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It’s a gentle trace against his side that pulls All Might from his own thoughts. He glances down from his spot on the bed, peers through the inky blue dark of the unlit room, and sees Nighteye’s slender fingers absentmindedly trailing down his oversized shirt. The hero looks wordlessly to the man next to him, but his partner’s vision is lost in the mesmerizing touch, Nighteye’s own abdomen swathed in bandages that almost blend him into the egg-white bedsheets.
“You can’t sleep with your glasses on,” All Might says finally, reaching for the lenses tilted awkwardly on Nighteye’s face.
“Leave them,” Nighteye says, and the blond quickly pulls away, Nighteye’s fingers still skimming the fabric against All Might’s side. “You know my vision is atrocious without them. I want to be able to see you.”
“Ah,” All Might manages, shifting once again to his back. He feels the blush pinkening his cheeks, and silently wishes that it was too blurry to notice.
“I can feel your ribs,” Nighteye says bluntly.
“You mentioned that earlier, when we were on the couch.”
“It’s worth mentioning. Are you eating enough?”
“As much as I can manage with little to no stomach,” All Might chuckles. “No more all-you-can-eat teppanyaki for me.”
Nighteye laughs quietly, a sound that strikes All Might with a nostalgic warmth. “How relatable,” the bespectacled man replies.
All Might’s eyes find his partner again, scan the body beside him with a growing guilt in his chest. It’s still the Sir Nighteye he knows—or once knew, all those years before—but the familiar frame has been bludgeoned beyond anything All Might had witnessed in their time together. Thick gauze cocooning a grisly-but-healing waist. Small plasters dappled across each smaller cut and bruise. A bandaged stump jutting from Nighteye’s sheet-nestled shoulder—a reminder of the overworked hands All Might knew almost as well as his own. Now there is only one of those hands, still feathering against All Might’s shirt in a slow, thoughtful rhythm.
The doctors hadn’t expected him to survive. Not after such a brutal attack from Chisaki. But if there was one thing to note about Nighteye, it was how much he appreciated comedy, despite his stony exterior. It was likely he didn’t find death a humorous enough irony to embrace it. Or maybe he did find it funny. Found it hilarious. And his laughter had echoed through the halls of heaven or hell or what have you, warmed Death himself so deeply that he’d had been swayed to mercy and let Nighteye live.
Knowing that laugh by heart, All Might finds this to be the most believable outcome.
“You don’t always have to stay, you know,” Nighteye’s voice breaks into his thoughts again.
All Might frowns sheepishly. “Do…you not want me here?”
Nighteye shakes his head quickly, though he still can’t manage to look All Might in the eye. “Not what I meant. Trust me, if I were unhappy with you being here, I don’t think you’d be in my bed right now.”
“Touché,” All Might breathes out, unsure if he’s relieved or more self-conscious at the fact that yes, they are indeed in bed together again.
“I just meant you’ve been here for nearly a week straight,” Nighteye continues. “And I’m sure of all people, All Might has better things to do than—”
“You don’t have to call me that.”
The words come out sharper than intended, and Nighteye’s gaze finally snaps to his frizzy-haired partner beside him, who quickly compensates with a gentle smile.
“Y-You don’t have to call me All Might,” the man repeats, gentler now. “Toshinori is fine.”
All Might takes in those honey-gold eyes, though the emotion in them is unreadable. All Might’s certain his own eyes are swimming with anxiety, though he tries his best to maintain the reassuring look. Nighteye’s cheeks rise slightly, but fall before the expression can be classified as a smile.
“I mean, you don’t have to do that either,” All Might says quickly. “Whatever you’re most comfortable with. I know you haven’t called me Toshinori in…years.”
“Six years, four months,” Nighteye says with his typical attention to detail. “It was after your injury. But quite soon after. I was caring for you until you were fit to care for yourself, prepping one of your baths. I asked you if the water was too hot—”
“And see, that’s one of the reasons I wanted to help care for you—”
“The name tasted like copper.”
The two men fall silent, and All Might’s breath stills in his throat as he feels Nighteye’s fingers rest just at the edge of his scar.
“Like the twinge of blood on your tongue when you’re struck in the mouth.” Nighteye’s voice is quiet, and his eyes have drifted once again to his fingertips. “And I haven’t said it since.”
