Keigo had learned early on he was an undesired child.

His parents never cared about hiding the hatred and disgust they harboured towards him, neither held back from belittling him and everything he was. After all he wasn’t supposed to be there, to even exist, let alone crowding their small shack with his useless wings or weighting on their already scarce finances with his empty stomach. 

They were lucky they stole enough money to fend for themselves, whether Keigo had a meal a day or not wasn’t their problem. And most days he hadn’t.

Their hovel wasn’t less empty, the only pieces of furniture being a wrecked sofa, an even more tarnished bed for his parents, and mouldy kitchen counters, but its main focal point was an old, bumpy television, which his mother tended to focus all her dull eyes on whenever she wasn’t passed out on the stained cushions or, more frequently, on the soiled floor.

Awake or asleep, the TV was always on, and sometimes Keigo dared approaching his mother’s sacred space to peek at the images running on the screen. Sometimes they were colourful and flashy figures, people whom somebody off-screen called “heroes” (and there was one in particular, a bulky man who used fire who was Keigo’s favourite, so strong and resilient!), and some other times the voice was quieter, kinder. It belonged to a woman, her hands gentle, delicate and swift as she folded graceful pieces of paper and transformed them into shapes.

Keigo admired the “heroes”, wished he could fly like Endeavor and save people with him, but he was bitterly aware, too aware for a kid his age, he could never do that, that cartoons and heroes didn’t exist.

Origami, on the other hand… he could do that. That was something even a worthless child like him could afford. After all the shack was littered with old discarded newspapers and paper bags, he didn’t even need to pay for the required materials! 

So, day after day, little Keigo began to work with the small strips of paper. It was kinda hard without a proper ruler or scissors, but he had nothing else to do and somehow he managed. His first origami were dent and barely maintained their shape, though Keigo never gave up. He persevered and got the motions down until he devised some tricks to make do and minimise the blemishes, understanding which kind of papers were best for a specific design he wanted to create, and even daring to improvise his own figures.

 

After a while, his tiny corner of the house he called his room was strung up with hundreds of paper shapes: butterflies, stars, cranes, boats, cats, swans, flowers, wings… seeing the results of his efforts, those pretty shapes moulded after rubbish, made him proud. Happy, if he were even able to know what happiness meant. It almost gave him hope, seeing something so lovely being born from junk. No, not being born. He was the one who gave those animals, those objects, life. A useless boy, an afterthought of a human being.

When the realisation hit, he got so excited he swarmed to the living room, his arms crowded with paper stars and birds to share his creations with his mom.

His parents knew about his hobby and had eyed the origami with the utmost disgusted faces - of course their disgrace of a son wasted time on something so pointless - but at least he kept himself busy and out of the way.

He didn’t know why exactly he tried to get a reaction out of her, he knew he wouldn’t get any, he should have kept to himself and prevented his chest from tightening when the woman dismissed him quickly without even looking at him. He was useless, unwanted, after all. Why would his creations be better than him?

For a brief moment he felt the urge to smash all the origami he had ever created, to destroy the umpteenth proof of his worthlessness, but the instant his big, golden eyes focused on his stars, on his paper pets and wings, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. They were the only things that were his and his only, unwanted by anybody but him, and for the first time he ventured feeling a bit selfish. If his mom had her tv and her couch and her needles, if his father had his booze and his thefts, he could have that. His paper companions. 

 

-

 

When his mother got him his Endeavor plushie, he had tackled shaping the flame hero out of multiple paper shreds, combining the various parts to make it as realistic as possible, but when the accident happened and he was taken in by the Commission, he was only allowed to keep his stuffed doll and forced to leave behind the only friends he had ever had. They promised him he could make many more in the future, that they would provide him proper tools and paper like the expensive, elegant one the lady in the old programme used, and he bought it. He bought everything if it meant he could be free, he could be valued, useful, shining like Endeavor had been to him.

 

During his training years he didn’t actually have much time to dedicate himself to his hobby, and his handlers rarely brought him origami stuff, so he found himself playing with his own feathers, hardening them once they were properly folded and looking mesmerised at his new creations. The effect was so different from his old puppets, so bright and glossy and soft. At night, before falling asleep, he sheepishly watched his scarlet, plumed stars floating around, lulling him to sleep, through another day of relentless fighting practice.

