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The nurses must be growing well-accustomed to the racket coming out of this room, Toshinori thought, massaging his temples.
The hand grip clattered loudly to the fake hardwood where Izuku had thrown it. It didn't even make it past the foot of the bed, but merely bounced off the mattress before sliding off the covers to the floor. The pitiful throw only stoked the boy's anger.
Izuku let out a cry of frustration—trying and failing to pull his hair—before flopping on the mattress, defeated.
"I'm hopeless!" he wailed, thrashing one skinny arm against a pillow. "I used to do this for fun—without thinking about it! I'm an embarrassment!"
Toshinori heaved a weary sigh, standing to retrieve the grip while Izuku's baleful ranting turned into quiet sobs. He rolled away to face the windows as Toshinori neared the bedside.
In his outburst, Izuku had thrown his faded blanket to the floor; the same one Inko had instructed him to retrieve from their apartment. Toshinori picked it up, running the fleece between his fingers. It had been Izuku's since he was a baby, or at least that was what Inko had said. She was in a different hospital right now; bedridden.
When downtown had been ravaged by Gigantomachia, she'd been caught up in the rubble of an office building. It was a miracle she'd lived at all, but a cement pylon had broken her back, and the doctors were trying to see if they could save her legs; which meant surgeries. Toshinori drove Izuku to see her every chance he was able.
Without Inko there, he was mainly the one caring for her son. After he'd woken up, they'd transferred him to long-term to start working on getting him mobile again. Toshinori wouldn't say it wasn't going well, but it just wasn't going smoothly as he'd hoped.
"You are not an embarrassment," he said softly, draping the blanket over Izuku's shoulders. It was too small to cover much else. "I couldn't be more proud of you for the progress you're making—and for everything else." He sat on the mattress, pulling a leg up to face his boy. He was staring listlessly out the windows, angry tears drying on his cheeks.
"Will you stop staring at me like that?" Izuku croaked, closing his eyes. "You keep looking at me like I'm a kicked puppy, and then you expect me not to feel like one."
Toshinori felt a sting in his chest at that, but he complied with a sigh, looking instead at the muted television. It was some cooking show rerun; they were both sick to death of the news.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'll try not to—do that. It's just… It isn't that you're injured, my boy; it's that you're sad." He put a hesitant hand on Izuku's shoulder. "I can't help it when my boy is hurting so much; I just can't. But of it makes you uncomfortable… I'll try to reign it in. Really, I will."
Izuku sighed in what Toshinori hoped was acceptance.
"And I am trying," he continued quietly. "I promise, I'm trying my best to take care of you, but I'm sorry if… if I fall short sometimes."
Izuku's sigh sounded utterly defeated. "No," he mumbled. "No it's—you don't—" he sniffled angrily. "It's not you, okay? It's me. It's always me…"
"Oh Izuku…"
"How did you do it? How did you pick the one kid who wouldn't be killed by it—the one person who could actually do something with this power—only for me to go and fuck up so much?" Izuku's voice broke, and he buried his face in his blanket to hide a fresh deluge of tears. "You gave me a miracle and I just wasted it," he wept. "I'm a waste."
Toshinori sucked in a gasp so sharply it hurt.
"You're not," he cried, gripping Izuku's arm with both hands. "You are not. You're the bravest boy—the bravest hero I've ever known, Midoriya Izuku. You faced down that demon when no one else could get close, and you did it without hesitation. I couldn't have done what you did; not to him. You're a hero, Izuku." His voice wavered. "And you're the light of my life. Alright?"
Izuku just stared at the window, eyes wide, and Toshinori fought with a lump in his throat as he hunched down and pressed his forehead to his boy's shoulder.
"I am haunted by the possibility that I might not have met you," he continued, squeezing Izuku's poor ravaged arm. "Not because I might have caused someone else harm, or have cost myself some insurance of power, but because I would never know what I'd missed. I would have never known you; never raised you, and that terrifies me."
Izuku didn't respond but for a barely-audible exhale—one with a telltale waver in it that said he was crying. Toshinori sighed, sinking down the rest of the way onto the bed and wrapping one arm around him. He wanted to hold Izuku fully; curl protectively around him and keep him close like he did the first night after he woke up. Instead, he kept a few inches between them—suspecting the boy wasn't wanting much contact right now.
They laid there side by side for a while while Izuku's tears subsided. Toshinori held one of his hands—so wrapped in scar tissue it felt inhuman. He wondered if Izuku even felt the touch.
On the TV, the cooking show ended, segueing right into another nearly-identical one. Toshinori stared at it out of the corner of his eye, focusing more on the motion of his boy's breathing against his cheek than whatever they were doing onscreen.
"Why don't we try the pushing and pulling thing?" he eventually suggested, gently nudging Izuku. "You're good at that one, right?"
Izuku's shoulders tensed. "What's the point if I don't exercise my hands?"
"All movement is good movement," Toshinori argued. "I know you heard Mrs. Sakiko when she said that."
