Soft Touch

by seventh_time_lucky

Summary:

Shouto knows that the appropriate thing to do now is to pull his head out of the cupboard, stand up, and explain to Bakugou that he’s looking for the first aid kit. He also knows that if he does that, Bakugou will most likely let go of his hand. And – he doesn’t want that.

OR

Todoroki gets hit with a quirk that makes him sick unless a particular person is touching him. And that particular person just happens to be Bakugou Katsuki.

Chapter 1

It happens when they’re coming back from their final remedial class, when Shouto’s provisional licence is still pristine, never used. It’s not obvious at the time – it takes a while before Shouto realises that that’s when it happens – but later, when he thinks back, he wonders if it was some kind of sign. It was a life-changing day, even before then. But maybe – maybe more so after.

All Might is driving them back when they see a commotion. There’s water pouring down the streets and people running and screaming. Next to him in the back seat, Bakugou sits up straighter with a savage grin.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s test these fucking things out.”

Shouto doesn’t get what he means at first – he thinks about it later and decides that Bakugou was talking about the licences – but he’s had a lot of practice at not really listening to what Bakugou says, and he’s focused on what’s happening outside, anyway. It’s clear: villains are attacking and there are no heroes in sight. There’s only one appropriate response to that.

He gets out of the car.

It’s a relatively straightforward operation in the end, far easier than some of the mock battles he’s been involved in with his classmates. It mostly helps that he has Bakugou on his side, although occasionally Bakugou’s determination to solve the problem entirely by himself gets in the way. Later, he thinks that it was probably the apparent incompetence of the villains that lulled him into a false sense of security. And his own inexperience, perhaps. When he came to UA, he thought that he already knew more than any high school could teach him about tactics, strategy, technique. He’s since learned that he was very, very wrong – and he’s learned that there are a lot of other things that he didn’t even realise he wanted to know – and it’s become important to him to work on remembering that, to analyse his actions with the assumption that he could have done better. So, yes, maybe inexperience had a hand in it. He knows, at least, that in future he’ll be more careful when approaching an apparently helpless opponent whose quirk he hasn’t yet seen demonstrated.

The villain, half frozen in ice, teeth chattering, glares at him. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with regular features. He looks like he could be anyone. But he isn’t anyone. He’s someone who tried to hurt innocent people. And now he can’t do that any more.

“I—” Shouto starts, and then the villain raises a palm to his mouth like he’s about to blow a kiss, the way Shouto’s seen Ashido do to her friends sometimes in class. There’s no kiss, though. Instead, there’s a faint orange cloud, an odd smell, straight into Shouto’s face. Shouto catches his breath, and something clicks in his throat. He turns away, coughing. It feels briefly as though there’s something coating his tongue. Then the feeling goes away.

“Hey, dumbass,” says Bakugou, passing by him and flicking him in the forehead. “The bad guys are this way.”

That’s all it is. That’s everything.

That’s everything.

****

Aizawa is maybe kind of mad at them for stopping an attack when their licences were less than an hour old. Maybe. Shouto isn’t very good at judging emotions with some people – actually, maybe most people, but Aizawa is particularly bad. He always seems tired and subdued, there’s not a lot of variability there to work with. Not like Midoriya. It’s one of the things Shouto really likes about Midoriya, that it’s easy to tell when he’s feeling something, although Shouto still doesn’t always get it quite right. Aizawa is more like Bakugou, in the sense of mostly projecting a similar small range of emotions all the time. Shouto’s figured out that Bakugou isn’t always in a murderous rage, and he’s figured out that Aizawa isn’t always indifferent to what’s going on around him, but it still isn’t easy to tell what else is going on with them. Mostly, Shouto doesn’t try, especially with Bakugou. Even though they’re friends now, he thinks they’re probably not the kind of friends who talk to each other about how they’re feeling anyway. In any case, Bakugou just scowls at Aizawa and Shouto argues that once you have your licence you’re permitted to carry out hero work – that that’s the whole point of having the licences in the first place – and Aizawa sighs and tells them to get back to the dorms.

As it turns out, their classmates watched the battle on the news, and they’re excited and proud, gathering around Bakugou and Shouto, telling them how cool it all was. Shouto’s still thinking about the various flaws he’s identified in their battle tactics, and when Midoriya tells him how impressive it was, he explains them so that Midoriya will understand that they really didn’t do that well, considering.

“Shut the fuck up, Icy Hot,” Bakugou growls. “I was fucking awesome.”

Shouto’s just explained several ways in which Bakugou’s tactics were deficient, mostly centring on a lack of teamwork, but now he thinks – oh, that was probably a mis-step. If he’d thought about it, he would have realised that criticising a classmate’s performance in front of all his other class-mates is probably not the right thing to do. But he wasn’t thinking about how Bakugou felt, just about how they could potentially improve. And now, because Bakugou’s so difficult to read, he doesn’t know if he’s upset him or not.

“Anyway, fuck all of you, I’m going to bed,” Bakugou says, and stalks off. That leaves Shouto in the middle of the circle, with all the attention focused on him. He’s used to being focused on, but at the same time, he doesn’t really enjoy it. He wishes Bakugou hadn’t left. But he understands why – he feels tired himself, much more so than usual at this time in the evening.

Perhaps he’ll go to bed, too.

****

That night, Shouto finds it difficult to sleep, even though he’s so tired. There’s an odd kind of tingling feeling just under his skin, and his thoughts go round and round in his head. Some of it’s just the usual come-down after a fight – going over what happened again and again, looking for mistakes, ways to improve, things that worked well. But it’s worse than usual, worse even than after Kamino, which is strange given that the actual fight itself was relatively straightforward. He wonders if it would be easier if he could talk about it with someone. Midoriya told him once that he found it useful to talk just to stop things from getting tangled up in his head. But it’s the middle of the night, and Shouto doesn’t want to wake anyone up. Even if it wasn’t the middle of the night, he’s not sure who he would talk to. He doesn’t think any of his friends would be very interested. In any case, his thoughts are unusually muddled. He thinks even if he did have anyone to talk to, he wouldn’t be able to explain very well.

Eventually, he does sleep, but when he wakes up it’s still early, the light filtering through the gaps in his blinds the silvery-grey of pre-dawn. Shouto feels unpleasantly warm, and he doesn’t try to get back to sleep, but struggles out of bed and gets up to shower. He barely makes it upright before almost falling down, though, his vision greying out for a second in a particularly intense head-rush. He probably should have eaten more before going to bed last night.

After his shower, he stands on his balcony to watch the sun come up. He’s lucky enough to have a room on the top floor of the dorms, facing east, and since winter crept up on them he’s been up early enough to catch the sunrise a few times. Sometimes he thinks it would be nice to tell someone about this, too – about how beautiful it is, with the sky deep blue and orange and white and every colour in between. But of course everyone already knows what the sunrise looks like.

Down below, movement catches his eye. It’s a person, exiting the dorms and heading off on the jogging trail. Bakugou.

He watches him until he disappears into the shadows under the trees. Then he raises his eyes to look at the sky again.

****

That day, it’s hard to concentrate in class. Shouto feels too warm, and it’s such an unfamiliar feeling that it keeps distracting him. Normally his quirk regulates his body temperature without him having to think about it at all, the same way he doesn’t think about breathing or his heart beating. But today it just seems – off. He takes off his blazer and consciously cools down his right side, and that helps a little, but he’s still sweating, and his thoughts are moving much slower than usual.

It’s almost certainly because he didn’t sleep well. Normally when he has sleeping problems, it’s because of nightmares that leaving him feeling nauseated well into the next day. He knows how to handle that – don’t eat breakfast, focus on schoolwork, don’t think, don’t think – but this is different. There’s no nausea now, just the strange warmth and the sluggish thoughts. It’s unusual. He wonders if he’s getting sick.

“Todoroki, are you getting sick?” Midoriya asks him at lunch, and he decides that that must be it, then. Midoriya’s very perceptive.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe.”

Uraraka puts her hand on his forehead. “You don’t feel warm,” she says. “Well, your left side does, but – it’s supposed to, right?” Then she shakes her head. “Actually, I’m not sure how warm you’re supposed to be.”

Shouto nods. He remembers that being a problem the few times he got sick as a small child, that the thermometers had wildly varying readings depending on which side of his mouth they were on, and even the nurse that his mother called once wasn’t really sure what his baseline temperature ought to be. But it’s been so long since he’s had any kind of fever, he’s never really worried about it.

“I feel OK,” he says. “Just tired.”

“You should go to see the nurse!” announces Iida. “It’s important to take care of your health!”

“No, I’m fine,” Shouto says. He’s starting to regret telling Midoriya that he might be sick. He didn’t realise they would all worry like this.

“Well, take it easy in hero training later, anyway,” Midoriya says, with a smile that looks like he’s not completely happy. Shouto decides he’s probably worried. It makes sense, given the context.

“Yeah,” Shouto says, and that makes Midoriya look a little less probably-worried. That’s good. It’s really nothing to be concerned about.

****

That day, hero basic training is focused on quirkless hand-to-hand techniques. It’s unusual – a great deal of their training is concerned with the most effective use of their quirks – but as Aizawa explains, there may be times when they have to fight without them, if they’ve been dosed with quirk suppressants or if there’s a villain with a quirk-erasing power like Aizawa. Not to mention, for those of them with quirks that work best from a distance – like Shouto – it’s important to learn how to fight in close quarters as well.

Shouto’s not unhappy about the exercise. Even once he puts his hero costume on with its external temperature regulators, he’s still feeling too warm, and although he’s not sure he’s going to be in the best shape for hand-to-hand combat, he’s much more concerned about how his quirk might behave if he does have a fever. Not using it seems like the best idea right now. He sees Midoriya watching him from across the gym. Take it easy, Midoriya mouths. He nods and steps up for his first match. He’s paired with Sero, and he drops into a fighting stance. He feels a little light-headed, but still, his father’s training has ensured that he’s one of the best close-combat fighters in the class, so he’s not overly concerned.

Sero lunges and Shouto blocks easily. Sero’s not bad, but he tends to telegraph his moves, and Shouto watches to see where the next one’s coming from. He sees at – a right hook, well-aimed but clearly telegraphed – and moves to block.

And misses.

Sero’s fist smashes into his cheek and he staggers back, pain blooming across his face. He – didn’t block. His hand is even still raised to block but somehow he – just failed to actually calculate the path of Sero’s punch correctly. How did that happen?

He doesn’t have time to figure it out, though, because Sero’s pressing his advantage, throwing another punch. Shouto does manage to block this one, but it’s difficult, like his limbs are weighted down, and his thoughts can’t seem to quite keep pace with Sero’s moves. Has he got a lot faster since last time Shouto saw him fight? When would that have happened? He blocks again, misses again, and Sero’s fist catches him in the gut.

You should be fighting back, his brain informs him. Why are you just taking it?

Right. Right. He sucks in a breath, refusing to allow Sero’s punch to slow him down, and throws one of his own. Even as he’s watching his hand move through the air, it’s clear that something’s not right. It’s so – sloppy, and Sero easily ducks and responds with an uppercut to the jaw that Shouto watches and watches himself watching and fails entirely to either evade or block.

Sero sweeps his legs from under him and Shouto’s lying on the floor, staring up at the gym ceiling, wondering what just happened.

What a pathetic display, his old man’s voice says in his mind. Shouto’s had a lot of practice ignoring that, though. He’s also had a lot of practice at hand-to-hand combat, and yet--

And yet.

“Whoa,” says Sero’s voice somewhere above him. “I KO’d Todoroki.” Then his face appears over Shouto’s, a hand reaching out. “You OK, bro?”

He’s reaching for the hand when another hand slaps it out of the way and then grabs his wrist, not so much helping him up as dragging him to his feet.

“The fuck was that, Half and Half?” Bakugou snarls at him. “You’d better put out some more fucking effort against me, got it?”

“Sorry,” Shouto says. He does feel sorry – he should have done better. “Sorry, Sero.”

“Oh man, it feels so great when you beat someone and then they apologise to you for not winning,” Sero says, but he grins and slaps Shouto on the back, so Shouto thinks he’s not really upset.

“Hey! Eyes over here,” yells Bakugou. He’s already got his hands up, waiting for Shouto, and Shouto thinks that given his performance against Sero, he’s likely to lose. Even if he was on top form, he’d have an even chance of losing against Bakugou. Still, he puts his hands up and circles, waiting to see what Bakugou will do.

What Bakugou does: punches Shouto in the face.

What Shouto does: completely fails to block.

What Shouto feels: a jolt of pain and a kind of strange coolness that radiates out from where Bakugou’s fist made contact. For a second or two, he feels – a little better, a little more clear-headed despite the ache in his cheekbone.

Then Bakugou punches him again, and Shouto thinks maybe he should be thinking more about blocking and less about how weird it is that getting hit in the face is making him feel good.

Apparently, Bakugou feels the same, because he stops punching and advances on Shouto, grabs his face and starts yelling at him. He’s saying something about not taking this fucking seriously and fucking fight me you asshole and various similar Bakugou things, but Shouto’s not really listening because he’s too busy thinking about how good Bakugou’s hand feels on his face, even with how he seems to be trying to crush his jaw from the force of his grip alone, and how for the first time since this morning – maybe even since yesterday evening – he doesn’t feel like his skin is itching all over.

“Hey! Break it up.”

It’s Aizawa, wrenching Bakugou away from Shouto with a heavy sigh. “You’re supposed to be fighting, not whatever that was,” he says.

Shouto blinks. Bakugou’s glaring at Aizawa. “Tell that asshole, not me,” he says. “He’s the one who wasn’t even trying.”

Aizawa turns to him. For the first time, Shouto sees that some of their other classmates are hovering. Midoriya is there. He looks worried.

“Sensei, Todoroki’s not feeling well,” Midoriya says before he can answer.

Aizawa frowns. “Is that true?”

“I—” Is it true? It was true, it was definitely true before. But now – now Shouto feels a lot better. Maybe he just needed to get punched a lot to feel better. That’s a little strange, though, if true. “I’m feeling better now.”

“Sure?” Aizawa says.

Shouto nods.

“Well, if you start to feel ill again, tell me,” Aizawa says. “You know fighting when you’re sick is against the rules.”

