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#dabihawks soft angsty vibes 
more slow dancing because i’m Unwell
—
“You’re late,” Dabi says as soon as Hawks lands on his own balcony.
more slow dancing because i’m Unwell—
“You’re late,” Dabi says as soon as Hawks lands on his own balcony.
Hawks sighs, “Not now, Dabs.” Even to his own ears he hears the drone, the tonelessness, the watered down exhausted that only in the last few weeks had he uncovered and allowed Dabi to see.
To be entirely fair, Dabi had kind of wormed his way under the thick coat
To be entirely fair, Dabi had kind of wormed his way under the thick coat
of emotions he’d layered on through growing up with the HPSC and then being thrown into the world of heroics, and all the people who depended on him to smile and joke around as a way to put the civilians and public at ease.
He feels Dabi’s gaze on his shoulders as he shuffles and maneuvers with the bulk of his wings out of his jacket, leaving him in his sleeveless compression shirt.
He kicks off his shoes on the balcony, feeling the sealed cement under his toes, through the fabric of the compression leggings that wrap like a
stirrup around his feet.
He pushes away the shoes with thinly veiled agitation. His day was long. The days are always long but he’s always so caught up in wanting save people, to make the city safe, that when the hours get longer he’s not particularly inclined to realize the
He pushes away the shoes with thinly veiled agitation. His day was long. The days are always long but he’s always so caught up in wanting save people, to make the city safe, that when the hours get longer he’s not particularly inclined to realize the
time.
He’d also had a lot of paperwork today that needed to be manually sifted through and he couldn’t focus worth a damn on the words floating from the page and trying to make sense to his brain. Then he’d just gotten more and more annoyed the longer it took
He’d also had a lot of paperwork today that needed to be manually sifted through and he couldn’t focus worth a damn on the words floating from the page and trying to make sense to his brain. Then he’d just gotten more and more annoyed the longer it took
and through the entire time he could feel his phone buzzing in the back of his pocket with Dabi texting him, likely wondering why he wasn’t home yet since that morning when Hawks had leaned over in bed and whispered
against the skin of Dabi’s forehead that he’d be home before 5pm. Now it’s after 8 and Hawks feels like his entire body is aching, and his head hurts and he wants to strip into shorts and one of Dabi’s t-shirts and hopefully pull Dabi into bed with him to sleep.
Dabi’s watching him though. He has questions. Probably questions Hawks can’t answer because they’re classified and go against his current infiltration mission and Hawks hates how much he’s overthinking the desire to just sleep in the same bed as Dabi and if 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵
doesn’t already go against his infiltration mission. Dabi is watching him—and Hawks knows that if he just meets Dabi’s gaze, answers whatever questions he has, that he might end up crumbling through the cracks of his own privately owned aviary.
The Commission President asked him again how things were going. How close they were, where they were at with information, how much information they could continue to milk—how his “contact” Dabi was and if he’d given up anymore information.
No. Dabi hadn’t. But Hawks had
No. Dabi hadn’t. But Hawks had
stopped asking those sort of questions weeks ago. And there’s only so much information he can continue to recycle and just capture glimpses of in conversations with the League before the HPSC starts really riding his ass.
A war is impending. They all know it. Hawks knows it—
A war is impending. They all know it. Hawks knows it—
and he knows Dabi knows it too.
A hand on his wrist startles him, and then he’s forced to look up to Dabi.
Dabi who’s looking concerned. Dabi whose eyebrows are drawn down, and he’s working his
A hand on his wrist startles him, and then he’s forced to look up to Dabi.
Dabi who’s looking concerned. Dabi whose eyebrows are drawn down, and he’s working his
eyes over every inch of Hawks’ face, and his eyes are so blue that Hawks can’t look away. He couldn’t possibly look away.
Hawks had never had quite the affiliation for the ocean—he’s been a sky guy since his birth, of his wings didn’t make that obvious enough,
Hawks had never had quite the affiliation for the ocean—he’s been a sky guy since his birth, of his wings didn’t make that obvious enough,
but Dabi’s eyes constantly remind him of what he thinks tropical oceans must look like. And after they’d been meeting so often at the docks, and carefully studying how fondly, how sadly, looked out at the quiet sea: he’d begun to crave for the water like Icarus who
reached for the sun but fell to the ocean below. Created for the sky, only to die in capped waves. If Dabi’s eyes were the ocean, he’d gladly die there. If this is his downfall: let him sink with weights attached to his ankles.
