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Dabi felt good last night.
Breaking into the number 2 hero’s apartment and finding a ratty stuffed animal of his father—? Unexpected, but entertaining as all hell. Dabi tucked it under his arm, shoved a wad of stolen cash into his pocket, and walked home feeling light. Airy. It’s not often he thinks of much else than his revenge these days, but Hawks’ bed was comfortable when he took a nap there and he’s got central air, and he’s never home. Sue him for being in a good mood at someone else’s expense.
It had almost been too easy to break in. Dabi pictured Hawks living in some gated community, swarming with bodyguards armed to the teeth and every security system under the sun. He hadn’t pictured a small, one bedroom apartment with a janky ass lock and not a new belonging to speak of. All of his clothes are tattered and well worn, his bed sheets are scratchy under the pile of blankets, and that little Endeavour plushie has definitely seen better days.
In any case, Dabi went to bed after melting the stupid thing, feeling warm and almost giddy with adrenaline and dopamine alike.
He wakes up with a sore throat— the most sore it’s been since he literally burned alive. Dabi coughs, something scratching his raw esophagus with the motion. He groans, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, and sits up.
The movement stirs something in him. Next thing Dabi knows, he’s dry heaving over his garbage bin, something clawing its way out of his throat—
Petals. Bright fucking yellow and stained with blood. Little bits of green root and stem.
Dabi laughs, becuase how the fuck? And then he coughs up the head of a sunflower and squints down at the red-yellow centre.
Fuck. It looks like a sharp smile and an easy laugh that sounds like fucking spring incarnate. It looks like sprawling wings and capable hands and a certain fucking hero named Hawks.
Fuck.
Dabi shoves the bin back down on the ground, listening to it spin on its round edge for a moment before settling to the ground. He covers his face in his hands, smacks the side of his temple, and exclaims angrily into his bedroom.
Hanahaki disease.
No fucking way did Dabi get Hanahaki disease— because of a hero, no less. If Hawks is trying to kill him, he sure as hell is succeeding.
“God fucking damnit!” Dabi half-shouts, voice garbled and rasped to shit but still dripping in venom. A knock on the wall to his left followed by a,
“Shut your mouth, it’s too early for shouting!” From Toga. It’s 2 in the afternoon. Dabi half-growls half sobs into the air, fist twisting into his sheets in helpless frustration— like he can strangle his love before it takes root. The noise and movement makes what’s presumably a leaf lodge unpleasantly at his tonsil, tasting like dirt and phlegm and blood and— fuck. Who knew stupid feelings were this disgusting?
Dabi knew. God, how could he let it get this bad? He’d been good— not looking, not touching, not even daring to want more than what he’s destined for. Because Dabi is destined to crash and burn like a shooting star, and Hawks is all steely-eyed stability.
He eyes the melting carcass of his Father (the stuffed animal version, unfortunately,) and huffs, sputtering as the leaf retreats down his throat and he chokes.
And because Hawks has impeccable timing, he chooses that precise moment to storm in, expression dark and arms crossing when he sees Dabi’s state, and the wrecked stolen stuffed animal.
“What’s going on, Birdbrain?” Dabi rasps from behind his hands. Don’t look in the trash bin. Don’t look in the trash bin.
Hawks sighs, “Why the fuck did you break into my apartment?” he asks.
Dabi laughs, bitter and pissed off. He chokes on the sound, a yellow petal sticking to his lips.
“Cuz I wanted to. Sorry ‘bout your little stuffie.”
“I don’t care about that— you broke my trust.”
Dabi swipes his hands down his face, taking the petal with him so it remains out of sight.
“What fuckin’ trust?”
Hawks’ brows are drawn together, wings flared in high alert. Feathers dislodge and scoop up the stuffie, depositing it on Dabi’s bed in all its half-melted glory.
“Well I used to be able to say I trust you not to break into my house and burn my things. Not so much anymore.”
“It’s just a dumb stuffie.”
“That’s not the point—“ Hawks sounds mad. Despite himself, Dabi can feel a stem crawling up his throat.
“It was mine and you took it.”
Dabi scoffs, because if he can’t have Hawks all he knows how to do is wreck him— actually, he’d probably do that even if he did have him.
“You seem stressed. Big night?”
“The usual,” Hawks sneers the habitual small talk response like poison on his tongue. Dabi shudders— he knows they’re just in his lungs, but he swears he can feel a flower sprouting in between the joints of his spine.