There were days when he was particularly tired or upset, and those were the days when it snowed. He curled and knitted his remaining damaged feathers as snowflakes, and stared at them slowly falling around him on the bed, an arm bent behind his neck as he absentmindedly let his thoughts swim. 

 

After his debut, he finally got the chance to properly work on his origami. He got a full, traditional set of pastel coloured sheets of paper, embossed with golden leaf on their main lines. They shone like stars, and filled his empty, impersonal bedroom just as they used to do with his hollow childhood shack. He found comfort in the rhythmic, repetitive movements, in seeing what once were simple, brown and crumpled shapes turn into brilliant and colourful creatures.

Sometimes he missed them, missed his old paper friends, battered and disregarded just like he was. Sometimes seeing all the gold and silver lining across the drawings of the traditional paper made him feel hollow, blinded, in an ironic metaphor of what had become of him after Keigo had been turned into Hawks.

Was there a middle ground? Would he ever be able to fold an origami without feeling melancholic or hypocritical?

 

-

 

Since he had been oh so kindly appointed by the HPSC as the perfect (if not the only) asset to infiltrate the League, the time he had devolved to his passion had drastically shrinked.

He had only few moments to himself, few hours away from his endless patrols he had to split between folding papers and trying to get some proper sleep before launching himself headfirst again into his next shift, but now it was basically impossible to busy his hands with his origami when he had to use his already debatable and scarce free time to meet up with Dabi and holding back from stabbing him more often than not.

He was the most enraging and confusing person he had ever met, Dabi.

When Hawks was with him it seemed like all the training in social skills the Commission had engraved in him from a too young age was utterly useless, and he was stripped bare and disoriented, uncertain about what to do or say, pushed so hard out of his hero persona that he was left with only raw emotions, feelings he had no idea how to deal with and that kept slipping out of him like sand between fingers.

He had wanted to punch himself for how stupid he had been, letting his fury seep out of him like that after the Nomu attack - if he was to be deemed trustful by his only way in the most dangerous villain organization of the Country, that had not been a good way to endear himself to the arsonist - but Dabi’s actions, his unpredictability had been so unforeseeable and irritating it was like a switch had clicked in his brain.

Dabi caught him off-guard all the time, unwilling to suck up his bullshit and baffling him instead, all the while slowly carving out a space for himself in Hawks’ life.

Whether it was a message, a phone call, a meeting in a godforsaken warehouse, Dabi was becoming, little by little, the only thing the hero could focus his thoughts on. 

He needed to understand him to predict what he had to do with him, what to say, how to present himself and be accepted into the League to finally get some useful intel for his growingly impatient handlers, but every time he came close to some sort of enlightenment, Dabi changed his game and left Hawks all the more frustrated.

 

Frustrated and flustered.

He had begrudgingly got accustumed to Dabi’s antics and the far from subtle flirting the arsonist sometimes threw at him, he recognized that attitude from what he’d learned at the HPSC and just filed it away as the latest strategy to rile him up, push him to make a slip and betray himself and his true intentions, but he would be a liar - more than he already was - to deny that whatever Dabi was trying to do was working.

Especially since the villain started to invite himself into his apartment like he belonged there. Hawks presumed it was to get on his nerves, to spy on him in what was supposed to be his nest, where he hid his secrets, if only the penthouse he lived in was ever his in the first place.

But along with Dabi’s visits, the hero unconsciously started to develop new habits, to actually let his guard down.

He wasn’t as tense in Dabi’s presence as he used to. In fact, he began feeling relaxed somehow, like not being forced to put his mask on let him finally breathe.

It was a mistake, he knew that. But he found himself unable to let go of that new routine, to lock his balcony door, to kick the arsonist out when he got home to a proper cooked meal or the suffused, muffled voices of his TV.

They talked, sometimes, but mostly enjoyed the quiet of each other’s company, of their unexpected, dangerous domesticity. A proximity that swiftly blurred into softness and emotional closeness. It was like their fiery temperaments were getting attuned to the unreal peace that was growing between them, complicity and kindness subduing banter and antagonisation. They still fought sometimes, still enjoyed teasing each other - especially from Dabi’s part -, but that kind of approach wasn’t as instinctive and immediate as before.

