Work Text:
Crack.
The sudden breaking sound resonated in the empty apartment, ceramic shards splattered on the ground. Yagi looked down at the mess, mortified, before squatting to pick them up one by one, his heart racing against his ribcage and his eyes far too wide.
It was Hizashi’s favourite mug. The one with “PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” written in bold, colourful letters and tiny musical notes decorating the catchphrase. Now it was shattered on the floor, beyond hope of being repaired.
Yagi’s vision got blurry for a second as he picked them up with his bare fingers; he was trembling a little, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was cleaning it all before anyone came back. Yeah, it made sense, he thought. His hands were still wet from washing the dishes and, as one of the shards cut his trembling finger, the water there got a pinkish tone.
He knew he should use a broom and a dustpan to clean it up, but he didn’t want to. His mind was on the sad green eyes he’d have to face later and whether it’d be worse if Hizashi yelled at him or feigned a smile and told him it was okay. Toshinori felt sick. How could he mess up a trivial task so bad? He used to be a hero, the Symbol of Peace, now he couldn’t even do the dishes without breaking something important to one of his partners.
He was the worst.
Yagi put as many ceramic shards as he could on his palm and closed his hand around them hard. He felt the sharp pain where they managed to cut his skin, but it didn’t stop him from moving his fingers, grinding them against the shards until they went numb and the small fragments escaped, almost reduced to dust.
Now he had to clean up the blood dripping on the floor too, he noticed vaguely. Still, the dull stinging sensation on his hand made him feel better. Cleared his thoughts. He got back up, ignoring the faint dizziness, and submerged his bloodied hand on the dish soap water, sighing relieved as the stinging became burning.
He still had to finish doing the dishes, Yagi reminded himself.
He squatted back on the floor and finished picking up the broken pieces of the mug, putting them aside for now. Then he got a cloth to wipe out the blood and, finally, the broom to sweep the thin, dust-like pieces he had crushed. Guilt welled up his throat again; maybe he could still try and glue it together before, but now it’d be truly impossible.
Tugging at his bangs hard enough to leave his hairline sore, Yagi decided to leave the rest of the dishes for later. He needed to do something first.
It was ridiculous, really, he chuckled darkly at his reflection in the mirror; his trousers and underwear pushed down just enough to display his bony hips. The many rows of cuts a familiar view, some old and barely visible, others fresher and still red around the edges.
The older ones were made with a disposable razor in the shower. Most of them had faded completely by now, just a memory of grabbing the first sharp thing on hand and messily nicking his skin again and again. The most recent were thin and neat, made with a sharpener’s blade. All of them left him with a twisted satisfaction and vague shame.
How ironic, Toshinori grinned at his reflection, his smile fake and stretched over too thin skin. What would people think if they knew how easy it was to make All Might bleed? That any minor inconvenience could do the trick? The villains would sneer for sure. The media would gossip about it to no end. His former fans would no longer look up to him. Izuku would probably cry. And if his partners found out he’d relapsed that many times…
He didn’t want to think about it.
Drawing the blade closer, Yagi forced the sharp tip just enough to draw some blood, drawing new lines. He did it over and over until his hip was adorned with fresh, raw yet thin cuts. The droplets of blood shone against the artificial illumination and, once they pooled enough, some started to drip to his thigh.
He repeated it on his other hip, sighing contently as the droplets of blood formed and as the cool air made the new cuts sting. When he got satisfied, he pulled his underwear back up and let it absorb the blood. It’d dry and get stuck on the fabric, and some cuts would reopen once he pushed the boxers down again. He knew it. He expected it.
At least it was black. Good to hide the stains.
“Maybe I can cook something special for Hizashi,” the blond muttered to himself, practising a smile on the mirror, “to make up for the mug.”
It wouldn’t. That was his favourite mug. Nothing ever would.
Toshinori knew, deep down, that he was being irrational. Shota would tell him as much if he were here. Still, he didn’t care; it had been a rough couple of days, he couldn’t finish grading the tests in time, making the kids wait. He interrupted a meeting with a coughing fit, making everybody worried. He burned the rice last night. A lot of tiny things that added up until he saw he couldn’t do a single thing right.
How long until his partners saw he was more trouble than he was worth? That he was weak. Pathetic. Unlovable.
He put the blade back in his drawer, concealed among random trinkets and folded clothes, and went to finish the dishes and start dinner.
He just had to keep moving.
Yagi decided to make fried chicken, because it was Hizashi’s favourite. He half-heartedly bandaged his hand so it wouldn’t be a hindrance and put away the shattered pieces of the mug, a guilty look on his face.
Part of him wondered why he didn’t take a shard with him instead of getting his blade. It would certainly feel more appropriate. And it was sharp enough.
