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Midoriya Izuku attains the title of Number One Hero when he is twenty-two years old.

Toshinori finds this out the way he discovers most things about Pro Hero Deku: an automatic alert sent straight to his cell phone.  "A notification is here! A notification is here!" his phone chirps cheerfully, and he checks the screen to see the headline of an article just published on Pro Hero Daily Digest.

New Number One: Deku Seizes the Crown, it says.

Toshinori taps on the screen and reads the entire article.  It's written by a reporter named Haihitsu Keiko, who is probably the single biggest Deku fan outside of anyone who has actually met Midoriya Izuku.  She must have had it stashed away on her hard drive, ready to publish the instant the rankings were released; the article is, predictably, fawning and verbose, describing in lurid detail all of Deku's exploits from his activities as the most famous student in UA's most famous class to last week's solo rescue of fifty-seven people from a derailed train car.  A few desultory sentences are spared for an entirely perfunctory acknowledgment of the now-dethroned Hawks, who no doubt will cede his place with good grace, as well as a few other heroes in the top ten, several of whom are Deku's peers and have long served as witnesses to his meteoric rise.

There's a mention of All Might, too: The most famous hero to ever hold the position of Number One is All Might, one of Deku's former instructors at UA.  While Deku has yet to rise to All Might's level, there is little doubt that he will one day surpass the man long rumored to be his mentor and become the new Greatest Hero Ever.

Toshinori smiles a bit at that, his eyes crinkling.  Good, he thinks.  He was always meant to be better than me.

He has always been better than me.

There are several photographs accompanying the article.  One is Deku's official profile picture, the one on his agency website and every official hero ranking.  In it he's smiling, looking just the tiniest bit bashful, his hair a frazzled mess.  Another is from a photo shoot that Izuku had deemed "the most embarrassing thing ever."  It's gritty and dark, all shades of gray with fog filling the air, a single beam of light throwing Deku's distinctive silhouette into relief as he stalks down a filthy alley; it is hilariously unlike Izuku in every way, but apparently sold quite well amongst a certain subset of Deku fans.  There are some candid photos, too: a wide-angle shot of Deku pinning a villain in the center of a crater fifty meters across; a shot taken with a telescopic lens capturing the sweat trickling down Deku's temple as he cast aside a two-ton slab of concrete during an urban rescue; a photo from Deku's high school graduation of him standing with several of his friends who are now also famous heroes, all of them beaming, so young and full of vim and vigor; a candid snapshot from a quiet moment at a charity event, Deku sitting with a little girl at an orphanage and playing with an All Might figurine just when he thought the cameras were turned away, his face gentle, his eyes soft.

They're all pictures of Pro Hero Deku, but Izuku shines through, sometimes.

Toshinori strokes his thumb over the pixels of Izuku's cheek, gazing for just a second too long.  Then he closes his eyes and closes the window, banishing those images of his successor from his screen and his mind alike.

You've done so well, Toshinori thinks wistfully.  You've outshone my every hope for you.

He inhales, long and slow.  Exhales.  Then, when he's steadied his nerves once again, he taps out a message, his long fingers poking awkwardly at the screen.  Congratulations to the new number one, he types out.  He hesitates, wavering.  I'm proud of you, he tries.  Deletes it.  You deserve it.  Delete.  I knew you would--Delete.

He swallows.  There's a familiar metallic taste in his mouth.

I can't wait to celebrate with you, he types out at last, slow and uncertain.  Congratulations, my boy.

Izuku is not a boy anymore, not by a long shot.  He's a grown man with his own apartment, his own bank account, his own hero agency.  A man full grown, with friends and colleagues and acquaintances that Toshinori does not know, a schedule Toshinori is not privilege to, a life in which Toshinori is only a tiny piece.  But Toshinori still addresses him the same way he always has--Young Midoriya, my boy--as though Midoriya Izuku were still a boy, an awkward, stammering, uncertain child with nothing to his name but a heart and a will and a sense of justice each a dozen times too big for his body.  Still a boy carving out his path in the world, a boy who looks at Toshinori with stars in his eyes and unwavering faith in his heart and words of salvation on his tongue.  Just a boy.

It is easier, in some ways, to pretend that Midoriya Izuku is just a boy, and Toshinori just his mentor.  Easier to accept a relationship that has not changed, that cannot change.

Toshinori stares at the words, simple and unadorned.  He adds an exclamation point, as though that will convey some of his old All Might exuberance. Then he presses the send arrow.  His phone jingles to announce that the message has been sent to join the dozens, perhaps hundreds, of congratulatory messages doubtlessly cluttering the inbox of the new number one.  It will surely take Izuku some time to go through them all; he has so many friends and loved ones who must want to express their joy and excitement and pride.  He'll probably sit down to go through them all at once, so flustered by the outpouring that his cheeks tinge pink.  Not now, of course--he's probably celebrating with his mother and his friends right now.  As he should be.  Toshinori doesn't expect a response right away; he knows better than to think that Izuku will--

His phone buzzes.  "A message is here!  A message is here!" it declares, and a startled Toshinori jerks and nearly drops it.  He scrambles after his phone, barely keeps it from hitting the floor.  Opens the message with shaky, weak fingers.

Thank you so much, All Might!  I never could have done it without you!

Toshinori can feel his heart clench in his chest.  It's a tangible sensation, just as real as a strained muscle or a broken bone, a bittersweet agony.  He closes his eyes and does not tremble.

He doesn't see Izuku as often as he would like.  Toshinori lives a quieter life now that he's retired from the pro hero circuit, true, but he's still a busy man--his students keep him on his toes, and now he actually has homework and tests to grade.  And Izuku is--well, Izuku's the top hero in Japan. He's busy helping people, rescuing people, protecting people, shining a great beacon of hope across the land.  He doesn't have time for a decrepit old man like Toshinori.

Izuku shouldn't have time for him.  But somehow, at this incredible moment in his career, when there must be hundreds of people clamoring for his attention, he has the time to instantly respond to Toshinori's text, as though he'd been waiting for it all along.  As though he'd been waiting for Toshinori all along.

The phone buzzes again.  Toshinori looks down.

And I can't wait to see you, too!  There's no one I want to celebrate with more. ＼(*^o^*)／

Toshinori swallows hard.  It isn't blood this time, just a lump in his throat.  He closes his eyes, rests his forehead against the screen of his phone, and just breathes, his heart aching.

The party to celebrate Deku's ascension to the pinnacle of Japanese heroics is an absolute spectacle, and Toshinori spends most of it lingering against the far wall, alone.

Deku Heroics has booked an enormous banquet hall for the occasion, and it seems like every single person who has ever played a positive role in Izuku's life has been invited.  It's practically a who's who of the hero world, a smorgasbord of fame and accomplishments.  All of Izuku's friends from UA are in attendance, and the entirety of his agency, and seemingly everyone he's ever worked with or for.  And they've all come to the gala decked in their finest, swirling dresses and sharp-cut suits and bejeweled clutches and mother-of-pearl cuff links.  Over here is Jirou Kyouka, wearing a snazzy pantsuit; over there is Shinsou Hitoshi, his normally wild hair gelled into submission.  Across the way is the Ice Hockey Hero: Slapshot, come all the way over from Canada; with her is Hatsume Mei, CEO of Hatsu-mei Inventions, who seems to be explaining the features of her magenta gown, which... seems to transform into plate armor.  At the enormous double doors, Tokoyami Fumikage walks in, wearing a pitch-black cape that may or may not be his quirk; he is immediately greeted by Izuku's top sidekick, Cityscaper, two years out of UA and a phenomenal sidekick for Deku with her charming earnestness, her keen wits, her eidetic memory, and a quirk that lets her track an entire city's electrical grid.  Snaking through the throngs of revelers is Toogata Mirio, offering his characteristic beaming grin and pausing to chat with every familiar face; beside him, Eri looks around quizzically at the crowds, plucking at her flowery skirt, until she finally grows impatient and tugs him on to the next person.  Even Aizawa is there, lurking in the far corner, his arms crossed mulishly, his hair tied back in a halfhearted attempt at sprucing up, the bags under his eyes even more pronounced than usual.  And is that Principal Nezu helping himself to some hors-d'oeuvres?

Toshinori goes to the bar for a drink--just oolong tea, to spare his absent stomach the strain of alcohol.  There, leaning lazily against the counter, is the freshly demoted Hawks, swirling whiskey in a glass and looking utterly unruffled by the fact that he's at a party celebrating his ouster.  "Well, if it isn't All Might.  Cheers," Hawks says, raising his glass.  "Hope you don't mind that I've joined the Former Number One Club."

"I'm not sure how I'm supposed to respond to that," Toshinori replies dryly.  "I feel like any answer would be an insult."

"You could give honesty a shot," Hawks says with aggressive good cheer.  "Let's get real, All Might.  You've been waiting for Deku to inherit your crown for a while now."

Yes, Toshinori thinks, and at the same time, no.  Izuku is his successor, of course, but it was never about the crown.  It was about so much more than that.  "It's less that I wanted him to inherit my crown and more that I hoped he would achieve his potential," Toshinori says.  "I always knew he could be a great hero.  Becoming number one was the fruit of his effort, not the goal."

Hawks lets out a gusty sigh.  "It's because you can say stuff like that and mean it that you were a better number one than me or Endeavor," he says, his tone deceptively idle.  "Deku, too.  He'll make a good top hero.  Speaking of which, have you seen the man of the hour?"

"Not yet," Toshinori admits.  "I assume he's busy talking with all his other guests."

