Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two months after All Might has charged Izuku with cleaning up Dagobah Beach, disaster finally catches up to the heels of the self-professed danger magnet.

It comes in the shape of a disheveled man with a youthful face hidden behind a scraggly beard, dressed in the nondescript clothes of a salesman, screaming for all the world to hear: “ALL MIGHT! I’VE FINALLY FOUND YOU!”

Fortunately, All Might is still in his muscled form. It’s one of those days where he finds it funny to sit on top of a discarded washing machine while Izuku struggles to haul it towards his hero’s pick-up truck. The pre-dawn light lends the sands and numerous articles of trash a faint hallucinatory glow, so Izuku doesn’t blame All Might for being taken aback.

“Uh,” All Might says.

A gratifying ridge of sand has built up in front of the washing machine; Izuku focuses on this over the interloper, trusting in All Might’s (frankly, flawless) track record in dismissing paparazzi. 

Except this isn’t paparazzi.

Izuku blinks once, and the man is shoving past him, planting one bare hand on the back of Izuku’s sweaty neck. He doesn’t even get to blink twice before All Might swears—in English! Just like the movies!—and moves, sending up a burst of debris as he rushes the man away.

The sudden absence of weight and mass isn’t as palpable as Izuku would’ve liked, but he manages to lurch forward a whole two steps, which is incredible. He yelps in surprise. The sound is echoed, and then followed by a maniacal laugh.

“YES!” the man shrieks elatedly. “YES! I’VE DONE IT! ALL MIGHT IS GONE! THE SAME-AGE SAGE WILL ENTER THE RANKS OF HISTORY, AS THE VANQUISHER AND CAPTOR OF THE GREATEST STAIN OF OUR AGE—”

“Shut up!” cries a new voice, and Izuku claws past the shock of hearing the victory speech and refocuses, just in time to see a smaller form lash out.

The Same-Age Sage (Izuku has studied All Might’s Rogue Gallery, unofficial, with renewed interest over the past few months, and whoever this guy is, he’s not even in the D-Tier ranks of it) doubles over and retches mid-sentence. Rather viciously, the new person seizes the Sage’s collar and clocks him in the head with another punch.

Izuku hurries to get out of the ropes tethering him to the washing machine. Logic tells him that the new person is All Might. After all, those are All Might’s civilian clothes. That’s the same tint of All Might’s hair, and the style is much like his depowered form.

When he closes the distance, All Might is clumsily digging through the Same-Age Sage’s pockets, cursing under his breath as the overly large t-shirt’s sleeves slide forward and get in the way. He pulls out several thin white plastic straps with a look of consternation, then proceeds to zip-tie the downed villain’s wrists and ankles.

“What a mess, oh, what a mess…”

“All Might?” Izuku squeaks.

The wild-haired youth jerks his head up, and wide blue eyes meet Izuku’s. There’s a frightening blankness to them, lending the filled-out lines of his new childish face a scary solemnity. 

“All Might, please tell me you remember me. I’m—I’m supposed to be training as your successor?”

All Might cocks his head. His bangs sway with the movement, and his eyebrows draw together in concentration, right before he says in a carelessly lighthearted voice, “You’re my what?”

“OH NO—”

“Just kidding!” says All Might hastily, flapping his hands to ward off Izuku’s totally justified panic attack. He pastes on a grin and gets to his feet, but then he has to grab at his clothes before they slip down. “Oh, [shit]—ah, you didn’t hear that, Midoriya-shonen. Anyway! Don’t worry, I remember you perfectly.”

“Thank goodness,” says Izuku. He’s ready to faint. He’s ready to label this as some fever dream, because surely All Might emerged into the world as a full-grown adult? 

Does All Might have parents? 

There are pro-heroes who suffer the publicity of raising a family while risking their health—certainly not the first profession to do so, but Izuku guesses that most first-responders and public service employees aren’t hounded by tabloid journalism—and there are even pro-heroes who marry within the industry. But All Might deftly avoids all interviews regarding his personal life, and kindly rejects all speculations about significant others, bachelorhood, and whether he too had a family that cared for his accomplishments. 

“Much like I remember this Quirkless body,” All Might continues, and his bright smile dims into a contemplative frown as he tries to hold up his clothes and feel his flesh at the same time. “Hm. Hmm.”

“Quirkless. Quirkless?”

“Hm? Oh. Heh.” It’s a different smile that crosses All Might’s face, more mischievous and less performative. “Yes, I was born Quirkless too. My master gave One for All to me before I entered U.A., but only after I proved myself in training! So there you have it, the model for the American Dream! Pretty cool, huh?”

“Cool,” Izuku echoes. “But then—if you were Quirkless—why…?”

It still sits with Izuku, that afternoon on the rooftop. The weary expression on the gaunt face, the reveal of a truly horrifying injury that would bench a lesser hero, but most importantly, the flat denial. The rejection of a dream long cherished, of belonging to the community again.

All Might falters. “Yes, about that. I’m sorry—” His apology is interrupted by a groan, and both All Might and Izuku’s attention is caught by the Same-Age Sage shifting his face off the sand. They wait with bated breath. Thankfully, he remains unconscious. All Might picks up the lingering thread of conversation and says, more emphatic, “I am sorry for saying that you could not be a hero, Midoriya-shonen. It was cruel of me.”

“I mean, I understand why,” Izuku stammers. “Even—even if I know how to counter a villain, I would still need the support of Quirks to effectively fight Quirks. Or support gear, which itself would cost money, and the effective ones aren’t easy to come by when you don’t have any ready connections—” He cuts himself off when All Might reaches over and claps a hand onto Izuku’s shoulder.

“Talking nonsense! Take my apology, Midoriya-shonen, or say it’s not good enough. None of this excusing me for my own faults.”

“… Okay.” All Might peers at him, as if he’s expecting more, so Izuku says, quite genuinely, “I wish you would have told me that you were born Quirkless earlier. And I, um… Thank you for telling me now.”

“I have a lot to tell you, truth be told. But we have priorities! Such as our current situation,” and All Might gestures to the prone figure ziptied on the sand, then to the space between them. “I’m clearly under a Quirk effect, but I feel uninjured. You don’t feel affected yourself?”

Izuku shakes his head. It’s odd to hear this extremely youthful All Might take on a lecturing tone, but the disconnect is somewhat mitigated by the fact that a young All Might still manages to tower over him.

“Excellent! Therefore, we don’t need an ambulance or first-aid. Which means…?”

Oh, Izuku realizes. This is All Might, coaching him through, like, an after-battle assessment. A part of him warms; it’s one thing to be trained by All Might in conditioning his body, but it’s another thing entirely to be taught pro-hero work. The immediate consequences of the disaster with the sludge villain had Izuku being reamed out by the local pro-heroes, who understandably treated him as a junior high student with delusions of grandeur.

This is All Might, once again reaffirming that Izuku can handle what it means to be a pro-hero.

However terribly the day has started, Toshinori is confident that he’s prevented it from hitting rock-bottom. The villain is subdued, no one is popping out from the trash heaps to aid in the abduction of All Might, and while Midoriya looks shaken (yet again!), he appears unharmed.

“We should call the police!” says Midoriya, belatedly.

“Good idea,” says Toshinori cheerfully. He jams his hand almost elbow-deep in one of the side pockets of his cargo pants, rummages around the vast depths, and successfully finds his phone. “Now, there are a few ways of doing that, but we’re going to start with a non-traditional one. I’ve got a friend in the Tokyo force who’s aware of my original situation, so if we tell him what’s going on first, he’ll help out with the rest.”

“A friend? Oh! Is he the Superintendent? The Chief Inspector?”

“No, no. He’s a detective!”

Tsukauchi is on speed-dial, a dubious privilege shared with very few people nowadays. At this hour, he’s also the only one who won’t feel inclined to chew out Toshinori—but that’s not relevant to tell Midoriya yet. Quickly, Toshinori raises his phone to his ear and listens to the dial tone with bated breath.

“Hello?”

“Hello—” Toshinori’s voice cracks right down the middle; he clutches the phone with both hands, mortified. Across from him, Midoriya cringes with sympathy. What an unexpected drawback! Toshinori clears his throat quickly, and tries to pull from his vocal cords the right intonation. “Detective Tsukauchi. This is All Might.”

There’s a distinct pause, and then a troubled, groggy sigh. “Listen, kid, I don’t know how you got this phone, but you have to return it.”

Toshinori deepens his voice. “Detective. It’s me.”

“Uh-huh.”

He closes his eyes and summons his wits about him, dumps whatever dignity he had left in Midoriya’s eyes, and says in his regular, puberty-affected voice, “Did you already finish the stack of paperwork I left you yesterday at the Moto Coffee cafe, with the ten-page insurance filing for the Niamos Casino incident? I have another report to add.”

