Archive of Our Own

"Who is it?" Toga asks from right behind him, and Dabi startles. Automatically, he ignites the soggy flower petals in his palm and in under a second there's no trace of them left.

"Who is what?" Dabi asks flatly, turning around to glare at her.

"Who's the lucky girl?" she asks, voice lilting and playful but eyes sharp. She's like a shark when it comes to love and relationships, and much like blood, Dabi suspects she can smell it. "Or... boy?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dabi says, pushing past her. She lets him go without protest, but he can feel her eyes on his back as he walks away.

It doesn't last, of course. A few days later he's in the basement of the hideout having another coughing fit—over a goddamn text, of all things—and just as he's about to spit the petals out of his mouth, there she is standing on the bottom step of the stairs, eyes bright and piercing.

"That's a nasty cough you've got there, Dabi," Toga says pointedly.

Disgusting as it is, he forces himself to swallow the petals back down. They catch in his throat and he almost starts coughing again before he finally manages it.

"Allergies," says Dabi, voice scratchy.

"Uh huh."

They stare at each other, unblinking. Dabi is getting nervous about his ability to stand his ground against a teenage girl half his size when Toga sighs.

She shakes her head like he's the one being unreasonable. "This'll be a lot easier for you if you just give in, you know." Dabi's starting to get that idea, yeah. "Come on, it can't be that bad."

At that, Dabi can't help but laugh. "Wanna bet?" he sneers, and a second later realizes what he's just inadvertently admitted to.

Like he knew she would, Toga zeroes in on the momentary lapse. "I'm in. Ten thousand yen says you're just being an edgelord because you're too coward to make the first move."

"We'll see if you're still laughing when I'm dead," Dabi snaps, and again realization kicks in a second too late. Fuck. How the hell is Toga so good at getting him to talk? It's infuriating.

She laughs. "You can't be serious." Dabi purses his lips, refusing to be tricked a third time. Her eyes narrow. "You do know it's not like they show on TV, right? The only fatal cases are messy, one-sided breakups. Divorces, broken engagements—that sort of thing. Like, people who were already involved." She looks at him expectantly, almost patronizing.

Maybe she's right. Maybe this goddamn sickness isn't rooted deep enough to kill him. But it sure fucking feels that way and it pisses him off that she thinks he's being melodramatic.

"You think I'd be like this over some stupid crush? You think I haven't—" Toga's eyes gleam hungrily and Dabi's jaw clicks shut around the rest of the sentence. Fucking hell.

Toga groans. "Come on just tell me! I am great at secrets—also love advice. We could have this flower problem of yours solved this afternoon, for all you know!"

"Fuck," says Dabi, running a hand down his face. The anger slowly drains out of him, leaving behind exhaustion. If this flower problem were the sort that could be solved in an afternoon, then he wouldn't be having it. "I'm telling you, it won't help."

"Because...?" Toga prompts.

Because we've been sleeping together for three months, his brain answers unhelpfully.

"It's none of your business," Dabi informs her before storming off like he should have done in the first place.

The "friends with benefits" thing came about because they both needed to blow off steam. Not that they're friends per se, but Dabi doesn't get a lot of offers and he sure can't afford to turn one down from someone who looks like Hawks. What Hawks gets out of it is less apparent, but maybe he just wanted someone who couldn't go tattle to the press about his more embarrassing kinks. Whatever the case, they had fallen into bed together and hadn't yet crawled their way back out.

The sex is phenomenal. Plus, Hawks isn't the least bit clingy and he doesn't mind if Dabi uses his shower afterwards. No awkward moments, no expectations for anything more, no need to be careful of anyone's precious feelings. A picture-perfect arrangement with no strings attached.

Maybe he should've thought twice about inviting himself over to Hawks' place just to hang out. Maybe he should have told Hawks not to bother bringing home extra take-out after his patrol shift. And the few times he'd been tired and let himself fall asleep in Hawks' bed because it was just too warm and comfortable—he definitely shouldn't have done that. But none of that compared to the moment that changed everything.

The real fuck up was letting Hawks fuck him.

He and Hawks had never been kind to each other a day in their lives. This started out hard and selfish, and occasionally vicious. Neither of them had a reason to be anything else. But then—and he doesn't know how it happened, he thinks he said something like, You ever get tired of making me do all the work? and Hawks said, What work? I'm falling asleep here from all this work you're doing, and Dabi said, Like you could do any better. And then Hawks smiled angelically and delivered the line that ultimately ruined him: I know I could. Too bad you're too chickenshit to let me try.

Dabi had risen to the bait. He's predictable like that.

But he'd also been curious. How might Hawks behave, given the chance to abuse his power over someone like Dabi? How might his heroic persona crack, given enough pressure?

Dabi wanted to see how a man like Hawks took revenge. He'd fully expected to be bent over the kitchen table and left bruised and bleeding. He'd been looking forward to it.

What he'd gotten was Hawks laying him out on his silk sheets and taking his time taking Dabi apart. By the time he'd finally put his fingers anywhere that mattered, Dabi already felt raw and vulnerable. Throughout it all, Hawks was so careful, so gentle; it caught in his throat and burned at his eyes.

Then Hawks had stretched him full to breaking—and Dabi's lungs seized up and his whole body had gone hot and painfully tense as he struggled to remember how to breathe. Hawks stayed still and patient, stroking his stomach and thighs and waiting for Dabi to adjust.

At first, the mere memory of it made his lungs freeze up with the phantom overlay of memory, almost as intense as it had been in that moment. Days later, he still found his mind drifting back—the undeniable weight of Hawks on top of him, the warm fingertips brushing his hair back from his forehead, the gentle sincerity when Hawks had muttered, Is this okay? Every time it left him flushed and dazed and with just a little less air.

He didn't think much of it, past the embarrassment of getting so emotional over sex, of all things.

And then the coughing started.

Love sickness is for women and weak-willed fools. Dabi'd never personally known anyone who'd grown flowers in their lungs. He'd also never wondered what it would be like, because he knew he'd never catch it.

It's a lot like trying to breathe in the middle of a forest fire. The oxygen is there—it's not trapped by walls and ceilings and soon to be exhausted—but the quality degrades as he wastes more time trying to find a way out.

It takes twice the effort to get half the air, and the struggle of it leaves him tired and irritated. The petals themselves give him less trouble than he expected. They're small so far. White fragments tinged with pink and silky smooth to the touch when they aren't gross and matted with his spit. They're pathetically delicate and feminine. He burns every single one that makes its way out.

In a way, it's surprising that anything at all can grow inside of him. It's not the most hospitable of places.

He can't smoke anymore, which sucks. He'd tried, obviously, half hoping the smoke would suffocate the damn weeds in his lungs. Instead, it just made him choke.

The solution for all the annoying and unfortunate problems is as simple as it is obvious: avoid Hawks, don't think about it, and wait it out.

Guess what Dabi doesn't do?

He does ghost Hawks for a few weeks. He ignores the calls and texts, and does his best to remember what he used to do for fun before they started messing around. They haven't known each other for that long. There must have been something.

He comes up empty.

Toga can be alright company, but now that she knows about the goddamn flowers he's been hacking up she won't shut up about it. So he's avoiding her and anyone she might have told, which means literally everyone else in the League, while slowly going bored out of his mind.

