The stadium was in an uproar.

It wasn't an exaggeration to say some of the onlookers hadn't stopped screaming since they started counting down the top one hundred heroes to make the ranking.

It was the kind of shrill commotion that would mellow out into a buzzing tinnitus once the show was over.

The flashing lights were enough to make even the most sure-footed pro lose their balance and feel the world start to spin. There was also the near maddening discomfort that came with knowing that every inch of your person was being broadcasted to the world at large.

It was the annual Hero Billboard Chart Announcement Ceremony, and Hawks was taking it all in; the good, the bad, and the ugly alike.

It wasn't like he had much of a choice, being forced to participate.

His gaze flips between members of the audience, from the cute kids that were staring up at him in awe, to the sweaty superfans who looked ready to rip him to shreds if it meant they could keep a feather to themselves.

It was a stroke to his ego, and at the same time, made him tremendously queasy.

It was the first year that had them all standing up on stage like this. If he were still in his seat, he'd at least be able to get a few z's in. Instead, the only thing he has any power over right now is shifting the pressure from one foot to the other. Maybe he'd take the opportunity to snark off Endeavour to his right.

"Sooooo," he drawls lazily, "how's it feel to finally take the top?"

The new number one shoots him a look that promises he'd turn the shorter man to roast chicken, given another word.

Hawks shrugs back and zips his lip, nonplussed.

Endeavour didn't look all too pleased, not that he ever did, full stop.

Such a victory obviously came with a bitter aftertaste, having to now replace All Might and all, but even Hawks has to wonder; how could his former hero still look so sour, standing where he was?

Meh, that was between him and his therapist.

Hawks snubs the thought, knowing full well that Endeavour was in no way the type to confide the inner machinations of his mind to anyone, let alone seek therapy. The two of them were similar that way – though, Hawks could at least pretend to be a socially-competent, functioning member of society.

The announcer had narrowed the rankings down to the top ten, finally.

Not everyone could make it unfortunately, but she quickly breezes past that. Gears shift as she begins going down the order, asking each hero in the line-up to share their two cents. Inspiring words for the masses and all that jazz.

Hawks rolls his eyes.

At least they were nearing the end to this vapid showboating.

He genuinely thought he'd make it, suffer through the saccharine shtick they all put on and get on with his day. That got harder to do with each "I don't do it for the fame" and "being a hero is my duty." Kamui Woods, Crust, even Mirko, all had the same three lines on repeat.

"And you Edgeshot, you were fourth in the approval ratings?" The announcer questions the extremely serious hero to Hawks' left, only to get another extremely sappy, straight-laced response.

"I'm not concerned with such numbers," the ninja hero announces, sickeningly sincere. "I'm grateful for the support I've received."

His eye twitches.

Hawks feels his impulse control slipping away from underneath him, fingers now itching to steal the mic off the reporter and call them all out.

"But I don't do this for the notoriety–"

He's cut off, rather harshly, by the announcer gasping into the mic.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I apologise for the interruption, but I'm being told that one of the top ten – who was previously believed to be indisposed – has just entered the stadium!"

Hawks goes rigid at the thought.

Best Jeanist was still in recovery from his fight with All For One, and as such, couldn't make it to the event. He was a tough bastard, losing a lung in the process. For his efforts, the man had snagged number one approval rating that year, and number four on the overall leaderboard.

Which only left…

"Introducing our new Number 3! She's taken a step out of the spotlight these last few months, but still shines bright in the hearts of all her adoring fans!"

He feels his breathing begin to stutter. His eyes are glued to the entrance, where he watches an entourage begin to clear the walkway.

He didn't have time to steel himself for this.

"Give a round of applause for our favourite wind hero!" The announcer waves an arm, "Mistress of the skies, Valkyrie!"

Hawks' thoughts are cut off by the revived boom of cheering, so loud it makes him flinch.

And then, in nearly the same instant, the world goes silent. But, that isn't right? He can still see the crowd of excited faces.