Shouto nods again, and Aizawa steps back. He doesn’t leave, though, but watches Shouto and Bakugou as they drop into their fighting stances again. Bakugou leads with a feint to the left followed by a right hook, and Shouto easily blocks.

He does lose, in the end. But Bakugou doesn’t seem mad about it.

****

That night, Shouto can’t sleep again.

It’s the same problem as the night before, the weird tingling itch that won’t go away, the feeling of being uncomfortably warm, the thoughts that move in strange directions, round and round, nothing resolving itself. He dozes on and off, but when he’s half asleep his thoughts seem to grow and stretch, turning from nagging concerns into shadowy creatures that lunge at him until he wakes, heart pounding, sweat standing out on his forehead and the back of his neck. Even when he’s awake, though, things start to seem a little dream-like, with the shadows in the corners of his room merging with the shadows in his mind until he’s not even sure, he’s not sure if he’s awake or asleep.

He decides that he’s definitely awake when he notices that his breath is clouding in front of his face, though. He sits up in bed and looks down to find that his right arm is covered in tiny ice crystals, and when he reaches up to touch his face, he finds they’re there as well, crusting his eyelashes, his hair. The air in the room must be very cold for his breath to be condensing the way it is. It still feels too warm to him, though.

This is a problem. He tries to remember how his quirk reacted when he was sick as a kid. The ice isn’t so bad, but if his fire starts activating without him controlling it, that could cause some real problems. The furnishings in his room are heavily fireproofed, but that doesn’t mean they can stand up to the kind of fire his quirk can produce.

He gets up. It’s probably not really safe for him to be sleeping right now. And anyway, it’s unpleasant. Being asleep is painful and frightening. Being awake is – just painful. It’s almost dawn, anyway.

He goes down to the common room. He misses a step in the dark and almost falls down the stairs, ending up clinging to the handrail, head spinning in slow, lazy circles. So, he’s definitely sick. He should drink some water. Once it’s daytime, he’ll call Fuyumi and ask if she remembers what they used to do when he was sick as a kid. He should try to find something that brings fevers down, too. Paracetamol, he remembers from first aid classes. He’ll find some paracetamol.

He rummages in the cupboards in the kitchen, looking for the first aid kit, but all he finds is pans and various food items. He definitely needs the paracetamol, though, so he starts taking the food out, packet by packet, trying to find where the kit is. They haven’t used it for a while – he’s not sure they’ve ever used it – so it’s probably buried pretty far back.

He’s deep in the cupboard, fumbling to put a box of seaweed on the counter without pulling his head out, when someone grabs his hand.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He pauses, head still fully inside the cupboard. Bakugou. His hand feels incredibly cool on Shouto’s, and Shouto thinks he must really have a high fever, because he knows that Bakugou’s body temperature tends to run warm.

“Halfie,” Bakugou says without letting go of his hand. “It’s six a.m. Why are you touching my fucking food?”

Shouto knows that the appropriate thing to do now is to pull his head out of the cupboard, stand up, and explain to Bakugou that he’s looking for the first aid kit. He also knows that if he does that, Bakugou will most likely let go of his hand. And – he doesn’t want that. He can’t really explain it, even to himself. He’s not – a person who likes to be touched. He’s not a person that other people touch. Even Fuyumi only hugs him occasionally. But his entire consciousness right now is focused on Bakugou’s hand, Bakugou’s hand on his hand, what a – relief it is. It feels like the coolness is spreading down his arm and into his body, into his brain, washing away the tingling itch, rearranging his thoughts into patterns that are less tangled, less ugly.

“I’m looking for the first aid kit,” he says, without taking his head out of the cupboard.

“The fuck?” says Bakugou, and lets go of his hand.

Shouto feels – disappointed. He sits back, looking up at Bakugou. The lights are off, but the sky outside’s getting lighter, and he can see Bakugou’s face, looking at him like he’d like to punch him in the face again. And Shouto – thinks he might like that, too. Not the punch, so much, but Bakugou touching him, even if it’s violent. And he thinks – maybe that means there’s something wrong with him.

Then Bakugou shakes his head, grabs his hand, and pulls him to his feet. Shouto curls his fingers round Bakugou’s, and Bakugou makes a strangled noise and wrenches his hand away.

“Get off me, asshole,” he says, and Shouto feels – that disappointment again, he feels sick with it.

“It’s fucking there,” Bakugou snarls at him, pointing the first aid kit, sitting on the dedicated bracket on the wall just like it has since they moved into the dorms. Shouto stares at it. Then he stares at Bakugou.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry.”

Bakugou’s eyes are wide. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he says.

But he leaves before Shouto can answer.

****

Shouto wonders about it, though. He wonders about it all morning, when he’s supposed to be concentrating. What is wrong with him? Not so much the fever, whatever the illness was – after Bakugou leaves he realises he feels a lot better, so that’s not a problem any more. But – his thoughts. When he was imagining Bakugou punching him and thinking it might be good. When Bakugou did punch him during hero basic training and even though it hurt a lot, it felt good, too. Does Shouto like it when people hit him? He doesn’t think he’s ever liked it before. It’s just – a thing that happens, like people pushing past him to get on the subway, or like having his stance corrected. Aside from the painful aspect of it, it’s a neutral thing, not good or bad, just – a thing that happens. But then yesterday--

It didn’t feel good when Sero hit him. That was only just before Bakugou hit him, so it’s unlikely that the difference is to do with a development over time. On the other hand, Bakugou has definitely hit him before, and it didn’t feel good those times. And – he doesn’t understand why it would feel good when Bakugou does it and not when Sero does it. Unless – he’s attracted to Bakugou? Bakugou is certainly physically very attractive. And they are friends. He’s not sure if that’s how being attracted to someone works, though. He’s never bothered to find out very much about it, but he’s never heard anything about wanting the object of your affections to punch you in the face.

Actually, he thinks he might still be a little sick, after all.

“Midoriya,” he says when they’re walking back from lunch. “How do you know if you’re attracted to someone?”

“Oh! Well, I--” Midoriya says, then starts stuttering. “That is – I’m not – I haven’t – I’m not really an expert--”

Shouto waits. Sometimes when Midoriya gets like this, he eventually gets to the point. Other times, he just keeps on stuttering. Shouto’s still not sure how to tell the difference from the outset, so he usually just waits to see which one it will be.

“Are you – is there someone you’re – attracted to?” Midoriya asks at last.

“I don’t know,” Shouto says. “I don’t know what it feels like.”

“Oh.” Midoriya stops stuttering and smiles. “Well – I guess it’s probably a little different for different people, but – you think about that person a lot and you get a kind of – fluttery feeling when you see them, and you want to spend a lot of time with them, and thinking about them makes you smile. That kind of thing.” He looks up at Shouto. “So – do you think you’re attracted to someone?”

Shouto considers. He does think about Bakugou fairly often, which makes sense as they’re friends and until recently they spent a lot of time together at the remedial classes. He doesn’t think he gets a fluttery feeling, and thinking about Bakugou definitely doesn’t make him smile. Midoriya didn’t say anything about wanting the person to punch you in the face.

“No,” he says. “Probably not, then.”

Midoriya looks a little disappointed, which is unexpected. Shouto didn’t want to disappoint him. He’s not sure what he did to make that happen, though.

A moment later, though, Uraraka calls out to them and Midoriya’s all smiles again, so it probably wasn’t really a big deal.

****

That afternoon, the itch under Shouto’s skin comes back. By the time class is over, he feels – really hot. His thoughts are muddy, like his brain is filled with silty water, and all he can really think it I don’t want to feel like this any more.

No, that’s not right. He’s thinking something else, too. He’s thinking about Bakugou, how Bakugou punched him and it made him feel better. He’s in his room, trying to search what does it mean if I like being punched on his phone, but the backlight’s giving him a headache and his thoughts just keep circling around the same thing. He feels terrible. Yesterday, when he felt terrible, Bakugou punched him and he felt better. Therefore, Bakugou punching him makes him feel good. Therefore, he should get Bakugou to punch him again.

On some level, he’s kind of aware that his thought process doesn’t really make a lot of sense. On all the other levels, he just wants the itching and the heat and the sweat and the sluggish thoughts to go away.

He goes downstairs.

Bakugou is sitting with his friends in the corner of the common room, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when Shouto comes to stand next to him.

“The fuck do you want?”

“I want you to fight me,” Shouto says.

“Whoa,” says Kirishima. “That’s pretty intense, dude.”

Bakugou scowls up at him. Then he grins.

“You’re on,” he says.

Notes:

OK, I know this chapter has been mostly punching, but there will be cuddles later, I promise!

Comments are love ♥

Chapter 2

It’s when they’re heading down the steps of the dorm that Shouto realises he forgot to mention something to Bakugou about the fight he wants to have.

“Bakugou,” he calls.

Bakugou’s walking in front of him, both because he likes to do that for some reason and because Shouto’s finding it a little difficult to manage the steps. “Hah?” he yells, then turns and glares at Shouto. “Why’re you walking like a fucking old man?”

“No quirks,” says Shouto. “In the fight, I mean.”

“Hah?”

Shouto struggles to come up with an explanation. If they use quirks, it’ll be a long-distance fight. Bakugou will try to hit Shouto with his explosions rather than his fists. And Shouto still isn’t sure about using his quirk when he’s feeling so – odd. But he thinks if he explains that, then he’ll have to explain that really he just wants Bakugou to punch him in the face, and he thinks it’s unlikely that Bakugou will be willing to go along with that idea. So he needs to come up with an explanation. But his mind is moving so slowly.

“I get it,” Bakugou says.

Shouto blinks at him. It seems unlikely that Bakugou can have figured out the reason he wants to fight, but on the other hand – sometimes he is strangely perceptive.

Bakugou stalks up to him and jabs him in the chest with his forefinger. “You fucking sucked at hand-to-hand yesterday,” he says. “What, need some remedial classes for that, too?”

Oh. Yeah, that’s a good explanation. He opens his mouth to agree, but Bakugou just sneers at him and turns on his heel.

“Lucky I’m willing to give up my precious time to smack the shit out of you and show you how it’s done.”

“Yeah,” says Shouto.

Bakugou isn’t listening.

****

They find a secluded clearing in the woods, hopefully well out of range of any students or teachers who might be using the paths. Shouto’s starting to feel pretty dizzy, and when Bakugou drops into his stance, it takes him a few seconds to remember what he’s supposed to do.

“What, are you waiting for an engraved invitation?” Bakugou says. “You’re the one who wants to fight, aren’t you?”

Right. Right. Shouto raises his hands and bends his knees. He blinks. His eyesight’s a little blurry, but it’s good enough to see Bakugou’s feral grin.

“Prepare to be fucking flattened,” Bakugou says.

Then he flattens him.

Shouto goes down with the first punch. It feels – good. It hurts, and that doesn’t feel good, but there’s that cool feeling again, that strange relief. He wants Bakugou to hit him again.

“Get the fuck up, Icy Hot,” Bakugou yells. “What the fuck was that?”

Shouto struggles to his feet, but he’s barely managed to raise his hands before Bakugou charges him with a roar, and he’s down again. Well, not down, exactly, at least not at first – the force of it’s enough to lift him clear off his feet, and he smacks his head on the trunk of a tree behind him and blinks, sliding down to a sitting position. He didn’t even see the punch coming. He felt it, though: pain – plenty of that – and coolness, rippling out from where Bakugou hit him, spreading through his body, his brain. It feels – really good. He definitely likes getting hit. That’s probably pretty weird.

He’s still thinking about the coolness when Bakugou stalks over to him, grabs him by the collar, hauls him up and shoves him against the tree. Bakugou’s mostly touching his clothes, not him, but the backs of his fingers are pressed against Shouto’s chest, and it feels so cool. Bakugou’s yelling, really close to his face, he’s really pretty mad. Shouto’s not really thinking about that, though. He’s thinking about how the silty water in his mind seems to be draining away, the tingling itch under his skin subsiding. How for the first time in hours, he doesn’t feel uncomfortably hot.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Fucking what?”

Shouto shrugs. He’s not sure what Bakugou’s been yelling about, but he thinks he can guess. “I wasn’t ready,” he says. “Let’s try again.”

“You better be fucking ready this time,” Bakugou snarls.

And Shouto is. He’s not on top form – he still doesn’t feel amazing, and now that he’s not focused on all the other ways he feels bad, he discovers he’s pretty tired – but he’s perfectly capable of giving Bakugou a run for his money. More than capable. He enjoys it. It’s weird, because in this second bout, he doesn’t really enjoy getting hit any more – he lets Bakugou get a few punches in to check – but he enjoys the challenge of fighting, the intensity of it. It’s more like the usual feeling he gets when he’s matched with a good opponent – when he’s matched with Bakugou. So that’s interesting.

Feeling mostly better or not, though, Shouto still isn’t exactly at his best, and eventually Bakugou has him face down in the frozen mud, arm twisted behind his back.

“Give up, asshole,” Bakugou says.

Shouto considers. He’s got what he wanted out of the encounter – he feels a lot better – and although Bakugou’s hand is wrapped around his wrist, it doesn’t feel beautifully cool any more. Now, it feels warm. But not in a bad way. He wonders if he likes having his arm twisted behind his back, as well. There’s probably a word for that.

“Hey!” Bakugou says, twisting his arm up further. “Are you even fucking listening to me?”

It’s late. Shouto’s tired. He didn’t sleep well the last two nights, so he should probably call it quits now, before Bakugou breaks his arm. He doesn’t want to find out if he likes that.

“I give up,” he says.

“Ha!” says Bakugou, letting go of him and standing up. Shouto stays in the same position for a few seconds, thinking about the fading warmth around his wrist.

“Get the fuck up, Halfie,” Bakugou says.

So Shouto does.

****

That night, Shouto tries to work his way through the things he’s learned about himself. He liked getting hit, but he also felt good when Bakugou was shoving him up against the tree. He also kind of liked having his arm twisted, but in a different way. Was it different because it was a different kind of violence? Bakugou’s hand felt warm instead of cool. Maybe it was because he was touching him on his left side rather than his right. Also, his face aches. And his head aches where he hit the tree. His arm kind of aches, too. None of that feels good. And he’s really tired.

He’ll think about it in the morning, he decides, when his head’s a little clearer. He’s so tired. Maybe he’ll be able to sleep tonight.