“I was hoping to come home this morning and rest. But that’s just too much to ask, isn’t it?”
Dabi doesn’t feel so good about breaking into his apartment anymore. He grumbles and reaches for his coat, left haphazardly on the dresser. Dabi shoves his hand into the pocket and holds out the wad of cash he’d stolen.
Hawks’ brows raise and he snatches it.
“Jesus— what the fuck is wrong with you?” He asks. If only he knew. Dabi stands, runs a hand through his own hair and then tugs hard, as if to rip the emotions out of his own brain.
Thats it— they’re all in his brain. If he can get rid of them, he can get rid of the disease.
But then Hawks is fisting at Dabi’s shirt, raising a hand like he wants to punch him.
Dabi meets his eye and Hawks is panting. He looks tired around the eyes, sullen and sunken in. He’s stupid pretty.
Dabi is going to kill him.
Hawks lowers his fist.
“This isn’t going to work if we can’t trust each other.”
He’s said it a million times— Dabi wonders why he thinks that this time will be the time Dabi actually listens.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dabi dismisses. Hawks is still grabbing him by the shirt, “Pretty stupid to bank your hero career on trusting a villain, if you ask me. But hey, it’s your funeral, so—“
“Stop talking.”
Dabi meets Hawks’ eye. The stare comes with the thick kind of energy he can feel pressing on his chest, constricting his spore-riddled lungs. Dabi’s breaths are coming out in wheezes, and he prays to whatever god there is that there isn’t any blood on his mouth.
Hawks has intense eyes that never quite match his cheery persona. They give him away— at least, to Dabi. But he’s always been especially sensitive to disapproval.
The thing is, Hawks isn’t looking at him like he wants to murder him— not after Dabi meets his stare. He softens around the edges, brows still knit, searching.
Dabi thinks he might find what he’s looking for— has to have— because on the next i stand Hawks is crashing their lips together.
It’s not romantic. Dabi’s throat tightens and he’s pretty sure it’s ripped to shreds. The petals sharpen when Hawks bites his lower lip, whining into his mouth. They dig deeper when he pulls their bodies together, heat on heat. The wind is practically torn from his lungs when Hawks pushes him back against the bed.
It’s not romantic. It's a needy, repressed, overwhelming desire. Dabi can barely keep up, his ribs shaking ragged with every movement. He knows he wants this, and he knows it’s going to kill him, but if he’s going to die from feelings already why not indulge in the good ones?
Hawks doesn’t love him when he slides his tongue against Dabi’s lower lip, nor when it slips in, or when he caresses the sides of Dabi’s face. Hawks doesn’t love him.
The thought wouldn’t twist at his insides so much if it wasn’t literally twisting his insides.
“Is— is this okay?” Hawks says, barely separated from Dabi’s lips, panting into his mouth. Dabi swallows the petals that threaten to escape and nods, “Yeah— fuck, birdie, it’s okay.”
He can feel the shape of Hawks’ stupid charming grin against his lips,
“Good,” he says with a quick, almost domestic peck before trailing a flurry of them down Dabi’s neck, achingly gentle on scarred skin, kissing the seam where it meets healthy flesh.
With the help of a few feathers, Hawks lifts Dabi’s shirt over his head, humming happily at the sight before latching his mouth around a pierced nipple. Dabi groans, broken and wanton, hips bucking up off the bed to grind on Hawks, wherever he can reach. Hawks responds by getting his teeth around the metal barbell, rolling it around. If Dabi could cry, he might have been right about now.
And then Hawks’ hand is finding his sweatpants, looking up at him for approval when fingertips slide under the waistband. Maybe it’s the hormones that come with being near death, but Dabi is painfully hard already. How is he supposed to contain himself? Apparently, he’s in love with Hawks.
Hawks, whose face is flushed, hair mussed, eyes bleary from lack of sleep. Hawks who palms Dabi through his boxers, snickering at his eagerness. Hawks who touches him anyways with those rough, calloused hands that have done so much dirty work and still somehow manage to look dainty.
“Ha—awks,” Dabi chokes, voice low in a warning. He pointedly ignores the budding flowers crawling up his throat, the sharp jut of seeds with every inhale.
“What?” Hawks says with a lop-sided grin that way more fond than it should be. His hand fits into Dabi’s underwear, but his fingers part just before reaching his length, palm residing on the patch of white hair just above.