He watches a boy mouth an 'I love you!,' sees a teenage girl begin to waffle through her home-made posters, searching for the one with your name on it. He can physically see the noise in the stadium, but it's all been replaced by the thrumming of his own heartbeat. The sound of nervous swallowing.

You glide through the crowd, beaming.

It had been some time since he saw you like this, the latest edition of your hero costume immaculate and glinting off golden light. Your helmet obscures the top half of your face, tresses of hair pulled back to rest between two metallic wings of your own: your famed support items.

As always, the sight of you lived up to your name. You looked like a holy, winged knight – equally regal and terrifying.

Your weapon of choice is missing from your side – likely because the seven-foot spear in question was frightening enough to scare grown men silly. Hawks feels some sense of indignation at the thought of them convincing you to leave it behind for the sake of 'appearances,' knowing full well you use it more as a walking stick anyway.

Two members of staff begin escorting you up the stairs, yet they may as well have been invisible as you move towards the line-up with an unmatched sense of grace, warmly greeting heroes who cross your path.

You easily slot yourself in between himself and Edgeshot, as he watches you softly touch the man on the arm, lips quirked into an apologetic smile.

The pink hue making its way up the side of his face makes it clear he had no problem being interrupted mid-interview, if it was you doing the interrupting.

The announcer giddily makes her way over to you.

"We're delighted you could join us today! This marks the first time you've attended a public event since being on leave for up to three months, recovering from your fight with the hero-killer, Stain."

Your expression grows solemn at her words.

She holds the mic up to you.

"What words would you like to share with the world, now that you've returned and claimed the Number 3 spot?"

The crowd holds its breath in tandem with your weighty pause.

The truth is that you had undergone a recovery period since that titular fight. But one month had slipped into two, then three. You were still 'officially' on a hiatus, when you didn't need to be.

Hardly anyone knows about why exactly you'd disappeared for so long, long since getting better. As such, rumours had run rife – anything and everything from a new relationship that had taken up all your time, to a secret lovechild, to suspicions of you having joined the League of Villains.

Suffice it to say, it did not bear well for your approval rating.

A part of Hawks genuinely believes it was the very reason you weren't standing in his place right now. Or even to his right. In place of a man who'd never be satisfied, you'd take the place of Number 1 in stride.

"To the people of Japan..." your voice echoes. It's a sure, confident thing, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. You always had it in you to do that.

Hawks can see people pushing others, leaning over the barricade, as if they could inch close enough to be the first to hear you spill your secret. You huff a breath of air and he grins when he sees the annoyed line of tension in your jaw.

"My reasons for leaving are my own. But know that I have spent my time away bettering myself," you speak, so even and considered it leaves no room for argument.

Hawks can imagine you lifting your weapon above you, gold light arching off the stage lamps.

"Until I no longer have the strength to lift it, please know my blade is yours, always. Ventus semper tibi secundus sit."

May the wind always be on your side.

The audience's response is pandemonium, and even he has to admit you'd outdone yourself – masterfully dodging the question in a way that left no one unsatisfied.

You pawn the mic off and step back into place, sparing him no attention whatsoever.

Your absence had haunted him all night, but he'd done his best to ignore it – just like you were ignoring him now.

Fair enough. It wasn't like you two had left things on the best note.

Despite the fact, he can't help but long for you to turn his way. To acknowledge him, to whisper a soft hello and brush your knuckles against his. Anything. He feels a vindicated rush come over him when he sees the way you stiffen at his side, obviously feeling the heavy weight of his stare.

He's all the more determined when the announcer makes her way to him. He had let far too many people have their 'moment' today, and he was stood, more than ready to outshine them all.

He'd make you face him, one way or another.


The rest of the event went as well as one would expect.

Hawks had made a scene that near threatened the vows each hero on stage had made to respect and protect all life, given that most of them were more than ready to throttle the man into an early grave.

Anything to get him to just stop talking.

He'd derailed the focus onto approval ratings being the only thing that mattered, cockily going on about the importance of people needing a new symbol – yet the jury was still out on that.

