Work Text:
Waking up with someone beside him has taken some getting used to. As All Might he'd held so many people at a distance - physically and otherwise. Learning to accept that intimacy - to embrace it with everything he has left - has been a peculiar change.
Not a bad one though, Toshinori muses through drowsy wakefulness. Especially not when that person is Aizawa Shouta, steady and dependable. Brusque in his own kind way, hiding his affection behind pointed words and practical concern.
Toshinori looks over to him. Some small, persistent part of his mind expects this moment to be a wishful dream. Those kinds of fears are commonplace nowadays. It's been a long time since he's had something this important to hold onto. Since he’s let himself reach out for it. After spending the last six years waiting to die, pushing away everything and everyone in favour of keeping his feet set on the path to that finish line… It feels almost thrilling, to exist in the moment and to risk. To stop running. To let himself be a component of someone else's story.
Shouta is effortless. Complex yet simple in a way that Toshinori finds less and less daunting with each passing day. Shouta is unafraid to speak against the history that remains chained to him. Still willing to step off that cliff's edge beside him, even with the uncertainty of their ( his ) future. With every day that passes Shouta remains, wondrous and unfaltering, and Toshinori treasures every moment he's given. Everything from the exasperated sighs he receives all too often to those rare smiles Shouta seems to reserve just for him.
The faint light of dawn streams through the gap in the curtains, drawn haphazardly from the night before. It had already been dark when he'd finally succeeded in pulling Shouta away from his grading and to bed. Shouta had insisted there was no need for him to rest. The sentiment was contradicted by the readiness with which he had leaned into Toshinori’s waiting hand, eyes already drifting closed. In the end, it hadn’t taken much convincing to get him to abandon his work. After all, Toshinori had reminded him, they had a free day tomorrow.
Shouta looks peaceful now, embraced by sleep; tranquil in a way that rarely carries over when he’s awake. It makes that familiar feeling of fondness rise in Toshinori’s chest. The one that makes him want to pull Shouta close and protect him from anything that might seek to harm him.
Only now he can't. The best he can do is be there when Shouta returns from patrol, offering what little reprieve he can. Shouta never complains. He takes the tea Toshinori offers without objection and gives him a rundown of the night's events. And even as he grumbles about how it's unnecessary, he lets Toshinori fuss over whatever injuries he's sustained. It's one of the few ways he can still feel useful; he's never been good at taking care of himself, but looking after someone else is like second nature. Seeing the tension drain from Shouta's body, feeling the weight of his head against his shoulder as he massages over sore muscles is enough. It has to be.
Willing those negative thoughts away, he studies the details of Shouta's face. The permanent bags beneath his eyes. The nearly imperceptible crease of tension, present even as he sleeps. How the pale dawn light illuminates his features. His gaze catches on the jagged scar beneath Shouta's right eye and lingers.
It's incredible how quickly the tone of a room can switch. Only moments ago he felt cradled by the warmth of fonder memories. Now it's all he can do not to see that day play over in his mind. To remember looking down at Shouta's bloodied, motionless body with the awful bone-chilling fear that he had arrived too late.
He remembers the horror of that day all too well. Arriving at the U.S.J. to find chaos. The building teeming with villains. The students scattered, facing a threat they were woefully underprepared for. That Nomu, monstrous and imposing, still crouched over its prey.
Shouta, lying in a pool of blood, still as death.
Back then, Shouta had simply been yet another person to fall victim to his irresponsibility. Someone he owed recompense, especially after the extent of his injuries was realised. But nothing more than that.
Now, with Shouta having carved his way into his life… The memory of what almost came to be feels even more suffocating. The idea of what they have now being snatched away before it ever had a chance to begin… Toshinori's heart aches at the thought of never knowing the sound of Shouta's laugh, hard-earned but all the better for it. Of a world where Shouta's rough, wonderful way of caring never became as familiar to him as breathing.
He still jolts awake sometimes, with phantom visions of Shouta's bloodied face and the memory of his weight in his arms. Not even the dreams of All For One compare to those. Sometimes, when he's lying there in the dark with his chest heaving, it's as easy as Shouta, ever attentive, reaching for his hands. His touch gentle, but undeniably there . Where Toshinori can pull him close and welcome that reassurance. Where the proof that the horrors of his unconscious mind are false is tangible and solid in his arms.
Those are the better nights. Others see him curled into the chair in the corner nursing a cup of peppermint tea that he keeps specifically for those occasions, thumb hovering shakily over the call icon beneath Shouta's contact. Shouta's never angry when he does call. Toshinori almost wishes he would be. It's exactly the kind of irrationality that Shouta condemns so heavily. But on those nights that the lingering image of blood and death wins out against Toshinori's practicality, Shouta picks up the phone without fail. And with his calm voice, Toshinori's anxieties drain away.
