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Fresh Mountain Air and Forty-Four Futons

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Math never was Aizawa's strong suite, especially mixed with social disobedience.

The winter terrain and rescue training camp had finally arrived and the homeroom teacher had decided to bring Shinsou along. He did so with zero notice, seeking forgiveness rather than permission from Principal Nezu and the innkeepers alike, but it seemed the tiny mountain ryokan was already hard-pressed catering to 40 students and their keepers. They had 44 futons and 45 guests, and Aizawa had left his sleeping bag at school 300 km away and that was that.

Rather than forcing the family to give up one of their own and feel like even more of an asshole for imposing, Aizawa dismissed the issue as a personal error, thanked them for their patience and hospitality and said he would manage.

And manage he did, by agreeing to crawl into bed with none other than Yagi Toshinori for the duration of the trip.

It wasn't terrible or unworkable, and Yagi seemed very pleased to help him out of his predicament at personal cost. In fact, it was arranged before they had so much as seen the inn rooms. Yagi had inquired after his frown when he returned from greeting the ryokan staff on behalf of the school, and the rest was practically assumed.

Aizawa stifled an uncharitable thought about the man's foolish and unchecked impulse to rescue despite his current retired status, thanked him, and returned to their schedule. He had little time to think about anything else, except for maybe how he had managed to forget his sleeping bag the one most pertinent time to ever need a sleeping bag.

It was stupid, he was a bit stupid, and he was duly prepared to face his mistakes. Every night.

He tried not to think about it. He could sleep anywhere, after all.

 


 

Orientation, team exercises and Thirteen's extreme terrain hike all went by in a flash. As soon as they returned to base and demolished the evening meal, Aizawa claimed approximately half the futon and passed out, sapped by the day's events. Minimal contact. Even if he had heard or seen the older hero join him, he would have ignored it. For both their sakes.

The next morning was a little less easy to ignore.

With a man as long as Yagi, it was already irresponsible to confine him to the dimensions of a normal futon. Forcing him to share one was almost a crime. Aizawa was prepared for anything from sleep cuddling to deafening snores, but would have expected inconvenient morning erections more from the other side of the inn, the one with an exhausting amount of 15-year-olds, rather than the retired hero curled against his back.

He rose to consciousness slowly, awareness dribbling down his body and catching on sore muscles and his right foot, which was bristling with dead nerves. He shifted, to try and wiggle it awake, and heard a drowsy murmur behind him. Cheek against his hair, Yagi was breathing deep and steady and radiating the kind of warmth that made it almost impossible to crack the seal of the toasty bedsheets and face the chill mountain air of the inn.

It was … nice.

If just for closeness, if just because it had been a while, even the plainly massive dick pressing into his lower back was nice. In fact, he felt exactly like the charmingly chubby white ryokan cat he had spotted splayed and snoozing in front of the family's wood-burning stove, and dick or not, it made Aizawa not want to move.

He did, eventually – they had a day to get on with and these things happened – and Yagi was about as smooth as a bucket of caltrops when he realized. He practically dove under the blankets, stuttering about five more minutes and not having much of a taste for breakfast, and so forth. Aizawa departed after stepping into his discarded jumpsuit, teeth chattering, but even as he slid the wooden door shut on its tracks, he could hear Yagi cursing hoarsely under his breath and the fluff of sheets thrown about.

He thought about that.

He wondered if Yagi had taken care of it or just tucked his morning wood into his waistband. He wondered whether it was better imagining a visible bulge under the tie of his yukata, or Yagi biting his sleeping shirt and squirming on the bed, jacking off far too fast inside his boxers to lessen the mess. Considerate, as always.

He was wondering a lot of things about Yagi lately.

He'd found himself considering the man ever since Kamino Ward, really, and the way he bit his lip and hastily looked aside when their paths crossed in the ryokan only made it harder to pay attention to the rigorous schedule Aizawa had practically designed himself. More than lingering awkwardness, the thin air between them sparked electric when they grazed each other in the course of the day, directing students or passing water at dinner.

