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It's not the first time he's been hit with a quirk where the effects are not instant, but arguably it could be the most bothersome to deal with. In the after hours back at his penthouse, he waits. Hawks doesn't think about his demons often, chooses instead to never look back, but he expects a number of things could show up...
He's not back there though—to the house that falls apart with every step, the loop of his father shouting and kicking him again.
It doesn't manifest his mother's empty eyes selling him without remorse, without goodbye; Keigo didn't deserve a second look.
It's not the commissions' worst trainers in the white room or the number of exercises they put him under for so many years, he doesn't flinch under a knife; he knows how to give himself up like a good little soldier.
It's not even the nameless faces that fall before his primaries, the body count that his handlers commanded to his name.
It's also not, the scars and staples of a hand he's come to know all too well, his villain informant turned—more—that burns him to ash.
(That's an image that reoccurs in his own nightmares, a ticking tragedy waiting to happen. Optimistic as he may be, he knows that more than anything there is no happy ending and he's counting the days until Dabi burns him alive.)
Instead, his demon that manifests before him is six year old Keigo staring at him, wide-eyed and the worn little flame plush clutched in his hands as he asks with hope in his voice, "Did we become the hero we wanted to be Hawks?"
The voice is familiar and unnerving and it sends him into a different kind of spiral.
Hawks sees the little tufts of red wings, the scuffs and marks on his fragile body. Six year old Keigo is smaller than he remembers, shorter than all the kids he sees on the streets these days and lighter probably, than anyone should ever be.
Keigo, who stares at the large wings on his back, the hero gold of his uniform and thinks, they've finally made it.
What gets caught in Hawks' throat isn't the lie that he's perfected all his life, isn't the lie that can reassure his six year old self or the PR smile meant for the public to promise everything is okay.
Because it's not, is it?
Because, he hasn't made it, has he?
His wings are dirty. He's done all of the worst things he could ever do and dirtied little Keigo's wings. He's gone against everything they ever wanted to be.
Someone who helps people.
Of all the lives he's saved, he doesn't feel like he's helped anyone.
Not enough to undo the body count that stacks against his name or repent for the double crossing spying that he knows will only end with more deaths. And he's still racing against the clock to stop it, to find a way.
But there isn't a way out and he's about to betray the only person who's ever looked at him beyond his wings because it's not like he belongs there, either.
(No matter how much he wants to, no matter how much he wants to believe that Dabi can exist with him beyond the stolen hours in the midst of another night parading as stakeouts).
He knows with every feather soiled with the blood of those who no longer exist, that little Keigo hadn't wanted this.
Hadn't deserved to have his wings dirtied.
Hawks' heart drops in his stomach.
"We're the hero we wanted to be, right?" Keigo asks again and he sounds so in desperate need of hope—back then he'd hoped so hard, it was all he could do to keep going.
The sound that tears out of Hawks throat next surprises them both. And Hawks stares back, eyes wider than even little Keigo's.
Six year old Keigo steps closer to him, close enough that he should feel his body heat, but he doesn't radiate anything. Little Keigo's body is so frail, so cold, but he doesn't shiver. Was told to not make a fuss, was taught to be the least important, to be nothing.
Keigo hesitates as he moves like he wants to put a hand on Hawks but is so afraid to touch. Because back then, no one touched him. No one had wanted him to touch them.
(Not the way Dabi does now, reaching for his hands, his feathers, a brush against the sweep of his locks, like he's something worth touching. Someone that deserves this touch. It's the warmth and softness of his fingers that Hawks had never known could be on him.)
Hawks shrugs off his hero coat without a thought and wraps it against little Keigo's frame, pulling him closer into a hug as he does so. The apology tumbles out of him in a shaken whisper, "I'm sorry."
"For what?" his younger self asks, completely still in his arms like he'd never been hugged.
(And of course, Keigo hadn't. He hadn't known what that meant, what affection or being held was. But he'd hugged his little flame plush then with everything that he had to offer, and he'd understood just barely then–that he'd like to feel the same).