The more time passes, the more his reasons to avoid Hawks seem ridiculous. He's gonna see the guy and what, stop breathing? He hates to admit it, but Toga was probably right that he was overreacting.

It doesn't help that he's horny as hell. Dabi's right hand isn't nearly as appealing as it used to be, now that he knows how much better he could have it. Ideally, Dabi would distract himself with someone else and forget about Hawks, but people aren't exactly lined up to get down with Frankenstein's monster.

Breaking in through the balcony of Hawks' high-rise apartment building is a well-practiced habit by now. The familiarity of Hawks' living room melts away tension in his shoulders that he didn't know was there—the monumental idiocy of it isn't lost on him. Just being in Hawks' space, surrounded by things that remind him of Hawks, is enough to make him feel better. It's more than just pathetic, it's dangerous. If he doesn't hurry up and get over this thing with Hawks, it could quite literally kill him.

But he's already here. Might as well make the most of it.

After raiding Hawks' fridge, he sprawls across the horribly uncomfortable leather couch in the living room and turns on the oversized wide-screen television to whatever reality TV show comes up first. It's nice, not thinking about anything and stuffing his face with food that isn't his. He'd almost forgotten what living the high life felt like in the weeks he'd been away.

At some point, the door clicks—the sound of the key turning a lock—and swings open. Dabi cranes his neck to see, but Hawks is already saying, "Dabi," flat and unamused.

There's a thrill that goes up his spine at hearing Hawks' voice for the first time in weeks. But more than that, he finds himself undeniably pleased that he can piss Hawks off just by existing.

"Welcome home, sweetheart," Dabi says, flashing a grin in Hawks' direction. The amount of disdain packed into Hawks' returning glower is impressive. "How was work?"

"What do you want?"

Dabi waves him off. "Aren't we past all the 'why are you here', 'what do you want', 'stop breaking into my apartment' shit? I thought we had something special."

"And I thought I told you to text first," Hawks shoots back, but something shifts in his posture; loosens. He kicks off his shoes and shuffles further inside his own home, shedding his jacket and turning away from Dabi to lay it over a kitchen chair.

"Aw, don't be like that." Dabi rolls off the couch and slinks towards Hawks. Hawks stiffens and his feathers shimmer in the fading sunlight like maybe they've all gone sharp. But he doesn't move away, even when Dabi's hand slides to the back of his neck and then up to thread through his soft blond hair. It settles something in Dabi, to have Hawks staring up at him in wary annoyance, but complying anyway. This is what he came here for.

He grips Hawks' hair to tilt his face up and bends down to force their mouths together. After a second, Hawks' shoulders relax. After another, his head tilts to make the angle easier, and he kisses back like he means it.

Dabi's chest compresses, burning with a swell of emotions, and suddenly he has two reasons to be out of breath.

He ignores it, telling himself it's not the reason he pulls back. Then he drags Hawks into his own bedroom and unbuckles an all-too familiar belt.

"I hate it," Dabi complains. "It's like I'm fucking hormonal or some shit. Like—one minute it's like she's hung the moon and the next I want to throttle her for not answering her texts faster. And then when she looks up at me and the light hits her face right, my stomach goes all gross and twisty and I hate it."

He's only on his first beer—because if he can't smoke, at least he can damn well drink—but you wouldn't know it from the way he can't shut up.

Toga makes a sympathetic noise. "You've got it pretty bad, huh?" She pats him on the shoulder. It feels distinctly condescending but Dabi allows it because at least someone is paying attention to him.

He could only avoid Toga for so long. Controlling what information she gets is better than having her snoop around and find Hawks. At least he'd fudged some of the details, describing Hawks as just some chick that he'd met at a bar or whatever. He doesn't think too hard about why he doesn't want Toga to know he's been fucking a man, but it's not like it's any of her business in the first place.

"Why not just tell her?" Toga asks. "It sounds like you hang out a lot. Maybe it'd go better than you think."

"Fuck no, I know where I stand. If I told her, she'd—" He's not actually sure what Hawks would do. Break things off? Try to take advantage of Dabi's compromised emotional state and wriggle his way into the League? Or worse, stick around out of some sick sense of obligation and slowly kill them both? "I can't tell her."

"Boo," Toga says. "Don't be such a weenie! The fastest way to get over it is to be rejected. You're not gonna die."

"You don't know that."

She gives him a long, unimpressed look. "Don't tell me this is your first time."

Dabi stares at her, uncomprehending. Coughing up flowers isn't unheard of, but it's not particularly common, either. A parasitic plant growing in your lungs isn't the sort of thing that happens twice.

Toga gasps, delighted, covering her mouth with both hands. "No!" she whisper-screams. "No way! You're a flower virgin!"

Dabi's ears go hot. "There is no way that's a real thing."

"Of course you think you're dying, aww, poor baby's first real crush!"

"Don't think I won't set you on fire," Dabi tells her. He takes another drink from his beer, wishing suddenly that it was vodka.

"The first one is always rough. Your body is going through so many new and scary changes!"

The first one? "It's not fuckin' puberty."

Dabi's upbringing may have been screwed up, but even he knows getting sick over everyone you've ever felt romantic about isn't normal.

"Ohh, I know!" Toga says, clapping her hands together and clearly not listening. "We should throw you a party. You know, to celebrate your first love!"

Dabi sputters and beer almost comes up his nose. "Don't you dare," he rasps.

"Ugh, fine. You're no fun." Toga spreads her torso across the bar in a dead flop, then twists to look up at him. "You really should tell her, though. No use keeping it all in—it'll just get worse." Dabi grunts, not wanting to acknowledge that she has a point. Because she doesn't. "And if she's a bitch about it, I can beat her up for you."

Dabi side-eyes her. "As if I couldn't take her."

Toga snorts. "Yeah, but we're friends. Friends beat up their friends' bad exes!"

"We're not dating."

"Stop being pedantic. It's the same thing emotionally. She breaks your heart, I cut her face."

"She's not going to break my heart!" Dabi snaps, slamming his glass on the bar. "This is just some—stupid hormonal shit. It's literally a medical condition. It isn't real."

Toga's the one who side-eyes him, now. She lets his statement hang between them, her silence heavy and judgmental.

Dabi scowls. "Oh shut up."

A month in, Dabi's symptoms reach a holding pattern. His lungs still have to work too hard to get him air, and he finds himself panting after a single flight of stairs. And once or twice a day, he coughs up a few pink petal fragments.

There's no blood, and he doesn't hack up anything other than flowers. His throat hurts from the repeated irritation of choking out plant matter, but that's it. It doesn't stop him from using his quirk. It won't stop him from doing what he needs to do for the League, for himself, for his revenge. If he keeps himself busy, it's almost like there's no problem at all. It's more than manageable.

He tries to keep Hawks at a more professional distance than before. Hitting Hawks up for sex was a mistake. Every time, it only gets harder to breathe. It isn't worth it.

He tells himself that over and over, but less than a week later he again finds himself breaking into Hawks' apartment.

It's past 11pm and the place seems completely dark. Hawks doesn't seem to sleep before midnight, but he doesn't usually work this late either. It isn't until he manages to jimmy open the balcony door and takes a few steps inside that he can see the faint light from deeper in the apartment.

A single blue-white fluorescent light stretches starkly across the living room furniture. All the other lights are off. The only noise is the soft hiss of water in the distance—likely the tap in the bathroom.

Hawks is still up, then. Good.