Tsukauchi processes, stutters, and finally gives up. “All Might? Why do you sound—?”

“It’s really a difficult situation to describe,” Toshinori interjects. “A, ah, civilian got caught up in a villain attack, but the both of us are relatively well and unharmed. We’re going to call the local police as an anonymous civilian tip.”

“Anonymous? But what about the civilian? You said they were caught up.”

“They say they’re uninjured.” The white lie falls much too easily off Toshinori’s tongue, but he doesn’t feel the urge to correct himself. Midoriya looks confused at Toshinori speaking up for him, but says nothing. It’s a lot of trust; Toshinori bites the inside of his cheek in self-reprimand, and clarifies, “We shouldn’t need a hospital. I’m going to escort them home.”

Midoriya mouths the word ‘mom’ and blanches, then gives Toshinori a thumbs-up.

“So what do you need me for?”

“To stand in for All Might, please. The villain’s going by the title of Same-Age Sage. You need to figure out the duration of his Quirk effect. And also pick my truck up, because I no longer look like my driver’s license photo. It’s probably going to be towed, but I can pay you back the bill.”

“Quirk effect?! I…! Oh, alright. Where are you?”

Toshinori breathes out, shoulders sagging in relief. He recites the address for Dagobah Municipal Beach Park to the response of, “All Might, you know I’m in Tokyo,” and extracts a promise that Tsukauchi will rescue his truck from the impound lot. “And remember! You’re agreeing to be Yagi Toshinori’s friend!”

“I’m not already?” Tsukauchi jokes before hanging up.

One task done, the second to go: Toshinori pulls the phone away to tap in the emergency hotline, and freezes when he sees Midoriya’s intrigued look.

“Who’s Yagi Toshinori?” the kid asks promptly.

“Uh,” he says. “Me?”

“Huh…”

“I can’t go by All Might the whole time,” says Toshinori, returning his attention to the phone. “It’s my real name, too. Just in case you were wondering.” Three numbers, a dial tone, and a first-response operator, sounding relatively worn. He rattles off the basics; as of late, it’s been a habit to swiftly deal with a villain, power down, and call as a civilian, so he doesn’t stutter here.

Fake name, location, incident…

“He was very confident that he overcame All Might,” Toshinori lies without skipping a beat, “but it turns out the first hit had just missed, and then All Might knocked him out and kept moving down the road.”

“Another one?” the operator groans. “Okay, thank you. We’ll… send someone to pick up the villain. Is he restrained?”

Toshinori purses his lips. Every field experience is telling him to sit on the Same-Age Sage until the cavalry comes to pick him up, but the longer they linger here, the more likely the police will take him and Midoriya in as witnesses (rightly, but inconveniently) and tie them up in bigger lies. Midoriya’s pretty twitchy for a fellow Quirkless kid; Toshinori would hate to traumatize him with his first all-day police station witness statement. “It looked like All Might turned his zip-ties against him. Thank you in advance for your hard work!”

“Wait, kid, don’t leave the area—”

He hangs up. Then he tucks away his phone, and his fingers brush against his car keys. Part of him really wants to re-park the truck, but he can tell his clothes are going to be a hassle to maneuver in. At least the underwear isn’t in danger of falling off. Perks of being a hero! The first tailor who managed to produce clothes to accommodate size changes, from small to large and vice-versa, made such a profit in the market. 

Toshinori’s hand goes reflexively to grope at his ribs, trying to feel out the old wound and finding only soft untrained flesh.

How strange, to breathe freely again. 

“Okay, that’s settled,” Toshinori says.

“There aren’t any problems with us leaving?”

“Oh, it’s very discouraged. But with every rule, there’s an exception, and right now, the exception is that we don’t want to lie to the police about All Might’s current Quirkless status.”

“Right,” Midoriya squeaks.

“I’ll have to tell the detective about it, though. But he’s very good at keeping secrets, and letting the right things slide.” Toshinori fiddles with the hem of his shirt, still mentally running through his own situation report that ends with two items: get Midoriya home and get out of sight. “I must say, it’s an unexpected blessing that this has happened during summer break. Nobody will tell us off for skipping school!”

“Do you think he—the Same-Age Sage, I mean—timed it that way? If his Quirk relies on making people the same age, then he probably would have wanted you younger than your debut. But how would he have known about this beach…?”

“Let’s talk about it later. First, I must beg to impose on your home. And possibly your closet.”

Midoriya visibly shakes himself from the daze of analysis, and he stumbles over an earnest invitation. “Of—of course! My mom shouldn’t be awake yet, but she knows that I’ve been training early… I’ve, um, never brought home a friend before.”

“Oh,” says Toshinori, taken aback. He searches for something to say, but ultimately comes up helpless against the sheer ‘oh no, why did I say that’ expression on Midoriya’s face, plus his own experience as a Quirkless youth too sincere and preoccupied with the world to care about his peers.

“Anyways,” Midoriya says. “I think she’ll be too happy about you visiting to really ask why.”

“If you say so. Lead on, Midoriya-shonen—oof!”

Nervous laughter bursts out of Toshinori’s young trainee as Toshinori takes one confident step forward and trips onto his face. He splutters sand out of his mouth, struggles to draw himself back up without losing his pants, and finally realizes that his shoes are like, three sizes too big to even effectively scrabble about in.

Small sweaty hands grasp at Toshinori’s arms and try to help him upright. Beneath the sound of Midoriya’s anxious fretting, Toshinori laughs quietly. He really lucked out, choosing to double-back and chase down Midoriya Izuku to try and be his successor.

Two Quirkless wonders stagger out of Dagobah Beach, and the dawn creeps forward.

Chapter Text

The nice thing about starting the day before dawn is that nobody is out to interrogate two teenagers trying their best to hurry down the street without looking like they’re hurrying. Izuku’s anxiety marks him as a suspicious individual, for sure, and All Might’s outfit looks like it was scavenged from a dumpster. It does not help that all Izuku can think of is how much he has messed up, in being a factor as to why the Same-Age Sage was able to reduce All Might into a vulnerable teenager. 

“I can hear you mumbling, Midoriya-shonen,” says All Might cheerfully, even though he has had at least five near-misses with the pavement. Thankfully, they’re nearly at Izuku’s building. 

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he chides. “Unless, of course, this becomes a bad habit during a fight. Never let the villain know you’re smarter than you appear! Or what you’re really feeling. Heroes can get suckered into a verbal smackdown as often as a villain can.”

“I was just thinking about the Same-Age Sage,” Izuku admits. “About the school breaks being convenient for him, and how we didn’t randomize the times we met. He must’ve noticed a pattern in your visits to Musutafu.”

“Then that’s a fault of mine for being predictable. I should know better!” Up the stairs, down a walkway, and finally, Izuku and All Might are on the verge of crossing the boundary between their personal and professional lives. He remembers too late that he’s been putting off his chores, and that the walls of the Midoriya apartment tend to be decorated with not only pictures of him and his mom, but also posters of All Might. Izuku’s nerves freeze him at the doorstep.

Internally, he’s trying to anticipate every and any scenario that will come of All Might’s first visit to his home. 

What if he finds, like, the smoke detector’s batteries are dead? What if his mom sees a boy in ill-fitting clothes, and thinks that Izuku has somehow befriended a homeless orphan?

“Midoriya-shonen,” All Might begins in a careful tone.

“Sorry, sorry,” Izuku says, and decides to just brave the hell of disillusioning his idol. He unlocks the door and lets them in, mumbling, “I’m home,” even though his mom isn’t awake yet. All Might is evidently grateful to discard his shoes at the genkan, and is bouncing on his toes, peering into the apartment with bright eyes.

“Sorry again for the imposition.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

One deliberate glance at an All Might poster (Golden Age, printed several years ago for attendees of a HeroCon event) and then back at Izuku—a bashful grin appears, not too dissimilar to the beaming smile on laminated paper. It strikes Izuku again that the fellow teenager in front of him is All Might. Would be All Might. Should be All Might.

“What can we tell my mom?”

“Uh. What do you want to tell your mom?”

“The truth?” Izuku hazards, and then he hastily adds, “As much as you think is okay, of course. My mom thinks I’m training by myself right now, like a self-discipline thing.”

“She didn’t question you about the details of the American Dream plan?”

“She was… really happy that I was being motivated to do stuff.” Oh, god, this is embarrassing. First All Might knows that Izuku has zero social life—well, he must have known, right, or else wouldn’t he have warned Izuku that the training regimen would tolerate zero distractions?—and now he knows that Izuku was practically a shut-in before meeting him!

The anxiety claws at his throat; All Might tilts his head and says, offhandedly, “She sounds wonderful. I’ll tell her as much as I can, okay?”

“Huh? Really?”