Endeavour was the last to speak, awkwardly having to follow up on the winged hero's depreciative remarks.

In the years it'd taken for you to climb to such heights, you'd gotten to know a few of your peers quite well, yet you'd hardly ever exchanged more than a few perfunctory words with the new top hero.

That wasn't enough to discourage you from giving his arm a soft pat, whispering a sincere 'good luck' once things began wrapping up.

Your previous experiences with the flame hero told you he'd stay stoic and silent, even when being wished well, so you don't bother waiting around before you retreat to the stadium's backstage quarters. It was presently reserved for the top heroes to have a minute of peace – the soundproofing was an honest-to-god relief.

One way or another, you had run into Kamui Woods, greeting the wood hero for the first time.

He was relatively new, from your understanding, and you'd be lying if you said the sincerity in his stance wasn't an endearing thing. He still seemed so unsure of his place among the greats. Popularity was always an unpredictable, fickle thing, but you could see it was well-earned in his case.

"Mr. Woods?" you begin asking him sweetly. "Would it be any trouble if I held onto you as we walked? I'm afraid I don't do so well at navigating cramped spaces."

Poor Kamui seemed to choke at that, judging by the sound of his stuttering. "I'm t-terribly sorry, Miss Valkyrie. It completely slipped my mind– um… your condition, that is…"

You laugh politely, smiling to show you aren't offended in the slightest. You gently pry off your helmet, careful not to catch any hair and undo your stylist's hard work.

Your eyes, as always, are closed to the world around you.

"Please don't fret. I much prefer it that way. Means you see me the same as any other hero," you grin. You use your finger to swirl a small vortex of wind, no bigger than a thimble.

"My quirk allows me to control the wind, as you know. But I've worked quite hard to extend that ability. The pressure that air creates around me has become something I can take subconscious stock of. I can feel where it reaches, and where it doesn't. It's a bit like seeing, except I don't use my eyes… so I suppose it's not much like seeing after all."

You finish with a sheepish look in his direction, Kamui seeming all the more awed by the explanation.

You don't always go out of your way to detail your lack of sight to others – especially those who act as if you're faking it, based on how well you fight.

Still, the new hero seemed like the respectful sort. Seeing as the two of you were so closely ranked, and would likely be meeting again in the future, it made sense to get to know him better too.

"That's amazing…" He eventually mutters. "To think you'd be able to shape your quirk to supplement such a crucial need."

That draws another laugh from you.

"Why, thank you. I hope to be so good at it someday that I can 'feel' at a farther distance than the average person can 'see' with their eyes alone."

"I have every faith you will, Miss," Kamui's voice is full of steeled encouragement as he hesitantly reaches out to guide your hand, wrapping it around his muscled forearm.

You answer more of his questions as you two walk side-by-side, greeted by other heroes who join you.

It seemed like a few like-minded individuals were keen on keeping the party spirit going, arranging an after-party in one of the stadium's lavish backrooms.

Promises were made of cheap food and expensive drinks, which was temptation enough.

You'd long since been privy to the importance of networking where you could, and how it didn't have to be such a formal process if you talked to people you genuinely liked.

As such, you take full advantage of the opportunity to catch up with some of the others.

"Rumi!" you greet Mirko with a shining grin, registering the unique pace she sets as she thumps her foot impatiently, likely waiting for the line at the bar to speed up. That stops when she spots you, abandoning her place without a second thought.

You laugh as she cracks her forehead against yours, engulfing you in a hug. The rabbit hero is as boisterous as she always was.

She shifts in place so she can hang a heavy, muscled arm across your shoulders.

"Val, it's been too loooong," her voice is woeful, even though you'd just gone to get your nails done a few weeks ago. "We need to go out for drinks. I seem to remember you saying the next one was on you. And none of those prissy, exclusive dumps our agencies force us to go to. Give me the realest, rankest, back-alley dive bar we can find – make a real night of it."

"Sure, Tiger Bunny," your fond smile turns wry. "Soon as you pay me back for the last three tabs I spotted."

