Chapter Text
Toshinori was washing dishes when he heard the news.
It came on over the television, an urgent report that cut into the middle of whatever the students had been watching. The reporter looked frazzled, and the camera was jittery.
“We’re here, reporting just outside the famed prison Tartarus. According to reports, there has been a breakout from the otherwise secure holding center.”
The background beyond the reporter shows a mess of firetrucks and yellow tape, police cars strewn about and crowds of people lining the sidewalks. Several ambulances and their attendants are seeing to injured guards.
“Wait, wait, we’re getting information . . .” The reporter pressed their hand to their ear, listening intently. Their face dropped, an unprofessional expression twisting their brows.
“Apparently there are several escaped convicts, but the main concern is the villain from the Kamino Ward incident. He’s escaped, and the police have yet to pick up any trail.”
Toshinori didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping the glass cup in his hand until it shatters with an anticlimactic crackle. He looks at his hand for a moment, eyeing the scratches and the few places the thick glass had embedded itself in his palm. He doesn’t feel anything, though, and for one insane moment he wants to slam his injured hand down on the counter.
Then the students are all scrambling, some running for the first aid kit and others dashing to Toshinori’s side, carefully reaching out and pulling pieces of glass from the sink. Toshinori is still staring at his hand, blood welling in his palm and spilling over to run down his forearm. Uraraka made a distressed sound in the back of her throat and pressed a wash towel against his wrist, trying to stem the flow of blood.
Then Aizawa is there, gently pulling Toshinori’s injured hand over to a bowl. It had been filled with cold water, and several towels are resting nearby.
There’s a weird haze in Toshinori’s head, a buzzing that made his hearing go in and out. His neck feels tense, and he wonders dimly if he’s going to throw up. It’s only when Aizawa gently rests his injured hand on the table that he snaps out of it.
“I -” Toshinori blinks, and clears his throat. My right hand. Bad hand. “I can handle this, Aizawa. No need to worry.”
Aizawa tightens his grip on Toshinori’s wrist. “Just sit still, unless you want this to get worse.”
Toshinori doesn’t move, and Aizawa starts to gently pull the shards of glass from his palm. Now his hand stings, and Toshinori almost pulls away on instinct more than once.
“You’re going to see Recovery Girl tomorrow,” Aizawa says, leaving little room for argument. “You’re lucky nothing important was damaged.”
Toshinori hums, noticing that one of the students had turned off the television. The buzzing started up again, drilling into the back of his head.
The glass removed, Aizawa sets to gently washing Toshinori’s hand with the water and nearby towels. He binds Toshinori’s hand with some gauze and medical wrap, smearing antiseptic on the pads before placing them over the worst of the cuts. Toshinori bears it all with a faraway gaze, almost unaware of the students gathered around him.
“All Might-sensei?”
The sound filtered through Toshinori’s skull like molasses, and it’s hard for his eyes to focus when he turns to look at Tsuyu.
The girl gently rests her hands on the table in front of her. “Are you okay?”
The other students are all watching him. Kirishima and Sero look like they’re on the verge of tears, and Todoroki has a thoughtful look on his face. Uraraka is still holding a bloodied towel, her fingers picking at the edges.
Toshinori forces a smile, more than aware that they’ll see through it. “I’m fine. Just a bit startled, I think.”
Sero leans forward, hand hovering over Toshinori’s wrist. “You sure you’re okay? We could call someone, it you want.”
A strike of something cold goes down Toshinori’s spine. He’s out. “No. I think I’ll just go to my room. Sleep this off.” He waved his bandaged hand, not registering the spikes of pain when his fingers twitched.
“Oh. Okay.” Sero seems disappointed, for some reason. He exchanges a worried glance with Kirishima.
Toshinori gets to his feet, shaking his head when his balance tilts to the side. His awareness blinks out, and the next thing he knows is that he’s in the elevator and hitting the button for the fifth floor.