“Certainly! The Quirk effect will most likely be temporary, and if it turns out that I suddenly revert back to being an old man in front of her eyes, I’d like her to refrain from calling the police on me.”

“How much of the truth? Your identity? What I’m training for?” Izuku needs all the clarification he can get; he needs to have started making contingency plans yesterday. His mom accepted his newfound drive to condition his body without prying too deeply into why, and Izuku’s now regretting how much he took her attitude for granted.

“Well, perhaps we won’t tell her about that,” All Might admits. “Maybe we’ll wait until you actually have One for All before we tell her that.”

“Then—”

They must have raised their voices, because a door creaks open and a sleepy, “Izuku?”, breaks into their debate. All Might clutches handfuls of his clothes in startled panic, and as Izuku’s mom pokes her head out of her room, All Might looks spooked.

“Good morning, okaa-san,” says Izuku weakly.

“Good morning,” she says, blinking. “I—oh my goodness, is that a friend? Oh! Let me put something proper on, oh dear!”

The door closes. All Might’s throat clicks with an audible swallow. He mutters to Izuku, “Not my best first impression. How sad do I look, Midoriya-shonen?”

Izuku considers glossing over the truth, but the truth will out: All Might looks like the picture-perfect mascot of a Save-the-Homeless-Children campaign. The way he wrings his clothes and purses his lips in worry only adds to the effect. Not even his height can lend him a degree of authority.

“Very.”

“Damn,” says All Might. “Back me up when I tell her I’m a fully functioning adult, alright?”

“I’ll try,” Izuku responds, just as his mom fully leaves her room. She wears cheerful optimism like her worn-through cardigan; he sees her do a double-take at the sight of All Might, the quick glance at Izuku like she’s asking him for an explanation, and then a deep breath to steel herself.

All Might jumps to speak first. He executes a neat bow and says, “Good morning, Midoriya-san! I apologize for my sudden intrusion. My name is Yagi Toshinori, and I am currently in the midst of dealing with a Quirk effect. Your son offered your home to stay in until I get my bearings, which should find me out of here by the end of the day.”

“I… I see?” The confusion, and the kind of paranoid suspicion only the mother of a Quirkless son can cultivate, rise in tandem. “How does my son know you?”

“We met during a villain attack. Here, this is my ID.” All Might flips his wallet open and extends it out to her.

“Oh,” Izuku’s mom says, startled, “you’re—?”

“Quirkless, yes.”

Izuku stares at All Might, who doesn’t even look back. For Yagi Toshinori to be so divorced from All Might’s identity… Abruptly, he wonders what the paperwork process will look like for him. A natural-born hero, versus a late-blooming one. It’s just another thing that they haven’t really talked about yet.

“Do you have anyone to contact?”

“Already done,” All Might assures her. “My friend is a detective in the Tokyo police force, and he’s going to help me figure out how long this de-aging effect will last. And hopefully, he’ll let me get out of your hair until I’m back to normal.”

“Surely your family…?”

“Ah,” says All Might. “My friend is the closer option.”

“Izuku,” his mom says, faintly, and Izuku snaps to attention. “You’re certain?”

It’s a delicately-worded open question, but it’s one that All Might clearly understands. However, Izuku doubts that even All Might can see that his mom’s heart softened faster than butter after he handed her his credentials. What she really wants…

“He’s helped me,” Izuku says. “He’s helped—in a lot of ways, okaa-san. This is how I can help him back, even by just a little.”

His mom tears up. Oh no. All Might’s going to know more embarrassing things now, like the fact that Izuku’s worrywart and crybaby behaviors are genetic. Tearfully, she says, “It’s nice to meet you, Yagi-san. Welcome to our home.”

“Let me make you both breakfast, okay? And feel free to take any snacks!” says Midoriya Inko after she introduces herself. Toshinori almost rejects the offer, already falling back into a polite excuse about his stomach, but—he does have a stomach again, one of a growing teenage boy. And it is starving. Blankly, he registers young Midoriya tugging him by the wrist. 

“You should change first,” the boy advises in a low whisper. “I… think you’ll be able to fit my clothes.”

Toshinori picks at the way too large t-shirt, fiddling with the hem. He obediently shuffles down a small hallway; behind them, the fridge door opens, closes, and is followed by the sound of multiple eggs being cracked. “I would be very grateful for that, Midoriya-shonen.”

“Do you need boxers? I think I have an unopened pack.”

“No need! Think of Mt. Lady.”

“Ah! Understood!”

He’s left at the door of the bathroom. Midoriya mumbles a quick excuse and ducks into what is presumably his bedroom, which has a hilarious yellow All Might nameplate hanging in the front.

Well. Here goes. Toshinori may have deliberately avoided using his phone to check over his own appearance, but he needs to confront the evidence of his new (hopefully, hopefully) temporary youth. It’s not enough to just marvel at breathing, at feeling his stomach gurgle, at seeing the unscuffed knuckles of his softened hands.

Self-consciously, he enters the bathroom and fumbles for the light. At the soft yellow glow, Toshinori braves the heavy act of lifting his head.

Softer. Definitely softer. His jawline is filled out again, and his eyes aren’t sunken and weary. His hair is healthier. Bouncy, even. Toshinori cocks his head at his reflection and tries out his master’s smile, and even though the absence of One for All’s warmth is a gutting one, the familiarity of his grin almost makes up for it.

Still here, he thinks.

He hears young Midoriya clear his throat.

“Here, All Might.”

Extended toward him is a bundle of clothes, neatly folded. Midoriya’s face is pink, and his eyes are turned up at the ceiling, squinting at some invisible smudge.

“You should get out of the habit of saying that,” he says first. “I’m like one of your classmates right now!”

Midoriya grows pinker. “But you’re not, so I can’t,” he argues. The clothes are exchanged, and Toshinori closes the door with a cheerful thank-you. “Er… should I go?”

“No, no, keep talking!”

“Oh, okay.”

There’s still a beat of silence, which Toshinori lets by. He sets aside the comfortable-looking pinstriped haori jacket and furrows his brow at the gym shorts and t-shirt. The latter must be the largest Midoriya could scrounge up, but Toshinori has some shame left: surely it’s too much for All Might to wear All Might merch.

Midoriya says, “I can’t picture you at school with me anyways, All Might.”

“Why’s that?” 

“You’re—you’re All Might! You don’t go to junior high classes!”

“I’m not All Might right now though,” Toshinori reasons, stripping off his shirt and finally freeing his legs. Gym shorts first. The hems go higher than his knees, but he’s relieved to see elastic drawstrings. “Please, call me Yagi-san at the very least! We have to avoid calling attention to us, remember?”

“You’re right…”

Toshinori reconsiders his words. He yanks his head through the All Might t-shirt, and twists the fabric so the plain backside is on display. He’s suffered higher necklines before! After, he shrugs on the haori jacket.

Ah, his limbs are too long.

“Or maybe calling attention is the only way forward,” he muses. Before he forgets, Toshinori digs out the contents of his pockets: cellphone, car keys, wallet. Yikes. His spare All Might jumpsuit is stashed in the truck, but that should be alright… “We are two Quirkless students with a dream of becoming heroes, haha! They wouldn’t be able to help themselves, watching us!”

“I don’t think that’s a good thing,” Midoriya observes.

“Why’s that?”

“Kacchan wouldn’t like—” Midoriya cuts himself off and huffs. “Yagi-san, just trust me—oh. Wow.”

“Ta-da,” says Toshinori, gingerly holding his arms out as the door opens. A lot more of his limbs are exposed to the air than he’s used to, and his Quirkless body at fifteen is skinny. It wouldn’t have been until his master gained mentorship that his diet would have been adjusted for a high-energy pro-hero lifestyle… his stomach (his stomach!!!) gurgles again.

“… Yagi-san?”

“That was me,” he admits. “Anyways, do I meet your approval, Midoriya-shonen?”

Green eyes shine bright, now that Midoriya is turning completely and inspecting how terribly Toshinori models his closet. “You can get away with ‘Midoriya-san,’ Yagi-san. If you’re calling me young, it’ll be stranger than you in these clothes.”

“Bah,” says Toshinori. “If you say so, Midoriya-kun.”

The kid squawks at the familiarity, so Toshinori vows to double down on the honorific. 

“W-What kind of snacks do you want? We got rid of most of the empty calorie kind and replaced them with the stuff you recommended on the American Dream Meal Plan.”

Toshinori hooks his arm around his successor’s shoulders and laughs, marching them out into the living room. “I could probably clean out your whole pantry, given half the week! I’m no longer picky!”

The kitchen is small, but noisy with the way Inko sets to cooking a larger than normal breakfast.

“Are there any dietary restrictions?” Inko calls out over the sound of bacon frying. Toshinori lets Midoriya duck forward and maneuver around his mother’s prepwork, and he tries to find a place to stand without looking awkward. “Yagi-san, any allergies?”

