Archive of Our Own ^beta

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

— Mary Oliver

Yagi Toshinori was not a family man.

The dealer of life’s cards certainly hadn't dished that particular hand to him when he ascended to become the world’s Symbol of Peace, its beacon of light, and its Number One Hero. He adored children; he cherished the way they would scramble toward him, tiny hands outstretched in desperate, hopeful reaching. In those moments, he would lift eight of them at once, laughing as the little ankle-biters utilized his massive form as a human jungle gym. But that was a borrowed joy—a flicker of temporary warmth that he could never truly take home with him when the costume came off.

Then came that blasted confrontation with All For One. It served as just one more reason for Toshinori to despise the man: the villain hadn't merely stolen his organs; he’d effectively carved out his entire future and strewn its entrails over the blood soaked ground. The injury left him a hollowed-out husk of his former self. In the grim wake of that fight, Toshinori retracted into the fragile shell he had become. He folded his naturally loving disposition inward, like a clipped wing, deciding then and there that he would be nothing more than a public figure—a living statue that coughed blood only when the cameras were off and the interviewers had turned away.

All Might had no true friends, no distractions of hobbies, and no regular hangouts where he could simply be. There were no colleagues he held dearer than any other; to him, they were all merely faces in the vision of a man running a marathon with no finish line in sight.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He could see the finish line—it crept closer with every passing day—but as the Symbol of Peace, he was obligated to keep running until the very end. And that end was coming; Mirai—or Sir Nighteye, as the public referred to him—had foreseen it himself. Damn that Quirk of his.

So, All Might existed only in the thin spaces between the lines: a living legend who belonged to everyone and, by extension, belonged to no one. He was a champion of the people, and most certainly, a man with no family. He was defined entirely by what he had given away, until there was nothing left of the man, only the title. Only that.

How could he possibly turn this kid into him?

That was the question that rattled through the hollowed-out space of his chest as he looked down at the boy. This scrawny, trembling middle-schooler had his eyes squeezed shut, bracing himself as if for a physical blow, while he asked—so earnestly, so desperately—the one question Toshinori was completely unprepared to answer: “Can I still become a hero despite not having a Quirk?”

God, it was like opening a can of worms he’d assumed had long since turned to compost and been reclaimed by the dirt. Instead, it was a mirror held up to the Pro. Toshinori looked at the boy’s white-knuckled grip and saw the same raw, foolish hope that had once fueled a quirkless boy decades ago—a boy who hadn't yet been carved out by a villain or stripped of his humanity by a glowing, shiny title.

To say yes was to invite this child into a life of beautiful, agonizing isolation. To say yes was to hand him a torch that would, eventually and inevitably, burn him down to the wick. Looking at him, Toshinori felt a pang of something far sharper than the throb of his old scar; it was the realization that he was looking at the only kind of person who could ever truly understand his loneliness, and he wasn't sure he had the heart to wish that fate on anyone.

Even worse, the thought of actually passing the torch—of giving this kid One For All—entered his mind, unbidden and terrifying.

He didn't know the first thing about this boy. He didn't know his name, his grades, or his temperament. Yet, there was something so fundamentally kind, so gentle and pure in the boy's words that it made Toshinori’s cynical, tired heart begin to melt. It was there in the way the boy’s eyes shined despite the gathering tears, and the way his smile, though wobbly and fragile but with this underlying strength and moxie, seemed to hold more genuine light than Toshinori had felt in years.

It was as if he were looking directly at hope itself, and hope was staring back at him with its heart pinned squarely to its middle school unformed sleeve.

God, how he needed a bit of hope.

So why the hell did he say it?

"---No, I honestly don’t think you can become a hero without a Quirk."

Perhaps he said it because he was so thoroughly wrapped up in a suffocating cloak of self-pity and a roiling, toxic mud of self-loathing. Maybe it was the feelings of inferiority that had started to fester the moment he realized his body was failing him, no longer able to maintain his form for more than a mere four hours a day. He was drowning in a relentless tide of grief, anger, and a bone-deep sadness that had become his only real companion in the hollow silence of his empty apartment. Those were the reasons, to name a few.

To an outsider, it was an act of unthinkable, senseless cruelty. It was cruel, Toshinori knew that. But to him, in that singular moment of profound weakness, it was a half-assed attempt at maintaining the walls he’d spent so many years laying high and thick. He was looking directly into a mirror of his younger self, and he hated what the reflection had eventually become—a broken man with a literal hole in his side and a metaphorical countdown on his very life.

He told the kid "no" because he looked at the boy’s unblemished purity and felt a desperate, twisted urge to shield it with a wall of harsh reality, even if that wall ended up crushing the child in the process. He was bitter. He was exhausted. He was a man who had long since forgotten how to truly hope, and seeing it shine so brilliantly in this scrawny middle-schooler felt less like a gift and more like a cruel taunt from the universe.

He lashed out with the "truth" because it was the only thing he had left, the only thing that still felt real. So, he shrugged the weight of the moment off and went on his way, pretending with every step that he had already put the boy out of his mind.

After all, it’s not like he’d be seeing him anytime soon.

Tsukauchi Naomasa first met Toshi’s kid after the USJ attack.

The detective finished collecting statements from the rest of Class 1-A—excluding the boy who had shattered his legs in the chaos. Once he wrapped up the immediate reports, he handed the remaining paperwork and scene management over to Sansa. With the worst of the crisis contained, Naomasa finally allowed himself to shift focus.

He headed straight for UA’s medical wing.

He found Toshinori in his deflated state, looking every bit the “hollowed-out husk” he so often—and so bitterly—joked about. The man looked smaller like this. Fragile in a way that felt wrong for someone who carried the weight of a symbol.

Recovery Girl was there, of course.

But so was the green-haired boy from the attack.

Naomasa paused just inside the doorway, masking his surprise out of long-practiced habit. The kid looked exhausted, shaken, wrapped in bandages, but still painfully alert—like someone who refused to rest even when he should.

Why would Toshi tell the reckless kid who had just shattered his—

Right.

