Work Text:
Scene: An alley, in the hours between midnight and dawn, when everything is half-fake and nothing is impossible. An angel-like figure catches sight of the shadow of a man dragging himself forward, braced against the wall.
The angel brandishes his feathers as a weapon, and the man renders him defenseless with one tired look.
HAWKS: Oh. I’ve heard of you.
ERASERHEAD: Congratulations. Move.
HAWKS: You’re hurt.
ERASERHEAD: Don’t worry about it.
HAWKS: (He tilts his head.) You’re not heading towards the hospital.
ERASERHEAD: Not worth it.
HAWKS: Let me fly you home.
—
Aizawa Shouta has never been fond of spotlight heroes.
Hypocritical, perhaps, given his closest friends are spotlight pros who welcome attention with open arms, but there is something vastly different about mid-to-low ranking pros when compared to the top ten. Present Mic is someone who fans can stop on the street and talk to; Midnight is someone who people have touched and lived to tell the tale.
But someone like Hawks is a falsity. He’s a carefully crafted image—more a weapon than a person—with nothing real hidden beneath the mask. Hawks does not even have another name he calls himself. He’s the perfect hero, but the truth is, he’s nothing. He flashes a smile to his fans and saves civilians without breaking a sweat, and when he’s off-duty, he disappears. You can see him on TV or in the midst of a villain fight, but never anywhere else.
Not that Shouta wastes his time prying into pro hero gossip—as previously stated, he doesn’t care for many of the pros who have found themselves most often occupying the media spotlight. But he is friends with Nemuri. And Nemuri told him once: Did you know, Hawks and All Might are the only two top-ranking pros we’ve never been able to convince to have drinks with us? Obviously All Might is untouchable, but Hawks… (here, she frowned, eyebrows pinched) I think Rumi-chan is the only one who has ever even seen him off-the-clock.
This is because Hawks and All Might are just convincing mirages, Shouta replied. There is nothing beneath their hero personas. They aren’t real.
It’s something like proof, when Hawks finds Shouta injured in a back alley and insists on taking him home. He doesn’t exist outside of the context of being a hero, even in the middle of the night with no one else around.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Hawks asks, standing in the hallway outside of Shouta’s apartment as he shoves his key into the lock.
Shouta dares to glance over his shoulder, and for a split-second, he sees someone who looks almost human. Standing awkwardly beneath the half-dead fluorescent lights, wearing a faded t-shirt beneath his windbreaker, wings fluttering restlessly like they’re not quite sure what they’re meant to do. He looks his age for once—twenty-one and out-of-place in a world he’s still trying to learn to navigate.
“I’ve suffered worse,” Shouta assures him. He slips into his apartment and closes the door behind him without a goodbye.
Scene: A rooftop, 3 AM, late March. An angel lands beside a man.
HAWKS: Heya, Eraser!
ERASERHEAD: What are you doing here?
HAWKS: (Pouting) Can’t a bird just look for a perch without being interrogated these days?
ERASERHEAD:
HAWKS: (Leaning in) I bet you’d make for good company. (He winks.)
ERASERHEAD: I’m working, in case you couldn’t tell.
HAWKS: (Sarcastically) Right. Loads of villains out tonight. (His wings ruffle.) I can tell.
ERASERHEAD: (He sighs.) What do you want, Hawks?
HAWKS:
The trouble with desire is: it is such a human sentiment. An angel learns young to put any longing aside, to lay down itself in dedication to the holy being it serves. If an angel wants selfishly, it has failed everything it stands for.
HAWKS: You?
ERASERHEAD: Ha-ha.
HAWKS: C’mon, give a guy a chance!
ERASERHEAD: No.
HAWKS: (An exaggerated, melodramatic sigh.) You wound me, Eraser. You’ve got the country’s most desirable bachelor offering himself to you, and all you can do is roll your eyes.
ERASERHEAD: Unfortunately for him, I’m not interested.
The angel thinks: This man has achieved everything I cannot. He has perfected the art of not-wanting. He is more righteous than I, and he is everything I crave.