Quietly, in case Hawks hasn't heard him already, Dabi creeps towards the slightly ajar bathroom door. He peeks in to see if Hawks is doing anything interesting, and hopefully catch him off guard. That's always fun.

Hawks' back is turned, bent over the sink as he rubs water over his face with his hands. His wings seem off, somehow; not as neat or shiny as usual. When Dabi looks more closely, he realizes patches of feathers aren't laying flat, and several of the small ones near the bend in his wing are broken. The second unusual thing is that Hawks is wearing a suit; half of one, anyway. Skinny black pants with a crease down the middle, cutting off just above Hawks' ankle, and a crisp white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to Hawks' elbow, bearing his forearms. It's nothing Dabi hasn't seen before, but the shirt frames his arms nicely, and the pants showcase what little ass he has. It stirs something in both Dabi's chest and his pants.

Hawks straightens halfway, and Dabi's eyes flash to the mirror to meet his eyes. Water drips from his nose and chin. The bags under his eyes are intense, and his face pink from scrubbing. His eyes are sharp, though, and he doesn't seem at all surprised to see Dabi.

Fully caught out, Dabi pushes the door open and takes a step inside. Hawks straightens further, resting his hands on the counter.

That's when Dabi notices the lipstick stains all over his neck and shirt collar.

The air catches in Dabi's throat. His knees lock up. He's frozen in place, stuck staring at the garish red smears.

Hawks says, "Hey," at the same time Dabi says, "What the fuck."

Hawks looks down at himself, as if trying to see what Dabi's upset about. "Oh," he says, like he's figured it out. Dabi braces himself as if for a physical blow. But then Hawks follows it up with, "Fundraiser. They've got dress codes for that sort of thing."

Dabi thinks it should be pretty fucking obvious he's not talking about the fancy clothes. "You never bothered dressing up for me," he says, but it comes out wrong. It doesn't come out joking like he thinks he means it to.

Hawks' eyebrows knit together. "What?"

He's gonna play dumb? The rush of anger that floods through Dabi makes him stand a little taller, makes the lights seem a little brighter; makes the contrast of bright red on white fabric and golden skin stand out just that much more.

He clenches his jaw and nods towards Hawks' collar. "Didn't know you were into pussy."

Hawks looks down again. If the way he stiffens is any indication, that's when he finally realizes what they're talking about. His wings shift and spread wider, threatening, and turns to glare at Dabi.

"I'm into whatever the hell I want to be into."

"Oh yeah?" Dabi returns. "And how many people is that?"

Hawks lips thin and his fists clench, and that's more than enough of an answer. Dabi's lungs feel like they're being torn in half.

"Never took you for such a slut, number two." Dabi knows he says the words, he feels them reverberate in his throat and come out of his mouth, but they sound far away, like he's not the one saying them. His mouth is dry. His stomach is tight. The ground underneath his feet is unsteady, like it might give way.

"What the hell? You think it's any of your business who I sleep with?" Hawks swings his arms out wide and angry, gesturing to the room at large. "You're in my house, Dabi. If you don't like it, get the hell out."

Hawks is right. Dabi has no reason to be this pissed. He has no reason to be pissed in the first place, given the nature of their arrangement, but he is, and it's—it's awful. It bubbles up in his chest like it's choking him, and it takes Dabi several seconds to realize that it is choking him. He can't breathe. There's something large and horrible lodged inside his throat, making its way up his esophagus in a now horribly familiar way. But he can't, he can't let Hawks find out, not ever but especially not now. With the way they're fighting, the thing they're fighting about—if Dabi spit up flowers everywhere mid-sentence, there'd be no hiding who they're for.

He has to get out.

Without another word, Dabi turns on his heel. He walks as quickly as he can back towards the balcony, pulling out his phone to text Ujiko with shaking fingers.

"Shit, Dabi, wait," Hawks calls after him, sounding panicked, but Dabi is swallowed up by inky blackness before he can hear any more.

As soon as he lands back at the League's current base, Dabi drops to his knees, clutching at his chest. He heaves and heaves until the flower finally comes up, along with half his dinner. The pink-white of the petals are discolored from saliva and stomach acid, but there's no mistaking it as a flower because this time, it's in one piece.

Nothing feels real. It's not a fully formed flower, not quite, but it's almost the size of his palm and he can't stop staring. His hands start to shake; or maybe they've been shaking this whole time. He rubs them against his jeans, trying to wipe away his own panic.

This is bad. This is really, really bad. He'd known it wasn't good, but he hadn't known to what extent. Despite what he'd told Toga, he hadn't thought it would actually do any lasting damage. But this is—it's too big. If it gets any bigger, will he still be able to cough them up? Or will they get stuck in his throat and suffocate him?

He has to get over this, and he has to get over it now. It should be easy. Hawks doesn't care, Hawks has never cared. Dabi was convenient until he wasn't, and clearly Hawks has other options. Dabi's never been special. Why was he even fucking someone like Dabi in the first place, if he's still getting it from other people? Maybe Hawks was only ever doing this to get on his good side.

His stomach churns at the thought.

Fuck, that can't be it, can it? Someone like Hawks would never stoop that low. He wouldn't need to stoop that low, he's a top-ten ranked hero, he could have his pick of literally anyone he wanted. It doesn't make any sense that he was with Dabi, but—he must've wanted it. And that day he'd let Hawks lead—it's not like he imagined Hawks' hard dick shoved up his ass.

God, that's when this all started. He'd let himself be goaded into it and then Hawks had the audacity to not be an asshole. Fuck him. Fuck everything about him.

In short order, Dabi gets very, very drunk.

It's not like Kurogiri is around to stop him, or worse, make him pay for his drinks. Dabi doesn't settle for beer this time. He doesn't even bother to get a glass. He just grabs the half-full bottle of vodka, unscrews the top, and pours it directly into his mouth.

He's not sure how long it takes, but eventually the alcohol slows down his racing, unhelpful thoughts. It makes their sharp edges dull and laughable. When finds himself able to separate himself from the pain and anger and self-loathing, he realizes the floor isn't a very comfortable place to have his pity party. He grabs a bottle of rum with his left hand because he feels like he might be needing it, and makes his way to one of the beaten-up couches in the basement. He collapses there and keeps drinking. He finishes the vodka.

At some point, he finds himself saying out loud, "Fuck him, seriously, what the fuck," and a voice from somewhere behind him asks, "Fuck who?"

Dabi doesn't startle like he would if he were sober, but he does almost drop the newly opened bottle of rum. He turns his head too fast, making it spin, and sees Toga leaning on the back of the couch.

"Where the fuck did you come from?"

She rolls her eyes. "I live here, stupid." Shit, he knew that.

"Well... leave," he says intelligently.

Predictably, she ignores him and plops down on the couch next to him.

"Is it your flower girl again?"

Fuck, that's right, he'd made Hawks out to be a girl. He sighs, slumping back into the couch. "She's fucking someone else. I don't—" He rubs his free hand over his face. "We weren't exclusive or whatever, but—fuck."

Toga gasps. "You've been sleeping with her this whole time and you didn't—?!" She cuts herself off and clears her throat a few times. "I mean—I'm sorry. That sucks."

They sit in silence for a time, Dabi too depressed to even lift the bottle to his mouth.

"What if you killed her?" Toga asks, like that's a normal thing to say.