The realization settled in, slowly and honestly? Inevitable. Maybe there was a reason. Maybe the boy already knew. Maybe this wasn’t just a reckless student, but someone trusted with a secret most of the world couldn’t even imagine.

Naomasa stepped further in just as he heard Toshinori speak.

“Don’t worry, Tsukauchi is my trusted friend. He knows about One For All.”

Naomasa blinked.

Okay. That was even stranger.

The kid also knew about his Quirk?

He looked between the skeletal man wrapped in bandages and the battered student on the bed beside him. The gentle way Toshi leaned closer to speak to Midoriya—soft, careful, almost instinctively protective—made Naomasa wonder if he’d somehow missed an entire chapter of his friend’s life.

Did Toshi have a son he’d never mentioned?

“Hey, All Might,” Naomasa said, keeping his voice level as he closed the door behind him. He deliberately used the hero name, just in case. “I didn’t realize you were expecting company. How are you feeling, Midoriya?”

The green-haired teen offered a timid, polite smile. “Hello! Uh—I’m good, thank you.”

“Good?” Toshi let out a dry, rasping chuckle. “Yes, the hospital bed you’re sleeping on agrees. It seems quite fond of the company.”

Midoriya’s smile widened a fraction as he shot back, “I could say the same thing, All Might.”

Naomasa took note of that. The kid didn’t use Toshi’s real name—smart, cautious, perhaps intentional? Still, the ease between them was difficult to miss. ALmost impossible to ignore, actually. This wasn’t the dynamic of a student and a distant pro hero. It was warmer. Closer. Almost familial.

“Sorry, Midoriya, but do you mind if I have a word with the Symbol of Peace?” Naomasa asked lightly.

Midoriya nodded at once. “Of course! I’ll—uh—give you guys the room—”

The boy started to fumble with the sheets, movements rushed and clumsy, like he felt obligated to move even when he clearly shouldn’t. Before he could sit up, Toshi reached out and pressed a firm hand against his shoulder, keeping him in place.

“Stay put, kid,” Toshi said, tone brooking no argument. “We’ll take it to the hall.”

Naomasa watched as his friend shifted upright, every movement betraying strain, yet his posture still carried a quiet, protective edge. Even like this—even diminished—Toshi looked ready to shield the boy from anything.

They stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind them.

Naomasa leaned back against the wall, studying his friend with a detective’s eye and a friend’s concern.

As the two friends stepped into the hallway, Naomasa didn’t bother easing into it.

“So,” he said flatly, “who’s the mother?”

Toshi sputtered, a fine mist of blood punctuating his shock. “Na–no! He’s—he’s not my kid.”

“Then why does he know about your injury?” Naomasa pressed, leaning in to whisper to his friend. “And—your, you know—” He made a few sharp punching motions in the air, mimicking Toshi’s muscle form.

Toshi stared at his hands, deadpan. “A stellar performance, I must say.” Then he shook his head, “You—you think he’s my—” The blonde wheezed, bending slightly as he tried to regain his breath. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and waved dismissively, as if physically batting the thought away. “No, no! You’ve got it all wrong. The boy isn’t mine. Not even close. I met him last year during that sludge villain incident and decided to take him on as my successor.”

Naomasa blinked. “…You gave it to him?”

“Yes,” Toshi said, straightening. “But trust me. It’s strictly professional.”

Naomasa raised an eyebrow, thoroughly unconvinced. “Strictly professional? Toshi, I’ve seen you with interns and sidekicks for years. You don’t hover over ‘professional associates’ like they’re made of glass. And you certainly don’t look like you’ve aged ten years just from seeing one of them in a hospital bed.”

Toshi fell silent.

Toshinori’s gaze drifted toward the closed door of the hospital room, where Midoriya rested. Whatever response he’d prepared stalled on the way out. The lie—strictly professional—sounded thin even to his own ears.

Naomasa could almost see it: the walls Toshinori had spent years building, the ones meant to keep him isolated, self-sacrificing, untouchable. And right through the center of them—

A massive, boy-shaped hole.

“He’s just… a persistent child,” Toshi muttered at last, though the words lacked any real bite.

“Uh-huh,” Naomasa replied dryly.

“He’s a bit odd,” Toshi added, grasping for a more reasonable explanation—something easier than admitting emotional attachment.

“I understand,” Naomasa said, not sounding like he thought oddness was the point at all.

“And an absolute crybaby.”

“Well,” Naomasa shrugged lightly, “nobody’s perfect.”

Toshi let out a long, weary sigh. His shoulders slumped as the last trace of the Symbol of Peace persona peeled away, leaving only the exhausted man beneath it. For a moment, he looked smaller. Older. Then, he glanced back at the door, his expression softening into something far too open—far too vulnerable—for someone who insisted he had no family to lose.

“He ran into a fire when no one else would, Naomasa,” Toshi said quietly, voice stripped of its earlier deflection. “To fight a villain. Quirkless. Terrified. With no possible way of winning—and yet he ran.” His jaw tightened. “How was I supposed to walk away from that?”

Naomasa watched him carefully, expression unreadable. “I don’t think you ever planned to walk away, Toshi,” he said calmly. “You just haven’t admitted it to yourself.”

Toshi didn’t argue. His gaze dropped to the linoleum floor instead as he said: “I told him he couldn’t do it,” Toshi murmured, the admission sounding brittle in the quiet hall. “I told him he couldn't be a hero. Not without a Quirk.”

Naomasa didn’t flinch or offer a hollow consolation. He simply nodded, letting the weight of the confession settle between them. He knew Toshi’s pragmatism, but he also knew his heart. “I see,” he said softly.

“So,” Naomasa asked, breaking the tension with a quiet, genuine curiosity. “Did he change your mind?”

Toshi blinked, pulling himself back to the present. “Huh?”

“The kid,” Naomasa clarified, a small, knowing shadow of a smile touching his face. “Did he prove you wrong, did he prove to you that a Quirkless person could be a hero?”

Another pause—longer this time.

“No,” Toshi said, firm.

“No?” Naomasa frowned, genuinely thrown. “You don’t think a Quirkless person can be a hero?”

