It wasn't the first time we'd met.

We'd gone to school together. I'd seen him in the halls, and I watched him as he fought in the Sports Festival, time after time. For a man with a nonphysical quirk, he was a good fighter. Incredible to watch, really. Graceful.

I'm not sure we ever spoke before we graduated, and even after it was a few years before we came together. But eventually we did; paving our own paths to the same destination, our collision was inevitable, as is the crisscrossing of each hero's journey.

He was two years younger than me. I was still far too young. We were still just kids.

"Behind you!" I whip around toward an alley to the side of the fight, arms tense, and I find another villain racing towards me, malice in his eyes. Clenching my teeth into more of a grimace than a smile, I wait, and using his own momentum against him, I sock him hard in the gut. I hardly put any power into it, but I feel the impact nonetheless, and can't help but watch his eyes bug and listen to the rush of air stolen from him as his forward motion is viciously impeded. I let out a breath when he falls and curls in on himself, obviously no longer a threat.

"Thanks," I say, turning back to the thick of the fight. I don't have time to worry where the straggler came from. The man who alerted me, lithe in body and calculated in movement, meets my eyes and nods before diving forward to avoid a punch and delivers a counterattack. I don't remember his name, but I know him. He's two years younger than me. We went to school together, for a while.

This mission isn't the most dangerous thing I've ever encountered, but the sheer number of villains banding together for one cause is distressing. It's called for quite a few heroes to arrive on scene, most of us newer, some of us not even pro but sidekicks along for the ride. It reminds me how much we need a Symbol of Peace. It reinforces my resolve to become that symbol.

I find a breath between collisions with villains to look back at the hero agency behind us. It's the only one in a small yet crowded city, and the hero in question is currently on a mission elsewhere. I can only imagine the villains' combined effort to launch an assault on the agency was to cause unrest in the citizens. I don't like to think about what it might mean if it didn't.

Eventually, as always, the heroes succeed. I straighten my posture, slow my breathing, plaster a smile on my face, and turn towards the street where news cameras wait. The setting sun peeking out from the roofs of buildings blinds me for a moment, and I can only see the silhouettes of the other victors in front of me: a woman with a body of incredible elasticity. A stout yet agile man with an infectious grin, a pro hero whose name I should know but can't remember. A person who looks like a child yet who fought with more experience than any of us. And furthest from me, a lithe frame stands, not facing the crowd but instead looking straight at me with calculating eyes. My heart, which had been starting to slow, quickens. He turns away, and the city takes a breath, and the news reporters surge forward.

I see the grinning man clasp the shoulder of the lithe man, gesturing toward the cameras enthusiastically, before clapping his back and moving away. Then, the people between me and him step back, helping the police apprehend the various injured criminals. I step forward to greet the cameras and the microphones, smiling wide, answering their questions enthusiastically. Beside me, that man similarly advances to answer questions, standing tall for the cameras. He is curt with them, and although he does not fidget I get the distinct impression that he does not want to be here. Normally I'd stay and play it up for the media. Now, though, I impulsively cut it short.

"We really must be helping the police with their reports of the incident. Do excuse us!" I say cheerily when we're both between questions, and I grasp my companion by the shoulder and steer him away. He stiffens at first, surprised, but in turn surprises me when he easily lets me guide him.

When we get a sufficient distance away, I let go of his shoulder and step away a bit. I'm not sure what to say to him, for surely "You seemed uncomfortable so I, a stranger, felt obligated to get you away from there," would be weird to say, but I don't have time to figure something out because words are stolen from me when he looks over at me, an unreadable expression on his face. I try to decipher what might be confusion or shock or intrigue or something else in the midst of my admiration of his sharp yet somehow gentle features and I am cut off from both when he looks back to the aftermath of the fight. I follow his gaze.

The hero agency, while not destroyed, suffered some in the initial attack. Corners have crumbled. The sign advertising the hero's name is broken. The hedges and flowers planted out front have been trampled. But it stands, and that is enough.

"Your fighting," he says suddenly, and I turn back to him. His eyes rest firmly on a few police officers as they walk a villain to a car. "It's improved since I watched you in the Sports Festivals at school, but it's still rough. Mostly punches. You leave yourself open constantly. You're reckless." I'm taken aback for a moment. Then, he continues. "And yet, you seem never to be overtaken. You never let your smile drop from your face, even though that's not your quirk like Kindness' is. I wonder why?" He muses this to himself more than to me, and I remember that the grinning man's hero name is Kindness. The way he says it makes me think he must be Kindness' sidekick: with a touch of reverence and a touch of familiarity.

"I never caught your name," I say. "Or I guess, I don't remember it from school." I'm still looking at him. He's still watching the criminals as they're apprehended, one by one.

"Sir Nighteye," he says. "And you're All Might."

"I am," I say, for lack of anything better. He smiles in a strange sort of manner and starts to walk away, and I make to follow, but a woman with the police flags me down to ask me for details about the incident. During the exchange I'm distracted, thinking of Nighteye's fighting, his grace, his eyes on me when the media begged his attention elsewhere. His eyes as they looked into mine after I impulsively tugged him away from the crowd. Pale yellow eyes, like the haze on the edge of a sunset.