 

There were touches, too. Dabi had made a habit of touching him since the beginning of their work relationship (why wording it like that felt so wrong, dammit?!), whether it was pushing away his feathers, slinging an arm around his shoulders or shoving him away when he was pissed, but there were novelties in the way their skin connected now, how the arsonist gently brushed his fingers against the hero’s, the way his warm hand lingered on Hawks’ arm when they were on a mission together, holding him back from acting too quickly as they were spying on rival gangs, how his hot breath crawled against the hero’s nape and down his spine when he shielded the villain with his own body in a back alley brawl.

Even the way their gazes locked across the room during a PLF conference or when it was time for either of them to say goodbye after one of their meetings felt like touching for how intense they were.

There was tension building up between them, a different kind from the slight agitation he felt when he was on a rescue task, pumping him to save as many people as possible before the building crumbled to the ground, different from when he was called to the HPSC’s President’s office for updates about the League's moves.

There were cold sweat, and an accelerated heart beat, and a fuzzy mind all the same, but instead of the dread of failure he felt anticipation, excitement, warmth, desire, something pulling him towards Dabi, something that clamped his throat, his chest, his stomach and made him crave for the other man’s presence, his hidden smiles, low chuckles and glinting, bright turquoise eyes.

Sometimes the pull was almost unbearable, like a rubber band threatening to snap at the pressure, sometimes they got a little too close and his every brain cell seemed to fizzle, clouded by the overwhelming need to keep Dabi within his arm’s reach, where he could leech off his warmth, and hear his pulse through his feathers, and feel the ghost of his breath on his lips.

Still, neither of them dared to make the first step, to act on that insufferable chemistry and close the small distance they silently, hesitantly agreed to never cross.

There was no point in indulging in that. If Dabi’s gestures meant what he actually hoped and feared, then it would be in his best interest to give in and give the villain what he wanted, another proof of his loyalty to his cause, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it - which, possibly, was even more stupid, the easiest way to out himself as a traitor. After all, why on Earth shouldn’t he if he really was on their side, if he felt their syncronicity as well?

He was sure Dabi knew, but he had no clue about why the arsonist hadn’t already taken what he ached for or threatened him about his uncertainty. What were his intentions? Why did it seem like Dabi just wanted him to feel at ease and move at his own pace? Why did he have to be so considerate when every time Hawks saw him he had to push back the urge to melt in his embrace and finally taste his lips?

It was driving him insane, and he didn’t know if he was more muddled about the villain not being what he expected him to be, or about himself and his evident lack of judgement and self-control over his own thoughts and feelings.

                                                                             

Dabi got used to Hawks presence worryingly quickly, so much he had considered to light himself on fire a couple of times in the attempt to burn his feelings down and scorch his skin even more, giving him something else to focus on that wasn’t the hero’s soft features, or his warm laugh, or the fervour and earnestness in his golden irises.

What he wasn’t used to was how kind and gentle those new emotions were. He knew the anger and the vengeance, the anxiety and the confidence, the frustration and the disgust, but these… he didn’t even want to start trying to put a name on them.

What in the actual fuck had happened to him?! It wasn’t like this in the beginning. He had a lot of fun riling up the pigeon, certain he was just trying to play him being always on the defensive. He felt deeply satisfied every time the hero’s temperament slipped through his carefully crafted mask, and yes, he couldn’t deny he actually was a bit attracted to the bird - who wouldn’t be? Hawks was objectively gorgeous -, so why the hell couldn’t he bring himself to provoke the hero anymore? Why seeing him devastated after a long day of hero work made his heart churn inside his chest?

Was being let into Hawks’ apartment really what it has taken for his rationality to go down the drain?!

It meant nothing. It was just a means to an end. When the war broke out, he would be fried chicken before he could even think of selling everyone in the Front to the HPSC.

It meant nothing. Hawks meant nothing. He didn’t owe him shit, let alone consideration and tenderness, so he should just take what he wanted, quench his yearning and never think about it again, right?

Right?

Yeah, easier said than done, since his mind seemed to shut down as soon as he was near the damn bird, craving to touch him, caress him, hold him close. Dabi had never experienced lust in his life, but he was sure it was not it. It was nothing like the woodfire everybody talked about, his need to get in the hero’s pants tarnished by something much softer.

 

After a couple of months he gave up trying to understand the emotions roaring in his chest and let them flow instead, just like he always did as a kid and around apparently anyone who wasn’t Hawks and, rarely, very rarely, the League’s members.