Dabi almost chokes on his tongue. "What if I—what? The fuck, Toga."

Beside him, he feels Toga shrug. "Yeah, didn't think you'd go for that. But I'm telling you, it works like a charm!"

"What the fuck, have you killed—" He shifts enough so he can look at her and finds her expression blank and guarded. "Oh my god. You have, haven't you?"

She slumps into the couch and looks down at her lap. "Look, I mean—I've tried the normal ways, you know? Confessing, making lists of all the bad things about them, therapy, drugs—they never stuck. I'd get rejected and keep right on blooming, like my heart hadn't gotten the memo. My parents kept pushing for surgery but after a while... well. It doesn't really matter. And after I ran away, I couldn't exactly get surgery anymore." She sighs. "Himiko-chan's life pro-tip: if they're dead, they can't hurt you anymore."

Dabi can't find any fault in her statement. He holds out the bottle in front of her, offering. After a moment of hesitation, she takes it and drinks deeply.

She scrunches her face up, sticks her tongue out and says, "Blegh. You have awful taste." Dabi can't argue with that.

She takes another drink before handing back the bottle.

They sit in silence, passing the bottle back and forth until it's almost gone. Himiko swirls the last of the contents in the bottom of the bottle, and they both watch the tiny vortex it forms.

"Love sucks sometimes," she admits quietly. Like it's some great secret.

Dabi laughs once, sharp and bitter. "Yeah," he agrees, and takes the bottle back from her so he can finish it off.

A week and a half of radio silence later, Hawks texts, got that info you wanted. After a full day of being a pussy about it, Dabi texts back, 10pm at the pier.

They haven't met at the pier in ages. About three months ago, Dabi decided it was more fun to handle their 'business' transactions at Hawks' apartment. Now, the very thought of stepping foot inside makes Dabi's stomach twist.

He can't avoid Hawks entirely, not unless he wants Shigaraki to kick him out, but he can't keep going like this. It's hard to sleep. It's hard to eat. His breathing has gotten worse, and every inhale takes conscious effort. The clumps of petals are getting larger every day. A few times they'd gotten lodged in his esophagus, and it had triggered his gag reflex badly enough that he'd thrown up. It's mostly just flowers and stomach acid, but it still hurts on the way out.

Worst of all, thinking of Hawks with someone else, with someone that's not him, makes Dabi sick to his stomach. It's ridiculous. It's pathetic. It could kill him. He needs to get over Hawks, and he needs to do it soon.

He passes Shigaraki and Spinner on his way out. Shigaraki stops him with a calculating glare.

"What?" says Dabi.

Shigaraki stares in silence for a minute more, and Dabi and Spinner trade glances. Spinner shrugs.

Shigaraki's mouth twists into a grimace. He says, "You look like crap."

Spinner winces. Dabi snorts.

"Thanks for that obvious observation."

"What he means," Spinner says, a little high-pitched, "is that you look like you haven't been, uh, sleeping? And you've been kind of—" He gestures at Dabi's head, then down in a sweeping motion at Dabi's torso. "You know?"

Dabi has no idea, but crosses his arms over his chest defensively. "So?"

"You don't have to push yourself, is all we're saying. If you're not feeling well," Spinner says.

Dabi looks at Shigaraki this time to see if he's buying this kind and caring crap, but this time Shigaraki shrugs, as if agreeing.

"I'm not going to pry into your personal affairs, because I don't fucking care. But if you're sick or something, go take a nap. Eat some... soup."

Dabi blinks at him, slack jawed and bewildered by the uncharacteristic behavior. Only one possible reason for the change pops into his head, and he scowls.

"What the hell did Toga tell you?"

Shigaraki eyes him but doesn't look surprised by the accusation, meaning Dabi was right. "She just mentioned you hadn't been feeling well. Why? What should she have told me?"

"Nothing," Dabi says quickly. Too quickly, if the way Shigaraki narrows his eyes is any indication. "You just said you didn't care," he adds, in case Shigaraki forgot.

"I don't," Shigaraki agrees flippantly, which kind of pisses Dabi off for some reason. "But if you're trying to hide it from me, maybe I should."

Spinner clears his throat. "You know you can tell us anything, right, Dabi?"

Dabi flips them both off. "Hard pass."

He arrives at the pier fifteen minutes early so that he has time to mentally prepare himself. His stomach twists into knots over the thought of seeing Hawks again, but this is just another information exchange. Hawks is probably still pissed at him, and Dabi hardly plans to stick around and chat. It'll be quick. Easy. Like it used to be.

Five minutes ahead of schedule, Dabi hears the flapping of wings from above him. There's a gust of air that blows the of his coat up, and the heavy sound of boots crunching on gravel. Dabi takes a fortifying breath and forces himself to turn to look.

It's hard to look directly at Hawks. He's just as golden and perfect and unattainable as ever—maybe even more so. He's immaculately put together today, no dirt on his hero uniform, no dark bags under his eyes. Dabi, meanwhile, is not having the best day. His everything aches more than normal, skin feeling stretched too tight and chest heavy. He knows what he looks like, and it doesn't help that he's been drinking too much and sleeping too little. What did Hawks ever see in him?

He can't help but glance at Hawks' neck, covered up by his black shirt. If he peeled it back, would he see lipstick stains under the collar? His throat closes up at the thought and his breathing turns quick and shallow.

Fuck. This wasn't supposed to be hard.

Hawks shifts in place with his shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his pockets. He's looking in Dabi's general direction, but won't meet his eyes. The proof that Hawks is just as uncomfortable as he is, is vindictively gratifying.

Before the silence can get more oppressive than it already is, Dabi says, "Well?" Hawks' eyes refocus, making fleeting eye contact and then glancing subtly away again. "You said you had something for me."

"Oh," says Hawks, blinking. "Oh yeah, that's—" He digs around in his pockets for a few seconds, then pulls out a flash drive. He holds it out towards Dabi. "Here."

Usually, Dabi would make a show of being mistrustful. He'd pull the cheap plastic apart and look for bugs, he'd ask questions about how Hawks came across the information—if the USB was copied or stolen, if anyone would be missing it, if it was complete or partial. The works. Today, he shoves the flash drive into his pocket without looking at it.

"I'll let Shigaraki know how helpful you were," he says, even though he'll do nothing of the sort. The last thing he needs is for Hawks to be around even more often, especially right now. "Is that all?" Hawks doesn't reply, so Dabi gets out his phone to text Ujiko. "Great. Pleasure doing business with you."

He's typed out Requesting pickup at, when a movement from Hawks catches in his peripheral vision. He looks up and finds the other man standing close, in his space and close enough to bump into. Golden eyes bore into him, unblinking, sending a familiar shiver down his spine. The intensity in the stare holds him frozen like prey even as Hawks' fingers brush against his stomach and slide around to his lower back—and then they're close enough that he imagines he can feel Hawks' breath against his collarbone. Hawks' gloved hand is warm even through Dabi's shirt, and Dabi suppresses a shudder at the tingling sensation that radiates up his spine.

Hawks leans in, leans up and close and mutters, "Hey." Low, like he's trying to hide his nerves. Dabi's heard this tone once before, when Hawks showed up to a meeting empty-handed, and he'd made special note of it. He'd thought it might be useful later, but not like this. "You have time for...?"