Toshinori grips his head with his undamaged hand, his breaths hitching and his nails digging into his scalp.
He’s out. Everything that happened is . . .
When he gets to his room, he stumbles into the bathroom and throws up.
He never goes to see Recovery Girl.
He can see Aizawa giving him a disapproving glare, but there’s a haze over his senses, so he doesn’t really care.
Naomasa had called him last night, the exhaustion in his voice clear even through the distortion of his phone. “I’m sorry. There wasn’t any time to contact you before the media arrived and started broadcasting.”
Toshinori had shook his head, fingers tapping against his leg. “No, no, not your fault. Be careful.”
They’d hung up soon after.
Toshinori sighed, clenching his injured hand into a fist. He felt a flare of pain, heat running along the cuts in his palm.
There was nothing you could have done, even if you had been there.
The thought feels like it’s coated in vitriol and it eats through his chest.
He clenched his teeth, allowing a muscle to flex in his jaw. Then he tried to relax, consciously lowering his shoulders and deepening his breathing.
Toshinori got to his feet slowly, not looking forward to the long day. He strapped on his wrist brace, hoping that it would help hide the bandages on his fingers.
He grabbed his notes, took a deep breath, and walked out into the hallway. Tension settled between his shoulders and up the back of his neck before he closed the door behind himself.
Nighteye calls him that evening.
“How are you doing?”
Toshinori, still a bit surprised at his former partner contacting him, stammers. “F-fine, Nighteye! I’m holding up. How are you?”
When Nighteye answers, it’s almost as though he hadn’t heard Toshinori. “This is about the breakout. I want you to come stay with me.”
“Stay with you?”
“At the agency. You’ll be protected, and I can take another reading on your future.”
“Nighteye, I don’t -” Toshinori groaned and rubbed his hand down his face. “I know you’re busy, and I wouldn’t want to bother you.”
“That doesn’t matter. You need to be in a safe place, All Might.”
Toshinori fiddled with the edge of his phone. “Nighteye, do you know why I told you that it was unnecessary to ‘look’ at me, to peer into my future?”
“No, you never did.”
It was because I wasn’t as important as the people we were going to help. I was only valuable insofar as I could save others, or put myself between them and harm. Now, there’s nothing much that would be lost if the worst should happen. “You shouldn’t focus on me. You have more important things going on than looking after an old retiree.”
“You’re not old, All Might.”
Toshinori gave an emotionless snort. “Old enough. Listen, I’m fine here at UA. There’s no need to worry.”
“There’s every reason to worry. You know how All For One was gunning for you at Kamino, and now when you can’t use your quirk you’re more vulnerable than ever.” Nighteye sighed, and Toshinori could almost see his former partner reaching up to rub his eyes. “Please, come stay with my agency. You’ll be safe.”
I’ll also be absolutely useless, instead of mostly useless. “No. I’m staying at UA. Please don’t fight me on this.”
“I’m just concerned for your well-being, All Might. Please, at least consider it.”
Toshinori sighed. “Fine, I’ll think about it. No promises, though.”
“That’s enough for me.” Then Nighteye hung up.
Toshinori glared at the phone, his face falling into a sad expression a moment later. He place the phone on the table, screen down, and let himself sag in his seat. His gaze fell to his bandaged hand, the brace resting next to it.
The buzzing grew in the back of his head, whispering of guilt and uselessness and futility and a wasted life.
Before he could make sense of anything Toshinori slammed his hand down on the table. The wrappings didn’t offer a substantial buffer, and he could feel scabs cracking and splitting even though he couldn’t see the cuts.
A spike of pain went up his arm, and he gritted his teeth as he ground the edge of his hand into the table. Red blots started to grow along the bandage. He curled his hand into a fist, feeling his nails dig into the cuts through the wrapping.
He was glad that none of the students stopped by his dorm room as he rewrapped his hand in fresh bandages.
He disassociates in the middle of giving a lecture.
