Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In his dreams, the heat came first.

            Not the pain, not the terror, but the all-consuming, inescapable heat of the flames.

            Keigo still felt them scorching his body, burning his feathers one by one, stripping the skin of this back layer by layer until every nerve had been laid bare. He hadn’t been able to move with Dabi keeping his down, the ghost of his foot still pressed against Keigo’s temple, and the realisation had settled in that nothing in his power would’ve been able to keep death at bay.

            The heat came first; the agony was a damned close second.  

            ‘Hawks. Hawks.’

            Keigo sighed, opening one eye, then the other, the sheen of sweat left by his nightmares discarded as he pushed the memories aside. Fear didn’t fit his image, as he’d been told often, and speaking of the incident had, at best, been discouraged. As far as the Hero Public Safety Commission was concerned, he’d just gotten injured on a mission. He should just get over it.

            He had absolutely no fucking idea how.

            ‘Ah, you’re awake.’ A woman in a black suit he didn’t recognise stood beside his bed, a clipboard held firmly in her hands. She scribbled something on it after looking at the screens next to Keigo’s bed, the soft beeping of his heart monitor filling the silence.

            Keigo opened his mouth, then realised he’d been advised to rest his throat as much as possible. Dabi—Touya—had done significant damage when burning him and, along with the smoke inhalation, had damn near fried his vocal cords. It’d been a pain to adhere to the medic’s advice, but he supposed it was best to listen for a change if he wished to recover fully.

            He sighed, glancing around until his eyes landed on the voice box he’d tossed onto the mattress and typed a quick message that was repeated by a robotic voice. ‘What time is it?’

            The woman pointed at the clock above the door. ‘Nearly seven. You’ll be picked up in half an hour. I’m just noting down your current vitals for your records and will send them to the HPSC in a minute. Your next check-ups will be done daily in-house by our own medics to ensure Fierce Wings are recovering according to our estimates.’

            Ah, yes, His wings. As long as that asset remained intact, he was still of use, despite his failure at the raid and the loss of image he’d suffered by killing Twice. Difficult to sweep under the rug but not impossible if it meant the HPSC remained in control of their weapon. Besides, the kid from UA had managed to defeat Shigaraki, and he and all the other members of the League of Villains, Dabi included, were being processed and sent to Tartarus.

            It was over, no thanks to Keigo, but over nonetheless. Perhaps the HPSC would consider that enough of a victory to allow him a week or so to gather his bearings after all of this—maybe this time, he’d be lucky enough to get two weeks.

            A sarcastic huff of breath escaped him, soft enough to avoid the woman’s notice. As if.

            Keigo swallowed, wincing as it strained his throat, and gingerly sat up in bed. In his direct line of sight was a mirror, a large thing that’d been the bane of his existence ever since he’d been placed in this room for observation. It showed him as he was in his current state: weak. Fragile. Too easy a target, and not at all befitting the title of number two hero.

            His fingers danced over the voice box again. ‘Who will pick me up?’

            The woman didn’t even look in his direction as she said, ‘Someone from your agency. They’ll drive you directly to the HPSC, where a room has been prepared. A physical therapist will see you later today to start with your recovery plan—you should be properly on your feet within a few days and back to full strength within a fortnight.’ What could’ve been a reassuring statement sounded more like a threat coming from her, the or else a silent addition to the sentence.  

            Keigo merely nodded, typing, ‘And the League of Villains?’

            ‘What about them?’

            ‘Have they been locked away already?’ It’d been a week since the villa raid, but he’d been deprived of any social contact other than the doctors, his stay at the hospital one of solitude. There wasn’t even a TV in this room to keep him updated on the state of things, and he was fairly certain that the Comission was keeping information from him as part of his punishment for fucking up. Being as it was, Keigo was slowly losing his mind—even leaving here today was minor bliss compared to the tediousness of the previous days.

            The woman lifted her gaze, contemplative, then shrugged. ‘Not yet. Izuku Midoriya remains unconscious, and to restore the public image of heroes, he must be present once the villains' public sentencing is televised. A new symbol of peace—as opposed to the defamation of heroes caused by Endaevor and…well.’ Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged again.

            ‘It’ll happen soon, no doubt, but until then, the villains are kept at a secret holding facility. The less you know, the better. Can’t have any more secrets come to light.’

            Point taken.

            Keigo’s jaw clenched, but he nodded, placing the voice box back on the bed.

            The woman, clearly done with her notes, tucks the clipboard under her arm and points at a chair in the corner of the room. A small stack of fabric was placed atop it. ‘Get dressed before the car arrives. You’ll also find a respiratory mask in lieu of your cannula. Remember that it’s best not to talk at all.’ Again, the undertone of a threat, Madam President’s words seeping through. Tell anyone anything they’re not supposed to know, and you’ll regret it.

            He didn’t say anything as the woman left his room.

 Keigo fiddled with the respiratory mask, twisting the wires around and around his finger as he tried to get lost in the pop songs produced by the radio. The car, an unremarkable SUV, smelled like new leather, and the windows were tinted, so no one could venture a guess as to who was driving around in it.

            The person behind the wheel—Osada Yoshinori, an administrative worker from his agency—had merely nodded at him when he slipped out of the hospital through a backdoor. He’d not spoken a word since, though his knuckles had turned white from how tight he gripped the wheel, which said more than words could.

            Keigo should’ve never gone on that assignment, should’ve tried harder to convince the HPSC that it was an insane plan to infiltrate the League, but they wouldn’t listen. They’d claimed it was necessary to gather information about the Nomu’s. Necessary enough that they didn’t care if Keigo greyed his morals as long as he ensured that truth never saw the light of day.

            He’d fucked up on that part—the only one that counted, really.

            ‘How’s the agency?’ he asked, spinning the voice box between his thumb and index finger. A harmless enough question.

            Osada’s shoulders tensed, and without taking his eyes off the road, he said, ‘We’ll arrive at the HPSC soon, Hawks. You’ll learn everything needed to know there.’

            It took effort not to scoff. ‘How bad is it?’

            Briefly, their eyes met in the rearview mirror. Concern flickered in Osada’s, his lips thinning before he averted his gaze again. Again, no words were needed, and Keigo fought the urge to jump out of the car and get away from the scolding inching closer. He was by no means afraid of confrontation—hell, he likely opened his mouth more often than was wise, though one could argue that was part of his charm. But this was different. This was… personal.

            They had every means to ruin his life, as they were the ones who gave it to him.

            When he was younger, he’d learned soon enough that failure was a word to be erased from his vocabulary. When a skill was explained to him, he was expected to master it as soon as possible. Physics, computer science, toxicology, espionage, and drill after drill of quirk practice; no money or effort was spared to ensure he became the perfect agent.

            Perhaps for the first year he spent at the HPSC, he’d been granted a fraction of lenience due to his age, but as soon as he’d turned seven, his flaws were smoothed over with a hard hand, his refusal to participate in certain practices snuffed out—no matter the means. They couldn’t waste his potential, they’d said. He’d learn to obey, they’d said. He shouldn’t be afraid; it didn’t fit the image of the hero he was to become.

            Keigo had once thought that being recruited by the HPSC would mean he’d finally be free of the life of oppression he’d lived under the strict rule of his father, but all it had done was expand the size of his cage. And if even someone with wings couldn’t find freedom, he figured it had to be an illusion.

            The car turned into the driveway of the rural location of the HPSC, a few miles outside of Musutafu. Once they entered the garage, Osada turned off the engine and got out to open the door.

            ‘Good luck,’ he whispered under his breath as Keigo stepped past him.  

            Reassuring indeed.

            Keigo stuffed his hands into his pockets, fingers curling around the voice box like it could be of any help in the meeting to come, and began walking towards Madam President’s office.

            Best to get this over with, then.

Chapter Text

The office was cold, its interior as unfeeling as the woman sitting at the head of the long conference table. Underneath Keigo’s boots, the floor was a cool, white marble, hard and unforgiving. The walls were plain and undecorated, safe for a large TV screen, and the scant furniture in the room was grey and static.  

            Other high-ranking members of the HPSC lined the sides of the table, their gazes filled with disdain as they beheld his entrance. The fact that they’d all been awaiting his arrival told him enough of the nature of today’s meeting. He’d stood here, on the other side of the table, more times than he could count, but not once had the tension been this taut—and that was saying something.

            He folded his hands behind his back, the voice box clutched tightly in his fingers as he dipped into a bow. ‘Madam President.’

            ‘Hawks. Take a seat.’

            He eyed the high-backed, stiff chair in front of him, his back throbbing at the mere thought of sitting down. His lips curled into a lazy grin. ‘I would rather stand if it is all the same. My back is killing me.´

            The joke fell flat, as expected.

            Under Madam President’s unfaltering stare, he pulled the chair back and sat on its edge, hands resting idly on the table. It took effort to keep his shoulders relaxed, his grin intact. His hero persona had been drilled into him—the charismatic hero, friend to all—but it became difficult to maintain when he sat before those who taught him how to behave.

            ‘So,’ Madam President said, shifting her attention to the large screen on the wall. It blinked to life, revealing an image still from the video Dabi had broadcast throughout Japan. It showed Twice, bleeding on the ground, and Keigo, gripping his feather blade tightly as it pierced the villain’s back.

            Keigo swallowed, suddenly glad for the respiratory mask covering half his face.

            ‘His quirk posed a threat to Japan,’ he typed. ‘I attempted other ways to eliminate it but was left with no choice but to neutralise him.’

            ‘As was expected of you.’ The words held no praise, and the image changed, his own, charred body now visible as Dabi stood over him, grinning wildly as blue flames erupted from his hands. Keigo stifled a flinch, and Madam President said, ‘Your carelessness allowed Dabi to gain the upper hand. You let yourself be defeated, allowing him to turn your failure into his victory. You let us down, Hawks. You let the entire Commission down.’

            Twist the knife a bit harder; why don’t you, Keigo thought, but typed, ‘I am beyond grateful that Endaevor managed to overpower the villain Dabi after I failed to succeed at my given task. I have a long way to go before I reach strength and composure befitting a number one hero.’

            ‘You are the number two; the difference shouldn’t be this vast.’

            He bent his head, looking down at his hands. ‘You are correct, Madam President. I can only blame myself for this failure.’

            ‘Then we are on the same page.’ Madam President changed the image on the screen a last time, switching to a live feed that showed Dabi and the other villains, all in respective cells. Some were pacing in front of the bars, some sat in the corner, knees tucked to their chest, but not him. Dabi lay sprawled on his cot, one arm tucked underneath his head, a leg dangling over the edge. And his eyes—piercing blue—were aimed directly at the camera as if he knew someone was watching.

            As if he could see Keigo on the other side.

            Keigo realised he’d started trembling and quickly took his hands off the table before anyone saw. Fuck, his body did not care to listen to him today. The anxiety, the shaking hands, the lack of composure... He wished he could write it off as a result of his injuries, but part of him knew that the cause likely lay deeper and was, in all ways, connected to the villain staring at him from the large screen.

            To distract himself, he typed, ‘It is good to see them locked up. I heard they will be prosecuted soon; is it safe to keep them in cages this close to each other?’

            ‘Not your concern.’ Madam President gestured at someone behind Keigo, and when he turned, his heart sunk into his stomach.

            Teruo Koda, who had overseen his training throughout childhood and adolescence, stood in the door opening. He was a heteromorph, not unlike Keigo, though his features were that of an eagle. He had talons for hands, large, black wings that were neatly folded at his back, and a thick coat of feathers covering the entirety of his upper body, safe for his face. His hair, cropped short, was white as snow.

            He was also, by all accounts, the most menacing asshole Keigo had ever met.

            ‘Koda will oversee your recovery and training these following weeks. Your agency is running smoothly under our supervision; no need to concern yourself with it. Endeavor will gather a press conference the day after tomorrow to ease the media and another in a week at which you will be present, too. Koda will ensure you have your story straight by then—and can answer the media with your own voice. Until then, there’s no need for you to speak.’

            She nodded at Teruo, who stepped closer and pried the voice box from Keigo’s fingers. Reluctantly, he let go, though it felt like he was willingly allowing them to gag him. He flattened his hands on the table to shake off the odd sensation, but it helped little.

            ‘You are excused,’ Madam President said, waving him off.

            Keigo felt the weight of Teruo’s hand settle on his shoulder, tension locking up his back instantly, but he rose to his feet regardless. Without a voice, he could only offer a departing bow to Madam President and the rest of the Commission, his eyes trailing to the TV unbidden.

            Dabi still stared back, and it looked as if his grin only grew wider under the weight of Keigo’s attention. Fuck.

            Keigo turned away and allowed himself to be led out of the office and down the hall. Teruo was a good head taller than him, the bulk of his body pure muscle. Allegedly, he’d first been considered for Keigo’s current position, but he lacked the speed, the finesse and, frankly, the looks to pull it off, so he’d opted to train new recruits instead.

            Keigo was convinced that the rejection still stung, even after all these years, evident in the harrowing way the trainings were conducted. Either that, or the man was simply a sadist, but obviously, the HPSC wouldn’t allow such a person to be in their midst. It did not fit their image at all.

            For fuck’s sake, he missed speaking out loud. Sarcasm wasn’t nearly as satisfying if no one could hear it.

            Teruo guided him down the stairs into the basement. Cool fluorescent lighting lit up the hallway down here, the temperature dropping a few degrees as soon as they were below ground. Keigo folded his arms over each other, ignoring the chill running down his spine.

            He was no idiot. He might act like one at times, might favour jokes over serious conversations, but he knew damned well what he was walking into. Fact was, there was no escaping it. Sure, he could turn around, sprint away and hope for the best, but the Commission would find a way to turn the story in their favour and ruin what was left of his reputation, or worse: they’d hunt him down and assassinate him unbeknownst to the public. It had happened before; it would happen again.

            No, for now, compliance was in his best interest, at least until he was fully healed.

            But as he stepped into the room Teruo opened, hearing the lock click in place behind him, he knew in his bones that a swift assassination would likely sound like mercy before week's end.  

Chapter Text

Dabi did not care for prison.

            Granted, no sane person would, but it wasn’t even the confined space that threw him, though it wasn’t particularly pleasant. The holding facility was old, damp, and remote as fuck. He’d gotten a brief glimpse at their surroundings when they were guided from the van into this cellar, but all there was to see were trees and vegetation, the air filled with the incessant early-morning chatter from birds outside his line of sight.

            The cell, a cramped space that seemed haphazardly put together, wasn’t winning awards, either. A wooden bench had been thrown against a wall to serve as a bed, a tray of food shoved inside a few times a day, and a bucket was placed in the corner for other necessities—the bare minimum, though he’d survived worse conditions.

            No, more bothersome was the boredom, the tedious drag of each day he spent here. He had no way of communicating with the League through the closed door, safe for a few glimpses when they delivered the food and no other ways to entertain himself.

            So when he wasn’t sleeping, he spent his time either throwing a stray rock in the air, mindlessly catching it, or staring through the security camera’s lens, wondering who was on the other side. Perhaps Endaevor, watching the disappointment of a son he thought he’d gotten rid of years ago. Or the bird, who’d thought he could outsmart them with flashy smiles and cocky arrogance, the number two hero.

            Dabi fucking hated birds.

            He sighed, his cracked nails scraping the floor below his cot. Temporary—this setback was temporary. It had to be. Sure, most of them were incarcerated, but there had never been a prison strong enough to keep Tomura locked in. Too many people stood in his corner, for whatever reason, and Dabi figured he’d been useful enough to the villain to be included if a prison escape was set in motion.

            Sounds emerged from the hallway—muffled voices, of which one sounded oddly static. Dabi rose from his cot, walking closer to the sound and going as far as to lean his head against the metal door. The separate sounds were easier to discern now. Some guards talked to each other, with a broadcast playing in the background. A perky news anchor announced the beginning of a press conference regarding the raids, with an additional segment about the news that’d come to light about Endeavor and Hawks.

            Dabi grinned despite himself. Finally, something interesting to listen to.

            ‘Endeavor, can you address the claims made by the alleged Touya Todoroki?’ a journalist inquired matter-of-factly.

            Then, the voice of his father—stern. Unfazed. ‘The villain Dabi set out to destroy the image of two top-ranked heroes with libel and slander. I indeed had a son, Touya, but he died a long time ago. We laid his body to rest and mourned his loss as a family. For this villain, who happens to have a flame quirk, to take his name and use it against us in this vulnerable time, is not something I take lightly. I’ll gladly see him face justice at Tartarus once his prosecution is finalised.’

            ‘Liar,’ Dabi hissed, his fist banging once against the metal door before he thought better of it, though the guards outside seemed too fixated on the broadcast themselves to be bothered by the disruption. Didn’t you see him during the raid? He wished to shout. Didn’t you see his defeat when he discovered his failure was still alive, haunting him? The remarks would land on deaf ears, but rage, fiery and burning, coiled in his chest, begging to explode.

            Dabi blew a tight breath, easing the turmoil, and pricked his ears again.

            ‘You mentioned another top-ranked hero—are you referring to the video of the number two hero, Hawks, killing the villain Twice?’ the journalist pried.

            ‘The villain Twice was of an unstable mind. Hawks, who is currently recovering from the injuries he sustained while fighting Dabi, was unable to reason with him. To ensure the safety of everyone fighting that day, he had to choose to kill a villain to secure Japan for the masses.’

            The journalist, however, was tenacious. ‘My sources tell me that Hawks worked with the League of Villains, providing them intel and working against the hero society. Any comment?’

            ‘Hawks is a trained soldier from the HPSC and has assignments that can’t be publicly discussed to not jeopardise the safety of those involved. I can’t comment on the information from your source, though surely, the number two hero would be willing to enlighten his role in the past week’s events to the best of his abilities.’

            Dabi scoffed. A politically correct answer at best, disregarding the actions Hawks had done in the League’s service. Surely, it’d been greenlit by the Commission, but he was certain the public wouldn’t approve of the finer details, like delivering the lifeless body of Best Jeanist to their doorstep or assisting in recruiting villains for the League.

            Then again, the Commission had always been skilled at hiding secrets.

            The bird was alive, though. That was new information, and it was a surprise at that. After the way Dabi had scorched the Hawks’ back, damn near cooking him, he figured it was a matter of time before the hero would succumb to his injuries. Would’ve finished the job, too, had that sidekick of his not succeeded in dragging his limp body away.

            At the very least, it’d been a pleasant sight to see him reduced to a lifeless, charred husk of a man, but him surviving the ordeal hadn’t been planned. Hawk’s death would’ve been justice, as dear old dad phrased it, for killing Twice. Jin may have been a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but he’d been a good guy. Better than the rest of them, anyway. It’d even seemed like he and Hawks were becoming friends, the unwavering charisma and patience of the bird matching well with Twice’s delusions, not dissimilar to the way Jin and Himiko had been a fitting pair.

            A friend who had stabbed him in the back without mercy.

            No, Hawks’ survival and redemption weren’t justice, nor was Endeavor’s feeble attempt at restoring his precious ancestry.

            Heat built under Dabi’s skin, though the flames remained out, his quirk suppressed by the metal cuff around his wrist. Regardless of any plans Shigaraki might be brewing in his cell a few doors over, Dabi knew that he needed to right this wrong as soon as he was free. He’d dropped the bombs, manufactured the cracks that rippled through hero society as doubts started to form. Somehow, he needed to deal a final blow for it to truly crumble.

            Dabi strolled back to his cot, lying down on his back. His eyes trained on a spot on the ceiling, a black dot in the otherwise grey concrete slab, and he frowned. For the past week and a half, he’d been staring up. The spot hadn’t been there—that he was certain of. Had a bug died up there or something?

            But the spot became bigger when he blinked, inching wider by the second. As it grew, he noticed that the patch of black was edged in pink, its centre pulsating slightly. He blew out a surprised huff of air, though his body remained as still as possible to not alert anyone looking at him via the security camera.

            Yes, most of them had been captured at the raid, but there was one who hadn’t been present. Whose sole purpose in this life was to protect Tomura Shigaraki, and who’d slowly been gaining strength in his cell in Tartarus, waiting for a moment of distraction to make his escape and return to them.

            It seemed that moment had finally come.

            ‘Kurogiri,’ he drawled at the warp taking shape. ‘A sight for sore eyes.’ A shout resonated in the hallway as Dabi got to his feet, and he cocked his head at the fighting sounds that followed. ‘Brought friends?’

            ‘A few.’ Kurogiri materialised, dropping from the ceiling in a wave of darkness that blotted out the camera. ‘I paid a visit to Kyudai Garaki before arriving here. He discovered your location and had a few nomu’s to spare.’

            An agonised scream was cut short outside Dabi’s cell.

            ‘Effective,’ the flame-user mused, then extended his wrist with the cuff around it. ‘Did he happen to have a fix for this, too?’

            ‘At his facility.’ Kurogiri opened a portal before them, gesturing at it with an idle hand. ‘After you, Dabi. The rest should be there already as well.’

            No need to tell him twice.

            Dabi hopped through, emerging in a laboratory on the other end. The walls were lined with enormous, empty tubes, luminescent purple jelly still clinging to the glass walls. He counted four—a proper fight for the guards at the holding facility, depending on the strength of the nomus that’d been housed here. It’d be a moment before they realised the League had escaped their grasp—again.

            He turned, eyes passing over Spinner, Mr. Compress, Himiko, and Kurogiri as he searched for Tomura. The white-haired leader leaned against Garaki’s desk, idly scratching his neck while he kept his other hand up for the doctor, who was removing the cuff. He’d already discarded the shoddy prison clothes, his bony limbs now huddled in an oversized sweater and loose jeans.

            Dabi walked towards him, plopping down into the soft desk chair and snatching a granola bar from the table beside him. After days of prison food, he’d kill for something to properly trigger his tastebuds. He trained his gaze on Tomura as he pulled away the wrapper. ‘How’s the head, Shiggy?’

            ‘Fine.’ Tomura’s red eyes were distant, unfocused, as if he hadn’t quite left the confinements of his cell behind. During his capture, a kid from UA had gone hard on him, overpowering their leader with a seemingly unending stream of blows. The kid had eventually succumbed to the excessive use of force, but so had Shigaraki. After that, the tide of the fight had turned, and they’d been taken down one by one.

            All because one person had spilt the secret of their location.

            ‘Listen,’ Dabi started, placing his arm in the doctor’s hand when he gestured for it. ‘Perhaps it’s soon, with us just escaping imprisonment and all, but with most of Japan soon on our trail, I don’t plan on wasting time. I know who betrayed us—who threw a kink in the plan.’

            ‘The bird.’ Tomura always spoke without haste, his voice soft and rasping. Menacing as fuck, but it made him someone Dabi could admire. A person didn’t need to scream to be heard; they just had to say the right things, like Shigaraki did.

            Dabi rubbed his wrist when the cuff sprang free, puffs of smoke trailing from his fingertips as his quirk sparked to life. ‘You knew, then?’

            ‘I deducted. The bird was a loose thread, still partially tied to the Hero Commission. If anyone could betray us on this scale, it was him.’

            ‘I tried to take him out.’

            ‘And succeeded.’ Tomura gestured at one of the screens, where the press conference from before still continued. An image of Hawks, unconscious in a hospital bed with burns covering the better part of his body, was visible on a screen behind Endeavor as he spoke of the hero’s recovery.

            ‘He’s alive, though,’ Dabi said bitterly, unsure if he was speaking about the bird or his father.

            ‘For now—which works in our favour.’ At Dabi’s arched eyebrow, Tomura shrugged. ‘You were listening to the broadcast just now, too, weren’t you? Always focussed. Always plotting. Always ready for action. So I know you heard them shove this under the rug, telling lies to paint their chosen picture.’

            When Dabi nodded, he continued, ‘The crux of the lie is the Hero Commission. They hide behind a façade of protection, illusive with their secret assignments. Skeptic already tried to find a way into their servers, to collect the necessary blackmail, but lucked out so far. Still, if we want hero society as is to come apart, its safety net needs to be destroyed. Without a reasonable doubt, the HPSC needs to be viewed as corrupt. If a safety commission can’t even be trusted, why would citizens willingly place their trust in heroes?’

            ‘And how do you plan to do that if Skeptic can’t find his way in?’

            ‘By dragging the information straight from the source.’ His chapped lips curved into a smile. ‘You did your research regarding the bird, did you not? Found his former family, discovered his real name—Keigo Takami.’ Tomura stretched out the syllables, laughing softly as the name rolled off his tongue. ‘Little Takami, a child embraced by the Commission, raised in their image, trained to infiltrate and report back. Now, do you truly think that the bird did not gather information about the Commission every day of his miserable life?’

            Dabi found Shigaraki’s smile mirrored on his own face. ‘Which means he has all the answers we need to bring them down.’ Then, after a pause, ‘What do you need me to do?’

            ‘Always ready for action,’ Tomura repeated, nodding slowly, his gaze growing distant again. ‘I need you to cage the bird. Destroy what’s left of his resolve. And when he’s properly broken, when he’ll sing whichever way you please just to end it all, he’ll be immortalised as the hero who instigated the collapse of hero society as we know it.’

Chapter Text

The feather blade trembled in Keigo’s grasp. It was hanging on by a thread after the onslaught of flames, but it was better than the scraps that remained of his wings. Still, he wished he didn’t have to use it.

            Keigo frantically searched for words, for reasons, for anything he could do or say to get Twice to stand down. He didn’t want to do this. Never liked killing to begin with, though, at times, it was a necessary evil. But this? This felt like an assassination—like it’d make him a murderer rather than a protector. At which point did the line between self-defence and assault become too blurred to see the difference?

            ‘I can help you!’ he tried to shout, but no words came out when he opened his mouth. His trembling fingers reached for his face, bumping into a metal mask that he couldn’t seem to rip off. It blocked his voice. Silenced him.

            ‘You know what you have to do,’ said an unforgiving voice in his mind. ‘You know what your purpose is.’

            Even Keigo’s shout, equal parts frustration, anger, and regret, was muted as he leapt and buried his blade in Jin’s back, hitting his heart with expert precision.

            Death. His purpose was to be the hand of death.

            ‘You should not have done that, Pigeon,’ a rasping voice said behind him moments before scorching heat blocked out all his other senses.

            Keigo began to scream.

‘Wake up.’ Teruo kicked him with a taloned foot, the sharp nail splitting Keigo’s skin.

            He jerked, the dream roughly dissipating as he rose to consciousness, and clenched his jaw shut to stifle the pained sound that tried to escape. He didn’t remember falling asleep—wasn’t sure it’d been a conscious decision to begin with. Exhaustion was predominant during these sessions, given that there were no set times when the training ended or began. The only timeframe he’d been given was the press conference with Endeavor, though he hadn’t heard any of it since he’d entered this room.   

            It'd been three days, and the locked door had yet to open.

            His respiratory mask came off yesterday, more so because it’d broken than because he’d been ready to part with it. Still, water and technology proved a poor match, and the device had short-circuited before he could stop Teruo.

            Without it, Keigo’s breaths were laboured, his voice—when used—rasping and hoarse. He knew he probably shouldn’t speak, had quite literally been forbidden by Madam President, but it wasn’t in his nature to take days of beatings without saying a word. It was the Commission’s own doing, he supposed. They’d desired him to be charismatic; not his fault if it meant for them to deal with his wit.

            He cracked open his eyes to look at the eagle standing over him and smirked. ‘I wasn’t asleep, but I appreciate the wake-up call.’

            ‘Spin it any way you please, fledgling, but you were splattered unconscious on the ground like a chick dropped from its nest. Get. Up.’

            ‘Since you asked so nicely.’ With a groan, Keigo placed his hands flat on the floor, pushing himself into a sitting position. Everything hurt, though nothing was broken—yet. For now, it was just the deep bruising from meticulous hits, the cuts from knives he hadn’t been able to block, the sore muscles from a particularly nasty run-in with electricity, and the endless, endless shouts from Teruo eating away at his mind, increasing by the day as his body began to collapse under the strain.

            Keigo swallowed, his throat bone-dry. He hadn’t seen food since leaving the hospital, and Teruo only allowed him a few sips of water twice a day. To better prepare him, was the ruse. To ensure he wasn’t dependent on basic human needs and could maintain his focus despite the discomfort.

            He’d long ago stopped arguing against the flawed logic of that statement.

            When he didn’t move fast enough, Teruo’s fingers slid into Keigo’s hair, gripping a handful of blonde curls and yanking him to his feet. Keigo grunted, his neck craning painfully as he could only stand on the tips of his toes to relieve some of the weight. His wings, slowly regrowing, were tightly bandaged and provided no additional support either, so all he could do was lock eyes with the handler and await his next whim.

            Teruo smiled, a mirthless thing. ‘Getting your spirit back, are you? Do you think you’re worthy of cracking jokes again?’

            ‘I was told that judgment was up to you.’

            ‘Are you sure you wish to face my judgment?’

            Keigo shrugged. ‘I do believe that’s why we’re in here, no? Or were these past days your way of saying you wish more time together? Cause surely there are better—ow.’ He grunted when thrown back on the ground, sliding across the tiles until he hit the wall.

            Teruo was quick to follow, dragging him by his arm to a high-backed metal chair that faced a screen on the wall. Keigo knew not to fight it—knew inevitability when it stared him in the face. He’d tried to plead the first day, only to be laughed at, knocked unconscious and still restrained once he woke. The decision hadn’t been his—it had never been his throughout his life. All he could do was try to survive despite it all.

            He allowed himself to be thrown onto the hard seating, allowed his wrists and ankles to be secured in cuffs, his head strapped against the chairback with a leather band that made it impossible to look away from the screen.

            Still, he smirked. Still, he breathed a chuckle, loosening his shoulders. ‘Haven’t we gone over this by now? If asked, I’m sure I can repeat the show word for word.’

            His handler didn’t say anything; he just turned on the screen. It was the same recording—always the same. Keigo saw himself in that dark room in the villa, Jin on the floor, crying. His own voice, methodical, distant, resonated from the speakers as he told Twice to stand down.

            ‘I don’t want to fight you,’ he had said.

            ‘Wrong,’ Teruo whispered behind him, a wave of electricity following a second later.

            Keigo gripped the chair’s armrests, knuckles turning white, his jaw clenched firmly shut to stifle unruly sounds trying to escape his lips.

            ‘You fight when you have to,’ his handler said, voice cutting through the pain. ‘It’s not about what you want; it’s about what’s necessary. Personal grievances have no place on the battlefield, soldier.’

            Keigo grunted but managed to nod despite the electric currents locking up his muscles. He’d done this before. Had survived it before. Would survive it now. Breathe in, breathe out, persevere.

            As sudden as the electricity had started, it stopped, the video before him continuing. Dabi came into focus, a wave of blue flames lighting up the room, its heat a phantom sting on Keigo’s skin.

            ‘Avoidable,’ Teruo mused. ‘Had you been faster with eliminating Twice, you could’ve met the flame-wielder on your own terms. You purposefully allowed your position to be weakened because your heart bled for a villain. Sloppy. Inexcusable.’

            Keigo said nothing, eyes trained on the moving images, his mind turning in on itself as it weaved its way around the pain. Dissociate. Endure. Survive.

            His jaw clenched when Dabi shouted the name—Keigo Takami. A secret, well-hidden, only known by those who had been there when he was recruited to the Commission. A sacred part of himself that he kept shielded from the world since it was the last fragmented piece of his soul that solely belonged to him. It shouldn’t bother him this much that Dabi had said it, tarnished it, but it couldn’t be helped.

            Keigo’s breath hitched when Teruo’s broad hand snaked around his neck, putting pressure on it to the point of discomfort. Deliberately, he said, ‘Your name is Hawks.’

            ‘My name is Hawks,’ Keigo repeated, voice hoarse.

            ‘You serve the HPSC.’

            ‘My life is sworn to the Commission.’

            ‘You do not deviate from your mission.’

            He swallowed, the words bitter as he spoke them. ‘I know my purpose.’

            ‘You will allow the weaker parts of yourself to be eradicated.’

            ‘I will train until there are no more.’

            ‘And you will obey, regardless of the order.’

            Lightheaded, he could only nod, gasping for breath as the hand disappeared and the video before him continued. Dabi, pressing his foot against his face. Dabi, setting the room ablaze, blowing him from the side of the building. Twice, crawling outside, attempting to start Sad Man’s Parade. Keigo, blade raised high, killing him. And Dabi’s voice, filled with anger. With hurt. ‘You think you can call yourself a hero?’

            Keigo didn’t notice it at first.

            Underneath him, the chair grew warmer, almost imperceptible. He shifted, discomfort creeping closer, tried to lift his arms from the metal, his back arched in search of relief. But the bindings were too tight, and any leeway found was not enough to create meaningful distance between him and the chair.

            On the screen, Dabi’s flames burned a bright blue.

            In the room, sweat rolled down Keigo’s spine, a tremor sending shivers down his arms and legs. This was new. This hadn’t happened yesterday or the day before; a new approach at a persistent attempt to make him remember each and every one of his faults from that day.

            It became difficult to discern between what was happening on the screen and in the moment, his vision blurring between past and present as he watched his lifeless body be set ablaze by the flames.

            Unbidden, he whimpered.

            ‘Endure,’ Teruo ordered. The heat built faster now, scorching his arms, his back, the chair’s metal seeming to fuse with any bit of exposed skin it could find. Keigo pulled on the cuffs that bound him, the leather band around his head straining as his head jerked against the bindings.

            ‘Please—’ he rasped, tremors increasing.

            ‘Endure, soldier.’

            There was no escape, like there hadn’t been a way out then either. Fumikage wouldn’t rescue him—though, for that, Keigo was grateful. A child shouldn’t have to face things like this, even if no one had prevented him from the same fate. But there was only heat without the promise of death, which the Commission would not grant him. And agony. And the memories, shown before him over and over again.

            A blade sinking in a sad man’s back.

            A wave of blue flames wielded in vengeance.

            A scorched body of a man who wished he’d burned away to ash.

            Keigo lost track of time, wasn’t even sure whether he’d succeeded at keeping his screams contained, but eventually, the heat faded. His breaths came out ragged, his entire body soaked in sweat, his skin a bright red and marred with blisters.

            Teruo appeared in his line of sight, clicking his tongue. ‘We’ll have to work on that.’

            Desperately, Keigo wished to tell the man where he could shove it, a curse already on the tip of his tongue at the sight of his miserable, smug face. But with effort, he managed to rasp, ‘Can’t wait.’

            He wondered if anyone ever hated themselves more than he did at this moment.

            Teruo laughed, a bitter sound, and opened his mouth to make a remark, but a sharp knock on the door drew his attention away. Keigo couldn’t see who it was or even hear the gist of the soft-spoken conversation, but the door shut again as soon as it opened.

            His handler’s footsteps came closer again, a heavy hand landing on Keigo’s shoulder with enough pressure to make him flinch.

            ‘I didn’t think it was possible,’ Teruo drawled, ‘but you just turned into an even bigger disappointment.’

            Keigo didn’t respond, his mind hazy and unfocussed, unable to piece together what the fuck Teruo meant this time.

            Teruo sighed dramatically before pulling his fist back and driving it into Keigo’s stomach. The breath left his lungs with a shocked gasp. His body curled around the pain, arms straining against his bindings.

            The eagle leaned in, close enough to smell the stale coffee on his breath, and whispered, ‘You’ve got a new mission, soldier. The League of Villains escaped—your friend Dabi included. See if you can catch them properly this time.’

            Fuck.

Chapter Text

The streets were deserted, a steady stream of water clattering down on the pavement as two figures clad in black clothes made their way through the rain, on route to a cemetery on the outskirts of town. It was dark, well past midnight, but the moon illuminated the street despite the thick clouds blotting out most of the stars. And even without it, the taller of the two figures kept a small flame burning in the palm of his hand, lighting the way.  

            ‘You sure this is safe, Dabs?’ Himiko shivered in her coat, the hood pulled far over her eyes to shield her face from the downpour. She hadn’t said a word since arrival, but seemed unable to bear the weight of the silence much longer.

            Dabi shrugged. ‘You wished to see him, right?’

            ‘I did, but—’

            ‘Then we go see him. Heroes don’t get to dictate whether we say goodbye to our fallen friends.’ He flipped the collar of his coat up and, after a moment of hesitation, took Himiko’s hand in his. She clutched it tightly, partially for warmth, he was sure, but also for comfort.

            The girl hadn’t been the same since Jin died. Himiko, whose chatter had been incessant at best before, had grown quiet. She’d clutched a faded pink handkerchief wherever she went, going through the motions out of instinct rather than desire, her ever-present energy reduced to a flickering spark.

            It’d bugged him. Dabi didn’t know why, didn’t care to understand his intention, but he’d known it wasn’t right. She was only sixteen, abandoned by everyone in her life, feared and banished for a quirk she never asked for. And Jin, the kind-hearted moron he was, had not cared one bit about her perceived flaws. He’d cared for her, loved her like a big brother; like a friend.

            It wasn’t right that she lost him like this.

            So, in the midst of planning their next attack, Dabi had decided enough was enough. Himiko needed closure, a hand reached out to help her take the first step to move on. He could give her as much.

            ‘How do you even know where they buried him?’ she asked, sidestepping puddles and brushing up against him while she did.

            ‘Asked Skeptic.’

            ‘Ah.’ She hummed softly. ‘And they just... left him there? By himself?’

            ‘Dead people don’t need guards.’ When her shoulders curved in, Dabi sighed, cursing himself internally. ‘That’s not what I... I just meant, it’ll be safe for us to go. The heroes won’t be watching, and even if they do, Kurogiri has a warp gate at the ready, and the others are on standby. But it’s late. It’s raining. People don’t usually visit unmarked graves of fallen villains. It’ll be fine.’

            ‘Okay.’ Her voice was soft, timid.

            Dabi’s jaw clenched. ‘You don’t have to go, Himiko. It’s not... You could’ve said no. I just figured this might... help. Somehow. I don’t fucking know.’

            She squeezed his hand, her bright, yellow eyes looking up at him. ‘Thanks, Dabs.’

            ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He pointed at a gate at the end of the street. ‘It’s there. Want me to come with?’

            ‘That’s alright. But you can—I mean, if you want, you don’t have to, you can... like... stand nearby. If you want.’ Himiko flashed him a wobbly grin, her elongated canines flashing in the moonlight, and unwrapped her hand from his before beelining into the cemetery.

            Dabi followed a few steps behind her, fishing a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and lighting it with a flame of his own making. When Himiko found the grave, he took up watch in a somewhat dry spot underneath a large tree, taking a long drag.

            Tomura had laughed at him when he suggested taking Himiko here. Not because he thought it was a stupid idea—the leader was oddly empathic despite his outlook on life, and had agreed that it would do Himiko good to find some closure.

            No, he’d laughed because it was Dabi suggesting it.

            ‘Will you attend magic shows from Compress next?’ he had asked, the grin setting his red eyes ablaze. ‘You wish to appear distant and uncaring, Touya, but your feelings are showing.’  

            Yeah, well, what the fuck did it matter if they did. It wasn’t like he had anyone else in his life to give a damn about, and while he was still perfectly capable of living without the League, it was a solid arrangement. Shelter, food, people to watch the occasional TV show with, who didn’t seem to mind his disposition.

            The face of a blonde, golden-eyed man flashed through his mind, and his jaw tightened.

            The arrival of the bird certainly had changed things. He’d wished to come too close too fast, but Dabi hadn’t trusted it for a moment. It wasn’t even that persona of his he clung to, with the bright smiles and sharp wit, because anyone with eyes could see it was little more than a façade.

            No, it’d been the little things. Inquiring too much about their plans. Lingering during meetings he shouldn’t be a part of. Feathers, discarded in places where they shouldn’t have been. It wasn’t the behaviour of someone attempting to win their trust, so in turn, Dabi investigated the bird.

            Keigo Takami. Child of a villain. Recruited at the age of six by the HPSC. Sent out on missions since he was twelve, owner of an agency at eighteen, and top ten pro hero when he reached his twenties. Poster boy for the Safety Commission and darling of the public, scoring number one in approval ratings.

            A fitting disguise for a damned child soldier.

            Dabi blew out a puff of smoke, watching it dissipate in the air before him. A little further away, Himiko talked quietly at Jin’s grave, the handkerchief placed atop the headstone. She was smiling, hands moving in all directions while she told her story, more animated than she’d been in weeks. It’d seemed like the plan was working, then.

            He pulled his phone from his pocket to pass time, scrolling mindlessly until he landed on an article about the press conference that had happened last weekend. It’d been the first public outing of Hawks since the raid, his skin still blistered from the burns, his eyes more hollow than usual. He’d lost weight during his recovery, his body all bones and sharp angles, but the grin was there. Always that damned grin.

            The bird had given a similar story about Twice as Endeavor—that it’d been the only way. That he was sorry the public had been exposed to this side of him. That he couldn’t give details about his mission, but that all he did was in service of the HPSC.

            Bullshit. But the public ate it up.

            If it’d been up to Dabi, they’d have caught the bird then and there, storming the press conference, killing whoever got in their way, potentially even eliminating Endeavor while they were at it. But Tomura had decided against it, stating they needed more time. A secure location. A solid escape plan without all of hero society coming after them. And while that all sounded logical, Dabi wasn’t a patient man.

            He took another drag from the cigarette, the bud burning bright red in the shadows of the cemetery. Soon, though. Shigaraki had called in some favours and set up a new hideout from which the League would operate, and now it was just a matter of waiting for the right opportunity to present itself.

            Soon. But it couldn’t come soon enough.

            Himiko pressed herself up from the ground, dusting off her knees and skipping towards him. She smiled, more honestly already, and asked, ‘Is it okay if we visit again sometime?’

            ‘Sure. You done?’

            ‘For now.’ She looked over her shoulder, where the handkerchief had been secured on top of the gravestone with some heavy rocks. ‘It’s not unmarked anymore. It’s his. People can see someone cared for him, see that it’s his, and perhaps now, they will mourn him too.’

            ‘Perhaps.’ Dabi opened the chat with Kurogiri, typing a short message with their location and request to pick them up. Then he looked back at the girl, who was still smiling at him. ‘What?’

            ‘You can be really nice, you know?’

            He rolled his eyes. ‘Your standards for nice behaviour are too low.’

            ‘Hm. No, I don’t think so.’ She shook her head fervently, her smile only growing. ‘But that’s okay. I’m just happy that you brought me here tonight. Thanks again, Dabs. It means a lot.’ She hesitated momentarily, then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist.

            ‘Jin was your friend too,’ she murmured against his jacket.

            Stiffly, Dabi pressed the hand with the phone against her back, flicking the burnt cigarette out of reach. ‘He was.’

            ‘Will you avenge him? You want to, right?’

            Dabi didn’t answer immediately. His reasons for going after the bird seemed more... complex. Multilayered. For him, Twice was part of the motivation, but for her, Jin was the sole contributor to the rage he started to notice, carefully hidden behind a thick layer of grief. Who was he to look at the complete picture?

            ‘I’ll try,’ he said, eying the portal opening a few paces away from them. ‘I’ll definitely try.’ Right now, that was all she needed to hear. Her friend would not die in vain.

            And Dabi would get his own vengeance.  

Chapter Text

It had been raining for days now. Thick droplets crashed from the sky, combined with brutal winds that made flying an absolute nightmare, though it hadn’t stopped Keigo from taking to the skies. After a week locked up underground without seeing so much as a hint of daylight, he needed to feel the open air around him, the movement of his wings—which, thankfully, had fully regrown.

            Up here was the only place no one could follow him; where he could breathe.

            He aimed for the skyscraper in the centre of Musutafu, its roof adorned with a helicopter pad that had proved a solid vantage point in the past. A quick glance at his watch told him he was running late, but he figured Shouta wouldn’t mind. And if he did, well, Keigo had brought snacks—surely, that would cheer him up.

            He accelerated with a few strong flaps of his wings, tilting his body once he came within range to brace for impact. Already, his feathers had located the eraser hero near the platform’s edge. From the muttered string of curses he picked up and something colourful about cooked chicken, he deduced Shouta was about as thrilled about sitting out this patrol in the rain as Keigo was.

            With a soft splash of his boots in a puddle, Keigo landed, running the first few steps from residual speed before he slowed to a leisurely walk, making his way over to Shouta.

            ‘I’m here, I’m here—I got held up,’ he said, tossing a bag of sweets in the hero’s general direction. ‘Got those for you, though. There’s some Taiyaki in there as well.’

            ‘How is it that you’re one of the fastest heroes out there, yet somehow, you are never on time?’ Shouta grumbled, ripping open the bag only for his face to drop. ‘This is all... soaked. You flew around with a paper bag in the rain, genius. Did you really make me wait for this?’

            ‘Is it? Ah, shit.’ Keigo glanced inside the bag, frowning. ‘Smelled great when I flew past, though. The vendor even tossed a few extra in because I took a picture with him. Bummer.’

            ‘Hawks.’

            ‘Relax, okay? I scouted the city on my way here—still have some feathers doing the rounds. The rain has the streets abandoned, and most villains of the League seem like they haven’t taken a shower in years, so surely they have an aversion to water. This wouldn’t be the moment they’d pick to attack. Too little flair for their taste.’

            Keigo grinned, though he never once stopped listening to the sounds carried over by his feathers. A woman, calling for her cat to come inside. A girl, jumping from puddle to puddle with a joyous giggle. A man, cursing his umbrella for breaking at a time like this. Mundane things. Safe things. But he knew as well as anyone that it could change instantly.

            Two weeks had passed, and still there was no sight of them. Patrols had increased, security improved, every hero—pro or licensed—put to work in the hopes that another disaster like the Liberation War could be avoided, but so far, they’d been out of luck.

            Keigo knew it was only a matter of time. Endeavor still lived, hell, he still lived. Midoriya Izuku was alive, awake and all, training to oppose Shigaraki a second time if it came to it. The defamation Dabi had tried to cause hadn’t taken root, and while scared, the public still looked at the heroes for help. No permanent damage was done, and anyone in their right mind could deduce that the League wouldn’t be satisfied with this.

            Which meant there was a high likelihood he’d have to face Dabi sooner rather than later.

            A shiver ran down his spine, but he shrugged it off, arching an eyebrow at Shouta when he remained silent. ‘What’s with you? You seem extra grumpy today—an accomplishment, though not exactly a goal I’d want to chase if I were you.’

            Eraserhead eyed him, gaze sharp and unwavering. ‘You look like shit.’

            ‘Hello to you too. But yeah, can’t recommend being fried alive.’ Keigo shrugged, draping a relaxed arm over the railing as he looked at the city far below. ‘Doesn’t help either that it appeared to be for nothing. Here we stand again, looking for villains we locked up not two weeks ago. Guess it keeps us off the streets.’ He flashed Shouta a grin, but he didn’t reciprocate it.

            ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’ Aizawa sidled beside him, the binding scarf around his neck moving idly like a separate limb. Keigo had once joked it made the eraser hero look even more like a cat, with his gruff personality and the scarf acting like a tail that flicked when annoyed—something Shouta was more often than not.

            Now, however, the hero said gently, ‘I saw you in the hospital, shortly after. Visited you, even, before the Commission isolated you. You look worse now than you did then.’

            Keigo grasped his chest with a feigned gasp. ‘Way to kick a man when he’s down.’

            Shouta scoffed. ‘Fine. Don’t tell me.’

            Keigo stilled for a breath, a minor hesitation, but then said, ‘Don’t worry about it—I’ll be okay. I just... haven’t slept well. Lately.’ Not a lie, but far from the whole truth.

            Aizawa all but rolled his eyes. ‘Sure. Exhaustion. That must be it.’

            ‘A common affliction.’ Keigo gave him a pointed look. As usual, his friend looked like a walking corpse, his dark eyes half-lidded and tired, hidden behind unruly curls that framed his face. His patrols often happened at night, his preference to be a hero in the shadows shining through in practice. But since he also taught at UA during the day, it meant he rarely got a full night’s sleep, evident from the dark circles underneath his eyes. By now, they might as well be part of his hero costume.

            Shouta, however, didn’t take the bait. The intensity of his gaze was unyielding when he remarked, ‘Strange, how you’re always this tired after those in-house training sessions.’

            ‘They’re gruelling, what can I say?’

            ‘The truth would be appreciated.’ His scarf tightened a fraction. ‘I understand that you can’t. I understand the Commission has rules. But don’t ask me to ignore you looking like you got run over by a truck when you emerge from their facilities, the light in your eyes gone for days after. You can’t ask me that—I’ve known you for too long now. So cut the crap, Hawks.’  

            Keigo’s jaw clenched. ‘I’m fine.’

            ‘Then tell me what happened during the training.’

            ‘It’s not as special as you might think, okay?’ He blew out a tight breath. ‘The Commission just makes me revise my past missions and steers the training based on mistakes I made during. It helps me do better next time.’

            Sharply, Shouta asked, ‘Mistakes?’

            ‘Yeah. Like getting my emotions get the better of me. Like allowing Dabi to get the upper hand and nearly kill me. That kind of thing.’

            ‘You’re acting like those were active decisions.’

            ‘That’s cause they were.’

            Shouta dragged a hand over his face, groaning softly. ‘Despite that ego of yours, you’re still human, Hawks. You’re not immune to being caught off guard or emotionally invested in a case. You’re allowed to have feelings.’

            No, he wasn’t.

            ‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ Keigo said slowly. ‘When I infiltrate places, I need to become another person. I need to be objective, need to calculate every move and its perceived risk. I can’t afford to make mistakes; the Commission simply helps me to become the best at what I do. It’s life or death out there, Shou. I have to be prepared for it all.’