Dabi doesn't want sex. His heart is too messed up for that, twisted into longing and jealousy and insecurity. What he wants is to wrap his arms around Hawks and bury his face in his neck and never let go—he wants Hawks to hold him, to tell him ridiculous things like, She meant nothing to me—not like you. It's always been you. It's pathetic. Not to mention impossible.

So he carefully extracts himself, taking a firm step back, and says evenly, "Nah. Not today."

Hawks steps back too, hunching his shoulders and shoving his hands in his pockets. His wings are unusually stiff and there's a sharp look in his eyes that isn't quite anger, but Dabi can't place it.

"Is this about the other day?" They both know what he's referring to. Dabi doesn't know what to say, what excuse to use. Because it is about that day; but at the same time, it's about something else entirely. Hawks must take his silence as confirmation. "You have no right to be mad. We're not... you don't own me."

"I know," Dabi agrees, chest tight. Hawks has made it very clear he doesn't belong to Dabi. "I'm not mad."

Hawks' eyebrows furrow, like he doesn't understand, or maybe like he doesn't believe Dabi.

"I'm clean. I use protection. I get tested regularly. You don't have anything to worry about."

Jesus. How many people is Hawks sleeping with that he needs to get tested regularly? His stomach churns at the thought, but more pressing is the lump of something lodged in his throat.

"I've just—gotta go. No time," Dabi gasps out, and god if that doesn't sound like the lamest of excuses. But his hands are shaking and lungs are folding in on themselves and he needs to get away from here, away from Hawks.

He turns, meaning to walk away as quickly as he can without looking like he's running, but Hawks snags his elbow. Dabi keeps himself faced away, but he doesn't wrench out of Hawks' grip. He's afraid that any sudden or jerky movement will trip up his breathing and then he'll start coughing. He absolutely cannot afford that.

"Dabi, come on," Hawks says, his voice tight and a little too high. "Don't be like that. We can—we can do whatever you want. Anything."

Why is Hawks pushing for this so hard, when he's got so many other options? Options he's clearly been exercising. Why Dabi? Dabi's a bad-tempered, ugly bastard. He has no delusions about himself or how other people see him. Even before everything, no one ever chose him. The most he's ever been is second best. There's not a single reason Hawks would want this if it weren't convenient, and Dabi sure hasn't been convenient lately. So, why?

The impossible comes to mind, and Dabi's heart pounds too loud in his chest, pounds so hard he thinks he might be shaking. There's only one reason he can think of. It doesn't feel possible, but maybe he wasn't the only one, maybe he can still have this, maybe—

Maybe it had meant more to Hawks, too.

"Dabi," Hawks says again, almost pleading.

Fuck. He wants to. There's never a moment anymore when he doesn't want to be near Hawks, to touch him, to forget the world and let himself get wrapped up in their shared heat. That's the problem, though. He wants it too badly. He can't afford to risk it, not with how much worse he's been able to breathe since their falling out. Sleeping with Hawks again could be the literal death of him.

But he inhales, and it's easier than it has in over a month.

Hawks leans in again and this time Dabi can't remember how to pull away. "Remember a few weeks ago, when we tried something... different?" Hawks mutters, close enough that his breath ghosts against Dabi's cheek. It takes Dabi a second to muddle his way past his swirling thoughts, but when he realizes what Hawks is referring to, his heart leaps straight to his throat.

A few weeks ago: when Hawks had pushed Dabi onto his back and pushed himself inside and Dabi had left with a tickle in his throat and flowers blooming in his lungs. It's not the sort of thing you forget.

"Yes," Dabi manages, for once fighting against something other than petals to choke out the words.

"I could do that for you," Hawks says, still in that low, soothing voice. Dabi shivers, both from the breath hitting his ear and from the visceral memory of being taken. "Would you like that?"

The pleasure of Hawks' attention buzzes in the back of his brain and makes all his nerves go hyper-aware. Raw desire floods through him, hot and addictive and wonderful—his rapid heartbeat is spurned by excitement instead of dread, and it makes all the difference in the world to the weight in his chest.

He thinks, What's stopping me? and can't come up with a single excuse.

They end up at Hawks' place. Dabi can't remember ever feeling so nervous to be here. His insides are wrapped up in a tight knot of anxiety and arousal and hope. He wants to touch Hawks, to shove him against a wall, to put his face in the crook of Hawks' neck and breathe him in and never let him go; but his fingers tremble with the certainty that he'll fuck this up.

His hesitation turns out not to matter, because Hawks takes the initiative to crowd him back against the dining room table and wastes no time in closing the distance between them and sucking a bruise onto Dabi's collar bone. Dabi groans, half surprise, half arousal, and digs his hand into Hawks' hair to keep him there. When he thinks about the mark that will still be there tomorrow, marking him as Hawks', his dick strains against his pants. He might not own Hawks, not yet, but he's starting to take a shine to being owned himself.

Hands grope roughly at his shoulders and then his coat is being shoved off. Dabi, eager to help, shakes the heavy fabric loose and lets it pool on the table behind him. Once his arms are free, Hawks' hands tug at the hem of his shirt. Dabi leans forward so it can slip free from where it's pinched between his back and the lip of the table, and Hawks yanks it up and over his head. Hawks' golden eyes simmer with molten want, and when he slots their legs together to surge up into Dabi, Dabi thaws around him, throwing his arms around Hawks' neck.

He can feel Hawks' erection against his thigh, and Dabi's throat closes around the proof that Hawks wants this. He wants Dabi. Even if it's not quite in the same way, in this moment it feels like it could be enough.

Dabi's craved this closeness for longer than he's let himself consciously think about. Now that he has it, his heart soars, untouchable. His lungs clear like he's never been sick at all.

It's better than Dabi remembers. It's only been a few weeks, but he'd forced himself to forget how nice it was to have someone touch him gently. He can barely keep up with Hawks' insistent hands and mouth. He's thoroughly reduced to a gasping, squirming mess.

Afterward, with Hawks' weight on top of him and Hawks' face tucked into his neck, Dabi is so sated and warm that Hawks could ask him to do anything, anything at all, and he would. He wouldn't hesitate. That should scare him.

It doesn't.

But in the fading afterglow, Dabi doesn't know what to think. He wants to believe they feel the same, but he's no longer as sure as he had been. His lungs are blessedly clear, but only time will tell if they'll stay that way.

He gets up and gathers his clothes, if only because staying would be out of character. He wouldn't know how to explain himself to Hawks in a way he would accept, and he only just got Hawks back when he'd thought he might never have this again. He's not going to risk it over some ridiculous sentimentality.

He can feel Hawks' eyes on him as he pulls on his pants. He ignores it until he goes to retrieve his shirt from where it lays discarded on the bed next to Hawks.

He has to lean over the bed to grab it, and it brings him close to Hawks. Dabi hesitates for a moment, but hesitation and distance hasn't been getting him anywhere, and he wants this more than he can remember wanting anything. So he cups Hawks' jaw in his free hand and leans over the short distance it takes to slot their mouths together.

The kiss is a soft thing, chaste and unhurried and breath-stopping. After a frozen moment, Hawks' hand finds the back of his neck to hold them tighter together and return it and all traces of Dabi's residual anxieties melt away.

It's perfect.

When he pulls away, Hawks' eyes are wide and surprised and his tongue darts out to taste his lower lip. Fuck, but Dabi wants to stay, taste that tongue in his own mouth. But he also doesn't want to ruin this tentative new truce.

