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There’s an unnaturally warm body sitting next to him, oppressive in its stillness.
Hawks stares down at the city far below them. Feels the concrete ledge of the roof where it digs into his palms, leaving pebbled dents. He thought he would feel untouchable up here, but Dabi always finds a way to get under his skin no matter how high he flies.
Finally, there’s movement. Sound. The rustle of a weathered coat as scarred hands reach inside an inner pocket and procure a pack of cigarettes.
Dabi tugs one out and puts it between his lips.
He shakes the box in Hawks’ direction.
When there’s no immediate reaction, Dabi glances over at him, blue eyes searching—always searching for something.
A motive. A weakness. A tell.
Worst of all is the understanding that burns underneath it all, stripping Hawks of every carefully crafted piece of armor he’s been made to bear until all that’s left is his shuddering, blistered skin. Taking with it any hope he may have once had of outmaneuvering him.
Why are they here?
What has he been telling himself this time?
What justification could he possibly have?
A selfish one.
A cruel one.
Dabi sets the pack down between them and Hawks feels the rattle of cigarettes in his feathers. His skin prickles with heat that he can’t even pretend has anything to do with the lighter Dabi holds up to his mouth, long fingers cradling the flame, shielding it from the wind that whips against their faces.
He’s never been able to get a straight answer out of him about why he won’t just light them with his quirk. Knowing Dabi, he probably dodges the question just to annoy him.
Air rushes out of Dabi’s nose in a sort of laugh and Hawks wonders if he’s thinking about it too. Wonders if he also lies awake thinking about their nights spent talking in pointless circles, Dabi almost always smoking, Hawks trying to ignore the way his feathers flutter when they accidentally brush against him.
His stomach twists with heat as he recalls a time he swears Dabi ran his hand through his feathers on purpose, maybe just to see how he’d react. He’s still not certain he managed to hide the soft, trilling sigh that rose up the back of his throat before his instincts kicked in and suddenly he had a sharpened feather drawn against Dabi’s throat.
What he is certain about is how hard Dabi’s heart started to pound. How his expression darkened with something other than fear, if only for a moment, before it was replaced with a more familiar—safe—sort of aloof defiance.
All his dumb bird brain had wanted to do was press in close. Dip his head down into the crook of his neck. Smell, feel, taste the heat and adrenaline rising off of him. Bite down until he bled.
He hadn’t been able to sleep that night.
Then the Commission’s encrypted message came. Everything was in place. He succeeded in his mission. Now he just had to wait for the day of the conference.
But there was no sigh of relief. No sense of accomplishment or renewed hope in the future. Just a gnawing dread in the pit of his stomach. A seed of doubt that sprouted and grew as he continued to lie, and manipulate, and take advantage of the people he spent so long gaining the trust of.
Dabi knows.
Hawks is certain of it.
Whether that makes the inevitable betrayal more or less cruel is a question that’s been haunting him.
They’ve been using each other from the beginning. There’s no reason he should be feeling any guilt about it, right? They’re both just pawns serving their purpose in some greater narrative.
No.
Hawks is a pawn.
Dabi is . . .
Still an enigma to him.
No past. No family. No clear personal goals beyond tearing down hero society with the Paranormal Liberation Front. Nothing to fuel him but the burning hatred in blue eyes Hawks swears he’s seen somewhere before.
Hawks lets his hand fall to Dabi’s offering, fingernails picking at the lid in thought before giving in and flipping it open. He can’t remember when the last time he smoked was. The only reason the Commission ever let him get away with it was the intel he was able to gather by abusing the sense of camaraderie it granted him with other smokers.
Dabi’s expression shifts like he’s genuinely surprised, maybe even a little suspicious, that Hawks actually accepts the offering this time. Shrugging, Hawks places the cigarette between his lips and extends his hand out for the lighter, holding his gaze.
The gravity of the situation must finally hit Dabi as, for what may be the first time since they started this whole charade, he visibly seems to second guess himself.
The one time Hawks tells him the truth. Go figure.
Hawks offers no comfort—can’t even bring himself to make a joke at either of their expense to try and lighten the mood. He can see Dabi wants to repeat his question from before, but Hawks is no more sure of the answer now than when it was first posed.