But then maybe he’d cut too deep. Too deep to be able to play it off. Too deep to still be considered ‘nicking his skin’ instead of ‘cutting’. If he nicked his skin, it was okay, just superficial damage. It wasn’t really self-harm. Not like cutting.
He heard the front door open.
“I’m home,” Shota’s voice came, rough and tired. He must have had a long day.
“Welcome back,” Yagi forced his own voice to be steady, happy, “I’m almost done with dinner.”
Shota left his shoes by the door and went to the kitchen, lured by the delicious smell. It didn’t take long for him to see something was wrong though.
“What happened to your hand?” He arched a brow, voice carefully neutral.
“Oh, it? Nothing much, I dropped a mug by accident and a shard cut me,” Toshinori said with well-rehearsed ease, but the split second of remorse in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed.
Yagi made a point to ignore Shota’s gaze and kept on stirring the pan. He couldn’t burn another meal. Not after all these disasters.
“Toshi, did you rest today?” Aizawa asked after a few minutes. Yagi looked too pale and unsteady on his feet.
The hand stirring the pan stopped. Toshinori knew he was supposed to rest today. That’s why principal Nezu gave him a day off (or more accurately forced him to take a day off). Still, he couldn’t bring himself to stay in bed. He felt so… Useless. Worthless. So he decided to tidy up the house a bit, cook, do the dishes. Anything to feel a bit useful. Needed.
But doing the dishes ended up with him destroying his boyfriend’s favourite mug and cooking was proving itself harder and harder with the way black spots appeared on his vision.
“Toshinori?” He could hear the concern in Shota’s voice, but couldn’t bring himself to face the man. Not after failing everything. Not after relapsing. Not after failing to take care of himself and not even managing to be okay for a day.
Soon arms were embracing him and a hand gently took the spoon from his own. Shota usually wasn’t one to start hugs, he must look so pathetic right now to warrant it.
“Why don’t you go to the couch and sit down a little? I can take care of dinner now,” he offered. Yagi felt his the words against his neck, low and loving.
He didn’t deserve it.
“I’m fine, really,” Toshinori forced himself to face Shota, a reassuring smile plastered on his lips. His boyfriend already had a rough day; he didn’t need to bother with it. He didn’t need to bother with Yagi too.
Aizawa gave him an unbelieving look, the one he reserved for poor student excuses on not doing their homework. His brows creased with worry and his lips a thin, tense line.
“Cut it,” he said simply, “I would feel better if you sat down. And let me take a look at your hand,” he motioned to the poorly made bandages.
Yagi held Shota’s unyielding gaze for a while, his smile brittle around the edges, before nodding. A short, easy to miss nod, but it was enough for the homeroom teacher.
Shota was no stranger to Yagi’s bad habits (or Hizashi’s, for the matter). Just like Hizashi was no stranger to his own or Toshinori’s. Or how Toshi knew theirs too. They were there to see each other at their highest and their lowest.
So he was mentally kicking himself for not seeing the signs sooner. How Toshinori had been working too hard, eating too little, sleeping too little, forcing his smile, avoiding their gaze. Yagi had brushed it off as normal, saying it was just his pain acting up or the stress of teaching, but he should know better.
Because Toshinori Yagi never asked for help.
Always the martyr, always willing to sacrifice himself, to give everything he had and keep giving even when there was nothing left.
“Fine, let me see it,” he sat beside Yagi on the sofa, voice calm and steady and a first aid kit at hand.
The blond extended his injured hand, still looking at everywhere but him and not saying a single word. It was unsettling, but Aizawa didn’t pry. At least Yagi was still responsive. They could work out the verbal part later.
He removed the bandages slowly, with care. They were sloppy and came off easily, which was not a good sign (he knew Yagi knew how to bandage properly). Moreover, his palm and fingers were covered in tiny cuts, too many to be accidental, and still had dry blood clutching to his skin.
“I will clean the cuts now. It will sting a bit,” he warned, uncapping the antiseptic and putting some on a cotton ball. Even with the light touches, Yagi winced a little, “Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Yagi replied, voice tired.
“It’s not your fault either,” he pointed out, covering the deepest cuts with gauze before bandaging the hand again.
Yagi snapped.
“But it is!” He yanked his hand back, “Sorry,” He lowered his voice, eyes cast down. Shota didn’t have to deal with his tantrums. “I didn’t mean to shout.”
“That’s fine,” Shota reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, movement slow to give him a chance to back down, “You are allowed to shout. Now, can you tell me what happened?”
“I—“
Of course, Hizashi chose this moment to burst through the door.
“Hello! How are my favourite listeners doing?!” He said a bit too loud, making the other two wince. So much for a calm atmosphere.
Hizashi’s enthusiasm faltered when he spotted Yagi’s bandaged hand and Aizawa’s concerned glare. His lovers’ demeanour screamed something bad happened.