"Everyone wants to make sure they don't miss their chance," Hawks says breezily.  "I should probably track him down and congratulate him, too."  He drains the rest of his whiskey, then slides his empty tumbler across the bar on a feather.  "You'd better get on that too, All Might.  You don't want to miss your chance."

And with that, Hawks turns and walks away, a raised hand his only farewell.  Toshinori watches him vanish into the crowds, then shrugs and returns his attention to his oolong tea.  He'd like to see Izuku, of course--wants nothing more than to catch his gaze and see those green eyes light up--but wherever in this vast banquet room Izuku might be right now, he's doubtlessly being swarmed by dozens of people, each one determined to snatch five minutes of his time.  Toshinori doesn't need to add to their number.

You don't want to miss your chance.

Toshinori shakes his head at himself.  The night is young; he'll have plenty of chances to congratulate Izuku later.  He takes his oolong tea and beats a retreat from the bar.

The former Symbol of Peace doesn't attract quite as much attention as he used to, but many of his onetime students are here, and even when he lingers at the fringes of the room, they still manage to find their way to him.  They approach him in ones and twos, and he gladly returns their greetings and spends a few minutes catching up on their lives. Iida Tenya is developing an organizational body to better promote cooperation and collaboration between pro heroes.  Aoyama Yuuga has started a fashion line.  Asui Tsuyu is launching a new rescue division at her agency.  It's nice to talk with them, to hear them wax eloquent about their jobs, their relationships, their work, their goals. They ask after his health and what he's been up to.  "I'm well, thank you," he says, discreetly tucking his bloodstained handkerchief out of sight.  "And the students, you know, they keep me busy."  It's the truth.  And when they invariably say something about Izuku, full of admiration and pride for their friend, Toshinori can't help but smile along.  He feels brittle, but his smile is heartfelt.

He spends the longest talking with Uraraka Ochako, chatting about her new agency.  After working as a sidekick for several years, she recently struck out to form her own agency; it's only been a couple of months since she hung out her shingle.  "I had no idea running your own agency was so much work," she says ruefully, shaking her head.  "I mean, of course I saw all the paperwork when I was a sidekick, but the load is a lot heavier when you're the one in charge."

"It's more work than you'd think it would be," Toshinori agrees.  He remembers full well all the work that had gone on behind the scenes; even with Sir Nighteye mopping up most of it, he'd spent far too many hours doing boring, toilsome gruntwork.  "But it's worth it, I trust?"

Uraraka grins broadly, her face lighting up, and for a moment it's like she's sixteen again.  Goodness, they're all so young.  It makes Toshinori feel old.  "Of course it is!" she declares.  "I mean, I don't know if we'll ever become one of the big-name agencies, but that doesn't mean we can't do good!"

"I have full faith in you, Young Uraraka!" Toshinori says, with a bit of his old All Might boom.  "You are a fine hero, and--"

And then, from the corner of his eye, Toshinori spots him.

Halfway across the room is Izuku, wearing a three-piece suit, charcoal gray, with lapels trimmed in gold.  He's gotten a haircut, although it's done little to tame his mane.  He's currently surrounded by a handful of his old classmates, gesticulating as he speaks.  As ever, his face is so expressive; there's a bit of a blush to his cheeks, as though he's a bit sheepish about all the fuss being made over him, but the wrinkle in his brow has smoothed out, and the crinkle around his eyes betrays the sincerity of his broad smile, utterly without guile or affect.  Objectively speaking, Izuku isn't the most conventionally attractive man; he has his broad shoulders and cut physique to commend him, of course, but he's still a bit on the short side, and there's still a too-boyish softness to his face, and his hair is still hopelessly frizzy and out of control.  But objectivity is something Toshinori has never had as far as Izuku is concerned, and he could spend hours just watching Izuku's face--the ways a quirk of his eyebrows can suggest bafflement or intense focus, the way a twitch of his lips can turn his smile from bashful to dangerous, the way the fire in his eyes can burn hot or cold.  The expression on Izuku's face betrays the contents of his soul.

"All Might?"

Toshinori snaps out of his reverie and jerks her attention back to Uraraka.  She's gazing at him a bit quizzically. She turns and looks over her shoulder as though trying to follow his gaze, and then understanding dawns.  "Oh, Deku-kun!  There he is!  I was wondering where he'd gotten off to."  She turns back to Toshinori, beaming.  "Have you said hello to him yet?"

Toshinori dredges up a weak smile.  "Not yet," he answers.

He's about to tack on some excuse--I thought I'd let his friends have him first, or I didn't want to interrupt--but Uraraka doesn't let him get a word in edgewise.  "What are you waiting for?" she exclaims.  "Come on, let's go say hi!  I can't believe you haven't talked to him yet!"  And she foists his empty glass off onto a passing busboy, latches onto his arm, and draws him across the floor, brooking no refusal.

She's a force of nature, Uraraka Ochako.

It's instantly clear when Izuku notices their approach: his eyes go wide, just a little, and then excitement blooms across his face.  He says something to his current crowd--making his excuses, if the responding chorus of voices and the energetic slap on the back from Kirishima are any indication.  Then he swivels away from them and makes a beeline for Toshinori, his gaze steady and unswerving.

"Look who I found!" Uraraka gleefully announces.

"All Might!" Izuku says.  "Thank you so much for coming!"  And the raw earnestness in his voice makes Toshinori's heartbeat stutter, and the brightness of his smile is so blinding that Toshinori wishes he could bring himself to avert his eyes, and the sheer affection in his voice makes Toshinori realize anew that no matter how great a folly it may be, hope springs eternal.

Toshinori is a good liar.  He'd have to be, to be able to keep secret his deteriorating condition for some seven years and One for All for decades.  But he doesn't know if he can keep the truth off his face when he sees Izuku looking at him like that.

"I'm going to go talk to Tsuyu-chan," Uraraka announces.  "It was good to talk to you, All Might!"  And she vanishes into the crowds, leaving them alone in a sea of people.

Toshinori swallows.  He wants to put his hands on Izuku's shoulders, or rumple his hair affectionately, or hug him.  His body buzzes with the need to reach out, to touch, to express everything he feels at Izuku's achievement--all the pride and awe and humility and gratitude and--and--

But he keeps his arms firmly by his sides, and his hands dangle, limp and useless.

"Young Midoriya," he says.  His voice is a bit rough; he coughs to clear it.  "Congratulations."

It's so small, so insignificant.  Not nearly enough; only a single word.  But Izuku has always placed him on a pedestal, and that one bit of praise is enough to make him swell up with pride.  "Thank you," he says fervently.

"I mean it," Toshinori says.  "I'm very proud of you."  The words come of their own volition.  "Not because you've become the number one hero, but because of all you've done to deserve it.  You're a fine hero, my boy.  And I always knew you would be, but now the rest of Japan knows it, too."

Izuku looks absolutely thunderstruck, as though he hasn't spent all evening listening to people sing his praises.  As though Toshinori's approval still means something special to him.

Toshinori rejects this idea immediately; it is a too-dangerous train of thought to follow.  But still, Izuku looks overwhelmed.  "Thank you," he says, his voice thick.  "That--that means a lot, coming from you."

"You've earned it," Toshinori replies.

Izuku's eyes are a bit misty.  "Thank you," he says again.  Then he laughs, a bit wobbly.  "I--I still almost can't believe it's real, you know?  I always dreamed of becoming a hero like you, but--"

"You've done me one better, Young Midoriya," Toshinori says.  "You've become your own hero."

Izuku blinks rapidly.  "All Might," he says, his voice awed, gazing up at Toshinori with an expression that--

But whatever kind of expression it may be, Toshinori doesn't find out, because a voice growls, "Deku," and instantly, the look is wiped clean off Izuku's face.  Izuku whirls around, his eyes wide.

"Young Bakugou," Toshinori says by way of greeting.

"Kacchan," Izuku says quietly.

Bakugou Katsuki stands with his hands shoved in his pockets, his tie slightly askew, and his trademark scowl fixed on his face.  He doesn't look happy to be here, but he doesn't precisely look displeased, either.  Izuku, too, wears a neutral, dispassionate expression.  Toshinori isn't privy to the inner workings of their relationship, not to the extent he was when they were his students, but he's gathered that they've settled into a sort of professional respect and understanding.  Perhaps they'll never like each other, at least not by any traditional definition, but the stormy waters of their past seem to be exactly that--the past.

"Let's talk," Bakugou says gruffly, his eyes boring fiery and relentless into Izuku.

Izuku lets out a faint sigh, then glances askance at Toshinori.  "All Might--"

"We can talk later, my boy," Toshinori assures him.  "I won't monopolize your time."

Izuku hesitates, then nods reluctantly.  "Later, then," he says, like a promise.

Bakugou's sour expression twitches.  "All Might," he says grudgingly, inclining his head in an abbreviated nod of his own.

Toshinori smiles at them, then retreats, leaving them to their conversation.  At least he's fairly confident it won't turn violent; Bakugou is nearly as explosive as he ever was, but he's at least developed a modicum of restraint over the years.

Toshinori works his way back to the edges of the room, though he pauses to offer smiles and greetings to people he knows and gets looped into a few brief conversations for his efforts.  When he finally gets free, he helps himself to some hors-d'oeuvres, a small amount his digestive system can handle, and then another oolong tea to wash it down.

The entire time, he watches the room from the sidelines, just watching.