“No, no,” he assures her. “Anything works for me!”

“Okaa-san, where’d you put the—?”

“Up there, top left—thank you, Yagi-san,” Inko says, nudging her son to the correct cabinet. “Will you be spending the day here until your friend picks you up? If so, I’ll have to buy some extra groceries for lunch and dinner…”

Guilt strikes him like a knife, which really sucks, because Toshinori ended up planting his feet by the Golden Age poster. It’s laminated. His smile shines like a million yen. He fumbles for a good response. “I couldn’t ask that of you,” he tries.

“But are you spending the day here?”

“If my friend is delayed.”

“Then that’s that,” Inko says, sounding satisfied with her logic. “I can hardly justify feeding Izuku and not you, or dividing our portions in a way that has anyone still hungry at the end of a meal. Do you like katsudon?”

Midoriya slips out of the kitchen with an industrial-sized bag of trail mix in his arms and two ceramic bowls. He looks a little frazzled on Toshinori’s behalf, so Toshinori goes to save him.

“I haven’t had it in a long time,” Toshinori admits, plucking the bowls from Midoriya’s white-knuckled grip. He follows his successor to a low couch and coffee table. “Midoriya-san, if you insist on cooking, I insist on buying the groceries. Or at the very least, repaying you for your efforts. I’ve been told that my stomach as a teenager was like a bottomless pit.”

“Teenage boys are like that,” she agrees. Hot oil hisses as Inko adds something to another pan, and with a careful hand, Midoriya tips trail mix into both dishes, light clinking sounds mixing with the atmosphere and dizzying Toshinori a little further. 

It’s a cozy home. He hasn’t had many mornings like this.

Toshinori sits when Midoriya does, quietly marveling at the lack of joint pain, the missing aches and old scars. He swirls his bowl of trail mix and smiles at the small candies secreted among the nuts and dried fruits.

“Do you want to watch anything?” Midoriya asks.

“Hm?” The TV screen reflects the image of two boys lounging on the floor, looking more like peers than mentor and successor. “Ah, well… The morning news? It’ll be difficult to not take action if I see a disaster, but I suppose it’s better to get used to that sooner than later.”

Honestly, it might be easier to comprehend that Toshinori’s soon going to be out of the field as an unproven, unpowered teenager rather than a failed veteran of an adult.

Midoriya frowns, but obligingly turns on the TV when Toshinori gestures for him too. The first channel is in the middle of a panel, but the subject of their discussion—Mt. Lady, ah, the PR disasters of being a human wrecking ball—spurs Midoriya to bolt upright and go, “My notes!”

The boy scrambles to his room. Toshinori shrugs off the impulse to follow and tries out the perfect handful of trail mix. The salt bursts on his tongue like an old friend; he crunches down on cashews and almonds, chews on a sliver of mango. He savors the sweetness of sugar-coated chocolate. 

His diet after the surgery hadn’t been awful. He could still eat a lot of foods! Just in smaller portions, at more frequent times. The issue had been that being All Might took more calories than Toshinori could supply his body with, and with his workload, Toshinori skipped meals every day.

He is absolutely going to treat this Quirk effect like a cheat day. Musutafu has a lively food scene and convenience stores a-plenty. Surely, Tsukauchi won’t be offended if Toshinori asks him to buy a box of mochi donuts? A bag of shrimp chips? Spicy instant noodles?

Toshinori eats another handful, and then another. When Midoriya returns, notebook and pencil in hand, Toshinori guiltily turns his attention back to the news. It shows an outdated clip of Yoroi Musha, cuts to a recent one—showing off a new alteration to his costume?—and Midoriya flips through his papers and starts scribbling notes.

How productive! Maybe Toshinori should volunteer himself to help Inko set the table, or wash the dishes, or even go out with Midoriya on her behalf to buy groceries. He feels a little useless, sitting here.

Chapter Text

Breakfast with All Might, serving All Might eggs, bacon, and toast in Izuku’s own home—that might have been an indescribably weird and harrowing experience. His mom would be more inclined to freak out about the quality of her cooking if Izuku had brought a full-grown All Might home, that’s for sure. As it is, though… Yagi Toshinori is bewilderingly normal.

The loud enthusiasm that animates All Might and makes him bigger than life remains in Yagi, but in this teenage form, it reminds Izuku more of an overgrown puppy than anything.

A hungry, overgrown puppy. Wow, Yagi can clean up!

“Your cooking is delicious,” the teenager says again, and his mom laughs the compliment off, even as her eyes go wide because Yagi reaches for the plate of bacon for a third time. “Midoriya-kun, did you want any more?”

Izuku reflexively accepts two strips, then politely gives up the rest for Yagi’s bottomless stomach. He has a feeling that his mom is doubling her initial grocery list. The American Dream meal plan already calls for larger portions and non-traditional foods; Yagi eats enough to qualify for his own American Dream.

“Are you still working out today, Izuku?” his mom asks.

“Ah…”

“Not at the beach, I think,” Yagi mercifully interjects. “You can do some of the exercises at home, if that won’t interrupt your own schedule, Midoriya-san.”

She shakes her head. “I’m afraid I don’t do much,” she says, smiling. “My son and I used to be quite the pair of home-bodies, really! I’m glad that he was inspired to start all this training routine. He seems much happier, now that he’s met you.”

“Okaa-san,” Izuku protests.

“He’s a bright young man,” Yagi says, bobbing his head. “And he has a good heart. I see where he got it from!”

He stops himself from sliding beneath the dining table, but only just. Izuku makes a helpless noise of embarrassment in the back of his throat and focuses on mopping up his plate with a slice of toast. Isn’t it clear that his mom wants to know what, exactly, Yagi will be doing in her home until the detective calls?!

Wait. That’s exactly what his mom’s angling for.

“Won’t you be bored?” he blurts out. Yagi startles in his seat. “The detective won’t call for a while, right?”

“Ye-es,” Yagi confirms. He looks down at his plate, glances at the TV still playing the news, and then at Izuku. “It’s only a couple hours. And I have my phone with me! You’d be surprised how fast down-time passes, Midoriya-kun.”

If it sounds like Yagi’s trying to convince himself of this idea, Izuku does him the courtesy of not saying the other truth, which is that ‘hurry up and wait’ can make half an hour seem like an eternity. Instead, he hums agreeably and eats his toast.

And his mom goes back to her lighthearted interrogation.

“Do you work, Yagi-san?”

“I’m a secretary for All Might,” Yagi lies, but it’s a super impressive one, so thankfully Izuku doesn’t look too weird for choking mid-swallow when his mom immediately flusters.

“My goodness! That’s impressive! Will you need to call in about your situation?”

“It’s alright,” he says. “All Might’s a very understanding boss! As long as this,” and he gestures to his youthful face, “doesn’t last for more than a week, I still have a few vacation days stored up…”

Izuku tries not to be caught by his mom’s hinting eyes. It’s one thing for her to know that Yagi Toshinori is a Quirkless middle-aged man (proof that her son can survive the trials of childhood). It’s another thing entirely for her to know that this Quirkless middle-aged man can land a secure job as a secretary (just about the furthest thing from being a pro-hero that fights villains) for All Might.

“Izuku,” she finally says, “did you show Yagi-san your notes?”

He sinks in his seat. Yagi offers him a sympathetic look.

“Midoriya-kun has an incredible eye for detail,” Yagi says. “He’s a gifted analyst, from what I’ve seen. We could go over them?” Under the table, his foot knocks against Izuku’s ankle. Above, he grins, mischief not hidden. “I wouldn’t mind talking about All Might’s colleagues, but you’ll have to forgive me if my knowledge of them isn’t as strong as yours.”

“That’s very generous of you, Yagi-san. Izuku?”

Pros. He just has to think of the pros. His earliest notes have been re-written to be less amateur, and his doodles have definitely improved since the first volume. All Might could have invaluable information about the pro-hero industry. He could have knowledge of retired pro-heroes, the ones who influenced today’s generation.

“Yes, please,” he manages to squeak out. “Thanks, Yagi-san.”

From there, breakfast wraps up pretty rapidly. Izuku helps gather the dishes, and Yagi earnestly requests to help wash or dry them, but his mom is firm about doing it herself. She shoos them from her kitchen, and more quietly, apologizes to Izuku.

“I know you want to be a hero,” she murmurs in a low voice. Yagi is back at the coffee table, possibly pretending not to hear anything about this conversation. “But it’s good to have options, right?”

“Right,” Izuku says. He hesitates, but this is his mom. He loves her, and she loves him, and he can’t hold this against her. “Thanks, okaa-san.”

“Go get your notebooks, dear. I won’t hover.”

So Izuku retrieves his volumes of Hero Analysis for the Future, all thirteen, and lays them out on the coffee table. Yagi lets out an appreciative whistle, and nudges number thirteen. “Do you have any plans to rewrite this one? It looks a little… worn.”

