Ashes of Desire

The first time I saw him up close, he was bleeding on my rooftop.

Not the kind of bleeding that kills you. Not yet. The kind that stains the concrete and makes a man sloppy. He'd taken a hit somewhere in the ribs, and he was pressing his palm against it like he could hold himself together through sheer stubbornness. His wings were folded tight against his back, feathers slick with something darker than rain.

I'd been smoking. That's what I remember most clearly. The cigarette was halfway gone, and the night was cold enough that my breath came out in clouds, and then there was Hawks, landing on my roof like he owned it, like he hadn't just crashed through three layers of security I'd spent months setting up.

"You're supposed to be dead," I said.

He laughed. It came out wet and wrong. "I get that a lot."

I should have killed him. That's what I was supposed to do. The Commission's golden boy, the hero who'd been tailing me for weeks, the man who'd smiled at me across a crowded street like we shared a secret. He was a problem. Problems get solved.

Instead I watched him sway on his feet and I didn't move.

"Your security system is shit, by the way," he said. "The third sensor has a blind spot. Anyone with half a brain could get through."

"Good thing you don't have half a brain."

"Ouch."

He was still smiling. Blood was running down his chin now, mixing with the rain, and he was smiling like this was funny, like bleeding out on a villain's rooftop was just another Tuesday night. I hated him for it. I hated the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way his voice had that easy drawl like nothing mattered, the way he looked at me like he could see straight through the scars and the staples and the years of careful nothing.

I took a drag of my cigarette and watched him.

"You gonna invite me in?" he asked. "Or are we just gonna stand here until I pass out?"

"You're not standing. You're swaying."

"Semantics."

I should have burned him. One good blast, and he'd be ash, and the Commission would have to find a new pet. But I didn't. I dropped my cigarette and crushed it under my boot and walked toward the door.

"Don't bleed on my floor," I said. "I just cleaned."

He followed me inside. I heard him stumble on the threshold, heard him catch himself on the doorframe, heard the sharp intake of breath when the movement pulled at whatever was broken inside him. I didn't turn around. I walked to the kitchen and pulled a first aid kit from under the sink, the kind I kept for myself, the kind with supplies that weren't meant for heroes.

He was standing in my living room when I came back. Dripping on the hardwood. Looking around like he was cataloging everything, the exits, the windows, the weapons I had stashed in plain sight.

"You live like this?" he asked.

"Like what?"

"Like you're ready to run."

I set the kit on the table. "Sit down before you fall down."

He sat. Slowly, carefully, like every movement cost him something. I watched the way he held his ribs, the way his wings twitched and settled, the way his eyes never stopped moving. He was still cataloging. Still looking for a way out. Good. That meant he wasn't stupid.

I pulled a chair across from him and sat backwards on it, arms folded over the backrest. "So. What do you want?"

"Medical attention, apparently."

"That's not what I mean."

He looked at me then. Really looked. And for a second, the mask slipped. Just a flicker. Just enough to see something underneath, something tired and sharp and not entirely sane.

"I wanted to see you," he said.

"Bullshit."

"Maybe." He shrugged, and winced. "Maybe I wanted to know if the rumors were true."

"What rumors?"

"That you're not as dead as everyone thinks."

I didn't answer. I lit another cigarette because my hands needed something to do.

"You're hard to find," he continued. "I've been looking for three months. Three months of tracking, of following leads, of trying to figure out where a ghost goes when he doesn't want to be found. And you know what I figured out?"

"Enlighten me."

"You don't hide. You just don't care if you're seen."

He was right. I hated that he was right.

"The League doesn't know you're here," he said. "They think you're dead. They think you died in that fire, and nobody's looking for you, and you're just... existing. Off the grid. Waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"I don't know yet."

He was good. I'd give him that. He was sitting in my living room, bleeding on my floor, and he was still working. Still trying to figure me out. Still playing whatever game the Commission had taught him to play.

I should have killed him.

Instead I opened the first aid kit and pulled out a needle and thread.

"Take off your shirt," I said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Buy me dinner first."

"I'm going to stitch you up. Unless you'd rather bleed out."

He considered it. For a second, I thought he might actually say yes. Let himself bleed out on my floor rather than accept help from someone like me. But then he started unbuttoning his jacket, slow and deliberate, and I watched his fingers move and tried not to think about anything at all.

The wound was worse than I thought. A deep gash along his ribs, jagged edges, the kind of cut that came from something sharp and serrated. Not hero work. Not the kind of injury you got fighting villains. This was something else.

"Who did this to you?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

I threaded the needle and got to work. He didn't flinch. Didn't make a sound. Just sat there and watched me with those sharp eyes, and I could feel him cataloging every detail, the way I held the needle, the steadiness of my hands, the scars on my wrists that I hadn't bothered to hide.

"You're good at this," he said.

"I've had practice."

"On yourself?"

"On others."

I pulled the thread tight, and he finally flinched. Just a little. Just enough.

"Sorry," I said. I didn't mean it.

