Longer Than 3 Pages

by loading-bnha (re_LOAD)

Summary:

What if Toshinori received far more than the pages Stain gave him in Kamino? What if he was receiving notes well before the series began?

And what if he kept them all?

Notes:

Might edit later. Sort of got caught on the grind trying to post this on the episode’s release date (episode: S08 E02). Hoping to drag in more stainmight shippers eheheheheheh

(Note: this does include manga spoilers for things not yet shown in the anime)

It started with a note, written in shodo and slid beneath Toshinori's apartment door.

“挨拶”

“Greetings,” it read. He picked it up, glanced down the empty hall, then returned inside and closed the door behind him.

From one of the other residents? He presumed. The ink showed effort and skill, so it felt rude to not accept it — even if the lack of origin made him assume the writer didn't care what happened to it. Still, Toshinori decided to get it framed and hung it on the wall beside the entrance. His apartment was rather minimalistic, so the addition to the interior was appreciated.

 

A few days later, another note appeared. It was conversational.

“There was a kitten in the middle of the road today. It was terrified to move as the cars rushed by, but these two kids suddenly ran out.

One put their hands up to mimic a traffic instructor, while the other picked up the kitten and carried it to safety.

Charming, right?"

The note made Toshinori smile, even if its exsistence perplexed him. Like the last one it had no name, no identity, and nobody around who could have left it. The writing, despite being more casual, was still written in intricate ink.

Toshinori put it in his desk's drawer for later, then turned his attention to the paperwork he needed to complete before bed.

 

The notes didn't stop.

They became regular.

 

Every few days, without fail, Toshinori would receives another note. It would always contain a story from their day, and it would always be written in intricite ink.

Monday's note read:

"I walked past a parking lot today. There was a ticket taped to the meter with extra time on it.

It made me wonder if something came up, an emergency perhaps, that required them to leave early.

To be in a hurry, potentially stressed, yet still capable of such an act... It is a sign of immense kindness.

But if that's not what happened, does that mean they purposefully bought more time than they needed?

With the intent of giving it to a complete stranger, despite knowing the risk of it not being used at all?

I don't drive, but I hope their kindness goes to use."

And Saturday's:

"I was out late last night and there was a woman, a tourist I think. She looked scared as she wandered unfamiliar streets.

A jogger found her, stopped, and asked where she was going. She was trying to find her hotel.

Deciding to escort her, the jogger maintained a friendly conversation that seemed to sooth her worries.

And when they made it to her hotel, he returned to his run."

Hearing about the small acts of good that are hardly ever recognized was odd... But nice.

With his dying body, Toshinori knew there'd come a day where small things would be the only thing he could do. The things anyone could do; but far too few consider. The notes were a nice reminder that small acts are still deserving of recognition and respect. And still capable of inspiring a positive change.

He added the newest note to the others.

 

He believed the writer to be one of the apartment residents; and their words the observations of a thoughtful, yet isolated person needing to get their thoughts out. Someone needing the sensation of sharing, company, or merely the sense of being heard. Even if they did’t wish to communicate directly, Toshinori was happy to receive the notes.

Perhaps it’s his own loneliness that makes it so, but he finds himself looking forward to the notes. Excited even. It makes the guilt that comes with stepping away from hero work for the day feel just a little more bearable.

 

Every now and then the notes provide insights about who the writer is. Some of them are things Toshinori could have guessed: they enjoy people watching, they have an interest in philosophy, and they care strongly about actions.

Others are about their life: they work at a convenience store, they volunteer in their free time, and they regularly stay out late.

And even their hobbies: they enjoy history, they read books, they collect swords, and on top of shodo, they do origami.

He was given an origami tiger with the note containing that detail.

 

The notes become familiar. Enough so, that when Toshinori finds another note in his doorway, it isn’t the note itself that strikes him as odd, but the fact it's thicker and folded differently than the others before it.

Toshinori carries it with him to the kitchen to read while he waits for his tea to brew.

“There was a street artist outside the store today trying to sell their work. They were doodling just to pass time, but this old man had stopped to admire their work. He complimented their work, though he didn’t have yen enough to pay for a commission.

Still, the artist drew and gifted him a request."

Toshinori unfolds the note, inside is a painting of a sunflower — abstract, colorful, and vibrantly intricate. There’s more written inside.

"They were still there when I left the store, so I spoke with them. I didn't know what you’d like… But you remind me of sunflowers."

Toshinori’s eyes widened. This is the first time they’ve ever acknowledged him directly.

“... Sunflowers?” he repeated.

Toshinori doesn’t know what shocks him more: the fact they might be actively writing to him, the fact they compared him to a sunflower, or the fact they thought of him during their day.

He thought they wrote to write and shared to share. But this implies they’ve been writing with Toshinori in mind.

The kettle clicks, jolting Toshinori from his thoughts and causing him to jump.

He didn’t expect to be acknowledged. But now that he has… He doesn’t know what to do. It feels like he should respond, but they’ve never asked or implied an interest in a response. There’s never been a purpose, goal, or intention behind the notes. Has there?

“You remind me of sunflowers.”

Toshinori swallows. That is something far too sweet to be said to someone like him. He can’t imagine someone actively liking him without knowing he’s All Might, but there’s no way they could know that.

The thought that they’re acknowledging him, giving him—as Toshinori—a gift, is as appealing as it is unfamiliar. The sense of confusion leaves Toshinori frightened as he realizes these notes, however small they may be to his writer, are impacting him.

He takes a shaky breath and brings the note to his desk to add with the others. He hesitates for a moment, before balancing the painting atop his desk.

He then returns to the kitchen to enjoy his tea, hoping the familiar warmth will help get his thoughts in order.

 

The notes that follow remain familiar, just the occasional stories about something wholesome witnessed. No goal, no motive, no personalized discussion.

Toshinori feels silly for overreacting to the sunflower note.

 

The next note that addresses him comes with a question.

"There was a song playing at the store today. I didn't recognise it, but there were two people that did, and they both started dancing in the middle of the store.

It made me wonder what type of music you like."

Toshinori blinks.

He runs a hand through his hair as he thinks. He can’t recall the last time he sat down and just listened to music... Or the last time someone wanted to know something so small about him.

He grabs a blank page from his desk and writes his response.

“I enjoy pop punk.”

It grew on him when he was in America—Dave would sometimes play it too loud when they were driving, and on a few occasions he’d drag Toshinori to a concert. Of course Toshinori always fond a way to volunteer at the venues, much to Dave's frustration. The memory makes him smile.

He adds more to the note.

“What about you? Do you have a favorite song?”

With the note written, Toshinori crouches down by the door.

He ponders how to leave it so it can be found. Considering all the notes he receives are slid beneath his door, Toshinori decides to do the same. He folds the note, then wedges it beneath the door so it peeks out slightly; visible only to somebody who’s actively looking for it.

 

Come morning, there is another note beneath the door.

But unlike the others written in ink, this one is written in pen on what looks to be a torn-out page.

"I don't know. I don't listen to a lot of music. Whichever one isn't popular, because the popular songs are always playing on loop over the radio.

Even if they're good, they get annoying after a while."

Toshinori can’t help but laugh.

For someone always so positive in their stories, it seems funny that their response to “favorite song” is “popular music gets annoying.”

Perhaps it’s not much, but the communication and freely given insight to what they’re like outside of the stories makes Toshinori happy.

He adds the note that was likely written on the spot, to all the others written in ink.

 

The notes are left once a day and become more personal as they’re encouraged by Toshinori’s words.

 

“There's this woman who thinks I'm lonely. I let it slip that I live alone and away from the main city, and now she's recruited me to join her mahjong group.

I am TERRIBLE at mahjong.

Yet every friday after my shift, she's waiting for me so she can drag me off to play with her and her friends. By this point I think she's keeping me around because I make her look better."

Toshinori smirks. He wonders if they drag their feet and pout as they’re pulled along.

But then he pauses.

They don’t live in the apartment, he realises. They don’t live nearby and they live alone.

Toshinori swallows, staring at the finely inked letters — inked like all the others spare that ones written with scratch paper and pen.

‘How much time do they put into writing these...?’

Even if they work nearby, it must take time to deliver them daily, and to write them in ink no less. Each kanji is drawn and spelled out like an art form, and Toshinori realizes this is probably what his writer does the moment they get home.

They write these notes, they put time and attention into each detail, then they go out of their way to bring them to Toshinori. That’s why the things they respond to are written in pen — because they respond to it right then and there, and don’t have the hours in advance to turn words into art.

Toshinori’s heart aches with the thought, and for the first time he finds himself wishing to meet this writer who gives so much of their time to him.

The effort to write it, to make it look beautiful, to convey a kind of message that brings a little joy and thoughtfulness to the day. Effort spent on him, just so he can feel a little bit happier, and a little less lonely.

He wonders, why?

Why me?

Especially if the writer lives outside the main city. How did they decide to write him? Why did they choose him? How did they find out where he lives…?

It’s suddenly overwhelming. Toshinori stares at the note. His thoughts struggle to make sense of it, and the only thing he can come up with that could possibly make this make sense, is if they know he’s All Might.

Toshinori is careful with his identity, there’s no way it can be known. But he can’t fathom someone doing these things for him without reason.

Toshinori hesitates for a moment, before writing a message back.

There were many things he wants to ask, but only one question that could potentially answer what he needs to know without giving himself away.

“Why do you keep leaving me things?”

 

The wait feels long, as Toshinori only receives a note once a day. But when it arrives, the response is short.

“Because you deserve good things.”

He reads the words written in pen again and again, trying to understand the meaning behind them. He lets out a shaky breath and drags a hand over his face.

There’s no mention of All Might. So why? Why would they think that?

Toshinori writes another note, just as vague as the last. But perhaps… Perhaps this time he’ll figure out the purpose of these notes.

"Why do you think I deserve good things?"

As he waits for tomorrow to come, he fights the temptation to grab his note and rip it in half.

 

He is thankful there is a response by morning, because he doesn’t know what he’d do if he had to wait till evening.

"I fear you’re surrounded by those who believe they embody the light like you do, but they can not even begin to fathom what that means.

The beauty is in selflessness. And your selflessness deserves appreciation, acknowledgment, and encouragement.

You deserve insight into the good of this world, the good that may be hard to see when you shine so brightly.

I want to remind you there are true, genuine sparks like yourself.

I do this selflessly.

Because you deserve unconditional love."

Toshinori stares at the note. It’s written in ink.

He does not have the willpower to keep asking if they know.

 

He actively avoids thinking about how his writer knows him. He pushes the thought from his mind and he forgets about it. He enjoys the letters and he enjoys the sentiments and he doesn’t question their origin.

Unconditional things have no origin. Unconditional things need no reason.

So he doesn’t ask. He ignores what he feels he knows, because he doesn’t want to know it.

That works for a while.

And then they go too far.

 

Another note. Another gift.

It’s a box. It’s a box that couldn’t be slipped beneath his door. It’s a box that sits inside his apartment.

They picked the lock.

Toshinori stares at the box, then the door. There are no obvious signs of a break in aside from the box. He glances around the interior of his apartment. There are no signs of anything else being out of place.

He does a search of his home just to be sure.

Only when he’s certain he’s alone does he approach the box and read its note.

“I picked up a range of teas for you. They’re all healthy, nutrient-rich, and easy on the digestive system.”

They know Toshinori likes tea. They know he needs to eat healthier. They know he has digestive issues…

He opens the box. The contents within are as the note said they’d be, it’s an assortment of tea.

Toshinori swallows.

 

He has the locks changed on the door and windows.

There are no more gifts, but the notes still come.

Once a day. Many, with questions.

 

“Have you tried the tea?”

 

“Did you have a preference?”

 

“How did your day go?”

 

“How are you doing?”

 

“Are you mad at me?”

 

Toshinori can’t bring himself to respond to any of them. Conflict pulls him away from his pens, and conflict adds each paper to the drawer in his desk.

The drawer has become designated to his writer's notes.

 

Morning comes with a new note. It is written in shodo.

“すごくごめんね”

Toshinori stares at it, the words, and the emotion. Passion, guilt, regret, and sorrow. “I am truly very sorry,” it reads.

His heart ties itself in knots as he traces the ink. He takes great care as he adds it to the drawer. Toshinori hesitates as he ponders his options from there…

He reaches for the pen.

“I appreciate the tea, I just haven’t built up the courage to try it yet.”

He writes, and then writes the most important part.

“Don’t break into my apartment again.”

The note is folded up and tucked beneath the door. Then Toshinori leaves for Might Tower.

 

When he comes back, there is already another note written in shodo waiting for him.

“わかった”

Toshinori sighs as he picks up the paper. Its response is a simple “understood” but it is written passionately. It’s bold, with the conviction put upon each character. They must have seen his note, went home to write this, and then rushed back to drop it off before Toshinori got home.

“Emotional, aren’t you,” Toshinori says to the paper as he carries it to his desk. “You’d think someone so emotional would be a little bit better at empathy, and understand breaking and entering isn’t right. Without being told.”

He adds the paper to the drawer.

 

The following day, when he checks his mail, he finds an unopened and sealed package of tea. It’s one of the types that was in the box his writer broke in to give him. There is also a letter that lacks a return address and name, though Toshinori recognizes the handwriting.

He takes them with him as he heads into the apartment. Once inside, he sets the box on the counter and opens the letter.

“I didn’t do anything to the tea I gave you, but I understand your uncertainty. I shall accommodate that.

I’m sorry for not doing this to start with.”

Toshinori stares at the note for a good while, before glancing at the tea. His writer made sure it was untampered with, it’s possible they had it delivered directly from the tea company.

After a moment's hesitation, Toshinori sets the letter on the counter next to the box and starts the kettle.

It’s a matcha blend. Healthy, nutrient-rich, and easy on his digestive system. Just as he was told it would be. It’s a higher-end tea than he usually gets for himself, but he follows the instructions.

Add the powder, add a bit of water, whisk, and then add the rest of the water.

Once done, he holds the cup up to inspect it.

It smells good. It looks good.

He takes a slow sip.

The moment the flavor hits his tongue he makes an appreciative noise. It’s similar to the green tea he drinks regularly, but it’s richer. The flavors are more intense and all the more pleasant.

It tastes good. It tastes really good.

He takes another sip, and closes his eyes as he savors the taste.

I’ll need to try the other teas as well. He’s relieved he tucked the box of teas into the back of a cupboard instead of throwing them out — despite his initial impulse to do so.

Toshinori glances at the note that was left with the tea.

They haven’t done anything malicious. Insensitive and lacking basic awareness of law and privacy? Yes.

But not malicious.

Toshinori fidgets with the cup, before making up his mind. He sets the cup on the counter then goes to grab a pen and paper. He writes a response.

“Thank you for understanding.

And also for the tea.”

 

Come morning, there is a response.

“I’m pleased you enjoyed it.”

 

There are no more break ins and they fall back into rhythm. Be it in the morning or the evening, the letters are left daily. Toshinori replies to them when asked.

It’s been a bit over two months since the first note. But still, there has been no insight, no drive, and no mention of a goal.

“Unconditional love,” his writer wrote.

Toshinori is beginning to believe it.

 

He comes home to a letter one night and pauses when he sees the length of it. He picks it up and finds that it’s double sided. He frowns, walking the rest of the way into his apartment and closing the door behind him.

He goes to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of matcha before he sits down to read.

“There was a kid who came into the store to buy a toy with his allowance money. But in line, the person in front of him didn’t have enough to buy food. The kid wound up giving them his money instead of using it to buy a toy.

I let it happen. It’s good for children to feel rewarded for doing good deeds without expecting a reward. Right?

The person left with food and the kid left happy. But I felt like I should have personally done more…

I bought the toy and I brought it to the kid’s house, along with a note saying ‘thank you’ on behalf of the one they helped.

But I am not sure I did the right thing. Especially after upsetting you.

I would appreciate your advice.”

Toshinori is charmed by the reason they didn’t interfere despite being driven to do something — he wants to praise their insight and kindness. But… They tracked a kid, Toshinori thinks bleakly.

Had he been in that position, he probably would have bought the food and praised the kid for trying. He wouldn’t have stopped long enough to consider the importance of letting the child sacrifice the toy.

With his writer’s insight… He feels they made the better choice.

But still. Privacy, boundaries, and laws need to be taken into consideration. Toshinori knows his writer is safe. They’re bad with boundaries, but they're safe. He’s willing to overlook the slip ups in favor of that. But these are other people. People who do not know his writer.

“You shouldn’t have brought the toy to the kids house.”

He writes, hesitates, then keeps writing.

“Your insight into letting the kid learn selfless fulfillment is good, and the fact you were compelled to do something more is natural.”

Toshinori fidgets with the pen, he shouldn’t, but…

“I’d have wanted to do the same thing.”

He probably could have done it. Tally it up to hero work and show up as All Might, there to fulfill a mission. But his writer isn’t a pro hero and laws need to be respected.

Toshinori stares at the letter. It’s genuine, it’s legal, it’s honest…

But it feels wrong. It feels cold.

He drums the pen against his lips as he thinks.

An idea suddenly comes to mind that makes him smile. He resumes writing, this time with more confidence.

“If you wanted to repay the child, you should have bought the toy and held onto it so you could give it to them when they returned to the store. Since you work there it provides you the ideal opening that others wouldn’t have.”

Toshinori feels a little silly for not having this idea sooner. He’s sure they’ll feel the same when they read his advice, so he continues.

“It took me a while to realize this, so I don’t fault you for overlooking it. Especially since you were there, acting in the moment.

Just keep laws in mind before you do anything. They’re there for a reason.

Try to avoid frightening people in the future as well.

But most of all, don’t put yourself in danger like that.”

Because other people are more sane than me, and will not care about your intentions when they call the cops, Toshinori leaves unsaid. He sets the pen down and takes the paper—folds it, then tucks it beneath the door.

The sun has set, and the world outside is lit by city lights.

Toshinori still feels a little on edge when he considers his writer breaking into his apartment. But when he returns to the warm cup of matcha, and heads to the couch to wind down for the night, those worries feel small.

 

In the morning, there is a response.

“Thank you. For your consideration and concern towards everyone involved, including me. I have taken your advice to heart.

Writing to you like this… It’s not ideal is it?

Do you want me to stop?”

Toshinori’s heart sinks. He doesn’t hesitate before grabbing a paper and pen to write his response.

“I enjoy your letters and I look forward to reading them. I trust you, as crazy as that is.

You said you write due to unconditional love, so I know you mean me no harm.

And you said you wouldn’t break in again, so I know I can reason with you.

Continue that, and what we’re doing right now is alright.

If you worry you’ll overstep or want to change what this is, you can ask me if it’s okay first.”

He hesitates as he considers the permission given in his words. He decides not to change anything about them.

He places the note beneath the door.

 

He is not prepared for the response…

He is not prepared at all.

“All I ask is that you allow me this.

This is all I want from you.”

Toshinori’s breath catches, the hand that grips the paper shakes. Those words are too similar to words he’s heard before. “This is all I want from you.”

“This is all I want for you.” Memories of Mirai’s words, pleading with him to stop, to not give anymore, to settle down and kick his feet up. Words shouted about stubbornness and the inability to support.

Toshinori drops the note, stumbles out of the apartment, and leaves.

Needing out, needing away. Away from the memory. Away from that, away from that thought-

Is it Mirai?

It would explain how they got his address. It would explain the letters. It would explain their intent. Letters about small things anyone could do to convince him it’s alright to retire. Telling him it’s unconditional love and that he does not need to do anything.

Telling him to stop.

Toshinori has enough awareness to recognise he’s having a panic attack. He clenches his hand over his shirt where his heart beats too loud. He decides against driving. As much as it may ease his stress, he is not in the right headspace. So he walks. And he lets his thoughts thrash within his mind.

But Mirai would never do this.

Mirai wouldn’t pretend to be someone he’s not. Mirai wouldn’t break in.

The words may be similar to ones Toshinori has heard before, but it can’t be Mirai.

Right?

 

When he returns home, he adds the paper to the stack without rereading it, and he writes a response.

“Who are you?”

His writer knows him too well. Toshinori knows nothing. He’s come to accept their secrecy, but… He needs something for reassurance.

 

The answer he gets is ominous and vague. It assures Toshinori that his writer can’t be Mirai, or anyone else close to him for that matter. They all tend to be logical thinkers, not abstract.

He lays upon the couch and reads the words with a solemn mind.

“Nobody you’d know.

Somebody whose paths shall never cross with yours.

The glimpse of a stranger who merely wants you to know you’re appreciated.”

Toshinori frowns as he stares at the words. He breathes a sigh and rests the page on his chest. Staring up at the ceiling he considers the words’ meaning, and how to respond.

The word “stranger” feels impersonal after the amount of letters they’ve exchanged. Toshinori feels he knows them better than that, and decides the word merely refers to the physical, and not the spirit laid out in ink.

Someone I wouldn’t recognise or think about if I saw in person…

Toshinori wonders what they’d be like. They say so much with their writing, through both the phrasing and the passion put into each carefully inked character.

He wonders what they’d talk about if given an hour; without being limited to a piece of paper and without waiting a day between each letter.

He wonders if they’d be more outspoken and passionate, or if these letters are a means to express themself in a way they can’t otherwise do. Toshinori wonders if he'd be an exception to that shyness.

After all, they broke into his house.

He snorts at the thought and looks back at the note. He frowns as he considers its words. He’d like to meet them, but the way they speak…

Toshinori writes his response.

“Are our paths unable to cross, or do you not want them to cross?”

 

The following day his note vanishes from beneath the door.

But he doesn’t get a response.

 

Or the day after.

 

He almost thinks he said the wrong thing, when on the third day he finds a note in his doorway.

“They cannot cross for both our sakes. Meeting would only complicate things.

This is as close as I can get to you, and this is as close as you can get to me.

I hope you can understand and be okay with that.”

The words answer nothing. They speak of facts unspoken — certainty and fate, indulgence and yet control. It took them three days to answer Toshinori’s question… He wonders how heavily they thought about this response.

He decides to press.

“I can be okay with that if you are, but the reluctance in your words fails to convince me.

As we are now, it feels like a one-sided relationship. You’re giving without anything in return, and I can only interact with you as you decide. I’d like to bridge that gap.

We don’t have to meet, but perhaps you could give me your name?”

 

His writer’s next words are written on tear-stained paper. Toshinori’s heart cries for them in turn.

“Your words are too kind. I do not want anything more from you, but knowing you want to return my affection is the best gift you could have given me.

Do not doubt the impact of your words. Perhaps our interactions are reliant on my decision, but there is no note of yours I’d ignore and your words have already change the very rhythm of my life.

But I can not give you my name.”

Toshinori responds, perhaps with more emotion than he rationally should.

“Why not? Do you truly think me knowing your name would change that much?

If you’re worried I’ll search for you, I promise I won’t. I just want to know you better.

Can't you trust me with that?”

 

The next letter Toshinori receives comes with a small glass vial. Inside is blood. He freezes the moment he recognises the crimson color. It doesn’t take much thought from there to realise it’s his writer’s blood.

But why? Why send this? he thinks with a curse as he inspects the vial.

He looks at the note in hopes of an explanation.

“Not giving you my name and not trusting you are two different things.

I don’t want you to know my name because I do not want you to feel the consequences. It may mean nothing now, but in case that changes in the future, I want to spare you from whatever that brings. I do not want my name connected to you and I do not want you to hold onto it.

But I trust you. With the whole of my being, I trust you.

This is my own blood. I am certain you could get it tested and identify me with ease. But I am asking you not to. I trust you.

Let this be a token of that trust.”

Toshinori is stunned by his writer’s words. Their message is sincere and written with desperation. Their request is as bizarre as it is endearing.

Toshinori looks back at the blood. His writer trusts him. They trust him with everything. Even if they can’t share their name, they still chose to do this. They gave him everything, and then asked him not to look.

He stares at the vial in quiet disbelief. His heart races as he goes to pick up his pen and prepare a response.

How should I even respond to this? How could I possibly respond to something like this? He needs a few minutes to gather his thoughts and calm his heart. What should I even say? What kind of response would be appropriate?

They just placed a precarious amount of trust in him. It’s intimidating and nerve-wracking and Toshinori can’t think of a proper response. He just knows he has to put something down on paper.

He eventually decides to be polite, and just… Honest.

“I have no words to express my feelings. I promise I will not test the blood, and I apologize for pressing you like that. Your words are enough, I’m sorry if I indicated I thought otherwise.

But I need to ask,”

Toshinori hesitates, then finishes:

“are you happy?”

It seems like a simple question, but that’s what had prompted Toshinori to press. He feared there was a reluctant sorrow in the limits his writer set, a self-inflicted guilt Toshinori felt helpless against. Especially since they provide him such comfort and joy…

He takes a deep breath, and exhales slowly.

That’s all he can write. That’s all he needs to know.

Just if they are happy.

They care so much… About the world and all those small things they write to him about. And they care about him.

Toshinori wants to care about them too.

 

The response he gets is written in shodo. Elaborate and intricately done with care despite the characters’ simplicity.

"はい"

They say “yes,” but the amount of love put into writing that simple answer makes Toshinori laugh. He covers his mouth to stifle a loving chuckle.

“God, you’re a lot.” He smiles at the paper, overwhelmed with the joy such an answer gives him.

If this is what makes them happy, who am I to object?

 

He gets it framed and it’s placed on his desk with the sunflower painting and origami tiger.

 

Toshinori has begun to leave notes for his writer more often. From there, one note a day quickly becomes two—one every morning and one every night.

They share notes about their day, and sometimes they talk. Either way, Toshinori enjoys reading what they write. Especially since his writer’s stories have taken on a more personal perspective.

Which isn’t to say the notes aren’t as wholesome and sweet as ever.

If his writer is anything, they’re an overly emotional softie.

 

But they’re also skilled.

“I was volunteering at a community kitchen as one of three chefs yesterday. There was a woman trying to persuade her dad to eat an apple. He wasn’t all there mentally and shouted. Made a scene that distressed others, so I had to step in.

I took the apple from the woman, cut it into a swan, and then returned it.

It did the trick immediately. Got the guy to eat the apple, got the woman to relax, and was enough of a trick to sooth everyone else.

Downside is… A lot of people wanted me to do it again.

The other volunteers supported the idea, and I wound up on apple cutting duty for the rest of the evening.”

 

And they’re dramatic.

“My manager’s car broke down and for some reason he thought calling me was the right idea? I mean I fixed it, somehow… The power of the internet and common sense I think.

Which apparently far too many people lack.

He could have just looked for a solution himself! But no, instead he’s forgotten what my job is and had me come over and do all the work. I had to bite my tongue to refrain from telling him off. I bit it hard enough that it still hurts.

I have a bowl of ice cubes with me that I’ve been snacking on to soothe the wound. I don’t know if there’s something off with the taste because of my tongue, or if I need to do a repair check on the freezer and pipes.

Can you guess how I’m going to do that? Despite not being a repair person?

I bet my manager can’t. Fucking hell.”

 

And despite whatever they say, they enjoy inconveniences.

“I took in a matted cat to help it, but the moment I sat it down to give it food, it broke everything on my kitchen counter.

I had to chase the feral thing through the house. A stressful thing to do considering how many sword displays I have. I managed to catch it before it could hurt itself, but it made its fur that much harder to work with.

Once trimmed, washed, and dried, the cat thought we were on good enough terms to ask me for warmth.

After what it put me through…

It’s a persistent thing, I’ll give it that. It’s sleeping on my lap as I write this.

There’s a woman I know who likes knitting sweaters for cats. Maybe I can convince her to look after it.”

 

In a few weeks it’ll be half a year since that first note was left.

Toshinori keeps thinking he should do something to mark the occasion, as silly as it may be. But unlike his writer, Toshinori has to make sure everything can fit beneath the door, be noticed and accessed from the other side, and isn’t noticeable enough to risk someone else finding it.

He could give them permission to enter his apartment while he’s out, but… No. No, Toshinori shouldn’t do that.

He sits on the floor and scrutinizes the gap beneath the door. He’s drawn before, just a little doodle to try and explain what he was talking about. If the praise and tear marks he got in return mean anything, his writer approved. But even if drawing something felt like enough, Toshinori still has to fold his notes to wedge them beneath the door.

He sighs mournfully — only for his breath to break into a choked cough.

Toshinori clenches a hand over his mouth, gets to his feet, and scrambles to the kitchen just in time to throw up in the sink. He groans pitifully.

He’s never been fond of getting sick. His injuries certainly haven’t made it easier.

Being sick also means he doesn’t have the energy to do anything elaborate for his writer this week. He turns on the sink to wash the mess down and watches it drain with tired eyes. He should eat something, but he’s never been good at keeping his kitchen stocked.

The idea of going out sounds impossible, and while he knows he could ask Tsukauchi for supplies… He’d rather not.

Maybe he can just rest for today and head out tomorrow.

His entire body feels miserable. The idea of a hot bath and sleep sounds so nice. Sleep off whatever’s deciding to break his already broken body, and maybe he’ll wake up feeling like he won’t die from every bodily jolt.

As Toshinori heads to the bathroom to do just that, he pauses.

There is a note in front of the door. There wasn’t one before…

And there is a shadow that sways just outside.

Toshinori swallows. His sore throat protests.

He approaches slowly and reaches out to grab the door handle. He stops himself just as his fingers brush metal, then pulls his hand back. He sits down to take the note instead. It’s written in pen on a torn out piece of paper.

“Can I go get you something to eat?”

Toshinori scoffs. “Your timing is impeccable, I was just mourning how empty my kitchen is.” He chuckles, then winces, stifling a soft cough as he curls in on himself. He watches the shadow move with tired eyes, and listens to the soft scratch of a pen. The tear of a page, the sound of movement…

Another note is slid beneath the door. His writer sits on the other side.

“Do you want me to pick up groceries?”

Toshinori frowns. He doesn’t like asking things of people, but he knows he’s in no condition to go out, and he knows if he doesn’t eat anything he won’t get better. His writer is offering, so it’s better than interrupting Tsukauchi at work and making him needlessly worry.

Or staying here and starving…

Toshinori rests his head against the door with a soft thunk.

“Could you do that for me?” he asks weakly.

He hardly has the sentence out before aggressive writing can be heard. Toshinori can’t help but smile. He knows what’s going to be said before the page slides beneath the door.

“Of course.”

“Thank you. Is it alright if I just tell you the list and you write it down? I don’t want to get up.”