Before, it seemed All Might – Yagi – could talk over anyone, effusive with unwarranted opinions and know-how. Now, if Aizawa began to speak, Yagi would fall silent with an oddly immediate clasping of his hands. Spooked, Aizawa unthinkingly mirrored that deference, which led to a whole lot of pauses and not a lot of communicating. After the second day, it became clear they couldn't finish a sentence between them.

It flustered him. He was flustered, their fellow staff-mates were staring, the students were understandably confused, and they were still sharing a bed.

He just thanked the local mountain god that Hizashi was a wimp and hated the cold and had been marked as an avalanche risk by the government, and Nemuri had better things to be doing. Better people, that is. The last thing he needed was people who made a hobby of reading his expressions when he didn't even know what he was feeling.

Small favors.

 


 

“Thank you, All Might! We'll take very good care of it!”

Watching the exchange from his seat on the tatami mat later that evening, Aizawa saw Yagi open his mouth and close it. The momentary but clear flash of hesitation vanished with a forcibly cheery wave as Midoriya and Uraraka bowed and ran off with their borrowed prize, to continue their game on the other side of the common room. The group cheered at their arrival, apparently very thankful for a way to keep score.

Hero students. Competitive as hell, of course.

“It's just a pen,” Yagi chuckled to himself, trying for levity but his discomfort was evident as he tugged his yukata closed over his chest. It was a smaller one, full and richly padded but suited to his thin silhouette. Probably the smallest one he'd ever worn.

“They won't stop that on their own. Calling you that,” Aizawa commented, methodically ordering the row of tiles in front of him. It was a handy means of ignoring the way Yagi stared at him, as if he didn't have the slightest idea what they were talking about, or the fact he had emotions and people had eyes.

Idiot.

“You'll have to get onto them about it, if you want it to change.”

“Ah, I don't really want to get onto them ...” Yagi sighed after a moment, palming at his slender neck and pulling a face.

Aizawa must have betrayed himself with a particularly slicing look, immediately incensed that an instructor could display such a weak constitution, because the moment Yagi saw, he nearly dropped his teacup, waving his hand in a panic.

“A-about this! I'm perfectly willing to, er, discipline them, I just don't see the need for this. It's a small thing. A name! Silly.”

Yagi seemed to wilt where he sat and his fingers felt along the edges of the glazed clay cup as it steamed away, as if searching for something more substantial to hold onto. His voice dropped, low to lower, his darkened gaze pinned to the pristine tatami matting of the old inn.

“Everyone else on staff goes by their hero name, after all. Why should I be any different?”

“Would you like it, if they did?”

It wasn't about liking anything as opposed to functionality, privacy and proper honorifics, in Aizawa's opinion, but the question got his new co-teacher thinking.

“Yagi-sensei,” he intoned gravely, as if trying it out. Aizawa's chest did a weird squeezing thing when the retired hero caught one of his long scraggly bangs between two fingers and tugged on it, smiling small and pensive. Shy, almost.

“Strangely enough, I think I'm ready to hear my given name again.”

“Good,” Aizawa said, more gruffly than he intended. He tapped the mahjong wall. “Your turn, Yagi-sensei.”

“Ah,” he said woefully, releasing his hair and looking down at the wooden game pieces on the floor as if loathe to remember. “I'm afraid I'm not very good at this.”

“You're not good at it, or you're not enjoying it?” Aizawa murmured, purposefully declining to address the chance element of mahjong, which was in his favor tonight. Once Yagi finished his turn, he scooped up a tile from the wall with cool, delicate clicks of the antique game pieces, showing his set and moving them to the side.

His eyes, wearied though they were, could spot at least four good combinations coming up. Yagi still seemed stuck on matching. Maybe he needed glasses.

“No, no! I'm enjoying it plenty,” the older hero insisted with another genial wave of his hand, biting his lip as he looked over his prospects for his turn. “I'm just sorry to be such a poor match for you. Surely you'd like some actual competition.”

“There's no harm in enjoying something you're bad at,” Aizawa said after another turn or two, quiet. He glanced up at Yagi, half wishing he hadn't tied his hair up as the older hero blinked down at him, curious and radiating that strange new deference. Aizawa shrugged, holding up a tile and inspecting it in the mellow glow from the fire before placing it to the side. No match. Discard.

