but not many people are allowed in. His family is allowed, though. I believe his mother is the most frequent visitor, but she rarely stays long. Other than that, his brother might have come by twice or so.”

Hawks’ ears perk up, inquisitive. “Shouto?”

“Not Todoroki Shouto,” Nishiya shakes his head as the elevator doors open on the ground level, “another brother. I didn’t recognise him as a pro hero.”

“Ah,” Hawks says. Todoroki Natsuo, he thinks. The sibling that Touya must have been the closest to, based on the tiny snippets of his life before villainy Touya had deemed to share while drunk, high, or in a talkative mood under the same sheets and in the same bed. “And Endeavour is…”

“He has not been granted visiting rights, nor guard post duties, for obvious reasons.”

“Ah,” Hawks says again, stomach going back to twisting into knots.

“Hawks,” Nishiya pauses on the sidewalk outside the hospital. A late spring breeze blows by, carrying with it the humidity of an incoming shower. Nishiya pauses to consider his next words, frowning slightly. Hawks turns away and waits with his hands in his pockets.

Finally, Nishiya speaks. “Hawks, I’ve seen the official paperwork. I know, officially, why you’re visiting Todoroki.” He turns to face Hawks who continues to look out at the street, hands dispassionately in his pockets and his face carefully unreadable.

“It may not be my place to ask, but with everything that’s happened recently…” Nishiya falters, unsure of how to continue. Still, Hawks stays silent, counting the number of people who walk past the blue door on the sidewalk directly opposite in his mind.

“The HPSC isn’t active yet. Are you really here on Commission’s orders?”

The question sounds like an accusation to Hawks’ ears. The word ‘orders’ rubs Hawks the wrong way. The latent fury he’s allowed himself to feel more of recently bubbles quietly to the surface. It’s exactly what he needs to slip on his perfected, perfectly friendly and perfectly flirty Golden Mask when he replies.

“Why else would I be here?” he turns to Nishiya, hands out of his pockets to shrug, both palms upturned. He smiles and leans towards him, as if sharing an intimate secret, “Everything I do, I do for the good of our society.”

The words feel bitter, like poison on his tongue. He doesn’t want to remain on this sidewalk talking about this for a second longer. In parting, his smile softens, a semblance of truth tinting the corners of his lips, “It really was good to see you again. But if you’ll excuse me, I have a long flight ahead of me, so I’d best be going.”

He tips his head down, to which Nishiya replies with a small bow.

Hawks twists his boots into the pavement and takes off.

[ TWELVE ]

He crashes back onto his balcony in record time, his back screaming at him in protest, and barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up. After, he lies on the bathroom floor, letting the emotions wash over him, physically exhausted from his flight and mentally drained from the afternoon of the hospital visit. God, when did he get so weak? If his Handler could see him now… The thought of his Handler opens another can of worms. Hawks remembers the day he opened his agency, the praises and expectations heaped on him that he had lapped up greedily. He remembers being blindfolded as a kid, and being pushed to go faster, faster, you’re no use to anyone if you can’t save them all. He remembers his mother’s sobs, and broken bottles on the floor of a damp and dark room. The dam breaks against the deluge of memories and emotions. The breathing exercises don’t work. Hawks lets himself be overwhelmed. He falls asleep on the bathroom floor.

The next morning, he wakes up to a killer stiff neck, a sore back and right side, and feeling like something died in his mouth. He jumps in the shower, brushes his teeth, rinses out his mouth, and makes his decision.

At his agency, he calls his sidekicks into his office one by one and tells them all the same thing. That he’s closing his agency, that he’s opening a new, smaller one untied to the HPSC, and that as long as they’re willing, they’re welcome to come with him but that the pay won’t be as good and the benefits almost definitely won’t be the same. Oh, but on the bright side? There will be less paperwork.

Hawks expects them all to understand, and they do. None of them gape incredulously, none of them ask stupid questions. He’s always known that he has the best sidekicks in the world. Hawks does, however, expect a few of them to leave, especially those with families to support.

They all say that they’re coming with him, and to send them their contracts once his new agency is ready.

Hawks is moved to tears.

He drafts a letter out to the rest of his employees. His secretary looks it over, giving him a teary smile and a hug once he’s done. He drafts a letter to the President, sending it off after reading it over himself. To the rest of Japan, the HPSC may have shut down, but Hawks sees a corrupt beast lying dormant in the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to rise again. His inbox and his phone explode right after, and he ignores every single call and email. They can all go fuck themselves. He will never wear their shackles again.

Eighty percent of his support staff voice interest in signing with his new agency when it is ready; fifty percent of his administrative staff express interest in moving with him. Those that decide to leave knock on his door and explain their reasons with sombre expressions or tears in their eyes: that they can’t afford to take a pay cut because of their mortgage, because of their children, because of their parents, or that relocation simply isn’t on the cards. They are all genuinely sad to leave, and Hawks hugs every single one of them, grateful to have worked with such wonderful people.

Still, Hawks makes time to fly to Musutafu to visit Touya. He visits once a week to once every two weeks, pleased to find that his visiting rights remain viable. No doubt because the Commission, fraying at the edges and desperate to maintain all manner of sub-optimal control over their brainwashed agents, are clutching at straws by keeping Hawks on their register. They send daily emails and call constantly. Hawks ignores all of them.

Touya remains asleep, skin grafts healing well in the antiseptic bubble of his barren hospital room. Hawks’ visits are always the same: he stands by the bedside for five minutes, looking at Touya’s lashes and at the small puffs of condensation on the inside of the breathing mask strapped to his face—the medical team had deemed him healthy enough to start the ventilation weaning process while Hawks had been busy dealing with a messy sludge monster that had prevented him visiting for a bit because of the cleanup after—at the artificial rise and fall of his chest and the vitals monitor next to him, before moving to the pair of sofas and lounging there for the rest of his visit, messing about on his phone or catching up with his To Watch list on the TV, ignoring the twinging in his chest and the urge to reach out and brush away a stray hair from Touya’s forehead. Or the urge to hold his hand. Or the urge to kiss his pale knuckles.

Things start to change in the stifling heat of midsummer.

Hawks is lounging on the sofa facing the black screen of the TV, busy updating his official Twitter and Instagram accounts and looking over emails when he hears it.

A quiet sigh. Easily missed if you didn’t have a million little feathers on wings that served as listening devices attached to your back. Then, a small rustle of sheets.

Hawks’ head snaps to his left. His eyes meet bright, bright blue eyes.

Hawks holds his breath. Touya looks at him, head slightly turned and tilted towards the sofas, breath condensing in little puffs. And Hawks looks back.

The world stands still for a few seconds. Hawks feels a lifetime go by.

Touya sighs again and closes his eyes. Hawks blinks once, then twice, then rubs his eyes. He walks over to Touya’s bedside, checking over each machine despite having no clue as to what he is looking at, fingertips ghosting over Touya’s hand. When Touya doesn’t stir again, Hawks settles stiffly on the sofa, trying to go through his emails but failing to think about anything except intensely blue eyes and warm hands. Scratchy laughs pressed into his neck and whispers in the dark.

An hour later, Touya sleeps on as Hawks leaves the room.

Hakamada looks up from the latest issue of GQ. “Hawks,” he says, making note of the page and carefully closing his magazine, “good evening.”

“Hey,” Hawks smiles, scratching his neck idly, unsure of how to proceed. “Um, can we maybe talk somewhere more private? Maybe inside Tou-doroki’s room?”

Hakamada looks down the hallway, “I’m afraid I shouldn’t be leaving my post for extended periods. As long as we make it quick.”

They enter Touya’s room, and Hawks releases the breath he was holding as the door shuts lightly behind them.

“I was just wondering what you knew about his condition,” Hawks brings his hands up in a placating gesture as Hakamada begins to speak, “I know none of the pros on guard are part of his team or anything, but you guys surely know more than me.”

Hawks looks to the bed, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible. “He’s been asleep for a long time. Do the doctors really think he has a chance of waking up? I saw him on the field, before Endeavour separated him from the rest of us, and he looked…”

Hakamada follows his gaze to Touya, arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t know much either. When I was first contacted about this job, all I was told was that he was being brought to this room from ICU and that the job should be relatively straightforward given that he was going to be in a medically induced coma until the doctors decided his body was showing significant signs of healthy healing.”

Hawks frowns slightly, “I thought they took him out about two weeks ago?”

Hakamada nods.

“When I arrived for my previous shift, they told me to stay on alert. He hasn’t shown any signs of waking though, from what little I know, since then.”

He turns sharp eyes to Hawks, “Why? Did you notice something?”

Hawks’ eyes stay on Touya. “I thought he might have opened his eyes for a bit. I’m not entirely sure though. I think it only happened for a second. I might have imagined it.”

“Strange,” Hakamada frowns, uncrossing his arms, “I would have thought the monitors would have sounded or alerted his medical team in that case.”

Hawks shakes his head. “I must have imagined it, sorry.”

“Hawks,” Hakamada begins as they leave the room, “there actually is something I would like to discuss with you too. Do you have time in your schedule soon?”

“I’d have to check, but sure. Let’s grab a coffee.”

Hawks decides to take the longer, more scenic route on his way back to Fukuoka in a bid to clear his mind. He flies slower, at a lower altitude, and takes a meandering flight path rather than the direct one to his empty home.

The decision backfires. Everything brings back memories.

In the dank rooftop he catches out of the corner of his eyes he hears banter and quiet whispers to the wind; in the coastline he winds along he remembers dark piers, hot kisses and fiery touches; the brush of the wind against his cheek and on his neck are scarred hands holding him closer; the heat of the sun on his back is the heat of flames—

When Fukuoka tower appears on the horizon, he avoids looking directly at it.

It had taken him longer than expected to assemble a legal team ready and willing to take on the HPSC. None of the lawyers at his existing agency had been viable choices, and apparently, engaging in a legal battle with the government wasn’t something most lawyers in Japan had on their bucket lists. Head of his team, Miura Youichi, more than double Hawks’ age with a background in finance before making a name for himself in the corporate legal field, had instilled trust in Hawks from the moment he had bowed and introduced himself. Telling him about his past and how he came to be with the Commission had not been a fun moment for Hawks, but Miura had listened empathetically and attentively, asking questions where appropriate and never expressing any judgement.

“I’m very sorry to hear that you had to go through all of that, Hawks. I will do everything in my power to get you out of their hands,” he had offered at the end, and that had been that. His team was small, and contained a surprising number of prosecutors turned private hire defence attorneys, but they worked fast and they worked smart. The formal process was underway, and the Commission was not happy. Hawks had taken everybody out and bought copious amounts of champagne.

In the sweltering heat of the final week of August, he finds himself in Musutafu again. Tatsuma smiles at him as he approaches, handing him a bottle of ice-cold green tea which he gladly accepts.

“He’s awake,” she says, after they exchange pleasantries. Hawks crushes half the bottle in his hand, unprepared for that surprise. Tatsuma doesn’t react besides handing him a couple of tissues.

“Oh,” he says sheepishly, wiping off his hands before dabbing at the floor, “excellent! I’d best get to work.” Slipping a smile onto his face, he reaches for the biometric device Tatsuma hands him. She smiles back. The door to 1008B opens and closes behind him. Hawks takes three steps into the room, then stops dead.

Propped up against a mountain of pillows, new skin slightly pinker than the average person’s, with snow white hair and piercing blue eyes, Touya sits and turns to look at Hawks.

Hawks just stares, incapable of speech. Touya’s skin is flawlessly porcelain, with barely a trace of any seam where separate pieces of grafts had stitched themselves together. He’s thinner than Hawks remembers him to be, long, elegant fingers playing with a small plastic cup on the collapsible table in front of him. The piercings, the staples, the scars; they’re all gone. Even though Hawks has seen him so many times while he slept, he looks completely different now that he’s awake.

Touya breaks the tense silence first.

“Hawks,” he says. It’s the quietest Hawks has ever heard him. His feathers sharpen and soften in rapid motion behind him. Touya doesn’t seem to notice. He fiddles some more with the plastic cup. There are still cuffs around his wrists, now with longer chains.

“You’re awake,” Hawks says unintelligently. You’re alive, Hawks thinks.

Touya doesn’t respond immediately. He looks down at the table, his index finger tracing the rim of his cup. They fall silent again. Hawks remains standing, arms limp by his side.