He reaches out. He barely realises he’s done it until he feels the rift in Shouta’s skin beneath his thumb.
It's such a small mark to remain from the brutality he faced during the U.S.J. attack. Shouta may bear other scars from that day, but this is the only one he can't cover. If it was inflicted only a few centimetres higher…
Anguish seizes his chest, taking his breath away. He doesn't think he'll ever stop regretting that day. If he hadn't been so reckless… If he'd been there to help Shouta fight…
Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can still see Shouta's battered body lying bandaged on the hospital bed. They hadn't been close then. But that was the point that their relationship started to take a turn for the better. He wishes it hadn't taken such grievous events to help them see eye to eye.
"Stop thinking so loud." Shouta's voice takes him by surprise, drawing a startled breath from his chest. He hadn't even realised he was awake.
"Sorry," he murmurs, frustrated with himself for disturbing Shouta's sleep. Still, he can't bring himself to remove his hand.
Shouta sighs quietly. There's no anger in it. Slowly, he reaches up to place his hand over Toshinori's own. He brings it to his lips to press a soothing kiss to his knuckles. Toshinori's heart stutters.
Shouta interlaces their fingers, resting their hands on the soft fabric between them. "What are you thinking?" he asks softly.
He already knows exactly what thoughts are swirling in Toshinori's mind, he's sure. Shouta's remarkably perceptive when it comes to his inner turmoil. They've had many a conversation about what happened that day, and who's to blame for the outcome. He has no doubt Shouta already knows what he wants to say. But, like always, he wants to hear it for himself.
So Toshinori lets him. "It's my fault."
Shouta sighs again, but Toshinori pushes forward before he can interrupt. "They were there for me . If I'd been there when I was supposed to… If you hadn't had to fight alone…"
Shouta's thumb rubs a comforting rhythm over the back of his hand. Toshinori can't help but think he doesn't deserve it. "And what would you have done?" he challenges softly. "Would the undefeatable All Might have managed to resolve the situation without casualties? Or would things have turned out worse because their target was there from the very beginning?"
It’s not an incorrect assessment. Fighting the Nomu had taken so much of his strength even with his late appearance. As it was, he’d barely been standing by the end. Perhaps his injuries would have been on the same level as Shouta’s had the day played out as planned. Perhaps emerging alive at all would have been the luckiest outcome.
But he can't forget how heavy Shouta felt in his arms that day. The blood staining his pale face. Wheezing breaths that sounded all too wrong coming from him.
"Better me than you," he says finally, almost too softly to hear.
Shouta's eyes flash with red. "Don't say that," he snaps, his grip on Toshinori's hand tightening. "Don't act like your life is any less important." The anger in his voice is enough to make Toshinori flinch away. Shouta sighs once more. He squeezes his hand gently. When he speaks again, it's clear he's trying not to let his frustration get the better of him. "The only ones to blame are the villains who chose to attack in the first place. You’re not responsible for that.”
Toshinori looks down at their connected hands rather than coming up with a response. Shouta's is dwarfed by his own, and yet he's holding on like he can't imagine ever letting go.
How did he end up here? How did he end up lying beside this incredible man, who refuses to blame him despite having every right to?
"I should have been there," he says, hating how weak his voice sounds.
"You were." Shouta's voice is soft. Gentle. Toshinori still finds it astounding that he gets to see this side of him. In those early days, he could never have imagined that Shouta could sound so tender. "You weren't there when the attack started. That's true. But you came as soon as you could. And that's what matters. God, Toshi." Shouta looks away, blinking emphatically. For the first time, Toshinori catches a glimpse of the depths of emotion shining in his eyes. "You saved my life. You and those damn kids." When Toshinori doesn't respond, he inches closer, burying his face into his neck. "I've forgiven you," he murmurs, breath warm against Toshinori's skin. "Even though there's nothing to forgive. It's about time you forgive yourself."
Toshinori's breath stutters involuntarily. It’s as much in response to Shouta's sudden proximity as his heartfelt declaration. No matter how many times they've been this close, it never stops feeling electrifying.
His composure breaks completely when Shouta's arms wrap around his chest, careful as always not to jostle the scar tissue that mars his waist. Squeezing his eyes shut, he buries his face into Shouta's hair and tries to tamp down the emotions rising within him. "I love you," he whispers, because the idea of Shouta not knowing how true that is makes him want to cry. "I'm sorry."
"Shut up." There's no heat in Shouta's rebuke. Not this time. "I love you too, idiot."