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Dabi worked alone. He always had. Alone meant no one to betray him meant no one to kill him. Joining the League had been a grab for infamy—a demand that Endeavour look at what he could do, the destruction he wrought. The pure power of his flames.
Endeavour had been obsessed with Shouto because he had the one thing Touya didn’t: strength. Dabi would show him strength. Dabi would incinerate everything Enji’s gaze fell on until he had no choice but to look and see the root of the fire, bright teal amongst white ashes. Dabi. Touya. His blood and damnation.
And when Endeavour’s gaze, caught on the blue wreckage, reeled in at last to him and him alone, Dabi would take his father into his arms as Enji had never done for him and croon his own name— Touya, Touya, Touya. It made such a pretty sound.
The higher it burned in the sky they’d paint black with smoke and blood and dust, the harder their drop to hell would be. Their drop together . Dabi would make his father waltz with his eyes locked on him, a macabre caricature of Endeavour spinning six year old Touya in the air.
He would take all he’d ever wanted, his father’s undiluted attention (because he could never have his love), and burn with its taste on his tongue. He’d had it once, in the aftermath of the High-End battle, and it was glorious and intoxicating. Worth the agony of molten staples beneath skin and the fever pain he’d collapsed from seconds after the encounter. He’d broken out all his firepower for Endeavour, pushed himself too far, and it was only Hawks finding him incoherent and smoking in the warehouse that saved him.
Hawks.
Hawks baffled him.
Dabi had always worked alone, and that meant he had to rely on himself; to figure out people’s ticks, where to hit to break them before they broke him. The League had been a manageable set of calculations, the PLF? Overwhelming. He hadn’t wanted the merge.
Sure, he had Detnerat’s money to spend now. He could afford safer painkillers and antiseptic than the ones he used to nick or barter. But more people meant more chances of betrayal, and no one posed a larger puzzle and threat than Hawks. Especially now he had an entire army to charm and sidle up to; he could skip right past Dabi’s scalding, locked-tight front. More people meant a larger target to aim at. The hero was all warm grins and finger guns, but something dark and sharp glittered in those golden eyes, chipped maybe—hurt.
What cause did the number two hero have to be hurt?
Hawks flew fast and hard away from any mention of his past. The mystery was a curiosity and a liability, another reason not to trust him. Even if the hero had washed him down with cool water, changed his staples. Brought him burn cream and hesitantly rubbed his back when he found Dabi taut with pain, curled in a corner of his room because he’d locked the door and thought he was safe, safe to fall apart over his charred wreck of a heart and agonising ruin of a body, but evidently had forgotten Hawks could fly in through the window. He’d been mad. At first. Afraid.
And then it felt nice to be touched so gently, soothingly, Hawks placing his full hand on his back and saying nothing, pulling him into his chest. Red wings curled protectively over him, feathers trailing gently through his hair and Hawks just—just let him stay there, bracketed by his arms. He hadn’t drawn back. Hadn’t walked away.
(Touya had seen his father’s back more often than he saw his face.)
They’d never spoken of it again.
Dabi couldn’t trust a man who’d seen him vulnerable and broken that way, even if—no, especially if they’d kissed in more than one darkened hallway, Hawks’ eyes drowning in desire and what might have been care. Dabi chose to focus on the desire part, the fifth time it happened; pulling them both into Hawks’ room of the mansion. It was closer than his own. They spilled onto the bed, a mess of hot limbs and sweat and fast, urgent breaths.
“W-wait,” the hero stammered against his lips, wings fluttering.
“You okay?” Dabi drew back, eyes bright and searching. “Not gonna fuck you if you don’t want it.”
But Hawks wasn’t looking at him, and Dabi’s heart twisted. He followed his gaze. A tattered plushie slumped on the end of the bed, its orange mask wilted. He knew who it was in half a breath. Of course. Touya could never escape his father. Endeavour was always ruining everything. The toy looked well-loved; had Hawks been hiding it away every time Dabi came over, knowing his hatred for the flame ‘hero’? A sharp, jagged laugh erupted from Dabi’s chest. It was ugly and painful.