He still cracks a smile, heart light with Hawks' reciprocation. "See you."

Hawks nods dumbly, fingers curling lightly at the nape of Dabi's neck like he doesn't want Dabi to go. And Dabi thinks, maybe. Maybe.

He makes his exit into the living room and opens the balcony door. He stands outside in the chilly winter air, pulling his phone out to text Ujiko. His fingers hover over the keys.

He could stay. He could—if Hawks really feels the same, then nothing's stopping him from staying. His lips still tingle from the soft kiss from only moments earlier.

Dabi is tired of waiting around, of doing nothing and of suffering for it. He puts his phone away, steps back into Hawks' apartment and closes the door behind him.

His heart is racing, driven by the fear that he's wrong and the panic that he's about to screw a good thing up, but also by the excitement that this could go very, very right.

Halfway to the short distance to Hawks' room, there's a distant ringtone he doesn't recognize, and then Hawks' tired voice saying, "Hello?"

It's late, close to midnight. Off the top of his head, Dabi can't imagine who might be calling at this hour besides him, and he does that on purpose to piss Hawks off. It's probably hero work related; as much as Hawks claims to be entirely on the League's side, he can never seem to help himself from giving his all to keep civilians safe. It's one of the things Dabi begrudgingly respects him for.

Without really thinking about why, Dabi stops before he reaches the doorway. He's suddenly hyper-conscious of his every movement, holding still and breathing shallowly so Hawks won't know he's listening in.

"Yeah," Hawks says, then pauses. When he next speaks, he sounds less tired, more formal. "Yes. It's been resolved. ...Yes. ...Of course I would." His voice raises slightly; firm, but not quite snappish. "I'm well aware of the stakes. Look, you can't just call and expect me to answer whenever— ...Yes. I apologize. I was preoccupied with the target." What target? "I was following your instructions, I— ...No. My cover is uncompromised." His fucking—cover? What the fuck does that— "I was busy fucking him, is that what you wanted to hear?" Hawks snaps, and Dabi feels the words like a physical blow. "You told me to save the relationship, so I did."

There's a ringing that starts in the base of his skull and quickly spreads throughout his head until it's all he's able to hear. It's screamingly loud, but he feels simultaneously deaf. A weight crashing down on his senses like a blanket filled with lead.

His mind is a numb, blank canvas, every thought wiped clean. Understanding is immediate, but realization is slow and terrible and inevitable. It feels like falling, stomach swooping, room spinning. When he finally hits the bottom, the truth seeping into his bones, he thinks he might actually throw up.

Hands shaking, he manages to pull his phone from his pocket and send Ujiko a text with a set of coordinates.

Upon rematerializing back at the base, Dabi only just manages to get to the bathroom and duck his head into the sink before he's heaving up an entire flower's worth of pink petals. They flow seemingly endless from his mouth, and Dabi can barely breathe. There's blood in the ceramic sink basin, staining the wet, crumpled petals. He hopes he's torn a staple, because the alternative is that he's coughing up blood. His chest throbs in agony, like his lungs have been ripped to shreds.

How could he have been so stupid?

"Dabi?" says a young, scared voice. Toga. Now there's a gentle touch to his back, and the warmth of her at his side. "Dabi, are you—oh, god. Oh my god."

"I fucked up," Dabi rasps. "I fucked up."

Another wave of petals forces their way up his throat before he can get any more words out. He coughs and gags around them, but they're stuck. He can't breathe. His whole body shakes uncontrollably as he literally drowns on his own pathetic feelings. Spots dance across his vision and he can't— he can't breathe—

Something hits him on the back, then hits again harder. The force of it manages to dislodge the petals enough that he can cough them up raggedly into the sink. Esophagus finally unobstructed, he gulps down air, too desperate from almost choking to death to care how raw and painful every breath is against the inside of his throat.

Toga's hand stays on his back, stroking up and down. She feels like she's shaking, but it's just as likely that the shaking is all him.

"You're going to be fine," Toga tells him, voice cracking. "You're—it's going to be okay, Dabi, just breathe. Just breathe, okay? You've got this."

It's another twenty minutes before exhaustion wins out over heartbreak and he finally stops feeling the petals force their way up his throat. He lets his legs give out, sitting down hard onto the refreshingly cool bathroom tile.

Toga leaves briefly to get him a glass of water and proceeds to make him drink it. Every swallow feels like gulping down shards of glass, but he does his best not to show it. Toga looks broken up enough as it is. The entire time, she bites her lip like she's trying to keep it from wobbling, and Dabi can't help but feel like he's fucked up in more ways than one. She shouldn't have to deal with his shit.

After he's gotten enough water in him to satisfy Toga, she drags him to standing and helps him get to one of the upstairs bedrooms. His eyes slip shut and the next thing he knows, his world tilts sideways and he lands on a surface softer than he was expecting. He cracks his eyes open and realizes that's because he's on a mattress.

A second later, the mattress dips and then there's the warmth of another body next to his. Toga is next to him and curling herself into his side. She's trembling, and this time he knows it's her because his entire body is too tired to do anything. He can only hope she isn't crying. He closes his eyes again, already drifting off.

Something touches his arm. "You're okay," Toga says, voice wobbling. "Everything will be better in the morning, you'll see."

He falls asleep exhausted and ashamed, desperately wishing that she hadn't seen him like that; desperately wishing she would have let him choke on his own stupidity.

The next day, Dabi wakes up alone. The lines of sunlight peering through the cracks in the blinds are brighter and harsher than they should be—oh. It's not morning. How long had he slept in?

He still feels like shit, but he no longer feels like he's actively dying. He stares at the ceiling for a long time before deciding there's nothing else to do besides get up.

His face throbs with a dull pain, and it isn't until he sees himself in the mirror that he realizes why. Several of the staples near his mouth have come loose or torn through the skin. His eyes are bloodshot and feel full of sand. He can't figure out exactly why that is, but it probably has something to do with nearly hacking up his lungs and while lacking functioning tear ducts. He flushes his eyes out with eye drops and then does what he can for the rest of his face.

By the time he makes it down the stairs to the lounge, it's almost 3pm. Half of the League is sitting on various chairs and couches, staring at him as he comes around the corner. They're all deathly quiet, and their expressions are various stages of uncomfortable. Have they been sitting here the whole time waiting for him? Or worse, talking about him?

Fuck this. He's not doing this.

Dabi immediately looks to Toga because he can sense intuitively that this is her fault. But when his eyes land on her face, splotchy complexion and swollen eyes like she's been crying since last night, he can't bring himself to say anything.

Shigaraki is the first to break the silence, and he does so with an accusatory, "Toga says you're sick."

Dabi glares at first Shigaraki, then Toga. Toga looks away, hands clenching at her skirt. Spinner shifts his weight, crosses and recrosses his legs, and is looking at anywhere but the other people in the room. Shigaraki just stares at Dabi, unblinking and unrelenting.

"I'm fine," Dabi rasps, and then curses himself. With his throat so messed up from the previous evening, he's not going to convince anyone.

Predictably, Shigaraki's eyebrow raises. He doesn't even bother refuting Dabi's ridiculous claim. Dabi switches gears.

"I've got it handled," he tries.

"No offense, but," Spinner starts apologetically, but when Dabi's glare turns in his direction he winces and cuts himself off. He visibly deliberates for a moment, chewing on his lip; then decides to open his fucking mouth anyway. "You don't look like you've 'got it handled'."