“There's no point, here. When there's no point, and no necessary result, you decide the meaning of the activity. As far as I can figure, that's what fun means. Me, matching games soothe my head. And that's it.”

“I suppose you're right,” Yagi admitted, already beaming at his clunky little explanation of fun – something Mic and Midnight would have pissed themselves laughing over, surely. Another reason he was glad they weren't around, poking their noses into everything.

Or noticing things, like the way Aizawa couldn't really keep his eyes off of Yagi's big hands and the way they moved, even when he wasn't sure what he was doing. Especially when he wasn't sure, because it was so inexplicably gentle.

When Yagi laughed, loud and not quite booming, it still turned most of the childrens' heads automatically. They sought a familiar sound, one that rang through their childhoods as a bugle of safety and hope … but the unfamiliar sight of a gaunt, towering man kneeling in a padded navy yukata in front of a spiraling mahjong game, warmed by the fire with a steaming cup of tea in hand, was no disappointment. Quite the opposite, actually.

How odd, to see them all smile in their own ways and return to their own games. Content. Even Bakugou, to a degree, though his pale brow creased and he had to be waved and cajoled back into their card game by a jabbering Kirishima. Within moments, the room was full of laughter and chattering again, warm and bright and safe.

They were learning about this life more quickly than he had ever expected ... and all things Aizawa couldn't actually teach them.

“So this is what quiet country evenings are for!” All Might was crowing, drawing Aizawa's attention again. Maybe he had realized he was being watched, and he threw his head back with another, louder laugh, slapping his knees.

“Losing for fun! What a concept! Guess I can let it slide since I'm not Number One anymore, eh? Happy to be instructing me in the art of losing, Aizawa-kun? HA!”

Aizawa shook his head at that, and got right back to beating him.

All Might wasn't good at everything, to be certain.

His first month at UA as a teacher was proof enough of that, but this was something Aizawa had strangely needed to see. Yagi fumbling with something as simple and mundane as mahjong didn't feed that weird lingering need to see him humbled, because that humbleness, he realized, was already there in droves.

Instead, it spoke to him of Yagi's roots and basic life experiences as much as the way the older hero mentioned “rummy” a little while later. It was a similar matching-type game he'd played in college a lot, apparently - with a generous amount of alcohol and/or sex involved, if the abrupt end to the conversation and the spooked glance at the children meant anything.

The more his humanity emerged, it made Aizawa wonder what he'd gotten up to in college. In California, wasn't it? Famous as All Might was, stories like that didn't often make it across an ocean, but there had to be some stories.

What were quiet country evenings for, he thought, tearing his eyes away from the way the firelight pooled in the sharp crest of Yagi's collarbone, if not for sharing entertaining stories?

That night, the second night, the staff meeting ran late and the two of them walked the narrow wooden hallways together, Yagi awkwardly motioning him into their quarters in front of him, like a gentleman.

Aizawa was not a gentleman.

He was a man, certainly, and a man with interests that officially included the twiggy coworker determinedly trying to strip behind the one piece of furniture in the conservative room, hopping in place with one foot caught in his enormous trousers. Only the dark of the old inn hid Aizawa's blatant staring, but the moonlight from the window glazed Yagi's thin legs and the carved lines of his broad shoulders in ghostly white as he disrobed.

On multiple occasions, Aizawa had been told he stared like a cat: intimidating at best, unnerving or rude at worst. He thought about the ryokan cat again, and hoped the family dotingly ushered it into their own cozy futons when the stove went cold for the night. Of course they did. Why wouldn't they?

When Yagi joined him, stepping down into the bed like one does a boat, Aizawa automatically rolled to the side and stared at the wall instead.

After ten minutes of relentless shifting, it became clear that Yagi was conducting a scientific experiment on exactly how far he could scoot away from him and still be on the bed. Aizawa withstood him fidgeting and clearing his throat well enough, but when he practically heard Yagi rolling his bony shoulder blades against the wooden floor to find a softer spot, he sighed.

