Archive of Our Own

It’s a sunday when Todoroki Fuyumi calls Keigo.

“Hello?”

“Hawks-san?”

“Yes? Who is this?”

He thinks it's about work, at first. Weekends never stopped the Commission from anything before. Of course, there's no Commission anymore, not in the way it used to be, and no handler to control his every step, but it's hard to stop expecting orders when he’s been trained into being at the beck and call of others at all times. As it turns out, he can't outgrow an instinct branded down into his bones.

“It's- It's Fuyumi, Touya’s sister,” she explains, like Keigo doesn't know, like their family drama wasn’t disclosed to the whole Japanese population. Like Keigo wasn't Touya’s something, too. His blood runs cold.

“Ah, yes! Fuyumi-chan! How are you?”

“I- Uh- Hawks-san, I'm sorry, but I need to go straight to the point.” Her voice breaks a bit at the end. He pretends not to notice.

“By all means-”

“Touya passed away,” She cuts him off, not unkindly, but the words still feel like they're slicing through him. “We're having a ceremony for him tomorrow, if you want to come. Father wanted it to be exclusive for us family members, but- but I thought you should come, too. I know you were important to him.”

The line stays quiet for a few minutes, only Fuyumi’s stuttered breaths filling the silence.

“I should go,” she says when she notices he's not planning to answer. “I'm sorry. I hope to see you tomorrow.”

Fuyumi hangs up, and Keigo is alone, again.

The news isn't exactly surprising. Keigo had seen him a few months earlier, bound pathetically to a bed; body practically rotted away, at that point. Everyone knew Touya didn't have long, himself included. It was just a matter of time.

Still.

Knowing didn't stop his heart from shattering on his feet—the shards digging into his skin, making him bleed all over the carpet. He doesn't cry. He's good at that, bleeding out and walking away. But knowing also doesn’t stop him from smoking a whole pack of cigarettes—until his lungs ache, his veins feel heavy. Knowing doesn’t stop him from putting out the flames on the soft skin of his wrist, from leaving angry red marks all over.

Touya is gone. Keigo might as well have gone with him.

“You don’t seem the smoking type,” Dabi says when Hawks steals the cigarette from between his lips.

“I’m not,” he replies easily, taking a drag. And he’s not, really. But it’s addicting to have Dabi’s eyes on him, following his every movement, staring at his lips.

“Yeah? What is this, then?” Dabi jerks his chin in Hawks’ direction, electric blue eyes full of mirth.

Hawks hums, pretending to think. “A little rebellion, maybe.”

“Is that so?” Dabi fake gasps. “How scandalous. What would people think if they saw what Hero Number Two does in his spare time?”

“I’ve been doing far worse things than having a smoke, lately,” he says, then glances at Dabi’s amused expression. “Worse someones, too.”

Dabi cackles and slots himself between Hawks’ spread legs, like he belongs there. He does, in a way. No one else has touched Hawks the way Dabi does. “If I knew dicking you down was all it took for you to stop being so uptight all the time, I’d have done it a long time ago.”

“Aw,” he coos. “I thought you liked me tight.”

“That I do, birdie,” Dabi smiles, and it’s something between tender and mocking—not uncommon for him, these days. “That I do.”

The scars on his back are a gruesome, ugly thing. The skin is all rough and uneven, with a weird coloration to it. Keigo strains his useless wings upwards so he can have a better look at them. It hurts, it takes too much toll on the numb, white feathers, but he has grown to enjoy it, to enjoy all the marks left behind by Touya. They’re everywhere. The yellow eyes trail through the reflection; through the dirty blond hair cut a tad too short that he never really lets grow; through the scar slicing down his cheek; through the marred skin, so very similar to his; the small, decorative, harmless wings. It’s a reminder. It’s all a reminder that there is no part of Keigo that has never been touched by Touya.

It’s all that he has left.

“Do you still go by Hawks?” Touya asks after what feels like a lifetime of silence.

Keigo looks at him through the glass; all burnt, blackened skin contrasting with the impossible blue eyes. He looks grotesque and yet, Keigo would kill to be able to lay down next to him. Instead, “What else would I go by?”

“Well,” his voice is rough; he sounds like he needs to put effort into even voicing anything. Burning your vocal cords to a crisp will do that to you, he supposes. Keigo wonders why he even bothers. “Your name, for starters.”

“Hawks is my name.” That’s a lie; he hasn't been thinking of himself as Hawks for a very long time now. But then, the one who made that happen is bound to the same bed in front of him. No one else is there to mouth his name in his ear, to call it pointlessly during the day, to remind him that he’s a person, too. So. He’s Hawks. The Hero Public Safety Commission President Hawks. The former pro-hero Hawks. The cripple Hawks. It stings.

“Is that so?” He says in the same amused way he used to do. Keigo can almost see the mocking grin on Touya's face. His face, the way it is right now, doesn’t allow him to make many expressions anymore.

It’s a taunt from a barely dead man, he knows, but Keigo was never immune to Touya’s teasing. “What are you trying to imply, Dabi?”

“Oh, please,” Touya chuckles, “we both know Dabi is dead.”

“So what are you going by? Touya?”

He knows Touya’s answer even before he voices it. “Touya is long gone, too.” There’s a bitterness in his tone.