And he does. For once, he falls asleep easily and sleeps all the way through. But when he wakes up in the morning, his skin is itching. It’s just a quiet itch, nothing like as bad as yesterday but it’s still – irritating. His face still kind of aches, too, and his head. Still, he feels well-rested, so that’s one thing.

“Todoroki,” Midoriya gasps when he comes down to breakfast. “What happened to your face?”

He touches his face. He hasn’t checked the mirror yet, but it does feel kind of swollen.

“I had a fight with Bakugou,” he says.

Midoriya’s eyes widen and he looks over to where Bakugou’s sitting. His face looks normal, no visible marks or swelling. Shouto held his own the second time they fought – for a while, anyway – but he didn’t really land any serious blows.

“It was training,” Shouto clarifies. “He’s helping me with my hand-to-hand skills.” That’s more or less what was happening, anyway.

“Oh.” Midoriya subsides a little at that, but he looks at Shouto with this worried expression. “Are you – OK?”

“I’m fine,” Shouto says. “Just a few bruises.”

****

As it turns out, though, he’s not really fine. As the day progresses, the itch under his skin gets worse and worse, and the familiar heat starts to bother him. This time, though, it’s not just heat: he goes from shivering to sweating and back again, sometimes in the course of only a few minutes. He’s constantly playing catch-up with his quirk, trying to regulate his temperature. It makes his head ache even worse. He thinks this is probably something he should be concerned about – that there’s something important going on that he should be able to understand – but by the time he’s halfway through the afternoon, he can barely understand his own name. It’s lucky that he’s generally quiet compared to other people – that people don’t expect him to be outgoing and talkative. He can just sit at the back and not contribute. And not make any notes. And not understand anything that’s going on. It’s fine. It’s probably fine. He’s – he’s probably sick, and he’ll borrow Midoriya’s notes when he’s feeling better.

“Todoroki, are you sure you’re OK?” Midoriya asks.

Shouto blinks. Midoriya’s standing in front of his desk. That’s – odd. He wasn’t there a moment ago. He’s surprised Midnight is allowing him to just stand up and talk to people in the middle of class. He looks to see if Midnight seems annoyed. But she’s not there.

“Todoroki?” Midoriya says again.

Shouto looks at him. Then he looks around. Half his classmates are gone. The other half are standing around chatting. Uraraka and Iida are looking his way, frowning.

“Class is over,” he says. He didn’t realise. Don’t they still have half an hour to go?

“Um, yeah,” Midoriya says. “How – hard did Kacchan hit you last night?”

“Pretty hard,” says Shouto. “I also hit a tree.” He might have concussion, now he thinks about it. That would explain some things.

“A tree?” Midoriya says, his voice increasing in pitch. “Did you tell the nurse?”

Shouto tries to understand why Midoriya thinks he should tell the nurse about the tree. He doesn’t think he damaged the tree. He doesn’t think a nurse would be able to help with that, anyway. Midoriya’s staring at him like he’s expecting an answer to his question.

“No,” he says. Then he thinks: right. If he’s got concussion, he should go see the nurse. That’s what Midoriya’s talking about.

“Todoroki,” says Midoriya. He looks very worried. That’s Shouto’s fault, most likely. He should have gone to see the nurse. About the tree.

“I’ll go now,” he says, getting to his feet.

Midoriya nods, still looking worried. Shouto walks out of the classroom and turns in the direction of Recovery Girl’s office. He feels – hot. And itchy. Maybe he could take a cold shower. That might help his headache, too. It’s a good idea. For some reason he’s not going in the direction of the exit closest to the dorm, so he adjusts his course, makes it down the stairs and out of the door, and heads in the direction of the dorms.

Halfway there, he remembers that he told Midoriya he would see Recovery Girl. That was why he wasn’t going towards the exit. It’s strange, that he forgot that. He probably should see Recovery Girl. He’s definitely not feeling at his best.

He turns back towards the main building and sees Bakugou coming towards him. And he thinks: Bakugou. Bakugou will make him feel better. He just needs to – get Bakugou to hit him. Yeah. That’s what he needs.

And then Bakugou’s standing in front of him, even though Shouto didn’t see him cross the distance between them.

“Out of my way, candy cane,” Bakugou yells.

Shouto swallows. “Fight me,” he says. He’s thinking about how cool Bakugou’s fist will feel when it smashes into his face. It makes him feel dizzy.

“Hah?” Bakugou’s standing with his hands in his pockets, glaring. Last night he said yes straight away. But today he just glares. “What’s your fucking problem?”

Shouto blinks. He doesn’t understand why Bakugou didn’t say yes. “F-- Fight me,” he says again.

Bakugou just stares for a long moment. Then his lip curls and he steps around Shouto. “No.”

“Wha—” Shouto says. He turns on his heel, the motion making his head spin. Bakugou’s walking away from him, towards the dorms. He stumbles after him, grabs his shoulder to pull him round to face him.

“Fucking—” Bakugou says, then punches him in the face.

Shouto reels, thinking about falling into cool water. Above him, the sky is high and grey and pale. It looks beautiful.

Bakugou kicks his legs out from under him. Shouto hits the ground. The sky. It’s so cool and quiet.

Then his view of the sky’s obscured by Bakugou’s face. Bakugou’s straddling his chest, gripping his chin like he did two days ago in the gym, leaning in so their faces are only inches apart.

“The fuck is this, Halfie?” he snarls. “I know you know how to fight. Are you getting off on this or something?”

Shouto stares up at him. He’s not really thinking about Bakugou. About what Bakugou’s saying, anyway. He’s thinking about Bakugou’s hand on his face. And about the sky.

“Or, what, you think you need punishing? That’s some kind of bullshit. You want to hurt yourself, leave me the fuck out of it. I ain’t gonna help you with that shit.”

Shouto doesn’t really understand what Bakugou’s saying. Bakugou looks mad, though. Not that that’s unusual. But he looks genuinely mad this time, not just his usual background level of mad. It’s hard for Shouto to think about that, though, because he wants to think about Bakugou’s hand on his face, and how it’s like something is spreading under his skin, soothing the itching until it’s gone entirely. He didn’t realise how unpleasant it was until it went away. It feels amazing.

And then, Bakugou’s gone. But Shouto feels – better. Mostly better. He hurts – a lot, actually, today’s bruises blending with yesterday’s and the day before’s. That’s not ideal. But his thoughts are starting to emerge out of the mud, and he doesn’t itch. And the sky is beautiful.

“Todoroki!”

Shouto sits up and sees Yaoyorozu running towards him, Jirou on her heels. They reach him in seconds, faces worried. “Are you all right? Did Bakugou do something to you?”

Shouto brushes himself off and gets to his feet. “I’m fine. It’s fine.” He should have thought that someone would see them if they fought right on the main path between the school and the dorm. It must have looked strange. But he wasn’t thinking straight, not until Bakugou punched him.

“Are you sure?” Jirou says. She looks mad. “Shit, he’s such an asshole sometimes.”

“It’s really fine,” says Shouto.

But she doesn’t look convinced.

****

Shouto goes back to his room and takes a shower. He thinks about what Bakugou said. About whether he’s trying to punish himself. It would make sense, in a way. He doesn’t really think he’s done anything that requires punishment, but on the other hand, he does know that his mind doesn’t really work quite right, which he assumes is related to the way he grew up. It’s possible that something about growing up that way has resulted in this – connection between getting hit and feeling good. He wonders if he would feel good if his old man hit him.

No. He doesn’t think that would feel good.

So, then, it’s related to Bakugou somehow. He circles back round to the idea that maybe he’s attracted to Bakugou. Midoriya didn’t say that attraction involved wanting to be punched, but on the other hand, Shouto’s mind doesn’t really work quite right, so maybe his way of being attracted to people isn’t quite right, either. Bakugou did ask if he was getting off on it. He wonders if he was getting off on it. He didn’t notice any kind of getting off. It did feel really good, though.

He wonders if this is something he should be concerned about. He’s reasonably sure that most people don’t seek out people they’re attracted to and get them to punch them. It’s not ideal from a number of different perspectives. On the other hand, if Bakugou hadn’t punched him then he would still be feeling really terrible instead of just kind of headachey, so on balance it might be a good thing. Still, he thinks it’s probably not normal.

And more importantly – it doesn’t really fit together. It’s not just that he wants Bakugou to punch him so he feels good. He’s – sick. He’s been sick. He keeps getting sick and then getting better. That’s why he sought out Bakugou today – because he felt awful, and he knew Bakugou would make him feel better. But that – doesn’t really make any sense. He’s pretty sure that’s not how being attracted to somebody works, even for people who are kind of messed up, and he doesn’t see how it would fit in to wanting to punish himself, either. He wonders if Bakugou has some kind of healing quirk. But no, he knows what Bakugou’s quirk is. So-- So--

Shouto leans his forehead against the tiled wall of the shower. He should have gone to see the nurse. He’s not itching any more, but his face really hurts. And maybe he’s not thinking quite as straight as he thought he was.

****

When he goes down to dinner, Midoriya starts heading in his direction as soon as he steps through the door of the common room.

“Todoroki!” he says, then he looks him up and down. There’s this strange glint in his eye. Shouto remembers that he told Midoriya he would go to the nurse, and then he didn’t do that. He wonders if Midoriya’s mad.

“Did Kacchan hit you?”

Oh. He wonders if he has a new bruise on his face. He thinks it’s likely that Midoriya would notice something like that.

“Jirou said she saw him knock you down,” Midoriya continues. “Did – is that what happened?”

“Yeah,” Shouto says. He wants to explain that he wasn’t feeling good and that’s why Bakugou was able to knock him down so easily. It’s – true, in a way. Although he also wasn’t really trying to fight back, but that’s harder to explain.

In the end, he doesn’t get the chance to explain anything, because that glint in Midoriya’s eye becomes a flash, and he draws himself up, turns on his heel, and storms over to where Bakugou’s sitting on the couch.

“Kacchan,” he says. Shouto’s not sure he’s ever heard his voice sound so cold.

“Fuck off, nerd,” Bakugou says without looking up from his phone.

“Did you attack Todoroki?” Midoriya says.

A kind of silence falls over the common room. Most of the class is there, and now suddenly they’re all looking at Midoriya and Bakugou. Some of them glance over at Shouto as well. Shouto starts to wish he hadn’t come downstairs.

Bakugou looks up from his phone. “The fuck?” he says.

“Answer the question,” says Midoriya. His face is set in hard lines. It’s not an expression Shouto’s used to seeing on him, outside of a combat situation. Although it’s possible this is a combat situation.

Bakugou’s lip curls. “KO’d the motherfucker. What’s it to you?”

“Kacchan,” says Midoriya, and now he looks furious. “Can’t you see he’s sick?”

Bakugou frowns and glances over at him. Then he sneers. “Sick in the fucking head.”

“He didn’t even fight back,” adds Jirou from the other side of the room. She looks pretty mad, too.

“Whoa,” says Sero. “That’s kind of an asshole move, even for you, Bakugou.”

Shouto – doesn’t really understand what’s happening. Everyone’s mad at Bakugou for fighting him, but Shouto asked him to fight. And Bakugou didn’t even fight him, not really. He wouldn’t fight him, even though Shouto wanted him to.

“I—” he starts, but Bakugou suddenly surges to his feet.

“Like I give a shit about what you extras think,” he growls. “I’ll fight whoever I damn well please. And I’ll fucking win, too.”

“Kacchan—” Midoriya starts, but Bakugou snarls at him and then stalks off towards the exit. The exit that Shouto’s standing in front of. When Bakugou reaches him, he stands in front of him, close enough that Shouto can feel his hot breath on his cheek, and looks him up and down.

“You look like shit, Icy Hot,” he says.

And then he’s gone.

****

After Bakugou leaves, everyone gathers round Shouto to ask him if he’s OK.

“It’s inappropriate for a classmate to attack you unprovoked!” says Iida.

“Todoroki, you should go and see the nurse,” says Asui.

“You know you can talk to me if there’s – something going on with you and Kacchan,” says Midoriya.

Shouto feels a little overwhelmed. “It wasn’t unprovoked,” he says. “He didn’t attack me.” It’s true. Bakugou said no – he still doesn’t really know why. He was sure he’d say yes. Bakugou loves fighting – loves fighting him in particular, along with Midoriya. So it doesn’t make sense that he said no. But he did say no, and it was Shouto who started it by grabbing him. It was Shouto who asked him to do it.

“I asked for it,” he says, hoping that it’ll help explain and everyone will calm down and stop crowding around him.

Yaoyorozu gasps. “Todoroki, no, you mustn’t think that way.”

“I – what?” Shouto stares at her. She looks horrified, but he has no idea why. Shouto is finding this conversation – very difficult.

“Hey. Come sit with us, we’ll make you some tea or something.” It’s Ashido, reaching for his arm, and Shouto has a vision of sitting, surrounded by people who all want something from him but not knowing what it is, unable to escape. He takes a step back, evading her grasp.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” he says.

****

Later, he can’t sleep. Some of it is because he’s starting to feel uncomfortable again, not to mention his face really does hurt, but most of it’s not that. He doesn’t understand why Bakugou didn’t fight him. And he doesn’t understand why Bakugou didn’t tell everyone that Shouto asked him to fight. Midoriya was accusing him of unprovoked violence, and while unprovoked violence definitely wouldn’t be unexpected for Bakugou, this time it wasn’t that. And this time, people were genuinely mad at him, in a way they usually aren’t. But Bakugou didn’t say anything to defend himself.

And Bakugou refused to fight him.

Eventually, he gets up and goes downstairs. He knocks on Bakugou’s door. No-one answers. He knocks again.

“Fucking what?” comes Bakugou’s voice from inside.

“It’s Todoroki,” Shouto says. “I need to ask you something.”

“Are you fucking serious?” says Bakugou, and then a moment later he flings the door open, looking furious. He’s wearing a tank top and boxers, and his hair is even more unruly than usual. The light’s off in his room. Shouto realises he must have been asleep. That makes sense – Bakugou goes to sleep early every night. Shouto should have considered that before he knocked.

“Spit it out, Halfie, some of us are trying to sleep,” Bakugou says, and Shouto realises he’s been staring. In his defence, he’s never seen Bakugou look quite like this before. It’s–

“Fuck you, then,” says Bakugou, starting to close the door. Shouto reaches out to stop him.