"Yes, I'm listening."

Toshinori hums then recounts what all he needs, listening to the pen's movements as they write.

The knowledge that his writer is an arm's reach away if not for the door makes his heart flutter in his chest. He can’t help the giddy feeling that blossoms amongst the sickness. He’s actually interacting with them — even if it’s just through the door.

“Get a receipt, and I’ll pay you back for whatever it costs,” he informs once he’s given his list.

He hears the page adjust, and then the start of more aggressive writing.

“Stop it,” Toshinori huffs. “You’re being helpful enough by getting these things. Let me pay you for them.”

There is a moment of silence, then the sound of something being crossed out, followed by the sound of softer writing. Another note.

“You don’t need to pay me back, I am honored to do this for

Fine. I’ll pick up the stuff, come back, leave them outside your door—with the receipt—and knock. Give me a moment to leave, and then I’ll be back tonight.

You can pay me then and also update me if you need anything else.”

“Thank you,” he says again, then hesitates. He debates with himself for a moment.

This is the ideal moment, he thinks but does not conclude the thought.

Moment for change? For risk? For indulgence? For an excuse?

He decides not to overthink it.

“I was about to go and rest. I’m not sure I’ll be up when you return,” he says. They do not answer, so he continues, “If I’m asleep when you come back… Could you put away the groceries for me?”

It’s quiet.

Toshinori curses himself out, he shouldn’t have offered that! Not after he made such a big deal out of the tea. But the level of trust this whole thing has begun to embody is dizzying. Toshinori has their blood, they already know where he lives and could enter. Letting them in doesn’t feel like quite a leap.

Only an acknowledgment to the change that’s formed between them.

For a moment he doesn’t think he’ll get a response. But after a moment’s pass, there is an answer.

“If you’re sure.”

Toshinori smiles, watching the sway of their shadow.

“Thank you,” he says again. “I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.”

He stays seated as they get up. He listens as they return the papers to their pocket. They linger for a moment, before reaching out and dragging their nails over the door to make an audible sound of farewell.

Toshinori’s heart feels warm as he reaches out and does the same thing. “Itterasshai,” he whispers.

Their shadow stays for a moment longer, before they eventually go. Toshinori listens to their steps fade, and the faint sound of the stairwell door being opened down the hall, then closing once more.

It takes more effort than he’d have preferred to get up and shuffle to the bathroom. But the moment he’s able to sink into the hot water, his body sobs with relief as his aches are soothed and his muscles finally relax.

Toshinori sinks lower into the welcoming depths and breathes in the steam. His eyes fall shut for a moment as he rests.

A moment turns into a few moments.

And then a while.

He only cracks his eyes open when he hears a knock at the door.

They must be back, Toshinori thinks. He hesitates for a moment as he considers getting up, before deciding against it. He closes his eyes once more and chooses to merely track the sound of their movements.

They open the door—no breaking in necessary—and remove their shoes. Heavy, potentially boots judging by the sound of it. Toshinori smirks at the insight. They’re either steel toed heavy duty work boots, or those punk style boots with thick soles and metal accessories.

Toshinori isn’t sure which image appeals to him more:

To imagine his passionately caring writer as someone who roughs it in the wilderness regularly... Perhaps it’s the boots they wear when they’re working at the community gardens they volunteer at. Working out in the sun all day until they’re slick with sweat.

Or imagine them as someone who dresses up and cares about their image and appearance as much as they care about their morals and convictions. Dressed in leather and metal, holding themselves high with an air of intensity that would make the ignorant presume wrong about their heart.

Toshinori wouldn’t presume wrong, even if he didn’t know they were his writer.

A misinterpretation about peace and those who cling to optimism, is that those sorts of people are soft and avoid anything that may start conflict. They overlook how strong a fight one must be capable of to sink their teeth into an ideology and refuse to let go.

Toshinori wonders if their ears are pierced. He had thought about getting his ears pierced when he was in college, but he didn't. Being the Symbol Of Peace means he needs to embody the ideals. Soften his edges for the public and have that approachable, welcoming, acceptable warmth.

Still, he thinks it'd be cool if they had piercings.

Someone who doesn’t care about their image and is fully genuine to themself and dressed for the purpose of their ambitions… Or someone who dresses with a sense of aesthetic and purpose to inspire emotion just by exsisting.

Both concepts appeal to him.

Maybe they’re both.

Toshinori chuckles at the thought, and sinks lower to stifle himself beneath the water so they don’t know he’s still up and more conscious then he was moments before. The bath and rest is helping, but their presence in his him has him rather enticed.

Bags crinkle as they’re brought in, placed upon the counter, and sorted through. Toshinori rests his head against the side of the tub as he listens. It’s oddly pleasant, not having to worry or deal with such simple things while sick.

He listens to the fridge and freezer open as things are put away.

He closes his eyes and rests once more, with a soft smile on his lips. Basking in the odd domestic feeling of such a moment.

He winds up falling asleep like that, only waking up as he’s startled by the sound of beeping.

Toshinori gets out of the vaguely-warm water and dries himself off before grabbing his bathrobe and hesitantly opening the door.

It’s quiet. The beeping has stopped. Most of the lights are off, spare the kitchen light. His writer must have headed out by now. Still, Toshinori pokes his head around the corner and glances around.

It’s empty…

Toshinori pauses when he locates the source of the noise. His rice cooker has been pulled out and set up on the counter. It must have finished cooking.

Toshinori slowly approaches, looking from the rice cooker, to the plate beside it. He can’t help but grin when he sees the cut up apples. There are slices cut like bunnies around the plate's edge, with another in the center, intricately spiralled into a rose. There is a note beneath the plate and a blade beside it.

Toshinori eyes the blade, before carefully slipping the note from beneath the plate.

“I put away most of your groceries. The stuff that didn’t need to be refrigerated I left out since I did’t know where it should go. I would rather avoid confusing you in your own kitchen.

I also made you okayu and cut up some apples for you to snack on. Hopefully the okayu is done by the point in which you wake. I’ve never worked with this sort of rice cooker before, but hopefully the settings work.

Since apples weren’t on your list and I was using the rice, I bought the apples and another bag of rice separate from your groceries. You won’t see them on the receipt. Don’t try to pay me back for them.

Also, your knives are dull. I was tempted to sharpen them for you but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. If you permit me to enter again, I’d like to do that for you. Till then, I left you my apple cutting knife. Don’t worry about returning it, consider it a gift.

I hope you get well soon. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to check in on you.”

Toshinori smiles at the note and checks to confirm apples are nowhere on the receipt he was left with. How do they manage to respect and go against my wishes at the same time?

He sets the papers aside in favor of the knife.

It’s a folding knife with a reddish wood handle, it’s smooth with a finish over it. Toshinori traces the handle as he inspects it. The grip and detailing all seem custom made. It’s certainly been well maintained and cared for over the years.

Are they seriously offering to give this to me?

Toshinori flips out the blade and whistles.

So that’s how sharp a blade can be, he thinks with amused wonder, enjoying the feel of it in his hands. It’s likely been carved to his writer’s personal grip. Their hands are small then his. That’s not a surprise, but it’s still pleasant to know.

Toshinori’s curiosity gets the best of him, and after a moment of admiring the knife, he brings his finger to poke the tip. It draws blood immediately. Toshinori winces and brings his finger to his mouth to prevent it from bleeding everywhere. He glances at the rose and suddenly understands how his writer managed to cut such thin and delicate strips.

Toshinori pulls one of the thinly cut strands from the flower and inspecting the knife work with awe, even as his finger continues to bleed. No wonder they were asked to make everyone an apple swan. He’ll need to take a photo of their work before he eats it, but since he’s already pulled off one of the petals he might as well try it.

It’s so thin it almost seems like paper.

Toshinori hums happily and washes his hands in the sink before grabbing a bowl to start dishing up some of the okayu.

He pauses, looking up as he feels the vague sensation of being watched. He tilts his head slightly, but stops before looking towards the apartment balcony. He hesitates for a moment.

There’s no feeling of a threat… Did they decide to check in on me again? Toshinori glances at the note.

Ah. They’re here to make sure the rice cooker works. Toshinori smirks, returning the lid to the rice cooker and giving them a small wave over his shoulder.

It’s quiet for a moment, then he hears the soft, hesitant sound of nails against the window.

Yeah, it’s them.

Toshinori contently keeps his back turned and takes a bite of the okayu. The pleasant warmth of solid, soft, and simple food works to relax him further. He sits the bowl down so he can lift both hands over his head to make a heart as a means of expressing his appreciation. Then he returns to eating.

It’s quiet for a moment.

Then there’s a pat-pat-pat on the window.

Followed by another soft scratch.

Toshinori laughs at the noise. Adjusting the bowl into one hand so he can gesture the question of if they’re giving him permission to turn.

There’s no response.

Toshinori gives it a moment. Still nothing comes. Perhaps they left?

He holds up his hand in countdown just in case, before turning around.

They’re gone and the balcony is empty. But on the window, is a heart drawn using their breath to steam the glass.

Toshinori smiles giddily and leans back against the counter. He stares at the window as he resumes eating the food they made him.

 

The next day, Toshinori is feeling significantly better. Still sick, but no longer throwing up. He probably could have powered his way through work if he wanted to… But he decided to do the responsible thing and accept another sick day.

He’s lounging on the couch, tucked up in his favorite blanket, and watching a movie he’s seen before. He casts a glance every now and then to the door, and the moment he sees the piece of paper slip beneath, he’s off the couch.

“Ah! Wait– sit, sit!” Toshinori calls before they can consider leaving. “I want to talk.”

The shadow sways, before moving and sitting before the door. Toshinori grins in triumph as he grabs the envelope from the counter and sits as well.

“Thank you for helping yesterday.” He pushes the envelope beneath the door. “Don’t worry, I didn’t try paying for the apples.” He hears them open the envelope and count it anyway.

Toshinori's grin widens.

“Only for the amount of rice you used,” he adds. He can also play stubborn, and god is it worth it to hear their movements still for a moment, before 400 yen is pushed back beneath the door.

Toshinori doesn’t acknowledge the attempt as he pushes the yen back under. “It was good by the way, the okayu. Is that a dish you make for yourself when you're sick?”

It’s quiet for a moment, then he hears them pull out their notepad and writes out a response. The note is slid beneath the door with the 400 yen.

“No, I don’t get sick.

Take the yen.”

Toshinori pushes the yen back beneath the door.

“Seriously? You don’t get sick?” he asks as he sits the note aside in exchange for the note initially left behind. He hears them writing out their response to his question as he reads the note.

“お元気で”

It’s another one written in shodo. “Stay well,” it says. The brush work is more clean and smooth, as if trying to channel that clean healthy energy into the very words written. Less stylised, yet no less passionate.

“You have such nice handwriting,” Toshinori praises softly.

The writing on the other side of the door pauses, and Toshinori smiles, glancing up at the door as if he could look through it and see what bashful face they’re making.

“Are you shy?” he teases gently. “You’ve been giving me all these notes and you’ve been inside to see them on display. You must know I enjoy them.”

It’s quiet for a moment longer than the sound of writing resumes.

Toshinori is content waiting for the page to be slid beneath the door.

“Seriously. I don’t get sick. Courtesy of my quirk is having a strong immune system.”

Toshinori had never considered his writer in relation to quirks. Never stopped to wonder what quirk they’d have or if they had one at all. “An immune system boosting quirk…?” He reads aloud. Before continuing to read the note.

“Thank you for complimenting my writing. Yes, I have seen the stuff you have on display. But hearing you say it, in that voice of yours, is very different.

I am not used to such praise, and it means infinitely more coming from you.”

“I can’t believe you’re not used to praise. You’re so talented and skilled, it’s impossible for me to speak of you without praising you.” Toshinori sighs.

It’s true. Even when they broke in the first time, Toshinori still found himself appreciating the gift they brought him. That’s why he hadn’t thrown any of it out.

They’re quiet. There is no writing.

So they really aren’t used to taking compliments… That’s okay, they both know Toshinori’s words are heard and true. He can shift the topic for them.

“You know, this is a terribly cruel thing for you to say. Appreciating my voice.” He scoffs. “Yet you won’t let me hear you in turn, will you.”

It’s quiet… Then they slowly slide the 400 yen back beneath the door, as if they could pay him an apology.

Toshinori barks a laugh at the choice in action, not even caring for the blood that falls from his mouth or the way he coughs through it. Once he’s calmed down he rubs the blood from his mouth and sniffles.

“I love you,” he says happily—needing to get the words out as they’ve been sitting with him for a while. It seems only right that he says it when they can hear him.

… And he can hear them.

Toshinori hears their breath hitch, and his heart immediately flutters in response to that brief slip of noise. He eagerly commits it to memory, and hungers to hear more sounds from them.

But he says, “You don’t have to say anything. It’s okay, I can wait and you can figure out however you want to say what you do. I just had to say it now… It felt right,”

It takes them a moment, but eventually they write out a response and slide it beneath the door.

Their handwriting is shaky.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

 

Thanks to his writer’s help, Toshinori is back to himself in two days. Well enough to go to work, and well enough to run by the store to pick up some ingredients.

So a few weeks later, Toshinori manages to leave without working overtime—a rare occurrence that earns him a few questions he can’t be bothered to answer as he runs home.

Opening the apartment door he smirks when he sees the note left. He’ll get to it, but for now he carefully steps over it and prances to the kitchen to start laying out ingredients. Tomorrow is their half year anniversary, and since he’s officially given his writer permission to come inside—with permission—he has more options for what he can leave them.

Such as food.

He read through all the notes he’s gotten and compiled a list of foods they’ve mentioned enjoying. Their favorite meat is fish, they enjoy sweet and bitter things, they like spicy food as well, but can’t have them often.

Citrus and chocolate seem to be their desert preferences, and texture wise it’s either things that melt on the tongue, or hard candies they can play with in their mouth to pass time.

Toshinori may be an alright baker, but candies are a science that exists beyond him. So, he’s figuring out how to make a lemon-chocolate bar. It’s something more popular in America, so it’s possible they’ve never had it before, but it seems like something they’d enjoy.

After an extensive recipe search, running out to get ingredients, and waiting for the day to come; Toshinori now works on mixing up the ingredients. He tastes the batter and gives a content hum.

With the batter approved he pours it into a pan, sets it into the oven to bake, and is then back to waiting.

Toshinori returns to the door to see what note was left for him today. He snorts when he reads the first sentence.

“Never let it be known if you know how to work with metal while in a craft store. They would not let me leave until I finished answering their questions.”

Toshinori flips the note over.

“Sorry my notes have been brief. Just been busy. Sorry again.”

All their notes this week have been like this. Toshinori has asked what they’ve been up to, all the answers he’s gotten have been vague. He’s not taking it personally, he said before they don’t need to leave so many notes if they’re busy, but there’s still a note in the morning and a note in the evening without fail. They’re persistent.

Toshinori adds the note with the others and picks up a piece of paper to write out a response.

“No need to apologize, if you’re busy then you’re busy.

I appreciate the notes, I always do, but please take care of yourself? Even if you can’t get sick, I don’t want you to work yourself too hard.

There’s a surprise on the counter for you, may it help.”

Toshinori folds the paper to be put beneath the door and sets it aside in favor of writing out the note he’ll leave with the lemon bar.

“To my persistent writer,

Six months ago you left me your first note. I wonder if you knew where we’d wind up when you left it. I didn’t, but since then your words have become my solace and joy that I look forward to each day.

This lemon bar is a small way I’m saying thank you—for the notes, for the gifts, for helping me when I was sick, and overall just being you.

I hope you enjoy it.

Love, Toshinori.”

Toshinori hesitates, reading over the note a few times with a frown.

Is it too much? he worries. Maybe it’s odd that he’s doing something at all…

Oh for crying out loud. They’ve broken into my home. I can give them a pastry. Toshinori decisively places the first note beneath the door and the second on the counter.

He sighs and looks back at the oven, crossing his arms over his chest as he waits. There’s a restless sense of pacing as his doubts continue to fester.

He’s said the “L-O-V-E” word before. Saying it in the letter won’t be anything new. He knows they already know his name—after all, they mail things to him. But they have yet to say (or well, write) it back. They haven’t spoken about that interaction at all since it happened.

Maybe Toshinori shouldn’t have said that…

He considers rewriting the note.

But in the end, he doesn’t.

He finishes the lemon bar—takes it out of the oven, cuts it, dust it with a bit of powdered sugar, and covers it. And then he goes to bed, feeling restless as he knows his writer will show up at some point in the night to leave him a note in the morning.

As he lays in bed, waiting for his writer or for sleep to come to him, he realises the last time he felt this type of anticipation would have been when he enrolled at UA and was waiting for the acceptance letter. A feeling of extreme hope paired with the racing thoughts of ‘what if?’

What if they don’t like the lemon-chocolate bar? I’ll apologize and make them something else.

What if the note was too much and they think I’m weird? I’ll apologize, tell them this can remain platonic. I’ll tone it down. It doesn’t need to be anything more. After all, what would dating be with someone you can’t see?

But what if they stop writing to me altogether? I- I guess I go back to normal, and how things were?

Trying to recall what things were like before the notes is like trying to recall a fuzzy memory from another life.

He tugs his blankets around him and curls up tightly in his bed as he exhales a shaky breath and closes his eyes.

 

Morning comes, and Toshinori doesn’t even bother to change out of his pajamas before he’s searching for what was left. He goes rigid when he rounds the corner and sees the counter.

There is a large wrapped gift tied off with a bow that has three pieces of paper stacked beside it.

Toshinori hesitantly approaches, eyeing the gift, before looking at the first paper. The first thing he notices is that it’s a mess. There’s tear stains on it, the handwriting is all over the place, and there are words crossed out and rewritten.

“I don’t even know where to start. I mean, I do know, but— fuck. I’m sorry this is a mess. You deserve better than this.

Your note, your words, your consideration. You make me so happ— You make me feel like I’m— ugh! You’re everything.

I’ve been trying for hours to write this right, and I’ve run out of paper. This is it. This is all I have. And it’s not enough.

The lemon bar is perfect. I can’t believe you made such a thing for me. It’s sweet and warm and just like you. God, that sounds so corny, I’m sorry. But I mean it. I mean it. I’m going to savor every bite and probably cry while eating it because you made it. fuck I can’t stop crying.

I wish I had better words—no, I need better words. But they just don’t exist. You’ve left me speechless. And now I’m note-less.”

Toshinori can’t help but laugh at the disaster of a note—to see his writer come undone in such a way is an even better response than he could have asked for.

He lovingly moves the paper to the side, and the page beneath is written with the artistic skill and care he’s used to.

“I will never cease to marvel over the fact you let me do this. That you allow my words to reach you, to linger in your hands and live in your heart. It’s unbelievable that someone as radiant and limitless as you would welcome my ink written words.

And yet, here I am, stunned by the fact that you read, that you keep, that you respond.

It’s been half a year since I left that first note with you. Six months that have meant the world to me, for you are my world.

You are the sun, unyielding in your brilliance, and I am the night. You shine, and I gather every bit of your light and hold it close, stitching it into myself until I am something more. Something worthy of standing beside you, even if it’s only in this quiet written way.

You’ve taken my words, messy and imperfect, and you’ve treated them like treasures. You make me feel treasured.

I want to be everything for you. Your night, your rest, your balance. If you are the sun I will be the sky that wraps around you and holds you steady. Like yin and yang, light and dark, may we make each other stronger with our existence.

I love you.”

“Fuck, now you’re making me cry.” Toshinori rubs at his eyes, but he’s smiling like a fool. He lifts the paper to hold it close, but if his heart wasn’t overwhelmed with adoration before, it sure as hell is when he sees the paper beneath it.

“愛”

On black paper, written in crisp white ink with flare and passion. The brush strokes are intentional and bold. There are touches where the ink splatters that—like the tear stained page before—show his writer prioritized raw emotion over precision.

It reads “Love.”

With these three notes, Tohsinori is overwhelmed and afraid of whatever they thought to gift wrap him. He doesn’t know how to react to all of this as is, he can’t fathom there being more. But with shaky hands he reaches out and picks up the gift.

The weight is about what he expects for its size, but it’s soft and the wrapping crinkles as his hands squish into it.

Toshinori carefully undoes the tape and unwraps it.

His hand comes in contact with soft, thick black fur—a texture identical to his favorite blanket he keeps on the couch to bundle up with when watching movies.

He unwraps it the rest of the way and his breath hitches when he sees touches of white among the folded black blanket. “You didn’t…” he whispers in disbelief as he unfolds it and holds it up to see the full design.

“愛”

Each brush stroke, each messy drop of ink, each line where the bristles split. It’s all there. Every last fine detail neatly recreated with hand stitched care. The note in shodo was merely the reference.

“This is my way of being there when I cannot be. I hope it feels like an embrace—something to wrap around you when you need comfort, warmth, or simply a reminder that you are cherished.”

 

By this point Toshinori’s writer has free access to the apartment—whenever they want, to do whatever they please. So at least once a week they enter while Toshinori is out, be that to drop something off, do a random chore, or set something up for when Toshinori gets home.

They can’t exactly do “dates” in the traditional sense, but they make do. His writer likes recommending him books, so every now and then Toshinori returns home to find a book, snacks, and a note advising what tea to go with them (if not a new type of tea for him to try).

On those nights, Toshinori follows the request and gets comfortable for the night, bundled up in the hand made blanket, with the book to read, while enjoying the advised tea and treats. The treats are always healthy, aware of Toshinori’s dietary restrictions, home made, and delicious.

Then before bed, he writes a note providing his review up to whatever point he got to. And in the morning he wakes to a responding note from his dearest writer. They always get excited and eager to ramble about the books they enjoy.

They do the same thing with Toshinori’s movie collection; in which he’ll decide on one to leave out for his writer, his writer shall borrow it, then leave their review when they return it.

Toshinori shall guiltily admit, one of his favorite movies to recommend are hero movies. In his defence, he’s always been fond of hero movies. But… his writer's response might encourage him more than it should.

“I write to you under extreme duress. I hope you appreciate my suffering, because I certainly don’t.

Not even five minutes in and we’re opening with a tragic backstory, a dead loved one, and a ‘this is my motivation’ monologue. The culture built upon this sort of crap is why the world has so many problems.

For starters: anyone truly motivated to do something doesn’t need an origin story. They should do it for the task they’re completing without some excuse or reason. That is conviction. That shows pride. That is drive. That is admirable.

But this is either a poorly masked revenge motive, or some detrimental avoidance of proper coping. This guy just needs to go to therapy and get his shit together.

How dare this film expect me to feel bad and be sympathetic for him. I’m going to be anything but sympathetic.

‘Because it’s the right thing to do,’ he says. I bet he can’t explain why. Morality isn’t meant to be a damn catchphrase. Convince me! Argue it! Express your beliefs as something worth believing in!

Oh, but the villain gets a monologue. Great. Something is morally wrong with the writers of this film for this to be deemed a priority of time. I’m getting a drink, I don’t think I can get through this sober.

How? How does this get worse? They finally have a rescue sequence and it’s this? Saving people as an afterthought in the most dramatic, dangerous way possible, and then not even a moment spent to check if they’re actually okay?

I’ll tell you right now: they’re not. It’s a surprise they’re even alive. The protagonist is just so awful physics chose to bend some rules out of pity.

This can’t be called a hero movie.

Finally, at long fucking last, It’s over.

I hated every moment of that.

I’m going to go watch a documentary about rescue workers. I have to cleanse my soul after that.”

Toshinori responds.

“You made it through the whole thing? I’m touched. I half expected you to set the disk on fire and send me back the ashes.

I think you secretly had fun. Maybe not with the movie itself, but in expressing your hatred towards it. I love seeing you so passionate.”

He then recommends another hero movie.

 

“You’re a sadist.”

Toshinori can’t help but laugh. He decides to do the reasonable thing and not recommend them a hero movie for a third time in a row.

 

Now, the thing is… Toshinori hasn’t officially given his writer free access to his apartment. He’s given them permission, and he’s encouraged them, but he hasn’t given them a key. He’s offered, but his writer has assured him quite confidently that they don’t need one.

“I’m beginning to think you enjoy picking my locks.”

Toshinori wrote one morning.

They left their response by the time he got home.

“I don’t think ‘like’ is the right word, at least not in the way you’re using it. I think it’s ‘important’ that you maintain some level of awareness that I have a capacity to be dangerous, even if I shall never threaten you.

It makes me happy when you acknowledge that and still allow me to be close like this. Even if it’s through lock picking, it makes these sentiments—my choice to be kind when I can be dangerous, and your choice to trust when you could have me arrested—stand out. Things are clearer when there is contrast.”

Toshinori regards the note with a raised brow. “You mean you enjoy watching me struggle with my conscience?” He paraphrases, although there is no real annoyance or conflict to his thoughts. Not anymore. He trusts them, and perhaps that’s what this is about.

His writer, for as open as they may try to be, is still limited in the ways they’re capable of expressing themselves. If they’ve decided regularly picking Toshinori’s locks is something he needs to be aware of? Then it’s something he’ll be aware of.

He sets the note down on the counter and makes himself tea.

They didn’t enter today.

For as doting as they’ve been since they started dating, they’re aware it would drive Toshinori insane if it was constant. Once a week, they each do something for each other. Everything else is sprinkled in as natural. Like sharing food—they make each other food a lot. Or exchanging the occasional gift.

Toshinori’s proudest find has to be when he found an artist who made keychain miniatures of classic books. He had picked up a few for his writer, but the main one that prompted his purchase was Stendhal’s “The Red and The Black.” His writer is obsessed with that book.

Their responding note was adorably sweet.

“I’m pleased you’re not home because I am embarrassed of the noise I just made. I can’t believe this is real, where did you even find this? It has all the text on its pages, in the original French no less!

And it’s from you.

This book means so much to me, it defined me for a moment of my life. You didn’t just give me a gift, you recognised a piece of my heart and brought it to me.

You tell me not to go overboard with gifts, and then you do this? I’m going to sob every time I look at it for too long. You keep managing to find new ways to make my entire existence feel seen and understood.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I still can’t believe I get to say that to you.”

As he ponders the sweetness of that note, his gaze lingers on this newest one.

He knows expression and recognition means a lot to his writer. Toshinori has gotten better at reading into their words as time has gone on, and he sometimes goes through older letters to see if there’s anything he missed. Most often, his writer is very upfront and to the point about their feelings, reasons, and actions.

But sometimes—like this latest note—they are vague. Poetic, but avoidant.

As Toshinori leans back against the counter and takes a slow sip of his tea, he finds himself considering thoughts he hasn’t had since the beginning of their relationship. He finds himself wondering if they’re actually capable of being dangerous.

It’s hard to imagine when they always seem so sweet, optimistic, and wholesome. They’re made of values and morals, Toshinori can’t imagine them doing something that goes against their beliefs. But…

“Things are clearer when there is contrast,” the note says.

Toshinori believes good can be valued and sparked from both light and dark so long as there's an ability to dream. And he knows his writer is the same, with the only difference being their fondness for the word “conviction.” But the meaning is the same.

The ability to dream, and the ability to fight for that dream.

You don’t need contrast for the good to be apparent.

His writer knows that. Toshinori knows that.

His writer is aware that Toshinori knows.

But sometimes… he thinks they write for another. They write to a society at large, expressing their complaints and perceptions—not because they think Toshinori needs to hear them—but because they want to know if Toshinori will agree, argue, or let them continue.

He continues to drink his tea.

He lets them continue.

Pick his locks, make him food, leave him books, gifts, and passionately sincere movie reviews. Toshinori doesn’t need to consider their capacity to be dangerous to understand the value of their kindness.

He forgets about thoughts related to their capacity for harm.

He forgets about those thoughts for a long while.

 

Then a year later, he gets hurt.

And he gets hurt bad.

 

Secluded on the edge of nowhere, facing a villain whose quirk lets them absorb his punches, Toshinori had to fight—truly fight. No backup, no witnesses.

At least, that’s what he thought.

But another villain had managed to get the drop on him. And with a swift, brutal strike, Toshinori collapsed before he was even fully aware they were there.

In that that moment, he was as good as dead.

 

And then he wakes.

Eyes snap open as he jolts upright, gasping for air. He clutches at his side as pain blooms behind his ribs and his thoughts spiral. Worst case scenarios: True form exposed. Captured, the world knows, they’re using him as an exchange token, they’re auctioning him off, or—

“I… I’m home?”

He’s home.

In his room. In his bed. Silk pajamas twisted in his hand and wounds bandaged. His hero suit, cleaned and pressed, hangs from the bedroom door.

Toshinori swallow.

There’s no memories between the blackout and now. His writer’s blanket is over him, soft and warm, and when he turns his head to the side he finds water, pain meds, and a note.

His fingers tremble as they reach for the note. The handwriting is more familiar than his own.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t how I wanted you to find out I knew, but you were in danger.

I’ve known since the first note. I didn’t want you to make light of my feelings, but more than that I wanted to wait until you decided it was okay. That was supposed to be your choice.

But you didn’t get a choice, and neither did I.

I’m sorry for overstepping. I’m sorry for keeping this from you. I’m sorry for changing the understanding I know you value most. I’m sorry.

But you have to live.

That’s all. You don’t owe me anything. You can pretend what happened never did and this note doesn’t exist and I will do the same. Or if you want me gone, just say the word.

I’ll accept it.

Because for one terrifying, breathtaking moment, your body was in my arms and your life in my hands. It was beautiful, it was terrifying, it was fulfilling, it was everything. I held it, now I have given it back to you.

Live it however you choose.”

He suspected they knew. He’s suspected it for a while.

It’s in the way they frame their words, the softness, the reverence, and the topics they sheepishly ask for his thoughts on. They never lied, they just left things ambiguous enough for Toshinori to have deniability.

He isn’t angry.

Not at that.

What he feels is… unsteady. A little broken and a little whole. For his writer saved him. Toshinori isn’t used to needing rescue, he is even less familiar with receiving it. It is one thing to fall before an enemy, it’s another to fall in front of someone you care for.

They risked everything—their life, their secret, their place in his life (from their perspective)—all to bring him home.

He feels weak.

And yet…

He feels loved.

His writer knew and never let that drive their conversations. They always speak to him, like his identity isn’t dependent upon his fame, and his worth isn’t tainted by his wounds.