“Why are you here?” Touya suddenly asks, voice even quieter. He looks tired, like the act of lifting his arm and hand and voicing a few simple words is equivalent to maintaining his quirk for an extended period.

Hawks’ heart pounds in his ears. He falls back on old habits and slips on a mask he knows Touya will see right through.

“Can’t I come round to see my favourite human flamethrower?” Hawks shrugs, smiling while attempting to hide his shaking hands in his pockets. He moves closer to stand right by the bed. Touya angles a flat stare at him before looking down and trying to pull his cup closer. His fingers curl around the handle, but the cup wobbles as he tries to lift it up. He frowns, a frustrated exhale escaping his lips, as Hawks rushes forward to help him, hands out of his pockets to steady one hand over Touya’s fingers. Touya’s entire arm visibly jerks at the contact, but he doesn’t pull away. Hawks forces his hand to stay steady as Touya slowly brings his other hand to the other side of the cup to drink.

He takes two tiny sips before tiring out, replacing the cup on the table. Hawks only releases his grip when he feels Touya’s fingers twitch, as if to bat away his hand. He takes a step back, hands returning to his pockets.

“What is that stuff?”

Touya’s shoulders twitch in an attempt to shrug. His hospital gown slips down slightly, revealing his collarbone, so much more prominent now than before. Hawks’ heart aches.

“Some disgusting protein drink.”

Hawks nods. Touya looks tired, but not uneasy and not on edge, which allows Hawks a breath of relief. He leans back into the pillows, chin tilting up and eyes closing. Hawks brings his usual chair round to the bedside.

“Is that all you’re allowed to have right now?”

Touya nods, eyes still closed. “They were pumping my blood full of something like this until recently. Said I can’t eat anything proper for a while. Some refeeding shit.”

Hawks smiles despite himself, heart rate coming down and feeling slightly more relaxed compared to when he first walked in. The conversation feels almost familiar. He’s missed that voice so, so much.

“That sucks.”

Touya hums.

“So, when did you wake up?” Hawks asks. Touya opens his eyes and looks at Hawks, who waits for him to speak. He doesn’t for a long time.

Then Touya chuckles quietly. Hawks’ wings extend, partially coming around him and over the bed.

“Nothing in this place ever changes, huh.”

The jab is half-hearted at best. Touya looks so tired. Nonetheless, Hawks bristles at the comment.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Touya looks like he’s about to fall asleep. But his eyes, always so intense, remain focussed on Hawks.

“It means you’re still a lousy liar.”

Hawks doesn’t know what to say in response to that. Touya can’t possibly be referring to that one time, weeks ago, when he had opened his eyes. Was he lucid then? But he couldn’t have been. Had he recognised Hawks?

“T…” Hawks begins, then falters, remembering the last time Touya had called him by his name. Remembering exactly how Touya had told him his own name. He closes his mouth. It’s a bridge he doesn’t yet know how to cross.

But Touya’s breathing slows and his expression falls slack. Relaxed. Hawks watches him quietly for a few minutes before replacing his chair and moving to the sofa where he spends the next hour going over Miura’s latest documents.

Tatsuma hands him an iced coffee when he leaves. He accepts it with a small laugh. “I’m on emergency calls tonight,” he says, tipping the cup towards her.

“I know,” she says.

“Did you manage to get much?” she asks.

Hawks shakes his head, “Talking tires him out. He’s sleeping now.” Tatsuma nods.

Hawks swallows before asking his next question. “Have his family been round to visit yet?”

Tatsuma shakes her head, “I’ve been told that they’re not allowed to. The psychiatric team doesn’t think it will be a good idea; they’ve been doing assessments twice a week. You’ve seen the cuffs, right?”

Hawks nods.

“They’re not there to protect other people. According to the medical team, he won’t be able to sustain his quirk for more than a second right now. They’re there to protect him.”

Hawks traces a bead of condensation on his coffee cup with his thumb. Outside, the cicadas shriek and wail.

“We don’t really get much information usually, but there’s been a lot of tension between the medical and psychiatric team. They want to move him to the psychiatric ICU, but the medical team is adamant that his body will kill him before his mind does.”

Hawks blanches at that, looking quickly away.

“Miruko was on shift when his brother tried to visit. I don’t know the details, but apparently the security guards had to escort him out. Honestly though,” Tatsuma shoots him a weary look, “you’re lucky you don’t have to do this. It’s not like I’ve had to do fewer patrols because of this job, and it’s not like the war deterred villains from being a nuisance. I think most of us want him moved so we don’t have to sit here wasting any more time.”

Hawks flashes her a small, sympathetic smile so fake it makes his skin crawl. She smiles back and shrugs, unaware.

“I’ve had the easy job, for sure,” he says in a measured tone, “but now that he’s awake, things might change. Let’s see what happens.”

“I hope he gives you what you’re looking for soon,” Tatsuma says.

Hawks smiles genuinely at that, replying in kind though he knows Tatsuma will misunderstand, “I do too.”

[ THIRTEEN ]

Hero Society is in a mess.

Hawks had been at the hospital for daily physiotherapy when the first article had come out. It had been an Exposé piece on the HPSC covering up pro hero misdeeds and mistakes, published by a lowly tabloid which few people would have normally paid attention to. But sentiments had changed during the war. Public trust in heroes had fallen to the lowest ever levels after the assault on Tartarus. Todoroki Touya’s broadcast hadn’t fallen on deaf ears—people had listened, and they had responded. Villain-sympathetic papers and channels started digging into Endeavour’s career. Accidental harm and kills, use of his quirk without a care for collateral damage, property damage, and his own family ended up in the spotlight. Why was Todoroki Rei in a psychiatric facility? How long had she been there for? What quirk did Todoroki Natsuo and Todoroki Fuyumi have? Was it Endeavour who gave Shouto his scar? Tabloids and gossip magazines, desperate for a juicy scoop, started writing hyperbolic articles akin to fiction.

It had become difficult to tell what news was fake and what was true due to the sheer volume of information coming to light. The media continued to have a field day digging up dirt on any pro they could sink their claws into, airing cover-ups, falsification of information and evidence, and even blatant corruption like dirty laundry. The Head of Police had resigned after being convicted of withholding and tampering with evidence, corruption, and gross misconduct while in power. Several regional heads, generals and commissioners had resigned in his wake. The HPSC’s more questionable actions were being leaked left, right and centre. Demonstrators called for complete dissolution of the Commission even though they were no longer actively running.

The legal system was also crumbling; several senior judges and prosecutors had either resigned or even committed suicide after being found guilty of colluding with arresting heroes. Of those left in the justice sector, many weren’t sure what they were meant to be fighting for. Within the top twenty heroes, two were stripped of their licences and three had resigned. Of the top one hundred heroes, thirty-nine were removed from their position or forced to retire.

The Top Ten (eight of them now, with Edgeshot still in rehab) gather with representatives from the police, justice, and education departments, as well as the Prime Minister’s office. The meetings are long and demoralising. Society needed to be changed, to be gutted and rooted, and seeds of corruption had been sowed everywhere. Discussions devolve into debates on ethics and morality, and arguments about who was right and who was wrong. Hawks attends the meetings whenever required and speaks up as is necessary. Hakamada sits at his side more often than not, looking pointedly at him whenever the PLF is mentioned but never saying anything. Frankly, Hawks doesn’t care what anybody thinks anymore about his stupid League mission. He doesn’t need anyone explaining why the Commission saw fit to send the Number Two hero on a suicidal undercover spy operation. He doesn’t need anyone explaining why he killed Bubaigawara Jin the way he did, and why he wilfully turned a blind eye to so many of society’s uglier truths. He doesn’t care for anyone examining or defending his actions and his choices. Nobody won the war, as far as he’s concerned.

There’s an emptiness inside clawing at him, an unrest only calmed when he can smell the tell-tale hospital grade disinfectant and when he can hear the steady beeping of machines.

Hawks continues to visit Touya. On good days, when he has the energy to interact, he replies curtly, snippily, and smirks and frowns and scoffs. Touya is a shadow of his former self, though it still makes Hawks fight to control embarrassing trills from escaping whenever he’s in a good enough mood and has the energy to call Hawks by his old pet names. On really good days, the banter feels just like how they had started, back in dark alleyways and on cold rooftops. And on days he isn’t feeling well, he sleeps the entire time Hawks is there.

Hawks’ reports are all the same: that he’s observing Todoroki Touya and waiting for opportunities to get more information. It’s a pointless ritual at this point. He personally handed in his formal resignation letter to the Commission soon after a disastrous phone call with the acting Commission President and hadn’t taken no for an answer, legal termination or otherwise, though he still had to serve out an outrageous one-year notice period as per his contract.

They had tried to reason with him first. Then they had threatened. Hawks doesn’t give a flying fuck. Miura said that the greatest threat the HPSC posed was airing his full history, but that Touya’s broadcast and the subsequent press conference the Top Three had held meant that it wouldn’t have as big an impact, and that it, too, would pose a significant risk of backlash. Also, an unlikely route for them to go down given that Hawks has more than enough leverage against them in that department, being one of their best agents doing their dirty work in the shadows when called upon. However, if they agree on a settlement, the negotiated amount will almost definitely put a significant dent in Hawks’ savings. Coupled to the fact that he will lose his regular income as an agent and will be signing fewer endorsement deals, though these he can easily make up for himself if he wants to, seeing as his approval ratings are still sky high and his die-hard fanbase is, well, die-hard, his way of living might “have to change markedly.” Hawks had tried not to laugh at that, and he had barely succeeded. He knows, of course, that Miura’s job is to lay out all the facts, but he barely has a lifestyle, or a life at all really, to change. Money and the high life had never interested him, and even if he had to fork over eighty percent of his savings, which is what Miura is predicting to be the negotiation ceiling, Hawks can still cruise through life if he decides he wants to retire tomorrow.   

Besides, the HPSC has more important things to deal with at the minute anyway. Hawks is minor-league compared to their ongoing restructuring.

Between his hero work, meetings on societal reform, having to show his face at the holding Commission HQ—a tiny building with zombies in suits and horrific eyebags—and visiting Touya, Hawks flies back and forth looking for a suitable area for his agency, looking for a new apartment, and trying to decide how to best start a new life.

He considers taking a vacation. He wants to travel around Japan and really see his country, wants to understand what it is that makes each prefecture unique, from the dialect to the local delicacies and artisan crafts. Sure, he’s been around the country for work previously, but those had always been a whirlwind tour of villains and stealth missions, adrenaline and blood on his hands, and the occasional glitz and glamour of PR visits. He hasn’t really seen much of anything. He’s never had the time to slow down.

Hawks looks up seaside resorts in Southeast Asia. He looks up cliffside cottages in Europe. Then he thinks about the hospital, and of skinny fingers and thin wrists, of healing vocal cords and wry smiles. The thought of leaving, even for a short vacation, was once liberating and exhilarating. Now, it makes Hawks’ chest tighten. There is the idea of surf-and-turf in a coastal restaurant in Rhode Island, and the image of Todoroki Touya hooked up to machines in the hospital. There is the idea of camel rides across the desert in Egypt, monuments of the great pharaohs around him, and Todoroki Touya in the hospital, struggling to stay awake for extended periods of time. 

He bookmarks restaurants, cafés, and sights around the world, making sure to save any interesting or fancy hotels.

He doesn’t reserve anything eventually.

Come mid-October, with the days getting shorter and the evenings finally cooler, Hakamada invites him back to the Genius Office. An employee with perfectly groomed hair, dressed in a perfectly pressed denim outfit, places two cappuccinos and an assortment of biscuits and wafers in front of them. Hakamada and Hawks thank them as they bow and turn to leave, waiting for the click of the door closing before speaking.

“So,” Hakamada begins, picking up his coffee, “I hear you’re suing the HPSC.”

Hawks laughs, going for a strawberry wafer. “Is that what they’re calling it?”

“That’s certainly what I heard the last time I was there.”

Hawks bites into the wafer. It crumbles around his lips and onto his lap, tasting like cardboard on his tongue.

“I’d liken it more to a long-overdue divorce.”

Hakamada nods. “A divorce. I see.” He looks up at Hawks after replacing his cup, “What was the problem?”