Things became weird after the war, for both of them, but for Touya the most. Keigo can’t really imagine what getting your third chance at living just to be bedbound and trapped inside the highest security facility in the country feels like. Touya got angry whenever Keigo called him by name, so he stopped, at some point—their meetings are strained and scarce enough as it is. Dabi felt wrong, too, so Keigo just stopped calling him anything.

In front of him, that is. In the safety of his mind, he’ll always be Touya. That secret was given to him. In that dirty, small room at Gunga Villa, under the sheets, in whispered words, Touya trusted him. It doesn’t matter that it’s out in the open; it doesn’t matter if Touya renounced it—it was Keigo’s once. He’ll allow himself to be selfish.

“I don’t really go by anything these days.” Touya keeps going. Keigo didn’t think he would. He hates that name and gets grumpy whenever it’s mentioned. “Unless you think inmate #50511 counts for anything.”

“What about your family? I know I’m not the only one who comes to see you.” He’s playing with fire—pun fully intended—but he can’t help it; he was always so good at riling Touya up. They were always good at bringing out the worst in each other.

“They come to see a ghost. I hardly think it counts.” He doesn’t sound as angry as Keigo thought he would. He doesn’t pout. “But enough about me, we were talking about you.”

“Were we?”

“Yes. Hawks.”

“That’s my name.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit misleading?”

“Why would I?”

“You’re not much of a hawk anymore, are you? I think dove would be a better fit.” Figures he would bring that up at some point. Took him long enough. He had always been fixated on his wings.

Keigo was surprised when they started to grow back—he fully expected them to be gone forever—but getting his wings back didn’t make him less of a flightless bird. Instead of sharp, huge, crimson red feathers, he was met with white growing out of his shoulder blades. It reminded him of Touya’s hair, at the time—most things did, anyway. As they grew, he learned that they’re as harmless as they look: too soft, too small, Keigo can barely feel them at all, much less control them in any capacity. It’s just an accessory.

“Enjoying your work of art?”

“Quite,” the amusement in his voice is back. “I think blue would look good with it. We’d match, then.”

Keigo feels hot all over, and blue flashes on the corner of his vision. He’s fully aware that Touya intended to hurt. Still, upon hearing the raspy, soft tone, he can’t help but smile, “so we would.”

He’s learning that he enjoys the pain that comes with everything Touya.

The ceremony is a quiet, uncomfortable affair.

To Fuyumi’s credit, she forces a smile in his direction when he arrives, but it soon dies out. Either because the grief is too unbearable to even attempt politeness, or because Keigo himself doesn’t bother with such pleasantries. Anyway, Fuyumi doesn’t spare him any glances after that, nor does she try to make conversation. The same goes for Natsuo—only nodding in lieu of a greeting and making no attempts further than that—but then, they’ve never exchanged any words in their lives, so it’s no surprise.

Endeavor glares at him immediately. Some sick, twisted part of him expects, hopes, he says something, anything. He wants to be screamed at, kicked out, cursed, he doesn’t even care which. He wants it just so he has the opportunity to shout back how he’s the only one that deserves to be there, how all of them discarded Touya and now want to play grieving family, how Touya was his and he was Touya’s and they’re the ones that need to leave them the fuck alone. He wants to screech and bare his fangs, his talons; he wants to pour all the violence trapped inside him. But Enji doesn’t say anything. So, Keigo doesn't, either.

Maybe even Todoroki Enji knows not to pick a fight with his dead son’s boyfriend at his funeral. And, well, it’s not like he ever enjoyed Keigo’s presence anywhere; that hardly ever stopped him from anything.

Todoroki Rei and Todoroki Shouto, however, are a whole different matter. They stare, and stare, and never stop staring at Keigo. Their gazes so similarly blank, and yet, with such different weights.

Rei is a small, frail woman. She looks equal parts soft and a mess. Her hair is white and long, but unkept, greasy. Her pale skin has a sick hue to it, the matching eye bags so deep that Keigo is reminded of the scars Touya used to have. It’s a miserable picture—that of a grieving mother. She spaces out minutes at a time, steel grey eyes hazed and unfocused. Empty.

Until they aren’t. Until they focus hard and sharply on Keigo, gaze pining him down.

Keigo always liked to think he knew how to read people very well. He’s been thoroughly trained to, after all. Eyes, ears, feathers, instincts attuned to everyone and everything around him, always waiting and prepared. But right here, with Rei’s eyes boring into him over Touya’s ashes, he realizes he doesn’t know anything. He has no idea what she wants, what she’s feeling, what she’s thinking. Her face betrays nothing. Cold sweeps down Keigo’s spine. It reminds him of his early days at the Commission, of not having learned what was expected from him and disappointing his superiors over and over. A childish part of him almost apologizes to her, promising he will do better. Never mind that he doesn’t know what he’s done; he never did back then either. It’s laughable how terrified he is of letting people down, even after all this time. Keigo avoids meeting Rei’s eyes as much as he can before he does something stupid.

That leaves Shouto.

While Rei is unreadable, Shouto is an open book, his demeanor saying everything Keigo needs to know. He holds himself tall, like his father and brother, face devoid of expression, like his mother, and yet, he looks so open, in a way that none of them do. His mismatched eyes say Can you tell me about Touya? and Do you miss him like I miss him? and You had something I wanted, too. It says how young he is, how he’s just a boy who wants his brother back. It says everything that Shouto himself doesn’t.

He must have gotten that from Touya.