Izuku's conversation with Bakugou seems to have ended more or less peaceably; he's now circling through the room, greeting more friends and colleagues and supporters, accepting their congratulations with self-effacing smiles and waving off their compliments with a blush that threatens to rise at a moment's notice.  His suit is perfectly tailored to show off the line of his shoulders.  His scarred hands gesture expansively as he gets caught up in conversation.  He is never left alone, because every single person in this room wants to approach him, speak to him, offer their congratulations and bask in the aura of his presence--

And from the corner of the room, Toshinori watches, a thick lump in his throat, his heart twisting uncomfortably in his chest.

You don't want to miss your chance, Hawks said.  But Toshinori watches Izuku, as distant and glorious as the most brilliant star, and somewhere, in some deep, secret corner of his mind, a voice whispers, I never had a chance in the first place.

Toshinori stays at the party long enough to be polite.  When general inebriation levels have risen to the point that he thinks he can escape unnoticed, he makes his way towards the exit, skirting the crowds.

The top sidekick at Deku Heroics manages to catch him anyway.

Cityscaper is slight and spry and has electricity in her eyes; it's a bit discomfiting to meet her gaze straight on.  "Sensei!" she exclaims--she, too, was one of his students.  "Are you leaving already?"

"Some of us can't keep up with you youngsters," Toshinori replies wryly.  "I don't have the energy to stay out all night anymore."

Cityscaper cackles at that.  "That's okay, old man, we understand," she jibes.  "Thanks for coming, though.  Have you said bye to Deku?"

"I couldn't find him in the crowds," Toshinori lies.

"That's okay, hold on a jiffy," Cityscaper says.  The electricity in her eyes crackles, and then her head turns.  "There he is," she says.

Toshinori glances in the direction she's looking.  Izuku is there, speaking with someone too short for Toshinori to see.  "That's a new trick," he remarks.  "Very impressive, Young Denseki."

Cityscaper shrugs modestly, but there's a self-satisfied gleam in her eye.  "The human body has electrical currents, too," she says.  "They're just a lot harder to monitor.  I still can't really do it for anyone outside of the agency other than my own family, but, well, I'm working on it."  She nods in Izuku's direction.  "Hold on, let me get his attention."

She places her hand on the wall, and a moment later, one of the lights overhead flickers.  It isn't much, so insignificant that Toshinori barely even notices it, but Deku's head immediately swivels, his expression morphing into one of wariness.  He clearly knows Cityscaper's stationed at the doors, because his gaze settles on her almost immediately.

Cityscaper gestures dramatically at Toshinori, then indicates the double doors.  Izuku's eyes slide over to Toshinori, and then understanding washes over his face.

"That's not necessary," Toshinori murmurs.

"Yes, it is," Cityscaper says crisply.  "Deku would kill me if I let you walk out of here without saying goodbye.  And it's too late, anyway."

It is too late; Izuku is already on his way.  He arrives in short order, looking distressingly distressed.  "All Might!" he exclaims.  "Are you leaving already?"

"He's an old man," Cityscaper chirps.  "Cut him some slack, Deku, it's past his bedtime."

Izuku gapes, absolutely appalled.  "He's not old!" he protests.

Toshinori is old.  He's old, washed-out, wasted away.  He's old, and it makes Izuku seem all the younger.  Izuku is young, so young, just coming into his prime--his entire life ahead of him, a dazzling future laid out before his feet.  He doesn't need to be weighed down by a rickety old mentor who can't pull himself away, who clings on in hopes of receiving the slightest flicker of a smile or a single affectionate glance.

But Toshinori doesn't say that.  "I'm old enough that it's about time for me to call it a night," he says instead, and he smiles, too, to cut the sting.

Izuku looks crestfallen.  "But I barely got to talk to you," he mumbles.

"That's all right," Toshinori replies.  "There are a lot of people here to celebrate with you tonight."

Izuku's expression goes firm with resolve.  "A rain check, then," he says, not quite a command, not quite a request.  "I want to celebrate properly with you--you're the reason I'm even here, after all.  Can we do dinner sometime?  Or coffee?"

And Toshinori is torn so many ways.  I'm not the reason for any of this, he thinks, your accomplishments are yours, you would have found a way to become a hero even without me.  And, Everyone is here to celebrate with you, I'm not special, there's no reason to celebrate properly with me.  And, I will always make time for you.

So he smiles, a bit helplessly, and says, "Of course, Young Midoriya.  I think we can both find enough time in our schedules to fit in a coffee."

And Izuku lights up at that, as though it means to him what it means to Toshinori, as though--

Toshinori quashes those thoughts.  But all the same, when Izuku invites him to coffee, he agrees.  Because he has never refused an invitation from Izuku, and to be honest, he's not sure he ever could, no matter how much it might hurt.

Toshinori has arrived back home and is in the process of hanging up his suit when the text arrives.  "A message is here!  A message is here!" his phone proclaims, and Toshinori tugs at his tie with one hand as he picks up his phone with the other.

It's from Izuku.

Toshinori pauses, his fingers half-dug into the knot of his tie.  Izuku should still be caught up in the festivities, the party still in full swing.  But no, Toshinori hasn't misread anything; the LINE alert announces it in bold letters, Young Midoriya.

Toshinori unlocks his phone and opens LINE.

The timestamp for Izuku's message is one minute ago.  Thank you so much for coming tonight, All Might!  It was so great to see you.

A moment later, a stamp pops up on the screen--a Deku stamp, of all things.  Of course the new number one hero now has his own stamp set on LINE.  "Thank you very much!" Izuku's voice squeaks from the phone, while the image of Deku bows repeatedly.  It's almost unbearably adorable.

Another message swiftly follows.  Is Sunday still the best day for you?  I've got a lot on my plate this weekend, but I should be able to do next Sunday!

Toshinori finishes pulling his tie off, goes to his desk, fetches his planner from his briefcase.  He teaches classes six days a week, but Sundays he almost always has off, and next Sunday is no different; his schedule is wide open.  I'm free next Sunday, he types back in reply.  I know a good cafe.  How about 3?

Izuku's response is immediate.  Sounds good!  Please send me the address when you can!  Then another Deku stamp, this one of him with a big grin.

Toshinori looks up the address of the cafe and sends it to Izuku.  I'm looking forward to it, he adds.

Izuku's response is a thumbs-up Deku stamp.  Toshinori stares at the screen for several more minutes, anxiously twitching his fingers, but no more messages arrive.  Izuku must have gone back to his party.

Suddenly, Toshinori feels deflated.  He drops down into the nearest chair, sinking into the cushions with a sigh.  He tilts his head back and stares blankly at the ceiling.  His mouth is dry, but he can't find the energy to get up for a glass of water.

Instead, he lifts the phone again, gazing at the string of messages.  The tiny images of Deku all grin at him, making his heart roil something fierce.

Even he thinks it's kind of silly and pathetic, but he taps the icon for the LINE stamp store and buys the set of Deku stamps.  Each one plays a recording of Izuku's voice when tapped.  "I'll try my best!" one declares.  "I'm so sorry!" another apologizes.  "Good night," a third mumbles sleepily.  There are two dozen in the set, and Toshinori clicks them all, one by one, and closes his eyes as he listens to Izuku's voice.

Cafe Haruji is a humble, unobtrusive place, a small family business on the first floor of an otherwise unremarkable Japanese house.  A chalk sandwich-board sign in front announces their daily specials, and wrought-iron letters spell out HARUJI above the door in a flowery font.  It's tucked away on a largely residential street, a few blocks down from a more commercial area--close enough for easy access, far enough that very few people stumble upon it and wander in on a whim.  Inside, the cafe is warm and intimate.  It's not the kind of place where anyone expects to find professional heroes, be they retired or currently active, and that's why Toshinori goes there with some regularity.

Izuku, though, has never been here before.  When they go inside, he looks all around, assessment giving way to approval.  There are only a few other customers--a couple in the back corner, a single man with a computer tucked against the far wall--and none of them give Izuku or Toshinori a second glance.  The waitress clearly recognizes Izuku--even dressed in casual clothes, he's instantly recognizable--but she betrays no reaction but a momentary widening of her eyes; like a professional, she quickly gathers herself together.  "Feel free to sit wherever you'd like," she says politely, and she brings them menus as soon as they've settled down.

Toshinori sets his menu aside without glancing at it.  Izuku notices.  "Have you been here before, All Might?" he asks.

"A number of times," Toshinori replies.  "It's a nice place to go when you want to get a coffee without being mobbed by fans."

"That's nice," Izuku says, a touch of rue in his voice; he has plenty of his own experience being recognized by fans in public, and no doubt it's only gotten worse in the past couple of weeks since being named Japan's top hero.  "Don't get me wrong, I love interacting with fans!" he hurries to add, waving his hands.  "I appreciate their support!  But--"

"You don't need to explain to me, Young Midoriya," Toshinori says with a chuckle.  "I understand."

Izuku's expression turns to relief.  "Of course you do," he says.  "Well.  It's nice to have a quiet outing sometimes."  He scans the menu quickly, his eyes darting back and forth.  It's a short menu; coffees and teas cover most of the single page, while the food selection is limited to a handful of cakes and other sweets at the bottom.  "What's good?" Izuku asks.

"I don't think you can go wrong with any of the drinks," Toshinori replies.  "As for the desserts, well, I like the cheesecake.  But I have it on good authority from Naomasa that the mille crepe cake and the strawberry shortcake are both excellent."

They don't have to call for the waitress; she comes over without prompting, her notepad at the ready.  "Have you decided?" she asks.

Toshinori orders the cheesecake and a cafe latte.  Izuku dithers a bit before settling on an iced coffee and the aforementioned strawberry shortcake.  "How did you even find this place?" Izuku asks, once the waitress has taken their menus and retreated to the kitchen.  "It's kind of out of the way."

