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“Congrats on the fourth title,” Dabi said as he slid into the chair across from Hawks, who blinked and looked up from the menu. He was given a charming smile.
“Thanks, but it’s not official yet—still gotta get through the last couple of races before they hand off the trophy to me.”
“It’s as good as official, y’know,” Dabi said, reaching across the table and entangling his hand with Hawks’. “You’re pretty safely ahead of the pack, and it’s gonna take a lot for Usagiyama or Hakamada to pull ahead of you at this rate. Zero points from you and two first-place finishes for either of them.”
“Well, your flattery is highly appreciated,” Hawks said. Dabi stared down at their intertwined hands. It was nice seeing the engagement ring actually on Hawks’ hand instead of on the chain around his neck. (To be fair, racing gloves weren’t made to fit a diamond ring in them.) Hawks grinned, running his fingers over the mottled scar tissue of Dabi’s wrist. “How’s it going down in the midfield? Toga doing well? I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to her, but she seems to be adapting pretty good.”
“The midfield’s going fine, jackass.” Hawks made a kissy face at him, but Dabi pushed his head away. “Toga’s pretty good. She seems geared to take tenth in the Driver’s Championship, which isn’t that bad for a debut driver in a midfield team.”
“And how was Shouto’s race? Any good? Gonna see your baby brother hopping up from F2 anytime soon?”
“Just because you got into F1 when you were seventeen doesn’t mean he will,” Dabi stated dryly, eyes flicking over the bland restaurant menu. “In fact, you’re the reason they instituted an age limit, so stop trying to corrupt my baby brother.”
“Ice cold,” Hawks hissed, though the smile didn’t fall from his face. “But how was his race? I saw he got podium again, he’s doing pretty good, yeah?”
“Mm,” Dabi hummed in agreement. “Midoriya is nipping at his heels, though.”
“Are you telling me I actually have to watch the last Formula Two race?”
“Maybe. He watches our races, you could stand to watch his a little more often.”
“Right!” Hawks said, perking up. “I gotta be a good brother-in-law, I need to become the favorite Todoroki.”
“Thought you weren’t taking my name?”
“It’s the principle of the matter.”
“Well, focus on the end of the season, then you can focus on overtaking my spot as the clear and unsurpassable favorite.”
Hawks clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, slouching back in his chair. He opened his mouth to respond just as the waiter came over. “The season’s basically over anyway. ‘S like you said, it’s not as if there’s a big chance of some massive upheaval this late, y’know?”
“Red flag, red flag. Major incident at turn three, keep the delta positive.”
Yeah, Dabi thought, clicking down from ninth gear numbly, watching the flames in his rearview mirror, no shit the race is red-flagged.
He turned the next corner, and the roaring inferno of the car behind was no longer within his sights. He gripped the steering console tighter. His scars felt tight.
“Who was it?” he asked over the radio, eyes flicking back to his rearview to try and figure out which car wasn’t on the track. There was a pause, and Kurogiri didn’t answer. “I saw it in my mirrors—who was the driver?” he repeated.
Another second passed and Shigaraki came on the radio instead of the engineer. “We believe it was Takami.”
No.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, feeling his heart stutter and beat faster. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He breathed in shakily, desperately trying to keep himself calm as he approached the pit lane. “Is he okay?”
Another pause, and Dabi felt his stomach drop.
“Still no information, I will let you know.”
Dabi grit his teeth as he pulled into the pit lane and parked, pulling out the steering console and handing it off to a mechanic before throwing an arm over the safety bar of the halo, hauling himself out of the car and pulling off his helmet. He ran across the lane on shaky legs and into the garage, where the rest of his team was gathered around the live feed screens in dead silence.
Dabi froze, staring blankly at the helicopter footage.
Fire.
There was so much fire.
He felt his eyes burn, remembering the way the flames had licked at his body and left him a mangled, mottled mess. He felt empty, imagining the same happening to Hawks. Formula One cars didn’t catch on fire anymore. They weren’t supposed to. There were safety regulations, there were precautions, so why did Hawks’ car explode?
He didn’t ask if Hawks had been pulled out. He didn’t ask if Hawks was alive.
The entire racing track was silent, and Dabi knew what that meant.
