#DabiHawks Thinking About Hawks Posting A Snapshot Of His Hand Holding Purple Scarred Ones To His Socials

#DabiHawks Thinking about Hawks posting a snapshot of his hand holding purple scarred ones to his socials with matching bracelets on April 1st.

Multiple outcries break out:

1. The public has only ever seen Hawks with gloves on before & yet here is a clearly defined naked wrist decked only in trademark Hawks jewlery and a blue bracelet

2. Is that red bracelet against those scars and staples notorious villain Dabi's hand?

And finally,

3. Surely that's not a relationship going public... right? Right? It's gotta be an April fools joke.

The joke isn't really a joke, even with Dabi's raised brow at the antic that he's pulled, the lazy drawl of, 'And what of your reputation, little bird?' that he throws behind the pretense of uncare.

Hawks hides a smile against his skin, face burried against Dabi's neck and all the warmth and smoke that he inhales. It's so cute when Dabi pretends not to care, when he does always care—so, so much. Maybe he fooled him once before, twice, but never again.

Hawks brushes it off, mouths a kiss against his jawline, careful fingers pulled across his back as he pulls him closer, and exhales out a laugh, breathlessly hot against his ears, the promise that he's got it all under control.

"Nothing to worry about, hot stuff," Hawks murmurs, like he sees right through him, the brush of his wings encasing him too. Like this is all part of some plan.

So who is Dabi to complain about being claimed for the world to see by Hawks himself, when the most eligible bachelor of Japan has him all wrapped around his feathers?

He's never shied away from attention, he's not about to start now.

The aftermath never really settles. The drama, the mystery, the uproar never answered. Hawks dodges a real answer in the way he does best — the glint of his eyes bright and full of mischief, charming little smile against his lips as he tilts his head and hums like he himself doesn't have the answer.

"I wonder," he muses, every time he's asked—does he have a boyfriend? Is he taken? Is it, against every impossibility, Dabi?

Hawks laughs his way through every reporter and scheduled interview, the joke that isn't a joke, that he carries on and no one can ever tell if he's serious, if he's just hard set on selling the joke.

But this is Hawks' persona too, always has been, so there's no fault they can find with him. No further evidence, no signs that point them to any truth.

And if every "What's on the agenda today, Hawks?" that turns into a curl of a grin and "Dabi" as an answer, that's just his little secret that the public has to speculate on, the meaning of Dabi's name thrown around.

They almost expect, any day now, for the villain Dabi to come around and reclaim his name, to set them all on fire—the joke on them.

But whatever it is meant to happen, whatever pro-hero Hawks throwing Dabi's name around is supposed to mean, the public will just have to wait and see.

Exactly a year later, on the first of April hits again. There's another post on Hawks' official. Another snapshot.

The same pair of hands entwined, the same bracelets a little worn with love and time, but there's something else to the image. Something different than the backdrop of passing time. Something more than another shot of allegedly, Hawks' bare hands exposed for the world.

An innocuous little band of metal sits on his ring finger. Blue flame gem against silver that matches the exact shade of staples against scarred hands and its complimentary ring. All gold, red wing gem at its center.

The caption is predictably empty, devoid of any explanation. Devoid of any answers. April 1st.

Two years in a row. Is Hawks just the worlds' most committed jokester? Or is he just indefinitely and irrefutably Dabi's?

The question hangs in the public, louder than any celebrity scandal, louder than any heroic feat.

As loud, as the beat of Dabi's heart thudding against his chest when the ring slips onto his finger. Question murmured against his cheek, Hawks' fingers threaded through his.

A promise to be his.

And Dabi's head spins, noise just as loud as the cry of the public, torn between defending Hawks' happiness and the lost yearning for a love that will never be theirs.

But it is Dabi's. This love will always be Dabi's.

And Dabi doesn't really get how Hawks' relationship—engagement—reveal can go this way. That Hawks has somehow managed to have it all.

But Hawks' feathers preen every time he so much as glances at his hand. Their hands.

The question burns against his tongue as he opens his mouth.

"Baby bird," he exhales, in wonderment, in disbelief. Only a bird with a lifetime of training in deception and calculations could pull this off.

"You plan this all along?"

Hawks turns back to him, dreamy smile against his lips as he tilts his head and Dabi thinks he knows the answer before he even let's it out. Before Hawks throws his head back and laughs, the one just for him.

"Who knows?"

Dabi knows.