“No.”

Naomasa stared at him, trying to parse the answer. Was he saying Midoriya hadn’t proven it? Or that it was impossible, period? It clashed jarringly with the protectiveness he’d just witnessed.

“You realize you’re contradicting yourself, right?” Naomasa said dryly.

“I know.”

And that was all Toshi offered.

He didn’t explain the contradiction. Didn’t reconcile how he could entrust the boy with One For All while clinging to such a bleak belief. He just stood there—a skeletal man wrapped in bandages and secrets too large for his frame. Naomasa exhaled, conceding the battle for clarity. “Well. I’d better get back to the station. Paperwork doesn’t file itself—especially after a disaster like this.” He turned to go, smirking over his shoulder. “Tell your kid I said goodbye.”

Toshi’s cheeks flushed instantly, color blooming against his pallor. “I told you—he’s not my kid!”

Naomasa only chuckled and kept walking. He was sure his friend, oblivious as always, doesn’t even realize how much Midoriya Izuku has affected him. Hell, Naomasa realized, thinking back to the Sludge villain incident, they have probably only known each other for ten months.

Toshi didn’t call after him. Didn’t correct the misunderstanding beyond that last protest. Instead, he turned back to the door. His hand hovered, then settled against the handle, lingering there as though bracing himself before stepping back inside.

“Honestly, Toshinori,” Recovery Girl huffed, her breath hitching in pure exhaustion as she adjusted her stool. “What did you say to the boy to make him think this was a measured response to a school event?”

Toshinori stood by the bed, his oversized suit hanging off his skeletal frame. He looked down at Midoriya, who was slumped deeply into the infirmary pillows. Even in the depths of a medically induced sleep, the boy’s face was contorted, his brow pinched in a lingering phantom of the agony he'd endured to prove a point.

“I told him... I told him that he had to tell the world 'I am here,'” Toshinori murmured, his voice cracking.

“And he certainly did that,” she snapped, gesturing to the heavy bandages swaddling the boy’s hands and arms. “Do you know how many painkillers this child is on right now? If he were anyone else, he’d be seeing double for a week. But his stubbornness seems to be the only thing metabolizing the medication.”

“I’m sorry,” Toshinori whispered, his shoulders hunching as if trying to make his large frame smaller. “I didn’t think he’d, you know—”

“Break the joints in his fingers several times, both legs and an arm?” Recovery Girl finished for him, her voice dry as parchment.

“Yes, that,” The blonde admitted, looking down at his own trembling hands.

The silence that followed was heavy with the smell of antiseptic and the low hum of the cooling fans. Toshinori felt the weight of every choice he’d made since meeting the boy inside that tunnel. He had seen a spark, a kindred spirit, but he hadn't fully accounted for the fact that a kindred spirit would also inherit his complete lack of self-preservation.

“He idolizes you, Toshinori,” she said, her tone softening just a fraction as she saw the genuine distress on his face. “He doesn’t just want to be a hero. He wants to be the hero. And he thinks the price of that is his own body because that’s the only example you’ve ever given him. You are the Number One hero, no weaknesses known, and you gave him your power. Of course, even subconsciously, he’ll treat himself the same way.”

Toshinori reached out, his hand hovering over the edge of the bed as if he wanted to steady the boy even in his sleep. “But—I don’t want him to be a carbon copy of me!”

“Then you’d better start teaching him that,” she countered, clicking her pen one last time. “Because if he keeps this up, there won't be enough of him left to graduate, let alone take your place.”

She turned to leave, her small footsteps echoing on the tile. “Don’t stay too long. No use in getting yourself worked over something like this, think of it as a learning experience.” She paused. “For both of you.” Recovery Girl left with a soft click of the door, and Toshinori sighed deeply, the sound rattling in his thin chest, as he pulled the plastic chair closer to the bedside. The fluorescent lights of the infirmary hummed with a clinical indifference, mocking the turmoil swirling in his mangled gut. He sat down, his knees clicking as they bent. He looked at Midoriya’s hands, white with bandages that seemed to glow in the dim light. He thought about watching the kid’s body go limp as he slumped down against the wall, all for the sake of another student’s heart.

“A learning experience,” he whispered, his voice catching. “She makes it sound so simple.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. Recovery Girl was right; Midoriya idolized him. That much was apparent from his fanboy mutterings and rants, and he aspired to be like Toshinori, the kid said so himself. But had he neglected to teach him how to value his own life? Why was he so keen on killing himself over every little thing?

Even before he got One for All, Midoriya didn’t exactly come across as well-adjusted. He, without any thoughts, grabbed onto Toshinori’s leg and took off flying with him, then ran into fire and stood against a villain to save a friend. (Though “friend” doesn’t seem like the right word.) Then the kid overworked himself during their ten month training regiment. 

He watched the steady rise and fall of Midoriya’s chest. The boy looked so small when he wasn't screaming out to Todoroki, clutching his fist and barreling through the attacks of ice and flame.

Did I ruin him before he even got to UA? Toshinori wonders numbly, but then the numbness was replaced by something much more terrifying.

The thought was like a sudden drop in a roller coaster, leaving his stomach somewhere up in his throat. 

Was this a Hawks situation?

Toshinori didn't know the Number Three Hero well. Takami Keigo was part of a younger, faster generation—a man who seemed to always seem like he was arriving too early, then leaving like he was late for something else. But the rumors in the higher circles of the Hero Public Safety Commission were hard to ignore. They had found a child with potential, plucked him from obscurity, and molded him into what they needed him to be.

Toshinori’s gaze drifted to the heavy bandages, his mind unwillingly picturing the shattered, swollen knuckles hidden beneath the gauze. The cold white of the room felt like an interrogation cell, and the silence was a judge he couldn't answer.

Am I just as bad?

The question gnawed at him. He had always told himself that he’d given Midoriya a choice—the choice to swallow the hair, the choice to train, the choice to accept the mantle. But standing over the boy's broken form, Toshinori began to wonder if "choice" was an illusion when offered by the greatest hero on the planet to a boy who had nothing. Was there a crushing weight to his smile that he’d accidentally shoved onto the kid’s narrow shoulders?  Did Midoriya feel like he had no other choice but to accept?