Dabi’s hand leaves his arm, and
Dabi’s hand leaves his arm, and
trails up to his face. Softly, carefully, and in an insurmountable tenderness—the palm of his hand is a chalice, and Hawks’ chin and jaw are the liquids filling it. Dabi holds his face, tugs him forward.
“Someone’s grumpy,” Dabi says, and though a small smile
“Someone’s grumpy,” Dabi says, and though a small smile
appears on his face, the unsettled expression doesn’t fall.
It’s only then that Hawks realizes Dabi had a cigarette in his other hand, between his fingers. He doesn’t look away, but from the corner of his gaze he sees the cigarette fall to the balcony floor.
It’s only then that Hawks realizes Dabi had a cigarette in his other hand, between his fingers. He doesn’t look away, but from the corner of his gaze he sees the cigarette fall to the balcony floor.
Dabi smushes it under his boot, all while still looking down at Hawks.
Hawks is sure that must be a metaphor for something, but he can’t quite figure out what it could be—Dabi would surely be able to tell him, if he asked, considering the amounts of novels and books of poetry
Hawks is sure that must be a metaphor for something, but he can’t quite figure out what it could be—Dabi would surely be able to tell him, if he asked, considering the amounts of novels and books of poetry
that Hawks has come home to him reading, or woke up to him reading in the middle of the night in his living room.
“I said not now, Dabi,” Hawks sighs out, but with less agitation than he did previously. Certainly the beginning of their tentative relationship had been chalked up
“I said not now, Dabi,” Hawks sighs out, but with less agitation than he did previously. Certainly the beginning of their tentative relationship had been chalked up
with mild annoyances and Dabi just pushing and pushing at every single one of Hawks’ buttons until he was sure he’d figured out absolutely all of them—since then, since the shifting of their relationship and the shared spaces, Hawks had found it harder and harder to stay
annoyed with Dabi. He—
God. He has. A feeling for Dabi. A feeling he’s scared to put a name to. He has a feeling he’s not sure if he can trust because what if out of everything he only 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 he has That Feeling out of obligation for his mission? He’s been so rooted in
God. He has. A feeling for Dabi. A feeling he’s scared to put a name to. He has a feeling he’s not sure if he can trust because what if out of everything he only 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 he has That Feeling out of obligation for his mission? He’s been so rooted in
the infiltration he’s honestly scared that all of his feelings for Dabi could be false. What if they are? What if he’s been tricking himself, and tricking Dabi more than he already is?
And he can’t tell Dabi about the mission. No matter the pull and the ache and fucking craving
And he can’t tell Dabi about the mission. No matter the pull and the ache and fucking craving
to leap from the sun and dive in the ocean of his eyes.
He doesn’t. So he keeps that feeling—that unnameable feeling, underneath the roots and vines clogging the chest of 𝘒𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘰. Keigo needs to stay in all those vines.
++++ (twt limit)
He doesn’t. So he keeps that feeling—that unnameable feeling, underneath the roots and vines clogging the chest of 𝘒𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘰. Keigo needs to stay in all those vines.
++++ (twt limit)
Hawks can’t possible begin to try and sift out whatever of his feelings could be real and could be false as well as uprooting the name Keigo.
Dabi let’s out a slow breath, still looking over Hawks. The lights from Hawks’ apartment are off except for a single light over the dining table by the windows that shed their light onto the balcony, stretching towards the two of them.
Dabi doesn’t say anything, he just pulls
Dabi doesn’t say anything, he just pulls
Hawks all the way towards his chest, until his forehead is pressed to Hawks’ own. Both of his hands have moved away until one is settling over his chest, and the other works it’s way over the bottom of Hawks’ compression shirt, up to
he slots where the base of his wings is exposed to the cooler night air. His cool fingers press and dip over the bare skin around the muscles around the wings, and Hawks’ finds himself shifting his shoulders and leaning his head back to Dabi’s own under the delicate
feeling of Dabi’s fingers. They press deeply, massaging the swollen and overworked muscles, until Hawks feels his wings loosening, uncoiling like tangled cords.
“There you go,” Dabi whispers against his cheek. Hawks sighs again, but it’s a relieved sigh.
“There you go,” Dabi whispers against his cheek. Hawks sighs again, but it’s a relieved sigh.
Dabi’s treatment of his wings has never been rough unless talked about. Unless Dabi asked 𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺?, in a hushed whisper against the bare skin of his back when they were in bed. And Hawks answering, 𝘠𝘦𝘴 into a pillow with him clutching his pillows
like Dabi first gripped and tugged the tertial feathers closest to the base and his spine.