            ‘And that must happen when you’re fresh out of the hospital?’

            ‘Sometimes.’

            Shouta shook his head, averting his gaze at the city below them. It was late; few people still wandered the streets, and save for the occasional car driving by, it was quiet. After a few minutes of silence, he asked, ‘How long have we known each other?’

            ‘Roughly ten years now, I’d say? When we were... fourteen and eighteen, I believe. You had just graduated from UA.’

            ‘And you were already doing missions.’ Shouta’s jaw clenched. ‘You were a brat—still are, honestly. But it was clear you were highly skilled, trained to perfection. Nothing like the first years at UA.’

            ‘I’d been at it for a while.’

            ‘You were still a child.’ Something flickered in his gaze—anger, sadness, Keigo couldn’t quite tell. Shouta sighed. ‘You know, even after all these years, I still don’t know your name?’

            ‘It’s Hawks.’

            ‘Your real name. The one you had before they changed it.’ Definitely anger, though not directed at Keigo.

            ‘I don’t have another name.’

            ‘Oh, fuck that.’ Shouta pushed away from the railing, taking a few steps away, his scarf moving restlessly. ‘You once told me your father was a bad guy and your mother was incapable of taking care of you, so when the Commission recruited you, you took the way out. But surely, you had a name before any of that happened. We are people first, heroes second, but somewhere along the line, that identity was taken from you.’

            ‘What’s this all about, Shou?’ Keigo said lazily, though he felt the tension growing in his chest. ‘What does it matter whether I differentiate or not? I’m the youngest pro hero to date, have an agency to boot, and enough money to do whatever I want. The way I see it, I’ve got nothing to complain about.’

            Sadness, then, flashed over his face for a moment only to disappear again. Shouta shook his head, as if getting rid of the thought that’d crossed his mind, and said, ‘Fine. Forget it. Let’s just... focus, then. Wouldn’t want you to make a mistake.’

            They returned to the roof’s edge in silence, Keigo’s feathers flying through the night in search of villain activity while he allowed himself to sink away in his thoughts for a moment. He knew what Shouta was getting at—understood it better than he cared to admit. But this was his life; there was no alternative route, no way to cleanly cut ties.   

            If he gave in, if he answered Shouta’s questions honestly, and the Commission found out, they would find a way to reprimand him for it. And while that was something he could handle, he knew Shouta would face similar repercussions—and that, he could not allow.

            This was his burden to shoulder.

            ‘We should get some food after,’ Keigo mused. ‘I feel like I haven’t eaten in weeks.’

            ‘You look the part.’

            ‘You done commenting on my appearance, or should I grab my own list? Perhaps start at the fact that you seem perpetually scared of shampoo bottles, or how those bags underneath your eyes could—’

            ‘Fine, fine,’ Shouta cut in, huffing. ‘Yes, we can get food. Happy?’

            ‘At the thought of food? Always.’

            The tension lifted a fraction, and Keigo pointed at a spot far below them. A van with tinted windows had pulled up in front of a bank, the side door sliding open to reveal two masked figures jumping out. ‘Seems like  we got a job to do first, even if the League doesn’t show up.’

            ‘After you,’ Shouta said dryly. ‘I’ll walk down if it’s all the same.’

            His wings extended, and he jumped onto the railing with practised grace, a grin spreading across his face. ‘Your loss; would’ve happily given you a ride. But I’ll see you down there—I’ll check whether some restaurants are still open while I’m at it.’

            He fell backwards, wind rushing through his hair and feathers, his stomach slightly jumping as he accelerated. Then he twisted mid-air, wings stretching taught to catch an updraft, flapping once, twice, gaining speed as he shot towards the bank where the villains had barely reached the front door, frozen mid-step when they saw him near.

            He loved flying. Loved taming the winds, the speed and the way his body felt as light as the feathers on his wings.

            It was the closest to freedom he would ever get.   

Chapter Text

Keigo’s bedroom remained dark as he sat perched in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, clothed only in loose shorts. When he’d woken up an hour ago, sweat-soaked and trembling, it’d only taken him a few minutes to realise that sleep would no longer find him that night.

            He slowly took a sip from the steaming mug of coffee, his fingers tightly curled around the ceramic. It’d been almost a month, but with a strict gag order from the Commission and no one to talk to, his nightmares had only worsened.

            It hadn’t even been his worst injury to date. When he was fifteen, a stray bullet caught him in the chest, resulting in a long, long night at the hospital, several follow-up surgeries, and nearly two months of being bound to the ground while he recovered. The bullet had missed his heart by a few inches—that, that’d been bad.

            Yet somehow, this defeat felt so much worse.

            Keigo sighed, his head resting against the cool window as he watched the street far below. The penthouse was located on the top floor of his agency, only accessible to the few people he’d entrusted his security code to, the windows fortified, the door to the balcony fitted with a state-of-the-art alarm. This was the safest place he could possibly be, but he still couldn’t sleep.

            Over the past few days, Dabi seemed to stand around every corner. A reflection in the store window, a menacing figure in an alleyway, the person passing him on the escalator.... Everywhere he looked, he thought he saw the patchwork of burns, the rough staples, the menacing grin. The flames.

            Keigo groaned, remembering the hooded man he’d forcibly grabbed, who turned out to be little more than a tourist shielding himself from the rain.

            He felt like he was losing his fucking mind.

            The screen of his phone, lying beside him on the floor, lit up with a message.

            Shouta (2:34 am): You are a bird’s cliché, sitting in your window like that

            Shouta (2:34 am): Shouldn’t you be sleeping or something?

            Keigo frowned, trailing his gaze over the city, but he didn’t spot his friend despite the enhanced sight inherent to his avian quirk. With a huffed laugh, he began typing.

            Hawks (2:37 am): Where the fuck are you, lurker.

            Shouta (2:38 am): Wouldn’t you like to know?

            Shouta (2:40 am): Look to your right. Thirty degrees south of what you’ve been staring at. You’re putting your namesake to shame with this poor show of spatial awareness.

            He followed the directions and, sure enough, spotted the faint red sheen of Shouta’s eyes, who lifted a hand in greeting. In return, Keigo flipped him off, then hit the dial button. Shouta picked up after the first ring.

            ‘Don’t you have anything better to do than spy on me?’ Keigo said.

            ‘Tame the ego, brat, my patrol runs by here. Noticed you sitting there all brooding. It’s not often you show some human emotions; figured I should take the opportunity while it presented itself.’

            ‘You look like a wet cat up there.’

            ‘Going to run circles around the issue again, or will you tell me what’s wrong for a change?’ A pause, then, ‘Is this about the press conference in the morning?’

            ‘No. Yes. Partially.’ He sighed, running a hand across his face. Exhaustion made it difficult to maintain his cheerful façade, even though every cell of his body screamed at him to keep it up—which was draining in its own right.

            He stared at the wall, tracing his eyes over the sorry excuse for a paint job. He’d done it himself when he moved in, and while it’d felt oddly empowering to put his own stamp on the space, Keigo had discovered he sucked at painting. He should probably get someone to fix it, but which colour...

            ‘Earth to Hawks,’ Shouta’s voice deadpanned through the speaker.

            Right. Keigo’s jaw clenched. ‘Did you ever fight a villain you couldn’t let go of? Afterwards, I mean?’ Dangerous territory, but the words spilt out before he could stop them.

            Shouta was silent for a moment, but then said, ‘A few times. Shigaraki, for one, wasn’t an easy one to forget. He attacked the Simulation Joint earlier this year; hurt me badly then, too.’

            ‘I remember.’

            ‘I reckon Dabi must’ve left a mark on you.’

            Keigo huffed a laugh, though it sounded oddly bitter. ‘What makes you say that?’ When Shouta remained pointedly silent, he said, ‘Fine. Yes.’

            ‘Did you talk to anyone about it?’

            ‘Isn’t that what we’re doing now?’

            ‘I guess, if you call one-word answers talking. But anyone at the Commission? Surely they have some fancy therapists on call to help you out.’

            ‘They... don’t.’ Only two words, but Shouta seemed to understand.

            A shade gentler than his usual gruff voice, he asked, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

            ‘What I want is to sleep. But I can’t. So here I am, perched in my windowsill, waiting until the sun rises so I can go to this damned press conference and get it over with. I need to get out of here, Shou. Need an assignment away from this city, but I can’t, not until the League has been captured.’

            ‘Can’t be long now,’ Shouta said. ‘We’re closing in; the handkerchief we found at Twice’s grave proves as much. It’ll be good for you to show your face to the public. You’re proof that no matter how hard they hit us, it can be overcome. And with every hero in the nation on high alert, it’s only a matter of time before we catch them. They won’t win this, Hawks.’

            ‘Yeah. You’re probably right.’ Keigo took another sip from his coffee, letting the bitter liquid warm his insides and clear his mind while he pondered his next words. ‘Wonder what it’ll be like,’ he said mindlessly. ‘To go back to normal after all this is over.’

            ‘We’re heroes. Doubt there is such a thing for us.’

            He let out a breathy chuckle. ‘Fair point. Still, it’d be nice for things to calm down a bit. Everything’s been too... on edge, lately. For everyone. Hell, I don’t think Endeavor has spent a single night in his own bed this past month, forever holed up in his office at the agency, brooding over missed signs. The way it’s going, we’ll all burn out before year’s end.’

            ‘A bridge we’ll cross once reached.’ Shouta stood, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. Mid-yawn, he said, ‘I have to get going if I wish to finish patrol before dawn. Get some sleep, Hawks. The people prefer your eyes without bags.’

            ‘How is it to live life without such expectations weighing on you? I’m curious.’

            ‘Blissful. See you in the morning—put that fucking coffee down or so help me.’

            ‘Fine, fine.’ Keigo put the cup aside. ‘Be safe out there.’

            ‘Always am.’

            The line went quiet, and he blew out a tight breath as he put his phone back on the floor. If it weren’t for the Commission, he’d probably be much more like Shouta, keeping himself at a distance from the public, continuing his hero work but avoiding the spotlight. It’d be nice, for a change, to not have every move he made analysed.

            He’d seen the comments from the press conference a few weeks ago. People were wondering whether he was okay, whether he was eating enough, whether his recovery meant he’d be out of service for a while. He wasn’t okay. Definitely wasn’t eating enough. Had been back on the street as soon as his wings had grown back, the bruises caused by Teruo conveniently covered by his skin-tight suit.

            Even now, his upper body was painted in deep purple, green and yellow, though the darkness of his bedroom did a fine job at masking it. But he hadn’t even bothered to ask whether he could sit patrols out for a few weeks while he recovered, not when his reputation still balanced a precarious line in the court of public opinion. No, the HPSC wouldn’t risk it tilting in the wrong direction for the sake of some bruises.

            Keigo eyed the roof Shouta had been on, noticing it was empty now, and picked up the mug again. Still, as soon as he took another sip, the phone beside him lit up, causing his lips to curve unbidden.

            Shouta (2:53 am): I fucking knew it.

            Shouta (2:53 am): Put. It. Down.

            Hawks (2:54 am): What are you, my father?

            Shouta (2:55 am): I will pluck your wings. One by one, every single feather. It’ll give me some nice red stuffing for the pillow I’ll throw at your head.

            Hawks (2:56 am): Threatening me with a good time?

            Shouta (2:58 am): You are insufferable.

            Shouta (3:00 am): Fine. I tried. Idiot. Don’t come at me if you can’t keep your eyes open during the conference.

            Hawks (3:01 am): I’ll just steal your sleeping bag if that’s the case.

            Shouta (3:02 am): You can certainly try.

            Despite himself, Keigo laughed, feeling the pressure on his chest lift a fraction. It was... nice, to be seen. Sure, he’d barely shared a thing, keeping it as vague as possible, but Shouta was aware. Was looking out for him. It wasn’t Keigo’s fault if his friend filled in the gaps—surely, the Commission couldn’t blame him for it since the eraser hero was well-known for his sharp gaze and keen intelligence. And it felt better. Lighter, to have the issue living outside his head, even in small bits and pieces.

            Still smiling, Keigo rose to his feet, putting the half-empty cup on his nightstand before throwing himself face-first onto the mattress. Perhaps he’d get some sleep tonight after all.

The flashes were blinding, the constant shutters of the camera a pain for the headache pounding behind his eyes, but Keigo still grinned, posing in front of the justice building where the press conference was to be held. He threw a haphazard wink at some female reporters, whose cheeks instantly turned red, their gazes averted.

            By now, this persona almost came to him as easily as breathing. The rehearsed motions, the flirtations, the cocky smirk he’d mastered to perfection, they were all things he donned before stepping onto the street in the morning, leaving the real him behind within the four walls of his penthouse.

            The crowd loved it, and it was hell of a lot easier to distance himself from it if he just pretended to be someone else.

            ‘Hawks! Hawks, how’s the search for the League going? Can you give us insight into how long it’ll be until you’ve captured the League?’ A short reporter slipped through the crowd, a small recording device dangling from her fingers. Her eyes were wide, her smile broad as she awaited his answer.

            Keigo chuckled. ‘Can’t wait any longer, can you? I get it, I get it! Most will be explained later, but I can say that we’re closing in. Every hero in the nation is working together to catch these guys. It shouldn’t be long now.’

            The reporter nodded vigorously, tongue between her teeth as she flipped through her notebook. ‘And... and... ah. Right. Do you plan to face Dabi yourself? To get redemption for the fight you lost to him before?’

            Keigo shrugged loosely, digging his hands into his pockets. ‘We’ll see.’

            When the girl opened her mouth again, he jerked his head at the entrance. ‘I’m expected inside. Save your questions for then—I have to go!’ With a flap of his wings, he lifted himself over the crowd and towards the doorstep, followed by a cacophony of shutters as the cameras followed his movements.

            He snuck inside before they could notice the tension in his back.

            The hall was still mostly empty. Chairs were lined up on either side of the aisle leading up to a long table where he, Endeavor and Shouta would be seated during the conference. It’d been put together on short notice, a way to satisfy the public’s demands for answers even if they had little to give.

            At the very least, the attention had shifted away from scrutinising questions about their past actions and towards the future. Especially Endeavor was better off, considering he had to tell the lie about Dabi time and time again—a plan devised by his PR advisor, though it seemed to slowly kill the man every time he denounced the existence of his very much alive son.

            Keigo nodded at the flame hero in passing, not feeling like talking himself. Sure, he understood the man’s pain, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t had it coming. The Todorki family was a mess, with Endeavor as the sole instigator of their demise. Strong as hell quirk-wise, but fragile in the sense that one strong gust of wind could scatter what was left of the family ties they still tried to rebuild.

            Dabi lurking over them couldn’t help, either.

            Keigo sat down on the far left side of the table, fingers thrumming on the wood. Slowly, the room began to fill, the cameras placed so all angles were covered, no word left unrecorded. Shouta arrived, nodding his greeting at Keigo before sitting at the right side, leaving room for Endeavor at the centre.

            The flame hero sat down last, his massive form dwarfing Keigo. He tucked his wings in tight, shifting on his seat when exposed to the heat Endeavor produced. It felt a little too familiar for his liking.

            ‘Know what to say?’ he quipped regardless, resting his chin on his hand.

            ‘Obviously.’ Enji’s stern, red eyes looked at him sideways. ‘Just let me do the talking—can’t have you mouthing off while this much’s at stake.’

            ‘Such a low opinion you have of me; it wounds me.’

            Endeavor merely grunted, and Keigo shrugged. All the better for him if the flame hero desired to lead the press conference. The less work he had to put into maintaining his façade, the better.    

            As soon as the journalists were seated, Endeavor launched into a speech about the importance of hero society, how this was a burden they all shared, and how the load was lightened the more they worked together. Powerful words, albeit cliché, but the reporters ate it up.

            The little information they had about the League was described in such a way that painted the heroes in a better light—the spontaneous discovery of the handkerchief reformed into the result of investigations performed by Japan’s finest detectives. Sightings from eyewitnesses given more credit than they deserved, as long as it fuelled the message of hope they were trying to deliver.

            ‘Together, we’ll get through this. Together, we’ll come out stronger,’ Endeavor concluded, sitting back in his chair as he opened the room for questions.

            Most were similar—what were their leads, how were the heroes teaming up, what role would students with provisional licenses play? Keigo, Shouta and Endeavor answered them with practised finesse, their media training prominent in every word.

            Then, the female reporter from before stepped towards the microphone, the recording device spinning idle circles between her fingers. It was doubtful she’d get any usable footage from it this way, but she didn’t seem to mind.

            After tapping the mic once, the sound resonating through the silent hall, she scraped her throat. ‘My question is for Hawks,’ she said, eyes locking in on him. Something about her gaze felt... different from what it’d been outside. More intense. More calculating.

            Keigo held her stare, frowning slightly, and the woman smiled.

            ‘Does it still hurt?’ she asked.

            ‘Does what still hurt?’

            She huffed a laugh. ‘The burns, of course. Did you bleed a lot? You look like you bled a lot—all pale and haunted. Does it? Does it still haunt you—the attack?’

            ‘We’re not here to discuss the attacks during the Paranormal Liberation War,’ Shouta cut in, his frown far more prominent than Keigo’s. ‘If you don’t have any useful questions—’

            ‘Oh, I do.’ The woman tossed the recording device into the air once. Twice. Gaze locking on Keigo again. ‘My question is this: would you win if you were to face Dabi again today?’

            ‘I—’ Keigo started, but she didn’t let him answer.

            ‘I’d like to see it. See what it looks like when you’re burning, when your wings are reduced to ash. When you realise that nothing can save you. I’d like to see you helpless, like Jin was when you betrayed your friendship and stabbed him in the back.’ Her smile widened, her canines seeming to lengthen as the shape of her face ever so slowly morphed into...

            Fuck.

            Keigo barely had time to rise, his chair clattering to the ground when Himiko Toga tossed her recording device into the crowd. It exploded upon impact. The blast wave threw him backwards, his body slamming into the wall. He heard something crack—his ribs?—but paid it no mind, already rising to his hands and knees to asses the damage.

            Screams filled the hall. Bodies lined the aisle, people rushing over to help the injured, heroes springing into action when warp gates opened in multiple locations, the villains seeping through. There was Spinner, climbing the walls and throwing bombs left and right. A handful of nomus were engaged in a fight with Endeavour and Shouta. Tomura Shigaraki walked through the venue without a care, hands outstretched, people crumpling into dust whenever his fingers graced them.

            And—

            A wave of blue flames hit Keigo from behind, so sudden that he didn’t have the time to sidestep them. Immediate pain flared up as his wings caught om fire, and he dove to the ground, rolling on the floor to douse them. His feather blades were in his hands a moment later, several smaller feathers shooting through the sky as his attention locked on his target.

            Dabi, leisurely, leaned against a pillar near him. His long black jacket was frayed at the edges, its collar flipped up, covering his face in partial shadows. But the grin was unmistakable, the hate-filled eyes aimed solely at him.

            Keigo shot into the sky when another wave of flames careened towards him, his wings protesting against the strain.

            Dabi only laughed. ‘How unsurprising; you try to flee.’

            Keigo called on his feathers, sending them towards the villain at full speed, but Dabi merely pulled up a wall of flames, incinerating them before they even came near. He blew out a puff of white smoke, his blue eyes smouldering in the heat.

            ‘Ain’t getting away so easy this time, Pigeon.’

            Keigo couldn’t stifle a shout when a tidal wave of blue rose to meet him in the sky, seeming to stretch in all directions, burning hot, so damned hot...

            He hit the ground with a grunt, the breath pressed from his lungs on impact.

            ‘Missed me?’ Dabi’s laugh raked down Keigo’s spine, the sound reverberating, shaking loose the holds on the memories he’d stored away. Flames licked at his back, tauntingly close to his skin without burning him.

            Keigo managed to tilt his head, horror filling his chest when his eyes landed on Shouta's motionless body.

            Dabi, following his gaze, grinned widely. ‘Figured I’d finish what Tomura started and take him out with some nomus while fetching you. You know, two birds, one stone? Might as well send this place crumbling as I drag the Commission’s favourite plaything away. It’s too bad my dear old dad seems to have fled the scene upon seeing me. Oh, well.’

            He crouched down next to Keigo. ‘What, no witty comeback this time?’

            ‘What do you want?’ Keigo growled, still focused on Shouta. Was that his chest rising, even a little? It had to be. He couldn’t be...  

            ‘Hard of hearing, Pigeon?’ Dabi clicked his tongue and dragged a flaming finger down Keigo’s spine, drawing a pained groan from his lips. ‘You infiltrated the League, turning a blind eye to our actions. You befriended Twice, then killed him, and yet you walk freely in this hero society, with no repercussions for your behaviour whatsoever. What I want is for you to suffer. What can I say? I’m an angry guy. I waited years to take my father down to ensure he felt every bit of vengeance; I plan to take at least half as long with you.’

            ‘Wha—’ Keigo began, but his scream cut off his voice as Dabi pressed his palm flat against his lower back, the flames erupting between one heartbeat and the next, the agony following a second later.

            He’d burn alive.

            He’d be reduced to ashes, dust to the wind.

            Gone before anyone knew what was happening; before help could arrive.  

            His fingers dug into the wooden flooring, frantically trying to crawl away, to shake off Dabi’s touch, to do anything, anything to not feel the flames anymore. His feathers were long gone, evaporated, his wings little more than stumps. Something sharp pricked the side of his neck, but he couldn’t focus amidst the agony.

            Keigo’s vision swam in front of him, making it difficult to discern what was up and down. Away. He needed to get away.

            Something clicked shut around his wrists, his ankles. A heavy, foreign weight, but how did he move his head again? Why were his eyes closed when all he wished to do was look at what was happening, to fight back? Fuck, his body didn’t bother listening, his limbs growing heavier by the second—and did the heat disappear, or did his nerves become too fried for him to feel anything anymore?  

            Dabi’s voice, deadpan and rasping, whispered close to his ear. ‘You’ll wish you’d died that day, birdbrain.’

            A hard mass collided with the back of his head, and then all he knew was darkness.

Chapter Text

They’d strung the bird up by his wings.

            Dabi watched from the door opening as Hawks was lifted into the air, his body limp, his feet dangling a few inches above the ground. Quirk suppressing shackles were locked around his wrists and ankles, an interconnected chain roped between them.

            His wings, which had regrown over the past few days, were secured by chains wrapped tightly around his humerus, crushing the scapular feathers, but little care had been given to avoid it from happening.

            They’d kept him out with strong drugs, ensuring he wouldn’t wake while Dabi made his preparations, though the last dose had been administered an hour ago. Now that the bird was properly restrained, all that was left to do was wait until he regained consciousness.

            Dabi had to admit, it was strange to see the hero like this. Hawks had been stripped of most of his hero costume, only the pair of cargo pants remaining. It revealed the vast array of scars, cuts and bruises littering his body amidst the fresh burns from the other day. In sleep, his face was void of the smile, almost serene, and his hair was shorter than the last time Dabi saw it. It somehow made the bird appear younger. Less hero, more... human.

            But he had still betrayed them.

            Had still murdered Twice for his own gain.

            Dabi’s jaw locked, frustration boiling close underneath his skin as he waved the helpers off, leaving the cell empty save for him and Hawks. His skin itched to get started, to do something with these feelings that’d been growing in strength over the past month, but it was no use while Hawks was still unconscious.

            Still, at least he was finally here.

            The plan had been simple enough. They’d waited for the right opportunity from their hideout, a desolate building deep in the mountains, which came when the press conference had been announced. To light the first spark, Himiko had volunteered to infiltrate the crowd. She had disguised herself as a reporter, smuggling in a small explosive to take the heroes off guard and scatter them around the room.

            After that, all that had been left to do was for Kurogiri to send the rest of them over, taking down as many heroes as they could and securing the one they’d been after to begin with: Hawks.

            For days now, news anchors had speculated about his whereabouts, the video of the fried, unconscious hero being dragged through a warp gate by Dabi going viral on the internet. People wondered whether he still lived, what the League wanted with him, and whether he could escape with such injuries.

            The latter was an easy question to answer: no, he couldn’t.

            They’d allowed the wings to regrow by taking off the quirk-suppressing cuffs for the first two days while he was still heavily sedated. After that, Dabi had carefully clipped his flight feathers, leaving the sorry remains scattered on the cell’s floor. He figured it was torture in itself to be grounded that way, knowing there was no way to go even if Hawks managed to free himself of the chains.

            Besides, with his quirk nullified, what more was he than a winged human, deprived of food and water, drugged into oblivion, suffering from injuries they’d only partially healed to ensure he’d stay alive?

            The HPSC had been suspiciously quiet, with only one brief statement in the papers that claimed they’d put their best people to work and were sure Hawks would soon be found. Yet three days later, no hero had even come close to their location.

            Dabi wished them the best of luck trying.

            He felt Tomura’s presence behind him, an odd chill that seemed to vibrate through he air when he neared, before the leader spoke. ‘You just had to burn his wings again, didn’t you?’

            ‘Couldn’t be helped—they catch on fire easily. Made for an easier transport, though.’

            Tomura hummed noncommittally. ‘Are you up for this?’

            ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ A plume of smoke rose from Dabi’s fingertips as sudden anger increased his body temperature. He balled his hands into fists, turning to face their leader.

            Tomura, however, was the epitome of relaxation, only eyeing Dabi curiously with that intense red gaze of his. ‘We need the bird alive,’ he said. ‘These days, you’re a hair-trigger away from exploding at any given moment. If you can’t compose yourself—’

            ‘I was there when we devised the plan. No need to remind me,’ Dabi cut in with a scoff. ‘Besides, we still have some regenerative medicine lying around, and the bird’s a damned hero; a few burns won’t be the end of him and definitely not the worst he’s going to endure. He’s still breathing, isn’t he? Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I can’t control myself.’

            ‘Alright. Just checking.’ Shigaraki idly scratched his neck, pulling the hood of his sweater up as he trained his eyes on Hawks. ‘Other than the short delay of his wings having to regrow, I’d say the retrieval was a success.’

            ‘Endeavor escaped.’ Dabi’s old man had been nowhere to be found once he had taken Hawks out. Still, Tomura was unbothered.

            ‘He wasn’t the goal. It’s better that he got away; it ensured your focus on the right target. You’ll get your chance at revenge, Touya. We’ll tear down the structures of hero society layer by layer, and once your father realises the foundation of his success has become too unstable to bear the weight of his ego, you may deal the final blow to send him sprawling to his knees. I can promise you that.’

            ‘Fancy words, Shiggy.’

            ‘Someone has to keep up morale to balance out your brooding.’

            Dabi rolled his eyes. ‘Fine. Tell me, then. Once I get the bird to sing, what do you wish to know first? What bit of information will be the beginning of their downfall?’

            Tomura laughed softly. ‘Something tells me that Keigo Takami’s life story would already provide detailed insight into the many wrongdoings of the Commission. They buried his records for a reason: the time between his recruitment at six and his first outing at thirteen, a black hole that demands to be explored. I wish to know everything there is to know about him.’

            ‘Start small, why don’t you?’

            ‘You tell me, Touya. As soon as you broke the dam on your history, spilling it for all the world to hear after keeping it hidden for so long, would you have been able to stop talking?’

            When Dabi stayed silent, Tomura’s smile grew. ‘Exactly. Underneath all that bravado and arrogance, a child hides, sheltering the fragments of a life lived under the rule of the Commission. Aren’t you curious how a young boy grows into a pro-level hero before he’s reached his fourteenth birthday? I know I am. The shields might be difficult to crack, but once you do, I doubt he’s able to keep anything hidden.’  

            In front of them, the bird stirred, chains rattling softly.

            Shigaraki turned, patting Dabi on the shoulder. ‘Report back to me when you’ve had enough for the day. I’m looking forward to hearing what you discover.’  

            Dabi cracked his knuckles, stepping closer to the bird as the door to the cell fell shut behind him, signalling Tomura’s departure.

            It was time to get started.

Chapter Text

When Keigo woke, something was different.

            For one, he hadn’t dreamed, which was strange in itself. For as long as he could remember, nightmares had haunted his sleep, waking him at least two or three times each night, but now, it was as if he’d clawed up from a dark pit in his mind where even visions of the past hadn’t been able to reach him. An odd blessing, but one he didn’t trust for a moment.

            Because secondly, he felt that his wings had grown back, if only because of the sheer agony that emanated across his back as he hung suspended from them.

            ‘What the—’ His eyes flew open, only for a fist to hit him square in the jaw before he could see a thing. A colourful curse left him despite years of suppressing such reactions as his head slammed aside, instant pain flaring up in his jaw. He tested it gingerly, but luckily, it didn’t appear broken.

            Again, he opened his eyes, slower this time. The cell was dimly lit and damp, with thin streams of moisture leaking down the rough stones. His hands were bound behind his back, his feet also shackled together, dangling a few inches above a concrete floor covered in his flight feathers.

            He tried to move his wings to release some of the strain, but the chains wrapped around his humerus left little range of motion, only causing him to sway from side to side. Keigo grunted, eyes trailing up, locking on the man before him.

            ‘Dabi,’ he rasped—what the hell had happened to his voice? How long had he been out?

            Keigo became too aware of the dryness of his throat and the hollow nausea clawing at his stomach, the familiar sensations of severe malnutrition. His mind circled back to his sessions with Teruo, who’d once made him document the various stages of decline of his body when he was deprived of food and water. Three days of unconsciousness seemed like a solid guess based on how he felt now.

            ‘Morning, Pigeon,’ Dabi drawled, crossing the distance between them. ‘Took your sweet time, didn’t you?’

            ‘Where am I?’ Why he was alive was probably a better question, but hazy memories broke through the pounding in his head, moments before darkness had swept him away. Dabi demanding retaliation. The lifeless body of Shouta. The chaos in the justice building. Dabi’s rough whisper. You’ll wish you’d died that day.

            The villain scoffed. ‘I’ll let you venture a guess.’

            Keigo blinked, slowly, trying to clear the fog stubbornly clinging to his mind. While this was far from good, he’d been prepared for this. Analyse the situation, ascertain a course of action, and above all, don’t break. Help would come, and while he was here, he might as well make use of it.

            Right. Analyse first. The League hadn’t killed him, meaning they needed something beyond a desire for vengeance. Shigaraki was too smart to drag a hero into their midst if there was nothing to gain from it, though Keigo wasn’t sure which information they were after. A matter of time, then.

           He was chained, incapacitated, and stripped of most of his clothes. His flight feathers were cut, and—he tested it—his quirk was suppressed, likely due to the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. It was cold in the cellar, close to freezing, which was different to the climate in Musutafu, where, despite the rain, the temperatures had been fairly mild. Had the League settled somewhere north? Or in the mountains, perhaps?

            Unimportant, while he was still stuck like this. Dabi’s murderous gaze told him enough about the nature of what Keigo was soon to face. They needed information from him. Keigo wasn’t going to talk. Neither side would find itself satisfied with the outcome, but he'd have done his part as long as he stuck to his training.

            ‘I see.’ Keigo let out a soft chuckle. ‘You’ll regret this, you know?’

            ‘And why would that be?’

            ‘Because no matter how you play this, this isn’t going to end well for you.’

            Dabi cocked his head, his hand shooting forward between one heartbeat and the next. Scarred fingers closed around Keigo’s throat, burning hot against his skin, lifting him even higher. ‘You threaten me? Last time I checked, there’s no sidekick here to save you today. No one jumped in to save you at the justice building either—they thought you could handle yourself, number two hero, but look at you now. You’re weaker than anyone realises, so do tell me how you plan to overpower me.’

            Keigo fought his flinch when blisters sprang open on his neck. ‘Who said anything about overpowering? I just know you’ll regret killing me once that rage of yours takes over. All the effort you put into capturing me, but by the looks of it, you can hardly contain yourself.’

            ‘Ah, is that what you’re worrying your petty blonde head about?’ His grin was persistent. ‘You know, I’ve been in pain my entire life. And there’s something you learn when you uphold the balance of doing what you want while trying to keep yourself alive at the same time. A certain finesse in inflicting pain. I just need that damned voice of yours—the rest doesn’t have to be nearly as functional.’

            Flames leaked from his hands, and Keigo hissed, his body squirming unbidden.

            Dabi laughed, a rasping sound. ‘Is that fear I see? Scared of a little heat?’

            Keigo clenched his jaw to stifle the pained sound building in his throat. A memory flashed through his mind—training, when he was nine. He’d been exposed to all sorts of common fears, like drowning, suffocation, small spaces, and dangerous animals. Over and over again, he’d found himself on the brink of death, all in the spirit of building his resolve in the face of threats.

            But he’d never gotten over the sensation of fire, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t stomach the feeling of his wings turning into ash, the heat snuffing out the oxygen in the air around him, the smoke filling his lungs, the burns covering his skin. He hated flames—but, despite himself, had gotten skilled at faking it.

            With effort, he took a steadying breath. ‘Just not overly fond of turning out like you, Touya. The charred skin, the staples—not quite my style.’

            It was the name that did it.

            Dabi growled, throwing Keigo aside, a wave of blue flames following suit. Keigo instantly loosened his shoulders, absorbing the sudden additional strain on his back from the swaying on the chain.

            Despite the pain, he forced himself to lift his head and smirk at the villain. ‘Sore subject?’

            ‘I don’t know, Keigo Takami. Is it?’ Dabi’s hands had balled into fists, flames licking his knuckles. ‘Did you hide your identity because it was too shameful to be connected to your father?’

            ‘Is that what you’re after? My backstory? Could’ve just asked—no need for all of this.’ He jingled his wrists, the chain clinking against the cuffs.

            ‘I prefer my way—though, I don’t appear to be the only one who uses these tactics on you.’ Dabi closed in again, a flat palm placed on Keigo’s chest on top of a particularly nasty bruise. The villain hummed. ‘Only a month out of the hospital, and the Commission has you already doing hero work to this extent? You’d think they want to protect their precious bird.’  

            ‘What can I say? I live to serve.’

            Dabi’s other fist buried itself in Keigo’s stomach, pushing the breath from his lungs. He coughed involuntarily, fingers curling around the chain to steady himself. Another swift punch landed on his side, causing him to sway even more.

            ‘Going straight for violence, are we?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘What happened to a simple hello?’

            ‘Just showing you the regular treatment at any given prison facility you heroes are so keen to fill.’ Dabi’s knee came up, colliding harshly with Keigo’s gut. ‘After all, what difference is this way of questioning than what goes on there to gather intel?’

            Keigo held Dabi’s gaze, his breaths growing laboured. ‘For starters, I’m not a villain. I’m innocent.’

            ‘Are you? By whose standards?’ Dabi took a few steps back, opening the heavy metal door leading out of his cell. He gestured at someone in the hallway to come in, his expression hardening.

            Slowly, Himiko Toga shuffled in, and Keigo felt his heart sink into his stomach.

            Contrary to the perky reporter she’d embodied during the press conference, she now slouched, her eyes bloodshot and adorned with heavy bags, her make-up running in streaks down her cheeks. She stilled when their gazes met.

            Dabi closed the door behind Himiko, taking up a spot at her side. To Keigo, he said, ‘Innocent, huh? You killed Twice, killed her best friend. Stabbed him in the back when he was already on the ground, simply because he wouldn’t abide by your idea of justice. Jin trusted you, Pigeon. Considered you a friend. So tell me, are you innocent by that logic?’

            He wasn’t. Keigo didn’t need to look at the judgment in Himiko’s eyes to feel the guilt, but he couldn’t allow himself to. If he started now and let Jin be the first villain to break through the walls the Commission had forced him to build, he’d have to face all the other people who had died at Keigo’s hand. Jin hadn’t been the first. He wouldn’t be the last.

            They didn’t need to know any of that.

            The grin returned, even if nothing about it felt right with the young girl standing before him. ‘Jin Bubaigawara was given multiple chances to surrender, yet chose to continue with his attempt at activating his quirk. Had he succeeded, the sides would have shifted. I did nothing less than what was expected of me.’

            ‘Did you see that?’ Dabi glanced sideways at Himiko, his voice conversational. ‘Did you see how his body language shifted when he said that?’

            The girl nodded, her spine straightening, the haunted look in her eyes shifting to bright curiosity. ‘He doesn’t believe what he’s saying, right, Dabs? He’s lying? I saw it—you said I had to look for his eyes, and I noticed the change! That’s so cool—can you make him do it again?’

            ‘Feel free to watch.’ Dabi shrugged, leaving the girl behind as he sauntered over to Keigo. ‘See, I’ve had this theory since you first applied to the League. You sold yourself well, don’t get me wrong. The lengths you went to...’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Allowing Endeavor to be attacked? Exposing Best Jeanist to the doctor? You sure did try your best to be accepted and trusted. And some did. Jin did. But you know what I see when I look at you?’

            ‘I’m sure you’ll tell me.’ Keigo held his stare, refusing to back down.

            ‘Nothing about you is real.’ He traced a burning finger across Keigo’s jaw, following the curve before trailing down, past his collarbones, a flat palm pressed against his sternum, right above his heart. ‘This thing? I doubt it’s beaten an honest minute in your life—at least not since the Commission took you in.

            ‘But you know what the thing is with masks? They can be peeled back. Bit by bit, layer by layer. You’ve shown cracks, Pigeon. You may not have wanted to, but blame pain, exhaustion, discomfort, whatever eases your mind, but the cracks are there. And I can’t wait to see it all fall apart.’

            With a gleeful grin, he pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and drove it into Keigo.

Chapter Text

Dabi sauntered into the kitchen, a towel draped around his neck to catch the stray drops of water dripping from his white hair. He’d managed to wash most of the blood from his hands, though some of it had gotten stuck underneath his nails. None of it was his, though, despite his knuckles being torn, some faint bruises covering his scarred skin.

            Hawks hadn’t said a thing after Himiko left.

            It was as if the bird had turned in on himself, his face a blank slate of disinterest, his body absorbing the blows and cuts with hardly any reaction. It would be disturbing if it wasn’t so damned annoying.

            After a few hours, Dabi had grown bored and jammed a needle into Hawks’ neck to end it for the day. It was only then that he’d given any struggle, as if the thought of being unconscious was somehow worse than the repeated beatings, but he’d been out cold before he could do anything about it.

            Dabi didn’t know what to make of it.

            He pulled open the fridge and grabbed a cold can of soda before making his way to the living room and plopping down on the couch next to Tomura. Their leader clutched a controller, attention wholly focused on some fighting game. Dabi eyed the TV silently for a bit, only hissing when Tomura was dealt a particularly nasty blow from one of the NPCs.

            When victory was declared, Tomura hit pause, his red eyes shifting towards Dabi. He didn’t say anything, but the question was clear.

            Dabi shrugged. ‘Bird’s tougher than he looks. It’s like he’s used to pain or something. The only time I noticed some cracks was when I made Himiko confront him, but after that, he seemed determined not to show anything at all. It’s creepy as fuck how he just hangs there, unbothered, like I’m not even there.’

            Tomura pulled up a leg and wrapped his arms around it, chin resting on his knee as his eyes grew distant. ‘He must’ve been trained to shield his emotions, then... Has to have been, considering his profession. Wouldn’t be a great spy if he spills his secrets at the first sight of blood.’ The leader hummed softly.

            ‘But he does feel something. About Twice’s death, at least. If seeing Himiko was a trigger, perhaps Hawks got closer to Jin than intended.’ His eyes cleared, landing on Dabi again. ‘What was it he said before Jin died?’

            ‘He offered to help Twice start over. Said he didn’t want to fight him, which sounded like bullshit to me because not moments later, he was ready to slit Jin’s throat.’

            ‘But why would you offer the person you perceive to be the biggest threat an out in a situation like that? Why risk it, unless you began to care for them?’

            ‘You’re saying their friendship was real?’

            ‘I can’t say for certain. But it sure is likely the winged hero, who doesn’t seem to care for many, enjoyed Twice’s company. And Jin, being Jin, did not hold back in his friendship with the bird.’ Tomura’s lips curved into a grin. ‘It became personal to him.’

            ‘And it wasn’t before?’

            ‘Less so, I reckon. It was a mission, but enjoying Jin’s company was unexpected. Something he couldn’t anticipate. Something that went beyond his training and got under his skin, despite the shields he carefully maintains. It’s a crack indeed—see if you can press it further. See where else he surpassed the role he was supposed to play and got emotionally involved.’

            ‘Worth the shot. But he’s out cold now—didn’t seem to enjoy the drugs one bit.’

            ‘Has to be hell for someone who keeps such a tight leash on his life to be this helpless.’

            ‘Yeah, well, hell’s too good for him.’ Dabi rose from the couch with a yawn, tossing the towel into a corner. ‘I’m off to bed; see you in the morning.’

            ‘Night. Let me know if I can be of assistance.’

            Dabi grunted noncommittally and walked towards his bedroom, nodding his goodbye to Spinner and Kurogiri in passing. He kicked his bedroom door shut behind him and grabbed his laptop from the desk before falling onto the bed. With a groan, he pried off his boots, flipping the laptop open while he settled his back against the headboard.

            Personal. Right. Dabi usually didn’t bother to learn too much about others. Most didn’t stick around long anyway, and burning them to ashes was far less taxing if he kept his distance from the start. He’d gotten used to that outcome; had come to prefer it, too. In this line of work, betrayal was expected, so he saved steps if he operated based on that assumption.

            But to hurt Hawks, it seemed he had to get to know him.

            When the number two hero first showed interest in the League, Dabi had put Skeptic to work, but information was scarce. Most sources cited his heroics, which began to surface around his thirteenth birthday.

            It was nothing Dabi didn’t already know. He had missed those early years, but once he’d woken up from his coma, barely able to move while he regained his strength, he’d often seen the bird on TV. Sixteen. Arrogant. Rising through the ranks with remarkable speed. He was revered—in the way Endeavor had been revered. In the way Dabi had wished to be revered, once.

            Hatred was born without effort, easily fuelled by Hawks’ flashy smiles, the ease with which he spoke, the interviews he did side by side with Endeavor. It was enough for Dabi to decide that one day, he’d teach the bird what it was like to crash and burn. To be rejected by those he thought cared for him, that careful hero persona irreversibly destroyed.

            He’d wondered whether Hawks would still smile if people flinched when they saw him, if they averted their gazes, whispered behind his back. If they feared him. Perhaps then he, too, would wish all of him had died, not just the identity he clung to, like it would keep him from drowning.

            It’d been painfully ironic when he’d shown up at the League, claiming he wished to change hero society as if his entire personality didn’t run on the public’s admiration. Skeptic’s research revealed that the hero worked long days and even longer nights, his personal life notably undocumented. If he had friends, hobbies, or a relationship, it was all kept secret, which made Dabi assume they simply didn’t exist.

            Perhaps that was what happened if you joined the Commission at such a young age, shaped by their expectations and demands. Hero work became his entire life, an identity that couldn’t be separated from the person you may have been before. A tight leash indeed—it’d be a shame if it snapped.

            An idea formed, a smile creeping onto Dabi’s face as his fingers flew over the keys of his laptop, pulling up the file Skeptic had composed of the bird.

            For years, specialised heroes had worked for the Commission, long before Hawks had been recruited. And while some remained in service, others had simply... vanished. One of them, Lady Nagant—he scrolled towards the section in the file—had even been sent to Tartarus after she’d lost her mind and killed the chairman of the HPSC.

            Call it a hunch, intuition, or an educated guess, but Dabi figured the Commission wouldn’t put this much work into a hero’s education only for them to resign early in their pro career. Likely, the heroes were tied to them for life, or they were dealt with.

            Would Hawks survive it—being dealt with?

            It’d definitely be personal. Definitely be a blow to the static structure onto which Hawks’ life was built. And, if successful, it was bound to make the already-present cracks feather.

            His smile grew, and he opened a video editing program, dragging a video of one of the Commission’s press conferences into it, and got to work.  

Chapter Text

Keigo stared at the wall, his mind miles away as he swayed on the chains like a pendulum. Between the exhaustion, the pain, the fucking hunger, and the drugs, he’d lost track of the days. He knew he’d never reached this stage with Teruo. Knew that he was only granted a few occasional sips of water to keep him alive. Knew that the tracker, buried under the skin just below his collarbone, couldn’t be working, because why else was it taking the Commission this long to get him out?  

            He knew many things, but none of it was any use.

            Underneath him, the concrete floor had turned a rusted red, fresh drops of blood dripping from a large cut on his thigh, the pain from it long faded away, blending into the tapestry of agony that’d become his body.

            Dissociate. Endure. Survive. And most of all, don’t say a word.

            He knew the rules. Teruo’s voice had been on a loop in his mind, dragging him further and further down into this mindless state. His body would survive—somehow, it always did. Death was its own kind of freedom, and neither the Commission nor the League would allow it to happen. He’d survive; he just had to endure.

            ‘I’ll give you this, Pigeon. You’re a tough motherfucker.’ Dabi entered his line of sight, a knife dangling from his scarred fingers. It was stained bright red. ‘Ready to talk yet?’

            It was an effort to find his voice. ‘Weather’s a bit chilly today, don’t you think?’ His eyes fluttered shut when the knife slashed across his skin. Never deep enough to cause real damage, just warning after warning, a promise of what could’ve been.

            Keigo hummed weakly. ‘Should’ve specified.’

            ‘It’s cute how you still believe that this silence of yours is going to be your salvation. Might as well talk—it’s not like anyone’s coming for you.’

            His eyes opened, finding the burning turquoise of Dabi’s. ‘See, that would only serve you. Not much of a trade if only one gets what they want.’ Another slash of the knife. Another hitched breath, the pain fading away with every blink. Endure. Survive.

            ‘So you’d rather be cut to ribbons than give in? What kind of masochistic freak are you? Is this what they teach you at the Commission, to take it like a good little bird?’

            ‘You still don’t get it?’ A hoarse, rasping laugh slipped past Keigo’s lips—perhaps he was going insane after all. ‘I’m here because you need something from me, and as long as you don’t get it, I can’t die. You can’t kill me. So what do you think you can do to me that hasn’t been done a thousand times over?’

            Something flickered in Dabi’s gaze, as if he was piecing things together, a fragment of an answer to a question, though Keigo couldn’t think through the exhaustion muddling his mind to understand what it was about. Had he given something away?

            But the flame-user only hummed, a brief rumble of his deep voice, before he walked to a low table next to the door. Keigo followed him with his eyes, only now noticing the laptop. His eyebrow arched, but he didn’t speak, simply watching as Dabi’s fingers flew over the keys. Then, the villain turned back to him.

            ‘You’ve been here for a week,’ Dabi said matter-of-factly, turning the screen towards him. ‘This was broadcast when we came for you—look, see how nice you look, draped over my shoulder?’ The video played, Keigo’s unconscious body dragged through a warp gate, looking more dead than alive.

            He forced himself to ignore the similarities to the footage from the raid, the sorry state of his body a disgrace in itself. But Dabi wasn’t done yet.

            ‘You see, people began speculating afterwards. What was happening to you. How you were too weak to prevent it—why you were even the number two hero if you were defeated not once, but twice in the same month. Popularity is a fickle thing—you can ask my dad about it. He’s always placed his reputation above the wellbeing of others, especially his family.’

            Dabi shrugged. ‘Needless to say, the Commission couldn’t let that happen. What message would it send if their prize soldier were dragged down like this? If they would continue to support you, even if you kept failing time and time again? And then there’s your association with us... You know, the double life you lived, playing as a villain while pretending to be just and right?’

            He switched tabs, opening a news article. The headline read, “Winged Hero Hawks: Dead or Deserted?” Dabi laughed. ‘I’ll spare you the entire thing, but with a week having passed and no sign of you, the public has started to wonder whether the attack on the justice building wasn’t staged, a way to get you back to the League. You see, Pigeon, people believe you’re one of us.’

            ‘Clever,’ Keigo rasped. ‘Did you write the article yourself, or did someone who’s more literate venture a try? Can’t be easy for you, seeing as you slept through high school.’

            ‘Think I’m making this up? Ah, birdbrain, I wish.’ The tab switched again, to a video of a press conference this time. Dabi pressed play, and the voice of Madam President filled the small cell.

            ‘We’ve looked into the allegations,’ she said, facing the crowd without a hint of emotion. ‘Unbeknownst to us, Hawks maintained his ties to the League even after his mission ended, orchestrating the attack on the justice building to make his escape. He’s being held responsible for the injured and the dead. As such, his hero license is revoked, his status is renounced, and we’ve adjusted our search parameters. No longer are we looking for a victim of kidnapping. As of now, it’s being handled as an active investigation to find and capture the villain, Hawks.’

            Keigo could only stare.

            It had to be fake. Somehow, they’d manipulated the footage, strung words together, altered the image. But that was Madam President’s voice. Her face. Her lips moving as she denounced everything he’d worked to achieve.

            The camera panned to the reporters, sending a rapid fire of questions her way, their voices felt distant, a hollow ringing growing in his ears with every exhale.

            A memory. Teruo, pressing his knee down onto Keigo’s chest. Keigo had been eight. Had fallen down during running drills and scraped his shins. Had looked for help, only to find annoyance and impatience.

            ‘You’re disposable, kid,’ Teruo had snapped. ‘Lose your worth? Prove too much of a pain, leave too much dirt for the Commission to clean up? They’ll just move on to another, discarding you. We took you in, took a chance on you. We’re turning you into a hero others can only dream of being. Do you want all of this to go away?’

            Tears burning in his eyes, Keigo had shaken his head.