“What’s wrong?”
Toshinori felt their eyes on him, Shota’s hand on his shoulder suddenly overwhelming. He blurted out:
“IbrokeyourmugI’msosorryIswear—“
It was not that big of a deal. He knew it, rationally. It didn’t ease the lump on his throat nor made breathing easier though. His ragged breath became ragged, wet, painful coughs and soon Shota was gone to get a cloth and wipe the blood off his face while Hizashi rubbed slow, calming circles on his back.
“Better?” Hizashi smiled at him, voice soft, and Shota dabbed a last time on his chin before throwing the bloody cloth away.
Yagi nodded, focusing on his breathing. Mic had barely gotten home and already had to deal with him and his weakness. Guilt gnawed at him.
“Can you tell us slowly what happened?” Shota asked once his breath was even again and Toshinori felt tempted to just shake his head. He knew they wouldn’t pry if he didn’t want to talk.
Still, they deserved the truth. Even if it was silly, ridiculous and showed exactly the mess the former number one hero really was.
“I- I broke Hizashi’s mug,” it sounded even sillier aloud, “I’m sorry. It was your favourite,” he turned his gaze to Hizashi and then to the floor, where the bloodied cloth lay unperturbed.
Yagi didn’t know what to expect. Shouts? Crying? Them just laughing at his face for how idiotic it was in the first place?
It surely wasn’t Hizashi’s arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, embracing him. Much less Shota’s understanding gaze as he put a hand on his thigh.
“That’s okay, Mighty Boy,” the Voice Hero kept on rubbing his back soothingly, “it was just a mug. I’m glad you didn’t get hurt… Or more hurt,” he glanced at Yagi’s bandaged hand.
“But it was your favourite. The one with the musical notes and the bright letters,” Yagi sounded defeated to his own ears.
“And you are my sweet, loving boyfriend. I can buy a dozen mugs just like that one in a store,” he assured, “you, however, is the one and only. Got it, Precious?”
He felt his cheeks blush at the nickname. Aizawa’s hand moved from his thigh to his chin, tilting it slightly to look at him.
“Toshi,” he started, voice low and even, “we don’t have to talk about it now, but did you hurt yourself?” the question was as non-judgemental as it can be.
Shota saw the familiar pattern. The first time he and Hizashi caught Yagi self-harming, it was about a year ago after he misplaced some assignments and panicked about having to ask the students to rewrite everything (they helped him find it). The last one, a couple months ago, when he grabbed the first thing he saw during a coughing fit — Shota’s comfy sweater with a cute cat-pattern — and stained it with blood.
A shy nod was all Toshinori could muster. Both his partners held their breath for a second, Hizashi murmuring a ‘babe, no’ and Shota furrowing his brow, concern rising.
“Was it just your hand?” the homeroom teacher pressed further, gentle despite the straightforward approach. Yagi shook his head, eyes locked on the floor, and Hizashi’s embrace tightened around him.
“Can we see it?”
“It’s not bad,” he muttered, hating to waste their time like that, “nothing deep. You don’t have to worry.”
“Yeah, but can we please take a look?” Hizashi asked, “We want to,” his hands resumed rubbing circles on Yagi’s back, loosening his tight muscles. Shota nodded in agreement.
He might as well, Toshinori thought dryly. If his partners decided to leave after seeing how pathetic he was, well, it would be for the best, right?
Disentangling himself from Hizashi, he moved just enough to tuck his trousers and boxers down a little, wincing as the dry blood stuck to the fabric ripped off fresh scabs. His bony, scarred hips now in plain view.
Shota left for a minute to fetch a clean cloth and fill a bowl with warm water, whilst Hizashi hugged him and murmured against his cheek that it was alright. The cuts were pretty superficial; still Shota’s touch was soft as he wiped away the dry patches of blood and the fresh one pouring lightly from the few reopened cuts.
The warm water was soothing on his skin and, when he finished cleaning, Shota put some gauze over the cuts just to keep it from clinging to the fabric of the boxers again. The shallow cuts should vanish within a week, no need to emergency call Recovery Girl or something (she’d mostly likely have to know later though). It left them with just one more thing to cover:
“Feeling better?” he looked Yagi up and down to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. The blond nodded, “Good.”
“I’m sorry,” Yagi’s voice was low and apologetic.
“For the mug?” Hizashi prompts, “Because it’s okay. Really,” he says lightly, trying to improve the mood.
“For everything!” Yagi tugs at his bangs again, pulling the hair hard, “Your mug, Shota’s sweater, for interrupting that meeting, making the students wait, being a horrible teacher, burning the rice, being so weak,” He said fast, one thing after the other, his lung struggling to keep the words going, “I’m sorry!”