He wasn’t built to suppress himself, not even when his own quirk began feasting on his own flesh, not even when his father, the man he admired more than anybody else, asked him to stop with his training. He had always wanted more, to be more, and failed every fucking time. The only thing that grew larger and larger in him was his hatred, his desire to be finally looked at, seen and deemed valuable, strong, someone to be proud of. Villainy was just another path to get that, one twisted way or another.

Maybe it was because he got to know about Hawks’ past, about how similar they were. He had been belittled, disregarded, deprived of his sense of worth by his own parents, just like him. Manipulated into thinking that heroics were the only way he could be useful and praised.

The Commission took advantage of the innocent heart of a child to make the perfect asset out of him, and it had taken everything he had not to torch Tomie Takami on the spot when she told him about his son and how she sold him to the HPSC without a second thought, but turning to ashes the mother of the number two hero (it was nauseating using that word to define that woman) wasn’t the best way to go unnoticed. 

A small part of him wanted to believe it was a lie, to believe the situation got better when Keigo opened his own agency and reached the top ten, that’s why he broke into his apartment in the first place, to ascertain with his own eyes that Keigo somehow managed to become his own person, to see beyond the cheeky smile he plastered on his face for the cameras, but the emptiness he found in his high rise spoke volumes about how hollow Hawks really was.

Not a picture of him, of his handlers, of his intern. Not a plant, a bookshelf, a dishcloth with a particular design on it, a special mug or some ethnic food in the fridge. Nothing. It was like the penthouse was inhabited by a ghost, and as much as he needed to dig a bit more for the sake of his plans, he found himself unable to do so. He knew there would be nothing to find, not there.

He had sagged on the sofa with a deep sigh, his throat clenched as he placed his forearm on his eyes, trying to inhale and exhale at a steady rythm and forcing his thoughts to wander away from the memory of his own empty, old bedroom, of the shrine arranged for a boy who went up in flames on a lonely hill and was no more.

At least his family still had that, a photo of an expressionless teenager and a small altar. Keigo had nothing, like he had never existed. Like he still wasn’t anything but a mere, soulless puppet.

Something in that realisation tugged uncomfortably at his insides, a new wave of fury dancing through his veins. If Tomie Takami deserved a forgettable death, the Commission needed to burn and crash to the ground with every last piece of shit who was in it. He knew the heroes society was fucked up, but he had always conveyed all his hatred towards Endeavor, the incarnation of its hypocrisy. This was a new target, the extension of what the flaming trashcan did to him, filling a child’s head with hopes and dreams and then stripping him of them.

The worst part was that Hawks apparently wasn’t aware of this yet, he was still convinced his value was in his deeds, and not in himself as a person.

Dabi had rarely been this angered before.

 

Perhaps that’s why Dabi unconsciously dropped his aloof and taunting demeanour, why he stopped openly toying with the hero. He didn’t want to be like them, like the umpteenth person to take advantage of Keigo’s goodwill. Fuck, yes , he probably, surely was a goddamn traitor, but he didn’t deserve this. He couldn’t inflict on another person what he had experienced himself and which he was rioting against knowing how much it hurt, it didn’t matter that the hero couldn’t recognise it yet.

If there was something he truly learned about Hawks, about Keigo, it was how generous his heart was, how he truly cared about the people without thinking about rankings or money, exactly what Stein wished for their society.

Hawks was the embodiment of what a hero should be, and maybe, only maybe, treating him with respect and kindness would help Touya as well, protecting the pureness of a child’s dream.

He still couldn’t explain to himself why the need to cherish Keigo urged him to crowd his space, to feel him close, to brush his lips with his own. He felt at ease with him, more than he had ever had. So what? Keigo was indisputably beautiful, so what? That didn’t mean he had to fall for him.

It was going to be a mess, a fucking disaster in the end.

 

-

 

Despite breaking into the hero’s apartment had become a habit for him, there wasn’t really a pattern to his visits. He came and went as he pleased, guided both by his need to check on Hawks and to keep himself away from him when he felt his emotions were getting too much to handle.

Sometimes he needed a few days to recharge, to calm himself before climbing up to the penthouse if he wanted to maintain his control, and Keigo never questioned him about it, never let disappointment or sadness seep through his face or his messages. Dabi didn’t really know if he was more upset by the seeming lack of interest or relieved because the hero wasn’t guilt tripping him to come over more often.