And did the kid still think about when Toshinori told him that he couldn’t be a hero?

He didn't know the answer, and that was the most terrifying part.

Toshinori knew he needed to talk to Midoriya. He needed to explain that One For All was a gift, not a debt that he had to pay by ruining himself. But communication had never been his forte; he was a hero of grand gestures and booming catchphrases, not… whatever this was. Part of him wanted to wait—to let the boy come to him when he was ready. Yet, looking at the stubborn set of Midoriya’s jaw even in sleep, Toshinori realized that "anytime soon" was a fantasy. 

Toshinori sighed again, a quiet sound that felt loud in the walls of the infirmary. He tentatively reached out, his long, bony fingers ghosting over Midoriya’s hair. He smoothed the unruly green curls away from the boy’s forehead, surprised by how soft they were compared to the violence the kid had just put his body through.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Toshinori whispered. “As soon as I figure out how.”

Yagi Toshinori was not the totally cool, conceited, attention-hungry smooth-talker Aizawa Shouta had pegged him to be.

For starters, the man was surprisingly shy.

He was the type to offer a quick, flustered apology just for using the coffee machine in the teachers' lounge if someone else was nearby. He seemed genuinely embarrassed whenever his phone rang in a quiet room, scrambling to silence it with shaking hands. Most unexpectedly, he wrapped his lunches in a pink and purple cat-patterned wrap—a small detail that, despite Shouta’s best efforts to remain stoic, earned the man a few points in his book.

He was also a bit of a klutz.

Away from the cameras and the billowing dust of a battlefield, Yagi seemed to lose the grace that came with his muscle form. He was all sharp elbows and long, spindly limbs that didn't quite seem to know where they ended. He’d trip over the legs of chairs or fumble with stacks of papers, looking less like a legend and more like a man still trying to get used to the space he occupied. It was a jarring contrast to the "Symbol of Peace," and it made the pedestal Aizawa had originally placed him on crumble into something much more human—and much more irritatingly endearing.

“All Might,” Shouta had called, coming up directly behind the man.

The reaction was instantaneous. Yagi let out a sharp, strangled yelp and coughed a spray of blood into his hand, the steam rolling off him as he abruptly deflated into his skeletal, powered-down form. It was a jarring transformation—a violent collapse of mass and presence—and it was something Shouta wasn't sure he’d ever truly get used to. One second, there was a titan filling the doorway; the next, there was a man who looked like a stiff breeze might snap him in two.

Yagi hunched over, clutching his chest and wheezing as he tried to regain his composure. He fumbled for a handkerchief, his sunken eyes darting around to ensure no students had witnessed the slip-up.

“Aizawa!” he managed to rasp, his voice thin and brittle compared to the booming baritone of his hero persona. “You... you have a very quiet tread. Terribly quiet.”

Shouta remained unimpressed, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He watched the man struggle to straighten his oversized suit, noting the way his fingers trembled. It was hard to reconcile this jittery, fragile person with the "Symbol of Peace" who stood on rooftops and laughed in the face of disaster.

“You’re too jumpy,” Shouta remarked flatly. “If a greeting from a colleague sends you into a coughing fit, you’re going to have a hard time surviving a full semester here.”

Yagi offered a sheepish, lopsided grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes, well, I suppose I’m still adjusting to the... faculty environment. It’s a bit different from patrol.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Shouta agreed, watching as the man continued to fiddle with his long, skeletal fingers. He let out a breath and chided gruffly, “Stop doing that with your hands. They’re frail enough as is.”

Yagi looked up in genuine surprise, his eyes wide in his sunken sockets. “Oh! Apologies.”

The sight triggered a sharp sense of déjà vu that made Shouta’s brow furrow.

He had just shared an almost identical conversation with one of his homeroom students, Midoriya Izuku. Shouta had kept the green-haired teen back for a moment after class to check on the status of his injuries from the Sports Festival. With internship offers and scouting results recently released, Shouta also wanted to gauge Midoriya’s mental state regarding the total lack of interest from the pros—a direct consequence of the boy's self-destructive fighting style.

During that talk, the boy had twisted and bent his fingers with such frantic energy and in ways he Shouta didn’t even think were possible, he was nearly certain Recovery Girl’s healing hadn't fully taken. Shouta had reached out, grabbing the kid's hands to gently but firmly pull them apart. He’d ignored the gaping, panicked face Midoriya made at the sudden contact, focusing instead on telling him not to get too discouraged.

Now, standing in front of the man who since the first day of school had seemed to take an interest in Midoriya, Shouta saw the exact same nervous habit mirrored in the teacher. The same twitchy energy, the same flustered apologies, and the same way they both seemed to fold in on themselves when scrutinized.

"You're a bad influence," Shouta muttered, more to himself than to Yagi.

"I beg your pardon?" Yagi tilted his head, looking utterly bewildered.

"Midoriya," Shouta clarified, gesturing vaguely toward the direction of the classroom down the hall. "He has the same irritating habits you do. If you're going to teach him how to be a hero, at least teach him how to stand still."

"I—uh," Yagi stammered, his hands going back to their frantic fidgeting before he caught himself and froze.

Shouta raised a brow, huffing with a short, dry laugh. “What? Don’t tell me you two are so similar because he’s actually your kid?”

Yagi’s hollow, gaunt cheeks practically exploded with a bright, feverish red. It was a stark contrast to his usual sickly pallor. “What—every—seriously? No! Young Midoriya is not my son!”

He waved his arms frantically in front of him, the movement so sudden it nearly sent him off-balance. He looked like a man accused of a crime he hadn’t even realized he was committing. The sheer level of flustered indignation was enough to make Shouta’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“You aren't very convincing when you're shouting,” Shouta remarked, crossing his arms. “Between the identical nervous ticks, the obsession with each other’s well-being, and the fact that you’re both essentially glass cannons... it was a logical assumption.”