The angel thinks: There is a thrill in being rejected. No one else wants to look through the white robes and see the being that exists beneath for the broken mess that it is. Being seen is, perhaps, the worst sensation in the world—but it also says, YOU ARE REAL.
HAWKS: Too bad. I hear he’s got raving reviews.
ERASERHEAD: (Something that might be a smile—it’s impossible to tell in the dark; it may be nothing but imagination.)
HAWKS: (A beat too late.) Guess I’ll leave you to it, then!
ERASERHEAD: Goodbye, Hawks.
—
Shouta watches Hawks lift himself into the night, tossing a carefree smile over his shoulder. “Keep my offer in mind!” he says, and it’s probably a joke, but it’s impossible to tell for certain with someone whose entire existence is a performance. It doesn’t matter either way—Shouta’s answer remains the same. NOT INTERESTED is the only reply that has granted him any peace over the years, though it doesn’t cover the full scope of the truth.
He’s NOT INTERESTED with addendums and caveats, none of which Hawks currently meets the criteria for. Shouta will not waste his time on someone without a face beneath the mask they wear.
Although, he thinks, as he watches red wings split the still night air, there may be something under the façade that is HAWKS. He’s just not sure Hawks himself has managed to discover what it is yet, and that is something Shouta cannot—will not—do for him.
Scene: A hospital room, twilight, with no noise apart from the hum of air conditioning and the steady breaths of two people. A man lies awake in his hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted both by what has been lost already and what there is still to lose. A young girl is curled up beside him, asleep.
The door opens, and a second figure steps in. His silhouette is emptier than it should be—an angel wearing the disguise of a man.
AIZAWA: (Tiredly) What are you doing here?
HAWKS: They said you cut off your leg.
AIZAWA: I did what was logical.
HAWKS: (Stepping closer) Are you…?
AIZAWA: Hawks.
Hawks pauses. The girl stirs in her sleep, and Aizawa cards his fingers through her hair until she stills. Hawks watches like he doesn’t know what he’s looking at—like a gentle touch is a foreign concept to him.
(He watches like he wants it for himself.)
HAWKS: (An admission of guilt) I was worried.
AIZAWA: Worry about yourself.
Hawks does not know how to do that; an angel does not worry for their own wellbeing. Its job is to save everyone else, no matter the cost to their own being.
But Hawks’ wings are nothing more than new down right now; burned away by the same hand he let caress his bare skin in the dark. So, if he looks like a man, maybe he can let himself act like one too. For just one moment.
HAWKS: I can do both.
AIZAWA: (He frowns, thoughtful.)
HAWKS: I’m thinking I might rewatch your press conference, from after the summer training camp fiasco. Take some notes on how to deal with reporters who have already decided you’re irredeemable.
AIZAWA: Keep a level head.
HAWKS: (A beat.) Huh?
AIZAWA: They will say whatever they can to make you snap, so they can prove you are in the wrong. Don’t let them get to you.
HAWKS: (He laughs.) Look at me; Number 2 getting interview advice from an underground hero. Seems kinda backwards.
(But it settles over Hawks’ shoulders like a blanket—like proof someone cares enough to look out for him. He’s been hailed a god at twenty-three, raised onto a pedestal despite his youth. He likes Aizawa because Aizawa knows that he is not a timeless, immortal creature.)
HAWKS: I might still rewatch the press conference footage, though. You looked fine as hell in that suit.
AIZAWA: Never talk to me again.
HAWKS: (He laughs again, genuine this time.) Rest well, Sensei.
—
There is quiet for three seconds after Hawks shuts the door behind him, and then Eri’s soft voice, half-muffled, asks, “Who was that?”
“Another hero,” Shouta answers. “I apologize if we woke you; I wasn’t expecting a visit.”
Eri shakes her head. “What’s his name?”
“Hawks.”
“How do you know him?”
Shouta thinks of stolen moments in alleyways, of chance meetings on lampposts and rooftops. He thinks of Hawks’ cheeky smiles as he offers things Shouta doubts either of them truly want. He thinks of how, each time Hawks finds him, the cracks in his mask grow a little wider—how Hawks tries to pry himself open beneath the gaze of someone not entertained by an act of perfection.
