Work Text:
Toshinori had expected many things today. A warm bath after a long day of teaching. A grumpy Aizawa sniffing his way through the teachers' lounge at the click of the coffee maker. An irate Bakugo after a loss in training to the ever-unwitting Todoroki. There were other predictions - mostly correct - but for as much as he knew the boy, he'd not yet predicted the situation in which Young Midoriya himself would appear at the entrance of the the teacher's lounge just as Toshinori was making his way out, fiddling his thumbs with large, downcast eyes.
"Young Midoriya!" he exclaimed, not daring a smile alongside his own bright greeting, because he knew his boy (the boy, he had to remind himself) long enough to know that this was not an expression to take lightly. Young Midoriya had a way of poignancy about him, as sharp and deep enough to tear Toshinori's every heartstring in half with not even an afterthought of effort. To have one's heartstrings - every single one, at that - torn so quickly, so easily, was surely fatal. Young Midoriya was a fatal creature, with eyes so sorry. Toshinori felt as though he could cough up as much blood in the world, fight as many All For One's as he was old, and still never feel the thoracic hurt as strongly as what one glance at Young Midoriya's viridescent sadness could inflict.
But, Toshinori was strong - he had to be, even if he was no longer the Number One Hero of his homeland, the Symbol of Peace, the harbourer of One For All - due to methods still unknown even to himself. So, swallowing cinches to his heartstrings, jumps to his arteries, he asked, "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Then, with the indulgence of knowledge of the doe-eyed gaze's wrongness: "Is everything alright?"
Aizawa was still in the teachers' lounge, by now, despite every other member of the faculty having already left. One final cup of coffee, Toshinori believed to have been his unsaid reasoning, to nurse the deathly drawl in his voice and the bags under his eyes.
One could do their weekly shopping in those bags, Toshinori had thought bitterly, once upon a time, when his and Shouta's eyes had been all the more inequal to what they were now. A marginal difference, one could claim, but surely it made all the difference. And, now, it was proven, for despite all of his social ineptness, bluntness, even cruelty, Aizawa stood and granted the two a sanctity: "I'll leave you two to it." A grumble, but not unappreciated. He left, Toshinori's assigned mug in hand half-full with possibly stone-cold coffee, because his own was dirty and he was in the mood to annoy. Toshinori did not comment on the fact that Present Mic's, too, was on the draining board, left upside down and dripping.
Toshinori, especially in his old age, could not find the vehemence within himself to be bitter at the fact that his mug was third place, of all places, as much as Shouta tried to convince himself of the contrary.
"All Might," Midoriya choked, looking up at him with those glistening eyes, large and green and sorrowful. It reminded Toshinori's tongue to itch with the hives borne from the all-too-constricting 'please, Young Midoriya, call me Toshinori.' It reminded him that there was an ever-lasting distance that he longed to close. An idol was not a friend. A hero was not a father.
A father could be a hero, but never could a hero be a father.
"Young Midoriya," Toshinori - no, he was All Might, now; Izuku made it so (such sadness... such touching, unadulterated sadness, it needed a hero, and All Might was all too willing to crash his way out of the glass confines of his retirement to dry his- the boy's sorrows) - echoed. "My boy -" such, such indulgence - "what's the matter?"
"S-Sorry, I..."
"Midoriya." All Might was not sharp without a cause.
And those bright, dewy eyes shot up so suddenly. So illuminated, so large, so full of plaintiveness. Toshinori nearly coughed up a lung.
"My boy," he reiterated, stifling his chest's every successing pain, "tell me: what ails you?"
"All Might, I-I'm sorry - I'm weak - it's stupid - it's just -"
All Might dropped the leather-bound briefcase with an immediate slump of his shoulder. Papers were sure to have been ruffled; fountain pen nibs perhaps to have been snapped. "Not weak," he said, too quickly, "never stupid."
"C-Can I have a hug?" The question was quick, piercing, shocking. And yet... Toshinori couldn't help but believe it was all too overdue.
"Of course, my boy." Not a single word nor implication bore thinking about. The next thing Toshinori knew, his Young Midoriya was in his arms, sweet and small and dolorous. "Of course," was the repeat, so that Izuku knew that he wasn't misheard. Toshinori would have granted his boy the world, if he could've. A hug was no trouble. None at all.