"No, you're not."

He was right. I wasn't.

I finished the stitches and tied them off and sat back. He looked at the wound, then at me, then at the wound again.

"Not bad," he said. "You could have been a doctor."

"I could have been a lot of things."

"Yeah." He reached for his jacket, pulled it back on, and I watched the way his wings shifted, the way the feathers rustled like they had a mind of their own. "So what now?"

"Now you leave."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

He stood up. Swayed. Caught himself on the back of the chair, and I didn't offer to help. He didn't ask.

"You know," he said, "I've been chasing you for three months. And now I'm standing in your apartment, and you haven't tried to kill me once."

"Maybe I'm waiting for the right moment."

"Maybe." He smiled. That same easy smile, but there was something underneath it now, something I couldn't quite name. "Or maybe you're curious."

"About what?"

"About why a hero would come to a villain for help."

I didn't have an answer for that. He didn't wait for one.

He walked to the window and opened it, and the cold air rushed in, and I watched him step onto the ledge like it was nothing, like falling was just another option he could take or leave.

"I'll see you around, Dabi," he said.

And then he was gone.

I stood there for a long time after he left. The cigarette burned down to my fingers, and I didn't notice until the heat registered, and then I dropped it and crushed it under my boot and looked at the bloodstain on my floor.

He'd left his jacket. A black zip-up, the kind heroes wore under their costumes, and it was sitting on the chair where he'd been sitting, and it smelled like smoke and sweat and something else, something I couldn't place.

I should have burned it. I should have thrown it out the window and forgotten about it. Instead I picked it up and held it for a second, just a second, and then I folded it and put it on the table.

I didn't know then what I know now. I didn't know that he'd come back. I didn't know that this was just the beginning, that he'd show up again and again and again, that we'd fall into something that neither of us could name or control or stop.

All I knew was that I'd let a hero live, and that meant something. Something I wasn't ready to think about.

So I didn't think about it. I cleaned up the blood and I went to bed and I told myself it was nothing.

It wasn't nothing.

---

He came back two weeks later.

I was in the middle of a job. Nothing major, just a little intimidation, a little information gathering. The kind of work that kept me fed and kept me busy and kept me from thinking too hard about anything that mattered. The target was a low-level dealer who'd been skimming off the top, and I was supposed to make him understand that skimming was bad for his health.

I had him pinned against a wall when Hawks appeared.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked.

The dealer looked at him, then at me, then back at him. His eyes were wide. He knew who Hawks was. Everyone knew who Hawks was.

"Get out," I said.

"Rude."

"Hawks." The dealer's voice was shaking. "Hawks, thank God, you have to help me, this maniac was going to—"

"Was he?" Hawks tilted his head. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you owe some people money, and Dabi here is just collecting."

The dealer's mouth opened and closed. He looked like a fish. I would have laughed if I wasn't so annoyed.

"You know about that?" I asked.

"I know a lot of things." Hawks walked closer, hands in his pockets, wings relaxed. He looked casual. He looked like he belonged here, in this dirty alley, with a villain and a dealer and the smell of garbage and rot. "I've been keeping tabs on you."

"Stalking is illegal."

"So is murder."

"I haven't murdered anyone."

"Yet."

I let go of the dealer. He slumped against the wall, and I turned to face Hawks, and the space between us was small. Too small. I could see the stitches I'd given him, barely visible above the collar of his shirt. I could see the way his eyes tracked my hands, watching for fire.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Same thing as last time."

"To see if I'm still alive?"

"To see if you're still interesting."

He was infuriating. That smile, that easy confidence, that way he had of making everything feel like a game. I wanted to burn it off his face. I wanted to see what was underneath.

"You should leave," I said.

"Probably." He didn't move.

The dealer was still there, still shaking, still looking between us like he couldn't decide which one of us was more terrifying. Hawks glanced at him, then back at me.

"You gonna finish your job?" he asked.

"I was thinking about it."

"Don't let me stop you."

"You're not stopping me."

"Good."

We stood there, staring at each other, and the dealer took his chance. He bolted. Ran down the alley like his life depended on it, which it probably did, and neither of us moved to stop him.

"He's going to talk," I said.

"Probably."

"That's a problem."

"Is it?"

I didn't answer. I lit a cigarette because my hands needed something to do, and Hawks watched me, and the flame from my lighter reflected in his eyes.

"You're not going to kill me," he said.

"Don't be so sure."

"You had the chance. Two weeks ago. You stitched me up instead."

"That was a mistake."

"Was it?"

I took a drag. The smoke filled my lungs, and I held it there, and I thought about all the ways this could go wrong. All the ways I could end it right now. One blast. One moment of focus. He'd be ash before he hit the ground.

But I didn't.

"You're going to get yourself killed," I said. "Hanging around me."

"Maybe."

"The Commission won't protect you forever."

"I know."

"So why are you here?"

He stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell him, that mix of smoke and sweat and something else, something clean underneath. Close enough that I could see the faint lines around his eyes, the tiredness he tried so hard to hide.