Dabi scowls. "It's none of your business."

Though Dabi hadn't been talking to him, Shigaraki is the one to reply. "It's exactly my business when one of my party members isn't able to go on campaigns."

Dabi's anger flares and his quirk flares along with it, tingling at his fingertips and spreading a quick path up his arm. He doesn't really want to fight Shigaraki right now. His throat hurts and he aches all over and he's exhausted from puking up his guts last night. But if Shigaraki says one more goddamn word, Dabi'll show him exactly where he can shove his players and his campaigns.

"Hey man, calm down," Spinner says. His voice is careful, like he's talking to a wild animal. "We just want to help."

Dabi snarls, the fire spreading to his shoulders and licking at his jaw. "This isn't something you can help with, asshole. Back off."

Shigaraki glares, but it's a lazy thing laden with annoyance and boredom. He doesn't stand, he doesn't look concerned—he's not at all threatened by Dabi's reaction, and that pisses Dabi off. Here he is fucking with Dabi's life, and for what? Because it might inconvenience his contrived revenge plot against society?

"How do you know?" Toga challenges, speaking up for the first time.

He swings around to glare at her, angry and miserable and ready for a fight. She more than anyone knows exactly why no one else can do anything. No one else can help him now.

She doesn't let his ire stop her. "How do you know unless you try?"

There's nothing but determination in her voice. No pity, no condescension, no fear. Even so, he wants to lash out, to scream at her—but this is Toga. Of all the people in this room—in the League, fuck, in the world—she's the only one who actually gives a shit. She's the one who'd sought him out, who'd sat with him and listened with the patience of a literal saint to his endless incessant ranting. And she'd been kind enough to not spread his crap around, right up until she'd been convinced it was a matter of life or death.

They're only here because she's scared for him.

Dabi's flames flicker out as the anger slips out from under him. In its place is a bone deep exhaustion. He at least owes it to Toga to let her see there's nothing she can do and that it's not her fault.

She stares hard at him, and he stares defeated back. She says, "Tell me who it is."

Shigaraki perks up, entirely too interested. Dabi would rather burn him to a husk than talk about this in front of him, but this conversation isn't up to Dabi anymore.

"Why the hell would I do that?"

Toga snarls. "So I can fucking kill her."

"No," Dabi says immediately.

She leaps to her feet and takes a few steps towards him. "Tell me who she is, Dabi!"

"Fuck you, no."

Toga's face twists with rage and she closes the distance between them. She doesn't reach out and shake him, but she looks like she wants to.

He's seen that expression in her face before, but it's never been directed at him. He bristles at the furious intensity of it, but he can't find the energy to get properly pissed off again. And honestly, maybe he's just mad at himself for letting her down. He's the one who let it get this far—let it get this bad. He's the one who almost died over a fucking traitor.

"You can't keep going like this!" She spreads her arms wide and swings them around like she's making a point, and the point is his entire existence. "Look, I was wrong, you were right, so don't be stupid. You'll—"

"I know," he says, interrupting her before she can say more and spill further secrets. "I know. But this isn't something you can do for me." He takes a breath, resolving himself, and it's like his chest is cracking open all over again. "I'll kill him myself."

When Toga had suggested killing Hawks the first time, Dabi had written it off as a bad joke. At the time, it had been ridiculous enough to be laughable.

Now, he can't see how else he gets out of this alive.

And maybe he won't. Maybe killing Hawks will kill him too, but at the very least he's not going to let Hawks get away with stringing him along. Not when he'd been lied to for months.

So Dabi breaks into Hawks' apartment one last time—and it's easy. The dumb bird hasn't bothered locking the balcony door in... has it been months? Has he really been playing this double agent game and not locking his doors? Cocky. Dabi might be impressed if his blood weren't literally boiling at the sheer fucking nerve. Hawks really thinks he has Dabi wrapped around his finger, and, well. He isn't exactly wrong.

That won't stop Dabi from killing him.

Dabi sits at the dining table and waits in silence, head tipped back to stare at the spackled ceiling as his stomach twists itself into knots. He keeps his breathing slow and shallow and tries to keep his mind clear. If he starts coughing now, he might not stop until he's dead.

The front door clicks as it unlocks. The door creaks open; the door slams closed. Then, silence. Dabi stares at the corner, heart pounding louder for every extra second it takes Hawks to appear.

When he finally does, it's with a feather sword in hand, but when his gaze zeros in on Dabi he lowers it automatically. The tension leaves his face and shoulders.

His mistake.

"Dabi," Hawks says dryly. "I thought I told you to text before showing up."

Dabi says back, "I thought we were past all that," as if they're running the same script as always. "Maybe I just wanted to see you." He'd meant the words to sound menacing, but they come out a bit too honest.

His hands flex underneath the table and he's ready, he is, he swears he is. So why does he feel frozen in place?

Hawks gives him a wry smile, amused and uncomplicated. For all that Dabi hates him now, he can't remember the last time Hawks smiled at him like that. Has he ever?

"Come back for round two?" Hawks says, and Dabi's lungs twist into a breathless knot as he's forced to confront direct proof that this was a fucking game the entire time. From the very beginning, Hawks knew exactly what he was doing.

Dabi pushes himself up from his kitchen chair and rasps, "Something like that," fighting to get the words out around the petals edging their way up his throat.

Before he can start coughing them up, he lights himself on fire.

From the way his eyes grow wide and shocked, this was the last thing Hawks was expecting. Good. Maybe the extra few seconds he wastes being surprised will make this easy.

Unfortunately, that's not the case. Hawks is too good to make anything easy. The surrounding table and chairs catch fire nicely enough, but when Dabi swings out a wall of flame, Hawks dodges to the right and is gone faster than Dabi's eyes can track him. Instinctively, Dabi turns, putting his back to the wall and sending up another wall of flame right where his back had been. Sure enough, Hawks is there—his wings snap forward to block the worst of Dabi's flames and he leaps back further out of range.

But now the walls are on fire, the ceiling catching next—there's only so much safe space left. Hawks won't be able to run forever.

It's hot, and hard to breathe for reasons besides just the sweltering air, but Dabi revels in the heat and smoke and ash. It's cleansing; a familiar rebirth. One way or the other, things are going to change.

He breathes in deep, deeper than he's dared to in a long time, and the air is so hot it feels like it's burning the inside of his lungs. Burning the infestation of Hawks out. The pain is nothing—just a reminder of who he is, where he came from; what he's good at.

Hawks' feathers catch fire, but he beats his wings once fiercely to put it out. They're left worse for wear, but there's still enough of them that he could stab a feather straight through Dabi's heart if Dabi lets him get close enough. Dabi doesn't intend to let him get close enough. Usually the distance would put Dabi at a disadvantage. In this case, as long as he keeps fueling the heart of the flames, any projectiles will burn up on their way to stab him.

Dabi has him, and they both know it. Hawks doesn't look angry, though. Just determined.

"Come on, Dabi, let's talk about this," Hawks says. He takes a quick glance over his shoulder, and Dabi follows it. The balcony. He's probably trying to gauge his chances of making it through before Dabi can burn him to a crisp.

"You run, I burn this entire building to the fucking ground," Dabi growls.

The color in Hawks' face drains, but he squares his shoulders and looks Dabi straight in the eye. So goddamn noble. Such a goddamn hero.