Fingers gripped his hand tightly, and a quick glance to the side revealed Toga, who was picking at her racing suit nervously, her hair a tangled mess from the baclava. She was still a rookie driver, and Dabi knew that he should say something— I’ve been there, and I’ve been fine. The fire marshals are good at their job, nothing bad will happen. Hawks is stubborn, he won’t let himself die here.
All those words were on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t move his jaw. His hand was limp within Toga’s grasp. He wanted to give her those reassurances (maybe if he repeated them enough, he’d believe them).
He was frozen.
His eyes were locked on the screen, on the burning wreckage. The car was torn in half, and the cockpit with Hawks in it was in the fucking barrier, and it was on fire. An adjacent screen was showing a replay of the accident, and Dabi’s throat was dry as he watched Hawks immediately go up in flames as soon as he crashed.
On the live feed, the marshals swarmed around the fire, attempting to extinguish the source of the dark column of smoke rising into the sky, and the medics from the safety car hovered about, searching for sight of Hawks in between the flames.
“Gearbox penalty.” Hawks stretched his arms above his head, not looking particularly concerned with starting on the opposite end of the grid than usual. “Gonna have to work my way up from last.”
It had been forty seconds since the crash. Less than two minutes since the race had started.
“I’ll push my way back up the grid,” Hawks said with a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry, you’ll get to stare at my tail lights again soon enough!”
He was always too fast.
Forty-five seconds.
Hawks blew him a kiss and a flirty wink as they parted ways for their separate garages. Dabi rolled his eyes and walked off, Hawks laughing at his reaction.
Fifty seconds.
Dabi felt cold.
He had just watched his fiance die in his rearview mirrors.
Fifty-five seconds.
It took three turns out of fifteen of the very first lap of the race to take everything from him.
Sixty seconds.
Toga gasped sharply, and Dabi’s eyes snapped back into focus, on the movement within the flames.
The race started off well.
Hawks, albeit at the back of the grid in twentieth place, knew how to drive, and drive well. Formula One was the best of the best, and he was the best of the best of the best. He didn’t win the Driver’s Championship three years running—well, four years, he was mathematically unbeatable at that point, the second to last race left in the season—based on good looks alone.
The lights dropped, and he was off.
Hawks had always loved racing, from his time in carting to every time he took the podium in F1. He managed to push himself into seventeenth after the first turn; by the second, sixteenth. He never needed to hear his engineer over the radio to know to push. Sakamata was just ahead, and Hawks had pulled out of turn two well enough that he was within range to pass him.
He pulled past Sakamata as they went into turn three, diving towards the inside line— he could outbreak them, cut them off, keep pushing up the grid —and he cleared Sakamata and slammed down on the throttle-
The car jumped as his back right tire clipped Sakamata’s front left.
Oh, he managed to think as his car veered sharply off course, I didn’t quite clear Sakamata.
And he crashed into the barrier at 137 miles per hour.
The hit didn’t feel that hard. Logically, Hawks knew the G’s he must have been pulling would have made his body at least a couple of tonnes during that brief moment of impact, but… it didn’t feel like it.
Everything stopped.
He slowly opened his eyes (he didn’t remember closing them). It took him a brief moment to gather his bearings—crash, he’d crashed. He had to get himself out of the car. He braced his arms and tried to lift himself up and jump out, but was quickly foiled when something hit his helmet.
He sat back down resignedly. He was probably upside down or against the wall or whatever. Embarrassing to spin out and crash before he’d even finished half a lap. He had to wait for the marshals to come pull him out. He’d wait. It wasn’t like his car would be able to finish the race after a crash like that.
He looked around a bit—he glanced to his left at the guardrail, which looked… unusually jagged, and then to his left, which was all orange. He tried to think of what the color might be. It wasn’t the sunset; the sun had gone down a few hours prior. Was it the light from the circuit? He didn’t remember it being that color.
Something clicked in his mind as he felt a wave of heat.
Oh.
It was fire.
He did the reasonable thing and panicked. He remembered Dabi’s crash during their time in F2, he remembered the three minutes he thought his best friend was dead, he remembered the burnt figure extracted from the mangled remnants of the flaming car, he remembered the ambulance and the hospital visits and the defibrillator.