“It has character,” Izuku says defensively. It also has All Might’s autograph scribbled in large English print across two pages, which is miraculous on its own. The Explosion and water damage have made most of his earlier notes unreadable, but that’s fine. Everything important came after.

“If you say so. Which ones can I read?”

“All of them? Well, actually, maybe not these,” Izuku babbles, scooting the earliest volumes into a stack. Rewritten, yes, but the quality is still pretty child-like. The notebook he’d been using this morning is still out as well; he usually uses that one to collect random notes to incorporate later into Hero Analysis. Speaking of random notes, he needs to update his entry on Yoroi Musha.

While Yagi pages through volume number twelve, Izuku cracks open number seven for a reference (Yoroi Musha is an old pro-hero, and while notable for staying in the industry for a long time, he’s more of a traditionalist than an innovator) and starts annotating a fresh page.

Halfway through, Izuku remembers that he has someone to bounce ideas off of. He looks up to see Yagi consulting a page speculating on All Might’s rogue gallery and summons the courage to ask, “Yagi-san, did you ever work with Yoroi Musha?”

“Hm? Oh, him.”

That doesn’t bode well. Izuku blinks, but his pencil is in hand, and he is poised to start documenting why All Might sounds disdainful.

“He started his career before you, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Yagi confirms. “He was still pretty young, but he had an agency when I was in U.A.. He’s always been based in Yamanashi City. My classmates used to fight over who could join his agency for an internship, because they knew he rarely encountered trouble with villains.”

Classmates! Information about All Might’s personal life is usually secondhand gossip; tabloids love to spin all sorts of tales about him (there was a brief period where tabloids simply didn’t dare to talk smack, lest they get pinned by an extremely litigious Sir Nighteye, but then that partnership split, and All Might’s PR team had more important legal hassles to settle), and the only real thing Izuku’s been able to pin down is that All Might attended U.A..

“But not you?”

“No.” Yagi’s mouth presses into a thin line; his eyes crease with mirth, though, like he’s remembering something funny. “I was… My predecessor had an agency. I stayed there for my entire U.A. career.”

“Huh. Was it fun?”

“Extremely!” He rearranges his expression to be smiling again. “Unfortunately, Midoriya-kun, I don’t think I can really offer you that same experience. Mighty Agency’s much too in the spotlight, and my workload is much heavier than what a first-year ought to bear. And, of course, I should be transitioning to retirement soon.”

Izuku refuses to let himself mourn the lost opportunity and chooses to treasure what wealth he has: info on All Might’s teenage years. A predecessor has been mentioned several times; the agency was the location of his internship for multiple years. Neither have been named.

Is it even Izuku’s right to question further? All Might must be tight-lipped for a reason; multiple reasons, really, when Izuku thinks about the desperate journalists and stalker-minded groupies (he’s not one of them! Izuku doesn’t have deep enough pockets to fund that lifestyle). And he’s more like a potential successor, anyways, if he doesn’t shape up in time for U.A..

He decides it’s time to pivot. “What will you do in retirement?” 

“Hmm,” Yagi hums. “I don’t know. I won’t look like All Might, so it’d be difficult to join any speaker circuits. I haven’t done anything except for being a pro-hero for… well, my entire life! Any hobbies you can recommend me?” Nudging the stack of notebooks, he grins at Izuku. “Any you can teach?”

He drops his pencil in his spluttering embarrassment, and laughter bursts from Yagi, light and deep and loud all at once.

At noon, Toshinori finally gets a call from Tsukauchi. He’s so relieved to see the detective’s name, he leaps to his feet and clutches his phone to his ear.

“My friend!” he cheers. If there’s a slight manic bent to his tone, at least neither of the Midoriyas are present to hear it. Inko is at the market, and Izuku was bullied into a run because the apartment can actually only handle one jittery teenager at a time. Izuku truly has the patience of a saint; Toshinori, on the other hand, has been doing everything from handstands to crunches to finger push-ups. And in so doing, rediscovered the limitations to an untrained body. Ouch. “Please tell me you’re in town.”

“Yes,” Tsukauchi says dryly. “How are you? And the civilian?”

“Fine, fine. No terrible side-effects yet, and I don’t believe I’m getting any younger. He doesn’t seem to be taking on my years either, thank goodness. Were you able to talk to the Same-Age guy? How long will this last?”

The laugh sounds a little too forced to be of good humor. “You may want to start prepping your PR team. The intake form said it could be anywhere from a day to a year, and the man—Hirato Byoudou, by the way—is pretty confident that it’ll be the latter.”

“A year?” Toshinori echoes. “What, like, like a real actual year?”

No, no, no! This totally upends his plans with U.A. and young Midoriya! Toshinori had been joking when he mentioned the kid’s junior high school! And what about his work as All Might? Sure, he’d been toning it down (had to, when his body refused to keep going after even three nonconsecutive hours of exertion), but to totally disappear from sight for a year?

Disaster. Not even in a PR sense, though Toshinori suspects he’ll be hearing no end of tabloid speculation after the first three days without All Might gracing the headlines.

“It’s until the next birthday of the catalyst,” Tsukauchi says. “So maybe not a year?”

Disaster. Toshinori forgets that he can’t spit blood anymore, but cursing in English is transcendental. “[Shit]! [Fuck]!” He digs his knuckles against his forehead. “We… we just celebrated his fifteenth birthday.”

“ Fifteen?”  

“I didn’t mention that?”

“All Might, I knew you sounded younger, but I didn’t realize you were turned back into a fifteen year old,” Tsukuachi hisses.

“Yes, well. The bright side is that no one will recognize me as a deaged All Might?”

“Toshinori,” says Tsukauchi despairingly, “I can’t look after a teenager. My work schedule is packed, and it would only take a week for you to get into some trouble, I know it. That’s just how you are.”

“Excuse me!” Toshinori protests. “I’m a grown man!”

“But you won’t be for a year. And when summer break ends, where are you supposed to go? Suppose that someone spots you, and thinks you’re ditching school, but then you have no records for them to look up! No, no, you’ll have to find someone else.”

“But—!”

“I’m sure there are safety nets for this sort of thing,” says Tsukauchi. “Am I really your first listed emergency contact? Isn’t there some kind of collective pro-hero network that can find a fellow hero to host you? What about U.A.?”

“I’m All Might,” says Toshinori, wanting to crawl under a table and hide, because he’s been thinking about emergency contacts all morning, and the detective is bringing the only viable name to the forefront. “I’m not supposed to be affected by this.”

Merciless, Tsukauchi lets that statement hang.

“Okay, fine. I’ll… I’ve got candidates in mind.” Candidate, singular. The list of friends who can be trusted with his Quirkless teenage body… Even if Toshinori confesses to Dave that his Quirk had ‘come late’, there remains the issue that Dave is raising Melissa on I-Island. Even if Toshinori begs Nighteye to host him for a year, there remain the issues (plural!) of their last, ruthless conversation and their history and, oh, the fact that Nighteye is busy running his own agency!

His future colleagues at U.A. are definitely off the table. Even Principal Nedzu is a dicey bet, because Nedzu enjoys holding students hostage more than he does hosting them.

“Call them,” Tsukauchi suggests. “Soon. The officers here are considering this guy’s release, because they have no one who can bring charges.”

“What?!”

“No proof of Quirk use.”

And it’s not like Toshinori can march into the station so late, and out himself as All Might when this stupid Same-Age Sage uses him as proof of his success. Toshinori paces around the coffee table. “The effect can’t be broken any other way? How soon does the Quirk recharge? Can he use it again, but on a younger body?” More horrifyingly: “Older?”

Toshinori would prefer a complete set of organs! Even if the Sage finds a toddler, that’s still a toddler with working lungs and stomach!

“Waiting it out is the only thing Hirato would admit, which is why he’s confident that he’s taken you out for the count for a full year. Recharge is…” Tsukauchi clicks his tongue in concentration. “Huh. About the same time as the effect. Must be why he didn’t try to de-age you with the closest body. Can you imagine accidentally picking someone whose birthday was that very day, but the time of birth was only an hour away?”

Toshinori forces himself to appreciate the humor. “Aha. Yeah, that would be a bummer. Aha… can you get me a copy of his file?”

“Sure. Just as soon as you get your emergency contact.”

“You don’t want to pick me up—?”

“I am not getting tricked into babysitting you,” Tsukauchi laughs. “And I want to know who has to deal with you bouncing off the walls for a year, so chop-chop, Toshinori.”

“Tsukauchi—!”

“Call me after,” Tsukauchi says brightly, and hangs up. 

So betrayed, Toshinori stands stock-still in front of the TV just gaping at the muted screen, barely registering the rolling chevrons and pop-up advertisements.

