Chapter Text
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to go home?” Shouto asks the doctor, looking past his shoulder, into Toshinori’s hospital room, where he lies sleeping under heavy sedation.
He more hears than sees the doctor sigh, and he doesn’t look back at him until he puts his hand on Shouto’s shoulder. “Yagi-san, he’s stable and resting. There is nothing you can do for him right now except take care of yourself.” Frown lines crease his forehead, and he adds, “You’re exhausted, and you look like it. Please, go home and get some rest. Worrying about you will not help All Might’s condition.”
Looking past his shoulder again, Shouto almost, almost stands his ground and insists. There’s no hero or security at the hospital who is powerful enough to move Shouto against his will if he digs his heels in—Number Two hero on leave that he is—but the truth of the matter is that he is exhausted. This fucking cold that has Toshinori in the hospital has been a nightmare since Shouto heard the first cough that wasn’t right.
“You know if anything happens, we will call,” the doctor reminds him using the kind of soothing voice Shouto uses to talk down villains and suicide risks.
Running a hand through his hair, realizing that the messy bun he’s wearing probably isn’t doing him any favors, Shouto finally nods. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll… I’ll head home for tonight. But I’ll be back in the morning.”
The doctor gives him a smile that says he’d expect nothing less, but all he says is, “Of course, Yagi-san.”
“I should tell him good night,” Shouto says, a tightness in his chest he hasn’t been able to shake for the last several days.
“Yagi-san,” the doctor says kindly but firmly. “He’s heavily sedated. He won’t be able to hear you.” He pats Shouto’s shoulder again in a way that Shouto thinks he means to be fatherly. “Getting rest is really the best thing you can do for him now.”
The impulse to protest again is strong, but Shouto knows—objectively—the doctor’s right. “You’ll have the staff call me if there’s any change?”
“I promise.”
Heart heavy, Shouto nods a final time and finally lets the doctor veer him away from Toshinori’s room. Shouto’s smart enough not to try to drive in his current headspace, but neither does he have the emotional bandwidth to deal with the train and people crowded around him, many of whom just can’t quite restrain themselves from talking to him. He pulls up his hood, which hides his distinctive hair, and catches a cab instead.
Home, when he arrives, feels empty and cold. It always feels empty without Toshinori there. Even before he gets through the main gate—an ornate, traditional temple gate, since their home is a former shrine Toshinori had picked up in the reconstruction after the Villain Wars—the place feels… lifeless. The place they’d designed to be their sanctuary, their home away from all the demands on them and their time and energy, is beautiful. Honestly, if they allowed it to be, it’d be a destination to visit for its beauty.
Since his retirement, tending the gardens at their home has been one of Toshinori’s favorite hobbies, when he isn’t keeping himself busy by being a consultant and spending as much time as he can with friends.
Most days, even when he’s exhausted, Shouto enjoys the path from the main gates up to the house. No matter what time of year it is, the garden is the type of place that one often finds in photography prints and on postcards. Toshinori has been in the hospital for over a month though, and already, it’s beginning to show signs of its missing master. Shouto should hire someone to come in and keep it up, but he knows he won’t.
His feet crunch on the gravel path as he makes his way up to the main house. It’s not the kind of place he would have thought Toshinori would like to retire to, not after seeing Toshinori’s sleek, modern apartment when they’d first started dating. Finding out that Toshinori had purchased this place as a retirement home and had been having it retrofitted so that it was more suited to his size had been a surprise, but a welcome one. No matter how many ugly memories his own childhood home had, Shouto has always found traditional architecture to be comforting.
It's not as comforting today as it usually is.
The pathway is smooth, the slope of it unobtrusive. While retrofitting, Toshinori had considered future mobility issues, had minimized the number of stairs on the way up to the main building, and there is a stone pathway nearer to a gate on the other side of the home that is better suited for wheelchairs, but Shouto wants to walk through the garden, hoping it will help his mood.
