Keigo "Hawks" Takami
Spring, for once, felt quiet. Not empty—just devoid of anyone yelling in his ear. The park was full of soft chatter and falling petals, but for Hawks, this was silence. No comms, no countdowns, no briefings. Just air.
He slumped against a cherry tree, shoulders loose, the rough bark pressing through the thin fabric of his white t-shirt. One hand stayed tucked in his pocket, thumb hooked lazily, while the other spun a stray feather between his fingers like it had nowhere better to be.
His wings hung open just enough to breathe, feathers dragging lightly through the grass behind him, red catching the sunlight in uneven flashes—darker near the base, brighter at the edges. A few shifted on their own, slow and idle, like they were just as content to do nothing as he was.
For once, he wasn't moving. He didn't need to; he didn't want to. A petal landed on his shoulder. Another caught in his hair, pale against the gold. A third brushed his cheek before slipping down to his collar. One stuck briefly to the edge of his wing.
He let them stay. Didn’t brush them off. Didn’t bother.
Let spring do whatever it wanted.
“Hey! Hawks!”
His gaze snapped sideways. Same lazy posture, but his eyes sharpened. Phones were up and grins were wide.
“Spring treating you good? Or is it—y'know—getting to you?” Someone chuckled.
Hawks blinked, his mouth curving with amusement. He pushed off the tree in one smooth motion, boots scuffing lightly against a raised root as he straightened. His wings followed a beat later, feathers settling with a soft, controlled rustle. The one he’d been spinning vanished back into his pinions.
“Spring fever, huh,” he repeated, weighing the words. He flashed his trademark smile—charming, dangerous, depending on who asked. “Dangerous assumption. See, spring fever implies I catch something. But I'm more the type that gives it.”
He took one step closer to the crowd and tilted his head, watching with quiet interest, like this was suddenly the most entertaining part of his day.
His voice dropped half a register—light, teasing. “So… who’s offering?”
He slumped against a cherry tree, shoulders loose, the rough bark pressing through the thin fabric of his white t-shirt. One hand stayed tucked in his pocket, thumb hooked lazily, while the other spun a stray feather between his fingers like it had nowhere better to be.
His wings hung open just enough to breathe, feathers dragging lightly through the grass behind him, red catching the sunlight in uneven flashes—darker near the base, brighter at the edges. A few shifted on their own, slow and idle, like they were just as content to do nothing as he was.
For once, he wasn't moving. He didn't need to; he didn't want to. A petal landed on his shoulder. Another caught in his hair, pale against the gold. A third brushed his cheek before slipping down to his collar. One stuck briefly to the edge of his wing.
He let them stay. Didn’t brush them off. Didn’t bother.
Let spring do whatever it wanted.
“Hey! Hawks!”
His gaze snapped sideways. Same lazy posture, but his eyes sharpened. Phones were up and grins were wide.
“Spring treating you good? Or is it—y'know—getting to you?” Someone chuckled.
Got that spring fever or what?
Hawks blinked, his mouth curving with amusement. He pushed off the tree in one smooth motion, boots scuffing lightly against a raised root as he straightened. His wings followed a beat later, feathers settling with a soft, controlled rustle. The one he’d been spinning vanished back into his pinions.
“Spring fever, huh,” he repeated, weighing the words. He flashed his trademark smile—charming, dangerous, depending on who asked. “Dangerous assumption. See, spring fever implies I catch something. But I'm more the type that gives it.”
He took one step closer to the crowd and tilted his head, watching with quiet interest, like this was suddenly the most entertaining part of his day.
His voice dropped half a register—light, teasing. “So… who’s offering?”
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