“Get in,” he ordered, lifting the heavenly duvet just enough to make a point but not risk breaking the seal of warmth. There was a questioning sound next to him. Aizawa didn't let him start.

“I know you're half off the bed. So get in.”

“Only if you don't ...” Yagi began, voice muffled by sheets.

“I don't mind,” he said. It was the first completed sentence they could claim for the whole day, and he almost grit his teeth from that pent-up frustration. He closed his dry eyes. “It's necessary, and this isn't your fault. I'm the one who should be sleeping on the floor, if it came to that.”

“Nonsense,” came Yagi's immediate reply, raspy and devout.

Before he could think better of it, bristling at the unthinking routine of self-sacrifice, Aizawa continued:

“And it's better for your breathing, isn't it? To be on your side.”

The answering silence was so deep, it was clear no one was breathing, better or worse or any which way. Yagi hesitantly cleared his throat.

“Y … yes,” he admitted, equal parts startled and uncertain, as if wondering how Aizawa knew such a thing when it was simple observation. For the first time, Yagi's lack of self-awareness clicked for the younger hero as more than just performative deprecation.

Because who could be paying that kind of attention to him after he lost his Quirk, after all? Why would they care about anyone but All Might, the one the children couldn't forget? The thought was entirely unwelcome and entirely accurate and he didn't care for it.

After a pause, the older hero gingerly slid closer until their feet brushed under the heavy comforter, raising the hair all the way up Aizawa's sore legs. His toes curled with relish, but in the opposite direction, and the warmth behind his back was welcome and delicious and practically eased his eyes shut for him. Settled, Yagi sighed with clear relief and no wheeze to speak of.

“That, and this clean mountain air. It's been better since we arrived. Less coughing, I mean, even if the cold is ... Ah. Sorry about this, Aizawa-kun.”

Aizawa declined to answer, as he wasn't exactly sorry, and hearing his name whispered in Yagi's deep voice was nicer than he expected. His neck prickled lavishly as he felt the humble mattress dent just behind him, close but not touching. At the rustling sound of Yagi slipping his arm under his pillow, Aizawa's stomach flopped and his knees drew up a little, as if to chase off the sudden childish craving for arms wrapped tightly around his middle. He hadn't been held in a while.

The older hero's breaths warmed his neck and Aizawa counted each one until he drifted to sleep, thinking of meeting them with his own.

When he woke, snug and heavy with sleep, it was snowing outside and Yagi was gone.

Come to find he was up and off before dawn, and helping the innkeeper family in the kitchen with the plating of the miso soup and rice for their small army. It raised Aizawa's brows a bit, even if it was … pleasant, seeing the ex-Symbol of Peace greet every exhausted hero student with an ohayougozaimasu! and a steaming bowl of rice and real enthusiasm for the day's work, like a common cafeteria employee.

It made him think yet again that he'd misunderstood Yagi. It could be he knew nothing at all of the things the older hero enjoyed, or valued, or where he thought he belonged in the world if serving breakfast to a bunch of shuffling, yawning high schoolers was making him shine like this. The raucous Plus Ultra! with every delivered bowl he could have done without, but the kids' eyes practically sparkled as they took their seats at the low table and began to chatter, and they were going to need their energy for the day.

When he brought up the line for his own breakfast after Vlad and Thirteen, he didn't know what to think when Yagi's effortless machine-gun greetings stuttered and he laughed nervously. Nearly dropping the bowl, Yagi fumbled it into his hands, bowed, and quickly turned back to fret over the grilling fish, which needed no apparent assistance. After serving everyone else, the older hero had to be reminded to get his own food.

Again, the eyes on the floor; again, the bitten lip.

Again, the straying thoughts; the way they both pulled back from reaching for the same bottle of sauce and then strangely, unanimously decided they could do without it rather than risk – what? Touching? Drowsy as he was, Aizawa couldn't wrap his head around it and yet resolutely ate his fish without salt that morning, as if that was what he was planning on doing in the first place.

Then there was the way Yagi stared after him with a strange intensity as the innkeepers waved their expedition off for the day and into the downy gathering white.