“Why didn’t you tell them I asked you to fight?”

“Hah?” Bakugou says, then, “Why the fuck should I? None of their fucking business.”

“They think you attacked me.”

Bakugou shrugs, lip curling. “Let them think what they like.”

Shouto blinks. It’s how he felt before – before the sports festival, he didn’t care at all what his class-mates thought of him. Now though – things have changed.

“Why wouldn’t you fight me?” he asks. Even now, even when he’s mostly feeling OK, he looks at Bakugou’s hands and thinks about them touching him, knuckles in his face, grip crushing his wrist.

“Why’d you fucking ask me to fight you?” Bakugou counters.

Shouto frowns. “I need to improve my--”

“Bullshit,” Bakugou says, jabbing him in the chest with his forefinger. “You didn’t even try. Like you wanted me to hit you.”

Shouto stares at him. He – doesn’t have an explanation. Not one that he wants to give.

Bakugou’s mouth sets in a flat line. “That’s what I thought,” he says, and closes the door in Shouto’s face.

Shouto looks at the closed door for a few seconds.

Then he goes back to bed.

****

The next morning, Shouto doesn’t go down to breakfast. He’s feeling pretty bad again – worse than the previous morning – and he knows Midoriya will worry and ask him why he didn’t go to see Recovery Girl. He’ll see her when he gets to school. In the meantime, there’s no point worrying his friends.

In the event, though, he falls back to sleep, and when he wakes he realises that there’s no time to go to Recovery Girl’s office before class. There’s barely time to get dressed. When he looks in the mirror, he sees he has a black eye and the right side of his face is crusted in frost. It’s strange, because he feels a sort of intense, prickling heat all over him. How that hasn’t melted the ice, he’s not sure. In the end, he has to put his left palm onto the right side of his face to get it to go away. The process kind of hurts. And he’s going to be late if he doesn’t hurry.

He is late. He would probably have made it on time, except his limbs don’t seem to want to cooperate with him, and he almost falls several times trying to run to the main building, so in the end he has to walk. The grounds are empty – everyone else is already in class. Shouto makes it to Class 1-A just about the time that homeroom is ending, and enters just as Aizawa is leaving.

“You’re late,” Aizawa says to him.

“Yeah,” Shouto mumbles. “Sorry.”

Aizawa raises an eyebrow. “I want to talk to you about that later,” he says, pointing at Shouto’s face. It takes Shouto a couple of seconds to remember the black eye.

“Yeah,” he says again.

He slides inside and manages to get into his seat in the general commotion that always accompanies Present Mic’s entrance. Midoriya shoots him a worried look, but he can’t say anything since class has already started. Still, Shouto’s not looking forward to having to explain to him why he still hasn’t been to see the nurse.

In the end, though, Shouto doesn’t have to explain. Class wears on, and he starts to feel stranger and stranger. His head is spinning in slow circles, and his back is sticky with sweat. And there’s the itching. It’s everywhere under his skin, inescapable, unbearable. Present Mic is talking, but he only seems to be able to hear every third word, like a phone call over a bad line. He should have gone to the nurse. He’ll go to the nurse, after class. He just has to make it to the end of class and then maybe he can get Bakugou to hit him. That’s what he’ll do. Maybe Bakugou can come with him to the nurse’s office and hit him there. Then Midoriya won’t be worried.

“Why is it so cold in here?” asks someone. He’s not sure who it is. He thinks someone else answers, but he doesn’t hear what they say. Then suddenly, a lot of people are looking back at him.

“Todoroki?”

He blinks. It’s not cold. It’s too – it’s too hot. It’s too hot. He’s sweating.

Present Mic starts coming towards his desk. His mouth is moving, but the sound is – distorted. He can’t understand the words. Maybe it’s an aspect of Mic’s quirk. That would make sense. Mic has a voice quirk. It makes sense. But he doesn’t know why Mic is coming towards him. He doesn’t think he raised his hand or asked a question. He looks down at his hand to check. It’s covered in ice. Why – why…?

Bakugou. Bakugou can fix this. He just needs – he needs--

Shouto stands up. Bakugou’s looking at him like everyone else. His vision is strangely blurred, so he can’t make out the expression on Bakugou’s face. He probably looks angry. Shouto takes a step towards him, opening his mouth. His knee buckles underneath him. Then the floor’s approaching his face faster than he can really process it. He thinks it’s probably going to hurt when he hits it. He thinks that, all things considered, now feels like a good time to pass out.

He passes out.

Notes:

Ah yes, the old "and then he passed out" chapter ending. It's a classic for a reason!

Thank you for reading. Comments are always adored ♥

Chapter 3

Notes:

Friends and neighbours, I appear to be on a roll with this one! Hope you enjoy...

When Shouto wakes up, he’s in a bed. It’s not his bed, though – that’s immediately obvious from how soft it is (too soft), how high up it is (too high), and the ceiling that’s visible above him (not his ceiling). He stares up at the ceiling. He feels – really tired, but otherwise, better than he has in days. His face is no longer aching. His headache is gone. And the itch under his skin has vanished entirely.

“Todoroki!” says Midoriya, somewhere to his left. Shouto turns his head. Ah. Midoriya is here. He’s sitting on a chair beside the bed, leaning forward eagerly. “You’re awake!”

“Yeah,” says Shouto. His voice comes out kind of hoarse. He clears his throat.

“I was so worried,” Midoriya says. “We all were.”

Shouto nods. He has a vague memory of passing out in class. He can see why that would be worrying.

“You really should have come to see Recovery Girl sooner,” Midoriya says, fussing around him, plumping the pillows and smoothing the blankets. “You need to take care of yourself when you’re sick.”

“I was sick,” says Shouto. That’s right. It was pretty unpleasant.

“But she fixed you right up!” says Midoriya. “After she kissed you you were fine, just sleeping. Oh.” He digs in his pocket and holds out a protein bar. “She said to eat this when you woke up.”

Shouto takes the bar and opens it, contemplating the ceiling again. Midoriya’s right: he should have come to the nurse sooner – as soon as he realised he was sick. It was just – it kept going away. That was weird.

“I’d better let everyone know you’re OK,” Midoriya says, tapping out a message on his phone. “We were all so worried. Even Kacchan.”

Shouto blinks. Bakugou. Bakugou was worried?

“Bakugou was worried?”

“Well, you know,” Midoriya says. “He mostly just yelled at you a lot, which you missed because you were unconscious, but he did carry you all the way here.”

Huh. Shouto frowns at the protein bar. He’s actually weirdly sorry he missed that.

“Um,” says Midoriya then, shifting a little in his chair. “Todoroki – about you and Kacchan…”

Shouto turns his attention back to Midoriya. He’s chewing his bottom lip, and his smile is gone.

“I’m not sure – what’s going on between the two of you, but listen – if Kacchan’s – if you’re – I know he can be – really difficult--”

Shouto waits, but apparently this is one of those times when Midoriya just stutters and never comes to the point. “There’s nothing going on between us,” he says. “We’re friends.” Bakugou carried him to Recovery Girl’s office.

“Well, I--” Midoriya says. “You know – if you need – anything, you can always come to me.”

Shouto nods. That’s good, it’s good to know that he can ask Midoriya if he needs something. He thinks he probably knew that anyway, but it’s good to have it confirmed. And he wonders if – maybe he should just ask him. Midoriya probably knows.

“Is it normal to want to get hit?” he asks.

Midoriya frowns. “I – sorry, what?”

“In the face,” Shouto clarifies. “Is it normal for that to feel good sometimes?”

Midoriya’s eyes are wide. “I--” he says, his voice suddenly an octave higher. “That’s – I – I think that’s—”

Shouto waits. Midoriya waves his hands around.

“I think maybe – I’m not really the right person--” Midoriya says. “It doesn’t sound very – I mean – is that – do you – feel like that?”

Shouto turns his head back to look at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he says. “I tried to search online, but--” He can’t remember why he didn’t succeed. His memories of the last few days are a little fuzzy. Only a few things stand out sharp and clear. Mostly Bakugou hitting him.

“That’s—” Midoriya says. “That’s – I mean--”

Shouto tunes him out, waiting for the stuttering to stop. When he tunes back in, Midoriya’s saying, “--I don’t know, maybe something to do with your father?”

His father. Shouto curls his left hand into a fist and then straightens it out again.

“Todoroki,” Midoriya says then, and Shouto turns his head to see him leaning forward, a very serious look on his face. “I don’t think – even if you feel like maybe you – deserve it, I don’t think you should be – letting that happen to you.”

Shouto frowns. He’s not letting anything happen to him. And he doesn’t feel like he deserves anything. Does he?

“It doesn’t seem very safe,” Midoriya says. “Can you promise me you’ll come talk to me if Kacchan tries to do it again?”

“OK,” says Shouto. He’s not completely clear on what Midoriya is concerned about, but he’s really feeling tired, so hopefully once he’s had a chance to sleep he’ll be able to understand it better.

“OK, so – get some sleep. You look exhausted. And I’d better get back to class.”

Midoriya leaves. Shouto finishes the protein bar, and stares at the ceiling for a while. He really was sick. It’s weird how, when you’re sick, you don’t really realise how badly off you are until you get better. He definitely should have come to Recovery Girl sooner.

He falls asleep.

****

When he wakes up, there’s someone else by the bed. Kirishima. That’s a little unexpected. Also, there’s an itch under his skin, and that’s – not ideal.

“Bro!” says Kirishima when he sees he’s awake. “How are you feeling?”

Shouto’s actually not feeling great. The ache in his face is still gone, but everything else has come back, though at a much lower level, simmering rather than burning.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Great!” says Kirishima. He seems very enthusiastic. Which is normal for Kirishima, but this time he seems maybe – too enthusiastic? Shouto’s not sure. Can you be too enthusiastic? In any case, he’s happy to see Kirishima, but the enthusiasm is a little overwhelming.

“So you were really sick, huh?” Kirishima says.

“Yeah,” says Shouto. He wonders if Kirishima came here to ask him if he was really sick. That seems a little weird, if true. It should have been obvious from him passing out in class.

“Yeah,” says Kirishima. He scratches the back of his head. “Listen, Todoroki – Listen, about Bakugou…”

Oh. That makes more sense, that Kirishima would come here to talk to him about Bakugou. Everybody seems to want to talk to him about Bakugou lately.

“Listen, I – I just wanted to check – he’s my friend, you know? But he won’t – you know what he’s like, he just yells at me every time I bring it up – I don’t know.” Kirishima shifts from foot to foot. All the enthusiasm’s gone now. He looks uncomfortable. “I mean – I don’t think he knew you were sick, you know? I don’t think – I know everyone thinks he’s a hardass, which, OK, he definitely is a hardass, but I don’t – think he knew you were sick.”

Shouto tries to untangle what Kirishima’s saying. His thoughts are sinking into the mud again. “No,” he says. Bakugou probably didn’t know he was sick. How would he have known? Shouto didn’t tell him.

“Yeah,” says Kirishima. “Yesterday – Jirou said he laid you out--”

Shouto nods. “I was off my game.”

“Then it wasn’t--” Kirishima says. “Was it – like the day before, you guys arranged to fight?”

“No. He wouldn’t fight me.”

“But he laid you out.”

Shouto nods again. He thinks about Bakugou whirling, punching him. About the sky. “He didn’t hit me that hard,” he says. “I was just – off my game.”

“And you – you’d arranged to fight?”

“I asked him to,” Shouto says. “But he wouldn’t.”

Kirishima stands and stares at him for a few seconds. Then he lets out this sigh and his whole body seems to sag a little. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, man, I was sure it was something – but I was just, you know? I wanted to check, to check on you. Because – he’s just acting like--” He shrugs.

Shouto waits, but Kirishima doesn’t say anything else. “Yeah,” says Shouto, even though he’s not really totally sure what Kirishima is talking about. His thoughts are turning in lazy circles and his skin itches. It’s difficult to really follow any of this conversation.

“Hey, so – I’m glad you’re better, anyway,” says Kirishima. “We all kind of freaked out there when you passed out. Bakugou was so mad.”

“Thanks,” says Shouto.

“Any time, bro. Anyway, I’d better get back. Are you coming back to the dorms tonight?”

Shouto doesn’t know what time it is. He’d like to sleep some more. Maybe he can sleep in his own bed, though. “Yeah,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Kirishima.

****

Shouto falls back to sleep before he can make it out of bed to head back to the dorms. He doesn’t really intend to – he just wants to close his eyes for a couple of seconds – but then there’s just a long, grey blur and when he’s aware again his hair is drenched in sweat and the bed is covered in ice.

“Wha—” he says, but there’s no sound behind the word. Or maybe there is and he just can’t hear it because of the strange buzzing in his ears. His skin – it feels like – needles. He can’t see – he can’t see.

“What on Earth!” someone says. So he can hear sounds over the buzzing. He tries to move his head, but he can’t make his muscles obey him. He feels like he’s pinned down by some huge invisible weight.

Then someone presses something to the side of his head. There’s a loud sound of smacking lips. That’s – Recovery Girl. That’s what Recovery Girl sounds like. So now – he’ll be OK. He’ll be OK.

There’s a hand on his forehead, quickly withdrawn, half of it glinting with ice. “Well, this isn’t--” says the voice, and then Shouto fades out of awareness.

When he fades back in, he’s curled around himself, arms wrapped around his stomach. Someone’s groaning in pain nearby. His skin is – burning, it – hurts. It hurts.

“I think – hospital,” says someone.

“Here,” says someone else. There’s a hand on his chin, and then someone’s putting something in his mouth. He chokes, and whatever it is falls out of his mouth again. “Can you – IV?”

“It’s—”

Then nothing for a while.

“But I thought you said--?”

This voice he does recognise: Midoriya. He sounds upset. Shouto tries to turn towards the sound, but when he does every part of his body twists and curls back on itself, until he’s crushed like a spider, all of him broken. He gasps, the breath catching in his throat.

“Todoroki?” says Midoriya.

“– told you – outside--”

“Please, let me stay--”

Midoriya. Midoriya.

Shouto tries to open his eyes, but they’re already open. He can’t see anything. It’s so – dark.

And then.