He tore the steering console out to clear his way out, and his hands wrapped around the halo and tried to lift himself out, but a sharp tug on his leg kept him from escaping. He pulled a few more times, adrenaline pumping as he realized the crash had crushed the pedal box... and his left foot with it.
He was stuck.
Fuck.
So that was it.
He stared at the flames around him, shuddered at the scorching heat that enveloped him. So this is where I die. He thought he might start crying at the realization, but he didn’t. He stared at the searing walls around him.
Where was he going to burn first?
Was it going to be painful?
If he was lucky, it would start somewhere that would finish the job quickly—a drawn-out death by fire didn’t appeal to him.
No, no, it would hurt regardless. He thought back to all those hospital visits when they were teens, holding Dabi’s hand as he laid in that crisp white bed, wrapped head to toe, listening to his numb recountment of the three minutes it took to pull him out-
Dabi.
Dabi gave Hawks a smug look, holding his bottom lip between his teeth as he pulled away from their kiss. He released it less than a second later to press one more peck against his mouth. “Drive safe, yeah?”
His hand drifted over where the ring laid around his neck, pressing down and barely able to feel its presence through the thick layers of his overalls and gloves.
Fuck this.
He was not fucking dying.
The halo was too high for him to get good leverage, and the only other surface was the body of the car, with flames licking up the sides. It’d have to do. He stuck his hands into the flames and braced himself, gritting his teeth as he felt the pedal box tug as his leg again. He wiggled his foot experimentally, and—bingo. With one harsh pull that sent a jolt of agony up his spine, he yanked his foot out of his racing boot and out of the pedal box.
He could feel his hands burning.
Looking up, he could see the bright red of his gloves turning into a charred black. He could feel his hands blistering, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about the pain—he just wanted to get out of the fucking car.
He pushed himself up until his shoulders were over the halo. He used the seat of his car to clamber over the top of it, shouting in relief when he felt a hand tug at his racing suit. The fire marshals, or the medics, he didn’t care, he was alive.
He was alive.
Hawks stepped on the guardrail with a hand tight around his arm pulling him along. He almost slipped off for how fast he crossed over the barrier. He had two feet on the ground and quickly got himself away from the inferno, his fear outweighing the pain. He could feel and hear one of the fire marshals dousing him with a fire extinguisher, and one of the medics threw his arm over their shoulders, helping him limp away as his adrenaline began to crash hard.
Hawks felt numb. He felt the marshal help him into the seat of the safety car, he felt his neck brace and helmet being removed, but he didn’t really… process it.
His eyes remained locked on the roaring fire, the back half of his car a few meters away, spewing flaming fuel. He then registered which side of the barrier had jumped to.
He’d gone through the barrier.
His body was alight with agony as his fight or flight began to settle, but he was alive. His foot might have felt crushed and chewed, and his skin felt like the worst sunburn imaginable, but he wasn’t dead.
He held up a hand to his mouth, the black and gnarled surface pressing against his face oddly, and let a sob escape his throat.
The burning in his eyes finally won out against the burning of his body, and his shoulders shook as he doubled over in the backseat, tears dripping out of his eyes. A pathetic cry left his mouth, and he squeezed his eyes shut as the last minute finally registered in his mind.
He was alive.
Dabi felt his heart stutter as Hawks clambered out of the flames.
His red overalls were burnt into a mottled black and gray, and his legs gave out as soon as he was clear of the fire and had to be caught by the medic, but Hawks was there. He was out of the fire. He wasn’t dead. Dabi could breathe again.
The entire pit lane broke out in cheers as everyone realized what they saw. Hawks was alive.
The relief didn’t last long, though, as he saw the way the safety car raced the other driver to where the ambulance was waiting, stretcher prepared and medics swarming.
Dabi remembered the extensive skin grafts and two-week hospital stay, he remembered the months of recovery and struggle to regain his Formula 2 seat after being forced to take so much time off.
Hawks loved racing.
Dabi’s skin was shit after his crash, but that had been at a slow corner on a slower F2 car. Turn three was fast, and Hawks’ car was top of the pack. He could see the replay. Between skin grafts and debilitating head trauma...
Dabi didn’t want twenty-five to be the age at which Hawks retired.
“Help me up,” Hawks rasped to the medic.
“No, no, no, not necessary,” she said, pushing him back down into his seat. “The stretcher will come here, you don’t need to push yourself.”
“My fiance is watching,” he said, looking into her eyes desperately. “I want him to know I’m okay.” She paused, looking hesitant. “Please.”
She held out for a few seconds before sighing in defeat. “Alright,” was the quiet response. His arm was lifted over her shoulders, and she hauled him to his feet. “Keep your weight on your right side, we don’t need that foot getting any worse.”
Hawks hummed in absent acknowledgment, letting his left leg skim the ground as little as possible, hobbling over to the ambulance and waiting paramedics. His eyes flicked around for a camera crew—he’d be surprised if there wasn’t one. It took him less than five seconds of searching to spot one of the many cameras trained on him.
He knew he had to look like complete and utter shit. His racing suit was charred, his hair was messy, his eyes were swollen, and black streaked across his jaw from when he’d broken down in the back of the safety car. He was grateful they at least didn’t know the way he smelt like smoke and fuel and something burnt.
He didn’t think too hard on it.
Regardless, he gave the camera a weak grin and little wave.
He wanted Dabi to know he was alright.
Dabi almost stumbled backward as the relief slammed into his body like an anvil.
Hawks was okay. The safety car medics were strict; if he had head trauma, he wouldn’t be allowed to limp across the track like that.
A hysterical laugh bubbled its way out of his throat, and he tangled a hand in his hair, pulling slightly. The sensation kept him at least marginally grounded amongst the swarming and the chatter as the garage burst back to life, mechanics rushing to perform checks on the cars to ensure they were in racing condition.
The announcement came from race control—the race would restart once the marshals were done moving the wreckage and building the stand-in barrier.
He almost wanted to kick something.
“Dabi?” Toga asked him, voice barely audible over the crowd around them. She still held tightly onto his hand. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said roughly, sounding fake even to his own ears. “I’m fine.”
Toga gave him a frown, giving their surroundings a subtle glance for camera crews. “If you wanna retire from the race and go see Hawksie, I can probably still pull something good—I made it into Q3, I can carry some weight-”
“No,” he said tiredly, dragging a hand down his face. “There wouldn’t be any good way to frame me retiring from the race. And you know Hawks would kick my ass if he found out I dropped for him.” He took a deep breath. Toga was young. She didn’t need that kind of stress. He gave her his best attempt at a smile and ruffled her hair. “Besides, we’re super close to securing third in the Constructors. If we pull off a good showing tonight, we’ll have extra funding for next season.”
She gave him a hesitant smile in response. “You sure?”
“Positive. Now go find Magne, I don’t want you wearing yourself out before the restart.”
She nodded and bounced off, calling out Magne’s name loudly as she ran down the track. Dabi huffed fondly. She could’ve at least taken the scooter.
He sighed and walked across to where Shigaraki was directing people further in the garage, headset hanging around his neck and looking even more haggard than usual. He tapped the young team principal on the shoulder, who didn’t even look surprised to see him.
“You dropping out?” Shigaraki asked him blankly, already lifting his headset up to start notifying people, but paused when Dabi shook his head. Shigaraki gave him an inquiring look.
“Can’t let the Constructors Championship slip away so easily,” he said, shrugging. “And if the extra prize money from moving up to third will get me a more comfortable seat next season-”
“Yours is going to be made out of scrap metal, just for that.”
Dabi smirked for a second before letting it fall. “I’m gonna go make a few calls. Shouldn’t take too long, though. I’ll be in the prep room if you need me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Shigaraki said dismissively, barely sparing the energy to wave him off.
“Alright, thank you,” he said, hanging up. Shouto hadn’t flown out yet after the F2 Grand Prix the previous day, so at least there’d be somebody at the hospital for Hawks if he woke up.
Dabi cradled his head in one hand, the other thumbing through his contacts meaninglessly. Maybe he should drop out of the race. It wasn’t like anyone would be doing too well after an accident like that. He wanted to see that Hawks was okay with his own eyes, wanted to be there when he woke up-
Before he could talk himself out of it, he tapped Hawks’ number and held his phone up to his ear, listening to the dial tone, waiting for it to ring out. He chewed his lip as he waited, worry picking away at his nerves.
“Your call has been forwarded to automatic voice messaging. No one is available to take your call. At the tone, please record your message.”
Beep.
Dabi heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is so fucking stupid,” he muttered to himself. But, he supposed, it was something at least. He took a deep breath and spoke clearer into the receiver. “Pretty sure you’ll be able to tell by the time stamp when exactly I’m recording this sappy ass thing, so I’m not gonna explain what the hell just happened. You’re probably not even gonna listen to this for a while, your phone’s probably still in your prep room or somethin’. But in case someone’s picking up your stuff and it gets to the hospital before I do, ‘cause this probably isn’t gonna be over for another three hours, I just, uh, I just…”
Dabi felt heat rise to his cheeks, even with no one there to see him, but he could just imagine Hawks laughing his ass off.
“I was scared,” he admitted quietly. “Straight up fucking terrified, whole shebang. You’re the fastest person I know, so it’s kind of a dick move that this is the one time you chose to be slow. If this is a revenge served cold kind of thing for the shit I put you through back in F2, then this is, again, a dick way to go about it.” Dabi paused, considering his next words. His eyes flicked to the door as if a camera crew was waiting to catch every word of his one moment of weakness. “I’m glad you’re alright. Don’t fucking scare me like that again. I don’t want to lose you.” He glanced at the clock. Forty minutes since the red flag. The race would probably be restarting soon. “Call me if you get this before I’m there. Love you, Kei.”
And he hung up.
He’d never wanted to drop out of a race so badly.
The time counted down to the green flag, and Dabi breathed, trying to settle himself as the mechanics swarmed off the track. Tenth. He just had to get up to fifth to keep the League in the running for third in the Constructors Championship. He gripped the steering console, watching the lights counting down to that start flick on, one by one.
5
Maybe he could crash the car on purpose. Not anything major, but enough that he could fucking leave.
4
No, Shigaraki would murder him, and Hawks would beat his ass.
3
Pretend he got violently ill and couldn’t race—that was an option.
2
That might force him to stay out the next race too, which would also have Shigaraki beating his ass, and Hawks wasn’t stupid.
1
Fuck it.
The lights dropped, and Dabi slammed on the throttle. The faster the race was over with, the faster he could leave and see Hawks.
Into seventh by turn one.
Dabi felt something within himself settle.
Turn two, sixth.
An odd sort of calm draped across his mind, sharpening his focus.
Turn three-
Dabi grit his teeth. Fifty-six laps. He needed to complete fifty-six laps as fast as he could.
Pit stops were a time sink; if he managed his tires well, he could get away with a single-stop strategy.
Lap two.
Nishiya and Takeyama were behind him. Rookie drivers, only began driving regularly for Formula One within the past two seasons. Were primarily reserve drivers for a season or two before that. If he pulled ahead enough or maintained a careful defense, they wouldn’t be a problem.
Lap five.
Ahead of him was Kamihara. Good at sliding through tight spots. An overtake on a turn wouldn’t go well; he needed to get within DRS range.
Lap eight.
He was close behind Kamihara as they turned onto the straight. Kurogiri’s voice crackled over the radio. “DRS is enabled, you are free to overtake.”
Dabi pressed the toggle switch on the steering console, swerving out from behind Kamihara to pass by him, the extra 20mph carrying him safely ahead and into the next turn. He pushed forwards.
Lap fifteen.
“Your pace is good,” Kurogiri informed him. “Please do not drive recklessly.”
“I’m not,” Dabi responded monotonously in response. “I want this race over with. Who’s in front of me?”
Kurogiri sighed, but reported back to him dutifully regardless. “You are P5, Hakamada is 5.7 seconds in front.”
Lap eighteen.
“3.2 seconds ahead.”
Lap twenty-one.
“1.3 seconds ahead.”
Lap twenty-four.
Dabi cut past Hakamata on turn seven.
Lap twenty-six.
Other drivers began dipping off for pit stops and new tires. Dabi readjusted his grip on the steering console. His tires were good. He'd maintained them. If he could draw them out a little longer, he could get away with only one pit stop.
Lap twenty-seven.