Toshinori feels a smile tugging at his lips; it's a good memory.  "There's a funny story to that," he says.  "I saved someone from a villain attack, a number of years back.  He was so grateful that he wanted to treat me to a cup of coffee at his cafe."

Izuku's eyes go wide.  "The owner?" he exclaims.

Toshinori laughs.  "The owner's father," he says.  "It was quite a while back--some twenty years, maybe more.  He retired and handed the business over to his daughter a few years ago.  But the coffee is as good as ever, so I keep coming."

Toshinori tells the story of how he saved the former owner's life.  It's an exciting and slightly odd tale involving a stand-off between rival villains, a half-built house, and the unfortunate appearance of a political sound truck at the most inopportune time.  He's just winding up when their waitress returns to place two tiny plates of cake and two cups of coffee on the table before them.  "Enjoy," she says, clutching her tray.  She lingers for a moment, her eyes fixed on Izuku, the awe of hero-worship beginning to creep over her expression, but thankfully, she leaves them be.

They spend a few moments admiring their food; Izuku pulls out his cell phone and snaps a picture of his strawberry shortcake.  "Don't laugh at me," he mutters, tapping away on his phone.  "This is entirely Cityscaper's fault.  Did you know she takes pictures of all of her food?  I mean all of it.  She'll take pictures of cup ramen, even.  And I swear it's contagious--now the entire agency does it."

Izuku's words are complaints, but the fondness in his voice is clear.  Toshinori chuckles.  "If the Number One Hero wants to take pictures of his cake, the Number One Hero is allowed to take pictures of his cake," he says.

Izuku tucks his cell phone away, his face going a bit pink.  "Stop it," he mutters, tousling his hair a bit sheepishly.  "I get enough of that from everyone else, I don't need it from you, too."

"It's a great accomplishment, Young Midoriya," Toshinori says gravely.  "And we are here to celebrate it."  He lifts his latte.  "So congratulations to the new Number One Hero.  You've earned every bit of it."

Izuku's still blushing, pink all the way to his ears, but he clinks his glass against Toshinori's mug anyway.  "Thank you, All Might." 

Toshinori takes a sip of his latte.  It's delicious as always, rich, just the right amount of bitterness.  "So tell me, Young Midoriya," he says.  "How is it, being the number one hero?"

To his credit, Izuku doesn't respond right away.  He stirs some gum syrup into his iced coffee, his brow furrowed thoughtfully.   "It's strange," he admits at last.  He taps his spoon against the rim of the glass, ting ting ting, and sets it aside to take a sip.  His eyebrows go up.  "This is some good iced coffee," he says, looking down at it as though impressed, then takes another sip before continuing.  "In some ways, it feels like nothing's changed, you know?  I still have an agency to run.  I still have a job to do.  I'm still the same Pro Hero Deku I was before."

"But?" Toshinori asks.  He senses there's a but.

Izuku takes a bite of his shortcake, makes a pleased sound, takes another bite.  But for all that he seems to be enjoying his cake, his expression is still complicated.  "But it's not the same, is it?"  He glances up at Toshinori.  "It's different.  People look at you differently when you're the number one hero."

"Yes," Toshinori says simply.  "They do."

They lapse into silence for a minute, nibbling at cake and sipping at coffee.  Even without words, Toshinori is happy, just like this, happy to share this moment in time.  But he senses Izuku has more to say.

He might have pressed, once upon a time.  But Izuku is no longer his student, no longer his protégé.  He's his own man, a hero grown, the number one hero, and it isn't Toshinori's place to press.

There are so many ways it is not his place, so many things he has no right to say.  So many things he has no right to want. 

Still, Izuku eventually does speak up.  "I don't mind the expectations," he says.  He prods pensively at a stray slice of strawberry.  "This is what I wanted--to become a hero everyone can look up to, the kind of hero who can save everyone.  But the title of Number One is--it's big.  And when people think of Number One Hero, they don't think of me, or Hawks, or Endeavor.  They still think of you."  He looks up at Toshinori, determination writ large across his face.  "The title of Number One Hero means what it does because of you, All Might.  And I want to live up to that.  I don't want to let you down."

The words alone are enough to knock the air out of him.  Toshinori struggles to breathe, nearly overwhelmed.  "My boy," he says at last, choked by emotion, "I can't imagine how you could ever let me down."

Izuku swallows.  "All Might," he whispers--

And then the front of the building explodes.

It's an enormous boom and crash, a sharp crack of shattering glass and a low earth-rending rumble.  It's the sound of destruction and chaos, a sound Toshinori is intimately familiar with it.  He moves on instinct, faster than thought.

Izuku is faster still.

Quick as a whip, the table is yanked and goes tumbling to the floor, and with a crackle of green electricity, Izuku hauls Toshinori behind it.  Toshinori hits the floor with a heavy thud, the wind knocked from his sole lung, but there's no time to be dazed, no time to even think.  Something slams into the face of the table they're huddled behind, but their makeshift shield is sturdy, and it holds against the assault.  The rest of the cafe is not so lucky; shouts and screams fill the air, and the building groans ominously.  A creaking sound emanates from above, and Toshinori ducks and covers his head.  Izuku pushes him down protectively, raises an arm, knocks aside a piece of the ceiling as it comes tumbling down.  "All Might!" he shouts.

Toshinori opens his mouth and immediately coughs on the dust and smoke filling the air.  His chest constricts, but he forces the words out.  "I'm fine," he grits out.  "I'll evacuate the building.  You go stop the villain!"

Izuku stares at him, eyes alight, clearly torn.  "But--"

"I'm fine!" Toshinori shouts.  "Go!"

Izuku's expression hardens, and then, in a flash, he's gone.

Toshinori is not fine; he hit the floor hard, and the spike of pain in his battered left side and the taste of copper in his mouth both let him know that he's going to walk out of here with more than a bit of bruising.  Still, he pushes himself upright with a pained grunt, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, ignores the smear of crimson left behind.  He hauls himself to his feet and looks around the ruined cafe.  The scene before him is straight out of a nightmare--tables and chairs upturned and smashed, light fixtures dangling by crackling wires, smoke filling the air and making everything dim and hazy.  Somewhere, someone is sobbing.

Toshinori pushes aside the table, stumbles over the cracked floor, follows the hysterically sobbing voice.  The main counter is broken, a sizeable chunk twisted at an angle; he yanks at the fragmented hunk until it finally dislodges.  Huddled beneath it is the waitress, her hair torn out of its ponytail, her cheeks streaked with tears, the sleeve of her white blouse stippled with blood.  Her eyes go wide and fill with desperate hope when she sees him.

Despite the agony lacing his left side and the swell of blood in his mouth, it is no effort to dredge up a smile.  "It's all right," he says, extending a hand.  "I'm here."

Toshinori is no longer All Might, no longer the wielder of One For All, no longer even half the man he used to be.  But he will always, always be a hero.

Toshinori helps the waitress, the three other patrons, and the family who run the cafe escape.  He's just dragging out the very last person--the teenage son of the proprietors, who has broken his leg and cannot walk without assistance--when a wailing ambulance comes careening around the corner.  Within moments, paramedics are going from victim to victim, checking injuries and urging people away from the dangerously listing building.

Toshinori deposits the injured young man with one of the paramedics.  "What about you, sir?  Do you have any injuries?" the paramedic asks.

"Nothing major," Toshinori says, shaking his head.  The ache in his left side is quite real, but he's pretty sure he hasn't broken any ribs, and that means it's nothing that a paramedic can fix.  Besides, there are bigger concerns at hand.

Where is Young Midoriya?

Now that Toshinori is out of immediate peril, anxiety rears its ugly head.  It's not that he doubts Izuku's ability to protect himself--Izuku is in many ways still the brash, headstrong boy he used to be, but being a pro hero has instilled in him a sense of self-preservation that UA never quite could.  Izuku can take care of himself, Toshinori knows.  But all the same, no hero is indestructible; no hero cannot be felled.

Just look at All Might.

Toshinori surveys the area, one hand pressed to his still-tender side.  He's still not entirely sure what villain attacked the cafe or what kind of quirk was used, but the cafe was clearly not the original target: there's a trail of destruction extending several blocks, all the way back to the commercial street a few hundred meters down.  Toshinori has never seen a tornado in person, but he's run into similar enough quirks before, and the scene of devastation is eerily similar.

There's no sign of the villain, or of Izuku.

Toshinori distances himself from where the paramedics are tending the injured, leans against a utility pole, and pulls his cell phone out of his pocket.  He doesn't call Izuku, doesn't dare risk it; if Izuku is still caught up in the middle of a villain fight, the last thing he needs is to be distracted by a phone call.  But the urge is very real.

Toshinori swallows and goes to his messages.  The last message from Izuku is still the one from earlier this morning confirming their coffee date.  Toshinori hurriedly types out a message:  Everyone got out with minimal injuries.  Please let me know when you're safe.

When you're safe.  Not if.  When.

Izuku will be safe.  He has to be.

His phone chimes to announce that it has sent the message.  Toshinori stares at it for several long moments, but the unread label does not change.

At a loss, Toshinori remains on the scene.  The police will arrive soon, and they'll want to take a statement.  But more than that, he doesn't want to go home.  What if Izuku comes back here?  He probably will, assuming he doesn't get himself hurt too badly.  He'll want to come back to make sure that everyone in the cafe got out all right.  And Toshinori doesn't want him to arrive back at the scene only to find himself abandoned.