“You— you’re a fuckin’ tease is what,” Dabi’s tone is much more desperate than intended— mainly because he’s feeling a creeping sort of dread. He’s getting this dangerous idea that having Hawks like this might cure him.
Because it’ll get whatever weird feelings he has out of his system for good. Yeah. That’s it.
Hawks hums, playfully condescending. He ghosts his hand over the topside of Dabi’s aching cock, petting him leisurely like a fucking dog.
“Die,” Dabi grits out, Hawks grins,
“That your way of saying you like me?”
“No. I hate you.”
“Well then I guess I’ll just—“
“Oh my god shut up,” Dabi grumbles, head lulling back. He’s still in a mostly seated position, Hawks hovering over him like some predator. He won’t let himself be that vulnerable— won’t admit that he likes Hawks, let alone loves him.
Hawks gets a hand on him instantly at the command, mouthing at the hinge of his jaw, whimpering like he’s the one getting a hand job. Dabi curses and works his hands through Hawks’ hair, and instead of tugging like he would on himself he just strokes the soft blond strands like he’s something precious and all the gentle anger makes Dabi’s insides feel like cotton candy.
The more he thinks about it, the less he feels like Hawks is the seasoned playboy that the media makes him out to be. His hand feels fucking amazing, but he’s clumsy and a little awkward and sometimes grips him much too tight, making the friction burn instead of feeling good. That, and he’s hiding his face in the crook of Dabi’s neck, face beat red,
“You— are those piercings?” Hawks asks breathlessly, the pads of his fingers trailing up the underside of his shaft over each little lined stud. He shivers. Dabi scars bleed at the seams.
“What— you scared, pretty bird? Ever been split open on a pierced cock?”
The little squeak-chirp sound Hawks makes confirms Dabi’s suspicion; he’s never taken a cock at all. He’s probably a virgin. Dabi’s dick twitches and vines coil in his intestines.
“Dabi— I—“ Hawks does sound genuinely scared, though, so Dabi interrupts him,
“Not this time— hah— not yet. Jus’ don’t stop,” This time. Here Dabi is, bursting at the seams with love for this man who clearly does not love him back, and he’s promising a next time.
Dabi laughs at himself, and Hawks joins in, and the lightness of laughing with someone he loves is just what Dabi needs to spill into his hand.
The laugh turns to a cough. The cough turns to a wretch. Dabi swipes at the blood on his face and grabs the garbage bin from the side of the beck to hack into, hoping he was quick enough that Hawks didn’t see the flowers. Hoping he doesn’t ask.
It’s kind of an unreasonable expectation, though, because if Hawks threw up after kissing Dabi, Dabi thinks he might die.
“Woah, fuck,” Hawks gasps, clearly out of it and barely processing what’s happening.
“Not you,” Dabi manages to say between regurgitating mouthfuls of bloodied florals, “Hung—“ he gags, “hungover. Fuck.”
Hawks doesn’t look into the bin, just reaches over to rub Dabi’s back. Dabi grimaces into the bin when he doesn’t feel like vomiting anymore, cynically thankful that at least those monstrous petals aren’t lodged in his throat anymore. He doesn’t feel any better, though— didn’t even get to enjoy the post-orgasm glow.
“Sorry,” Dabi says, wiping his mouth of blood and setting the bin aside, “I’m fucking gross. I’m sorry.”
Hawks shakes his head, crawling into his lap and planting himself there. He’s still hard— the sicko.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, nosing at the side of his face “You’re okay. M’sorry you’re hung over. And I’m sorry for yelling at you, but that was a dick move. That stupid plushie was important to me.”
Guilt returns the flowers' discomforting chokehold.
“Sorry,” Dabi whispers. He’s not good at apologizing, but thankfully Hawks doesn’t expect much of him.
He doesn’t even expect Dabi to help him with his own raging boner, evidently. He just kisses Dabi’s face quick, grabs what’s left of the plushie, and slips out of his window, feathers shutting it behind him. Dabi watches him go, hands twitching to reach out and pull him right back, but Hawks is quick. Too quick for someone like Dabi to be holding back.
It’s hard to be confronted with the physical proof that once again, Dabi has failed. He couldn’t be withdrawn, armoured, fucking intelligent enough to not let someone like Hawks in. Not only is Hawks under his skin, but he’s wrapped around his organs, churning and squeezing and quite literally planting himself deep inside Dabi.