He was talking in circles now. He knew as much, but couldn’t bring himself to stop. Everything kept pouring, months of regrets and mistakes, until all he could say was ‘sorry’ over and over again. But saying sorry wouldn’t make up for anything. Wouldn’t make him strong or reliable again.
His boyfriends let him talk, repeat himself, raise his voice and lower it again. They just waited. Hizashi intertwined their fingers, coaxing his hand away from his hair and kissing his knuckles, and Shota caressed his scalp. Once he talked it all out, tired and out of breath, they got to their part of the talking:
“Thanks for telling us, babe,” Hizashi started, “it’s very brave,” he hated to think about how Toshi must have bottled it up for weeks. Bearing it all alone.
“And you’re not weak,” Shota said matter-of-factly, “you are overworked. Stressed. And tired,” his words were a bit rough, but not unloving, “So let us help you now, yeah?”
His stomach chose this moment to grumble, Hizashi’s following soon after. Both men blushed at the anticlimactic interruption and Toshinori bit his tongue not to start a new wave of apologies. Neither of them had eaten since they got home. And the food must be cold by now.
His hand was intercepted before it could pull at his hair.
“That’s okay. We can talk more after dinner. Or tomorrow. Whenever you’d like,” Hizashi smiled, “Right, Sho?”
Shota agreed; eyes locked on his.
Hizashi reheated the food and Shota got the plates. They both thanked Yagi for making dinner (which he still felt he didn’t deserve) and they ate. The only sounds were the chopsticks against the plates and Hizashi’s absentminded humming.
Toshinori poked at his small portion a little, somehow feeling a knot on his non-existent stomach, and let his eyes wander around between Hizashi and Shota, lingering a bit too long on the latter. Waiting.
“What?” Shota raised a brow after the fifth time.
“I- uh,” he said eloquently. Shota waited, “Aren’t you going to say it’s illogical?” he gestured vaguely at himself.
Shota seemed to ponder it for a moment.
“You are not illogical. Not more than usual at least,” that earned him a kick from Hizashi under the table, “And your feelings are not more illogical than anyone else’s. Nor less valid.”
“Not telling us, though, was illogical,” he continued, “We can help. And we want to help, but you have to let us.”
“I didn’t want to bother you with it…” Yagi finally took a bite of his food, “It was nothing serious.”
“Hey, if it bothers you, it’s enough for us!” Hizashi reached for his hand over the table, “That’s what Sho is trying to get through your thick head, maybe not with the better words,” He glared at Aizawa, “You can talk to us. Anytime. Hell, call me on the radio if you want to and I’ll run back here, it’s no trouble,”
“And maybe let us decide what is or isn’t a bother for us,” Shota amended, “you don’t have to save us from your bad days. And you surely don’t have to save us from you,”
“Yeah, we may not be All Might level, but we are heroes too, you know?” Hizashi smiled, "Let us save you from time to time,” truth be told, he’d fist-fight Yagi’s bad thoughts himself if he had to. Anything to keep the man from hurting.
Shota said he could help Yagi with his grading tomorrow and Hizashi decided to assume Yagi’s chores, insisting that ‘he had to rest at least during the weekend if he wanted to teach on Monday’. When bedtime came, Hizashi handed Yagi his favourite pyjamas (All Might merch ones. Aizawa had the heart not to mock him this time) and Shota made sure he took his meds.
He felt lucky to have them both. And still undeserving, but that was okay. It would take time.
When Toshinori walked into the room, they were waiting for him on bed, one on each side and a huge gap in the middle.
“Hop right in, Bunny,” Hizashi patted the space between them, “Let us spoil you a bit,”
Toshinori smiled at that. It was not an All Might smile, but was enough to relieve his boyfriends’ worries. Small, but true.
Hizashi embraced him and guided Toshi’s head to his chest, cuddling him like a teddy bear and intertwining their long legs. Shota put his hands on Yagi’s waist and let his head rest on his nape.
“We’ll still have a long talk tomorrow,” he warned, Yagi felt the words on the back of his neck, “about triggers, and delegating,” the arms around him tightened, “But I’m glad you’re fine now.”
“Yeah, me too,” Toshinori smiled, even if Shota couldn’t see it, and was surprised by how true his words were.
“Me three,” Hizashi yawned.
The mug was shattered beyond repair, but it was just a mug. Yagi was happy he had two extra pairs of hands to help pick up his own pieces when he fell apart.
Toshinori Yagi didn’t ask for help. But maybe he could start to.
For now, he sighed contently being sandwiched by his lovers and enjoyed the warmth and safety of their limbs entangled, knowing they would not go anywhere. Hizashi’s calm heartbeat lulling him to sleep and Shota holding him like something precious, making him feel secure.
Yeah, he could try.