All Might finally releases the air resting in his throat, unsure of how to respond. The memory is distinct in his own mind, albeit for different reasons: he can still feel the texture of the sponge against his skin as Nighteye scrubbed him clean, the way he noticed the once-soft hands growing coarser, harsher…two heartbroken lovers touching only through soap suds and bandages.
All Might opens his mouth to break the silence, but Nighteye once again beats him to it.
“I was so cruel to you.”
All Might’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head immediately, golden strands whipping him in the face with the vigor. “Nighteye, no. You were anything but. You—”
“You don’t have to call me that,” Nighteye’s echo is a little more than a murmur.
“…You were anything but cruel, Mirai.”
All Might feels the fabric of his shirt twist into Nighteye’s clenched hand.
“Now that’s a joke if I’ve ever heard one.” Nighteye’s chuckle this time is far from warm. “You couldn’t even bear to talk to me. I know that’s why you sent Mirio to introduce Midoriya to my agency instead of vouching for him yourself.”
All Might swallows thickly. “I…wasn’t sure if you would listen. After our last argument on the phone—”
“Because I was cruel.”
“Stop that,” All Might says, the force fully intended this time. He doesn’t even feel his own hand move on autopilot, but he sees it, careful palm resting against Nighteye’s cheek, Nighteye tensing in surprise before settling hesitantly into the touch. The fabric falls from the slender man’s loosening fist. “You are not cruel. You were scared, and I was…overzealous. We both made mistakes. But look at you since then. You’ve mentored two remarkable students. You helped rescue young Eri from the most…”—a shaky breath, disturbed by a battle he hadn’t even witnessed— “…the most heinous conditions. And even before that, when our relationship faced such a big rift…Who was it that prepared my meals as I recovered? Who bathed me until the bandages came off? Even after my injury, we tried until we couldn’t try any more. Call it sentimental, senseless, even, but…”
All Might trails off. His scar. Nighteye is tenderly tracing his scar. The touch is cotton-soft through All Might’s tee, Nighteye following the unseen ridges of damaged skin with meticulous fingers.
“…Is it even more senseless to want to try again?”
Nighteye’s inquiry sends them both back into silence. All Might stares at the ceiling. Nighteye stares at the back of his own hand. Neither man has an answer for that.
“I never got to see it,” Nighteye’s comment comes as a whisper. “…What he did to you.”
All Might looks back to him, confused. “You saw me at the hospital.”
“As if I could focus on a single thing then,” Nighteye scoffs. “Besides, you were smothered under tubes and wires at that point.”
All Might sits up against the headboard, still racking his memories. “During the sponge baths?”
“You were bandaged then.”
The blond man flushes pink to the tips of his ears. “We were, uh—I know we were…intimate…a-after the bandages were removed.” He clears his throat quickly. “Before we officially called things off. You didn’t see my scar then?”
Nighteye shakes his head, a flicker of shame in his lowering eyes. “I never allowed myself. Not to touch it, not to look. I…I suppose I never wanted to.”
His eyes flit up. Meet All Might’s, flooded with a longing once so familiar, now tainted with aged concern.
“…Do I even want to now?”
All Might sighs. His own fingers snake to his ribcage. Brush Nighteye’s in the process. Both men freeze, but neither hand retreats.
“That’s your call,” All Might says finally. “I won’t try to convince you either way.”
The mattress creaks as Nighteye slides to a sitting position, pausing to groan as the muscles in his injured abdomen tighten. A worried All Might is overcome with instinct, and he reaches in to offer the hand of a hero, or maybe a lover—or maybe both—but Nighteye gently stops him with a gesture of his bandaged limb, shifting upright at last. All Might’s hand falls as Nighteye lets out a breath, easing himself against the headboard.
“I appreciate the offer,” Nighteye says, middle finger pressing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“Regarding the scar?”
“The offer to help me up,” Nighteye clarifies, looking over to him with a sad smile. “But it’s probably best I learn to manage on my own. In case, quite likely…this doesn’t last again. The two of us.”
All Might swallows, a heavy dread fogging in his lungs. “You didn’t use Foresight on me again, did you—?”
“Never,” Nighteye says immediately, and the severity of his tone leaves no room for doubt. All Might looks to him. The smile is gone. “I would never use it on you again. Will never use it again.”
All Might nods, gratitude filling his features. “Then I guess you’re right, there’s a chance it wouldn’t pan out.” He props his head back, gazing upwards. “…But there’s no guarantee that it wouldn’t.”
