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There was something to be said about the Symbol of Peace’s unsettling lack of self-preservation. As Japan’s strongest hero, All Might often seemed untouchable—and in many ways, he was. But Mirai saw through the facade. That signature smile plastered across his face for the public, the one that stretched his cheeks until they must’ve ached, the one that promised safety while he threw himself into impossibly dangerous situations—Mirai saw past it all.
Mirai saw through that too. He saw far too much, and honestly? He hated it. He hated his quirk because it revealed things he never wanted to know—futures that left him physically ill. Futures he was powerless to change.
He swore to himself a long time ago that he would never use his quirk on anyone he cared about for that exact reason. Seeing a future bathed in blood, as heroes' often were, would leave him drowning in grief like it was quicksand. Yet some promises aren't meant to be kept, as Mirai would find out years later. Though he'd never admit it out loud, All Might was more than just a hero to him—even if they were just colleagues, All Might continued to save him from his own demons time and time again.
So why wouldn't the stubborn man allow Mirai that chance? Why couldn't he just rest for once in his damn life? Mirai had sworn never to use his quirk on All Might because he knew whatever future he glimpsed would be unbearable. Yet now, seeing the man lying in bed, broken in ways Mirai had never witnessed before...
Mirai broke the most important rule he held himself to.
And he was right, of course. It was impossible to reconcile the dull, lifeless eyes from his vision with the bright blue ones that now burned with fury and passion before him. Eyes that refused to close, a body that wouldn't rest—Mirai felt his own heart would shatter long before All Might's would, and part of him suspected the man didn't even care.
“Please—” He tried again, his voice breaking as conflicting emotions swirled in his chest. “Yagi, for God's sake—”
“No!”
Mirai stumbled back, breath catching in his throat. Yagi had never spoken to him like that before—not once had he raised his voice in anger, whether in the familiar timbre of the quiet, compassionate man only Mirai knew, or in the booming showmanship of All Might. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers curling into tight fists to hide it. Not that Yagi noticed as he dragged himself down the hospital hallway.
Mirai sensed the small figures gathered nearby—Principal Nezu, Recovery Girl, and Gran Torino all watching in silence. Were they content to let the Symbol of Peace continue after this? Would they simply stand by and watch him die?!
“Stop!” Mirai cried desperately, stepping forward once, then again. “Yagi, please, listen to me! You need to retire—you can't keep doing this. Look at yourself—you're falling apart!”
“The world needs a Symbol!” Yagi snapped, not looking back, his slippered feet dragging against the hallway's tile floor.
“Why does it have to be you?!” Mirai's voice cracked as he lost control of his anger and concern. He shouldn't mention it, shouldn't tell him, and yet—”I saw you die, Toshinori! I used my quirk on you, and I saw you die a gruesome death, and I can't lose you—!”
Silence fell over the group, both Mirai and Yagi’s laboured breathing the only sound filling the tense air. Mirai swallowed hard, “You can barely stand, you can’t even smile.”
Yagi remained silent for what felt like hours rather than minutes. Mirai clung to the faintest hope that maybe, just this once, the man had actually listened to him—that he might finally rest. But when Yagi's shoulders straightened despite his obvious pain, that fragile hope plummeted to Mirai's feet.
“You shouldn’t have used your quirk on me,” he rasped, turning back over his shoulder with furious eyes. “No matter what you say, I’m not retiring. I won’t stop until I know this country—this world—will be safe without me in it.”
The floor seemed to collapse beneath Mirai, his lungs struggling for air. Couldn't Yagi see what this was doing to himself? To Mirai as well? With gritted teeth, Mirai closed the gap between them and planted himself directly in Yagi's path, blocking his way forward.
“I just wanted to help you. The way you've helped me. Why—” Mirai forced himself to meet Yagi's gaze, his eyes welling with tears he refused to acknowledge. “Why must I watch you kill yourself? Because that's exactly what you're doing, Yagi—”
“Then don’t watch.”
Mirai's entire body went cold, then numb, his muscles pulled taut and rigid in response to the callous words. He looked away, defeated. Any resolve he had seeped out of him in an instant, vanishing as if it had never existed at all. Yagi didn't say anything more, simply moved to walk around him.
Someone cleared their throat, reminding them both that they had an audience. Mirai flushed at the realisation, but he lacked the energy to feel truly embarrassed. He was too consumed by premature grief—and by the agony of hearing his closest friend, the man he looked up to, and in some way loved, tell him to look away as he died.
“I believe I have a proposition for you, All Might,” Nezu started, but Mirai didn't listen to whatever the principal had to say. His feet moved without conscious thought, his shoulders hunched even deeper than usual. He couldn't stand tall right now—he could barely stand at all.
Their voices faded into the distance as Mirai drifted through the building like a ghost, haunted by visions of blonde hair stained crimson.