Something – something touches his face, something cool and firm and perfect. It’s wrapped around his chin, his cheeks, and his mouth drops open with the feeling of it, the sheer relief. The burning in his face lessens, the coolness pushing it away, driving it away, spreading out over it, like water.

“Listen, asshole,” says a furious voice. “You’d better not fucking die on me, got it?”

He listens to the voice. He doesn’t die. The coolness spreads and spreads. He lies still, feeling himself uncurl, piece by piece. He doesn’t die.

“Shit,” says the voice, and then – the cool thing goes away.

Shouto makes a strangled noise and turns, blinking, trying to see, trying to reach after the thing, to find out where it went. He can move now – he can almost see, the dark blur resolving itself into a lighter blur, things moving around, just outside of his ability to make them out. Where did it go – where did it go?

“Todoroki?”

Someone takes his hand. The hand feels warm. He doesn’t want – he doesn’t want. He reaches out with his other hand, groping into the blur. Where did it go?

“Ka-- Kacchan? I think he wants--”

“Yeah, well, fuck tha--”

And then: someone takes his other hand, and it’s – cool. It’s so cool. He wrenches his other hand away from the first person, grabs the new hand with both of his. He curls around it, presses his forehead to the person’s knuckles. The coolness spreads, down his arms, through his brain, into his body. It spreads, it spreads. And he--

--doesn’t die.

He’s panting, he realises. He feels like he’s been running. A long way, a long way. His muscles ache. But he can – he can feel them, he can feel himself, he’s whole, not broken. There’s ice on his cheek, but it’s melting, the water running down his face. And he feels – alive.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, curled up around the hand. But eventually, he uncurls. He looks up at the hand’s owner. It’s a face he recognises.

“Kacchan,” Midoriya breathes behind him. “Did you – do that?”

The face he recognises looks at his hand, and then at him.

“Well, shit.”

****

Aside from Shouto, there are four people in the room: Aizawa, Midoriya, Recovery Girl, and Bakugou. Aizawa leans against the wall. Midoriya and Recovery Girl sit. Bakugou stands, hands in pockets, looking furious. Outside, it’s dark. He has no idea what time it is.

“It’s a quirk,” says Aizawa.

“Bullshit, you know what my quirk is,” says Bakugou.

“Not what I meant.” Aizawa nods at Recovery Girl. “If it can’t be healed at all by Recovery Girl’s quirk, then it’s not a natural illness.”

“But Kacchan healed it,” Midoriya says. He’s holding Shouto’s hand, patting it every now and then as if to make sure it’s still there.

“Because it’s not a natural illness,” says Aizawa.

Recovery Girl stands up and comes over to the bed. “Now, then, dearie. When did you start feeling ill?”

He blinks at her. He feels – very tired. “I was ill – in class. I passed out.”

“No, it was before that,” says Midoriya. “You were – remember, at lunch? That was – the day before yesterday. Or actually, three days ago, since I guess it’s tomorrow now.”

“Three days ago,” says Aizawa. He frowns. “At lunch?”

“Did you meet anyone unusual that day?” Recovery Girl asks.

He doesn’t know what day they’re talking about. The idea of remembering something that happened three days ago seems – impossible.

“It wasn’t then,” says Bakugou.

Aizawa looks over at him. “Then when?”

“Remember the villains we caught, on the way back from getting our licenses the day before that?” says Bakugou. “It must have been then. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

The villains – the villains. He remembers the villains. It feels like a long time ago, like maybe it happened to someone else.

Aizawa nods slowly. “I’ll call Tsukauchi, see if they’re still in custody.”

“OK, but listen,” says Bakugou. “Is this a – how does this fucking work, anyway? What’s – How the fuck--?”

“No way of knowing without hearing from the villain,” Aizawa says. “Or trial and error.”

“Not so much with the fucking error,” says Bakugou.

“He’s better now, so--” Midoriya says.

“Let’s just--” says Aizawa. “Let’s just see how it goes.” He sighs. “Midoriya, you should go back to the dorms. Someone at least should get some sleep tonight. Bakugou--”

“Sleep is for the weak.” Bakugou grabs a chair and sits down in it, folding his arms and glaring at Shouto. “So you should get some, asshole.”

“I want to stay, too,” says Midoriya. He looks like he might be about to cry. That’s not unusual. Midoriya cries a lot.

Aizawa scowls. Then he sighs. “Fine. Everyone is excused class tomorrow.” He comes over to the bed. “Todoroki, Bakugou’s right. You should try to sleep.”

He stares up at Aizawa. “What’s happening?” he asks.

Bakugou snorts. “Only you could fail to notice being in a fucking life-or-death situation, dumbass.”

“Sleep,” says Aizawa.

Shouto closes his eyes.

****

When he wakes up, it’s morning. Midoriya is asleep on the chair. Aizawa’s curled up on the floor in his sleeping bag. Recovery Girl is nowhere to be seen. Bakugou – is awake. And glaring.

“Decided to join us, huh, Halfie?” he says.

He stares at Bakugou. Bakugou looks mad, which is normal, but he also looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes. Shouto tries to remember what happened. Why they’re all here. He thinks he passed out in class. And then--

“Fuck, asshole, at least tell me you’re still feeling OK so I can fuck off and forget this ever happened,” says Bakugou.

Shouto swallows. His throat feels dry. His head aches. There’s an itch under his skin.

An itch.

And – he thinks he understands.

“It’s coming back,” he says.

Bakugou’s lip curls. He shoves himself to his feet and grabs Shouto’s hand. It feels – so cool. Shouto stares down at their two hands intertwined. He can almost see the coolness flowing from Bakugou into him. And the itch – subsides.

“And now?” says Bakugou.

Shouto licks his lips, still staring at their hands. “Better,” he says.

“I swear, if you're fucking messing with me--”

“I'm not messing with you.”

Bakugou puts his free hand over his eyes.

“Fucking -- fuck,” he says. "This is fucked up.”

Yeah, Shouto thinks.

Yeah, it is.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! If you want to drop me a line, I'd love to hear from you ♥

Chapter 4

“So then--” Midoriya starts.

“Shut the fuck up, shitty Deku!” yells Bakugou. He’s slouched in a chair as far away from the bed as possible, shoulders hunched, arms folded. Shouto’s sitting on the bed, legs crossed. He’s still wearing his uniform from yesterday, though someone took off his tie and unbuttoned his collar at some point. He’s aware that he smells of stale sweat. Midoriya is still in the chair he slept in, looking from Bakugou to Shouto, wide-eyed.

Aizawa sighs. He’s extricated himself from his sleeping bag and is more or less upright, but he definitely looks like he wishes he was somewhere else. “How long was it between when Bakugou – healed you in the night and when you woke up this morning feeling like the illness was coming back?”

“I didn’t heal anyone,” Bakugou growls. “It’s just a stupid quirk.”

“I don’t know what time it was, in the night,” Shouto says. He just remembers – how much everything hurt, and then how it stopped, how the coolness washed it all away. Bakugou.

“It was ten p.m. when I got here,” Midoriya says. “Then Kacchan arrived a little later, but – I don’t know, I don’t know how long after that it was that Kacchan – touched him. It felt like – a long time.”

Ten p.m. Bakugou and Midoriya came here at ten p.m. Well after Bakugou is usually asleep. Shouto wonders why they came. He’s glad they did. If they hadn’t – maybe he’d be dead.

“Well, at least five hours, anyway,” Aizawa says. “Could be worse. It’ll do, anyway, until the quirk wears off or we find a way to counteract it. Just – you two make sure you don’t go too far away from each other, just in case there’s an emergency.”

“Hah?” says Bakugou. “I’m not fucking hanging around this bastard all day! I already spent the whole fucking remedial course with him! Why do I always get stuck with him?”

Aizawa ignores him. “Todoroki, if you start to feel it coming on, let Bakugou know. And both of you let me know if anything starts to change.”

Shouto nods. Midoriya puts his hand up. Aizawa sighs.

“Yes, Midoriya?”

“Um, what about – sleeping?”

“Shut up!” says Bakugou.

“If it’s five hours – you two will just have to set an alarm for the appropriate time. Once a night should do it. Both of you set an alarm,” Aizawa says, throwing Bakugou a glance. “That’s the point of failure, if Todoroki gets sick and can’t come to wake you up.”

Bakugou’s jaw is clenched so hard that there’s a vein popping out on his forehead. “Fucking – fine,” he says.

“Understood,” says Shouto.

Aizawa scrubs a hand over his face. “I need to get ready for class. You three are excused.”

“No way!” says Bakugou. “I’m not sitting around doing nothing but stare at this idiot all day.”

“I’d like to go to class, too,” Shouto says. He feels a lot better and he’s already missed a lot of class, both through absence and through not being able to concentrate.

“Whatever,” Aizawa says. “Just don’t be late.”

He leaves the room. Bakugou launches himself to his feet.

“You tell anyone about this, I’ll let you fucking die,” he says, jabbing a finger at Shouto. Then he storms out.

 

****

Shouto walks back to the dorms with Midoriya. Midoriya’s rambling on about the quirk and how interesting it is and how he supposes that it must be Bakugou that activates the healing power because the two of them were together when the villain attacked Shouto – Shouto doesn’t really remember a villain attacking him, but he guess Midoriya must be right – and for the most part Shouto half-listens and enjoys the feeling of not being sick any more. He gets back to his room, showers, and washes all the sweat out of his hair. When he looks in the mirror, he sees all the bruises are gone from his face – Recovery Girl must have fixed them. He makes it to class just on time and slips into his seat. A lot of his classmates smile and whisper greetings as he passes. It takes him a minute to realise that the last time he saw most of them was when he passed out in class.

It’s the first class he’s really been able to concentrate in for days, and he spends a lot of it just enjoying the sensation of his mind working more-or-less correctly. When the break starts, his classmates crowd around his desk, wanting to tell him how happy they are that he’s feeling better. He nods and says thank you a lot, and eventually they drift away, leaving only Midoriya, Uraraka and Iida.

“Are you – still feeling all right?” Midoriya says, glancing quickly over his shoulder in the direction of Bakugou’s desk – currently empty.

“Yeah.”

“Midoriya, I’m sure Todoroki is better now,” Iida says. “Recovery Girl did a marvellous job, as always.”

They don’t know, Shouto realises. Of course they don’t know about the – Bakugou situation, but he wonders if they even know about any of it – about how bad it really got. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He just has to pay attention to how he feels, and it won’t get that bad again.

He pays attention to how he feels. Shortly before lunch, he notices that he feels – a little overly warm. That there’s a now-familiar itch. It’s still low-key, though, so he waits until class is over, and then approaches Bakugou where he’s standing with Kirishima and Kaminari.

“Bakugou—” he starts.

“Hah? Shut up!” Bakugou says. “Why are you talking to me?”

Shouto blinks. “I--”

“Fuck off, Icy Hot bastard,” says Bakugou, and storms out of the room.

Kirishima and Kaminari stare after him, then turn to look at Shouto.

“Did you two have a fight?” Kaminari asks. “I mean – apart from the fight you had. Like, a different fight.”

Shouto shrugs. The itch is a little worse. He’s not sure what to do now. This isn’t what they discussed.

“It’s just Bakugou being Bakugou,” says Kirishima, but he looks a little uneasy, glancing from Shouto to the door.

“It’s fine,” Shouto says. It’s probably fine. He still has time to find Bakugou.

In the end, though, Bakugou isn’t hard to find. Shouto’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and when he pulls it out, he has a message: a room number, on the top floor. He excuses himself and climbs the stairs. It’s quiet up here, all the students already in the dining hall. He finds the room and starts sliding the door open. Then, suddenly, it’s shoved open all the way from the other side. Bakugou grabs him by the front of his blazer and hauls him bodily inside, sticks his head out to check the hallway, then slams the door and turns sharply to face Shouto.

“Give me your fucking hand, then,” he says, but doesn’t wait for Shouto to comply, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand up, then wrapping his own hand around it.

Immediately, the itch under Shouto’s skin begins to subside. He lets out a breath. Bakugou’s looking anywhere but at him, but when he hears him sigh he glances up for just a second, meeting Shouto’s eyes before growling and looking away.

“You done?”

Shouto considers. Bakugou’s hand feels cool, he can still feel the coolness flowing into his own body. He doesn’t really know how this works yet, but he thinks that means it’s not done.

“Not yet.”

Bakugou makes an aggravated noise. “I can’t believe you fucking did this to me.”

“Did what?”

“This, moron!” Bakugou says, holding up their joined hands. “Of all the fucking people--”

Shouto’s still not sure what he’s supposed to have done – it’s Bakugou doing something to him, not the other way round – but the cool feeling starts to subside and Bakugou’s hand starts to feel pleasantly warm in his.

“I think – it’s done,” he says.

“Fucking finally,” says Bakugou, even though it’s only been a couple of minutes. He wrenches his hand away, shoves Shouto, and then throws the door open and storms out into the corridor. “Text me next time,” he calls back. “Don’t talk about this shit in front of people.”

Shouto stares at the open doorway. He can still feel a phantom pressure from Bakugou’s hand.

He flexes his fingers and heads out in the direction of the dining hall.

****

When they get back to the dorms that day after class, Shouto excuses himself, goes to his room, and texts Bakugou.

Now?

He doesn’t actually know where Bakugou is – he stomped out of class the moment it was over – but hopefully he’s somewhere in the building. It’s only been a little over four hours, but Shouto’s feeling itchy and hot, and now he knows that there’s an easy solution, he – wants it.

He sits on the floor and stares at his phone. He wonders what he’ll do if Bakugou doesn’t answer. He’ll have to go find him. And if he’s not in the building--

Shouto’s phone buzzes.

My room. Don’t let anyone see you!!!

He lets out a breath, then pockets his phone and goes downstairs.

He barely manages to raise his hand to knock before Bakugou’s dragging him inside and slamming the door. Shouto takes a moment to orient himself. He’s actually never been inside Bakugou’s room before. It’s neat, but with touches of character – posters on the wall, some spiky-looking object that Shouto can’t guess the purpose of, a lot of books. He squints to see if he can read the titles.

“What are you waiting for, idiot?”

Shouto looks round. Bakugou has his hand raised and is glaring at him. Oh. Yeah.

