Hawks is alone on the rooftop, at first.
It’s not an important detail, even though it is.
And really, Hawks is Keigo is alone on the rooftop- until they aren’t. He’s sitting with a bottle, idly watching the black horizon burn orange with the light of an unseen fire, when buzzed feathers pick up quiet steps on the cement stairwell.
They’re slow, measured things, the gentle footfalls. Hawks knows who it is only by the faint whisper of fabric once the door opens, and by process of elimination. Keigo would have known who it was regardless.
He was alone on the rooftop first, sure, but it’s not his rooftop. They rarely are his, Japan’s rooftops, and by rarely he means only the unclaimed and by the unclaimed he really means none of them.
And so, Keigo doesn’t make a single movement of protest when the leader of the League of Villains - when the Grand Commander of the Paranormal Liberation Front - walks up onto his rooftop. Doesn’t even acknowledge the man who watches him, not when they’re both well aware of each other’s presence. Neither Hawks nor Keigo has the energy to pay anyone proper attention tonight.
Distantly, Hawks thinks that he should not have their back turned to such a force of will. Distantly , Hawks should be half out of their mind with paranoia and knowledge of the sheer Possibility the man behind him possesses.
Proximately, Keigo is tired. Too tired for Hawks Proximately , Keigo’s jaw aches and his back still stings from his handler’s belt and careful backhand.
Proximately, Keigo is so very tired .
When Shigaraki approaches - silent as the grave - and sits three feet to the left of Keigo, he still isn’t looking at him. Doesn’t care to, in the end. Shigaraki swings his legs over the edge, braces on slender forearms who’s cracks peek through the bandages coming down to his wrists as he does.
Keigo thinks Shigaraki seems tired too.
He takes another burning sip of amber, and keeps staring at the skyline.
Together they sit, entirely separate, freezing their asses off on an unreasonably warm night, watching thin tongues of flame lick at the clouds.
Shigaraki doesn’t ask, Keigo doesn’t either.
But eventually, a sun stained man will silently hold the bottle out to the other beside him, and neither of them will make eye contact. Neither of them will so much as turn their heads, not even a degree. Shigaraki will take it anyways, will grasp the bottle by its neck, still won't look at it.
And eventually, he will raise it to damaged lips and take an impossibly long sip, and the bottle will shake slightly from the uneven distribution of the weight on his prosthesis.
Shortly after, he will pass the bottle back to its owner, who will take a swig of his own without hesitation, though not without a sharp exhale beforehand.
The two men will pass the bottle between them, saying nothing, looking nowhere, for an unclassifiable amount of time. The stillness between them won’t be broken by the passage of the whisky, nor by the flexing and dull scrape of talons against stone or hair drifting in the breeze. It will remain until it is done away with, and it’s a stillness that could go on forever if not for life, if not for tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Hawks will report to his handlers, tomorrow Hawks will apologize and kowtow and bleed regardless.
Tomorrow, as Hawks is swallowing back their own newly spilt blood, he will pledge his dedication to the cause of the organization that owns them.
Tomorrow, this night might not be worth it, but even tomorrow, he won't regret it. Tomorrow Hawks won’t beg, not even when they wish him to.
But it’s not yet tomorrow, and so tonight, Keigo will sit here, trading sips of ridiculously expensive alcohol with the pale specter next to him; tonight he will shiver side by side with a silent companion, for no reason other than to exist.
And eventually, he will hand the other man the bottle one last time, he will rise to his feet, he will flare his wings. His companion will not react, Hawks will not look at him.
And then he will step off the edge, and his boots will just graze the cement below.
A snap of the wings will fling him back into inky blue.
Keigo is tired.
(Tomura is too).