Maybe he just got tired of carrying this burden alone, so weak he couldn’t stomach it for even a day longer.
Maybe some twisted part of him wants to offer Dabi a way out.
Or maybe he’s just selfish. Plain and simple.
Hawks finds undeserved comfort in the thump of Dabi’s heart in his feathers, even as it spikes almost concerningly high. There’s an intensity in his eyes now, a spark of conviction, but nothing that suggests he’s afraid of what’s coming.
Fuck. It makes Hawks want to do something irreparably stupid. A bitter taste of what could have been as punishment for everything he’s about to do come morning.
Dabi considers him for a long moment. Flicks the butt of his cigarette off the roof as if daring Hawks to comment on him littering. Takes a second one out and lights it the same way as before.
He takes a drag and Hawks watches helplessly as his usual lazy grin stretches across his face, tugging at his staples. In a rare act of pity, Dabi leans in and lifts his hand as if to finally light Hawks’ too. There’s mischief dancing in his eyes though that Hawks doesn’t understand until two fingers unfurl from around the lighter to tilt his chin just so.
Hawks’ breath catches in his throat but he doesn’t pull away.
Seeming pleased by this reaction, Dabi gives him a smile that’s disarmingly charming and then uses the end of his cigarette to light Hawks’ with a distinctly blue flare.
Not expecting how quickly the quirk-enhanced fire eats through the cigarette, Hawks immediately starts coughing from the rush of smoke, making Dabi laugh in a way that feels almost genuine. All Hawks can do is glare up at him as he curls forward, petulant and a little embarrassed as he continues to cough like it’s his first cigarette all over again.
Dabi gives him a sideways glance. Flicks his lighter open then closed. Smirks.
Hawks rolls his eyes, realizing he’s finally gotten his stupid answer.
When he manages to get his coughing fit under control, he sits up and nearly jumps out of his skin when his back bumps into an arm that definitely wasn’t propped there before. And, oh god, every time one of them shifts now it sends a shiver up the sensitive feathers scattered across his back, even through the layers of clothing between them.
Somehow they always end up here. Both either too proud or too chicken-shit to be the one to take that final step into enemy territory.
He wants to sink into the heat of his body and never come out. To forget the fate he’s so cruelly thrust upon them, if only for a moment. But an act so self-serving would be unbefitting of the Number Two Hero, so he flips up his collar against the cold and takes a (much more manageable this time) drag instead.
It’s a terrible idea. They both know it.
Yet, the want lingers—buzzing under Hawks’ skin like he’s struck a power line while flying.
Or maybe that’s just the nicotine.
It has been awhile.
A gust of wind buffets them, effortlessly sweeping away the haze of smoke and any sense of safety it brought with it. Hawks shivers despite his layers, limbs growing stiff and restless. He’s never done well with sitting still, least of all in the cold. Which is what he decides to blame as he unfurls one of his wings to cradle the warm air surrounding the arsonist lounging next to him.
Dabi’s free hand rests on his black-clad knee, cigarette hanging limply between his fingers. He takes an even breath but doesn’t move to lift it back to his lips and finally there’s a spark of understanding in Hawks’ chest.
It’s a crutch. A defense mechanism. A bid for control. All of it.
It’s too late for that now, though. The clock runs out in less than twenty-four hours and Hawks is already mourning every lost chance he might have had to get to know the real Dabi. Or whatever version of him is hiding behind bored looks and tattered black coats, anyway.
Does he have siblings? Were his parents ever around? What’s his favorite food?
Did he ever want to be a hero when he grew up?
Did he think he would even make it this far?
Does he ever feel small and alone?
Hawks stares at the dwindling cigarette between his fingers, watching the smoke rise and curl until there’s nothing left but the filter. Flicking the butt over the edge of the roof, he tracks its progress until it disappears into the incomprehensible smudge of fluorescent lights far below their dangling feet.
The pack is offered to him again.
He denies it with a short shake of his head.