Of course there was some part of it that had to be regret. He couldn't come along, not anymore, and if anything happened, he wouldn't be among those they called for help. Aizawa had to tell himself not to look over his shoulder, and instead committed himself and his attention to the trials ahead and not the man he hoped was enjoying his tea and quiet back at the inn. He had never thought about All Might and quiet before.

Instead, he thought about big fluffy Suzu by the wood stove, purring louder and more lustily than the electric generator outside, and had a vague and hopeful thought about reincarnation.

 


 

The day went well. No major injuries. Fresh snow on the slopes provided powder and traction, which was a point in the kid's favor for their obstacle course, but Aizawa couldn't plan for every little advantage. They passed. He was satisfied, and proud, and exhausted. And fucking freezing.

He'd forgotten it was oonsen night until Yagi politely declined to join them.

To be honest, he was half resentful and half glad. He'd seen enough in the gym changing room and slivers of moonlight to know that Yagi was protective of his left side. The thought of the older hero forgoing something healthful due to shame – in a group of immeasurably scarred pro heroes who knew his secret before the whole country did, no less – was enough to irritate Aizawa on several levels.

On the other hand, he felt he'd been spared the gravest of humiliations. The mere scenario was a high risk of embarrassment. He would be staring, he knew. With enough sake, he might have drifted up next to him, full mast, and asked him if he fucks. And if he would be interested in fucking him.

He would absolutely slot their naked legs together in the hot water and, fuck it, sit on his lap. The look on his face would be worth it. He would breathe in steam and sigh into lazy kisses, licking his way into Yagi's mouth. He would press against the older hero's carved, scarred, lanky body and away from the frigid mountain air until those big steaming hands cupped his back and traced shapes that wore him down to a shivering mess, his hand stuttering as he toyed with Yagi's cock in the water. Kissing. Feeling.

Vlad and Thirteen watching the whole time, of course. And then the very kind ryokan family tossing them into the snow for fucking in their oonsen, as deserved.

Regardless of pesky details, Aizawa was still mulling over parts of his fantasy when he shuffled down the hallway and into their room, unsteady from a mellowing combination of the steam and sake warming his bones. He found the bed cautiously, first with his toes, and flopped down on his side, hoping he didn't groan too loudly as he struggled underneath the duvet. He didn't feel his hair practically slap down onto the pillow.

“Ah. Your hair.”

Aizawa heard the whisper and frowned into the darkness. First, he was irritated that Yagi was awake and, yet, not naked in the hot springs with him. Then he grimaced as a chilly drop of water streaked down his neck and back. Hair.

“Fuck. Sorry. I didn't think,” he mumbled, hastily bundling himself into their pile of blankets as the chill set in, shivering so hard his calves cramped. He palmed his damp hair to the side and away from Yagi, feeling a bit like the kids he would scold for the same thing. He hoped the pillow wasn't too wet. He hoped he wouldn't catch a cold.

He had to admit that Yagi had him all mixed up at this point. He was forgetting things, especially the things surrounding the rituals of rising and going to bed. Before the camp came to a close, he might walk to breakfast without his jumpsuit, and it was all the Number One Hero's fault.

Next to him, Yagi chuckled in response, clicking his tongue.

“That's how you catch a cold, Aizawa-kun.”

So help me keep warm, he wanted to say. He didn't need to – just the thought, just that laugh, and his face was burning. He dug down into the pillows face-first with an unhappy grumble, vaguely aware of Yagi religiously toeing the very edge of the bed behind him, and knocked the fuck out.

 


 

When he woke the next morning, Yagi was snoring gently in his ear. Yagi's hand was also on his bare leg, fingers trailing along the inside of his thigh. Aizawa's hair had dried overnight, vaguely crunchy from the spring's natural salts, and now he was the one with the early morning problem.

His thighs, especially the inside, were ticklish as a rule, and when Yagi twitched in his sleep it sent silly tingles straight to his dick. Which did not need to get any harder, by the way. He might have palmed himself through his underwear and barely resisted pressing his ass back, to see if Yagi's dick was up before he was, too.

Could have been an accident. Close quarters, and all.