            ‘Then work harder. Be better. Prove you’re worth our time and effort. And above all, stop fucking crying. You’re a soldier—act like it.’

            The villain, Hawks.

            The video was fake. Rationally, he knew that they wouldn’t let him go this easily. Not yet. Definitely not like this. But, no matter how desperately Keigo tried to reason his way out of it, his mind was at war with the visceral reaction of his body, the precarious balance of pain and sanity shattering the further he spiralled.

            Revoked hero license. Responsible for the dead and injured. Stop crying. Was he crying? He had failed. A charred body, a lifeless husk of a man. Dead or deserted—be better. Always better.

            Never good enough.

            Vaguely, Keigo was aware that Dabi stepped closer. A warm finger rapped against the side of his face, a gravelly voice asked, ‘Still with me, birdbrain?’

            Disappointment. Renounced hero. Villain.

            Failure. Failure. Failure.

            ‘The fuck is wrong with you?’

            Keigo didn’t answer—couldn’t. His fingers were wrapped tightly around the chains like they could serve as a lifeline, but his vision continued to tunnel, his throat slowly closing up, and his chest, his chest...

            He gasped, but no relief came.

            ‘Oi, Pigeon.’ Dabi’s hand gripped his jaw, forcing him to look at him, though Keigo’s gaze kept slipping. The flame-user frowned. ‘Snap out of it.’

            Keigo wished he could. Knew he had to. But control had slipped through his fingers, and while he desperately tried to grasp it again, it had moved too far out of reach.

            A door opened. Closed. No drugs to take him out this time, only the ever-darkening pit that buried itself into his mind, his body painfully rigid.

            Who was he if not a hero?

            What even was his purpose?

            The door opened again. Footsteps, closing in, an annoyed sigh near his face. And then a bucket of freezing cold water, emptied over his head.

            Keigo thrashed against his bindings, his shout more animal than human, his body starting to shiver as soon as the water touched his skin.

            No composure. No smirks.

            He’d be in so much trouble if the Commission saw this.

            But—his breaths came easier. The tightness in his chest lifted a fraction, the cold of the water fraying the hold of his mind, dimming the panic, if just a little.

            Trembling, his eyes lifted, only to find Dabi staring at him, expression unreadable. It took a moment to find his voice, his mind like quicksand, threatening to drag him under again if he stepped in the wrong direction.

            He’d failed, before, just now. Might fail again. But he had to make it right—surely, there was a way. Dissociate. Endure. Survive. He clung to the familiarity of the words, not much of a beacon, but it was all he could muster.

            With effort, Keigo asked, ‘Did I need a shower?’

            ‘Oh, fuck that.’ Dabi shook his head, pushing himself from the wall and stalking closer. ‘What triggered it? What part of those videos was so much worse than what was done to you these past days? What the fuck,’ he said, anger lacing his voice, ‘gets a man to endure torture with barely a flinch, but spirals him into a panic attack with a few words?’

            ‘That seems like the kind of information,’ Keigo rasped, ‘that should not be given to the one abusing you.’

            Dabi hummed, eyes taking in more than Keigo was comfortable with. ‘The fuck did they do to you at the Commission?’

            Keigo’s grip on the chains tightened. ‘They ensured my potential wasn’t wasted.’

            Dabi’s laugh was bitter. ‘They sure seem like comforting parental figures. Were they the ones who conditioned you to withstand torture?’ When Keigo remained silent, he let out a low whistle. ‘Damn, bird. At what age did they start? Six? Seven?’

            Keigo flinched unbidden, and something darkened in Dabi’s eyes.

            ‘Seven?’ he repeated, hands flexing at his sides. ‘No wonder you’re acting like this. You never stood a chance, did you?’

            ‘Depends on how you view it,’ Keigo quipped, though the cheerfulness sounded strained even to his ears.

            ‘There’s only one way to view it, but I’m sure they taught you otherwise.’ His tone changed, but Keigo couldn’t place what’d shifted. He was tired, so damned tired.

            Flatly, he asked, ‘That video was fake, wasn’t it?’

            ‘And what if it wasn’t?’ Dabi angled his head. ‘You seemed awfully quick to believe it. Would they really denounce you this quickly, throwing you aside to save their own face?’

            You are disposable.

            Keigo attempted to shrug, though his shoulders were locked up too tightly. ‘I’m not much use like this. For all they know, I’m dead. It’d make sense for them to use me, however necessary to avoid public unrest.’

            ‘Ever the diplomat, number two.’

            ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’

            A breathy laugh. ‘And why’s that?’

            ‘You care only for yourself—your actions proved as much. You lack altruism and live for vengeance; I live to maintain peace, no matter how it’s achieved. Why would you understand any sacrifices I’d be willing to make?’

            ‘We’re more similar than you’d care to admit, Pigeon.’ Dabi scoffed. ‘Tell me, what were the boundaries you wouldn’t cross to win their approval? What part of yourself weren’t you willing to destroy to receive a hint of praise? What unobtainable ideal did they embed into you as a child, forever making you chase it even if you can never quite reach it?’

            Keigo’s jaw clenched, and Dabi shook his head.

            ‘So this is the big secret, the thing they do behind closed doors. Breaking children and rearranging their shattered remains into perfect little soldiers.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘That’s pretty fucked up, Hawks.’

            Keigo didn’t say anything, but it didn’t matter. He’d held out for days, had endured it all, had allowed his body to become a battlefield for the sake of keeping the Commission’s secrets. But no matter his resistance, no matter all the sessions with Teruo he’d survived, his mind had still betrayed him.

            Don’t say a word—yet even that, he’d failed at.

            Keigo closed his eyes, the weight of his injuries pressing down on him, tugging at the fraying edges of his consciousness. Resigned, he allowed oblivion to sweep him in.

Chapter Text

Well, fuck.

            Dabi sat on the floor in the cell, his back against the wall, his gaze on Hawks. For a while now, it’d been quiet, save for the bird’s shallow breaths. The hero had passed out a while ago, his body hanging limply from the chains. Despite being asleep, his wings flinched on occasion, as if instinctual. It sent stray drops flying each time, most of the water from the bucket having soaked into his feathers.

            Dabi twirled a knife between his fingers, a mindless motion, a frown cutting deep lines into his forehead. This, too, had been going on for a while, his thoughts unwilling to be placed in order after he’d finally gotten Hawks to talk. He hadn’t known what to expect, what answers he’d end up prying from the bird’s mouth, but it hadn’t been this.

            Sure, everyone could see that the Commission’s training was rigorous, the standard set high for any hero who worked in their service. But he’d figured it was similar to schools like UA—preparation for all possible outcomes, training for a pro hero career, just from an earlier age to allow kids with high potential to develop faster.

            It’d been that way for him, too, when Endeavor still bothered to teach him. They’d trained together as soon as Dabi had been able to walk, and he’d loved it despite the pain. Loved it until Endeavor had given up on him, deemed him a failure rather than his greatest accomplishment.

            But it wasn’t the same—not by a long shot. The way Hawks’ mind went blank, the endurance he must’ve built up over time to reach such a state, the panic when he thought all of it had been for nothing. The conditioning. The torture.

            Seven. They began when he was seven, and something told Dabi that they had yet to stop. Had Tomura suspected it was this bad? Dabi assumed he didn’t, considering their leader seemed to hold a soft spot for younger children in distress, given his origin. But if he had known, if he’d consciously used Dabi’s hatred to draw the information from Hawks...

            Blue flames illuminated the cell, simmering close to his fingers, growing and shrinking with every breath. He didn’t like to be used. Didn’t like to be played. And he definitely, definitely didn’t like that discovering Hawks’ past bothered him this much.

            He shouldn’t care. He’d opted for this life when all other options had failed or abandoned him, and had embraced villainy in all its insanity. He’d killed without mercy. He’d made the toughest villains reveal their secrets. He’d humiliated his father, exposed him for who he was, damaged the ideals he cherished above all else, and would do it all over again if need be, because in those moments, it’d felt like the right course of action for him.

            Yet this, this no longer felt right.

            Hawks had been the one to kill Twice. A fact, and something for which he deserved to feel the consequences of his actions, the manifested grief of a seventeen-year-old girl. Still, knowing what Dabi knew now, it’d hardly been his own volition. The fear of failure had been drilled into him, deep enough that he would willingly let himself be killed so long as he didn’t have to cope with their disappointment.

            The Commission was the problem; the hero was just the weapon they shaped.

            Dabi’s eyes trailed over the bird’s body. He’d kept permanent damage to a minimum, assuming he might have to drag this out longer if the silence had continued. There were a few deeper cuts, where he’d stuck the knife in rather than sliced him, though he’d cauterised most of those wounds to ensure Hawks wouldn’t bleed out too fast. He’d barely flinched then, which Dabi had taken for arrogance, but now knew better.

            Seven years old. Fucking hell.

            Dabi tossed the knife aside, running a hand through his white hair. He’d thought he had left morals behind a long time ago, but lately, it felt like they were popping back up. The family reunion last month hadn’t helped either, seeing Shoto, who’d tried to reason with him, desperately throwing arguments his way while Dabi had just wanted to see it all burn.

            It’d been a while since people had argued with him like that. He didn’t care for it.  

            In the hallway, footsteps came closer. There was a pause, but then a soft knock on the door and Himiko, asking, ‘Dabs? You okay?’

            ‘Go away, Toga.’

            She didn’t—of course she didn’t. The door swung open, and she bounced inside, her gaze carefully averted from the unconscious hero. She sidled next to Dabi on the floor, cradling a bowl she extended to him after sitting down. Soba, though the flavour packet had barely dissolved in the hot water.

            Himiko said, ‘You were gone for a while—figured you might be hungry. It’s from a package, but you know, still warm? Saw you eat this a few times, so it seemed a good bet, but maybe—’

            ‘Thanks.’ He took the bowl from her to shut her up, stirring it to properly dissolve the spices and herbs. He wasn’t hungry, but he wasn’t one to turn down a meal either, even though he’d prefer to eat it in silence.

            Himiko didn’t do silence. ‘Why are you still down here? The bird seems asleep.’

            ‘He is.’

            ‘Then why?’ She blinked, her yellow eyes dull in the dim lighting of the cell. ‘Did something happen? Did you figure something out?’

            Dabi took a bite of the food, chewing on the noodles while he debated his answer. Slowly, he said, ‘The HPSC is even more fucked up than we thought. Things may not have been as straightforward as I assumed. Regarding Twice. Regarding... him.’ He jerked his chin at Hawks.

            She frowned. ‘The bird didn’t kill Twice?’

            ‘Oh, no, he definitely did. I was there. But he didn’t... mean it. I think. It wasn’t his call.’

            Himiko was silent for a bit, eyeing Hawks’ lifeless form, a thousand thoughts filtering behind her eyes. But then, she said, ‘I heard you talk to Tomura the other day. About how Hawks may have actually liked Jin. I also liked Jin. I like a lot of people, and sometimes I hurt them, but I still like them. Is it the same for him?’

            ‘I guess. Something like that.’

            ‘Does he feel bad because Jin died?’

            Dabi remembered the first day, when Hawks had stiffened after Himiko entered the cell, the static response he’d given to excuse his actions. Guilt was definitely a possibility. ‘He might. I doubt he’ll admit it, though—to himself or others. The bird’s been brainwashed.’

            ‘That’s not nice.’ Himiko reached into the bowl and plucked a noodle from it, chewing slowly. ‘So, is that why you’re sitting on the floor? Because someone wasn’t nice to him?’

            ‘I’m not—no. It’s because...’ Dabi grunted noncommittally, filling the silence by taking too-hot bites of soba. With a sigh, he eventually said, ‘He’s been through shit. Like we’ve all been through shit, only his shit never stopped after he grew up. And I’m just debating how to continue from this point on.’

            ‘Do you feel bad for hurting him?’

            ‘Why would I? He still killed Jin.’

            Himiko shrugged. ‘Sounds like you feel bad regardless. And that’s okay! Just because we’re villains doesn’t mean we can’t feel bad sometimes. It’ll be fine, Dabs. See, he breathes, you didn’t hurt him too bad. I could take some of his blood if you don’t want to anymore?’

            ‘That’s alright, lunatic. I’m perfectly capable of stabbing people.’

            ‘Just offering!’ She jumped to her feet, dusting off her skirt. But as she turned towards the door, it flew open, revealing an out-of-breath Spinner.

            ‘They’re here,’ the lizard snapped.

            Himiko angled her head. ‘Who?’

            ‘The heroes. The fucking Commission. Everyone. We have to go. Dabi’—his gaze locked on Dabi’s—‘Tomura said to cut the bird loose. Kill him, leave him like this, he doesn’t care. We don’t have the resources to keep him down wherever we’re going, which makes him a liability.’

            Dabi put the bowl aside, arching an eyebrow at the frantic villain. ‘Calm the fuck down. How long do we have?’

            ‘Minutes. Get upstairs within five, or we’re leaving without you. Himiko, let’s go.’ The lizard ran off, and a moment later, a bomb rattled the ceiling. Toga looked up, frowning.

            ‘That’s no fun,’ she muttered. Then, to Dabi, ‘Guess this is how you continue. Good luck—see you in a bit!’ She darted out of the cell without saying another word.

            ‘Never a dull moment,’ Dabi muttered, turning to Hawks. He should kill the hero. It was the most logical thing to do, to just end it and get the fuck away from this place. A flame ignited in his palm as he walked over, his other hand cupping the bird’s face to assess it a final time.

            As if he felt the end was coming, Hawks’ eyes cracked open, barely enough for his pupil to be visible. Yet still, all it reflected was resignation. Acceptance. As if it were an easier fate to accept death than to wonder what awaited beyond this cell.

            Not right at all.

            ‘Damn, Pigeon. When you look at me like that...’ Dabi sighed. ‘Well, if I wasn’t insane before, I’m sure as hell now. You and I have a talk to finish, but this is no longer the time and place. But fuck, do you need to learn how to set boundaries first. They’re not worth dying for—better you realise that now than later.’

            The flames went out, and he pulled a knife free instead, angling it at Hawks’ side. Dabi hummed. ‘Still got a reputation to maintain, though. Shouldn’t hurt too bad, seeing the state you’re in. And if your friends from the Commission are at least somewhat decent in their jobs, they’ll find you before this has a chance of becoming fatal. Deep breath.’  

            The knife slid in, and Hawks curled around it, his shoulders straining even though no sound left his lips. It was a flesh wound—a  deep one, but it could’ve been a lot worse, all things considered.

            Dabi pulled the knife free and patted his cheek. ‘Good bird. See you around, Keigo Takami.’ Without looking back, he left Hawks behind in the cell. Escape had to come first, the bird’s life not worth dying for.

            And perhaps after, he’d try to work out why the fuck he felt so bad for walking away.

Chapter Text

The first time Keigo had flown, he’d been four years old. His wings had been small, only grown earlier that year, but he’d been proud. They were the same colour as his father’s feathers. They moved like his mother’s quirk. He’d loved them. They resented them—a burden, his father had called them. How did he expect them to stay unnoticed when he sprouted wings like that?

            Keigo hadn’t been allowed to leave the house. Hadn’t been allowed to fly.

            Still, one night, a nightmare had woken him, and before he knew what was happening, he’d flown to a high beam in their desolate home. Instinctually. Keigo had looked at the room below him, amazed at the height, thrilled at this newfound ability. If it were up to him, he would’ve flown everywhere from that point forward.  

            His father had beaten the joy out of him the next morning.

            Still, Keigo had continued to fly when his dad wasn’t around, his mother too occupied with the TV to notice. They’d never given him anything, but at least this wasn’t something they could take. His wings were part of him, and learning how to become one with them had been his way of resisting the cards he’d been dealt, a first step towards the life he wished to lead, as far away from that house as he could get.

            He thought about that while he slowly bled out.

            His head pounded, a dull throbbing that only seemed to worsen the more he focused on it, but there wasn’t anything to distract him. Blood trickled from the wound in his stomach, dripping onto the floor. Vaguely, he knew that was a bad thing—that it was too much blood, pooling beneath him. Definitely more than he’d lost these past days.

            Dabi hadn’t left him unattended with a wound before; he had always ensured Keigo would live until he returned. A dead bird was no use, after all. But now, time had passed, and it didn’t seem like the villain would return. Keigo had heard commotion upstairs. Something must’ve happened.

            No longer the time and place to talk, was what Dabi had said, the words caught by his barely conscious mind, drifting back to him. Deep breath. The knife—a painful wound, but not fatal. Not necessarily, at least. Dabi had let him live. Keigo didn’t know why.

            He blinked, the world tilting precariously on its side. It was probably a bad thing that he didn’t feel the pain anymore, even if it was a reprieve. Still, he didn’t want to die. Everything he’d done in his life was to ensure he would survive.

            He had endured his parents’ neglect. Endured the harsh training from the Commission. Endured the role he was forced into, the smiles, the fans, the constant attention on every move he made.

            Keigo had endured it so he could mean something to someone someday. So he could keep people safe, making this damned world a slightly less horrible place if he could help it. A hero, like the people on TV. Like his father had never been. All Keigo had wanted was to be better. He’d barely started; how was this already his end?

            Rushed footsteps sounded in the hall. Someone rattled the cell door, a muffled curse uttered on the other side of the metal. A second set of footsteps neared, a few hushed words exchanged, and then—

            Keigo flinched when the door was thrown open, crashing loudly against the wall. Endeavor barged in, flames burning bright. Shouta followed a step behind, his eyes instantly locking on Keigo.

            ‘Hawks.’ Relief and worry filled Shouta’s voice with equal measure, wasting no time moving over to him. Keigo tried to smile, but it was little more than a grimace. The eraser hero’s scarf moved, a strand wrapping tightly around Keigo’s waist to stop the bleeding. Quietly, he said, ‘The League is gone. The house is empty. You’re safe, Hawks. It’s over.’

            After scanning the small cell for any threats, Endeavor also stepped in. Gruffly, he said, ‘I’m going to lower the chains—can’t find a key for the cuffs, though, but it seems the lesser problem. You got him, Eraser?’

            Shouta nodded, bracing his hands underneath Keigo’s arms. Their eyes locked, and it was all Keigo could do not to scream when Endeavor released the thick chains from a hook on the wall, lowering him to the ground as slowly as he could. Keigo couldn’t stifle a groan when his feet hit the concrete, his legs unable to bear his weight. His wings dropped to the floor, all feeling lost after being tied up for this long.

            Shouta moved quickly, bracing his arm around Keigo’s weight to keep him upright while Endeavor moved to release the chain between his wrists and ankles. He heated his hands, gripping the metal tightly to melt the links. Slowly, they fell away, his freed arms holding onto Shouta.

            ‘Thanks.’ Keigo’s voice was rough, and he swallowed against the tightness in his throat. ‘How long...’

            ‘Eight days. Their hideout is in the mountains—it took three days for your GPS to be picked up.’ Shouta’s darkening gaze said enough of his opinion about the five days it’d taken to reach Keigo. Softer, he said, ‘I tried to get to you when Dabi showed up, but the nomus—’

            ‘Not your fault,’ Keigo rasped, a cough rattling his body. ‘Should’ve... stayed... out of reach. ‘m too flammable.’

            ‘Not even you could’ve predicted that ambush, Hawks.’

            ‘Should’ve.’ He shook his head, the darkness at the edges of his vision creeping further. ‘Madam President. Is she... what did she say?’

            ‘The Commission?’ Shouta frowned. ‘Not much, just a statement that they were looking for you. But they... held back, when your location pinged. Insisted on scouting, attempting to capture the League rather than prioritise your safety. Said you’d be able to hold out.’

            But no press conference. No arrest warrant. Keigo was still a hero.  

            He felt like he was deflating, the last of his strength fading with the confirmation that Dabi had lied. Shouta grunted but kept standing despite having to bear more and more of Keigo’s weight, his fingers pressed firmly against Keigo’s side.

            ‘Stay with me now. We just have to get you upstairs—a medical team is waiting,’ he muttered, gesturing at Endeavor to lead the way.

            Slowly, they made their way out of the cell, Keigo’s bare feet shuffling over the cold concrete, a thin trail of blood leaking through Shouta’s binding scarf. His wings scraped over the ground behind him, the feathers bent and broken, some falling out and staying behind. Keigo didn’t feel them—the cuffs were still locked around his wrists, his quirk far out of his reach.

            He stumbled, the world swimming in front of his eyes. He grasped blindly to steady himself, fingers locking around Shouta’s arm. There, present, always watching out for him. He’d come for him. Had fought for him. A friend, even though he barely knew Keigo at all.

            ‘Shouta?’ he rasped.

            ‘Almost there, Hawks, just hold on.’

            ‘I’m... Keigo.’

            Shouta stilled, halting just before the stairs. Keigo tried to smile, to lift the mood, to break the silence that felt too heavy after the adrenaline that’d dragged him through this past week. He blinked, finding it harder and harder to keep his eyes open, and managed a slight shrug. ‘You... asked. Before. Figured... you deserved... an answer.’

            He swayed the ground closing in. Shouta cursed, calling to Endeavor for help, lowering Keigo to the floor as gently as possible. Keigo blinked, trying to remain conscious, but his body didn’t listen.

            Shouta gripped his shoulder, something comforting about the pressure of his fingers onto Keigo’s skin—a kind touch, a stark contrast with Dabi’s calloused fingers. ‘I got you, Keigo,’ he said, firmly, the name rolling off his tongue like he’d known it for years. ‘Rest now—I got you.’

            Keigo was gone before he could answer.

When Keigo woke, Shouta was still there.

            The Eraser hero sat in a chair beside his hospital bed, his half-lidded gaze aimed at the monitors. When Keigo stirred, his attention shifted, dark eyes meeting golden-brown. He smiled faintly. ‘Glad to see you back in the land of the living, brat.’

            ‘What...’ Keigo coughed, his throat like sandpaper. He tried again, voice breaking at every other word, ‘What happened?’

            ‘You passed out. Guess even your ego couldn’t keep your body running after you lost half your blood volume. You were given partial treatment at the hideout to stabilise your injuries, then brought to the hospital. We arrived yesterday evening—it’s ten in the morning now. You were in surgery for a few hours to remove scar tissue, but physically, you should recover quickly.’

            ‘Good. That’s good.’ Keigo grunted, rolling from his chest towards his back and sitting up, his wings twitching. He sighed when he felt the singular feathers, his quirk returned now that the cuffs were gone. His shoulders sagged a little, and he looked at Shouta. ‘Did you guys manage to capture anyone from the League?’

            Shouta shook his head. ‘They launched into a brief counterattack, but warped away after a few minutes. We feared they grabbed you as well for a moment, but thankfully, our surprise attack seemed to have done its job.’

            ‘Dabi left me alive.’ The words fell from his lips before Keigo could stop them, his gaze going distant. In the solitude of the hospital room, with only Shouta to witness it, he frowned when the villain’s words came back to him. ‘He had the chance to kill me, was with me when you attacked. He could’ve incinerated me, but he didn’t.’

            ‘Don’t read into it too much—villains will always have their own motive.’

            ‘I suppose.’ His gaze locked on a cup of water on the side table, and he used his feathers to bring it towards him, his breathing coming a little easier with the familiarity of the motion. Only a week without his wings, yet it’d felt like an eternity.

            ‘You don’t have to answer, but I must ask.’ Shouta shifted in his seat, forearms braced on his knees. ‘At the justice building, Dabi went straight for you. No other hero was taken. What did they want from you?’

            Keigo shrugged, sipping from the water to soothe his raw throat. ‘They saw me as a source of information on the HPSC. Thought that they could use me for insight into how to take them down.’

            ‘Did you give anything up?’

            ‘Not knowingly. But then again, I didn’t think anything of it when I took down Twice, and Dabi found a way to hold it against me and the Commission regardless. I’m guessing they’ll want to talk to me once I’m discharged and debrief me to assess the damage.’

            Shouta stilled, his eyes narrowing a fraction. ‘If they had wished to limit any damage, they should’ve allowed us to move in quicker.’

            Keigo shrugged again, his walls slowly rebuilding the longer he was awake. ‘I was able to hold out; it’s what I was trained for.’

            ‘No one should needlessly endure something this, Keigo.’

            Ah. Right. Keigo averted his eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that. I was out of it—it’s not the name I go by anymore.’

            ‘Why not?’

            ‘Because that person no longer exists.’ He managed a lazy grin. ‘The people who gave me that name never cared for me—the ones who called me Hawks made me everything I am now. It’s the only name I need.’

            Shouta’s eyes narrowed further. ‘It’s your choice, Hawks. But it’s also your choice to reclaim a name and make it your own. You didn’t even choose your hero name—might as well pick the one you use when you’re off duty.’

            ‘It’s fine—really. I just figured I owed you an answer. Left you hanging the other night, wouldn’t want to die on you without letting you know.’ Keigo chuckled, hoping it sounded less hollow than he felt. ‘Hey, do you think they have some of those hospital puddings here? I’m, quite literally, starving.’

            Shouta eyed him a moment longer, then rose from the chair. ‘I’ll go check.’

            ‘You’re a great friend, Shou. Thanks. Truly.’

            ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He waved Keigo off, slipping from the room and closing the door behind him.

            Keigo watched him go, releasing a strained breath as soon as the eraser hero walked out of sight. He glanced at his hands, which began shaking when Shouta asked what Dabi had wanted. Whether he’d given anything away.

            By now, he knew the procedure and wasn’t particularly looking forward to it. A car waiting outside the hospital. A silent drive over. A meeting with Madam President and the board.

            A session to rectify his wrongs.

            Had he been stronger, had his body not felt like it weighed a ton and his feathers not still sluggish in their movements, he may have leapt from the window and disappeared into the sky. He wasn’t ready yet to face the Commission, Dabi’s ministrations cutting deeper than he cared to admit, the phantom touch of flames and knives on his skin still crawling over him.

            Teruo would try to make him forget. To alter his mindset, to minimise any damage to their asset, the only way he knew how. While Keigo wished it had never happened, he knew forgetting wasn’t going to be as easy as the Commission would like.

            See you around, Keigo Takami.

            A promise from the flame-user, likely sooner rather than later. And if Keigo wished to be ready, if he wanted to be strong enough to face Dabi, he could not be weakened further by Teruo, not barely recovered the way he’d been during the press conference in the justice building.

            He just hoped he could make them understand.  

Chapter Text

The Commission hadn’t listened, though they’d concluded that the information leaked wasn’t a security risk. It wouldn’t reflect badly on the organisation as a whole, they’d said. Because even if Keigo had been filmed—which, given Dabi’s past actions, was likely—the poor state he’d been in would draw attention away from any answers given, his endurance against the torture just a sign of a thorough training regime.

            Keigo had held out well, they’d said. He should be proud that the sessions with Teruo had such a positive effect on his behaviour. That he’d truly learned something these years.

            He’d hardly listened while they reasoned to sweep it under the rug, his mind constantly slipping away. Back to that cell. Back to the house he grew up in. Back to session after session, blending together throughout his youth, his resentment festering under his skin like an infected wound, fuelled by Dabi’s shock once he discovered what the Commission had done.

            That’s pretty fucked up, Hawks.

            There’s only one way to view it, but I’m sure they taught you otherwise.

            A hand had landed on his shoulder, snapping Keigo out of it, his body reacting before his mind could assess. Feathers had shot through the air, nearly piercing Teruo’s throat, who’d walked up behind him.

            The room had gone eerily quiet.

            ‘I’d like to return home now,’ Keigo had said, his voice even, despite the pounding of his heart. ‘If we can agree no damage was done, I’ll just—’

            ‘You went through a great ordeal, Hawks,’ Madam President had said. ‘It’s imminent that you work with Teruo to ensure you won’t feel the long-term effects of the past week. That you return to your full strength.’

            Or else you are of no use to us. Words that weren’t spoken had hung heavy in the air, cautious eyes aimed at the feathers still extended mid-air near the eagle. A thought had crossed his mind, then. They wouldn’t be able to stop him if he snapped.

            And Teruo couldn’t do shit if he were dead.

            But instead, he had recalled his feathers and said, ‘I’m fine.’

            ‘Work with him regardless,’ Madam President had said, the statement final.

            And again, Keigo had considered how he could end it all with one idle thought. Teruo on the ground, gripping his slit throat. A few stray feathers, and the Commission would be no more. No more oppression. No more rules. No more sessions. It would be so easy; yet it would ruin everything he’d worked for.

            So his jaw had clenched. He had risen from the chair. He had walked away with Teruo, Dabi’s voice ringing in his head with each miserable step he’d taken. They’re not worth dying for—better you realise that now than later.

            He’d realised that a while ago. He just had no other place to go.

            Three days later, Keigo was finally back in his apartment, alone. He hadn’t gotten further than the hallway, sitting on the cold floor with his back against the door. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights, his hands cradling his head as he tried his best to just breathe. In, out.

            He barely remembered how he made it through these past days, how he’d even managed to get back home. His mind had been too far away for any details to truly stick, though that was probably for the best. He didn’t want to remember. Would do anything to just forget. These days. Last week. Most of his life. It wasn’t like it mattered.

            Keigo’s phone rang. He ignored it, lowering his body onto the ground, his wings wrapped tightly around himself like he used to do when he was younger. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to be the hero Hawks tonight, or find excuses why he’d been unreachable for three days.

            He didn’t have the energy for it; they could all go to hell.

Keigo got up from the floor at some point, the moon far past its apex, the sky already lightening at its edges. He dragged himself towards the bathroom, turning on the shower to fill the room with a comfortable warmth.

            He halted before the large mirror, staring back at his reflection. His eyes were dim, his cheekbones shaper than they used to be, a sharp contrast with the hollows of his face. Slowly, he peeled off his clothes, dropping them on the tiles without looking. Keigo traced his fingers over the scars on his chest, old and new, burns and cuts and whatever he’d endured long before last week. The wounds had healed—that, the medical team had taken care of.

            His wings, however, looked terrible.

            The doctors hadn’t dared touch them, unsure what to do with he broken and cracked feathers, dull and crusted from the blood that’d dried in them. Keigo stared at his wings as if they belonged to someone else.

            He reached over his shoulder, plucking a feather free, barely registering the sharp pang of pain. He let it drift towards the floor, the red contrasting with the white tiles. Pruning the rest of his wings became instinct after that, ensuring that nothing, nothing was left that others had touched, had broken.

            When he was done, he turned his back towards the pile of discarded feathers and stepped underneath the scalding stream of water from his shower, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the tiled wall.

            Slowly, the cold in his bones receded.

            Slowly, his mind coiled back, connecting with his body again.

            His wings twitched. His hands rubbed his skin, washing away every ghost of a touch. His breathing eased, slowing down the beating of his heart.

            Keigo didn’t check how long he’d been in the shower, pulling a loose shirt with slits in the back over his head and some old shorts, ignoring his reflection as he left the bathroom, the mess easily forgotten with a closed door.

            He pulled a bottle of vodka from a cabinet in his kitchen, forsaking a glass. He made his way towards his bed, tossing the laundry that’d accumulated on his mattress onto the floor, and crawled underneath the sheets.

            Keigo put the bottle to his lips, drinking deeply, the burn a welcoming warmth in his throat. His phone buzzed again. He ignored it, rummaging through his sheets until he found a remote, turning on the large TV on the opposite wall. Some stupid soap was playing, and he let it, sipping from the bottle until his thoughts slowed, the world no longer in painfully sharp focus.

            He blinked, feeling the call of sleep in every inch of his body. With effort, he put the bottle onto his nightstand, fumbling a few times before it found steady footing. He grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled it over his head, allowing the alcohol to sweep him away.

Two days passed like this. He’d wake. Shower. Order breakfast, lunch, dinner, only to barely touch the food. Open another bottle of alcohol, whatever he still had stashed in the house, then drink himself into oblivion, hoping that the next day, he’d wake up and feel less miserable than the day before.  

            So far, no luck.

            He’d planned to do the same thing again, a bottle of wine already standing beside him as he sat on the floor near his windows. But someone was banging on his door. Had been, for the past five minutes, and didn’t seem willing to leave.

            Keigo didn’t know who let the person up to his floor. The elevator shouldn’t have allowed someone to come this high, with only his front door between him and the hallway. But someone was definitely here—and he hated them for it.

            He stared daggers at the door, willing the sound to stop, his head pounding. Keigo’s fingers curled around the wine bottle, knuckles turning white. Then, it went silent. Finally.

            He took a sip, but his phone buzzed at the same time.

            Shouta (4:28 pm): I know you’re in there.

            Shouta (4:28 pm): Open up before I kick this door in.

            Shouta (4:30 pm): ...I brought food.

            A couple more knocks on the door followed in rapid succession.

            Keigo debated ignoring it, but Shouta had come for him at the hideout. Had stayed until he’d woken up in the hospital. He’d been a friend—perhaps he would just leave if Keigo asked.

            He shuffled towards the front door, swaying slightly, and turned the lock.

            The door flew open a heartbeat later, Shouta stepping inside as if he was afraid it would close again before he could. He stopped mid-step when he saw Keigo, eyes widening a fraction. True to his word, he held a paper bag with take-out, but it hung slack at his side.

            He didn’t say a word, merely closing the door behind him and walking past Keigo into the living room.

            ‘Shouta—’ Keigo began, but the eraser hero didn’t listen.

            ‘No wonder you don’t answer your calls,’ he muttered, eyeing the collection of bottles next to the sink before he threw open some cabinets and pulled out cleaning supplies. Keigo leaned against the doorframe, blinking slowly as he watched Shouta move around with a supposed purpose.

            ‘The Commission wanted to talk to you after the hospital, didn’t they? You don’t have to answer.’ Shouta filled a bucket with hot water, shaking his head. ‘No wonder you went radio silent—almost thought the League got you again, but no. Just the fucking Commission.’

            ‘Why are you here?’ Keigo muttered, arms folded in front of his chest. He wasn’t sober enough to face anyone—hell, he wasn’t even alive enough. But Shouta didn’t seem to care.

            ‘Because, you idiot, I care about my friends. Because showing up for them when they’re going through tough times is what people do. Now sit the fuck down before you fall over and let me at least do something about this pit you’re holed up in.’

            Keigo slid down the wall onto the floor, lacking the energy to argue.

            With surprising efficiency, Shouta worked his way through the apartment. There was only a brief pause when he entered the bathroom, likely coming across the discarded pile of feathers, but he emerged with a full trash bag and didn’t say a word about it.

            That, Keigo appreciated.

            At some point, while Shouta worked, Keigo returned to the window, cradling the bottle of wine. He followed the eraser hero with his eyes and took the occasional sip. It was fine that he was here, Keigo had decided. As long as the silence remained, it was fine.

            But then Shouta stepped into the kitchen, pulling two bento boxes from the paper bag and stashing an additional three into the fridge. With them, he walked towards Keigo, sitting across from him on the floor and putting the food between them.

            ‘Eat,’ he said.

            Keigo only shrugged, attention shifting to the paint on the wall again. ‘I’m not hungry.’

            ‘You’re always hungry.’

            He tried to smile. ‘You don’t have to check up on me. I’m fine.’

            ‘Even a blind man could tell you’re far from fine, Kei—Hawks.’ Shouta scoffed. ‘No one who went through what you just did would be fine this fast.’

            ‘Nothing I didn’t go through before.’ Keigo’s wings stirred when he realised his slip-up, and he forced himself to shrug again. ‘We’re heroes. It’s part of the job description.’

            ‘You went through this before?’ Nothing went past him.

            ‘I... Sort of. It doesn’t matter. All I’m saying is that I know I’ll get over it. Just give me some time.’ He knew his grin fell flat, but it was all he could muster. To fill the painful silence, he took another sip of wine.

            Shouta’s jaw clenched. ‘What happened at the Commission?’

            ‘Nothing.’

            ‘Bullshit. Did they hurt you?’

            ‘Wouldn’t be in their best interest if they damaged their favourite hero, would it?’

            ‘You tell me.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘If they hurt you, if they’ve been hurting you—’

            ‘Just drop it, okay?’ Keigo tore his eyes away from the wall, locking gazes with Shouta. ‘Sometimes, shit’s just the way it is, and we have to get through it. I appreciate you coming, Shouta, but I don’t have the energy right now.’

            ‘What do you expect me to do when you disappear and I find you in this state?’

            ‘I expect you to trust me when I say I’ll be fine.’

            ‘Sure. Fine.’ Shouta shook his head. ‘What, next time we see each other, you’ll be all smiles again, winking at strangers and chatting up food vendors? Will Hawks make a reappearance, or will you finally show me the person the Commission’s been trying to suppress?’

            ‘I am who I am,’ Keigo said flatly. ‘So, if you only came here to criticise me, please go wait in line somewhere else while I work through this. I don’t need you for that.’

            ‘That’s not what I—’

            ‘Just go, Shouta. I’m tired.’ Keigo averted his gaze, head resting against the window. Outside, the sky looked like it was burning, the deep red and orange of sundown painting the city’s skyline. Keigo loved to fly during sundown, the colours washing over him as he climbed high up into the sky, allowing gravity to pull him back down in time with the sinking sun.

            Right now, he felt heavy enough that he wondered whether his wings would even be able to lift him from the ground.

            He heard Shouta rise to his feet, the fridge opening and closing again. A sigh. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll bring more food and some groceries.’

            ‘If you want.’

            Keigo didn’t look around when Shouta left, his shoulders curling forward, his wings wrapping around him again, a protective layer between him and the outside world, a false sense of security. He thought of training. Of his parents. Of the moment his mother had agreed to give him up in exchange for the large sum of money the Commission gave her.

            He thought of the board members, telling him he was going to be a hero. That the training would be harsh, but he’d be able to save people. How, at six, he gave his life away without knowing what it truly meant. Keigo’s parents hadn’t been able to take his wings from him, yet he’d willingly let himself be clipped by the Commission.

            The wine bottle was empty before the sun disappeared below the horizon.  

Chapter Text

Wind ripped at Dabi’s jacket, rain cascading through holes in the roof and soaking the threadbare furniture. He stood in the centre of the dilapidated house, surrounded by empty cans and food wrappings, the open fridge filled with bento boxes that’d long gone bad. The smell alone was reason enough to get out of here as fast as possible, though the house’s structure also promised a swift collapse if the wind hit it the wrong way.  

            Still, Dabi didn’t leave. He stared at a corner in the back of the house, where a makeshift bed was made out of dirty blankets, not unlike a bird’s nest. The wall beside it was littered with drawings, created by a kid’s hand. All Might. Endeavor. A small, winged child, wearing a bright hero costume.

            ‘Fuck’s sake, Pigeon,’ Dabi muttered, kicking the trash with his boot.

            Finding the house had been easy. Hawks’ mother had shared the information a month ago, and while her memories from that time seemed to have scattered, gone with time, she’d managed to provide a location. It hadn’t seemed relevant, then.

            It was now.

            Dabi stuffed his hands into his pockets, a frown pulling the corners of his mouth down. He’d needed to see it for himself—the childhood Keigo Takami had left behind in exchange for the HSPC. His mother had admitted she’d gotten a hefty sum for it, now paying for a wealthy lifestyle. It was a fancy way of saying she’d sold her son, discarding him in exchange for a better life.

            The Commission had bought Keigo. Renamed him. Reformed him.

            Dabi’s jaw clenched. He’d be a hypocrite if he said he didn’t know how badly it could fuck with you to be cast aside by a parent like that. He’d never forgiven his old man—never would. If it were up to him, Endeavor would suffer, like Dabi had suffered. He had to feel the pain he caused his son when he’d given up on him, discarded him like it was nothing. Like that shit didn’t cut deep.

            Dabi had embraced the hatred. Revelled in it.

            Hawks seemed to have gone the other way, suppressing the emotions related to negative events in his life, hollowing himself out to make room for the person the Commission desired him to be. Any desire for vengeance was suppressed by the need to survive, to thrive, to make something of his life. An odd parallel.

            Dabi crouched in the corner, using a stick to push the blankets apart. The remnants of feathers, unmistakably red, were scattered in-between, as if hastily hidden. Unwilling to be a burden, even at that age, hiding anything that might be an inconvenience.  

            You never stood a chance—depends on how you view it.

            They ensured my potential wasn’t wasted.

            Not just politically correct answers, but likely the truth, at least to a six-year-old child. He had nothing. Would have nothing, if things went on like that, and the Commission had likely been the first to extend a hand to the bird. Of course, he took it—of course, he’d concluded that a life with them was better than no life at all.

            Hawks hadn’t existed before he was six. Dabi had initially assumed it was because the Commission had locked away his birth certificate, breaking all ties he had to the Takami name, but it went further than that. He’d never been registered. Didn’t receive any medical care, didn’t go to school, barely went outside, by the looks of it.

            The Commission had seen his potential, an easy way to rope him in, and had ensured he was well aware that they were the ones who made him who he was today. That whatever was given could be taken away with ease. That much had been clear from how Hawks reacted to the fabricated video. Dabi had seen him try to fight the reaction of his body, the deep-rooted panic that overrode any training the Commission gave him. Had seen him deflated, yet still trying to cling to what he knew, attempting to salvage what he’d unwittingly given away, as if scared of what might happen if he didn’t.

            A small, winged child with a bright hero costume.

            A caged bird in the service of a corrupt government.

            Dabi turned, leaving the house behind and walking outside. Tomura stood below a tree just outside the fence, his back pressed against the trunk, hood pulled up to shield himself from the rain. His ash grey hair peeked out from underneath, a few stray drops caught on the tips.

            ‘Found what you wanted in there?’ he asked.

            Dabi halted a few steps away, allowing the rain to soak his jacket. Steam rose from his fingertips as the water evaporated against his skin. ‘Did you know?’

            ‘What—that the bird grew up poor?’ Shigaraki shrugged. ‘I had my suspicions, given that Tomie Takami was more than willing to part with him for the right price. Mothers don’t usually sell their children unless they balance on the edge of desperation.’

            ‘And the Commission?’ Dabi’s voice became lower the more he spoke. ‘Did you know how they trained him?’

            ‘I recall asking you to figure that out.’

            Dabi grunted, looking back at the house. ‘He didn’t say much, but parts are easily pieced together. This was how he lived, before. Hardly a life. The Commission grabbed him at his lowest and promised to make him a hero. Then continued to break him down, sealing all escape routes, conditioning him to endure anything. Everything.’ Flames licked his knuckles, his hands, bright blue in the dim light of the moon.

            ‘You seem to care.’

            He glared at Tomura. ‘I’m angry. There’s a difference.’   

            ‘Have you grown a conscience, Touya?’ Tomura angled his head. ‘You practically begged me to be the one to retrieve this information. To be the hand inflicting pain, enacting your need for revenge on those who’ve wronged you.’

            ‘He killed Twice.’

            ‘As you’ve said. Yet you walk through his childhood home, empathising with him, scowling at the fact that you didn’t know all the details before you scorched him and sliced him up. That sounds an awful lot like regret.’ Tomura hummed. ‘What do you see in him?’

            ‘Nothing. Just a personification of the flaws of this fucked up society.’ Dabi glared when Tomura only eyed him calmly, one eyebrow raised. ‘Stop looking at me like that.’

            ‘I’d say it’s telling that we’re here rather than at the hideout, considering that this trip provides no information we didn’t already know.’

            ‘You didn’t have to come.’

            ‘Consider me curious.’ Tomura shrugged loosely. ‘Toga said she found you sitting in the cell on the day of the raid. Staring at the bird. Saying that things weren’t right. You claimed you didn’t get anything useful from the bird, yet you asked Kurogiri to take you here a few days later.’ There was no question, just clear statements.

            Dabi scoffed. ‘Spit it out already.’

            ‘I think the bird intrigues you. I think you see yourself in him. An unwelcome child, a rough childhood. Influenced by forces out of their control, shaped by life in unforeseen ways. Someone trained to be a hero despite what might be best for him.’

            ‘Don’t make me something I’m not, Shiggy.’

            ‘Just observing.’ The leader shrugged. ‘I have no practical use for the bird anymore. Knowing that the rumours about the Commission’s training program are true is a start, but they will likely sweep this under the rug the same way they do everything else. As long as Keigo Takami doesn’t speak out against them himself, he’s useless to us, and given the tight grip the Commission has on his psyche, he won’t talk willingly. Perhaps he’ll spiral and break now that you’ve cracked his mental shields, but if not, he’s just another hero. Expendable. So if he bothers you this much, just take him out.’

            ‘Just like that.’

            ‘Just like that—unless you wish to continue this little investigation. Also fine by me; I have plans to make. As long as you’re clear on the goal, you can do whatever.’

            The goal. Dabi turned back towards the house, held together by scattered memories and sheer luck. He’d known that while their goals were aligned, Tomura’s plans and his own didn’t fully overlap. Tomura wished to watch it all cave in, to see hero society collapse under the strain of his actions and discover what would rise from its ashes.

            Dabi figured his goal was justice. For the son he’d been. For the unattainable ideal, the unshakable fantasy that heroes had become. They were idols, perfect pictures, a life a person would forever envy. A lie. He wished for people to see his father for what he truly was—a maniac, hurting those closest to him in his desire to surpass all perceived limits.

            And he supposed he wanted the Commission to feel the same suffering, for upholding it, for shaping the world in which a father would cast a son aside because he proved a useless successor. For constantly pushing kids further, harder, for making them fight for a spot in their elite schools, stepping on others to make it to the top.

            For forcing children into servitude before they understood who they were as a person.

            ‘I need a bit longer,’ he said to Tomura without facing him.

            ‘You know how to reach Kurogiri; return whenever. I’ll let you know if you’re needed, but we’re lying low as it is. Who knows, perhaps you’ll learn something useful.’ The soft clicking of his phone’s keyboard followed, likely to arrange a portal for himself.

            Fire trailed up Dabi’s arms, warming the rain-chilled skin. ‘I know what the goal is, Tomura. I just need to understand. To know more. Call it an itch.’

            ‘I’m not judging.’ Tomura stepped forward, eyeing the desolate remains of Hawks’ home. ‘I, too, was a child like him. We don’t often get to pick the paths we can choose to walk. The options are limited, especially when born in a hostile environment. I understand the allure of wanting to understand the choices another made to end up the way they did.’

            ‘We’re not the same.’

            ‘Similar enough. As long as you trust your judgement and remember that the bird was raised by the Commission to cater for their every demand. He can’t help but serve them. You shouldn’t get attached to an animal who’ll inevitably end up dead.’ Tomura said it casually, but Dabi felt the intensity of his gaze.

            ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Dabi extended his hand, a wave of blue flames shooting out, engulfing the house before them. The drenched wood sputtered, unwilling to catch on fire, but the heat was unforgiving. Soon enough, large flames licked the sides of the building, slowly burning up every scrap of Hawks’ past.  

            Dabi kept his eyes on the burning building while Tomura left the field, the warp portal closing with a flash of purple. Thick smoke wafted up, blotting out the moon’s light. In the distance, a siren was building in volume as the nearby town realised something was going up in flames.

            Answers. He just needed some answers. Something to overthrow the image of the panic in the bird’s eyes, not because he might die, but because he wasn’t supposed to feel it. Just a few titbits of information to know that the kid who grew up in this house was now gone, like the child who walked the halls of Endeavor’s house was long dead.

            Just until he found a reason to kill Hawks and have it be the right thing to do.

Chapter Text

True to his word, Shouta returned the next day, his presence announced by a faint knock on the door. Keigo, dressed in stained sweatpants, had only opened the door and walked back into the apartment, leaving it to the eraser hero to act as he wished while he refilled his tumbler of whiskey in the kitchen. Muffled sounds from the TV filled the apartment—reruns of a show Keigo couldn’t begin to name. It didn’t matter much what was on, as long as it filled the silence.

            Shouta said nothing as he walked into the kitchen, emptying paper bags with groceries into the fridge and drawers. Keigo watched as Shouta took a fresh apple and sliced it into pieces, putting the parts in a bowl which he placed in front of Keigo. No words, just the gesture, his binding scarf moving idly while he worked.

            He cleaned the counter. Did a quick sweep through the apartment, straightening furniture and tossing laundry into the basket. He opened the windows. Wiped stains from a spilt drink off the floor. Smiled when he saw that in the meantime, Keigo had finished the apple.

            And then he left, once again stating he’d return the next day—and he did. Few words, just him showing up. Checking in. Making sure Keigo was still alive.

            On the fifth day, Keigo had asked, ‘Why bother?’

            Shouta had merely shrugged, tying the trash bag closed. ‘Because you’re going through something. Because you’d never ask for help. And because everyone deserves someone who gives a damn whether they live or die, not because of the purpose they might serve, but because of the person behind the quirk. You deserve to be taken care of, Hawks. You’re worth the time.’

            The night that followed, Keigo had hurled a whole bottle of wine against the wall, glass shattering everywhere. He’d fallen onto his knees, a scream ripped from his throat until it was ragged, until his voice grew hoarse and the tears fell.

            Worth the time.

            He wasn’t. Had no right to desire such kindness, to be deserving of anyone’s attention. Not after everything he’d turned a blind eye to. Not after he allowed the Commission to turn him into this person—this weapon. Not after everything he’d endured and inflicted. He’d be lucky if people still wished to look him in the eye if they knew.

            His tumbler had followed, the crystal splitting, small shards skittering across the hardwood floor, wine dripping down the wall like it’d been shot point blank.  

            Keigo didn’t know how long he’d sat there, palms pressed against the ground, his back arched with his wings strained painfully taut. Amid his panic, he’d tried to clean up some of the glass, but his hands were shaking so badly that he’d only ended up cutting himself. Blood merged with the red wine, the familiar fade of blackness creeping in when his breaths became laboured heaves of air.