He picked the toy up, smarting. “What? You’d rather sleep with him?”
Hawks’ eyes narrowed. “Put that down.” Whatever had been between them dissipated like smoke. Dabi didn’t let himself mourn it.
He heated his thumb, feeling sick and reckless, pressed it into the plushie’s belly. The smell of burning felt dug a quiet, dangerous trill from the back of Hawks’ throat. His feathers gleamed, suddenly blade-like.
“Does he really mean that much?” Dabi said, equally quiet. Pleading, though he’d never let the hero hear it. Does he really mean more than me to you? Because for an enchanted, syrupy night, maybe more than one, Hawks—their small, flippant conversations and moonlit kisses, a shared bowl of soba and tracing each other’s wounds with gauze—had meant more to him than Endeavour had.
“Yes,” Hawks snarled.
Dabi froze. No.
And he could’ve sent a feather to snatch it, but Hawks lunged for the plushie himself; cradling it tight to his chest, stroking its fabric hair, fingers slow and almost loving. Dabi’s ears rang. The scars at his jaw prickled and pulled.
“You’re pathetic,” he sneered, wildly. “Is that why you like me? You’re an Endeavour whore and my eyes look like his?” A dark, horribly twisted silence.
“—Get—get out!” Hawks screamed at him, a sob splintering his words, and Dabi had felt something in him crack too listening to his choked breathing, his golden eyes wet and sharp as broken glass. Still chipped. Still hurt. Still a secret.
Which was why Dabi had tracked down his mother for the full Winged Hero tragic backstory reveal. His Christmas gift to himself. She didn’t even put up a fight. With every listless word dropping from Takami Tomie’s mouth, Dabi burned hotter and hotter.
It was only the letters, tenderly written from Hawks to Tomie—crumpled and dusty as they were—that stopped Dabi cremating her right then and there. Hawks loved her. Hell, he knew what it was like to love a parent who only used you. Dabi wouldn’t take her from him, even if she deserved it.
“Do you write him back?” He spat at her. “Do you even wish him happy birthday?”
“It’s on December 28,” she said, all four of her eyeballs fixed on him, past him, through him. “I got him a present, once. An Endeavour plushie.”
Oh. So that was…that was why Hawks loved it so much. It was the only birthday gift he’d ever had, the only sign his mother ever gave a shit about him. A strangled, nauseous guilt throttled his stomach. He thought of his fingerprint scorched in the felt. Hawks… Keigo shrinking into himself, hugging the worn, scalding hot toy; tears shuddering down his cheeks after Dabi left him that frosted night, left him alone hurting and crying like—like Endeavour did. Like Hawks’ mother did.
The guilt twined tight with shame.
✩ · · ─ ·☽𖤓☾· ─ · · ✩
Hawks stared at the black singe mark mottling the stuffed toy’s belly, his eyes unfocused and far away. It was just a plushie. Just a stupid little plushie.
His hands shook, curled into the blankets; wings wrapping tight around him. It was just a plushie.
Nothing worth jeopardising his mission over.
And yet, he hadn’t spoken a word to Dabi since that—that night. Hadn’t said a thing to melt the ice between them, the way he should . He needed information and for that he needed Dabi’s favour. Twice was easier to approach, sure, but Dabi knew more . (Twice was too easy to approach, and Hawks had only ever learned to distance or to love.
Actually, Hawks had strayed far too close to the soft side of Dabi too. The villain claimed he didn’t care, but Hawks had seen him patching a cut in Toga’s favourite skirt, making dinner for Spinner when he caught a cold. Remembered Dabi carefully splinting his wing when he’d sprained it on a League mission, asking with every gentle movement if he was okay.)
Hawks buried his head in his knees.