When I look up to find him again, he's gone.

The next time I see him is in my own hero agency, a year and a half later.

I'm no longer a new pro. I've established a name for myself with a few auspicious deeds, slowly rising in the rankings, slowly reaching for my ultimate goal, slowly stepping onto the pedestal I've engraved as for "the Symbol of Peace"with my own hands. Nighteye, though, has had garnered little media attention. The snippets I've caught of his deeds have so far been overshadowed by Kindness', as is the fate of all sidekicks. I've almost forgotten how much he intrigued me at the battle for the hero agency, but when my secretary invites him into the lounge to talk with me it all comes rushing back.

Since then, he's changed little, but still changed. His hair is neater. His suit is nicer. He fidgets with something, flipping it between his fingers, and the action does not seem nervous but absentminded. He's polished and closed-off, and for some reason, I find myself with the desire to open him up.

"Sir Nighteye," I say after a moment's pause. His lips curl into a slight smile.

"All Might," he replies. "You didn't forget this time." I chuckle.

"No," I say simply. I could never, with eyes like that, I add silently.

He sits down and we talk. He tells me about his adventures since we last met and I tell him about mine, and while I'm explaining I can't help but notice that his surprise at shocking parts seems fabricated. The look in his eyes is knowing. He has this entrancing sort of light in his eyes, and I can't help but get the impression that he knows all of this already. Still, he lets me tell my stories, and we exchange like that for a while. But only so much can go on in a year and a half, and eventually there's nothing left to tell, and it's silent for a moment.

"I resigned as Kindness' sidekick," he says quietly, reaching for the tea I had my secretary bring us. I raise an eyebrow, resting my own cup in my lap, curling my fingers around it to steal what warmth I can. The air conditioning makes the building too cold.

"Really?" I inquire, pushing for details. He nods, taking a sip.

"I came here personally to ask you to take me on as your sidekick." That surprises me. I say nothing for a few seconds, taken aback just as I was when he first spoke to me on the cracked pavement that day.

"Me?" I ask. It's probably the last thing I expected to hear when he walked into my agency. I expected some sort of business proposition, or a message from Kindness, or an invitation to some exclusive event. Not this.

It's not like I wouldn't like a sidekick. Most new heroes take a while to gain sidekicks, but I'm not really a new hero anymore, and I have none. Just a secretary who makes good tea. A sidekick or two would make missions easier and would help me gain standing as a hero. It would be good for me.

And yet, every time I think of putting people in the line of danger, my palms get sweaty. Of course a sidekick is willingly standing in that line, unlike a passerby or a victim. But to be the one to order them into the fray and to ask them to accompany me into a potentially dangerous situation is not something I am ready to do. I'll ever be ready to do.

"No," I say, and he pauses where he reaches to place down his teacup. "I don't take on any sidekicks." He looks disappointed for an instant, and I half expect him to back off, but he doesn't.

"I know that," he says, pressing on. "But having even one sidekick would lend you a distinct advantage. You fight recklessly, All Might, without a plan of action or support backing you. Anyone can see that in the way you fight. You get injured unnecessarily. You are the same as you have always been, self-sacrificing and dangerous and always, always smiling. You need someone to help you—to stop you when you try to go too far and to guide you when you can't think of what to do next. I can be that person."

"I said no," I reiterate, and Nighteye frowns, fixing me with a stare that is without a doubt disappointed.

"I want to be a man who is of use to you," he tells me and stands. We keep eye contact as he does, and in his eyes is a mixture of determination and hope and resolve that is almost intoxicating. We stay there like that, gazes locked, for a desperately short moment. Then he breaks away and moves to the door, leaving his tea half-drunk, still warm. I open my mouth as if to call him back, but he's gone before I can figure out what I'd say. Why I'd want him to stay.

I drop my gaze to my feet and sit there a while, placing my cup on the table and clasping my hands. Eventually my secretary comes back in to take the now-cold drinks away, but before she leaves she places something on the table.

"He left this for you, along with a message," she says softly. I look down. It's a business card.

"What was the message?" I ask.

"He said, 'I will support you, no matter what it takes.'"

I laugh.

He doesn't leave me alone after that.

I can't help but keep thinking about him. He pops up in my head time and time again, always with that fire in his eyes, always defiant. I find myself toying with the card he left me sometimes. Eventually, I give in and text his number, letting him know it's me.

Have you decided to take me on? is the first thing he says. I can't help but be impressed with his perseverance.

No, I text back, and I expect him to disappear. But instead he texts me back, and we talk, and even after I put down my phone I think about him, and it isn't the last conversation we have. He's a kind of stoic and straightforward that is not prickly but earnest. It draws me in, and I am helpless.