He had been writing something on the blackboard, the chalk shakily gripped in his right hand. Then, without any warning, his awareness had shifted.
Everything suddenly felt far away, and he couldn’t force his eyes to focus on anything in front of him. It felt like his ears were stuffed with cotton. He couldn’t feel time passing, and he only dimly felt someone touch his shoulder. The hand gives his arm a shake, and it takes all of his effort to look down at his side. His eyes find Iida, but it’s like looking through fogged glass.
“Sensei, are you alright?” Iida’s words take time to dribble through Toshinori’s skull, and when they finally register, the teacher shakes his head and slowly lowers his hand.
“I think,” he says, and his voice sounds weird and bubbly, “that it might be time to end class for today.”
Several students stood up, many of them asking if he was feeling well. Toshinori felt like he was underwater with how well he could hear them. He gave a noncommittal nod and placed the chalk on the desk.
He doesn’t notice Izuku giving him a panicked look, sharing it with Bakugou. Both of the students watched as their teacher slowly gathered up his notes and shuffled out of the door.
Two days after the announcement, Toshinori was resting in the teacher’s room.
Yamada was giving him constant looks, peering around the edge of his work station to find Toshinori where the retiree was stretched out on the couch. He scrambled when Toshinori got up, striving to look like he hadn’t been keeping an eye on him.
Toshinori looked terrible. There were dark circles under his eyes, and Yamada suspected that he’d lost weight, too, if the sharpness of his shoulders through his shirt was anything to go by. He noticed that Toshinori’s hand was still covered in bandages, and he could help but wince when he saw the bruised fingertips.
“You sure you don’t wanna lay down a bit longer?” Yamada asked, making sure to keep his voice quiet.
Toshinori shook his head. “No, no. I just need to move around a bit.”
Yamada’s eyes followed him as Toshinori shuffled his way out of the lounge. He could see the tension warring with exhaustion in the older man’s shoulders, and his head sagged like his neck had trouble holding it up.
“Shouta,” Yamada said, leaning over the desk once Toshinori had left, “If he keeps holding himself like that, he’s gonna snap.”
“He’s an adult.” Aizawa reached for a pen. “We have to trust him, at least when it comes to taking care of himself.”
“You do realize what you just said, right? Expecting him to take care of himself without prompting is the same as expecting you to throw away your sleeping bag.”
Aizawa sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Listen, either he’ll handle it, or he won’t. I doubt we have anything to say that could help, anyways.”
Kayama peered over at the pair, having listened to their conversation. “Aizawa, the man he spent his entire career to put behind bars escaped. For all he can see, his life’s work is falling to pieces around him, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He needs his friends.”
“And I’m willing to be there for him when the time comes.” Aizawa shot Kayama a level gaze. “With where he is now, he wouldn’t listen to us no matter what we said. Give him time.”
Toshinori downed the last of his tea and looked at the clock.
Just past midnight.
He shifted, looking around the dorm commons. All of the students had gone to bed several hours earlier, tuckered out from a day filled with endurance exercises. He had to give a small smile at remembering Izuku dragging his feet, the boy’s exhaustion evident in his loopy smile.
They did well, today.
For the moment, the buzzing in his head was quiet, and he could allow himself a moment of quiet, focusing on his breathing. His breath hitched, though, and he gave a wet cough only a minute into his meditation. He felt coppery blood coat his tongue, and he cleared his throat.
Can’t even do that right, apparently.
The thought was bitter. He took a shallow breath and swallowed, pinching his lips together until he was certain he wouldn’t leak blood from between his teeth.
Pain flared from his hand and Toshinori looked down at his thin arms, crisscrossed by scar tissue and warped from bone broken too many times.
Who was I to think I could still be useful after my retirement, even just a bit? The only thing I was ever good for was throwing punches, and now teaching is all that’s left for me, and I can’t even do that.