So he waits there, waves off the paramedics' repeated questions, talks to the police when they arrive.  His side throbs with pain, and exhaustion weighs down his shoulders, but he waits, just in case.  Just in case.

He's just trading farewells with the police when he hears a voice shout out from halfway down the street.  "All Might!"

Toshinori whirls around, because he knows that voice, he'd know that voice anywhere.  "Young Midoriya, my boy," he breathes.

Izuku skids to a stop in front of Toshinori.  He's clearly a bit worse for the wear; his clothing is ripped and smokey, with one of his jacket sleeves torn clean off at the elbow, and his face is smeared with sweat and dirt.  But he walks normally, stands normally, no indication of any injury, and that alone is enough to nearly bowl Toshinori over with relief.  So, too, is the expression on his face--raw, naked concern, without the tenseness that comes from keeping pain at bay.

"You're all right," Toshinori says, a bit numbly.

"I'm fine," Izuku assures him.  "What about you?  Are you okay?  You aren't hurt, are you?"

"I'm fine," Toshinori says.  His muscle form is beyond him now, of course, but he puffs his chest out all the same.  "Just a few scratches, nothing more."

But Izuku's face darkens, and that's when Toshinori realizes, belatedly, that he's still holding his aching left side.

Izuku glares at him.  "You're not okay, are you?" he accuses.  "Did you have a paramedic look at you?  Do you need to go to the hospital?  Is--"

"Young Midoriya!  I'm all right, I promise--"

And then Toshinori ruins it by coughing violently.  He covers his mouth with one hand, gropes for his handkerchief with the other.  When he at last finds it, he presses it against his mouth, but he keeps hacking, loud and wretched, so violently he hunches over on himself.  He can feel Izuku's hand on his back, rubbing slow circles; it doesn't alleviate his coughing, but it sparks a little ember of warmth in him nevertheless.

Eventually, the hacking and wheezing finally subside, and Toshinori takes a weak, rattling breath.  His throat feels battered and sore, and the tightness in his chest does not ease, but at least he can breathe.  With a sigh of relief, he straightens, discreetly wiping away the saliva and blood.

It isn't discreet enough.  Izuku's eyes are narrow.  "You really should see a doctor," he says.

"I don't need to see a doctor, Young Midoriya," Toshinori replies wearily, tucking his handkerchief away.

"Then Recovery Girl--"

"That really isn't necessary."

"Then at least a paramedic," Izuku argues.  "What if you have a broken rib?  What if you have internal bleeding?  What if you just pass out and--"

"My boy, please.  I'm fine."

"But I'm worried about you!" Izuku blurts.

Stunned into silence, Toshinori gapes.  Izuku bites his lip and averts his eyes, but forges on.  "I'm worried about you, All Might," he repeats, more quietly this time.  "You don't take care of yourself, and you never want to let people know if you're hurt, and--" he breaks off for a moment, his hands clenching into fists.  Then he looks sharply up, his gaze fierce.  "At least come over," he presses.  "I can't make you go to the doctor, but I'd feel better if you had someone with you to keep an eye on you for a couple of hours.  I have a first aid kit.  Let me take a look at you and just make sure you aren't about to keel over."  Then he plasters on a weak smile.  "And we can actually finish a cup of coffee this time."

Toshinori can't help but laugh a bit at that.  It's true; neither of them had the chance to finish their coffees.  And oh, he wants that--to sit down in Izuku's kitchen with a cup of coffee, just the two of them, quiet and comfortable and intimate--

"All right," Toshinori says at last, surrendering.  "All right."

Izuku immediately brightens.  "Thank you," he says fervently, and he springs into action, flagging down one of the police officers.  Despite his lack of costume and support gear, he's in full Deku mode, and the officer, a young man probably about the same age, is obviously overwhelmed.  Soon Izuku and Toshinori are getting into the back of a police car, hitching a ride to Izuku's apartment.

Toshinori has never seen where Izuku lives, but it's the exact sort of place he imagined--a nice part of town, very central, in a large, new, high-security apartment building.  Izuku has staked out prime real estate--top floor, corner unit, facing south--and while it's hardly expansive, it certainly has more floor space than the average 22-year-old can afford.  The guard posted at the entrance and the security cameras can't come cheap, either.  Being a top hero pays well; it also makes paying extra for security a worthwhile expenditure.

"Pardon the intrusion," Toshinori says as he slips off his shoes in the genkan.  It takes more effort than he'd like to admit; crouching down sends a sudden pulse of pain through his torso.  He freezes, then gingerly lowers himself the rest of the way down, biting back a wince.  He unties his shoes, braces himself, and straightens again.

Izuku is staring at him with narrowed eyes and a displeased expression.  "You're hurt," he says.  It isn't a question.

Toshinori sighs.  "It's not as bad as it seems," he says.  "It's the same old thing, Young Midoriya, nothing for you to concern yourself about."

"Too late, I'm already concerned," Izuku counters.  "Come on.  Sit down and let me take a look."

Nonplussed, Toshinori finds himself being bullied into the living room.   "Sit," Izuku says sternly, and Toshinori sits down heavily on the sofa, exhaling all the tension.  "Stay there, and don't move," Izuku orders.  He vanishes around the corner, and a series of bumps and clatters emanates from the next room.

Toshinori glances around the living room, curious despite himself.  There isn't quite as much hero paraphernalia as he'd expected.  Yes, the shelves of the TV unit do display a few figurines, and there's a retro All Might poster framed on the wall, and the blanket draped over the back of the sofa has a distinctive color scheme that Toshinori remembers very well from his own closet.  But compared to the inside of Izuku's dorm room at UA, this is positively restrained.

Just one more way in which Izuku has moved on, moved past the boy who so admired All Might.

Izuku returns, carrying a large white case.  The red cross on the lid declares its contents.  Toshinori sighs at the sight.  "Young Midoriya--"

"Just let me take a look," Izuku says.  Then, more softly, "Please?"

Toshinori sighs again, but he knows better than to argue.  He lifts the hem of his shirt.

Izuku hisses.  Toshinori closes his eyes.  "It's not that bad," he says.

"It's always bad," Izuku retorts, and Toshinori can't even argue.  He's seen it every day of his life for the past dozen years; he knows the state his body is in.  But then Izuku's expression softens.  "But maybe it's not as bad as I thought," he allows, and gently, he brushes his fingertips against the twisted scar tissue.

Toshinori's breath hitches.  It doesn't hurt; Izuku's touch is feather-light, as gentle as a butterfly alighting on a flower, and if anything, the scar tissue is so tough and deadened that it's a miracle Toshinori can feel anything at all.  But even if he can't feel anything more than a vague pressure, it's still enough to make his breath catch and his head spin.  Because Izuku's touch is gentle, so gentle, like he's touching something delicate and precious--

And Toshinori's heart aches, far more keenly than the bruised flesh beneath Izuku's fingers.

Izuku's brow furrows.  "It just looks like some bad bruising," he says at last.  "Do you want to ice it?"

Toshinori swallows.  His throat is dry; he's not sure he can speak without croaking.  "I don't think I need it," he says at last; his voice emerges only a little hoarse.  "I bruise a lot more easily there.  I'm used to it by now."

Izuku nods his acquiescence, but he doesn't pull his hand away.  Instead he presses it against the scar, palm to ruined flesh.  "It's not fair," he says.  His voice is rough, and his hand is just barely trembling, so slightly Toshinori thinks he might be imagining it.  "It's not fair, what happened to you."

"Life has been fairer to me than I could have hoped," Toshinori replies.  "I was supposed to die years ago, remember.  Instead I'm here, teaching the next generation of heroes and watching my successor accomplish more than I could have possibly dreamed.  This is a small price to pay, my boy, for all the good I have in my life now."

Izuku ducks his head.  "Still," he says, and now there's a hint of wetness in his voice.  "You deserve better than this.  You've done so much for so many people, and--you deserve better than this."

"It is not always about what we deserve, Young Midoriya," Toshinori says, and somehow, his voice does not break.

Life has never been about who deserves what.  Perhaps Toshinori did not deserve this, but here he is anyway.  Shimura Nana, too, did not deserve the end she met, but she still died broken and alone.  And Izuku deserves a better mentor, one who does not look at him the way Toshinori does, with that boundless, yearning, desperate, hopeless--

--but instead, he has Toshinori, and all the emotion that swells up too strongly for Toshinori's exhausted heart to contain.

Izuku sniffs, but when he lifts his head, he's dry-eyed.  "Still," he says, more firmly now.  "You shouldn't have to live with this.  Maybe Eri-chan," and then he breaks off, his expression already falling.

Toshinori lets out a slow sigh.  "She's not up for that yet," he says gently.  "And she might never be."

Izuku bites his lip, downcast, but he doesn't argue.  Eri's quirk is incredibly powerful, and her control is leaps and bounds over where it was even a year ago.  But she still can't rewind by more than a couple of months without her quirk going runaway, and she still can't reliably target specific areas.  She wouldn't be able to rewind only Toshinori's injuries without also rewinding the rest of him, and if she were to try, she might end up rewinding him straight out of existence.  Eri just can't do it, not yet, maybe not ever, and Izuku knows that just as well as anyone.

But even if she could do it, Toshinori doesn't know that he would ask her.  This body, this wrung-out, beaten-down body, is his.  For better or for worse, this is him, now, and for all that's happened, he does not want to cast it aside like it means nothing.  It has caused him great pain, yes, but so too has it brought him much to be thankful for.

Were it not for the failures of this broken body, would Izuku even be here with him today?  Surely not.  If Izuku had not discovered the truth about All Might, all those years ago, he might have lost his dreams of heroism, and Japan would have lost Deku, and Toshinori would have lost far more than a successor.