The subtle signs of neglect actually have the opposite effect, so Shouto hurries himself up to the house. He should probably either order some food in or go out and get it himself, but that’s just a little more effort than he has the energy to put out right now. Instead, he goes to their miso pot—always generously filled since it’s a staple in Toshinori’s diet especially, and a comfort food of Shouto’s besides—gets himself a large bowl of it, pulls out some white rice, and sits at the small table in the kitchen. It’s a simple table for two, more of Western fashion than is really technically suited to the house, but especially in the last five years, Toshinori’s knees have been getting the best of him, and though he’ll still get down for a kotatsu’s warmth in the winter—not that they actually need it, the home has the most modern insulation hidden within its traditional aesthetic possible—he doesn’t get down on the floor much otherwise these days.
Of course, he’ll be eighty next summer, and there aren’t many eighty-year-olds who have as much wear and tear on themselves as Toshinori does. He stays remarkably active, but given his height, getting down to the floor is a long way down.
Shouto eats his food in silence, missing Empress, the cat they got when they first moved in together but who’d died last year more than ever. Neither of them had really been ready to replace the cat they had loved so much, but in the empty house, Shouto suddenly wishes they’d decided to sooner. He tries not think about the thousands of mornings he’s sat in this very chair, across from Toshinori, Empress snuggled up on one of their laps as they ate. They made a point to try to eat breakfast together most days, since Toshinori is a morning person, and even if Shouto is working a night shift, he can share the meal with Toshinori before he goes to bed. When he’s working day shifts, well, he’s always found waking up a little earlier to have that time with his husband to be invaluable.
The food goes down untasted and sits like a lump in his stomach, but at least he’ll be able to honestly tell Toshinori he had dinner. The dishes go straight into the dishwasher—which still isn’t full enough to run—so Shouto drags himself to the bathroom to wash the scent of stress and hospital from his skin.
Though he doesn’t expect to, he barely gets his hair dry before he passes out on the bed, exhaustion pulling him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The phone rings, and it jolts Shouto out of his exhausted sleep. A lifetime of having to respond to urgent, late-night calls kicks in before he’s even entirely conscious.
“Yagi Shouto,” he answers, as he usually does. Then his blood runs cold as his brain engages, and he remembers he’s off the rosters, not on call. That there really should only be one place calling him at—a glance over to Toshinori’s side of the bed shows the 2:08 glowing dully—this time of the morning.
“Yagi-san, this is Matakura with Mustafu City Hospital. Yagi-sama has taken a turn for the worst. The doctor recommends you come immediately.”
Shouto is moving before the whole sentence is out of the man’s mouth, glad he’d fallen asleep in some sweats so he doesn’t actually have to get dressed.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he replies, hanging up before the man can say more, shoving the phone into his pocket.
He grabs his keys and wallet, and then all but flies out the door. The moment he hits the pavement, flying is exactly what he does. It’s the quickest way to the hospital, and he’s in no damn state of mind to drive, even if it weren’t.
It is not a good sign when he finds a man waiting for his arrival at the desk.
“Shouto-san,” the man greets with a slight incline and no nonsense. “This way, please.”
As if Shouto doesn’t already know the way. As if Shouto couldn’t walk that path in his sleep.
For better or worse, the man walks at a quick clip, just shy of running, and Shouto keeps pace with him, the gentleman allowing him past all the checkpoints that would usually scold a visitor for being here at such hours, even one as infamous as Shouto is.
They enter the room, and Toshinori’s doctor stands at his side, monitoring the equipment, a grim expression on his face. He looks up when Shouto enters.
“Yagi-san,” he says. “I’m afraid we’ve done all we can…”
There is a chair beside the bed—the one Shouto had been sitting in earlier, and he sits there now, taking Toshinori’s hand in his own. It’s still massive, but thin, looking and feeling frail in his grip.
“I’m here,” Shouto says, gripping the hand as tightly as he dares, kissing the back of it, ignoring the IV there. “I’m here, love.” Shouto is not big on endearments—that had always been Toshinori’s prerogative—but if this is the end, if this is last time Toshinori hears him, he wants Toshinori to know how much Shouto loves him. Not that Toshinori doesn’t know, but it feels important to say it.