Hawks wags his eyebrows, “They weren’t very good in bed.”

Hakamada nods again. “You could have taken on a lover or two in that regard.”

Hawks chokes. Hakamada moves to his desk to pour Hawks a glass of water.

“Yeah, I could’ve,” Hawks wipes off stray crumbs from his seat, grimacing as he continues, “and have said spouse interview and background check all possible side-fucks before they’re approved for an NDA. It’s always a hoot.”

Hakamada pauses, “They did that?”

“Of course,” Hawks says, watching Tokyo Tower in the distance come alive in lights, “I’m their Golden Boy after all.” He shrugs. “Not with everyone though. I managed to have a little fun.”

“Good.” Hakamada says, and without pausing for breath changes the topic, “I wanted to ask you what you want our society to look like.”

Hawks groans, one hand coming up to rub his eyes.

“Oh god, we have to sit through enough of those pointless meetings as it is, Jeanist. Please don’t tell me this top-notch cappuccino is a peace offering for another three-hour roundabout discussion?”

“No, it isn’t. I agree that those meetings have been less than productive, but the discussions lately have been more useful than when we first started. I wanted to speak to you because I want your honest opinion.”

“Why me specifically?” It comes out short and clipped. Hakamada doesn’t deserve to bear the brunt of his frustration, but Hawks is so tired. He carries on though, unphased.

“Because I respect you as a colleague, and I trust you as a Hero.”

Hawks lays his chin in his hand, elbow on his knee as he regards Hakamada.

“Is that really all?”

A pause. And then, “Leaving underground heroes aside, you’ve experienced first-hand the underbelly of society. That gives you insight many of the other Top Ten will not have.”

Hawks laughs. “Yeah, Top Ten. The Billboards. That’ll be one of the first things I’ll get rid of in future if I was in charge.”

“Agreed.”

Hawks lifts his head, surprised.

“Oh, you don’t like the Billboards?”

“What makes you think that I do?”

Hawks shrugs. “You have a sort of… penchant. I guess. For flair. And fashion. Yeah.” He finishes sheepishly.

“Coming from you?”

Hawks laughs again, “Touché.”

“I think I do well in the Billboard system because I believe in what we do, and I work for it. It’s not because I pander to the system. And,” Hakamada leans in, “I would say that it’s the present, not the future, of our society. It’s now. These are changes that we can make, and once we make them that will be our world.”

“Hawks,” Hakamada looks Hawks squarely in the eye, “the war has changed things. Everyone is aware that the current system is flawed, no matter how much of an entitled hissy fit they throw in those meetings. This is our chance to try to make things better. What do you want to see?”

Hawks looks back towards Tokyo Tower. He wants to see a lot of things. For starters, he wants to see what the ocean looks like lapping at Nice’s pebble beach. He wants to see what the pear blossom-lined residential streets in London in spring look like. He wants to see Touya walk again. He wants to see Touya smile again. He wants to see Touya laughing at something stupid he did again. He wants to see Touya idling on the sofa in his home again.

“Kamui asked me why I was visiting.” Hawks settles on instead. “I’m sure the rest want to know too, even if they haven’t asked.”

He turns to Hakamada, “Why haven’t you asked me?”

“Because I’ve seen the paperwork.”

Hakamada reaches to rifle through the neat stack of fashion magazines below the coffee table’s glass top. Upon finding what he was looking for, he straightens, a copy of the latest issue of Arena Homme Plus in his hand. Hawks recognises himself on the cover and cringes.

“Okay, why are you taking that out?”

“I want an autograph, obviously. Hawks^TM centrefolds are going to be a rare commodity soon. There’s nothing wrong with being prepared.”

He flips to the incriminating centrefold and hands Hawks a marker. Hawks chuckles despite himself, taking the marker and scrawling his biggest, ugliest signature to date.

“And another one on the front, of course.”

“The cameraman said something so funny just before we started. I can’t remember what it was now, but I just couldn’t stop laughing after. I was on the floor at one point. It took forever to get this done.”

“Hawks.” Hakamada says as Hawks hands him the magazine back. “I’ve always thought that you were a good hero. I still do. In my view, unless you’re planning on harming civilians, why you’re visiting Todoroki is nobody’s business but your own.”

Hawks swallows.

“I…”

I wonder what you would say if you knew I fucked my way into the League. I wonder what you would say if you knew how many times I thought of kidnapping him and flying us away to a different country. I wonder if you would have been as wilfully blind as I was had you been in my position.

“I have to be on a call with my lawyers later this evening. I should probably get going.”

Hakamada stands and heads to the door with him.

“Think about it.” He says in parting.

Hawks smiles and leaves with a wave.

“The HPSC has indicated that they are willing to settle the contract termination without escalating the matter,” Miura tells Hawks later that evening, voice tinny through the speakers of his worn tablet.

“Excellent. Time for more booze then.”

“Before we get to that, Hawks.”

Miura looks directly at the camera and moves to the crux of the matter.

Legally, the separation will not be a complicated process at all. The only thing that belongs to the HPSC, on paper, is Hawks’ agency. As well as his Fukuoka penthouse, in the most expensive building currently standing in Kyushu, but that was technically gifted to Hawks. Miura advises that the best course of action, should Hawks want a clean slate, would be to sell the penthouse, though the HPSC will almost definitely aggressively negotiate that he gives it back to them for free. In addition, if Hawks were to set up a brand-new agency, there would be no legal way for the HPSC to claim it as theirs. The HPSC does not own him; at least, they haven’t since he turned twenty. Unfortunately, the contract signed by his mother remains vague and remains a key weakness which the HPSC lawyers can and most definitely will choose to exploit. Hawks is a valuable asset to them, and they’ll see his exit as another blow in a string of personal losses.

Otherwise, the bank accounts which they helped him set up when he was first starting out are all in his name, as are his pension accounts. His brokerage account he set up himself and has zero ties to the Commission. They have taken a huge cut from his PR activities since he reached the Top Ten, but most of his stints were arranged by them. Once he has his new agency, they will not be able to take anything.

“That doesn’t matter at all,” Hawks tells him, eager for the call to end so he can get started on his six-pack in the fridge, “I’m not interested in engaging with the media.”

Miura looks briefly surprised, though he recovers quickly. Then, “Hero society is changing, isn’t it.”

“Yes. And hopefully for the better.”

“I have every faith in you, Hawks,” Miura says, and Hawks knows that he means it. “I know that this termination is more of a symbolic move for you rather than a legal one, and I have every confidence that you will get the better end of the bargain.”

“Thanks, Miura-sensei.”

He flashes a friendly smile and a wave before signing off.

Two weeks later, as the country finally starts to enter fall, Hawks walks into Touya’s room and is welcomed by the sight of him sitting up again, this time looking much more alert and energetic, holding a pair of chopsticks and picking at a block of tofu.

“You’re eating!” Hawks beams, wings fluttering behind him. He pulls up a chair by the bed, sitting on it backwards with his chin in his palm.

“You’re here again.”

Touya spares him a glance before frowning down at the lunch before him.

“I told them I didn’t like fish, but apparently, it’s full of some sort of omega shit and I should ‘try to eat it’ because it’ll help with my healing.”

Touya scowls at his tray of food, pushing the plate of grilled mackerel further away from him.

“As if I haven’t heard any of that before. What do they think I am, five?”

Hawks keeps beaming. “Could’ve fooled me. You look just as cute as one right now.”

Touya turns to glare at him. Hawks’ smile only gets wider, which in turn makes Touya grumpier. It’s the most energetic Hawks has seen him in over half a year. Hell, it’s the most alive that Hawks has seen him since… what feels like a long time ago. So sue him for being a smiling idiot. He doesn’t care what the security guards reviewing the CCTV footage will think.

“Your flirting has gone down the drain, birdie.”

Hawks stomach does somersaults at the nickname. His smile stretches so wide he’s sure his face will split. Touya continues to pick at his meal. 

“I’m sure I can still charm you.” Leaning in closer, Hawks takes the chopsticks from Touya, cutting off a small piece of tofu before bringing it up to Touya’s lips, “You look particularly dazzling today.”

Touya scoffs. Hawks expects him to snatch the pair of chopsticks back. Hawks expects him to bat his hand away. He does not expect Touya to narrow his eyes and daintily bring his lips towards the piece of tofu.

Hawks mouth dries. His heart rate skyrockets. Blood rushes to his face and to areas down below. God fucking dammit.

“It’s the hair and the new face, birdie.” Touya licks a stray bit of grated ginger from his lips. Hawks’ eyes follow the motion. “You’ll get used to it.”

He reaches to take the chopsticks back, cold fingers brushing over Hawks’.

“You’re drooling, by the way.”

Hawks squawks, wiping his mouth immediately. His hand comes back bone dry. Touya cackles, but the sound is hoarse and quiet. It sounds nothing like how Hawks remembers it being.

Touya continues to eat slowly as Hawks watches him, trading occasional quips and barbs. It feels like progress. It feels like twenty steps back. Hawks just wants to fling that stupid tray of food away and hug Touya. He wants to feel his skin on his again, and feel his heart beat against his own.

When Touya sets his chopsticks down, food only half eaten, he pushes a button for assistance. A nurse walks in five minutes later to clear his tray and take his vital signs.

“Thanks,” Hawks says in greeting as she walks in. Her eyes go as wide as saucers, and she fumbles with the tablet she’s holding.

“Hawks!” she gasps. Hawks doesn’t have to look at Touya to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “Wh— I’m so sorry for interrupting! I didn’t realise—”

“Not at all,” Hawks smiles, turning towards Touya, “we called for assistance, so there’s been no interruption whatsoever.”

The nurse blushes a shade of scarlet. Christ, Hawk’s feathers pick up. Hawks allows his smile to widen.

“O-of course, Todoroki-san, let me get that out of your way.”

As she busies herself with fiddling with the machines and making notes on her tablet, hiding how flustered she is in the presence of Wing Hero: Hawks, Japan’s sexiest bachelor for two years running, Touya regards her with a cool, narrow-eyed gaze. Hawks tries to signal behind her back for him to play nice. He shoots him a short, icy glare, and continues to stare at the poor nurse.

“Todoroki-san,” she says in a cheery voice, and Touya’s eyes narrow further. “You didn’t eat very much again. Would you like some chocolate pudding instead?”

“He prefers chocolate cookies, actually,” Hawks says, then mentally slaps himself.

“O-oh,” she stammers out, flustered again under Hawks’ direct gaze and completely missing his major, major slip-up, “he’s only allowed a soft diet right now, I’m afraid.”

“Ah. Shame.”

With any luck, she’ll think that he’s just goofing around.

“Pudding is fine,” Touya sinks back into his mountain of pillows, the chains on his cuffs clinking loudly as he half-heartedly waves his hand. They don’t speak in the time it takes for the pudding to arrive, and when they’re alone again, Hawks opens his stupid mouth.

“So. Todoroki-san, huh.”

Touya looks down, reaching for his pudding. Hawks can see him receding into the depths of his mind. 

“You’re the last person I wanna hear calling me that, so stop that right now.”

Hawks tries again. “Have you been up and about yet? There’s a garden on the roof here which is lovely this time of year.”

“No.” Touya says flatly. Strike two.

“So…” Hawks trails off as his eyes roam the room, desperate for a safe topic of conversation. Touya pushes his pudding around in its cup, unappetising squelching sounds permeating their tense silence.

Hawks looks up at the ceiling.

“So visitors are allowed in alone because they’ve got a bunch of cameras in here, huh.”

Hawks had noted the cameras neatly positioned in all four corners of the ceiling facing the door on his very first visit. Why he thought it would be a good olive branch to extend, he has no idea.

“They’re pointless. Everyone knows you’re too much of a hero to try to kill me, unless the Commission orders it.”

Strike three.

“That’s not fair.”

The response is out before he knows it. He’s tired, he’s stressed out, he’s coming off a really crappy thirty-six-hour shift with scraggly wings he’s hiding inside his favourite paisley jacket. He can’t be held accountable for the things he says in this state.

Touya just laughs quietly. It sounds like a broken man’s sigh. Hawks can tell that he’s about to fall asleep.

“Life is unfair for a lot of people, Hawks. You’re not the exception.”

They don’t talk after that. Touya leaves his chocolate pudding in a mess, untouched, and turns to look at the reddening leaves outside his window. He falls asleep shortly after.