His memory flashed back to disassociating in the middle of writing down notes, and how he hadn’t been able to look any of his students in the eye when he left the classroom. He gave a self-deriding snort, and pushed his empty cup of tea further down the table.
He felt old, down into his bones. All used up.
The television segment he’d seen today had been filled with reports of increasing violence and over-worked heroes, several of whom needed to be hospitalized for treatment.
My fault, again. I shouldn’t have just dropped them all like that.
He sagged in his seat and let his head fall backwards.
I just wanted to help, to change things. How could I have been so arrogant as to take that on myself?
He rested his head on the table and let the void in his chest eat him.
The next night he went to the school gym.
It was thankfully devoid of life, the area closing off to the students several hours ago. It’s only thanks to his teacher pass that he’s able to get into the room at all.
The familiar scent of old training pads meets his nose, along with the crisp smell of metal. All of the weights and work bags are at rest, the floor empty. Toshinori turned on a few lights on autopilot, not truly focusing on his actions.
A hanging punching bag catches his attention. He walks slowly, trying to feel any sort of sensation in his body. He gives the bag a push, watching as the chains holding it clink and twist.
A small smile grew across his face. Once, many years ago, Torino had placed a young Toshinori in front of a bag very similar to this one, leading him through strengthening his punches. He’d spent four hours just doing exercises and drills, and at the end of it his legs had been shaky and unsteady.
Nana had laughed a lot at that, seeing her successor wobble about and make pathetic grabs for his water bottle.
The memory of Nana sent him back to Kamino ward, and an oily voice trickled down his back.
Tomura Shigaraki is Tenko Shimura, your predecessor’s grandson.
He snarled, pulling his lips away from his teeth, and threw a punch. “It’s just in my head. He’s not here.”
A sudden swell of loathing in his chest leads to him throwing another punch, then a jab, then a variety of combos that had been ingrained in his muscle memory for decades.
He swung his fists with experience and near-perfect technique, imagining himself landing blows on shoulders and torsos and faces. He twists his hips, throwing his entire mass into a left hook and countering with a sharp rap of his right elbow.
He could remember when his blows were taken seriously, when even without the use of One For All he could have shattered bone.
Now the punching bag barely swings.
His knuckles skid off the thick canvas and his skin tears, blood welling along the cracks in his skin.
Toshinori hisses and pulls his hand back, flexing his fingers. He could feel where he reopened the cuts in his hand, in addition to the new abrasions swelling across his knuckles. Anger blooms in his chest, and he throws another series of vicious punches, digging his knuckles into the bag.
Something inside him breaks with an almost audible snap.
He falls to his knees, grabbing the bag with his hands. An angry tear slips free and trickles over his sharp cheekbones.
Useless. Useless. Everything a waste.
He knew the voice was wrong, that he had saved people, given them a chance at life. That didn’t stop the choking spark of truth in the thoughts.
It’s all . . . going bad. I wanted to protect them, and instead the peace I worked to build is rotting from the inside out.
A sob worked it’s way out of his throat. His fingers dug into the punching bag as he slowly sagged to the floor, trying to breathe around the gasps building in his chest. Everything ached, from his bowed back to his angular feet. He felt raw and weak.
More tears made their way down his face, and he could feel his twisted nose start to run. “Dammit,” Toshinori muttered under his breath, sniffing and trying to rub at his face. The tears stung the abrasions and cuts on his hand, soaking the bandaging.
It was getting harder for him to breathe, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to start going through a calming exercise. He felt like he was drowning, gasping for air around a pained throat. He coughed, and felt blood trickle from his tongue.
He curled up on the floor, gripping his head between his forearms. A muffled groan slipped past his ragged throat, and he curled himself up tighter, trying to ride out the storm.
He stays on the gym floor until morning light starts eeking through the windows. It’s only the faraway noise of his students getting ready for the first training session of the day that pushes him to his feet. He staggers out of the doors, slowly making his way back to the quiet of his dorm room.
He left smears of blood on the punching bag, thick red embedded in the canvas.