He didn't need to do anything. Like his terrible thoughts had been heard, Yagi's long body shifted behind him, hand closing around his leg and lazily pulling him against his front and the warm, insistent tent in his sleeping pants.

His hand was very big. His dick was very big, and Aizawa's mouth fell open, body flashing cold and hot as the stiff tip snugged itself between his bare legs, just under his ass. His mouth went dry and his dick pulsed so hard it was painful. He tried not to clench his thighs around Yagi's girth and failed, freezing and exhaling through his teeth when the older hero's breath hitched in his sleep.

Like the first morning, it felt good. Of course it did, because Aizawa had to accept that he was considerably into Yagi and his dick and any combination of those two things was good. And tempting.

For example, it would feel even better if he just tilted his hips, because he could jack Yagi off in his sleep.

He could gently work his dick between his thighs with steady, coaxing nudges until his pants were soaked through with greedy precum and squelching quietly around his cock with every twitch. Eventually, Yagi would spill into his underwear, pushing against him and probably whimpering at the chuff of the cloth on his rawed cockhead. Aizawa would feel the heat of it bloom just under his balls, thighs finally relaxing from the fluttering strain of humping him to orgasm without waking him, and his dick twitched sharply at the thought.

Maybe Aizawa would pretend to be asleep when he woke up, and even when Yagi realized, peeled his spent dick from between his sticky legs and doubtlessly ran.

Fuck, why was that hot?

He would never do something like that to a person, much less the agonizingly polite, clearly deprived man they'd come to know as Yagi, but maybe a little bit of his initial desire to confuse and humiliate All Might was still banging around in him somewhere. Just laying there and thinking about it, Yagi's cock pulsing hot and lazy at the cusp of his ass, it was almost too much to bear. It made Aizawa reconsider his stance on jacking off next to a sleeping coworker, which he didn't know he had. Hero or no, the tension had to break somehow.

And break it did. Before he could even sneak a fingertip beneath the waistband of his briefs to touch his bare cock, Aizawa sneezed violently, waking them both up in the worst way possible.

Maybe the second-worst way possible, with some mature perspective.

They fell apart on elbows and knees, startled and mortified and feigning ignorance in no particular order. Yagi practically flung himself from bed and into the hallway for obvious 10-inch reasons and Aizawa, sniffling and glaring at the ceiling, heard his footsteps pounding to the opposite end of the inn and the bathing room. He resurfaced at breakfast and managed to recover enough to tease Aizawa about being sick for the rest of the day. He offered hot tea every other hour but the cheeky grin never quite reached his shadowed eyes, confidence floundering halfway. He repeatedly excused himself to other things, stifling a light cough in his hand.

It was almost like he remembered, or assumed. Almost like he was worried about being found out and was committed to treading lightly, while simultaneously unable to resist playing and teasing when he could.

At that point, Aizawa stopped wondering about a few things and had plainly had enough of a few others. The day went quickly, surely thanks in part to him glaring the sun across the sky, and after a big dinner to celebrate their stay, it was nighttime again. Bedtime, more specifically.

He was ready, he was awake, and he was little spoon.

He had never quite agreed to be little spoon in this whole mess, but it was All Might, and one assumed you little-spooned for the biggest spoon around. And they had a pattern, now. Yagi, right side, and him on the left, with a glass of water above.

That pattern included the unmistakable heat of Yagi's arousal in the small of his back, as it had for three nights, and Aizawa was done.

Yagi, for his part, had gotten some kind of bold. He settled in at Aizawa's back without protest. Aizawa's feet brushed the front of his calves and he didn't jerk away. When those callused fingers skimmed just underneath the hem of his briefs, catching every hair and yet still perfectly excusable as a mistake, Aizawa found his hand under the blankets and grabbed it.

Yagi stiffened. Awareness and pulse pooling viciously in his fingertips, Aizawa felt down over the older hero's craggy knuckles and between his outstretched fingers, both curious and gentle. As he felt and explored, the only sound was that of the duvet shifting and rustling in the dark room. When Yagi's fingers twitched in his, answering, Aizawa led his hand around to the front of his briefs and the arch of his stiff cock.