Dabi had been so fucking blind.

This is taking too long. Hawks can't do anything as long as Dabi doesn't let him get close, and all Dabi has to do is keep feeding the flames. But how long can he keep that up? He can stand the heat better than Hawks, but Hawks isn't right in the middle of it. The skin near his seams is already cracking at the intense heat and it's only been a few moments.

Hawks won't be able to get the drop on him twice, and every attempt he makes will only lose him feathers; but any attack Dabi could make from this distance would be too slow. Fuck, he has to do something. He can't let it end like this. He refuses to let it end like this.

That's when the fire suppression system kicks on.

Dabi ignores the initial noise of it, filtering it out as an unnecessary distraction. Then something plops onto his head, and he jerks back, staring wildly up at the ceiling. A spray of water hits his face, and in a blind state of reaction he throws a short burst of flames up towards the ceiling.

Suddenly, the air is knocked out of his lungs and there's a disorienting moment where the apartment moves around him. His back hits the wall, and then there's a sharp stinging at his throat.

Hawks is there, right there, breath panting against Dabi's face, sharpened feather biting into his neck and a forearm shoved against his chest to keep him pinned in place.

"Hey, Dabi," Hawks says in an angry, conversational tone, "what the fuck."

In that moment, Dabi doesn't care anymore. He'd give anything just to stop feeling like this. If that means Hawks' death, his own death, the death of them both—it doesn't matter. He just needs it to be over.

"Kill me," Dabi hisses. "Kill me now or I'll kill us both, I swear I'll do it."

Hawks' eyes harden, but he doesn't budge. "Talk to me," he says, and it's almost a plea. "What happened? What changed between last night, and now?"

Everything. Everything changed—and nothing, because Hawks has been stringing him along the entire time. He'd smash Hawks' lying face in if he could, but he'll have to settle for murder.

Snarling, he reaches for his flames—but his whole body hurts and Hawks presses in closer, feather biting further into his skin in warning—and Dabi lets them die before they start. It's no good. Hawks would kill him before he'd be able to do anything.

Hawks wants him to talk? Fine.

"What do you want to talk about, hero? You want to talk about how you lied to my fucking face?" Dabi laughs, harsh and rasping. "You want to talk about how you're a fucking spy?"

Hawks' eyes dilate and he pauses mid exhale, but he otherwise doesn't react to the accusation. "Is that what this is?" he says, tone completely, horribly even. "You hear a rumor and decide to take matters into your own hands? I don't know who they were or what they told you, but I'm telling you, it isn't true."

"Stop fucking lying!" Dabi screams. He remembers all too vividly the echo of Hawks telling someone on the phone, I was busy fucking him, is that what you wanted to hear? and he can barely handle the shame even now. But what's worse is the gut-wrenching mortification that he'd actually believed someone like Hawks could ever—would ever— "I heard it! I heard it from your own—! Goddamn—!"

And then he's choking.

His body contorts in on itself as he hacks cough after cough. His vision swims but he sees the first of the petals escape from his mouth and flutter towards the ground. Fuck, fuck, not now—he can't be doing this now, in front of Hawks.

But he can't breathe—and he can't stop coughing. He spits out petal after bloody petal, but there's something large and immobile pushing at the base of his throat.

The force pinning him to the wall lets up, and he doubles over, clutching at his seizing chest. And then he's not coughing anymore. The lump of flora is stuck, lodged in his esophagus, and Dabi gasps without air. His vision blurs and he hits at his own chest, trying to dislodge the block. He ends up on his knees as his body tries and fails to force out the mass in his throat. Something triggers his gag reflex; his stomach clenches and he convulses like he's throwing up. On the second convulsion the mass finally, finally shifts and on the third it ends up on the floor in front of him. He sucks in a desperate, wheezing breath; then another. And another.

The more oxygen is delivered to his brain, the more his vision fades back in. There's an entire flower flopped onto the burnt wooden flooring, the petals matted from spit and blood. The sheer size of it sends an echo of horror through him. How the fuck had that made it out past his throat? How is he even still alive? He's shaking badly, and his entire body is oddly cold.

"Oh hell," Hawks breathes. "Oh hell."

Something moves in Dabi's peripheral vision and then there's a touch to his shoulder. No, fuck no, he doesn't need Hawks' goddamn pity.

"Go away," Dabi groans, but it comes out as a mangled whisper. The touch on his shoulder moves to encompass his back.

"Breathe with me, alright?" Hawks says, voice right next to Dabi's ear. "In, out, come on, in—there you go. Hold it—come on, try again. In—"

As Hawks coaches him through breathing, the mess of emotions and plant matter in his chest seem to settle. The shaking dies down to a persistent tremble. The touch is soothing, and his voice is calm and grounding. He doesn't know why Hawks is trying to help him, but he can't help but cling to the delusion that it might mean something.

And then Dabi has a thought. A single, terrible, chilling thought. He remembers, with painful clarity, that brief moment when he had considered telling Hawks. He remembers running through all the possible outcomes, and the one that had stood out as the most terrible and most ridiculous.

After everything—sleeping with other people, tricking Dabi into a sexual relationship for the sake of betraying the League, all the lies, is he—he's still going to—?

Of course he is. Fuck, of course he is, this is Hawks. Noble, self-sacrificing hero. Of course he wouldn't do the reasonable thing, the kind thing, and just kill him. No, he has to try and save Dabi's sorry ass.

Fucking heroes.

"We'll get through this, Dabi," Hawks babbles, running his hand up and down his back, just like Toga had done yesterday, just like Dabi hasn't had anyone else do since he was a child. "You're going to be fine, okay? We'll figure this out."

If Hawks felt anything for him, he'd say it. He wouldn't be talking out his ass about how Dabi would 'get through this'—he'd just say it.

God. He's so fucked.

Hawks doesn't love him. There's no way he ever could. Dabi doesn't know how he could have deluded himself into thinking any differently.

The familiar closeness, the comforting words, the warm touch—Dabi tries to hold on to the feeling of shame and resentment and hatred. He tries to let himself just fucking die.

His body betrays him. His chest lightens and his skin tingles and the flowers in this throat seem to dissolve.

Dabi knows if he lets himself give in now, the fallout will only be that much worse later. There's a good chance he'd only survived last night because of Toga, and there's no way he'll be so lucky next time.

"You're alright. See?" Hawks says, his soothing voice on the edge of panic. His gloved thumb wipes at the corner of Dabi's mouth. Dabi must be bleeding again; tore another staple, no doubt. "You're alright."

If Hawks were going to lie to him, the least he could do is tell Dabi the lie he most wants to hear.

Even so, Dabi finds his eyes slipping shut and his body leaning into Hawks'. A warm arm wraps around his back and squeezes him against a firm chest. He breathes in Hawks' cologne and Hawks' arms tighten around him and Hawks mutters soft, meaningless platitudes in his ear and everything is Hawks, Hawks, Hawks. Dabi can't remember the last time he felt so at peace. It isn't love; it never can be. He knows that, and if he's being honest, he's always known. Dabi is what he is, and Hawks is—a hero. A spy. A good fucking person. And if Dabi is anything, it isn't that.

So it isn't love.

But for right now, here in Hawks' soaking wet apartment, shivering from exhaustion and pain, with Hawks' arms around him—

Maybe just this once and never again, but for this one moment—

It's enough.