He reaches out and Bakugou grabs his hand and squeezes, like he’s trying to crush him. His grip is strong, but Shouto’s not that easily crushed. He doesn’t bother squeezing back, too focused on the feeling of it – the coolness, the relief. And – the feeling of pressure. Of someone touching him, someone else, someone who exists outside him, touching his skin. Not that no-one ever touches him, but it’s not – common. Because – he doesn’t really like being touched. He’s not the sort of person that people like to touch. So people don’t touch him. Anyway, it feels – different. Before, he’s always been so focused on the – healing, the cooling wave that washes away the discomfort. But now he realises that – there’s more to it.

“The fuck, Halfie, are you not fucking done?” snarls Bakugou.

Shouto blinks. Bakugou’s hand is warm in his. And he could just – say that he’s not done. If he wanted this to go on for longer. He could say that.

“Sorry, yeah,” he says. Bakugou snatches his hand away.

“Then get the fuck out.”

Shouto doesn’t move. “What about tonight? What time should we--”

“I don’t fucking care!”

“OK. How about three a.m.?”

“Can you even fucking count? That’s eleven fucking hours from now!”

“So – midnight?”

Bakugou slaps his hand over his eyes. “Fuck. Fuck.” Then he jabs Shouto in the chest. “Eight p.m.” Jab. “Eleven p.m.” Jab. “Two a.m.” Jab. “Five a.m.” Jab. “Got it?”

Shouto stares at him. “That’s only three hour interv--”

“I know that, dumbass! Don’t fucking argue!”

Shouto opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn’t really like getting up in the middle of the night, but on the other hand – maybe it won’t be that bad.

“OK,” he says.

“Finally! Now get the fuck out!”

So that’s what Shouto does.

****

Midoriya comes to sit by him in the common room later. They’re a little separated from everyone else, so they can talk without being overheard.

“Is everything going OK with – you know,” Midoriya asks.

“Yeah,” says Shouto. “We’re working out a system.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Midoriya says. “That’s great. Because I didn’t see you--”

“Yeah, we’ve been doing it in private.”

“Hm? Doing what in private?” says Kaminari, who is apparently a little closer than Shouto had realised.

Midoriya squeaks and jumps to his feet, distancing himself from Shouto. “Nothing – nothing!” he stutters. “No-one’s doing anything in private!”

Kaminari looks from Midoriya to Shouto, then smirks. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. Highly believable.”

Shouto shrugs. He doesn’t really care if people know. Except that Bakugou will get mad, but Bakugou’s always mad anyway. He thinks about Bakugou punching him in the face. He guesses they’re probably not going to do that any more now that Bakugou’s refusing to be seen within five metres of him.

“Anyway, I’d better – go!” squeaks Midoriya, and hurries off somewhere.

Shouto looks at his phone. It’s almost eight.

He gets up and goes to find Bakugou.

****

For their eight p.m. appointment, Shouto goes to Bakugou’s room, like before. Bakugou’s dressed in a tank top and boxers, like he was the night Shouto went to his room before. He’s on his way to bed.

“Let’s get this over with,” he growls, and grabs Shouto’s hand. There’s a hint of coolness, but it’s only been three hours and Shouto wasn’t really feeling much of an itch yet, so almost immediately it dissolves into something more normal, just the warmth of Bakugou’s palm against his. Shouto can’t remember the last time he spent so much time holding someone’s hand. When he was a kid, he guesses. Did Mom hold his hand, before she got locked away? Shouto can’t really remember.

“Done?” says Bakugou.

“Yeah.”

Shouto leaves.

****

Shouto goes to bed at ten, but he’s still awake at eleven when his alarm goes off. He gets out of bed and heads down the stairs, only to meet Bakugou on the way up. He looks rumpled and sleepy. And suddenly furious.

“Not out here, asshole,” he says, and then grabs Shouto and drags him down the stairs and into his room. The light’s still off and Shouto blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Before they can, though, he feels a hand grab his. That hint of cool, and then the warmth. Firm grip, not squeezing too hard this time. It’s quiet – it’s really quiet. Shouto can hear Bakugou breathing. He shifts his grip, interlaces his fingers with Bakugou’s.

“The fuck?” Bakugou yells. Or – no, he doesn’t yell. He whispers, but somehow – it seems like a yell. Then he wrenches his hand away and shoves Shouto out the door. “Next time wait in your fucking room, Halfie,” he whispers. The door closes quietly. Shouto stands in the corridor. He feels – a little confused. He’s not sure why Bakugou suddenly got so mad. But – it’s Bakugou, so.

He goes back to bed.

****

At two a.m., Shouto sleeps through his alarm and is woken by Bakugou shaking him violently. For a second, he doesn’t remember where he is, and his heart feels like it’s rising up into his throat, blocking his airway, beating in his mouth. Then he hears Bakugou’s voice, whispering at him to wake up, motherfucker, and he recognises it, recognises this, his room in the dorms, his room, the dorms, Bakugou.

“I’m awake,” he mumbles.

“Get a louder alarm,” says Bakugou, and grabs his hand.

And so it goes. After their final appointment of the night, at five, Bakugou storms off for a run, and Shouto gives up on trying to sleep and just lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. He hasn’t had a full night’s sleep, even not counting the interruptions, but at the same time-- At the same time, he feels rested, in a way he hasn’t for a while. It’s probably just because he’s been so tired from being ill, he decides. It’s the contrast that makes this feel good.

He lies there for a long time, not really thinking about anything.

Then he gets up to get ready for school.

****

In the morning, Aizawa demands a situation report.

“It’s fine,” Shouto says. “It’s going well.”

“Fucking awful,” says Bakugou. “When is the fucking quirk going to wear off?”

“I checked with Tsukauchi. Three of the villains in custody have unknown quirks. Unfortunately, none of them have admitted to having the quirk that’s affected the two of you.”

“It hasn’t affected two of us, it’s affected one of us,” says Bakugou. “The fucking stupid one.”

Aizawa ignores this. “Todoroki, is there any sign of it wearing off?”

Shouto considers. He didn’t really get a chance to check in the night, with the intervals being so short. It’s 8.30 now, only three and half hours since the last time Bakugou held his hand. But when he thinks about how he’s feeling – there. There’s the itch. Barely coming into being, but it’s there.

“Not yet,” he says.

Bakugou growls and grabs his hand. Shouto looks down in surprise.

“It’s not really necessary yet,” he says.

“Shut up. Might as well get a headstart,” says Bakugou.

Shouto doesn’t complain.

****

The day passes much like the previous one. At lunchtime, and again after class, Bakugou texts Shouto the details of a private location, and he goes there and Bakugou holds his hand. This time, Shouto doesn’t have to ask him first – the texts come through when he’s only just starting to think about maybe finding Bakugou. Bakugou seems pretty mad, but that’s not really a surprise, given that he’s Bakugou. He refuses to look Shouto in the eye when they’re holding hands, and after a while, Shouto stops trying, and just focuses inwards, on the coolness, and then the warmth. He understands now why couples sometimes hold hands with each other. It feels good, even if you’re not dating the person whose hand you’re holding. It’s surprising, because Shouto always thought that he didn’t really like people touching him. But he supposes he hasn’t had a lot of experience to really check. Not of this kind of touching, anyway.

At eight p.m. Bakugou holds Shouto’s hand, then yells at him and shoves him out of his room, slamming the door. It’s very similar to the day before, except this time, Kirishima’s also in the corridor, hand on the door of his own room. He pauses, staring at Shouto.

“Um, hi,” he says.

“Hi,” says Shouto. He’s thinking about how he can still kind of feel that phantom pressure. If he focuses, sometimes he can make the feeling last for several minutes.

Kirishima blinks at him. Then he looks at Bakugou’s door. Then he looks at Shouto again.

“So…” he says.

Shouto looks up from his hand. He doesn’t really want to talk to Kirishima. If he loses concentration, the feeling will go away.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Um. Never mind.”

Kirishima goes into his room. Shouto goes upstairs. The feeling of warmth and pressure has slipped away. Still, Bakugou will be back in three hours.

He sits down at his desk to wait.

****

That night, though, something goes wrong.

It’s the two a.m. alarm again. Shouto doesn’t realise that until afterwards, because at the time he has other things on his mind. He’s even aware of the alarm, can hear it, high-pitched and painful in his ears. Some part of him even knows what it is. But the rest of him is sunk in shadows, and the beeping winds its way around the roaring of flames and the sound of someone weeping and is nothing, means nothing. Shouto can’t breathe, and his skin is on fire. There’s something scraping against the inside of his skull, and he wants to reach up and tear it out, but he can’t move, he can’t move his hands, his arms. He strains, trying to get a breath in. How did he get here? Why is it – why is it so hot?

“Motherfucker, again?” says a voice somewhere nearby. And then, “Wait, shit. Icy Hot? Fuck.”

And then: coolness. It’s coming from his hand, and from his face, and the twin currents wash down his arm and neck and meet in his chest, loosening his throat, his lungs. He sucks in a breath, and another. Whatever was scratching inside his head crumbles away. He lies still. Everything’s so still.

“Icy Hot?” says a voice. Bakugou. It’s Bakugou. The hand wrapped around his, the hand on his face. He thinks about Bakugou and feels a kind of warmth, a kind of pressure. Not like the heat and crushing force of before. Something – better.

“Hey,” Bakugou says. “Hey, fucking – open your eyes. Open your fucking eyes.”

Shouto opens his eyes. He feels dazed, half-asleep. Bakugou’s leaning over him, staring down at him. His hand is still on Shouto’s cheek.

“OK?” Bakugou says.

“Yeah,” breathes Shouto.

“Yeah,” says Bakugou. He stays there for just a second, staring at Shouto. Then he sits back, hand gone from Shouto’s face. “So I guess – this system fucking sucks.”

“Hm,” says Shouto. His eyes slip closed.

“Don’t – you asshole don’t just--”

Shouto falls asleep.

****

When he wakes up, it’s because his alarm is going off. It’s five a.m. Time for him to meet with Bakugou.

Except Bakugou’s already there.

He’s sitting on the floor next to Shouto’s futon, looking murderous and holding Shouto’s hand. Shouto stares at him. Bakugou scowls back.

“Couldn’t even fucking manage three fucking hours,” he says. It’s a little cryptic. Shouto isn’t really awake enough yet to figure out what he means.

“You’re here early,” he mumbles, closing his eyes again. Bakugou’s hand feels warm in his.

“You fucking bastard, I never fucking left.”

Shouto tries to make sense of that. Then he remembers – feeling bad, in the night. And then feeling better. He remembers that Bakugou was there. He opens his eyes.

“You’ve—” he says. Bakugou glares. He looks – tired, the dark circles that Shouto first noticed two days ago more pronounced now. Shouto looks down at his hand, at Bakugou’s hand. “How long have you been holding my hand?”

“Three. Fucking. Hours.”

Shouto stares. “Why?”

Bakugou bares his teeth, rising up on his knees. “Because you,” he says jabbing a finger at Shouto, “can’t even manage to go for three fucking hours before getting fucking sick, you fucking half’n’half shit for brains motherfucking dumbass moron.”

Shouto blinks. He’s never heard quite that many insults from Bakugou in one breath. It’s kind of impressive.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Fuck you,” says Bakugou, and wrenches his hand away. “And don’t go back to sleep, either! At least when you’re fucking awake, you can fucking tell me when you’re about to fucking die.”

“I don’t think – I was about to die?” Shouto says. Though honestly, he doesn’t really remember much, apart from feeling bad and then feeling better.

Bakugou growls, deep in his throat, and lunges at Shouto, leaning over him in the futon, face inches away, eyes bloodshot and furious. For a couple of seconds, they’re frozen, Shouto blinking up, Bakugou glowering down. Then Bakugou surges to his feet.

“Don’t go back to fucking sleep!” he says, and slams out of the room.

Shouto sits up and rubs the back of his head. That was – a little intense, even for him. He should probably have said he was sorry again. He is sorry. He didn’t mean for Bakugou to have to sit up all night with him.

He sighs and goes to take a shower.

****

That morning’s sitrep is less straightforward than the day before.

“How’s it all going?” Aizawa asks.

“Ask this asshole,” Bakugou says, jerking a thumb in his direction.

“I got sick in the night,” Shouto says. “Bakugou sat with me to make sure it didn’t happen again.”

Aizawa frowns. “Did you miss the alarm?”

“No fucking way,” says Bakugou. “It was only three hours, but he was--” He stops. “...fucking sick,” he finishes, voice weirdly subdued.

Aizawa’s frown deepens. “Three hours?” He looks at the clock on the wall. “How long’s it been this time?”

“Three and a half,” says Shouto. “I feel – I can feel it’s coming back, but it’s got a long way to run.”

“Ffffff--” says Bakugou, and grabs his hand.

“So then…” Aizawa says, tapping a pen against his lips. “Perhaps it’s different when you’re asleep. At any rate, certainly more dangerous, since you’re less likely to notice it coming.”

“What about the fucking villain?” says Bakugou. “Fucking – torture that motherfucker or whatever, we need the damn info.”

Aizawa scrubs a hand over his face. “All right. Both of you will need to sleep eventually, and we have no idea how long this is going to go on for, so – leave it with me.”

“Got it,” says Shouto, getting to his feet and tugging slightly on Bakugou’s hand for him to follow him up. Bakugou sneers and gets up, and it’s only when they’re almost at the door that he glances down, growls, and tears his hand away, shoving it in his pocket.

“Don’t fucking push it, Icy Hot,” he says, and stomps off towards the classroom.

Shouto watches him go for a second.

Then he follows behind.

****

That day, Bakugou is even more abrasive than usual in their brief encounters at lunch and after class. Actually, Shouto thinks that maybe they need to add a third – to redistribute, because by the time he gets to lunch, the itching is starting to feel painful and there’s sweat breaking out on the back of his neck – but Bakugou won’t even talk to him, won’t look at him, slamming his hand against Shouto’s like he’s trying to hurt him. It doesn’t hurt, though. Even with all of Bakugou’s rage, it still feels good. Like cool water, and then, once the itching subsides, like something warm and solid. He curls his fingers around the back of Bakugou’s hand without really thinking, and Bakugou almost shrieks at him, almost punches him but stop himself just before he makes contact. Shouto looks at his fist, inches from Shouto’s face, and wonders. Would it have felt good?