That night, though, he couldn’t help but run up too many flights of stairs until he reached the high rise, almost unhinging the door when he opened it. He’d seen the news about the huge accident that had happened in the afternoon, how Hawks barely made it out alive from the crumbling building to save a few elderly people who had been trapped inside because of their reduced mobility.

He had inhaled too much smoke from the debris and the fire that had started the whole mess in the boiler room in the basement, his wings deprived of almost all his feathers and multiple ugly cuts on his skin. His breathing was shallow when he had talked to the reporters about the ordeal, his hand touching his middle uncomfortably, and Dabi’s heart had clenched in his chest knowing he’d probably crushed a couple of ribs.

The moment he saw the hero facing away from the cameras and being taken away by the paramedics, he had to refrain himself from reaching his flat right away. Maybe Keigo wouldn’t want to see him after all that chaos, maybe he would just want to rest before his next patrol. After all, a few injuries weren’t a good excuse to look away from his duties, especially not to the Commission.

Still, the hero hadn't texted him, and Dabi didn’t know if he was out of the hospital already, if he was home, if he was alright. Hawks not answering his phone didn’t help him to cool down the anxious sparkle that kept rustling through his skin, and at a certain point he just had to go and check for himself before setting his room or anybody else in the League’s quarters on fire.

“Birdie?” he called as soon as he stepped in the living room, consoled the lights were on and Keigo was indeed home. Pacing the apartment alone, in the dark, waiting for him to be released from the clinic wouldn’t have done anything sane to his already deranged mind.

Hawks, however, didn’t reply to his calling, quiet on the sofa. Dabi could make out his shape from the entrance, his unruly hair a golden halo just above the backrest and no sign of his scarlet feathers. He remembered he’d seen them on the tv, though, so they were probably just reduced to his smallest wings.

The arsonist made his way towards the couch, ready to cradle Keigo’s hands and softly ask him if he was alright, only to stop in his tracks when he noticed the cushions were drowning in colourful paper figures, some simpler and plain, others elaborate and vivid.

Origami.

That was something completely unexpected. He recalled Tomie mentioning little Keigo’s hobby, but he’d supposed he’d dropped it after becoming a trainee under the Commission. He’d never seen him working on any before, and he’d been spending more than a few evenings at Hawks’ penthouse, to say the least. Why hadn’t he ever done it before? Was it because of him? Were origami something that personal and precious to him?

Thinking Keigo would hide that from him made him hurt a little, but again he knew he had no right to be. His feelings were his problem only.

Hawks looked so defeated, small and young then, his raptor eyes focused solely on the multitude of shapes that were growing to surround him. There were stars, birds, hats, snowflakes, flowers all around, and Dabi couldn’t help a little, invisible smile pull at his lips at the view, his body warming up in front of such an intimate scene.

“May I sit down, birdie?”

Keigo nodded imperceptibly, a few plumes detaching from his back and lightly pushing away the origami to make room for the villain on the sofa. It was no surprise the hero hadn’t answered his texts if he was so absorbed in this activity. Was it stress-relieving for him? Did it bring him back memories from his childhood? Dabi keened to know, but he knew too damn well that was the worst moment to ask questions.

So he just observed in silence as Hawks mindlessly made one origami after the other. He did look relaxed somehow, and after the villain dared to raise the temperature a bit, noticing the gooseflesh on Keigo’s arms, a timid smile crept on his lips too, his posture laxer.

It was fascinating looking at Keigo working, lulling, and he felt his own tension leaving him. The hero’s fingers folded the papers with swift, expert but delicate movements, his and the arsonist’s laps getting quickly swarmed by little paper creatures. Dabi had no idea how long he just stayed there, watching intently, studying how the light and the expressions on Hawks' face changed.

At a certain point he distinguished a couple of animals, and decided to attempt to verbally approach Keigo again. It had happened few times before that Hawks didn’t feel like talking, but he usually contented himself with just existing next to Dabi, drifting off against his shoulder after a long, exhausting day of hero work. This was completely different.

"How many have you made?" the arsonist asked, his voice a whisper in the quiet living room. After a moment Hawks shrugged, putting aside another crane.

"I don’t know. I've never counted them" he confessed, his tone a mumble, almost cracking after staying silent for so long. "Why?"