Touya, who hid behind snarls and venom, but had the most expressive, honest eyes he’s ever seen. Touya, who called him a dumb bird, but whose demeanor softened at his antics. Touya, who complained about Keigo leaving stupid fucking feathers everywhere, but still helped him groom his wings whenever they got itchy. Touya, who claimed he didn’t care, that what they had was just sex, but clung onto him every single night.

Touya, who had never trusted Keigo, but loved him just the same.

As half of the blue he used to seek bore his face, he wishes, once again, that Touya had taken Keigo with him.

Blue flames engulf his body, thick smoke clogs his lungs. Everything is too hot; he can’t breathe. A booted foot digs onto his face, crushing his visor and smashing his skin against the shards.

Dabi’s smile above him is cruel, and his eyes shine the very same hue as his fire. “Before anyone else, you should’ve kept your eyes on me.”

Keigo wakes up with a gasp. He’s not at Gunga Villa with Twice’s blood on his hands, his own on Dabi’s. Instead, he’s in his ridiculously big apartment in Musutafu, on his cold, oversized bed.

He only came to notice how cold his apartment is after Touya. It’s not like he spent all that much time in it before, anyway—he came home to sleep when he could and was out as soon as his eyes were open. And then, suddenly, Touya was on his couch, in his kitchen, on his bed, inside him, and everything became warm. Too warm. Almost unbearably so. And, oh, how Keigo wanted to burn.

Then the war came around. Hawks made his choices, and Dabi made his, too. Now, Touya is gone, and Keigo is cursed to be perpetually cold. That’s just how it goes.

Except his skin feels scorching hot, much like the day Dabi set him on fire. Keigo claws at his back at the memory, fingers finding soft feathers. It used to make him angry—Fierce Wings was all he had, Hawks was all he was, and they were both gone. Not anymore, though. He’s just a shell of a man who is too tired to feel anything.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Touya watching him. He’s leaning against the wall, in that lazy way he used to. The white hair contrasted beautifully with the gleaming blue eyes. There’s a cruel smile on his lips. Keigo feels dizzy. Touya’s eyes flick down, and Keigo follows his trail—he was always good at letting Touya take the lead.

It’s then, and only then, that he notices how impossibly hard he is. The shame burns even hotter than his feverish skin. He feels a sob crawling up his throat; there’s something deeply wrong with him. He turns to Touya again, who only watches him back, smile growing even crueler. Keigo’s cock twitches inside his boxers, and a tear trails down his face.

Keigo gets up and heads to the bathroom. He plans on taking a cold shower, letting his stupid boner die out. But he accidentally turns the water to the hottest setting. And he, accidentally, lets himself scald under boiling water. It hurts, and it hurts, and it hurts. He wouldn’t have it in any other way.

Tears and cum go down the drain. Guilt and shame still sit heavily on his shoulders.

Touya’s smile never leaves his lips.

On the third day, the Todorokis visit Touya’s grave.

Endeavor is not with them. Keigo wasn’t expecting his presence, nor did he think it would be welcomed, anyway.

He watches them from afar, not wanting to intrude. He still thinks that that’s his boyfriend, his Touya, and they don’t get to mourn something that they discarded. But that’s not true or fair, he knows that much. They’ve all been victims of Endeavor’s abuse in one way or another. It’s just that Keigo is a petty man and, as it turns out, he kinda sucks at dealing with grief—his losses are dealt with anger, it’s all he has ever known. Still, he’s not a monster, so he gives them space.

(A bitter part of him thinks that, in a different world, in a different time, he’d be part of the family too. He’ll never get that chance.)

He didn’t think he’d been noticed. He’s a few meters behind them, and he knows how to make himself quiet, but Shouto has been trained into perfection for as long as he has. Of course, he’d notice Keigo’s presence; he was a fool to think otherwise. The youngest Todoroki leaves his family and walks toward him. The others don’t seem to notice his sudden absence—Shouto, too, knows how to make himself quiet.

“Hawks-san,” he greets.

“Shouto-kun,” he greets back.

Shouto stands beside him to watch his siblings and mother. Natsuo is hugging the two women, Fuyumi sobbing into his shirt, and Rei staring numbly at the gravestone. He doesn’t say anything for a while, until, “I also feel like I’m intruding.”

Ah, well. Shouto, much like his father, was known to be straightforward.

“Why? He was your brother as much as he was theirs.”

“Not really. Endeavor decided to raise me separately from them, and then, Touya-nii died. I don’t have that many memories of him. It is weird to grieve someone I didn’t know.”

“But you do.”

“But I do. Just not like them, I guess. It’s like I miss what could have been.”

That much Keigo understands. He mourns all the what-ifs and play pretends and everything else he pictured with Touya. Sometimes it was easier to pretend that they were just some boring, domestic couple instead of liars on opposite sides of a war. “I see what you mean.”

“But you knew him,” Shouto says, but it’s not accusatory, as it would have been from anyone else. It’s just a neutral observation, at most.

Keigo chuckles, “Did I, now?”

“If anyone knew him, I think it was you.”

“I knew Dabi, not Todoroki Touya.”

“Well, he used to say Touya died a long time ago. Maybe Dabi was all that there was to know.”

Keigo stops at that. He watches the three Todorokis still huddled by Touya’s grave, then turns to Shouto, standing tall next to him. “Is this you trying to comfort me?”