"Because you're the only person who's ever looked at me like I'm not a hero," he said.

"What do I look at you like?"

"Like I'm a person."

I didn't know what to say to that. I didn't know what to do with the way he was looking at me, like I had answers, like I was something other than a burned husk of a man held together by staples and spite.

"You're an idiot," I said.

"Probably."

"You should go."

"Probably."

He didn't move.

I dropped my cigarette and crushed it under my boot, and the alley was quiet, and the city hummed somewhere in the distance, and I could hear his breathing, steady and slow.

"I'm not going to kiss you," I said.

"Who said anything about kissing?"

"You're thinking about it."

"So are you."

He was right. I hated that he was right.

I grabbed him by the collar and pushed him against the wall, and he let me, and his wings flared out, feathers sharp and ready, and I could feel the tension in his body, the readiness, the way he was holding himself back.

"This doesn't mean anything," I said.

"Of course not."

"You're a hero."

"And you're a villain."

"This is insane."

"Completely."

I kissed him.

It was rough and wrong and exactly what I needed. His mouth was warm, and he tasted like coffee and mint, and his hands found my hips and pulled me closer, and I let him, I let him, and for a moment there was nothing but this, nothing but heat and want and the press of his body against mine.

He made a sound. Low, in the back of his throat, and it did something to me, something I didn't want to name. I bit his lip, and he laughed, and I kissed him harder to shut him up.

When I pulled back, he was smiling.

"That was interesting," he said.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

I should have walked away. I should have left him there, against the wall, with his swollen lips and his bright eyes and his feathers still sharp. I should have gone home and forgotten about it.

Instead I kissed him again.

And again.

And again.

---

We ended up at his place.

I don't remember how. One minute we were in the alley, and the next we were in a small apartment on the other side of the city, and he was fumbling with the lock while I pressed against his back, mouth on his neck, hands under his shirt.

"Impatient," he said.

"Shut up."

"You keep saying that."

"Because you keep talking."

He got the door open, and we stumbled inside, and I didn't look at anything. Didn't care about the decor or the layout or the windows. All I cared about was getting his clothes off, getting my hands on skin, getting something I'd been denying myself for longer than I wanted to admit.

His wings were in the way. They were always in the way, and I pushed at them, and he laughed, and then he folded them tight against his back and I finally got his shirt off.

He was scarred. Not like me. Not burned and stapled and held together. But scarred. Lines and marks and the kind of damage that came from years of fighting, years of pushing, years of being a weapon instead of a person.

I traced one of the scars with my finger. He shivered.

"Like what you see?" he asked.

"I've seen worse."

"Romantic."

I kissed him again. Harder this time. Pushed him toward the bed, and he went, and we fell onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and feathers and want.

He was good with his hands. Better than I expected. He knew where to touch, how to touch, and I let him, I let him take control, and for a while there was nothing but sensation, nothing but heat and friction and the sounds he made when I did something he liked.

"You're quiet," he said.

"I'm focused."

"On what?"

"On not burning you."

He laughed. "Appreciate it."

I kissed the laugh off his mouth.

We didn't talk after that. Not really. Just movement and breath and the creak of the bed, and I lost track of time, lost track of everything except the way he felt under me, around me, the way his wings twitched and fluttered when I hit the right spot, the way he said my name like it meant something.

After, we lay there in the dark, and I could hear his breathing slow, and I should have left. I should have gotten up and gotten dressed and gotten out.

I didn't.

"You're thinking too loud," he said.

"Go to sleep."

"I can't. You're thinking too loud."

I turned my head to look at him. He was lying on his stomach, wings splayed out, face half-buried in the pillow. He looked younger like this. Softer. Less like a hero and more like a person.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Liar."

I didn't answer. I didn't know how to answer. I didn't know how to explain that I was thinking about how easy this was, how natural, how wrong. He was a hero. I was a villain. We were supposed to be enemies, supposed to hate each other, supposed to want each other dead.

Instead I wanted to stay.

"You should go," he said. But he didn't move. Didn't push me away.

"I know."

"You're not going."

"I know."

He smiled. That same smile, but softer now, tired and real. "Good."

I stayed.

---

It became a thing.

I don't know how else to describe it. It became a thing, something that happened, something we didn't talk about, something we didn't name. He'd show up at my place, or I'd show up at his, and we'd fight and fuck and fight some more, and then he'd leave or I'd leave and we'd pretend it didn't happen.

But it kept happening.

Weeks passed. Then months. And somewhere in there, I stopped pretending I didn't want him. Stopped pretending I didn't look for him in crowds, didn't listen for the sound of wings, didn't feel something twist in my chest when he smiled.

It was dangerous. Not just because he was a hero and I was a villain. Not just because the Commission would kill us both if they found out. But because I was starting to care. Starting to want things I had no business wanting.

"You're distracted," Twice said.