Heart in his throat, stomach feeling ready to burst, Toshinori dials a number he hasn’t called in years. It rings once, twice, and just as Toshinori is about to hang up and plan out how to say, ‘Hey, Midoriya-kun, it seems like I will stay at your apartment for a year!’, Gran Torino answers his phone. It only takes one barked, “What?” for Toshinori to spill.

“Gran Torino, it’s me, Toshinori. I got hit by some kind of age reduction Quirk, and I need you to, um, reassume guardianship before Detective Tsukauchi is obliged to put me back in the foster system—”

“Slow down,” says Torino. “You got what?”

“I’m fifteen again. Before, um, before oshishou…”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Toshinori responds, helplessly. “Torino-sensei, please? I know it’s been a while, but I promise I still have access to my bank account.”

There’s a beat of silence before Torino snaps, “Don’t just offer money like that. I’m not some pensioner in poverty, and letting you live here for a week isn’t going to drain my wallet dry.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be just a week.”

“A month?”

Toshinori takes a deep breath. “A year. Detective Tsukauchi has the details on the Quirk.”

“Give me his number,” says Torino. “And what’s another year, huh? Not the first time I’ve had to host you long-term.” There’s a breath where Toshinori thinks he should concur, but then Torino adds, “Where are you right now? With the detective?”

“Er,” Toshinori stalls. “No, no, I’m at… so I found a potential successor to One for All.”

Cue that ominous silence—Toshinori just knows that Torino is gearing up to lecture him, so he hurries to fill in the basics. “He reminds me of, well, me, Torino-sensei. I know what I’m doing, choosing him. I’m not gonna let myself be talked into choosing anyone else. He’s it. He’s next.”

“… Alright,” says Torino. “What’s his name?”

“Midoriya Izuku.” Toshinori lists the address, then plunges onward. “We’re in the middle of prepping him for the transfer, because, uh… haha! He’s still pretty scrawny, Torino-sensei!”

“Pot, kettle. Aren’t you a beanpole at this age?”

“I have some muscle,” he protests.

“Not in my memory.”

Toshinori purses his lips to stop himself from snarking about age and its assorted deteriorations, and drags the subject back onto the more important bit. “When can you come over? Tonight?”

“Nah. I’m gonna set up a room for you today. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.”

“When?”

Gran Torino heckles him. “Are you a child in body and mind? When I buy a ticket and get over there!”

“I have to tell Inko-san something,” Toshinori complains.

“‘Inko-san’? Your successor has—no, I’ll save damage control for when I actually see what’s happening with my own eyes.” The old man lets out a gusty exhale, and Toshinori can hear the faint sounds of clicking. “Earliest train is 7 AM. I’ll be there by 8:30, if I’m lucky. Anything else I should know right now?”

“My successor is finishing up his third year in junior high,” Toshinori hedges.

The silence is, pointedly, furious. Gran Torino removed himself from having any input on potential successors long, long ago. When Sir Nighteye raised the question of retirement and All Might snarled denial back, Gran Torino hadn’t said a word. And Toshinori hadn’t known whether to interpret it as respect for Toshinori’s opinion, or cold, bitter disappointment that Toshinori would let Shimura Nana’s legacy be whittled away by injury and time.

“We,” Torino says, “have a great deal to talk about. Mother’s name is Midoriya Inko?”

“Yes. She’s very, um… concerned for her son. Midoriya-kun is her only child.”

“And you’re some bushy-haired, crazy-eyed kid who just waltzed into her home.”

“She knows my situation!” He quickly amends, “My identity as Yagi Toshinori, age 55, Quirkless secretary for All Might. That’s what I mean.”

“Oh, your helpless civilian act.”

“Torino-sensei,” Toshinori gripes, and feels weirdly warmed to hear his old teacher chuckle. “Ah, what will you tell her about yourself? I don’t think she’d let me walk off with a senile old grandfather.”

“No? Damn, there goes my one play. It’ll have to be family though, if you don’t want her to suspect anything weird.”

He hesitates to fire back a witty reply. Since Inko knows that Toshinori is really in his fifties, she won’t believe that he has a grandfather. Not unless she is easily led to think that the nebulous middle Yagi parent had him extremely young, in addition to Torino himself being thought of as an immature father. The lies will stack up. Her trust isn’t something Toshinori would ask Midoriya to break, which means…

“Just tell her you’re my father,” he blurts out, panics, and hangs up.

Chapter Text

Lunch and dinner pass by without any further embarrassing disasters, at least, not on Izuku’s part. When Yagi announces at dinner that his detective friend is too busy to pick him up, he immediately promises that he won’t impose on the Midoriya household any longer than necessary.

There’s a back-up.

“Torino Sorahiko. He’s… my father,” Yagi clarifies with an almost queasy-looking smile. “A little up there in his years, but sharp enough to take care of me, Midoriya-san. He’s coming in from Yamanashi Prefecture tomorrow morning.”

Izuku’s mom is clearly curious, but she hesitates over what she wants to say, so Izuku bravely takes the social faux-pas plunge. He asks, “Does he work in the hero industry too?”

It’s a surprise to hear Yagi bark his laugh, and less so when Yagi claps a hand over his mouth and winces. “Sorry,” the teenage All Might peeps. He visibly shakes himself from the weird mood. “Ah, he’s… well… Yes? I don’t believe he ever really retired.”

“Really?” Izuku tries to picture whoever this ‘father’ of Yagi Toshinori is. When Izuku had returned gasping from his run, Yagi hadn’t looked wrong, but he had looked a little peaky. He supposes this could be the reason why. Beyond the sheer horrifying revelation that All Might was stuck as a fifteen year old until Izuku turned sixteen, of course. “Wait, what does he work as?”

“Officially,” Yagi says, “he’s a teacher. He worked at U.A. once.”

‘Once’, meaning, Izuku won’t get to learn from him. He stuffs the feeling of regret away and serves himself another portion of the roasted vegetables: zucchini squash and carrots. One day, he’ll get to eat these fried in batter and dipped in tempura sauce again. One day, he’ll be able to eat katsudon guilt-free.

“Torino,” his mom recalls, uncertainly. Yagi looks caught-out, and seeing his expression, she apologetically backpedals. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s, um, reasonable. My birth parents died when I was young. Torino was my last foster guardian before I became of age.” Yagi’s smile irons out to perfection as both Midoriyas have to process the info (All Might?! An orphan?!).

“Oh! My goodness, I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago, Midoriya-san, it’s okay. If it’s of no imposition, might I take your living room floor tonight…?”

“Of course!”

Included in the groceries are extra toiletries for Yagi as well as an emergency set of pajamas. When he goes to the bathroom, Izuku is charged by his mom to air out the spare futon and summer quilt. The noise of the shower is louder than their whispered conversation.

“How did you meet him? When?”

“A couple of months ago,” Izuku confesses, frantically attempting to track every truth and half-truth he’s told his mom. “He was, uh, at the Sludge Villain incident, the one with Kacchan? The one All Might saved us from?”

“I see,” she says, eyebrows drawing together. “Ah… Maybe I can pass my thanks on to All Might through him? Yagi-san did say that he’s a secretary…”

“Okaa-san, no. All Might saves, like, a hundred people every day!” Not that All Might will be able to do anything to stop Izuku from dying of mortification from the dramatic irony of his mom passing along a tearful, heartfelt thanks to a de-powered All Might. 

“Izuku, it’s good manners,” she scolds. As they step back to consider the sleeping arrangement, she adds in a thoughtful tone, “Would you mind sleeping out here tonight, Izuku? It’s been so long since you and Katsuki-kun had a sleepover.”

Unspoken: I’m still a little unsure about your adult-turned-teenage friend. Please keep an eye on him. 

Izuku says, “No problem, okaa-san,” and goes to fetch his blanket and pillow. The room is large enough that he can set up on the opposite side of the coffee table; hopefully this lowers the chance of him stepping on Yagi in the middle of the night. He’s restacking his notebooks when Yagi emerges from the bathroom, scrubbing his hair with a towel.

“A sleepover?” Yagi asks.

“If you don’t mind…” Izuku gets to his feet and looks pointedly at his mom’s closed bedroom door. He’s grateful that Yagi grasps the motive without needing to say anything out loud.

“No late-night TV for me, then! Go on, get ready for bed.”

The sheer length of the day hits Izuku sometime between putting toothpaste on his toothbrush and spitting out the foam. Had he really, just this morning, been witness to the worst Quirk incident to hit All Might since the Tension-Extension villain?! Had All Might really just spent the whole day in the Midoriya family’s humble apartment?

Izuku staggers to his futon, hitting the lights off along the way. The TV’s weak light is enough illumination to prevent Izuku from stubbing his toe, and he crawls under his quilt with an exhausted whine. Across from him, Yagi sits cross-legged and combs his fingers through his hair. His spine is straight and one foot twitches to an unheard rhythm.