The words hang heavy in the room. For a moment, neither man moves, and All Might feels his heart pounding in his chest. He tries to busy his mind, squinting in the dark to map constellations in the textured ceiling, but he’s cut short by a sharp click, the faint glow of a bedside lamp staining his vision orange.
“I know what I want, Toshinori.”
He can’t recall his name ever sounding so sweet, so new. It strikes him like the crisp smell of air after fresh rainfall. His vision flows to Nighteye again, and All Might breathes in the moment deep.
“If you’ll let me,” Nighteye says.
And he feels Nighteye’s hand slip to his waist, fingertips brushing under the hem of his shirt, against his bare skin. A chill pricks at All Might’s spine, and he nods slowly, shifting to remove the oversized tee from his body. This time, Nighteye doesn’t protest his aid, touch resting at the lowest point of the crater in All Might’s side.
His partner’s eyes widen. His breath stills. All Might takes in the wound himself, scar tissue crawling up his body like canyonlands of reddened sandstone, rising and falling with every breath. Six years partnered with his scars, and he’s more than gotten used to them—but this viewing was more surreal, seeing it through the eyes of another.
“It’s still me, Mirai,” All Might soothes as Nighteye’s fingers begin to slide thoughtfully up the wound. “It’s all still me.”
“It doesn’t still hurt, does it?” Nighteye asks, touch swirling along the uneven skin. He shakes his head. “What a pointless question, it’s been years. Of course it doesn’t.”
“No, no, it still can,” All Might says. “It hurt something fierce after that battle at the USJ. Did I ever tell you about that one?”
Nighteye pulls back, suddenly guilty. “Well, that went the opposite direction. I was hoping you’d say ‘no, not at all.’”
All Might grimaces slightly at his own misstep, then shakes his head, reaching for Nighteye’s hand. He holds the slim fingers in his own for a moment, worn even thinner than usual from Nighteye’s tumultuous hospital stay; from weeks of nutrition drips and fatigue, on a road to recovery all-too recognizable to All Might.
“But it doesn’t hurt now,” All Might reassures him. “Not when you touch it.”
All Might places his partner’s fingers back against the winding scar, and Nighteye relaxes back against the headboard, All Might doing the same as the tranquil feathering continues along his side. The blond man shuts his eyes, growing sleepy at the sensation he didn’t realize he missed this much. He scarcely notices as the bed beside him creaks, as the touch leaves his skin for a moment, as Nighteye shifts slowly beside him.
His eyes fly open as a soft kiss brushes his scar.
All Might looks down, worried for a moment at how painfully Nighteye must be angling himself. But instead he finds Nighteye with his head nestled above All Might’s wound, set comfortably against the taller man’s chest. The dark green locks below him shift slightly, and All Might’s heart freezes in his chest as Nighteye dips his head to kiss the wound again.
“I’m sorry,” Nighteye whispers, lips gentle as ever against the pinkened skin, “for all I put you through. I promise to make it right.” Another kiss, higher along the crests of the scar, and All Might feels his vulnerability melt away into pure fondness. “…No matter how much or how little time we have left.”
The thought seizes him, a reminder first of the precariousness of lovers, then the shakiness of his own mortality. But All Might recalls his promise to himself, to Young Midoriya, and above all, to Nighteye, when he stood in his old partner’s shoes in that hospital room, crumbling under the possibility that death loomed just over his love’s shoulder: He is going to fight fate. They both are. And nobody is dying tonight, not for a good long while, not until the sun and stars and the feel of Nighteye’s kisses against his skin fade for good.
All Might gently strokes Nighteye’s cheek, then eases him upright again, careful not to aggravate his partner’s own wounds. Nighteye looks at All Might with unease, as if concerned his actions went too far. But the fears between both of them evaporate when the taller man leans down, dandelion locks tickling them both as his lips meet Mirai’s.
There is a distinct peace in nostalgia renewed, the rare experience where the second bite of the apple is just as sweet, where a book is just as good upon its reread, where the known can become known all over again. It is a faith in the familiar, the secure feel of a long-missed lover’s kiss against the rolling ridges of a scar. And as Toshinori’s hands find Mirai in the dark, and his kiss drinks in such nostalgic sweetness, he thinks about how he’ll be around to watch Mirai’s own wounds heal: around when the bandages come off, when purple wounds pale into pink, when the damage is no more than an time-softened scar and a story for the ages. He knows Mirai’s kisses will be lingering on his own scar, even then.
And he can’t wait to return the favor.