            Snap out of it. Snap out of it. Snap out of it.

            Somehow, he’d managed to drag himself to the shower, legs drawn up to his chest as he sat underneath the cold stream until he was soaked and shivering, clutching his head while blood bloomed in the water running down the drain.

            It was like this that Shouta had found him that next morning, now carrying a spare key that Keigo had begrudgingly given him the other day.

            But the eraser hero hadn’t said anything, his calm presence void of judgement. He’d looked at the cuts on Keigo’s palms, expertly plucking the stray pieces of glass from the wounds with a tweezer. Quietly, he’d asked whether Keigo wanted to go to the hospital for stitches.

            When Keigo had shaken his head, Shouta had simply grabbed the medical kit and done it himself, no questions asked. With practised motions, he’d stitched and bandaged Keigo’s hands, helping him into a dry change of clothes and placing him on the couch while he cleaned up the remnants of the bottle and the wine.

            Keigo had merely buried his face into a pillow and allowed sleep to sweep him away.

He didn’t drink that night. Beside him, a glass of water and some pain medications had been placed with care on the side table. His phone was there, too, along with a brief message on a sticky note.  

            Call me if you need anything. I’ll be back in the morning – S.

            Keigo hadn’t; his gaze was on the red stain on the wall, barely blinking. He felt empty. Hollow. He knew he should try to drag himself out of this pit, like he’d done time and time again after the weight of his existence threatened to drown him, but the memories of Dabi’s words kept him firmly anchored at the bottom.

            Jin trusted you. Considered you a friend. Are you innocent by that logic?

            The villain, Hawks.

            Innocence was relative, but Keigo knew he’d lost his a long time ago, his hands stained no matter how hard he tried to wash off the blood. He’d learned how to hide it, used bright smiles, witty responses and a care-free attitude in his favour, but it was band aids and glue at best, attempts to ensure no one knew what was festering underneath his skin.

            He’d once wished to become a hero. He became the Commission’s blade instead.   

            Keigo had stopped looking too closely at his targets, whether they were truly guilty or just in the Commission’s way, whether they had friends, a family left behind that depended on them. He distanced himself from what he was forced to do regularly since it was the only way to ensure his mind didn’t fully fracture, the weight of his actions already fraying his sense of self.

            He wasn’t even surprised Dabi had retaliated. Keigo had killed Twice, who’d been their friend, and a relatively good man. Better than Keigo in many ways, anyway. Many people would surely like to do the same things the League had done to him, to make him feel the same pain Keigo inflicted on them. The only reason it may have taken this long before Keigo felt the backlash of his actions was because he typically ensured there were no witnesses left to identify him, the kills unclaimed.

            And there was no end to it. Each time Keigo worked a mission and his feathers took another life on the Commission’s orders, their hold on him grew stronger. They held the records of all those deaths and schemes, a tally that ensured he’d never work as a hero again if it saw the light of day. Hell, he’d likely be tossed in a pit of Tartarus, never to be heard from again.

            There was no way out. He was stuck, forced to continue this balancing act of morals, wondering when the time would come that he could no longer keep up appearances. That he would finally, irreparably, fall apart.  

            Yet Shouta had decided to care regardless. To show up and look after him despite being well aware that he knew barely anything about Keigo. He’d shown up at the apartment, found him in pieces, and decided he was worth being put together. Not expandable. Not useless until proven otherwise, but worth the time.

            Even if he didn’t deserve it, Keigo wanted to believe it.

            His gaze snagged on the stain again, jaw clenched. He had little control over his life or actions, but perhaps he could try to claim some. To be worthy of some of the faith Shouta had put on him. One step in the right direction; that was all he had to do. It wouldn’t change anything he’d done. It wouldn’t fix the larger problems at hand. But it would still be a step.

            He reached for his phone, opening the thread with Shouta. There were a few unread messages from the days before he’d shown up, most asking whether he was okay. Whether he was alive. A threat to go after the Commission if he didn’t pick up his phone soon.

            Without thinking about it too much, Keigo typed a quick message.

            Keigo (3:53 am): Do you have spare paint?

            He hadn’t expected an answer at this time of night, but it came nonetheless.  

            Shouta (3:54 am): Which colour?

            No questions. No judgment. Unbidden, the corner of Keigo’s mouth twitched up. His eyes shifted to the wall, which had been a faded taupe before the incident. Nondescript. Distant. He’d thought he put his stamp on this place, but all he did was decorate it how he thought the Commission would like. The way a pro hero’s apartment should look, with modern furniture, clean walls, and sleek appliances.

            The only fragment of personality were the fridge magnets, small snippets from the places he’d been to on missions. He didn’t get vacation days, but this way, it still felt like he went places. Like he had that kind of freedom. Still, they were minor, easily stored away if someone came over. He didn’t want to hide anymore.

            So, after a pause, he typed another message.

            Keigo (3:58 am): Something green. Like the forest.

            Shouta (3:59 am): Got it. Try to get some sleep. I’ll see you in a few hours.

Shouta arrived early the next morning, clothed in a washed-out sweater and ripped jeans, carrying two cans of green paint and an array of brushes.

            Keigo arched an eyebrow. ‘You had all of this to spare?’

            ‘Sure. Let’s go with that.’ The eraser hero pushed past Keigo and into the living room, placing the cans on the floor next to the wine-covered wall, getting straight to the point. ‘Got any cardboard or old blankets we can use to cover the floor?’

            ‘You don’t have to—’

            ‘I don’t have to do anything. I want to. Besides, if the paint job on these walls is any indication, you should want me to. Guess we finally discovered something you’re not good at.’

            Keigo shrugged. ‘Harder than it looks. Don’t have any cardboard, but trash bags should be in the kitchen—we can use those.’

            They made quick work of pushing the furniture aside and sticking the plastic bags to the floor with some tape. Shouta opened one of the paint cans, stirring it a few times before dunking it into a painter’s tray and handing Keigo one of the rollers.

            While loading up his own, he said, ‘You know you don’t have to throw wine at your wall if you want to paint it a different colour, right?’

            Keigo huffed, the sound almost resembling a laugh. ‘Figured I’d try out some colours. Red wasn’t a good fit; green might be.’ He put the brush against the wall, frowning when barely any paint stuck to it after the first stroke.

            ‘You need to press harder,’ Shouta said. ‘And make longer strokes, like this.’ He ran the roller across the wall, reaching far above his head and bringing the brush all the way down. ‘You can also use that smaller brush across the edges. With those wings, you can reach the ceiling better than I can, anyway.’

            And just like that, they found their rhythm. Keigo flew near the ceiling, trying to make clean lines while Shouta ran the roller across the wall, covering the stain with a few broad strokes.

            It felt good to be busy. To feel the slight ache in his muscles from a day well-spent, to lose track of time not because he wished it to go by faster, but because he didn’t bother to check the clock.

            When he worked on the corners around a light switch, Keigo took a deep breath, and for the first time in days, it felt like a relief when he blew the air out. With his back towards Shouta, he said, ‘I’m sorry. For being... the way I was, these past days.’

            ‘No need.’

            ‘There is. You didn’t have to come by. Didn’t have to want to, yet you still cared even though I was being a dick about it. Just... thanks. I guess.’

            ‘For what it’s worth, you can talk to me about it.’ Shouta said casually. ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but don’t keep it all in just because you believe that’s the only way to get through. I happen to be a decent listener.’

            Keigo’s hand stilled, the brush still pressed against the wall. A drop of paint crawled down, its path stained a dark green. Tentatively, he said, ‘There are things I can’t say. Am not allowed to say. Shouldn’t... feel.’

            ‘What you can and cannot say is between you and the Commission, I suppose, but no one can dictate how you feel about things, Hawks. It just happens; it’s natural. You can wish it to be otherwise, but your body will override your mind nine out of ten times.’

            ‘I know.’ He caught the drop of paint with his brush, smearing it across the wall. ‘But they’ll expect me to try, nonetheless. To succeed. It’s what I was trained for.’

            For a moment, the silence was only broken by the soft squeak of the roller as Shouta made another stroke. Then, he asked, ‘What was it like? To be trained by the Commission?’

            ‘Difficult.’ Keigo’s grip on the brush tightened. ‘I was young when they recruited me, but they saw my potential, and I was just happy to be seen. To be recognised. Didn’t know what it would entail to become a hero, but I figured it was better than the life I left behind.’

            ‘Was it?’

            ‘The bar was low.’ He shrugged. ‘There were a few other kids—I liked those. And it was nice to go to school since my father never... I didn’t go, before. But the regime was strict, and I rarely left the Commission. Most of the kids went away after a while, unfit for the program, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so the only thing I could do was keep going. The training became harder the older I got. The expectations higher. And now... They spent a lot of money to make me the way I am. I can’t fall apart like this; I’m still needed.’

            ‘If it’s not what you want anymore—’

            ‘It’s not a choice, Shou.’ A sliver of the truth, skimming the surface of the turmoil in his mind, but Keigo figured he could at least provide this much. Knowing Shouta, he’d already had his suspicions, his stance towards the Commission growing colder the longer the two of them knew each other.

            When Keigo turned his head, Shouta was frowning, his hand stilled in the air between him and the wall. The eraser hero sighed. ‘Do they know what this is doing to you?’

            ‘They do. They’re trying to fix it.’

            ‘Fix it, or fix you?’

            Keigo didn’t answer, allowing the silence to fill in the gaps. Shouta’s gaze darkened, but he only asked, ‘Is there anything you can do to stop it?’

            ‘Some things you just have to endure.’ He scratched his chin, the stubble beginning to grow too long for his liking, but shaving meant staring at his reflection, something he’d avoided since that first night. Softly, he added, ‘It’ll get better. I’ll be back on the streets in no time—will likely receive word from the Commission with a new assignment soon. But last week was a lot, as was the month before. You happened to catch me at a low point.’  

            ‘A low point,’ Shouta echoed dryly. ‘Yeah, I’d say that getting kidnapped and tortured would be a low point. You nearly died, Hawks.’

            ‘I’ll be fine.’  

            ‘At what cost? Most people wouldn’t expect themselves to bounce back this fast. I doubt the public would even expect you to return this quickly if they knew what you went through.’

            ‘But they don’t.’ The Commission had made sure of it; their statement had been released before Keigo left the hospital. They only revealed that he’d been held captive, but said he was unharmed otherwise, the hideout abandoned. That it’d been a stroke of luck that no damage had been done. Pretty lies to uphold a false image.

            ‘I know you don’t care much about public image, Shouta, but I’m number two—I have a duty to fulfil, to the Commission, to society. All Might’s gone, and Endeavor’s a liability with his family history. After the backlash I received when I eliminated Twice, I can’t afford to now be seen as weak.’ Keigo sighed, bone-weary.

            ‘No matter what I’m going through, no matter the role of the HSPC, I can’t shake this responsibility. Faith in heroes will unravel if those at the top cannot keep people safe, and then the entire structure of hero society will be at risk.’

            ‘Which is exactly what Shigaraki would want.’ Shouta cursed under his breath. ‘Fine. I get it. Just... talk to me. If it gets too much. If you reach a low point. No need for obligatory smiles or flashy behaviour if we’re on patrol, just be honest with me.’

            Honest. Keigo knew it was something he couldn’t promise, not entirely. There were too many eyes on him, too much about him that was never allowed to see the light of day. Keigo wouldn't have revealed this much if Shouta hadn’t come by the other day, and even now, it’d likely been better altogether if he’d kept his mouth shut.

            But one step. Taking the hand extended, accepting help from someone who seemed to care more about who he was than what it would mean to lose him as an asset, perhaps for the first time in Keigo’s life. He could do that.

            So, hoping to stay true to his word, Keigo said, ‘I’ll try.’     

Chapter Text

The rainclouds had finally parted, revealing a scattering of stars and the waning moon, dulled by light pollution and smog. Dabi stood atop a building across Hawks Agency, his hood pulled up, a mask covering the lower half of his face to hide the most prominent scars. He’d draped his arms across the railing, hands wrapped in thick, black gloves.

            Behind him, a security guard lay unconscious against the wall. Not much of a threat, but a safety measure. Leverage, if needed. Dabi had taken him out with ease, more fright than force, and didn’t bother to spare him another glance as he kept his eyes trained on the windows on the other side of the street.

            They were a few levels higher than the building he was on but conceitedly large, spanning from floor to ceiling, and likely served as a solid vantage point to see the entire city on a clear day. It screamed of arrogance, of one who believed themselves invincible at a height no one else could reach.

            It would’ve likely annoyed him more had he not had eyes on the owner, who sat cross-legged on the floor with an ease that’d made Dabi pause. Hawks’ wings were draped behind him, the lustrous red feathers covering the hardwood floor like a blanket, for once not firmly held up like the image of power the bird always desperately tried to portray. He seemed relaxed, informal, his quirk an afterthought as he flipped through a manga.

            It was so normal, so excruciatingly mundane, that Dabi hadn’t taken his eyes off it for the past five minutes, wondering how this was the same man who’d smiled his way through laceration after laceration, cracking jokes with a flame at his throat.

            One infuriating contradiction after the other.

            Dabi scoffed, hand resting on the folder in the inside pocket of his coat. He’d put Skeptic to work, told the man he’d fry him alive if he didn’t find something more useful than a former name and some scraps of hero work. The nerd had computer skills to spare—what use was he if he couldn’t put them to use?

            The threat had proven effective since the folder was delivered to his safehouse a few days ago, the information scathing enough for Dabi to risk a trip to this rooftop. He’d been searching for reasons—fucking hated that he needed them to begin with, but here he was, loaded with a renewed arsenal of ammunition to take the bird down.

            It didn’t matter how fucked up Hawks was, how tragic his life had been. Didn’t matter that for one moment, Dabi had felt a flicker of what may have been remorse. If what Skeptic found out was true, Dabi could get this over with and return to what he’d always set out to do—surpass his father. Force him to acknowledge his existence, no matter how deep his denial was, and burn it all to the fucking ground. At least that’d be more worthwhile than obsessing over a bird plucked from the sky by the HPSC.

            He could torch the penthouse if he wished; just one well-placed burst of fire would be enough to combust it into cinders. Sure, he’d have to flee the city. Any chance of keeping a low profile would be forgotten if someone caught sight of his blue flames, but it wouldn’t matter. His only reason for sticking around would’ve turned to ash by then, blown away like feathers to the wind.

            But Dabi wanted to hear the truth from the bird. To see the look in his eyes when Hawks realised this dark, disturbing part of himself would no longer be hidden, the information one keystroke away from breaching to the public. He wanted to see the illusion of innocence shatter, the cracks in that damned smirk of his, the death of the picture perfect hero the Commission had turned him into.

            Perhaps that would be enough to replace the memory of those golden eyes, resigned and too-far gone. To finally shift the anger ignited in that cellar, turning it towards the bird rather than having it burn for him. It had to be.

            Inside, Hawks rose to his feet, leaving the manga on the floor as he entered the kitchen, disappearing from Dabi’s line of sight. The apartment was spacious, and its open floor plan made keeping track of the bird difficult. Dabi stepped sideways, craning his neck a little to get a better view, but part of the wall was blocking it. Where the fuck...

            He didn’t see the feather until it’d cut his bicep, deep and vicious.

            Dabi cursed, a flash of fire running up his arm to cauterise the wound while he ducked and rolled aside. He came up to a crouch next to the security guard at the same time two more feathers came at him, slicing deep cuts into his cheek and lower arm, the blood instantly trickling down his scarred skin. The pain was minimal; the annoyance at being caught off guard was more bothersome than the wounds.

            Dabi laughed, low and rasping. ‘Hi there, Pigeon.’

            ‘Stand down.’ Hawks burst from the sky, feather blades in hand, a few dozen feathers shooting at Dabi and stopping an inch from his body. A fluffy red cage, a valiant attempt at keeping him contained, was it not that he could burn the feathers away with half a thought.

            The bird wasn’t stupid—annoyingly clever at times, even. He must’ve known that he’d give up all advantage he gained by sneaking up on Dabi if he revealed himself, yet there he stood, body ready to strike, wings held high, as if he had something to prove. As if, by staring Dabi down rather than operating from the shadows, he’d somehow convince himself that the emotion flickering in those golden irises was bravery rather than fear.

            Dabi smiled as he angled his head, eyes trailing at the guard beside him. His hand was curled around the man’s throat, idle flames licking his fingers, tauntingly close to the guard’s skin. ‘The entrance was a bit dramatic, but I suppose that’s expected from the number two hero. Never skipping an opportunity for flair. Lose the feathers, will you? Would be a shame if this guy got his throat ripped out because you can’t control your temper.’

            Hawks’ gaze shot to the man, eyes narrowing a fraction. ‘Let him go.’

            ‘Not until you and I have a little talk. I promised you one, after all.’

            His jaw clenched, the grip on the blades tightening until his knuckles turned white. Then, the feathers retreated, not entirely, but enough to allow Dabi to sit up straighter.

            Dabi let out an amused huff. ‘Good bird.’

            Hawks stepped backwards, leaning against the roof’s railing as if he couldn’t quite help himself. They’d met like this many times before, albeit without the guard tossed between them like a human shield. Back when the bird had tried to weasel his way into the League, all easy grins and jokes, arrogance and half-lidded stares.

            The smile was gone now, thinned lips taking its place. ‘Well, then. Talk.’

            ‘What, no witty commentary today? You used to dance around the point with grace when you were trying to join us. What happened to the hero who was so desperate to grey his morals for the sake of, what was it, an easier life?’

            ‘You strung him up and left him for dead.’ Hawks’ voice was flat.

            Dabi’s laugh came as a rasped breath of air. ‘Good—I prefer this side of you. All raw edges and desperation.’

            ‘Best talk fast,’ Hawks snapped. ‘I’ve called for back-up; they’ll be here soon.’

            ‘No, you didn’t.’ Dabi rose to his feet, his hand still extended, a flame kept alive in his palm. The blue hue coated his face in flickering shadows, his grin never wavering. ‘You may have thought about it, but your ego got in the way. Or perhaps that fear of failure, rooted deep in your mind. What would happen if the Commission found out I beat you again? Better if there are no witnesses to your potential death than to be held accountable, right?’

            A muscle ticked in the bird’s jaw, but he didn’t deny it. ‘Why are you here?’

            Dabi pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with his free hand, taking his time lighting one up and enjoying the fractures in Hawks’ distant expression. Everything was too rigid, too desperate in his attempts to maintain composure. A tight bowstring, bound to snap.

            ‘We used to meet like this, remember?’ he said, blowing out a puff of smoke. ‘You always scattered those feathers around then, too, hoping to pick up something useful. Figured you’d use similar tactics as surveillance for your home, and see; predictable as ever.’  

            ‘So you knew I’d notice you. Good for you. That doesn’t answer my question.’

            ‘So quick to get to the point.’ Dabi reached inside his jacket, the file dangling between scarred fingers. ‘Figured I’d give you a chance to explain yourself before I end what I started in the mountains.’

            Gold eyes flicked to the file, but Hawks didn’t say anything. Dabi took another drag from the cigarette, smoke leaching from the gaps around his stitches. Slowly, he said, ‘I know about the missions.’

            A flash of wary surprise, there and gone again. ‘I’m a pro hero. That’s public information.’

            ‘Not those missions.’ Dabi threw the file on the ground between them, papers wafting from the cardboard folder. Before the wind could catch them, Hawks crouched down, snatching the file up and flipping through the pages. The more he read, the more he stiffened, a tightness spreading from his neck down his shoulders. The feathers expanded in the air between them began to tremble.

            Slowly, he asked, ‘What is this?’

            ‘Cut the crap, birdbrain.’ Dabi stepped closer and plucked a piece of paper from the file, feeling a distant satisfaction that Hawks didn’t even try to hold on to it. The file contained names, pictures. Birthdays. But more importantly, the day they’d died; unclaimed murders, until Skeptic managed to tie them to the hero in front of him.

           Dabi cocked his head. ‘Tell me, Pigeon. When did you forsake your humanity and begin killing for sport? What would your fans say if they knew how bloody the hands of the Commission’s prized bird truly were?’

            ‘You don’t know shit, Dabi.’ The words were clipped, those golden eyes glossing over with a numbness Dabi had come to recognise back in the cellar. A distancing between mind and body, preparation for the worst. A conditioned response.

            Dabi’s eyes narrowed. ‘The fuck you think you’re doing?’

            Hawks blinked, a flash of surprise that was quickly snuffed out. Each emotion was calculated and kept in perfect balance to avoid losing control. Over himself. Over the situation. Over his entire fucking life. Pathetic.

            Dabi crossed the last of the distance, the heat radiating from his body curling he edges of the paper in Hawks’ hands. ‘You’re not blocking this out, Pigeon. You’re going to feel this. Acknowledge it. You can’t hide behind this pretty face forever. You heroes are all fucking hypocrites, pretending to be oh so innocent when you’re no better than us. It’s about time people found out what you do when you think no one’s looking.’

            ‘You think I don’t fucking know?’ The bird swallowed, jaw clenching. ‘You think I need these fucking files to remember their faces? Unlike you, I remember every single one, Dabi, and you don’t know shit about what I do or don’t feel.’ A quiet fire lit inside his eyes, smouldering but persistent. Anger. Resentment, perhaps; Dabi couldn’t quite tell.

            ‘Enlighten me,’ he said, staying put even when feathers started to whir around them, flying faster and faster in an ever-continuing circle until they were all but a blur of red.

            ‘Why? So you can throw it back in my face, twist it into a knife you can jam between my ribs again? I don’t owe you shit, so go ahead; fight. Kill me if that’s what you came here for. But I’ll not play this game.’

            ‘What would the HPSC say if they saw you lose composure like this, number two?’

            The bird’s laugh was hollow. ‘They’ll turn this into a teachable moment with or without composure, so what the hell.’

            Impossibly fast, the feathers changed course.

            All at once, they came down on Dabi, dozens of thin cuts peppering his skin before his flames shot up in retaliation to burn them to ash. He stumbled, and a feather blade was there to catch him, a clean cut slicing through the back of his leg. Dabi barked a curse, his knee giving out as slick blood dripped down his thigh.

            ‘Fucking hell,’ he muttered, shooting fire in the bird’s general direction, but he’d disappeared—as did the guard. Damned heroes and their desire to spare human life.

            Dabi pressed his burning hand against the cut on his leg, hissing through his teeth as the burn fused the skin back together. He pushed to his feet, leg protesting when he put weight on it, but he still scanned the sky for a bird-shaped figure. A feather, a blade, something. When nothing showed, he sent a burst of flames sky-high, blasting away the shadows Hawks clung to, but he was fast—too fast, another clean cut of his feather blade slicing Dabi’s side.

            ‘Stop teasing, Pigeon,’ Dabi drawled.

            Hawks’ answer came in a spree of feathers, aimed at his face.

            Dabi ducked, narrowly avoiding impact, his hand leaving a blackened imprint on the roof’s tiles. A realisation dawned on him, then, faintly in the back of his head.

            He’d never seen the bird fight like this.

           The past two times had been in Dabi’s favour. Confined spaces, quickly filled up by his flames before Hawks had time to get out of range. The Commission might’ve trained him to perfection, but without his wings, he was little more than a human—no match against Dabi’s fire. But here, outside, with the entirety of the sky to retreat to, shadows to hide in, and his wings at full strength, Hawks claimed the advantage.

            And Dabi, irritated as he had been, had blindly walked into it.

            He straightened, arms loosening at his sides, palms facing forward. If Hawks wasn’t holding back, if he truly wished to test the limits, then Dabi sure as hell wouldn’t go down easily either. He’d burn the bird’s entire agency to the ground if he had to, didn’t care who fell a casualty, as long as the Hawks burned with it.

            Dabi breathed deeply, focusing on his hands, the ever-building heat beneath his skin always a spark away from being released.

            But somehow, this time, his flames didn’t come.

            He stared at his fingers, feeling the heat recede, the wind suddenly cool against his palms. Then, something wrapped around him, tight, his arms pressed against his sides as he was forced onto the ground. Dabi grunted, muscles straining against the white scarf, but the fabric was unforgiving, his flames silenced in his veins.

            ‘Villains and their talking.’ Eraserhead sighed as he stepped closer, long fingers gripping the binding scarf with practised composure. His unblinking eyes burned bright red, never leaving Dabi.

            In a gust of air, Hawks landed beside the hero, wings folding neatly at his back as a few stray feathers returned to them, filling out the deck. His golden eyes narrowed, the fire in them snuffed out and replaced by the firm determination all heroes seemed to practice when they looked in the mirror. ‘You assume too much, Dabi.’

            ‘Likewise,’ Dabi growled. He shifted his hands, dragging them along the underside of his binds until one of the staples on the back of his hand caught on the scarf. He yanked, ripping the fabric apart, and used the momentary slack to duck out of their grasp and roll away.

            Blood dripped down his fingers from where a few staples had torn from his skin, leaving a trail on the stones, but he ignored it. He rose to his feet and observed the two heroes before him with cold disdain. ‘So you got backup after all—is it pride you’re after?’

            ‘It’s time you surrender,’ Eraserhead said, the remains of his scarf coiling around his shoulders like an angry snake. ‘There’s no place left for you to go, Dabi.’

            ‘This doesn’t concern you, Eraser,’ Dabi said, copying the formal tone of the hero. He turned his attention to Hawks, fingers curling at his sides, his anger winding itself tighter and tighter around his bones. ‘You, however, are point and centre, bird. Might as well tell me now: what’s it about? Can’t seem to break out of this shitty deal, so you take your frustration out on others? Or were you simply willing to sell every part of yourself to maintain the hero lifestyle, clawing your way out of that shithole you called home with whatever means necessary? I burned it down, by the way. Figured you’d want to know.’

            Hawks’ hands trembled, the impassive mask cracking at its edges. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

            Dabi didn’t miss the sideways glance Eraserhead cast in Hawks’ direction, brow furrowing slightly when he heard the curse; when he noticed the fraying composure.

            Dabi let out a dry chuckle, jerking his chin at the hero. ‘Does he know what you do when the cameras aren’t watching? Does he know about the blood clinging to those pristine feathers? Red seems a fitting colour—perhaps you were always meant to be a weapon, birdie.’

            ‘That’s enough.’ The binding scarf shot out again, but Dabi evaded, his body moving on its own as his training kicked in. No fire was needed to excel in physical combat, and while Endeavor may have been a rotten carcass of a father, hollowed out by his greed, he’d been a skilful teacher. Without missing a beat, he released a knife aimed at the hero’s chest.

            Eraser was forced to jump back to avoid its trajectory, the knife burying itself into the wall, missing him by an inch.

            ‘Shush now; the damned are talking,’ Dabi mused, attention shifting back to the bird.

            Hawks seemed to balance on the edge of panic and desperation, gripping his feather blades tight enough for the shaft to bend.

            Dabi smirked. ‘They don’t even force you to do it, do they? You just go to whoever the Commission names, a silent blade for them to utilise and abuse. A mindless soldier with no agency, no self-worth. Your actions aren’t even your own, yet you do shit all to change a thing about it. Tell me, if they gave the order to kill Eraserhead here, how fast would you shove your blade into his back?’

            Hawks flinched, visceral and sudden. His feathers trembled as if caught in a breeze as a shudder ran through him. Still, he didn’t speak. Dabi saw the thoughts churning, moves and countermoves flashing behind those golden eyes without a set course of action.

            Then, the bird’s jaw clenched, a certain finality reflected in the motion.  

            ‘Enough,’ he said, voice rasping from his throat. ‘Why do you even care? It’s nothing you haven’t done time and time again, so what does it matter?’

            ‘Because I own it, Pigeon. I don’t pretend to be some pious fucking hero, parading around the city with feathers shoved up my ass. You heroes are all the same, pretence and fake smiles, as if your hands aren’t just as stained as ours. As if your fucking image, your public appeal, is worth more than the damage you do to gain it.’

            ‘It’s not like I have a fucking choice.’ His face contorted, like he hadn’t meant to say it. He grunted, agitation reverberating from the sound. A flurry of feathers shot at Dabi, catching on his coat, his body, shoving him against the wall with force.

            Hawks took a step closer, breathing deeply as if to steady himself. ‘No choice,’ he muttered, more to himself, the blade in his hand lifting until it pressed against the hollow of Dabi’s throat.

            ‘Hawks,’ Eraserhead warned, concern colouring his voice. Above them, a helicopter neared, drawn to their spot by the flames and people shouting at them from the street below. Soon, the press would be on them, cameras running non-stop so as not to miss a second of the spectacle.

            Still, Hawks didn’t move.

            ‘Well? Do it,’ Dabi drawled, leaning into the blade until he felt the tip of the feather pierce his skin, a trickle of blood running down his chest. ‘Lose control, birdbrain. Let them see the predator beneath all the peacocking. Let’s see how you crawl your way out of that fucking grave.’

            ‘Why?’ Hawks asked, almost unbidden, the word small. Tentative. His gaze shifted, catching on the staples, eyes following the edges of scar tissue until they locked with Dabi’s, golden burying itself into burning turquoise. Softer, he added, ‘Why didn’t you kill me?’

            Dabi started. ‘The fuck you mean?’

            ‘You had chances. Even today, you could’ve... Why, then? If I’m who you say I am, why not...’ He blinked, and Dabi stilled when he saw the full depth of that gaze. Innocence, fractured and worn, flickered somewhere hidden behind all that bravado, the arrogance banking for the truth. Like he wasn’t just wondering why he was still alive; he was asking why Dabi didn’t just kill him.

            For fuck’s sake.  

            ‘You can’t keep looking at me like that, Pigeon,’ Dabi growled, annoyance and something he refused to acknowledge igniting close under his skin. He yanked on his arm, the fabric of his jacket tearing from the hold of the feather, his hand going straight for the bird’s throat.

            The binding scarf grabbed him before he could grace the soft skin of Hawks’ neck.

            Eraserhead pulled him aside, away from Hawks. Dabi crashed against the ground, the scarf wrapping around his body, tight enough to make breathing a chore.

            The eraser hero stepped closer, a quiet fury burning in his red gaze. ‘You don’t get to touch him again. You won’t hurt him again—not on my watch.’

            Dabi glared, but Erasorhead left no room for motion this time. Dabi’s hands were plastered tightly against his body, and a part of the scarf was wrapped around his mouth to silence him. He could only watch while the eraser hero contacted the police. Behind him, Hawks ran a shaking hand over his face, his eyes never straying from the nondescript wall, his chest rising and falling irregularly.

            Still, as soon as uniformed officers swarmed the rooftop, he straightened. His face morphed into that bright grin of his, and he sauntered over to the roof’s railing, slouching against it while he answered questions from journalists who rushed the scene. The embodiment of the Commission’s golden boy, returning to the field with the headline-worthy capture of Dabi.

            But underneath it, Dabi saw the restlessness. The rage. The cracks.  

            He thought he’d been ready to kill the bird, yet somehow, all Hawks had done was dig his claws in deeper. It’s not like I have a fucking choice. But he had, right? Sure, the Commission was filled to the brim with corrupt bastards who only cared about themselves, but Hawks had wings. Skills. Freedom. If he hated it so much, hell, if he hated himself so much, he could just get the fuck out of there.

            Dabi would. Dabi had. He’d turned his back on the Todoroki name, on the remnants of a family that still remained, and had let go of the parts of himself connected to Endeavor. They’d burned away on Sekoto Peak, never to come alive again.

            So why didn’t Hawks do the same? Did the Commission’s influence truly run that deep?

            They’ll turn this into a teachable moment with or without composure.

            And as Dabi was dragged off the roof, as the bird disappeared from his line of sight, he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly the Commission was teaching him—and, more importantly, how it was taught.   

Chapter Text

‘Let me interrogate him.’ Keigo stood in Madam President’s office, wings carefully tucked in, hands interlocked behind his back. He ensured his shoulders were relaxed, one leg slightly bent—little cracks in the perfect posture to give the illusion of ease as if anxiety didn’t keep a tight grip on his chest at the mere act of making such a request.

            Still, he smiled, eyes trailing lazily over the other board members, trying to gauge their reaction. Two days ago, Dabi had been taken into custody. Yesterday, Keigo had attended a press conference detailing the arrest to the news outlets, the first once since being captured by the League. Today, he finally voiced the desperate demand that’d been on his mind ever since Dabi had been dragged away by the officers.

            That night had been a blur, from the moment he’d picked up on Dabi’s presence to the quick message to Shouta, to the too-raw, too-public confrontation of the flame user on the rooftop across from his penthouse. Keigo had known better, knew he should’ve contacted the Commission right away and waited for backup, but Dabi had been right there. Waiting. Taunting. Close enough that his mere presence had been a threat.

            But he hadn’t attacked—he had come to talk, armed with files about the black ops Keigo had executed for the Commission, face after face of his victims, printed in black ink. Keigo hadn’t told the Commission about it—had ensured the file was destroyed before anyone could access it. But if Dabi had this information, the League had it. And if the League had it...

            Keigo hadn’t been able to think clearly after he’d come to that realisation.

            Worst of all, Shouta had heard—parts of it, anyway. But at least he hadn’t broached the subject, had given Keigo space. All he’d said was that he was there when Keigo was ready to talk about it, he’d be there for him. Sturdy. Unmoving. Composed.

            Everything Keigo didn’t seem to be these days.

            Madam President watched him, her gaze void of emotion. ‘I don’t think you confronting him again is a good idea. We have alternative options who are a better fit.’

            ‘Respectfully, I’m the best choice. I knew Dabi would come for me eventually; he’d said as much during our final moments in the mountain. I used it to my advantage, cornered him, and took him out. I’d like to see the last part of this case through.’ Keigo stopped himself, forcing a soft chuckle to break up the words, hoping it made him sound less eager.

            ‘Let’s face it—no one knows him better than me. I was undercover for months, working alongside him. I can read his tells better than any other pro hero by now. He’s complex, but I can crack it if given the chance. Allow me to interrogate him and get intel on the League.’

            ‘The villain Dabi manipulated and played you during that time without you noticing,’ she corrected. ‘And while you did manage to capture him the other night, your actions were reckless. Fighting him in an urban setting, attacking him before you secured the safety of the civilians within the perimeter? This could’ve ended up a disaster, Hawks.’

            ‘But it didn’t.’ Too fast. Too defensive.

            Madam President’s eyes narrowed. ‘Come again?’

            Keigo stiffened under her sharp gaze, the scrutiny that followed in the wake of his comeback crawling across his skin, but he still straightened his spine. No going back now. He added, ‘It didn’t end up a disaster. I calculated the risk, and it worked out. That’s what you trained me for, right? To assess high-risk situations and make split-second decisions regarding the best course of action?’

            The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

            ‘Leave,’ Madam President said, the board members rising as one at her command and filtering out of the room. Keigo knew better than to follow them, his eyes never leaving the woman on the opposite side of the table, his heart beginning its slow acceleration at the thought of what was to come.  

            The only other person who remained was Teruo, standing in the corner, his narrowed eyes shifting between them as he awaited command. Unbidden, Keigo’s gaze shifted to the windows covering one wall of the office, the escape route only a few flaps of his wings away, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

            This, too, was part of what it meant to be a hero—at least for him.

            Madam President got up when the door closed. She walked around the table, almost leisurely, halting a handbreadth in front of Keigo. She made a small sound, a high-pitched huff of annoyance.

            Then, she slapped him across the face.

            Keigo’s breath hitched, but he managed to remain standing, his posture still relaxed despite his head jerking aside, warmth blooming across his jaw. Slowly, he tilted his head back, his face a blank slate. He’d expected this—knew it was better to accept it than to show its impact. He’d used to, when he was younger, but learned soon enough that that would only result in more pain and humiliation.

            Madam President clicked her tongue. ‘Your time with villains has turned you bold, Hawks. Irreverent. It’s not a trait you should find pride in.’

            ‘I meant no offence.’ The words came easily, spoken many times before when he’d crossed some border only the Commission could perceive. It was instinct, to make himself small, to grovel and take the abuse and hope, always the same fucking hope, that he managed to crawl back to safety before harsher countermeasures were unleashed.

            Keigo was too aware of Teruo, observing the scene unfolding in the office.

            Madam President folded her arms in front of your chest. ‘I believe it’s time for a full reset. Considering your declining state, the past sessions didn’t have the desired effect. Your experiences with the League have settled deeper—it’s best to eliminate them before they can fester further.’

            He stilled, dread building at the base of his neck, creeping down like ice water.

            They’d done this once before, a few years ago, when he’d refused to kill during a mission, resulting in an escaped convict and several murder victims. Endeavour had been called in to fix Keigo’s mistake, and the Commission had been furious that one of their own heroes hadn’t been able to get the job done.

            He’d tried to explain—that killing someone without cause had seemed wrong. That using his feathers to take a life was a line he wouldn’t cross unless absolutely necessary. That it wasn’t the kind of hero he wished to be

            Madam President had calmly ordered a session with Teruo—corrective. Routine. Yet there’d been nothing routine about it. They’d drugged him into oblivion, kept him awake beyond the point of exhaustion, and forced him to watch videos on an endless loop. In them, people were murdered, tortured, tormented, the actions of the worst of the worst. Villains going on killing sprees. People crying over their lost loved ones. Children, suffering. Pain. Panic. Agony.

            And throughout, there’d been the whispered words, over and over again, a sick mantra burying itself into his very soul. Dissociate. Endure. Survive. Know your purpose.

            Keigo’s resolve had crumbled. His mind had frayed. He’d pleaded for it to stop, but no one had listened, not until he’d given in. Until somehow, something deep inside of him had agreed that killing a person was better than disappointing the Commission. That it was better to eliminate the problem at its root than to wait for it to inevitably flourish.

            That boundaries were there to be broken, and lines should be crossed.

            Keigo had been fifteen when he made his first kill, still so far out of it that he barely remembered lifting the blade. And while, with time, he’d returned to himself and began to unravel right from wrong, the wants of the Commission from his own damned desires, the damage had already been done. The files were there, unspoken leverage with a razor-sharp edge, hanging above his head like a sword waiting to drop.

            ‘You had no problem with it before,’ they’d said.

            ‘Wouldn’t want people to know about these things,’ they’d mused.

            ‘We own you,’ they’d never admit out loud, but it was evident in every action, every order, every damned smile when he returned from a mission with the blood of his victims still clinging to his fingers.

            ‘I’ve done what you’ve asked of me,’ Keigo said, hating the brittle edge clinging to the words. ‘I’ve done everything. Please, just... Don’t. It’s not necessary.’

            ‘It’s not up for debate.’ Final, clinical words, a nod at Teruo for him to step closer.

            Something inside of him snapped. A tether, a leash, a mockery of subservience born from years and years of quiet torment. Of abuse, dressed up as teachable moments. Of nooses, slowly tightening, dragging him back down if he dared to fly too high.

            ‘What more is there to do?’ he asked quietly. ‘What have I not yet given, Madam President? What was not forcibly taken when I refused? What more is there until I at least earn a sliver of respect for the shit you’ve put me through?’

            She frowned, a nearly imperceptible creasing of her brow. ‘Stand down, Hawks.’

            ‘Or what?’ His laugh was rasping, hollow, his wings flaring wide. ‘It’s not like I can do anything right, so what does it matter if I’ll be reprimanded regardless? Don’t,’ he snapped, feathers shooting at Teruo, who’d taken a few steps towards Keigo, knees bent halfway into a sprint.

            Teruo stared at the red feather, inches from his eye, his own wings partially extended. He didn’t relax—didn’t even step back. ‘Think this through, boy.’

            ‘I’ve done everything,’ Keigo said, hating how his voice cracked at the last word. ‘These past two months, I’ve given everything, the literal skin of my back, just to rebuild my image, to make sure the public’s faith in heroes, in the Commission, was rebuilt. I held out. I endured. And even now... Not enough. Never enough. What else,’ he rasped, hands trembling uncontrollably, ‘do you expect me to do?’

            ‘I expect you to stand down,’ Madam President said sharply, standing immovable before him despite the evident threat. ‘You’re overreacting, Hawks. This is what’s expected of you—what it means to be a hero. Don’t you want to be the best? This is simply one of many measures to ensure we reach that goal.’

            ‘We,’ he echoed hoarsely.

            ‘Yes. We. Everyone who has trained you. Everyone who has stood by you since you were six, ensuring you got everything you needed to become the hero you are today. Many people put in a lot of work to make this happen, so stop acting like a scorned child who didn’t get his way. You know better than to act out like this—I thought we put this behind us.’

            It felt like he was a child again, reprimanded for something silly, Madam President towering above him with that same stern expression she seemed to save solely for him.

            He was taller now. Was older now. But some small, fractured part of himself harboured the six-year-old plucked off the street and placed before this woman, who’d promised the world if he only worked hard enough. If he listened to the teachers. If he accepted the punishments after he’d done something wrong, because that was the best way to learn.

            Don’t you want to become a hero?

            A fucked up fantasy always destined to turn into a nightmare.

            Teruo’s shoulder rammed into his back with the unceremonious grace of a freight train, sudden and precise. Keigo’s balance tipped, and he crashed onto the floor, jaw hitting the marble with a sickening crunch. He grunted, disoriented, the air forced from his lungs from the eagle’s weight pressing down on his spine.

            Flight instinct kicked in, feathers exploding from his wings, trying to cut away the threat and regain the upper hand. ‘Get the fuck off—’

            ‘It’s for your own good, Hawks,’ Teruo said, voice insultingly even, a needle sinking deep into Keigo's thigh. ‘You’ll be of use again soon. We’ll put you back in place. We’ll fix you. Just give in.’

            He didn’t, feathers still flying wildly around them, blindly aiming for whatever they could cut. Erratic. Unhinged. A choked shout wrung itself from his throat as he felt his limbs grow heavier, the drug seeping through his veins like oil, slow and suffocating.

            ‘You know the drill, soldier,’ Teruo said. ‘You know your purpose.’

            ‘I’m not... I don’t... Fuck... Off...’ The words came slow, sluggish, barely comprehensible. Keigo still struggled, but his body felt distant, even Teruo’s grip on his arms not fully sinking in despite the pressure the eagle used to keep him down.

            He was treated like a rabid animal, restrained and sedated. It wasn’t the first time, yet still, this was different from the sessions. At least then, it felt like he had a semblance of control, a choice to walk into the room with the locked door, to endure what would come.

            Now, even that was stripped from him.

            ‘Take him downstairs,’ Madam President, her voice distant.

            Keigo tried to rise, to crawl, to get away from Teruo as soon as the weight lifted, but everything felt too heavy. His wings flapped uselessly against the stone floor, feathers still flying without aim or speed, bouncing against furniture and swatted from the sky by Madam President like bothersome flies.

            Teruo grabbed him by his arms, pulling him up, draping him over his shoulder like a bag of flour. Keigo wasn’t unconscious—that was maybe the worst of it, his limbs flailing uselessly as he tried to free himself from the eagle’s grip. He was carried from the office, Madam President following a pace behind.

            As Keigo was dragged into a small room, a chair bolted to the floor in the middle, she said, ‘You’ll thank us for this one day. You’ll realise we only want what’s best for you, Hawks. The sooner you accept that, the easier it’ll become.’

            ‘I’m... fine...’ Keigo muttered, each syllable an effort, his tongue feeling like dead weight in his mouth. He blinked—slow, like time was lagging. Teruo placed him in the chair, his arms and ankles strapped down, his head tilted back and secured to the headrest. Uselessly, he pulled on his wrists, only managing a half-hearted jerk.

            ‘Please,’ he whispered, the word cracked and raw, barely audible.

            ‘It’s for your own good,’ Madam President merely said, her footsteps fading away when the screen flickered to life, Teruo’s hand a solid warmth on his shoulder. No room for disobedience. No reprieve. Only resignation and resentment, coiling tight in Keigo’s gut as the videos began, and his mind pulled back from his body, hoping to delay the inevitable as long as he could.

Chapter Text

The cell was clinical and brightly lit, with large white tiles and spotless walls. A neatly made bed was pressed into a corner, a plastic cup of water placed on a low table beside it, almost invitingly. It was as if the heroes were trying to deceive themselves, as if the dirt didn’t stick to them if only they kept their cells clean enough.

            A glass wall divided the room in two: Dabi on one side, a man in a white coat on the other. He’d been there for a while now, scribbling notes while Dabi paced, filling the silence with an occasional hum. He held the grace of a tourist visiting the zoo, observing a wild animal in a confined habitat, all threats annihilated.

            Dabi had imagined the various ways he’d kick the man’s teeth in as soon as he found a way to the other side of the glass.

            ‘Touya Todoroki,’ the man said after several more minutes, his voice slightly distorted by the speakers. ‘Quirk: blue flame. Endeavor informed us your burns were self-inflicted, but recent charts show your body had developed to endure the high temperatures. What caused this evolution?’  

            ‘What, am I some fucking science experiment now?’

            ‘Subject T-3814 shows signs of hostility when asked about personal history,’ the man murmured into a recording device, scribbling a quick remark onto the chart.

            Dabi stopped before the man, only the glass separating them. ‘The fuck you just called me?’

            ‘Poor response to questions and commands. An auditory defect or a defining feature of the subject’s personality?’

            ‘Personality,’ Dabi drawled, placing a flat hand against the wall between them and leaning closer. His breath fogged up the glass, blurring the man’s plain features. ‘Care to tell me what the fuck this is all about?’

            ‘I’m merely completing your intake exam.’ The man looked up from his clipboard, face impassive. ‘I deducted the general information from your blood—quirk factor, age, physical health, durability. Quite interesting, all and all, to see genetics from a fire and ice quirk manifested to this degree, especially given the rough past.’ His eyes lingered on the scars, reflecting curiosity rather than the usual disgust.

            ‘Endeavor informed us you disappeared when you were thirteen, perceived dead. Our security footage places your first sighting three years later—the scars having occurred somewhere between those ages. Where did you spend those years?’

            ‘None of your fucking business, doc,’ Dabi growled.

            ‘You are hostile—no need to be. It’s easier if you answer these questions without too much fuss. It’ll save time later.’

            ‘Do I look like I give a shit about whether you do or don’t save time?’ He huffed a mirthless laugh. ‘Isn’t there some isolated pit you can throw me in so we can skip this bullshit? I thought that’s what Tartarus was known for.’

            ‘Oh, you’re not in Tartarus,’ the man said with a ghost of a smile. ‘You’re too valuable an asset; it was decided you’d go through the rehabilitation program first to see whether your potential can be brought to fruition. And if not, well. At least we’ll have learned something, and we’ll proceed with termination.’

            ‘And here I was, thinking you’d want information on the League,’ Dabi deadpanned.

            ‘All in good time.’ The man stuck his pen to the clipboard, folding it underneath his arm. ‘Get some sleep, Touya. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

            ‘Name’s Dabi.’

            ‘Your name is whatever we decide it is. The villain Dabi is no more.’ He walked away before Dabi could retort, the lights blinking out a second after the buzzer of the door faded away. All that remained was the dim hue of the emergency exit, flickering a faint green.

            The fuck?

            Dabi had been certain he’d been dragged to Tartarus, blindfolded and sedated, dropped into this cell with too-clean surfaces. And perhaps he was—perhaps this strange method of questioning was meant to disarm him while outside, guards lined the halls, eager to shoot at something. But there was something eerily wrong about the way that man had scribbled things down, unbothered by Dabi’s appearance or hostility, referring to him as a subject.

            Pain, he understood. Pain, he could deal with. But these fucking mind games played by the Commission with their unnecessary layers of complicity annoyed the hell out of him.

            He made his way to the bed, cursing as his shins hit the wooden frame, and fell down onto it. The mattress was firm but comfortable, the sheets erring on too thin but cleaner than the beds he’d slept in lately. At least here, there was no risk of roaches crawling over him in the middle of the night—a small victory, given everything.

            Who knew, perhaps the man realised soon enough that this duplicitous bullshit was a waste of time, and they’d resort to regular interrogations, the myths of Tartarus made true after evading its cells for so long. Not that that would make Dabi talk, but at the very least, it’d be grounding. Expected.

            And maybe, if he was lucky, the bird would show before it was over.

Dabi’s laugh echoed off the tiled walls when a boot buried itself into his stomach, the chair they’d stuck him on earlier long forgotten. Two heroes whose names he hadn’t bothered to remember had been at it for half an hour now, thinking that if they only hurt him long enough, brutal enough, he would crack. Thinking that beatings and pain were something that scared him.

            Morons with licenses—expected, but pathetic nonetheless.

            ‘Where is the League hiding?’ the blonde hero with a hardening quirk barked.

            ‘What is Tomura Shigaraki planning?’ the other, blue-haired with electricity running along his fingertips, snapped, sending a jolt through Dabi’s body with a precise blow to his gut.

            Dabi said nothing, his only answer an ever-widening grin, embracing the pain like an old friend. He’d decided to ignore the man, who’d returned to his spot on the other side of the glass to observe. Decided to no longer engage with the formal questions he occasionally called out via the speaker, things about his past.

            What did he remember of Sekoto Peak?

            What happened after?

            How did his quirk evolve?

            It was none of his business, and frankly, Dabi was in no mood to please anyone in this fucked up place. Still, the man had written things down. Still, he seemed intrigued, his questions unfaltering, his eyes never leaving Dabi’s body as it was carelessly kicked through the small cell.

            Still, the bird didn’t show.