We were at the League's hideout, a warehouse on the edge of the city, and I was supposed to be listening to Shigaraki talk about the next phase of the plan. Instead I was thinking about Hawks. About the way he'd looked at me that morning, sleepy and soft, before he'd slipped out the window.

"I'm fine," I said.

"You're not fine. You're never fine. You're always brooding, but this is different brooding. This is like, romantic brooding."

"There's no such thing."

"There's totally such a thing. I've seen it. In movies. You're doing the face."

"What face?"

"The face! The one where you're thinking about someone and you don't want anyone to know you're thinking about someone."

I lit a cigarette. "You're imagining things."

"Am I? Because you've been weird for weeks. Disappearing at odd hours. Coming back with this look on your face like you just got laid or you just killed someone, and honestly, with you, it could be either."

"It's neither."

"Sure it is."

I didn't answer. Twice was annoying, but he wasn't wrong. I had been disappearing. I had been coming back with that look. And I had been lying to everyone, including myself, about what it meant.

Shigaraki's voice cut through my thoughts. "Dabi. Are you listening?"

"No."

"Then pay attention. This is important."

I paid attention. Or I tried to. But my mind kept drifting, kept wandering back to Hawks, to the way he'd kissed me goodbye, to the way he'd said "see you soon" like it was a promise.

It was a promise.

And I was starting to believe it.

---

The first time I almost got caught, it was my fault.

I was careless. I'd been seeing Hawks for three months by then, and I'd gotten comfortable, and comfortable was dangerous. I'd gone to his apartment without checking for tails, without taking the usual precautions, and I'd walked right into a trap.

Not a trap for me. A trap for him.

The Commission had been watching him. Not because they suspected anything, not yet, but because they were always watching. That was what they did. They watched their weapons, made sure they stayed sharp, made sure they stayed loyal.

I was on his balcony when I heard the knock.

"Shit," Hawks said.

He was in the kitchen, making coffee, wearing nothing but sweatpants and a t-shirt that was too big for him. He looked soft. Domestic. Nothing like the hero who'd been tailing me for months.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"I don't know. Stay here."

He walked to the door, and I watched him go, and I felt something cold settle in my stomach. This was it. This was how it ended. Someone had found out, someone had figured it out, and now they were here to take him away.

He opened the door.

"Hey," a voice said. "Sorry to drop by unannounced, but I was in the neighborhood and I thought I'd check in."

I couldn't see who it was. But I could see Hawks's shoulders relax, just a fraction, and I knew it wasn't a threat. Not yet.

"Miruko," he said. "What do you want?"

"Can't a friend just visit?"

"You never just visit."

"Fair point." She laughed. "I wanted to talk to you about something. Can I come in?"

Hawks hesitated. I saw it. The pause, the flicker of panic, the way he glanced back toward the balcony. I was already moving, already slipping over the railing, already disappearing into the shadows.

"Sure," he said. "Come in."

I didn't hear the rest. I was gone, flying across rooftops, heart pounding, and I didn't stop until I was home, until I was safe, until I was alone.

I sat on my couch and lit a cigarette and tried to breathe.

That was close. Too close. And it was my fault. I'd gotten careless. I'd let myself forget what we were, what this was, what it could never be.

I couldn't see him again. That was the only answer. I had to end it, had to walk away, had to forget about the way he smiled and the way he kissed and the way he said my name like it mattered.

I couldn't see him again.

He showed up at my place the next night.

"You're an idiot," he said.

"I know."

"You almost got caught."

"I know."

"You can't do that again."

"I know."

He stood in my doorway, and he looked tired, and he looked angry, and he looked like he wanted to hit me. I would have let him. I would have let him do anything, in that moment, anything to make the guilt go away.

"I can't do this," I said.

He went still. "What?"

"This. Us. Whatever this is. I can't do it."

"Why?"

"Because it's going to get us killed."

He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. Walked toward me, slow and deliberate, and I didn't move, couldn't move, could only watch him come.

"You think I don't know that?" he said. "You think I haven't thought about it? Every day, every night, every time I see you, I think about it. I think about what happens if we get caught. I think about what they'll do to you. I think about what they'll do to me."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I can't stop."

He was close now. Close enough to touch. Close enough that I could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the fear, the want.

"I've tried," he said. "I've tried to stay away. I've tried to forget about you. But I can't. You're in my head, Dabi. You're everywhere. And I don't know how to make it stop."

"You don't."

"I know."

He kissed me. Soft this time, gentle, like he was afraid I'd disappear. And I let him. I let him kiss me, let him hold me, let him pull me toward the bedroom.

We didn't talk after that. We didn't need to.

---

The thing about secrets is that they eat you alive.

I'd been keeping secrets my whole life. From my family, from the League, from myself. I was good at it. I was a master at hiding the parts of me that didn't fit, at pretending to be something I wasn't, at wearing masks so often that I forgot what my real face looked like.

But this secret was different. This secret had wings and a smile and a way of looking at me like I was worth something. This secret made me feel things I hadn't felt in years. This secret was going to destroy me.

"You're different," Shigaraki said.