Toshinori presses the note to his chest and leans back into the mattress. Breath still shaky, but heartbeat stable. Safe. He bundles the blanket tighter around him. Handmade to be soft enough to touch him, large enough to hold him. It’s a comfort that feels like home. He laughs—wet and giddy and helpless. His cheeks are damp with joy.

They saved him.

His writer—his brilliant, beautiful writer—found him, carried him, cleaned him, patched his wounds, dressed him, and laid him here. They washed his suit. Left water, meds, and this letter of apology and love. He is loved, he is protected, and he is delirious with it.

It takes a while to stop shaking, to stop feeling like he’s still fighting.

Eventually, the haze of everything lifts enough for him to recognise his body's pain and sits up. He takes the pills, sips the water, and breathes deep to make sure his lung is alright and he doesn't need to go to the hospital.

Then a new thought grips him.

How did they defeat the villains?

The first villain alone put up a fight, and the second ambushed him before he could make an assessment. Yet the note contains no mention of struggle or injury and the writing is steady. It’s like… there was no fight at all.

Toshinori glances at his phone that’s been plugged in to charge. His curiosity hums, restless, stubborn, and loud. He grabs it and makes the call.

It rings twice before Tsukauchi picks up.

“Yagi?” he asks calmly, curiously—meaning he doesn’t know what happened. “Are you alright?”

“I am,” Toshinori reassures. It's comparatively true, considering the alternative could have been dead. “I’m just calling about these two villains…” He rattles off what he remembers. Appearances, powers, the warehouse.

Tsukauchi hums. “We thought it was a vigilante. They were found tied up in a warehouse—same one actually. An anonymous tip led us there.”

Toshinori stares at the note in disbelief.

They did that?

They fought, defeated, restrained, and reported two dangerous villains—then carried him home?

“Was that you?” Tsukauchi asks.

“N-No,” Toshinori stammers. “They got the better of me actually… How, um, how were the villains dealt with..?”

“We don’t know. The villains said they didn’t see. Their injuries were minor, just a few small cuts and bruises.”

“That’s it?”

“What?”

“Nothing!” Toshinori yelps. “Just glad they were caught.” He smiles as a reflex to reassure, despite being unseen, and despite Tsukauchi’s ability to hear the lie.

“Yagi, what’s going on—?”

“Ah! Sorry! Gotta go!”

He panics, and then he hangs up.

He’ll no doubt be hearing about this later, but for now, he falls back onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling. Breathless again, but now for a different reason. He rolls onto his side and snuggles into the blanket’s warmth.

“Who are you…?” he whispers to the blanket.

Tsukauchi suspects a vigilante. The label makes sense. They have a strong sense of justice, don’t care for some laws, and aren’t good with boundaries. It’s not a hard connection to make, the fact Toshinori is only making it now says more about his own sense of justice than anything else.

His writer is a good person with a strong heart. Does that make them a vigilante? Perhaps. But good doesn’t mean safe. And now he’s afraid.

Not for himself, but for them.

Because someone who fights that quietly, cleanly, and invisibly, has likely done it before and will do it again. It’s one thing if something were to happen to Toshinori, but if something were to happen to them, he’d never know. They would just vanish.

One day, no more notes. No more comforts, tangents, book recomendations, movie reviews, or love sonnets. And Toshinori would never know why.

He clutches the blanket like a lifeline.

Would it just end like that?

When he finally gets out of bed, he finds a note on the counter and a bento in the fridge. As they promised, nothing has changed. Outside of the evidence in his bedroom, his bandages, and his aches, there is no sign that yesterday happened at all.

The note doesn’t even hint that the bento could have been made due to the awareness of his wounds.

But Toshinori wonders: How many times have they done this?

Made food for him while he was hurting, quietly and without spectacle.

That’s how it started, how he first gave them permission to enter his apartment. A moment of need and a moment of trust. Now it’s a routine, something that can be anticipated and relied upon.

Toshinori always fusses about not being able to return the gesture, they always remind him that they can’t get sick.

But they can get hurt.

He doesn’t have much of an appetite. Still, he takes the bento and eats what he can. Mostly because the pills demand it.

He takes it easy. Just an hour of hero work, then the rest of his time spent drifting through his inbox. Filling time with light duties while failing to avoid heavier thoughts.

Eventually, he returns home.

And waits.

 

No movie tonight. Just him, sitting by the door, eyes on the floor, and blanket around his shoulders. He didn’t want a distraction, though now that hours pass, he almost regrets it.

It’s hard to say how long he waits.

But when he hears the softest shuffle, and cracks open an eye to see a paper slide beneath the door, he snaps awake.

“Wait—” his voice is rough, edged with a sleepy rasp.

The shadow beneath the door freezes.

“I want to talk to you,” he says. Then adds quickly, “If you have time.”

Silence.

Then the sound of them grabbing their journal, a pen, then the scratch of ink.

A note slides beneath the door.

“Yes, I’m free. Were you waiting for me?”

Toshinori lets out a breath. “Yeah… I was. I know it’s late, but… I didn’t think I could sleep unless we spoke.” He picks up the first note, the one they’d originally slid under the door. He frowns, thumb brushing the ink’s edge before he sets it aside. They really were going to pretend like nothing happened.

“I don’t want to pretend,” he says softly. “You know, and that’s okay. You’re allowed.”

Before he even finishes his first sentence, there is the sound of writing.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to say that because of what happened.

If you don’t want me to know—I won’t know. I’ve been searching for someone who can cause selective memory loss, so it wouldn’t even be pretend.

I’m not here because I know. I’m here because it’s you. Even if I forgot your hero life entirely, I’d still come. If that’s what you want, I’ll make it happen.

You never have to compromise or accept what makes you uneasy.”

Toshinori’s heart clenches in his chest.

“No, no…” he murmurs quietly, trying not to get choked up. “You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to go that far. I don’t want you to. It’s okay.”

“I– I really don't mind,” Toshinori confesses. “I’ve always sort of suspected, but finding out like that, and reading your reason for keeping it from me, it made me happy. Really happy.” He leans his head against the door in a soft, affectionate thunk. “I like knowing you’re there for me."

“I’m not used to being the one saved. It messes with my head a little, knowing you can do that. That you did do that.” He chuckles, a little breathless. “It’s… pleasant,” he says. The word feels too mild, but he doesn’t dare say exciting.

Not yet.

Silence stretches. Then barely a whisper of writing.

A note slides beneath.

“Oh.”

Just that.

Toshinori smiles.

After all this time, they still don’t know what to do with praise.

He tucks his knees in and wraps the blanket tighter. “How did you get those villains tied up in the warehouse?” he asks quietly.

The answer comes quickly.

“I can’t tell you that.”

Toshinori sighs, but there’s no edge to it. “Alright, alright. Keep your secrets.”

He stares at the ceiling, remembering the earliest letters. “I don’t want you to know my name because I don’t want you to feel the consequences,” they wrote. He feels like he’s beginning to understand the words between the lines.

They really are a vigilante, huh…

He exhales. He hesitates, then he speaks again.

“Since it’s late… and I want to talk about something private… Would you come in?”

He immediately hears them panic.

“Not like that,” he quickly adds. “I won’t look. I’ve already thought it through; I’ll go to my bedroom, then we can talk through that door. Just like this, only inside.”

They don’t answer right away, no doubt fearing it’s a trap. Especially now that Toshinori knows about their less legal activities.

“I promise,” he says gently. “I just want to talk, nothing more. I won’t try anything, I won’t look, I won’t hurt you. I’m not asking for more than what we already have. I just want to share a little longer. And I’d feel safer if we did so inside.”

They continue to hesitate.

Toshinori sighs, bringing his hand up and dragging his nails over the door in a small scratch.

“Please,” he murmurs, closing his eyes as he tries to feel them through the wood. “I’m not trying to trick you.”

The silence shifts.

Then, pen to paper. Another note slides into view.

“Okay.”

Relief floods him.

“Thank you. Okay… give me a minute,” he requests, as he pushes himself off the floor, unlocks the door—because even if he knows they can pick it, he likes to be polite—then retreats to his bedroom. He makes a mental note of every place that hurts, which is just about his whole body, but ignores the aches as he moves to sit on the floor again.

Then he waits, and he listens.

The apartment door opens slowly. He hears the soft thud of boots being removed, the quiet click of the lock being turned, and then the tentative footsteps approaching. When they settle against the bedroom door, their nails scratch gently against the wood grain.

Toshinori smiles faintly. “Thank you,” he says again, voice warm and weary. He holds the blanket close and rests his head against the door.

For a moment, they just sit.

“... Are you okay?” he asks quietly. “After that fight… you didn’t get hurt, did you?”

The sound of their writing is gentler now, without rush or fear. The privacy of his apartment seems to offer them some ease as well.

“I didn’t. I’m alright.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

His throat is dry. It’s odd, he’s never had such a hard time talking to them before. Why is this suddenly different?

Another note slips beneath the door.

“What did you want to talk about?”

Of course. Always straight to the point, even if the world has slowed down around them.

Toshinori sighs.

“I’m not entirely sure where to start,” he admits. Though that’s not entirely true. He looks down at his hands that show their calluses and age. “I guess… I’ve been thinking about death.”

“It’s not new to me. After every close call, or bad health day it’s on my mind. I’m used to thinking about my own death. But after the warehouse, and you being there… I’ve started thinking about yours.”

Their response is immediate:

“You won’t know my death.”

He stares at the note. He can’t tell if the words are meant to reassure or spare him. If they’ve truly convinced themselves that it’s better if he doesn’t know.

“You’re right,” he whispers. “I won’t. One day, if you die before me, you’ll just vanish. And I won’t know why. I won’t know if you left because I upset you, or because you’re in trouble, or if you’re dead. I won’t know.”

They’re quiet. Toshinori struggles to hear them over his own shaky breaths.

Their next note is passed with more care.

“I’m sorry. Just know I’d never leave you willingly. Even if I’m upset, I will never stop caring about you.”

A tear slips down his cheek. His body shudders as he chokes back a sob.

“I love you,” he says, though the words tremble with his fear. They’ve written how they feel so many times, but these words have an unspoken bite to them. A declaration that if they stop, it will be because they died, were broken to the point they couldn’t, or are being held against their will.

He rubs his eyes. He wants to hold them, to pull them into his arms and never let them go.

“It’s the thought of not being able to protect you… that’s what hurts the most.”

He clings to the blanket, clings to the sound of their pen and the space between them. He holds it, where he can’t hold them. He suffocates himself with the feeling that’s slowly eating away at him, because he can’t smother them with it.

It takes them longer to reply, but when they finally do, it's with two pages.

“I know you want to protect me. I know the thought of losing me tears at you like the thought of losing you tears away at me. But you need to understand: You already protect me.

Every day, just by being you. You hold the world together and you make it a place I can live in. If not for you, I would have burned out long ago, lost to the world’s indifference.

But you exist.

I know you wish you could do more, that you could shield me from all the terrors of the world. But you can’t, and that’s okay. I won’t make it easy for the world to take me from you.

I fight, in my own way, in the spaces you can’t reach, I fight. And sometimes it’s a battle that I come home from and I find I don’t recognise my face or my hands. But when I sit down and write these letters to you, when I bring them to you, and see you value them—

I can’t promise I’ll live. But never think you’ve failed to protect me. Not when every heartbeat I have is due to you. Not when my heart beats, because I want to protect you in turn. Even if it is from this distance.

The only death I will accept is one for you. I fight because you are my sun, my light, my gravity. Without you, I’d be lost again. I cannot lose you. So I cannot promise I’ll live, or that I’ll stay safe. But I can promise that I’ll never stop trying.

Because you keep my notes and you want to keep me.

It is you who lets my soul burn so brightly, and it is you who lets this life of mine be something beautiful. Thank you for protecting it. Thank you for letting it grow. Thank you for letting me be myself.”

Toshinori presses a hand over his mouth as he reads. His shoulders shake, and through the door, he can feel they're trembling too. It’s too much. Too much love. Too much truth. He clutches the note to his chest like it’s something sacred.

“I…” he tries, but his throat tightens around the words. A weak laugh slips out, raw and disbelieving. “I don’t know how to respond to that.”

He rests his head back against the door and drags his hand over his face. Holding the note out, he stares at its words and traces the ink.

“I don’t want you to put your life in danger. Not for me. But… If this fight is what keeps you here, what gives you purpose… I’ll accept it.” He sets the note aside, smoothing the paper with immense care.

“I’m the same way after all.”

He exhales, and wipes at his face.

For a while, neither of them speak. Toshinori stares at the note, and the weight confessed in each line. To think they were going to erase their memory for him…

“I really don’t mind you knowing…" Toshinori says again.

“I think, I used to believe love wasn’t meant for people like me. Or that it was something reserved for after the fight—only when everyone has been saved. Like a reward, it was something to be earned after everything else is done.”

He rests his hand on the floor, feels the grain beneath his fingers and anchors himself to the solid surface. It is grounding, and in this moment, it is ground they share. He closes his eyes and lets the door support his weight.

“But then you started writing. And you slipped through every wall I ever built without even trying to break them.” He chuckles softly. “I can’t say I’m shocked you knew who I was, because I don’t know anyone who'd do so much without a reason. But… I am shocked you kept coming back. That we wound up here.”

“Despite everything—the decay of my body and the fears that overwhelm my mind—you’ve seen it all, yet you keep coming back. You continue to treat me as if I’m…” He trails off, unsure if there is a word that explains it all.

“... Alive,” he says at last.

“You make me feel human in a way I haven’t in a very long time. Because you write these notes, and you speak to the quietest, most forgotten part of my heart. Everyday, day and night… you find me. You’ve kept me, and you continue to keep me. Regardless of the mess, the risks, and the limitations—you keep me”

“Of course I’ll hold onto you as well. Because it is your words and sentiments and gifts that I hold onto and decorate these walls with, that have given me a home. I don’t think I’d understand that word, if not for you.”

“I’m not going to let you go.”

He doesn’t refer to physicalities, the moment, or even the notes themselves. He refers to the feeling, values, and heart. The things they’ve allowed to happen, have encouraged to grow, and have been eternally entwined with his life.

Toshinori draws in a breath, readying to speak again, when—

Touch.

A brush of skin.

Their pinkie against his, where his hand still rests flat against the floor, close enough to the door that they can reach. He holds his breath, he doesn’t dare move. Nor does he immediately register the feel or texture of their touch. He’s too caught on the fact it’s them.

They’re here. They’re touching.

Their skin is rough and their movement steady like his are, but they’re cold and dry in a way that’s different.

Slowly, as to not startle them, he lifts his pinkie and curls it around theirs. A return of contact.

He does not speak.

They’ve said so much already, but this is an action best left unspoken. For them to touch after all this time—all the pages, gifts, and emotions felt—it’s a quiet act of rebellion against every barrier they’ve honored. Not enough to break them, but just enough to acknowledge there are things more important than rules.

Things that are spoken of in the brush of fingertips.

 

After truths and secrets were shared through the door, and their fingers touched beneath the cracks. After they parted… not much changed. They write, they make each other food, they visit, they linger. Now they linger inside, separated by the bedroom door.

He talks, they write.

They touch.

 

When his fingers brush over a nail, he pauses—feeling the smooth, almost glossy texture.

“You wear nail polish?” he asks curiously. Amused to have found evidence of their contradictory nature so soon. Hands rough from labor, yet cleaned up and taken care of all the same.

There is a moment’s delay, no doubt as they decide what can be safely told. They only pull away to tear a page from their journal. They press the page into his hand, then he pulls away to transfer the page into his other so he can hold theirs again. 

“I do. It’s black.”

“Same color as your ink.” Toshinori grins. “I bet you do it yourself. I bet it looks beautiful. That you look beautiful.” He rests his head back against the door, squeezing their fingers affectionately between his.

 

They still don’t talk about their vigilante life, and it’s rare for them to acknowledge Toshinori as All Might. But when they do—oh, when they do…

“You’re brilliant. I don’t know if anyone has told you that. Or if they did, I don’t think you heard it in a way that made it sink in.

I saw you. You make it seem easy, natural. The way you move, how fast you react, the way your hands never shake. I saw you save those people before they even knew they were in danger.

Even if they didn’t notice—I did.

I couldn’t look away. Every inch of me ached with awe. And I continue now, to ache with pride.”

Toshinori grins like a fool.

The world’s praise has long since become something repetitive and empty. But the rarity of their praise makes each word feel like a blessing. He knows it's because he did well. He wants to do right by them. He wants to make them proud. To read he's done just that—

Their praise is made of sincerity that’s been bled through a crack in their restraint.

A restraint against what? he wonders.

He asks:

“You know you’re allowed to say my name right? You speak of me directly, yet you still avoid those words like they’re a secret. Or perhaps, they’re just that sacred to you.

If that’s the case I feel entirely unprepared for whatever the depths of your sentiments may be. But I’d still like to know them.

If you ever want me to, I’d take my hero form for you.

Give you a private show, show off, slow down, move however you want. If you’d write me your thoughts, I’d wait, right here, for the way you’d describe it.”

He promptly decides with a burning face, that such a note is too much. And quickly tears it up to hide the evidence of it ever being written.

After a shower, he writes a different note.

He doesn’t ask why they only praise him as All Might when he’s done something they can’t be silent about. He just tells them he appreciates it, immensely. He doesn’t ask for more of them, he lets them give themself as they desire. But still, he wonders, ‘Why do you still restrain your words when you speak of me?’

 

Turns out, he doesn’t need to ask.

He thought he’d seen their range in writing, but apparently there’s another type of note they haven’t allowed him to see. It is the first note he receives that says “All Might” within its contents.

The corner is bent, as if they were flicking it back and forth while debating what to do with it before leaving it on his counter. It is in pen, despite being one they wrote at home. The writing is messy, impulsive, and there are hearts doodled along its edges.

Toshinori's lips quirk up when he sees it.

He decides to make himself tea before he reads. With the tea made, he takes an easy sip and picks up the note.

He barely makes it through the first line before he chokes on his tea.

“I stole your sweater.

You don’t wear it often, you probably don’t even know which one it is, but it still smells like you. I want to smell like you. I want your scent in my lungs, in my hair, in my very bloodstream. I want to be marked by you in ways that are subtle, constant, but inescapable.

I’ve barely taken it off this week.

It’s long on me, brushes my knees sometimes. I’ve been curling up in it at night, like a wounded animal in need of a nest. It’s recovery week after all.

I jumped recklessly, landed wrong, and the pavement fought back. So I’ve taken that as a sign to stay home and let my bones mend. Not that I mind when it gives me more time to think about you. My Toshinori Yagi. My All Might.

God, I had such a crush on you. The cape, the grin, the way you threw yourself at any and all threats as if the world were a fragile thing only you could keep whole. I wanted to be you. I wanted to be saved by you and I didn’t even know what from.

I just want to put my life in your hands and giggle.

My whole body trembled the first time I saw you fight. I wanted to lick the blood from your knuckles, die by your light, suffocate myself against your chest, and offer my whole heart to your shadow.

And then I met you.

And I want to ruin you with my devotion.

You who exist with tired eyes, soft apologies, and a sad, stubborn kindness. Your freckles, your scars. I want to lick your pout away, worship your sighs, and your laugh— oh, All Mighty… your laugh.

Not the public show, but the private one you barely let yourself have and always try to stifle behind a hand. Where afterwards, as you catch your breath and smile like the sun, you tuck one of your bangs behind your ear. Opening yourself just a little bit more to the world around you.

I want to drown in it. In you.

I’m not even being metaphorical.

I want to scream into your chest and let it echo down your spine. I want to lay on your floor and cry. I want to sit in your lap and say nothing and everything at once—until I can’t breathe and my body gives out. I want to press my forehead to yours and stare you down to see who blinks first.

I hope it’s me.

I’m laying in bed now, wearing your sweater like a dress, and kicking my feet as I write this. I lose sleep over thoughts of you, but the passion I feel is enough to power a star. I daydream about giving that passion to you. About it being enough to revive you when you feel weak.

Because you’re not a man. You’re a star. A dream of light and glory so strong it was given a mortal form. Unfathomably infinite in your depth, despite being so clear in who you are.

You keep breaking my brain and I like it.

Please continue.”

“Holy shit.”

Toshinori curses before he can stop himself. He claps a hand over his mouth like that might help stifle the shock that has unsteadied him and continues to stare at the page with wide eyes. Then, in further disbelief, he laughs. A short, startled sound that’s forced from his lungs.

He leans back against the counter and continues to stare at the note. Slowly pulling his hand from his mouth, he smiles and laughs sheepishly. Then without thinking, tucks one of his bangs behind his ear.

He really only does that for them.

Now holding the page in both hands, he traces one of the doodled hearts with his thumb. Gentle, careful, as if he really is holding their heart in his hands. And after a moment he has to sink down to the floor, just so he can sit with what he’s been handed.

This is what they’ve been holding back? This is what has been bleeding through the cracks?

“What am I supposed to do with you?” he chuckles. He rests his head against the page and wonders, “What am I supposed to do with myself?”

He responds:

“I swore out loud. A reflex, because I didn’t know how else to process being wanted like that. I know you wrote it happy and were being a bit silly. That you were giddy, love-struck, and half out of your mind in that sweater you stole. But I also know you were being honest.

So let me be honest too.

I’m smiling. I’m delirious.

You’re ridiculous. You’re precious.

And I’m so far gone for you it’s embarrassing.”

 

Ever since Toshinori's writer saved him, his dreams have become strange. They have always been a far cry from sane, but now they're peculiar even by his standards.

He used to dream of fighting—of blood, desperation, and feral things. Those dreams were cruel, but honest. He could understand the pain and prepare for failure. His knuckles would bruise, his grin would sharpen, and his ribs would crack. He'd wake up feeling as if he never stopped being All Might.

But now he dreams of tenderness—of rescue, embrace, and lips that kiss. His body trembles, not from exertion, but from need; pure, animalistic, and absolute. He doesn't know what to do with it.

Lips are bloodied and his heart pounds with confusion. He feels cornered, starved, and ravenous. His kiss is reckless and bruising; as if he believes biting hard enough will prove he's in control.

They don't stop him. They let him take what he thinks he needs, until he inevitably burns out and sinks into them with a shudder.

It’s then that rough, cold hands press against his chest.

He flinches when they touch his ribs, even though they're careful he's conditioned to expect punishment the moment things get out of control, the moment he isn't in control. But they don't hurt him.

He doesn't understand it.

He trusts them, but trust doesn't make this easier.

He tries to hide the whimper that claws its way from his throat, but it's too late. A raw, broken, and desperate sound is torn from his heart and his eyes tear up with shame. He never lets himself be like this, he never lets anyone see him like this.

Their hand catches his jaw, not cruelly, but firm and steady. His teeth click shut as he trembles.

"Don't fight with the bite of your teeth…" they murmur. "Fight with the softness of your tongue."

Then they release him.

He falls endlessly—not on or into anything, just down. But even if he loses their touch, he knows they're never far. They like to be close.

He likes it too. Too much.

"My tongue…?" he whispers, confused and wrecked.

They crouch beside him and smile. Fingers trail along his cheekbones, down to his bloodied lips. "If you want to fight, then fight. If you want to cry, then cry. But do so with who you are…" their thumb hooks between his teeth, "not who you're forced to be."

He doesn't resist as they pry his mouth open. He wants this, and that's what terrifies him. He swallows, but it's useless. His mouth is full of blood-slick saliva. It drips down his chin and coats their thumb as his tongue—hesitant and trembling—licks the tip. It's a soft, testing press.

They hum approval. They lift his chin and guide him, their touch is as gentle as it is possessive.

"Just like that," they croon. Their lips brush his temple and they hold him close. Closing his eyes, he breathes them in. "Now… what do you want?"

He doesn't hesitate.

"You."

The dream resets.

Lips collide again, but this time Toshinori doesn't bite. His teeth graze once, an accident, and he gasps. He apologizes with shaky licks, nestling into their mouth like he could disappear there. They lift him effortlessly, they hold him like he's dear, and he clings to them in turn.

Their breath is hot against his throat as they grind against him, slow and purposeful. He sobs into their shoulder, too overwhelmed to understand what he's feeling—only that he needs more of it.

"You look so cute in my arms," they whisper.

Something inside him snaps.

He laughs, but it sounds like a sob. Or maybe he sobs, but it sounds like a laugh. He doesn't know anymore. It comes from somewhere high in his chest and bubbles out; uncontainable, loud, delighted, embarrassed.

His face burns.

He wants to hide. He wants to be seen. He wants—

Toshinori startles himself awake.

The room is quiet, the morning sun is soft, and his sheets are soaked. His limbs quake and his skin burns. He doesn't feel capable of walking, he doesn't feel prepared, and he certainly doesn't feel like All Might. He presses clammy hands to his burning face and groans.

Ever since they saved him—carried him home, undressed him, cleaned and bandaged his wounds, before tucking him into bed—his dreams have been like this. He doesn't even know what happened that day, but his mind still tries to fill in the gaps. It tortures him with questions.

How did they fight? How did they lift me? What did it feel like? Did they do anything else?

He slaps his cheeks twice, hard enough to sting, and tries to scrub the lingering heat from his skin. A strangled, frustrated noise escapes him as he forces himself out of bed. He wraps a robe tightly around him and begins his shameful trek down the hall.

He feels like he's back in college, paranoid about every shadow, window, and corner as he slinks to a shared bathroom.

It's unlikely they're here, they know his schedule and wouldn't risk being seen… If they saw him, it would have been while he was dreaming.

Toshinori pinches the bridge of his nose and groans again.

 

They write:

"It rained today. and as I walked the crowded streets I realized I've never seen you walk these roads in the rain. This thought came to me not due to the weather, but the umbrellas. Because you're neck level with the sharp end of nearly every umbrella in a crowd.

It made me laugh, imagining you ducking and weaving through the crowd. Do you tilt your head with dignified patience? Do you frantically dodge? I can't decide which image is funnier.

He responds:

"HA! Truth be told, I try to avoid it when I can. Do some chores at home, some extra work at the office, or needless shopping at the store. But, when I have no choice…

Well, let's just say an All Might bunny hop clears a good deal of traffic. A single leap and suddenly the umbrellas go from neck height to far, far, far below my feet. It's undignified, but I assure you it's effective."

 

They write back:

"Bunny hop? Oh, Toshinori, that's the best image you could give me. The Symbol of Peace, leaping through the sky, hidden by the storm as your ears droop with rain water. You poor, ridiculous man. Next time it rains I'll keep watch of the sky. Maybe even bring you a carrot."

 

And sure enough, a few week later Toshinori comes home to carrot kinpira and a note reading:

"My dear soggy bunny,

I saw you."

He laughs, but he doesn’t touch the note on the counter as he works on drying off his hair.

The rain and him have a complicated relationship. It’s not that he minds it, he’s stood in far worse without flinching, and he values all rain does for the world. But he’s meant to be a symbol, and rain messes with that image.

He’s not a vain person. He fixes his hair, practices his smile, and poses. But it doesn’t feed his ego, not really. He does it because it helps someone else feel safer. While the rain makes people cold and wet. Depending on how long they’ve been stuck in it, it can even risk sickness. Sickness spreads and Toshinori can’t risk sickness.

But he can’t avoid the rain either, no matter how much he may try. He’s thought about dodging it like bullets, but considering his size that’s simply impossible. So, he treats the rain like it’s any other day. If it means saving a life, he doesn’t care what it does to his image. And if it means saving a life, he’ll deal with the guilt that comes with entering an establishment soaked.

When he was in college, Dave would laugh whenever Toshinori sulked about the rain. “You used to fumble through wardrobe mishaps on live television! But a little rain bothers you?” he’d joke. It doesn't bother him, it just complicates things. And…

It bothers him even less now.

Doctor visits have stripped him of modesty, and sometimes even dignity. Between the mouthfuls of blood and a digestive system functioning without a stomach, rain is far from the worst thing to happen to his image. 

He rests the towel upon his shoulders as he turns his attention towards the cupboards and decides on what will go well with carrot kinpira. They saw him…

There’s a quiet sense of satisfaction that comes with the thought of their gaze. Even if that means they see him undone, that satisfaction doesn’t fade. They know his true form, they’ve seen him sick, they’ve seen him hurt,and they know he’s All Might. Yet they’re still here, and they still respect him.

He imagines kneeling for them, tired and soaked after a long day. With his head bowed, hair damp, and their hands brushing his bangs from his face. He wants to hear their approval, not applause or headlines or duty. Just them… soft, certain.

“You’re a good hero.”

He’s not a vain person… he just likes their attention.

He has yet to actively search out their attention, but he fears that says less about his restraint and more about the fact he’s not allowed to search for them.

 

Still, he finds himself keeping track of when he has it:

When they sit on the other side of his bedroom door as he reads because they want to know his immediate reaction, or check in on him after a fight to make sure he’s recovering safely.

 

When he might have it:

When he does hero work, deals with a villain, charms the press, and sees the flicker of a light from the roof of a nearby building. He makes sure to check it out before he leaves, and finds a note pinned to the inner ledge by a switch blade.

“Don’t worry, I’m behaving myself. I just wanted to say hi.

♡ Hello ♡

I miss you.”

Toshinori smiles happily, and carefully dislodging the switch blade to pull the note free. He traces the ink, as familiar as can be, and safely stores the note away. He fidgets with the blade, watching as light flickers along its edge. This must be what they used to get my attention. 

He makes sure to return the switch blade later that night, and encourages them to leave him notes in public more often.

 

… He also keeps track of when he doesn’t have their attention.

When they’re at work, when their volunteer hours are scheduled, and when they’re trapped playing mahjong for the night. It is very very rare that he’s left unobserved. But he hardly does anything different during those occasions of certainty. Or, well… He usually doesn’t.

Toshinori lays on his back; with his head pressed against a pillow, an arm draped over his eyes, and a hand between his quivering thighs. He bites his lip to keep quiet. For the sake of pleasure and comfort, he lets his mind wander for one night—hoping it’ll be enough to grant him peace of mind.

He initially starts with what he knows. He thinks about their fingers, their protectiveness, their patience, and their devotion. He imagines they’d take their time, that their callused fingertips would drift over his thighs and their clean, trimmed nails would make him shiver.

He considers the strength of their grip, and imagines his hands are cold like theirs as he mimics the touches upon himself. If he knew their name, he would have moaned it. But as is, he merely groans.

