Chapter Text
Hawks’ hero outfit made sense in the sky. It kept him warm, kept his skin out of view, kept him safe, kept those from asking questions about the bruises. The scars, the patches of broken skin littered across his body. Every hero is awarded their scars for their bravery. They’re like badges, but Keigo sees them as participation trophies. Something you keep because you can’t exactly get rid of, something that you show to say that you tried. Keigo tries not to think about them. In the bathroom, on his mirror, he tries to focus on what makes him the most money: Hawks’ face. His smile, his expression, his eyes. When to use his canines in a smile, when to nod, when to appear charming, when to ward threats away. It doesn’t matter what his body looked like so long as his face kept him at Number Two.
He couldn’t fucking believe it when he saw you. It was like you just decided “fuck this,” and shocked everyone in one night. He didn’t even know that it was you!
Well, he didn’t know exactly know you. Then again, he didn’t really know anybody. He knew your hero name was Arachne, he knew you were in your twenties. He knew your quirk allowed you to summon spider appendages from your back in combat, he knew you could weave strings of sharp textures that tripped him up more than once during a co-op. He was aware that you were rising a bit too closely to his spot for comfort. And that your media team were geniuses. I mean, a villain’s kid turned hero? A literal gold mine of sympathy points was at your fingertips, and whoever your staff were, they did their job making you nice and palatable to all of Japan. He only took notice in your popularity once you breached top ten. From there, your fanbase had grown large, supportive and… thirsty. Your web-lingerie collection was the talk of your brand for a while. You were incredibly tall, especially in Japan. You were bold without meaning to be. And that’s all he knew about you.
So when your heel touched down from your van, of course your dress was sparkly, shiny, probably expensive, probably going to be returned within the week. Nobody batted an eye until you strode past them.
Your back was fucked.
He scolds himself, rephrasing the observation.
Those who found their scars rewarding and wore them as decoration tonight? Power to them, really. But you… It wasn’t so that you were wearing your medal, more like displaying the trophy life gave you. Thin chain designed like gold webs exposed the truth of your skin to the cameras, to the world that was watching. Shimmering metallica catching the light framed your scars as the painting inside the frame. Your hair sat pampered near your smoother shoulders, your makeup sharp and cut cleanly. Smokey eye, sharp liner, golden sparkle. Your black gown caressed the floor, the golden knitting of web displayed your chest not even half as well as you exhibited your damage to the world. He didn’t know your quirk marred you like that. Then again, maybe no one knew. He started to think this stunt was on purpose. A marketing ploy, a sympathy play? No, when he saw that shift in your posture, when you demurely peered over your bare shoulder, when you stopped your strut and looked into the eyes of the lenses… You wouldn’t pose without your back in the frame. You wanted people to know the cost of their safety. The truth. Maybe you wanted to feel pride for once instead of shame.
Some people gasped, some gawked a laugh from the crowd, others started clapping like you saved a dog.
Hawks allowed himself to blush, smoothing out his hair from the dastardly attempts at defilement from the wind. No one could see him up here anyhow. He watched from the top of some bank building across from the event, waiting for the right moment to swoop in and make a bachelor’s entrance… Well, shit. He couldn’t show you up now. Or… could he? If this were plot to take his Number Two spot, he wouldn’t go down fighting.
So, just as he planned, red feathers float down as heavenly as an angel’s down below at the red carpet. He cruises down wearing his brightest red attraction as the wind aids him to fly. He lands perfectly, as perfectly as he didn’t even rehearse it. The cameras peer back to him, albeit, slowly as you enter the gala. But once they’ve had their fill of you, they can’t wait to satiate themselves with Pro Hero: Hawks. Dressed to the nines, deep red suit shined when he walked, black dress shoes faux fastened with a gold buckle, black buttons, a golden feather clipped onto his blazer. He smiled and waved, focusing on his face. How did he look right now? Did he look like he cared enough for people to think he does? Does he seem happier than someone who had their authenticity in the spotlight instead of catering to the masses? Does he look like he isn’t thinking about you, right now, does he look like the only thing on his mind isn’t finding whatever bar you’re seated at and trying talking to you?