“It’s—it’s just a coincidence!” Yagi insisted, his voice cracking slightly as he struggled to regain his composure. He smoothed down his tie, though his fingers were still trembling. “The boy is simply... very observant. He tends to mimic those he admires. That’s all it is.”

Shouta watched him for a long beat. He didn't believe the "coincidence" line for a second, but he also didn't think Yagi was lying about the blood relation. It was something else—something deeper and arguably more complicated than a simple father-son bond.

“If you say so,” Shouta said, turning to walk away. “But for the record, if he ends up in the infirmary one more time this week because he ‘mimicked’ your recklessness, I’m holding you personally responsible for the paperwork.”

Yagi’s expression shifted, the sheepishness melting into a soft, knowing look that he couldn't quite hide. It was the look of a man who recognized the reflection and, for the first time in a long time, didn't hate what he saw.

Naomasa should have expected to find Midoriya with Toshi.

The climactic fight with All For One had occurred only two days ago, and the sheer exhaustion of the ordeal had finally claimed both of them. They were fast asleep when Naomasa entered the room.

The detective had no idea how Midoriya had managed to talk his way into the hospital wing—especially considering the high-security lockdown following the battle—but the boy was there. He wasn't curled into a ball as Naomasa would have assumed; instead, he was sprawled out in a surprisingly nice chair, but any comfort it offered would count for nothing if the kid stayed sleeping like that. His limbs were flying off the sides, and his body was contorted in a way Naomasa was certain couldn't be comfortable, yet the kid was dead to the world.

Toshi lay in the hospital bed, looking smaller than ever beneath the white sheets, his breathing shallow but steady. Naomasa stood in the doorway, the quiet hum of the monitors the only sound in the room. He looked at the skeletal hero and then at the mangled, sleeping student.

He remembered the hallway conversation from months ago—Toshi's adamant, blushing refusal that the boy was his. “He’s not my kid,” he had insisted.

Naomasa chuckled softly, but in the silence of the room, even that small sound was enough. Midoriya’s eyes fluttered open, groggy and unfocused.

“Detective?” the boy murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

“Hi, Midoriya,” Naomasa whispered, leaning against the wall. “How long have you been here?”

“Uh—” The boy rubbed his eyes with a fist, the movement so much like a tired toddler that Naomasa felt a fresh wave of amusement. Midoriya squinted at the window, trying to gauge the lighting. “What time is it?”

“Around eight,” the detective answered.

“Oh, then only four-ish hours,” Midoriya replied, shifting in the plastic chair. He winced as his joints popped from the awkward sleeping position. “All Might was asleep when I got here, so I just... stayed.”

Naomasa looked at the distance between the two—the boy in his uncomfortable position had straightened out and Toshi in the high-tech bed.“You stayed for four hours just to watch him sleep?” Naomasa asked, his tone gentle.

Midoriya flushed, looking down at his lap. “I just wanted to make sure he kept breathing. After the news... after everyone saw... I just needed to be in the same room. Is that weird?”

Naomasa looked at Toshi, then back at the kid.

“No, Midoriya,” Naomasa said, his voice warm. “I don't think it's weird at all. I think it’s exactly what he needs.”

Midoriya smiled softly, then let out a wide, uncontrollable yawn that made his eyes water. “Do—do I—uh, have to leave?” He asked it tentatively, shifting back into the plush depths of the patient's chair. It was one of the nicer ones—the kind meant for long-term recovery, positioned so someone could sit comfortably and watch TV or pass the hours. It looked like it was currently swallowing the boy’s frame whole now that he wasn’t looking like an octopus.

Naomasa checked the time on his watch, then looked at the heavy, exhausted stillness of the man in the hospital bed.

“The nurses might give you a hard time if they catch you here past visiting hours,” Naomasa admitted, “but I’m the lead investigator on this case. I can pull a few strings and say you’re here for protective custody or... supplemental questioning.”

Midoriya’s eyes brightened with a flicker of relief. “Really?”

“Just for tonight,” the detective promised. “Besides, if Toshi wakes up and finds the room empty, he’s liable to try and climb out of bed to find you. You staying put is actually saving the hospital staff a lot of trouble.”

“I won’t make a sound,” Midoriya promised earnestly, yawning once more.

Naomasa walked over to the boy and tilted his head toward the patient's chair. Midoriya understood the silent gesture immediately, sliding over to the side to give the detective enough room to share the seat. It was a tight fit, but neither of them seemed to mind the proximity in the quiet, dim room.

Midoriya leaned his head back against the cushion, whispering so softly it was almost lost to the hum of the medical equipment—perhaps more to himself than anyone else. "I'm really happy he didn't die."

Naomasa felt a familiar ache in his chest, a mixture of relief and lingering fear for his friend. He smiled fondly, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulling him into a supportive side-hug. "Me too, kiddo," he murmured. "Me too."

The room remained quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor that served as a steady reminder of the life still surging through Toshinori’s fragile frame.

Naomasa’s head eventually dipped, his chin coming to rest atop Midoriya’s messy green curls as sleep finally claimed him. It was a strange, cramped way to spend the night, but there was a profound sense of peace in that corner of the room. The detective’s last conscious thought was a quiet, humorous anticipation: he couldn't wait to see the look on Toshi’s face when he opened his eyes.

He could already picture it—Toshi would wake up, blink away the haze of painkillers, and find his best friend and the kid he swore wasn't his "son" tangled together in a single chair, waiting for him. Toshi would likely sputter, turn that ridiculous shade of red, and apologize for being a burden, all while his eyes welled up with that unmistakable, watery pride.

Before sleep could fully take Naomasa, he opened his eyes and looked over at the skeletal man in the bed and the sleeping boy beside him. 

He's a good kid, Toshi. Even if he isn't 'yours.'

“Aw, that is so adorable!” 

“Nemuri, you’re being too loud—” 

“Quiet, Vlad—you’re gonna get us caught—” 

“Says you, you damn boombox!” 

“Hey, asshole, shove over, I wanna see–” 

“Find your own spot, Mic!” 

“Yeah!” 