Would they like hearing their name on my tongue? Or would they settle for merely pulling other noises from me? Would they be upset if I stayed quiet?

He’d be so desperate to hear the smallest noise from their lips that he wouldn’t allow himself to speak.

They’d have to force it from him.

He tried to imagine what they sound like before, having only heard the occasional whisper or hitch of their breath. It’s hardly enough to know anything for certain, and no voice he can imagine fits them. No voice except their own. Whatever that may be.

I wonder what my name would sound like on their tongue.

The thought makes Toshinori tremble. He’d like that. He’d like that a lot. To hear them call upon him—even if it was just a nickname or title. Better yet, if they just called him theirs.

“Fuck,” Toshinori wimpers, his toes curling in the sheets.

They regularly get possessive over him. Sometimes it’s stated blunt and plain, other times it’s laced through the way they talk about him, and what he allows from them. He imagines them growling it into his ear as they bring pleasure upon pleasure to him.

“My Toshinori. My All Might. How sweet you are to gift me this sight, this experience. Has anyone else seen you tremble like this? Heard you moan like this? I’m hardly doing anything, yet you’re already leaking.”

His hips thrust into his hand as he squirms, desperately wanting  to quicken the pace. But he holds back, not wanting to let go of his fantasy quite yet. He wants them here, he always wants them here. But right now it feels unbearable to go without their touch, their breath.

Toshinori wants to touch them in any way they’d allow. The brush of their fingers, the feel of their palm, the texture of their hair, or even a full embrace. He wants to hold their face, but he knows that’s a level of familiarity he’ll never be allowed. He already sees the note he’d receive if he asked.

“Too much risk.”

The thought of their handwriting deepens the ache of longing and pulls another noise from his lips. He has always had a soft spot for dexterity in his partners, but imagining the dexterity of the hands that create such intricate notes makes him light headed.

He wants to feel them move.

His thumb brushes over his lip—pulling a choked sob from himself.

Would they be dominant? Setting the terms of intimacy and taking control in the same way they control how much I see of them?

Or would they be submissive? Trusting me to explore within the limits they allow in the same way they trust me not to search for them or open the door when they’re outside?

Either idea appeals to him.

Considering the nature of their relationship, he thinks they’d be both. They’re as selfless as him so they’d be eager to give, but also eager to pleasure. Whatever provides the most enjoyment, whatever draws out a better response. With Toshinori acting the same…

They’d be on each other like animals. Desperately driven by each other’s pleasure, they’d wind up building each other up, climaxing, then finding pleasure in the other’s fulfillment. They’d ride out each other’s highs to the point of overstimulation, and cling to one another for comfort as they wait for the echoing feedback loop to quiet.

It’s a dizzying, overwhelming, and pleasant thought.

Perhaps they could find a way to take turns.

He’s familiarized himself with thoughts of being in their care. But he wants to hold them too. Care for them, dote on them, and overwhelm them with a year’s worth of affection that he’s been unable to smother them with. He wants that. He wants that a lot.

He imagines holding them, kissing their neck, and massaging the tension from their body. Since he doesn’t know their body well enough to imagine how they’d react, he has to imagine these touches on himself and consider the exploratory differences from there.

He’d slide a hand beneath their shirt. Their body would be warmer than their hands, but he doesn’t know how much warmer it would be. He wonders, Would their body be soft here? Or solid?

Would there be hair? Or would they be smooth?

His hand would trail up to feel their chest—

He pulls his hand away and rolls over.

The feel of his own scars and deformities makes it difficult to enjoy anything pertaining to the physical. Still, his hips unconsciously thrust against the sheets, and he has to bury his face in the pillow to stifle a groan.

He pulls his trembling legs up and arches his back so his weight rests solely on his chest and knees—preventing his body from finding any of the friction it wants as he catches his breath. He blinks away the dampness in his eyes and clings to the pillow beneath his head.

They don’t talk about physicalities. Provided the oddity of their relationship, there’s never been a reason to do so, not when their fingers have only brushed on occasion, and when he’s not allowed to see them at all.

They might not want to be physically intimate with him. Toshinori wouldn’t blame them if that was the case. He’s malnourished, withered, and scarred. He’s more skeleton than man and he’s pretty sure they’re not into necrophilia. He considers the logistics of taking his muscle form, but no… No.

As much as he may love them, he can not sacrifice the little time he has left to save lives for such selfish gain. The fact they love him despite his true form’s appearance is already enough. It’s more than enough.

There’s also a chance that they’re not interested in sexual intimacy.

The moment that thought forms, his body goes rigid. Not because he’d love them any less, but because he feels like he violated them by imagining these things without their consent.

It’s then that he hears the hinges of his bedroom door creek.

He’s not alone.

Toshinori jolts upright and his heart hammers in his chest as he scrambles to cover himself. He stares at the door with wide eyes. There is nobody there except for the looming flicker of a shadow.

He swallows. “Who– who’s there?” His voice comes out hoarse, cracked, and rough.

There isn’t a response for a moment.

But then there’s a soft, guilty drag of nails. 

Toshinori doesn’t know if he should be relieved or mortified.

Did they… did they see that?

His heart continues to pound with adrenaline and it takes him a few moments before he can calm down enough to move. He drops back onto the pillows, covers his face, and groans. His cheeks burn red.

“Jesus Christ, you terrified me. What the hell are you doing here?”

They have work at this hour. Even if their schedule otherwise changes, they ALWAYS have work at this hour. Because it’s the same night they get dragged to mahjong. And even if their friend could have gotten sick and failed to show, their work shift doesn’t end for another hour. He purposefully planned this with that in mind. 

There is the faint sound of shuffling, followed by writing. From the corner of his eye, Toshinori watches their shadow move as they crouch down and slides a piece of paper into the room.

Toshinori stares at their note and considers his own nudity. Eventually he sighs and works up the courage to get up. He keeps the sheet wrapped around him for some degree of modesty. There isn’t much point if they already saw what I was doing, he thinks meekly.

“Stay there, I’m just closing the door.”

Their shadow continues to linger, and Toshinori knows better than to entertain ideas of temptation. He closes the door with a soft click and slides to the floor against it.

Bundled up in only his blanket, Toshinori picks up the note.

“The store is closed for the day due to rain damage. The owner is out of town visiting family, so it’ll be closed until they get back and approve it for reopening. I still went in to drain water from the ceiling, but that didn’t take too long and I left soon after.

There’s food in your fridge. Realized you were running low.”

Toshinori makes a miserable noise.

They’re too perfect.

They didn’t have work today due to an accident, yet they still went in to do damage control. And they continue to keep track of his well being… They must have come in to drop stuff off, only to hear noise coming from the bedroom where they then decided to investigate. 

Such a sweet simple task… 

And here he is.

“Thank you.” He stares pointedly at the floor. He knows he’ll regret asking, but he needs to know, “... How long were you watching?”

The sound of his writer’s pen is nerve wracking.

“Not for all of it, but for a while.

Is that okay?”

Toshinori buries his face in shame. He hadn’t even heard them come in.

“Yes, it’s okay,” he mumbles. There was no way they could have known what he was doing until they’d already seen it. He can only imagine what it was like for his writer to catch him in such an act.  “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable… And I’m sorry you saw all that.”

There is the sound of quick, frantic, aggressive writing.

Another note is slid beneath the door.

"Be kind to yourself. You're beautiful, I loved what I saw."

Toshinori’s heart flutters as he stares at the note. “Oh,” he exhales, if just a bit breathless. He carefully picks up the note and holds it in his hands.

Flicking the corner back and forth, he inquires with a little more confidence, “ Do you… do you think about it? Things like… this. With me?” he asks nervously.

He’s unable to look at the door as they write.

“Sometimes, often not intentionally.

Before, because I couldn’t bring myself to fantasize about that which I should have no say over. And now… I may have you, but I still wish to take care of you and have no interest in entertaining thoughts I can’t be sure you share.

Still, I have my dreams about you.

Why? Do you think about me?”

“I… yes. I do,” Toshinori admits quietly. He nuzzles his face against the crook of his arm for comfort—making up for the touches he can’t expect from them. Even if they share my desire. He stares at the note on the floor.

“I wish you weren’t so strict about maintaining your secrecy.” He hears the sound of their pen and quickly cuts them off. “I know, I know. It’s necessary, you’re sorry, it can’t be changed. I know.” He breathes a heavy sigh and rests his head against the door.

“I just… I’m not always the best with words. Even though we’ve been doing this for a while, I still struggle to shake the impulse to hug you. The blanket you made me helps, a lot. But… I can't help but wish I had more to go off of when I think of you.”

“Sometimes I feel like we’re living before the internet, stuck in a long distance relationship. All that’s missing is the carrier pigeons,” he jokes, knowing his writer will appreciate the comparison—obsessed with old romance novels as they are. Toshinori’s voice then becomes more solemn as he continues, “But even then photos, portraits, and descriptions were exchanged.”

“I appreciate what we have. I appreciate you, and I adore this. But still… I can’t help but long for you.” He tucks his toes beneath the blanket he’s wrapped in and curls them so the blanket bunches.

It’s quiet for a moment, then there’s the sound of softer writing. His writer leans against the door as they do. Toshinori can feel their weight press back against him, soothing him as he waits.

“I blame you for nothing, you’re alright. I understand what you mean.

But I still can’t let you see me.”

Toshinroi nods against his blanket-covered knees, focusing more on the weight against the door than the writing. “I know…” he says softly. No writing follows, but their weight remains a mimicry of touch. 

An idea slowly forms.

They know what Toshinori looks like, his name, and they’re allowed to know him however intimately they want—however intimately they’ll allow. They let him feel their fingertips, so technically…

“... What if I didn’t see you?” Toshinori asks. “What if I blindfolded myself?”

It’s quiet for a tense moment.

Then the sound of writing.

Their handwriting is shaky:

“You’d blindfold yourself for me? You’d trust your body to me like that?

I still wouldn’t be able to let you touch me in turn. Some aspects of my body I fear are too recognisable. But you’d permit my hands against your body? Despite not knowing what they look like?”

“Yes.” Toshinori’s answer is immediate. “Yes, I would. I trust you completely.”

“In the same way you have no doubt I’d keep a blindfold on, I have no doubt that you’d be good to me. I’m alright if I can’t touch you in turn, I just– I want that. I want you. And I trust you to decide whatever that means.”

It’s quiet. The shadow of his writer remains, but they make no noise. Toshinori is fearful for a moment that they’ll reject the idea. Then another note is written, and passed over with care.

“Alright, but I won’t be able to speak and you won’t be able to read if blindfolded.

One tap: no. Two taps: yes. Three: I love you.”

There are three taps against the door.

Toshinori feels a rush of affection and smiles like a fool as his heartbeat prances at the thought of what’s to come. “I love you too.”

He gets off the floor, and hesitates for a moment as he ponders the course of action. He can hear his writer adjusting outside the door—removing clothes and accessories that may make them identifiable.

We’re actually doing this… Toshinori swallows, nervous and excited.

He settles for returning the blanket to the bed, and searches his closest for a makeshift blindfold. One of his ties would work best. And only after a little consideration, he decides on the solid red one.

He doesn’t bother with other clothes, they’ve already seen him in nothing—when they undressed him the first time and of course now—so he returns to bed and merely sits on its edge.

He watches their shadow for a moment, before bringing the fabric to his eyes and wrapping it around his head. He ties it off, and fidgets with it to make sure it’s secure and doesn’t offer even an idea of sight. Once confirmed, he drops his hands back to his lap.

“Okay… I’m ready. You can enter.”

It takes every ounce of strength to not shake with anticipation. There is an intimate vulnerability in this position that thrums through him. He swallows nervously and shifts his weight where he sits, but keeps his hands in his lap (for some degree of modesty) and his eyes covered.

The door opens slowly.

There is a soft, tentative yet curious sound of socked feet approaching—circling slightly, before coming to a stop somewhere in front of him.

Toshinori can’t help but squirm beneath their gaze. He’s not the most confident with this form, even if he knows they’ve seen it all before—twisted scar, boney limbs, aged skin—and continue to care for him, his insecurities still remain. He tries to reassure himself with the memory of their note.

"Be kind to yourself. You're beautiful, I loved what I saw."

He focuses on those words as he waits.

Then, there’s a ghost of touch that causes Toshinori’s breath to hitch.

He feels fingers brush over his cheekbone, a palm press against the side of his face, and their nails in his hair.

His brain immediately goes off like a firework in a desperate attempt to feel and memorise everything. It’s rough, dry, callused, cold (only in the literal sense), with a warmth and care Toshinori can’t help but lean into. Pressing into their palm with a shaky, needy exhale.

Their thumb brushes over his face—feeling the outline and contours as if they’re the one blind folded. Before eventually settling and tapping three times against his cheek.

Toshinori turns his head to plant a kiss on the palm of their hand, feeling a scar scratch his lips so wonderfully. “I love you…” he whispers, enjoying the feel of his words spoken against their skin. “I love you so much.”

He continues to nuzzle into their hand, mapping out the feel of their palm. His writer lets him, their other hand comes up to brush through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, and tucking one of his bangs behind his ear.

Toshinori makes a weak noise in response to the gentle affection. To know them for so long with only the feel of their fingers and notes in mind, to go longer without anything at all. He feels his eyes already becoming glassy from the sheer amount of everything he’s trying to process.

He didn’t realise being touch starved could feel so much like an illness. But as he’s held in the palm of their hand, it feels obvious that this is the remedy.

“Please…” he begs. “Can I move my hand?”

His writer stills.

“Just to hold yours. Please?”

They need a moment longer to consider, then there are two taps.

Toshinori exhales a shaky breath then slowly brings his hand up to rest over the one still pressed to his cheek.

“Is this alright?” he asks as he holds their hand in his and continues to kiss their palm, feeling his warmth slowly seeping into them as he does.

Answering him immediately, there are two taps in his hair where Toshinori continues to be pet.

“Thank you…”

Toshinori’s kisses move from their palm to their fingers as his thumbs adjust to start massaging where his lips had been. He trails kisses over each finger, massaging the digits and feeling their movements within his own shaky ones. Anxiety and excitement have overwhelmed his nervous system, and he’s finding it difficult to focus past the racing of his heart.

He kisses their hand again, and this time they rub the pad of their thumb over his lower lip.

His lips part immediately beneath the touch, and Toshinori unconsciously brushes his tongue against their thumb in a small, curious, flick. His brain short circuits the moment he’s allowed to taste them.

“You can use my mouth, if you want.”

Toshinori realises only now that the gender of his writer may matter here. If that’s something they wish to involve. Either way, Toshinori remains contently neutral. The pleasantries of bisexuality and all that.

They’re quiet, continuing to feel his lips and tongue. Caressing it and giving it a curious squeeze—holding it in place and watching it reflexively twitch and strain, before letting it go. There are three taps—neither a yes or a no.

“We don’t have to, I just, I want to make sure you feel good. I don’t want you to do all the work, and I want you to know you’re allowed to ask more from me, or—”

They suddenly pull away, and cut Toshinori off with a flick to the forehead.

Toshinori yelps, jolting more from shock than actual pain. “What was that for–?”

They press a finger to his lips, silencing him once more, then brush their hand over his forehead in apology for what they did. They tap his temples three times. ‘I love you.’

Toshinori sighs, settling as he understands the additional, unspoken words. ‘Stop worrying.’

“Okay… I’ll stop thinking too hard.”

Two taps, and then their hand trails down. Rubbing sweetly at the lobe of his ears, before lower to his throat and massaging it. They press their thumb into the soft underside of his jaw and coax him to look up.

Toshinori swallows as he obeys, lips parting in an exhale as his throat is—quite literally—bared.

His throat is sensitive, and he can’t help but wet his lips nervously. His Adam's apple presses against their hand and he shivers. The wild beat of his pulse can no doubt be felt, but they continue to move. Gentle, slow, and unrushed.

“You’re so sweet…” Toshinori murmurs through a haze. Staring blindly at the red fabric as they stroke the length of his neck.

They trail their hands down to his chest, and gently push him backwards, guiding him to lie back before they continue to explore. Toshinori lets himself be laid out, shivering with a helpless whine when their hand brushes over the scar that stretches and distorts his left side.

He doesn’t dare speak as they touch that spot, he doesn’t want to acknowledge the scar at all.

But his writer doesn’t shy away from it. They trace it almost reverently. They touch it, caress it, explore it, and Toshinori does his best not to hiss in repulsion as they draw attention to every warped flaw.

“It never healed quite right,” Toshinori admits meekly. It’s the only half-decent words he has for that part of himself. That part that’s slowly eating away at his life… Perhaps in another life, where he wasn’t All Might, he’d be able to sit still long enough for it to heal cleanly. But in this one, that is nothing but another person’s ideal.

He is pleased he can’t see the scar as it’s touched.

His writer doesn’t say anything. They pull away, there is the sound of fabric adjusting, then their weight settles upon the bed—an arm, as they lean down over Toshinori. Warm breath ghosts over his scar, setting incomplete nerve endings alight. They close the distance and kiss it.

Gentle. Warm. Inviting. Loving.

It jolts a surprised gasp out of him.

His first time being kissed by them, and it’s there. The most vulnerable, ugly part of his form, and they’re so openly tender with it. Continuing to trail kisses and touches over each raised edge and indent.

Toshinori cannot keep the dampness from his eyes. He brings his hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the noise, but they stop him. Pinning his arm to the sheets, and continuing.

They don’t stop. Kissing his chest, his stomach, the ridges of his ribs. They coax more broken sounds from him as they trail touches over his body. It suddenly makes this entire interaction feel a thousand times more real. Because in thought, Toshinori could never look upon that part of himself.

Certainly not like this.

Toshinori shifts on the sheets, struggling to accept the overwhelming affection and unable to lie still as they bestow it upon him. But his writer adjusts their weight, one hand pinning Toshinori’s arm down, and the other pinning his hips to the sheets. They keep him still as they have their way.

Sometimes their lips part, panting puffs of hot air against his skin as they refrain from open mouthed kisses. Then they close their mouth and resume.

When they finally pull away, Toshinori is a boneless mess. Touched, kissed, loved, submitting to it all as he would anything they ask for. He blinks, feeling the dampness of the tie against his eyes.

He hears fabric adjusting once more.

It takes Toshinori a moment to realise what it is, but when he does he can’t help the pitiful, frustrated noise he makes. They’re so overwhelmingly good to him, and yet.

“Are you gagging yourself?”

It’s quiet… 

Then there are two taps against Toshinori’s thigh. ‘Yes.’

Toshinori groans. “I hate how thorough and persistent you are. You know that, right? You better have a good reason for all this secrecy or I swear–” Toshinori is cut off with an embarrassing whine as their hand finds its way between his legs. Gripping, twisting, then stroking his achingly hard flesh. His thoughts derail. 

His mouth drops open, his head falls back, his eyes screw shut at the touch. His legs tremble as his toes curl. With a needy cry he bucks against their touch. He’s already worked up from prior edging, then all the touching and kisses, and this is the first time they’re grabbing him and– 

Toshinori can not describe the noise he makes.

Then they pull away.

Toshinori stifles a sob, hips desperately arched against nothing. He can feel heat coiling tightly in his gut, he’s achingly hard and so very needy. He would reach for them, but he doesn’t dare move.

When he feels their weight vanish and hears their footsteps leave, Toshinori’s entire body panics.

“Wait, please don’t go. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I–”

He’s cut off with a start as he’s suddenly tugged backwards, pulled further up the bed, then pinned against their chest. One of their arms curls around his chest, and the other finds its way  beneath his chin. Gripping his head, and holding—perhaps the most fragile part of him—in place. Their forehead rests against his hair as they breathe a heavy huff of air.

Toshinori doesn’t dare speak or move.

Not because he fears them… But for as strong as he may be as All Might, he is a disaster in a relationship setting. A desperate people pleaser, and a self destructive wreck when he feels he falls short of an ideal. 

With his writer, Toshinori feels comfortable talking to them. But that doesn’t stop him from having insecurities. It just means they’re aware of it. And without the ability to speak assurance or be here regularly, the smallest things they do makes Toshinori feel all the more emotional.

Responsive, desperate, and overwhelmed. His writer keeps him pinned, and holds him close as something grounding and solid.

When Toshinori finally gets himself to settle, he’s furious with himself for acting the way he did.

The first time in the same room as them, able to feel them, and he does this. Of course they’re as patient as always, but Toshinori is terrified to consider they won’t want to allow this again.

“I’m sorry…” Toshinori whispers brokenly. He has settled, but he still cries.

One tap. Three taps.

They continue to hold him.

It’s now that Toshinori realises the double sided purpose of the three taps. One reason is that his writer is emotional and needs a means to express that. But also… Toshinori is emotional. And they need a way to respond to him.

‘Always so persistently thorough…’

They’re the only person Toshinori trusts to be this vulnerable with, yet the feeling of helplessness is suffocating. 

They continue to hold him, he’s unsure for how long…

Long enough for him the focus of his guilt to shift.

They were only here to drop off food. I hope they didn’t have anything else planned for tonight.

He feels like a selfish brat. He’s All Might, he’s not supposed to behave like this. But his writer has seen all his weaknesses by this point. They know the ugly parts of him and they’ve never once turned their back on him.

Slowly, his writer adjusts. Their weight on the bed shifts, and they maneuver Toshinori so his head rests in their lap. They resume combing their fingers through his hair now that the sensory intake seems less likely to distress him.

Toshinori sighs, hesitates… and after a moment he rolls over. He presses his face against their thigh, pulls his knees up to hide his still nude body, and tucks his arms against his chest to try and compact himself as small as possible.

Their hand goes from his hair, to his back. Tracing his spine, and pressing against his tense muscles. Toshinori shudders.

He relaxes slowly, feeling warm, and safe.

“I love you so much…” he mumbles. “You’re so good to me, despite the fact that I’m such a crybaby.” He scoffs humorlessly.

He should be able to be intimate like a normal person. At least, he wants to be.

… He wanted to be.

But now, Toshinori curls in tighter on himself, balls his hand against their pant leg and focuses on his breathing.

They smell like cloves and sandalwood…

They continue to caress him, drumming soft three taps on occasion. Toshinori focuses on how they pet and caress him. Feeling his heart rate slow and his pulse settle, he notes the subtle differences in the taps. When they’re reassuring, and when they’re affectionate or loving. The difference between ‘I love you, I love you,’ and ‘calm down,I love you.’

When his breath has leveled, they shift. They make sure to leave one hand on him to keep him in place. He hears the cap of a pen come off, then the tip of it comes to rest on his shoulder.

They begin to write.

The pen’s ink flows smoothly against his skin without requiring them to use pressure. It brings a small smile to his lips. He stays still despite the coldness of the ink making him want to shiver.

Curious, despite knowing he won’t get an understandable answer, he asks, “What are you writing?”

They pause, tap the pen three times against his shoulder, then continue. Toshinori's smile melts into a small, soft, shaky sigh. He feels strangely touched, being marked in this way. His writer never fails to find a way to make up for whatever limits their relationship has. They move down his whole arm writing things. Stopping just sort of his wrist, before encouraging Toshinori to roll onto his back with a gentle nudge.

Toshinori does as asked. He rolls onto his back once again, opening himself up to anything and everything. He lays there, breathing slow.

His eyes are hidden behind the blindfold, but he knows if he could see, he’d see their face concentrated on him as they lean forward to write on his flushed chest.

They're focused, the pen moves slowly over his skin as they make sure to be neat, and take their time. He can only imagine the words they're writing into him—even if he knows they’ll be wholesome and doting.

Toshinori closes his eyes and lets them take their time.

“You know… I had some strange kinks, before I met you,” he mumbles, thinking about how vastly different this relationship is to any other he’s had. “Somehow, they all pale in comparison to whatever it is you do to me.” 

They don’t stop writing, but they do pinch him in response to his words. As though to say, ‘I’m not done yet, don’t distract me.’

Toshinori gives a small, cheeky smile. They can be quite touchy when they’re focussed on something. He knows that from the amount of notes he has of them complaining about things they love because of inopportune timing. It’s pleasant to interact with that side of them first hand.

Despite his comment, he can’t deny his dexterity kink has input here as well. Perhaps not in the same way he found out about his dexterity kink (Dave. Which really isn’t a fair grounds for comparison, considering Dave has a quirk advantage. Ie: “Squirmy Fingers”), but in a way that allows him to know what it feels like to be the paper they adore with intricate notes.

He admires the feel of their hands and the dance of their pen. 

They fill the upper half of his chest with writing, then move on to his other arm. They move it to better suit their needs.

After a while Toshinori’s shoulder begins to ache from the angle he’s in, but he doesn’t even think to complain. Instead, he continues to lay still and allow them to mark his skin.

When they’re done with his arm, they get up. Leaving Toshinori on the bed, they keep a hand on his chest to reassure him they’re not going far. They merely move down, so they can sit upon his thighs and resume writing over his belly—taking care to avoid his scar as they do.

Toshinori wonders briefly how he must look from their perspective… Laid out on the bed like an offering, eyes hidden behind a blindfold and body marked in their ink. He can only feel his writer’s weight, feel their pen on his skin, and their intense gaze focused upon him. He does his best not to move.

They continue writing, down to his hip bone and through the light hairs on his lower abdomen that trail down to groin. They pause their writing, capping their pen for a moment, and pet the soft hairs. He can practically hear the gears in their mind turning.

They tap twice on his pelvic bone. ‘Yes?’ they ask for consent.

Toshinori doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Anything you want, love.”

They adjust, moving from his thighs to between his legs. They lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of his neglected cock. The fabric of the gag is still in their mouth holding them back from doing more—despite the way they linger, and breathe him in with evident want.

They sit back, settling for using their hands. One on his cock bringing him pleasure, the other on his hip, occasionally trailing up to caress his scar.

It’s incredible how gentle and soft their touch is, considering how rough and calloused their hands are. His writer is so, so good to him. They know the parts of him that need the most care, and they know just how much Toshinori can handle in the state he’s in.

They don't draw it out or tease him, knowing he's been edged long enough to the point of discomfort. They work with intent and with purpose. Finding each spot that gets a good reaction, and finding the ideal pace. They're keen to the smallest twitch Toshinori makes in response, and adjusts in accordance. They’re determined to learn Toshinori’s body, and quickly makes his body tremble and his words incoherent.

Toshinori clenches the sheets by his head. There is so much pressure building in his core. He isn’t going to last long. He feels their cheek come to rest atop his thigh, the pant of their breath ghost around the base of his cock, and the dampness of their drool on his skin as they salivate over him.

It’s unbearably intimate like this.

Their hot mouth against his sensitive thighs, one hand against his scar, the other focused on his pleasure. To know how clearly and deeply they desire him, without even speaking a word. It’s enough to cause his knees to shake and his toes to curl.

His head falls back with a final cry as he climaxes.

They continue to work him through it, collecting his release in their hands. And then he hears the movement of fabric… Followed by the wet sound of their mouth and tongue.

Toshinori whimpers, throwing his hand over his face as his already overstimulated member reacts to the wet noises.

“You’re too much. You’re going to send me into shock one of these days…”

They give his hip bone a brief kiss, rub his thigh lovingly, then trailing more kisses over his skin. They tap three times. And then three times again elsewhere. Then elsewhere.

Toshinori laughs. “You’re so fucking sweet.” He grins, loving the feel of their lips stretching and curling at the corners as they nuzzle their cheek against his leg.

They hold him like that for a moment, giving them both a chance to catch their breath. Then they sit up, return the gag to their mouth, and uncaps their pen again. 

They resume their writing.

“So fucking sweet,” Toshinori repeats.

He continues to lay pliant as he feels them move down his thighs, calves, to his ankles. He can hear the pen moving over his skin, and the small, delicate sounds of their breathing. His face is flushed, and he’s sure the ink on his skin is starting to run a bit from his sweat.

And all the while there’s his beautiful, wonderful writer, taking as much time as they please to mark him as thoroughly as they like.

When they finish marking his front—leaving only his hands, neck and face ink free—they tug lightly on his hip, silently asking him to roll over.

“Mmm, bossy,” Toshinori teases as he complies. It takes effort provided his current state of exhaustion, contentment, wounds, and lingering bliss. But he manages, and a moment later he feels the pen resume.

They stop on occasion, finding a tense spot in his back and massaging it out, then resume. After uncapping and recapping their pen a few times they eventually decide to just set it aside.

They focus on giving him a back massage,  and once done they manhandle him just for the sake of it. Feeling out his body and the range of its movements. To be reminded that they want to physically feel every single part of his body, just to have that knowledge, makes him strangely emotional.

He makes a soft stifled groan as they massage his hips and work out a tension he didn’t think he’d escape. He buries his face in a pillow as they continue to play with his body.

And once they feel content with that, they resume writing.

He feels ridiculously content and quite spoiled.

By the end he’s so relaxed that he’s on the verge of falling asleep. Before he can though, he’s brought back to awareness by his writer running their hand through his hair.

Toshinori blinks his eyes open, a useless thing to do considering he’s blindfolded. His arms and legs feel like jelly, and he has to rub his face into the pillow to fully wake himself up.

“Did you finish?”

Two taps.

“Mmm… I look forward to seeing it.” Toshinori smiles sleepily in their direction. “Are you planning to head out?”

There isn’t an immediate reply.

One tap.

Before Toshinori can ask further questions, they lean down, brush his hair out of the way, and hold his head in place. Their lips brush over his neck and teeth can be felt. The gag still holds their tongue, but the request is clear. They linger, their breath warm. And then they tap him twice.

‘Yes?’

“Yes.”

Toshinori tilts his head to show more of his neck, pressing further into their hand, further into their mouth.

They’re careful, slow as they kiss, then suck, then sink their teeth into his skin. Holding him in place as they do, they bite deep enough to mark, but make sure they don’t draw blood.

Toshinori lets out a shaky breath, arching a little against them in response to the pain.

When they let go they press apologetic kisses to the flesh they wounded. Soothing it, reminding it the touch stems from love.

It didn’t hurt but it is a deliberate, visible mark on him that’s deeper and will last longer than the ink shall. Of course his soft hearted writer is shaken up over that, even if they were the one to enact it out of desire.

Toshinori sighs into the pillow and gives in to his exhaustion as they continue to kiss the tender skin. Such a perfect mix of a being…

“Are you spending the night?” he asks.

They hesitate for a moment, then tap him three times. They pull away, and pull out their notepad to write. Toshinori frowns, knowing if they’re writing that means they’re planning to leave so he can read the note.