“Aren’t you tired?” Izuku asks.

“I’m bored,” Yagi admits without pause. “I spent a lot of my teenage years getting into trouble. All that pent-up energy is just sitting in me.”

Izuku fidgets for a second. “What did you do to kill time, then?”

“Oh, there was always plenty to do! The heroes back then were rarely powerful enough to subdue villains in a single fight, so unrest and chaos were more or less the norm.”

“Wait—so you—?”

“I picked fights, Midoriya-kun,” Yagi says peacefully. “I didn’t have the most attentive guardians, so they never minded if I stayed out late as long as my grades were good.” The visual of this teenage All Might, Quirkless, running in the streets is utterly baffling to Izuku. “Then, of course, my master accepted me as her apprentice, and soon after she told me I was banned from chasing trouble until I earned a provisional license.”

“‘She’?” Izuku echoes.

Yagi falls quiet. He uses the remote to turn off the TV. They breathe in the dark together, and Izuku regrets having his attention be snagged by the one thing that might ruin tonight’s sleepover. But then, Yagi drags in a shuddering breath and says in a remarkably steady voice, “Her name was Shimura Nana. Her title was Seventh Wonder. Her Quirk was Float.”

Information overload, contained in just three simple sentences. Izuku scrambles for a single thread. “How did you meet her?”

He laughs, quieter, probably in deference to the late hour but also for the nostalgic twist of memory. “She found me. I saw a house being torn apart by a gang of villains. Flames and all. I didn’t really have any know-how, or a plan—I just rushed in, grabbed a pipe, and started swinging. A minute later, Seventh Wonder smashed through the roof and knocked out the group.”

“Smashed through the roof? So she had One for All when she met you too?”

“Yes,” Yagi says. “She’d had it for several years. Her predecessor… She didn’t talk about him much, but I gathered that he hadn’t had it for very long either.”

Izuku stares at the ceiling. “But you went to U.A.? And your career! So you’ve had One for All for… for decades!” All those years, and either All Might had never wanted a successor, or had never found one worth training until now. Until Izuku had so gracelessly begged for validation, and proved himself to be as reckless as a young All Might had been.

“Hence the American Dream plan, Midoriya-kun!”

“Yagi-san,” Izuku says, slightly queasy, “you’re absolutely sure that conditioning is enough to stop me from, um, potentially popping?”

Yagi hesitates. “Well, it worked for me, and One for All had been stockpiling for almost the same amount of time…? Midoriya-kun, please believe me that I wouldn’t give you One for All if I thought your body wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Except both he and All Might know that Izuku needs One for All if he’s going to enroll in a heroics program. Izuku manages to eke out an acknowledgement, and for several seconds, the only sound is Yagi shuffling beneath his quilt.

“So what are you going to do for the next year?” Izuku finally asks, tangling his fingers together over his stomach and determinedly keeping his eyes set on the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” Yagi admits readily. “It could be that Gran Torino will get super tired of me in a month and send me on a training trip, but the last time he did that, I scared the crap out of him because I ate some funky mushrooms and nearly died. He’ll probably just sign me up for homeschooling and kick me out of his apartment every now and then. That wouldn’t be too bad.”

The horrifying thing is, Izuku decides, feeling his expression contort in an effort not to say, “What,” and “Are you sure you want this person to pick you up”—the horrifying thing is that Yagi sounds deeply fond of his guardian. Perhaps the traumatic experience can’t inflict the stress on a younger brain?

“Should I also call him by Gran Torino?”

“Eh? Oh, uh… Oh, man, I’m going to call him otou-san,” Yagi says to himself. He audibly shakes out of the fugue. “Torino-san should work fine, Midoriya-kun. I don’t think he’ll show up in costume. If not for me, or for you, then definitely for your mother’s sensibilities.”

Izuku reviews his internal database of pro-heroes, recalculates for those older than All Might, and comes up short. There aren’t many old-timers in the industry. The notable ones are Yoroi Musha and Recovery Girl, both considered untouchable by retirement albeit for very different reasons.

“Do you want to talk—” Izuku’s tentative offer is ruined by a yawn, and Yagi laughs quietly, but not unkindly.

“No, it’s alright. You still have training tomorrow, young man,” he teases. “You can get in a pre-dawn run before Gran Torino arrives.”

He thinks about groaning, and instead, thumps his head against his pillow and mutters, “Good night, All Might.”

“Good night, Midoriya-shonen.”

Midoriya rises first, but Toshinori blinks awake right after his successor wriggles free of the quilt and slips out of the living room to change and get ready for his jog. The graying pre-dawn light drains color from his surroundings; Toshinori, strangely, feels too exhausted to move. He squints at the ceiling with dull suspicion.

Growing pains, he guesses. He isn’t his full height yet.

The distant noise of water gurgling down a drain, the muted thump of feet as Midoriya changes clothes… Normally, Toshinori would be switching the morning news on and keeping a distracted ear out for any emergency calls. He’d be digging through his pantry for easily-processed foods and feeling miserable yet again about his limited diet.

Midoriya emerges hopping from his bedroom door, wiggling on his last sock. “Good morning, Yagi-san!” he whisper-shouts.

Toshinori heaves himself upright and stifles a huge yawn. “Good morning, Midoriya-kun,” he says. “Do you—” another yawn, how embarrassing! This youthful body certainly takes its time. “Do you want me to join you?”

“No, it’s okay,” the boy says. “I don’t think any of my exercise clothes would fit you.”

“Ah, you make a good point.” Toshinori rubs his eyes.

“Please feel free to go back to sleep. My mom won’t wake up until seven, at the earliest.”

The earnest expression, grayed out as it is, nevertheless gets Toshinori to unbend. He shrugs and settles back down. “Stay safe,” he bids, and frowns to himself before adding, “Leave a note for your mother, just in case.”

Between one blink and another, Toshinori finds himself jolting awake to the music of a pan clinking onto the stovetop and gentle, if a bit tuneless, humming. Color is back. He’s curled up on his side; one of his bangs got in his mouth, and he sputters hair out as he comes to with a start. On the other side of the coffee table, Midoriya is doing isometric exercises.

“Good morning!” Inko calls from the kitchen. “Breakfast will be ready in a bit!”

Toshinori reflexively matches her cheerful greeting, then lowers his voice into an urgent plea: “Midoriya-kun, the time?!”

“Seven-thirty.”

He lets out a sigh of relief. Still an hour to Gran Torino’s arrival, then, assuming the old man is stuck to the train’s schedule. Toshinori combs his hair back with his fingers, grimaces at the increasing number of tangles, but nods at Midoriya as he unsteadily gets to his feet.

“Is Gran Torino eating breakfast with us?” Midoriya asks. “Mom’s thinking about setting aside something more traditional for him, if he’s not a big eater of American style food.”

“I’m sure he’s eaten, but thank you for thinking of him,” says Toshinori. He checks his phone. Two messages. One from Tsukauchi, updating him about giving access to the Same-Age Sage case to ‘some old-timer who says that the day you lock him from your medical records is the day he beats your ass off- record.’ And one from Torino: a brief text with his estimated time’s arrival.

Toshinori bites his lip, and slowly taps out, ‘Did you eat yet?’

A few minutes pass—time he takes to freshen up in the bathroom—before Torino responds with a terse, ‘Yes.’ That is followed up with, ‘You have clothes, right? Or is the first stop we’re making to a thrift store?’

‘Borrowing from young Midoriya.’

‘Fine.’

Sometimes, Toshinori doesn’t believe that Gran Torino’s generation grew up with cell phones. Nana had more or less stopped actively using hers for anything but calling by the time Toshinori joined Sky High Agency, and Torino is tone-deaf when he texts. It feels like Toshinori is being handed a live grenade every time he sees proper punctuation stabbing the end of a short message.

Toshinori rolls his eyes and puts his phone face-down on the coffee table, and he has a lovely second day of breakfast with the Midoriyas. Midoriya Inko outdoes herself! The spread is split between the classic American eggs-and-bacon (protein for young Midoriya, excellent) and the aforementioned traditional Japanese cuisine. Rice, miso soup, lightly fried mackerel, pickled vegetables.

Maybe it’s not smart to indulge in all the food he hadn’t been able to eat sans stomach, since carrying the fresh memories won’t do anything but make him long to eat it again, but—why waste the time?

Toshinori thinks gleefully of all the previously forbidden foods in his future.

Regardless of how tasty the food is, Toshinori insists on getting the door when Gran Torino both rings the doorbell, raps the door with his cane, and dials Toshinori’s number. He’s forgotten to tell Torino about something, he’s sure of it, and anyway, Toshinori thinks that Torino might need to take a second to process Toshinori’s temporary youth.