“Uh? Not particularly. I’m sorry. Should I do that?”

“Please, don’t,” Keigo cuts him off, tired of this conversation.

“I just…” Shouto seems to struggle to find the right words. He grimaces and his nose scrunches like a cat. His brother used to do the same thing. The image makes his chest ache. God, he misses Touya so badly. “I just thought you’d understand the feeling that you’re an outsider in your own loss.”

Keigo considers. Natsuo and Fuyumi lost their older brother, the one who protected them, played with them, who was there even before they existed. Rei lost a child, the very first life she put into this world.

Shouto lost a shadow, a ghost in the Todoroki Estate hallways, an expectation of a bond that was probably never going to happen. Keigo lost a dead man who only kept crawling in this world out of spite, a relationship that he knew very well was doomed from the very start. He lost something he wasn’t even supposed to have.

Maybe Shouto is right.

“Have you ever been to the beach?” Hawks asks from the top of his perch.

Dabi wanted to meet next to a pier, this time. He always chooses the most random and out-of-the-way places he can find—Hawks has the inkling suspicion that it’s more to annoy him than to actually hide the League’s hideout. Joke's on him, if there’s something Hawks enjoys, it's flying, even if he needs to cross the country to meet the villain.

“Do I look like a beach guy?” Dabi’s eyebrow is raised in confusion, but there’s an easy smile on his lips. He’s indulging Hawks.

“Well, no, but I meant as a child.”

“Fishing for information, Number Two?” The hand around his ankle squeezes, but not enough to hurt—it’s a warning, albeit a weak, harmless one.

“I’m just curious,” Hawks tilts his head, aiming to look as innocent as he can manage. It doesn’t work, obviously. Dabi knows better than that, but he keeps indulging Hawks nonetheless.

“No, I haven’t,” he sighs. “Not even as a child.”

“Why not?” Dabi’s thumb on his ankle makes imaginary circles on his skin, no longer gripping it. Hawks noticed that Dabi does that whenever he perches. It’s not to ground Hawks, clearly—Dabi is the one who loves to remind him that he’s a bird; if he falls, he’ll just fly back to his place. He thinks that, maybe, Dabi is grounding himself. Touching Hawks just to know he can, to know he’s within reach. Hawks thinks of a warm hand on the small of his back, on his nape, on his thigh, a hand that is always, always touching him. He can’t say he minds. Quite the contrary, really.

“Let’s just say a beach day wasn’t high in my father’s list of priorities.”

“And then?”

“And then things happened, and now it’s not in mine.”

“Better things to do?” Hawks suggests. He’s totally fishing for information—they both know it. But the thing is that Dabi is letting him, and he’d threatened to burn Hawks for less before. He’ll take what he can get.

“You could say that,” he trails off. “I’m also not too hot on the idea of an infection. Too many open wounds and all that,” Dabi completes, making him laugh. Dabi gives him a small smile—he’s proud of his own joke. “What about you, pretty bird?”

Hawks pretends he doesn’t preen at the pet name. Dabi is kind of obsessed with the whole bird thing. He likes to give him bird-related petnames, and to tap on higher places, urging Hawks to perch on it, and to place himself in the direction of light because he knows Hawks will get distracted by it catching on the staples. Dabi loves and seeks everything the Commission trained him out of doing. In dangerous, vulnerable moments, he thinks that, if Dabi were to put him in a cage, he’d just chirp back at him—he’s been in one his whole life, at least Dabi calls him pretty. He likes the idea of being Dabi’s pretty bird.

“Nope.”

“You’re from Fukuoka,” Dabi deadpans.

“Keeping tabs on me, hot stuff?”

“Oh, please,” he snorts. “That’s one of the, like, five pieces of information about your personal life that’s public. Unless it’s not true.” The look Dabi gives him is challenging at least, dangerous at most.

“It is, I am from Fukuoka.”

“So?”

“Well. Beach days also weren’t high on my father’s list of priorities.”

“And then they weren’t in yours.”

“And then they weren’t in mine,” he agrees. Dabi hums, and Hawks knows the conversation might as well be done right there and then. The villain wouldn’t press for more, but something inside him compels him to keep going. “I’m also not an aquatic bird. My feathers get clogged and heavy. I can neither fly nor swim with them wet like that.” Dabi gives him his full attention, which almost makes him dizzy. “I’d have to shed them, and I don’t like being without my feathers for too long.”

Dabi could mention all the times Hawks forwent them in his presence. All the times they were left on the corner of the room so Dabi could fit more comfortably against his back, or when they showered together and he pressed Hawks flat against the cold tiles, or when he insisted on wearing Dabi’s shirt even though there weren’t any holes for his wings. Dabi could mention so many moments where Hawks thought he was more important than his wings. Instead, “Vulnerability is a scary thing, Birdie.”

If Keigo were to be honest, he wouldn’t say he enjoys smoking, not really. It’s a tedious ritual, feels more like a chore than anything else—dragging the smoke in, then letting it out. The nicotine also does very little to soothe his perpetual antsy, overworked mood or to fill the void inside him. Still, most of his free time is spent with a cigarette between his lips.