Toshinori would have lost far more than he can even bear to imagine.

Gently, he puts his hand on Izuku's.  "It's all right, Young Midoriya," he says quietly.  "I've made my peace with it.  You should, too."

Izuku nods, a bit jerkily, and at last pulls his hand away.  The scar aches in its absence.

After some amount of wheedling and coaxing, Toshinori at last agrees to avail himself of Izuku's shower.  Izuku, of course, doesn't having any clothing anywhere near Toshinori's size, but he does pull out an oversized yukata that will do the trick.   It's a complimentary item from a would-be sponsor, one who had clearly only ever seen Deku on a screen and had no idea that Deku does not, in fact, tower head and shoulders above the common man.  The yukata still runs a bit short on Toshinori, but it's worth it to be rid of his filthy clothes and their stench of smoke, dirt, and blood.

When Toshinori emerges from the shower, he's waterlogged and still a bit wheezy and weary, but he feels much more human once he's clean and wrapped up in a fresh yukata.  He finds Izuku in the kitchen, humming beneath his breath as he works at the counter.  Izuku has cleaned himself up a bit as well; he might not have had the chance for a proper bath, but he's dressed in clean shorts and a t-shirt, and all the visible sweat and dirt has been wiped away.  He must hear Toshinori's footsteps, because he turns and glances over his shoulder.  "Oh, All Might!" he says.  He looks Toshinori up and down, then nods his satisfaction.  "You look better," he says.  "Not quite so pale.  Why don't you sit down?  Dinner will be ready soon."

Toshinori wasn't aware that he was staying for dinner, but if the gleam in Izuku's eyes is any indication, it's not a suggestion.

The kitchen, like the rest of the place, is larger than a bachelor's apartment normally allows, and there's enough space for a small table tucked against the far wall with two chairs.  Obediently, Toshinori takes a seat, with only a slight twinge in his side.  There's a cup of coffee sitting there, still steaming; beside it are a little cup of milk and another of sugar. "That's for you," Izuku says, without looking up from where he's currently chopping bok choy.  "Since, you know, you didn't get to finish your coffee at the cafe."

"Thank you," Toshinori says, and he takes the cup of coffee in hand.  Its warmth is comforting, and he wraps his fingers around it and feels the tension in his entire body beginning to unwind.  He adds a bit of sugar and milk, stirs, takes a sip.  It warms him all the way down.

"I didn't know I was staying for dinner," Toshinori says, keeping his voice light.

"Don't expect too much," Izuku says, flashing a grin.  "I'm not that great of a cook.  The only reason I can cook anything at all is because Lunch Rush beat us over the head with the value of good nutrition in health class."

So he says, but Izuku seems to be handling himself just fine in the kitchen.  There's a rice cooker on the counter just beginning to steam, and the fish grill is lit with orange flames, and he's just putting the bok choy in a pan.

When was the last time Toshinori had a home-cooked meal?

With a pair of long chopsticks, Izuku stirs the bok choy around the pan.  As he does, he starts talking about his intern, Wolven Hero: Lupinity, a third-year student at--of course--UA.  "It seems like she's suddenly very popular," he says, with a bit of a self-deprecating laugh.  "Really, not much has changed in the day-to-day work, but--well.  Apparently the paparazzi really want to know who's interning with the new Number One."

Izuku chatters on, talking about how Lupinity had managed to track down a criminal with her keen sense of smell.  Toshinori doesn't say much, just sips at his coffee every now and then and lets Izuku's voice wash over him.  It's nice, just like this.  Sitting in Izuku's kitchen, warm and domestic, listening to the sizzle of the stir-fry and watching Izuku, the line of his spine, the turn of his wrist, the glimmer in his eye--

Toshinori shakes his head at himself, cutting off that train of thought.

"Done," Izuku announces, and soon dinner is on the table--grilled mackerel, stir-fried bok choy with sesame, and white rice.  "Eat," Izuku says, more command than anything else.

"Thanks for the food," Toshinori says, and picks up his chopsticks.  It's simple fare--Izuku isn't going to be opening a restaurant anytime soon--but it's perfect as far as Toshinori is concerned, gentle on his damaged digestive tract.  He can't eat much in one sitting, hasn't been able to ever since his first, disastrous battle with All For One, but he manages to clean his plate and empty his rice bowl.

Or maybe it's just because Izuku cooked for him.

At first, Izuku watches him with an eagle eye, barely even glancing at his own plate.  Then, perhaps satisfied that Toshinori is indeed eating, he seems to relax, his too-straight back beginning to slouch, the sharpness fading from his gaze.  It makes him look... not soft, but at ease.  At home.  Like he's comfortable here, wearing ratty clothes and cajoling Toshinori to eat, sitting at this tiny kitchen table just big enough for two.  Like this is the sort of place he wants to come home to.

This is the sort of place Toshinori wants to come home to.

Toshinori eats everything he's given, down to the very last grain of rice, just to make this moment last a little bit longer.

After dinner, Toshinori pursuades Izuku into letting him do the dishes.  "You cooked dinner for me, Young Midoriya, I think I'm obliged to repay the favor by washing the dishes," he says.

Izuku sputters.  "I'm not going to make a guest do the dishes!" he exclaims.  "Especially not an injured one!"

Toshinori sighs.  "I'm not going to collapse because I did the dishes," he says pointedly.  "Besides, you should take a bath, shouldn't you?"  And he looks Izuku up and down with an overly unimpressed expression.

Izuku's nose wrinkles, but he takes a hint and gives in.  Toshinori takes the dishes to the sink and begins scrubbing.  As he rinses a plate, he hears the bathroom door click.

He's alone.

He stops, sets the plate on the drying rack, puts the sudsy sponge down.  Then he leans against the counter, gripping the edge of the sink, and takes a slow, shaky breath.

Yagi Toshinori, he thinks bleakly, what are you doing?

He shouldn't be here.  He knows that.  He's Izuku's mentor, for crying out loud, he shouldn't be imposing on Izuku like this.  He shouldn't be making Izuku tend to him, feed him, fuss over him.

But Toshinori is in many ways a weak man, and more than anything, he wants.

Just this, nothing more.  He would never dare ask for more, never even think it, but--this, just this.  Just an evening spent in Izuku's presence, eating Izuku's cooking, wearing Izuku's yukata, basking in the light of Izuku's attention and care and genuine affection as though it means anything close to what Toshinori--

Just this.  Just this once.  Just once, just enough to engrave this moment keen and crystal-clear inside him, and then Toshinori will go back to his own life, with memories he can hold close in his dreams.

He takes a deep breath and is promptly assaulted by a wave of coughs.  When he can at last breathe steadily once again, he swallows down the blood, takes another deep breath, collects himself.  Just this, he thinks.  I'll let myself have just this.  Just this once.

It is more than he deserves, but then again, life never has been about what anyone deserves.

Alone in Izuku's kitchen, Toshinori finishes washing the dishes and setting them out on the rack to dry.  Once he's done, he glances around, at a loss.  In the end, even though it feels a bit presumptuous, he refills his cup of coffee and takes a seat on the sofa in the living room.  He tips his head back and lets out a slow sigh.  He already feels his years, and the day he's had only makes them feel heavier.

He's gone through half of his new cup of coffee when the bathroom door clicks.  Feet pad into the kitchen, pause.  Then Izuku pops his head into the living room.  "Oh, there you are," he says.  He's in sweats and a t-shirt now, with his towel draped over his shoulders; his hair is subdued only by the weight of water, droplets dangling from the tips of curls.  He plops down on the other side of the sofa and absently starts toweling his hair dry.  His attention, though, is on Toshinori, and his frown does not bode well.  "You still don't look great," he says at last.

It must be a testament to Toshinori's condition that Izuku can be that blunt without then scrambling to apologize for it.  To be honest, Toshinori doesn't feel particularly great, either; there's still a dull ache in his side, and fatigue makes his limbs feel leaden.

He doesn't say any of that, of course.  "I'm quite all right," he says instead.  "Just a bit tired, but it's been a long day.  I'll be fine after a good night's sleep."  He sets his coffee mug down on the table and makes to stand.  "In fact, it's probably time that I got home.  Thank you for your hospitality, Young Midoriya--"

"You should spend the night," Izuku blurts.

Toshinori freezes, half-risen from the sofa, and stares at him, taken aback.  Izuku looks equally stunned, as though unable to believe the words coming out of his own mouth.  But then his expression goes firm with resolve.  "You should spend the night," he repeats, no hesitant stammering, just the slightest undercurrent of nervousness.  "You still don't look like you're feeling well.  Besides, you'd just go back on the train, wouldn't you?  The last thing you need is someone elbowing you in the side.  Spend the night.  I'll lay out the extra futon for you."

Toshinori swallows.  The aftertaste of coffee is bitter; his heart flutters wildly in his chest.  "Young Midoriya, that really isn't necessary--"

"Maybe not," Izuku interrupts.  "But I'd feel better if you would."

And oh, it isn't fair, for him to say things like that.  Because Toshinori hasn't always been the best mentor--in so many ways, he has misstepped, miscalculated, misunderstood--but he has always, always tried to do his best by Izuku.  He has not always succeeded, he has made mistakes, he has hurt when he meant to help, but he has always tried, and for Izuku to take advantage of that by asking--

Toshinori drops back down onto the sofa.  "You are a menace, Young Midoriya," he says.

Izuku's only response is a broad grin.  "I'll go get the futon," he says.