The paper tears, and is set beside him. His writer gets up—leaving the room. The scratch of their nails against the door can be heard as they confirm they’ve left.

Toshinori sighs, adjusting the blindfold, blinking as his eyes adjust, before grabbing and reading the note. Their pen looks to be running out of ink. Toshinori smirks at the observation, but refrains from reading his other “note” quite yet.

“You know I can’t stay till morning. But if you want me to keep you company while you fall asleep and lay with you as you do, that is something I can do.

I’m going to grab your blanket from the couch, presuming you don’t want to adjust too much right now, and well… I want you to wake up to some part of me.

Please return the blindfold once you’re done reading this. I’ll be back in a bit.”

… Well, that certainly wasn’t what he expected. He feels a rush of relief and affection as he reads the note. It is far more than he expected. He can’t help the smile on his face, or the soft, happy laughter as he reads the note again. Even when they reject one of his requests, they still try to go the extra mile.

He sets the paper aside, and pulls the blindfold back over his eyes. He settles back, and waits. It’s only several seconds before he hears them knock on the door.

“It’s safe.”

They enter, and when they do they lay the thick, warm, fluffy blanket over Toshinori and settle down beside him. They brush their hand against his in an offer of what little proximity they can provide.

Toshinori intertwines his fingers with theirs as he pulls their hand against his chest. And for a moment, everything feels right in the world. The feel of their body next to his, even if some distance separates them, is soothing.

“You feel nice…” he mumbles, caressing their hands. “Thank you… for this.” He already feels his eyelids grow heavy, but he desperately wants to hold on to consciousness for as long as he can. “... Please say we can do this again sometime.”

Two taps.

Toshinori lifts their hand to his mouth so he can kiss their knuckles.

“You’re an angel, you know?”

They tap once.

Toshinori chuckles in response. “You are,” he insists. “You can be the world’s devil for all I care. But to me? You’ll always be my angel. My knight in shining armor… the hero of heroes…” He trails off with a yawn. “I love you.”

They’re quiet… Then three taps.

‘I love you too.’

 

“A MESSAGE IS HERE!!”

Toshinori is still asleep when his phone decides to wake him. He groans softly, rubs at his eyes, and pushes himself upright. He pauses when he sees the dark ink curled around his wrist, recalling the night before.

The blindfold has been removed and is neatly folded on his bedside table. Next to it is a note, a glass of water, and one of Toshinori’s own pens. His writer is nowhere to be seen. Their note, written with Toshinori’s pen reads:

“You’re asleep beside me as I write. You have no idea how adorable you look; completely at peace, hair a mess, lips parted just so. I swear, you’re the most beautiful thing in this world.

Last night was lovely. The way you let me in, the way you shivered, and the way you curled into me when scared rather than pulling away. I couldn’t say it then, so I’ll say it now: I got you

I give myself to you. I want you with everything I am, and I want all that you are.

I’m writing this because I don’t want you to doubt how I see you. You are beautiful, and you are breathtaking. Every inch of you, including the parts you try to hide. Especially those.

I love you.

I look forward to doing this again some time. Till then, enjoy our morning.”

A slow smile tugs at Toshinori’s lips. “I already am,” he murmurs.

Still half asleep, he leans back against the wall and sips the water they left him. He rested there for a while, just breathing and remembering. He rests his eyes and takes another leisurely sip of water, followed by a long, deep breath.

The room still smells of them. 

“A MESSAGE IS HERE!!”

Toshinori glances at the bedside table again, having forgotten about his phone. It remains plugged in among the items his writer left him. With a frown, Toshinori sets the glass down and reaches for the device.

It’s Tsukuachi. Not that anyone else texts him.

He opens the notification and curses. It’s Tsukauchi asking where he is. They were meant to meet up at Might Tower for lunch. It can’t be afternoon already, he thinks. But sure enough, the clock in the corner of his screen reads: 12:43.

Shit–

He tosses the blankets aside, bolts out of bed, grabs the first clothes he can find, and darts down the hall to the bathroom. He turns on the light, takes one look in the mirror, then freezes.

He doesn’t immediately recognise his reflection as his.

Thin intricate lines of ink flow over his skin. Over his chest, his ribs, and his thighs. Even his scars are framed with poetry that spirals to best adore it. Turning flaws into an art piece worthy of awe. His hair—still wild and untamed—is laced with a braid, and a bruise has formed between his shoulder and neck. Their bite is like a stamp, taking claim of their work.

His heart pounds, but he doesn’t feel it. He forgets how to breathe.

He feels like he’s hardly in his body at all.

He takes a half-step forward, as though approaching a stranger, and tentatively reaches out. His fingers brush over the mirror’s cold surface, tracing the lines on his reflection. He stops when he meets his own eyes.

His face is still gaunt and his eyes are still blue, but his expression…

He’s used to seeing hollowed eyes that speak of sacrifice, eyes that are laced with a hunger that goes deeper than anything physical. But this one looks rested. Tended to. Cared for.

“I…” his voice cracks. He doesn’t finish the sentence, he’s not sure he can name the feeling swelling in his chest. It’s a feeling he believed was too big for this form. Even if accepted and was soothed by his writer’s words, he never felt them like this.

I am loved.

His hand slides down the mirror. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, following each curve and line. It feels like he’s been given a map to seeing his own body.

“A MESSAGE IS HERE!!”

His phone sounds far away, and his concerns about time are so much further.

He exhales a long, unsteady breath. 

A small, wry smile tugs at his lips.

“... I can be late,” he whispers to his reflection.

The clothes fall from his arms as he turns away from the mirror and returns to the bedroom. His phone remains where he left it, plugged in besides his writer’s note. He picks it up, but doesn’t respond to Tsukauchi.

Instead, his thumb hovers over the camera icon.

The thought of taking a picture like this feels absurd, if not a little bit insane. Still, he lifts the phone. He takes a photo of the writing around scars, the hearts drawn on his ankle, the script down his spine, and the braid in his hair. Then he takes a photo of the bite mark.

He tilts his chin to expose his throat and rolls his shoulder back. He catches a glimpse of himself mid-motion: His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are soft. He bites his lip and angles the phone a little higher, capturing both the bruise and his eyes.

He lets out a quiet, nervous laugh. He feels ridiculous. There’s nothing heroic about these photos. No muscle flexing or power stances, it’s just ink and skin. And yet… he’s smiling.

When Toshinori takes the last photo he sits on the edge of the bed and breathes. He stares at the most recent photo. His skin is flushed: from his chest to his neck to his face. Scars prevent perfection and his smile—not practiced, but incapable of hiding—is just a little lopsided.

He’s never wanted to keep his body, let alone look at it. But right now, he finds that he doesn’t mind calling this body his. He falls back onto the bed and happily flips through the photos he took, grinning as he reads their words.

He wants to remember this feeling when the morning fades.

 

Despite having the photos, Toshinori still can’t bring himself to wash off the ink. Already well beyond late, he makes sure to grab a long sleeve sweater with a high collar. It’s still looser than ideal, but it’s the best his wardrobe can provide on short notice. So long as he doesn’t pull at the collar or lift his arms too high, it does its job.

And he makes it through an interaction with Tsukauchi without needing to explain anything but the braid.

“Just trying something different,” he explained with a light laugh. Which is true enough to avoid triggering Tsukauchi’s quirk—last night was certainly different. 

Since the braid doesn’t mess with his bangs, Toshinori considers keeping it in. He wonders how they’d react if he didn’t take it out while doing hero work. He knows they watch him close enough they’d see, and even if they didn’t… The press also keeps watch. It’d be only a matter of time before it gets added to the roster of every appearance he has.

As he enjoys a cup of tea with Tsukauchi, he considers how he’d answer interview questions. A braid seems easy enough to explain. Maybe he could say something about how things woven together are stronger than alone? ‘Peace is a collective effort,’ or something.

He hums faintly to himself. 

He’s pretty sure he could manage an explanation.

At least, until he makes it to the office.

Where Tsukauchi noticing the braid can be overlooked; his staff members who know “Yagi” as All Might’s secretary and “All Might” as, well, All Might—can’t be. And far too many people notice it.

Therefore, once Toshinori is safe behind Might Gate, he has no choice but to pull his hair loose and brush out the curls.

He undresses slowly, savoring the ink as he folds the soft turtleneck and ever reliable cargo pants. It’s difficult, changing into his hero suit. It’s more difficult than it’s ever been. Usually he can’t wait to wear it, but he knows he can’t go out like this. Not with visible ink curling around his neck and wrists.

All Might isn’t allowed to have a personal life. The less known the better, because when nothing is known people can project and relate. Anyone can be All Might, so long as All Might’s personal life is unknown. Before his writer, he didn’t have much of a personal life to talk of. Before now, he never had a part of himself he didn’t want to erase.

It’s a weird feeling.

He stands in his hero suit, the sleeves hanging loose at his side. He used to think if it wasn’t for his injury he’d never change out of this suit. He now thinks, If it wasn’t for this injury, I’d have never met them. 

He exhales slowly and braces himself for what’s to come. He’ll shift. Change forms. And then he’ll wash off everything that’s visible. The thought is heavier than it should be, but it’s also unavoidable.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. His words are as much for himself as they are for his writer. “... I wanted to keep it longer,” he confesses.

And with that, he transforms. 

It only takes a second. Skin stretches, muscles bulk, his spine straightens, and the suit fills out around him. Familiar weight settles and yet he continues to feel weightless.

He first looks down at his hands to assess how much will need to be removed.

The ink is gone.

He blinks and tugs at the cuff of his suit to check. The writing is still there, it’s just a centimeter off from falling in line with the edge.

He turns to the mirror to check his neck. It’s the same thing there, the ink isn’t visible. Tugging at the fabric to check, Toshinori finds their text wrapped around his neck like a collar; also a centimeter off from exact.

It’s perfectly placed.

It’s mapped.

They didn’t just mark his true form, they did it with All Might in mind. They know his body changes form—they know how his body changes. How his scars shift, how his freckles align. They used it all as markers so nothing would show. So he could decide when he was ready to remove them from his skin.

He presses his hand to his throat and to his chest, as if he could feel their writing beneath the fabric. He feels breathless. Their care is almost unbearable in its extremes. 

“... Just how closely do you pay attention?” he whispers.

 

Well, at least now Toshinori knows what they did while he was unconscious.

They stared at him. A lot. 

 

Since Toshinori received his first note, he has been storing all of his writer’s words in a drawer of his filing cabinet. It’s been almost two years since then; and between the intricate shodo, the pen scrawled journal pages, the notes twice every day, the lengthy conversations they have through the bedroom door, and the printed photos of Toshinori’s body (which were a nightmare to print out inconspicuously, but thankfully managed)—the filing cabinet is at risk of overflowing.

So the day has finally come in which Toshinori pulls the drawer out, carries it to the living room table, and sees about rehoming his collection. He got a few large binders, a stack of clear plastic sleeves, and some dividers he isn’t sure he’ll use.

The plan is simple enough: sort them by date.

None of the pages are dated, so his memory and guess work will be put to test. But in theory the pages at the bottom of the stack are older, while the newer ones are on top. Toshinori has a tendency to pull notes out as random when he’s wanting to reference something or just reread their words, so he’s not sure how reliable that presumption will be… But he has to start from somewhere.

He makes neat stacks and occasionally writes a note on a sticky tab to mark the collection. From there, the table fills fast. Two stacks become four, then six, then twelve, and before long he has more laid out on the floor around him.

His system isn’t perfect, as he keeps second-guessing himself and moving notes back and forth as threads start to line up in his head. This one references something that happened two letters before this one. Which means this one probably came after…

He reaches for another stack, but when he picks up the page he reveals a familiar flourish of ink beneath it.

He knows what note that is.

His fingers linger over it, and for a moment he forgets all about sorting.

He’s never been good at ignoring his writer’s words. Rereading one note quickly becomes two, then four, then eight, then he loses track. He loses track of what he was doing, and he loses track of time. Toshinori only realizes it’s late once his back starts to hurt from slouching over the table for so long. He groans as he stretches backwards, then gets up so he can return blood flow to his legs.

“Probally too old to be doing elaborate projects on the couch,” he huffs. Alas, his kitchen table doesn’t have enough space. I’ll just ask for a back massage before the week ends, he decides.

It’s not much of a decision considering he’d ask them for a massage regardless of what he does—because fuck, do they know to work the knots out of him—but it feels like enough of an excuse to leave everything on the living room table.

He filled one binder three-fourths of the way, but most of his time was spent sorting. He’s pretty sure he can finish the rest by mid-to-late afternoon tomorrow, just in time to spend the evening as All Might.

 

When morning comes, Toshinori makes himself a cup of tea and returns to the table. Everything is exactly as he left it, except for a single note that has been placed among the stacks.

“What are you doing?”

Toshinori is certain it’s new, because there’s a date. His writer knows exactly what he’s doing.

He sets his tea on the table, then heads to his desk to grab a piece of paper and a pen. Sitting on the couch again, he tucks one of his bangs behind his ear and begins to write an explanation.

“I have a lot of your notes and the drawer is starting to overflow. Since I need to relocate them, I realised I wanted them to be better organised and protected. This seemed like a good way to do that.

Also, I don’t know if you saw… But I took photos of the notes you left on my body. I don’t really want those to be something that can be accidentally found. So I’m reorganising."

Toshinori finishes the note and sets it aside. He’ll tuck it beneath the door when he heads out for the evening.

The cup of tea goes forgotten as Toshinori settles in once more. He hums faintly as he works. The pages have been sorted into chronological order, and now he smoothes them out and carefully slips a note inside.

When he fills one binder and closes it, he holds it against his chest for a moment. It’s hardly heavy, but it’s a comforting weight to hold. He folds over it, resting his forehead against its edge for a brief moment.

He holds it, and he’s held in turn.

“I’m getting sentimental in my old age,” he mutters aloud. His eyes linger on the pages still laid out in stacks over the table, the closest one has a doodle in the corner. He smiles. He doesn’t mind being sentimental.

If he wasn’t so worried about damaging a note, he’d consider cuddling with it while he sleeps. But as is, he forces himself to set it to the side and starts filling up the second binder.

The simple repetition is soothing in a way he hadn’t expected. 

He leans in, scanning a longer note to cross reference, and reaches for his tea without looking. Too focused on the note, his fingers misjudge the distance, and his hand knocks the cup instead of grabbing it.

It tips.

“SHIT—!”

Toshinori lunges, scrambling to catch the cup, but it’s too late.

He yanks off his shirt and presses it against the spreading stain, trying to soak up the tea before it can spread further. It still does little to help the pages already struck.

Most of the notes are only speckled, but one took the worst of it. The ink is now feathered at the edges, blurring into something that’s near unreadable.

He sits back, stares at the mess, and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. He breathes uneven and shakily.

“Idiot,” he hisses to nobody but himself. “Should’ve put the cup on the floor…”

He drags a hand through his hair and leans back against the couch. For a moment, he just stares at the stained page drying on the table; hoping the damage will somehow undo itself.

It doesn’t.

Of course it doesn’t.

With a quiet sigh, he glances toward his desk and decides if he can’t save the note, the best he can do is transcribe it.

He rises with immense care, and takes the now almost empty cup of tea far, far away from the other notes. He leaves the cup at his desk in exchange for new pieces of paper, and his tea soaked pajama shirt in exchange for his day clothes.

He returns to the table and sits down once more.

Toshinori recalls most of the phrasing, it’s one of the more poetic declarations of devotion. He recalls the feel of it, and can make out the characters well enough to write it. However, a few lines in, he falters.

… Is that 従 or 徒?

He mutters the sentence aloud under his breath, but they both work, and he sees both being an option. His pen hovers over the page.

After a long pause, he sighs guiltily and grabs one of the extra pieces of paper he brought. His handwriting is neat as he writes through guilt.

“I accidentally spilled tea on one of your notes while I was working… I’m trying to rewrite a transcript of it since it was damaged, but there are some spots that didn’t survive the spill and I’m struggling to figure them out.

The papers are on the counter…

Can you help?”

Toshinori finishes sorting the rest of the notes, then sets the tea stained note and transcript paper on the counter. As he leaves the apartment, he makes sure the hall is clear, before crouching down and wedging the two notes beneath the door.

 

When Toshinori gets home, he finds the transcript filled out on the counter and another note beside it left by his writer.

“I love you. I love you so much. The care you’re putting into this is adorable.

I wish I could do the same. God, how I wish I could keep every one of your notes. But you know I can’t. It risks making you connectable to me, and me identifiable to you. So, I’ve made a ritual of it. Bring them home, commit them to memory like they’re scripture… Then burn them.

It was hardest in the beginning—those first few nights, not knowing if you’d write again. I still keep the ashes. But now… it’s part of a rhythm. Which isn’t to say it’s easy.

So don’t punish yourself for one lost note, especially when it was lost so lovingly.

I’ll leave you two notes tomorrow to make up for it.”

They’ve drawn a heart at the bottom of the page, along with a signature:

“Yours, always.”

Toshinori exhales, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, and runs a hand through his hair. Here he is distressing over one tea stained note while theirs go up in flames by necessity…

He’d be distressed about it longer, if not for what he’s handed the following day.

 

There are two notes, just as his writer promised, but only one is actually written by them.

“I’m not sure how well I responded to your distress yesterday. I’ll admit—I had trouble taking it seriously at first, because I found it, well… adorable. And a little funny.

You see, some time ago I did the exact same thing. I spilled tea on one of your notes.

Yes, I know I told you I burn your letters, and that’s still true. But this one… this one I kept because I was so mortified by my actions. I had grown familiar with your notes, comfortable with them, and was no longer paranoid about their handling.

As anxious as I always am… It was a pleasant feeling.

It is a pleasant feeling.

I framed this note—tea stains and all—not to encourage paranoia, but just to be more conscious of where I decide to lay before reading your notes. Since the note is difficult to read and harder yet to identify, it was one I could safely hold onto.

But after seeing your own stained letter, I think maybe it doesn’t belong here anymore.

I’m deciding to leave it with you.

It deserves to live beside the one you spilled tea on, it’s as if the two notes were always meant to be together.

I like the thought of them living together.

It’s silly maybe, but I like to imagine our notes can keep each other company when we can’t. That they whisper to each other when no one is looking.

They should be together, they should be kept with you. Because you have something I don’t. You have stability. So let them stay there, together. Let them stay where it’s quiet. Where no one will tear them apart and they can love as we love each other.

Fully and unashamed, even if we’re a mess.”

Beneath the note is one of Toshinori’s own that has since been stained with tea. 

He inhales, and lets out a long, quiet breath. It’s odd to think, but there is no doubt in Toshinori’s mind that in another life they’d live together. It took them half a year of limited interaction to declare themselves dating. If they weren’t limited… that’s probably how long it would have taken for them to get married.

He pulls both binders from his shelf, takes their note stained with his tea out, sets it with the other notes he’s been given, and turns to end where the most recent notes and blank sleeves are. Then he lines the two notes up together, along with his writer’s note explaining it all.

He pauses as he adjusts the notes so they lie side by side. He looks at them, and he realises the stains are nearly identical. Not perhaps in shape, but they're the same color. Curiously, he leans in to sniff his note stained by his writer’s tea.

The smell is faint, but unmistakably familiar.

It’s the same type of tea he enjoys. The same type of tea he spilled on his writer’s note. Perhaps it makes sense, considering his favorite type of tea was given to him by his writer and has been kept in stock by them. But it still makes his lips twitch into a smile.

He writes his response.

“I placed them side by side, and something struck me when I looked at them. The stains are the same color and smell the same as well.

Are we drinking the same tea?”

 

Toshinori was right to presume the tea being the same was too specific to be coincidence, however wrong to presume that’s because his writer had recommended him the type of tea they drink. The truth was… well… not what Toshinori was prepared to read that night.

“If I’m allowed to be a little sensual…

I took note of the type of tea you favor—as you probably already know, considering I keep getting it for you—but I also keep some on hand for myself, because I enjoy drinking it, knowing it’s the flavor that’s on your tongue.

I like knowing what fills you, what warmth lingers on your breath when you speak, and what you use to comfort yourself. I like knowing things about you. I like knowing what it’d be like to kiss you.”

Toshinori stares at the note. “Oh,” he whispers into the quiet room.

He writes a response.

“Am I permitted to know what drink you favor so I can do the same?

I don’t want you to tell me your preference. Shock me. Hold the cup to my lips while I’m blindfolded in your arms. Let me find out.”

 

Toshinori sighs, caught between disappointment and gratitude.

He was looking forward to sharing a drink with his writer tonight, but they’ve decided to delay it. However, the reasoning leaves him thankful.

He lays stretched across the bed, pajama pants loose around his hip and a silk blindfold drawn over his eyes. One side crimson, the other side black. They like seeing him dressed in their colors, almost as much as Toshinori enjoys dressing for their gaze.

Their hands press down into his back, kneading the knots from his shoulder. They insisted on working the tension from his body before roughing him. And while Toshinori had initially complained, his protests have long since melted into low, grateful moans.

“I think I should ask for this every night,” he groans, half-dazed.

He hears them scoff. Their hands trail teasingly over his spine.

“Can you blame me?” Toshinori stretches beneath their palms and arch into their touch. “God, with hands like this you should qualify to be a pro hero.” He smiles, nuzzling his face into the pillow and basking the comfortable glow.

That’s when a sharp knuckle digs into a tender spot, causing him to yelp and squirm against the mattress.

“Okay, okay! Mercy!” He laughs, twisting against them. “It’s a touchy subject, I get it.”

Their knuckle retreats, but their hands linger. Toshinori softens with a sigh as he melts once more beneath their touch. “... It’s also cruel to hurt a man while he’s down,” he adds with a crooked grin.

They respond with a mere sweep of their palms, kneading slower now as a quiet show of apology and forgiveness. Toshinori exhales and lets the world narrow down to the feel of their hands.

… Or at least he tries to. But his thoughts still wander.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice quieter than before, “I’ve seen a lot of people with licenses do far less than what you do in a week.”

Their hands falter for a moment, then resume. He isn’t punished for speaking, so he takes that as permission to continue.

“Pro status doesn’t mean much anymore. A lot of it feels like branding; just clean records, pre-approved scripts, and success determined by polls.” His cheek settles against the pillow as he talks. “Maybe it’s strange for me to complain, since those are all things I value as All Might. And maybe it’s strange for me to hate the ranking system, since I’ve been the Number One Hero for years.”

“But if the Commission actually knew how to handle me? I’d be labeled a liability in a day and a vigilante by the end of the week.” He gives a low, humorless laugh. “At least they know they can’t afford to lose a symbol…”

His fingers curl into the pillow.

“If only I could make them understand the rank doesn’t make me the Symbol of Peace. Being the Symbol of Peace is what made me Number One.” he sighs. But now it’s all about rank, and the world has decided being Number One is more important than symbolism.

He doesn’t like it.

Competition is healthy, but systemic competition is corruption. Everyday that seems to become more and more apparent—as people hunger for his position or make light of it, from his coworkers to his fans. People seem more interested in overpowering than improving. It scares him… Especially as he’s forced to consider a successor.

Another letter arrived in the mail; not written in ink but typed with text. He’s been receiving these letters ever since his injury, ever since he turned Nezu down the first time. He doesn’t want to think about it. He still has time.

He holds the pillow a little tighter to his chest.

He fears he’s wrong. He fears this is all his fault. He fears he isn’t making sense. And he fears for the future. He swallows around the knot forming in his throat.

“... You understand what I’m saying, right?” he asks weakly.

They tap twice.

“Yeah,” Toshinori’s voice softens, “of course you do.” He gives a small smile. “That’s why I trust you more than anyone else in the world.”

Their hand drifts up, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes close as he basks in the quiet, comforting attention. The pressure is gentler now, almost tender as they trace patterns on his skin.

Toshinori shifts slightly, searching for the angle where their hands feel warmest and their weight is reassuring. They exhale quietly and Toshinori’s breath catches as the warmth of their body settles closer.

The bed shifts, then their chest settles against his back.

A smile ghosts over Toshinori’s lips as he adjusts just enough to grab their hand. He entwines their fingers and pulls their hand to his lips. “Thank you for the massage,” he whispers, pressing gentle kisses against their skin.

They both know he refers to far more than the relief in his shoulders.

 

If tea is a metaphor for kissing, they’re gentle, but rough when they want to be. They hold the cup to his lips with care at first, letting him enjoy the steam and take his slow, curious sips.

They enjoy blood orange and cinnamon tea.

But as the night goes on and things become heated… They’re not afraid to make a mess.

They hold him against their chest and keep a close eye on him as they pour more than he can drink—making sure he doesn’t choke in the process, even if he sputters and flails. Their hand presses against his chest, keeping him pinned and tracing the dips in his scar where the liquid pools.

Thankfully the last sip is offered with care, and Toshinori accepts it with breathless gratitude.

As the cup is set aside and he remains held against their chest, he murmurs, “I feel like you just tongue fucked my throat.” They make a choked noise that causes Toshinori to chuckle. He tilts his head back to give them a dazed smile.

“Don’t choke on your tongue, you might make me jealous.”

As Toshinori showers, they throw the sheets through the wash and work on making the bed. Their bed. He's scrubbing soap through his hair when he hears something slide beneath the door.

he glances down and blinks owlishly when he sees the whiteboard from his desk attached to a piece of cloth.

“You locked the binders up?”

His writer must have finished cleaning up, and unable to pass pages without guaranteed water damage, they had to find an alternative. Resourceful thing, Toshinori thinks fondly. 

He looks away and resumes washing himself as he answers, “I did.”

“I told you I was storing them for safe keeping and to prevent anyone from accidentally finding them. Not that I have many guests, but, you know… just in case.” His mind flickers briefly to Tsukauchi, who’s the person most likely to visit and the worst possible person to find any of this.

If the binders weren’t locked up, there is no doubt in Toshinori’s mind that the curious detective would give them a glance. 

The whiteboard is pulled back beneath the door by the cloth. A response is written, then it’s slid under again.

“Can I borrow a key to make a copy?”

Toshinori barks a laugh. “You don’t want a key to my door, but you want a key to my nudes?”

“It’s different.”

He snorts. “Weirdo. But I suppose it’s only fair—you did help remedy my back problems…” He taps a finger dramatically against his lips, pretending for effect even if they can’t see him.

“I would have done that for you regardless.”

Toshinori grins. He knows. Still, he remains playful as he answers, “Then I’ll make it an anniversary gift. Maybe add some new photos for you. Or, better yet, I’ll ask you to take them. It was a bit difficult to angle my body to capture all the spots. So long as you get all the writing, you can pose me however you want~”

A flustered noise comes from the other side, and Toshinori laughs.

 

He gets another whiteboard to put up by the door. They use it to plan evenings in advance, claim nights to cook, and leave additional notes. Toshinori initially decorates the edges with little doodles, just to make it more appealing. Then they add their own doodles.

By the end of the week they’ve created their own illustrated story.

 

When their anniversary comes, Toshinori happily gives them his phone and a key before he’s dragged to their room and is thrown onto the bed. They tie him up in far more than a blindfold.

The photos are obscene. 

But when Toshinori wakes, he finds a scarf tied around his neck. It’s a pale blue, wrapped twice and tied in the back. The fabric is soft, but thick enough the ends stick out with feathered edges. On his neck, written in ink, reads a list of names:

“Hero, Legend, Knight, Savior, Guardian, and Angel.”

Toshinori bows his head and nuzzles his nose into the scarf. “One hell of a way to deny my names for you, just give them all to me,” he murmurs. In truth, he doesn’t mind. Not when he inhales the deep lingering scent of them that’s laced through the fabric. It’s as potent as any drug.

 

---

 

He enjoys their dramatics, metaphors, and symbolisms. But his favorite moments remain comparably small… He loves laying in bed with them. Doing nothing and everything all at once. He loves holding their hand in his.

A lot can be learned about a person from their hands. The shape, texture, and movement all say something. He loves it when their hands are on him, when their fingers entwine as they hold him down, and the brush of affection as they sit on opposite sides of the door.

But there is something incomparably special in moments where they lay side by side, with their hands between them. When time is set aside for nothing more than this. 

“The main thing I remember about people are their hands,” Toshinori admits one night.

The room is quiet and warm, filled with the sound of their slow, synchronized breathing.

He is safe within their hands. His writer would sooner die than ever punish him for expressing vulnerability. He is safer in their hands than his own. So it is only within moments like this that he lets his mind wander to places he’d otherwise avoid.

“You know my pose? This one?” He lets go of their hand just briefly to raise one fist over his head. “It was influenced by a memory of my mother. She’d play heroes with me when I was a kid…” He slowly lowers his arm to take hold of their hand once more.

“... She died when I was young, so I don’t have many memories of her. But that one is one of the clearest.” He fidgets with their hand, making it into a fist. Her hands were soft. Their hands are rough, callused, and scarred.

His grip loosens.

“I had a similar relationship with my mentor. I only knew her for a few years before she died, but she gave me everything. She had pointed to me in her last moments, and set the world’s weight in my hands.” Their hands are callused like Nana’s, but there is no strength in them. They let Toshinori maneuver his fingers however he wants. They point, but they don’t inflict.

His grip loosens.

“I didn’t think I was worthy then… Sometimes I still don’t.” He spreads their hand flat and masses their palm with slow circular movements. “It took me thirty years to defeat the villain who took her life and caused so much of the world’s suffering…” He sighs.

 “I recall him for his hands as well… Due to his quirk, he had holes in his palms like conceptual black holes. He’d take ideas, dreams, ambitions, and everything for himself. If he could find a way to corrupt it, he would.”

He brings their hand to his lips and kisses their palm. Calluses scratch his lips, but it is otherwise smooth. Toshinori’s tongue gets away from him, and not in the literal sense.

“... He’s the only person I’ve killed.”

Their hand twitches, but they don’t pull away.

Toshinori holds their hand close; wishing he could curl into their palm and let them take him far away from what he’s done. “... The clearest memory I have of my hands is when I had kneeled beside his corpse. Hands bloodied from what I’d done. I– I was so mortified I couldn’t even process my own wounds.”

Their other hand moves tentatively and rests over his side, feeling the scar beneath his shirt. It’s a silent question. ‘This one?’