We were alone, for once. The others had gone out on some mission or another, and I was supposed to be planning, supposed to be strategizing, supposed to be doing something useful. Instead I was staring at the wall and thinking about Hawks.

"Am I?" I asked.

"You're distracted. You're not paying attention. You're hiding something."

"I'm always hiding something."

"True. But this is different." He tilted his head, and I could feel his eyes on me, cold and calculating. "Who is it?"

"Who is what?"

"Don't play dumb. You're seeing someone. I can tell."

"You can't tell anything."

"I can tell that you've been disappearing. I can tell that you've been coming back with this look on your face. I can tell that you're not as focused as you used to be." He paused. "I can tell that you're in love."

"I'm not in love."

"You're something."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because he was right, and I hated that he was right, and I hated that everyone could see it, that everyone could tell, that I was wearing my heart on my sleeve like some kind of idiot.

"It's dangerous," he said. "Whatever you're doing. Whoever you're seeing. It's dangerous."

"I know."

"Then stop."

"I can't."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed, and it was the most human sound I'd ever heard him make.

"Just be careful," he said. "I can't afford to lose you."

"I know."

"Good."

He walked away, and I sat there, and I thought about Hawks, and I thought about the future, and I thought about all the ways this could go wrong.

There were so many ways.

---

The first time we said it, we were in his bed.

It was late. Or early. The kind of hour where everything feels possible and nothing feels real. He was lying next to me, wings spread out, feathers soft against my skin, and we were both pretending to sleep.

"I love you," he said.

I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't do anything except lie there and feel the words settle into my chest like stones.

"You don't have to say it back," he continued. "I just... I wanted you to know. In case something happens. In case we get caught. In case this is the last time."

"It's not the last time."

"You don't know that."

"I know."

I turned to look at him. He was watching me, eyes bright in the dark, and he looked scared. Scared and hopeful and so goddamn young. He was only twenty-three. I was twenty-five. We were children, both of us, playing at being adults in a world that didn't care if we lived or died.

"I love you too," I said.

The words felt foreign in my mouth. I hadn't said them in years. Hadn't felt them in longer. But they were true. They were the truest thing I'd said in a long time.

He smiled. That smile. The one that made me forget everything, made me forget who I was, made me forget what I was supposed to be.

"Say it again," he whispered.

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you."

He kissed me. And I kissed him back. And for a moment, just a moment, the world was perfect.

---

We got sloppy after that.

Not careless, not exactly. But sloppy. We stopped pretending we could stop. We stopped pretending it didn't matter. We started meeting in public, in crowded places where no one would look twice, and we started holding hands under tables and stealing kisses in alleyways and acting like we were normal people with normal lives.

We weren't normal. We were never going to be normal. But it was nice to pretend.

"You're staring," he said.

We were at a cafe, some hipster place on the other side of the city, and I was supposed to be reading the newspaper. Instead I was watching him drink his coffee, watching the way his fingers wrapped around the cup, watching the way his lips touched the rim.

"Am I?"

"Yes. People are going to notice."

"Let them."

"That's not funny."

"I'm not laughing."

He set down his cup and looked at me. Really looked. The way he did sometimes, like he was trying to memorize my face, like he was afraid he'd forget.

"What are we doing?" he asked.

"Drinking coffee."

"That's not what I mean."

"I know."

"So? What are we doing?"

I didn't have an answer. I never had an answer. We were doing something impossible, something stupid, something that was going to get us killed. And I couldn't stop. I couldn't walk away. I couldn't do anything except sit here and watch him drink his coffee and pretend that everything was fine.

"I don't know," I said. "But I don't want to stop."

"Me neither."

"So we don't stop."

"Okay."

He smiled. I smiled back. And for a moment, just a moment, everything was fine.

---

The first time we fought, it was about something stupid.

I don't even remember what. Something about the League, something about the Commission, something about the fact that we were on opposite sides of a war that was only going to end one way.

"You don't understand," he said.

"I understand perfectly."

"No, you don't. You think this is easy for me? You think I enjoy lying to everyone I know? You think I enjoy pretending that I'm not falling apart?"

"I think you're a hero. I think you're supposed to be the good guy. I think you're supposed to hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"Then what do you feel?"

"I don't know!"

He was pacing. Wings twitching, feathers sharp, and I could see the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself back.

"I don't know what I feel," he said. "I don't know what this is. I don't know what we're doing. I just know that I can't stop. I can't stop thinking about you, I can't stop wanting you, I can't stop..."

He trailed off. Stood there. Looked at me.

"I can't stop," he repeated.

"I know."

"Do you? Because sometimes I think you don't. Sometimes I think you're just going through the motions, that you don't actually care, that this is just... I don't know. A game."

"It's not a game."

"Then what is it?"

I stood up. Walked toward him. Grabbed his face in my hands and made him look at me.

"It's real," I said. "This is real. I don't know what it is, and I don't know where it's going, and I don't know how it ends. But it's real."