None at all.
"I'm- I'm sorry!" Sobs. It was all sobs. Snot on his blazer. Sniffles in his collar. Snug arms around his ribs. Sorrow, cavernous sorrow, saturating the room so wholly so cause mould as Toshinori was thrown back, stumbling, catching himself on his own two feet as he was thrown backwards upon impact. "I'm sorry, All Might- I shouldn't-"
But Toshinori held tighter. Perhaps he and All Might were never truly one in the same: for Toshinori was impulsive, selfish, longing, all to hold, whereas All Might would have heeded in the pull to let go. All Might was not the hero he was so appraised to be if he ever sought to let go.
"Hush, now, Young Midoriya," Toshinori said, softly. "Do not ignore your own sadness. What seems to have brought this on?"
"N-Nothing!" A lie seemingly neither of them bought. "It's just that - well- it doesn't matter! I shouldn't burden you with this, All Might, really, I-"
The trembling voice was swift and high. No eye contact was shared between the two, because even in his weakened state, Toshinori could stop the efforts to pull away right in their tracks. Instead of meeting eye-to-eye, tearingly, Toshinori let his left hand drift certainly to his boy's soft locks. They carded through every root assuringly, soft and slow and sweet and certain. It was therapeutic, Toshinori figured. Comforting, even. He'd just never expected it'd be so for himself as well, comforting himself through the hurt of Midoriya's sorrow. As he'd said: selfish.
"You're not a burden, Midoriya," Toshinori stated, plainly. As plainly as he could, at least, with a shoulder weighed with a teenage crown and a handful of hair. "Never. Now," he added, smiling with an ascertained diligence, small and closed and gentle, just for Midoriya to take in and accept. Just for Midoriya to unlock his mind for Toshinori to heal all that ailed him. In only the most ideal world, would that be so true. "Tell me: what's brought this all on, hm? Did something happen in class? Did somebody say something to you they shouldn't have?" They'll answer to me, he figured, ruefully, even if I have to hold in my full form to do so. It could kill me if needed, so long as they answer to me.
Flashes of holding young Bakugou by the chest of his shirt come to his mind. Aizawa would be by the throat as he was long past being of-age - no mercy for him. Recovery Girl would have a stern talking to. Monoma Neito would be promptly expelled, even if he had to promise unto Nezu completely unspeakable things.
"It's just that - well -" Another choke from the boy. The dole it evoked was drowning. Enough to seep into Toshinori's lungs, his heart. His heart was sure to burst; its very own cytolysis.
"It's alright," Toshinori pulled Young Midoriya back to his shoulder. Perhaps less eye-contact would be easier for him. Toshinori could only hope. "Take your time."
"Th-Thank you," Midoriya sobbed. More snot. More sorrow. More tears. "All Might-"
This time, All Might waited. Midoriya gasped next to his ear, desperate for breath.
"-I'm so sorry-"
"Midoriya -"
"I like boys."
Toshinori really did not know what he'd been expecting. Still, his heart lurched forth towards his ribcage, longing to stretch narrow enough to slip past and rip through muscle and flesh to embrace Young Midoriya itself. To beat against him, all gushing blood and pleas of empathy, all warm and careful.
"I see," was all Toshinori could manage, like a smear of dirt. Composing himself, he continued: "That's perfectly fine, Midoriya." He pulled Midoriya back by the shoulders to look at his face. It was still wet with streaming snot and tears and saliva - too, too anguished, even to someone whose life was nothing but crime and rescue and publicity - so Toshinori thumbed the boy's cheekbone, breaking just one stream of sorrow from turmoil's dam. "Thank you for telling me." A frown followed, suddenly: "Am I the first person you've told?"
A nod, sharp and clear, buried back against Toshinori's shoulder once more.
"Does your mother not-"
"I don't know," Midoriya cut across. "I mean- she probably doesn't- doesn't mind," he said, "but I haven't... she's not the one I'm- that I'm-"
"You're what, Midoriya?" A gentle push. He was sure it was all he needed.
"That I was worried about," Midoriya finally supplied. Toshinori's heart - feeble, wary, broken - tremored in his chest.
"You were worried about me?"
"About my father," Midoriya replied. A gentle correction, ultimately, but cutting nonetheless. Toshinori resented his own horror. Surely his bleeding heart could be sewn, with the threads of Midoriya's own happiness. His own belonging. "I haven't seen him in years. He- he works away. I don't even know if we're still in touch anymore."