He smokes the very same cheap brand Touya used to, although he didn’t usually accompany him at the time. Back then, he used to just let Touya to his addiction because his own lay elsewhere. It was in the smoky smell filling his nostrils, in the raspy voice in his ear, in the bitter tongue sliding against his. For someone who didn’t smoke, Keigo grew to be far too fond of its taste. He remembers commenting once, as the smoke curled around Touya, how committed the villain was to the whole edgy lord aesthetic —the patchy outfit to go with his skin, the piercings to go with the staples, the cigarettes to go with his quirk; everything matches so well it was funny. Touya had rolled his eyes; he usually did. Says the hawk guy named Hawks. Who the fuck is named Hawks?

After the war, however, there was no Touya, no snarky comments, no smoky kisses, but there was a pack of cigarettes in his nightstand. And, if Keigo learned anything under the Commission's care, it was how to adapt. So. Smoking it is.

It’s a bad habit, he knows it is, but Touya had been one, too. One he could never get enough of. Despite their impending doom, despite his duty as a hero, despite the Commission breathing down his neck—he always craved Touya like he would die without him. All things considered, the cigarettes are doing far less harm to Keigo than his relationship with Touya.

Keigo watches the sun setting on the horizon, breathing the smoke in and out. He’s on his balcony, on the very same spot Touya liked to have his share. He can almost picture the scarred back and the sweatpants hanging low on his hips, a low hum here and then in response to Keigo’s yapping. It’s a short-lived fantasy, though—his cigarette is almost done and the pack is empty. Huh. He doesn’t remember smoking that much. He huffs a self-deprecating laugh; he should’ve known this cheap trick wouldn’t work anymore.

The cigarettes, originally, were a replacement, a momentary solace in his miserable life, while the real thing was locked miles and miles under the sea. But that’s precisely why they worked, because there was a real thing. Keigo could wait for months—he’s good at that; waiting, enduring—but he knew his time would come, eventually. He knew that, at some point, he’d find himself right there, sitting behind a glass, watching the not-really-alive body of a not-yet-dead man rot right in front of him. At that moment, he would think everything was worth it; all the smoke breaks, all the packs, all the waiting, it would be worth it just to be by his side.

There’s no real thing anymore. There are ashes amongst the soil, and there are bones in an urn. Keigo should’ve known better. He never does.

He’s surrounded by blue again. He feels every single feather scorching away, and it’s getting increasingly harder to breathe. He tries to claw his way out, dragging himself uselessly through the flames. There’s someone behind him, and he half-expects a boot to land on his face. Instead, there are calloused, scalding hot fingers on his chin.

Dabi scowls. His blue eyes still burn as hot as the fire around them. “What did I tell you?”

Keigo wakes up with a jolt.

Once again, he’s burning hot in the cold, lonely apartment. Once again, his cock sits heavy and shameful between his legs.

Touya’s smile never stops mocking him.

On the 7th day, Keigo visits Touya’s grave.

He’s alone, this time. No other Todorokis to make him feel bad except for the one below him. It’s better than the other option, but right here, he finds that words fail him for the first time in his life. Hawks was trained to be a performer, to be charming, quick-witted—he always knew what to say, when to say. But, staring at the engraved Todoroki Touya, Keigo’s mouth doesn’t seem to work as it used to. It’s not even that he doesn’t have anything to tell Touya, honestly, it’s just that he can’t bring himself to voice anything. Nothing feels right.

I love you, no. I hate you, even worse. You ruined my life and took everything I had, but I still think the worst thing you’ve done is leaving me, pathetic.

It feels like no matter what he says, Touya would mock him for wasting his time because he already knew all that. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Touya knew Hawks, and he knew Keigo, and he knew everything in between. He knew the flirty, confident hero, and he knew the scared, lonely child, and he knew the mess of a man those two made. Touya knew everything there was to know, even things Keigo himself didn’t, and now it just feels stupid to tell him anything at all. Even in death, no one will ever know Keigo like Touya did.

So he stares.

“I won’t crawl out from it, you know,” a raspy, breathy voice says in Keigo’s ear. It’s warm.

Keigo keeps staring at the engraved name. “You’ve done it before.”

“I can’t keep cheating death forever, Birdie.”

“I wish you would.”

“No one is supposed to live thrice.”

“Why not? They say third time’s the charm,” he tries to joke, but it sounds empty even to himself.

“Which is why I’ll make sure to stay dead.”

The voice is gone. It’s cold again.

Hawks brought them fried chicken. He’s not sure when he started doing it, but it became a regular thing—sharing takeout in the insalubrious places Dabi chooses for them to meet.

“Say, you feeding me,” Dabi begins around a wing. Hawks hums, stuffing himself with his own. “Is it a sex thing?”

Hawks chokes.

He coughs out pieces of chicken and Dabi, somehow, thinks it’s his cue to keep talking. “I mean, I’m not judging. To each their own, I guess. I was just going to say that I’m not sucking hot sauce off your dick, but other than that it should be fine.”

“Why the fuck would it be a sex thing?” Hawks asks when he’s certain there’s no food inside his lungs.

Dabi raises an eyebrow, like Hawks is the stupid one. “What else would it be? You’re not dumb enough to think bribery would get you anywhere with me.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Yeah, sure, birb.” He waves him off and goes back to eating for a moment. “So…”

“Oh my God, it’s not a fucking sex thing!”

“Then what is this?”

And that’s the question. What is this?