Dabi watches him for a moment and Hawks lets him, wishing he knew what it is he’s hoping to find. Eventually, he concedes, slipping it back into his inner coat pocket with a strange sort of smile that Hawks doesn’t have a hope of understanding. It’s the first time Hawks can remember Dabi stopping at just two and something about this observation makes his stomach swoop.
Taking a breath that catches on the way in, he lets himself be selfish just this once and leans into the press of Dabi’s arm. As if on instinct, his wing moves to follow, wrapping more tightly around Dabi until his feathers brush against leather so worn out that it’s become soft.
Dabi takes a measured breath and then the air between them grows steadily warmer, soothing the restless buzz in his feathers to a dull hum.
It feels almost too intimate the way Hawks is able to track how the heat begins in Dabi's stomach before spreading through the rest of his body. He can't help wondering if this is how his quirk always functions regardless of where he manifests it. If this is why he's never seen him shiver despite the frigid night air.
A phone vibrates but neither goes to check if it's theirs.
Hawks' heart thuds embarrassingly in his chest and he counts his blessings that he's the one with a vibration sensing quirk. Knowing Dabi, he would've already been teasing him for it by now, all smug and sultry.
Granted, Dabi tends to act that way around him regardless.
Which could mean anything.
Hawks risks a glance at Dabi and, fuck, he doesn't know who he's still trying to kid. Dabi instantly catches him but only because he was already looking over, expression curious before it darkens into something that makes Hawks imagine things he shouldn't. Crave things he shouldn't. Things he doesn't deserve.
A warm thigh presses against his and then Dabi smirks a little, eyes playful and goading. Expectant.
It's Hawks' move again in their little game of shogi. Will he match him? Take a risk and claim a piece? Usually, he finds playing too boring to be worth it unless his opponent is fun enough to dissect.
Hawks presses back.
Dabi's had his attention since the beginning. Even as Hawks left their interactions with more questions than answers, even as Dabi started to haunt not just his waking hours, he kept coming back. Kept ruining whatever semblance of a sleep schedule he had to meet with him. Kept trying to pick him apart.
He's never had an opponent dissect him back and succeed.
What does Dabi see when he looks at him? An enemy? A liar? Someone to toy with? What makes his mouth curve into that pleased little knowing smile?
As moth to flame, Hawks stops fighting his instincts and dares to lean closer, one more lapse in judgement away from upending the game board entirely.
Dabi lets him, seeming to relish in the new proximity for a moment before lifting a hand towards him.
Hawks barely contains a flinch when he unexpectedly goes for his visor, pausing just long enough to be stopped before slowly, delicately lifting it away. It takes a moment for Hawks' eyes to adjust to the cool tones of the late night and he tries not to shrink away from Dabi's unfiltered attention in the meantime.
The first thing he notices is that Dabi's eyes are startlingly more vibrant. Beautiful, his head softly insists and he doesn't have it in himself to argue.
The second is that Dabi still hasn't stopped staring, his breaths noticeably more shallow as he seems to get lost in whatever it is he sees. When he manages to shake himself loose, it's to click each side of the visor closed before safely depositing it in a fur-lined jacket pocket.
Considering him in return, Hawks can't help a slight twinge of irritation that Dabi doesn't have something equivalent for him to remove unless he's a lot more forward.
Dabi's mouth twitches at the corner.
Hawks wants to kiss that stupid mouth until it bruises.
It doesn't help that the way Dabi's looking at him makes him feel like even more of a coward than he already does.
Not that it isn't true.
He's never been the one to call a meeting between them and is only acting selfishly now that his primary mission is done and he has nothing left to lose. Though, he guesses there's always the possibility that Dabi fucks off and tells the rest of the PLF. Then all that work to secure the heroes a better chance at victory will have been for nothing.
There's no reason he should expect Dabi not to take the knife being handed to him and happily jab it right back into his feathered back. It's the least he deserves for the months of dishonesty and attempted manipulation, even if it was always mutual.
There's still time to run away from this. To stop before either of them gets hurt. But maybe that's what Hawks wants. Maybe that's what they both want. Maybe that's why Dabi came at all. To make any of this feel real—even just for a moment—so that when it comes time for his betrayal they'll feel something beyond numb acceptance.