It turns out the only area with enough floor space to roll out the futon is right there in the living room.  Izuku lays out the shikibuton and the kakebuton--waving aside Toshinori's offers to assist--and fetches an extra pillow to boot.  "I don't often have people over, but sometimes someone just needs a place to crash for the night," he says matter-of-factly as he straightens the kakebuton.  "Like that time Todoroki-kun had a bomb threat called in on his apartment."

Toshinori remembers that case quite well.  A villain with a grudge had planted a bomb at Todoroki Shouto's agency, then at his hotel on his business trip to Nagoya, then on the shinkansen he'd taken back.  His agency had leaked a false memo saying that Todoroki had gone to ground and was hiding at a safehouse on the outskirts of town, then stashed him at Izuku's apartment; Toshinori, upon receiving a text from Izuku detailing the actual plan, had promptly begun checking the news obsessively, petrified that reporters would start announcing that the next target was Deku's apartment.  He hadn't relaxed until the villain had been captured and Todoroki had returned to his (thankfully unexploded) home.

"He had to sleep on the sofa the first night," Izuku continues, blissfully ignorant of how Toshinori had responded to that particular fiasco.  "Poor guy.  I went out and bought a futon the first thing the next morning.  Good thing I did, too--I never would've made you sleep on the sofa, but I'm not sure I could have convinced you to take my bed!"

Toshinori, very carefully, does not think of Izuku's bed.

Once the futon is set up, Izuku apologetically, almost bashfully, says he has work to do.  "Just some paperwork," he hurries to add, "nothing major, but I normally do it out here since my bedroom is small, but I need some light and I don't want to bother you or keep you up--"

Toshinori chuckles.  "I wasn't planning on going to sleep quite yet," he says.  "I may be old, my boy, but I'm not that old."

"You're not old at all!" Izuku objects, downright outraged.  "You're mature!"

Toshinori can't help but laugh, but he winces a little, too.  Because Izuku can only say that because he's young, so young, and by comparison Toshinori is old.  He's an old man next to Izuku, and he knows that.

But Izuku still looks so outraged on his behalf, as though he couldn't possibly imagine how All Might could ever become old.  So Toshinori just smiles, lets the tiniest bit of his indulgent fondness seep into his expression, and he lets it slide and changes the subject.  "Tell me what you're working on, my boy."

Izuku, of course, immediately brightens.  He goes diving into the file boxes stacked against the far wall and pulls out half a dozen two-ring binders and a number of folders.  "We're trying to grab the tail of a new villain group," he explains, dropping down on the sofa next to Toshinori and spreading his array of documents over the table.  "They don't seem to be particularly large or threatening yet, but there's been some sketchy stuff going on, so we want to pin them down before things get bad."  He opens the first binder to reveal a series of dividers, each tab clearly labeled.  Apparently he's updated his note-taking system from his old notebooks.  "It seems like they started out of a pachinko parlor in Kijimi Ward.  Tokoyami-kun tipped us off about a man named Michi Kaito--"

And Izuku is off to the races, chattering away so quickly that his words practically tumble over each other.  With the help of one or two underground heroes and a contingent of police detectives, he and his colleagues at Deku Heroics have put together quite a bit of information about this nascent villain group, if the mountains of documents are any indication.  "But we're still going through it all," Izuku admits, rubbing the back of his head with an embarrassed smile.  "You know how these long-term investigations are--you have to pull a whole bunch of information, and most of it ends up not being any help at all.  We're still in the process of culling out all the useless info and false leads."

"What do you have so far?" Toshinori asks.

With a new spark of intensity, Izuku launches into his analysis of what they've managed to learn thus far.  There's a blurry photograph of a woman ducking into a doorway--"We're pretty sure this woman is involved, we don't know her name, but she goes by Cyberbrain and her quirk involves some sort of electronic infiltration--we're keeping everything about this case off our computers, just in case."  There's page after page of phone records--"They're clearly talking in code, and we're pretty sure that the 'regular ramen place' they talk about actually refers to the pachinko parlor on Debaron Street by Takodana Station. But we still haven't cracked the rest of it yet."  There's a detailed report submitted by Tokoyami, who apparently has been tailing this group's night activities for some time--"He's put at least six of these people in the the same place at the same time, so we know they're connected somehow, but we're still not sure if one of them's the ringleader or if there's a puppet master in the shadows somewhere."

And on and on, voluminous data pared down into rational theories and conjecture.  Normally the lead hero of an agency wouldn't be caught up in the nitty-gritty of this sort of investigation, but Izuku's analytical ability is second to none; if there's anyone who can take in large amounts of information, pick out the important pieces, and strategize a counterattack, it's Izuku.  No wonder he's up to his neck in this investigation.

Toshinori doesn't have much to add; this type of investigation never was his forte, and Izuku is more than capable of handling it.  Toshinori asks the occasional question and leans forward to look at the occasional document that Izuku shoves his way, but mostly he just listens.  He lets Izuku's enthusiastic voice wash over him and watches Izuku's constantly shifting expressions--the way his eyebrows knit together in frustration, or his lips purse in disapproval, or his eyes goes blank and faraway as his mind make a bounding leap.

Toshinori props his chin up on one hand and just gazes at Izuku, his heart fit to burst.

(art by AriesOnMars)

Eventually, though, Toshinori finds himself holding back a yawn.  "I think it's about time for me to turn in, Young Midoriya," he says, rising from the sofa.

Izuku cuts himself off halfway through another mumbled theory and leaps up like a startled cat.  "Oh!  Of course!  Go ahead!"  He waves a hand wildly at the futon.  "Do you want me to go away?  I still need to get through a lot of these documents, but I can turn off the lights and just use the lamp, or I can do it in my room if you want--"

"Don't mind me," Toshinori says, casting him a gentle smile.  "I'm the one imposing on you, after all."

"Not at all!"  Izuku shakes his head fiercely.  "You're never an imposition, All Might!"

Toshinori's heart wrings.  "Still," he says.  "Don't mind me.  I can sleep through anything."

Izuku bites his lip, looking uncertain.  "If you're sure," he says, hedging.

"I'm sure."  Toshinori is struck by the urge to pat Izuku on the head.  But Izuku isn't a child anymore, not an age to be comforted by pats on the head, and more than that, Toshinori isn't sure he could stop himself from letting his hand linger, stroking through Izuku's still-damp hair, tracing down the line of his jaw and--

Toshinori keeps his hands to himself.

"All right," Izuku says.  He sounds almost relieved.  "To be honest, I'd rather stay out here," he adds, gracing Toshinori with a sheepish smile.  "Where I can keep an eye on you and make sure you're okay."

"Really, my boy," Toshinori says, unable to keep the warmth from his voice.  "If I'd hurt myself that badly, you would know it by now.  And I'm hardly going to do myself any damage in my sleep.  Focus on your work and don't worry about me."  And to make his point clear, he goes to the futon and lies down, tugging the kakebuton up beneath his chin.

Izuku fiddles with a folder, staring at Toshinori as though trying to decide what to say.  In the end, though, he just nods, his shoulders dropping.  "All right."  He reaches over and turns on the lamp on the side table, then gets up to switch off the overhead lights.  The room dims, and when he sits back down on the sofa, the light from the lamp casts murky shadows over his face, making him look older, more mature.

You've grown so much, Toshinori thinks wistfully.  And yet you're still so, so young.

For quite a while, he lies there on the futon, watching from beneath half-closed eyelids.  Izuku quickly becomes engrossed in his work; he shuffles between documents, flips through binders, gnaws on the end of his pen as his eyes scan rapidly over lines and lines of text.  The entire time, he keeps up a steady mumble, low and indistinct, as he talks himself through the newest scraps of information.  The only other sounds are the rustling of paper and the occasional skritch of notes being jotted down.

It's the sound of Izuku's dedication and determination and desire to do good, and if there's a more comforting sound in the world, Toshinori doesn't know what it is.

Toshinori's eyes drift shut.  Somewhere in the darkness, he thinks he might hear a voice whisper, "Good night, All Might."  But it may only be a dream.

Toshinori wakes up, as he so often does, with a sudden pang of agony in his side.

His eyes snap open, and he inhales sharply.  He's already clutching at his left side without even realizing it.  His teeth clenched, he slowly moves, testing, assessing.

Nothing.

He exhales, slowly, and the pain fades away.  Within a minute, there's nothing more than a mild twinge, nothing but a faint echo.  He just moved oddly in his sleep, that's all.  He just rolled over or shifted or squirmed, and he accidentally pinched some damaged nerve or put too much pressure on some still-sensitive spot.  He's done it countless times before, and he'll no doubt do it countless times again.  Nothing to worry about.

That doesn't change the fact that he's now wide awake.

With a grimace, Toshinori pushes himself upright.  Then he realizes, belatedly, that he's not at home.

That's right, he thinks, and looks around.

Izuku's living room is still mostly dark; it's still nighttime.  But the lamp on the side table is still lit, casting just enough light to see by.  Toshinori opens his mouth, fully intent on giving Izuku a mild scolding for still being hard at work--

And then he pauses, his mouth half-open, the words drying away on his tongue.

On the sofa, Izuku is fast asleep.

He's still sitting mostly upright, but his head lolls to the side, and his arms hang limply.  There's an open binder in his lap and a stapled sheaf of papers on the sofa next to him; a pen is on the verge of slipping from his limp fingers.  Other binders and folders are strewn haphazardly across the tabletop in front of him, and a few are scattered across the floor as though they'd slipped from the top of a precarious stack.  If they'd made any noise, though, Izuku seems to have slept right through it; his face is slack, his eyes are closed, and his chest rises and falls with steady, even breaths.