Toshinori swallows. He nods meekly. “I had to plead with the Hero Commission to cover it up. Cover up the death, keep my injuries a secret, and announce a lie as I underwent surgery.” He presses his forehead to their hand. “I think I lost everything that day. Even if I preserved the symbol and saved lives, I compromised every ideal I personally held.”

He clenches his eyes behind the blindfold as he recounts the memories.

“Nighteye left that week. He pleaded with me to stop, to retire and come clean before I got myself killed. When I refused to listen, he decided he had enough. He couldn’t cope, and I don’t blame him. I still struggle to cope.”

He cracks his eyes open and stares at the dark silk limiting him from seeing anything else. “... But not with the blood on my hands,” he said quietly, guiltily.

“Sometimes I think the worst thing I did that day was lie. I did it for a few more years of good, but if the world ever finds out they’re going to stop trusting me. They’re going to lose faith in heroes and things are going to get a lot worse. They were going to get bad even if I came clean then, I thought this was the right choice then, but now I fear I’m just delaying the inevitable.”

He gives a broken, humorless laugh. “It’s terrible isn’t it? I have blood on my hands, yet all I’m stressing over is symbolism.”

They rub his lips gently where their hand is still held close, and tap once. The thrice.

Toshinori gives a small, sad smile. “You answered that too quickly. You’ll make me fear you’re just being nice, or have even more blood on your hands then I.”

They just tap three times.

Slipping their hand from his grip, they press it to his cheek in a comforting gesture. Toshinori nuzzles close, happy to let the conversation drop and go back to what started it all. He whispers in a tone that borderlines worship; “You have such nice hands.”

They hum softly. It’s a quiet, barely audible noise of acknowledgement that they have only recently begun to allow—and only when they’re completely comfortable, safe, and happy. They really aren’t bothered by Toshinori’s admission, if anything they’re pleased.

They slowly adjust, grabbing their pen and taking Toshinori’s hand.

They write on the back of his hand.

It’s a spot that Toshinori will need to wash off before he goes out as All Might, but over the years he’s gotten a bit better at being less distressed by the writing’s loss. He still takes pictures of it all; but those first few months his writer had to wash it off and replace it with something small just to keep him from shaking.

Now, well… It's easier when things are part of a rhythm.

He continues to lay on his side, his other hand tucked up against his outstretched arm as he feels them work.

Once they finish with the back of his hand, they adjust to write on his palm. They take more care there, careful to keep his hand flat and their penmanship legible. Every now and then they slow down to blow lightly on his skin, encouraging the ink to dry quicker.

Toshinori smiles softly. He has an idea what they’re doing.

“You know… the second thing I remember about a person is their smile,” he teases. He doesn’t expect them to actually do anything in response to his comment. As far as touch goes, their boundaries are firmest where their face is concerned. They may have given him their dental records in the form of bite marks, and have let him feel the occasional kiss against his skin when intimate; but they never let him touch their face.

Yet they continue to hold his hand, even once the ink has dried. Their breath ghosts over his skin as they consider his words, and after a moment they adjust their hold. They slide their hand from his wrist to his elbow—pulling his sleeve up in the process—and lean in.

They rest their lips against his skin, and after a moment they smile. 

It is a wide, toothy, and happy thing. Toshinori falls in love with it immediately.

 

“My hands are familiar with being clenched. Be that a fist of frustration, a grip around a blade’s hilt, or merely the result of day-to-day tension. They’re so familiar with this position that it’s lost all meaning.”

When Toshinori wakes, he continues to lay in bed and reads the note on the back of his hand first. He frowns, and tentatively rolls his wrist to read his palm. The writing is so delicate and intricate that Toshinori has to sit up and spread his palm flat to read.

“So, if you want to know  the position of my hands, where the most meaning is spoken and true, it lies in my palms. With a fist you grasp but with open hands you embrace. I have no need for anything, as I have fallen out of sync with this world. But I leave my hands open to accept what I am given. Good or bad. Beautiful or bloody.

I am out of sync with this world, but I leave myself open to its interaction because it’s a world worth fighting for. It’s a world where you exist. It is your world.

So I give what little I can and ask for nothing in turn.

Yet your hand continues to find itself in mind. I need not grasp for a thing, because everything I could ever want lies in you. And you, My Everything, have decided you love putting yourself in my hand.

If you need to know their position, it is like this: open and facing you. Always facing you, always eager to embrace you. All of it, All Might. Everything you are, and everything you’ve done.”

Toshinori exhales shakily, his eyes dart to the bedside table. There is a cup of tea, blood orange and cinnamon, and one short note.

“You did the right thing.”

 

It really shouldn’t be a shock that Toshinori winds up pushing himself until the last possible moment. Even if they never had that discussion, he would have done so. But when the year approaches that Sasaki had warned him of, and yet another note from UA arrives…

Toshinori finally sits down to respond.

He knows he can’t take this quirk to the grave. Parting with it sounds worse than being gutted (and he speaks from experience), but he can’t let a generational movement of sacrifice go to waste. It is the last thing he has to give away, and he has to remind himself the quirk was never his.

That night he falls apart in his writer’s arms. He is thankful they don’t ask why.

 

The bedroom is boxed up first so his writer has a space to sit while Toshinori works on clearing out the other rooms. They ask;

“Do I have permission to follow you?”

Toshinori snorts, seeing the note as he carries a box from the bathroom to the living room. “Of course, I’m not going to break up with you over this. I was planning to give you the address, you know. Or… Are you asking for permission to stalk me?”

“I don’t mind the challenge. I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“Yeah? Alright, I believe you. You’ve already done an impressive job.” He picks up the notes and tucks them away in his pocket for safe keeping until he’s able to add them to the year’s binder.

“Challenge yourself. See if you can find me. But I don’t want you to risk failure, I’m still going to give you the address. Don’t worry, I’ll put it in an envelope. Open it if you need it, otherwise return it to me unopened so you can brag.”

“You’re wasting an envelope.”

Toshinori shakes his head with a laugh. “If you stay this cocky, I’ll go out of my way to throw you off!” he half threatens, half jokes.

He steps into the kitchen to box up his pots, pans, and dishes. He’s not moving for a few days yet, but his writer has insisted on handling meals so he has one less thing to stress about. All the tupperware in the fridge belongs to them.

Once that’s done, he finds an envelope and heads to his desk to write down the address. It’s already been decided that the materials he needs to write will be the last thing packed. Even if they’re materials he rarely uses, such as the shodo kit he asked his writer to guide him through.

He uses it now as he writes on the back of the envelope:

“頑張って”

It reads, “Do your best.” Setting the ink and brush aside, he picks up the last few things in the living room as he waits for the ink to dry. Once dry, he goes back and writes down the address on a slip of paper, tucks it inside, and seals it in the envelope. Tucking one of his bangs behind his ear, he leans over the desk and draws himself in muscle form cheering for them on.

He hopes it makes up for his mediocre shodo skills. 

Once everything is done, he returns to the bedroom door. “Here you go,” he hums, passing the envelope beneath the door.

They inhale sharply when they see envelope cover, causing Toshinori to grin with pride as he drops himself onto the floor and stretches his legs out. “Don’t take too long searching for me, you know how antsy I get when you’re away.”

They hum, or at least try to, but it sounds a little choked.

Toshinori just smiles, resting his head back against the door and lacing their fingers together beneath it.

 

Toshinori arrives in Musutafu in the late afternoon.

His writer is there by morning.

“Found you.”

The note rests on his pillow beside him when he wakes, looking more like a note for a serial killer than ever Toshinori initially startles. He hadn’t expected them to find him that quick. But as he picks up the note and flips it over to inspect it, he finds more on the back.

“Store the envelope in one of your binders, it’s on the counter right now. Your self renditions are too cute to go to waste. I’ll be back in the evening to help you unpack, right now I am in dire need of a nap.”

Ahh. That explains it. They must have pulled an all nighter tracking him down. And now, if they’re a serial killer, they’re currently the cutest, sleepiest killer in existence.

Toshinori tucks the note safely away in the current binder. He does a bit of unpacking, mostly so he has a place to shelve the binders and clothes to change into. He still picks out the clothes that are comfiest and easiest to move in—cargo pants and a white t-shirt.

He empties two boxes, then gets bored and heads out for the day.

He figures out the transit between Musutafu and Might Tower. He’s a bit annoyed about the distance… But it can’t be helped. After doing a few hours of hero work, he returns to Musutafu and figures out where the most convenient store is to grab food from.

It’s as he’s leaving, groceries in hand, that he sees the sludge villain.

He thinks, I have time to do one more thing.

 

… He doesn’t make it to the apartment until well into the evening.

 

Toshinori closes the door behind him. The weight of everything he just did only now catches up with him, in the same way a wound only starts to hurt once adrenaline wears off.

He slides down to the floor and buries his face in his hands. He can still hear the boy’s voice echoing in his head: “Can someone without a quirk become a hero like you?!” And his own voice… Too quick, too logical, and too cruel.

“Pathetic,” he mutters under his breath.

He exhales shakily and drags his hands over his face. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, only that he’s snapped from his thoughts when he hears a knock at the door. He jolts, his body tenses, and instinct makes him pull back, away from the sound. Then he blinks. There is a note on the floor.

“Can I come in?”

There are two notes on the floor…

“Toshinori?”

He hadn’t noticed either of them.

He swallows. “Y–yeah, give me a moment.”

Gathering the notes in his trembling hands, he stands on unsteady legs. “You can come in, I’ll be in the bedroom,” he informs over his shoulder as he stumbles down the hall.

Once the door is closed beneath him, he leans against it and clenches his eyes shut. His thoughts are swimming. He can only imagine how Sasaki would react—how Nezu will react when Toshinori tells him he agreed to enroll, only to find a successor before ever looking at the pre-enrolled students.

He tries to steady his breathing, but each inhale seems to drag against his sore ribs and leaves him deathly aware of the space that no longer contains his other lung. His throat burns.

When he hears the soft paper slide beneath the door, he opens his eyes.

“Are you alright?”

He swallows around a knot in his throat. “I think I did something impulsive,” he admits. “... I think I did a lot of impulsive things today.”

“What happened?”

He hesitates, too overwhelmed to process all that’s going through his head. He still needs to unpack. He needs to figure out what to do—he’s not going to take his words back on the kid, but he’s never had a protégé before. He has no clue what to do, but if this kid wants a chance at UA, Toshinori needs to pass on his quirk before then.

That is a lot sooner than he’s prepared for.

… Even if his body disagrees.

He slumps onto the floor once more, draws his knees up, and rests his forehead against them. What am I doing? His thoughts spiral.

They tap three times on the door. I love you.

He isn’t sure if it helps, but he slowly forces his jaw to unclench.

“I had a quirkless kid ask me if someone without a quirk could be a hero,” the words tumble out. “And I– I answered honestly. Said the risks were too immense.”

They’re quiet. They’re quiet for long enough that Toshinori starts to regret every word. Then the faint scratch of pen returns, cautious and slow.

“They are immense, but that’s just what it means to be a hero. A hero is born from belief, from a passion stronger than fear, not power. You know that.

Did you say what you did in hopes of protecting the kid?”

The phrasing is careful, but he can feel the strain under the politeness. If he doesn’t have a good reason, their self restraint won’t last. They’re not afraid to tear into him about morals. They live for moral debates. But usually their debates discuss theoreticals, not… This.

“You know how kids are…” Toshinori answers weakly. “Especially with the media presenting heroes the way they do, it’s all flashy dreams and ideals without an ounce of reality. Naivety is dangerous.”

They relax slightly, the edge softens. They understand his sentiments, even if they continue to disagree.

“It’s also the source of dreams. Naivety is hardly a problem, it’s what happens after it fades that matters. True heroes are the ones who keep going despite it. A child can become a hero, if they’re willing to try.

Was this child willing? Even after you warned them?”

He closes his eyes. His throat works around the answer. “... Yes.”

“Then they can be a hero.

Did you tell them that?”

He stares at the floor. His eyes sting. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Then why are you upset?”

Toshinori doesn’t know how to explain it. He doesn’t know if he can. But before he can stop himself, his thoughts slip out aloud. “You have a quirk,” he says. You can’t understand, he stops himself from saying.

Still, they hear it.

“I do. But it isn’t the sort of quirk society approves of. My training used to prioritise never using it, and I had to prove my worth despite it. There are few problems in this world that require personal experience to be understood.

Most just require empathy.”

Toshinori lets out a short, hollow laugh. “God, how are you so—” He groans in frustration and buries his hands in his hair. “So you.”

They’re always like this—relentless in their conviction. It drives him mad, just how much he admires and resents them in equal measures. He knows he sounds the same when he’s on his soapbox, but they’re the only person who ever outdoes him at his own philosophy. Maybe that’s why he argues, because they’re the only one who can meet his views when he’s unsure and not break him.

Still, irritation hums in his blood, amplified by the emptiness of this new place he’s supposed to call home. “Think there’s an alternate universe out there where you found the kid instead of me?” he bites. “You’d have all the right answers.”

There is hardly a delay before they answer.

“No. Because I am not a hero.

You were asked because you are.

What I do can’t be followed. It’s a path I walk so nobody else has to. If someone asked me that question, they’d already be too far from the path they speak of.”

“I asked you that question,” Toshinori reminds.

“For someone else. You're a hero who doesn’t ask permission first. A true hero.”

Toshinori’s throat tightens. He looks away. His fingers dig into his arms hard enough for his knuckles to go white. “So you’re saying this kid doesn’t have a chance to be me. Because they asked.”

The next note is shoved beneath the door hard enough to crease the paper. The strokes are sharp and angry.

“Toshinori, enough. Enough of this roundabout arguing. What the hell is going on? Because I know it’s not about the kid or your philosophy. You’re searching for a flaw—either in them or yourself.

Stop hiding behind your attitude and just tell me plainly: What is wrong?”

The words hit like a slap. He stares down at the note, eyes unfocused, and his breath catches halfway. “I–” The word breaks apart before he can finish it. He swallows, and tries again. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

He slides further down the wall, the fighting slowly draining out of him. Overthinking hurts, and it’s become evident he’s not thinking clearly. He doesn’t want to lose his quirk, he doesn’t want to give up on this kid, he doesn’t want to deal with UA, he doesn’t want to be here. He clenches his eyes shut.

“I’m going to be training him,” he finally admits. “... Hopefully in time for him to enroll at UA.”

There is a long moment before his writer responds, but the quiet movement of their pen is kind. The sound alone is an apology for their prior note, and praise for his cooperation.

“UA? That’s… Not possible. Hero schools are built around quirk usage. Even with a recommendation, they’d find a reason to expel him by the first week.

You’d be better off training him privately. Take him in as a work study, help him get his license once he’s old enough to register without a school’s approval. It’d be difficult, but at least possible.”

“Yeah…” Toshinori speaks quietly.

The weight in his chest lifts, just slightly, and he lets his legs pull away from his chest. The speed in which they accept his decision and redirect their problems onto the system itself is a little jarring, but familiar. They’re already strategising around it.

My wonderful, impossible vigilante.

He exhales. He’s no longer upset, but the heaviness doesn’t leave him. He considers the weight of his next words, and decides they already know so much. They can know a little bit more.

“... Which is why I’m giving him my quirk.”

They don’t respond.

They don’t make any noise at all.

“I didn’t always have a quirk either,” he blurts, as if filling the quiet could somehow save him. “My quirk came from my mentor, and hers from her mentor. It’s a power-stacking quirk. Each time it’s passed on, it grows stronger. I’m the eighth wilder, and it’s been my duty for a long time to choose who comes next but–”

A note slides under the door.

“You don’t want to let it go, that’s why you’ve been so tense since accepting this job. But it’s reaching the point where you don’t have a choice.

And if this kid is the one you’ve chosen… That moment is coming sooner than you thought.”

Toshinori stares. “Right… that’s—that’s exactly it.”

They should be caught on the quirk. They should be asking questions. But they aren’t. Why aren’t they?

“What do you fear will happen?”

He doesn’t think before he answers, he just stares at the notes laid out on the floor in confusion, and lets his secrets fall unburdened. “I fear everything will happen. The world will react poorly when All Might stops being All Might, villains will get stronger, and I will have no clue what to do with myself.”

His brows furrow. He can’t focus. “I just told you something enormous. And you’re calm. How? Why?”

They don’t write, but they’re not silent. He hears the faint tap of their pen against their journal’s edge. He knows that tapping. And if they’re calm enough to fidget while they think, then they know far more than they’re letting on.

“You already knew about my quirk,” he accuses.

The tapping stops. The apartment is silent. Then they exhale a drawn out sigh. Paper rustles, and they start writing.

“Not exactly. I didn’t take you seriously the first time you told me. But you have told me this before—in a far less coherent way.

It was a few years back. A bad health day. I’m not surprised you don’t recall it, you were barely lucid and I was keeping watch to make sure it didn’t turn out to be something serious.

But you were begging me to take your quirk. Said if anything ever happened, you wanted me to have it. That I had your consent and you trusted me to handle it. Keep it or give it away, you just didn’t want it to die with you.

I didn’t understand what you meant, but you refused to let the subject drop until I promised. That promise seemed to soothe you, as you fell asleep shortly after.

Hearing this now… It’s a lot to process, but it does answer some questions. Even if those answers leave me with a few more questions.”

“Oh…” His throat feels dry.

He’s usually careful, paranoid about even hinting at One For All’s existence.

But if he truly thought he was dying that day, and if they were near… of course he’d cling to them. They were safety. He wouldn’t have been afraid of them, just of losing everything.

“... I see.” His voice is quiet, resigned. “That makes sense.”

They spend the night talking. Most of their questions pertain to how Toshinori is doing, some of them are about why he chose Midoriya, and in the end Toshinori winds up talking about everything.

They don’t get a lot of unpacking done… But that can always be completed another day. It’s not often that Toshinori has an ability to talk about these things in excess. 

 

“I saw the kid today. He’s charming, in an awkward way.”

“Don’t stalk kids,” Toshinori scolds as he works on filling out forms for the school. “Even if he’s my protégé that doesn’t mean you get to go size him up. Start something and I might unknowingly whoop your ass.” He lowers the clipboard and glances back at the door. “... And I’d rather knowingly do that.”

They huff.

“I wasn’t stalking the kid, I was stalking you. You just happened to be busy mentoring.

Nice idea with the beach by the way, I’ll try to refrain from helping.”

It’s a double sided note.

“But you’ve seen what’s happening to the aquatic life in the area, right? It’s not pretty. For being so close to a hero school, that beach is an embodiment of the worst of humanity.

Let me help.”

“It’s a challenge. A test of strength. You said it yourself, if he can’t take the initiative he’ll never stand a chance.” Toshinori flips through the pages of a nearby book to cross reference, before filling in a line.  “Right now he’s committed, the idea of what I offer is fresh in his mind and he feels rewarded by everything he does.”

“But this is as much a test of mental endurance as it is physical. He’ll start needing bigger successes to feel rewarded, and he’ll have moments where he looks at what he’s done and realises it’s only a fraction of what needs to be done. He needs to learn how to process and work through that on his own.”

They fall back against the door in a dramatic display of defeat, jolting Toshinori in the process. They’re not happy about his decision at all. 

Toshinori sighs and lowers the pen. He won’t get any work done until they’ve come to an understanding. “It’s like that kid who showed up at your store to buy a toy,” he offers. “You have to let them give up the toy so they can help someone else buy food. You can’t do it all for them.”

Their response is instant.

“But the turtles!”

They have drawn an arrow pointing to a rather pitiful looking turtle, as if hoping to guilt Toshinori’s heart into caving

 It works.

… As well as it can.

“There are other places that need help, other turtles that need help,” Toshinori reminds. “I know you like being involved in my life, and I’m sorry I haven’t been emotionally available these past few weeks, but this is something I need you to stay away from. Okay?”

They’re quiet. Which is as close to acceptance as Toshinori’s going to get. 

He rests his hand on the floor, slipping his fingers beneath the door and nudging their hand. “Give me a few more weeks. Just enough time to make sure the kid knows how to lift and handle dangerous materials on his own. I’ll be able to focus on other things after that, I promise.”

Their fingers adjust, resting over his. They tap two times.

 

Midoriya’s training has been going well.

He’s still struggling with heavier items, but progress is steady and Toshinori is confident he’ll meet his goal in time for UA. Already enough of the beach has been cleared that people are beginning to visit again. And earlier today Toshinori was able to look away while Midoriya trained.

Perhaps it’s a small thing, but it means he can return to prioritizing hero work. Knowing even if something were to happen, others are there now; Midoriya won’t be alone. That’s the very least he could ask.

He still has nightmares about his own student days. More frightening than any villain he’s encountered is Gran Torino’s teaching methods. All Toshinori knows about mentoring is that he doesn’t want to be that man.

He doesn’t want Midoriya to know what it’s like to be hurt by people who are meant to be supportive. He’s already made the boy prove himself once, just for being quirkless. He can’t bear to do that again.

That’s why Midoriya needs to pass the entrance exam on his own

So people will see him as the hero he already is, and not judge him for Toshinori’s decision. Because Toshinori knows he’ll be in trouble for this. 

He was given a teaching position so he could find a successor within the school, yet he picked someone outside of it. He still hasn’t told Nezu, and Sasaki already has a candidate lined up; a sweet kid with a good heart (just like Midoriya) and a quirk that would make him invincible if combined with One For All (unlike Midoriya).

Right now, Toshinori clings to the small victories.

Midoriya is on track, he’ll be able to pass on his quirk, and Midoriya will ace the exam. His writer is the only one who knows the full truth, they’ve been nothing but supportive. A bit apathetic, sure, but supportive all the same.

Everything is going perfectly.

At least… that’s what he thought…

 

“You took your muscle form.”

Toshinori blinks, frowning at the note in his hand. “I did. I still have a few hours of time left and I’m not planning to stop using it until I physically can’t. Even after I pass on my quirk I should be able to use it—at least, that’s how it was for my mentor.”

Another note is slid beneath the door.

“You wasted it. You don’t need your muscle form to watch the boy train. Only if the training requires it should you take your form. So why did you use it? Was it because you wanted to be fawned over?

I saw you. In that swimsuit. Letting those girls touch you.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

“You saw that?” he blurts, and immediately regrets.

He can feel the furious, stifled violence radiating off them. Something tight and dangerous in its betrayal. He tries to salvage what he can.

“It wasn’t like that!” he rushes to explain. “I was just training Midoriya. There were others around, so I felt more comfortable staying in my hero form. In case something happened, I didn’t want to risk transforming in public.”

The silence remains unforgiving.

“I swear,” he insists. “They came up to me, that’s all. It was like every other publicity stunt I do. I had to be polite, keep up appearances. That’s it. Nothing more.”

“The risks were low. Taking your hero form was uncalled for and you know it.

Yet you did it anyway.

You’ve been looking for any excuse to take it lately. Why?”

He stares at their words. Have I really? He wonders.

He thinks back, and… Yes. He can’t deny it.

His eyes flick away as he thinks back on the past month.

“It’s different,” he quietly admits. “People treat me differently when I’m in that form. I’m used to the looks and comments when I’m… like this. But–” He swallows. “The kid sees me as All Might. I want to look the part for him. And I don’t want him to hear what others say about me.”

The anger fades completely, replaced by a fragile silence. Still, shame seems to fill Toshinori’s lung.

“I’ll be more mindful,” he murmurs. “Of when and why I use my form.”

“You’re alright. It was a misunderstanding. One I shouldn’t have had.”

Toshinori looks at the note in confusion. A misunderstanding? He glances between the other notes, trying to piece together their logic. His gaze lingers on the last line of the first note.

“I saw you. In that swimsuit letting those girls touch you.”

“Wait…” he trails. “Are you jealous..?”

The air crackles.

“Oh my god. You are.” He chuckles, soft, startled, and fond. “You never get jealous. I do publicity stunts all the time and you never say a word. I plan movie nights with Tsukauchi and you just ask for leftovers. But this upsets you?”

They scramble to reply, their words are sharp and defensive.

“It’s different. This was an unprofessional setting disconnected from your usual work. You weren’t in gear and one of them touched your scar. You put yourself in a needlessly vulnerable position.

And Tsukauchi is your friend. Of course I don’t mind him.”

“So,” he summarises gently, “you’re upset I let strangers touch a vulnerable part of All Might in an unprofessional setting.” They tap twice. “Which I’ve never done before.” Two taps. “And my first time doing it wasn’t for you.”

Two taps—pause—one tap.

“So you are upset I haven’t let you be intimate with my hero form.”

Silence confirms what words won’t. It’s too late for them to take back what they’ve said.

Toshinori drags his hand over his face with a sigh. “I can’t be All Might off the clock because of my time limit,” he reminds. “That was a rule I set that you eagerly agreed to. But… you’re right. What I did today ignored that.”

He compromised his boundaries for strangers, and never for them. It’s not jealousy in the usual sense; they don’t feel betrayed, just less important than a faceless crowd on a beach.

“It was a misunderstanding. You take your hero form for comfort. You don’t need to take it with me because you already feel comfortable without it. I’m honored by that. I shouldn’t have doubted your reasoning.

It was just a misunderstanding.”

Toshinori’s heart aches over how small those words feel. 

“I understand,” he soothes. “You love me as I am; you have proved that a thousand times before. You don’t need to be ashamed of wanting to see other sides of me too. You’ve always valued my boundaries more than your desires, especially when it comes to All Might.”

“But you have both of me.” He smiles faintly. “You can ask.”

“I don’t want you to do anything you’re against.”

“I know. That’s what I’m telling you I’m comfortable with this. I can make time—thirty minutes, maybe more. Midoriya will be fine if I step away, and the world shouldn’t crumble if I take one more partial-day.”

“You can have me however you want. Just tell me when.”

 

Once the offer is extended, it doesn’t take them long to make the request.

Now, as Toshinori awaits his writer’s arrival, he anxiously paces his room. His heart pounds in his chest and he keeps fussing with every detail in the room; making sure the sheets are smooth, the pillows are fluffed, and that there’s water nearby in case they don’t want to get up once done.

He has no clue what the night will entail.

All he knows is that the moment the front door opens, he’s pulling a blindfold over his eyes. It feels a bit counterproductive to the image, wearing a blindfold as All Might… But perhaps that’s part of the charm? To see something considered unshakable at one’s mercy.

Toshinori doesn’t like that thought.

He doesn’t think that would appeal to his writer either, even when they fight they have no interest in breaking him. Only in talking to the man beneath the image. When he cries, they hold him. They don’t gloat.

Toshinori knows he’s overthinking all of this. He’s nervous, he isn’t sure what he’s meant to be doing. To be All Might for someone who knows him best when he’s not All Might, it doesn’t make sense.

But with a final, shaky inhale, he forces himself to speak. “In the bedroom,” he calls. “It’s safe to enter.”

It isn’t long before he hears their approach.

He doesn’t sit, because All Might doesn’t sit. Not unless it’s for late night interviews or to speak to the children that are significantly shorter than himself. So he stands, he fidgets and glances around—only to recall he can’t see. He settles for standing between the bed and the door, and posing.

With his hands on his hips, and his practiced grin in place (this feels sacrilegious), he waits.

The door opens slowly, they take one step in, then freezes.

“I am here!” He beams, the rehearsed lines come naturally to him. With those three words, it’s a bit easier to maintain his persona—even as he lets a less than heroic purr thread itself through his words. “Your hero is ready to serve, in any way you desire~”

They don’t speak. They never do, there is no reason this would be any different. Toshinori holds his pose as they stare, and he does his best to hold back a sigh of relief when they approach. He’s so focused on keeping in the noise that he doesn’t realise how close they are until their hand presses against his right peck.

His breath hitches as they trace the patterns on his hero suit.

“Is this… Is this alright?” he asks, unable to stop his usual insecurities from bleeding into his tone.

There are two taps, they don’t even need to think about it.

Toshinori's smile widens, feeling a bit more confident. He presses into their hand. “Good. You know I don’t like leaving my fans unfulfilled, especially one as devoted as you. I wouldn’t be the hero I am today if not for all the support I’ve received.”

He reaches up and takes their hand. Encouraging them to be a bit bolder with their touches, he presses a kiss to their palm.

Their pulse jumps beneath his touch, and their fingers twitch. Even when he lets them go, their hand remains frozen in place. Toshinori momentarily regrets pulling their hand to his lips, if only because he now struggles to refrain from nipping their fingers.

All Might doesn’t bite, he reminds himself.

Thankfully, they slowly regain their ability to move. Their hand trails down, over his lower lip, to his neck– then they pause. Their fingers dip beneath the collar of his costume, and catch on the fabric below.

“Ah, I see you’ve already found my attempt at a makeup gift…” Toshinori laughs nervously, he didn’t think they’d find that so soon. “Since this had started due to you being upset I let people touch me while I wasn’t in gear, I thought you might appreciate that option as well.”

Their hand pauses, taking a moment to process the implication of Toshinori’s words. The moment they realise, they’re on him.

With more strength than they ever use against his true form, they shove him back. He falls onto the mattress with an “Oof–!” And in the next moment, they’re straddling his hips. Unable to see them, Toshinori settles for bringing his hands up to their thighs—feeling the way their legs stretch and strain to fit him between them.

“H–ha,” he laughs, feeling a little breathless. “Sometimes I forget how athletic you really are–”

Toshinori’s cut off with a moan as he feels them lean down and press kisses and small nips to his chest—in the process grinding against him. Their fingers curl at his side and claw at his costume, trying to find a way to get beneath it.

“Woah… Slow down there,” Toshinori pants, giving their thighs a gentle squeeze. “You’re alright, we’ve got time.”

They freeze, though their breathing remains quick and frantic. They’re overwhelmed to the point of shaking. It’s too much for them. Toshinori considers letting his form drop, but eventually decides, No. They asked for All Might.

So he’s going to give them All Might. 

“Shh… Rest your head on my chest, close your eyes, and breathe deep” he instructs, then reassures, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Their trembling increases with every inhale and their hands still twitch and claw at his sides. It’s a lot, feeling him so close like this. Toshinori’s exes were more familiar with this form than his true one. But his writer—his dear, emotional, devoted, fanatical writer—isn’t.

And Toshinori underestimated how overwhelming this process might be for them, considering how purposefully they keep from interacting in their day-to-day lives. They’ve gone from nothing but watching the news and only catching the occasional glimpse, to this.

Toshinori continues to rub their thighs, not daring to reach higher without their consent, and needing them to regain control over their body before they can be deemed coherent.