It’s the last time that Hawks sees Touya in the hospital.

Three weeks later, both his medical and psychiatric team sign-off on his discharge. Todoroki Touya is moved to the brand-new Tartarus.

[ FOURTEEN ]

The new Tartarus is built in days on another offshore reclaimed island the HPSC had commissioned in preparation for ‘calamity and disaster’ quote unquote, years before, when days of peace and harmony had been taken as a given. Clearly, the admin personnel who had filled in the form had an aptitude for hyperbolic creative writing. After the island had been reclaimed, there had been plans to build a training facility of sorts. That had quickly fallen through, whether because of how overworked and understaffed the HPSC was, or because of the then growing threat from the League of Villains, Hawks didn’t want to know. An isolated training facility in the middle of the ocean could only mean one thing.

The reclaimed island had remained barren, forgotten for some time, until Tartarus itself, the impregnable fortress, had been raided and destroyed. After a scramble of emergency phone calls, a hunt through the archives and several sleepless nights, a brand new, state of the art Tartarus emerged. Capable of holding around half of the number of inmates as its predecessor, which was no issue given just how many detainees had escaped or been killed, it is just as secure, if not more. Many of the previous security measures remain the same, with many new ones installed to prevent the same flaws from being exploited a second time.

A week after they lock Touya up, Hawks pays him a visit.

Touya eyes him wearily from the other side of the barrier, strapped up in a white straitjacket. His side of the room is huge, with two guards standing in a corner each at the back, just below the automatic rifles fitted to the ceiling. The whole thing is overkill and overcompensation in Hawks’ view. Taxpayer money could have been used to teach underprivileged kids about their quirks. Instead, the Commission built themselves a big, long, shiny little box to wave in people’s faces once they resurrect themselves.

Hawks smiles from his side of the barrier, pushing his visor up into his hair.

“Nice glass they got in here, huh? I’ve never seen anything this fancy before.” He raps his knuckles against the clear glass divider, three centimetres thick and feeling like a block of cement against his joints. “So this is the new generation of Riot Glass.”

“Hawks, please don’t do that.” One guard says from behind.

Touya smirks at him.

“Apparently, it’s virtually impossible to break. Not even you’d get through it, Mr. Number Two.”

Hawks laughs.

“What a shame. How ever am I going to carry out my mastermind plan of smashing it down, dragging you over to this side and flying off with you into the sunset?”

Touya’s smirk widens, an answer on his lips, when a guard behind Hawks speaks up again.

“Hawks.” Is all he says, tone stern. Hawks turns around and smiles, “I’m sorry, that joke was poor form. I’ve been off my game recently. You know how it is.”

“Don’t bother,” Touya says as he turns back to face him, “they’re all emotionless robots in here.”

Hawks laughs. “Yeah.”

“So.”

“So?”

Touya’s stare remains unreadable. His blue eyes, always so intense, never leave Hawks’ face. Hawks wonders if he really did come to know the person behind Dabi’s mask. All those times Hawks heard him laugh, all those times Hawks heard him sigh, in all the small touches, the tiniest uptick of the corners of his lips, and the way he’d say ‘c’mere’ at night. Touya sits before him behind a wall, blue eyes and gleaming hair and unblemished skin, arms bound in a jacket and strapped to a chair, feeling like a stranger.

“Why are you here, Hawks?”

Hawks’ eyes move to Touya’s hair, unable to maintain eye contact for a second longer.

“You look nice in white. It suits your natural hair colour.”

“My natural hair colour is red.”

Hawks falters, thrown off rhythm. He stares at Dabi’s white hair, then at his blue eyes. If he had red hair, he’d look so much like—

Touya’s eyes start to widen. He chuckles an icy, unamused sound, unmuffled through the glass. His eyes glow, even with the glare of the fluorescent lights overhead, making him look manic. Hawks forces his face to remain neutral and his feathers still, though his body instinctively prepares for a fight.

“You used to love blabbering on and on. What happened to you, Keigo?”

It’s the second time Touya has ever used his real name. He’s not as startled as he was the first time he heard it. The element of surprise is gone, but Hawks still feels something small and sharp stab at his chest. He wonders what Touya’s endgame is here.

“I fought in a war.” He says simply, shrugging.

Touya laughs again, louder this time, a cold, harsh sound that reverberates across the barrier and around the room. The guards behind Touya start to move forward, and Hawks can sense shuffling beyond the door behind him.

“Well guess what, birdbrain? I did too.”

He squirms against the black straps, arms twisting inside the straitjacket, “I’ve always liked the silent look on you. You look even stupider now than you did before, and that’s really saying something.”

There’s a snarl beginning to twist his features, the amusement in his eyes turning to anger. The guards behind him stop halfway, hands hovering over their guns.

“Nothing smart to say this time?”

“I heard you dismissed the interim hearing.”

Touya rolls his eyes but stops moving. The guards behind him halt, halfway across the room, and Hawks notices the minute repositioning of the guns in the ceiling.

“That would have been a royal waste of everyone’s time. Not least, mine.”

“Probably.”

Touya scoffs in derision.

“Everyone’s always got something better to do, right?”

“Maybe. Are you still seeing the doctors in here?”

“Nope.”

That doesn’t sound right to Hawks. He makes a mental note to look into it later.

“I saw your broadcast, by the way.”

It’s meant to be an opening, to lead into more banter and flirting. Something about Touya showing off his tits on camera when he never seemed interested in filming them before, something about how even Hawks, Japan’s sexiest bachelor for two years running, hasn’t ever graced every single screen in the country at the same time. It turns out to be the wrong thing to say.

Touya’s expression shutters.

“Guard,” he says, voice low, eyes still on Hawks, “this visit is over. I want to leave.”

One guard moves forward. The other moves to the wall panel by the backdoor.

“Wait,” Hawks says, “Touy—”

The reaction is immediate.

“Do not call me that.”

An alarm shrieks, signalling attempted quirk use. The guard next to Touya falls several steps back. The backdoor slams open. Three more guards come in. The alarm continues to shriek. One gun in the ceiling fires. Touya’s head jerks to the side, his torso straining against the black belts. Red blooms on the white of his straitjacket coming around the side of his right shoulder.

There’s a hand on Hawks’ own shoulder shaking him.

“Hawks, sir, this way, please.”

Hawks allows himself to be escorted out, the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his ears.

[ ONE ]

Hawks had not been happy about the mission. It was stupid. It was poorly planned. And it was entirely suicidal.

He’s the best man for the job? Fine, he’ll take the praise. They don’t care about the innocent people who will come to harm while he’s trying to play both sides? Public Safety Commission his ass.

He drank himself into oblivion the first opportunity he had; were they throwing him away now? Why? Had he been underperforming recently? The public still adored him—his latest approval ratings were as high as ever in the polls, and his arrest stats were as they always are: within the top. So why? Why now? After everything that they had done, and the hero they had turned him into?

He'd had no idea what he was going into when he first met Dabi.

Hawks had gone into that first meeting with Dabi on edge, with a combined hundred and thirty-two minutes of sleep in forty-eight hours and zero REM cycles, all of his feathers halfway to sharpened. The Commission had given him a poorly shot photo, a blurry image at best, but Hawks had recognised the scars immediately, and a last sighted location: the docks on the outskirts of Kitakyushu.

“You recognise this man, undoubtedly,” his Handler had said. Hawks had nodded.

“He’s their recruiter?”

“That is what we believe. Make contact with him, tell him what he needs to hear, and then tell us once you have a meeting with their leader set up.”

Hawks hadn’t known what to expect. The HPSC had close to no information on his mark, besides the fact that he had a fiercely powerful quirk, seemed to be a ranged fighter and was an S-ranked wanted villain.

And his stupid bird brain had been very, very unhelpful the first time they met.

Oh. He’s very shiny.

Dabi had been meeting with potential recruits. From his perch atop a container storage unit, Hawks could hear every single word of their conversation clearly through the feathers he had carefully hidden. The two potentials had been stupid, and they had been rude. Dabi hadn’t bothered with patience.

“Yikes. But they deserved it.”

Dabi, barely five metres away from where Hawks had chosen to land silently, pauses before lighting his cigarette and turning around.

“What’s the number two hero doing lurking in a bad place like this?” Dabi drawls slowly, eyes aglow and sharp. If Dabi decides to roast him, it will take Hawks a fraction of a second to clear at least five metres above the height of the storage units they’re amongst. Hawks has no intel on exactly how big Dabi can generate his flames and at what speed, but he’s willing to bet his entire worth on not having enough time to write fuck the HPSC before being fried.

“I’m hoping to send in my application.”

Dabi takes in a languid breath. His cheeks hollow, and the staples on his face glint in the small glow of the lit cigarette end.

“You,” he says, “want in.”

“I’m smarter and a thousand times more polite than those idiots you just crisped. Give me a chance, hotshot.”

“That’s not my name, pigeon.”

“That’s not my name either.”

Dabi sizes him up. Hawks feels his feathers vibrate.

“You get two sentences.” Dabi drops the cigarette end on the ground and grinds his boot into it.

“Hero society is corrupt. Like the League, I want to carry out Stain’s Will.”

Dabi laughs, hands in his pockets and walking over to Hawks. Hawks remains still but shifts his centre of gravity slightly, ready for a fight at the first indication.

“Tell me something I don’t already know.” Dabi says, pausing two metres from Hawks to lean against a unit, carefully schooled detachment betrayed by the fire in his eyes.

Hawks knows he has lost this round.

“They put me in a cage,” he says, and Dabi straightens, “and now I want out.”

It doesn’t take him long to decide, and when he does, he says, “Let’s see how useful you can be, hero.”

Hawks is not a fool. He doesn’t celebrate surviving their first meeting. He gets a burner phone with a single, unsaved contact. He gets ordered around. He’s made to fly around the country at supersonic speed to make meetings at unreasonable times. He arrives at every single one with a smile on his face and a quip at the ready.

He sends random articles to Dabi. Memes he laughs so hard at he cries. Interesting graffiti he spots in cities dotted along the country.

Hawks never expects a response. He does it on lonely days off, when it’s raining outside and his apartment is too big and too quiet. But to his delight, Dabi starts by responding to twenty percent of his nonsense messages. And man, is Dabi witty. Hawks starts firing off messages to him any opportunity he gets. Dabi responds to half of them. Then, to three-quarters of them.

He's smiling widely and sitting at his desk, busy thinking of the wittiest response to type out on his phone that he doesn’t hear one of his sidekicks, Shimura, come in.

“Are you texting your girlfriend?” he asks loudly, expression gleeful.

Hawks laughs. “Maybe something adjacent to that?”

“Nana! Masao!” Shimura yells, halfway out the door without telling Hawks why he had entered in the first place, “It’s finally happened!”

“No, no!” Hawks scrambles to swap the burner phone with his usual one. “We’re not official! I mean! It’s not official yet!”

“Yet?”

Three pairs of delighted eyes stare back at him from his doorway.

“Uh… yeah.” Hawks tucks his chin into the high collar of his coat. He hasn’t managed to get an audience with the League’s boss yet, but Dabi has warmed up to him. “Yet, I guess.”

The flirting starts because Hawks is a certified idiot.

“Why are we meeting on rooftops in the dead of winter? It’s freezing!” Hawks shivers, rubbing his arms and tucking his chin into the fluffy collar of his jacket. Beside him, Dabi chuckles.

“Aw, so Wing Hero Hawks is afraid of the cold?”

“Yeah obviously,” Hawks huffs, unconsciously sidling closer to Dabi, “birds aren’t good with the cold, and not everyone is as hot as you.”

He freezes, but the words are already out of his mouth. Dabi says nothing, just turns and levels him with a flat, unimpressed stare.

Hawks backpedals immediately.

“I mean, because you have a fire quirk, obviously. That’s why you’re hot. Not because of anything else.”

Dabi’s gaze sharpens, remaining silent. Hawks blindly barrels forth.

“No! I mean, you’re hot hot too, obviously, look at all your piercings and stuff. And also, that shirt you always have on is—”

Dabi laughs loudly, saving Hawks from further embarrassment. Hawks gawks, then flushes. He’s sure he’s red from head to toe. He wants to fly home and hide under the safety of his duvet and never come out, ever again. Oh, the humiliation.