Shouta sighed loudly—well, loud enough for the three Pros to whip around and face him. Present Mic, Midnight, and Vlad King all looked like they’d been caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar. 

“And what, pray tell,” Shouta muttered, taking a long, bracing sip of his coffee, “are you three doing?” 

“We’re trying to figure out if Midoriya and Yagi are family,” Nemuri explained in a hushed, conspiratorial whisper. She didn't even look ashamed as she pointed toward the cracked door. “They’re in the conference room.” 

Shouta stepped up behind them, peering over Mic’s shoulder despite himself. Inside the room, Toshinori was sitting at the long table, leaning over a textbook with Midoriya. The boy was mumbling to himself, his hand flying across a notebook in that frantic, terrifyingly fast scrawl of his. 

Then, it happened. 

Midoriya reached for a water bottle, fumbled it, and in his haste to catch it, accidentally knocked a stack of papers onto the floor. Simultaneously, Yagi lunged to help, his own spindly limbs tangling with the chair. They both ended up on the floor, sputtering apologies in perfect unison, their hands flying up to rub the backs of their necks with the exact same sheepish, lopsided grin. 

“See!” Mic hissed, pointing a gloved finger. “Ha, clumsiness! That’s a genetic trait if I’ve ever seen one!” 

“And the hair,” Nemuri added, nodding fervently. “Yeah, I know the colors are different, but look at the messy, gravity-defying cowlicks. It’s in the blood, Shouta. It has to be.” 

Shouta watched as Yagi reached out and patted Midoriya’s head, his expression softening into that same look of quiet, paternal pride he’d shown when Midoriya saved him from falling debris during training. The giant, scarred hand looked massive against the boy's green curls, but the touch was incredibly gentle.

“Yagi says no,” Shouta said flatly, his eyes never leaving the scene.

“Yagi is a liar,” Vlad King grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve seen him share his lunch with that kid. He doesn't even share his good tea with us, and that tea is imported.”

“Exactly!” Nemuri chirped, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of a scandal. “He’s totally the secret dad. It's the only thing that makes sense. Somebody get Midoriya-san on the line, let's ask her how it felt to have se—”

“Do not finish that goddamn thought,” Shouta ordered, taking a long, scorching sip of his coffee.

“I’m just saying!” Nemuri whispered-shouted, gesturing wildly at the window. “Look at them! They’re literally sitting in the exact same slumped-over posture now. They're family. They have to be!”

“Shit—Midoriya’s standing up, back track, back track—”

“That’s technically not how you’d use the expression—”

“Shut the hell up, Mic!”

The huddle of Pro Heroes scrambled away from the door with the grace of a herd of startled gazelles. Vlad King nearly tripped over himself, while Nemuri pulled Shouta by his capture scarf, dragging him into the shadow of a nearby vending machine. Hizashi, usually the loudest man in the building, was currently vibrating with the effort of being silent, his hands clamped over his own mouth.

The conference room door creaked open.

Toshinori stepped out first, looking tired but wearing a genuine, lingering smile that hadn't quite faded yet. Midoriya followed close behind, clutching his yellow backpack and still animatedly talking about the specific density of the reinforced steel used in the USJ’s structure.

“And that’s why the support items would need to be—oh!” Midoriya stopped short, blinking at the four teachers who were suddenly very interested in the wall decor of the hallway.

Shouta was staring intensely at a fire extinguisher. Vlad King was pretending to read a flyer for a bake sale that had ended three weeks ago. Nemuri and Hizashi were leaning against each other, looking everywhere but at the pair.

“Ah, Aizawa,” Toshinori said, his voice regaining a bit of that forced, public-facing stability, though his eyes were still warm. “Are you all... alright? You look a bit crowded over there.”

“We’re fine,” Shouta said, his voice muffled by his coffee mug. “Just discussing the... curriculum.”

“In the dark? By the vending machine?” Midoriya asked, his brow furrowed in genuine concern.

“It’s a very rockin’ curriculum,” Hizashi blurted out, giving a thumbs up that shook with nervous energy.

Toshinori looked at his colleagues, then back at Midoriya. He seemed to sense the lingering awkwardness but, thankfully, chose not to dig deeper. He placed a hand on Midoriya’s shoulder—a gesture that made the three spies behind the vending machine collectively hold their breath.

“Well, we were just heading to the gym,” Toshinori said. “Midroiya needs to work on his footwork. He’s still too prone to... well, being a bit of a klutz.”

Midoriya turned beet red as he stammered out, “I am not—I mean, uh, I’m trying!”

“I know you are, Young Midoriya. I know you are.”

As the two walked away, their strides falling into a rhythmic, matching pace, the four teachers remained frozen until they were well out of earshot.

“He totally patted his shoulder,” Nemuri whispered, her voice full of triumph. “That was a ‘good job, son’ pat if I’ve ever seen one.”

“They aren’t related,” Shouta said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. “But at this point, I don’t think it matters.”

Izuku really shouldn't have been so nervous when All Might sent him that text: We need to talk.

They talked all the time. Constantly, even. Their message history was a chaotic blend of training updates, strategy debates, and hero trivia tangents that lasted well into the night. All Might was famous for his encouragement speeches—long, rambling paragraphs that always surprised Izuku by how much they centered on the fact that he was truly, fundamentally there for him. So why did those four words make his chest tighten so much?

Maybe it was because, even though he, Togata, and Eri had shared an awesome, super fun day at the festival, the events of the early morning were still looping behind his eyelids like a glitching film reel.

Gentle Criminal really did have the worst timing in the world.

What made it extra agonizing was listening back through all of All Might’s voice messages. He probably shouldn’t have replayed them. He knew it would only make the guilt heavier, but he did it anyway, sitting on the edge of his bed in the quiet dorm room.

The first one was loud and forced, the good old "Symbol of Peace" persona cranked up to a volume that sounded like it was trying to drown out its own anxiety.

“Young Midoriya! Just checking in to make sure you got to the store okay! No trouble with the shopping list, I hope? Let me know when you’re on your way back!”

Then another, only a few minutes later, the tone a bit more frantic:

“Also, let me know when you get here so I can deliver the supplies while you get changed! Can’t be late for your big break, right? The stage waits for no one!”