In the evening, Aizawa appears in the dorms and asks them to follow him. He’s discreet, but Shouto sees Midoriya notice, sees him watch them go. They go up to Shouto’s room. There’s a camp bed there, set up next to the futon.

“This is the best I could come up with on short notice,” says Aizawa.

“What?” says Bakugou. “You want me to sleep in his fucking room?”

“Or he can sleep in yours.”

“No way am I letting that bastard sleep in my room.”

“Well, then.”

Bakugou scowls at the camp bed like he wants to murder it. Shouto frowns.

“How often will we need to wake up?” he asks.

“Not at all,” says Aizawa. “Just hold hands while you’re sleeping. Problem solved.”

“Hold hands?” yells Bakugou. “I am not holding that bastard’s hand!”

Aizawa turns to stare at him. Shouto does, too. He’s fairly sure they’ve already been holding hands. Haven’t they? What does Bakugou think they’ve been doing?

“Shut the fuck up, Icy Hot,” says Bakugou.

“Sorry,” says Shouto.

“I said shut up!”

“Look, it’s either this or wake up frequently. Very frequently,” says Aizawa. “This is a high-risk situation. There’s no solution that doesn’t involve a little discomfort.”

“Then I--” Bakugou says, and Shouto waits for him to say that he’d prefer to stay awake all night than hold Shouto’s hand. He knows that’s what he’s going to say. The knowledge feels strangely like an ache in his chest.

But then Bakugou doesn’t say it. Instead, he shakes his head. “Fucking – fine! But I’m going to bed now, Halfie, so either you go to bed too or fuck off until you’re ready to sleep.”

Shouto frowns. “It’s my room.”

“Like I fucking care.”

Aizawa sighs. “Please try not to kill each other in the night,” he says. “That kind of thing reflects badly on the school.”

Bakugou sits down on the camp bed and glares at Shouto.

Shouto leaves the room.

****

When Shouto comes back a couple of hours later, his room is dark and silent. He closes the door as quietly as he can, tiptoes in and slips into his sleeping shirt and shorts. He slides into the futon and lies there for a few seconds, considering. He feels – itchy. He feels itchy.

Once his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, he looks over to the shadow of the camp bed. Bakugou is an indistinct lump in the faint light filtering through the blinds. His arm is hanging off the side of the bed and trailing on the floor.

Shouto reaches out and takes his hand. It feels cool. He sinks back into the futon, staring at the ceiling, feeling the coolness. And then the warmth. It feels a little strange, to lie in his bed with his arm stretched out like this. It feels strange to have someone else in the room, even breathing where usually there's no sound at all. He looks over at the camp bed and thinks for a second that he sees a glint, an open eye, Bakugou looking back. But – no. He can’t see anything. He just imagined that.

Shouto flexes his fingers around Bakugou’s hand and closes his eyes.

It takes him a long time to get to sleep.

Notes:

Isn't it great to have a sandbox where you can just wave your hand and create a magic power that forces your ship to hold hands all night?

Comments are always appreciated ♥

Chapter 5

When Shouto wakes up, it’s morning. The room is dim and grey, but outside it’s daylight, and even with the blinds drawn there’s enough light to see by.

And he sees: Bakugou Katsuki, lying in a camp bed beside his futon, bundled up in blankets, holding his hand and staring at him.

Staring? Or – glaring. He’s glaring. But Shouto thought – when he first opened his eyes he thought it wasn’t quite a glare. But he was still in the process of waking up then, and now he’s fully awake it’s very clearly a glare. Not that Shouto really cares if Bakugou glares at him. It’s his default expression, after all.

“Fucking finally!” growls Bakugou. “How the fuck can you sleep so long, Halfie?”

Shouto clears his throat. Bakugou’s palm feels warm and solid against his. “It’s Saturday.”

“That’s no fucking excuse.”

Shouto gropes for his phone with his free hand and discovers it’s nine a.m. Even considering how long it took him to get to sleep, he probably slept for ten hours. He feels – really good.

“Fucking hell, you’re really just going to lie there, aren’t you?” Bakugou says, and then he lets go of Shouto’s hand and sits up, throwing off the blankets and rolling his shoulders. Shouto flexes his fingers. His hand suddenly feels a little cold.

“I’m sleeping in,” Shouto says.

Bakugou snorts. “You’re not asleep, moron.”

Oh. Shouto learned the term (and the concept) sleeping in from Kaminari a couple of months ago, but he hadn’t realised you had to be asleep for it to count. He’s been doing it wrong, then.

“Whatever, weirdo, I’m going for a run. Fucking – call me if shit starts to go down, got it? Or I’ll fucking kill you.”

That doesn’t make a lot of sense, since the whole point of calling Bakugou if shit starts to go down is to make sure he doesn’t die, but Shouto’s feeling sleepy and he doesn’t really want an argument, so he just watches Bakugou leave and then stares at the ceiling for a while. This really doesn’t count as sleeping in? He wonders if there’s another term for it. He should ask Kaminari. Maybe later. For now he’ll just – lie here doing – whatever this is.

He doesn’t really think about much while he’s not sleeping in. There’s always so much going on at school – class and hero training and extracurriculars and then all his classmates, who are constantly moving and talking and laughing and wanting to do things together, and then when he gets a few moments, Mom and Fuyumi. Sometimes the constant activity makes his head spin. So weekend mornings when there’s nothing planned are a good time to just think about nothing. Bakugou, though – Bakugou gets up at the crack of dawn even on the weekends. Shouto knows that from before he’d really realised sleeping in was an option, when he used to get up early at the weekends, too. Bakugou was always up before him, often coming in from his run when Shouto was heading to the kitchen for breakfast.

Except today, because he was holding Shouto’s hand.

Shouto looks at his hand. Bakugou always grabs his left – it’s warmer, Shouto guesses. He’s spent a lot of time contemplating that hand, knows all the little imperfections of it, the veins that stand out on the back, the three thin scars, barely visible. Now, though, he’s not thinking about what the hand represents – or, no, that’s not right. He is thinking about what it represents, but not the same way he usually does. He’s thinking about how Bakugou’s palm feels against his, warm, smooth, solid. He’d never thought that just someone touching him – just someone touching his hand – could feel so – relaxing. How strange.

How strange.

****

Shouto’s still in bed when Bakugou comes back two hours later. “Are you fucking serious, you lazy asshole?” he says, incredulous instead of furious, which makes a change. “You’re gonna grow fucking moss!”

“That doesn’t seem very likely.”

“Shut up! Give me your fucking hand.”

Shouto holds his hand out and Bakugou grabs it in both of his.

“You don’t really need to--” Shouto starts. Bakugou snarls at him.

“Shitty Hair wants to go to the gym and I need to do it or he’s gonna fucking – suspect something.”

Shouto waits. Bakugou doesn’t say anything else. “OK?” Shouto says.

“So just – I’ll charge you up or whatever now and then that’ll give us a couple hours and I can get away from your shitty face.”

“Huh. Do you think that’s how it works – charging up?”

“Of course it fucking works that way! What other way would it fucking work?”

Shouto shrugs. “It does make sense. This morning, after you held my hand all night, I felt better than I have since--”

“Shut the fuck up, Icy Hot, I did not hold your fucking hand!”

Shouto blinks. “You’re holding my hand right now.”

“I’m saving your fucking life, asshole!”

“Yeah,” Shouto says. “You’re saving my life. By holding my hand.”

“Shut up!” yells Bakugou. “Why do you have to talk? Just stop fucking talking!”

“But it’s not completely conclusive,” Shouto says, half to himself. “Maybe I just felt better this morning because I slept for so long. There’s no guarantee that longer contact will give us more time before it comes back. And anyway, if there’s a limit to how far it can be charged--”

“Fucking fine, I won’t go to the fucking gym,” Bakugou says, literally throwing Shouto’s hand on the floor.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you fucking said! I’m not fucking going if it means I’m gonna come back and find a fucking half and half corpse.”

Shouto blinks at him. “I’m not going to die,” he says.

“You fucking could,” says Bakugou. “You almost fucking did before we figured it out.”

Shouto – doesn’t really remember. He remembers that he felt terrible, and then he remembers the coolness. Was he really that close to death? That must have been difficult for Midoriya and Bakugou.

“I’ll text you if things start to get bad,” he says. “The gym’s only ten minutes’ walk away. You don’t need to worry about me, you should go.”

“The hell? I’m not fucking worried, you arrogant bastard,” snarls Bakugou. “Just don’t want Aizawa to give me detention if I let you die.”

“OK. You can still go, though.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” Bakugou grabs his hand from the floor and squeezes it. “Fucking – charge up, asshole. And don’t let me catch you still in bed when I get back, either!”

“I’m sleeping in.”

“Shut up! And don’t fucking text me if there’s a problem, fucking call, what are you, a complete idiot?”

“Yeah,” says Shouto, not specifying which part he’s agreeing with.

Bakugou growls and grips his hand even tighter, like he’s trying to crush it.

Shouto doesn’t mind.

****

After Bakugou’s gone to the gym, Shouto gets up and goes down to breakfast. Well, it’s lunch by now. He sits with Midoriya and Uraraka, Iida and Asui. It’s nice, listening to them talk, whiling away the day, with nothing planned. Later, when most of the others have drifted away to do other things, Shouto turns to Midoriya.

“When I was sick in Recovery Girl’s office – was it bad?”

Midoriya sits up a little, his eyes suddenly huge and shining.

“Yeah,” he says solemnly. “It was really bad.”

“Oh.” Shouto considers that. He hadn’t really thought about it before. “I’m sorry. You must have been worried.”

“Todoroki, how can you even be sorry for something like that?” Midoriya says. “It’s not your fault you got sick!”

Shouto shrugs. He doesn’t like making his friends feel bad. And it is his fault he got hit with a quirk and didn’t even realise.

Then Midoriya starts crying and Shouto realises he might have made it worse by bringing it up. He really needs to think more about these things before he does them. But there’s so many possible ways people can react and outside of combat they almost never do what he thinks they will.

“Don’t cry,” he says, patting Midoriya’s arm, but that just makes Midoriya bawl and hug him and hold his hands, which is actually – kind of nice. It would be nicer if Midoriya didn’t seem so upset, but now that Shouto’s realised that maybe he isn’t a person who doesn’t like to be touched, he’s starting to think that maybe he’s a person who really likes being touched a lot. It’s strange that he could have been so wrong about that. Still, Midoriya holding his hands is pleasant, although Midoriya’s hands are damper than Bakugou’s, presumably because he just used them to wipe his eyes.

Kaminari walks past and makes an odd sort of expression with his eyebrows. Shouto doesn’t know what it means. He squeezes Midoriya’s hands.

“I’m glad you’re OK,” Midoriya sniffles.

Shouto’s glad, too.

****

Bakugou comes back from the gym and storms past Shouto without looking his way. But he makes the slightest flick of his head, which Shouto notices, and a minute or two after he’s stomped up the stairs, Shouto gets up and follows him. In Bakugou’s room, they hold hands for maybe two minutes. Neither of them says anything. Shouto’s busy thinking about how he’s been touched more in the past few days than ever in his life before – unless you count being punched and kicked and shoved, but he still has to think about that some more. He doesn’t know what Bakugou’s thinking about, but whatever it is, it seems to make him mad, as usual.

Shouto leaves, and the rest of Saturday is uneventful, punctuated by occasional appointments with Bakugou. In the evening, he stays away from his room, assuming that Bakugou will want to go to bed early, and when he goes up himself, everything’s just as it was the night before – Bakugou’s asleep, but his hand is waiting for Shouto, and Shouto takes it. This time, he falls asleep easily, and sleeps deeply and well.

The next day, though, some unexpected things happen.

The first unexpected thing is that Yaoyorozu finds him in the common room and asks if they can talk in private. He gets up and follows her to a quiet corner, and she turns to face him, looking worried, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Todoroki, are you – is everything all right?”

He considers telling her about the quirk. It seems like she might have already figured something out anyway, and he doesn’t see why it has to be a secret. Except that Bakugou wants it to be a secret, and even though he thinks that’s completely unnecessary, Bakugou is helping him a lot – saving his life – so he should probably go along with his wishes.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Why do you ask?”

Yaoyorozu wrings her hands a little. “Well, I – Well, you know, I don’t believe in listening to gossip, but at the same time--” She pauses and Shouto waits. “Kaminari said you and Midoriya were – together.”

It’s a straightforward statement, yet somehow – a little cryptic. He tries to remember the last time he saw Kaminari. In the common room, yesterday? And the day before as well. He and Midoriya were together both times, so that makes sense. Although he’s not sure why it would be noteworthy enough for Kaminari to tell Yaoyorozu.

“Yeah,” he says.

Yaoyorozu looks even more worried. “But Satou said he saw Bakugou coming out of your room early this morning. And Kirishima said he saw you coming out of Bakugou’s room before that.”

“Yeah,” he says again, still unsure why people seem interested enough in where he is at any given time to tell their classmates about it.

“Then – you and Bakugou – are you--” Yaoyorozu swallows. “Well, I mean, I don’t want to presume, but you’re not – sleeping together, are you?”

“Yeah, we’re sleeping together,” he says. He wonders if Aizawa told the class or if Yaoyorozu just guessed from knowing that Bakugou was in his room early in the morning.

Yaoyorozu lets out a slight gasp. “Todoroki – that’s – I wouldn’t have expected that of you. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Shouto is starting to find this conversation a little difficult to understand. Does Yaoyorozu know about the quirk illness? If she doesn’t, he probably shouldn’t tell her, since Bakugou is so insistent. But on the other hand, it’s hard to explain why it’s definitely a good idea – a necessity, even – for him to sleep with Bakugou without making any reference to it. Also, his skin is starting to itch and he feels a headache coming on, which isn’t helping him to understand any of this.

“It’s – fine,” he says. “It’s not something you need to worry about.”

“I just – I know Bakugou was bullying you before and I just want to make sure you’re not – that there isn’t something else going on.”

“He wasn’t bullying me.” Shouto rolls his neck, trying to make the headache go away. He’s not even sure Bakugou could bully him. He tries to imagine what that would look like, but comes up blank.

“I really don’t want to see you get hurt,” Yaoyorozu continues, “and I would hate to see you ruin your relationship with Midoriya.”