“You’re not very smooth, huh, without the teleprompter and the pre-prepared interview scripts.”

Hawks sticks his chin out above his collar. “You follow my interviews?”

Dabi scoffs, “Of course I don’t. I have better things to do than to look at prancing chickens.”

“Like changing our society?”

Dabi turns back towards the city.

“Exactly.”

Hawks decides to make the best of the situation. He keeps up with the flirting, if only to pry and jab and get any sort of reaction out of Dabi he can weasel information away from. Also, it’s fairly entertaining, but he keeps that information out of his reports.

And what had started as an extension of their cryptic back-and-forth, quickfire usual banter, changes between Meeting Two at Abandoned Warehouse Two and Meeting Twenty-two at Windy Rooftop Five. Dabi starts to flirt back. It makes Hawks’ wings expressive in ways he hasn’t had to force himself to hide in a while, and every slip-up amuses Dabi.  

One terrible day, after a shift so long it breaks several labour laws that the HPSC is immune to, stacks of paperwork Hawks had to redo because of an HR mistake, and chasing after a lowlife villain with ‘speed to rival even you, Hawks’, Hawks just wants to enjoy some yakitori, preferably not by himself, maybe enjoy the view of his city while he’s at it, and maybe also engage in some flirty banter with a shiny villain.

Got some stuff for you, he texts Dabi, followed by GPS coordinates and a time. He knows Dabi will show up because the last time they’d met, he told Hawks to get him a random assortment of support gear and listening devices, all small enough for him to fly around with inconspicuously.

Before their meeting, Hawks picks up a couple of sticks of yakitori from one of the best places in Hakata. Dabi shows up on time, a rarity, and Hawks flies them up to Fukuoka Tower before Dabi can protest. Dabi clings to him like a koala and squeezes his eyes shut tight. Hawks tries and fails not to laugh, revelling in the string of curses Dabi grumbles into his coat as he ascends.

“Stupid fucking bird,” Dabi continues to grumble as he pushes himself off Hawks, one hand reaching into his coat pocket for his cigarettes. Hawks laughs again, settling at the edge of the roof and taking out a momonegi skewer. Dabi proceeds to sit next to him, deliberately making eye contact before lighting his cigarette with a snap of his fingers. Hawks’ wings puff up behind him in excitement, making Dabi laugh. Hawks mentally slaps his own forehead, ignoring the heat rising to his cheeks. Why does he have to be so fast at everything, ugh.

“You’re so predictable, birdie,” Dabi says, as he waves his hand when Hawks moves to pass the yakitori over.

Hawks can feel where Dabi’s pinkie touches his where they’ve placed their hands on the building’s edge. The healthy skin on Dabi’s finger feels warm against his. The ocean whispers behind them, and a late spring breeze brushes through his wings, taking with it the smoke trailing from Dabi’s lips and cigarette tip in the opposite direction. Hawks wonders if Dabi sat downwind of him on purpose. It makes him want to loop his pinkie around Dabi’s. It makes him want to reach five centimetres over and hold Dabi’s hand. It makes him want to ditch decorum completely, climb into Dabi’s lap and taste the cigarette on Dabi’s lips and tongue.

He pushes that thought aside immediately.

“So,” Dabi says when he stubs out the end of his finished cigarette behind him, “did you get the equipment?”

Hawks turns to face Dabi. His eyes are even more blue than Fukuoka’s own iridescent tower on a perfectly clear day.

“Why’s it always work, work, work with you? You call me a workaholic but you’re just as bad.” Hawks pushes the box of yakitori into Dabi’s lap. “Can’t I just call out a friend to the nicest spot in Fukuoka to enjoy the best yakitori the city has to offer?”

Dabi takes his time choosing.

“You think we’re friends?”

Hawks can hear the underlying threat in those words. He ignores it, legs swinging childishly in front of him, eyes unable to stop tracing the high curve of Dabi’s cheekbones. 

“I think, despite what little I know of you, that I get you. And I think that you get me, given how little I’ve kept from you.”

Dabi rolls his eyes at that. Hawks smiles.

“Besides, we want the same thing, don’t we? Doesn’t that make us, like, ‘united-in-cause friends’?”

Dabi exhales loudly through his nose.

“The correct phrase is, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’, stupid.”

“But it does, doesn’t it?”

Dabi turns to him, “Does it?”

Hawks doesn’t reply, caught leering at the glint of something shiny inside Dabi’s mouth.

“You’re seriously so fuckin’ predictable, birdie,” Dabi says, in between slowly licking sauce off his lips. “Why’d they send you in to be the spy?”

“That’s because I’m not a spy, and nobody sent me.”

“Nice try. You’re still not meeting the boss anytime soon.”

Hawks reaches for a skewer at the same time Dabi does. His fingers brush against scarred skin. Neither of them moves their hand away.

“More yakitori for you in the meantime, then,” Hawks says, face less than two inches from Dabi.

Dabi looks down, chooses a skewer, and then looks away.

“Guess so.”

[ FIFTEEN ]

“He needs a hospital,” Hawks says as the guard leads him back to the entrance where he had left his phone.

“There’s an infirmary here, they’ll handle it,” the guard says gruffly, motioning for Hawks to pick up his phone.

“He’s just been shot. What if the bullet—”

“Sir,” the guard picks up Hawks’ phone, nodding to the other guard on duty, “those are all point twenty-two fully automatics. We have a monitoring system that calculates the trajectory precisely. This is the new Tartarus, not the old one.”

He presses Hawks’ phone into Hawks’ palm. Hawks closes his fingers over it, unblinking as he stares at the guard who remains unphased.

Eventually, he relents, tugging on his phone and slipping it back into his pocket.

“Thanks for your hard work today,” the mask slips on, his voice bright and cheery, “I’ll be back!”

The guard bows.

“Thank you for your hard work, Pro Hero Hawks.”

When Hawks gets back to his hotel, he texts Rumi.

Hey. Have you been to the new tartarus?

Nope. Why?

Went for a visit today. They have guns in the ceiling everywhere now.

You on a case?
Makes sense I guess. After what happened.
So we still on for lunch tomorrow?

Yeah. See you at 12.

He spends the entire night hacking into the HPSC system trying to get everything he can on the new Tartarus. The guns, twenty-two calibre and fully automatic, installed in all visiting rooms, the dining room and the multi-purpose activity hall appear to run on an extremely complex algorithm that Hawks cannot get access to no matter how hard he tries.

It houses two infirmaries, one bigger and one smaller, with one doctor and three nurses onsite, and another doctor on call, trained and equipped to treat simple ailments and perform uncomplicated emergency and general surgery. Anything else would require transfer to a larger hospital.

Hawks feels slightly reassured, though not by much. The inmate records are all buried under additional layers of encryption. Physically, Touya seemed better than at his last visit to the hospital. Mentally though, Hawks isn’t too sure.

Lunch with Rumi takes place over extra-spicy tantanmen in Hiroshima. They talk, they laugh, they enjoy themselves. It’s a reminder that there are still things to laugh over, that they can take time out of their busy professional lives to enjoy themselves, and that not everything has to change, or has changed, after the war.

Hawks loves her. She’s fun, she’s optimistic, she’s bubbly, and her confidence never ceases to amaze Hawks ever. Hawks doesn’t bring up his ongoing legal battle with the Commission. He doesn’t talk about Touya. Rumi is his closest friend, but there are things he knows she will never understand.

It’s almost Christmas when Miura calls him again.

“We’re going to settle the contract termination without escalating the matter,” he says, voice tinny through the speakers of his worn tablet.

“Excellent. Thank you so much. I’ll book a place to celebrate after Christmas, before everyone goes home for the New Year.”

“Just a minute, Hawks,” Miura continues, “they are willing to sign if you repudiate.”

Hawks pauses, in the process of putting on a second pair of gloves while perched on the edge of a rooftop mid-patrol.

“I have no idea what that means.”

“I’ll spare you the details now and I’ll send everything round to you after this call, but what you need to know is that repudiation can be risky. Essentially, you will claim that you cannot fulfil your contractual obligations and will not be fulfilling your contractual duties. You’ll therefore have to compensate the HPSC for any damages to be incurred because of the termination.”

Hawks waits as he hears Miura pause to shuffle some papers.

“Their lawyers, however, have said that the subsequent settlement will just be a show of paperwork and signatures. They can, of course, be onerous about it and claim an obscene amount, but I think that all parties involved here are aware that you can do exactly the same. It will be a fancy, legal name given to a fancy, legal way to terminate your contract.”

“So it’s risky in theory and on paper.” Hawks feels a headache coming on and he has nine hours left of his sixteen-hour shift. “But in my case, we’re fairly certain that it will proceed smoothly. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Well, the other issue is that your contract with the HPSC isn’t exactly standard, but we can definitely work with it, yes. Your track record has been nothing short of outstanding, and you have enough knowledge about the unseen side of the HPSC for them to think twice about attempting anything funny when settling.”

Hawks sighs. “Fine. We knew they weren’t going to make this easy anyway, so if this is the fastest and quietest way we can get this done, I’ll sign whatever you need me to.”

Miura hesitates again.

“There is one more thing though.”

“What is it?”

“Hawks, you’re in the middle of patrolling now, right?”

“Yes,” Hawks says, heart sinking.

“Can I come round to your office tomorrow evening?”

“Sure. Would eight be alright?” Hawks replies, heart sinking further.

“I will see you at eight,” Miura says, and the call ends.

The rest of Hawks’ shift is a disaster. A giant candy cane villain, dressed head to toe in red and white stripes, shows up just as the office crowd knocks off, thick white foam spewing in endless streams from all ten of its candy cane shaped fingers. With the war still vivid in everyone’s minds, the resulting panic is harder to subdue. They call in three additional heroes and a SAT team to help. Hawks’ feathers are a mess after sending them out to fish struggling civilians out of the sticky foam. When they finally snap a pair of cuffs on the villain hours later, they find that the villain is not, in fact, a villain, but a euphoric teenager on a substance the labs have difficulty identifying. The debrief thereafter leaves Hawks with a mountain of paperwork he knows is going to take him longer than a week to complete. He drags himself into the office showers and decides to nap on the couch for the couple of hours before the next workday begins.

Miura shows up just before eight in the evening, a box of yakitori from Hawks’ favourite street stall in hand. Hawks could kiss him.

“The HPSC is currently being reshuffled.” He says in between bites of momonegi. “As you are probably already well aware of, and I’m sure you know more details about than have been made privy to me.”

Hawks nods, trying not to act like a starving man around the skewers of chicken laid out in front of him. The sinking feeling from the day before returns. He isn’t looking forward to where the conversation is headed.

“Yeah, I’ve had to sit through tons of meetings about it. They haven’t been very productive though, if I’m being honest.”

Miura wipes his fingers and produces a thick manila envelope from his briefcase.

“This is everything I sent you by email last night, so here’s a printed version for you.” He places the envelope next to him on the couch as Hawks takes the last skewer and clears the table.

“The Commission is willing to sign on one condition,” Miura pauses to adjust his glasses, “and that is that you agree to one of their counteroffers as part of the damages settlement.”

“Okay…? So what’s the counteroffer?”

Miura sighs.

“I don’t know.”

Hawks stays silent. Miura looks uncertain as he continues. He never looks uncertain.

“Their legal representative told me they would like to offer you a separate agreement as part of the settlement. I have made it clear to them you no longer want to be one of their operatives, but they insist you will want, at least, to see what the deal is. However, because of the nature of the agreement, I cannot see it until it is signed. And, if you do agree to it, all of us will have to sign an NDA.

You will, of course, have all the information required to make your decision, but as for the rest of your legal team, none of that information can be made available to us until after you agree, and then after we all sign an NDA.”

“And,” Miura continues, looking exhausted. Hawks wonders just how many phone calls had taken place between him and the Commission’s suits, “when the new president is chosen, they will want to speak to you personally about the agreement.”

“But the Commission is a mess right now and they haven’t, officially, chosen a new president yet,” Hawks finishes for him.

“Exactly,” Miura sighs again, “in the meantime though, we can continue with the formal process of the termination.”

“What happens if I don’t agree to this secret offer?”

“Then everything is voided, and we go back to the drawing board.”

Hawks looks out the window.