Hawks thinks of Dabi’s body; bones showing in all the wrong places, a miserable image. He thinks of a primitive part of his brain urging him to feed Dabi, to give him shiny trinkets, to please him. He thinks of Dabi’s reluctance growing into an easy acceptance. (That’s my good bird. Yes, he is Dabi’s good bird. He loves being Dabi’s good bird.) He thinks of feeling warm and satisfied and proud of himself—because he apparently gets off to being good for a fucking villain. He thinks and thinks and thinks, but he can’t voice any of those thoughts. So, he doesn’t.

“It’s nothing. I can just stop if it bothers you that much.” Hawks averts his eyes—Dabi knows how to read him far too well for his liking. He snorts. “What.”

“You seem to think you’re a better liar than you actually are, you know.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Sure.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he insists.

“Okay, birdie.” Dabi nods slowly, a mean smirk on his lips. “I believe you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” he confirms. “But that doesn’t change anything, does it?” No, it doesn’t.

They start eating again. They don’t touch the subject ever again.

Keigo builds an altar for Touya.

It sits in the corner of his living room. He knows he could have dedicated a whole room to it; he has enough to spare, but it felt like he was hiding Touya somehow. He didn’t like that. Of course, it’s not like he has any guests over these days—or ever—but it’s about the symbolism of it all. Or maybe he’s just fucking insane, that makes sense too.

He watches it from the kitchen counter, and it hits him that, as ironic as it may sound, that’s probably the single thing in the room that shows that someone actually lives here. Touya had commented on it once, that he looks like he lives in an IKEA display and it’s actually depressing. Keigo had brushed it off, back then. He got the apartment and everything in it from the Commission with the explicit warning that it was curated to the image they want Hawks to have, and he was not supposed to change anything. He knows how to listen to orders, that’s what always made him their most useful asset, but, more than that, he simply did not care enough to rebel in any way. He barely ever spent time here. Why bother changing anything?

Touya, of course, had disagreed. Which led to burn marks on his couch, because Touya liked to smoke there to spite him; a broken vase that he never threw away because he’s sure Touya broke it on purpose, like a cat tumbling off things; an ugly chicken plush that Touya got on a claw machine and said that it looked like him. And, now, an altar in his memory. It seems like even reduced to ashes and bones, Touya is still the only thing that reminds Keigo that he’s human, too. Or, at least, he’s supposed to be.

He kneels in front of it and stares at the picture sitting right in the middle. It’s the same one they used in Touya’s funeral. He couldn’t be older than 11 or 12 in it, cheeks round enough to show he was yet to grow out of his baby fat. The pristine white, groomed hair goes with the smooth skin and the bright blue eyes. Every time Keigo stops to actually look at it, he gets torn between throwing a tantrum and shredding the picture apart and making up a universe where they knew each other, so it would stop feeling so wrong.

Here’s the thing: he never met that Touya. The Touya he knew was a mess of burnt skin and medical staples; he was snarls and scowls, he was inky black hair and a perpetual smoky smell. Rationally speaking, Keigo knows, of course, that that child is a piece of the fragmented tragedy that made Todoroki Touya, but then, he was never good at being rational when it came to Touya. So it’s weird and foreign. It doesn’t feel like he’s mourning him; it feels like he’s mourning some random kid he found on the street.

That’s probably why he placed the tiny Polaroid next to it.

He remembers very clearly of the day it was taken. Toga had asked him about his merch, because she always saw it on TV and wanted something for herself. Keigo, then, brought all the prototypes he got sent over the years. It made Toga so excited that she forced every League member to pose with something so she could take a picture. They all made a face at her, but obliged nonetheless—it was hard to deny her anything when you remembered she was still just a child. She got Twice in a red-and-yellow cap, Mr. Compress in a shirt with the Hawks logo in the front, and Spinner in a stupid winged headband. All of those photos went down with the Villa, except for one. It showed Touya, in his former Dabi glory, glaring at the camera and sporting the, quite frankly, most hideous hoodie ever made. It had made Keigo laugh back then; Touya was cursing and complaining the whole evening, but had still let Toga snap a picture of him.

Later, when she deemed herself satisfied with her photoshoot, she stopped to appreciate her work. Dabi-kun!, she had yelled, Where is yours? Did you take it? Confusion crossed Touya’s face for a single moment before he flicked his eyes to Keigo. He got caught; the polaroid felt like it was burning a brand inside his pocket—he slipped a feather earlier to take it before Toga could notice. He felt sweat tracing down his spine. Yeah, I burned it. It was ugly as fuck, I don’t want anyone seeing that shit, Touya said instead of incriminating Keigo. He waited for Touya to call him out, but that moment never came—he indulged Keigo far too much.

Another picture was taken. Toga was happy with hers, and Keigo with his.

Touya only smirked on the way out.

He’s surrounded by blue flames again. He doesn’t fight this time; there is no point. He just lies there waiting to be consumed. Distantly, he waits for Dabi to come. He will come.

And he comes with a kick on Keigo’s stomach, turning him on his back. “Are you looking now?” Keigo tries to speak, but the words get clogged in his throat along with the smoke he’s inhaling. Dabi’s eyes trail down his body. “I guess you are,” he smirks, pressing down his crotch with his boot. Keigo moans—he’s so hard it hurts. “Aren’t you a pathetic thing?”

Keigo wakes up with a cry. He can’t do this anymore.