“We’ve worked together,” he lies.
“Oh.” Eri twists herself so she can look up at him. “Is he your friend?”
Shouta thinks, Hawks is incapable of having friends, because how can you befriend a mirage?
He says, “Something like that.”
Scene: Another hospital, after the war, late evening. There is a bed occupied by a being who was once an angel and is now the spirit of a long-dead child inhabiting the corpse of HAWKS. He does not know what to call himself anymore. He does not know who he is anymore.
The door opens, and a man fumbles his way into the room, crutches tucked under either arm.
?: Eraser?
AIZAWA: They said you lost your quirk.
?:
AIZAWA: I was worried.
?: (A fake smile, a bitter laugh.) Worry about yourself.
AIZAWA: (A sigh.)
Aizawa limps across the room, sitting himself precariously on the edge of the bed. He props his crutches up against it. He stares at the body with no name lying there beside him like it’s still alive. It doesn’t know what to say. It is still waiting for—hoping for—the other shoe to drop; for one final attack to take him out.
He wishes he’d been properly martyred.
AIZAWA: Hawks—
?: Not sure there’s any reason to call me that anymore.
AIZAWA: (A beat.) What would you like me to call you, then?
There is no good answer to that question. HAWKS is dead, and TAKAMI KEIGO has not existed for nearly twenty years. HAWKS is dead, and TAKAMI KEIGO is a name that does not feel as if it belongs to him. HAWKS is dead, and—
AIZAWA: Your life is not over.
?: (He laughs, half-hysterical, like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard.)
AIZAWA: I’m serious. You are still alive; do not take that for granted. Many people aren’t.
?: I wish I’d died in their place.
AIZAWA: But you didn’t. Don’t waste your time imagining you could have been God.
?: I was.
AIZAWA: You merely thought you were.
?:
AIZAWA: Not even All Might managed to die for the sins of the world; what makes you believe you’re any different?
?: Why are you doing this?
Is it pity? Is it repayment? Is it boredom? ERASERHEAD is not known to be soft; there is no reason for him to entertain a boy who chases after him just to revel in the rejection he offers. There is no reason for him to stand at HAWKS’ grave.
AIZAWA: Because I would like for you to stay alive.
?: Why?
AIZAWA: (Growing angry) Haven’t we already lost enough?
?:
AIZAWA: You act as if no one cares whether you live or die, but that isn’t true.
?: Hawks is already dead.
AIZAWA: Then be Takami Keigo. Call yourself any name you like, but do not insult the sacrifices made in this war because you’ve decided to conflate your quirk with your life.
—
Shouta has decided: Fuck it. I will break Hawks open myself. And if all we find is an empty shell, then lo and behold, he’s just the same as every other hero. But heroes should not be idols.
It is time we learn how to be human.
Scene: UA, morning, before a long-delayed graduation ceremony. A man sits in a chair, watching a silver-haired girl playing hacky-sack with a few of his students. She is wearing short sleeves for the first time since she was rescued. It’s easier to accept your own scars when you know everyone around you has scars as well.
A second man comes to a stop behind the first, weight rested on a cane. He leans down, movements slow and calculated, still adjusting to a shifted center of gravity now that his wings are gone.
KEIGO: Hey, Sensei.
AIZAWA: (He tenses for a moment, but relaxes almost instantly.) Hawks. Hello.
KEIGO: Aww, it’s almost like you’re warming up to me!
AIZAWA: Funny.
Keigo circles around, dropping himself into the seat beside Aizawa. He knocks his foot against Aizawa’s—his left one, not the prosthetic, so he can actually feel it. When Aizawa meets his gaze, he grins.
AIZAWA: I didn’t expect the Commission president would have time to attend a graduation ceremony.
KEIGO: Hey, now. I want to show my support for our youth! (A beat.) And maybe I wanted to see someone I knew would be here.
AIZAWA: (He raises an eyebrow.) Oh?
KEIGO: Are you busy?
AIZAWA: Depends. Is this official business?
KEIGO: It could be.
—
Perhaps Shouta should feel more shame in calling out a lie to Eri, saying Hawks needs him for something important and he’ll be back shortly and he’s leaving Asui in charge of her, but when Hawks seals their lips together as soon as they’re out of sight, it’s difficult to dwell on anything else. Hawks kisses like it is the only thing that sustains him, and he lets Shouta press him against the wall, bearing a vulnerability few others have been permitted to see.
“You are pushing your luck,” Shouta murmurs against his lips.
“I’d like to push something else.”
Shouta pulls back, eyebrows furrowing. “What does that— Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
Hawks offers him a lopsided smile. And then he’s diving back in for more, nipping at Shouta’s lips, twisting his fingers in Shouta’s hair and holding him flush against him. Shouta thinks he is too old to be sneaking around like this, making out behind a school building like horny teenagers where anyone could find them. But he supposes it is only human to make such foolish decisions, and if neither he nor Hawks are false idols these days, there is no reason they can’t give into the whims of their desires every once in a while.
When they break apart to breathe, Hawks nuzzles into Shouta’s neck.
“Hey,” he whispers.
Shouta places a hand in his hair. “We shouldn’t be gone for too long. Knowing my kids, someone will find us.”
Hawks hums. He presses an open-mouth kiss to Shouta’s throat. “One more minute?”
And Shouta is only a man, so he concedes.
Scene: A balcony, in the hours between midnight and dawn, when everything is half-fake and nothing is impossible. A man who used to masquerade as an angel stands beside a man who used to masquerade as a shadow. A lifetime ago, they were a holy warrior and the only being whose gaze could pierce through him.
Now, they are just two men.
Shouta holds a cigarette between two fingers, and Keigo watches him exhale smoke into the cool night. He won’t smoke when the kids are around, but he admits it’s a vice he can’t quite give up completely. Keigo could lecture him about how it’s destroying his lungs, but he has his own harmful habits he falls into, and while he doesn’t particularly enjoy the sensation of smoke filling his lungs, he likes the way Shouta gently places the cigarette between his lips with a near-unbearable softness in his eyes.
Keigo thinks he might love him, though he’s still trying to figure out exactly what love is.
Shouta told him, once, that he is no expert on the matter—that he cannot love Keigo in the way he will surely expect; that Keigo can have a place in his life, but he will not be placed above Shouta’s family and friends. He will not love Keigo with any more strength than he does his Eri and Shinsou; he will not love him differently than he does Midnight and Present Mic.
Take it or leave it, he said, without looking Keigo in the eye. But do not bother sticking around now if you know it will not be enough later.
Keigo laughed. You say this like I know what any love is supposed to feel like.
I’m serious, Shouta told him.
But Keigo has loved men who hated him and men who wanted him dead, as much as he knew how to love when self-negligence was the code he lived by. He does not care how Shouta defines his love or if he even calls it love at all, because Keigo wants him in any way he can have him.
Keigo wants.
And now that he is Keigo again—now that he is a man rather than an angel—he’s learning to stop denying himself such things.
Shouta puts out his cigarette, and Keigo leans his head on his shoulder.
SHOUTA: Are you staying the night?
KEIGO: Depends on whether or not Shinsou-kun will try to kill me in my sleep.
SHOUTA: (Half a smile.) They might.
KEIGO: Would you stop them?
SHOUTA: Hm.
KEIGO: Wow.
He turns his head, pushing himself onto his toes so he can kiss Shouta’s cheek.
KEIGO: I’d like to stay.
SHOUTA: Very well.
—
Takami Keigo is still a work-in-progress, but that makes him all the more genuine in Shouta’s eyes. The false face of an idol is stagnant; a real person is constantly evolving. To see Keigo pick at the remnants of the child he’d written off as dead, pulling out and weaving together a human behind the hero, is a privilege Shouta does not take for granted.
He watches, amused, as Keigo pulls on one of his t-shirts and then climbs into bed beside him. He lies with his head on Shouta’s chest, looking up at him with a smile that crinkles his eyes.
Shouta runs a hand through his hair.
Keigo looks better with no halo atop his head.