The second Yagi's giant palm made contact, Aizawa's body nearly shook with relief, the instant zing of pressure sending him to his toes even on his side. It was hard to stay still and not immediately push against their paired hands. The rush of exultant heat and want only doubled when Yagi tensed behind him again and breathed out, low and disbelieving and absolutely hungry. Almost a growl.

With that, Aizawa's logical mind finally switched from possibilities to certainties: They had to be quiet.

It was an old inn, after all, something that seemed to put Yagi in very high spirits from the moment they arranged to go there for the camp. Aizawa made a note to ask him about that before warm breath along the back of his neck violently cleared his mind of anything but the hand carefully pressing down on his dick, kneading and stroking.

The feeling of each of Yagi's long fingers sliding over and up his trapped shaft, whispering over cotton, made him shiver and clench his teeth not to groan aloud, especially when his fingertips found the head and delicately rubbed. His hips twitched and his dick immediately soaked the fabric, flexing blissfully at the precise pain-pleasure. The icing on the cake was hearing Yagi gasp, or maybe how he took his whole dick in hand after that and squeezed, nosing against the skin of his shoulder.

Aizawa bit his pillow and tilted his hips and held onto Yagi's stick-thin wrist and did everything but beg aloud, but he could feel it: Yagi was still unsure, somehow, even with the precum stickying his roughened palm and the fitful little shakes Aizawa couldn't contain and didn't want to, shamelessly arching into his touch.

Was there any chance Yagi thought he was dead asleep and mindlessly humping his hand? Was he practically holding his breath to avoid waking him, like a pervert?

Before he could think of how hot that was, or how he'd nearly touched himself to the thought of a strangely similar thing that morning, he turned in the nest of sheets and pulled Yagi's lanky body against his front, avoiding his left side only at the last minute with a handful of his pajama pants. He heard the older hero's breath scrape in and out, in and out in the darkness just above him, nervous. Their noses bumped.

Aizawa had to bite back a groan when Yagi leaned down and his mouth was wet and open and ready. Just a touch and he was already melting on his tongue, like snowflakes on smooth oonsen stone, and reaching for more.

They kissed, and Yagi pulled him closer with a low savoring sound that made Aizawa's ass clench in pure anticipation. The leg that somehow pressed between his own was a wonderful touch, and he rocked against it immediately, moaning into the older hero's mouth at the gush of pleasure and friction. But before he could even find Yagi's wild mane and dig his fingers in and grab and make that kiss half as rough as he wanted it, it was over.

"Ai-aizawa-kun," Yagi whispered as he pulled away, patchy and shocked. He struggled up to his elbow and even further away with a rustle of sheets, and Aizawa barely managed to let him. He was practically steaming from the ears, his hands open and empty.

He listened very hard in the dark for what came next.

"You've been ... drinking?"

He could almost hear Yagi touch his own mouth. See the dawning hurt in his face.

As for Aizawa, it stalled his mind out entirely. His mouth fell open and all he could hear was his harried heartbeat in his ear smashed against the damp pillow.

Fucking what?

“No," he grunted, and then he made a huffing sound, realizing. And feeling a little stupid. He shifted forward into the space between them, maybe a little too hopeful for his own good.

"I brushed my teeth with some whiskey. Vlad's. I forgot to get my toothpaste from the kit before we turned in."

It had been a very full, very exhausting day, but the truth was Aizawa had been too distracted thinking about shoving his tongue into the retired hero's mouth after dark and maybe cumming on him or next to him to really think about much else.

An altogether stupid lapse in thought, considering the specifics of his goals.

"Oh.” Yagi sounded startled. Maybe by his very low standards? Shit.

“Oh?” Aizawa prompted after a minute, wary.

"You could have just used mine," Yagi murmured, sounding very distressed that he hadn't asked.

For all the good it did, Aizawa stared up at him in the dark.

Because it wasn't really about kissing someone with whiskey mouth, it was the fact that he had gone without and Yagi – and his toothpaste – had been right there.