(( tbc in the morning ))
okay continuing this!! baha i swear we’ll get to the slow dancing now https://twitter.com/spacedaichi/status/1521313368879030275
“They’re working you into the ground,” Dabi murmurs against his hairline, while he still works a warning hand over the base of Hawks’ wings.
“It’s part of the job,” Hawks answers before briefly rubbing his forehead over Dabi’s jaw. Over the rough-textured skin
“It’s part of the job,” Hawks answers before briefly rubbing his forehead over Dabi’s jaw. Over the rough-textured skin
that’s given more days and nights of comfort than he’d thought possible—or thought he wanted. It’s all he wants now. How sad to want something he can’t have for long—but he has it here, at least for the briefest moment of their shared timeline.
He blinks where his head sits against Dabi’s neck, eyelashes fluttering over the skin, wondering if Dabi could feel the nerves there if his eyelashes would tickle. Maybe like his eyelashes on Dabi’s nerve damaged skin, Hawks is only a single fallen feather in his path:
not enough to be seen. Not enough to make a difference. What could Hawks even do that would be enough to make a difference to get Dabi to stay right where he is, on Hawks’ balcony, in his arms, whispering in his ear.
Hawks is drawn from his thoughts when he feels the humming vibrations from low in Dabi’s throat.
Hawks lets himself smile. A small little thing he thinks he’s barley afforded in this world; he’s rarely smiled like this. Like when he was holding a little Endeavor toy between his
Hawks lets himself smile. A small little thing he thinks he’s barley afforded in this world; he’s rarely smiled like this. Like when he was holding a little Endeavor toy between his
small palms like it was his entire world, all he had. And it really was, if he thinks about it, that’s all he’d possessed as a child. Just that knockdown price.
He wraps his arms around Dabi, over the back of Dabi’s shirt, where his hands overlap and fiddle with the loose
He wraps his arms around Dabi, over the back of Dabi’s shirt, where his hands overlap and fiddle with the loose
fabric of his t-shirt.
“You going to sing for me, Dabs?” Hawks quietly asks. “Going to dance with me?”
The dancing had come up weeks ago. Almost entirely by accident, sort of.
“You going to sing for me, Dabs?” Hawks quietly asks. “Going to dance with me?”
The dancing had come up weeks ago. Almost entirely by accident, sort of.
Hawks had woken up one morning, Dabi not in bed but instead in the kitchen making them breakfast. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘮. The two of them breakfast. Hawks say him over the kitchen stove, wearing only a pair of drawstring sweatpants with Hawks’ merch symbol on the back, his back
entirely bare and exposing the the patched scars and their mulberry colorings. Dabi had never kept the scars to himself, especially on Hawks’ apartment where he walked around half-naked most of the time anyways, but Hawks remembers staring in that moment
for a longer amount of time than he’d usually just openly stare at any one thing. And he’d been drawn, like a pull, like gravity, from the sun of the sky and to the ocean once more as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Dabi’s back.
“You awake already?” Dabi asked.
“You awake already?” Dabi asked.
“Couldn’t go back to sleep,” he answered, not saying what they already both knew: that they slept better together in the same bed.
The dancing started then. Though, less like dancing, and more just Hawks swaying like one might if they had been in the ocean waves for too long
The dancing started then. Though, less like dancing, and more just Hawks swaying like one might if they had been in the ocean waves for too long
and stepped back onto land, remembering that they were meant to be on land anyways. He’d pushed his nose into Dabi’s bare back and Dabi moved slowly back with Hawks, even as he moved to continue to make their food.
The rest of the apartment had been quiet. The balcony
The rest of the apartment had been quiet. The balcony
door had been shut, though often times Dabi would open it to smoke by the window. The only sounds had been the sizzling of the stove, their minimal clothes rustling against each other—before Dabi began humming.
“What’s that song?” Hawks asked into Dabi’s cool song.
“What’s that song?” Hawks asked into Dabi’s cool song.
Dabi paused his humming, and without seeing his face Hawks hadn’t been sure if it was because Dabi had to try and remember what it was, or if he was resolving whether he should share the information with Hawks.
“Something my mother used to sing,” Dabi answered, eventually.
“Something my mother used to sing,” Dabi answered, eventually.
Hawks blinked. The mention of any of Dabi’s previous family was a rarity, a sliver and glimpse of someone else or something Dabi tried to keep buried.
And Hawks tried not to pry. It always came back to him feeling compromised to know any extending information about Dabi
And Hawks tried not to pry. It always came back to him feeling compromised to know any extending information about Dabi
except what Dabi willingly gave. Dabi’s mother being part of that. Hawks has made hundreds of assumptions about Dabi’s past, tried to piece it together like shattered glass, pricking himself on the edges in the process.