When Dabi woke, the lights were still off, but the cell was lit by the flickering flames of a man sitting on the other side of the glass. He’d brought in a chair, his hulking form barely fitting atop the groaning metal, his eyes staring into nothingness until Dabi stirred.

            Dabi sat up on the bed, legs swung over the edge. His mouth curved just a fraction, and he leaned forward as he braced his elbows onto his knees. ‘Enji Todoroki.’

            ‘Touya.’ The name on Endeavor’s lips was a gasp of air, a stutter of disbelief, grief filling his turquoise eyes—Dabi’s eyes.

            Dabi only laughed, his voice grating. ‘So this is where you acknowledge me, only when you can position yourself as my superior? Coward.’

            ‘I had to. The media...’

            He shot to his feet, hand slamming against the glass separating them. Endeavor flinched, the flames that covered his face banking to reveal a pained expression, grief and regret etched into his features in equal measure. Only now that the cameras were off. Only now that he couldn’t deny what was right in front of him.

            ‘Always the hero first,’ Dabi hissed. ‘Even after all these years. Even after everything you’ve done. Even after this.’ He tore his hand down, his staples carving a long scratch into the glass. ‘Still hero first, family second.’

            ‘After what you did, what you became... You killed people, Touya. I couldn’t associate with that, considering my image. The public... They wouldn’t have accepted that truth.’

            ‘You killed me first.’ He angled his head, jaw locked so tight his molars protested. ‘Left me for dead on Sekoto Peak, unbothered to even look for my remains, like I was no more than wasted potential. A bad first draft, gone up in cinders, but at least it’d solved your problem of the unruly child you couldn’t control, right? At least you still had your little prodigy to fall back on. Another child to mould and shape, to fucking ruin. How’s little Shoto? Nice scar he has—your doing?’

            ‘I looked,’ Endeavor ground out as if the words themselves pained him. ‘But the forest had burnt down, all ashes and smoke. Even the rivers had dried up from the heat, and there was no body to be found. Considering the intensity of your flames and the size of the wildfire... I thought there was no way you could’ve...’

            ‘Survived?’ Dabi remarked dryly. ‘I did, no thanks to you. Got fixed up nicely and prettily, with my quirk adjusted and everything. A wonder what can be achieved if someone gives a shit about something other than surpassing their rival. Those things I’ve done, those people I’ve killed? That blood is on your hands, too, old man. You created me—Dabi, Touya, name your version. I exist because of your greed.’

            ‘You can’t blame me—’

            ‘Course I can. It’ll be the least fucked up thing I’ve done—the most honest, even.’

            Endeavor rose to his feet, his balled hands trembling. ‘The Commission said this facility is made for people like you—people who ended up on the wrong side of society but with hope of redemption. They asked me to sign off on it. I hope you’ll be able to get help here—to heal. And I’d like to... visit again. When you’ve calmed down.’

            Dabi spread his arms, a mockery of a grin pulling on his staples. ‘I’m here all week, old man. Come and see, come and see, the monster you’ve created.’ He flipped Endeavor off as he walked away, the temperature in the cell dropping in the wake of his heat.

            Visit again, like he was some mental patient, locked up for his own good. A nice little project he could walk away from when it got too overwhelming to face his past failures. Abandoned all over again, picked up by doctors to be poked and prodded, and put back together in a shape that was more appealing to the public eye.

            Dabi hated them—all of them.

            Was this what the bird had gone through? Clinical rooms and doctors asking questions, his identity reduced to a code, rehabilitated until he shed the remnants of the six-year-old who had grown up in a decaying house under the oppressive thumb of a petty thief and embraced the shape of the hero they wished him to become.

            And if so, what the fuck did they think they could still do with Dabi?

            Sure, a child was susceptible, scared into pleasing the hands that fed you, who clothed and cared for you, but identities of twenty-four years weren’t erased by a few misplaced kicks and formal questions. It’d be a matter of time before they realised they were wasting their time, the promise of termination likely a few idle steps away from there. And if Tomura or any of the others hadn’t come to get him by then...

            The villain Dabi is no more.

            He didn’t sleep anymore that night.

A few days passed in a similar fashion, marked by consistent meals and the dimming of the lights at night. Dabi was beginning to grow bored, restless, the smouldered flames in his veins like an itch he could scratch. A couple times now, he’d managed to overpower the heroes coming in to question him, laughing as he got a few kicks in before he was sedated, the few luxuries he had disappearing more each time he woke.

            The first to go was his pillow.

            Then, the blankets.

            Then, the bed, leaving only the hard, stone floor for him to lie down on.

            Dabi was certain they’d turned on a cooling system, the air at night significantly lower than throughout the day when the doctor came to observe him. Still, he didn’t talk—at least, not until the door opened a few hours after the lights had gone out.

            A figure clad in black slipped in, and for a moment, Dabi thought it might be Hawks, his eyes catching on movement around the person’s shoulders. But then a flashlight blinked to life, and the tired features of Shouta Aizawa were lit from below.

            ‘Eraserhead,’ Dabi said, surprise and something too close to disappointment to his liking overriding his usual drawl.

            The man stared back for a moment, his black hair pulled up into a low bun, the binding scarf crawling restlessly over his shoulders. He huffed, annoyance that seemed directed more at himself than at Dabi, then stepped towards the glass. ‘No time for niceties. I need you to tell me why you’ve taken an interest in Hawks.’

            Dabi rose from the ground, rolling his shoulders to reduce some of the stiffness in his joints. ‘An interest. That’s one way to phrase it.’

            ‘Would you rather I’d call it an obsession?’ the hero asked dryly.

            ‘Interest is fine. I’ll admit he sparked my curiosity; bird’s pretty unusual.’

            ‘In what way?’

            ‘He never told you?’ Dabi angled his head. ‘From the way you barely reacted on the roof, I’d figured you were at least partially aware of his past.’

            ‘He told me what was relevant in the moment.’

            ‘And now you go behind his back to learn more? Why not ask him yourself, Eraser?’

            The hero’s jaw clenched. ‘Because he’s gone.’

            Dabi stilled. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

            ‘I mean that he went to the Commission after the press conference following your arrest and never returned. They won’t tell me shit, but you obviously figured some things out. You talked about his missions, about the hold the Commission has on him. I’ve suspected for years, but he won’t talk about it, won’t let me help. But now he’s gone.’ There wasn’t much of a question, but quiet worry emanated from Eraserhead, the binding scarf seeming to tighten in response to his emotions.  

            ‘Not sure you want to have this conversation here, Eraser,’ Dabi said, mouth curving up. ‘Who knows who might hear? Discussing the past of the revered Hawks in a building owned by the Commission borders on treason, one could argue.’

            Eraserhead remained impassive and only said, ‘The security cameras are taken care of; no one knows I’m here. You’re not the only one with friends who know their way around technology.’

            Another way to get him to talk? It was possible—perhaps even a way for the Commission to dig up dirt on their golden boy. To see how much his cover had been blown and whether the damage could still be repaired. But of all people, the bird had called this man in as backup. Had allowed him to see himself fraying at the edges despite his obsession with being seen in pristine condition.

            Hawks had trusted Eraserhead—that much was evident.

            And Dabi didn’t know why that mattered, but it made him say, ‘The training from the Commission was harsher than he’ll ever admit—no clue about the details, but they picked him off the streets at six and by now, he’s so accustomed to torture that he barely even blinks at the pain. Fill those blanks in yourself.

            ‘Based on the data we recovered, the Commission has employed him as an assassin, the tally too high to count, but he doesn’t seem to do it willingly. They have something over him—some sort of leverage. And if he’s fallen off the grid, my guess would be that they’re ensuring he’s still capable of following orders.’

            ‘They sent him on a mission,’ Eraserhead concluded.

            ‘Or worse. The bird looked like shit the other night, even more shit than how I’d left him in that cellar, so I doubt they’ve been going easy on him. It’s... not right.’

            The hero’s gaze caught Dabi’s, curiosity flickering faintly in his tired eyes. ‘Not right?’

            Dabi waved it off. ‘Not for you to worry about, Eraser. Got what you came for?’

            ‘More than before.’ He paused, then added, ‘Thanks, Dabi.’

            Dabi hummed softly, leaning a shoulder against the glass as Eraserhead reached for the door handle. ‘All I can say is that if I’m right about things, you better hurry. The bird’s close to breaking; something tells me that the Commission isn’t in the habit of keeping broken toys.’

It took two weeks. Two weeks of questions, of the occasional beatings, of Dabi’s constant silence, of growing annoyance from those who thought to handle him. Endeavor showed up two or three more times, the doctor present. Dabi ignored them both.

            They left him without food for a few days, but he would not beg.

            They tried to keep him awake with light and sounds, but he slept anyway.

            They stuck him to machines, drugged him, unleashed quirks on him, but slowly, they began to realise that for a person to be broken, they had to be whole first. That for fear to take root, there had to be a will to stay alive.

            Dabi had long ago accepted that he danced with death, a balance that should’ve tipped when he was thirteen, yet persevered despite all odds. He was willing to fight, to give his all, to burn the whole fucking world down for his ideals, but caving? That wasn’t something he’d do willingly, even if it’d be the end of him.

            Wouldn’t be long now, by the looks of it.

            Still, Eraserhead’s visit lingered at the back of his mind, but Dabi figured the bird had long flown, either stuck somewhere on the Commission’s orders or—if he was smart—far, far away from their grasp.

            But then, after two weeks, in the middle of the night, the door opened.

            And there, stumbling, thinner than Dabi remembered, hollow in more ways than one, was Hawks.

Chapter Text

The villain was crying, the paint on his face running in trails down his cheeks, his eyes red and puffy. He grasped his stomach, where blood leaked steadily from a wound that was bound to be fatal. He’d crawled into an alley, thinking he could escape, not knowing it was a dead end.

            A mistake, one that would cost him.

            Keigo watched him, blades loosely between his fingers, the man’s blood staining the feathers. He entered the alley with silent footsteps, his wings extended behind him, filling the little room available. He didn’t speak. Didn’t think.

            A single red feather buried itself into the man’s neck, a clean cut of the carotid artery. He fell lifelessly to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.

            Keigo turned, ensuring all feathers had returned to his wings. Then he bent his knees and took off into the sky, becoming one with the night. Only there did he speak, a microphone in his headphones picking up his voice.

            ‘Target eliminated. Awaiting next orders.’

Keigo’s hands were curled around the woman’s collar, pressing her against the wall with ease. She sputtered, feet moving erratically a few inches above the ground. His feathers took care of the issue, slicing through muscle and tendon, his gloved hand pressed over her mouth to stifle her scream.

            ‘Where is Tomura Shigaraki?’ Keigo asked. The words were flat, monotone.

            She began crying. ‘I don’t know—I swear. Please. You’re a hero; shouldn’t I get a trial or something? You got me, okay? I surrender, I surrender, please don’t hurt me. I’ll go willingly with the police, yeah, Hawks? Just—’ 

            ‘That’s not my purpose.’ His grip on her collar tightened, his free hand curling around a primary feather. ‘And if you can’t give me answers, you just lost yours.’

            Her throat was cut before she could argue, a clean slice. Keigo stepped back before too much blood could soak his shirt, her body crumpling onto the ground. He watched it, perhaps a moment too long, before flying away.

            Something stirred at the edge of his mind, a soft echo of feelings he couldn’t quite discern, but just as he tried to unravel them, the voice of a handler sounded through the headphones. ‘She had a partner. I sent you the coordinates. Gather intel, eliminate witnesses. You know what you must do, Hawks.’

Keigo’s side stung from where the villain had managed to land a knife, the cut shallow but serrated, a steady trickle of blood seeping into his black shirt. Keigo, in answer, had pinned the villain to the floorboards of his apartment, a dozen red feathers penetrating arms, legs and torso.

            The man’s breathing had shallowed, a lung likely collapsed, but still, he snarled, pain and fury bursting bright in his eyes. He was soon to die—he still wished to live.

            Keigo only asked, ‘Where is Tomura Shigaraki?’

            He’d lost count of the number of villains he’d tracked down the past few days. The lives he’d taken when none of them had been able to answer that single question. Part of him wondered where the Commission got their intel. Who was feeding them name after useless name, lives that didn’t have to be taken but had to be cut short to protect his cover.

            He buried that part, knowing he wasn’t allowed to think it. To feel it. To wonder—just for a moment—why he was doing all of this.

            He didn’t remember when exactly he’d started; was it days ago? Weeks ago? They’d let him out of that room, mind hazy, a list of names pressed into his hands.

            Track them down, they’d said.

            Kill them if necessary, they’d said.

            Don’t leave witnesses, they’d said.

            Keigo stared at the man on the floor, who appeared as useless as the rest of them. He fought the restraints, skin splitting and tearing as he tried to unsuccessfully rid himself of the feathers. His quirk was negligible. He could make duplicates of inanimate objects, like a knife or a chair, both of which now lay discarded out of reach.

            Keigo knew a man once who could copy himself. He couldn’t remember his name.

            He’d been kind.

            ‘Kill me, then!’ the villain barked, blood pooling beneath his arms and legs. He coughed, the sound wet and rattling. ‘I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about, birdman, so kill me or leave me the fuck alone.’

            Birdman. Not Pigeon, not birdbrain, not birdie. It felt more distant, somehow.

            He blinked, reaching for his primary feathers, the movement mechanical and precise. Elimination was part of it, he told himself as the man’s throat split open. The man was a villain, and villains chose their fate. Sometimes, their only purpose was to die.

            Keigo’s phone buzzed inside his pocket, and he immediately reached for it, knowing that ignoring the message too long would be cause for rectification. He didn’t want that. Never wanted to return to that room, to the videos, to the pain. He’d obey—told them he would. Couldn’t disappoint them again.

            There was no voice memo, no direct orders, just the coordinates of a village much further south than he currently was, but the message was clear. Surely, there was another target there—another name to add to the list. It’d take him half a day to get there, but it’d take him closer to home, too.

            Despite the strain on his body, which hadn’t seen much sleep these past days—weeks?—that thought brought him a strange kind of solace. Home. It felt like a distant dream, that penthouse above his agency. Oddly enough, the faint smell of paint came accompanied by the memories. He didn’t remember why.

            Keigo didn’t question it further; it wasn’t his place to question things, anyway. Without hesitation, he took to the skies and began the long flight.

The house was desolate. It stood in the middle of an open field, with most of the roof tiles blown clean off and holes adorning the walls. Keigo watched it from a distance, feathers nearby in search of sound or movement, but it seemed abandoned. He checked his phone and retraced the coordinates. This was the place, but where was his target?

            He rose, edging closer, his feathers keeping a steady rhythm as they circled the field, honing in on the sounds around him. Animals, fighting nearby. The wind, rattling an old shutter. A rumble in the sky, promising rain. And then—

            ‘Hawks.’

            Keigo stilled, locating the feather that’d picked up his name. He faintly recognised the voice but locked down the memory, his mind going blank apart from the task at hand. It didn’t matter if he knew his target—his missive remained the same. The memory of death would only linger if he acknowledged the deceased.

            ‘Hawks,’ the voice said again, closer, somewhere behind the house.

            Keigo took to the sky, slow and deadly like the bird of prey he’d been named after, his black clothes seamlessly blending with the starless sky. A shudder ran through him when the person caught hold of one of his feathers, their fingers twirling it by the quill.

            ‘Let’s hope you’re still low to the ground,’ they said slowly.

            Before Keigo could unravel the threat—it was a threat, right?—he suddenly lost all sensation to his feathers and wings, his quirk snuffed out between one heartbeat and the next. A shocked shout slipped past his lips, disorientation kicking in, feathers fluttering, then failing altogether. His quirk—his control, gone.

            He managed a haphazard attempt at spreading his wings, partially slowing his fall, but his shoulder still crashed against the ground, body following a second later with a muffled groan. He lay there, breathing, for a few tense heartbeats, scanning for injuries but finding none other than some bruises. Nothing new.

            A pair of boots walked into his line of sight, and Keigo rolled back, balancing on the tips of his toes in a low crouch, feather blades clutched in his hands. They weren’t nearly as deadly without being sharpened by his control, but he’d learned how to cut with even the dullest blade. He’d make this count, too.

            ‘Damn, brat. You don’t even recognise me, do you?’ A man with long black hair stepped from the shadows, his tired eyes burning bright red. A long scarf was draped around his shoulders, moving idly as if caught by the wind.

            His target, at last.

            ‘Where is Tomura Shigaraki,’ Keigo only asked.

            ‘If I knew that, we’d be orchestrating a raid to take him in, like we’ve done in the past. Like you’ve done in the past. Don’t you remember?’

            Memories were trying to invade his consciousness, persistent despite his attempts to shove them aside. Keigo’s jaw clenched, his grip on the feather blades tightening as he rose to his feet. ‘If you can’t answer the question, you have no purpose. And without a purpose... I can’t leave witnesses.’

            The man frowned, eyes burning bright. He didn’t so much as blink as he said, ‘I’m pro hero Eraserhead, also known as Shouta Aizawa. You call me Shou.’

            ‘Shut up,’ Keigo said, taking on a defensive stand. ‘Lies—’

            ‘You are the hero Hawks,’ the man—Eraserhead—continued. ‘But you told me your real name is Keigo. You were taken in by the Commission when you were six.’

            ‘How do you know—’

            ‘They raised you. Trained you. Did shit to you behind closed doors that I don’t dare to imagine—did something to you now to make you forget, it seems. You need to snap out of it, Keigo. This isn’t you—you’re carefree. You love food. You’re always late despite being one of the fastest heroes out there. You painted the walls of your apartment green, like the forest. You went through shit, but you’re not alone.’

            Recognition, tugging at the edge of his mind. Fresher memories—a room. Videos on a loop. Restraint wrists, drugs coursing through his veins. A voice telling him they would try something new. A boy, no older than fifteen, with purple hair and an anxious look in his eyes, guided inside by Teruo. The kid had asked him if he was okay. Keigo had tried to comfort him, or at least he thought he did. Had answered he was fine. 

            And then there’d only been silence, orders echoing through his mind, his body following without rational thought. Blood and death and the urge to keep going, always forward, forever chasing praise that would never come.

            ‘There you go—come back to yourself,’ Shouta murmured, taking a step closer. ‘You were kidnapped by the League of Villains. Wouldn’t let anyone see you afterwards, but I came anyway because you fucking needed it. You fought Dabi—do you remember, Dabi? He confronted you on a rooftop near your penthouse and tried to break you, but you wouldn’t let him.’

            ‘I don’t—’

            ‘You do. You remember—you just have to want to.’

            Keigo’s hands shook, his heartbeat speeding up the more Eraserhead said. He was suddenly too aware of the blood staining his clothes and hands, of the cuts and bruises littering his body, of the hollow pit that was his stomach, courtesy of too little food for too long. He reached up for the headphones covering his ears and tossed them aside into the grass.

            The voice had been silent ever since the last kill.

            Kill... He’d killed that man. Killed so many others, their faces blurring together, tears and blood and screams of rage filling his mind. Keigo’s knees buckled, and the grass was there to catch him, cold, damp dirt soaking his pants.

            His fingers found their way into the earth, gripping tightly as his body fought the memories trying to surface, every instinct inside of him screaming to just suppress it. Better not to feel it. Better to distance himself from it. Better to just be a soldier than to think of all the horrible things he’d been forced to do.

            A choked sound, close to a sob, wrung itself from his throat.

            And suddenly, Shouta was there, kneeling beside him, hand on his shoulder, quiet concern flickering in his burning gaze. ‘Keigo?’ he asked tentatively.

            ‘I can’t—just leave me alone. Leave me be. I can’t be... This is not who I... What the fuck...’ Fragmented sentences, his mind shattering and reforming in parallel motions, a headache pounding deep behind his eyes. ‘What happened, how...’

            ‘The Commission called you in after arresting Dabi,’ Shouta said. ‘You went radio silent after that. I tried to contact you through them, but they kept shutting me down, saying you’d been assigned some classified mission. But you wouldn’t just leave, especially not with Dabi imprisoned, so I had La Brava look into it.’

            ‘La...Brava?’

            ‘Questionable person, brilliant hacker. She discovered where Dabi was being held—a remote facility that wasn't on any of the maps. I thought, perhaps, you were there, questioning him. But I realised it wasn’t much of a prison but more a research lab. I noticed Endeavor arriving and leaving a few times, saw members of the Commission file in and out of the building, but never you. And then I... Well.’ Shouta scratched at the slight stubble on his chin. ‘I figured Dabi was as good a source as any, so I snuck in.’

            ‘You spoke to him,’ Keigo said, his voice rough. He blinked, sudden exhaustion making it hard to keep his gaze focused on anything other than the grass below him. ‘You asked him about me.’

            ‘I did. He was... surprisingly helpful in his own way. He said the Commission would’ve likely sent you on a mission, testing your loyalty after all the shit you’ve been through lately. Ensuring you could still follow orders.’

            ‘They... did.’ More hazy memories, Teruo’s knee on his spine, a needle stuck into his thigh. Videos, images, looping endlessly. Which of those had happened in that small room, and which were his own doing, his own hands executing the unspeakable, time and time again? He heaved, gall burning its way up his throat.

            ‘How long?’ he rasped.

            ‘You were gone for three weeks. La Brava found a way to get a message to your secure line and block all other access. I had her sent you here.’

            Three weeks of that mindless state, order after order completed to perfection, dozens of names added to a too-long tally. Had he tried to fight it? The events of that day had blurred, the memories slipping through his grasp like sand at the beach, but there were fragments. Of Madam President’s office. Of her scolding him. Reminding him of his value—of what would happen if he lost it.

            A hard reset—different than last time. Not just for compliance but for complete control, the unknown kid’s quirk somehow overriding his thoughts and forcing him into submission. Would they have let him come back to himself? Would they have trusted him to reclaim his position as the number two hero, or had they written him off, utilising him as an assassin until he would eventually be killed off?

            Another wave of nausea rolled over him, shoulders hunched forward as bile burned its way up his throat. This was it, then. If he went to the Commission, if he admitted he’d found a way to shake their control, he feared he’d never be let out again. A liability. A loose end, easily cut.

            ‘I need to go,’ he said, coughing against the soreness of his throat. His fingers curled around a slim knife sheathed at his waistband, and he sat up straighter. ‘They won’t accept this. If their last attempt didn’t work, if I can’t be fixed...’

            ‘What do you mean—talk to me, Hawks. Explain it. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.’

            ‘You already know too much. The less details you have, the better. I can’t let them come for you, too.’ Keigo’s fingers danced over the skin below his collarbone until they bumped against the hard metal ball buried beneath his skin.

            With a clenched jaw, he made a quick incision based on instinct, unable to see as his fingers dipped below his skin to pull out the tracker. It came out blood-slick, barely larger than his nail. Without hesitation, he crushed it under his boot. ‘Thanks for finding me. Thanks for... well, waking me, I guess, but it’s no longer safe—I can’t stay here.’

            He rose to his feet and made to walk away, but Shouta grabbed his wrist.

            ‘Slow down, okay? Breathe, at least for a moment. Here.’ He reached into his backpack, pulling out a first aid kid. Keigo debated leaving regardless, but Shouta held him in place with a stern look, quickly disinfecting and binding the wound below his collarbone.

            ‘Anywhere else?’ Shouta asked.

            Begrudgingly, Keigo lifted his shirt, eyes aimed at the sky as Shouta treated the cut on his stomach, which had stopped bleeding but still stung when he twisted wrong. It likely needed stitches. He hadn’t taken the time to check—hadn’t felt the need.

            In reality, his entire body hurt, minor infections from wounds left untreated, running up his temperature, but it hadn’t seemed important at the time. Had the Commission known he’d neglect everything else but the mission if they used the boy’s quirk on him? Perhaps that’d been the test, too, to see how far they could stretch his loyalty, how long he could hold out until he’d eventually collapse.

            While he worked, Shouta said, ‘Tell me your plan.’

            ‘You assume I have one.’

            ‘You always have a plan, even if you haven’t thought it out fully.’

            That much was true. Keigo sighed. ‘You talked to Dabi—hell, you were there on that rooftop. You know about my past. About my missions. The Commission holds records, proof of what I’ve done, more than enough to ruin me. I need to wipe the slate if I ever wish to have some chance at freedom.’

            Shouta nodded, unfazed. There was no judgment in his voice when he said, ‘I’m assuming you can’t come clean and explain how you were forced to do it?

            ‘It’d be my word against theirs—you know, the Commission of Public Safety. They’d be more than willing to run me into the ground if it means keeping their own ledger clean.’

            ‘So the records need to be wiped. I can have La Brava look into it and see if she can bypass the Commission’s security. If she can gain access to their secure server and corrupt the files they have on you, they’ll lack proof for their accusations. It’ll weaken their case.’

            Keigo blinked. ‘She has those skills?’

            ‘Worth the try.’ Shouta shrugged. ‘Don’t even have to tell her much—need to know basis. And if it doesn’t work, we can always look into other options.’

            ‘We.’

            ‘Yes, you idiot, we. Did you think I went through all this effort to track you down only to let you face the Commission by yourself again?’

            Keigo swallowed, taking a step back. ‘Just because I’m in deep shit doesn’t mean you have to put your own image on the line, Shou. Helping me out here and there, I get, but this is about to get ugly. The HPSC isn’t some small player; it’s the core of our society. They won’t give in easily.’

            ‘What image?’ Shouta deadpanned. ‘I’m not some symbol—just an exhausted teacher at UA who patrols the streets at night, deciding for myself what I think is or isn’t worth fighting for. People don’t care what I do, not like it’s with you. Speaking of, how do you plan to maintain the peace? Wasn’t that why you stuck with the Commission despite all of this?’

            ‘It’s hard to stick with them if they actively try to get me killed. Besides,’ Keigo said, raising a bloodstained hand, ‘kind of negating that moral high ground at the moment. As it is, I’m a lost cause. Let them spin the tale to explain it to the public; I need to lay low and hope I won’t get caught.’

            ‘Right. And what about Dabi?’

            ‘What about him?’

            Shouta arched an eyebrow. ‘Last time I checked, he confronted you armed with files about your past. Going after the Commission is one thing, but it won’t do you much good if the League holds the kill switch.’

            Fuck. Hazy as Keigo’s mind still was, he’d forgotten about it, or perhaps he’d hoped that Dabi being locked up would solve the issue altogether. But surely, the villain had planted leverage, entrusting the files to one of the League’s members just in case.  

            Suddenly, something about what Shouta had said clicked, Keigo’s eyes widening. ‘You said... Dabi’s in a lab?’ he asked, mind racing. ‘Was the facility near Jaku City?’

            Shouta frowned. ‘Yes. How did you know?’

            A mirthless huff rattled Keigo’s body, the bitter irony of it all about to be his undoing. ‘Because that’s where I grew up.’

            Tiled floors. White walls. A doctor who’d always smiled, even when he poked and prodded him, even when he sought to find the limits of Keigo’s abilities, even as he told Keigo over and over again that he was helping. That for his potential to come to fruition, he had to be obedient. Pliable. Willing to go the extra mile and beyond that.

            Didn’t he want to be a hero?

            He hadn’t known the program was still active. Keigo had turned his back to that place as soon as he’d been let out, somewhere around his tenth birthday. He’d suspected, given that the day would come when Keigo needed to be replaced as the Commission’s figurehead, but he hadn’t looked into it. Hadn’t wanted to think back to that time too much.

            Yet now there was that kid with the mind control quirk—and there was Dabi. Who deserved what he got, even if it was to be reduced to a test subject. Who killed without mercy. Who’d forgone his morals and embraced the darkest parts of himself. Revelled in them.

            But then again, was Keigo really that much better?

            ‘I’ll visit him,’ he said, a decision made before he thought about it too long. ‘See how much he knows, which data he recovered. See if he can be reasoned with. See... what the Commission plans to do with him, I guess, while I’m there.’

            ‘I’m coming with you. Don’t worry,’ Shouta said when Keigo tried to object, ‘you can have your little one-on-one with the villain without me. But you need someone to watch your back.’

            ‘Fine,’ Keigo sighed, straightening his shirt after Shouta cut the thread and put a bandage on his stomach. ‘But you get the fuck out of there if things get out of hand. A lot more is going on than you realise, and I’d rather not have the Commission find out you’re getting involved. You may not care about your image, but I happen to care whether you live or die, too.’

            Shouta released his quirk, swinging his backpack over his shoulders and pulling a key from his pocket, dangling it between long fingers. ‘Lucky for me then; we have a nice long drive ahead of us. Feel free to fill me in on everything you’ve been keeping from me.’  

Chapter Text

‘Hi there, Pigeon,’ Dabi said slowly, walking towards the glass separating them. There was something feral about the way he just stood there, back resting against the opposite wall, eyes aimed at the floor, hands twitching slightly at his sides. Dabi hummed. ‘New interrogation technique? Not sure about the angle, but feel free to give it a try.’

            Hawks’ eyes tore away from the floor, shooting up, locking with his. They were hollow, haunted, all arrogance having bled out of them until only a dull yellow remained, unlike the usual keen golden. His cheekbones were sharp against his skin, bruises blooming underneath carefully applied concealer, and his movements were stiff and jagged as if every single one was a conscious effort.

            ‘The fuck happened to you?’ Dabi asked before he thought better of it.

            Hawks huffed mirthlessly. ‘In some way, you did.’  

            Dabi leaned his lower arm against the glass, gaze trailing over the bird’s clothes. He wasn’t wearing his usual hero costume, but a toned-down version—black instead of brown, the bomber jacket forsaken. His tactical pants were stuffed into high boots with thick soles, laced tightly, and a nondescript black shirt hung loosely around his frame.

            It’d hitched up a little, showing bruises on his abdomen, deep purple and bordering on black, as well as scars littering fragile skin. Some older, some made by Dabi’s hand, and some jarringly fresh, barely healed cuts surrounded by bright red skin.   

            He frowned. ‘I barely touched you on that rooftop, birdie. You give me too much credit if you think this was all me. What did you do, trip into a stash of knives?’

            Hawks didn’t answer, only asked in a grave voice, ‘Where are the files?’

            ‘Hidden. Why, scared your secret won’t stay in the shadows much longer?’

            ‘It’s not just my secret, Dabi.’ He stepped up to the glass, two swift steps, until he was inches away from Dabi’s face. ‘You have no clue what you’re dealing with—what you’re risking. How far they’ll...’ His voice trailed off, jaw tight.

            ‘The Commission? I’m not scared of them.’ Dabi angled his head. ‘But you are, aren’t you?’ His eyes lingered on the bird’s neck, a faint bruise colouring fair skin as if someone had tried to choke the air from him—tried to restrain him. His wrists, too, bore the marks of cuffs, though the bruises weren’t as visceral as the ones on his stomach. Caused by instinctual resistance, perhaps, but resignation echoed hollowly in the difference. Like he’d accepted the situation, had been used to it, unlike the raw marks that’d adorned his wrists back in the mountains when he’d still tried to break free.

            Hawks twitched under the scrutinising look, stepping back, folding his arms over each other as if that would make a difference. ‘I’m not the one locked up by them.’

            ‘Yet you sit in a cage all the same.’ Dabi clicked his tongue, gaze darkening. ‘Are you even supposed to be here? You don’t look quite yourself, birdbrain. A bit too lethal, a bit too unstable. Not really scoring points for your public image this way. Has the Commission given you permission to go play outside in this state?’

            ‘They don’t know.’ Hawks shrugged, scratching at a patch of dried blood below his collarbone. ‘Doesn’t fucking matter anymore. All of this is borrowed time.’

            Dabi was silent for a moment, not quite sure what to make of the hero falling apart before him. It’d been what he wanted—right? It’d been the goal, to break Hawks, to use him to take down the Commission, a damned sleeper agent with information to spare that would become the first link of a chain reaction to set it all crumbling. It’d been Shigaraki’s plan. His plan.

            And yet.

            This wasn’t the face of someone who’d become numb to the world, who acted without thought, a mindless weapon to be wielded by the Commission. This wasn’t the face of a hero, convinced his actions were the only right way, killing without remorse for the sake of glory.

            It was a glimpse beneath a façade hiding something broken and fractured, and even if he didn’t want to, Dabi couldn’t help but wonder how many more layers lay beneath. How little he might actually know about the bird.

            ‘Who hurt you?’ Dabi asked. Tentative words, raw at the edges.

            Hawks blinked, faint surprise flickering inside his dulled eyes, but he didn’t answer.

            Dabi sighed. ‘You came here, Pigeon. You obviously have something on your chest, whatever crisis of morals dragged you to me, so spit it out or let me go back to sleep. I’m not here for your entertainment.’

            The bird flinched. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

            ‘Yet you did.’

            ‘Yet I did.’ He sank onto the floor, wings splaying onto the tiles. He folded his hands into his lap, idly scratching the nailbed of his thumb, eyes distant. ‘You know about the black ops. How?’

            ‘A nerd with computer skills and proper motivation.’ Dabi sank down, too, long legs folded beneath him. ‘People talk. Dots can be connected if you look for them—death leaves a trace, no matter how your Commission tries to scrub away the stains.’

            ‘To what end? What’s the plan here?’ When Dabi didn’t answer, Hawks huffed a breath. ‘It won’t hurt the Commission, you know, releasing that information. They’ll find a way to rephrase it until I’m the only one to blame. But if that’s your goal, congrats.’

            ‘Why wouldn’t it be? Still think you’re innocent?’

            ‘Never was.’ He shrugged noncommittally. ‘I know what I did—most of it, anyway. But the Commission never gave me much of a choice in the missions they sent me on. Of the actions they required of me.’

            Dabi angled his head. ‘Poor hero. Couldn’t say no to the hand that fed him, couldn’t help but kill others. A villain’s life is an easy price to pay for a roof over your head, isn’t it? It was you wielding the blade, birdbrain. Might as well own the blood on your hands—we both know there’s plenty.’

            Hawks laughed, then, a hoarse sound that forced itself from his throat. ‘Oh, I know. But just because I know what I did doesn’t mean I had any say in it.’

            ‘Are you expecting pity?’

            ‘No. I guess... I don’t know. I’m sorry about Twice, though, whether you believe it or not. He was a good guy who deserved better, even if I wasn’t at liberty to give it to them. I tried to find a way around it, but I had my orders. I couldn’t let him start Sad Man’s Parade.’

            Dabi scoffed. ‘What does an apology get me? He’s still dead.’

            Another flinch, Hawks’ wings tucking in tighter. ‘I know.’

            Dabi eyed the bird, his frown deepening at the increasing darkness seeping into his tone. What had happened this past month? At the roof, there’d still been some semblance of confidence, fraying at the edges, but there. Yet now, he seemed to be running on fumes, no sarcasm, no witty comments. Borrowed time, he’d said. The fuck was that supposed to mean?

            ‘Are you really not going to tell me why you look like a dead man walking?’ Dabi asked.

            Hawks mindlessly ran a hand through his tangled hair, blood that didn’t seem to be his matting the blonde strands. ‘It’s... nothing. Madam President said I’d grown too bold after my time with the League. That I asked too many questions. They reminded me how to follow orders.’

            Something akin to anger sparked to life in Dabi’s chest. ‘You’re telling me the Commission did this?’

            ‘Who else?’

            ‘Why the fuck would you let them?’

            Hawks’ smirk was hollow. ‘I’m in their service; I’m not at liberty to suggest changes, no matter how much you might blame me for what they make me do. Refusal never got me very far, as has been proven again.’

            ‘Then leave.’ Dabi shrugged. ‘I don’t see a collar and chain around your neck, Pigeon. Get the fuck away if you’re this miserable.’

            ‘Chains aren’t always that literal.’

            ‘Break them anyway. Fuck’s sake, birdbrain, you really are a disaster.’ He shook his head in resigned disbelief. ‘But I reckon you didn’t drag your decaying ass over here just to brood about your life. What’s the reason for this nightly visit?’

            The bird’s mouth curved, barely, but Dabi noticed.

            ‘Mainly to see how fucked I am regarding the intel and to see what the hell they were doing to you in this place. But also...’ He paused, as if unsure to voice the question, but then said, ‘Why didn’t you kill me, back at the mountain hideout? Or even on the rooftop—why come to talk? You had no issue nearly burning me to death during the raid, so what changed?’

            ‘That eager to die?’

            He shrugged, too strained to be casual. ‘Just tying up loose ends.’

            Dabi debated lying. Debated staying silent, ignoring the request altogether, fucking with the bird a bit longer until inevitably, someone would realise Hawks’ presence wasn’t wanted here.

            But fact was, this was the first normal conversation he’d had in weeks, and hell, the bird wasn’t the worst person to talk to. Even if he looked like shit and Dabi knew this was likely just another way to get him to talk. It wasn’t as if this information could do any damage to the League anyway—Tomura didn’t even care for Hawks anymore. No one did, apparently.

            So he said, ‘Shigs figured you’d be good for intel on the Commission, so we kept you alive to get you to talk. But damn, Pigeon. The way you hung there, scared out of your mind not because of what I might do, but what they would do to you? Call me intrigued, but I figured you were worth looking into. Figured there was a deeper layer of shit I wasn’t yet aware of.’

            ‘And what did you find?’

            ‘That you’re about as fucked up as they come, Keigo Takami.’ Dabi shrugged. ‘Isn’t every day that you realise the Commission has its own stash of children to mould and shape into picture-perfect heroes, conditioned to not feel a thing, attuned to their every whim.’

            ‘Missing some nuances there.’

            ‘Feel free to fill in the gaps with classified shit. All I know is that it didn’t feel right yet to kill you. And when I discovered you were killing villains left and right, I figured that was a good enough reason to end you after all. But there you went again, looking all defeated and resigned, and here you stand now, pieces barely holding together. Seeing you broken isn’t nearly as satisfying as I thought it was going to be.’

            ‘You looked for reasons?’ Hawks rose to his feet, a muffled groan slipping past his lips. His wings trailed over the floor as he stepped towards the glass. ‘Because it... didn’t feel right?’

            ‘Fuck off. Should’ve killed you during the raid before learning all this shit.’

            ‘But you didn’t.’ He angled his head, a slight tilt. Faint curiosity flickered inside the dull golden reflection of his eyes, fighting to reach the surface. ‘Damn, Dabi. Who knew you could be half-decent?’

            ‘Overstatement of the century,’ Dabi grunted, rising from the floor as well. ‘Don’t get your feathers puffed up just because one tragedy can recognise another.’

            ‘Tragedy, huh? I suppose that much’s true.’ Hawks scratched at a small stain on the glass between them. ‘It surprised me when Shou said the Commission had you locked up here. With all your research, did you ever find out that this is where I grew up?’

            ‘No, but after the first day, I assumed. Not the kind of people to pull punches, are they?’

            He shook his head. ‘Did the doctor... Did they say what they plan to do with you?’  

            Dabi barked a hollow laugh. ‘Ah, yes. The plan. Rehabilitate was the word used; see if they can whip a nice B-grade hero out of me. Such kindness of the Commission. I’m overjoyed, especially at the prospect of being terminated if I don’t comply.’

            ‘Rehabilitated.’ Hawks’ eyebrows knotted together. ‘I didn’t know the Commission took in adult subjects. But perhaps with that new kid...’ He hummed noncommittally.  

            ‘Pretty sure Endeavor called in a favour to make it happen.’ Dabi couldn’t help but scowl as he said it, shaking his head. ‘Enraged lunatic. Thinks shit like this will win him Father of the Year awards.’

            ‘Does he know what he signed off on?’

            ‘Not even sure if the man knows how to read at this point. With the size of his ego, there’s too little space in that brain of his to fit any common knowledge.’ Dabi arched an eyebrow when Hawks huffed a laugh that almost sounded genuine. ‘Won’t you look at that, you haven’t shrivelled away entirely.’

            ‘Yeah, well, it’s been a shit few weeks.’ Hawks sighed. ‘This isn’t right, though. You’re an asshole, Dabi, but this... No one deserves this. They should’ve at least given you the choice.’

            ‘Feel free to do something about it.’

            ‘Wish I could. Perhaps eventually.’ Something rumbled in the distance, and Hawks’ gaze trailed towards the ceiling. His jaw clenched. ‘Will depends on how shit’s going to pan out. For all I know, the Commission’s on my trail by morning with a gun and a shovel.’

            ‘Are you saying—’

            ‘It’s funny, you know, to realise you don’t own your life?’ he mused as if Dabi hadn’t interrupted. ‘That you’re little more than a pet, trained into a desired shape, any disobedience methodically corrected.’ Another rumble, some of the plaster falling from the ceiling. His eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘I have no other identity than the one they gave me. It never bothered me this much—not until I spent time with the League and got to be free of the Commission’s meddling for a while.’

            ‘Careful, birdbrain, or your loyalty will be put into question.’

            ‘It already is.’ Hawks huffed another mirthless laugh, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been. ‘They haven’t been happy with me ever since the raid, but after the rooftop... Matter of time now, I guess. The fuck is that,’ he muttered, a louder crash sounding in the hallway.

            He reached into his pocket, pulling out a flimsy burner phone. The dull light of the screen cast his face in even darker shadows, his eyes fixed on the message he read there, his body going preternaturally still.

            Dabi slammed a flat hand against the glass, snapping him out of it. ‘What?’

            The bird cursed colourfully, a flurry of feathers rising from his wings, muscles tensing in his shoulders. He eyed the door—the only exit. Then, slowly, he said, ‘League’s here.’

            Dabi felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth despite himself. ‘Guess my Commission-sanctioned vacation is about to end. It’s been a pleasure, birdbrain.’

            ‘Don’t celebrate too soon; your leader’s in a shit mood. According to Shouta, he’s threatening to take the whole building—’ Hawks’ voice cut off when the ground shook, a low rumbling growing in sound, amplified by the walls around them. The glass between them groaned, then cracked. Both of them stared at it, unmoving, bodies tensing in anticipation.

            Then, the ceiling came down.

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights on the ceiling flickered weakly, dust and debris floating through the air and settling on the jagged pieces of cement that’d fallen. In the distance, someone was screaming. Perhaps crying. Dabi wasn’t sure—didn’t really care, either.

            He lay flat on the floor, cheek pressed against the cold tiles, a persistent ringing filling his ears. His body felt sore, skin bruised and muscles groaning, though he’d expected it to be far worse after having the ceiling collapse on top of him. Then again, it wasn’t like he had much of a frame of reference.

            He cracked open his eyes, blinking fast to get them to focus in the intermittent light. In his direct line of sight lay Hawks, unconscious. Soot and dust clung to his battered skin, his arms and face covered in various cuts and fresh bruises. The red of his feathers contrasted with the white tiles and walls, one wing stuck underneath a chunk of cement, the other firmly outstretched in Dabi’s direction. He looked over his shoulder, noticing that it was draped over him, covered in smaller bits of debris that clinked onto the tiles when he rose to a sitting position.

            Slowly, the moment of impact came back to Dabi. It’d all happened fast—too fast. The rumbling building. The cracked glass. The brief hitch of panic when the ceiling had come down and he didn’t have his flames to protect him from harm, not even a bed to hide under to shield the worst of the impact.

            But the bird... He’d broken the glass, a swift hit with his shoulder accompanied by those damned feathers of his. Hawks had pushed Dabi to the ground to evade the chunk of cement that now crushed his wings. He’d protected Dabi.

            Even after everything, Hawks had still saved him.

            ‘Fuck’s sake, Pigeon,’ Dabi muttered, ruffling a hand through his hair to shake the layer of plaster covering it. ‘Can’t help but save people, can you? Damned heroes.’

            Hawks didn’t move. A trail of blood ran from one of his nostrils down his face, his chest rising and falling irregularly. He was alive—that much, Dabi could tell. But definitely not as unscathed as Dabi was. And it... bothered him. Somehow.  

            Another rumble shook the floor, the unstable debris around them groaning precariously. Dabi reached for the bird, shaking his shoulder. ‘Oi, Pigeon. Wake up. This is a bad place to be taking naps.’ Hawks didn’t so much as stir, and Dabi cursed under his breath.

            He rose to his feet, navigating his way towards the door to glance into the hallway and survey the damage. There, too, the ceiling had come down, ceiling tiles, cement and dust coating the once-white tiles. He saw the odd leg and arm sticking out from the rubble, employees who hadn’t made it out fast enough.

            His eye fell on a uniformed man, head crushed by a piece of debris. Dabi’s mouth curved when he noticed the loop with various keys hanging from the employee’s belt, a rare stroke of luck in this godforsaken place. He yanked the keys off the man without grace and made quick work of trying them on his cuffs.

            Soon enough, they fell away, blue flames sparking to life in his palms. His smile broke through in earnest, his laugh echoing through the destroyed hallway. Free—not terminated, not awaiting some fucked up rehabilitation, but free. Yet again, Shigaraki proved a useful ally, even if he nearly caused the building to collapse with Dabi still in it.

            Outside, he could now clearly hear the sounds of fighting, quirks clashing and shouts filling the air. Plaster rained down when something hit the building again, exposed electrical wires swaying from the ceiling and raining down sparks. Dabi had to get out of here before Tomura went after the remaining structural integrity of the laboratory.

            Someone would come for Hawks. A hero, a first responder, one of those damned students. They would find him, patch him up, hoist him back into that hero costume and send him on his way. Dabi didn’t owe him anything—wasn’t in the habit of owning up to things regardless. He’d be fine.

            But as he took a step away from the room, something tugged on him, halting his steps and clouding his judgment. It was a nagging feeling he couldn’t quite place. Didn’t fucking want to place—yet it was there all the same.

            If Dabi left him, the Commission would get their hands on him again. And if his current state was an indication of what happened when he did something right, what the fuck would they do to him when they realised he’d come to this facility without explicit permission? Hell, perhaps he’d even been prohibited from coming here.

            Chains aren’t always that literal.

            Yet, instead of trying to break free or flee, the bird had decided to protect Dabi. He didn’t have any reason to and would probably be miles better off if Dabi were dead, but he’d sacrificed his own safety for Dabi’s. Dabi couldn’t remember the last time someone had gone out of their way to help him when they couldn’t get anything out of it themselves.

            Tomura, he knew, was only attacking because Dabi was of use to him; the strange kind of trust they had built among the League was built atop mutual profitability. He couldn’t know for certain, but it was a safe bet that their leader would discard him if Dabi lost his value.

            But Hawks... It may have been instinct, but Dabi had seen those files. The bird was as prone to killing people as he was to save them, and yet... He hadn’t let Dabi die.

            Leaving him to the whims of the Commission after that felt as wrong as killing him outright did—which meant there was really only one option.

            ‘Fuck,’ Dabi muttered, turning back and walking into the room that’d been his cell for the past three weeks. He crouched down next to the unconscious hero, studying the piece of cement for a moment. With a groan, he tried to lift it, but it wouldn’t budge, the debris only scraping across the tiles, tearing out a few feathers. Hawks, still unconscious, flinched.

            ‘Would be a great fucking help if you could just wake up, Pigeon.’ Dabi looked around the room, searching for something to use as leverage but coming up empty. Resigned, he studied the wings itself.

            The cement was stuck on the edge of his wing, crushing mainly primary feathers, but it didn’t seem to press onto the bone structure and left the coverts and secondary feathers largely unscathed. Dabi figured he could just pull the wing free, sacrificing the feathers stuck underneath the rock, though Hawks hadn’t seemed too thrilled about the feathers being touched.

            How much could he feel with those damned things anyway?

            Dabi frowned at the ceiling when another hit crashed into the building, a loose tile falling down on the opposite side of the room. There wasn’t much time to think this through. If he wanted to get the bird out of here before the Commission arrived—or before they became one with the rubble—they had to get out now.

            ‘Please stay unconscious for this,’ he muttered, trying to lift the cement as much as he could before he gave the wing a firm yank. He flinched away when Hawks screamed, a visceral, raw sound that was more animal than human, his body spasming wildly. The bird’s eyes remained closed, but a thin layer of sweat covered his brow, tremors now running through his limbs.

            That probably answered the question of how much he felt.

            ‘Fuck. Sorry—yeah? I had to... fuck.’ Dabi ran a hand over his face, blowing out a tight breath. At least the wing was free, a small mercy. It looked battered, likely no fucking use to fly with, but he figured it was better than having all feathers burned off in an attempt to get him out of here.

            He curled his arms underneath Hawks’ shoulders and knees, lifting him with ease. He was surprisingly light, all lithe muscle with little bulk, though he seemed to have grown thinner still since the day of the press conference. His wings, however, were an issue.

            ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Dabi grumbled, struggling to fold the feathers in a way to make the hero easier to hold without putting any unnecessary strain on them. He didn’t want to hurt Hawks more than he’d already been hurt.

            Dabi stilled, the thought as natural as breathing, even though the words seemed to violate his mind. Ah, fuck. He didn’t want to hurt Hawks.  

            He pushed it aside, the implications not something he could deal with right now. First, they needed to get out of here. Then, he would think about why the life of this one hero had become something he actually fucking cared about.

            They made it into the hallway, swerving past the debris and corpses. The keys from the employee still dangled on Dabi’s belt, but they didn’t prove necessary—all doors were either unlocked or torn down from Tomura’s attack. He found a way down, two flights of stairs enough to reach the ground floor, and glanced through a window to get a lay of the land.

            A few dozen members of the P.LF. had clashed with a handful of heroes, more arriving each minute. Flashes of quirks lit up the sky, the ground a tangle of bodies where villains and heroes were engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

            Dabi searched, then found Tomura on the east side of the battlefield, standing off against Eraserhead with a wild grin on his face. Spinner and Himiko flanked him, the eraser hero gripping the latter with his scarf while trying to avoid a blow from the lizard.