Aizawa couldn't help it. Six months and a semester too late, the stupid smile hit him so hard his cheeks cramped. This was really him, wasn't it?

This was Yagi, and this was All Might. Beneath all the flash, there was a kind of care that couldn't be a lie. A soul of saving, and a living, breathing Plus Ultra that couldn't be denied.

There was someone sucking on Yagi's tongue just a second ago, grinding against him after no fewer than three inopportune but meaningful erections had passed between them … and he had to stop everything because of some toothpaste.

"Ok," Aizawa said belatedly under his breath, or he hoped he said it.

He couldn't exactly remember through the rush of pulling Yagi close again, or the sweet stutter of the hero's breath as Aizawa's fingers found the warm skin above his stupid Plus Ultra themed pants and they fell together again, desperate.

After three nights of seeing how far apart they could possibly sleep, they solved the inverse. Briefs hanging off of his ankles in haste, Aizawa got to see the faint blush on Yagi's face from above as he carefully fisted their cocks together, hushing the older hero's small, broken moans with kisses that were hardly any quieter. Yagi dug his fingers into his asscheeks hard enough to leave ten ink-daub bruises when he came, bucking up against him and whimpering. The way he reached up and held Aizawa's unshaven face in a sloppy kiss as he followed, panting hard, made it blissfully clear that whiskey breath was never really a problem.

In the blue dark of morning, before the sun rose white over the mountains, they did it again.

 


 

All in all, the camp was a success.

Before Aizawa even boarded the bus, he sent an email to the owners thanking them for their time, energy and service and inquiring as to availability for next year. The first-years, A and B alike, were so exhausted from their training that the ride back to Musutafu was a very quiet one, which the harried homeroom instructor appreciated for approximately ten minutes before joining them in slumber.

The first night back on campus, with the children finally back in their rooms, Aizawa got as far as sitting down to unpack his bag before he turned to find Yagi towering in his dormitory doorway.

“Ready to sleep in your own bed, Aizawa-kun?” his co-teacher joked timorously, fretting at the sleeves of a long woven cardigan Aizawa had never seen before. It was tan, and looked soft. Not that he spent much time analyzing his coworker's wardrobe before now.

Aizawa thought about what he should say to that, unable to read Yagi's face with the light from the common room haloing his face and wild hair.

“Ready to sleep,” he said with a shrug. Someone could be around to hear – or Yagi could just be making polite conversation after cumming on each other. Twice. They hadn't had a chance to talk about it, which was understandable, given the rush to get the students back to campus and settled again. He understood.

Or so he had told himself, glancing over every second, stubbornly wondering why they weren't talking about hot messy accidental field trip sex in a bus full of dozing children. Was it accidental? It was definitely sex. Did it count as an accident if it happened twice? It was very good. It should happen again.

Herding his errant and inappropriate thoughts into his current task, Aizawa dutifully pulled out his snow gear piece by piece, trying not to let his weird emotions telegraph. Above him, Yagi hummed in agreement, then fidgeted and coughed.

“Do you ...” His deep voice trailed off, and when he cleared his throat again, Aizawa looked up. This time, even in the back lighting, he could see Yagi's neck was bright pink.

“Do you need to borrow my toothpaste?”

It took him a minute, but Aizawa nearly bit his own cheek.

“Yeah,” he said, unable to stop the odd little grin from cracking his face, cheeks aching again. Idiot.

He stood, instantly forgetting his suitcase, which would lie there half-packed for the next two weeks. He stepped out into the hall, smile growing as Yagi practically sprinted out in front of him and down to his own room, cardigan trailing behind.

“The last on the left is yours, Yagi-san?” Aizawa asked as he followed, like it didn't have his goddamn name on the door.

“You first,” Yagi said quietly, dark eyes glinting as he opened the door with a smile so slight it was almost invisible, sending the hairs on Aizawa's neck upright and electric.

With that, Aizawa was very certain of two things: First, that Yagi really was a gentleman of gentlemen, and second, he wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon. A third certainty came later.

Any invitation to toothpaste was one Aizawa would never decline, even after their toothbrushes sat cockeyed in the same cup for months and years and more, and there was only one bed to speak of.