Dabi looked away, a faint blush on his healthy skin. The reason was so stupid he would’ve regretted opening his mouth if it weren’t that Keigo had finally spoken.

"I thought you knew about that saying... that if you make a thousand cranes you can ask for a wish."

At his words, Hawks’ fingers stopped from the creature he’d been folding and lifted his gaze to look at Dabi, a hint of curiosity and excitement in his golden, shiny, tired eyes. His smallest feathers ruffled behind his back, and before he could better think about it, Dabi carded his knuckles through soft vanes. He had never ever touched Hawks’ wings after they got more acquainted, and didn’t expect the endearing, chirping sound that escaped Keigo’s mouth.

His digits froze, the hero’s eyes widening as he slammed a hand over his lips as the arsonist’s heart started galloping in his ribcage and his cheeks flushed even more. Keigo had no business being so fucking cute, dammit.

For a couple of seconds they just stared into each other, unable to move or say anything, but just as Hawks’ features began clouding, Dabi caressed his feathers again, petting them with infinite care, and oh, no, fuck, Keigo’s face reddened too. He’d never felt the pull to close the distance between them so wildly.

After what seemed an eternity later, Hawks swallowed and looked away, resuming to fold the half-formed creature in his lap. The villain couldn’t even be sad, not when the hero was lighting up, at last.

"A wish? Is that so?" he prodded quietly after completing the paper crane.

Dabi gave him a tiny smile, still entranced by ruby plumes. He supposed everyone knew about that myth, but Keigo was mostly self-taught, he was unlikely to have found out about it during his messed up childhood.

"Yeah... just a legend though"

"I think it's sweet" Hawks commented, getting back on another paper square. It was snow white, embellished with pink cherry blossoms floating around like the hanafubuki in spring.

"... what would you wish for?" Dabi asked in a murmur, his gaze now lost in the deep night out of the floor to ceiling windows, suddenly afraid of what Keigo’s answer might be.

But the hero chuckled, a bitter sound that induced the villain to face him again.

"I don't know, there isn’t anything I really want that much'' he hesitated, eying Dabi beside him before lowering his irises again. "Nothing I could actually get, anyway" 

Dabi’s pupils rushed to the city lights outside once more, his only purchase in that new, unexpected sea of vulnerability, and said nothing as something unpleasant strained his stomach. He wanted to feel miffed at those words, but he knew Hawks was right. Whatever they had, whatever Keigo felt, it was just stolen time, something doomed to destroy them both.

And especially after today’s accident, Dabi had the proof that Hawks was a hero through and through, there was no way he was going to turn his back on the people he pledged to protect.

 

When Hawks eventually yawned and stood to go to bed, Dabi did the same, uncertain on what to do. His fingers fluttered, lingering near Hawks', but he resigned to keep them to himself and sighed, heading towards the balcony. They had exposed each other a bit too much that evening. He needed to clear his mind and calm his heartbeat, and Keigo needed to rest.

"Good night, birdie" he susurrated, committing to his brain the precious image of Keigo surrounded by his floating origami, honey irises sleepy and warm.

"’Night, Dabi."

 

-

 

Dabi had been afraid he had fucked things up last time he was in Hawks’ apartment, that he’d got ahead of himself when he’d touched the hero’s wings, that after a night of sleep Keigo had realized he didn’t want to make things even more convoluted, but the next time they met at the high rise, a couple of days later, the hero almost tweeted when he welcomed him.

Dabi had blinked a few times, surprised and hot all of a sudden, but strode in anyway. It felt like his heart was soaring again after being chained to the ground by his anxious, intrusive thoughts, and couldn’t resist reaching Hawks and hugging him for the first time, all his concerns and resolutions flying out of the window.

Keigo stilled, puzzled, before melting in the embrace and holding Dabi back just as tightly, a peaceful sigh lifting his lips when the arsonist gently brushed his feathers. His scent was so near, so familiar and comforting when Dabi nuzzled his neck, making the hero shiver before shifting his fingers down his arms to his hands.

His thumb started drawing kind circles on Keigo’s skin, and goosebumps erupted on his flesh, enraptured by the hero’s glossy eyes and lips. It took everything he had in him not to kiss him stupid right then and there.

“Hi birdie” he exhaled, almost out of breath, detaching himself a bit from the other man and failing to regain his composure. “How are you feeling?”

