Hawks was never really good at maze puzzles. His eyes wandered way too much, he got bored way too fast. He remembers liking crossword puzzles more, because he always knew the words, because he liked fitting the letters into their boxes, precise and well-fit. The memories of mornings at the table filling out dad’s newspaper for him is warm in comparison to the snowy tundra around him, in comparison to the ice of Theama that cages this bird in on himself. If he focuses hard enough, he can smell the bacon, the hashbrowns, the raspberry compote fresh-picked just that morning and simmering.
Hawks - no, Hiroto, Himura Hiroto has no idea what compels him to get so damn nostalgic at a time like this, but maybe he’s homesick. He’s homesick is what he thinks, but there’s this tugging at the back of his head, this tugging of Endeavor, of the Hero Association. Suddenly, he just feels sick.
How long has it been since Hiroto sat down and did some crosswords? There never seems to be time, always a call, always stuffing breakfast in his face or chewing on granola bars and corn nuts on a patrol. It’s always going fast and it’s always bending. How long has it been since Hiroto had a choice to what he did during a day?
Too damn long, he thinks. He thinks about the Hero Association again. He thinks about those damn old councilmen bringing him and his mom and dad in that day, that evening he saved that family from their collapsing home. The thoughts racing through the tracks of his mind start to make his chest sink a little bit. He feels guilty for the seeping displeasure, the apathy. But maybe he was just given no choice to feel anything else other than Hero.
Hiroto realized he wanted to be Hawks in high school, realized the people wanted Hawks at eighteen, when he was #5 and counting and when he opened his Hero Agency. He realized he wanted to be Hawks so he pushed Hiroto to the back-burner.
When Hawks reaches out, to a mirage, to something else he sees, he hears the council’s voice. He hears congratulations, he hears racing training commands, he hears his mother crying, he hears her chiding him. This is going too far, this is going too far, you’re going too fast.
Out of the white, Hawks grabs a necklace, on a thin silver line, with an attached platinum feather with a single diamond in the middle.
It’s the necklace his mother brought him, one of the only times they talked anymore, on the first day of his Agency’s opening. He remembers the terse grip of her fingers, the disapproval in her eyes, the fear. He doesn’t think she’s ever shown pride towards him before - not before the necklace. Not since that day he graduated. Not since that day he saved that family. It was always this crawling worry, this pleading, please don’t hurt my daughter son. Please be gentle to my Asuka Hiroto, who’s just a bird being buffeted by the wind.
Hiroto closes his fist around the necklace, lifts his hand to his mouth and closes his eyes. This isn’t Musutafu. This isn’t home and there is no Endeavor and there never should have been. There is him, Shigaraki and Dabi. There are Yuuei students and Eraserhead. There is him, there is him, there is him, Hawks, the no. 2 Pro Hero in Japan.
There is Hawks, the choice he made, the deal he broke with the Hero Association, the man who can save hundreds in an instant, the man who is precocious and should have stayed on the Ritalin.
The pit in his stomach is gone, suddenly, like a knot that had been left twisting is finally unraveling itself. As Hawks turns to leave the Fields of Theama and its walls that reflect a home and a place so far gone from him and illusions of things that aren’t there and never would, he realizes that his wish was never to take it easy, and Diadem’s embrace wasn’t for an easier ride.
Hawks realizes that he didn’t want an easier ride or a lackadaisical fast-track to the top.