He doesn't stop asking to become my sidekick, nor does he stop informing and reinforming me of the benefits of taking him on. He doesn't stop pushing for it, and with anyone else I'm sure I'd be fed up eventually, but with him it's just part of us. It's been this way since that second meeting; he dances closer and closer to me as I try to keep him at arm's length. I find my arms burning with the strain of holding him back, and every time he lunges for me he gets a little further. And every time he lunges for me I feel my desire to keep him away waning. Every time he lunges for me I almost want him to succeed.

One day, he asks me to go with him to get coffee. I say yes.

We meet at a cozy café I've never been to before. He's there before me, and I see him before he sees me, and the way he's sitting straight-backed yet relaxed, coffee mug cradled in his palms, glasses slightly forward on his nose, he seems so comfortable I hate to break the moment. But then he looks up and he meets my eyes and a smirk that is not so mischievous but warm graces his lips and I don't feel very bad at all.

"Nice to see you, Nighteye," I say as I sit down, ignoring the low murmur of civilians recognizing a pro hero.

"Kenma Enishi," he says lightly, and I arch an eyebrow. He looks up. "I think, at this point, you'd consider us friends, right? You should call me by my name."

"Kenma," I say, trying it out. I like it. "It's a good name." He glances up at me as he stirs sugar into his coffee and I see his lips curl into a grin ever so slightly. "Yagi Toshinori."

"Pleased to meet you, Toshinori," Kenma says, looking up at me in an amused sort of way as he takes a sip of his drink. I feel my face heat up. Of course he'd go and do something so forward.

"I, uh," I stammer, grasping for any control of the situation I can find. He cuts me off before I can figure out what I'd possibly say in response.

"I'm sure you can guess why I asked you here." He pushes his glasses up with his ring finger and I can't help but notice how slender his fingers are, how precise. "I want to be your sidekick, Toshinori. I can help you. It would be beneficial to both your agency and yourself as well as to me." I exhale, frustrated.

"Nighteye—Kenma. You know I don't take on sidekicks. I've told you this before, and I'll tell you as many times as it takes."

"Yes, but why is that?" He pushes.

"Because I am perfectly capable of doing hero work and handling my agency on my own."

"That's not the reason." I don't answer and he stares me down, his eyebrows creased. "Tell me why, Toshinori." Under his gaze, my resolve cracks.

"I don't ever want anyone to get hurt under my orders," I say softly, looking down at my lap where my hands are clasped. I tighten my grip almost subconsciously and my arm shakes. "I'm supposed to save people, Kenma. Not put them in danger."

"I understand that. All heroes have that desire; it's the drive to save and protect that defines us. But a truly good hero is one who realizes that they can't save everyone, and they certainly can't stop other people from risking their lives to save others. Whether yours or not, there will be sidekicks that get hurt or die every day. Whether or not you ordered it, there will be people in danger every day. A good hero, Toshinori, is one who accepts that people will get hurt and has the courage to stand with others even when they might not be there to stand again the next day." Kenma pauses for a moment and I find that my whole body is shaking now. "And a good hero knows that if they hold the weight of the world on their shoulders alone for too long, eventually, they will collapse."

I'm taken aback again. Once more, he has caught be by surprise. Once more, I am left speechless and reeling.

The white noise of the café is gone and all that I can feel is my own heartbeat pulsing and all I can hear is the slight noise when Kenma opens his mouth to speak again. Up until now he has spoken matter-of-factly, in a way that pushes you to accept everything he's said as absolute truth, in a way that makes it easier to process the most heavy statements. And then he speaks again, and it's soft and solemn in a way I've never known.

"I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't be devastated if someone under my charge were hurt. No one could ever brush off the guilt that comes with something like that." He exhales softly, quietly, and I get the feeling that he's seen that guilt before. Or felt it. "So, I have a proposition for you, Toshinori."

The noise of the café fades back in and I feel a little less melancholy. I look up to meet his eyes and he's bent over to the side of his chair, retrieving something from a briefcase sitting by his feet. Out of it comes a thick, stapled document with small print and it makes a satisfying thwap when Kenma lets it drop on the table.

"This is a contract I wrote myself that would enlist me as your sidekick for a minimum period of three years, extended or terminated at your leisure depending on my usefulness." I open my mouth to object, but Kenma holds up a finger and I shut my mouth. "I'm a smart man, Toshinori. One of the smartest. I'm good at strategizing and I'm good at paperwork and my quirk is certainly suited for being backup or a lookout and for planning ahead." He pauses. "I don't ever have to be in the line of fire if you don't want me to be."

My eyes widen as he looks up at me from where he was lightly touching the pages of the contract. I feel like something unidentifiable passes between us in that instant, and in his yellow irises I can see all the desire he's shown to hold the past months he has been pursuing this. Pursuing me. I understand that he's not going to back down. And I think, in that moment, he realizes that he has me.

He pushes the contract toward me gently. My hands twitch in my lap.

I grab it and stand.

"Give me a few days," I say. I meet his eyes, and he smirks. I leave the café without ever having ordered a drink.

[Yagi Toshinori, 6:15pm] You start next Thursday.

[Kenma Enishi, 6:16pm] :)