Izuku huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. He could almost see the man pacing the teacher's lounge, checking his watch every thirty seconds. The next message featured the unmistakable sound of All Might clearing his throat.

“Ah—this is not urgent! Well, it might be a little urgent. But only like, not-urgent-urgent! A medium amount of urgency! …Okay, I realize that made no sense. Pretend I didn’t say that. Just call me.”

The humor vanished in the following message, replaced with a strained, sharp edge that made Izuku’s heart sink.

“Young Midoriya, I heard from Tsukauchi that there was a report sent to the local station about how there may have been an incident this morning. Near the construction site. Please call me the second you get this.”

The messages that followed came in a rapid-fire sequence, the gaps between them shortening as the morning progressed.

“I’m sure you’re fine! You know not to get yourself into dangerous situations right before a school event. Ha. But—uh, you know, still—please check in.”

By the time Izuku reached the final few, the light tone was gone entirely, replaced by something much more worried and unfamiliar.

“Young Midoriya, are you safe? Please, pick up.”

Then:

“Where are you right now?”

Then the final voicemail, a little breathless, a little exasperated, and deeply, painfully worried:

“Okay—seriously, though—please pick up your phone. I’m... I’m starting to panic, Izuku.”

Izuku swallowed hard, his throat feeling like it was full of dry sand. He had never heard All Might use his first name in a voicemail before.

They talked all the time. They were mentor and student, successor and predecessor, and—no, they were just that. So why did this one conversation feel like he was walking toward a cliff? He knew All Might wasn't going to be angry about the fight itself; he was going to be "angry" because he had been scared. And to Izuku, seeing the man who had carried the world's peace looking scared because of him was a thousand times worse than any scolding.

And Izuku was right, it was so much worse.

When Miss Midnight stopped him near the gates, her whip coiled and a playful but sharp brow raised, Izuku had nearly tripped over his own feet. "And where is our star performer heading in such a hurry?" she had asked, suspicious of any student trying to slip away from the post-festival cleanup.

"Uh—All Might asked me to meet him," Izuku stammered, his face heating up.

The change in her expression was instantaneous. Her teasing smirk vanished, replaced by a dramatic gasp and a hand clapped over her heart. "Oh! Well, why didn't you say so? Family business! Go, go! I’ll tell Shouta you’re helping me with... inventory if he starts being nosy."

She had literally shooed him away, which honestly, helped him push past any embarrassing comments she made, leaving Izuku to sprint toward the coast.

He found All Might at Dagobah Municipal Beach Park—the place where it all began. The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the horizon in bruised purples and burnt oranges. He was wearing a simple, oversized tracksuit, standing by the railing and staring out at the water they had once cleared of trash.

"Hi, young Midoriya," All Might said, not even turning round.

"I'm sorry," Izuku breathed, coming to a halt a few feet away, his chest heaving from the run. "I'm so sorry, All Might. My phone was—and then—I— I—"

"I know," All Might interrupted softly, finally turning to face him. He didn't look angry. Which again, was so much worse. “Ectoplasam gave me a more in-depth report earlier.”

Izuku bit his lip, his fingers twisting into the fabric of his hoodie. "The teachers were already busy with the festival, All Might. If I had gone back to find them, Gentle might have already breached the barrier. The alarm would have gone off. The festival would have been canceled, and Eri..." He trailed off, his voice thick. "She wouldn't have seen us play."

All Might looked out at the waves, the orange light of the sunset making his deep-set eyes look even more sunken. 

"And what if you hadn't won?" All Might’s voice was barely a whisper, yet it somehow made Izuku flinch. "I spent the morning listening to the silence on the other end of that phone, imagining you lying in a ditch somewhere because a villain had a Quirk you didn't anticipate. I wasn't thinking about the festival, Izuku. I wasn't thinking about Eri. I was thinking about you."

The use of his first name again.

"You have this habit," All Might continued, finally turning to look at him, "of assuming that if you don't do it, it won't get done. You think you're the only one. But UA is full of Pro Heroes. Aizawa is here. I am here, though not as impressive as I used to be, I admit. You have to trust us to protect you as much as you want to protect everyone else."

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly before he placed it firmly on Izuku’s head, ruffling the green curls just like he had in the infirmary months ago, the memory came flooding back. Izuku thought, in his drugged up state, he had imagined it all.

"I'm sorry, again."

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the rhythmic crashing of the waves against the shore. Toshinori’s gaze was fixed on his own hands—thin, scarred, and resting heavily on his knees.

"I’m sorry, too," he added quietly.

Izuku turned toward him, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "Huh? For what, All Might?"

All Might looked visibly uncomfortable. He shifted on the wooden bench, the wood creaking under his slight frame. He took a breath, looking like he was about to deliver a speech but finding the words stuck in his throat. "You—I assume you remember back when we first were getting to know each other?”

"‘Eat this?’" Izuku supplied helpfully, tilting his head.

"What? No," All Might coughed, a small puff of blood escaping his lips as he waved a hand dismissively. "Not that part. Before that."

Izuku paused, searching his memory of that life-changing day. "Then... what?"

All Might finally looked him in the eye. "I—I told you that you couldn't be a hero without a Quirk. I told you to be realistic." He let out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle. "I looked at a boy with more heart than anyone I'd ever met and told him to give up on his dreams because I was too cynical to see the potential standing right in front of me."

“What?” Izuku’s voice was small, the word barely escaping his throat. The air between them seemed to chill, the sound of the waves suddenly feeling much more distant.

“Young Midoriya, when—when I told you that, it’s not that I didn’t think you could—it’s just—” Toshinori paused, his gaze dropping to his scarred, thin hands. “I was just—I was so angry. At the world, at my injury, at the looming end of my time. I couldn’t imagine myself telling you ‘yes’ because, Midoriya, look at me.”

Izuku did look. He saw the sharp lines of Toshinori’s face, the way his clothes drowned his frame, and the deep shadows under his eyes. He saw the cost of being the Symbol.

