Professional fucking courtesy. Professional fucking courtesy be damned.
Toshinori sulked down the street, collar up on his jacket to hide his face. Anger was hot in his chest, and it got harder and harder to force it back down. He could feel the steam in his mouth. Between his teeth.
Naomasa was his closest friend, and his most sincere confidant — and he had never been prepared for the slap to the face he'd just received. Whether Naomasa mean it or not, it was bullshit. Professional courtesy, telling him what was going down but keeping him on the sidelines. Toshinori knew Hero duty better than anyone that the Hero Commission could've turned to. It made his mind whirl — he wondered, briefly, if he was his own worst enemy. He had let the Commission take their share of the blame as he fell from grace; it wouldn't be far to reach in suspecting the Commission didn't want him anywhere near Hero work now.
The anger continued to grow, filling him. Bitterness was behind it to press it outward so that the entirety of his being was filled. He had no vent in his chest to let it out. He was drowning in himself.
"Toshinori?"
He choked down a curse at the sound of his name, footsteps obligingly slowing to a stop. He paused, inhaling deep, before turning in the direction of who'd addressed him.
"Saito Ren. We met at the fundraiser," the blonde man refreshed before Toshinori could dwell on remembering his name. Saito held his hand out amicably, and Toshinori suffocated a sigh as he gave Saito's hand a firm shake.
"Good to see you again," Toshinori lied. In earnest, the man had not passed through his mind since their meeting. Their brief meeting came back to him now: their agreement on the absurdity of villains' rights. The company, Toshinori supposed, could be worse. Given the choice, at the moment he would rather be around Saito than Naomasa and his fucking professional courtesy.
"Same. How have you been handling the storm?"
"The villains' rights movement? I'm weathering it."
"I saw some of the extremist interviews and their bullshit about All For One's injuries—"
"—Excessive force," Toshinori murmured.
Saito nodded eagerly in agreement, as a hand went into his pocket to pull out a cigar and box of matches. He balanced the cigar in his mouth as he struck a match to hold to the end, before tossing it to the street where the match snuffed and died.
"They're insane. Why do we have Heroes at all, if they can't use whatever means necessary to stop villains? I disagree that they should be entitled to the protections they are trying to claim, when they are attacking society."
Saito exhaled fragrant smoke, taking the cigar from his mouth with one hand as he clapped Toshinori on the back with the other.
"You're probably sick of hearing about that though," Saito said. "Why don't you let me buy you a drink."
Toshinori's knee jerk reaction was to refuse. He didn't need to have any sly paparazzi shots of him drinking; being recognized in public still made him uncomfortable. His "true form" had once had the positive association of anonymity, at least. No longer. Now his face, gaunt and sunken, was on the front of newspapers and magazines. Small Might.
"You drink beer?" Saito asked, his hand giving Toshinori's shoulder a squeeze. There was familiarity in the gesture that often lacked in Japan. In America, such macho displays of friendship among men were the normal. Although he did not know Saito, that wordless offer of friendship seemed to be presented. A clap on the back, the ordering of beers. Comfortable rituals he had long been deprived of.
A beer, he thought. A beer and camaraderie. Camaraderie specifically felt in excessive short supply tonight.
"Yeah," Toshinori allowed at last, and Saito gave one final firm thump on his back then took the step in the direction of the door behind him.
A bar, Toshinori realized. A single orange-hued light was lit beside the door, with a yellow neon that said simply BAR, shaped in an arrow to point at the door. It was unassuming, and had Saito not been there to draw his attention, he would not have given so much as a glance in its direction.
Toshinori followed Saito inside, and the energy felt like home. Like a hole in the wall he'd visited a few times when he lived in America. Warren Street before it had been subjected to gentrification. When the old church had still been a just church and only the locals came to its humble Christmas festival. The music tasted of home, too. Grungy, with one guitar riff slinging into the next. The smell of cigarettes was thick. Their haze hung in the air like ghosts. The memories that came to him were ghosts, whispering his name and coaxing him to go a step further. Perhaps there was a brief moment of trepidation, as though he suddenly felt skeptical of the spectres luring him, their intentions unclear. But Saito grabbed him by the arm and gave a tug in the direction of the bar, and the doubts were gone. Toshinori followed him to take a seat.
"You were gone so long," the bartender said to Saito, "I was beginning to wonder if you were skipping out on your tab."
"Another round. One for me and my friend. I have to build up my tab more before I can leave you high and dry," Saito said, then turned to Toshinori. "Shiner Bock?"
"Sure."
Shiner was on tap, and Toshinori laid his fingers on the thin coaster to slide the glass toward himself.
"How do you know Yaoyorozu?" Toshinori asked. It seemed as good an ice breaker as any.
"Business," Saito answered with a broad smile that showed his teeth. "I'm an investor in quirk-related start ups."
"What does that entail?"
"Not much on my part except money," he admitted. "I have a team of business attorneys who review market metrics, projected returns on investments, so on. I just sign on the dotted line and hope to get my money back."
"Is it investing in small agencies or…"
"Anything quirk-related, really. Agencies, support gear. I've even invested in a law firm that handles settlements with regard to Hero-related damages."
"I definitely have worked with a few of those," Toshinori said with a low, nostalgic chuckle.
"Your fight in Kamino Ward, I saw the damages for that were—"
"A lot."
"A lot," Saito agreed, and raised his glass. Toshinori tapped his own against it and they book drank to their cheers. "So, you expended your quirk?"
"My body has passed the point of being able to use my quirk," Toshinori avoided.
"I…Never mind." Saito cut himself off with a shake of his head, and took another sip of his beer.
"Go ahead," Toshinori encouraged half-heartedly. He didn't want to be untoward, but his mind was making a list of all the things the Scandinavian might have been about to say — none of which he was eager to address.
"No, no," Saito declined. "You're retired. You've had a groundbreaking career. I shouldn't have even thought it. Retirement is the least you've earned."
"Go ahead."
Saito shrugged. "There's one start up I'm working with, with regard to quirk-related medicine. It's all very quiet right now since we are still in the volunteer double blind testing phases…But I thought maybe it'd be worth you meeting with one of my doctors. That's selfish of me though — You are…" Saito went silent, having the common sense not to say it aloud, and Toshinori appreciated his discretion. "…It would just be nice — reassuring — to have you back out there."
Out there.
Toshinori's head clung to those words. Out there. On the streets. Working again, as a Hero, keeping Japan safe. He thought of the League of Villains and Shigaraki — All For One's brainwashed successor who Toshinori had never had the chance to save. He thought of Naomasa and his professional courtesy.
"But you've earned retirement," Saito allowed, continuing. "It's what most people spend their lives looking forward to."
But not me.
Retirement was never what he'd wanted. He had clung to the fibers of One For All until he'd had to give every last thread for the people who trusted him — and, now that he couldn't be there, they didn't trust him anymore. There was a bitter, poignant moment as he remembered the days after Kamino Ward. When every wound was fresh and raw, and his employees left his agency in mass.
He didn't want retirement. Even now, even having a taste of what life would be like — days at UA, nights with Makoto — he didn't want retirement. Damn. He wanted it all. He wanted his work, and to get the girl, too. He wanted to have his protege and his own success. He, who had spent his life being so selfless, for a moment allowed himself to imagine life if he let himself have it all.
"It was a passing thought," Saito said, glancing at Toshinori from the corner of his eye. "I can't imagine you'd want anything to do with returning to Hero duty though, would you."