He stared at me. And then he kissed me. And I kissed him back. And the fight was over.

---

Months passed. The war got worse. The League got stronger. The heroes got desperate. And through it all, we kept meeting. Kept hiding. Kept pretending.

It was exhausting. It was terrifying. It was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

"You look tired," he said.

We were in his apartment, lying in bed, and I was staring at the ceiling. I'd been sleeping badly. Badly enough that even he noticed.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're never fine."

"I'm fine."

He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at me. That look. The one that saw through everything.

"Talk to me," he said.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"There's always something to talk about."

I didn't answer. I didn't know how. I didn't know how to tell him that I was scared. That I was scared of losing him, scared of getting caught, scared of what would happen when this all fell apart.

"I'm scared," I said.

He didn't laugh. Didn't tell me it was okay. Just lay there and looked at me and waited.

"I'm scared of what happens next," I continued. "I'm scared of the war. I'm scared of the Commission. I'm scared of the League. I'm scared of everything."

"That's a lot of scared."

"I know."

He reached out and touched my face. Gentle. Soft. Like I was something fragile, something worth protecting.

"I'm scared too," he said. "But we'll figure it out. We always do."

"Do we?"

"We have so far."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that everything would be okay, that we'd find a way, that this wasn't going to end in blood and fire.

But I knew better.

I knew how these things ended.

---

The first time I saw him in his hero costume, it was like looking at a stranger.

We were at a rally. Some public event, some show of force, and the Commission had trotted out all their top heroes. Hawks was there, standing on a stage, smiling for the cameras, and I watched him from the crowd and felt something cold settle in my stomach.

He was good at this. The smiling, the waving, the pretending. He was so good that I almost believed it. Almost believed that this was who he really was, that the man I knew was just a mask, just a lie.

But then he looked at me.

Just for a second. Just a flicker. But I saw it. The recognition. The want. The fear.

He looked away. Smiled at the cameras. Played his part.

And I stood there in the crowd and watched him and felt something break inside me.

This was never going to work. This was never going to be anything but a disaster. We were on opposite sides of a war, and one day, one of us was going to have to choose.

I just didn't know which one of us it would be.

---

He came to my place that night.

"I saw you," he said.

"I know."

"In the crowd. I saw you."

"I know."

"You shouldn't have been there."

"I know."

He was angry. I could see it in the way he held himself, the way his wings twitched, the way his eyes blazed.

"You could have been caught," he said. "You could have been recognized. You could have been killed."

"I know."

"Then why?"

"Because I wanted to see you."

He stopped. Stared at me. And I watched the anger drain out of him, replaced by something else, something softer.

"You're an idiot," he said.

"I know."

"I hate you."

"I know."

He kissed me. Hard. Desperate. Like he was trying to prove something, to himself or to me, I didn't know.

I kissed him back. And for a moment, just a moment, everything was okay.

---

The war came closer.

The League was planning something big. Something that would change everything. I didn't know the details, didn't want to know, but I knew it was coming. I could feel it in the air, in the tension, in the way everyone moved like they were waiting for something.

"You're quiet," Hawks said.

We were in his apartment. He was making dinner. I was sitting on the couch, watching him, and I couldn't stop thinking about what was coming.

"I'm always quiet."

"Quieter than usual."

I didn't answer. I didn't know how. I didn't know how to tell him that the League was planning something, that it was going to be bad, that I didn't know if I'd survive.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

"Dabi."

He said my name. Just my name. And I felt something crack inside me.

"There's something coming," I said. "Something big. I don't know what, but it's bad."

"What kind of bad?"

"The kind that gets people killed."

He set down the spatula. Walked over to the couch. Sat down next to me.

"Tell me," he said.

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he took my hand. Held it. And I let him.

"Whatever happens," he said, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

"You don't know that."

"I know."

"You can't promise that."

"I just did."

I looked at him. At his face, his eyes, his stupid perfect smile. And I felt something I hadn't felt in years.

Hope.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too."

And for a moment, just a moment, everything was okay.

---

The night before everything changed, we were together.

We didn't know it was the last night. We never knew. But we were together, and that was what mattered.

He was sleeping. Wings spread out, feathers soft, face relaxed. He looked peaceful. Happy. Like he didn't have a care in the world.

I watched him for a long time. Memorized his face. Tried to hold onto this moment, this feeling, this thing that we had.

I didn't know what was coming. I didn't know what would happen. But I knew that I loved him. I knew that he loved me. And I knew that whatever happened next, we'd face it together.

That was enough.

That had to be enough.

---

The morning came too soon.

I woke up to the sound of his alarm, and I watched him get dressed, and I watched him leave, and I didn't say goodbye.

I should have said goodbye.

I should have told him I loved him one more time.

I should have done a lot of things.

But I didn't. I just watched him go, and then I got up, and I got dressed, and I went to meet the League.

And everything changed.

---

The attack happened at noon.

I was there. I was part of it. We hit the hero agency, and it was chaos, and I was in the middle of it, and I didn't think about anything except the mission.

