“Stop calling me a hero,” Iwaizumi says as he sets the cup of hot milk with honey down next to Tooru’s bed. Tooru looks up at him from the pile of blankets that hides him up to his nose, and frowns. “But you are,” he says. As soon as Iwaizumi is by his side, he reaches for the milk and hugs the cup with his thin fingers. “You’re my hero. You – the things you do for me – “ 

Iwaizumi touches their foreheads together. “Heroes save lives. I’m just your boyfriend. Want me to sleep here or in the living room?” 

Tooru smiles. “Here.” He starts crying just a minute later, and Iwaizumi doesn’t complain about the milk that drips out of the cup when his fingers shake. He simply takes it and puts it away, before opening his arms – leaving Tooru the choice. 

Tonight, he wants to be touched. Tonight, the trauma and memories are weaker than his burning wish to melt into Iwaizumi’s arms, forget about the flashbacks and bitter tears, and feel loved. 

Some heroes stay unknown, Tooru thinks when Iwaizumi’s lips kiss his forehead with a reverence as if he’s worthy, sacred, unbroken. Some legends are never told, and some names are never adorned with gold and silver. 

Iwaizumi is silent when he fights Tooru’s battles by his side, and his love is wordless and warm-cupreous as it conquers and heals.