It's his move. It has to be him. He's already given Dabi the truth as an offering but of course he demands more. He knows Dabi won't settle for anything less than Japan's Golden Boy sinking to his level and admitting he wants this.
But doesn't he understand? There isn't any further for Hawks to sink. He's no hero. His golden pedestal is nothing but a gilded cage. At least Dabi has the decency not to lie about the blood that stains his hands.
One night of selfish indulgence before they face the music of tomorrow. He doesn't deserve it, they both know it. Maybe that's why he moves to take off his own gloves, heart hammering in his throat as he carefully tucks them away in his other pocket.
He doesn't know when the last time someone other than a Commission doctor has seen him without them.
The cold air wastes no time biting at his fingertips but he doesn't let them furl, even as Dabi's gaze drops to consider his bared flesh. A pinch of confusion crosses over his face. Then, he grabs Hawks' wrist so suddenly that it startles his talons out of hiding and nearly into the scarred skin of his forearm.
Shame rushes to Hawks' cheeks and he can barely stand to watch as Dabi realizes what he's looking at. But then he grins, sharp and pleased and vindicated, and Hawks can't hold himself back any longer.
So he turns his back on his city, knees meeting concrete on either side of Dabi's thighs where they belong. He leans in but catches himself with a hand to Dabi's chest. One last chance to back out and pretend none of this happened. That none of this ever meant anything.
"Tell me to stop," Hawks pleads against parted lips.
Hot fingers grasp his lower back then dig into feathers and he doesn't bother trying to hide the desperate noise he makes. One spark and Dabi could send him plummeting back down to the unforgiving earth. The thought is terrifying and alluring, making his head spin wildly.
"Stop pretending," Dabi demands, rough and breathless.
Hawks kisses him—wings curling protectively around them—and the rest of the world falls into obscurity. Fisting a hand in black hair, he presses even closer, coaxing Dabi's mouth open against his until he lets out a throaty gasp that pitches into a low moan.
Hands push and pull at fabric like they can't decide where to begin. Dabi kisses him back like he wishes they could devour each other—like maybe Hawks isn't the only one who wants to punish himself—and who is he to deny him?
Every breath, every noise, every brush of skin, Hawks wants them carved into him deep enough to scar.
Pulling a breath away, Hawks jerks Dabi's head back so that his neck is bared to him. The way the air catches in his lungs in response makes Hawks' blood rush, face flushing hotly as he mouths along his neck then sinks his teeth into the curve of his shoulder.
Dabi jolts then lets out a needy noise that no amount of shameful fantasizing in the shower could've ever done justice. His hands are almost painfully hot now as he twists one in Hawks' hair, firm and commanding.
Hawks bites harder and is rewarded with another choked moan that he shamelessly returns. Dabi drags their hips together into a slow roll and all Hawks can think is that they could've been doing this from the beginning.
No games. No manipulation. No hiding. Just the bruising grip of hands, the heat of bottled up desire, the need for more, more, more.
When their bodies are warm and sated, backs and knees aching and hands scraped bloody from the concrete, they lie next to each other in silence. Watching the sky above them, they share Dabi's last cigarette as inky black bleeds to peaceful blue.
Hawks gets a call.
He takes one last drag then pushes himself up to standing before he can convince himself that he should stay up here forever. Throat tight, he reaches back to hand the cigarette to Dabi who finishes it off and then lies back, arms crossed behind his head as he slowly lets the smoke drift from his mouth.
Dabi flicks the butt over the edge of the roof.
Hawks almost smiles.
Gloves and visor now fixed back in place, Hawks hops up onto the ledge, feathers shifting in preparation for flight. Only now does he realize one is missing, pinched between warm fingers only a few feet away from him.
There's a harsh gust of wind and then the vibration of words against sensitive barbs, spoken so lowly he's not sure he would've heard them otherwise.
"See you around."
One final twist of the knife before Dabi ignites the feather, shooting a brief lance of pain through the back of Hawks' awareness.
Fire always was his only weakness.
Glancing back, Hawks gives him a two-fingered salute, "See you around." then leaps from the rooftop, letting his wings carry him towards his penance.