Something in his blood allowed this disease to take him, and that’s proof that Dabi is capable of feeling something other than inferno rage, and Dabi fucking hates that. Hates that this will kill him, before his lineage does, Hates that he’ll die hoping for the future instead of doting on the past.
Left alone in his balmy bedroom with sticky underwear, Dabi almost wants to take himself to an early grave, just so at least it will be his choice.
But then, Dabi is stuck; because that would mean rejecting Hawks, and he can’t do that. Not when Hawks has the charismatic image of a sex god but his hand was so unsure and shaky around Dabi’s pierced cock.
Another knock on the wall, this time the one on his right.
“Next time wear a gag, asshole!” Shigaraki calls from the other side. Dabi curls in on himself and doesn’t reply, just hugs his knees to his chest and sways back and forth, soothing the wanting, hungry kid in him. Keeping the florals at bay.
He has very little success. A week later, at his regular meeting with Hawks at the warehouse, it happens again.
Lips. Teeth. Tongue. Dabi is afraid that sucking dick might kill him, so he returns the favour giving Hawks a handjob. Hawks, ever-curious, sinks to his knees and looks up at Dabi with those pretty, deadly eyes and peels his pants and underwear away, taking him into his mouth.
Hawks is quick to adapt. Dabi only has to tell him once to not use his teeth, to hollow his cheeks and use his tongue. In mere minutes Hawks is a pro, and Dabi feels like the very essence of his soul is being drained away.
His body is hot. That often happens like this, but it’s even worse now that he’s aware that he’s being sucked off by the man he loves so badly it’s killing him. Dabi tenses, heart racing and head going blank.
White flashes behind his eyes as he comes on Hawks’ cheek. Hawks swipes some on his finger and pops the digit into his mouth, humming in curiosity and trying to lick some a little ways off the corner of his mouth. Dabi watches with a hole in his chest that’s slowly being replaced by vine.
“Cool,” Hawks says, like he just won gold ribbon at the fucking science fair, standing up again, “Same time next week?”
Goddamnit. Dabi can’t resist that smile.
So next week, it happens again. Plans devolve into heated eye contact, and then subtle touching, and then bickering, and just before they kill each other they decide to instead have the most gentle, borderline romantic sex.
Dabi thought this would kill his feelings for Hawks— that he’d get it out of his system and the flowers would disappear as quick as they came. He’s had no such luck.
But, the flowers do seem to stay at bay for a while.
That is until tonight.
Hawks had come to his apartment outside of their meeting schedule, sheepishly presenting a condom and a packet of lube. Who’s Dabi to turn down an offer like that?
So here he is, Hawks laying back on his bed with his legs all spread, two fingers knuckle deep, working him open while whispering to him these little encouragements;
“God, you feel so good— so warm, so perfect. Smooth and soft all over— you’re too good for me, baby,”
He knows what Hawks will do before he does it;
Whine and shy away, turn into his pillow, dick throbbing and face turning an enticing shade of deep pink.
Dabi grins and kisses his tears away,
“Don’t cry, hey,” he presses little kisses all over Hawks’ face because he can— because Hawks won’t stop him now that he almost has what he wants.
“I’ve got you. Just lay back and look pretty for me, okay?”
Hawks meets his eye, those intense yellow irises burning into him. Dabi swallows thickly, feeling each petal scraped against his ragged throat. It’s been almost a month, and Dabi doesn’t know how long he has, so he’ll savour that look.
Dabi crooks his fingers, looking for that small bundle of nerves, and when he finds it and is rewarded with Hawks arching off the bed, eyes rolling and pretty tongue lolling out as he pants and moans.
“There we go,” Dabi strains, hitting that spot over and over, taking a hand to Hawks’s leaking cock and giving him a few mercy strokes. That’s all it takes for the hero to come on his fingers.
Dabi grins. Hawks pants, looking down at the mess on his stomach. He looks at Dabi, skin glowing with endorphins.
“Fuck me,” Hawks breaths.
Dabi’s lungs practically concave.
“Yeah,” he forces out, “I—“ a cough, “I can do that”
Hawks reached for the condom, ripping it open and holding it between his index finger and thumb for a moment, tilting his head like he has no idea what to do with it and just brought it because he’s heard the name before.