And then I saw him.

Hawks. In his costume. Fighting. Fighting my people. Fighting for the other side.

He saw me too.

For a moment, just a moment, we stared at each other. And I saw everything in his eyes. The love. The fear. The pain.

And then he attacked.

I dodged. Fired back. And we fought, and it was real, it was all real, and I didn't know if I was fighting him or fighting myself.

"You don't have to do this," he said.

"I do."

"You don't."

"I do."

We fought. And fought. And fought. And I could feel myself losing, feel myself slipping, feel myself falling.

And then it was over.

I was on the ground. Bleeding. And he was standing over me, and his wings were spread, and he looked like an angel, like a god, like something I didn't deserve.

"Stay down," he said.

"Make me."

He didn't. He just stood there. Looked at me. And I looked back.

"I love you," he said.

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

He turned away. Walked away. And I watched him go, and I felt something break inside me, something I didn't know was still there.

And then everything went black.

---

I woke up in a hospital.

Not a real hospital. A League hospital. The kind of place where villains went when they got hurt, where no questions were asked, where no records were kept.

Twice was there. Sitting in a chair. Looking worried.

"You're awake," he said.

"Unfortunately."

"That's the spirit."

I tried to sit up. Failed. Tried again. Failed again.

"What happened?" I asked.

"We lost. Well, we didn't win. Well, it was a mess. A lot of people got hurt. A lot of people died."

"Hawks?"

He hesitated. "He's fine. He's a hero. He's always fine."

I closed my eyes. Let out a breath. Felt something loosen in my chest.

"He's fine," I repeated.

"Yeah."

"Good."

"Is it?"

I didn't answer. I didn't know how.

---

I didn't see him for three weeks.

Three weeks of recovery. Three weeks of lying in bed and staring at the ceiling and thinking about everything that had happened. Three weeks of wondering if he was okay, if he was thinking about me, if he was waiting for me.

He wasn't waiting. He was a hero. He had a job to do.

But then he showed up.

I was at my place. The one he knew about. The one he'd been to a hundred times. And I heard a knock on the door, and I knew it was him before I even opened it.

He looked tired. More tired than I'd ever seen him. His wings were drooping, his eyes were dark, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

"Can I come in?"

I stepped aside. He walked past me. Into the apartment. Into my space. And I closed the door behind him.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"For everything. For the fight. For hurting you. For not being there."

"You were doing your job."

"I was hurting you."

"You were doing your job."

He turned to look at me. And I saw it. The pain. The guilt. The love.

"I don't know how to do this," he said. "I don't know how to be a hero and be with you. I don't know how to choose."

"Then don't choose."

"I have to."

"No, you don't."

"I do."

He was crying. I'd never seen him cry. Not once, not ever. And now he was crying, and I didn't know what to do.

So I held him.

I wrapped my arms around him and held him, and he cried into my shoulder, and I didn't say anything. I just held him. And for a moment, just a moment, everything was okay.

"I love you," he said.

"I know."

"I don't want to lose you."

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I know."

He pulled back. Looked at me. And I saw something in his eyes, something I couldn't name.

"Promise me," he said.

"Promise you what?"

"Promise me you won't leave. Promise me you'll stay. No matter what happens."

"I promise."

"You mean it?"

"I mean it."

He kissed me. And I kissed him back. And for a moment, just a moment, everything was okay.

---

The war continued.

The League got stronger. The heroes got desperate. And through it all, we kept meeting. Kept hiding. Kept pretending.

It was harder now. The fight had changed things. We'd seen each other on opposite sides, had fought each other, had hurt each other. And we couldn't pretend it didn't happen.

But we couldn't stop either.

"You're distracted," Shigaraki said.

"I'm always distracted."

"More than usual."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're never fine."

I didn't answer. I didn't know how.

"The hero," he said. "Hawks. That's who it is, isn't it?"

I didn't answer.

"It's dangerous."

"I know."

"He's using you."

"He's not."

"You don't know that."

"I know."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed.

"I won't tell anyone," he said. "But you need to be careful. If the others find out..."

"I know."

"Good."

He walked away. And I stood there. And I thought about Hawks. And I thought about the future. And I thought about all the ways this could go wrong.

There were so many ways.

---

The Commission found out.

I don't know how. I don't know who told them. But they found out, and they called Hawks in, and they gave him a choice.

"End it," they said. "Or we will."

He told me that night. Came to my place, looking broken, looking lost.

"They know," he said.

"Know what?"

"About us. About everything."

I felt something cold settle in my stomach. "How?"

"I don't know. Someone must have seen us. Someone must have figured it out."

"What did they say?"

"They said I have to end it. Or they'll end it for me."

"What does that mean?"

"It means they'll kill you. Or me. Or both."

He was shaking. I'd never seen him shake. Not like this.

"I can't," he said. "I can't end it. I can't lose you."

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I know."

I held him. And he held me. And for a moment, just a moment, everything was okay.

"We'll figure it out," I said.