Keigo tightened his grip on Dabi’s hand, his gaze so enamoured when he whispered back.

“Better, now.”

 

They began to talk more, to touch one another more, to steal glances of each other much more frequently when they met. Jokes and jabs came more naturally, and Keigo even attempted to teach Dabi how to fold basic origami shapes.

Needless to say, the arsonist was too distracted by Hawks’ presence to fully pay attention to his instructions, but he found he wouldn’t hesitate a second to make a fool of himself with his amorphous origami if that meant hearing Keigo’s laugh, to see the stress wrinkles around his eyes ease and turn into joyful crinkles, accentuating the black bird marks near the corners.

 

A month later Dabi found himself at Hawks' apartment yet again, and sure enough he was welcomed by the familiar view of Hawks crouched on the sofa, folding paper butterflies.

"Hey birdie" he saluted, discarding his coat on the armchair.

Hawks lifted his eyes on him, almost shy, and his hands stuttered.

"Hi Dabs".

Dabi arched an eyebrow but said nothing as he strolled towards him and sat next to him as usual. Recently the atmosphere had relaxed a little, allowing them to enjoy each other’s company without feeling so tense and on edge all the time, but Keigo didn’t seem quite tranquil at that moment.

"How was your day?" the hero asked, slightly shrinking on himself when Dabi stretched his arm over the backrest.

The villain studied the hero for a couple of seconds but replied nonetheless. He didn’t want Keigo to feel exposed, neither by his words, nor by his touch.

Dabi chatted away for a bit, hoping the small talk would make the hero relax, but he couldn’t help but notice that the blonde's fingers kept fidgeting instead of making figures out of paper foils like he had been doing just until he arrived at the high rise.

 "Is everything alright, birdie?" he questioned lightly, devoiding his tone of every trace of concern even though he was starting to feel nervous. Had something happened? 

"Yeah..." Hawks immediately replied, but he was frantic, and he had to know Dabi would catch on that. The villain didn’t prod though, waiting patiently for him to go on. "Actually, there's something I... er... wanted to give you" he timidly admitted at last, and Dabi had to ignore how the paper butterflies seemed to have swarmed from the couch into his belly.

He didn’t say anything, just stood by while Hawks’ hand scrambled under the butterflies sea and fished something out before handing it to him. It was a paper crane, made out of a blue foil so rich in colours and details he felt like he was watching a tiny, precious living being.

Dabi took it with reverence, placing it in his palm and lifting it to his eyes to have a better look at the majestic winged creature. The hues blended into one another in a mixture of cyan, turquoise, aquamarine, azure, cerulean and sapphire that curved into spiral waves and highlighted by a thin, elegant silver ink.

There seemed to be a pattern too, something different from the traditional motives and irregular, but vivid, and ever-changing, and alive like…

... my flames.

His irises, the same rich shades of the paper crane, shone when he transfixed them on Keigo’s face. His throat clenched, his pulse sped up.

"Thank you"

He really didn’t know what else to say, too overwhelmed by the unexpected gift, feeling like those two words were far from enough. It was just a paper crane, Keigo created it the same way he had folded many others before, and still it was completely different.

Hawks blushed at that, and it was so adorable Dabi's heart did something way too complicated in his chest.

"Make a wish" the hero said then, biting his lips, his wings quivering behind his back, and Dabi really needed to shrug it off. His emotions were engulfing him too much already.

"I can't, birdie, remember?” he opined, hoarse. “I'd need a thousand cranes-"

But his voice died out when a cascade of colourful, airy paper cranes started to rain down on him. Bewildered, he startled and raised his eyes, only to see a couple of feathers holding a box and keeping it upside down so that the paper cranes could keep falling from the inside.

Then came another box. And another. And another again, pouring so many cranes over him that the couch couldn’t contain them anymore as they rolled down the cushions and onto the floor. The paper shower seemed endless, Keigo’s figure blurred behind long necks and wings and tails.

When the paper rain ceased, his eyes were as wide as saucers and he swallowed hard, his heart thundering so loudly he was sure Hawks could pick it up through his feathers. He was looking at Dabi now, every trace of nervousness gone and replaced with something intense, fierce and primal in his honey gaze.

He was breathtakingly beautiful, from his avian marks to his dishevelled hair, to his faint freckles, to his generous, generous heart.

"Make a wish, Dabi."

And Dabi leaned in and kissed him.