It’s just a stupid fucking plushie.
But it wasn’t. Trembling, he pulled it to his chest and closed his eyes, filed talons digging sickles into the threadbare cloth. It was soft, so soft from years of being crushed in his arms, and it was his sole, steadfast companion, his first true friend. It smelled of white glue. Charcoal too, now Dabi had almost incinerated it.
He didn’t hate the smoky smell. Despite everything, he didn’t hate Dabi. He…
The door clicked. Hawks’ breath hitched, feathers bristling at the familiar, rapid heartbeat. Speak of the devil. Footsteps echoed off the tiled floor, grating on his unpreened wings; already scraped thin by a day of fighting a trafficker with a speed quirk, of all things. Damn Dabi’s platform heels. Hawks winced, swallowing hard, willing the dizziness to recede.
His head throbbed.
This was the last thing he needed.
“Hawks?”
Hesitant. Quiet. Hawks didn’t uncoil from his feathery huddle. He felt like he might throw up if he did.
Dabi knelt before him, a little afraid. He’d never seen the hero so motionless, almost catatonic. Even bleeding and with his wings sprained, Hawks had always been grinning that stupid lopsided smile, quipping some silly joke, golden eyes teasing.
Now, though—now he was utterly nested in his wings, the coverts rumpled and tangled. Slate, blue-kissed shadow curved along every feather vane. The room thrummed with moonlight caught in the curtains, Skeptic’s camera earrings glimmering from the windowsill. They were turned to the endless forest outside.
Dabi carefully folded his arms around Hawks. The younger tensed, wings clenching closer to his furled back.
“I’m sorry,” Dabi said.
“…s’okay.”
“No. It’s not.”
Hawks almost laughed. So arson and murder was okay, but toasting a bundle of cloth wasn’t?
“Really,” Dabi said, and oh shit he was serious. “I’m sorry. Endeavour…did some fucked up shit to me, but I shouldn’t have done that to you. Or to the plushie.”
The space between his knees and the floor blurred. Hawks let the tears crawl silently down.
“I, uh. I got you something.” A shuffling. Crinkling paper. “Here.”
His wings parted, and he peered cautiously from a fluffy veil of thick red. Nestled in Dabi’s hand was a tiny plushie keychain. It was a small parrot, bright red with bead eyes and wings tipped blue and gold. A pom-pom Santa hat topped it.
“It’s not much, but…happy birthday, Hawks.”
“How did you know?” he whispered, reaching to cradle it.
“I paid your mother a visit. Don’t worry, I didn’t hurt her. And this, this isn’t stolen, so. Relax.”
Hawks’ eyes shone with a little more than tears, flicking as if he wasn’t quite sure whether to be furious or touched. “I…please don’t stalk my friends and family, but thank you.”
“…Yeah.” Dabi sat down heavily on his bum. “Shit my knees hurt.”
A wobbly laugh. A good sign, he hoped.
“So what do you wanna do, birthday bird?”
“It’s one am. Technically not my birthday anymore.”
“Shut up.”
Hawks smiled, the chip in his eyes eroded and softened. They glowed stunning amber.
“C’mere,” he said, wrapping Dabi in his wings. A feather slipped the old Endeavour plushie away to the side, and he looped his new keychain round a finger. A happy coo strummed the air. Hawks’ eyes fluttered shut, gold lashes still glimmering wet. “I just wanna sleep,” he murmured into Dabi’s chest, warm breath tickling his seams.
“What am I, your glorified plushie?”
“My very favourite one.”
Dabi nuzzled into Hawks’ feathery hair, lips twitching up. Maybe working alone meant less flanks to cover, but he’d missed hugs like these. Had missed the ever-present, ever-messy warmth Natsuo and Fuyumi and Shouto scribbled in his life.
He’d missed having someone to care for, someone to care for him back.
⋆˙⟡🪶─ .✦ ོ ོ⊹₊ ݁.