He accepts the call with a loud, “Otou-san, I’m getting the door,” and in several ground-eating strides, Toshinori inhales, holds his breath, and yanks the door open to a gobsmacked Torino. “Hey, otou-san, long time no see!”

“Toshinori,” Torino splutters.

He’s as short as Toshinori remembers him being six years ago, after that disastrous fight with All for One. Gray hair and an untrimmed beard, that’s normal. Civilian wear is nicer than usual, probably in deference to the unknown civilians behind Toshinori. And he’s carrying a pastry box under one arm.

“Was that your breakfast?” Toshinori asks.

Torino looks down at the box like it’s the first time he’s seeing it. “What? No. This is good manners, brat. What, did aging down forty years take those away too?”

“It was just a question,” he complains, before stepping back and letting Torino inside. Torino passes the box over just as Inko hurries from the table, followed by her son. “Ah, Midoriya-san, this is my father, Torino Sorahiko. Otou-san, this is Midoriya Inko and her son, Izuku.”

“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” says Torino gruffly to Inko, who waves off the (super weird!) polite apology. She’s beaming at Toshinori for some reason. “We’ll get out of your hair soon.”

“Oh, please don’t rush on my account! Izuku rarely brings guests over, and Yagi-san is so polite,” Inko praises. 

“He’d better have been.”

Toshinori ignores the ‘what the hell have you been saying’ glare from Gran Torino and politely extends the pastry box over to Inko. To Midoriya, he says, “I’ll return your clothes as soon as I can! Maybe even later this afternoon? I promise I’ll have them washed at the laundromat.”

Midoriya bobs his head. “No problem, Yagi-san. You’re leaving town soon though, right?”

“Indeed—”

“Not quite,” Torino interrupts blithely, and Toshinori shuts his mouth. He’s not going to be the one to contradict Gran Torino; judging by the bewildered silence from Izuku, his successor will also not be protesting the law Torino lays down. “We’re staying at a hotel for a bit. We have business to settle here and there. Let me pay you back for his food, Inko-san. Feeding him must have been like filling a black hole.”

“Not as scary as that,” Inko protests, lighthearted. “Won’t All Might need his secretary back soon, though?”

One of Torino’s thin eyebrows arches. “... I taught All Might. He can survive doing his own paperwork for a while. It’s good for him.”

Both Midoriyas’ jaws drop. So does Toshinori’s. Torino looks unfairly smug for a man who used to swear to disown Toshinori from 3-A every time Toshinori’s guard broke down. The old man knits his fingers over the top of his cane.

“The Quirk effect will last for a year, I heard,” he says. “My—son is Quirkless, and apparently fifteen years old, for all that he’s a grown man at heart. With your approval, Inko-san, I would be very grateful if you allowed them to stay in contact with each other. Socializing or training.”

Toshinori glances down at Torino, bewildered. Is Gran Torino setting up playdates? What the hell?! 

Inko looks faintly troubled. “Training?”

Part of Toshinori wants to nudge Gran Torino, like a desperate signal of ‘STOP STOP STOP SHE DOESN’T KNOW ABOUT ONE FOR ALL’. Judging by the widened eyes on young Midoriya, the kid feels the same way.

Like a godsend, Inko comes to the wrong conclusion and the best excuse. “Oh! You must have designed the American Dream Plan! Ah, it makes sense now. As a teacher of All Might, and your son is his secretary…!”

To Torino’s credit, he nods agreeably. “Training by yourself is admirable, but these… plans… work better with a trainer to oversee progress. And it’s easier to train with a partner.”

“Of course, of course,” Inko says. “If it’s of no trouble, Torino-san! Izuku, make sure Yagi-san doesn’t leave anything behind, please?”

In a few short minutes, the Midoriyas see them out of their apartment, and Toshinori is hovering behind Torino as they slowly descend the stairs. The old man’s not wearing his boots; if he were, he’d be leaping to each landing instead, leaving Toshinori to catch up.

Toshinori texts Midoriya a few last-minute reminders about the training schedule, and a promise to meet back at Dagobah Beach as soon as Toshinori’s truck was returned.

“Hey, Gran Torino—”

“What’s that American Dream plan she mentioned?” Torino demands brusquely. “Your kid’s scrawnier than you are. Did you do your research right? You’re lucky I can think on my feet and lie better than you, because Inko seemed like she was about to file a restraining order on your ass.”

“Torino-sensei,” Toshinori complains. “It’s just an exercise and meal plan. Young Midoriya’s body isn’t conditioned to handle any degree of One for All, so we agreed he needed to toughen up.”

“Does the kid have any plans to tell his mother about One for All?”

“Not yet? He understands it has to be a secret, both the Quirk and my identity. Anyways, oshishou didn’t have me talk to my guardians when she passed it on.”

Lips thin at the bare mention of Toshinori’s old caretakers. It’s an old hurt though, and easily ignored, so Toshinori smiles blankly to deflect Torino’s standard grumbles about the Watanabes. 

As planned, they visit a thrift store first. Toshinori dips into a retailer for new underwear, too, and after a short detour to grab lunch, Torino directs them to the hotel. Most of today’s purchases go on Toshinori’s credit card, but, Torino says begrudgingly, future purchases will be on his.

“Are we really spending a couple days in Musutafu? Yamanashi City’s not that far.” Toshinori pushes the hotel room door shut with his foot and follows Torino to the courtesy desk, setting down their take-out with a sigh of relief and anticipation.

Fried food. Salty dipping sauces. Barbequed meat on a bed of white rice.

There’s even a small box of sweets that Toshinori didn’t have to beg for, because the one thing that trounces Toshinori’s rekindled desire for trash food is Torino’s sweet tooth.

Torino kindly donates the chair to Toshinori, who quickly realizes that it’s a form of entrapment.

“First things first,” grunts Torino, and he slides a sheaf of papers over to Toshinori. He mourns the short-lived vacation from paperwork. “Tell your agency your excuses, and get your financials in order. You can’t afford to stay quiet for long.”

“I know,” says Toshinori, glum. He can hear his accountant’s tears already.

“You’ll have to say something to Nighteye.”

Toshinori sits up straighter in his chair. “What? Why?”

“Because,” Torino says pointedly, “I’m apparently your second emergency contact. And when that boy finds out you’re missing from the public eye, who do you think he’s going to question, hm? Recovery Girl? When’s the last time you talked to him anyway?”

“Recently,” says Toshinori. A thin silver eyebrow lifts. “He knows about Midoriya-shonen.”

“… Oh. Didn’t take it well?”

“He’s always had high expectations. But Midoriya-shonen is good, Torino-sensei, I swear. He has the potential, and the brains on this kid—!”

“You don’t have to persuade me,” says Torino amusedly. Toshinori sinks back into his chair with a huff, but he makes a note of people who ought to know that All Might hasn’t vanished from the face of the earth. Sir Nighteye, Nedzu, Recovery Girl, oh, probably Dave… “Time will tell if you made a good choice. Sure as hell didn’t think Shimura was thinking straight when she told me about you.”

“She would’ve liked him.” Toshinori is confident about that, at least. Torino grunts in assent, and then he slaps down a cheap black ink pen. 

“Start writing,” he orders.

“What? Now?” 

“Yes, now, you little procrastinator,” says Torino. “I have to go talk to Nedzu tomorrow. You want your kid in U.A., I’m guessing?”

“My kid? Oh, Midoriya-shonen. He has a father, you know.”

“Didn’t see any evidence of that.”

“Inko-san wears a ring!”

“And it must be a convenient shield against would-be harassers who see a vulnerable single mother,” Torino agrees placidly. “Focus now. Izuku’s going for U.A.?”

“Yes. He'll be testing through the entrance exams, of course, though my original plan was to give him One for All on the morning of, so he could have a back-up Quirk…” Toshinori hesitates, wondering if young Midoriya’s pride would outweigh convenience. Gran Torino is long retired from the faculty, and should honestly have turned in his license years ago, but there’s a chance of scoring a recommendation through him. “You’re speaking with Principal Nedzu?”

“Him and Recovery Girl.”

“Not a check-up,” Toshinori whines, slumping further down his chair.

“God save me,” Torino mutters to himself, and then he clears his throat to bark, “Are you putting pen to paper or getting a new head start on bad posture?! And you don’t get a vote in whether or not Recovery Girl gives you a check-up, because clearly you dodged a medical evaluation after you reported your situation to Tsukauchi!”

“I feel fine!”

“WRITE,” says Torino, and hops to the floor. He stomps over to his suitcase, wooden cane digging into the thin carpet of the hotel room. “I’m taking the bathroom first. When I get out, you better have a to-do list started.”

“Wow, only started?”

Torino swings his cane up and points the end of it threateningly in Toshinori’s direction, but he says nothing and proceeds to steal the bathroom.