“Per his request, we’re going to remove the intubation,” the doctor says, and Shouto nods, not looking away, not daring to look away for an instant, taking a hand off Toshinori’s to stroke his hair away from his face. It’s stayed surprisingly thick into his old age, but little of the sunshine gold remains, having mostly gone white some years back. His skin is stretched tight across his features, and he looks almost mummified, but he’s still beautiful to Shouto.
Toshinori’s chest rises with a deep, hacking breath at the removal, rises and falls again, his eyes open—pools of black with a rim of brilliant blue, still so bright after all these years—focus on Shouto for a moment, the barest curve of a smile bends his lips, they form the shape of Shouto’s name, though saying it seems too much, he squeezes Shouto’s hand, then the breath goes out of him, his eyes close, the machines beep their warnings, and then he is gone.
Tears blur Shouto’s vision as he stands, knees feeling shaky, and bends over to place a kiss on Toshinori’s forehead, then on his still mouth, before he sits back down, still holding Toshinori’s hand, stroking his hair back.
The doctor comes around the bed and pats him on the shoulder. “Take all the time you need,” he says, but Shouto barely hears him.
Shouto has no idea how long he sits there, but it’s long enough for Toshinori to go cool in his hands. That feels wrong—deeply wrong, Toshinori has always, even at his slimmest, radiated warmth, like he swallowed the sun and had to emit its heat—and it finally spurs Shouto to get up again. This time, to truly say goodbye.
He strokes Toshinori’s hair away from his face a final time, places a final kiss to his forehead, and finally leaves. The man who showed him to the room is waiting for him, and Shouto is sure he is only there because this is Yagi Toshinori, All Might, not for Shouto.
Holding out a packet of tissues to Shouto, he says, “We know this is a difficult time, but Yagi-sama had all of his wishes well documented. I’m the social worker the hospital has assigned to assist you with the next steps. We can begin processes as soon as you’d like.”
The words sound strange in Shouto’s ears. As soon as he’d like? He’d like to never do this, but he knows that’s childish and impossible, a refusal of responsibility that is unbecoming a man of his age. “Yes, of course,” he says, taking the tissues and blowing his nose several times before finally wiping his eyes. Even in his own ears, his voice sounds hollow, but he doesn’t know what to do about that. The man walks him over to a waiting area of some kind, and they sit down.
The man goes over what to expect next—not that Shouto doesn’t know. They did all of this paperwork for final wishes years ago, and they’ve kept it rigorously updated. There are no surprises here, just a heart-sickening reality.
Shouto has to pull out his phone to check on something, and the time—6:38—catches him by surprise. It feels like only minutes ago that he was awakened by the call, that he flew to the hospital. It’s the start of a new day, and Shouto is suddenly, hatefully, aware that he has duties to attend to.
“I need to call some people,” he says, his mouth moving to say the words even as the idea of doing it, of making those calls, of saying the words, sticks in his throat like he could choke on it.
“Yes, of course. Please take all the time you need. We’ll keep this area clear for your privacy.”
Shouto may be a top hero, but he’s sure the courtesy is more out of respect for him as All Might’s husband than as one of the top heroes in the country. For once, Shouto will accept the special treatment. He can’t imagine dealing with strangers gawking at him and eavesdropping right now, when he feels so raw and fragile.
There are not many calls to make. For a man so loved and revered the world over, there are few truly close friends who deserve a personal message from Shouto, who are close enough to be considered family.
He starts with Aizawa. Not because Aizawa deserves to know first—though he’ll let Eri know, which will save Shouto the heartache of having to tell her—but because Aizawa is the least likely to make him dissolve into incoherent sobs. He’ll be good to practice on.
“Hello?” Aizawa answers the phone, his voice sounding even gruffer and grumpier in his old age. How strange that Shouto hasn’t thought about that before? He’s only fifteen years or so older than Shouto, putting him right at about sixty, but he sounds older somehow.
Shouto is sure that he does as well. “Aizawa-sensei,” Shouto greets, slipping back into an old habit. He takes a deep breath, tries to figure out how to possibly say what needs to be said, how he can pull the blow, lessen its impact. In the end, he practically blurts it out, “Toshinori died this morning.”