He’s not sure, but he feels like his mother could have died
He’s not sure, but he feels like his mother could have died
or even: that Dabi speaks of her in the past because he’s no longer a part of the current present.
He blinked again, wondering, if his own mother ever sang anything to him? He doesn’t remember her doing anything as such.
He blinked again, wondering, if his own mother ever sang anything to him? He doesn’t remember her doing anything as such.
The only songs he can remember were those played in commercials on the T.V. his mom constantly had rolling. Happy and upbeat tunes of a product trying to be sold to buyers.
Maybe his mother did sing, then. Maybe her song was what she sang to the Commission to sell him away.
Maybe his mother did sing, then. Maybe her song was what she sang to the Commission to sell him away.
The tune Dabi hums now is the same tune he hummed then, and anytime they’ve begun to sway, back and forth, in their own orbit. It lulls him to quietly contemplating the actions of their mothers, and what could have possibly happened to drive Dabi to be who he is now—
A man with a list of crimes that Hawks finds easier and easier to ignore, but a man who sways with him even when there’s no music playing.
The humming stops and Dabi says, “What if you had a different job?”
The humming stops and Dabi says, “What if you had a different job?”
An array of 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧’𝘴 splatter over his mind in a single instance before he’s pulling back to look up at Dabi, “Theoretically?”
Dabi makes a sound in the back of his throat that Hawks takes as an answer, before Dabi is speaking again. “If you had a job that didn’t
Dabi makes a sound in the back of his throat that Hawks takes as an answer, before Dabi is speaking again. “If you had a job that didn’t
run you in and rail you every day.”
“What if, what? Would I have a different job, if the opportunity happened? Would I let it do the same thing?”
Hawks looks for some other question, some more specifics to the theoreticals that Dabi is throwing out—but expression
“What if, what? Would I have a different job, if the opportunity happened? Would I let it do the same thing?”
Hawks looks for some other question, some more specifics to the theoreticals that Dabi is throwing out—but expression
is just a wide, vast and open question. He’s asking about the 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧’𝘴 that’s Hawks can’t provide answers to.
Hawks tucks his head away again, looking from the length of Dabi’s eyelashes almost touching his cheeks, and his gas-stove burning eyes on the lowest heat,
Hawks tucks his head away again, looking from the length of Dabi’s eyelashes almost touching his cheeks, and his gas-stove burning eyes on the lowest heat,
and the shape of his cheeks and the way Hawks wants to hold him—if he stared any more he’d certainly answer.
What if he had a different job—what if he could run away and never look back and they could dance on the balcony of a home far away?
What if he had a different job—what if he could run away and never look back and they could dance on the balcony of a home far away?
What if he dropped this impossible mission, dug his heels into the ground, into the sand, and trudged the opposite direction of what almost 20 years of teaching and training had taught him?
What if he let himself ask Dabi all the questions he wanted to ask, hidden away
What if he let himself ask Dabi all the questions he wanted to ask, hidden away
from this sector of the world so he didn’t feel like those same questions were laced with hidden meanings and interpretations?
What if he woke up in the morning, turned off his alarm, and buried himself back next to Dabi?
What if he woke up in the morning, turned off his alarm, and buried himself back next to Dabi?
What if, they lived near the ocean, and he could watch Dabi’s fond gaze over the waters anytime they woke, anytime they went for a walk across the sand?
What if, their dancing—the dancing of a hero and a villain halted—and they were just two people trying to find themselves
What if, their dancing—the dancing of a hero and a villain halted—and they were just two people trying to find themselves
in one another?
“I don’t think that’ll happen, Dabs,” Hawks whispers, closing his eyes, and clutching at Dabi’s shirt. He feels Dabi’s hands again at the base of his wings and realizes how tightly he’s tugged the appendages close. Dabi’s fingers are feather light,
“I don’t think that’ll happen, Dabs,” Hawks whispers, closing his eyes, and clutching at Dabi’s shirt. He feels Dabi’s hands again at the base of his wings and realizes how tightly he’s tugged the appendages close. Dabi’s fingers are feather light,
gentle, and curve a path from the wings’ base, back into the feathers closest to his skin. His palms are warm, soothing.
“Theoretically though, what if you did?” Dabi asks once more, his chin curving over Hawks’ head, into him.
“Theoretically though, what if you did?” Dabi asks once more, his chin curving over Hawks’ head, into him.
“Theoretically,” Hawks whispers, “any job—”and soft, hushed into Dabi’s neck, “any job that would let me keep you.”