"Me letting you call me that should be payment enough," she pouts, leaning more of her weight into you.

Edgeshot makes his way over with multiple glass flutes in hand – much to Mirko's glee. Confusion mars his one visible brow, having overhead your conversation. "Um, shouldn't the two of you make enough to pay for a few drinks, being top heroes?"

"It's the principal of the matter, Kamihara, it's about trust," you justify smoothly, feeling more than seeing Mirko mouth along in a joking way — that is, before she downs her drink in one gulp.

You shrug her off with a snort, gratefully taking the glass that Edgeshot guides into your hands.

Mm-hmm, champagne... being a pro had its advantages after all.

It was a good feeling, laughing and catching up with people that had been your colleagues for years. Even if long periods of time went by between seeing some of them, they cherished you, respected you in a way that many others didn't.

It hadn't escaped your notice that none of them had even tried to inquire into your two-month-long absence from the hero world.

Of course, Mirko knew, and it wouldn't surprise you for a second if she tried punting anyone that so much as hinted at wanting to know as well. The thought warmed your heart.

And yet, despite the easy-going mood, a sense at the back of your head is still on high alert.

While you can't see, your quirk keeps stock of how many people are in the room – of who steps foot inside and who leaves. It makes note of their specificities – the pressure with which they step, the style in which they walk. Unique gaits, heights, weights, and resting heart rates are all easy enough to read in such an enclosed space.

The air you control moulds around each of them, it reads each of them.

It's searching for someone. Someone you wouldn't talk to, even if you did find his sorry ass.

You hate that he's on your mind, even now. Hate that the thought of him serves as a distraction from the people you should be giving your full attention to.

You jolt as Mirko's gloved hand comes to slap your shoulder, the punchline to some joke not hitting the way she must have wanted.

You rub at the spot. It had taken quite the beating already – being Mirko's friend had always been an occupational hazard, but her company was well worth it. Mostly. Sometimes.

The conversation had once again shifted, your friends waving over Kamui Woods to get to know the guy a bit better. Making the perfunctory introductions, his tone was just as stiff and shy as when the two of you talked beforehand.

You elbow him gently in the side, mouthing that he should loosen up a little, smiling when you hear him exhale a long breath that must've been lodged somewhere deep inside.

"I'm telling you, Woods. Don't underestimate this one here!" Mirko shoves you and you grimace, flipping her off. "Sure, she's Japan's sweetheart – you may look at her when she's not on a job and think she needs protecting, but nothing gets past her!"

"She's got me there, I have to admit," you concede, seeing the truth in her words.

You remember the day, a couple of years ago, when Crust finally broke top ten – he was always well-meaning, if not a little over-emotional. He'd seen you leave the venue, making your way to your car, only to nobly dash in and grab you by the arm, thinking you'd trip over the sidewalk. You, in your surprise, blew a current of wind so fierce, it had him spinning and toppling into a wall, resulting in a minor concussion. The two of you had always been sheepish around each other ever since.

Your point was that first impressions almost always sucked.

No one who genuinely knew you read your blindness for weakness. If anything, Kamui just needed more of a reason to understand.

You lean in close to him, angling so you can soften your voice a touch. He has a pleasant, cedar-like smell to him, you just realise.

"Not to scare you, Mr. Woods. But I was able to feel the way your heart rate rose to exactly a hundred and twenty beats per minute when it was your turn to speak on stage," you confess, and his shock is a palpable thing.

You grin, stepping back. "Not only that. I can 'see' that you pool most of your body weight onto your left leg – I suggest having that looked at by the way – making it so you're roughly 5'5?" you hum, before snapping your fingers, "No! 5'6. That's my final answer. Am I right?"

Your enthusiasm is met by an embarrassed mutter. "I won't confirm or deny."

"You're going to make me check then?" you tease, beginning to reach a hand out so you can compare the approximate difference between your height and his.

That is, you try to.

Your reach never makes contact when another hand stops you in place, the pressure of a gloved palm gentle but firm around your wrist. You know who it is before he even opens his mouth.