At the mention of his physical therapist, some of the tension went out of Izuku's shoulders, and he nodded into his pillow. Toshinori smiled, pulling his legs up the rest of the way to sit cross-legged on the bed.
"Need help sitting up?"
"No," Izuku answered firmly. Toshinori nodded, patiently watching him roll onto his back. Several times Izuku tried to sit up, but he couldn't quite get his uncooperative legs to fold the right way. Finally, he lost balance again and sagged back on his elbows, head hung in shame. His stillness was a silent permission.
"There's nothing wrong with needing help, Izuku," Toshinori chided gently, pulling him into a sitting position. "I didn't teach you that."
"I know," Izuku muttered. And he did know; they'd had this conversation many times already, and Toshinori would tell him as many times as it took to sink in. Even if it never did.
Though a bit lopsided, Izuku eventually sat cross-legged in front of him. His blanket was still draped around his shoulders. "Ready?" Toshinori asked. Izuku nodded, downcast. Toshinori held out his hands. "Alright, I'm ready when you are."
Izuku's left arm jittered and spasmed when he raised it, wobbling as he tried to direct his palm into Toshinori's waiting one. Eventually, he made it, and Toshinori smiled as he knitted their fingers together.
"Good," he murmured. Though he knew Izuku probably couldn't feel it, he rubbed the back of his boy's gnarled hand with his thumb. "Now the other one."
Mild fear crossed Izuku's face. Of his arms, the right one—as always—was the more severely injured. He'd barely raised it off the bed before he sucked in a sharp gasp, jolting as if electrocuted.
"Ow," he squeaked, letting it fall back to the mattress. Toshinori could hear the lump in his throat, and he didn't think before taking it in his own, trying not to wince at how lifeless it felt. Izuku opened his mouth to protest, but Toshinori shook his head.
"I know," he said. "I know. I'm sorry… but I can't…" He slowly brought Izuku's right hand to join his left. "I just can't watch you hurt like that."
Izuku looked away with a noncommittal grumble.
"Okay. I'm ready. Take your time." Toshinori said, lifting their hands.
After sitting up, Izuku grit his teeth, tensed, and then shoved against Toshinori's hands. He made sure not to actively push against Izuku, but still held his arms steady; just as his therapist instructed.
Izuku let out a grunt that was equal parts determination and discomfort as he folded Toshinori's arms up to his torso. He grinned when the boy's knuckles brushed his shirt.
"One," Izuku panted.
"Good! Keep going."
The next step was just the opposite, Toshinori held his arms still while Izuku worked to pull them straight again. The goal was for Izuku not to lean back or forward, but simply use his arms (similar to how you were supposed to exercise babies allegedly—not that Toshinori would ever let Izuku in on that piece of information).
They kept up this back-and-forth motion for a few minutes, Toshinori quietly cheering Izuku on for every rep while Izuku hissed in triumphant discomfort. Toshinori liked doing this; it was one of the only few home excercises she'd given that he could help Izuku with. As it went on though, Izuku grew very quiet. At the eight or ninth rep, Toshinori began to see a familiar glassiness of his student's eyes.
Oh no…
What had upset Izuku this time? Was it just his arms, or had Toshinori done something? Or, he thought. Maybe it's a little of everything.
"Hey, that's nearly ten," he gently praised when Izuku pulled his hands back to his own chest again. "Isn't that… good?"
Izuku paused, wavering for a moment before pushing forward again, but this time he didn't stop, and Toshinori started slightly as his battered hands slid out of his grasp. Izuku pushed past their folded arms, leaning his forehead into Toshinori's chest instead. He was shaking.
"Izuku?" he coaxed. "Is it your elbows? I can call a nurse..." Izuku shook his head.
"No…" his boy croaked into his shirt. "It's... M'sorry, All Might. For what I said..." He hiccuped. "I'm glad you're here. I'm so glad…"
Toshinori gasped softly and let go of Izuku's hands, wrapping his arms around him and folding him into his chest. Izuku hiccupped, pushing further into the hug with thinly-veiled desperation. A few more blubbered apologies stung Toshinori's heart.
"Oh my boy," he murmured, "there's nothing you could say that would make me stop caring for you. You're stuck with me for life, I'm afraid." He chuckled thickly, pulling Izuku closer. "You have no idea how strong you are," he whispered. "And you have nothing to apologize for. Okay?"
Izuku sniffled, nodding. "… 'Kay…"
Toshinori smiled, bittersweet, and leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of his boy's head.
"You're going to be alright," he murmured, resting his cheek on Izuku's curls. "Everything's going to be alright."
They stayed like that for a moment—just long enough for the man to realize how lucky he was all over again. There would be ups and downs, and he would probably have to repeat himself a lot, but he was glad to do it. For his son, he would do it—again and again.
"Okay," he said eventually, breaking the embrace. He took his boy's hands again. "Round two." Determination glinted in Toshinori's sunken, tired eyes, and maybe—just maybe—in Izuku's, too.
"Yeah," his boy wavered. "Yeah. Let's do it."