Dabi barks out a teasing laugh, “You can figure it out, birdbrain,” he says. He wonders how much education Hawks actually has.
Evidently, not much, because Hawks finds the rolls of the condom and unfurls it, and then works it over Dabi’s cock in an agonizingly slow manner, frowning when the sticky latex doesn’t want to slide on.
“Dude,” Dabi says, affectionately annoyed and reaching into his nightstand for another. Dabi demonstrates the action of rolling on a condom matter-of-factly, laughing just a little too fondly when Hawks just watches with an inquisitive little gleam in his eye.
Dabi kisses him, just because he really wants to. Hikes his legs up until they can loop over his shoulders and presses him in half into the mattress.
“You’re clueless, you know that?” Dabi whispers to his lips, “Such a weirdo. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He probably shouldn’t be kissing Hawks like he loves him, but fuck, Dabi loves him. So he does.
Hawks doesn’t seem to mind, when Dabi’s dick is pressing against his rim, piercing catching. He whines into Dabi’s mouth, hands coming up to hold onto his shoulders and thighs tensing around his torso.
Dabi can feel the flowers rising in his throat, but he doesn’t care. In fact, he hopes he dies after this— that Hawks will watch it happen and feel guilty for being so goddamn lovable.
Because he likes to torture himself, Dabi rubs against Hawks rim like that, slow and teasing, laugh coming out as more of a wheeze when Hawks preens for him. His hips buck up, eyes glazing over with tears.
“What, you want something?” Dabi teases. Hawks groans, nails digging into Dabi’s shoulders, and stares pointedly up at him. Yeah, Dabi will always be weak to those eyes.
He shuts his eyes and presses in slow, keeping his breathing as steady as possible when Hawks is a vice-grip around him, hot, slick with lube and sucking him in. He groans, low and ragged, opening his eyes just in time to see Hawks’ delayed reaction.
“Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?” Dabi remarks. He feels especially talkative tonight— maybe it's because he’s half-convinced it’s his last,
“Pretty bird. Keep makin’ noises like that and—“
Dabi coughs, leaning away. He curses when he sees a couple of yellow petals land on his bedsheets.
Hawks doesn’t seem to notice, though, just gets this almost possessed, bordering predatory look and flips them.
Dabi yelps, coughing and sputtering into his hand, and before he even has time to adjust Hawks is lowering down on him, chin hooked over his shoulder.
Sighing and moaning in pleasure, Dabi thinks he likes this position a lot more. Hawks has strong legs, and isn’t dying of hanahaki, so it’s probably for the best that he does most of the work.
“So good,” Dabi whispers, half delirious when Hawks sinks down the whole way, thighs meeting thighs. He strokes his hip and the side of his leg, head lolling backwards.
Hawks whines, gets comfortable, and then sets his pace. It’s quick— so much so that Dabi is already reeling with overstimulation. The world around him feels like too much. All he can focus on is Hawks, and the sprouts in his lungs, and Hawks Hawks Hawks.
Dabi’s hands dig into the meat of his thighs. Hawks pulls his hair. Dabi tries to thrust up to meet his movements, but it’s no use— he thinks Hawks is okay with that, though, he seems to be feeling pretty good.
So Dabi’s hands start to wander. His chest, his arms, his legs, his face. He touches Hawks all over, gentle and reverent and unapologetically whipped . If Hawks is disgusted by the display of affection, he certainly doesn’t show it.
But Dabi is coughing again, petals and vines working their way out of his mouth. Hawks is leaning over his shoulder, so Dabi helps the process along all the while moaning and getting ridden like a professional by the guy who didn’t know how to put a condom on.
One of the stems, though, gets caught in his throat. Dabi coughs, hand tightening where it’s found its place again on Hawks’ hip. He’s choking. He can’t breath and Hawks feels so fucking good and—
“You— okay?” Hawks asks, voice slurred with pleasure.
Dabi laughs, punchy and garbled, “Best I— I’ve ever felt,” he strains, but his voice is barely a croak and there’s a fucking green stem in his throat.
Hawks slows, seating on him fully. Dabi would whine if his throat could open around the sound. Hawks just pulls back, eyes flicking over him with surprise, and then confusion, and then concern.
Dabi turns his head to the side, ripping the root from his tonsils and tossing it to the garbage bin. He misses.