"How?"

"I don't know. But we will."

He looked at me. And I saw something in his eyes, something I couldn't name.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

And for a moment, just a moment, everything was okay.

---

We ran.

It was stupid. It was reckless. It was the only thing we could do.

We packed what we could carry and we left the city and we didn't look back. We found a place in the mountains, a small cabin, far from everything. And we stayed there.

For a week, we were happy. For a week, we pretended that everything was fine. For a week, we were just two people in love.

But we couldn't hide forever.

They found us.

I don't know how. I don't know who. But they found us, and they came for us, and we fought.

We fought hard. We fought together. And for a moment, just a moment, I thought we might win.

But we didn't.

They took him. They took Hawks, and they took him away, and I was left alone, bleeding on the floor of a cabin in the mountains.

And I screamed.

I screamed until my throat was raw. I screamed until I couldn't scream anymore. And then I lay there, and I thought about him, and I thought about everything we'd had, everything we'd lost.

And I made a promise.

I promised I would find him. I promised I would save him. I promised I would never stop.

No matter what.

---

The first time I saw him after they took him, it was three months later.

I'd been searching. Every day, every night, I'd been searching. Following leads, tracking movements, trying to find where they'd taken him.

And then I found him.

He was in a Commission facility. A secret one, hidden in the mountains. And he was... different. Broken. They'd hurt him. They'd tried to break him.

But he was still alive.

I got him out. I don't know how. I don't remember most of it. Just flashes. Fire. Blood. Screaming.

And then we were free.

We were in a car, driving away, and he was in the passenger seat, and he was looking at me like he couldn't believe I was real.

"You came," he said.

"I promised."

"I didn't think..."

"I promised."

He reached out and took my hand. Held it. And I held his back.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

And for a moment, just a moment, everything was okay.

---

We didn't go back.

We didn't rejoin the League. We didn't rejoin the heroes. We just... disappeared. Found a place where no one knew us, where no one cared, where we could just be.

It wasn't easy. Nothing was easy. But we made it work.

We got a small apartment. We got jobs. We got a life. And for the first time, we were just two people. Not a hero and a villain. Not enemies. Just two people who loved each other.

"I never thought I'd have this," he said.

We were on the couch. Watching TV. His head was on my shoulder, and his wings were wrapped around us both, and I felt... peaceful.

"Have what?"

"This. Normal. Quiet."

"Me neither."

"I used to think... I used to think I'd die young. That I'd never get to have anything real."

"You have it now."

"I know." He looked up at me. Smiled. "I have you."

I kissed him. Soft. Gentle. And he kissed me back.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too."

And for a moment, just a moment, everything was okay.

---

The world didn't stop.

The war continued. Heroes and villains fought. People died. Cities burned. And through it all, we stayed hidden. We stayed safe. We stayed together.

We watched the news. We saw the battles. We saw the destruction. And we didn't say anything.

"Do you ever regret it?" he asked.

"Regret what?"

"Leaving. Not fighting."

"No."

"Really?"

"Really. I never wanted to be a hero. I never wanted to be a villain. I just wanted... this."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled.

"Me too."

We sat there. Watching the world burn. And for a moment, just a moment, everything was okay.

---

Years passed.

The war ended. The League was defeated. The heroes won. And we were still here. Still together. Still alive.

We moved to the countryside. Got a house. Got a garden. Got a dog. The kind of life that neither of us had ever imagined.

"Look at us," he said.

We were sitting on the porch. Watching the sunset. The dog was asleep at our feet, and the world was quiet.

"What about us?"

"We're... normal. We're boring. We're happy."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No." He smiled. "It's the best thing."

I took his hand. Held it. And we watched the sunset together.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too."

And for a moment, just a moment, everything was okay.

---

The end.

Not really. Not ever. But the end of this part. The end of the beginning.

We'd been through hell. We'd been through war. We'd been through everything, and we'd come out the other side.

And we were still here. Still together. Still alive.

That was enough.

That had to be enough.

---

I used to think I'd die alone.

I used to think I'd never find anyone who understood me. Who saw past the scars, past the fire, past the anger. Who loved me anyway.

But I found him. Or he found me. Or maybe we found each other.

And now I'm here. On a porch. In the countryside. With a dog and a garden and a man who loves me.

And I'm happy.

I'm actually happy.

I never thought I'd say that. I never thought I'd feel it. But I do.

I'm happy.

And it's because of him.

---

The first time I saw him, he was bleeding on my rooftop.

And I should have killed him.

But I didn't.

And that changed everything.

---

He's sleeping now. In our bed. Wings spread out, feathers soft, face relaxed. He looks peaceful. Happy. Like he doesn't have a care in the world.

I watch him for a long time. Memorize his face. Try to hold onto this moment, this feeling, this thing that we have.

I don't know what the future holds. I don't know what's coming. But I know that I love him. I know that he loves me. And I know that whatever happens next, we'll face it together.

That's enough.

That's always been enough.

---

I love you, Hawks.

I always will.