“I’m just a rotting old husk, and I couldn’t imagine pushing for a kid to end up like me. I—there’s no excuse. It was cruel of me. And for that, I’m sorry.” Toshinori took a shaky breath. “And I’m sorry if I ever pressured you into doing something you didn’t want to do. That was wrong of me too, and I deeply apologized."

Then, he continued, “I remember a conversation I had with Tsukauchi, back after the USJ attack. He asked me if you had changed my mind. He asked: Do I now think Quirkless people can become heroes?”

Izuku waited, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt like he was back on that rooftop, shivering in the wind, waiting for a verdict that would define his entire life.

“No, I don’t,” Toshinori said firmly.

“What?” Izuku’s eyes widened as he offered the same word again.

“Because—I never, not once, ever thought you Quirkless people couldn't become heroes,” Toshinori corrected himself, his voice growing stronger. “Not even when I was Quirkless myself. I knew the truth back then. I knew it when my master shrugged me off, but I didn’t let her ignore me. But I forgot. I let the world and my own pain enable me to ignore that truth.”

He turned fully toward Izuku, a small, genuine smile breaking through the weariness. “But then, this persistent, odd, crybaby kid helped me remember. You didn't change my mind, Midoriya. You— you brought me back to myself. So, instead of ‘sorry’ I’d like to offer you something more.”

All Might looked at him, his eyes glowing with a warmth that had nothing to do with the setting sun. “I just needed a reminder. So, thank you, Midoriya.”

Izuku felt the tears welling up—not the hot, stinging tears of the rooftop, but something lighter, something that felt like it finally needed to be shed. He took a shaky breath, looking out at the water.

“You might have said it for the wrong reasons back then,” Izuku said, his voice quiet.“But... I don't think I can blame you. At that point, I–I hadn't done anything to show you otherwise, you know? I’d been told ‘no’ my whole life—by doctors, by teachers, by Kacchan, even my mom in her own way.”

He turned back to All Might, a small, sad smile touching his lips. “And hearing it from you? The person I looked up to more than anyone? I think that was the first time I actually stopped to listen. It was the moment I really had to decide whether or not I could actually do it. Even when everyone told me I could’t, I still kept dreaming, if I didn’t, I would’ve burned all my notebooks a long time ago,” Izuku clutched his hands together, feeling the calluses and the scars—reminders of everything that had happened since that day. “In a weird way, that ‘no’ gave me the chance to choose. If I had just given up then, I wouldn't be here now. But because I ran toward that sludge villain anyway... it made the ‘yes’ you gave me later mean everything. It meant I wasn't just a successor because you felt sorry for me. It meant I earned it.”

“So,” Izuku started, glancing up, tears welling in his eyes. “I guess, I should be thanking you too.”

Then suddenly, arms encompassed him fully.

It wasn’t the booming, iron-tight embrace of All Might the Symbol—the one that felt like a PR photo op or a crushing display of power. This was different. It was a careful, trembling, and a deeply protective hold. His frame was thin, his bones felt sharp through his clothes, but the warmth radiating from him was more solid than any muscle.

Izuku froze for a heartbeat, his eyes wide, before he let out a jagged, shaky breath and melted into the hug. He buried his face in Toshinori’s shoulder, his fingers bunching into the fabric of the oversized tracksuit.

"You don't have to thank me for being wrong, Midoriya," Toshinori murmured into the boy's hair, his voice thick with emotion. "And you certainly don't have to earn my worry. I'm your teacher, yes, but... I’m also just— I’m someone who cares about you very much. Please, remember that when you're standing in front of a villain."

He pulled back just enough to look Izuku in the eye, his hands resting on the boy’s shoulders. The setting sun caught the wetness on both their faces.

"The 'yes' I gave you on that beach wasn't just about the Quirk," Toshinori said firmly. "It was me saying that I believe in your life. Not just your strength. Your life."

Izuku nodded, a few stray tears finally spilling over. "I'll remember," the green-haired teen promised, his voice small but certain. "I'll try harder to come home."

All Might let out a long, shuddering breath, the kind that seemed to carry away the last remnants of the day’s adrenaline. He gave Izuku’s shoulders one last squeeze.

And though Izuku could not hear it, Toshinori couldn't help think: Perhaps I am a family man.

“Good,” the retired hero murmured, his voice regaining that familiar, resonant warmth. “Now, let’s get you back to the dorms before Aizawa loses his patience and decides to file a missing person’s report. I'd rather not face his stare tonight.”

Izuku looked up, the dampness still clinging to his lashes, but the shadows in his eyes had retreated. “Can we get katsudon first?” he asked. The request was quiet, almost shy, but his expression finally cracked, the tension splintering into something bright and hopeful.

All Might’s laughter boomed, a nostalgic rich sound that carried easily over the evening breeze and seemed to stitch the world back together. “After a day like today? Young Midoriya, you can have two bowls, if you can manage them! My treat.”

With a heavy, comforting arm slung around Izuku’s shoulders, they began the trek back. The streetlights flickered to life above them, casting soft, amber pools onto the pavement. The evening air was cool and crisp, humming with the distant sound of cicadas and the faint rustle of leaves—it felt as though the night itself were holding its breath, hushed and protective, just to let this moment linger for a little while longer. 

For the first time in his life, Izuku didn’t feel like he was running a race he was set to lose. He didn’t feel like he was standing on the outside of a glass house, being able to watch the rest of the world move in warmth knowing he couldn’t join him or the house would crack.

He felt chosen.

The world felt smaller tonight, and perhaps a little kinder, too. It was there in the steady rhythm of their footsteps and the prospect of a warm meal in a crowded shop. It wasn’t just about the quirk, though. No, it was the realization that the world hadn’t been trying to shut him out; it had been waiting for him to find his way in. Over and over, in the simple clink of a ceramic bowl and the shared, easy laughter of a hero who was also, perhaps something much more desired and needed, the universe seemed to announce his place. So, no, perhaps he wasn't just a hero-in-training or a successor to a legacy. He was a person being looked after. He was exactly where he was meant to be. 

He had a place in the family of things.