“What— what the fuck?” Hawks says between airy pants. That look in his eyes—
“S’okay, s’okay, pretty bird,” Dabi’s voice is a small plea, “don’t stop— please don’t stop,” he begs, hating how hoarse and pathetic he sounds. Hawks takes a shaky breath, peering over the edge of the bed into the garbage bin— fuck.
“Dabi,” he breathes, “Jesus Christ— you’re not okay—“
Dabi’s chest tightens with the sting of rejection because no. If Hawks loved him, he’d ride him and let him die happy. If Hawks loved him he’d say something— wouldn’t just be using him. This is all wrong. Dabi thought this would fix him or keep this at bay or something, but he just feels like he’s lost.
His throat is too sore to speak, so he’s helpless to do anything but stare up at Hawks, waiting for— what?
To be taken care of? Dabi learned a long time ago that the only person he has is himself. How can he expect Hawks to do anything about this problem when could have stopped it a long time ago if he’d been a little bit less of a fucking failure.
Dabi feels the flower slithering up his throat. He doesn't rip it out, doesn’t cough it up. It’s different— sturdy and firmly rooted. The staples on his cheeks split open with the volume of it, leaves and vines spilling from his face. Dabi watches Hawks’ beautiful, flushed face go pale and contort into one of horror.
Sunflowers are not at all fitting with Dabi’s aesthetic, he thinks distantly. There’s no flower he’d hate more to be sprouting from his intestines. But here one is anyway, glistening with saliva and blood, forcing Hawks to confront it.
Dabi had always secretly hoped Hawks would look into the garbage bin, or comment on his cough, or find the stack of bloody tissues in his ensuite bathroom. It never happened.
Now, Hawks is looking down at him with an unreadable expression, watching Dabi suffocate on a mouthful of flowers in a clinical sort of assessment, formulating his rescue plan. Dabi can think of a pretty good one, but he can’t exactly voice it.
“I need you to breathe through your nose,” Hawks says, low and stern, any traces of arousal disappeared from his demeanour. Dabi does as he’s told and ignores the festering mess he’s currently inhaling.
“Okay— okay, fuck, is— is it me?” Hawks asks, eyes glossing over. He’s not asking because he loves Dabi, he’s asking because he doesn’t. Because that’s the worst case scenario. Dabi manages a short nod.
Hawks makes a noise that’s somewhere between a sob and a moan, burying his face in the crook of Dabi’s neck like he did that very first night.
“You’re so stupid,” Hawks whispers, lips ghosting along his scarred ear, “I love you— stupid fucking idiot.”
Dabi, in his current state, can’t help but laugh, even as it makes him cough airlessly and choke. Hawks shushes him, reminds him to breath through his nose, and shakes his head, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
Hawks takes a shaky breath. He raises his hips and Dabi thinks he might leave, for a second, but before he can dig his nails in deeper Hawks just slams back down on him. Dabi’s eyes roll into the back of his head, the lightheadedness heightening the sensation.
Stupid dying. Thank god Hawks is at least giving him this.
“I love you,” Hawks gasps with the next rock of his hips, tenderly wiping the blood from Dabi’s cheeks and kissing all the skin that has yet to take root in flower.
He’s good at saying it like he means it, Dabi thinks. But the quicker he goes, the more he says Dabi’s name— fuck.
Hawks might actually mean it.
The thought sends a jolt of arousal through him, and it only takes a few more rolls of Hawks’ hips for Dabi to spill inside of him, barely breathing through his nose, but then Hawks says it again,
“I— I fucking love you,”
Dabi feels it. His hand works at Hawks cock until he’s coming, too, sobbing and kissing him all over.
“I love you, I love you”, Hawks mutters into his skin.
The petals work their way out of Dabi’s body, their roots loose and their bodies slithering away like they’re real creatures. They’re just plants, though— vicious ones, but plants.
Hawks watches in awe and horror alike, a finger on Dabi’s pulse, still seated on him.
When Dabi can breathe from his mouth again, he starts coughing up seeds. Hawks fetches the garbage bin for him, rubs his back and cards hands through his hair as Dabi spits out sunflower seed after sunflower seed.
And then, most of it is over.
Most.
Believing it for one life-saving second was nice and all, but Dabi won’t be convinced that easy. He frowns up at Hawks, still not talking.
Hawks rolls his eyes,
“Jesus— what’s it gonna take for you to believe me?” He asks.
Dabi huffs,
“Kill Best Jeanist,” he deadpans.
Business, as usual.