            They seemed to be enjoying themselves, blowing off steam after being in hiding for a while, testing the limits of their quirks against an opponent who could nullify them with a single stare. They’d be fine—Kurogiri would get them out if the tides were to turn, but other than Eraserhead, the battlefield seemed mainly covered by lesser heroes.  

            Dabi looked down at the bird in his arms, face slack with unconsciousness, his arms folded across his chest. In de wake of his injuries, a fever seemed to have taken hold, tremors shaking his shin frame as his eyes moved irregularly behind closed eyelids. In no state to fight, and definitely in no state to be left alone while Dabi signalled reinforcements. If they went outside like this, Hawks would be taken immediately—no doubt in a hero’s twisted idea of a rescue, but ultimately leading to the bird’s demise.

            Dabi couldn’t let that happen.

            He cursed colourfully, turning on his heels and walking away from the battlefield, blindly navigating his way through the building. He’d arrived in a car—there was a parking garage here, somewhere. With most employees having either died, fled or joined the fray outside, it seemed unlikely there’d be any cars left, but perhaps the garage offered a secluded back exit for them to use.

            It took him a solid ten minutes, the lab a maze on a good day let alone with all the debris, but he finally found a staircase leading into the cellar. The parking lot was empty, safe for a single van. When Dabi stepped into the dimly lit garage, its headlights burst to life, a triumphant whoop emerging from the man behind the wheel. He jumped from the driver’s seat, but froze mid-step when he noticed Dabi.

            Hostility flashed over his pale features—white hair, blue eyes so light they were nearly white, surrounded by near-translucent lashes—and bared his teeth. Electricity sparked along his knuckles, hands balled tightly into fists as he shouted, ‘You can’t fucking stop me! I’m done being your science project, you sick—’

            ‘Got place for two more?’ Dabi cut in, unfazed. He had no time for this.

            The man blinked, taken aback. ‘I... you... You’re not going to stop me?’

            ‘Do I look like a fucking Commission employee?’

            The guy’s eyes trailed over Dabi’s appearance, scars and all, lingering on the bird in his arms a moment too long. Questions danced in those pale eyes, but he seemed to store them away the second another explosion sounded above them. His stance relaxed a fraction, the electricity dying down. ‘Suppose not. You guys subjects, too? Misfits and shit?’

            ‘Something like that. Well? Got space?’

            The man grinned. ‘Sure, sure. Got two more in the back anyway—you can join ‘em. I’m Raiden. That’s Masato—my brother.’ He gestured with a thumb to a thin, black-haired man on the passenger’s seat who couldn’t look less like him. ‘Hop in; we’re just leaving.’

            Dabi didn’t bother introducing himself and merely nodded, walking around the van. A teen with purple hair and a tall, red-haired woman eyed them as he climbed in, but he ignored them, laying Hawks down on the floor as gently as he could.

            Raiden closed the doors, parting with a final, ‘Hold on tight,’ before covering them in darkness. Dabi sat down on the floor as well, one hand locked around Hawks’ bicep, the other holding on to a handlebar on the wall of the van. Underneath him, the vehicle came to life, the metal floor vibrating.

            He willed a layer of blue flames to cover his hand, illuminating the cramped space as Raiden hit the gas and they raced out of the garage. Hardly the perfect escape, but it would have to do better than diving head-first into a fight he couldn’t win in these conditions.

            Dabi would ditch these people at the first stop and find a way to contact Tomura as soon as they got out of the Commission’s reach, letting the leader know he had made it out alive. That he was grateful for the escape route they’d provided. That he would need some more time, but would return to the League soon.

            And perhaps then Dabi could figure out what to do with the broken bird.

Chapter Text

The van had stopped in the middle of a forest, the first hints of dawn tinting the horizon a faded blue. Dabi hadn’t said a single thing since they’d driven away, but he’d felt how the eyes of their travelling companions bore into him. Perhaps his scars had silenced any questions. Perhaps none of them had wished to find out what else his flames could do.

            Perhaps none of them had a fucking death wish—a refreshing change.

            Regardless, they’d let them be, even though the bird had remained out cold for the entirety of the drive. Occasionally, Hawks had whimpered, some dream—or, likely, nightmare—breaking through the iron hold he seemed to keep on his mind. Dabi found himself wondering what memories plagued the hero.

            He’d shoved those thoughts aside the second they emerged.

            Now, they stood in a clearing, the silence of the forest settling over them like a blanket after the mayhem of the collapsed building and subsequent fight. Dabi didn’t know how Raiden had found his way out of there, only that the van had shaken exactly once before they’d seemed to be in the clear.

            Dabi took a long drag from a cigarette the red-haired woman had found in the glove box, head tilting back as he blew the smoke up to the starless sky. Wordlessly, he extended his hand to her, a small blue flame burning atop his index finger so she could light her own cigarette. She nodded her thanks.

            ‘That was a fucking high, man!’ Raiden whistled loudly, stalking around the van and plopping into the grass beside Dabi. His laugh echoed through the trees. ‘No way we just did that, got out of there... Fucking epic.’

            Masato followed, the brother a silent shadow as he leaned against a nearby tree.

            Dabi merely arched an eyebrow. ‘Calm the fuck down.’

            ‘Relax, man. We’re in the middle of nowhere—everyone was too preoccupied to see us leave. No way they’ll find us here, and what the hell, we’re free. It deserves celebrating.’ He whooped, and a few birds flew up from a nearby tree with a shriek.

            ‘I guess.’

            ‘A pessimist, then. Fine, fine. But you do look familiar, you know,’ Raiden continued. ‘Haven’t seen much TV in the past few months, but your face... Well, usual as fuck, right? Hard to forget.’ When Dabi didn’t reply, Raiden jutted his chin at the van behind them, Hawks’ still form partially visible. ‘That one, too, looks familiar. Isn’t he one of them heroes?’

            ‘Does he look like a hero?’

            ‘No, he looks fucking broken, but hey, who am I to judge your pet?’

            Dabi’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who we are is none of your concern. We’re just here for the ride, so back the fuck off.’

            ‘Geez, chill. I just saved your ass—might as well come clean.’ Raiden’s eyes cooled, his brother straightening behind him. ‘Did you find the bird in one of the Commission’s cages? Have they begun locking up their heroes, too, in their creepy ass facilities? He doesn’t seem worth much—skin and fucking bone, that one. His face’s pretty, though. I could see his use as a—’

            Dabi’s burning hand was on the man’s throat before he thought better of it, a lethal calm spreading through him. He angled his head, eyes alight. ‘Think really fucking hard before finishing that sentence.’

            ‘Or what, scar face?’ Raiden eyed the flames with caution, but his grin was wide, manic. The air crackled, his white hair lifting as electricity ran across his skin. ‘Really think you can get a free ride and not pay up? All that anger, and for what? Guy’s just skin and bones, but still, it’d be nice of you to share the spoils of war. After what those heroes took from us, we might as well take something back.’

            Really, it was as if people asked to be incinerated.

            ‘I don’t share,’ Dabi drawled, flames burning brighter, hotter, inching closer to the man’s skin. ‘And you really shouldn’t have threatened us.’

            Masato stepped closer, palms facing forward and shimmering. Around them, branches and rocks lifted from the ground, pulsating in the air. With a shockingly deep voice, he ordered, ‘Release him or regret it.’

            Dabi merely rolled his shoulders back, a slow grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. After three weeks of having his quirk suppressed, of feeling his rage build and build each time that damned doctor had entered the room, this was exactly what he needed. It was purely coincidental that he was protecting Hawks in the meantime. Nothing more, nothing less.

            He breathed out, the air warm, Raiden squirming as Dabi’s hand became unbearably hot.

            He breathed in, allowing fire to fill his veins, the itch he hadn’t been able to scratch finally at ease, instinct taking over.

            He breathed out, and a wave of blue flames expanded from him in all directions, tearing through the two brothers. Their screams cut off in an instant as they were engulfed in the fire. Dabi couldn’t help but laugh, then, a rasping sound.

            Perhaps Raiden had a point after all—this definitely felt like celebrating.

            When the two men were little more than ash and charred bones, he opened his hand, the remains of the electricity wielder falling to the ground in a puff of grey smoke. Dabi turned, the woman seeming to have disappeared between the trees as soon as the mood had shifted. He wasn’t going to chase her. She’d given him a smoke; good enough reason to let her go.

            The purple-haired kid, however, had rushed towards the van. He now sat kneeling beside Hawks in the back, shaking the bird’s shoulder, panic filling his eyes. He didn’t say a word but seemed intent on waking Hawks up—perhaps in a desperate search for back-up. Not that there was any need—or that the bird would be able to provide any in his current state.

            ‘Get out, kid. I won’t hurt you, but you’re in my way,’ Dabi said, walking up to the van. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans—a stray sign of good faith—but kept his gaze on the boy. He didn’t like how close he was to the bird, not without knowing what his quirk was, anyway.

            Still, there seemed little ill intent. The purple-haired kid merely shook his head. Pointed at himself, then at the bird, fingers curling tight into Hawks’ shirt. Again, he shook his head, more intently this time, placing his thin body between Dabi and the unconscious hero.

            Dabi frowned. ‘I won’t hurt him either if that’s what you’re worried about. Took too much effort to get him out of there only to burn him here.’

            The kid seemed unconvinced, his jaw set tightly.

            ‘What’s with you? Can’t speak?’ When the kid only frowned, Dabi rolled his eyes. ‘Did they cut out your fucking tongue in there or something? Use your words. What do you want?’

            The kid flinched slightly. Swallowed. Then said, voice hoarse from apparent disuse, ‘I can speak. It’s just... Madam President says I’m not supposed to talk. Not unless they say I can. Unless I’m needed.’

            ‘Well, they’re not here, are they?’ Dabi frowned. ‘Fuck’s sake, kid, how old are you, anyway?’

            ‘Fourteen.’ His chin lifted in defiance. ‘So I’m not a kid.’

            ‘Fine, not a kid. I’ll ask again: what do you want with the bird?’

            ‘I want to help him.’ The kid’s gaze shifted to Hawks, a muscle feathering in his jaw from some deeper emotion he tried to suppress. ‘I think... I think this is my fault? They said I had to. That it was a test, but... This doesn’t look like a test. He looks hurt. I didn’t want him to get hurt, but they told me to. Made me talk to him. Made me keep him... under control.’

            Each sentence was short and clipped as if he were scared to say more. Scared to speak in general, his voice growing softer and softer the more he said. When Dabi looked at the kid’s hands, he noticed they were shaking, the muscles in his shoulders wound tight. He was obviously scared out of his mind, but right now, it was secondary—what he was saying took president.

            Slowly, forcing his voice to remain calm, Dabi asked, ‘What did you tell him to do?’

            ‘To listen to the orders. To not question them. To obey. But I heard—they told Hawks to kill. Gave him names. Targets. He didn’t... want to, I think. But I told him to obey, and he did.’ The kid flinched when Dabi walked around the van and, without warning, punched the wall; the metal bent under the heat of his hand.

            Anger, hot and boiling and fucking all-consuming, spread through his veins, his breathing becoming shallow. Chains weren’t always that literal, the bird had muttered as if he hadn’t just spent three weeks in some mindless fucking killing spree as he blindly followed orders. Orders from a Commission that prided itself on protecting fucking society.  

            ‘Hypocritical, self-serving assholes,’ Dabi growled, taking a few paces away from the van before releasing a wave of flames into the forest, the heat building underneath his skin too much to contain.

            Hawks—no, fuck that; Keigo literally hadn’t had a choice, forced to stain his hands with all this damned blood. And there Dabi had been, taunting him, thinking that it’d been a fucking figure of speech while, in the meantime, the bird had been brainwashed into an assassin by people he’d once trusted the most. Signing his life away to become a hero, only to be used as a bloody weapon.  

            ‘And you,’ he spat, turning to the kid. ‘Why the fuck would you tell him to do that?’

            ‘I—’ The boy pressed his lips together, the nails of his free hand digging into his palm. ‘I was told to. I didn’t...’

            ‘—didn’t have a choice,’ Dabi finished for him, blue flames leaking down his fingers into the grass, the earth growing more scorched with each passing second. He breathed deeply, trying to bank his anger, if only a little. Slightly more controlled, he asked, ‘How old were you when they found you?’

            The kid blinked, seemingly uncertain how to act in this situation, his other hand still gripping Hawks’ shirt. Softly, he said, ‘I was in the orphanage until I was ten. People from the Commission came. Tested us—our quirks. They took me in after that.’

            Ten. Not as young as Keigo had been, but still malleable enough, desperate enough to follow the Commission’s whims in the hope of reaching a better life.

            Dabi sighed. ‘They began training you as soon as you arrived, I reckon?’

            The kid nodded, averting his eyes as he muttered, ‘They said they could make me a hero.’

            Of course, they did.

            Dabi cursed, running a hand through his hair and pulling on the white strands. The more he learned of the HSPC, the more he felt the need to burn it to the fucking ground. Mindlessly, he tugged on a staple on his face, the slight pinch of pain grounding him.

            He eyed the kid over his shoulder. ‘What’s your name?’

            ‘NightHide.’

            ‘Your real name, not the one the Commission stamped on you.’

            For a moment, the kid remained quiet, eyes glossing over as he fought some internal battle. But then, almost too soft to hear, he whispered, ‘I’m Hitoshi Shinsou.’

            ‘Well, Hitoshi, I’ll ask you this once. Do you want to go back to them?’

            ‘I don’t have anywhere else to go.’

            Same as Keigo. Dabi’s jaw clenched. ‘That wasn’t the fucking question. Do you want to go back to them, yes or no?’

            Hitoshi blinked. Seemed to debate the question—the implications of his answer. Then he shook his head, almost reluctantly. ‘No, I don’t.’

            ‘Figured. You chose the right van to escape in, then; we’re getting the fuck out of there. Think you can keep the bird steady while I drive us away from here? I know a place where we can lay low.’

            ‘I, eh, yes, I think so?’

            ‘Then that’s your job for now. Just tell me this: how does your quirk work?’

            Again, that internal battle, as if he’d been forbidden to even speak about it. But eventually, he said, ‘If I ask a question with the intent to activate it, and that person answers, they’ll be under my control until I release my quirk.’

            ‘Can you control it?’

            ‘Most of the time.’

            ‘Good. Because if I find out that you brainwashed the bird again, hell, if I catch you trying to brainwash me, I’ll burn you to the fucking ground. Got it?’

            The kid nodded, shoulders still taut as he shifted on the floor of the van so he could hold Hawks better. Then, he said, ‘Who are...’ He stopped himself for a moment, frowning, then said, ‘I don’t know your name.’

            Dabi let out a hoarse, strained chuckle. ‘Trying not to ask questions?’

            ‘Seemed safer.’

            ‘A quick study.’ He grabbed the door, eyeing the kid a moment longer. Then, he said, ‘You can call me Dabi. Probably heard a lot of shit about me, but hey, right now, I’m your best shot to get away from that bitch of a President at the head of the Commission. You can figure out for yourself what you want to do after that.’

            With that, he closed the door and walked to the driver’s seat, sliding behind the wheel. Dabi leaned against the headrest for a moment, breathing deeply. How the fuck he ended up with not one but two outcasts from the Commission in a van, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it was time the Commission got what it deserved.

            He just no longer wanted to use Keigo to make it happen.

            With that dilemma unfolding in his mind, he floored the gas and drove out of the forest towards a safe house where he could contact the League. Perhaps, by now, Shigaraki had come up with a better plan.  

Chapter Text

Keigo tightly clutched his worn Endeavor doll in his small hands, staring at the round targets on the other side of the room. They were made of wood and covered in large circles of paint that increased in size as they moved outward. A small, black dot was painted in the middle. Keigo had seen targets like these before, on TV, when people shot them with arrows.

            He didn’t have arrows. The people who’d taken him in didn’t seem to mind.

            A man with the face of an eagle placed a hand on his shoulder, pointing at the dot. ‘Think you can hit it with your feather, Hawks?’

            Right. He went by Hawks now.

            Keigo frowned. ‘How?’  

            'You can control your feathers, can you not?’ When Keigo nodded, the man gestured at the target again. ‘Shoot one of them at the target. Aim for the middle.’

            Keigo cocked his head, gaze shifting from the man back to the target. His frown deepened in concentration, and a single red feather detached itself from his wing. It shot towards the target, bumped against the wood, then fell to the ground. He let out a small squeak of excitement and looked back at the man, who scribbled a note onto a clipboard.

            'Again, Hawks. Faster this time.’

            He did, now hitting one of the inner circles, but still, the feather didn’t stick.

            ‘I need you to try harder,’ the man said matter-of-factly. ‘Think about your goal, and focus. We have more to do today; you should at least be able to stick the landing on one feather. It’s the potential we saw in you—don’t let us down already. Don’t you want to be a hero?’

            Keigo’s shoulders curved in a fraction. He didn’t want to disappoint them—he didn’t want to go back to his mother. To that house, that life. The people from the Commission had given him a way out—he knew he wouldn’t get another. He couldn’t waste this; even at his young age, he knew this.

            So he nodded, then nodded again, eyes trained on the target as he ignored the burn of tears. He wanted to be a hero, and this man could help him become one.

            The next feather flew through the air and burrowed itself into the wood, vibrating faintly as it stuck from the target. The man’s mouth curved up a fraction, and he scribbled something on the clipboard again.

            Keigo merely looked at the target, releasing a tight breath.

            He’d hit the bullseye.  

Soft blankets. A dented mattress. A faint breeze.

            Keigo shivered, his vision unsteady and fading at the edges, his clothing and skin drenched in sweat. He was too weak to lift his head—didn’t remember why he should want to lift it to begin with, his mind like quicksand that kept pulling him back under.

            His fingers were entangled with the sheets, tremors raking his body in uneven intervals. He was vaguely aware that someone stood next to him, if only because they exchanged a wet cloth on his forehead with a new one that was blissfully cold. A sigh of relief slipped past Keigo’s chapped lips.

            ‘Drink,’ a gruff voice said, guiding a straw into his mouth.

            He obeyed, swallowing a few mouthfuls of water, only to cough most of it back up. The person sighed, waiting until he managed to get some liquid down and wiping away the stray drops with calloused fingers.

            Darkness swept in properly now, pulling Keigo under without mercy. But just before his eyes closed, he wondered why his fever-riddled mind had given the hands that cared for him burns and staples like Dabi’s—the last person who could possibly want to keep him alive.  

‘Faster!’ Teruo shouted, eyes locked on Keigo, who was flying through the large training hall at top speed. Today’s objective had seemed easy enough: complete the parkour, hit all the targets, and do it within the time limit. He’d done it several times, even if the obstacles became harder and harder to evade and the time decreased as the weeks passed, but thus far, he’d been reasonably successful.

            This time, however, Teruo had failed to mention that someone would be shooting at him.

            A ball of energy graced his calf, and Keigo grunted, switching directions to evade another attack. He was only halfway through the course, a couple bullseyes yet to be hit, and he was already cutting it close on time.

            But he wasn’t allowed to fail. Failure meant disappointing Madam President, and Keigo couldn’t let that happen.

            He accelerated, releasing more feathers than was probably wise, but he managed to hit four of the targets in one go. One left. Only one, and then—

            A ball of energy hit him in the side, blowing him off track and throwing his body against the wall. Keigo tried to twist, desperate to expand his wings and break his fall, but the floor closed in too soon, too fast, and his body crashed against the ground with enough force to push all the air from his lungs, his hoarse cry of pain echoing through the hall.

            Immediately, he knew this was bad.

            Each breath hurt, and his wrist was bent at an unnatural angle, each movement sending new spikes of pain up his arm. Tears streamed from his eyes, unbidden, but he couldn’t stop them.

            Teruo walked up and knelt down beside him. ‘Does it hurt?’

            Keigo hiccupped and nodded, trying and failing to sit up.

            The eagle hummed, fingers curling around the broken wrist. Then, he squeezed, talons piercing the already fragile skin and drawing blood despite Keigo’s fierce cries and attempts to pull his arm away, scrambling against the ground despite his bruised ribs.

            Teruo’s face remained impassive. ‘You were undisciplined. Unfocussed. You only have yourself to thank for this mistake, Hawks. Remember the pain. Remember how you failed today, and do better tomorrow. We have no use for trainees who aren’t willing to give it their all. Do you understand?’ His grip tightened even more when Keigo didn’t immediately reply, drawing yet another scream from the struggling child.

            ‘I’m doing this for your own good,’ Teruo said, deceptively gentle. ‘Do you understand, Hawks?’

            ‘I understand,’ Keigo whimpered.

            ‘Good. Go to your room. Bind the wounds yourself, and write down all the things you could’ve done better. Bring it to me in the morning, and if I agree with your assessment, I’ll take you to the infirmary before you repeat today’s exercise.’

            ‘But—’

            ‘I’m being lenient, Hawks.’ A trickle of blood ran down Keigo’s wrist as Teruo’s talon moved a fraction, digging in deeper. ‘You will repeat today’s exercise tomorrow—it’s not up for discussion. It’s to help you improve your skills and become better. Don’t you want to be a hero?’

            Keigo only nodded, then.

            The next day, despite his body tearing at the seams, despite the pain and exhaustion and agony, he finished the parkour in time. Boundaries were there to be broken, Teruo had said. Pain could be ignored if his will was strong enough. Injuries could hinder, but never incapacitate him. He needed to be faster. Stronger. Better.

            It was what was expected of him—and he could not let them down.

When Keigo woke again, the worst of the shivers seemed to have passed.

            Still, his entire body was sore, as if he’d been training for days on end without taking proper rest in between. Even the smallest shift of his arm made his muscles scream in protest, threatening to drag him back towards restless dreams.

            He didn’t want to dream anymore—preferred to stay far away from those memories.

            Keigo blinked, his head resting heavily on the pillow, his limbs having sunken into the threadbare mattress. He tried to get a grasp of his surroundings, but he honestly had no clue where he was—didn’t recognise a single thing in this room. He had no clue how he’d gotten here, either. The last thing he remembered was standing in front of Dabi, the glass between them cracking, and then... nothing.

            Had the Commission found him, after?

            He could see a window on the wall next to the bed, cracked open, the faint sounds of a nearby street drifting inside on a breeze. He wasn’t underground—a slight relief. Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, it at least wasn’t that room Teruo saved specifically for him.

            Perhaps he wasn’t with the Commission, then?

            Keigo couldn’t be sure, as his current state left much to be desired. Aside from the pain in his body, his throat felt like sandpaper, and dehydration had chapped and cracked his lips. He ran a tongue over them, only to flinch as he tasted blood.

            His eyes fell on a bottle with water on the nightstand, a straw hanging limply over the edge. With a conscious effort, he lifted his hand, trying to grab the bottle, but it was just outside of his reach, the tips of his fingers barely grazing the nightstand. He grunted in frustration, then froze in an instant when a voice cut through the silence.

            ‘You—you’re awake! Don’t strain yourself. Here, let me...’ A boy stepped into his line of sight, with indigo hair and purple eyes, wearing a shirt that was a good two sizes too big for his small frame. He was young. He seemed kind, gentle, eager to help.

            But Keigo didn’t think he’d ever forget that face.

            Another room. A chair keeping him contained, a screen filled with horror, a handful of people shouting orders at him until his head felt like it would explode. A purple-haired kid, brought in, seemingly harmless, wearing clothes with the Commission’s logo stamped on them. He’d whispered words, a false sense of security. Of comradery.

            Are you okay?

            Keigo had answered. Didn’t even know why now, but afterwards, all he’d known was the dark haze. And the blood on his hands. And a blade, lifted and brought down again and again and again and again...

            He wasn’t sure when he made the decision to move, where he’d even found the strength, but suddenly, he was beside the bed, eyes wide, feather blades clutched into trembling hands, a dozen smaller feathers at attention in the air beside him, all aimed at the kid.

            The kid, who had frozen mid-step, hands raised.

            He stuttered, ‘I’m not—I won’t—please—Dabi? Dabi!’

            The door flew open, slamming against the wall with enough force to make Keigo flinch. Dabi ran in, flames burning in his palms, his turquoise eyes alight as he took in the situation in a split second, then cursed colourfully. ‘Get the fuck out of here, kid. You moron, what the hell...  Out, now!’

            He stepped forward, blocking the path between Keigo and the boy as the kid made a swift exit, but it didn’t matter—a target was a target.

            Keigo didn’t know why the flame-user was here, what had happened since the explosion, or why Keigo was even alive, but he didn’t care. The objective was clear enough. This man—this villain—had only caused him pain and suffering, and he was done with being taken advantage of. 

            Keigo made a sound that came oddly close to a growl. ‘Where am I? If you think you can kidnap me again without—’

            ‘Calm your shit, birdbrain.’ Dabi arched an eyebrow, his flames sizzling out with a puff of smoke as he kicked the door shut behind him. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, the stance oddly relaxed, not at all like someone preparing for a fight.

            The fuck was happening?

            Dabi hummed. ‘Don’t you think I would’ve done a better job at tying you up if I’d kidnapped you again? You know damn well I know how, so think for a second and assess the situation a second longer.’

            ‘Then where—’

            ‘Okay, first, sit the fuck down before you collapse. You’re not fooling anyone with those trembling legs; you look like a damned baby animal learning to walk, hardly threatening.’

            Keigo stepped forward, an argument lined up, but the slight movement was enough for a wave of vertigo to wash over him. He grunted and braced a hand on the bedframe, breath hitching. ‘What did you give me? What drug—’

            ‘Fuck’s sake, just sit down.’ Dabi huffed an annoyed sigh and stepped in, a rough yet steady arm curling around Keigo’s waist and lifting him onto the bed like he weighed nothing. He was too stunned to react, especially when Dabi grabbed a pillow and stuffed it behind Keigo’s back so he could sit up against the wall.

            Dabi grabbed a wooden chair, twisting it before he sat down with his arms draped over the backrest. ‘There. Better. Now, before you start throwing accusations, you’re not drugged. You’re not even kidnapped, and it wasn’t fucking me. Shigs nuked the lab, and the ceiling came down. You were knocked out, then ran a fever and have been in and out of consciousness for two days or so. We’re in one of my safehouses—it’s secure.’

            ‘You... took me with you?’

            ‘Evidently.’

            Keigo’s mind blanked, the matter-of-fact way Dabi explained this situation only raising more and more questions he had no answers to. Stupidly, he asked, ‘...why?’

            ‘Most people would just say thank you, you know.’

            ‘I highly doubt that.’ Keigo pressed his palm against his forehead. His skin was coated in dried sweat, but the temperature seemed to have gone down. A quick scan of the rest of his body showed no other significant injuries—none he hadn’t been aware of before. If anything, he felt better than he had before coming to the lab, aside from the aftereffects of the illness. Had Dabi really taken care of him?

            The idea alone seemed utterly insane and highly improbable.

            Keigo breathed out through his nose. ‘I ran a fever?’

            ‘Look, I was joking before about you falling into knives, but damn, Pigeon, you were lacerated all over. The fact that it took this long for an infection to take you out is a fucking miracle, but that gash in your stomach seemed to be the kicker. It festered and shit—cleaned it a few times while you were out. Should be fine now—stitched it shut, even, since you said you weren’t down for all this.’ Dabi gestured at the staples on his face.

            ‘Why?’ Keigo asked again.

            ‘It’s... complicated.’ Dabi mindlessly tugged on the staple at the corner of his mouth, shoulders lifting in a shrug. ‘I’m a shit human, Pigeon, but I’m not fucking heartless—contrary to what you might believe. What you went through? What they made you do? Wasn’t right. None of it. And what the fuck does it make me if I let you get dragged back to the Commission when my goal is to tear them down? If I let them use you, even when you’d clearly get as far away from them as possible if you could?’

            ‘So you brought me here... wherever that may be. You helped me get out?’

            ‘Don’t get all emotional about it. You saved me first by pushing me out of the way of that chunk of cement. Figured I’d return the favour by dragging your unconscious ass out of there.’

            Surreal—this entire thing was fucking surreal.

            Keigo hadn’t even debated it, pushing Dabi out of harm’s way. The ceiling had come down, and in that split second, instinct had kicked in. Minimise casualties—it’s what he’d been trained to do. What he’d always wanted to do. It didn’t matter that Dabi was a villain; he was a human first, and regardless of past actions, Keigo didn’t like it if people died if he could help it.

            Nothing about that day had gone to plan, anyway.

            Keigo had planned to get away after talking to Dabi. Shouta’s car was parked nearby and filled up so they could put as much distance between them and the Commission as possible before dawn.

            Not once did he expect the League to attack the lab, knocking him out.

            Not once did he think he’d wake up in Dabi’s safe house.

            Not once had he anticipated that the same villain who’d carved him up for information would now be the one to care for him while he ran a fever, cleaning his wounds and changing his bandages.

            Keigo reached for the bottle, if only to give his hands something to do. The silence stretched out as he took a few mouthfuls of water, resisting a sigh as it cooled the rawness of his throat. Then, putting in a pin in everything else, he asked, ‘What about the kid?’

            ‘Recognised him, didn’t you? Likely scared the shit out of him with all those feathers, you fucking maniac.’

            ‘What’s he doing here?’

            ‘Ran into him when trying to get out of the lab. He told me yesterday that’s where he resided—a small studio apartment the Commission had locked him in between training sessions. The door broke open when Shigs tore the building down, and he found the same escape route I did.’

            ‘Was he also...’

            ‘...in the Commission’s service? Yeah. Name’s Hitoshi—said he was recruited by the Commission when he was ten. Not unlike you, in that sense.’ Dabi curled his fingers around the backrest of the chair, the wood charring under the heat of his touch. ‘He also told me about his quirk. About what the Commission made him do to you.’

            Keigo felt his cheeks heat, and he averted his gaze to stare out of the window. It was bad enough that Shouta had seen him in that state, but for Dabi to know the details just felt... wrong. Intimate, somehow. Like he’d slipped underneath the layers of his carefully constructed persona, seeing too much of what Keigo had carefully hidden over the years.

            ‘Yeah, well,’ he mused, forcing a faint smile to curve his mouth. ‘It’s as you said: there’s plenty of blood on my hands by now. Guess I shouldn’t complain about a bit more.’

            ‘Oi, no, fuck that.’ Dabi huffed, annoyance lacing the sound. ‘No need for this fake cheerfulness, number two. Creeps me the fuck out. Besides, I was a dick for saying that—I get that now. Can’t call someone a hypocrite for taking lives if it’s not even him doing the killing. Not really, anyway.’

            Keigo bristled, not even sure why, but Dabi’s consideration was somehow much worse to deal with than any of his taunts. ‘The kid only used his quirk on me that last time. Can’t blame him for my entire life, can I now?’

            ‘Did you want to kill those other times?’ Dabi asked, unfazed.

            ‘Sometimes it was the only choice.’

            ‘Not what I asked. You can be linked to dozens, if not hundreds of cases, Hawks. Did you ever feel justified, or were you just acting on the Commission’s orders because they didn’t give you another choice?’ When Keigo didn’t answer, Dabi nodded to himself. ‘Figures. See, I own what I did because it was what I wanted to do. I chose to. You... You were forced, and that’s not fucking right, is it now?’

            ‘You tell me,’ Keigo muttered, the fire in his chest banking as exhaustion snuck back in. ‘It’s not the Commission who’s haunted by those deaths, so who should be blamed for my actions?’

            Dabi rose to his feet. ‘If I were to call a name now, would you do something about it?’

            A mirthless laugh slipped past Keigo’s lips. ‘Couldn’t tell you.’

            ‘I’ll save it for another day, then. Get some sleep, Pigeon. Your existential crisis will be here for you once you’ve regained some strength. This skin-over-bone look you’re trying to pull off isn’t doing you any favours, so I’ll fix us up some food in the meantime. Better we have this talk after you look like yourself again—no fun taunting someone bordering on death’s door.’

            ‘Ah,’ Keigo mused faintly, sliding down on the bed, the lull of the pillows drawing his exhausted body in despite the obvious warning signs of being unconscious around a villain. ‘So you thought I looked good before?’   

            ‘Keep dreaming,’ Dabi huffed, but somehow, those words didn’t nearly carry their usual drawl or bite of sarcasm.

            And, somehow, that’s what Keigo’s mind focused on as sleep pulled him back under.

Chapter Text

The phone rang four, five times, then went to the automated voicemail again for the tenth time in the past three days. The robotic message emerged from Dabi’s burner, the words too familiar by now, and it took everything not to set the damned thing on fire. Fuck’s sake.

            The beep came, and through clenched teeth, he said, ‘Shigs. Pick up your phone. We need to talk.’ He pressed the end-call button, then threw the thing onto the coffee table, unbothered that it slid across the wood and skittered onto the stained carpet.

            Tomura wasn’t going to call, anyway. If he had wanted to, he would have already.

            Dabi had watched the news reports from the attack, the footage itself scarce, the reasoning behind it vague and undocumented. The press didn’t seem aware that he had escaped amidst the mayhem—likely courtesy of the Commission—or that Hawks also appeared to be missing. All they said was that the League of Villains had attacked an HPSC building, resulting in several casualties and that an investigation was still pending.

            No one from the League had been captured, a drone shot showing how they slipped through a warp gate and disappeared, Eraserhead’s scarf mere seconds too late to pull Shigaraki back. They were safe, so why the fuck didn’t they reach out?

            In all honesty, Dabi was pissed as hell at their leader, considering that the attack had nearly cost him his life. Tomura was known for throwing the occasional tantrum when he didn’t get his way, and sure, it was understandable that he got mad after learning Dabi had been captured. But to fucking dust the building without getting him out first...

            It’d been careless. Reckless. Top that off with the ignored phone calls, and Dabi couldn’t help but wonder whether that anger had been directed at him instead. Whether the public outing had been as much a way to release pent-up rage as it was to teach him a lesson.

            But for what? Getting caught? Tomura had encouraged him to look into the bird, had given him free rein, and sure, getting caught hadn’t been part of the plan, but it wasn’t like Dabi had crossed some unseen boundary the leader had put in place.

            No—he’d done nothing wrong; Shigaraki was just unpredictable that way. He’d probably just been caught up in the moment, not thinking shit through as usual. Because even if he’d been annoyed at Dabi, Kurogiri would’ve talked sense into him, and if not the void, then Himiko would’ve argued in his favour.

            It’d be fine. Tomura was going to call soon, and shit would be rightened. In the meantime, Dabi could send Sceptic a message, asking him to relay it to the leader in case his burner had died somewhere over the past few weeks. He’d just ask him for an update of any kind on the state of things, especially after the last public outing.

            He should probably fail to mention he was housing two Commission strays, though.

            Dabi sighed, rising to his feet to retrieve his phone. At the same moment, the door to the bedroom opened. Hawks had been asleep for the better part of these past few days, the little food he’d eaten brought to him either by Dabi or Shinsou. About an hour ago, Dabi had heard movement, the shower turning on in the ensuite bathroom, but he’d assumed it was the kid.

            He didn’t expect it to be the hero, now standing in the doorway.

            Hawks’ hair was wet from the shower, the blonde locks a towel-dried mess with a few strands sticking to his forehead, though he made no effort to wipe them away. His hand lingered on the door handle, a tentative smile curving his lips. After a brief pause, he said, ‘Hi. Eh, morning. Is there... Do you have coffee?’

            ‘In the kitchen,’ Dabi said, a hand outstretched, though his gaze remained on the bird.

            On what he was wearing—or, rather, wasn’t.

            Hawks was only dressed in a pair of slacks—one of Dabi’s—with the legs rolled up to adjust for the excess fabric. They hung low on his hips, the elastic waistband worn and slack, accentuating the sharp angles of his hips and deeply carved lines of his abs. The lack of food had made his lithe muscles stand out all the more, his body a testament to years of meticulous training.

            A few stray drops of water clung to his chest, trailing down as he made his way into the kitchen. After a few days of eating somewhat properly, his face had filled out a bit again, the colour slowly returning to his cheeks after the sickly white he’d been when they’d arrived.

            He looked... good. Fuck, of course, he looked good—he had the highest approval rating for a reason, his appearance playing a significant role in it. He knew how to dress himself, hold himself, how to smile, flirt, and play into people’s expectations. Still, it usually was an act, a persona shaped for the public eye, but now...

            Now, it felt raw. Unexpected. Real.

            Dabi doubted anyone had ever gotten a good look at the scars marring the bird’s body or observed the faint fragility clinging to the clumsy movements of his hands as he fitted a mug under the coffee machine, fingers still trembling from the energy the fever had seeped away. He figured that most people didn’t get to see the Hawks that leaned heavily against the kitchen counter to maintain his balance, harmonising with the grinding of the beans as he waited for his coffee.

            And it wasn’t the fact that the bird was struggling; it was that he allowed Dabi to see it.

            Even when he’d been strung up in the cellar of the mountain safehouse, Hawks had kept up his masks, smirks and comebacks effortlessly spilling out of him despite the pain and exhaustion. He’d tried to maintain the image of the perfect hero, one who could not be broken no matter how hard anyone might try.

            Yet the person standing in his kitchen seemed to have left it all behind, forsaking the hero performativity for something more... casual. Mundane.

            Hawks didn’t hide his yawn, or how his fingers curled around the warm mug, or how he inhaled the scent of coffee and his eyes closed a little, shoulders relaxing as he took a sip and sighed, one hand slipping into the pocket of his slacks, pulling them even lower—

            Dabi tore his eyes away, picking the burner phone up from the floor and placing it on the table, perhaps with a bit too much force.

            Fuck’s sake, where did those thoughts even come from?

            Sure, he’d noticed that the bird was attractive that first time they met up all those months ago, but his suspicion of the hero’s actions had overruled anything else. But now that the imminent threat seemed gone, his perception appeared to have... shifted.

            No longer did he see the Commission’s pawn, the moves and countermoves perpetually in motion behind those golden eyes. Somehow, the human behind the hero’s mask had come into focus, and somehow, that distinction had begun to matter.

            Dabi didn’t care for it one bit, scowling at himself for even thinking about it.  

            Without looking back, he asked, ‘Really, only going to make a cup for yourself?’

            Hawks huffed, the sound oddly close to a laugh. A moment later, he made his way to the couch, two cups of coffee in his hands, of which he placed one in front of Dabi. With the other, he sank down onto an armchair, pulling his legs up underneath him, his wings awkwardly splayed on either side.

            Dabi arched an eyebrow. ‘Is this how you usually sit on chairs with those things?’

            ‘I have low-backed furniture in my house,’ Hawks said with a shrug, his voice still hoarse. ‘And everywhere else, I just... adjust. People tend to freak out if I release all my feathers to sit more comfortably, but this works fine. I got used to it.’

            ‘Makes sense. Fucking nuisance of a quirk, though.’

            ‘As opposed to one that covers your body in burn scars?’

            ‘Got that fixed, though, so I’d say you’re still worse off.’ Dabi took the cup from the table, keeping his palms slightly heated so it remained his preferred temperature. After a sip, he said, ‘You seem... better.’

            ‘The fever has broken, and I slept without dreams last night, which... helped.’ Another pause, in which the bird took his time staring at the mug in his hands. Then, ‘Thanks. For getting me out of there safely. I didn’t say it before, but whatever your reasons... thanks.’

            ‘Reasons, huh? Like I’ve got some multilayered scheme set out.’

            ‘Don’t you?’ His golden gaze flicked up, frowning.

            ‘Not this time, birdbrain. As I said, you needed an out. I was in the opportunity to give you one, and here we are.’

            ‘Just like that.’

            ‘I suppose.’ Dabi shrugged, taking another sip of coffee, the bitter taste a welcome warmth. ‘I’m not all that profound, Hawks. I don’t have a shitload of motives like you do. You did me a solid; I returned the favour since you looked like you needed it. Felt like the right thing to do at the moment. I’m not going to be a dick and incinerate you now that you’re here and healing.’  

            ‘You keep saying that—the right thing. I just... find it hard to believe, I guess. That you...’ His voice trailed off, gaze fixed on the mug as if it somehow held the answers.

            ‘That I know right from wrong?’ Dabi deadpanned.

            ‘That you even understand what wrong is.’ Hawks sighed, fingers tightening around the mug. ‘You burned my wings. You strung me up in a basement and kept me there for a whole week. You made it your goal to break me, all so I would give you intel on the Commission that was hardly of use.

            ‘And I get it, okay? To a degree, anyway. I killed your friend—you retaliated. That’s fair. But how can you say something is the right thing when you can inflict pain so easily? When it doesn’t even bother you?’

            ‘You really want to do this now?’ Dabi groaned, running a hand across his face. ‘Barely awake and shit, but yeah, fine. Let’s talk, then. I am not a good fucking person. Never claimed to be. I’m cruel and petty, and fuck, I have a shitload of issues I don’t even care to solve, likely starting and ending with Enji Todoroki. But I chose to be this way. It was either this or crawling back to a family that’d already decided I was dead, and I wasn’t that desperate.

            ‘And yeah, in hindsight, it wasn’t my finest action, kidnapping you like that. A dick move, if you will, even after what you did to Twice—what you did to us, infiltrating the League, pretending to be our friend, while everything you heard went straight back to the Commission.’ He sighed.

            ‘But I do know right from wrong, Hawks, even if my wrong and yours aren’t aligned. I know that you were hardly in control—likely have never been fully in control of your life. I know that there’s a difference between acting according to your own beliefs and being forced to act by someone else’s. It’s not right that you were used by an organisation that claims to protect society. It’s not right that your choice was taken away in the matter. And hell if I know why I care, but I do.’

            Hawks was silent long enough that Dabi wondered whether the bird was going to pass out again, but then he said, ‘I agreed, though. To join the Commission. To become their trainee, to... work for them. I get what you’re saying, and I appreciate it, even, but I’m not... innocent in all of this.’

            ‘Why are you arguing with me about this? You’re so fucking weird. Offer the bird some kindness, and he tries to crawl away from it, fuck’s sake.’ Dabi rolled his eyes. ‘You were six. Take it from someone who was trained to be a hero since they could walk that it’s not exactly a conscious choice you make at that age. It’s one that’s forced onto you until you don’t know any better. Until their ideals become yours, and their desires for your potential get so intertwined with who you want to be that they might as well be one.’

            Hawks’ forehead creased. ‘You talking about Endeavour?’

            ‘What, you think I became this ray of sunshine because I had two caring parents growing up?’ Dabi let out a dry chuckle. ‘Enji was no better than the Commission. Perhaps a little less direct in his ministrations, but he made sure I understood that failure wasn’t an option. Until he learned that I wasn’t incompatible with my quirk, of course. Then he went out of his way to create my replacement and tossed me aside once Shoto was born.’

            ‘If it makes you feel any better, he’s been miserable since he found out who you are.’

            ‘Not even a little.’ Dabi shrugged. ‘I’ll not be happy until he’s six feet under and miserable; perhaps not even then. But that’s far beside our current point.’ His blue eyes bore into golden. ‘I blamed you for Twice, for the spying, for getting us caught, all of it. I thought you deserved what you got, deserved to feel the consequences of your actions, but I don’t anymore. The Commission had that part covered long before I stepped in.’

            ‘Fuck, thanks, Dabi, that you no longer want to kill me,’ Hawks deadpanned.

            ‘Any time, birdbrain.’ Dabi smirked, a slight curve of his mouth.

            A muscle twitched in Hawks’ jaw. ‘You do know that I’m not actually a bird, right?’

            ‘You have wings, you make a high-pitched sound when something excites you, and your eyes have that mark-thing, and you named yourself after a fucking hawk. Close enough to a bird, if you ask me.’

            Hawks blinked, faint surprise shimmering in his eyes, though it dimmed as soon as he looked away. ‘Fair, I guess. Though the Commission named me; they thought it was a strong hero name.’

            ‘Of course they did.’ Dabi snorted. ‘Is there anything in your life they didn’t dictate, or have you really just been following their orders for the last two decades?’

            ‘Evidently.’ Hawks’ laugh rang hollow. ‘I have no fucking clue what to do with my life now, though. Can’t go back there. Can’t exactly move forward. Can’t hide out in a house owned by a villain wanted by the entire country, but can’t return to my own home either cause my name’s not even on the fucking lease. You chose a great time to decide you no longer wanted to fuck me over, Dabi. Not like there’s much left to salvage now.’

            ‘You never used to be this pessimistic; almost makes me miss that smirking moron you pretended to be when you tried to join the League.’ Dabi huffed a breath, shaking his head. ‘You don’t need to figure shit out right now, birdbrain. No one knows you’re here—no one even knows you’re missing. Right now, you’re probably as free as you’ll ever be, so figure shit out. Find meaning, or whatever. Own who you are, as Hawks, as Keigo, as whoever the fuck you want to be, and go from there. That’s what I did when my life burned down, anyway, and it’s worked out so far.’  

            ‘But—’

            ‘I’m not some glorified life coach, okay? I don’t have all the answers, and you likely shouldn’t want them from me. Heal. Eat. Breathe, for once, and live a day without someone trying to kill you or wishing you were dead instead. See how that feels for a change. Your shitshow of a life will be waiting for you once you’re ready to deal with it.’

            Again, that blink of surprise, and Dabi made himself rise from the couch and walk towards the kitchen. Your feelings are showing, was what Tomura had said about taking Himiko to Jin’s grave. He wondered what the leader would think if he saw Dabi now, giving a damned pep-talk to the number two hero. Like he somehow cared. Like it mattered whether Hawks was doing okay or not. It shouldn’t; yet it did.

            Tomura would skin him alive for it—him, and the bird.

            But Dabi could take his own advice. Tomura hadn’t called him back, the Commission wasn’t yet on his tail, and his father would continue to be an asshole for another day. For now, he could ignore it and focus on the things inside this apartment. The place where Hawks was just a guy with a fucked up past, Dabi was just someone who’d decided to give a shit, and the kid sleeping in the chair in the bedroom was just another person who needed shelter.

            The world would still be on fire tomorrow if he paid no heed to it today.

            So he tore some ingredients from the fridge and tossed them onto the kitchen counter, preparing to scrape together something that resembled breakfast. He glanced over his shoulder, pan in hand, one eyebrow raised. ‘So for today, will it be: Hawks or Keigo?’

            The bird hadn’t moved from the chair, staring at a stain on the wall, thoughts churning behind those golden irises that slowly shifted to meet Dabi’s gaze. Hawks exhaled, a slow dip of his shoulders. ‘Keigo.’

            Dabi nodded, ignoring the faint warmth spreading through his chest. ‘Keigo it is.’

Chapter Text

It proved frighteningly easy to forget everything had gone to shit as long as Keigo solely focused on what was happening inside the apartment. He didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t scroll through phones or glance at the laptop Dabi occasionally opened to check for messages.

            For the first time since he was six, he was entirely off the grid, and it felt like a weight had lifted from his chest, like he could finally expand his lungs to full capacity without it feeling like he was going to tear apart. He knew he should probably feel shame, regret, fear for what would come, and knew Madam President wouldn’t let him quit this easily—if at all.

            But at this moment, all he felt was relief. 

            One day turned into three, during which he only once asked Dabi to relay a message for him—a brief one to Shouta, stating that he was fine but in hiding, just to let the eraser hero know he hadn’t perished in that lab since Keigo’s burner hadn’t made it out unscathed. Dabi had reluctantly agreed, stating he needed to encrypt it first, but would get it done, even if Shouta might not be able to reply.

            Keigo knew that for now, that would have to do, at least until he’d regained his strength and the last dregs of his illness had faded away with bed rest and proper meals, allowing his body to heal.

            So, rather than fight the situation, he’d allowed himself to escape into the mundane rhythm of life in hiding. A slow routine was taking shape the longer Dabi and him were in each other’s presence, of the villain occasionally slipping outside to gather supplies, of Keigo preparing dinner in the evenings, of Dabi relentlessly teasing Hitoshi when he beat the kid in video games, of Keigo taking naps and sipping tea and breathing.

            And perhaps even stranger than the ease with which he’d slipped into this way of living was that he’d actually begun to realise that Dabi wasn’t half-bad. Personality-wise, anyway.

            On the second day, Dabi had found an Ottoman on the side of the street during a food run—or, rather, Keigo had decided to believe that particular lie—and plopped it into the living room. ‘Cause you looked like an idiot with your wings all crumpled up on that fucking chair,’ he’d grunted, shrugging off the gesture as he slipped into the kitchen to put away the groceries, not waiting for an answer or explaining it any further.

            Keigo had stared after him, mouth slightly agape, not even sure what to say. The man was all sharp angles and blunt edges, any kind gesture somehow laced with defensive fire, but underneath it all, he listened. He remembered. And through the begrudging acts of service, he seemed to actually care.

            It was a side of the villain that he hadn’t thought existed, but he couldn’t say he minded. It felt oddly freeing to be accepted, to not have to hide as damned much since Dabi had already seen all stages of Keigo—ranging from being in prime health and an absolute mess—and barely blinked at either. It was nice to be around someone who didn’t mind whether he was broken or whole.

            Keigo knew it was damned pathetic and borderline insane, considering that this was the same man who’d landed him in the hospital not once but twice with near-lethal injuries, had burned his wings, had cut him up, fractured him, who’d been set on the goal of being Keigo’s sole destruction. And yet.