"Getting handsy at the Billboard Chart after-party, are we?" Hawks' voice oozes charm, the sharp glint in his eye belying another emotion entirely. "A little bit of discretion, troublemaker. You know how tongues just love to wag."

You balk.

How was he not here one instant, then present the next? Like always, he was too fast for you. Ten steps ahead before your quirk could even register.

It vexed you to no end.

"Ah, Hawks," Edgeshot addresses the winged hero by name, sounding just as annoyed now as he had on stage. "Come to join the festivities?"

Mirko snorts derisively, the newfound tension in the group pricking at your skin. He hasn't let go yet, and the feel of his lithe fingers is a scorching, live thing.

"Nah. I'd have more fun doubling my patrols, and that's saying something," you can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

So, why exactly were you here then?

He lets the unsaid question hang unanswered. You take advantage of the momentary pause to yank your arm back, a touch more aggressively than needed.

He holds his hands up in breezy submission, flexing the hand that touched you.

The energy he radiates is so chill, it almost feels dangerous. You can't even begin to imagine what he's got planned, strolling up to you all in this way.

"I see…" Edgeshot uncomfortably stalls, eyeing the laid-back smirk on Hawks' face. The man in question has shoved his hands into his pockets, acting like he's been part of the conversation the whole time.

Just as the Number Five hero begins to turn back to the rest of the group, Hawks juts in again, cutting him off.

"Actually, the reason I'm here, aside from making appearances and all, is 'cause I've got a word or two about your costume design Kamui," his eyes narrow in on the newer hero, making a point to stand between the two of you.

You thought you'd noticed a hostile edge to the way Hawks had inserted himself in the middle of you both, an almost scheming energy playing about him. With all the friendliness of a decades-long companion, the golden-haired hero shoots the newly minted one a smile.

"I'm really thinking blue just isn't your colour."

You angle your face to Hawks, indignation flaring deep in your chest. To think he'd poke fun at someone nervous, so new to such an event, just to get his kicks in.

Your displeasure must've been apparent.

"Quit it," you press.

"Dude, are you just here to be a buzzkill?" Mirko doubles your sentiment, Edgeshot scoffing in agreement.

To your surprise, Kamui crosses his arms – unamused and unresponsive to whatever rise Hawks was trying to get out of him. "Thanks, Hawks, but the next time I'm looking for advice, I'll ask."

Oddly enough, the winged hero doesn't respond. His eyes are fixed on you alone, staring down at your face and the angry little crease that's formed between your brows. A part of him hates himself for it, for only being able to get your attention by being a piece of shit.

But hey, if the ends justify the means…

You were facing him.

"Is that a request, sweetheart?" he croons, and the nickname is enough to wipe the crease from your brow, "Because I've got a list of those too. In a pocket maybe?"

He starts acting a fool, exaggeratedly reaching for the pockets at the back of his legs, spinning around in place cartoonishly – slapping an innocent bystander or two, with his wings, in the process.

You exhale a frustrated groan and reach out, stopping him with a severe grip to his shoulder, the others sparing no time making apologies on his behalf.

Hawks only takes this in stride, grinning wildly as he reaches down to whisper something only you can hear.

"Talk to me. Not here."

The feel of his breath against the shell of your ear is electric and you pull back, near-immediately. You let go of his shoulder and watch as he wastes no time retreating, done entertaining this little act of his entirely. He suavely tucks his wings back and makes a quiet (for him) exit, disappearing down a back hallway.

"Jeez, never mind what I've said about the guy before. He is weeeeeird," Mirko sounds equal parts skeeved out and amused.

You can't help but agree, despite the fact you knew him a lot better than the others.

You debate whether or not to entertain his request – to follow him. Whether you ought to flat out ignore him until he felt the game had lost its spark.

That often was the case with him. You'd known him so long now, knew about the way he could drop one thing for the next, as easy as breathing. It'd been a few months of radio silence between you two, sure, but wait a few more and you knew – you'd become like a stranger to him.

