Starshine, you made me hurt with this one. 

The hulking headquarters of the League of Villains was possessed of a strained quiet. It grew through the halls like a monstrous plant, out to devour the unwary and unwilling. Shoots of silence shivered across the floor, a poison of shattered glass and sweet victory.

It was silent as the grave.  

It was not usually a quiet place, but tonight— tonight the world shuddered. Tonight, there was nothing to make noise rock these halls, nothing to shatter this mirror-bright silence.

Only heroes made such noise, and there were none left to cause a clamor, none left to stand protector before the weak, none left to paint this place in sweet battle and sweeter death.

Tonight, there was only victory.

The League— the center of all that was and all that would be, the headquarters of the New Power— was quiet with the bones of all that had come before.

On this day, with the last obstacles swept away, with the last feathers swept off the floor, society was made anew.

But that was not for here.

No, here, in this quiet place, in a corner none dared venture to, Tomura stood vigil. He was sullen as a statue and just as still, deadly fingers hanging limp at his side. Two nomu flanked him, one an eldritch creature of weeping feathers and sword-sharp talons, the other nothing but a mass of fire, burning with a screaming flame.

Together, they were a study in intimidation, painted in the colors of sweet nightmares.

Tomura did not take a step without these two by his side, but it felt wrong, somehow, to have them here, in this room.

Here, the silence had its roots, crawling from the echoing place and the vestiges of happiness. Here, Tomura felt it thick across his skin, heavy with regret and the cost of success.

It was quiet.

The bedroom had not changed, in all those months— nothing was out of place, clear as burning memory. It was a magnificent space, indulgent with lush chairs and smooth sheets alike.

Tomura knew the feel of those sheets beneath deadly fingers, had felt their give.

But now— now dust coated the room in a fine sheen, casting a haze over floor and furniture alike.

It could never blur memory.

The feathers had long since turned to dust beneath his fingers, the ash had long since been caught in a fell wind, but—

But here he stood, after all this time. This was the place, with the cool metal beneath his feet unmarked but stained in a blood he knew too well. Once, wind and soothing laughter had echoed through this room, brushed Tomura’s hair back with a lover’s touch. Once, a suture-bright smirk had lit this room afire, made Tomura flush with something beyond the paper-thin stretch of his skin.

Once he had been happy here. This was the place. Doubt was creeping in like the silence, cording thick vines around his legs and digging deep into his skin.

Here, in this room, he was victim to harsh memory. It curled across his spine, made his neck itch with a child’s pain.

But he was long grown, the King of Misfits and Villainy, he-who-destroyed. His neck was a year unmarred, unscratched since that night. He’d be damned if he started now.

Feathers and ash, gone. Was it worth the price, Shimura Tenko?

Any other moment, Tomura would have snarled out a yes, triumphant and vicious. He had broken the yoke of this society, cracked it open to the quickening-place and left it better.

No heroes stained this country now, no false hope had purchase in the hearts of the people.

It was better.

But here, in this room, with the two hulking specters by his side, he fell victim to cruel memory.

The nomu to his left twitched, black feathers ruffling across skeletal wings, a witching-powder flaking off. It fell to the floor like shed skin, like the dust of feathers and the ash of scarred flesh.

Tomura watched it fall, watched black powder coat the floor.A shriveled heart clenched in his chest, tight with the quiet infecting him, growing though his bones like they were hollow, like they belonged to Hawks.

He couldn’t look away from that hooked beak, from the lifeless eyes blinking heart-beat steady. They were golden, sharp with a predator’s knowledge, stark against stained skin and the backwash of black feathers. Each time they closed, Tomura felt the itch crawl back, the memories surge forward.

A blink.

A shiver ran across his skin, pushed up by the quiet, by the regret, god he—

A blink.

Those wings were black as spilled ink, covered in the cruel dust of Decay.

Red feathers had looked so much brighter, so much more alive.

Without thought or pause, Tomura took a step forward, cocooned himself in the span of those sickly wings. He could feel the other nomu— too bright and too hot, burning up inside and out, Dabi had always burned star-hot— take steps to match him, keep that same careful distance.

There was no sound but the screaming of fire, rumbling ever onward, always at his back. Tomura could still feel Dabi’s warmth, but no clever fingers could reach for him now.

A blink.

The silence crawled up his throat, dug vines through his skin and tore a sound from his flesh and soul.

It was a wretched thing, broken and child-soft. Here, in this room. It had happened here. Here was where he had lost them.

Here, he had traded his love for victory.

Was it worth the price, Shimura Tenko?

He lifted a deadly hand, long-boned fingers reaching for the nomu before him, brushing across the scale-slick texture beneath the eye. If he traced closely enough, he could still feel a hint of high cheekbones.  

The laugh lines that had crinkled the corner of bright eyes— those were lost to dust and sweet victory.

“Your feathers—” He stopped, felt the words turn to dust on his tongue. Why did everything he touch turn to dust?

He swallowed against the silence, swallowed against the thorned vines threading through his lips like Dabi’s sutures.

A blink.

“Your feathers are just as beautiful.” The words were too honest, too desperate, filled with a sadness that spoke of long regret.

The only response was a single twitch, emotionless and stained with the blood of a thousand crimson feathers.

In the place where laughter had once rung so sweetly, there was only that deep-rooted silence. The fire screamed at Tomura’s back, hotter than a supernova and loud with an ever-present pain. The wings over his head rustled, sending black grave-dust settling across his shoulders.

But it was Tomura’s fault, his choice, and now—

Now all Hawks could do was blink.

Guess who has no fucking self control. Me. That’s fucking who. 

Dabi had long since forgotten the press of crimson feathers. He had long since forgotten the sound of his brother's voice. He had long since forgotten the sting of his father's hand.

He had never forgotten his cause, the sound of rifle fire bright in his memory. If this is what it demanded-- Dabi would damn well do it with burning skin and itching scars.

Otherwise known as: Rival spies Dabi and Hawks, with a side of pining and bitterness. Tomura takes one look, rolls his eyes, and drags them both into bed.