The words taste like ash in his mouth.
There’s a pause on the line, then Aizawa says, “I’m so sorry for your loss. Is there anything I can do?”
Probably, but Shouto can’t recall what it is if there are. “I… I don’t know. I need to call… I need to let others know.”
“Of course,” Aizawa says, no longer gruff and grumpy, but as soft and kind as he gets. Somehow that makes it worse. He knows the news is bad when Aizawa is trying to be comforting. “If you need anything, let us know. We’ll be there.”
“Thank you,” Shouto says, then hangs up. He has to put the phone down, his hands shaking so hard that the phone rattles before he drops it onto the cheap acrylic table.
He said the words. They make his stomach churn, his chest feel tight, and his throat close up, but he said them. Knowing that there was a good probability that he’d have to do this one day, being prepared for the fact that he would have to do this, is not at all preparation for actually doing it. Maybe, in some sick, selfish part of his heart, he’d always hoped that he would go before Toshinori and he’d never have to do this. A hero of his caliber certainly puts himself in enough dangerous situations that it wasn’t impossible.
But that didn’t happen, and he’s had twenty-five years being happier than he ever imagined he could be, but now Toshinori is gone, and Shouto has to tell the people who matter most.
Tsukauchi is next, and the call goes similarly to Aizawa’s. Those were the two easiest out of the way. The last two will be much, much worse. Ultimately, he calls Dave first because of the time zone, and because—while Dave has become Shouto’s friend over the years—he’s Toshinori’s friend most of all. But it’s also early in the morning here, and Dave’s back in the United States, so it’s early evening there.
“Shouto,” Dave answers on the second ring, and his voice sounds tight. He knows why Shouto’s calling. They may be friends, but not the way that he and Toshinori are—were—not the kind of friends who will call one another to talk or ask advice. If Shouto is calling him when he knows Toshinori has been sick, he’s not fool enough to think it’s good.
“Toshinori’s gone,” Shouto says. After the third call, he’s decided that not only does he have the emotional bandwidth to try and make this message softer, it might actually be kinder to just pull the metaphorical trigger. “He passed a few hours ago.”
“God damn it,” Dave hisses with heartfelt pain. “I knew I shouldn’t have listened—that I should have come—”
“He wouldn’t have wanted you to see him like that,” Shouto says, and he can say it confidently. Even though they’d been hoping Toshinori would recover and come home—had even been optimistic about it—Toshinori wouldn’t have wanted his oldest friend to see him like he was in the end.
Dave heaves a sigh that comes through the line, and he says, “Yeah, that was just like him,” in a tone that is mixed with affection and exasperation. There’s a sniffle, then a clearing of his throat. “How are you doing? Is there anything I can do?”
The second question doesn’t surprise him, but the first one does. Dave is the first to ask him that. “I…” His voice cracks, and Shouto swallows. The second time, his voice comes out a little stronger. “I’m here.” That’s about all he can say right now. “I’ll send you the memorial information as soon as I have it, but you’re welcome to come. If you could tell Melissa?”
“Of course,” Dave says. “I’m booking a flight now.” Shouto hears the tapping of keys from how hard Dave is typing. “I’ll get my usual—”
“You can stay at our place,” Shouto offers impulsively. It’s a sincere offer though. The idea of being at home, in their home, all alone, is somewhere between daunting and horrifying. Having someone else to take care of will help, he’s sure. Shouto’s always been good at that.
“I appreciate it,” Dave says, his own voice tight in a way that tells Shouto he’s working hard to control his own emotions. “I’ll text you my flight information as soon as I have it.”
“Let Melissa know she and her family is welcome too—if they want to come.” Toshinori adored not only Melissa, but her children, and Shouto will be grateful for the distraction.
He hears a sniffle. “Of course,” Dave says. “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Dave lets him go a moment later, and that leaves Shouto with only one call left to make: the hardest one. Maybe in theory he should also call his own family, but even after all of these years of trying to make the Todoroki family work, Shouto’s family is more of a source of conflict than of comfort. It’s not an accident that Shouto took Toshinori’s name when they married. Shedding the weight of the Todoroki name and his father’s ambitions had been a relief.