“I got you… Nice and easy,” he whispers. “Tap for me when you feel capable of talking, okay?”

They nod against his chest as their hands grasp the fabric of his hero suit in their fists. Their breath shudders, and their broad shoulders tremble. It takes a couple of minutes before they’re capable of loosening their grip, then a few more before they’re capable of tapping two times.

“Good, just like that,” Toshinori praises. “Didn’t think this would be so overwhelming, huh?” They tap three times. “You suspected?” They tap twice. “Heh… of course you did.” He rests his hand over their bent knee.

“... I want to take this a little slower.” 

They immediately tense, fearing for the worst.

“Shh, not like that. You’re still going to get your time. Maybe it’ll be a bit less, but I want you to be present enough that you’re capable of enjoying it,” he explains. “Could you allow me a few minutes to assure you’re comfortable?”

They hesitate, then tap twice.

“Thank you,” Toshinori sighs in relief, he was worried for a moment there. As much as he enjoys their frantic energy, he prefers it when it’s due to passion rather than desperation. It’s a thin line between the two, but it’s a line Toshinori is familiar with.

“I’m going to pick you up, lay you down, and just massage your legs for a bit. Okay?”

They tap twice.

Toshinori smiles—which is to say his signature grin becomes a little more gentle in its sincerity. “Thank you,” he says, before carefully bringing his hands to their hip and picking them off his lap. It’s not difficult to do (courtesy of the quirk), but he still worries about causing them panic when he does it with such ease.

Thankfully, they don’t react with anything but a squeak.

Then they’re laid down and they relax once more.

Toshinori settles between their legs and coaxes one of their legs up. With their foot resting in his lap, he presses his thumbs into the arch and slowly massages the tension from their callused soles.

“Breathe,” he reminds, hearing them hold their breath as they watch. “You don’t let me do this often, but it’s not the first time I’ve done this for you. I’m still your significant other.” He glances up, just to show where his attention is.

“I’m a hero, but I’m also your hero.” With one hand he holds their ankle, with the other he cups the back of their calf and leans down to press a kiss to their knee. “... I always want to spoil you.”

And that’s exactly what he does. He manages to massage one leg and make it half way through the other before they slowly push themself up—just far enough to reach out and brush their hand over one of his bangs.

Toshinori smiles, resting his chin upon their knee as they touch him. He never had an interest in taking control from them, just in keeping them entertained until they decided they decided to reclaim it.

They play with his bangs for a while; feeling how individual hairs split yet all seamlessly come together, and the way they can pull his bangs down only for them to spring back into place.

“It has something to do with the way my body took to the quirk,” Toshinori explains.

They hum faintly, smoothing out the strands where they messed them up… Only to bury their hands in the rest of his hair and very purposefully try to mess it up.

Toshinori barks a laugh. “Is this your way of telling me I’m not fluffy enough?”

They don’t even try to deny it.

“Mmm~” Toshinori hums, bowing his head and resting it against their knee. Their nails feel nice against his scalp. “Good to know I don’t need to be jealous of myself. Or do I? Since I’m currently All Might?” He doesn’t know, he isn’t sure he really cares.

He loosens the grip he has on his image just slightly, just enough for them to be capable of offsetting his hair. It seems to please them.

And once done, they cup his face in their hands and tap three times.

“I love you too,” Toshinori answers.

He isn’t given an opportunity to check in with them before they’re grabbing him by his collar and pulling him down.

Having figured out how to get Toshinori out of his hero suit before, it doesn’t take them long to strip him. However, the moment they see what lies beneath they pause. There is the red collar around his neck, then there is the black laced lingerie that squeezes his pecs, crouch, and thighs.

They’re quiet for a very long while, just drinking in the sight of him.

When they move, the first thing they touch is his scar. Toshinori inhales sharply and rests his head back. That is the nice thing about them being so observant, of course they’d immediately pinpoint the most meaningful piece of the outfit.

They were upset he let someone touch him while he was in his swimsuit and that said person accidentally touched his scar. So, Toshinori dressed up for them. But he dressed up in something that purposefully bares his scar to their eyes, and he whispers: “I am yours.”

They don’t answer with a tap of their fingers. They lean down and press a kiss to the corner of Toshinori’s mouth. Toshinori freezes and his eyes go wind behind the blindfold. They never do that. 

They linger for a moment, as if needing the time to process what they just did before they pull back. Toshinori has turned to goo beneath them. Lovesick, devoted, and just a little loopy. “Ha- ha…I take that to mean I did good?” he asks. “Have I proven myself to be an acceptable hero?”

They tap twice.

 

With his writer reassured, Toshinori thinks he’s dealt with all immediate complications. But then a few days later, the second problem arises: Midoriya has been pressing himself beyond what Toshinori asked of him.

He finds out when the kid collapses on him.

So much for thinking the kid wouldn’t injure himself the moment he looks away. On a plus side, at least now he’s certain the kid has the ability to take the initiative.

He spends the rest of the night coming up with a new plan that will account for what Midoriya is wanting to do. However… they’ll be cutting the quirk transferring process uncomfortably close to when the final exam takes place.

 

Exam day.

Toshinori hardly slept last night. He still hasn’t given Midoriya the quirk. But Midoriya wanted to press himself, wanted to earn it properly, and Toshinori couldn’t deny him that. Now, before the sun has even risen, Toshinori paces the hall.

“It’s bad enough that I got this position as a result of my quirk. I don’t want to tell Nezu until after Midoriya passes, but I’m not going to be part of the grading panel. What if Midoriya fails? I want to do something, anything! But I can’t let Midoriya think he got in because of me. The kid's self esteem is already in shambles.”

“I have faith in his abilities, I really do. He’s been doing so much and trying so hard, but what if something terrible happens? The exam is combat based, it always is, but I haven’t prioritized that part of his training. What if he freezes?”

“And even if I give him the quirk, what if it doesn’t manifest in time?”

He bites his knuckles in distress as a new thought occurs:

“What if he’s not done with the beach?”

“He’s more than earned it, but I set the terms. I can’t reward him if they’re unfulfilled. Will I have to abandon him? Find another student? I can’t do that! I can’t punish him when he’s done nothing wrong!”

Toshinori inhales sharply and drags his hands through his hair. “Maybe I should quit UA. They only want me for my quirk, if I’m giving it to him and he doesn’t get in… I’ll go private. Like you said, I’ll mentor him outside of the system.”

“God—but he’s so set on UA. Maybe I should just tell Nezu.”

There’s a quiet click, the sound of chopsticks being set down, then a note is slid beneath the bedroom door.

“Toshinori, breathe.

He has heart. He’ll find a way.

It will work out.”

Toshinori exhales and forces his shoulder to drop.

“Right…” He presses the heel of his palm to his weary eyes. “Right. Okay. This isn’t the end of the world.” He rests back against the bedroom door as he tries to reground himself in the present.

He can't control the lives of others or the future, only how he reacts to what occurs. And he won’t know the outcome until he goes to the beach and sees it for himself.

“I should get going,” he mutters. Glancing down the hall he watches sunlight slowly spill onto the living room floor. Midoriya will already be at the beach cleaning.

They tap two times on the door in agreement.

So with a meek nod, Toshinori forces himself to stand on his own.

It’s as he’s putting on his coat that he hears the bedroom door open. He closes his eyes and furrows his brows in confusion. “What are you–” The familiar weight of a scarf settles around his neck. “... Oh.”

He relaxes a little as he lets them tie the scarf around his neck, then finish buttoning up his coat for him. Once done, they stand up on their tip toes and press a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re sure he’ll be alright?” Toshinori asks quietly.

They don’t answer his question, they just tap his nose three times. They trust his judgement.

 

Thankfully, Toshinori doesn’t have to make any hard choices.

The moment he arrives at the beach, he finds Midoriya cleaned well beyond what was asked of him. There is no doubt in Toshinori’s mind that this kid is deserving of his quirk.

And when he finds out how Midoriya did during the entrance exam, he finds himself grinning like a fool. Here he was imagining all these terrible situations, yet when reality comes, Midoriya did better than he could ever hope. The kid prioritised heroism over the exam itself.

Toshinori’s very soul seems to burn with pride.

 

He doesn’t know why thought things would get easier after passing on his quirk. Because as his time limit grows shorter, the school days become more pressing, and life only seems to get heavier.

Toshinori yawns, rubbing eyes as he steps off the streets and into the apartment. He gives a polite wave to the front desk lady before trudging towards the elevator.

It’s June tenth. His birthday. 

Between the press demanding to see All Might celebrated by his fans, the lunch date with Tsukauchi, and Yamada and Aizawa dragging him out after work hours to “welcome him to UA”—he’s burnt out. 

All that’s left in him is a low hum of fatigue, and a small, foolish hope that his writer will take pity on him this year. It’s their turn to plan the celebration (since Toshinori isn’t allowed to know their birthday, they share his), and while he knows better than to expect restraint… he still hopes for it.

Alas, that hope dies quickly when he tries to open the door only to meet resistance. The deadbolt is set.

He stares at the door, sighs, bows his head, and tries to hype himself up. He knows this means a lot to them, he just needs to find the energy to match it. He forces himself to knock.

He hears movement behind the door, then it opens just enough for their hand to reach out, holding a white blindfold.

Toshinori blinks. “... Is that my oven mit?” he asks.

There are two taps.

Toshinori exhales through his nose, but takes the blindfold without further question. It’s a new one, although he doesn’t know why. He’s rather fond of the other one. It’s familiar. Still, he glances down the hall to make sure no one’s watching, then covers his eyes.

“Alright, it’s on.”

The door opens, a hand catches his wrist, and they tug him inside.

“Okay, okay, I’m following,” he says as they pull him through his apartment. “But let the record show, I have very long legs and absolutely no sense of depth right now. If I step on you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Their fingers only tighten around his. There’s a bounce to their step and sway to their movement. They’re happy. Whatever they have planned for the night, they’re excited about it. Too excited about it, as they nearly walk Toshinori into a lamp.

“You know I’m blindfolded, right?”

They brush their thumbs over his knuckles in apology, then guide him a little bit further until his socks meet something soft, plush, and startlingly pleasant to his foot’s sores and aches. “A rug?” he mumbles, shuffling his feet on it. He doesn’t own a rug.

They don’t answer him as they step away.

But a moment later there’s a soft click, then lights flicker to life—blues, violets, and warm ambers. It’s like standing inside a lantern as the colors filter through the blindfold.

“Oh,” he breathes.

It feels like a dream. 

Their hand touches his side, steady and warm. Toshinori turns his attention to them, though the blindfold may let in light, he still can’t see anymore than a shadow of them.

They begin to sway.

“So that’s what we’re doing...” His smile is tired and small, but it’s infinitely more sincere—and that is its own extreme. They guide his hand to their waist and he matches their movements. The music is slow, gentle, and aimless as they dance.

And after a moment, his writer rests their forehead against his chest.

Toshinori exhales slowly. His chin dips slightly and he holds them close. It’s all so peaceful, that time blurs, and he doesn’t mind how tired he feels.

He leans down slightly, brushing his lips against their temples.

“You really went all out, huh?” he murmurs.

They squeeze his hand.

He smiles, lopsided and drowsy. “It’s nice,” he whispers, eyes closing. “Thank you.”

 

---

 

Toshinori wishes he wasn’t used to this.

But the world always seems to find the cruelest moment to take things away. Nana. His quirk. And now, his writer. Everything precious is stolen at the point where he needs it most.

Only this time, he’s not even sure they’re gone.

It begins with quietness. Just one night, there is no note. Then morning comes, and there’s still nothing. He tells himself they’re late. Perhaps they were busy. Perhaps something small delayed them—an injury, a shift in schedule, a full night’s sleep. Anything ordinary.

By the second night, he drags a blanket to the door and sits against the wall with his knees drawn tight to his chest. He listens to the hallway creak, the elevator hum, and the stairwell door go unopened; and he tells himself, just a little longer.

They’ll be here. They always come back.

But dawn rises, and no paper is to be found. Not even in his mail.

 

Days slide by.

He focuses on school work during the week, and searches on his days off. For what, he doesn’t know. For them, he thinks. But that word means too much and too little. He wants to know where they are, how they are, and… and if he needs to stop looking.

He scans missing posters at stations, studies crowds for the sound of footsteps, and finds himself lingering on every brush of handwriting that almost looks right. It never is, but it doesn’t stop every scrap of paper from seemingly like a suspect.

At night, he sits where the notes used to be and lets the silence weigh down upon him until his chest hurts. Eventually, tears come—not as a sob, but as a slow, steady, leaking defeat. He pulls his knees to his chest, and buries his face in his hands.

They’re gone.

He knows it.

But he keeps checking anyway.

 

Weeks pass.

The habit becomes muscle memory, his eye flick to the door each morning and linger on the floor each evening. Only once everything else collapses does he stop.

After Bakugou’s kidnapping, All For One’s return, the Kamino battle, and list of conferences, Toshinori moves into the staff dorms at UA. The walls are thick and the halls smell of new carpet. Security is tighter as well; gates, sensors, and cameras.

While unpacking, he leaves their binders stored away in his closet. His heart aches too much to reread their notes right now.

But when he opens a box of books, his fingers pause over a copy of The Chips Are Down—or as his writer would correct, Les Jeux Sont Faits. A story about soulmates who never met during life, but in death they’re given a second chance. Twenty-fours to try again and prove their love.

But in the end, they spend their new attempt at life fueled by their own convictions. They spend their time saving others, then they die again.

His writer had adored their doomed French romances.

He used to tease them for it. Now, he reads in silence until the words blur.

When he’s too tired to continue, he rests the book over his eyes and lays back. The dorm hums faintly around him. He thinks back on an old conversation.

“If I were to retire…” he asked, “would you join me?”

“In retirement?”

“Yes.”

“... I would.”

He wonders what kind of life they might have had. Wonders if he’d have been braver, gentler, or less consumed by saving others.

Would he change anything?

No. He wouldn’t.

It’s a quiet, bitter comfort.

It takes him three days before he stops glancing at the door. Knowing, even if they wanted to reach him, they’d never make it past UA’s security.

And the only thing stronger than UA’s security… Is Tartarus’s.

 

Visiting is inevitable. 

He delays only long enough to be out of the sling, then asks Tsukauchi to schedule it. The timing cuts into school meetings and lesson plans, but it can’t be helped.

Gran Torino doesn’t know, Toshinori doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t want pity, or lectures, or the harsh words declaring Shigiraki to be nothing more than a villain. He’s not. He’s Nana’s grandson, and that means something.

He goes to Tartarus to find answers, but with a thick wall of glass between them, Toshinori is reminded that villains like All For One don’t give answers. They just talk endless circles, like a vulture with words All For One waits for the smallest slip up to tear into.

“So, what do you want?” he asks. “Where’s Gran Torino? You acting alone?” He treats him like a child. “What’s with that costume that looks like you don’t know when to give up? Don’t tell me you’re still working as a hero?” He treats him like a senile, old man.

“You’ve got a lot to say,” Toshinori responds calmly, not taking the bait.

“Try to understand! It’s the first decent conversation I’ve had in a while.” He jokes like they’re old friends.

Toshinori skips the small talk. “Shigiraki… Where is Tomura Shigiraki right now?”

All For One grins. “I don’t know. Unlike yours, he’s already left the nest.”

Toshinori’s eyes narrow.

“I’m the same, you know,” All For One continues. “The same as you. Just like you longed to become a hero of justice, I longed to be like an evil demon king. Isn’t it simple? I had an ideal and the power to give it form. If I could live forever in my ideal, then I wouldn’t begrudge the effort to make it happen.”

“Then why do you need a successor?” Toshinori presses.

“You’re one to ask!” He laughs. "It's because you took everything from me! Look at my body. I am barely able to remain alive with the help of this tube. After you appeared, my seemingly infinite ideal became finite. When a person realizes the end is coming, he passes his work on to someone else. I’m just trying to do what everyone else is.”

Toshinori wants to tear him apart. He’s already killed this man once, and still it wasn’t enough. His reflection trembles faintly in the glass, he wishes he could reach through it—not to speak, just to end him. 

Nothing comes from the conversation.

Toshinori leaves before he breaks the glass.

 

Outside, the sky over Tartarus looks too bright for what he feels.

Tsukauchi drives him back home and Toshinori stares out the window as they talk. The sea beneath Taratarus’s bridge stretches and the prison shrinks behind them. Halfway across the bridge, his phone buzzes.

It’s a message from Midoriya. 

“I was able to take another step forward thanks to you!!!!!”

Attached is a photo of his Provisional Hero License. 

Toshinori smiles. At least something is going right, he thinks.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing.” Toshinori pockets his phone once more. “Hey, watch the road Tsukauchi!” he scolds, seeing how Tsuakuchi looks over—as if he’s trying to read the message for himself.

His friend chuckles. “Sorry, sorry.”

The mood remains solemn, but becomes a little easier to breathe through once they’re off the bridge. Enough so that Toshinori decides to initiate it. Realising he had cut Tsukauchi off when he received the message from Midoriya, he starts the discussion where they left off.

“So, your meeting with Stain went well?”

“Somehow. I don’t know if it had something to do with the painkillers he’s on, but he was lucid. Cooperative even. He’s still not the sanest man to converse with, considering he is a villain… But it wasn’t bad. I think you should talk with him at some point.”

Toshinori gives a meek nod.

“Is he stable?”

“He is.”

“Then I’ll wait a little longer. I don’t think I’m ready for him yet. The Hero Killer; even if he was a fan, I doubt he’d take seeing me like this well. If Tartarus will even allow him that insight.”

“I’ll handle the paperwork,” Tsukauchi reassures. “Just focus on healing, okay? You’ve earned it.”

Toshinori merely hums.

All For One’s words continue to echo under his skull. “Supposing the worst does happen, then it would all have been because of your fake form and your retirement.” Toshinori clenches his fist in his lap.

No. He isn’t ready to see the Hero Killer.

 

Pathetic.

 

He never does have that meeting.

Life moves, death follows; yet he keeps on living. Nighteye dies in the hospital, Midoriya grows stronger, and Toshinori decides he’ll try—try to live and change fate. What for? He– he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s for Nighteye, for Midoriya, for all the students, for Tsukauchi, or for Aizawa.

“You can do plenty for them,” Aizawa said, having initially come out to tell him Tsukauchi delayed his meeting with Stain. Aizawa continued, “You can live. You can be here. For a lot of people, that’s all the push they need.”

All Toshinori could think then, was that Sasaki had said the same thing. He accepted the words with gratitude, but they never stopped the truth from pressing down on him. The boy no longer needs him, none of them do. It's a good thing, that’s the point of being a mentor. But he can’t stop thinking that it feels like he’s watching his own heartbeat fade from afar.

What is the purpose of living, without a heartbeat?

He doesn’t know, but everyone tells him to just live. What a fool he is, for struggling with the bare minimum they ask of him.

It doesn't feel like enough.

He isn’t provided enough time to overthink it.

 

Foolish.

 

The world becomes loud; protests, villains, and the Paranormal Liberation Front. Then the day of the raid arrives, Shigiraki emerges reborn, and suddenly Toshinori’s world looks exactly like it did when he was a boy.

Sirens, smoke, heroes dying, civilians running, hopelessness, and desperation. All of his victories are unmade. And he sits, frozen at his desk, staring at the screen of his computer with Eri perched on knee. His teeth grit against harsh, distressed thoughts as he wonders: What was it all for?

He doesn’t know anymore.

He isn’t sure he ever did.

 

Fake.

 

The rain falls heavy upon his shoulders, soaking through his clothes as he stands before the statue of his former self.

“I AM NOT HERE” 

He wants to blame Kamino. He wants to blame it for why he’s no longer a hero, why he’s lost his sense of self, and why his thoughts are the way they are now. But that would be a lie. It didn’t start there.

Ever since the day he met Midoriya, he’s become painfully aware of the rain—of his own shortcomings. A fake, he thinks. Nothing more than a skeleton dressed in ideas. 

A pathetic, foolish, fake.

He couches and picks up Midoriya’s discarded mask. It’s heavy and cold in his hand. Midoriya doesn’t need him anymore, perhaps he never did. Toshinori promised to protect the boy, to guide him, but all he did was carve impossible expectations into him.

When Midoriya needed him most, Toshinori couldn’t say the words.

Don’t work too hard. It’s okay to rest.

Words Toshinori himself never learned to believe. And now it’s too late.

Now it’s up to Endeavor, Hawks, Best Jeanist, and all of Midoriya’s friends to get him back—to reach for the boy who once called him a hero. All while Toshinori stands beneath the rain, at the feet of a monument built to a ghost.

“I AM NOT HERE” 

The rain doesn’t stop. It seeps into his bones and weighs him down. His heart flickers low, sputtering like a candle at the end of its wick. Maybe it’s fitting, that the last of his fire shall go out when the sun refuses to shine.

It feels like there’s a flood beneath his feet, threatening to pull him under. He almost welcomes it.

In the same way he finds himself welcoming the feel of a blade against his throat.

“Is that blasphemy against a hero?” A deep, gravelly voice rasps. “Take it back, fool!”

Toshinori doesn’t even flinch. His gaze drags upward, tired and cold. “Hero Killer: Stain,” he murmurs. “When I was an active hero, you never showed yourself. I never thought that we’d meet like this after so long.”

“What are you saying?”

“Oh, right. A lot’s happened since you were caught. I’m All Might–”

“No, you’re not All Might!”

“I don’t blame you for not believing me.” He forces the change. His form swelling, gold hair rising, grin nowhere to be seen. He can only hold it for a heartbeat before blood sputters from his mouth and the illusion collapses.

“Well?” He rubs the blood from his lips. “Are you going to kill me? If so–”

The blade tilts his chin up.

“No! You are not All Might. You fake!” Stain shouts, a thousand times more enraged and dangerous than moments before. Toshinori’s breath catches and his lips part as he stares at the Hero Killer in bewilderment.

“This is the sacred ground of a hero,” Stain hisses. “Who are you, to impersonate that hero here? Why do you claim to be All Might? Tell me.”

Toshinori swallows. “Impersonate, huh?” His voice is barely audible over the rain. He looks down again, at the mask held in his hand.

“It’s true… I’ve always felt like I had to do something. I couldn’t stand it. Unjustly stealing, unjustly being stolen from, everyday. Even if I was powerless, I couldn’t sit still. I wanted to make the world a better place.“

Stain’s eyes soften. 

“And then I finished my run,” Toshinori whispers. “And this is the result. My disciple, whom I was supposed to give my life to protect—I could even tell him to rest. I wonder why… I’m the only one getting further and further away from being a hero.”

Stain’s blade shifts, then pulls back. Toshinori looks up in time to see the Hero Killer’s stance adjust, sword raised, and before he can react–

Stain is on him.

The impact never comes. Instead, Toshinori finds himself caught—held—and his body, traitorous and aching, goes slack before his mind has a chance to realise why.

It’s familiar.

Comfortable, warm, steady, safe.

For a dizzying moment, the rain vanishes. Only the feel of Stain’s arm braced around his throat, and Stain’s breath against his ear. His pulse skips in confusion and the sword is forgotten. There is no threat in the man’s hold.

Toshinori swallows, his eyes flick up through the rain. There’s no bloodlust, cruelty, or hunger in the man’s eyes. Just a strange, purposeful calm. He smells of iron and rain and worn leather. By no means should it be pleasant, but to Toshinori it smells like home.

His throat tightens. The hold reminds him too much of how his writer would steady him—how they’d wrap an arm around his neck and draw him close when he trembled. Too small to encircle him completely, but always managing to contain him.

This isn’t so different. It’s the same pressure, the same ground weight. The same wordless I’m here.

What’s going on…?

“I don’t think we’re quite close enough for this,” he tries to joke, desperate for normalcy. To break whatever this is. Because it can’t be… He refuses to let himself believe it. It’s just a coincidence. He’s touch starved, lonely, and reaching for comfort where there is none.

Stain doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at him. “This is perfect,” he says instead, ignoring Toshinori completely. A hand slips into his hair, rough without being painful. “Look!”

Toshinori doesn’t fight it. Disorientation and muscle memory turn him pliant, he turns his head and focuses on the statues as asked.

And then another voice cuts through the rain. A woman's.

“They put it up again! Jeez…” she complains, using her quirk to raise herself onto the statue. “They really need to stop.” She tears the sign away and tosses it to the ground.

“Once a day, she goes and cleans up the desecration of the hero-hating groups,” Stain explains. His voice remains rough, but it’s softer. Almost reverent.  “She’s probably staging at a shelter nearby. And it’s probably a nuisance to the people at the shelter.”

“She’s putting herself in unnecessary danger!” Toshinori panics. “Who is she…?!”

“She’s the last person All Might saved.”

Toshinori freezes.

Kamino. The woman who had been crushed beneath the rubble. The woman who was still on the scene when Toshinori’s true form was revealed. And her plea—Don’t lose, All Might, please… help!

And now she’s here, protecting a statue. Protecting him.

He can’t make sense of it. Why would she do this? Why would anyone? What he did didn’t deserve this kind of faith.

Then Stain’s grip tightens in his hair and he’s yanked back.

“No matter what happened, All Might smiled as he sacrificed himself for the people!” Stain shouts, his voice cracking under his conviction. “That didn’t have anything to do with his power. The person called All Might could only live like that! People praised that conviction engraved in his soul. Someone like you has no right to talk about All Might!”

He shoves Toshinori again, this time with a hand to his cheek.

“Look at that woman!”

“Results?! This is a process!” Stain’s voice rises, alive with fury and belief. “The buried embers that he left behind stand up to the wind and rain, getting passed among a few people, and is developing into a new, large fire! So, we cannot let that fire go out. As long as we are alive, even if we struggle in an unseemly way, we have to keep stoking that fire!”

Toshinori watches the woman’s lips move through the rain.

Do your best. You can do it.

You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.

His heart beats. His vision wavers, and before he knows it, tears are sliding down his cheeks.

“The soul of a hero exists only for the sake of others,” Stain says as he steps away. “However… If a god falls to the earth and is given the frail soul of a mortal, or…”

Toshinori jolts, breath catching in his throat. “You, how do you know– Don’t tell me, this whole time…” Nobody has avoided his detection. Nobody except them. 

“I do not know you,” Stain answers, coming to a stop some distance away. “But if you are a true hero…” He flicks his wrist, and a knife flies through the air. Landing with a clean precision, it pins three pages near Toshinori’s foot. The familiar writing is unmistakable. “... use that information from Tartarus,” Stain finishes.

“And then,” Stain says, looking over his shoulder, “come and end me, Stain, who has killed forty heroes. All for the sake of a more just world.”

Toshinori’s lips tremble as he stares after him. His chest aches and his heart beats like a shaken bird. The tears fall freely now.

 

After receiving Stain’s note, Toshinori manages to get the pages safely to his car. He lays them carefully on the passenger seat so they can dry. As much as he wants to clutch the papers to his chest and hoard them for himself, there’s too much information.

His hands clench the steering wheel as he drives. He forces himself to bring them to Tsukauchi.

He’s not surprised when the pages are deemed a “zealous love letter.” Without context, Stain seems near delusional to speak of him with such familiarity. And Toshinori doesn’t provide context. He just nods, and lets the quiet truth gnaw at him: he was in a relationship with the Hero Killer.

And if Stain still tolerates him… Toshinori wants to say they’re still in a relationship. 

Tsukauchi sighs and taps the page with the back of his hand. “To be saved by a murderer like this… We’re losing face here.”

Toshinori doesn’t deny him. He can’t. 

It’s not even the most extreme note Stain has sent him. There are no doodles at the edge, sappy metaphors, run on innuendos, or lists of desire. It bleeds longing between the lines, but the words themselves prioritize facts and dates. Useful things.

“There is one thing that bothers me,” Toshinori says. “In order to cut off Tartarus’s systems from the outside world, it’s completely stand-alone. We shouldn’t have been able to see this data.”

Stain would never risk contact unless it mattered. And it does matter—the data reveals that All For One’s new vessel will be complete in three days. Less time than any of them imagined. So Toshinori makes sure the contribution is recorded properly.

Stain has saved more than Toshinori's life.

When the papers are no longer needed, he quietly takes them back. They smell faintly of rain and blood. He doesn’t know which scent came from which of them.

 

UA is impenetrable, but the last minute fortress of Troy is less so. As Midoriya and Toshinori leave campus to protect those inside, Class 1-A follows. The first night is a blur of new walls, empty rooms, and exhaustion.

Toshinori retires early, intending to focus on getting further in his studies. But the moment the door opens, he has just enough mind to close it behind him before he freezes.

The Hero Killer: Stain. Toshinori's writer.

He stands like a shadow; his hair wild, his eyes bloodshot, and his posture poor.

It’s strange, Toshinori wasn’t afraid of him when the entire world trembled in response to his words, or when the blade was held against his throat—but now that the word lover and killer belong to the same man, he has to fight an urge to run.

Fearing for his students, Toshinori presses his back against the door.

“Wha– What are you doing here?” he asks, watching Stain move through his space like he owns it. Toshinori supposes that makes sense, considering he’s already given him everything. His secrets, his body, his insecurities, and his love. Stain has seen and touched every part of him.

Yet Stain doesn’t greet him. He continues to look through Toshinori’s belongings, picking up one of his journals (the one with notes about his students) he begins to flip through it.

Toshinori watches silently for a moment, recalling how Stain had tried to kill Iida; and almost killed Todoroki and Midoriya in the process. Stain’s curiosity quickly becomes too much for him to handle.

“Can you please put that down?”

Stain makes a noise of acknowledgement but doesn’t stop. His eyes linger on a page about One For All.

Toshinori bites his tongue. He knows Stain isn’t snooping for weaknesses, he’s just trying to make sense of what he’s missed out on. Just trying to understand. Toshinori has already made his quirk public knowledge, there’s no secret left.

It’s fine.

… It really is fine.

It’s strange to think, but had Midoriya accidentally passed One For All to Stain, everything would have worked out. Stain would have understood what happened, he would have kept the secret, he would have reached out, and he would have returned it willingly.

The comfort that thought brings is limited.

Toshinori crosses his arms tightly over his chest, like it’ll do anything to hold him together, and watches as Stain finishes the page he’s on. Once done, the journal is closed and returned to Toshinori's desk.

When Stain’s gaze lands on him, his eyes narrow in response to Toshinori’s defensiveness.