“I may not be a lawyer, but this doesn’t sound like standard practice to me.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

Hawks looks back at Miura, who has a small, empathetic smile on his face.

“I’m sorry this is an option I’m presenting to you. But I’ve been working for a long time, and my gut instinct is that this sounds promising. I don’t think they’ll be throwing us a curveball, and even if they tried that, you don’t have to agree to anything you don’t want to.”

Hawks nods. He wants to scream. He wants to say no they’ve owned me for so long I am my own person I only want—

“Let’s see what they want, then.”

Hawks tries not to let doubt consume him. With just under half of his notice left to serve, and very little Commission work coming in, Hawks knows it will be just a matter of time before the new HPSC President is announced and this mystery deal will be before him.

Hawks tries not to think about Touya either. Unable to access Tartarus detainee records and unable to find anything further in the HPSC database, Hawks can only hope that Touya continues to receive the medical attention he needs.

Just before the country closes for the New Year, a phone call comes in, setting up a meeting with Endeavour’s defence attorney for an affidavit for the upcoming trial. Hawks nearly breaks his landline with how hard he smashes the receiver back into place after the call. He sends off an email to his therapist’s office immediately after, asking for an appointment after New Years.

Hawks knows he looks awful, like he hasn’t slept and hasn’t eaten because he hasn’t been sleeping or eating properly. But by the time the first of January rolls around and he has a Daikichi on his fortune from the first shrine visit of the year, he has a location for his new agency. Shizuoka, a city by the coast with stunning views of Mt. Fuji, in a prefecture abundant with rice paddies, tea plantations, coastal hikes and waterfall forests. It is an area that needs a new high-ranking Pro to cover, after a string of removals and retirements, and it’s close enough to Musutafu without being directly in the capital.

If he chooses Shizuoka with the consideration of proximity to Touya in mind, well, that’s something that no one but him has to know.

[ SIXTEEN ]

On the first official day of business in January, Hawks sends in a visitor request to Tartarus. He receives an email the following day granting him visiting permission, with an appointment set up for a week after.

By the time he’s through security and a pat down, Touya, in a pristine white straitjacket, is seated and waiting behind three centimetres of polycarbonate. 

“Hawks,” is all he says as Hawks slides into his chair opposite him. He doesn’t look any different from the last time Hawks saw him. Hawks takes that as a win.

“Happy New Year,” he says. Happy New Year, Touya, he thinks.

“Happy New Year,” Touya echoes back, face unchanging.

“Did they let you celebrate in here?”

“I got a piece of mochi.”

“That’s nice.”

“What did you do?”

“I got drunk on the couch in my living room, and then I got a Daikichi at the shrine.”

Touya’s lips curl up slightly, but his eyes remain icy. “Looks like you’ll have a good year.”

“I hope so.”

They talk about inconsequential things after that. About the terrible food in Tartarus, about how boring Kouhaku was—Touya didn’t get to watch it, of course. He lets Hawks tell him about how boring it was and how the alcohol made it slightly better. They don’t talk about the HPSC and the ongoing protests. They don’t talk about the upcoming trials.

Just before he leaves, Hawks asks, “I’d like to visit again next week on the eighteenth, if possible.”

Touya blinks. He says nothing. Behind them, the guards prepare for the end of visiting hours.

“You can’t,” Touya looks down, “I’m due for a checkup at the hospital that day.”

“Oh,” Hawks says. Touya keeps his eyes down.

“Happy birthday in advance, then.”

Hawks stands to leave. Touya looks back up, and Hawks drowns in his blue, blue eyes.

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then, “See ya.”

When work brings him anywhere near Kanto, Hawks makes it a point to arrange an appointment at Tartarus before he makes his way back to Fukuoka. Touya starts asking again at the beginning of every visit why Hawks is there. Hawks either evades the question or makes something up, and Touya never calls him out on it. He lets the conversation move on. What is Hawks to tell him anyway, if he doesn’t know the reason himself? The pointless back-and-forth warms Hawks all the way to the tips of his feathers when he’s there, leaving him feeling the winter chill at the very centre of his bones whenever he leaves.

Touya begins to look better with every visit. His cheeks fill and take on a rosy hue. His eyes gleam. The straitjacket, once loose and baggy on him, starts to look tight.

Hawks wolf-whistles at the start of one of his visits, when Touya looks to be in a decent mood.

“You’re looking good.”

Touya just rolls his eyes.

“Why do you always resort to flirting?”

Hawks leans forward and bats his eyelashes. Behind his side of the barrier, Touya shoots him an extremely unimpressed look.

“I only do it with you.”

“I call bullshit.”

A month before Touya’s trial, a letter from the prosecutor’s office arrives at his agency advising him against visiting Touya until the trial is over. Hawks pointedly ignores it.

Touya continues to complain about the food at Tartarus, but he looks better with every visit. His skin looks healthier. His eyes look fiercer. His voice gets stronger. Hawks no longer feels a stab at his heart when he manages to make Touya laugh. He tries to get a package of an assortment of chocolate cookies and puddings sent in, but the guards steadfastly refuse to let anything into the main holding area.

“This is literally supermarket junk food. You can scan them all if you like. Nothing’s going to be hidden in them, and you have all my visits recorded with both audio and video. What’s the big deal?”

“With all due respect, Hawks,” one of the more senior guards says, “this package could be quirked. This is a precaution we take with everything and everyone. Nothing gets in or out.”

“Quirked?” Hawks asks, exasperated, “You know what my Quirk is. The entire country knows what my Quirk is. Your scanners will pick up any feathers I might have secretly hidden—which I did not, by the way.”

“Hawks,” the guard lowers his voice, “I understand that. But we do not know if your Quirk still functions the way we are inclined to believe, or if you may now be in possession of another Quirk.”

Hawks is not expecting that.

“I see,” he replies, slowly and calmly, “that the guards in Tartarus are very well informed. I wonder why that information was made available to you.”

The guard looks embarrassed but stays firm. “It is part of our job to know as much as we can about those who visit our detainees.”

As the country enters the deep of winter, with temperatures falling to unprecedented levels below zero in some prefectures, Hawks debates the merits of having a fireplace in both his apartment and his new agency. Flashy, yes. Entrancingly beautiful, yes, and he will happily argue his point with anyone about this. Less efficient than complete floor heating? Most definitely. It is a difficult decision.

And as Hawks signs the lease for his new agency office, fifteen minutes on foot from the station with a magnificent view of the ocean and the mountains, and deliberates on difficult decisions, in a monumental deviation from the status quo, all subpoenaed to attend Todoroki Touya’s trial receive a letter informing that no one, save the defendant, the defence, the prosecution and the judges will be physically present in the courtroom. All depositions will be pre-arranged and pre-recorded. No formal reason is given, only a list of dates and times to choose from.

Hawks meets Inada Akira at his Tokyo office on the last day of January as the city experiences heavy snowfall.

Inada’s office, at the heart of Marunouchi, can only be described as a palatial suite. Hawks finds himself tapping hard into his training to keep his disposition relaxed and jovial. Inada hurries over when Hawks enters, a smarmy smile on his face.

“Hawks!” He beams, “What an honour it is to meet you. My entire family, especially my kids, are big fans. Could we possibly take a selfie together? I told my children about today’s meeting and they’ve been bouncing off the walls.”

“Hey, sure,” Hawks smiles, his skin crawling.

“This is Takahashi-san, the court reporter. She will be recording today’s meeting.”

Inada nods to a serious-looking lady seated in the corner of the room, who nods back at both men and rearranges her papers. He extends a hand out to a chair for Hawks to sit in before positioning himself directly across from Hawks.

“I appreciate you taking time out of what must be an extremely busy pro hero schedule, Hawks,” Inada smiles that smarmy smile again, “and I do apologise for the sudden change.”

“Not a problem. Why did they make this change though?”

Inada sniffs as he hands Hawks a stack of papers.

“It was determined that this would be the best, and safest course of action for all parties involved.”

Hawks flips open the document, “Does ‘all parties’ include the defendant?”

He looks up to find Inada looking momentarily stunned.

“Why, of course it does.”

Hawks nods.

“So what am I looking at?”

Inada smiles again. Hawks wants to slice the smile right off his face.

“In a nutshell: we’ve done our research. We know what the facts are. We’re very sorry about what happened with your wings. We are so glad to see them back to their full crimson glory, and I think I can safely speak for the whole country when I say that we are so happy to see you back in action.

This case isn’t a complex one. So that we don’t end up taking any more of your time than strictly necessary, we’ve taken the liberty to pre-prepare your statement for you.

You don’t have to read it exactly as it is, of course. Feel free to answer in your own words as you feel fit.”

From what little he sees of the script, the ‘facts’ are utter bullshit. Dramatic fiction written up for the entertainment of the judge. Hawks manages to keep his anger contained. He smiles and tosses the documents onto the table in front of him.

“Understood. In which case, I’m ready to begin whenever you are.”

Inada beams.

“Then let’s begin.”

He turns to look at Takahashi, who nods back, before turning to face Hawks again.

“Please state your Pro Hero Name and current rank.”

“Hawks. Number two.”

“Thank you, Hawks. Can you please tell us how you know the defendant?”

“I was tasked by the Hero Public Safety Commission to infiltrate the League of Villains so that we could learn what their aim was and mitigate the threat they posed to society. Todoroki Touya, who went by the alias ‘Dabi’, was the League’s recruiter. Naturally, he was the first person I made contact with.”

“And what was your impression of Todoroki Touya?”

“He was as stubborn as he was snarky, but he kept most of his cards close to his chest and it was difficult to get an accurate read on him.”

Inada pauses before continuing, staring for a good minute at Hawks. Hawks stares back, practised nonchalance and carefully schooled ease.

“And how did things with the League change after the formation of the Paranormal Liberation Front?”

He was sleeping in my bed. He started making me coffee in the morning and dinner at night. I was kissing him goodbye. We made out a lot. He fucked me senseless so many times. He had nightmares at night. He’d preen my wings and sit in the bath with me after a stressful patrol.

“The PLF posed a much bigger threat than the League did on their own, but things were basically the same. He didn’t get along with everyone in the Meta Liberation Army, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary in allegiances like that.”

Inada pauses again, for longer this time. Hawks idly flips through the papers in front of him.

“How would you describe Todoroki Touya’s personality?”

Volatile individual, prone to outbursts that led to people being incinerated, Hawks reads on the bound document.

He pretends to consider.

“That depends on the inciting factor. Looking back now, everything Endeavour related would upset him. Otherwise, he didn’t really seem to care.”

“Takahashi, we’ll take a moment.”

When Inada turns back to face Hawks, the smile he has is gone.

“Hawks, what are you doing?”

Hawks tilts his head to the side, widening his eyes.

“I’m not sure what you mean?”

Inada’s brow furrows, “You aren’t referring to the document.”

Hawks makes a show of looking down, of flipping through each page and looking back up.

“I’m under oath, aren’t I? To tell the truth, and nothing but the truth?”

Hawks watches as Inada’s face cycles through confusion, bewilderment, and finally settles on unbridled, seething anger.

“What are you playing at? Aren’t you meant to be the Number Two Hero?”

Hawks simply smiles.

“I’m not sure what you mean by that. I’m just sitting here, answering your questions truthfully.”

Inada visibly gets more upset.

“Hawks, my job is to uphold our justice system. To protect our laws and our people.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Hawks recalls a conversation from a hospital corridor. “You uphold the laws that we’ve written and that we’ve designed to keep our society safe. We created the justice you serve, and we are deeply flawed.”

Hawks looks at Inada, cooly and impassively, as he flares his nostrils. “Haven’t you learned anything from the war?”

All pretence of amicability falls.

“Fine. We’re both busy people, so let’s get this over and done with. Takahashi,” he signals, “we will resume.”

Every painfully bland and objective reply Hawks gives feeds Inada’s fury. When they finish and pack up hastily, Inada glares openly at Hawks. Takahashi scurries off first.

“That wasn’t what I was expecting from today at all, Hawks,” Inada says as he buttons up his blazer, “there’s word going around that you’ve become a villain sympathiser after your undercover mission, but most of us filed that away as jealous trash talk. I see now that the rumour mill might have churned out something frighteningly accurate this time.

“Not that it matters, I’m afraid. I don’t know what it is that you think you’ll achieve, but this is one of the easiest cases I’ve had, and I have no doubt it will remain one of the easiest cases in my entire career.”