Hawks only hugs him tighter, his head shaking as his insides pull in every direction. His eyes burn as he feels the tiny plumage of Keigo's wings beneath his coat and he swallows as he whispers again, "I've dirty your wings, Keigo."
The name comes out like a secret. He hasn't said his own name in more than fifteen years. It's foreign and broken, the only thing that was his before it wasn’t, all at once.
Keigo lifts his fingers, gently daring to touch the larger reds against Hawks back, a vibrant healthy shade in contrast to little Keigo's who hadn't been able to clean or care for his own properly back then. Confusion laces between the admiration in his soft voice, "But your feathers are so much prettier than mine."
Hawks only shakes his head harder as a wrecked sob pulls out of him.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
I'm so sorry, Keigo.
I've failed us.
. . . . .
It's how Dabi finds him hours later, fried chicken takeout in his hands as he sings through the balcony door in a particularly good mood, "I've brought your favorite, birdie."
Hawks arms have been wrapped around his six year old self for hours, silent tears streaming down his face, and the words breaking out of lips in a continuously broken record of, "I'm sorry for dirtying your wings. I'm sorry."
He thinks it may be the first time he's cried with anyone else around since he was three and finally learned not to. That is, if being with a younger version of himself even counts. But crying in front of Dabi?
He doesn't register Dabi's voice, until a warm hand brushes up against the tears on his cheeks.
"Who are you apologizing to, pretty bird?"
Keigo is so small and so quiet bundled beneath his coat in Hawks arms that Dabi doesn't immediately see him.
"Dabi," Hawks gasps in shock, eyes full of tears as he can't form the words. He pulls back just slightly from Keigo, eyes wavering between the two of them in a wordless explanation. "It's...um, I..."
Keigo glances at Dabi carefully, but it's not fear, only curiosity and awe as he whispers, "Shiny."
Hawks watches as Dabi remains silent, taking in the two Hawks before him, his face carefully blank. What happens next though, comes without hesitation as he takes Hawks into his arms and hugs them both, pressing a kiss against Hawks trembling lips.
Dabi's voice is soft, "Are you two okay?"
Hawks shakes his head without an answer in the same moment little Keigo realizes he's being hugged again, and this time, it's not just by his older self. Keigo wonders what he did to deserve this kind of affection.
His eyes are wide as he asks in astonishment, "Are you mine?"
The words fall out before Keigo even realizes and he slaps a hand over his mouth just as quickly as if he's afraid he'd said something he's not allowed to.
But Dabi chuckles, low in his throat as he lifts a hand and pets little Keigo's form in reassurance. God, he's so small, Dabi doesn't fail to notice, but hides the number of feelings he has–anger, murderous, sadness–how dare they let Keigo look like this?
Dabi offers a small smile instead, "You can say that. I'm yours."
Hearing Dabi’s words somehow makes Hawks cry harder, shaking like a leaf in Dabi’s arms as he still refuses to let go of little Keigo. Hawks doesn't offer an explanation, but putting two and two together—little Keigo before them and finding Hawks apologizing to himself about his dirty wings—Dabi can take a wild guess.
There is so much unspoken between them—the days turned to weeks turned to months they've spent together, the way that what they've become is so much past trading intel and using each other.
Dabi knows Hawks didn't join the league without a hidden agenda, but there are things he's picked up without needing words too that are not that of a spy nor that of a bird who's able to fly free. And now, he needs him to understand.
"Hawks, look at me," Dabi asks gently.
He waits until the slow raise of Hawks' head against his shoulders lifts from his own. Until Hawks looks into the warmth of Dabi's blue, the blue that has looked at him again and again and it's more than the person who had first challenged him to prove himself.
Dabi rubs a thumb across Hawks cheek and wills him to understand that what they have between them—what they can have—isn't just a phase, isn't play pretend.
"If there is anything I can ever give you, it's a choice," Dabi promises.
"You always have a choice."