            Keigo hadn’t forgiven him. Hadn’t forgotten it, either. But in this very moment, he’d put a pin in it the past, ignoring it for the sake of granting himself some leeway in the shitshow that was his life. The Commission had done the same shit Dabi had done, if not ten times worse and more often, and he’d crawled back to them each time with a subservience that should sicken him. At the very least, Dabi had acknowledged he was a dick and had given some semblance of an apology rather than claim everything he’d done was for Keigo’s own good.  

            The bar was so fucking low it might as well be buried.

            And then there was the kid. As strange and slightly unsettling as it was having him here, Keigo had begun talking to him as well, though he’d first asked Hitoshi to explain in detail how his quirk worked before doing so, not too keen on being brainwashed again.

            Still, after that, he couldn’t stop himself from asking questions, from learning more about how Hitoshi had experienced it all—about what the Commission was still doing to new trainees. And with each answer, his heart froze over a little more, his detestation winning ground in the ongoing war between his sense of loyalty and his flickering rage.

            ‘Was Teruo your handler, too?’ Keigo had asked the other night, knees drawn up to his chest as he balanced on the Ottoman, a damping mug of coffee on the table in front of him.

            Hitoshi had crawled onto the couch, a few worn manga scattered beside him. He was cradling a bottle of soda, courtesy of Dabi’s grocery haul, his foot tapping restlessly on the pillows. Keigo should’ve probably done the responsible thing and told the kid he shouldn’t drink that much sugar, but knowing how strict the Commission had been about food intake, Hitoshi, too, deserved to let loose.

            The kid had hummed. ‘Mostly. There was also a doctor—never learned his name. And Madam President trained with me a lot. She kept bringing in people for me to put under my control. Said she was interested in the range of my quirk. In its applications.’

            ‘And that thing you did to me—did she ask you to do that to someone else, too?’

            He had shaken his head, looking down at his hands. ‘It was simple things before. Jump. Walk left, walk right. Shoot an arrow, fire a gun. I learned to control people’s speech last year—we were training with that. But Teruo came. Asked me if I was up for a challenge. I never expected... If I’d known...’

            Keigo had smiled, willing warmth to fill his eyes even if the hollowness in his chest hadn’t quite left since the moment Shouta had snapped him out of the mind control, the sense of not quite being in touch with his feelings anymore.

            But he had said, ‘I was still in control. You didn’t make me do anything—I just made the Commission think that was the case so I could get out of there. Nothing that happened after that was your fault. Don’t feel bad about it.’

            Hitoshi hadn’t quite believed him—Keigo could tell—but had nodded nonetheless, excusing himself to retreat to the bedroom a few moments later, a mixture of emotions churning in his violet gaze.

            Dabi had sunk into the chair beside Keigo, scoffing softly. ‘Did you just lie, hero?’

            ‘He’s a kid,’ Keigo had mused absentmindedly, staring after Hitoshi. ‘Just because we’re two sides of the same tragic coin doesn’t mean he has to be ruined, too.’

            The rest of the evening had been spent in contemplative silence, during which he occasionally felt Dabi’s eyes on him, frowning.

On the third night, Dabi and Keigo were alone in the living room while Hitoshi had retreated to the bedroom to watch some anime—though when Keigo checked last, the kid was out cold on the bed, limbs sprawled in all directions, a pillow cradled in his arms.

            Keigo, too, had dozed off a few times already, lying on his stomach on the ottoman while flipping through one of the manga. When he jolted awake a third time, his gaze caught Dabi’s, who was lying flat out on the couch on the other side of the coffee table.

            Dabi blinked, slowly, then sighed. ‘You move a lot in your sleep, you know,’ he said, though his voice held no judgment, more curiosity than anything. His piercing blue eyes remained trained on Keigo, but they’d grown half-lidded as the night progressed, his arm swaying back and forth next to the couch. At ease. Relaxed.

            Keigo scraped his throat, pressing himself up on his lower arm, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘I, ah, dream, often. Didn’t know I moved that much, though; I usually sleep alone.’

            Something sparked in the cerulean gaze, a flicker of intrigue, but Dabi only hummed. ‘Nightmares?’

            ‘Sometimes.’ Keigo frowned, then, despite himself, corrected, ‘Well, most times.’

            ‘Figured. You sometimes mumble, too. Or flinch.’

            He felt his cheeks heat. ‘Sorry.’

            ‘Nah, no need to apologise. Doesn’t bother me, I just noticed.’ Dabi paused, biting the corner of his lip, then added, ‘I get it. I used to have them, too. After I... woke.’ The words hung heavy between them, and while Dabi’s eyes remained fierce and determined, Keigo felt like there was a rawness to the gaze that hadn’t been there a moment before—a tentative kind of vulnerability that seemed to surprise both of them.

            After a pause, Keigo asked, ‘What was that like? Waking up after all those years—not knowing what happened in the meantime?’

            ‘What do you think?’ Dabi deadpanned. ‘Shit was fucked. Garaki had managed to pull me back from the brink of death—fuck if I know whether I was better left there, but hey, here we are. He meddled with my quirk a bit, fixed the broken parts, then stitched me up and left me to recover for a few years. Didn’t know up from down when I woke—worst hangover I ever had.

            ‘I think I punched someone when they said it’d been three years, but even I could look in a mirror and see that I’d changed. Grown. Fucking matured while I was out cold. And when I ran from that facility and went home, well...’ He snorted. ‘There was a fucking shrine with my photo in a room filled with dust, and dear old dad was beating the shit out of my little brother next door. Even my death wasn’t enough for him to realise he was ruining us, all for some fucked up ideal of superiority.’

            ‘Yeah, your dad’s kind of a dick, not going to lie,’ Keigo said.

            Dabi barked a laugh, the sound rasping yet oddly warm. ‘Shit, Pigeon, did not expect to hear those words from you. Thought you worshipped the man.’

            ‘Used to.’ Keigo grunted as he pushed himself up, folding his legs underneath himself. ‘Wasn’t much to look up to when you’re not allowed to leave the house. It was just me and the TV and my mom waning away in a corner.’ He shrugged. ‘Endeavor arrested my dad—kickstarted all of, well, this, and I used to be grateful. Used to think he was the epitome of heroism. But honestly, the more I got to know him, the more of an asshole he became. And then after your broadcast... Dick seems to cover it.’

            Dabi arched an eyebrow. ‘Wait, was he the one who tossed you towards the Commission?’

            ‘Thought you spoke to my mother before the raid?’ Keigo shook his head, smiling faintly. ‘No, we ran after the arrest—never spoke to Endeavor back then. The Commission came into the picture when I saved a bunch of people while living on the streets with Mom.’

            ‘Right. When they bought you from her so that they could turn you into their new little project.’ Dabi paused, releasing a tight breath through his nose. ‘Shit. Old habit, sorry.’

            ‘No, no, you’re right. They did. She did. And I was excited back then, even. Thought I could finally make something of my life after years of making myself small, of weathering my father’s anger and... well, everything. Thought this was what I’d been waiting for. But should’ve known it was too good to be true.’

            Dabi angled his head. ‘So, nightmares.’

            ‘Yeah. Nightmares.’ Keigo rolled his shoulders back. ‘How did you get rid of yours?’

            ‘Who says I did?’ Dabi scoffed and sat up, too, leaning against the armrest, thumb rubbing back and forth across a staple on his other hand. ‘They lessen. Once you put shit into perspective. Once your focus shifts, and you come to realise that the things that hurt you, that caused you fear, are in the past. That they can’t get to you anymore. Well, at least not this version of you, all grown and mature and crap.’

            ‘Who says I’m mature?’ Keigo countered.

            ‘Fuck if I know when birds come of age.’

            ‘Not a bird.’

            Dabi grinned. ‘Argue all you want, Pigeon, but you’re not winning this particular fight. What would that be, three to one? You need to step up your game if you ever dream of beating me properly.’

            ‘I recall saving you in the lab; I should at least get two.’

            ‘After which, I dragged your unconscious ass away from there before the Commission could pluck you up. That doesn’t exactly help your odds.’

            ‘I’ll even the score eventually,’ Keigo grumbled, though he felt the corner of his mouth curve. ‘You may have been beating Hitoshi in that damned game, but you haven’t played against me. My reflexes are almost back to what they were, and after that, I’ll be unstoppable.’

            Dabi answered by tossing an empty packet of cigarettes in his direction, laughing when it bounced off the side of Keigo’s face before he could swat it away. ‘I tremble in terror at those damned reflexes of yours, Keigo.’

            Keigo stilled, his smile growing a fraction unbidden at the sound of his name.

            Dabi rolled his eyes. ‘Fuck’s sake, if you’re going to be weird about your name, I’ll switch back to Hawks or any other avian term I can think of.’

            ‘No—it’s fine. It’s good, actually; it’s just been a while since someone used it so casually.’

            ‘Why did they make you get rid of it, anyway?’

            Keigo shrugged. ‘They tried to cut ties with everything from my past. I think it was mainly the Takami name they wished to conceal, but I suppose they thought it easier to reform me if they gave me an entirely new personality. New name, new character traits, new life. But I always liked the name Keigo.’

            Dabi hummed. ‘Thought Touya wasn’t all that bad either, even though it now feels like it belongs to another person. A dead kid, left to rot on a mountain.’

            ‘You can still reclaim it.’

            ‘Suppose so. But I don’t mind Dabi. I chose it; it’s mine, and mine alone, whereas Touya belongs to Endeavor to an extent. Perhaps once he’s gone, I’ll take it back. Like the damned spoils of war.’ Their gazes locked, and it was like Dabi was trying to get Keigo to disagree, a tentative fire lighting up the turquoise reflection.

            But Keigo understood. He might disagree with the lengths Dabi was willing to go to, but he understood the urge to break free of one's past. To cut ties, to become someone else, without constantly being confronted with it.

            So he only smiled faintly and said, ‘Yeah, perhaps. Worthy prize, I guess.’

            Then he got up and grabbed the two controllers of the dusty Xbox and tossed one to Dabi, shoving his legs off the couch before plopping down beside him. Ignoring the comfortable warmth of Dabi’s arm, inches from his, Keigo said, ‘Let’s see if we can at least make it three to two.’

            Dabi held his gaze for a moment longer, some deeper emotion stirring behind his eyes, but then he grinned. ‘Wouldn’t bet on it, birdbrain.’

Chapter Text

So perhaps having the bird around wasn’t the worst thing to have happened. Perhaps, if Dabi were honest with himself, he actually enjoyed Keigo’s company. And perhaps, if things had been different, without the League, without the Commission, without every fucked up thing that happened in their lives, this was something he could get used to.

            But shit had happened to them. Things weren’t different.

            And the world didn’t stop spinning just because they’d decided to hit pause.

            Dabi leaned against the wall of an alley, hood pulled up, a mask covering the lower half of his face, his hands shoved into his pockets, clutching the burner phone. An hour ago, Skeptic had finally replied—a brief message, no apologies, only containing coordinates suspiciously close to his safe house and a time.

            Dabi hadn’t said where he was hiding, which could only mean that Tomura likely knew.

            It’d started to drizzle a few minutes ago, a thin layer of water now coating the sidewalk, but Dabi stayed put, eyes aimed at the road while he mentally ticked away the seconds. Had it been a mistake, leaving Keigo in the apartment? Hitoshi was there, too, and the bird seemed better, but Dabi hadn’t told them he’d be going out to get more than just groceries. That the League was nearby, and things might not go as smoothly as he hoped.

            Should he have prepared them?

            His fingers balled into fists in his pockets, tension spreading down his spine. It was fine. It would be fine—even if the bird got hurt, it was fine. Dabi wasn’t his keeper. They weren’t friends, just unlikely allies for the time being.  Hawks was the number two hero, for fuck’s sake. He could take care of himself, even if he wasn’t at full strength.

            So why the fuck did Dabi feel worried?

            ‘Dabs!’ Himiko’s voice jolted him back to attention, the girl slipping into the alley wearing a bright pink raincoat. She ran up to him, arms curling around his middle, and Dabi patted her slightly on the back, never quite sure what to do with her outward affection—and always wary of any knives she might have on hand.

            ‘Hi there, lunatic,’ he said mildly, unwrapping himself to look at the person walking into the alley behind her. There, like a shadow dressed in black, stood Tomura. The leader’s face was blank, calculating, though the thinness of his lips and the fingers tapping restlessly against his legs were enough reason for Dabi to straighten and nod a greeting.

            Shigaraki wasn’t wearing his gloves. Was looking positively murderous, for whatever reason. Still, he was here, not at the apartment, which was a win by Dabi’s tally, as pathetic as that might be.

            ‘And hello to you too. It’s about time, Shiggy,’ he said. ‘Been trying to get a hold of you for days. You ignoring me or something?’

            ‘Strange,’ Tomura mused, his voice like gravel. ‘I recall going to the building where the Commission had locked you in, only to discover you left without us. You couldn’t be in much of a hurry to get in touch.’

            ‘I appreciated the rescue, but you nearly crushed me in there—I was pissed. Can’t blame me for taking a moment to blow off steam.’

            ‘You seem just fine to me.’ His red eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘So what stopped you from joining the fight outside, taking your anger out on them? Wasn’t much of a challenge, especially for someone who builds up rage like you do.’

            ‘They cuffed me, Shigs. Didn’t have my quirk.’

            Tomura’s brow rose. ‘Did they now?’

            ‘The fuck do you want me to say?’ Dabi growled. ‘They messed with me for a few weeks, you nuked the fucking building and damn near crushed me beneath it, and I couldn’t care less about some B-grade heroes attempting to rise to fame in that stupid fight. I found a way out—tried to reach you afterwards, but hey, if you don’t pick up your damned phone, the hell am I to do about it?’

            ‘So it had nothing to do with a certain winged hero who was seen entering the building but never leaving? A bird who’s flown off the radar since?’

            ‘You fucking jealous or something? You didn’t give a damn about whether I looked into Hawks or not. If it’d bothered you this much, you should’ve said something, not acted like a jealous child throwing a tantrum afterwards. The fuck is this, kindergarten?’

            ‘I said satisfy your curiosity, not get arrested,’ Tomura hissed, stepping closer, his fingers twitching. Himiko’s gaze shot between them, but she remained quiet, leaning against the wall of the alley with a slight frown forming between her eyebrows.

            Tomura scoffed. ‘Is he in the safe house with you?’

            ‘Who, Hawks? Why would he be?’

            ‘Such great questions you ask, Touya, yet you answer none of mine. Which leaves me to believe that yes, you’ve somehow thought it wise to house a broken bird. I’ll not attempt to unravel your logic—I doubt even you can. But let me remind you that he’s property of the Commission. He’s not some stray for you to adopt, a fun side project to fill your days with. You’re needed at the League. We’re moving on to the next phase.’

            Dabi’s jaw clenched, not bothering to deny it. ‘And what would that be?’

            ‘We found a way to deal a blow to the Commission they can’t dodge, and will make our move amid that chaos. You have a duty to fulfil. I’ll grant you a final night to deal with your avian pest, but by morning, I expect you to be at the address Skeptic will send you. It’s time you get your priorities straight again. You’ve wasted enough time on this.’

            Tomura turned, calling Himiko along with him with a sharp movement of his head. An apparent dismissal, one that had a slow inferno building in Dabi’s chest, anger and something bordering on resentment itching beneath his skin.

            In a moment of boldness, he spat, ‘And if I’m not there? If I refuse?’

            Tomura halted at the exit of the alley and looked over his shoulder, something that might vaguely resemble sympathy flicking in his eyes. ‘Not all broken things can be made whole, Touya. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is allow it to decay.’

            Himiko’s hand slipped into Dabi’s for a moment before he could retort, her large yellow eyes staring up at him. ‘It’s okay, Dabs. You can love something and still want to kill it. Perhaps it means you love it even more than you thought you did.’

            ‘I don’t—’

            ‘It’s okay,’ she repeated, grinning. ‘I’m glad you’re coming home, though. I missed you.’

            Dabi hissed when her free hand shot out, a shallow cut leaking a trail of blood down his forearm from a knife he hadn’t spotted.

            Himiko hummed, tongue running across the blade, her grin growing wider. ‘Love you, Dabs. See you tomorrow!’

            With that, she darted after Tomura, both of them disappearing into a flicker of purple as soon as they’d arrived, leaving Dabi in the alley while the rain picked up. He flipped his collar, releasing a long sigh.

            Well, fuck.

            Time had officially run out, then. Would Keigo be fine with looking after Hitoshi by himself while Dabi dealt with the League? The fever had gone down, and his cuts were healing, but those damned nightmares seemed to grow worse each night. Dabi had only commented on it once, but he noticed it each time, like his body was growing attuned to the bird’s flinches and the softest of whimpers.

            Pathetic, he knew, but he couldn’t help it.

            Keigo didn’t exactly have somewhere else to go, though. Perhaps, if Dabi just stashed the apartment to the brink, the bird would be fine for a week or two while Dabi dealt with the League. He would listen to whatever this plan of Tomura was, ensure Keigo didn’t get involved, and perhaps he could even help deal a finishing blow to the Commission. Without them, the bird would be free to do what he wished, and they could... well, do whatever it was that unfortunate allies did when their common threat was defeated.

            It was far from the ideal way of going at things, but in this fucked up world, there was no such thing as perfection, and while far from the cleanest, this would likely be the fastest way to go about it. He would have to come clean about today’s meeting, though—not exactly a discussion he was keen on having, but it’d be fine. It would all be fucking fine.

            It had to be.

When Dabi returned to the apartment that evening, packed with groceries, it was quiet. A glance into the bedroom showed Keigo, lying face down on the bed, his back rising and falling at slow intervals, deep asleep. Beside him, curled onto a sofa, was Hitoshi, also out cold.

            Neither of them would’ve stood a chance had the League attacked them like this.

            He didn’t know when they’d begun trusting that the apartment was a safe space. Didn’t know when he’d become protective over them. But the mere prospect of them getting hurt made his blood boil, and he stepped away from the room before the flames sparking at his fingertips would wake either of them.

            Fuck. Maybe Tomura was right. Perhaps his priorities were shifting, if not slightly altering. Dabi still wished to tear the Commission down—if anything, that goal had only been strengthened after getting to know Keigo better. Exposing them for what they were, for the way they treated those in their service and how they painted a false picture of their so-called perfect hero society.

            So why the fuck did it matter that he didn’t feel like hurting Keigo in the process? That he made sure the bird got out relatively unharmed before taking matters into his own hands?

            Dabi groaned, running a heated hand across his face.

            He began unloading the groceries, tossing them haphazardly onto the counter and into the cabinets, trying to calm his mind slightly. This wasn’t at all how he’d expected the meeting to go. Not this short. Definitely not this strange kind of consideration, like Tomura thought Dabi was losing it, but trying to pull him back from the edge.

            He fucking wasn’t—was he? It didn’t feel like he was, anyway. If anything, for the first time in probably a long time, this thing with Keigo felt right. Perhaps it was a lie, and maybe none of it was meant to last, but being with the bird was like finding his own shitshow of a life reflected in another, of finding a soul that called to his own.

            Ah, shit. He was losing it after all.

            The burner phone buzzed in Dabi’s pocket, and when he pulled it free, he saw two notifications. One was from Skeptic—the promised coordinates, which he’d ignored when they’d come in two hours ago. The other was a missed call from a number that’d been calling him on and off for the past few days. It was unsaved, but he recognised it nonetheless.

            Fucking Eraserhead.

            The hero had been trying to get into contact after that sole message from Keigo, somehow having slipped through some of the encryption to the point where he’d been able to retrieve the phone number. Dabi was half a thought away from just blocking the damned number, were it not that the hero would likely find another phone to bother him with.

            As if summoned by his annoyance, the phone rang again, buzzing incessantly in his palm. He scowled at it, then, against better judgment, hit answer and snapped, ‘The fuck do you want, Eraser?’

            The other end of the line remained quiet for a moment, faint surprise echoing in the grain, but then Eraserhead asked cooly. ‘Dabi. Of course. Where’s Hawks?’

            ‘Asleep.’

            ‘Like hell he is, what did you—’

            ‘Calm the fuck down. He’s fine. Bird’s been sleeping a lot these days after he ran a fever—you know, considering he was littered in cuts that’d grown infected? Fucking miracle he didn’t get sepsis.’

            Another pause, then, ‘Where did you take him?’

            ‘A safe house, far away from the Commission. What, had you wanted me to leave him in that crumbling lab by himself?’

            ‘Considering what you did last time you took him? Yes.’

            Dabi huffed a breath. ‘He’s not strung up in some cellar, if that’s what you’re afraid of. He’s just asleep in the bedroom, out cold. Granted, it’s probably not the finest bed he’s slept in, but it has blankets. Pillows. A damned mattress. Nothing to complain about.’

            ‘Let me speak to him,’ Eraserhead demanded.

            ‘And say what—come home? Allow the Commission to get their hands on him again? I think the fuck not.’ Dabi ran a hand through his hair, voice lowering when he said, ‘What do you want, Eraser? This line’s untraceable, and I only answered so you’d finally stop calling me. If you’re just trying to get your pet hacker to lock us down, I’ll save them the trouble and hang up.’

            ‘No—no. Damn it.’ The hero muttered something undecipherable, then, ‘I don’t know where this stance of yours is coming from, but fine. This is too urgent to postpone. When he wakes, I need you to tell him that someone has broken through the Commission’s firewall; their data has been breached. Classified files were retrieved. Footage stolen—all of it.’

            ‘Serves them right, I reckon. Should I care?’

            ‘If you give a damn about Hawks, like you’re currently pretending to do, then yes. You definitely should.’

            Dabi stilled, the urgency of Eraserhead’s voice settling. Footage was stolen. Hawks needs to know. Tentatively, he asked, ‘What kind of files? Can they be pulled back?’

            ‘Too late,’ Eraserhead said softly. ‘They’ve already leaked them to the public. Turn on the TV and see for yourself. But just—warn him. Before he sees. Please.’

            The desperation clinging to that last word wrapped itself around Dabi’s chest, pressure building as he walked towards the TV and picked up the remote. Part of him could venture a guess as to what was about to see, but there was no way to prepare him for the reality.

            It was on every news channel, not a report, but a montage of videos, looped and endless. A message ran below it—If even the Number Two Hero isn’t an exception, how will the HPSC keep you safe?—but Dabi could only focus on the videos themselves.

            On Keigo’s past, laid bare for all to see, more horrifying than he’d even been able to imagine, dozens of videos strung together with each one worse than the last.

            Keigo, no older than eleven, was bleeding from various cuts and bruised all over. His face was scrunched up in pain as he performed flying drills while a heteromorph looking like an eagle shouted endless abuse at him. That he needed to do better, to earn his place, to be a fucking hero.

            Keigo, still young—perhaps seven—banging on the door of a small, narrow cell, the camera looking down on him at an angle. He was filthy and barely clothed, his ribs clearly visible through the thin fabric of his top. He was crying, lips chapped and bleeding, his screams heart-wrenching. Still, no one answered him.

            Keigo, maybe twelve, sitting on the edge of a gurney, face completely blank as a doctor sliced open his arms and legs with a scalpel without apparent reason, blood leaking down onto the floor. Despite the dissociation, Dabi saw the barest flicker of pain deep behind those golden eyes, even if the bird didn’t respond; even if he endured the pain without argument. Used to it. Conditioned not to show his true feelings.

            And the Keigo, slightly younger, lying face-down on that same gurney, wings outstretched, his arms, legs and torso strapped down. He was screaming as a gloved medic methodically pulled out his feather, another man scribbling notes on a clipboard as blood soaked the back of Keigo’s shirt. They didn’t stop, no matter how much he pleaded.

            They never. Fucking. Stopped.

            Dabi wasn’t sure when he made the decision to sit down, but he found himself on the couch, knuckles turned white as he gripped the remote, his anger a living thing inside his chest, roaring like wildfire.

            He forced himself to exhale, lifting the burner phone back to his ear. ‘Who—’

            ‘The League claimed the attack. Shigaraki did. I’ll assume you didn’t know they would?’

            ‘That fucking son of a—’ Dabi broke the sentence off with a growl, eyes narrowing as he saw the Keigo on the TV curl up into a ball in the corner of a cell, a handler tossing some food inside like he was little more than an animal for them to train. ‘How long has this been streaming?’

            ‘An hour or so. We’re trying to take it down, but it’s proven... difficult.’

            An hour. Tomura had stood before him this morning, stating that Dabi would at least have this night. To deal with Hawks. Was this what he meant? Was this payback, punishment, even? Did he think this would make it easier to do what he felt needed to be done—as if Dabi wasn’t already aware of Keigo’s past?

            Dabi cursed colourfully. ‘I didn’t—’ he started, but stopped himself at the sound of movement behind him, a soft shuffling of feet, a hitched intake of breath. Dabi whirled and saw Keigo, standing in the middle of the living room, eyes locked on the screen.

            The Keigo on the TV whimpered, tears streaming down his young face.

            The Keigo in the apartment grew very, very still, wings folded tightly at his back, hands curling around his abdomen, a tremor running through his limbs.

            Dabi was on his feet within a second. ‘Shit. No—don’t, okay? Don’t look. It’s not—’

            ‘Hawks?’ Eraserhead’s robotic voice rose from the burner phone, and Dabi grabbed it from the couch, putting it on speaker without a second thought.

            ‘Yeah. He’s here.’

            ‘Hawks—it’ll be fine. You’re okay. We’re working on taking the broadcast down, and so far, the people are on your side, not the Commission’s. I know it looks bad right now, but it will be okay, okay? We’re by you’re side.’

            Keigo didn’t respond, eyes glassy and unfocused, his nails pressing into his sides as his breathing shallowed. Dabi recognised that look—recognised it because he’d fucking caused it once—and cursed internally.

            He shut off the TV, the apartment suddenly too quiet, and tossed the phone and remote onto the table. Then, he stood before Keigo, jaw clenched, and peeled the bird’s hands free so he could grip them tightly.

            ‘Focus on me,’ Dabi said, not caring that Eraserhead or Hitoshi or whoever might hear, his attention locked on the bird. He heated his palms slightly, enough for Keigo to flinch and momentarily come to attention, and squeezed the bird’s hands so he wouldn’t pull them away.

            Turquoise burrowed itself into golden as Dabi said, ‘You need to fucking breathe. Been doing it all your life, so let’s remember how, yeah? In, out, like so. Can’t go falling apart on me yet; we’ve got some assholes to take down for pulling crap like this. You expect me to do all the work myself? Don’t flee from this. Own it; it’s yours, not theirs. Don’t let them take this from you, and don’t shove it all down.’

            Keigo shook his head, a jerking motion, hands shaking in Dabi’s grip.

            ‘Yes, you can,’ Dabi insisted, stepping even closer. ‘I get it. I used to have them too—the moments where everything felt like it was falling apart, where your body refused to listen and it all went to shit. The panic. The fear. I get it, yeah? But you’re not going to stop having them unless you allow yourself to feel it. To work through it. So we’re going to. We’ll face this shit head-on and you’re going to survive. But for now, breathe, Dove. Just breathe.’

            There was the barest intake of breath, Keigo’s chest rising a fraction.

            ‘Hawks?’ a small voice asked, and Dabi’s gaze shot to the bedroom, where Hitoshi had halted in the door opening, purple hair messy from sleep, confused eyes aimed at Keigo. ‘What’s wrong with him? What’s happening? Why can’t he breathe?’

            ‘Who else is there?’ Eraserhead asked, suddenly alert on the other end of the line.

            ‘Not your business,’ Dabi snapped at him, then, at Hitoshi, ‘It’s fine, kid. Go back to bed; I’ll explain later.’ A weak attempt at trying to keep him from facing the worst of it, like Keigo would’ve wanted, but how long could the kid be shielded from the truth after the way he’d been raised?

            An issue for another time—better handled by the bird than by Dabi, anyway.

            He turned back to Keigo, but in the brief disruption of eye contact, something seemed to have shifted, his jaw now firmly clenched, his wings vibrating in silent panic. In a swift, sharp motion, he pulled his hands free from Dabi’s grip, stumbling backwards, catching himself with a hand on the dinner table.

            ‘I can’t... I can’t. I need to... Air. I need some damned air.’ He didn’t waste more words, damn near sprinting to the front door, leaving it open as he rushed outside.

            ‘Kei—ah, shit. Shit, shit, shit. I’ll call you back,’ Dabi barked at the phone, disconnecting the call without giving the hero time to respond. He grabbed his jacket from the chair he’d thrown it on, snapped a quick, ‘Stay here. Stay put,’ to Hitoshi, before bolting after Hawks into the now pouring rain. As if he could, somehow, catch up with one of the fastest heroes out here if said hero had absolutely no intention of being found.

            Fuck.

Chapter Text

The rain pounded down on Keigo, brutal and unforgiving, soaking him to the bone. He wore nothing but a faded shirt and a pair of sweats, both Dabi’s, and his bare feet scraped against the asphalt as he ran. He didn’t know where he was going. Barely knew where he was, each street as unfamiliar as the last, but perhaps if he ran long enough, fast enough, he could escape the horrifying truth that resonated inside his mind.

            Everyone knew.

            Not just that the training had been harsh, not just the rumours that the Commission might not be as forgiving to its employees as they pretended to be, but the truth, streamed for all to see, undisputable and too fucking raw. Everyone had seen, some of those videos even unfamiliar to his own eyes, as if his mind had blocked the memories out, merged them together and dulled them to make it easier to deal with.

            Keigo felt exposed. Violated. Lost, in a way he’d never felt lost before, because that was it; his last escape route, the final tether that offered the slightest potential of returning to the life he’d left behind, was now fully severed.

            He couldn’t go back. He had no clue how to move forward. He could be Keigo today, like Dabi had suggested, but what the fuck was he supposed to do tomorrow when he couldn’t even show his face outside anymore without being confronted with his entire past? To see the pity, or perhaps resentment and glee, reflected everywhere he went. People trying to help him, to fix him, so tell him how fucking sorry they were.

            Like he hadn’t spent years becoming strong to avoid those looks.

            Keigo stumbled into an abandoned warehouse, the site industrial and littered with wooden pallets, and he sank onto the concrete floor. His wings were splayed on the floor, rain-soaked and heavy, a slight puddle taking shape underneath them.

            He pulled up his knees, head resting in his hands, and tried to breathe past the burning panic that’d settled high in his chest, to force his lungs to fully expand even if they’d somehow forgotten how. He pressed his eyes shut, unsure whether that would improve or worsen the images of the videos flashing through his mind.

            A flurry of feathers swerved around him and in the air outside, keeping an eye out for potential people passing by, though he didn’t expect any onlookers. Dabi’s safehouse had been remote, an abandoned apartment complex far away from any city centre or residential area. It should probably concern him that there hadn’t been an option to call for help had things been different, but right now, it seemed like the least of his problems.

            He was just so damned tired. Every time he felt like rock bottom had been reached, life felt the need to prove him wrong, the curveballs becoming impossible to dodge as everything he’d known came apart. It’d been foolish to believe, even for a second, that things would be okay.

            These past days had been almost peaceful, spent with Dabi and Hitoshi, filling them with the kind of mundane things the Commission never gave him much time for. He’d enjoyed it more than he probably should’ve. He’d let his guard down, embraced the routine, had begun to feel almost safe while surrounded by those four walls, but of course, it’d been too good to be true.

            Leave it to the League to ruin a good thing.

            Keigo’s head snapped up when a feather picked up footsteps, ragged breathing, and a barked curse spoken with a gravelly voice that’d become oddly familiar. ‘Where are you, Pigeon?’ Dabi muttered—a few streets away from him.

            Keigo debated not making himself known, perhaps to leave altogether, flee until he found a remote place—possibly overseas—where no one would recognise him, and his past failures and shames couldn’t follow.

            But that meant leaving Hitoshi. Shouta. Dabi. And somehow, that’d begun to matter.

            He let out a tight breath and flew the feather closer to the sound of Dabi’s voice, lingering it in front of his body. He felt the man sigh, felt the odd sensation of Dabi taking the feather from the air and twirling it between calloused fingers.

            ‘Care to show me where you’re hiding, or is this all I’ll get, birdbrain?’ he asked.

            Keigo’s jaw clenched, then he tugged on the feather, a steady pull to guide Dabi towards the warehouse.

            Before long, he stepped inside, shaking the water from his white hair, droplets dripping from the trim of his coat. He stared at it, scowling, then seemed to heat his skin slightly, a faint mist rising from his arms as the water slowly evaporated.

            ‘Couldn’t you have picked better weather to run away?’ he asked, though the tone was mild, tentative. His gaze lingered on Keigo’s form—arms curled around his legs, wings still slack—and he sighed. ‘Not going to lie, Pigeon, that was fucked up.’

            ‘Did you know?’ Keigo asked, forcing himself to stand, his back resting against the wall.

            ‘No.’ Dabi sighed. ‘I met up with them today, though. Shigs… Shigaraki wants me to come back in. Said he had a new plan to take the Commission down, but he never shared it with me.’

            ‘And I’m supposed to believe that?’

            ‘I haven’t been able to get in contact with them since the escape. Hadn’t spoken to them in over a month before today. When the fuck would I have planned to leak all that stuff? And why would I, after… well, everything?’

            ‘I don’t know—don’t even know what this is, what the fuck we’ve been doing. This damned dance of murder and pain and supposed good intentions. I don’t know if I can trust you, Dabi—don’t know who to trust anymore.’ Keigo ran a hand through his hair. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were meeting with the League?’

            A muscle feathered in Dabi’s jaw. ‘Because I don’t want you to get involved with them. I don’t want them to know you’re here, okay? They already…’ He breathed deeply, something bordering on discomfort flashing across his face. ‘Tomura thinks I’ve lost sight of my priorities. Says I shouldn’t bother with you—to cut ties. But I don’t think I fucking can. Don’t want to, anyway, so what the fuck does that make me?’

            Keigo blinked, surprised. ‘You’re fighting with them… over me?’

            ‘Pathetic, right?’ Dabi huffed a mirthless laugh. ‘Derailed my entire plan to take down my father only to take care of one damned guy. But it is what it is, and I’m not changing my mind. I’m not going to follow Shigaraki’s lead when he’s ordering me to take care of this. Like none of this fucking matters. Like I’m supposed to ignore it all. It’s not right.’

            Keigo frowned, confusion mixing in with the panic. ‘But I’m… just me. You saw those videos. You saw what they did, saw me these past months. I’m useless to you, Dabi. Damaged goods, not even a decent hero anymore, just dead weight. Why would you care about that?’

            ‘Because I was you,’ Dabi snapped. ‘I was the kid who couldn’t win adults’ approval, trying to become something I was not just to be seen. If it hadn’t been for the fucking fire on Sekoto Peak, I would’ve likely still been going at it, trying to receive praise for shit that was killing me, knowing it was never going to be good enough.’

            ‘That’s not what I—’

            ‘Like hell it isn’t.’ He ran a hand through his hair, gesturing at Keigo with the other. ‘You have had as much reason to crash out as I had, but somehow, you give so many fucks about what other people think that you’d rather run yourself into the ground or flee from it all than put up a fight.’

            ‘How am I supposed to fight this?’ Keigo damn near yelled now. ‘Everyone knows. Your leader is plastering me as a posterchild of Commission abuse to take them down, the fucking face of everything they’ve done wrong. That’s not me fighting; that’s me being used, again, for the gain of others. What agency can I claim from this? How can I even make a meaningful change if it’s not me pulling the strings?’

            ‘Meaningful,’ Dabi repeated, gentler than expected. ‘Would that be meaningful to you, or to what you think the world expects from you?’

            ‘I—’

            ‘What do you want, Keigo? What would give more meaning to your life, what would change things compared to how they’ve always been? I get that you’ve been a hero this entire time, that you don’t know shit apart from that kind of life, that the world is fucked up and scary and way too fucking wide outside the small bubble the Commission shoved you in, but surely you thought about it. Considered it. So, tell me. What do you want? What do you desire?’

            Something about the phrasing—want, desire—made Keigo still. He blinked, staring at Dabi, at the man who had somehow made it his mission to drag him out of this pit. He didn’t look at him with pity, his bluntness often bordering on hostile, his faint attempts at care always harsh at the edges.

            Dabi knew Keigo was broken, but didn’t seem to care, simply accepted the fact rather than constantly attempting to fix him. He asked Keigo what he wanted. What he desired. And the answer was so fucking simple that it felt like he was lying to himself if he admitted it, like he should wish for something more profound.

            He wanted to be seen for who he was—and Dabi did.

            Keigo didn’t think. Wasn’t even sure when he’d decided to act, or where this particular desire had come from. Perhaps it’d always been there. Perhaps, like so many things in his life, he’d ignored it, shoved it down, pushed it aside because it was easier. But nothing was easy, and right now, he couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore about the consequences.

            He crossed the distance between them in one swift step, pulled Dabi’s face towards him and crashed their lips together. He felt Dabi stiffen under his touch, if only for a second, before his hands caught Keigo’s torso, thumbs grazing the underside of Keigo’s ribcage when he pulled him closer.

            Something loosened in Keigo’s chest, as if part of him had thought that Dabi would reject it, would be revulsed by the idea, that he’d scare off one of the few people who still gave a damn. But as Dabi’s grip kept Keigo flush against his chest, as his mouth moved with the same desperation as Keigo’s, like it’d been restrained for too long, denied the one thing it craved, those doubts disappeared like smoke on the wind.

            ‘Keigo.’ The name on Dabi’s lips was like a whisper, a raw promise edged in fire. The flame-user smelled like smoke, like ash, like the last embers of a campfire mixed with the sharp tang of nicotine.

            Keigo noticed himself inhaling it unbidden, breath hitching slightly. A muscle ticked in his jaw, the last dregs of doubt making him say, ‘If this is not what you—’

            Scarred lips crashed into his before Keigo could finish the sentence.

            Dabi’s hands cradled his face, rough and gentle at the same time, refusing to let Keigo break the kiss as he stepped in and pressed them against the wall. His body was warm, solid, flush against Keigo’s, his thumbs applying pressure on Keigo’s jaw. A question. A demand.

            Opening his mouth for Dabi was an afterthought.

            Somehow, Keigo’s arms found their way around Dabi’s neck.

            Somehow, his knee bent, leg curling around Dabi’s hip, pulling him even closer.

            Somehow, a soft moan was drawn from Keigo’s throat, inconsequential, but it seemed to drive Dabi mad, his movements becoming erratic, the kiss deepening to the point of desperation.

            Keigo was vaguely aware of the trail of heat Dabi’s fingers left as they moved down his neck, one thumb idly resting in the hollow between his collar bones, the other running a blazing trail down his chest. A cold breeze hit Keigo’s chest as the fabric went up in cinders.

            ‘Fuck,’ Dabi breathed, pulling back a fraction, forehead pressed against Keigo’s. His voice was low, guttural, scraping against every raw nerve of Keigo’s being. ‘Fucking hell, Kei. Such a bad idea. Such a—’

            It was Keigo’s turn to shut him up, need and desire overriding rational thought. It was as if a switch had flipped, muting the voices that were on constant repeat in his mind, all the reminders of what was needed of him to please as many as necessary.

            Right now, they didn’t matter. Right now, the only one he cared to please was himself; himself, and Dabi. And if this man, this villain, was going to be the death of him while doing so, so fucking be it.

            ‘Enough talking,’ he muttered, breathless, and he hoisted himself up, legs locking around Dabi’s waist.

            Almost instinctively, Dabi’s hands moved down, gripping Keigo’s thighs to keep him from falling. His eyes—fuck, those damned intense, turquoise eyes—stared up at him, equal parts surprise and intrigue swirling behind a hazy cloud of desire.

            Keigo flashed him a half-smile. ‘No one has to know.’

            ‘Suppose not,’ Dabi said, his usual drawl overshadowed by something else—something primal.

            Keigo ran a finger over the staples on Dabi’s face, one by one, head angling slightly as he observed the light reflecting in them.

            Dabi pulled his face away from Keigo’s touch with a slight huff of breath. ‘What’s the fucking plan then, Dove? For me to carry you around while you get distracted by my pretty face?’

            In answer, Keigo rolled his hips, visceral gratification filling his chest when Dabi’s body stiffened. His jaw clenched as if unwilling to give a reaction, but he couldn’t hide the brief intake of air when Keigo repeated the motion, a choked groan escaping his throat.

            Keigo’s mouth curved, and he brought his face closer to Dabi’s. ‘Wall or floor?’

            Dabi’s gaze darkened, his grip on Keigo’s thighs tightening. Slowly, he took a step back, then another, sinking to his knees until they were both on the ground, Keigo straddled atop him.

            Without breaking eye contact, Dabi shrugged out of his coat, placing it on the floor below them so they wouldn’t be on bare concrete. His turquoise gaze trailed down, lingering on Keigo’s abdomen, a muscle ticking in his jaw. ‘You just had to wear those damned sweats.’

            ‘Knew you were staring the other day.’ Keigo’s hands slid down Dabi’s chest, finding the hem of his shirt and pulling it up and over the man’s head. Dabi allowed it, mouth curved up a fraction when he noticed how Keigo’s gaze lingered a moment too long on the white trail of hair leading into his jeans.

            Keigo hummed and placed his hands on Dabi’s shoulders, pressing him onto the floor while lowering his face towards Dabi’s skin. He kissed his neck, his collarbones, his sternum, lips and tongue working their way down Dabi’s body while his fingers nimbly undid the button and zip of Dabi’s pants.

            He more felt than heard the hitched intake of breath as his hands slid underneath Dabi’s waistband, pulling it down and wrapping his fingers around Dabi’s thick length. The man let out a sound that was close to a growl, hands shifting as one landed on the back of Keigo’s neck and the other in his hair, fingers tangling with the blonde strands.

            ‘Fuck,’ he muttered when Keigo’s hand began moving, his grip on Keigo’s hair tightening. There was something thrilling about seeing Dabi unravel, how his eyes partially closed, how his muscles tensed under Keigo’s touch.

            The villain Dabi, at his mercy.

            Keigo smiled, head tilted aside as he lifted it to look at Dabi, his hand continuing the motions. Innocently, he asked, ‘Something I did?’

            ‘Not the time—shit.’ Dabi’s jaw clamped shut when Keigo moved his thumb to the tip, making idle circles pressing down. Dabi glared at him, the turquoise positively alight in the dim light of the warehouse. ‘Don’t be a brat, Dove.’

            The unsaid threat sent a tingle down Keigo’s spine, and he repeated the motion as he shifted down, his free hand bracing itself on Dabi’s hip. ‘Or what?’

            ‘Or I will—fuck’s sake, Keigo.’ Dabi’s voice was cut off by a rough moan when Keigo took Dabi’s full length into his mouth and throat, nose pressed against his pelvis. Keigo still glanced up at the man as he began moving, and Dabi, slowly but surely, came undone.

            Keigo felt himself hardening with each sound he managed to draw from Dabi, with each spasm of muscles or twitch of his hips, with the tightening of Dabi’s fingers in his hair and the slight pressure he put on his scalp to guide the movements. Dabi wasn’t his first partner, but Keigo couldn’t remember it ever feeling this damned exhilarating to tease someone to the edge, to anticipate their fall and expect to dive right after them.

            He didn’t notice Dabi’s hand sliding from his neck down his back, not until Dabi’s fingers stroked along the top of his wings, and Keigo shuddered. He came up, hand continuing where his mouth had left off, and bit back a moan when Dabi repeated the motion, an idle, lazy stroke.

            ‘It’s difficult to—concentrate—when you do that, Dabs,’ he ground out, shoulders curving a little as another tremor raked his body. His abdomen tightened, the arousal that’d slowly been growing becoming impossible to ignore.

            ‘Is it now?’ Dabi mused, voice hoarse. He let go of Keigo’s hair and pressed himself up on an elbow, clear intention now burning in his gaze. With a practised shift of his legs and hips, he flipped both of them, surprisingly careful not to crush Keigo’s wings while he did.

            Still, the breath left Keigo’s chest momentarily when he looked up at the man, whose hands trailed burning trails down Keigo’s chest, then positioned themselves on the waistband of his sweats—Dabi’s sweats.

            Without much ceremony, Dabi pulled them down, tossing them aside, his own jeans already hanging low on his hips. He stilled for a second, as if appreciating the view, before curling a hand underneath one of Keigo’s knees and pushing it up.

            Dabi leaned in, shoulder pressed against the underside of Keigo’s leg, face closing in. ‘Such a tease,’ he muttered, before his lips crashed against Keigo’s, his teeth nipping Keigo’s bottom lip and swallowing the moan.

            Dabi’s free hand trailed down, massaging Keigo’s thigh, his ass, then lingering. Pausing. He pulled back a fraction, a question dancing in his eyes. ‘This what you were after?’

            Keigo, too aware of every touch Dabi made, his body already on the verge of coming apart, forced himself to nod despite himself, his breathing shallowing. When Dabi still didn’t move, golden eyes locked with turquoise, Keigo managed to grind out a verbal, ‘Yes. Please.’

            Dabi smirked. ‘Good bird.’

            One finger entered Keigo, and his back arched, his hitched breath caught by Dabi’s lips as the man set a slow rhythm, taking his time to stretch Keigo properly before adding a second. Keigo whimpered, head tilting back as Dabi trailed burning kisses down his jawline, teeth grazing his earlobe.

            Dabi’s free hand found his way back to Keigo’s wings, splayed on the ground on either side of him, and he began stroking the radius with lazy movements, almost like an afterthought, while he continued his exploration of Keigo’s body with fingers, mouth and teeth.

            ‘Dabi—’ Keigo ground out, the name a plea in itself. He didn’t care that he lost the upper hand, didn’t care that Dabi had likely only entertained it, waiting for the moment to take over control and guide Keigo to where he wanted him. He couldn’t care, not when it felt this good.

            ‘Almost,’ Dabi mused against his skin, adding a third finger. He curled it, the steady movement slowing as he searched, then found the bundle of nerves and hit it with practised precision. He laughed softly as Keigo fought to stifle his moan, only partially succeeding. ‘Don’t go quiet on me now, Dove.’

            ‘Dabi, I need—fuck. I need more.’

            ‘Look at you, voicing your wants and needs. Such growth already.’ He hit his prostate again, and Keigo’s breath hitched. Dabi moved his face back towards Keigo’s, his grin mischievous, eyes hazy with lust. ‘What did you have in mind?’

            ‘I… I need… Fuck.’ Keigo swallowed tightly as Dabi continued to move his hand, relentlessly. ‘I need you.’

            ‘You were so polite before. I need you… what?’

            Keigo’s jaw clenched, but the desire building in his abdomen overrode any shame he might’ve felt otherwise. He leaned his head back, sweaty strands of hair falling away from his face as he locked eyes with Dabi. ‘Please.’

            And damn, if the smugness that flashed across Dabi’s face at the sound of that word wasn’t almost enough to bring him over the edge.

            ‘As you wish,’ Dabi said, hooking Keigo’s leg over his shoulder. He took out his fingers, pumping his member a few times before aligning himself. He waited for Keigo to give the slightest of nods before pressing in, slowly, his hand continuing to stroke Keigo’s feathers in an almost soothing motion.

            When Keigo let out a soft whimper, Dabi’s hand moved to grip his, squeezing while he held eye contact, his lips lowering to Keigo’s to swallow the sound. Before long, Dabi bottomed out, and for a moment, they just lay there while Keigo adjusted, both breathing heavily.

            ‘Fuck, Dove, you feel good,’ Dabi muttered, his hot breath tingling Keigo’s neck.

            Keigo could only hum, eyes closed, head pressed against the ground as his entire being homed in on the fullness, locking in on each slight shift of Dabi’s hips, the friction almost too much to bear. He wasn’t sure if he pleaded again, but Dabi let out a soft chuckle regardless, then began moving.

            Keigo was definitely moaning, then, his hands finding their way to Dabi’s back, nails digging into scarred skin with each thrust, his mind slowly unravelling as his release inched closer. There was no thought left in his head, only that he wanted more. Of this pace. Of this feeling. Of Dabi.

            Keigo didn’t know when he’d grown this desperate, but right now, he couldn’t care.

            ‘That’s it,’ Dabi growled, his pace relentless. He lifted Keigo’s torso off the ground to get a better angle, spearing for that bundle of nerves and hitting it with expert precision.

            Keigo buried his face in Dabi’s neck, teeth sinking into his skin to stifle his shout. ‘Dabi—’

            ‘That’s it, Dove. Come for me,’ Dabi coaxed, the hand on his back splaying in his wings, his other sliding between them and curling around Keigo’s hard length, pumping his hand in time with the movement of his hips.

            It only took one more thrust. One more stroke over his wings, the shudder that raged through Keigo along with the overstimulation of Dabi inside and around him enough to tip him over the edge. His climax barrelled through him, his hips stuttering uncontrollably under Dabi’s touch.

            ‘Fuck,’ Dabi groaned as Keigo tightened around him, the final few thrusts erratic as he chased his own climax before spilling deep inside of Keigo with a muffled groan. His skin was hot and sweat-soaked, pressed flush against Keigo’s chest. They remained seated like that, both panting, both slowly coming down, the aftershocks of pleasure still tingling deep inside Keigo’s gut.

            He pressed his head against Dabi’s neck, enveloping himself in the charred, smoky scent, a slow smile curving his mouth when Dabi began tracing circles on his lower back.

            ‘Jesus,’ Dabi muttered. ‘That was… not how I thought the night would go.’ A silent laugh shook his chest.

            Keigo hummed, pressing idle kisses against Dabi’s neck, savouring the salty tinge of sweat against his tongue. ‘Disappointed?’