Hawks shrugs, “I’m not sure what it was that you were expecting. I expected to be asked questions I was meant to answer truthfully.”

Inada raises an open palm in the direction of the door. Sneering, he bids his goodbye.

“Hawks, I trust you can see yourself out. Thank you for your hard work.”

Hawks doesn’t bother with pleasantries as he spins on his heel to leave. Behind him, Inada calls out, “The people of our society can sleep easy knowing that the Ministry of Justice, at the very least, has their best interests in mind.”

Hawks feels like setting something on fire by the time he exits the Marunouchi skyscraper. He laughs out loud at the sentiment and sends a text to Rumi. He copes with his anger by getting thoroughly drunk at an izakaya known to be discreet with pro heroes, and regrets all of his life choices (there aren’t that many which is just depressing) as he flies back, hungover, to Kyushu the next morning.

Touya’s defence attorney calls him a few days later to set up a cross-examination appointment.

“I read the deposition. The meeting will take, at most, twenty minutes of your time. Please let me know when would be most suitable for you, and I will book my ticket to Fukuoka.”

Hawks consults Miura on the matter, without mentioning the prosecution tactics, when they next meet casually for ramen. Miura frowns at the question.

“That’s odd,” he says, “cross-examinations aren’t necessarily very long, but if it’s for an out-of-court deposition to be presented as evidence, it will almost certainly take longer than twenty minutes. Then again, I do not work in criminal law, so maybe it is a perfectly normal length of time.”

Noda Mahiro visits Hawks’ office on Valentine’s Day, exactly two weeks before Touya’s trial. Hawks’ office is brimming with chocolate, and he rushes to push everything aside or onto the floor when she arrives.

“Hawks,” she says, bowing deeply after Hawks welcomes her in, “it is an honour. Thank you so much for what you have done for our country.”

“Please,” Hawks says, bowing in return, “I am only doing my job.”

They straighten, and Hawks’ secretary brings in tea.

“As I mentioned on the phone, I read the deposition. I’ve been in a courtroom with Inada before, and I can only imagine how frustrating it must have been to record that with him,” Noda says as she takes out a thin binder and a small recording machine.

Hawks laughs despite himself.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one with a poor impression of mister prosecutor, sir.”

Noda smiles at him. “I only have four questions to ask you. Are you ready to begin?”

Hawks nods. Noda presses the record button on her recorder.

“Noda Mahiro, defence, cross-examining witness number oh-one-four, Pro Hero Number Two, Hawks. Hawks, you wouldn’t say that Todoroki Touya is an innately violent person, correct?”

Gentle hands and featherlight fingertips. Quiet smiles and softer chuckles. Bright, burning eyes and unspoken words. Not-caresses and not-hugs and meaningless-kisses.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Would you say that his main aim was to destabilise hero society, and to cause uproar and an uprising against the government with his nationwide broadcast, or not?”

“I think he resorted to a national broadcast because nobody who was in a position to help had ever given him the time of the day to listen to his story.”

Noda nods, not looking up from her binder.

“So it was revenge on his abuser that he wanted. Would you agree?”

Hawks hesitates before answering, thinking about the doll he held as a kid and the hero he idolised and worshipped growing up.

“Yes.”

“Would you say that Todoroki Touya is a victim who needed help, and a victim that the system ultimately failed?”

Hawks looks down at his hands.

“Yes.”

“No further questions.”

Before Noda leaves, she gives Hawks a box of giri chocolates, wrapped daintily with a gold ribbon.

“Thanks,” Hawks begins, “I hope…” he falters, suddenly unsure of how to continue.

“Thank you again, Hawks. You’re a good hero. One of the best.”

Noda bows again and smiles gently before leaving.

In the fourteen days leading up to the trial, Hawks deliberately tires himself out by flying back and forth between Shizuoka and Fukuoka daily. He hires a designer to redesign the place, and pushes for a sleek, modern fireplace in the communal area. He views apartments in Shizuoka, Yokohama, Hamamatsu, Izu and Tokyo. He liaises with a drug task force determined to get to the bottom of the mystery substance in the Candy Cane Incident. He barely manages to shower after work each night before face planting into his mattress.

On the twenty-seventh, he takes out the Daikichi fortune from his wallet and fiddles with it. The same night, he returns to Kushida-jinja and prays.

The twenty-eighth is a rare off day for Hawks. He goes to his agency anyway, and his sidekicks shoo him out the door. He loiters about on the agency roof for a while, unsure of what to do with himself.

He makes a stop at a bakery for muffins on his way home and returns to his empty penthouse. He lights one of Touya’s old cigarettes and leaves it to burn in an ashtray as he mindlessly watches TV. By late afternoon, he has the number of an old acquaintance ready. The night sees him doing lines and laughing in the pulse of strobe lights.

Are you with me? Touya had whispered in his ear one night. On the bed perhaps, in between the sheets. Or on the couch. After sex. After making out. It is a vague, distant recollection now. Hawks wishes he had committed it to memory.

Yes, he still thinks.

Yes, yes, yes.

[ SEVENTEEN ]

Todoroki Touya is sentenced to life imprisonment without probation. All appeals are thrown out.

Upper-middle class parents, educated from the books and educated about their quirks, read the news over their morning coffee, nod at their partners and kiss their children goodbye before heading off for work. The have-nots of society, with their empty wallets and unattractive quirks, read the news and react the only way they know how; to scream, to shout, to protest in public at the injustice of society. Those on the right side of the war see the news and flick to the next section. Those on the wrong side of the war hear the news and despair for their own futures or upcoming trials.

Hawks reads the verdict on his tablet, his talons gripping harder and harder into the sides of the screen until cracks start to form. He ruins it eventually, renders it a useless slate with a smashed screen and tosses it unceremoniously onto the floor where the glass splinters further.

He jumps off his balcony and goes for a two-hour flight. He comes home and takes a long soak in a lavender bath. He preens his wings twice over. He goes to work. He tires himself out. He throws himself into getting all his paperwork done and ends up with a bunch of papercuts. Nothing abates the unsettled feeling inside him. He goes to bed and dreams—

Of quiet laughs and warm fingertips, of the swishing of coats and the crinkling of cigarette packets, of waking up to incoherent whimpers, tears, and shaking hands, of— 

Hawks wakes up and cries. 

[ TWO ]

Eventually, what tips their fine balance over isn’t anything special.

They had met one afternoon on a rooftop on the outskirts of downtown Yokohama, a high rise near the ocean with a view of Landmark Tower and the Ferris wheel. They had exchanged information, engaged in a verbal tug of war, started flirting subtly, which had progressed to blatant flirting, and then they had started a game of personal-space chicken. Hawks had pulled out his phone and was playing a re-released version of the original 1980 Pac-Man while Dabi had smoked beside him, arm pressed against his.

“That’s one weird ass game you’re playing,” Dabi had said, voice low and raspy. Hawks had pressed his arm harder against Dabi’s, smiling as he replied. “I love how there’s so much stuff going on all at once. It’s crazy. And look here, I can totally fall off the screen on one side and reappear the other side.”

“Where?”

Hawks had turned towards Dabi just as Dabi had leaned in. They had already been pressing against each other, and the slight shift in both their positions had closed the gap between them. Hawks had felt Dabi’s nose press against his and the cool metal of the three-stud nose piercing. Their lips had brushed. He had felt a warm exhale against his mouth.

And then Hawks had stepped back, his wings expanding to their full wingspan instinctively. He had stared at Dabi, who had stared back.

Hawks remembers briefly thinking about stepping in for a second kiss. No, for a proper kiss.

But then Dabi had pushed the palm of his hand squarely into Hawks nose and pushed him gently away. His skin had felt cool, his staples cold.

“Too close, stupid.”

They hadn’t stayed much longer after. Hawks had returned to his office to the mountain of paperwork he had welcomed a distraction from, and Dabi had left to probably take a long afternoon nap so that he had ample energy for setting people on fire at night. Or whatever it was that he did with his time, anyway.

Hawks spends the next month decidedly not thinking about it. He’s too busy with work to initiate contact with Dabi, and Dabi hasn’t contacted him either, probably because he’s busy with League stuff. Meaning that Hawks really should contact Dabi because the whole point of meeting with him is knowing what kind of stuff the League gets up to, but he’s busy. He’s busy and he spends the next month not thinking about anything that isn’t important. Important being things like—the mountain of paperwork he keeps starting but never finishing because one, more paperwork keeps coming in and two, his mind keeps straying.

He does not think about kissing Dabi. Dabi is a villain, an S-ranked one at that, who goes around burning people while he’s off doing villain work. He does not dream about kissing Dabi. He does not think about casual brushing of the lips, tender kisses, sticking his tongue down another’s throat, and hot hands all over his skin.

He wakes up one morning after a particularly vivid, particularly kinky dream and has to throw his sheets into the wash before rushing to make patrol on time. He picks up more shifts and more patrols. He fills every waking moment with work—which generates more paperwork, which lands him in a vicious cycle. Whenever his Handler asks for updates on his infiltration mission, his answer is the same: that he’s still waiting for the right moment, that he’s maintaining the perfect distance, not too close and not too far (even though his skin burns for more contact), and that the lack of current activity means that the League is probably planning something big. That he’ll be ready when the time comes.

It’s only after three successive nights of wet dreams that Hawks decides he needs to fuck all the pent-up tension out of his system immediately.

And that’s exactly when Dabi contacts him again, a month and six days later.

Ishiwari Clearing. By the lake. Midnight.

Hawks forgoes tackling his paperwork after patrol, flying across the country and making it just in time. Dabi is already there when he lands in the park, sitting on a stone bench and smoking what looks to be his sixth cigarette based on the five ends littered around his boots. He looks tense, his eyes faraway. He’s not in a good mood, and Hawks, ever the genius, decides to announce his arrival with a joke.

“Littering is prohibited in Japan, you know.”

Dabi’s eyes snap to him, but the rest of his body doesn’t move an inch. Slowly, he brings his cigarette to his lips. Hawks traces the movement with his eyes, his skin aching to feel that mismatched texture.

“Why don’t you add that to my tab? It’s got first-degree murder, arson, armed robbery, petty theft… It’s a pretty long list. Littering will be all the way at the bottom.”

Hawks laughs airily and moves to stand next to him. Dabi smokes, ignoring Hawks in favour of glaring at the lake until he reaches the end of his cigarette. It is a clear night, crisp and fresh, the first clear day in over a week since the spring rains started and put a damper on the hanami cherry blossom viewing period. Through the trees, Hawks can see the reflection of the moon on the lake’s surface, a bright white coin in a sea of darkness. Dabi hums as he drops the end of his cigarette to the ground, boots crunching as he twists the ball of his foot. The surface of the lake ripples, distorting the moon reflected in it.

Hawks looks at Dabi, who finally turns and looks directly at him. His eyes look alight in the dark of the night.

“Get me whatever details you can on how the guards in Tartarus operate.”

Hawks cocks an eyebrow, “Tartarus?” Dabi stares cooly back at him, expression betraying nothing. Hawks sighs.

“Listen bud, it’s not that I can’t, but that information is buried under a deep, deep layer of security. People are gonna come asking me why I looked into it.”

Dabi doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he moves to take out his cigarette packet again. The shadows under his eyes look deeper, his cheeks more sunken. Hawks wonders, not for the first-time, what Dabi had been doing the month they hadn’t been in contact.

“Aren’t you Number Two? Who’d dare to question you?” Dabi says as he exhales a long stream of smoke, looking out to the lake.

“That’s not how things work. And if it was, even more reason for society needing a shake-up.”

Dabi laughs. Hawks feathers bristle and sharpen. Dabi looks to be in a terrible mood now, and Hawks’ skin has been on fire for the past week. He needs this meeting to end immediately or he’s going to end up starting a fight he isn’t sure he can win.

“Hesitating to get me the information I asked for, and you’re still trying to pretend we want the same thing? Birdie, birdie, biiirdie. You really need to learn how to lie better.”

Hawks presses his talons into his palms, neglected and now sharp enough to poke through the fingertips of his gloves. “At least tell me why you need the information, then maybe I can come up with a feasible lie to feed anyone who asks me for a reason I went snooping.”

