#dabihawks angsty part 2 of this thread below this tweet. breakup/divorce arc, hawks centric

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Hawks has recently been released from the hospital. recently as in, six hours previously. even with Recovery Girl's help and meds from the hospital, he's, simply put, not doing great. https://twitter.com/spacedaichi/status/1515055997668233216

they let him leave the hospital, and in a blur he knew someone drove him towards his apartment. the ride had been a haze, as he watched the world out the window from the lowest of heights he'd ever been. he doesn't remember the driver coming around and opening the door after he'd

been dropped off, he feels like he floated from the scratchy fabric of the car, outside to the sidewalk.

normally, his wings could droop low enough to drag over the pavement, if he let them.

his back is wingless though. his back is littered with scars he's only felt and not

seen, scars covered in bandages that pull and tug and scratch and he hates it, wants to rip it off. he almost did in the hospital, when he first woke up with a gasp, laying on his stomach, back visible to the doctors and–few–guests; before the resignation took over. before his

hspc handler dawdled in, an expressionless look on her face. the same look as always. the same look as if him having his wings seared from his back and new wound fleshing his face were just another day in the office. she gave him an update. let him know when he could leave the

hospital, then she left. even though the HPSC was supposed to of been destroyed, here his handler still stood, and here she still left.

he took a deep breath standing, staring at his apartment building. he looks up, past the tall building, to his balcony, to the sky––

to the sun shining and the clear sky.

𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, he thinks, before walking away from the same building he was supposed to be entering. he's self-aware enough to know he's avoiding the apartment. over the last few months

he'd actually begun to call it 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦. it stopped become a place he simply inhabited, but was a place where he had a person to come back to: dabi, at the kitchen counter; dabi, on the couch; dabi, running a bath with bubbles for hawks just as hawks had come home,

bubbles that ran over the edge of the tub while hawks had the life kissed out of him on the bathroom counter, until his flight suit had been dragged off his body, and the same searing hands that seared his back also placed palm prints on his side. and hawks–hawks revelled

revelled in them in the moment.

he thinks about this as he walks. as he walks, and walks, and walks, until his feet get tired––and he's feet have never been tired, it's only been his wings, and what a strange thing to understand in the moment. that maybe, the last time his feet

were tired was when he was walking on glass in a rundown home over fifteen years previously. a strange, blurry thought to wonder on as he circles the apartment block.

he circles. circles and circles like a hawk over prey, but have hawks ever circled their nest?

have hawks ever wondered if they dove to their home that they'd find it all––less homely? or more than before? Hawks wonders if actual hawks have trudged around the base of the tree they have a nest in, with an arrow in their wing, unable to fly to the top.

+++

hawks trudges, but it is less like he trudges, and as cliche as it might seem––it was a fog. he drifted around the block in a fog over again. over, and over. in repetition until the counting of his steps felt normal.

1022. 1023. 1024.

he continued.

2900. 2901. 2902.

until his hour of walking was two hours, three hours, six hours over again.

he doesn't think too many people stopped him. he knows the woman who lives on the floor above him usually walks at this time, but even then, she's not out––maybe he's passed many people, or maybe

he's so out of it it feels like it truly is that he's passed no people at all.

eventually–a dredging occurs. he stands before the glass doors of the bottom floor of his apartment, with the normal man manning it. the same man he's passed only a handful of times but most

of those handfuls were dealt when he'd walked through the doors with dabi, say for dabi climbing up the side of the apartment––or flying dabi up to the top, which just was already a zero ratio possibility.

but, that said, the times he's faced this doorman, or said hello, he's always said it while at the side of dabi. always with dabi by his side, and smiling, and greeting this man by the first time with a simple hello, but dabi in his disguise (a terrible, awful disguise

of his face mask and hoodie pulled over his face) would nod, bend his head to the doorman, say a quiet thanks for letting them in.

hawks can almost imagine dabi by his side, standing with him before the doorman of his own 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦.

his 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦. not a 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦, because he already knows the space won't feel like a home.

the dishes from a week earlier when dabi made them soba are probably still in the sink, and hawks will be left to clean them and wonder about dabi's hands stirring the semi-clean

pot and serving hawks what he said was his 'favorite dish.'

so dabi is leaving the dirty dishes of his favorite dish in his sink, and hawks is leaving dabi with unanswered conversations and questions, and hope–and piles of hope.

+++

he stands in front of the doorman who has a surprised look on his face but he quickly moves to open the door. he feels the man watching him though hawks just stares at the opened door. he bites at the inside of his mouth before tugging at the loose jacket over his shoulders and

holding the fabric close to him like he's trying to hug himself.

he feels 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 and scrutinized even though he knows that's not why the doorman is shocked. he's probably shocked because, in all actuality, hawks seemed like he still needed to be in hospital.

the doctors had told him to stay and rest more, that they wanted to monitor the growth of his wings––if they grew back at all.

with a breath, tired and shaky, he steps into the lobby of the apartment building.

the ride up to his floor is excruciatingly long––the last time he rode up the elevator had been with dabi, and as soon as the doors had shut, dabi's hand was in his own and the smallest of smiles wrote itself onto hawks' face. dabi had said something about the

bag of takeout he had in his other hand; hawks thinks it might have been, "Why don't you get your feathers to carry this?" but dabi had a mirrored small smile on his face, with no intent of letting hawks carry the food.

"You offered, like a gentleman," hawks had said.

dabi hummed, leaning against the elevator wall, looking down his sharp nose at hawks, "Like a gentleman?"

hawks leaned his own head back against the wall while the elevator continued to climb. "Always a gentleman."

"Maybe you should get your ears and eyes checked then, or should I remind you of my long list of crimes?"

hawks snorted, squeezing dabi's hand. "I'm aware of your 'long list of crimes,' but my case still stands. you've rarely let me carry

any of our takeout, and only when we have a ton of groceries to bring up do you even suggest me using my feathers. last week you noticed to muscles are my wings were swollen so you used your hands like a heating pad, the week before you––"

"Okay, okay," dabi said but there was

a sweet, light red blooming over his pale cheeks. if one of his hands hadn't been occupied with hawks own, and the other with their food, hawks knew dabi would have used a hand to cover his mouth.

hawks only cheekily smiled up at him, and said again, "Gentleman."

hawks leans his head back now against the same elevator wall, looking up at the mirrored ceiling. his black jacket looks like it's swallowing him, and he feels.... odd seeing himself without even his smallest feathers.

he always knew they would grow back––but now it's

a guessing game while his entire bone structure tries to figure out whatever shit happened in the fire.

the fire––he still thinks he can feel the heat of the flames on his back and kissing at his cheek and neck. he can't see any of the scars in the mirror above, not with

the bandages crawling over his face and head, over his neck and beyond his back. he props his shoulder against the elevator more, feeling the slight tug from the skin he can't see.

sdjfkhsdkjf continuing this https://twitter.com/spacedaichi/status/1515124382515007488?s=20&t=oa6r3aQVnHt6ULu4qsApdA

the elevator yawns and hawks is left looking at the threshold of his apartment.

he steps into the quiet hall, and the elevator door closes behind him. the entire floor is own, presented by the commission after he'd moved on from their training facilities and he had

established his own agency. he'd been thrown into this space with no idea what to do with it, but he knew what he 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 do with it. the commission had presented him with a list of suggested items for decor, though really it was just a physical list

of the limits they were putting on him.

at the top of the list of how he shouldn't use his apartment had been "not allowing any non-pre-approved people in." people they could have vetted. people that would have had signed NDAs.

dabi was the first in his series of actions that went against the list and his limits. though really he hadn't quite let dabi in the first dabi had come around––or any of the first times dabi had come around.

the 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 first time, hawks had landed on his balcony

after a long patrol, and stepped into his apartment already feeling like something was off.

the apartment didn't change. he never moved too much out of place: the little commision-approved knick-knacks stayed on their shelves; the approved books stayed shelved; the furniture

never moved despite his ache to move it around.

he'd walked in that day feeling eyes on his shoulders––with a slip of some of his feathers through the apartment, he quickly found dabi.

and dabi found him, as his hand wrapped around the feather that pointed at his neck. the man stepped out of the kitchen, with his eyes burning a brillant blue in the dark. the only light in the room had been shed from the moonlight pouring in the through the ceiling-to-floor

windows spanning the balcony.

"hero life seems cushy," dabi had said, rolling the feather around the length of his fingers. even from such a small feather, Hawks felt the hairs on his arms and neck raised from the connection to the feather.

"how'd you get in here?" hawks had said–not stepping forward, not moving back. he let the feather remain in dabi's, trying not to sharpen it. in the cover of his boots, his toes curled.

"i have my ways," dabi said––and thus began tacking to the list of things hawks definitely

shouldn't been allowing in his apartment. and the list grew and grew and grew as dabi both continued to show up and was also allowed him. the list grew but it became muddled in hawks' mind the more time passed.

𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, hawks would whisper to the crevices of his mind.

// implied sexual content, nsfw //

𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, he'd continue to whisper when dabi pressed his lips against his own.

𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵, he'd whisper and whisper as dabi peeled his clothes off

and he shred dabi of his own and then they were bare to the night and each other. no one else's.

𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, he'd pant and huff into his pillows and dabi's hands pushed up his sides.

𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦, dabi would say against his skin, and his burning eyes glowing, whispering too:

𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

// continuing this, omg i’m so sorry i’ve been meaning to continue it https://twitter.com/spacedaichi/status/1515124382515007488

as hawks walks into the apartment, he drifts past the mirror in the hall. one glance at himself here and he cringes. it’s worse than when he looked at himself in the reflection of the elevator mirror—here it’s face to face at eye level instead of nearly upside down

when he’d looked at the elevator ceiling.

that settles it though.

he’s taking off his bandages.

the doctors had told him not to do it as soon as he got to his apartment—that he’d needed to rest. that he needed to lay down, relax, take some of the pain medication they’d given him.

but the bandages itch underneath his shirt and he wants to /see/. he needs to see

he damage. he needs to see the marks left on him. besides, even if his wings grow back, the scars around them will never fade.

before that, though, he fades down the hall towards his kitchen. he shuffles towards his designated bar cart,

pushing through the liquors and drinks before wrapping his fingers around the neck of his favorite whiskey bottle. well, not just his either. dabi had quickly taken a liking to it once he got his hands on it, before eventually using it as the base of most of the drinks they’d

share together.

hawks pulls it out, and in fading sunlight pooling from his balcony windows, the whiskey looks almost like honey.

he goes throw the process of pouring himself a glass almost as if in ceremony;

not just a habit and not just in routine, but a ritualistic experience. the opening of the already half empty bottle feels like lighting a candle, and pouring a glass feels like setting incense on an altar. he’s only ever had to light a candle,

but he presumes this is what setting out an altar’s incense feels like.

he pours the whiskey into the glass, and tips it up before whispering to himself, and to the company his apartment provides, “for touya.”

though he realizes, as he swings back the burning liquid, that he’s not sure if dabi would currently prefer to be called touya or dabi.

he had introduced himself to the nation as touya, as hawks learned after.

he thinks about the times dabi had looked like he had more to say, when they were quietly laying in bed, wrapped around each other. as dabi smoked a cigarette and looked far beyond the moment they were in. hawks hadn’t ever been the one to push questions,

despite wanting to, and despite the mission side of his brain telling him he /should/, and that dabi looked vulnerable and /might/ even answer.

but he never asked. and dabi never told him.

all the while, or at least for sometime—though hawks still can pinpoint when

dabi might have learned the information—dabi knew about keigo: hawks and keigo and severed ties between the two names, between the takami name and the family history that came with it.

hawks pours another glass is whiskey. he swirls the liquid around, before trailing away

to the bathroom.

along the way, he stops inside his bedroom, before the drawer that had slowly shifted to being /dabi’s/. dabi’s shirts, dabi’s underwear, dabi’s fucking cigarettes.

he opens the drawer and sees the yellow package of cigarettes and immediately sips at the whiskey again to feel it’s burning in his stomach.

he grabs the package, slips it into his pants pockets, and similarly slips into his bathroom.

// continuing this! may finish it finally lmao https://twitter.com/spacedaichi/status/1515124382515007488

he takes a few moments standing in front of the bathroom mirror. the long length of the shadows pulling under his eyes and grinds his teeth together at the sight.

it’ll be better. things will be better. he did the right thing—it has to be the right thing: he hopes

to something out in the universe that the choice he made was the right one. in the moment it was his only option, the only option that seemed viable to everyone.

jin’s death was the right choice: he doesn’t quite believe that statement but

ever the optimistic he has to believe it’ll mean something in the future, mean something for the coming and encroaching war.

he let dabi into his heart and simultaneously broke his own, and broke dabi’s. this was the right choice. it has to be.

he doesn’t know what to do if these choices weren’t the right ones, if his mission wasn’t the right one.

he holds the bathroom counter under his palms, grips it’s sides, before moving to take another drink of his whiskey.

then, he shuffles out of his jacket—his skin and back /aches/ and stings despite all the work that Recovery Girl did. it’s still painful, still shocking, where his extra limb is supposed to be. where his wings are missing. the comfort of his feathers at the edges of his mind

are completely gone and leave his brain in a constant state of static. everything is too quiet. everything is somehow too /loud/. the silence is all he hears and it’s a booming white noise, like a t.v. on the wrong channel, not connected properly, telling the watchers to plug

it in correctly.

he wants to plug himself in correctly but he can’t. without his wings he doesn’t feel like he can do a damn thing to help himself or anyone.

what kind of hero is he, if he can’t help people at any time, at any moment’s notice?

still grinding his teeth together, and licking the whiskey over his teeth, he finds the first end of the bandages wrapping his back and chest.

maybe seeing the damage done to him will solidify something—maybe that’s why he wants to see. maybe he needs to /know/ for certain,

of the scarring dabi left on him. as if his missing wings weren’t solidification enough. he tells himself that sometimes his feathers run out, and this is similar to that. but the paired scarring and the paired pain will perhaps plant a rock—no matter how heavy—in his chest

over the rightness of his choices for himself and other people.

he peels the bandages. slowly, over and over around his body, pulling at his wounds, pulling at the tight and raw skin, until the bandages are completely loose. and free. and they drop to the bathroom floor

and he’s staring at his back, over his shoulder, in the mirror. the base of his wings, the tiny nubs that they’ve been reduced to, shift as he rolls his shoulder. he can sort of feel them, if he thinks hard enough on them, he can feel where they’re trying to mend

burnt tissue and beyond broken bones.

he covers his mouth at the sight. he doesn’t realize it, but there’s tears that drip down his face, over his cheeks, creating a salty path over his skin.

those scars are going to be there forever. dabi’s mark on him is going to be there

forever, until he dies, and even in death they will still remain until he himself has decomposed and rotted and his skin is not his own but the earth’s. he never wanted to be the earth’s /anything/. he wants the sky. the blue. the pale blues of midday and the dark blues at

night, and he wants all of dabi’s blues too.

he guesses, in a roundabout way, he sort of got at least one of the things he wanted.

dabi’s permanent mark on his body, constantly reminding him of his choices, and constantly reminding him of /dabi/.