            ‘Did it look like it?’ Dabi’s head tilted back when Keigo’s kisses trailed up his neck, lips lingering on the edge of Dabi’s jaw. ‘Fuck, Dove, no. Not at all. You’re… something else.’ His thumbs slotted in the dips at the base of Keigo’s spine, fingers played on his ass. Then, with a tentative vulnerability that sent tingling down Keigo’s arms, Dabi asked, ‘And you? Are you okay?’

            In answer, Keigo shifted and pressed a long kiss against Dabi’s lips, revelling in how the man melted away under his touch, Dabi’s rough moan reverberating against his lips. Every sound, every movement he enticed Dabi to make, reignited the thrill that’d settled deep in his bones, the sensation filling his chest with an odd sense of pride and longing.

            This was Keigo’s doing. This man, who was a blazing inferno, all sharp edges and snide remarks, softened under his touch, turquoise eyes hazy with bliss as they locked with Keigo’s and seemed perfectly content to stay there forever.

            Fuck, those eyes.

            With his forehead pressed against Dabi’s, Keigo muttered, ‘More than okay. This… You. Fuck, you.’ He groaned, nipping at Dabi’s lower lip with sharp canines. ‘Shit’s been so complicated and fucked up for so long, but this… This wasn’t. It felt like the easiest decision I made in weeks, maybe months. Guess that makes me insane, but right now, I can’t bother to care. It feels like I can think clearly again for the first time in weeks.’

            ‘Can you still think clearly?’ Dabi mused, a laugh lacing his voice. ‘Guess I needed to do a better job, then.’ He shifted his hips in emphasis, still buried deep inside Keigo, and a smirk pulled on his staples when Keigo’s breath hitched sharply. ‘Such a responsive little bird.’  

            ‘Tease,’ Keigo hissed, though the sharpness of the word was reduced fully by how hoarse his voice had grown in the span of seconds. Dabi, the menace he was, repeated the motion, and Keigo keened before he could help it, a curse slipping out right after.

            A wicked glint burst to life in Dabi’s eyes. ‘Not a bird, huh?’

            ‘Shut up,’ Keigo breathed, nails digging into Dabi’s shoulders. ‘You—ah—just make it hard to—fuck.’ Dabi’s hand had snaked up his spine, toying with the down at the base of his wings, his feathers puffing up in an instant now that most of the water had dried.

            ‘Oh, this is going to be fun.’ Dabi chuckled. ‘I’ll definitely have to discover what other sounds you’ve been hiding from me, Dove.’

            ‘Menace,’ Keigo breathed, glaring even as he felt himself hardening again, undisputable proof that his body did not mind it at all.

            Dabi smirked lazily. ‘Birdbrain.’

            ‘We can’t—Dabi.’ A shudder ran down his spine when Dabi’s fingers curled around his humerus, calloused thumbs continuing to stroke his scapulars. Heat spiked in Keigo’s core, and while a rational part of him knew he should pull away from the touch, knew he’d already be sore for days as it was. Still, it was difficult to listen when Dabi looked at him like Keigo was the fucking sun, raw admiration burning brighter with every sound he drew from Keigo’s lips.

            When had Dabi begun looking at him like that?

            ‘Dabi, we need to… a plan. We need to make—shit—a plan,’ Keigo ground out, hardly coherent. His hips rolled unbidden as Dabi continued the exploration of his wings, determined and task-oriented. Keigo felt Dabi filling out again and moaned as the friction scraped against his oversensitive insides.

            ‘I have a plan,’ Dabi mused, voice low and gravely.

            ‘Not what I—meant.’ Something close to a chirp escaped Keigo when Dabi’s mouth closed around one of his nipples, tongue flicking against it. Keigo’s face heated, the blush quickly spreading down his neck, and Dabi’s laugh was a warm breath of air against sensitive skin.

            ‘But I’m selfish, Dove,’ Dabi said, lifting his face until they were eye to eye. ‘I’m an asshole, and a dick, and a degenerate criminal to boot. I have everything to gain and shit all to lose, but this? This is mine.’ His eyes trailed down Keigo’s body, hungrily, darkening as he lingered on where the both of them were connected.

            ‘Everything’s likely going to hell in the morning, as far as it hasn’t yet already, but right now, that’s not our problem. Right now, all I care about is how you taste’—he ran his tongue along the edge of Keigo’s jaw—‘how you sound’—his fingers splayed in Keigo’s wings, tugging gently, pulling another choked chirp from Keigo’s lips—‘and how you feel.’ Dabi rolled his hips, pushing in deeper with a slow thrust, and Keigo clenched around the length with a whimper. Fucking hell.

            Dabi’s eyes locked with his again. ‘I’m not ready to let you fly off yet and realise you regret any of this, so please, Keigo. Let’s stay a little longer.’

            There it was again—that vulnerability, as if somehow, Dabi couldn’t quite believe this was happening; as if, when he blinked too much, it would all fade away. As if, when he only held on, he could relish in the moment a little longer before it all evaporated into smoke.

            A bubble, bound to burst, but Keigo realised he didn’t want it to end, either.

            So, he curled his arms around Dabi’s neck and angled his head, his thumbs toying with Dabi’s helix piercings. Keigo leaned in, back curving slightly as he felt Dabi shift inside him, and whispered, ‘Okay.’

            And as Dabi’s lips crashed against his with unspoken desperation, Keigo decided that for tonight, he, too, was more than happy to let himself forget.      

Chapter Text

So perhaps, in hindsight, Dabi did care about the bird.

            He was so utterly, irreversibly, fucked.

            Dabi could still feel it—Keigo’s mouth closing around him, the warm heat of his throat, Keigo’s nails digging into his skin, the way he’d fucking tightened around Dabi while he came, a string of breathy moans falling from his lips like a damned prayer as he dragged Dabi over the edge with him.

            It’d been everything, and it’d been more.

            As soon as their lips had crashed together, Dabi had realised he’d fallen for the hero ages ago, though his mind had been unwilling to accept what his body already recognised as truth. Perhaps he’d even liked the bird from the moment he’d come into Dabi’s life, a mirage of sculpted muscles, fair skin and piercing eyes, teasing and flirting his way into the League.

            And fuck, maybe, if Dabi was honest, that’d been in large parts why he’d been hesitant to trust Keigo, knowing that once he’d let the bird in, there’d be no going back. Dabi had pushed him away, with nasty comments, with pointless requests, with pain and humiliation and a determination to ensure whatever either of them felt would be overshadowed by hatred. Because it was easier. Because it didn’t feel so damned fragile, so sensitive and raw.

            So fucking right.

            Dabi hadn’t dared let his mind wander about what it’d feel like to have Keigo, to hear his name tumble from panting lips, to consider what sounds and noises he could draw from the hero’s throat. It was never going to happen, the fantasy only serving to torture him with a desire that would never be reciprocated.

            Until Keigo had kissed him.

            And even now, still lying on the concrete floor in only their sweatpants and jeans, wrapped in his jacket and Keigo’s wings as the heavy petrichor of the water-soaked earth outside wafted in on a breeze, Dabi wasn’t exactly sure how they ended up here.

            It’d been instinct to run after Keigo, especially after seeing the panic on his face and knowing how bad that could fuck him up. The relief he’d felt when the feather had come for him… yeah, that’d probably been another sign that he hadn’t been quite as indifferent about Keigo’s wellbeing as he’d liked to believe. Sure. Fine. He’d admit it, now.

            Dabi had wanted Keigo to fight. To voice what it was he wanted, the ideal world he would wish to live in. Never in a million years had Dabi expected that to be a world where they’d fucked in an abandoned warehouse, chasing climaxes as desperately as their next breath of air.

            And those noises… Dabi stifled a groan, if only because Keigo’s face rested on his chest and he’d rather not explain himself. It was as if Keigo had slowly unravelled, the more pleasure he experienced, the weaker the restraints he kept on himself grew.

            Dabi wasn’t sure why, exactly, Keigo kept this part of him repressed, but fuck if it hadn’t driven him mad with desire when the bird had begun keening and chirping under his touch, a symphony of sounds only his fingers could compose.

            He glanced down at the tumble of blonde hair sprawled over his chest, Keigo’s eyes closed and a faint smile on his lips. His hands were splayed gently over Dabi’s skin grafts and staples, the scar tissue tender from the strain of tonight’s activities.

            So fucking worth it, though.

            Still, Dabi knew he didn’t exactly deserve this kind of tenderness. Didn’t even deserve any kind of affection from Keigo. It wasn’t often that he took the time to stand still and reflect on his past actions, mainly because the shit he did usually didn’t have consequences he wasn’t prepared to deal with. But with Keigo, he couldn’t just ignore what had happened—not anymore, anyway.

            Because in truth, he didn’t want the bird to leave. Didn’t want this, whatever it was, to end, a pinprick of light and solace in the hate-filled fury that’d been his life ever since he woke from the coma. Dabi wished he could still pull away, had tried to find a way to cut ties with the bird for months, but something kept drawing him back.

            And what terrified him the most, was that Keigo had every fucking reason to be the one to end it before it properly began—and Dabi had no clue how he’d handle it once Keigo did. But it wasn’t fair to him if Dabi pretended like the past didn’t matter—like he didn’t feel like shit for how he’d acted.

            ‘Dove,’ he started, his voice like sandpaper as he lifted the arm that wasn’t curved around Keigo’s body and used his free hand to wipe a few strands of hair from Keigo’s face.

            Keigo stirred, frowning at the disruption, then muttered, ‘No. Asleep.’

            ‘For one, we’re not spending the night on a concrete floor when there’s a perfectly fine bed waiting a few blocks down—and that’s not even considering the vermin that’ll crawl out of the darkness once we close our eyes.’ Dabi swallowed against the dryness of his mouth. ‘Besides, we need to talk. I… I need to say something.’

            Keigo cracked open an eye, glaring pointedly at Dabi. ‘Not now.’

            ‘Kei—’

            ‘Stop. I think I know what you’re going to say, and just… not now. Wait till morning—hell, don’t say it then, don’t say it at all. It doesn’t matter if—’

            ‘Shut up for a moment and let me speak, yeah?’ Dabi tilted Keigo’s face up by his chin and kissed him, if only to swallow the string of complaints forming behind that defiant golden gaze. Keigo hummed, pressing closer against Dabi’s chest with a trill, his eyes betraying annoyance when Dabi pulled away.

            Regardless, Keigo stayed quiet, and Dabi sighed. ‘I have to. Can’t not say it, not after tonight. Just because this… Because we… fuck.’ His jaw clenched. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I don’t expect this to happen again; not if you don’t want to. You’ve gone through shit lately, piling high and all, and I get it. Looking for a release, a way to forget—I get it.’

            ‘If you get this flustered from us sleeping together, we should definitely do this more often. What a sight.’ A mischievous glint sparked in Keigo’s eyes, and Dabi fought the urge to roll his eyes.

            ‘I hurt you, Keigo,’ he urged. ‘During the raid, the press conference, the fucking mountain safe house… I was angry; you killed Twice and leaked information, and I have a history of not reacting well to being betrayed. They’re reasons but no excuse, and I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to forgive me for that shit, even if—’

            ‘Stop.’ Keigo moved away from Dabi’s embrace, too fast for him to follow, and straddled Dabi’s chest. Keigo’s slim hand pressed against the hollow of Dabi’s throat, wings flaring wide and proud. He stared down, golden steel focused solely on Dabi’s face.

            Keigo leaned in, the pressure on Dabi’s throat increasing, though he made no move to shove the bird off. ‘I know what you did, Dabs. I was there, and it’s my decision how I let it affect me. You were a dick, and yes, I hated you for it. Honestly, I’m not quite sure when I stopped hating you, or if I ever fully did.’ He breathed deeply, wings shuddering. ‘But you saw me. You paid attention to what it did to me, and rather than use it to your advantage, you stopped. You cared, more than they ever did.’ His laugh was hollow.

            ‘You’re not the only one who has lived with pain their entire life—you saw those damned videos, so you know. But instead of trying to fix me, you decided that I was worth saving. Somehow, you made it your goal to drag me away from the ledge and help me fit the pieces together how I wanted. And after all that, I can’t… I don’t quite know how to hate you anymore.’

            ‘You can still crash at my place even if you do hate me,’ Dabi muttered, craning his neck so he could maintain eye contact. ‘I don’t expect you to—’

            ‘I want to hate you anymore. Pathetic, right?’ Keigo said, echoing Dabi’s words from earlier as he leaned in and pressed his forehead against Dabi’s. His hand slid down Dabi’s neck, resting on his chest, thumb flicking against a nipple piercing. When Dabi hissed, Keigo’s mouth curved.

            ‘But I don’t want to name this yet either, if that’s okay. Things are changing too rapidly, and for all we know, we’re back on opposing sides again by morning. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not think about it too much and prefer to have some fun while we can. See if we can figure out together what this might be.’

            Sharp canines nipped at Dabi’s lower lip until he opened, and Keigo slipped in his tongue, his chest lowering until they were flush against each other. Dabi let his legs fall open to accommodate Keigo’s, his hands resting on the bird’s waist to keep him steady.

            Keigo pointedly rolled his hips and laughed against Dabi’s lips when he couldn’t stifle a moan. Fucking hell.

            ‘Fun, huh?’ Dabi muttered hoarsely when Keigo pulled away.

            ‘I know—a wild concept.’ Keigo’s hair fell forward, tickling Dabi’s jaw. ‘I get that it’s not a permanent solution, but right now, I have nowhere else to go. No life to return to, no future to plan. Your leader threw in my last window by exposing my past, and I need a moment to think before I try to get things back on track. So, for now, I have this. I have you—and you have me, if you’ll have me.’

‘            I can work with that.’ Dabi’s grip on Keigo’s waist tightened as he sat up, keeping the bird in his lap. ‘Just tell me if you ever decide to hate me again. I’d like to be prepared before running the risk of being killed in my sleep.’

            ‘Likewise, Hot stuff.’

            He arched an eyebrow. ‘Hot stuff?’  

            ‘With all those avian terms you keep throwing my way, I figured I’d have to up my game. Crispy seemed a bit too harsh, considering, but I’d be happy to try a few others out.’ Keigo grinned at him, pressing his lips against the crease between Dabi’s eyebrows. ‘So predictable.’

            ‘No crispy,’ Dabi deadpanned, tilting his face back and out of reach.

            ‘Flame man? I guess that one doesn’t quite have a good ring to it. How about… Sparky? Burner? No?’ Keigo laughed when Dabi flipped him onto his back, glowering at the bird, but all Keigo did was tilt his chin up in defiance. ‘You think of one you resonate with, then, considering your aptitude for nicknames.’  

            Dabi groaned. ‘God, you’re a brat.’

            ‘You didn’t seem to mind earlier.’ Keigo bent his knee and pressed it against the inside of Dabi’s thigh, rubbing it rhythmically as a smirk tugged on his lips.

            ‘You’re playing with fire, Dove.’

            ‘That’s the point, isn’t it?’

            Dabi bit back a curse when Keigo’s knee trailed up, putting pressure against his crotch. He managed to keep his voice somewhat level when he said, ‘If you must, Hot stuff is fine. Or…’ He paused, surprising himself with his train of thought. Keigo looked at him expectantly, halting his movements.

            ‘Or you could call me Touya,’ Dabi said tentatively.

            Keigo stilled completely. ‘Are you sure?’

            ‘No. I don’t know.’ Dabi shrugged, though it felt strained. It was stupid, throwing that name out there, thinking it could mean something. Keigo had said it himself—this thing was about having fun. About release, distraction. Casual. Touya didn’t belong in that description,  considering that Dabi’s past was anything but casual.

            Still, Keigo angled his head, a soft smile tugging on his mouth and filling those damned golden eyes with a kind of warmth that made Dabi want to squirm away. Fuck, if he was going to—

            ‘I like Touya,’ Keigo said simply, the tips of his fingers tracing the outline of one of Dabi’s skin grafts with a featherlight touch. ‘It’s like… this part of you, that seems ready to combust at the first hints of vulnerability, it’s more than what you show to the world. More than the villain people know and fear. More than just Dabi. But don’t reclaim the name because you feel like you have to, Dabs. Not until you’re ready.’

            ‘Were you ready? With Keigo?’ The question slipped out before Dabi could stop it, a voice in his mind screaming at himself to just stop talking before he made things worse.

            But Keigo’s gaze only turned pensive for a moment. ‘Honestly, not sure. But it felt like the degree of dissonance between who I am and who Hawks was supposed to be was increasing by the day. Like I was chasing an ideal but kept stumbling, unable to catch up. Keigo felt… simpler. Easier to embrace now that everything around me is crumbling.’

            ‘Makes sense.’ Dabi bit the inside of his cheek, blowing out a breath through his nose. ‘I suppose… I’m not him. Touya. Not anymore, not after the life I’ve lived since waking up. I’m not the same as the boy that burned, and I don’t want to be, but do I feel like I’m… I don’t fucking know, different, I guess, than when we first met.’

            ‘How about this? When you’re ready, hell, if you’re ready to reclaim the name, you can just let me know.’ Keigo’s hands snaked around Dabi’s neck, fingers resting idly on his spine and tracing the vertebrae with idle circles. ‘And until then, Hot stuff will definitely suffice.’

            Dabi felt himself smile, a slight twitch of his lips, a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with his quirk. He leaned in, pressing his lips against Keigo’s, slow and deliberate and just because he could. ‘Deal.’

            ‘Now,’ Keigo mused against his lips, ‘if you’re unwilling to sleep here, how about we find that bed of yours? Because I swear, if you keep opening up to me like that, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my hands off you, and I’ll definitely won’t be able to walk out of here anymore.’ He tilted his head, his eyes half lidded and tracing a burning path across the expanse of Dabi’s skin, that damned smirk tugging on his mouth.

            He swallowed a curse, then rose to his feet, bracing Keigo’s shoulders to pull him up with him. The bird stumbled from the sudden movement, falling against Dabi’s chest on unsteady legs.

            Dabi chuckled softly. ‘Seems like walking will already be an issue.’

            ‘And whose fault is that, then?’

            ‘I heard no complaints at the time, unless please is avian for stop?’

            In response, Keigo nipped at Dabi’s skin, scratching it with his canines before shooting Dabi a glare and picking up his boots. ‘A menace, truly. Perhaps that’ll be my nickname for you—seems fitting enough.’

            Dabi snorted, then grabbed his coat, shook off the dust, and draped it over Keigo’s wings and shoulders. When the bird began to protest, he merely raised a hand. ‘You looked like a soaked cat when I came in here, and only one of us has a quirk that turns water into steam. If it starts raining again, I won’t let you in bed with those waterlogged feathers.’

            ‘Damn, and here I thought I was trying to decline a chivalrous gesture,’ Keigo deadpanned, rolling his eyes.

            ‘Why can’t it be both?’ Dabi smirked, stepping into his worn boots and curling an arm around Keigo to keep him steady. ‘Come on then, Dove. Let’s go home before Hitoshi raids the fridge.’

            As they walked outside, Keigo pressed against the side of his chest to leech off his warmth, Dabi realised that somewhere in this past week, the apartment had indeed begun to feel like that—like home. And that no matter what Shigaraki had planned, no matter how the League would press forward, Dabi would find a way to return to it.

Chapter Text

Dabi knew they should’ve showered when they got home, rain-soaked and sticky with sweat and other things, but it’d been three in the morning, their limbs heavy with exertion. And when Keigo had pulled him onto the bed, draping himself atop Dabi’s chest with his wings spread out on either side of them, a heavy sigh leaving the bird’s lips, Dabi hadn’t found it in himself to drag himself to the bathroom.

            When he woke, a little before seven, Keigo was still vast asleep, his wings now a cocoon around both of them, feathers trembling slightly with each exhale. And fuck if Dabi didn’t feel fond looking at the bird, an odd kind of calm spreading through his chest from the mere act of watching the man sleep. Of knowing that Keigo felt safe lying there, dressed in Dabi’s sweats, his skin streaked with dirt and small bruises left by Dabi’s fingers.  

            He didn’t know when these feelings had slipped out of his control.

            He did know he probably shouldn’t want them in the first place.

            And he also knew, with more certainty than he was familiar with, that if anyone would try to take the bird away from him, he’d burn the world to the ground.

            Dabi had no middle ground—a fact he’d come to realise a long time ago, even before burning on that damned mountain. He either hated someone, pushed them so far aside that he could only feel distant gratification when they eventually met their demise, or he cared for them too much, willing to kill and maim and burn for their sake. It was a thing of loyalty—of someone showing similar devotion to him, of mutual destruction, of survival.

            He cared for the League that way, cared for Tomura’s cause and the members like they were fellow soldiers, fighting for a common goal, ensuring each other’s safety and avenging their lives if something were to happen. Like with Magne. Like with Twice.

            But with Keigo… This was new. More intense. More profound, in a way that scared Dabi to his core but also felt so fucking right that he knew he’d never want to let go of it. And even if Keigo wished not to name it, wished to have some fun and keep it casual, Dabi was already willing to go down fighting just so he could stay in this moment a second longer.

            Fucking pathetic, but also painfully true.

            Keigo stirred, as if feeling Dabi’s gaze on him, and one golden eye cracked open to a sliver, dull with sleep. When it caught Dabi’s gaze, a soft smile tugged on Keigo’s mouth. ‘Watching me sleep, Hot stuff?’ he muttered, voice frayed.

            Dabi huffed a laugh. ‘Can you blame me?’

            ‘Suppose not. I look amazing.’

            ‘Ah, back to your cocky old self, I see?’

            ‘What can I say?’ Keigo yawned, stretching out his limbs, toes curling into the mattress like a cat waking from slumber, and glanced at Dabi with a spark flickering in his eyes. ‘Got some high praise yesterday, which does wonders for my mood.’

            ‘Just the praise?’

            He turned, lips pressing idle kisses against Dabi’s chest, nipping the skin. His laugh was a hot breath of air against the sensitive spots he left in his wake. ‘I suppose the orgasms you wrung from me played a part, too.’

            ‘Keigo—’ Dabi stifled a groan, his abdomen tensing under the bird’s featherlight touch.

            ‘I know, I know. You have to go. Duty calls.’ Keigo sighed, then pushed himself up. He paused, contemplative, then extended a hand, fingers wiggling in the air between them. ‘Join me in the shower, though?’

            ‘We can’t fuck—’

            ‘One, we could, but two, we shouldn’t. Kid’s in the other room, too; not the most responsible thing to do, even if we disregard the lack of time. Doesn’t mean that we can’t shower together before you’re going on this suicide mission. Who knows when you’ll be back?’

            Dabi rolled his eyes but pushed up from the bed regardless. ‘You’re really embracing the fun part of this, aren’t you?’

            ‘You should try it; it’s oddly freeing.’ Keigo shrugged, grinning wildly as he grabbed Dabi’s hand and pulled him along. ‘Might as well enjoy it while I can.’

They didn’t fuck in the shower.

            They did, however, spent so long making out that the hot water ran out and Dabi was forced to keep them warm with his quirk while they rinsed off the remainder of the shampoo—a feat, since Keigo kept pressing him against the wall, his hands and mouth exploring Dabi’s body so thoroughly it was as if he wished to commit it to memory.

            Now, standing in the fogged-up bathroom with his hands braced on the sink, Dabi found himself flushed and rock-hard, panting like a damned teenager. Keigo had retreated to the bedroom to get dressed, looking way too pleased with himself, his feathers dripping a wet trail on the floorboards as he walked away—a sight in itself, those damned back muscles shifting with each step he took, the blonde hair slicked back and out of his face.

            Just before he’d closed the door, his golden eyes had dipped down, lingering, and he’d said innocently, ‘Let me know if you need me to take care of that before you leave.’

            The damned brat.  

            He will be the death of me, Dabi thought, pressing his forehead against the mirror with a groan, knowing full well that he’d willingly walk towards his end if that were the case. Then, another thought, I will kill Shigaraki for pulling me away from this.

            Kurogiri had already texted him, letting him know a portal would be ready in thirty minutes, the meeting with the League happening moments after Dabi would pass through. No comment about the leaked videos, no word from Tomura himself, just a clinical message that had Dabi’s stomach tightening for an entirely different reason.

            He had no clue what he was walking into, but he was certain it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

            Dabi wiped the condensation from the mirror with a flat hand, fingers trailing over the bruises and hickeys Keigo had left littered on his skin, bitemarks prominent in more places than one. If anything, he’d have something to remember the bird by if Shigaraki did pull him away indefinitely, even if no one at the League could find out. Tomura already thought Dabi was compromised—Keigo’s markings would not aid his case.

            With a sigh, he got dressed, adjusting himself in his boxers but failing to find a comfortable position, then left the bathroom—and immediately halted dead in his tracks.

            Keigo sat on the bed, dressed fully in black. He wore his own boots and cargo pants, the latter littered with small tears and ripped at one knee. His upper body was wrapped in a compression shirt Dabi occasionally wore to work out in, the tight polyester doing nothing to hide the refined cut of Keigo’s abs.

            A pair of sunglasses was shoved up into his hair, an afterthought, though Dabi found himself entranced by the stray locks of hair escaping its hold and falling into Keigo’s face, framing the smirk growing on his lips as he noticed Dabi’s attention on him.

            Dabi bit back a curse, snapping out of it before the blush creeping underneath his skin could fully flush his face. Fuck’s sake—what was he, twelve?

            Instead, he bit, ‘Why are you wearing that?’

            ‘Cause I’m coming with you,’ Keigo said simply, rising from the bed. Something about last night had definitely flipped a switch in the hero, the culmination of events pushing him over an unperceived edge down into a stealthy, confident calm. His stance was stronger, his gaze steadier, a familiar arrogance edging his voice as he held Dabi’s gaze, unfaltering.

            Dabi stiffened. ‘Absolutely not.’

            ‘You need the back-up, Hot stuff.’

            ‘I know how to handle Tomura.’

            Keigo cocked an eyebrow. ‘You’re about to waltz into a League safehouse, not even sure what you’ll find, to demand your gracious leader to give you answers about this plan and to leave me the fuck alone the day after he ordered you to kill me. Sure, that’ll go down smoothly.’

            ‘And you’re the Commission’s former pet who betrayed the League and killed twice,’ Dabi deadpanned. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Dove, but you’re not exactly wanted there.’

            ‘It’s almost as if I was trained to be a spy since I was six. I know how to stay out of sight, Dabs.’

            ‘Fuck’s sake.’ He ran a too-hot hand over his face, tugging slightly on the row of staples. ‘What about the kid, huh? Going to leave Hitoshi here by himself while you enact Mission Impossible to prove a point?’

            Keigo didn’t baulk. ‘Got that covered, actually. Having him this close to the fray isn’t safe anyway—he deserves some normalcy. Some semblance of a childhood, even for a little while. So, I may have called in reinforcements.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘Breathe. It’s just Shouta; I messaged him while you—’

            ‘You let him know our location?’ Dabi snapped through gritted teeth. ‘Jesus, birdbrain—’

            ‘Breathe, Dabi. Give me some damned credit. I set up a meeting with him, a few villages over. Shouta has a couple of safehouses throughout the country and can take the kid to one. This apartment is compromised anyway with the League closing in, so he can’t stay. When you’re done dealing with Shigaraki, we can join Hitoshi again.’  

            ‘You’re putting your trust in a fucking pro hero.’

            ‘I was a fucking pro hero,’ Keigo countered, rolling his eyes. ‘Besides, I’m putting my trust in Shouta. I happen to remember you doing the same when you gave him the information needed to find me after Hitoshi… Anyway. My point is, Shouta has my best interests in mind, and I trust him more than most. He’ll make sure Hitoshi stays out of the Commission’s grasp while we deal with everything else.’

            Dabi bared his teeth, more out of discomfort than anger. ‘I see you came up with a plan after all.’

            ‘I’m great at multitasking.’ Keigo walked around the bed until he was in front of Dabi, face angled up to maintain eye contact. ‘I’m not going back to the Commission. Hitoshi’s not going back. But I’m also not cutting off ties with everyone from my former life, not if I can help it, and Shouta’s proved time and time again that he can be trusted.’

            Dabi felt himself caving, if only because it was hard to have the bird this close and still think straight, his eyes continuously slipping towards Keigo’s lips. One time. It only took one fucking time for me to fall this hard. Dabi wished he could fight it, but all he did was sigh in surrender.

            It was a good thing he never gave in to his desires when Keigo was still undercover; he’d spilt the League’s secrets in a heartbeat just to feel Keigo’s mouth on his.  

            ‘You’ll have to fly there yourself. Can’t come through the warp with me,’ Dabi grumbled.

            ‘Naturally.’

            ‘It’ll likely take an hour to fly there. And I can’t come with you to meet with Shouta.’

            ‘That’s fine—just try not to get killed in the meantime.’

            ‘You sure I can’t talk you out of this?’ Dabi asked, jaw clenched tight.

            ‘Positive.’ Keigo rose to the tips of his feet, pressing a leisurely kiss against Dabi’s lips, arms curling around his neck. ‘I’m going to fight back. And to fight back, I need all the help I can get. Which means I need you alive, and for Shouta to know I’m not being held against my will and manipulated by some devious villain.’

            ‘Sure, I’m the one manipulating you,’ Dabi groaned.

            ‘Evidently. I’m just a helpless victim here.’ Keigo grinned, his fingers trailing down Dabi’s neck and lingering on his pecs, his thumbs idly circling the piercings until Dabi’s nipples perked up. ‘Still need to inform the kid about it, though.’

            ‘And what, you expect me to do it for you?’

            ‘He is your stray, but no, I’ll tell him. Come with me, though?’ He smiled as he slipped his hand into Dabi’s, pulling him along to the living room.

            Dabi went willingly, faintly annoyed at himself for how easily he let Keigo get what he wanted, but not enough to protest, and definitely while Keigo continued to draw circles on the back of Dabi’s hand with his thumb; a steady pressure that only reminded him where else those hands had been. Fucking hell.  

            Hitoshi was asleep on the couch, the TV still on but muted, same as how they’d found him last night. Keigo had draped a worn blanket over him, then, but otherwise left the kid undisturbed, stating that waking him in the middle of the night would only frighten him more.

            Now, however, Keigo walked up to Hitoshi and crouched beside the couch, softly shaking his shoulder until his eyes fluttered open, fingers tightening around the pillow he kept clutched against his chest. When Hitoshi recognised Keigo, he shot up instantly, arms wrapping around the bird so suddenly that Keigo stumbled.

            ‘Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m okay,’ Keigo shushed, voice laced with surprise, but he merely wrapped his arms around the kid and kept him steady while Hitoshi’s shoulders shook with soundless tears.

            ‘I thought you left. You ran away, and Dabi ran away, and I saw the videos. I thought you—I didn’t know if I should go after you. Dabi went after you and told me to stay. So, I stayed, but I—’

            ‘You did good, kid. It’s okay; I’m okay. Dabi made sure of it.’

            ‘You were gone so long.’ Hitoshi hiccupped and pulled back, eyes wet with unshed tears.

            ‘We had a long… conversation. About what happened; about what has to happen. I’m sure that watching those videos was difficult for you as well, that it made you remember things the Commission may have done to you. What they made you do. And it has to end. I was scared, knowing that I couldn’t hide that part of myself anymore. But now that it’s out in the open, the Commission can’t hide anymore either. Still, if we’re going to change things, it has to be done right. We can’t just let it collapse and hope that something better rises from the debris.’

            ‘You are going to do something.’

            ‘I am.’ Keigo smiled faintly, glancing back at Dabi for a moment. ‘We are. But you need to be patient while Dabi and I put things in motion. Do you think you can do that?’

            Hitoshi rubbed his face with the palms of his hands and nodded.

            ‘Good. And because I don’t want you to be by yourself while we do, I asked a friend of mine to look after you for a bit. Would that be okay with you?’

            The kid made his best attempt at a brave smile, and Keigo ruffled his purple hair when he said, ‘I think so.’  

            ‘It’s only a temporary, I promise. He’s a nice guy—a teacher, actually. Maybe he can help you with your quirk; teach you how to activate it properly and use it the way you want to use it. Or not; it’s all up to you, kiddo. And hey, guess what? We can fly there! Do you think you’re brave enough to take to the skies with me?’

            It was moments like this where Dabi could see the hero training shine through: the effortless smiles, the slight jokes, the way Keigo read Hitoshi’s body language and anticipated his next move. He talked to the kid like an adult, explaining rather than hiding the situation—albeit a nuanced version—yet still managed to spark an excited gleam in Hitoshi’s eyes at the prospect of flying.

            Dabi’s phone buzzed. Kurogiri—the warp would open in two minutes. His jaw clenched as he grabbed his coat, then walked back to Keigo and the kid. ‘I have to go, Dove.’

            Hitoshi’s eyes widened. ‘Where are you going?’ When Dabi pointedly raised an eyebrow, the kid rolled his eyes and rephrased, ‘You’re going somewhere.’

            ‘I have some business with the League to take care of, partly because of those videos. Keigo will drop you off at his friend and then join me. It’ll be fine.’

            The kid hesitated, brow furrowing, but then got up and wrapped his skinny arms around Dabi’s waist. Dabi’s eyes widened, his hand hovering above the kid’s back as his eyes sought out Keigo—who, the asshole, was grinning without shame at the display.

            Dabi covertly flipped him off, then padded Hitoshi’s back before unfurling his arms. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine, kid. Will see you soon.’ Maybe. Then, to Keigo, ‘Text me from your burner if something comes up—don’t use names. I sent the address to it as well. You’re still free not to come.’

            ‘I’ll be there within two hours,’ was all Keigo said, rising to his feet and curling his fingers into Dabi’s shirt so he could pull him down and kiss him, a quick, rough goodbye as they heard the familiar buzz of a warp gate opening behind them. ‘Stay safe, Hot stuff.’

            ‘Likewise.’ Dabi didn’t look back as he turned, even though each step he took towards the portal tugged on something inside his chest, urging him to stay, to keep them safe. But instead, he stepped through the purple haze and into the unknown on the other side.

Chapter Text

The small town was dead quiet this early in the morning. Keigo landed soundlessly on a corner of the street, lowering Hitoshi onto the ground with care. The kid bounced up and down, his fingers white from the cold, but a grin had stretched out his face ever since they’d taken to the sky.

            He’d been chatting for the entirety of the flight, wanting to know everything—how many feathers could release before Keigo could no longer fly, how it felt to have them regrow, whether he’d ever dropped someone, and so on. Not once had Hitoshi been scared about being this high up, and his enthusiasm had loosened some of the tension coiling in Keigo’s gut.

            Dabi was currently alone with the League.

            He knew he shouldn’t be worried. Those were Dabi’s people, even if to Keigo, they were the villains who’d come after his friends and colleagues, who’d spread those videos of his childhood and ensured nothing would ever be the same, even if he’d wished to try.

            But to Dabi, they were likely the closest thing to a family he had. They wouldn’t kill him; perhaps hurt him a little, if Shigaraki was in a mood, but he was one of them—a fact that Keigo, for the time being, had chosen not to give weight to, not until he’d decided how to proceed.

            Hitoshi had shoved his hands into his pockets, wearing one of Dabi’s coats that was decidedly too big for him, but the kid was unbothered. With wide eyes, he whispered, ‘That was so cool. I can’t believe you can just fly everywhere you want, whenever you want. I would never walk again.’

            ‘It’s pretty neat,’ Keigo said with a lopsided grin. ‘Barring bad weather, and the bugs. My visors work better to keep them out of my eyes, but these were a decent replacement.’ He tapped the frame of his sunglasses, courtesy of Dabi’s collection.

            ‘I wish I had your quirk,’ Hitoshi muttered. ‘You can do so many things, useful things. People are just scared of mine.’

            ‘Hey, don’t say that.’ Keigo crouched down, angling his head at the kid. ‘Your quirk is yours to shape and form as you wish. It can be as cool and exceptional as you make it, okay? People used to walk in a wide berth around me when I was younger, but I made sure they saw me for more than just a weird kid who was part bird. You’re still so young; give yourself time to figure it out, especially now that the Commission can’t tell you what to do anymore.’

            ‘Okay. I’ll try.’ Hitoshi’s smile wobbled a little, but he didn’t allow it to falter. ‘I don’t get how people couldn’t like you. You’ve been so nice to me, even after everything. You’re a hero—everyone knows that.’

            ‘Society is weird like that sometimes.’ Keigo smiled, ignoring the tug on his heart, the faded memories from life on the street after his father had been arrested. No, people hadn’t felt the urge to lend a helping hand—had often shooed him away, like he was a stray animal or a damned pigeon who had wandered too close.

            It wasn’t until the Commission began promoting his hero persona that people had come to accept him, adore him, even. They were all too eager to forget that he was still a mutant—that he was no different than the kid they’d shoved aside for being a heteromorph. So long as he kept the bird traits to a minimum, they were happy to focus on the conventionally attractive male attached to the wings who saved the day with a flashy smile and a wave of charisma.

            Hypocrites, all of them, though he didn’t feel like saddling the kid with that knowledge yet.

            Keigo draped an arm around Hitoshi’s shoulders and guided him closer to the meeting point, gesturing at a bench on the side of the road across from the park. ‘Wait there for a bit, yeah? I need to make sure the coast is clear.’

            ‘But you’ll come back.’ Hitoshi’s eyebrows rose, a question without a question, faint anxiety flickering in those lavender eyes.

            Keigo ruffled the kid’s wind-swept hair, hoping his smile was somewhat reassuring. ‘Wouldn’t leave you behind, kid. I’ll be in the park over there, talking to my friend. If something goes wrong, I’ll make sure to send a feather your way in warning, but if all goes fine, I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

            Hitoshi nodded mutely, sinking onto the bench with his legs pulled up to his chest. Fourteen, still growing into his limbs, yet already carrying the burden of a childhood lived under the scrutinising gaze of the Commission. Keigo wished he didn’t remember how it’d been for him. Wished he could say it got better with time—though, in Hitoshi’s case, it might.

            Shouta, at least, would be a better teacher than Teruo could ever be.

            Keigo tucked in his wings and walked towards the park, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, Dabi’s scent—burnt cinders and nicotine—wrapping itself around him.

            He’d taken it from Dabi’s closet before leaving the apartment and cut two slits in the back for his wings, hoping Dabi wouldn’t burn him alive for it. The jacket shouldn’t be so damned comforting, but Keigo found himself huddling deeper into the leather, an earnest smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

            Sleeping with Dabi was likely just another of his objectively questionable choices of late, but he’d rather walk willingly into hell than feel bad for it. He knew embracing this thing was an escape, a distraction he probably couldn’t afford. Knew that letting himself get lost in it was only a temporary solution to the problems piling up, and he knew, realistically speaking, that none of this could last once the world came crashing down on them.

            But he was drunk on it, and he couldn’t help that it felt so damned good.

            The fact that Dabi, of all people, had stared at him like Keigo was made for him, had kissed and caressed and fucked him like his life depended on it, had held him afterwords and opened up and cared… It felt fragile, and unfamiliar, and so damned right that Keigo couldn’t begin to name it for fear it would slip away.

            Perhaps that made him a coward, but Dabi had seemed okay with it, both of them facing the very real possibility that they wouldn’t survive past this week. Keigo didn’t dare to look too far ahead; it didn’t seem productive, anyway, considering he’d never imagined to be standing here like this either: a disavowed hero dropping off a teenage refugee while wondering whether the villain who’d once tried to kill him would survive a meeting with a bunch of League members.

            Fucked up shit happened whether Keigo prepared for it or not; seemed like a waste of time to spend too long worrying while he could also enjoy the remnants of happiness that still lingered in his chest.

            The park he’d chosen was small, a few tall trees surrounding a playground, metal benches placed around a swing set and a slide. Shouta wasn’t here yet, so Keigo sat down on one of the swings, idly swaying back and forth, moving his wings just enough to keep himself in motion. The hinges creaked with each pass, the metal brown with rust, but there was no one around to hear it.

            He chuckled as his feathers picked up on a familiar figure, standing just outside the park, the air around him shifting restlessly from the movements of his scarf. Keigo’s feather closed in, brushing along the back of Shouta’s hand, causing him to flinch, then curse.

            ‘Fuck’s sake, Hawks,’ the hero muttered, batting the feather away.

            Keigo, relentless, dug the feather into Shouta’s sleeve and gave it a firm tug. A second feather pressed against the man’s lower back, nudging him forward, to which Shouta let out a resigned sigh before he began moving.

            It wasn’t long before he came into view, dressed entirely in black with his binding scarf still at attention. He halted when he noticed Keigo, eyes trailing over his body—the ripped pants, the cuts on his face, the jacket that was distinctly not his.

            Keigo coughed to break the tension. ‘Hi, Shou.’

            ‘You’re… you… Jesus.’ Shouta ran a hand through his hair. ‘Honestly, part of me hadn’t thought you’d show up. Are you okay?’

            ‘No.’ A simple answer, but perhaps blunter than Keigo had ever been with Shouta. He shrugged, releasing a breath of mirthless laughter. ‘Shit’s fucked, but you caught on to that already.’

            Shouta scoffed. ‘Well, at least you’re honest. But physically? Did he hurt you?’

            ‘Dabi? No. Quite the opposite, if you can believe it. He got me out of the lab after Shigaraki tore it down—got me away before the Commission knew I was there. Probably saved me a lot of… well, trouble.’

            ‘That’s something, I guess.’ Shouta’s eyes hardened, a muscle working in his jaw. ‘I would’ve… The League showed up and cornered me, and I couldn’t get to you. Fuck, Hawks. I said I’d have your back, but I failed. Had I known there was even the slightest risk of them attacking, I would’ve never let you go in alone.’

            ‘Would’ve, huh?’ Keigo’s mouth curved sideways. ‘Like I’d ever ask your permission to do anything. I knew what I walked into. It’s not on you, and all things considered, it could’ve been much worse.’

            Again, Shouta’s eyes lingered on Keigo’s clothes. ‘So, Dabi… what, sheltered you? That’s uncharacteristically compassionate, considering he’s tried to kill you about three times now.’

            ‘You think I’m careless for staying this long?’

            ‘I think he must have an ulterior motive, but that’s not on you and something I’ll figure out with time. But first things first. When I spoke to him yesterday, he said you ran a fever after the attack. What happened?’

            Keigo shrugged. ‘My body gave out—it was a matter of time after the shit the Commission put me through. The explosion at the lab was the last straw, and I was unconscious for the entire escape. I woke up at Dabi’s safehouse, dehydrated and sweating it out.’

            ‘And he took care of you?’ Shouta didn’t bother to hide his judgment.

            ‘It’s not like I was fully bedbound and incapable of doing anything,’ Keigo said dryly, ‘but yeah. I guess he did.’

            The eraser hero was looking at Keigo like he’d gone entirely insane—which, granted, may not have been too far from the truth.

            Still, Keigo raised a hand and waved the concerns away. ‘Don’t worry about it; I got it under control, and it’s not why I called you here. I have a situation that I need to deal with before I can shift my focus back to the League; back to the Commission, too. I was hoping you could help me out.’

            Shouta’s eyes were narrowed, suspicion churning in his half-lidded gaze, but he focused enough to say, ‘Right. You need a safehouse. Done—we can go right now.’

            ‘Actually, I need a safehouse with you in it.’ When Shouta raised a pointed eyebrow, Keigo gestured at the other swing with a sigh. ‘Sit. I owe you an explanation, but I’d prefer not to have you loom over me like you’re a second away from dragging me back home.’

            ‘Still might,’ Shouta muttered, but he sank down. The sight of the perpetually grumpy hero gripping the swing’s chains made Keigo chuckle, especially when Shouta glared at him, daring to comment, but Keigo sobered fast.

            He shifted his gaze to the slide, a clunky thing of faded red plastic, and took a deep breath. ‘You saw those videos, so you know how my training was executed. That the Commission spared no expense or effort to ensure my body became the weapon they had envisioned.’

            ‘I saw that they tortured you, Keigo.’

            He fought a flinch. ‘I know. Now, I know. But you must understand that at the time, it was all I had. When the Commission brought me in, it was the first time I felt like I belonged somewhere. They told me the training sessions would make me a hero. That I needed to work hard, to be able to endure anything and everything a villain might throw at me. And to my mind, knowing that the alternative was to end up back on the streets, all I could do was try my best not to disappoint them.’

            A wry smile tugged on his mouth. ‘And I’m not telling you all of this for pity. I don’t have it in me yet to deal with it all—don’t even know how I’m going to deal with the fact that most of this is now public information. Perhaps one day, I’ll give you the whole story, when it’s all behind me, but we’re short on time, so let me get to the point. I discovered that the program is still active, and the Commission continued to recruit kids like me, luring them in with promises and false comfort. And when the lab collapsed, one of them escaped with us.’

            Shouta sucked in a sharp breath. ‘So that voice I heard yesterday—’

            ‘—was from a kid in service of the Commission, yeah. His name’s Hitoshi. He’s fourteen and has been with the Commission since he was ten.’

            For a moment, the only thing breaking the silence was the creaking of the swing’s hinges while Keigo swayed back and forth, his gaze still averted. Then, he added, ‘I’m not fit to be a role model, definitely not right now. After what he went through, he needs stability, focus, care. He needs someone like you, Shou.’

            ‘You took a kid with you,’ Shouta uttered, baffled.

            ‘Technically, he took himself. He found his own way out, and when Dabi asked him whether he wanted to join us, he did.’

            ‘You and Dabi cared for a kid.’ The hero huffed, the sound close to a laugh. ‘That must’ve been a fucking sight. Jesus, Keigo. Here I was, thinking you were being held against your will or something, when in reality, you were playing house with a villain. Not sure which of the two is worse.’

            ‘Guess it says a lot about my situation that either of those options would be an improvement over how it was before.’ Keigo managed a grin and eyed the hero sideways. ‘I’ve decided to just roll with it—can’t get much worse than it was.’

            ‘You could’ve come to me sooner, you know.’  

            ‘I wasn’t ready yet.’ He rose to his feet, wings flexing at his back. ‘I saw an opportunity to escape for a while. To shut myself off from everything and everyone I knew and not have to deal with it for a bit. I knew it wasn’t going to last, and I knew it was probably the coward’s way to go, but I… I needed it, Shou. I needed a damned break.’

            ‘And you deserve one, but with Dabi?’

            ‘I know what I’m doing.’ Keigo rolled his shoulders back and turned. ‘Just trust me on this one, yeah? I need a bit longer to get things in order, but for me to figure it out, I need to know the kid is somewhere safe. Somewhere cared for. Can you help me?’

            Their gazes locked and held, a tinge of red flickering in Shouta’s. An entire string of emotions passed behind his eyes as he analysed the situation, likely debating if it was wiser to tackle Keigo and take him by force than to continue arguing.

            Still, he seemed to settle on a middle ground, slouching on the swing with a groan. ‘You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?’

            Keigo smirked. ‘Cut me loose, then. You didn’t have to come when I messaged you.’

            ‘After making such a point about the value of showing up for each other? What kind of shitty friend would that make me, then?’

            ‘Likely the best I’ve had, honestly.’ He shoved his hands into his pockets, smile softening. ‘Better than I deserve, even, but I do hope you know that this means a lot. And I’ll make it up to you, eventually.’

            Shouta rolled his eyes and rose to his feet, his scarf unfurling to swipe at Keigo’s face. ‘Get it through that thick skull of yours. There’s nothing to make up for. Just try not to die; that feels like a reasonable thing to ask in return, especially if you’re sticking me with a kid.’

            ‘I’ll try my best. Come on—let’s go meet him.’ Keigo turned towards the park’s exit, but halted just a moment longer to add, ‘Ah, before we go, I should probably let you know that it was Hitoshi’s quirk that controlled me those three weeks I went AWOL.’

            ‘Keigo—’

            ‘Not his fault, and he doesn’t need to know what I did during that time. You’ll be great with him—you’re a great teacher. He’ll adore you in no time, I’m sure of it.’ He flashed Shouta a grin when the hero let out a long-suffering sigh.

            ‘No clue what the Commission ever saw in you, you fucking moron,’ Shouta muttered.

            ‘Must have been my winning sense of humour.’

            ‘Guess they trained that out of you, too.’ But the corner of his mouth twitched, even if it was only slightly. Then, ‘Do you already know where you’re going? There’s room enough for both of you at the safehouse, you know.’

            ‘Probably best if you don’t know. I’ll join you as soon as I can, though.’

            A pointed eyebrow rose. ‘Alone?’

            ‘We’ll see.’

            Shouta scoffed half-heartedly, though he seemed to swallow most of his protest as he fell into step beside Keigo. ‘You’re killing me, honestly. A little more each day—I truly deserve better. Perhaps rather than keep me alive, you can buy me an expensive sleeping bag so I can rest from all this stress you’re giving me.’

            ‘Once I get access to my accounts again, I’ll buy you all the sleeping bags you desire.’

            ‘Deal—I’ll have La Brava look into it. Right, take me to the kid, then. Perhaps I’ll have him brainwash you so you won’t do anything stupid, though, that’s probably a lost cause.’

            ‘You’re a good friend, Shou,’ Keigo said again, brushing Shouta’s back with a wing, allowing the hero to continue muttering a string of half-hearted insults that carried no weight. It was how Shouta expressed his worry—a habit he’d had ever since Keigo met him. But he was here. He’d shown up, alone, even knowing that he risked walking into a trap.

            A better friend than Keigo deserved, by far, but he needed one right now. And despite Shouta’s claims that it wasn’t necessary, he’d find a way to make it up to him.