Dabi rolls his eyes, a plume of smoke wafting around his face. Hawks grits his teeth.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to since day one, haven’t I? What’s it going to take for you to trust me?”

For someone who moves as lazily and as languidly as Dabi does, he can be fast when he wants to. Hawks feels him coming before he truly sees it. Dabi presses his chest against Hawks’, his blue eyes brighter than the moon lying on the surface of the lake.

“Hawks—” Dabi starts, and vaguely, Hawks registers that it sounds like a threat. It doesn’t matter though; the rest of Dabi’s sentence is lost to Hawks’ mouth on his lips.

A month and six days after their first non-kiss, it’s all teeth and tongue and blood and heat. Hawks grabs at Dabi’s jacket, at his flimsy, stupidly deep V-neck shirt, and eventually tangles his fingers in his hair. He can feel warm hands and hot staples against the skin on his lower back. Dabi had pushed both his jacket and flight suit up in the tangling of their bodies and Hawks hadn’t even noticed, his mind savouring the taste of Dabi’s mouth.

Oh fuck, he will never forget the moment of dawning realisation, that is definitely a tongue piercing.

Their second kiss is terrible. They break apart panting, a faint flush dusting the edges of Dabi’s cheekbones, spit painting his chin. Hawks can’t imagine that he looks any better; he can feel that his bottom lip is split, he can taste blood and Dabi on his tongue. Dabi looks directly at him, then his eyes lower to his lips. Fuck, Hawks thinks, his lashes are so long. Gently, he presses a palm against Dabi’s chest. Dabi takes the hint and walks them backwards slowly, his hands on the curve of Hawks’ lower back. When the backs of his knees hit the stone bench, he moves to sit down. Wordlessly, Hawks climbs into his lap. They lunge in for their third kiss, public space and out-in-the-open be damned, and finally get the angle and pressure just right. It is decidedly much, much better. They keep at it. Fourth, fifth, sixth. Hawks loses count. He feels relief and arousal coursing through his veins. He feels like he’s in heaven. He feels like he’s in hell.

And between their meeting at the lake where they had their second to twentieth kiss, to subsequent meetings at dingy docks and on windswept rooftops, they go from making out aggressively like horny teenagers to dry humping aggressively like horny teenagers. Hawks had to finish one of his patrols with cum drying on the inside of his pants. Dabi had laughed at him and sent him annoying texts for half a day making fun of him for it, then made it up to him the same evening on the same rooftop by dropping to his knees and taking all of Hawks in his mouth in one go. His tongue stud had traced the vein running along the length of Hawks’ dick, and Hawks had gone mad at the sensation.

They stick to quick and filthy blowjobs subsequently, in between stolen kisses and hot hands and dark locations filthier than their mouths. Hawks can’t bring himself to question any of it, not when it feels so damn good, not when Dabi’s dick is in his mouth, not when Dabi’s hands are pulling his hair and he’s moaning without restraint at the moon and the stars. Hawks feels like an animal when they go at it, and it’s exhilarating. It’s liberating. It’s what he imagines flying in another country’s sky to be like. 

The first time they finally fuck is very much like their second kiss. After weeks of going no further than third base, Hawks’ skin aches for more every waking moment of every day. They meet at two in the morning in a dark, deserted alleyway, far from the bustle of the crowds downtown, and it’s a bubbling pot that boils over, sexual tension like a coiled spring rapidly unwinding, a string pulled taught finally snapping. They exchange information, half-lies and partial truths delivered in sneers and taunts and smirks, then race to tear each other’s clothes off. Hawks isn’t sure who moves first. It doesn’t matter, it would have happened eventually. Hawks bites into Dabi’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood, and Dabi pounds him so thoroughly his knees buckle at the end, his head slamming back into the brick wall as he finishes. 

The clean-up after is a silent, awkward affair. Hawks has horrendous chafing behind his shoulders. His wings are a mess.

“See ya,” is all Dabi says, firmly avoiding any eye contact. Hawks nods, head turned the other way.

They ignore each other for nine days, and then out of the blue, Dabi calls him instead of texting.

“Usual pier, three am.” Dabi says. Hawks’ feathers sharpen and soften rapidly, eyes pinning on a random stray staple on his desk.

“I’ll be there,” Hawks says, and Dabi hangs up.

Hawks is there two minutes before the arranged meeting time. He crosses his arms over his chest to keep the night chill at bay and watches the distant lights of the squid fishing boats, mind wandering. Dabi arrives thirty minutes after three, his boots crunching a hurried pace.

“You’re la—mmf!”

In lieu of a greeting, Dabi’s lips are on his. There’s no pretence of a job, no charade of exchanging information. Dabi grabs his face, fingers insistent on his jaw. He swipes a hot tongue against Hawks’ lips, and Hawks parts them with a low chirp at the back of his throat.

For a few long minutes, there is only the sound of them kissing and the gentle waves against the concrete breakwater.

“We’ll be seen,” Hawks gasps as he pushes Dabi back gently, desperate for air. Dabi growls, lips chasing after Hawks.

“Dabi,” Hawks pants, trying again, as Dabi moves one hand lower to squeeze Hawks’ ass, the other coming round the front to fumble with his belt. Hawks lowers himself slightly, one hand steady on Dabi’s lower back and the other sweeping up behind his knees. He takes off before Dabi has a chance to react.

“Fuck! Hawks!”

Dabi curses as he hurries to scrabble for handhold on Hawks’ jacket. Hawks laughs lightly as the rest of Dabi’s curses are lost to the wind rushing by them. The flight doesn’t take Hawks long, even with the added weight of a clinging koala. When he lands gently on the balcony of his apartment, Dabi pushes off him, healthy skin pale against his scars and mumbling a string of profanities.

Hawks laughs, stepping closer and crowding Dabi against the sliding glass door. Dabi lights up his left hand in response. Hawks pays it no mind.

Bringing Dabi back to his apartment is a bad idea. Ignoring a flaming hand is a bad idea. Fucking your ticket into the League while you’re deep undercover and trying not to become KFC—Seasonal Edition: Hawks^TM is a bad idea.

Hawks can’t bring himself to care. What’s another little mistake in the grand scheme of things anyway?

“I’ll make it up to you,” he whispers in Dabi’s ear, hands halfway through undoing Dabi’s double-belt. Dabi scowls, retort ready, but Hawks kisses the side of his mouth, staples cool on his lips, before proceeding to trace the roof of Dabi’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. Dabi moans loudly into his mouth, belt buckle finally free and fly open, and Hawks kneels in front of him. He takes him in hand, pleased to see that Dabi is just as eager as he is for how the night is going to progress. He looks up through his lashes to see Dabi looking down at him expectantly, eyes glazed with want.

Hawks blows him until Dabi is a groaning, quivering mess against the glass.

“I’ll make you feel so good,” he says as he stands, his lips brushing against Dabi’s, still trembling and panting from his release. “Let me.”

The haze of orgasm slowly clears from Dabi’s eyes. He looks at Hawks, gaze always ridiculously intense, and Hawks presses closer while reaching for his hand.

“You’d better. Where’s the bed?” he turns away, hiding insecurity. Hawks’ heart swells. He clutches Dabi’s hand tighter.

“Only Egyptian cotton here for you, princess!”

Dabi pushes his face away. “Fuck off, chicken.” But he’s pulling Hawks towards the door with his other hand, and Hawks practically flies forward in his eagerness to get them in and on his bed at record speed.

After, when Hawk’s expensive sheets are sufficiently soiled, it takes Dabi a while to come back down. Hawks lies on his front, head turned to watch the rise and fall of Dabi’s chest. When Dabi traces the arch of his wings slowly, Hawks takes it as his cue to lead him into the shower where they engage in another ferocious make out and heavy petting session. Dabi dresses and leaves after that. Hawks crawls into bed, exhausted.

It’s the best sleep he’s ever had, after the best sex he’s ever had.

Three days later, Hawks arrives home to Dabi lounging on his sofa flicking through movies on Netflix, a bucket of cold KFC on his kitchen counter.

He looks up when Hawks walks in. Hawks gapes at him.

“Wanna eat now, or later?” he asks in his usual bored drawl. Hawks looks at the bucket on the counter, shrugging his flight jacket off and leaving it on the floor as he makes his way over to Dabi.

“Later,” he says, and Dabi laughs quietly as he brings a warm hand to the back of Hawks’ neck.

Dabi is there the next day when he gets home from work. Two days later, he comes in in the middle of the night from the balcony. Three days after that, he crawls into Hawks’ bed an hour before his alarm goes off. He’s still there when Hawks’ gets back, rifling through the kitchen cabinets.

Dabi becomes a welcome feature in Hawks’ life, though with two unspoken rules. First, that they only talk shop in dark, quiet, and seedy places. Never at Hawks’ apartment. They’ll exchange information and then push each other into the nearest wall or onto the floor. At Hawks’, Dabi drinks with him. Dabi eats with him, Dabi messes around on his PlayStation with him and beats him at everything because Hawks has no time to game and the console is mainly there as decoration. Dabi grins, smiles and laughs. Hawks feels a giddy rush every time Dabi laughs because of him. I made him do that, he’ll think, and proceed to kiss Dabi silly.

Second, that their intimacy goes only as far as sex. Sleeping tangled up in each other, side by side, on the same bed or sofa is out of the question.

Hawks can’t put a name to the emotions that overwhelm him whenever Dabi is around. They are foreign to him, complex and incomprehensible, and between saving as many lives as he can, flashing smiles at cameras and his adoring fans, pandering to the Commission and keeping up with the most confusing double-agent act of his life, the words slip out of him before he can think twice about it.

“So,” he says one weekend he has a rare day off and Dabi and him have spent the whole afternoon lounging around watching TV and engaging in lazy sex, “I’ve started calling you my boyfriend in my head.”

From the living room, Hawks watches Dabi freeze in the kitchen as he takes a bottle of water out of the fridge. Slowly, robotically, Dabi closes the fridge door and turns. Hawks flexes his wings, ready to dodge a flying fireball.

But instead of looking like a seasoned terrorist about to attack, Dabi looks like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide as saucers.

“Uh,” Dabi says, and huh, that’s new. “What?”

It doesn’t have any of Dabi’s usual bite or flippant dispassion.

“What?”

“You said… something.”

“What did I say?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Hawks regards him for a few seconds before shrugging, suddenly desperate to change the subject. “I forgot what I said. Anyway, wanna get KFC?”

Dabi exhales quickly.

“Yeah, sure. Get more beers, too.”

Hawks’ heart thrashes wildly against his rib cage. There is a strange sense of relief coursing through him, colliding violently where it meets the overwhelming disappointment he can feel coming down on him at the same time. He ignores the storm raging inside of him as he sends a feather to retrieve his phone. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, as he places a KFC pickup order, then moves to slip on his shoes at the entrance. I don’t need to understand this, he thinks as he pays for a six-pack, pulling his cap lower over his face. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, KFC in one hand and beers in the other, as Dabi opens the door for him, clad in a Hawks^TM tracksuit which hangs off his shoulders and hips, too short at the wrists and the ankles. It won’t last anyway, he thinks, as Dabi flashes a cheeky smirk, taking the bags from Hawks and then pushing him backwards.

“I feel like having something else right now,” Dabi purrs against Hawks crotch, blue eyes gleaming up at him through long lashes. Hawks’ brain short-circuits. He blows Hawks against the front door and Hawks leaves teeth marks in his own fist.

When the KFC and the beers are gone, and they’re lounging on the sofa watching reruns, Dabi wraps an arm around Hawks’ waist and pulls him up onto his lap. He nips at Hawks’ neck.

“Time to make you scream, pretty bird.” His voice feels like velvet in Hawks’ ears.

“Mm, yeah,” Hawks leans in, mind filled with nothing but Dabi, Dabi, Dabi. “Yeah okay.”

Dabi laughs boyishly, delighted at the way Hawks turns to putty in his hands, and Hawks melts even further.

Best case scenario, one of them isn’t going to walk out alive from the fallout after betrayal, he knows. So what does it matter, really? Dabi is here now. Dabi is here, holding him and kissing him and touching him now, and Hawks wants Dabi.

In the grand scheme of things, what’s another little mistake?

Now and then a fellow gets to thinking. About all the sorrow and afflictions in this world; how it's liable to strike anywhere, like lightning.

William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying