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It's not so bad, being Dabi's.
They're sitting side by side on the couch, and they've been leaning against each other for so long that Hawks can't tell where he starts and Dabi begins. He could figure it out if he moved around, but he's too comfortable at the moment. His head rests heavy on Dabi's shoulder and Dabi's hand is warm on the side of his neck. There's some crappy show on TV that Dabi's eyes are glued to, but Hawks has long lost track of the proceedings of the program in favor of floating on the edge of consciousness. Dabi laughs at something, just a derisive little huff of air, and it moves both their chests. A thought floats up, drifting away as quickly as it came, but just for a moment Hawks thinks: this isn't so bad.
Hawks has never been a touchy-feely person. His less-than-nurturing upbringing likely didn't help. For his parents, he was a mistake. For the Commission, he was a tool. For everyone else, he was beyond their reach; untouchable. Not much room left over for hugs or kisses or hand-holding.
After getting a place of his own, sure, he'd tried his hand at sex and relationships. It never lasted long. Other people seemed to have this instinctive knowledge of how and when to touch, for how long and where. When did a situation call for a pat on the shoulder, and when did it call for something more? Hawks had never figured it out and had eventually given up trying.
Maybe it was fucked up, but he'd liked being the Comission's tool. He'd been valued and taken care of and given purpose. Being a tool let him feel useful, which he assumed wasn't dissimilar to feeling loved. As long as Hawks still had a place in society, still had a reason for being, he'd felt no pressing need to figure out how normal people lived their normal lives.
Dabi, in contrast, has no qualms or confusion about physical affection.
Dabi will ruffle his hair, put an arm around his shoulder; pull him into hugs, kiss his cheek, hold his hand. It's all very new. In the past he'd never known whether to be jealous or relieved that he could avoid casual physical touch for weeks or months. But it didn't really bother him. It was hard to miss something he'd never had, and in exchange there was that much less tying him down. It seemed to be a trade-off: comfort for freedom. Hawks had often considered that touch might not be worth the weight it came with.
But now there's Dabi. Sometimes Hawks wonders how he lived like that, without anyone to touch him kindly. It all seems so easy now. If Hawks reaches out, Dabi never turns him away. And if Dabi wants more, then he'll take it. Hawks doesn't have to worry, or overthink anything.
That is, until Dabi's hand changes from resting to rubbing, and rubbing to sliding under the neckline of Hawks' shirt (of Dabi's shirt, on his body). Dabi's touch, uncomplicated only seconds before, turns contractual—and Hawks is reminded of the weight of his choice. This part of their relationship doesn't fill him with dread the way it used to, but it still makes him feel heavy and helpless.
Hawks doesn't fight Dabi on much of anything, anymore. When Dabi wants him to eat, he eats. When Dabi wants to trace the scars on his back, Hawks takes off his shirt. When Dabi wants to shower together, Hawks checks to make sure there's an extra towel in the bathroom.
It can't have been then long since Hawks last fought back on something—probably only a few weeks. He can't for the life of him remember what it might have been, what had seemed so important that he hadn't just given in.
But when Dabi leans over to mouth at Hawks' neck—hand palming roughly at Hawks' crotch before catching and thumbing open the front button of his jeans—Hawks' throat tightens with the urge to say something.
Though he can still feel it buzzing faintly in the back of his head, the pleasant, floating calm he'd been in only moments ago is quickly being replaced with a cold, crawling discomfort. He doesn't want that. He doesn't want to taint that moment of peace with the defeated resignation he experiences every time he and Dabi have sex.
Hawks croaks out, "Wait," and Dabi's hand, halfway under his boxers, slows to a crawl. "Can we..." Hawks tries, then has to stop to swallow. "I mean, I'm not really—" Hawks heart is pounding at the notion of even asking; or maybe it's pounding at the prospect of being ignored. But something about casual affection he'd been basking in until only moments ago gives him the courage to continue. "Can I use my mouth instead?"
Dabi doesn't respond right away. He doesn't even move. The back of Hawks' neck breaks out into a cold sweat. Fuck, he shouldn't have said anything. Fuck fuck fuck.
Hawks wants to offer excuses, apologies, but instead he bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. Dabi doesn't care about his excuses. Either Dabi will decide to allow it or he won't. It's out of Hawks' hands.
The hand in his underwear slips out, and Dabi kisses the side of his neck before murmuring, "Sure." A thumb strokes Hawks' jutted hip bone, affectionate rather than sexual, and Dabi pulls back to form some space between them. "If that's what you want."
Then Dabi pulls back further to make proper eye contact. His expression is serious as he waits for—oh. He's waiting for Hawks. Hawks nods dumbly, because he's lost the words, but it is—that is what he wants.
Dabi smiles and leans back on the couch, releasing Hawks from the prison of his arms. Hawks' heart beats wildly in his chest. Is this really happening? It feels impossible that Dabi would allow anything less than complete obedience.
He has gotten Dabi to settle for blowjobs before, but not like this. He usually managed by taking initiative while Dabi was distracted with the scars on his back, or when they'd been making out for long enough that Hawks thought he could get away with it. He'd start by running his hands down Dabi's torso, then petting over his erection, and finally when the timing felt right, he'd slide down Dabi's body until he was eye-level with Dabi's crotch. Then all he had to do was say, as deep and throaty as he could manage, "Let me," and Dabi did. He's never come out and asked for it directly.
Though he's half-convinced Dabi is messing with him, Hawks slides to the floor and onto his knees and risks a single glance up. Dabi's only response is to shift his legs wider, so Hawks puts his hands on Dabi's knees.
He hesitates a moment, just in case Dabi's about to change his mind, but all Dabi does is unzip his own fly and wait. A wave of relief and gratitude nearly overwhelms Hawks. Dabi's really going to let him do this. Dabi's really going to let him choose.
(Grateful to the asshole who makes a habit of sexually assaulting you, that's new, says the tired, long-buried voice of the person he used to be. As far as Hawks is concerned, that voice can shut the hell up. He's not going to let something like ill-timed introspection ruin this for him.)
Dabi tugs himself out from his pants and underwear, and Hawks leans forward and gets to work.
This is something Hawks hadn't given into, hadn't offered until after... everything. Maybe that's why Dabi doesn't push it, doesn't ever ask for it himself. Maybe he doesn't want to risk Hawks changing his mind and going back to how they were, with Hawks glaring and sullen and threatening to bite off Dabi's dick.
They're so far past that now it would be funny if it weren't Hawks' life. So Hawks takes Dabi into his mouth, and the familiarity of the taste and weight and texture is almost a comfort. There is comfort in routine, in fulfilled expectations. There's also comfort in being good at what you do.
Hawks has long since familiarized himself with Dabi's dick—the head, the shaft, the piercings. Nowadays, he focuses on Dabi's reactions—figuring out what works, what doesn't, taking mental notes whenever Dabi groans. Drowning himself in Dabi's pleasure quiets his brain and lets him feel like he can breathe.
Dabi grips his hair, "Yeah, there you go—" remembers himself, relaxes, "yeah, just like that, fuck yes—" and tucks a lock of hair behind Hawks' ear. Hawks chest is tight as the words rush from his fluttering stomach and go straight to his head. He tells himself he doesn't care. He tells himself that the praise isn't part of why he doesn't mind doing this. (He's lying.)
The thought of enjoying anything with Dabi makes Hawks itch to tear off layers of his own skin, but the fact is—he kind of likes sucking Dabi's dick.
There's no better way to put it, no way to make it less pathetic: Hawks enjoys sucking the dick of the man who ruined his life.
Dabi's hips twitch in an aborted thrust, and Hawks knows his tells well enough by now to know what's coming. He flattens his tongue, opens his throat, and takes Dabi to the hilt. He swallows and Dabi groans, and comes. Hawks swallows around his orgasm, again and again, using his throat to milk Dabi through it like he knows he likes.
If it's because he's hoping Dabi will praise him again, will pat his head and call him a good boy like he's some sort of fucking dog—well. Hawks has discovered that he can crave something and hate it with equal measure. Those pathetic desires will stay trapped between the prison of his ribs until the day he's finally allowed to die.
"So good for me, aren't you, Keigo?" Dabi murmurs, exactly like Hawks wanted him to. Sated and sleepy, Dabi's fingers scratch lightly at the back of Hawks' scalp and Hawks closes his eyes. He presses his cheek against Dabi's thigh and lets himself bask in Dabi's attention.
His birth name doesn't dredge up the same negative swirl of emotions it used to. No, all those feelings and memories have finally been locked away in a box in his head he calls 'Before Dabi'. All Hawks feels in this moment is useful. Appreciated. Loved.
After a shower, they go to bed. Dabi doesn't have a lot of stamina; one orgasm and he's done for the night. That's the blessing of blowjobs.
It's a relief. A weight lifted. He can reach out again. He can touch his mouth to Dabi's neck or press himself tight against the length of Dabi's body, secure in the knowledge that it won't turn into anything more.
So Hawks does all that. He curls himself around Dabi and his thoughts wrap around getting to lay next to another human, to soak up their warmth, to be held and wanted, and he feels—god. He hates it, he does, he promises he does—but he feels lucky. Dabi holds him and lets himself be held, and that's more than Hawks ever had before.
As he drifts to sleep with his arms around his keeper, Hawks thinks, yeah.
It's not so bad.