He kicks his pants and underwear out. His cock sits heavy and hard against his stomach, tip so red it's almost purple. He doesn’t touch it—Touya wouldn’t, he never did. Touya would, instead, shove his finger in Keigo’s mouth, tell him to suck it nice and good. Keigo tries to replicate it with his own fingers. He’s so feverishly hot he can almost pretend it’s his fingers.

When he deems them wet enough, he shoves one up his ass. He screams— the stretch burns like a bitch, the poor lubrication making it worse. It’s just how Touya would have done. He knows Keigo likes the pain. He would have started fingering his hole without any time to adjust, wrist moving fast but pointedly avoiding Keigo’s prostate, because he was a tease like that. So Keigo does it, too. A second finger soon joins the first, and tears trail down his face. It’s both too much and hardly enough.

Touya wouldn’t prep him further than two fingers, even if it definitely wasn’t enough to make him ready for his cock. You like it rough, don’t you, birdie? Like the pain slut you are, he’d rasp against Keigo’s ear, the hand on his hip short of burning a brand permanently. Yes, he’s just a pain slut. Then, Touya would replace his finger with his dick, bottoming out all at once. Keigo would cry out—he’d feel so full. He presses a third finger in. He needs more.

He pumps his finger in and out in quick, hard movements—just like Touya would. He liked to rail Keigo into incoherentness, to a point in which he was so fucked out that all he could think was Touya, Touya, Touya, each thrust making it harder to breathe. He jams against his prostate repeatedly. He’s full-on sobbing at this point. He wants Touya back.

Keigo comes with Touya’s name on his lips, his untouched cock splashing white on his belly and the underside of his face. He stares at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. The tears are still falling.

Touya shows up above him. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“I know.”

Dabi is late.

Well, late is an understatement—Hawks has been standing in this shitty warehouse for over an hour now. He’s not even sure if Dabi will actually show up, in all honesty, but he’s trying not to think about that because this spy gig needs to work out. The Commission does not accept failures. So, he keeps waiting.

“Give me a good reason not to incinerate you right now.” A voice speaks from behind him. Fucking finally. He turns to see Dabi walking lazily towards him. Despite his carefree stance, he scowls deeply in Hawks' direction. He’s already angry, which means he won’t listen if Hawks tries to sugarcoat what he’s about to say. He needs to be quick.

“I want to join the League,” Hawks spits out and immediately has to dodge a blue fireball. “Hey! Hear a guy out!”

“Do I look like I’m in the mood to hear jokes from fucking Hero Number Three?” Dabi growls, another ball already forming in his hands.

“I’m not joking, please, just hear me out,” he pleads.

Dabi considers for a second. The intensity of his glare never dims, but the fire eventually dies out. “Fine. I’ll bite. Do tell, why does the Hero Public Safety Commission’s golden boy want to bite his owners in the ass and join us lowly villains?” He snarls, gesticulating heavily with his hands. Wow, he really is as theatrical as they say.

Hawks breathes in. “Look, that’s precisely the reason. Because they own me. I’m just a tool in their hands, and I’ve never been more than at any moment of my life. I mean, fuck, I was bought by them at 5. Who the fuck buys a child? Ever since, all I’ve ever known was orders and more orders. There isn’t a single aspect in my life that they aren’t in control of. I want a way out. I want to be my own person.” It comes out easily because it’s true. “But I can’t do that alone, which is why I want to join the League. I need you guys to succeed so I can have what I want, too.”

Dabi snorts and leans on the pillar next to him. “Yeah? And now what? Am I supposed to be touched by this pathetic sob story and let you in?”

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t dare to think it would be this easy. But I can be useful to you, you know?” Hawks approaches him, slowly, casually.

“Yeah,” Dabi agrees. “Burning you to a crisp would be quite useful. Imagine the message that would send. In fact, I think I should do it right now.”

“Oh, c’mon, hot stuff.” Dabi quirks an eyebrow at the nickname. “You said it yourself, I’m Number Three. Imagine the amount of info I can get you. I’m the best insider you could dream of.”

“And you said it yourself, you’re nothing but the Commission’s little toy.” He points a very warm finger at Hawks’ chest. Dabi’s whole presence is extremely warm. He’s not sure why this information is surprising, nor why he is paying this much attention to it. “How am I supposed to trust you aren’t here on their orders?”

“Let me prove myself to you.”

“Prove yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, then, little bird.” Dabi comes even closer; their chests almost touch, their faces just a breath away. “What would you do?”

From this distance, Hawks notices how blue his eyes are. The light catches onto it just right—it shines like a vast sea under the moonlight. It’s enticing, mesmerizing; he couldn’t look away even if he tried.

“Anything,” he breathes out, and it comes more honest than he intended to.

Dabi smiles cruelly. “That’s a dangerous offer. I’m not known to be nice.”

“Give me your worst, then.” Hawks smiles back.

Blue eyes run through his face for a few seconds while Dabi makes up his mind. Finally, he leans back and starts walking away. “I’ll keep in touch.”

Keigo is kneeling in front of the altar when Rumi slams his door open.

“What the fuck is this?” She yells.

He doesn’t turn to her, golden eyes glued to Touya’s portrait. “An altar.”

“Yeah, I can fucking see that. I meant, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He can feel her standing behind him, but he can’t look away from Touya’s young face. He had such sad, empty eyes. Keigo wonders if he, too, looked like that at that age. If they had met back then, would things be different? Probably not. But they would have had more time together, at least. “I’m talking to you. At least fucking look at me.”