You eye the door he'd disappeared through. Were you right? Did you mean so little to him that he'd let you slip his mind entirely?

You consider the thought, of living in a reality where that came true.

"You okay, Val? Seems like Tweety-bird was set on giving you a hard time," Mirko turns to you, concern lining the edge of her voice – she didn't like him, but she knew what he meant to you. Bless her heart.

You hum, your thoughts a million miles away.

"…Say, Rumi, where's the bathroom?"


Hawks is leaned up against a wall near the back of the stadium's interior, idly scrolling through the feed on his social media.

Clips of him at the ceremony, not even a few hours after wrap-up, had been reposted a couple hundred thousand times. There were a million-something views on each video he came across – increasing by the second, if he refreshed the page.

Discourse in the comments seemed to align with what he'd set out to achieve.

He had stirred the proverbial pot – having it work in his favour, in two ways. The first was that it aligned with what he genuinely believed in; that nothing in this world got done without faith. All Might's presence alone had been enough to keep people in check, just because they believed in his abilities – whether they loved or feared him beyond that was irrelevant. Endeavour had yet to prove himself capable of such a feat, and Japan would suffer for it.

The second way that Hawks came out with an edge was because he knew how easily his words could be misconstrued and read the 'wrong' way. He suspected the League of Villains were keeping a close eye on him, tracking his every movement – any stance he took had to play to his deception, to get them to fully believe he was secretly on their side.

Going undercover wasn't easy. Playing two different characters wasn't easy.

And on top of all that stress, came you.

It's true, Hawks at that moment seemed as cool as a cucumber on the outside, smiling at passing wait staff as if they'd personally donated him a kidney – but the truth of the matter was that he was seething on the inside.

Kamui Woods. The sight of that sentient tree, subconsciously leaning into you, soaking up every scrap of attention you threw his way – the two of you acting oblivious to the fact that the place at your side had almost always been occupied by someone else. By him.

It made the winged hero want to have a little fun.

But that was said and done now. What was driving him up the wall – what really had his feathers acting all jittery and erratic behind his back – was the question.

Would you come meet with him?


"Ah. There you are."

The sudden echo of your voice has him turning to face you, near slipping off the wall.

You undoubtedly look as impatient as you feel, already ready to head back. There's way too much you still had left to catch up on about the hero world – too much news you had missed while on hiatus.

You sigh. "It took a bit to convince Mirko not to follow."

You feel bad about lying to her, knowing that going to the bathroom together was when your friend loved to break out the real gossip. Steeling yourself, you had taken full advantage of her earlier point about you not being some feeble thing that needed a helping hand all the time, insisting you were fine to go by yourself.

She had pouted, but ultimately gave in, telling you to hurry right back.

You raise a brow at Hawks. "Just know that if I'm not back in ten, she will hunt me down. Better pray you're not at the receiving end of one of her kicks if she finds us like this."

"…Noted," he quips, composing himself, leaning a shoulder back against the wall, cool-like.

You mirror his stance, taking note of the relatively empty hallway he'd chosen to have this confrontation – far off from the kitchens, storage, or any other noteworthy rooms. Nothing was ever unintentional with him, despite his carefree attitude.

"Well then," you breathe, a severe note in your tone that chills him to the bone. "Talk."

A shiver rakes through him, but he can't help but smile anyway.

"You're always so scary when you're mad, Vee," his voice is… fond. He scratches at his neck. "Makes me think I should always rile you up before a big fight – you'd have a much easier time with the villains that way."

You know full well you'd be rolling your eyes if you could.

"Cut the crap. I don't exactly have the time for it right now," you bite.

You step towards him, menacing. "Say what you really want to say. Unless I'm mistaken, and all these desperate, little attempts to irk people haven't been at all been related to what you said to me two months ago."

That got him.

Hawks' lip turns up, bitter as he looks down his nose at you.

No one ever saw him this way – the man was a walking commercial for his favourite brand of toothpaste. He smiled getting punched, smiled when he was being heckled in public, smiled at the doctors.

