#whoooooooo

Sighing and cursing internally, you elbow your way through the crowd, occasionally apologizing to the people you bump into. Someone nearly knocks you out as they jump and scream.

God, what an awful way to end an exhausting day. You've been swamped with paperwork and meetings all week, and now, the weekend just a short drive away, there just has to be a cluster of squealing, yelling and pushing people. This kind of commotion isn’t an unusual occurrence in this area, but–

“Hey, easy now, everyone gets an autograph–”

– Wait.

You stop dead in your tracks.

Autograph?

Also, that voice. Low but light, with a constant undercurrent of hubris.

“Whoa, sick t-shirt. Gimme that, I’ll sign it for ya!”

You turn to face the center of the crowd and stand on your tiptoes to look over everyone’s heads. And there he stands, bright red wings fluttering behind him, yellow glasses pushed up to give you a better look at his piercing eyes: Hawks. Wing Hero Hawks. Right in front of you.

Now. You’re no lovesick teenage girl. But Hawks? The golden boy with golden hair and golden eyes? Powerful, feathered wings framing his lean frame? Your heart accelerates and you grip the strap of your bag tighter.

Should you…?

That question gets flung to the side as you’re suddenly pushed forward by the ever more desperate crowd around you. Someone yells something in your ear as you’re shoved towards the center further. Stumbling, you catch your balance.

A gloved, steady hand lands on your shoulder. “Careful there, no falling in front of me now.”

Oh my fucking god.

Looking up and straightening your posture, it is indeed Hawks who stands before you, a slightly mocking grin pulling at his lips.

“Uh– thank you…”, you mumble.

Your brain is short-circuiting in real time as Hawks flashes you a more genuine smile. “No problem, baby bird! Be more careful next time, yeah? Here, let me sign that bag of yours!”

And before you can even decide if you want to defend yourself – because it was not your fault that some asshole decided to push you – Hawks whisks away your bag and pulls out a sharpie to write his name on it. Suddenly, every complaint dies in your throat. This is fine. This is absolutely fine. You are not going to put that bag on a shelf to never be used again. It’s your favorite after all.

“Here you go!”

Dumbly, you take back the bag. There’s Hawks’ name, big and full of verve, with a little heart scribbled behind it. You look up, a ‘thank you’ resting on your lips, but Hawks already has his back turned to you, talking animatedly to another fan.

You hug the bag tightly to your chest.

No, you’re not a squealing teenage girl, but he is unbelievably cool and handsome. And now, you have his autograph and the ghost of his big hand on your shoulder.

Fuck.

How are you supposed to end your day on a decently normal note like this?

More people swarm in front of you, slowly but surely obscuring your view of the pro hero. Your bag, however, is still held gently against your chest, lest the sharpie will smudge. God forbid.

With a surprisingly heavy heart, you turn away, throwing numerous glances towards the crowd as you leave. Your heart is pounding, and your chest warm.

Admiring him from a distance is one thing. Having interacted with him, however, makes you want to get closer.

Impossible, you know.