But he does need to tell them. Well, he needs to tell one of them. He quickly shoots off a text to Natsuo, and asks him to pass the message onto the rest of the family. He won’t be surprised that Shouto’s not up to sharing that message with his parents. His father has made his feelings about Shouto “wasting the most productive—read: virile—years of his life on an old has-been” clear, while his mother has done her best to comfort Shouto that he’ll still “have lots of opportunity to find love again once All Might dies.”
Natsuo won’t be the least bit surprised that Shouto can’t stomach the thought of talking to either of them at the moment.
Sure enough, a text comes back from him quickly. [I’m so sorry. I’ve got it covered. Let me know if you need anything else. I’m here for you.] A string of heart and comfort emojis follow it.
For a moment, Shouto is tempted to block both his parents’ numbers, but for now, he’ll just ignore them. Fuyumi will tell him that she’ll do anything he needs—and will want to give him a lot of hugs that he might actually be inclined to accept, Toshinori trained him to be more tactile with brute force of personality over their relationship—and Touya… Shouto isn’t sure what Touya will say. Their relationship has been forever shaped by their father’s ambitions for them, and while they understand one another better than Shouto thinks anyone except Toshinori probably understands him, they aren’t close.
Thinking through it for a moment, he should probably expect Keigo to reach out on Touya’s awkward behalf. Keigo has always been the more social of them.
His phone feels heavy in his hand. He knows he needs to call Izuku next. Arguably should have called him first, but he knows that when he calls Izuku, there’s going to be crying. Izuku has not become less of an emotional crier with age. And once Izuku starts, Shouto knows he’s going to.
He’s afraid that once he starts, he won’t know how to stop again.
For a heartbeat, he considers calling Katsuki instead, and letting him tell Izuku, but it’s only for a heartbeat. Izuku is the closest thing that Toshinori has to a family outside of Shouto and Dave. Also, if he’s honest, this call is not actually going to be any easier to have with Katsuki. He really, really can’t deal with Katsuki’s yelling right now. Or worse—his quiet. Besides, Izuku deserves to hear it from him.
Flipping back to his most used contacts, Shouto makes himself select Izuku’s name before he can think about it any longer.
“Shouto-kun?” Izuku asks, picking up on the second ring. It’s not unheard of for Shouto to call him at this time—though it’s rare these days—there’s always a chance that Shouto is calling because of hero business.
He wishes he were. Shouto thinks he should have different words for Izuku. “Toshinori’s gone,” is what he says though. Just like with the others.
A terrible, heavy silence falls between them. Shouto thinks he hears Katsuki in the background, thinks he hears Izuku say Kacchan, before Izuku’s voice comes through. “Okay,” he says, his voice oddly distant, almost his professional voice.
“I—we didn’t expect this to happen,” Shouto blurts, needing not to hear the eerie calm. Needing not to hear Izuku pull his most All-Might-like persona around him just at this moment. “I don’t have any plans yet.”
“Do you need us to come today?” Izuku asks. It isn’t at all what Shouto expects him to ask. “We can come today.”
They can come—with Izuku’s quirk, they could be here within hours.
Chest tight, Shouto tries to imagine seeing anyone else right now. “No,” he says. “I… I have a lot of… paperwork… and things. Not today.”
Rustling sheets, but no whispers. “We’ll be there tomorrow then,” Izuku says. It’s not really a request.
But maybe what Shouto needs is to let others take care of him while he takes care of Toshinori for the last time.
“Sure,” he says. “I’d appreciate that.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Izuku says, and Shouto can only tell his voice is carefully controlled because he knows him so well.
“Tomorrow,” Shouto says, and lets it be his goodbye as he hangs up.
As if some deep part of him realizes that the people who needed to know most have been told, emotion climbs up Shouto’s throat and spills out his eyes. Sitting in the hospital chair in this little room set aside, he puts his face in his hands and sobs.