He leans in closer, his voice taking on a dark, mocking inflection.

"Think you're real clever, don't know? Know me ever so well. Not enough, clearly. Maybe I just want to be annoying for the hell of it?" he scoffs, looking off to the side. But he's not done.

"You suddenly care a lot less too – less than you do that rookie," gold eyes shoot back in your direction. "That's new, by the way. Tell me, since when does Kamui Woods need help making friends at the 'adult' table?"

You shake your head, confusion fussing your brow. "The hell? What does he have to do with anything?"

"What does he have to do with it, she asks?" Hawks starts to mutter under his breath. "The two of you, getting chummy, practically mooning over each other–"

"–Mooning?!" you recoil, voice ridden with disbelief. Where in the world was this all coming from?

"Yeah, you heard me!" he doubles down, his voice growing louder as he turns to face the hall leading back to the main party. "Why don't you call him over so I can get a real proper introduction? Wish him luck! Pawn some fuel for the fireplace back home while I'm at it!"

You punch Hawks in the shoulder.

Any other day, and he'd yelp out, rubbing at the spot with a pathetic little 'ow…' before apologising, cheeky grin set as he'd begin pooling all his energy into getting you to smile too. Today, the punch is a weak thing – he ignores it completely.

"You know what?" You press your lips firmly together. "Fuck you. Fuck your brain and the way it makes these absurd jumps to arrive at totally wrong conclusions," you spit.

He laughs once – it's glass, devoid of any humour whatsoever.

"Oh, yeah? Well, fuck you right back, doll," he retaliates, full and fire-y. You can feel his breath, hot steam on your face.

You cackle.

"Oh, fuck me? Seriously? As if this whole fight isn't happening because of you to begin with?"

You think he'll have some clever comeback for that – some stupid excuse that sought to rewrite history somehow.

He's fast, but even he's not capable of that.

You remember his words, too clearly.

"I don't think we should be in contact anymore."

It'd been raining.

You had been making squid ink pasta – something you'd never cooked before, but thought to try out after Hawks had mentioned how strange it probably tasted – like a villain's bad, bad, sinful thoughts. You had invited him over to have some with you, heads-or-tails-ing a movie, the way you always had. But halfway through, you'd registered the sight of your empty plate next to his, sitting full and untouched. The pasta wasn't that bad.

You had asked him what was wrong, and the rest was history.

He didn't want to 'be in contact' anymore? Why?

The memory of that day is enough to trigger some deep, righteous anger from within you, and before you can control yourself, your quirk is fluctuating and you're using the air to shove him into the wall at his back.

He doesn't bother resisting, just watches the way a few of his feathers trickle through the air, a small one landing in your hair.

"You. Left. Me." You bite out your words, surprising yourself with how weak you sound.

You feel utterly depleted.

"You just… left me. I mean, what the hell, right? Know a guy fifteen years, and then just poof? He decides he doesn't want to be anywhere near you anymore?"

The missed calls, the unanswered texts, showing up to his apartment to have no one answer the door – it had all left you feeling cold.

Even now, are your hands pinning him in place, or are they hanging onto him for whatever warmth he has left to offer? If any?

"You were my best friend, and you left," your voice is so matter-of-fact, it hurts. "And you still expect me to say hi to you at a party? Get pissed off when I talk to my friends? When I meet new people?"

He hasn't said anything, and you so wish you could see the look on his face. Was he remorseful? Did he look pained? Bored?

You stutter on a breath. "Is it something I did?" you try, a last-ditch effort.

Shit, if it was, you were more than ready to apologise.

A hand comes up to grip your wrist.

"No."

The vehemence in his voice takes you by surprise. You had never heard him sound so serious.

When he doesn't elaborate further, you try to follow that line of questioning. If it wasn't you, then something had obviously happened for him to be like this.

"Ok then… what? What on Earth could possibly be keeping you away like this?"

No response, again, but you feel his breathing stutter – weak and fitful. You feel your heart breaking, whether it was for him, or yourself, you couldn't tell.