“Sorry,” Toshinori murmurs. “Old habits. I can’t help but brace myself when someone like you’s in the room,” he tries to joke, but fails horrifically. He tightens his hold on himself and swallows. “Um… is there a name I should call you?” he tries instead. “Since I know you’re… well…” He gestures vaguely. “It might help me adjust.”

“I don’t care what you call me.”

“Oh.” Toshinori shrinks back.

Stan stares at him, then a moment later he sighs. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. You already know my nom de guerre. My legal name’s Akaguro Chizome. But… use whatever you think fits. I have no preference.”

Toshinori's voice comes out faint as he admits, “Your face I only know as Stain.”

Stain doesn’t seem shocked by the admission, but he steps forward and Toshinori immediately stiffens. His mind and body has no clue what he’s meant to do in this position. His instincts are scrambling to keep up. Thankfully, Stain doesn’t reach for him. He stops a safe distance away and raises his hands.

With his palms up, he asks, “And my hands?”

His voice is quiet now. It’s still rough around the edge, but like gravel softened by rain, it’s deceptively safe. Toshinori hesitates, studying the offering, before carefully reaching out and brushing his fingers over the crimson fabric.

His hands slide up to where the glove ends and bandages begin. His fingers dip underneath the fabric, but he glances up before pulling the gloves off. Stain doesn’t resist. He watches him with a calm ease, letting Toshinori explore him and figure things out on his own.

It’s appreciated.

The gloves slide free, and Toshinori stares at what’s revealed. Stain’s hands are cold, callused, and unevenly scarred. Some wounds are old, others are fresh. There’s dirt beneath his nails and bruising along his knuckles. He’s been busy since the jailbreak.

But as Toshinori traces the creases in his palm, his nerves waver. Every line is where he expects it to be and everything he searches for is found. The shape, weight, tension, and strength. 

There’s a small scar on Stain’s thumb, years old now, but Toshinori knows exactly how he got it. He had distracted his writer while they were cutting off pieces from an apple to hand feed him. It feels weird to see the scar among all the others, now that he knows where they came from. 

He has to fight the ridiculous urge to bow his head and kiss them.

“As you said,” Toshinori murmurs, “I didn’t have a name for you when we were together. I thought no name but your own could ever suit you.”

“And does it?”

Toshinori’s breath shudders.

The world narrows as he remembers everything. Shodo and paper tigers. Mahjong and long work hours. Lectures on history and morality. Questions about Toshinori’s beliefs and judgment about his taste in movies. Conversations that spiraled between philosophy and mania. Their sword collection and book recommendations…

He nods once.

“Then you have no reason to stop calling me Stain.”

He nods again.

He continues to hold Stain’s hands, as if familiarity might explain everything. It doesn’t. So, with a trembling breath, Toshinori forces himself to let go. “Why are you here?” he asks. If he can keep this professional, maybe it won’t hurt so much. Maybe it will make sense then.

“I wanted to check on you,” Stain answers.

Toshinori frowns. His first instinct is to lie—to say he’s fine, holding up, isn’t thinking about his death, or whatever else people may expect him to say. But he can’t. Not when Stain found him at his worst, and not when Stain is familiar with all his lies and fears.

He lets his shoulders slump and scrubs a hand over his tired face with a sigh. He’s aware of how he looks; pale, exhausted, famished, and burdened by his own mind. There is nothing to say. He’s a mess.

Then Stain reaches up, nudges Toshinori’s hand out of the way, and cups his cheek.

“You look better,” he whispers.

A choked laugh escapes before he can stop it. It teeters on the edge of disbelief and hysteria as he curses, “Bullshit.”

Stain just shakes his head. “Your eyes are brighter than when I last saw you.” His thumb rubs the skin just beneath one eye. “You look alive.”

“So I’m a step up from dead.”

Stain’s hand tightens against his jaw. “Yes.” His voice allows no room for argument. “Don’t undermine that. Death may be a familiar construct, but you can’t fight for death or live for prophecy. You can’t be a hero if you’re looking for a finish line.”

Toshinori nods, unconsciously leaning into Stain’s hand. He knows. They’ve already had this discussion.

Stain rubs his thumb over Toshinori’s cheekbones. “There’s a light in your eyes again. You look like you found beauty in trying, and relearned what it means to dream. So even if you still struggle… I’m glad to see those words have meaning again.”

Toshinori swallows, his throat feels tight. “... You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly. “You really shouldn’t.”

Stain tilts his head. “Do you want me to leave?”

Toshinori’s eyes dart away. “... No.”

“Then I’ll risk staying a little longer.”

Stain takes a step back, giving Toshinori the space to breathe once more, and begins to disarm himself. He sets his sword on the desk, then removes the smaller blades and lays them out in careful rows. “I have no intention of going after your students while I’m here,” he explains.

Toshinori’s frown deepens. “You can’t say you won’t go after them, period?”

“I cannot,” Stain answers without hesitation.

Toshinori exhales harshly through his nose. “Then I have no idea why you think that’s supposed to be reassuring.”

He cautiously approaches the desk and picks up one of the smaller blades. Stain’s gaze flicks up, watching him, but he doesn’t interfere. Toshinori studies the weapon a moment longer, then sets it down with care.

For a moment, neither of them speak.

Once the last of Stain’s blades are laid out, he stands quietly. Without the weapons, he looks smaller somehow. His shoulders are drawn in, his posture is defensive despite his attempt at nonchalance, and he fidgets beneath Toshinori’s gaze.

Toshinori lets his eyes linger.

He moves slowly, not wanting Stain to mistake the motion for aggression, and carefully raises his hand.

Stain’s brows furrow. “What are you doing?”

“Look at me,” Toshinori quietly orders, his finger brushing the side of Stain’s jaw. Stain stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away. Toshinori takes that as permission, however reluctant, and gently turns Stain’s face towards him.

The movement catches Stain off guard. Toshinori had never been allowed to touch his writer’s face, seeing Stain’s uncertainty now makes him realise why.

“May I?” His hand hovers near the edge of the bandaged mask.

For a long moment, Stain says nothing. Toshinori can see the calculation in his eyes; the way he weighs control against trust, and pride against fear. Finally, he exhales and gives a slight nod.

“... If you must."

Carefully, Toshinori begins to unwind the fabric. Beneath, Stain’s skin is roughed where the wraps had rubbed it raw, his nose is gone, and his eyes are darkened with soot or charcoal. Toshinori doesn’t recoil, he doesn’t even blink.

Stain refuses to meet his eyes.

“Satisfied?” he rasps, voice stripped of bravado. “Go on, then. Stare. Everyone does.” 

Toshinori’s heart aches. “I wasn’t looking for satisfaction,” he mutters, his fingertips ghosting over injuries and smudges. “Just for you.”

Stain’s breath hitches, and Toshinori dares to close the distance. He steps forward and presses his forehead against Stain’s. It’s one of the few touches he knows Stain is comfortable with. Holding him in place and holding his gaze, Toshinori purposefully blinks three times.

‘I love you.’

A wounded sound that might be a disbelieving laugh escapes Stain’s lungs as he returns the gesture. “Almighty– I missed you.” Tears well up in Stain’s eyes as he stares up at him, and when one falls, it trails through the charcoal and down his cheek.

Toshinori brushes it away with his thumb, but just smears it over Stain’s skin and his own. He hums low in his throat. Before Stain can realise what he’s doing, he leads the other man to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Stay put,” he orders. “I’m going to grab a cloth and some water.”

Stain frowns. “You don’t need to. I’m not planning to stay that long–”

“I want you to stay,” Toshinori cuts off. “I want to take care of you.” He holds Stain’s gaze, speaking a silent reminder of how many times Stain would take care of him while he was too limited in what he could do. 

Stain hesitates, then nods.

Toshinori offers him a reassuring, pleased smile before he pulls away and steps out of the room.

He’s thankful he doesn’t run into any of the students or Aizawa and Mic as he sneaks through the hallways. He grabs a cloth, a bowl that’s filled with warm water, and a roll of bandages. When he returns, Stain hasn’t moved. 

Toshinori sets the materials down on the desk beside the blades.

He starts with Stain’s face, the cloth is warm as it drags over soot and grime. The cloth comes away black, and Stain gives it a displeased look. Toshinori just rinses it then goes again. Until streaks of charcoal give way to the skin beneath.

With his face and neck cleaned, Toshinori brings the bowl closer and kneels in front of him. He moves onto his hands, cleaning his knuckles, between his fingers, and the dirt out from beneath his nails. 

When he finishes, he lifts his head slightly. “... Do I have permission to undress you?” he asks.

Stain nods.

He starts with the coat, undoing the buckles, the buttons, then finally the zipper. Toshinori folds it before he sets it aside, then he helps Stain out of his shirt and undoes his bandages. Underneath, Stain’s body is muscular and lean, softened only slightly by Tartarus’s confinement. 

He is familiar with his body, and each touch makes that familiarity a little easier to understand.

Stain watches him, his eyes half lidded and heavy. After a moment, he lifts a hand and threads his fingers through Toshinori’s hair. “You really don’t mind my form?” he asks.

Toshinori glances up at him, soft and unflinching. “I don’t.” He leans forward and presses his lips to the dip between Stain’s abs, then he rests there. Enjoying the warmth of his skin and feeling the slow rise and fall of breathing against his cheek. All the while, Stain continues to card his fingers through Toshinori’s hair.

Eventually, he settles back on his knees and helps Stain out of the rest of his clothes.

It’s not about cleaning anymore, or even familiarization. It’s worship. 

By the time he finishes, the water is a murky, dark, and muted shade of red. Toshinori replaces Stain’s bandages with fresh ones. He winds them securely around his wrists, arms, and wherever else the skin looks tender.

When that’s done, he sits back and exhales.

He feels a little lighter—a little accomplished and proud—as he takes in his work. He glances at Stain, who hasn’t taken his eyes off him since he first kneeled. “Better?” he asks.

Stain only hums.

Toshinori smiles faintly at the response. “Still stubborn as ever,” he teases. Pushing himself to his feet, he stretches his legs and lets some of the tension ease from his shoulders. “You could at least relax a little while someone’s taking care of you.”

Stain’s lip twitches. “I am relaxed,” he counters dryly, though the hand that moves for his pants betrays him.

Toshinor’s hand shoots out, too quick to be rational.

Stain immediately stills and looks at him in bewilderment. “... Toshinori?”

Toshinori hesitates. His heart pounds in his chest as his thoughts race, and his fingers tighten around Stain’s wrist. His words are caught between embarrassment, longing, and a stubborn need to maintain control. He swallows, then slowly presses Stain back against the mattress.

Once Stain is reclined, Toshinori takes a step forward and lowers himself onto Stain’s lap. Letting his weight settle, Stain’s heat presses into him, firm and alive. Toshinori breathes a shaky breath, letting his head bow as he focuses on the feeling.

Stain’s hands curl over his hip, holding him steady.

“... Better?” Stain asks, teasing Toshinori’s words back at him.

Toshinori opens his eyes and stares down at him. Stain looks completely smitten, his smile is all forms of crooked and unsure and his face is flushed pink. Toshinori nods, feeling stupified by the sight beneath him.

Stain is… He’s adorable.

“I want to ride you,” Toshinori blurts. “C-can I?” he stutters, feeling a little sheepish over his admission.

Stain stares up at him with wide eyes, needing a moment to process the words. But when he does, he nods.

 

“You treat my wounds, ride me, then ask me to cut you?”

“Can you, please? We don’t have the proper materials… But one of the things I missed most when I thought you died, were the notes you’d leave on my skin. I thought about asking a professional to replicate one of your notes, but—” Toshinori sighs. “I couldn't, I needed it to be you.”

Still resting on Stain’s chest, he looks up at his lover as he pleads, “Can you do it, please?”

Stain stares at him for a long, unreadable moment. Eventually he drapes his arm over his eyes and sighs, though there is a weight of reluctant affection to the sound. “And people are going to declare me the unstable one,” he mutters. His tone is exasperated, but there’s no real bite to it.

Toshinori remains patient. “I trust you.”

“It’s not a matter of trust, Toshinori. This is dangerous,” he warns. “There’s a lot of aftercare that goes into treating wounds, even if they’re shallow. Infection risk, healing complications—espcially since we have… less than ideal tools.”

Toshinori reaches up to grab his hand. “I’ll take care of it,” he reassures. He gives his hand a comforting squeeze. “Please,” he begs. “Just do this one thing for me.”

Stain’s jaw remains tense as he glares at Toshinori, trying to get him to cave. But Toshinori doesn’t, and Stain blinks first. He sighs once more, the sound harsh against his nose. “Your thigh,” he decides. “It’s one of the least risky spots—I’m not stylizing it either! The cuts will be thin and clean.”

“That’s okay. I just want the mark.”

“... Alright then.”

He gestures for Toshinori to get off of him, and Toshinori obeys without hesitation. He makes himself comfortable and watches as Stain gets up to grab the blade. He chooses a small one with a clean edge and he tests it on himself first.

He continues to look displeased, but after a moment he relents and grabs the disinfectant from the first aid kit. “This one will do,” he grumbles.

When he returns, his eyes linger on the unmarked flesh of Toshinori’s thigh. He looks queasy at the thought of what he’s about to do.

Toshinori hand lifts, hesitates, then slowly brushes Stain’s hair from his face. Stain blinks, caught off guard and confused by the softness, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes are unguarded, open in a way they rarely are. His anxious killer…

“It’ll be alright,” Toshinori reassures.

Stain continues to hesitate, but he eventually steadies the blade and focuses on the task he’s been given. “It’ll be two characters, with a total of sixteen strokes.” His other hand brushes over Toshinori’s thigh, steadying it as he runs the flat of the blade over Toshinori’s skin—checking for sensitivity before he starts.

“Okay,” Toshinori answers. He isn’t worried about the pain, and his body is still satiated from their prior activities. The only concern really is infection. His eyes linger on the scars around where Stain’s nose was… He wonders if Stain’s familiar with infections, or if his body is capable of fighting it off like any blood born disease. 

When Stain eventually makes the first cut, Toshinori keeps quiet. By the third stroke, Stain’s tongue slips out in concentration and Toshinori has to stop himself from smiling. By the eighth, the smile wins.

“I like being able to see you.”

Stain only hums in response—too focused to answer properly—but the corner of his mouth twitches just slightly.

“俺全”

“Ore zen,” Stain reads aloud once done.

Toshinori tilts his head fondly to the side. “Ore no or ore wa?”

“Up to interpretation.”

“So both,” Toshinori decides. “Does it refer to your ink, or me?”

“Also up to interpretation.”

Toshinori laughs under his breath, tender and a little dazed. “So both as well,” he says, curling his fingers in Stain’s hair once more. “Ore no zen. This is my everything, and you have given me your everything. Ore wa zen. I am everything, and you are my everything.”

He pulls Stain close, and his voice drops to a reverent, teasing, whisper. “... I forgot how much of a sap you are.”

Stain remains focused on the wound for a moment, making sure he doesn’t hurt Toshinori as he’s pulled close. But when Toshinori’s words register he looks up with a raised brow. “Says the man asking me to carve poetry in his thigh.”

Toshinori chuckles. “If you’re really upset about being deemed crazier than I, I’ll make sure to correct the press till the end of time,” he vows.

 

Toshinori wakes up feeling warm, and for a disorienting moment he fears it’s a fever. But then he opens his eyes and sees him.

Stain is still here.

He’s curled up at Toshinori’s side, one arm draped loosely over his ribs, and his face pressed into the pillow between them. He never stays. Seeing him now, causes Toshinori’s heart to ache. His face is soft with sleep and his hair spills over the pillow in a dark halo. The strands are tangled, but he looks… peaceful.

Toshinori can’t help himself. He brushes a few strands from Stain’s face and his thumb lingers over Stain’s ear—feeling the scar where they were once pierced. Then he leans down and presses a kiss to his temple.

It’s enough to make Stain stir. His lashes flutter and he voices a raspy hum, before pressing up and into the touch. He has a dazed, sleepy smile as he basks in Toshinori’s arms.

“Time to get up,” Toshinori whispers against his skin. “I have a lot of hero work I need to do.”

“Of course, All Might,” Stain says, his voice rough with sleep and full of affection. However, he doesn’t move. He just cracks open his eyes, and looks utterly smitten with Toshinori as they lay in the morning light.

Toshinori can’t tell him to leave again. He can hardly bring himself to pull away, as he smooths his hand over Stain’s hair and decides to linger for one heartbeat more.

 

One heartbeat more.

That’s what it comes down to. That’s what it all comes down to.

All Might doesn’t save everyone, but he saves everyone within reach. And Stain delivered the information from Tartarus that got Star and Stripe to give just a little more time.

Toshinori still struggles to find reasons to keep living, but he keeps pushing through the days knowing there are good moments, and thinking perhaps someday there will be a future where the good outweighs the bad.

One heartbeat more.

And in this case, one heartbeat more means he gets to do a whole lot of bad to All For One’s otherwise good day.

Toshinori laughs, unhinged and delirious. Every missed hit but a little more time. Every hit that does kill him fails to stop him. Every hit directed at him means it isn’t directed at anyone else. Just a little more time. For him. For everyone.

Oh, he is positively dizzy with blood loss.

But All For One’s healing beautifully.

Further and further he rewinds. Just a little further and he’ll unravel completely. Toshinori just needs to keep pushing. Forward. Forward. Just a little longer. Not yet. Not yet. He just needs one heartbeat more.

When he falls, the world tilts sideways for a brief, terrifying moment. His legs don’t obey and his grind against the blood rising in his throat. He knows he’s dying, but he’s been dying for a while now. Death is inevitable. That’s why All For One must die.

Just a little more…

But he can’t. He can do nothing but brace, knowing Hercules is down and he won’t survive the next blow. He growls in defiance, as that’s all that can be done.

And then All For One freezes.

A voice cuts through the air, as sharp as it is cold. “Blood runs read for everyone,” Stain says, dragging his tongue through All For One’s blood. Stain would always deny it, but even now that Toshinori knows the Hero Killer’s identity, he thinks of the man as his hero.

“Go get him, All Might!”

 

One.

Heartbeat.

More.

 

Fate, it turns out, can be changed—with a little time and a whole lot of conviction.

Toshinori lives. It’s impossible to pinpoint a single turning point, though he’ll credit Bakugou whenever asked. The kid was given a second shot at life, and without pausing to recover, he returned the favor.

And Stain…

Stain did exactly what he set out to do. He was killed by All Might. He died for him, so he could live.

Toshinori knows this. He knows Stain is gone, this time with more certainty than when he lost him the first time. And yet… the weight of his absence continues to linger. He waits until Midoriya has left before seeking out Tsukauchi’s insights.

“What happened to Stain?” he demands. “I need to know all of it. Was his body found? Were his things collected? Has his body been cremated?” he lists in rapid succession, not caring if it strains his throat.

Tsukauchi says nothing. A shadow falls over his face as Toshinori bombards him with questions, and even when the questions run out he remains quiet.

“... Tsukauchi?”

The detective exhales a shaky breath and reaches inside his coat. He pulls out several sheets of paper. “I found these while clearing your room at Troy,” Tsukauchi explains. His voice is tight with restraint. “I believe… Stain left them. For you.”

Toshinori freezes.

The page—his pages.

“You… you read them?”

Tsukauchi nods slowly. “I did. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but now… Your questions confirm what the notes say.”

“I… Tsukauchi–” Toshinori starts, only for his voice to break. “It’s complicated. I–”

“No.” Tsuakuchi lifts a hand, gently interrupting. “You don’t need to explain. The Hero Killer… he saved your life. That’s all that matters, I have no grudge against him. I only wish you had told me sooner, so I wouldn’t have said all those things about him.” He holds the pages out.

“Nobody else knows about these.”

Stain’s final note… Toshinori accepts the pages with immense gratitude. 

Tears form in his eyes as he holds Stain’s words close. He recalls what Stain explained, back during that first year of their relationship. He said these notes were the only time he felt like he was able to live life as himself.

These words were his way of living. His heart.

One heartbeat more.

And in that heartbeat, Stain’s final note’s very existence screams about his stubborn will to live. When the hell did he find the time to write all this?

 

“If you’re reading this I am dead. Because if I wasn’t dead, I would have burned this note before you’d ever see it and just told you these things myself. But it’s alright, really. I already know the faces you’re making. It's okay to cry, but I ask you to take a breath and unclench your jaw. Cry because you care not just because you’re sad.

I didn’t die unhappy. I got everything I could ever want and more. I got to know you, I got to see the person behind the symbol and laugh with you. I got to make you blush, and I got to matter. That’s more than I ever thought the universe would allow.

So read this knowing your smile is beautiful even when you cry.

This whole thing started a few weeks before I left that first note.

As I would later piece together, it had been only a few months since you killed the Demon Lord the first time. You were still recovering and figuring out how to navigate limits you couldn’t acknowledge; too busy smiling for a world that had no clue it nearly lost you.

Meanwhile, I was working retail. Exhausted, sore, and half-delirious from another night of—I’ll admit it—questionable decision making. My manager had guilted me into covering an afternoon shift and I was running on fumes. My throat was raw, my eyes burned, and the only thing keeping me upright was caffeine and spite.

Thankfully, someone else was manning the register so I could stay in the back and focus on mindless tasks. I had the news playing on my phone while I sorted through freight; watching you, of course. I always watched you. Even before I decided to follow you personally, I followed everything All Might related.

That day you were patrolling nearby when your time limit caught you sooner than anticipated. Surrounded by cameras, you managed to escape before anyone noticed.

But I knew something was wrong.

I spent my entire life admiring you, my mortal god whose time I believed I had no right to waste. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. I didn’t think I had the right to dwell on it, so I did what I always did; I turned off my phone when the broadcast cut to commercials and got back to work.

I stocked the shelves, cleaned up after customers, and nodded through my coworker’s endless chatter about memes and music videos. Just another day of human noise.

And then I smelled blood. Your blood.

At first, I thought I was so exhausted that I had begun hallucinating, or that it was some kind of delayed brain damage finally making itself known. But the longer I tried to focus on my work, the more that scent filled my head.

Before I could stop myself, I was looking for you.

And I found you.

Standing under the cold fluorescent lights, holding a convenience-store meal, with an unreadable expression as you read the ingredients list. I pretended to fuss with a nearby shelf and lowered my mask a little—just enough to breathe you in unfiltered.

I remember thinking, ‘Did this man hurt All Might? Is he the reason All Might was acting weird?’

For a few ridiculous, sleep deprived seconds, I genuinely considered following you out of the store, confronting you, and maybe even killing you. I was halfway through deciding between interrogation or murder when your breath hitched.

I looked over and saw how your hands were trembling. A single tear slipped down your cheek and dropped onto the box you were holding. And just like that, every violent thought fell silent.

I didn’t think, I just moved. I asked if you were alright.

… And you broke down on me.

It was a bad health day. You were still learning how to exist despite your wound, how to eat without a stomach, how to function between surgeries, and how to balance your purpose with survival.

You told me your doctor had left you a list of rules you couldn’t follow, because your work didn’t allow time for regularity. And now you were starving, dizzy, far from home, and still pretending you could handle it.

You wanted to go home, bury yourself under blankets, and lose yourself in a movie. But you couldn’t even have popcorn, because it would tear at your throat and you’d spend the night coughing up blood.

You felt humiliated by your own existence, didn’t know what to do, and were dealing with it all alone.

When I reached out, you leaned into me. It was as I held your trembling form, overwhelmed by the proximity and freshness of your blood, that I realized.

I think I went into shock. My breath caught in my chest and my thoughts scattered. I had only ever dreamed of meeting you, yet here you were—in my arms, holding onto me with tears in your eyes and blood on your lips.

So I relied on habit, on all those years of customer service. We talked through your diet; what you could eat, what you couldn’t, and possible alternatives. I talked you through options—quick snacks you could store at home, small things you could keep on hand, and recipes that would cover your nutrient needs.

When I gave up on my hero license, I wanted to be a chef. But that kind of life wasn’t compatible with my devotion to conviction. My life had too little stability. Still, as I walked through the store with you, talking about soups and vitamins and instant noodles, it didn’t feel like a loss anymore. It felt like… purpose.

Perhaps even fate.

I helped you pick out what you needed, paid for a few things when you weren’t looking, ate lunch with you outside, and carried your bags to the station.

‘Experimental service of the retail industry,’ I joked.

You smiled at that—small, tired, but real. You told me your apartment was close enough to the Roppongi-Minato station, that you’d be fine from there.

I wanted to walk you home anyway, but I could tell the thought of being doted on made you uncomfortable. You didn’t know me and you were more familiar with the face of a man incapable of weakness than your own skin.

So, realising doing anything more would only push you away, I was left with no choice but to return to work.

I hardly remember those next few days.

My manager hadn’t questioned me running off. ‘The price of having a worker who does more than he’s paid to do, is that he sometimes disappears to help someone else,’ he'd grumble. God, even when the world's torn upside down, years after working for that man, and I can still quote him.

But he was right, I’d walk out on more shifts for strangers than I ever did for sleep.

Still, after three days of zoning out my coworker began to worry. She’d ask me all sorts of questions and I had answers to none of them. I didn’t know what happened. I struggled to believe it happened at all.

All I knew was that you filled my head.

When I watched the news, my eyes would always find you. The way you laughed as All Might, but would stop short every now and then to cover your mouth with that polite, practiced gesture. Nobody would ever notice, not unless they already knew.

I knew. And I couldn’t stop noticing it.

Sleep was impossible, my brain was a mess, and eventually I gave in.

I started following you. I told myself it was only to make sure you got home safely and woke up alright. You told me which station you used and from there I found your building, then your window.

It felt invasive. Wrong.

Yet I couldn’t stop.

I’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, having entire conversations in my head with you. Imagining what I’d say, how you’d respond, what kind of face you might make. I kept thinking, If I could find the right words…

I got up.

I opened the old shodo set that had been collecting dust for years and I tied my hair back. Then I wrote.

It wasn’t much, just a ‘greeting.’ But when I saw it framed on your wall… I won't deny I cried.

You didn’t even know me and you still chose to keep my words, to treat them as something worth remembering. Do you understand what that did to me, Toshinori? My entire life, my words have been things people ignored. My first crime had been soapboxing. And yet you—you framed my words.

Perfect, patient, gentle, wonderful, you.

You didn’t even know how miraculous you were.

So I kept writing. I couldn’t stop. I told myself I wouldn’t frighten you; wouldn’t write anything direct, or anything that’d make you uncomfortable. Even if my sense of boundaries are poor, I still loathed the idea of causing you needless stress.

That’s why I decided to write about other people’s actions. It was a way to communicate about heroism without saying anything about specifics.

When I left the second note, I perched on the building across from yours. I stayed there with my eyes glued to your window as I waited for you to find the note. And when you found it and smiled, threw my hands to the sky and nearly fell over. I’m shocked you didn’t hear me due to how loudly I shouted.

It was easy after that.

I made that smile the center of my entire routine.

You made me want to wake up, eat, move, and breathe. I lived for you and I loved every moment of it.

But I don’t want you to love me like that. I don't want you to see yourself as something that can be owned or devoured by another’s affections.

Because you have to keep living.

Even if I'm gone, even if it hurts, you have to keep going. You’ve already done so much good and you will continue to do so much more. Your strength has never been tied to power. It’s in the way you laugh despite pain and treat everyone as if they matter.

You’re proof that conviction and compassion can coexist.

You’re proof that goodness doesn’t die just because it can be hurt.

I love you Toshinori. I love you so much, and I know you love me too. But others love you as well, so rejoice! Your life, those people around you, and the community you’ve built… Hold them close because they matter.

But never underestimate yourself. You are enough, just the way you are."

 

Toshinori lives.

He speaks against the hero charts, takes Nezu’s place as principal of UA, watches his students continue to grow, and learns to rest without guilt—knowing there are ways to save others, even without strength.

He understands that now.

It takes a while for home to feel like home again. He hangs art, sets a paper tiger on his desk, and keeps a whiteboard that’s half filled with drawings that’ll never be erased. Tsukauchi keeps him company, Aizawa sometimes visits, and he eventually invites the Midoriya’s over for dinner.

Bit by bit the space warms.

 

Some evenings, he sits by the window to write. His handwriting has gotten worse, but he refuses to let that stop him. Writing still brings him peace.

“Sometimes I wonder how you’d react if you knew I still write to you.

I think you’d grumble in that gravelly way of yours, but the corner of your mouth would give you away. You never were good at hiding how you felt—not on paper and not in those few moments I got to see you in person.

It took me only an hour to learn your tells, but once I did you were an open book.

Sorry to call you out, I just didn’t have anything remarkable happen today to make a proper opening. But that doesn’t mean I have nothing to write about.

I think I have a future now. One where there are more good days than bad. I still strive for more, I will never stop doing that, but when I look back on everything and everyone, I feel a strange sort of peace.

Maybe that’s why I keep writing to you.”

When he finishes he folds the note carefully and carries it to a small shrine in his home. He holds the note to the candle’s flame until the edges curl and blacken, then sets the note into a small dish.

He watches as the paper burns down to ash while the smoke rises. Stain used to burn all of Toshinori’s notes to maintain secrecy. And now, Toshinori burns them himself. He imagines his words are carried somewhere Stain might still read them.

People process grief in strange ways.

But they also process life.

So as he remains seated before the shrine, he doesn’t mourn or pray. He just breathes. And in stillness he finds a sense of contentment.

 

If I die, you will keep on living. If I die, all the lives I have influenced will keep on remembering.

I hold my hands out for more, because even after death there is life beyond me. The sky is filled with stars, billions of little lights that dance among us. So even when my light fades and I feel my consciousness flicker, I am reminded of the day you blindfolded me and told me to dance.

The carpet was soft beneath my feet, the music was quiet but too passionate to be a lullaby, and the lights danced across the fabric over my eyes.

I am reminded of your hands.

I couldn’t hear or see you then, but I knew you were smiling.

I am reminded of the conversation we had, as I raise my hands over my head.

My hands no longer grasp, for that is no longer my fight and hasn’t been for a while.

But it is with open hands that fingers entwine.

I smile and I grin, feeling my body stretch as I put forth the last of my strength into raising my arms as far as they can go. I spread my fingers, feeling my body strain. It is a beautiful feeling, trying and dreaming, but you already know that.

With open hands…

… I embrace you.

 

Fin.