"Ah, my apologies." It was all he could muster. Gripped between his own self-pitying hurt and Midoriya's sincerity, he was weak. The symbol of cowardice.
"No! I - I'm so sorry, All Might..." Midoriya was soaking through his blazer again with rattling sob after rattling sob. Toshinori's skeletal fingers raked upon the boy's upper back, a shadow of comfort that All Might would have given to his number one fan. "You don't deserve it..."
All Might waited, again. His fingers combed against Izuku's tense back. Petted, scraped, stroked. Anything to console.
"Deserve what, my boy?" All Might was patient, but Toshinori was hoarse and desperate.
"You're the closest thing I have!" Izuku cried, at long last. Toshinori's heart stilled. "The only thing - to a father - without him, you're - and you don't deserve me thinking of you like that! You deserve far better than me considering you-"
"You can think of me however you please, Young Midoriya," Toshinori cut across, pointedly. "Please do not ever think for a minute I would never accept you. Especially..." Toshinori exhaled through his nose. Not so deliberate as it was pure hesitance. "Especially if it is as my own."
And suddenly, Izuku wailed. Inconsolable, indefinite, incoherent wails. Pure sobs that rattled Toshinori's core, shaking every corner of the teacher's lounge as though One For All itself had taken hold of his lungs. "Thank you - All Might - thank you! I-I don't- I don't deserve-"
Toshinori, on pure impulse, kissed the hysterical boy's forehead before squeezing him in a second coming of their close hug. The action seemed to quiet Young Midoriya's blubbers, but did nought to wholly quench them. He gripped back, though, and so the two remained tightly holding one another in unison. All that could ever matter, then, would be one another. All that could ever matter would be palliating Midoriya's sorrows, no matter the means.
"So," Toshinori said, steady voice cutting through the din and soaking up his own sob like a sponge, "what boys?"
"H-Huh?" Midoriya sniffled.
"What sort of boys have caught my Young Midoriya's attention?"
Midoriya seemed to huff a bit of a laugh into the side of Toshinori's neck. It was wet and poignant and ghostly, but it still existed. Toshinori let it seep into his skin, letting the small helping of mirth transform into strength. "Well," Midoriya continued, wetly, but the minor curl on his lips was very much felt, "there's Bakugou, from when we were kids."
Toshinori abstained from literally biting his tongue to fend off the desire to puff back into his full form one last time and march to the student dorms with the headspace to kill. Or, at the very least, recite a whole Shakespearean sonnet of shovel-talk. Young Bakugou could stand to be buried under a foot or two, with an ego so tall, Toshinori was sure.
"Then there's Iida..." the tears seemed to mostly have dried by now, but that did not stop Midoriya's damp little sniffles alongside his demure little smile. "He means so well- but I think that's passed... now with... Todoroki..."
Midoriya's voice had trailed off, near silent, as he admitted the final possible crush. Toshinori's heart, again, did lurch, but he thought about the way he'd seen Todoroki's own eyes glow from Izuku's dear splendour, and suddenly the idea of any shovel-talk felt quite unappealing.
"But, what of young Uraraka?" All Might had to ask. Part of him believed he shouldn't have, but it slipped out all too soon. "I'd seen the way you'd looked at her at the beginning of your first term!"
"Oh, yeah, well... she's the - she's the only girl I've ever... ever liked, before," Midoriya explained, stammeringly and meekly, into the dependable crook of Toshinori's neck.
"And that's fine, too," Toshinori amended, not with haste but rather with a sickly kindness that caught in his throat at the faceless image of Midoriya's real father. Still, a kindness nonetheless, stored only for Midoriya, and no one else. "You are allowed to like whomever you please, Midoriya."
"Th-Thank you, All Might!" cried his boy again, burying himself further in Toshinori's jutting form. Toshinori regretted that he, his body, couldn't have been as comfortable as he'd liked for this situation. "S-So much! I'm so glad I met you!"
"Me too, Young Midoriya," Toshinori replied, immensely earnest as he pressed another kiss into the boy's head with his own thin lips. "Me too."
If only you knew how much adoration I hold for you, my boy.
Perhaps then could your tears permanently dry.