Someone else might have chuckled at the sight.  How silly of Deku, falling asleep on the sofa of his own living room--couldn't he make it to his own bed?  But Toshinori knows better.  This, right here, is Midoriya Izuku in a nutshell.  He cuts into his own precious sleep hours to do grunt work on an investigation because when people are in danger, he can't bear to stand on the sideline, not even for a night.  He stays out here, sitting on the sofa rather than retiring to his own comfortable bed, because he's worried about Toshinori and wants to stay close to watch out for him.  The core of Izuku's essence, what makes him a great hero, is that he cares.  Izuku cares, he cares so much, and Toshinori--

Toshinori, too, cares.  He cares far, far too much.

Toshinori gazes at him, his heart clenching and wringing.  He wants to touch Izuku's wrist, wake him up, watch those eyes flutter open and fix on him.  He wants to pick Izuku up, sweep him off the sofa and lay him down in his own bed and draw the blankets up and watch him settle down into dreamland.  He wants to sit here and just watch Izuku sleep, drink in the sight of him peaceful and vulnerable and real, just stop the earth from spinning on its axis and preserve this moment forever.

Instead, to stop himself from doing something he regrets, he gets up.

He straightens the mess of folders and binders and stray documents on the table, stacking up the ones that are closed, carefully organizing the ones that have been opened to a specific page.  He gently tugs the pen from Izuku's sleep-loose fingers and sets it on the table.  He marks Izuku's place in the binder by sliding the stapled packet of papers in so that they stick out a few centimeters.  He picks up the papers that had fallen on the floor, glancing at the page numbers to make sure they're in the right order, and arranges them in a more stable pair of piles.

The distraction helps settle the fluttering in his stomach, but it doesn't ease the yearning ache in his chest.  He can almost feel his heart swelling, larger and more full than a human heart has any right to be.  How can this heart fit inside his bony, frail chest?  How can there possibly be room for anything else inside him?

Now that the mess of documents and paperwork has been cleaned up, Toshinori finds himself at a loss.  Go back to sleep, he tells himself, but his eyes linger on Izuku.  Go back to sleep, Toshinori.

Instead, gingerly, he kneels down next to Izuku.  His hand starts to reach out of its own accord, but he snatches it back, draws it to his own chest before it can betray him.  But oh, he wants--to stroke Izuku's cheek, to brush away an unruly curl.  Just to touch him.

Toshinori curls his fingers into a trembling fist, ducking his head.  It's not just his hand--his entire body is trembling, quivering with the sheer intensity of what's inside him.  Izuku, he thinks, and he knows this is a dangerous path, a treacherous slope.  He cannot think of Izuku as Izuku, he can't, because Young Midoriya is Toshinori's successor, and Izuku is--Izuku is--

Even now, after all these years, Toshinori still calls him Young Midoriya.  Because Young Midoriya is Toshinori's successor, and that is all Toshinori can ever allow him to be.

He cannot let Young Midoriya become Izuku, because Izuku is someone he cannot, must not, love--

And yet, he does.

"Izuku," Toshinori whispers, "I love you."

He's never let himself even think the words, but they are surprisingly easy to say.  I love you.  They pour from his lips, inevitable, inexorable.  I love you.  They seep into the marrow of his bones, flow through his veins, reach out to seize his heart.  I love you.

"I love you," Toshinori whispers again, his voice choked with emotion.  "Izuku, I love you."

"What?"

Toshinori's head jerks up, his eyes snapping open.  And there, right in front of him, Izuku sits bolt upright on the sofa, staring at Toshinori in pale, wide-eyed shock.

Toshinori jerks back, overbalances, falls flat on his rear.  He catches himself before he goes sprawling, but even so he can only barely prop himself up on his hands; his arms tremble, his elbows threatening to buckle.  He stares up at Izuku, the blood draining from his face, his tongue shriveling in his mouth, his heart completely and utterly stopped--

And Izuku just stares back, so young and full of disbelief.

Toshinori flinches and ducks his head.  There's no escaping this, no salvaging this.  No way to convince Izuku he'd misheard or misunderstood.  No way to unsay what has been said.  "Young Midoriya, my boy," he croaks out.  "I am so, so sorry."

Izuku makes a sound that rends at Toshinori's heart.  "What," he repeats, his voice hoarse.  "All Might--"

"Forget what I said," Toshinori says.  "Forget I ever said anything.  I never meant for you to hear that.  I'll never say it again, I'll never breathe word of it again, so just forget--"

"Did you mean it?" Izuku blurts.

Toshinori falls silent mid-sentence and just stares at him, lost for words.  Izuku's voice is quavering, and he wrings his hands anxiously in his lap, but he looks at Toshinori with such all-encompassing, heart-wrenching desperation in his eyes--

And Toshinori has never been able to say no, not to Izuku.

"Yes," Toshinori says helplessly.  "I meant it.  I--"

I'm sorry, he tries to say, I'm so sorry, Izuku, forgive me, but then Izuku is surging up off the sofa, to pace or to punch him or to just walk away, who knows, and Toshinori closes his eyes and ducks his head, and Izuku slams into him--

But it is not a punch or a strike, is not an attack at all.  Toshnori goes utterly still, his eyes wide, his lung frozen in his chest, and for a moment, a bare heartbeat, the entire rest of the world ceases to exist, because--

Izuku is holding him.

Izuku is clinging to him, straddling his legs and pressed up close, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders.  Izuku is holding onto him like a man who has found the only thing in life holding onto, clutching with more force than even One For All should provide.  Closer than he's ever been before, closer than Toshinori ever dreamed, his body warm and trembling, his face buried in Toshinori's shoulder, his voice strangled by tears--

"I never knew," Izuku chokes out.  "I thought--all this time, I just--"  His fingers tighten in the fabric of Toshinori's yukata.  "I tried, I swear I tried so hard, I told myself I couldn't, I knew it was hopeless, I knew it wasn't possible, but I just couldn't stop the way I felt.  So I told myself that just being with you was enough, you chose me as your successor and I knew I was special to you and I told myself I should be happy with that, you gave me so much and you did care about me and I couldn't ask for anything more than that, and that should have been enough, it should have been more than enough, but it wasn't.  But I was so afraid of ruining everything, and I couldn't, I couldn't risk it, I couldn't risk losing you, so I swore to never say anything.  Even if you never knew, even if you never looked at me the way I looked at you, that was fine, just as long as I could be with you, just as long as I could keep you in my life--"

Izuku, Toshinori thinks, stunned to speechlessness.

Izuku pulls back, just a little.  He braces one hand against Toshinori's shoulder and wipes his misty eyes with the other.  "I just wanted you," he says, his voice hoarse.  "That's all I've ever wanted.  Is--is that okay?"

Toshinori stares at him, searching his eyes desperately, but Izuku's gaze is open and honest, no sign of deception or deceit, nothing but pure, earnest, terrified hope.  Toshinori lifts one tremulous hand, reaching for him, and still Izuku does not recoil, does not flinch away.

Gently, barely breathing, Toshinori dares to brush his fingertips to Izuku's cheek.  And it seems impossible, but Izuku has always worn his heart on his sleeve, and he leans into Toshinori's touch with eyes full of such heartfelt longing, pressing his cheek into Toshinori's palm--

"Young Midoriya," Toshinori says, with something close to awe.

Izuku lets out a quavery laugh.  "I liked it when you said my name," he confesses, his voice wobbly.

"Izuku," Toshinori breathes, and like daybreak, Izuku's expression cracks into a tremulous, watery smile, hesitant and tentative but heartbreakingly full of love, and Toshinori gives in, wraps his arms around Izuku--

And Izuku lets him.

Toshinori is light-headed, trembling, weightless.  This must be some kind of dream, some impossible fantasy.  This cannot be real, because he has spent so long watching wistfully from afar as stubborn tendrils of irrepressible longing crawled out from his beaten-down heart, and he has always tried and failed and tried again to crush every last shard of futile hope before it choked him, and he has loved helplessly, loved hopelessly, loved with every last shred of strength that his wracked, feeble body could muster.  His love has always been like the blood that still fills his ravaged chest--welling up inside him, thick and noxious, until it crawls desperately up his throat, only to be swallowed, ruthlessly, agonizingly, back down.  Never once, not for a single moment, did he dare let himself imagine, let himself dare hope for maybe, maybe, because he always knew it was impossible.

But sitting here on the floor in the half-dark of Izuku's living room, he has Izuku right there in his arms, warm and solid and real, and Izuku clings just as fiercely to him.

"I love you," Izuku says, his voice hushed but the words impossibly beautiful.

Toshinori can't help but squeeze his eyes shut against a prickle of tears.  I love you, he thinks, his heart swelling ever larger inside him.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you.

But he can say it, now.

"I love you," he murmurs.  "I love you.  I love you."  He says it over and over again, for all the times he's never dared say it, for all the times he's never dared think it, and it still isn't enough.  He whispers the words again and again until his voice finally gives out, and still, in the silence, they hold each other tighter and tighter, until pale beams of sunlight begin to creep over the windowsill.

At last, Izuku pulls back, just a bit.  Just enough to lean his forehead against Toshinori's, one thumb stroking reverently over Toshinori's gaunt cheek.  And Toshinori couldn't possibly tear his eyes away even if he wanted to, because Izuku is gazing at him with such tender, heartstruck wonder, such boundless, overwhelming love, the same way Toshinori looks at him--

In the budding light of dawn, he is the most beautiful thing Toshinori has ever seen.