The three front runners ahead of Dabi pulled off for fresh tires. He briefly caught sight of Hawks’ teammate, Usagiyama, driving down the pitlane as he sped past. He was leading the race.
Lap thirty-two.
He pulled in for a pit stop. 2.6 seconds. He exited the pit lane in third.
Lap thirty-eight.
Toyomitsu flipped his car and there was a yellow flag. Dabi slowed down as the safety car pulled out to lead the lap.
Lap forty.
The safety car cleared, and as soon as Dabi crossed the line, he was off again.
Lap forty-five.
The car in second pulled off for a pit stop.
Lap forty-eight.
The car in first entered the pit lane. Usagiyama was hot behind Dabi.
Lap fifty-four.
Dabi set the fastest lap of the race.
Lap fifty-six.
He’d never been so relieved to see a checkered flag in his life.
Shigaraki met Dabi as he stepped off the scale, pulling off his helmet and neck brace and setting them down on a table. His breathing was sharp and heavy from exertion, and his hair plastered itself to his forehead as soon as he stripped off the sweat-soaked baklava. He gave Shigaraki an inquisitive look.
Shigaraki offered him as genuine a smile as he was physically capable of—surprisingly sweet, but unnerving. “Go get your bird boy. I’ll handle the press and the awards ceremony.”
“That’s… suspiciously nice of you.”
“Yeah, and it’s never gonna fucking happen again, now. How much do you want me to tell them about your absence?”
Dabi shrugged, already jogging off. “Whatever! I don’t really care!”
He could hear Shigaraki's irritated growl from behind him. “At least drink some water so you don’t drop dead, dickhead!”
Dabi burst into Hawks’ hospital room, still in his racing overalls, out of breath from sprinting all the way from the front desk of the hospital.
A crushing weight in his chest left him so suddenly he felt dizzy.
Hawks was lying on the hospital bed, his left foot propped up and his hands heavily wrapped and suspended in slings. The television in the corner of the room droned on about something or another, but his eyes zeroed in on Hawks’ face. Tired and weary, but Hawks was smiling at him.
He was okay.
“Hey-o,” Hawks rasped out.
“You fucking asshole,” Dabi said quietly, walking over on unsteady legs to collapse in a chair by Hawks’ bedside. “I hate you so fucking much right now.”
Hawks’ arm shifted slightly, hand twitching in Dabi’s direction, and Dabi grasped it without hesitation. “I love you too, Touya.”
Dabi leaned across and brushed Hawks’ hair back with his free hand, kissing him softly. “I love you so fucking much, Keigo,” he murmured against the other’s lips.
The soft, dopey smile was still on Hawks’ face as he pulled away. “Shouto went out to the vending machine. If there’s anything you don’t want getting back to Fuyumi, you should probably say it now.”
Dabi snorted. “First I want to grill you for going all ‘the season’s over, there won’t be any massive upheavals’ when I told you to focus on racing, and then you go and pull this shit.”
“Okay, in my defense-”
“I already know this is going to be good.”
“-it was a massive incident. There won’t be a massive upheaval in the rankings. I’m not gonna be able to race next week,” he gestured down at his leg, “so there’s indeed no points for me the last two races, but you kept Rumi and Tsunagu from getting double first-place finishes, so my championship is secured.”
Dabi blinked. “I did what?”
Hawks stared at him for a long moment, face twisting up incredulously. “You won the Grand Prix. Did you hit your head on the way over?”
Dabi opened his mouth and then closed it again. “I won?”
Hawks broke out into peals of laughter, coughing harshly after a few moments, but the bright, radiant grin didn’t fall from his face. “Hell yeah you won, hotstuff. Tell Shigaraki he better be using that prize money to give me a challenge next season, yeah?”
Dabi snorted. “I’ll bring it up at the race debrief.”
Shouto @babycartoroki
i don’t think they remember i’m here
[Image attachment: Shouto’s eyes just barely peeking up from the bottom frame of the photo, Dabi and Hawks in the background. Hawks looks tired yet still gives Dabi a bright smile, and Dabi, in a rumpled and sweaty black racing suit, smiles back. Dabi gently holds Hawks’ bandaged hand. Neither seems to have noticed Shouto.]