"Is it something bad?" the care you have for him begins to bleed through.

"Something you can't tell anyone? even me?"

He makes a noise. A small, helpless thing from the back of his throat. It so reminds you of when the two of you were younger. Reminds you of him, several feet shorter, crying into your shirt.

All you know for sure – the only thing that seemed to ring true in spite of your anger, your sadness, your confusion – it was the fact that you didn't want him gone.

Delicately, you begin to raise a hand.


His eyes had been tracking your every move, savouring the sight of each expression. It's not that he enjoyed seeing you like this, in pain, all because of him.

It was the fact that he got to see you at all.

He needed to cherish this conversation – god knew when the next one would be.

Eyes follow you still, widening as you begin to raise your hand. The second it comes to caress the side of his face, he feels himself melt.

"Keigo…" you breathe, and the sound of his name on your tongue makes him have to grit back a deep, satisfied sound. He slants his face, pressing his lips into your palm – a vain attempt to muffle himself.

That's right. Keep things professional with the heroes in the other room, but to you, he was Keigo. Always.

He sighs, knowing he's walking a fine line between hurting you, and confessing.

His plans to infiltrate the League, the truth about the chokehold the HPSC had him in, these feelings. All of it. He'd tell you everything.

You were breaking his resolve with your expression alone, downturned brows and soft frown turning him to putty. He couldn't stop looking at your lips, the way they were so... accessible to him, right now. He had wanted to kiss you ever since you walked into the building that day.

Before he knows it, he feels his mouth moving of its own volition—

—That is, before he blinks and sees a different sight entirely. One of your face, contorted in pain, blue flames licking at and marring your skin. It was the same thing he saw in his nightmares, night after night.

No. He shakes his head. Not on my watch, not if I can help it.

And he would.

"…I'm sorry, trouble," he breathes, inching his face back, "I can't say why. I want to. I really want to," his voice is wrecked. He doesn't even sound like himself. "I just… can't. It's not... wise to be around me right now. Please just leave it at that."

His hand, still loosely hanging off your wrist, slides upward to press at the back of yours. He nuzzles in closer to your palm, as if he could hide himself away from the rest of the world.

"It was killing me, is all. Not seeing you. Not being able to talk to you," he grits out. "But it can't happen again."

It was a selfish thing to do, he knows. But he missed you. Still misses you, even with you nearly pressed into him, noses only a scant inch or two away from brushing.

The only reason he's approached you for the first time now, after so long, is because he knows how tight security is around such an event. It was the only place he could talk to you like this, alone, free from watchful eyes.

The most the League knew was that the two of you had trained together as children. Never would they use you as leverage if they thought he didn't care for you. And he knew you – knew that if he told you everything and asked you to keep the charade going, you just wouldn't. You'd never let him suffer through such a lonely act. You'd try and help out, and that would put you at risk.

That's why this was for the best. It made things easier, you hating him.

"Fine then," you say after what feels like an eternity, stepping back. You let your hand drop, and he's already mourning the loss of you.

"If this is what you want."

He spies a tear descend your cheek as you turn to leave.

It was for the best, right?


End note:

Hope whoever's reading this had a fun time with it! — first chapter and it's already an angsty one.

Here's a rundown: this fic is essentially straight-up wish fulfillment, just getting to feel like you're an established hero in the world of BNHA/MHA — there'll be a lot of character/relationship development outside the main romance (unrequited/side romances, parent-mentor relationships), so strap in if you like the sound of that. The fic will shift between past and present pretty consistently, starting near the end of season 4 when Hawks makes his debut - he's just started trying to infiltrate the League of Villains.

The title came about after listening to 'Everything is Good Now' by Foreign Air — immediately found myself thinking it was so 'Hawks-in-love' coded, and so here we are.

Appreciate comments/support!

P.S. If you've read any of my other fics on here, thank's for the support! I used to post a few years back but ultimately dropped writing as a whole. I've started again, primarily on AO3, and so I thought to post this here too!

Peace xo