He sighs and turns around. Rumi looks distraught—hair a mess, chest heaving with anger. She was always very intense, but she had never been this angry at him. “I’m mourning, Rumi.”

“Oh, cut the shit, Hawks.” She comes up closer and points a finger at his face. “ You haven’t left your house in a month, you don’t answer calls or texts, you fucking quit your job, for fuck’s sake!”

“I didn’t need the money.”

“That’s–” She cuts herself and pulls at her own hair. She looks like she’s trying really hard not to punch him. He wishes she’d stop trying. “That’s not the fucking point!”

Keigo rubs his face. He’s so tired. “Then what is, Rumi? What do you want?”

“What do I want?” She huffs an incredulous laugh. “Hawks, you’re ruining your life over a villain! Is that who you’re mourning? The guy that fucking crippled you? Do you even hear yourself?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I miss him.” He sounds as small and pathetic as he feels.

Rumi stops yelling. She looks at him like she doesn’t know him, like this is the first time she’s actually seeing him. Her disappointment is heavy and clear. After a few moments of stillness, she throws herself on the couch, burying her face in her hands.

“What are you even doing with your life, Hawks?” She asks quietly, in a way that is not like her at all.

“I told you, I’m mourning.”

“I can hear you thinking,” Touya grumbles with his eyes closed.

Keigo has been watching him for a while now. He thinks he looks his best like this—relaxed, peaceful, on his bed, by his side. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Your thoughts are too damn loud, birdie.”

“That’s literally not possible.”

Touya opens his eyes to give him a flat stare. Keigo never gets tired of how beautiful they are. “Go to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

They’re running out of time, he knows that. The raid is not far, the heroes are preparing, and the League plans are moving. A war is bound to happen in no time. And yet, here they are, lying next to each other like nothing is wrong in the world, like they aren’t lying to each other. Keigo’s heart clenches whenever he remembers that, soon, none of this will ever happen again. He’ll never be able to watch Touya fall asleep again, he’ll never be able to kiss him senseless again, he’ll never be able to be by his side again. Quite frankly, he’s not even sure if they’ll ever even see each other again, if they both will manage to survive.

He cups Touya’s face, thumb rubbing softly along the seams between rough and smooth skin. “Touya,” he says.

It’s not an I love you. It could never be; they’re not allowed to have that. But this is what he has: a name trusted unto him. A sign that, despite it all, this is real to Touya, too. A moment of vulnerability that they both know can never be replicated with anyone else, in any other circumstance. A reminder that, even when everything is over, this will have changed Touya as much as it changed Keigo—they both marked each other.

“Hm?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to say it.”

Touya rolls his eyes and pulls him closer, meeting him in a kiss. It’s slow, sweet, just lips sliding against each other. “Keigo,” he says against his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to say it.”

It’s not an I love you, but Keigo hears it just the same.

All things considered, Keigo took a while to finally snap.

It goes like this: he’s in his kitchen. There’s a cigarette on his lips. The coffee maker hums in the background. He does not like smoking, nor drinking coffee—Touya was the one who liked it. But Touya is gone. And that information finally sinks in.

Touya is gone.

Touya is gone, and he’s not coming back. Keigo is alone and will never have the single thing that made him feel alive ever again. Because he’s dead.

When he comes to himself, he has already thrown a mug at the wall. The shards are everywhere. It doesn’t stop there.

Keigo throws cups, plates, pans, everything he comes across against the wall. He flips off the table and kicks a chair. He heads to the living room and stabs the couch with a knife. He throws cushions out of the window, vases on the floor. He punches a hole in his TV. He topples Touya’s altar. He scratches himself with sharp talons, pulls on his hair until he feels strands coming off on his fingers. He screams and cries. Everything is a fucking mess.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Touya says from the couch.

“You!” Keigo yells, pointing at him. “This is your fault!”

“Mine? What did I do?” He looks as unbothered as ever.

“You left me! You took everything I ever had, everything I ever worked for, and then you left!” Keigo starts pacing across the room. Something cuts his feet, and his steps stain the carpet below him—he doesn’t bring himself to care and keeps rambling. “I can’t be a hero, because you took that from me. I can’t fly, because you took that from me. I’m stuck being a cripple good-for-nothing with a life I fucking hate because you took everything from me! And I would be fucking fine with that if I at least had you here, but I don’t, because you left!”

“Oh, please, it’s hardly my fault that I’m dead.”

“But who else am I supposed to blame!” He shouts, turning to Touya at last. There’s a tear running down Touya’s face, and that makes him stop in his tracks. “You’re crying,” he points out, dumbly.

“Shit, guess I am.” Touya wipes the tear, appearing as surprised as Keigo.

“I thought you couldn’t cry.”

Touya laughs, and it’s a mean, cruel sound. “I can’t, birb, but this isn’t real. I’m just in your head.”

Keigo blinks, and Touya isn’t there anymore.

Ah, yes. That makes sense. Touya couldn’t have been there. Because he’s dead. That’s right.

Keigo finds he can’t do this anymore.

On the 49th day, Keigo burns.

PRO HERO HAWKS FOUND DEAD AT TWENTY-FIVE

The former Pro Hero and Hero Public Safety Commission CEO Hawks was found dead in his apartment this Sunday after a suspicious fire. Authorities confirm that there are no signs of breaking in, ruling out the possibility of it being a malicious act. The causes of the accident are still being investigated.