“I get if you… can’t, Aizawa. But I don’t know who else to call.”
Aizawa freezes on the other side of the line.
Lotion spreads over pale hands that, for once, do not shiver in anticipation of the worst. It has been a few months now. Space respected. Distance carefully cast between them like a fragile boundary neither man wished to cross too suddenly. Maybe he should have called Recovery Girl, or someone far more medically qualified.
But Aizawa’s number is the first thing that surfaces through the flashing static in Toshinori’s mind.
It is meant to be comforting, but it comes out awkwardly to both All Might and Aizawa’s own ears. They choke down quiet laughter beneath the dim glow of the apartment lights. Aizawa was never particularly gifted at soft reassurance, yet Toshinori remembers being told to put his feet up beneath a midnight sky splattered with stardust and sleepless silence.
Aizawa resented Toshinori at first.
What a glorious show-off.
Perhaps he had not known him nearly as well as he believed. Toshinori carried himself like sunlight itself—radiant, overwhelming, untouchable. Yet beneath all that brilliance rested something achingly mortal.
Aizawa packs away the makeshift medical supplies carefully. The quiet between them is not stale yet.
“Take care of yourself,” Shouta says softly.
The silence afterward grows thick, tangled between them like branches woven together through flesh and thread alike, binding them in something unspoken. Something yearning.
Even downcast, Toshinori’s eyes undo him.
It is not supposed to happen again.
Because before Toshinori can stop himself—before his thoughts can catch up to the reckless pull in his chest—his fingers curl weakly around the edge of Aizawa’s sleeve.
And the carefully constructed wall of masked exhaustion and restrained emotion crumbles ever so slightly at the edges. Toshinori’s hands tremble as he rises to his feet, gently pulling Aizawa closer by the wrist, fingertips pressing against pale skin as though afraid he might disappear if held too loosely.
He is kissed before he can finish.
Aizawa arches into it instinctively, breath catching as hot, desperate kisses press against his lips like Toshinori has been starving for this. His body folds helplessly against All Might’s warmth while trembling hands thread through dark hair, pulling Shouta closer with aching hunger.
“Say you want me again,” Toshinori breathes against his mouth.
The words come out rough, fragile around the edges.
Aizawa’s head bows slightly as soft sounds escape him despite himself, quiet and wrecked and painfully human. Toshinori touches him like a man terrified of restraint, like someone standing at the edge of collapse and choosing desire anyway.
Their breathing tangles together in uneven rhythm. Heat coils thickly between them, dizzying and unbearable. Toshinori presses kisses against his jaw, his throat, his mouth again as though he cannot decide where he wishes to worship him most.
“I…” Aizawa gasps softly between each breathless collision of lips and tangled breaths. “I want you. Please…”
The confession falls apart beautifully between them.
And Toshinori looks at him then—not like the Symbol of Peace, not like All Might, but like a man utterly ruined by longing.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, voice low enough to melt straight through him. “Look at me.”
And perhaps this is the version of Toshinori Yagi no one else will ever truly know.
Just devastatingly, painfully hungry for him.
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