That pulls Shouto up short. He really has no idea what Yaoyorozu is talking about, but – his relationship with Midoriya? He doesn’t think he’s done anything to affect his relationship with Midoriya, but at the same time, he’s definitely done things in the past that have upset people without him really noticing. And he doesn’t want to upset Midoriya – doesn’t want to do anything to change their relationship.

“You think – Midoriya might be upset?”

Yaoyorozu gives him this sad sort of smile. “Oh, Todoroki,” she says. “You should probably be honest with him.”

Shouto blinks. He’s always honest with Midoriya. He’s honest with most people. He’s been told it’s offputting, although he’s never really figured out why.

Yaoyorozu pats him on the shoulder and leaves. He frowns after her.

Then he goes to find Midoriya.

****

The problem is, Shouto can’t find Midoriya, and the other problem is, he’s starting to feel really kind of terrible. It’s barely been an hour since Bakugou last held his hand, and he’s not due back for another hour, spending time with Kirishima again. But it’s barely been an hour. Shouto shouldn’t be feeling this bad.

But he is feeling bad. His head is really aching, to the point where it’s hard for him to see very clearly and he keeps having to squint even against the grey winter daylight. The itch under his skin feels like something’s gnawing on him. His thoughts are – unclear. They keep circling round the same idea. Did he ruin his friendship with Midoriya? How? How? He needs – to find Midoriya. He needs to find him so he can tell him – so he can ask him – so he can make sure--

Midoriya’s not in the common room. He’s not in his room. He’s not in the kitchen. He’s not training in the space beyond the dorm steps. Shouto’s thinking about going to look in the gym, but he’s also aware that he needs to be in the dorm when Bakugou gets back. Actually, he thinks maybe he needs Bakugou to come back sooner. His head’s kind of spinning, and when he puts his hand in his pocket to get his phone, it isn’t there.

His phone. Where’s his phone? For a strange, illogical moment, he thinks it must be with Midoriya, since he can’t find either of them, but then he realises that he probably just left it in his bedroom. He goes back upstairs and finds the phone half-under the camp bed. It’s dead. The charger is – somewhere. He doesn’t know where the charger is. He stands in the middle of the room, looking stupidly at the phone. He thinks if he wasn’t feeling quite so bad, he’d have some ideas about where to look for the charger. But as it is, he can’t think of anywhere.

So he’ll – borrow someone else’s phone. There’ll be someone in the common room. He can call Bakugou, and then he can call Midoriya, and then he can lie down and sleep for a long time. So that’s – a plan. That’s something he can work with.

He goes back downstairs. When he’s two floors up, he becomes aware that someone’s yelling in the common room. When he’s one floor up, he becomes aware that it’s Bakugou. That’s – good, that’s really good. He won’t have to wait for Bakugou to come back.

He steps into the common room. Most of the class is there, and there’s a kind of gasp when he walks in, although he’s not sure who gasped, or if it was actually more than one person. He sees that Midoriya is there, hands raised in front of him. And Bakugou, standing in the middle of the room, looking furious.

He opens his mouth to speak to Midoriya, but before he can say anything, Bakugou rounds on him.

“You fucking two-faced bastard!” he yells. Shouto isn’t always great at understanding people’s emotions, but right now, even with the pain in his head and his thoughts turning in circles, he recognises that Bakugou is genuinely furious. “You told everyone we were fucking?”

Shouto stares. He’s aware that his mouth’s slightly open, but he can’t figure out how to do anything about it. Everyone’s looking at him. The room’s very quiet.

“I – no?” he says at last. His voice sounds a little strange, hoarser than usual.

“Don’t fucking pull the innocent with me,” Bakugou snarls, and then he stalks towards him and shoves him, hard. And – normally that wouldn’t have done much, because Bakugou is strong but Shouto has an excellent stance and it’s not like he didn’t see it coming. But today, Shouto’s stance is not excellent. Today, Bakugou’s shove is enough to send him stumbling back, and then falling, his head suddenly spinning in a nauseating way, reaching out to try and break his fall even though he can’t quite see where the floor is.

“Fuck,” says Bakugou, somewhere very far away, then, “Fuck.”

And then Bakugou’s hands are on him, one on his face, one wrapped around his hand, coolness spilling out of them in a great wave, submerging Shouto, until he’s suspended in something peaceful and calm and still.

He has his eyes closed, he realises. He doesn’t want to open them. Everything outside this bubble is difficult and confusing. But in here, there’s nothing but calm.

“Shut the fuck up,” yells Bakugou, much closer now. “I’m saving his fucking life, you nosy fucking assholes.” Then he shakes him. “Open your fucking eyes, Icy Hot, I am not fucking kidding around here.”

Shouto opens his eyes.

A lot of people are looking at him.

Maybe it’s time to explain.

Notes:

How many different ways can Class 1-A misunderstand what's going on with Shouto? All of them. All the different ways.

Comments are love ♥

Chapter 6

Bakugou hauls him off the floor and dumps him on the couch without letting go of his hand, then sits next to him with a level of aggression that Shouto hasn’t ever witnessed in the action of sitting down before. Shouto feels – exhausted. Much, much better than he did – all the pain’s gone, leaving a strange kind of serenity in its wake – but so tired that he thinks he might fall asleep right there on the couch.

“Hey,” Bakugou says, flicking him in the forehead. It’s a weirdly familiar gesture, but Shouto can’t remember why. “OK, Halfie?”

“OK,” he murmurs.

“So then, why the fuck do all these idiots think we’re fucking?”

Shouto stares at his classmates. They stare back. Midoriya’s hovering by the couch now, hands in mid-air like he wants to touch Shouto but doesn’t dare. He could, if he wanted to. Shouto thinks it would probably be nice.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“I’m – so sorry, Todoroki,” Yaoyorozu says. She’s wringing her hands again. “I wasn’t gossiping, I swear, but I was so worried about you and I mentioned it to Tsuyu because I thought she might be able to help, only I think Mineta overheard and then suddenly everybody knew.”

Bakugou growls low in his throat. “Where is that purple fucker?”

“Hiding,” says Kirishima. “Not very manly.”

“I don’t understand,” says Shouto. “Mentioned what to Asui?”

“What you told me this morning,” says Yaoyorozu. “About – you and Bakugou – sleeping together.” She darts a worried look at Midoriya, as if somehow he might be upset to hear it. Shouto feels – really tired.

“Hah?” says Bakugou. Then he turns to him. “Hah?”

Shouto looks back. “She already knew, so I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Bakugou’s eyes widen. He looks – mad. Pretty mad. Shouto thinks about maybe just taking a nap instead of dealing with this, but that’ll probably make Bakugou even more mad, which normally Shouto wouldn’t care that much about, but he doesn’t want Bakugou to let go of his hand.

“You are a fucking moron,” Bakugou says, jabbing him in the chest with his forefinger hard enough that it kind of hurts. “We are not sleeping together.”

“We… are though?” says Shouto, wondering if this is like how Bakugou keeps denying that they’re holding hands. And then he thinks: oh. “Oh, you mean like – sleeping together like having sex?”

“Shut up!” yells Bakugou, so Shouto thinks that probably is what he means. It hadn’t occurred to him that that might be what Yaoyorozu meant, but now he thinks about it, it does make more sense. He wishes she’d clarified that in the beginning.

“We’re not having sex,” he says to Yaoyorozu, who blushes deeply and looks confused. It’s kind of weird that she thought they were having sex in this first place. They’re not even dating. Dating Bakugou seems like it would be hard work. Then he turns to Midoriya, because he’s still concerned about that. “Midoriya – did I do something to upset you?”

“Um – no,” Midoriya says. “What – might you have done?”

Shouto doesn’t know, but it’s important he makes sure. He doesn’t want to lose his friendship with Midoriya. “We’re still friends?”

“Of course we’re friends!” Midoriya says, as if anything else would be completely impossible. Shouto feels something inside his chest loosen.

“Friends, right?” Kaminari says, doing his eyebrow thing again.

“I mean, dude, he’s holding Kacchan’s hand.”

“Open your mind, my friend. No reason a man can’t hold more than one person’s hand at once.”

While that’s certainly true, Shouto really doesn’t understand what Kaminari and Kirishima are talking about.

“I’m so sorry,” Yaoyorozu says again. “I don’t – really understand but I obviously got it wrong. Midoriya, I’m sorry, you must have been so upset.”

Midoriya blinks at Yaoyorozu. He looks confused, which is good because it means Shouto’s not the only one, but on the other hand, Midoriya’s much better at all – this kind of thing than Shouto, and if even he doesn’t understand it then there could be a real problem.

“Upset about… what?” Midoriya asks.

“Well, you know. About thinking Todoroki was sleeping with Bakugou. Honestly, I thought it was very out of character for him sleep with someone else while dating you, but--”

“Hah?” says Bakugou, for some reason looking even more enraged than he did when he thought Shouto told everyone they were having sex and tightening his grip on Shouto’s hand until it’s a little painful. “You’re fucking the shitty nerd? The fuck kind of terrible taste do you have, Half and Half?”

Shouto frowns at Bakugou, then at Yaoyorozu. “Midoriya and I aren’t having sex either,” he says. “I’m not having sex with anyone,” he clarifies, just in case there’s a third or fourth person that Yaoyorozu has somehow got the impression that he’s having sex with.

“You’re holding Blasty’s hand,” Ashido says.

“Fuck off! No-one’s holding anyone’s hand!”

“We are holding hands, though,” says Shouto.

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, don’t ever say another fucking word to me again!”

Shouto’s very tired.

****

In the end, Midoriya explains because Shouto’s too tired and Bakugou seems to have reached a point of agitation where he can no longer form words. Shouto leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes, listening to Midoriya’s explanation – which is honestly more thorough than anything he could have managed – and thinking about the fact that Bakugou still hasn’t let go of his hand. Given how extremely averse he was to anyone seeing them holding hands, it’s a little surprising. It’s good, though. He’d be happy to fall asleep like this, holding hands with Bakugou on the couch.

“Whoa,” says Kirishima at the end of the explanation. “That’s fucked up.”

“How long will it last?” asks Yaoyorozu. She sounds quieter than usual.

“Fuck knows,” mutters Bakugou.

“We don’t know,” says Midoriya.

“So like, you’re – literally sleeping together.”

“Shut up!”

“OK, but – you don’t have to hold hands all the time, right? You said there was, like, a refractory period,” says Kaminari. “Whoa, dude, no--”

There’s a sharp tug on Shouto’s hand and a sense that Bakugou is no longer sitting next to him.

“Don’t shield him, I’m gonna fucking kill him!”

“Agh, Kacchan! You’re going to wake him up!”

“Like I fucking care,” says Bakugou, but the tugging stops and a moment later he feels Bakugou sit next to him again. He wants to tell him that he’s not sleeping, but he can’t really make his mouth work and it comes out in an indistinguishable mumble.

“See?” says Kaminari.

Bakugou’s hand tightens on his and he makes this low growling sound in his chest. It’s strangely soothing.

Shouto falls asleep.

****

When he wakes up, Aizawa’s there.

It’s a little unexpected, because it’s the weekend, and even during the week Aizawa doesn’t usually come to the dorms – if he has something he wants to talk to them about, he tells them at school. Aizawa’s sitting on one of the dining room chairs, drawn up in front of the couch. He looks tired.

“How long?” he says.

“Less than two hours,” says Bakugou, voice low. He’s still sitting next to Shouto, still holding his hand. “He wasn’t the worst, but it wasn’t great, either.”

Aizawa sighs and rubs his hand over his face. “So it’s accelerating?”

Bakugou shrugs. “Fucking – we gotta figure this out. What if--?”

At that moment, Aizawa looks at Shouto and sees that he’s awake. “Todoroki,” he says.

Bakugou sits up straighter and his face twists into a sneer. “Asshole could sleep for Japan,” he says, voice suddenly much louder.

“How do you feel?” asks Aizawa.

Shouto actually feels – pretty good. Well-rested, warm and comfortable. “Fine,” he says.

Aizawa nods. “Bakugou filled me in on what happened. I won’t say I’m not concerned. Can you tell me how the sickness progressed this time?”

Shouto describes it: feeling kind of bad after an hour, the steady descent into pain and confusion, and Bakugou. Bakugou.

“I – felt better,” he says, because he doesn’t know how to describe how it feels when Bakugou touches him. He tightens his hand on Bakugou’s and – is there an answering squeeze? Given how much Bakugou seems to hate holding his hand, it seems unlikely. He must have imagined it.

Aizawa nods. “Test it out,” he says. “Stay close to each other and see how long it takes this time. Maybe it’s just random.”

“It’s not random,” growls Bakugou. “It’s getting shorter.”

Aizawa sighs. “Maybe. Test it anyway. Maybe we’ll be lucky.”

So they test it. Shouto sits on the couch reading a book. Bakugou sits at the other end of the room – as far away from Shouto as possible without leaving his line of sight – scrolling through his phone. Shouto feels – fine. He feels good. It’s a little hard to concentrate on his book because half of his mind is concentrating on how he feels, waiting for the first symptoms to appear. And also because – everyone keeps looking at him. The common room’s much emptier now than it was when he fell asleep earlier, but any time one of his classmates passes through, they look: at him, then at Bakugou, or at Bakugou, then at him. Almost all of them will ask if he’s OK, to which he always gives a positive answer. Several – Jirou, Tokoyami, Asui – sit down next to him and want more detailed information: if they can do anything to help (no), if the teachers have any idea how the quirk works (no), if it’s hard having to spend so much time with Bakugou (actually, it seems like it’s harder for Bakugou than for him). Uraraka hugs him. Iida puts a hand on his shoulder and congratulates him on bearing up well. Yaoyorozu apologises again, at much more length than Shouto thinks is really necessary. Honestly, I should have realised something was wrong when you said you were sleeping with Bakugou, of all people. Shouto thinks that’s an interesting way of putting it. Of all people.

So: almost all his classmates stop to speak to him, some for longer than others. But hardly any of them talk to Bakugou. Kaminari tries and is chased away, giggling. Kirishima is tolerated. No-one else even goes in that direction.

Of all people.

After around an hour, Shouto starts to feel a faint itch under his skin. He thinks about calling Bakugou over, but he’s interested to observe the progression of the illness – how fast it moves, the order of symptoms – so instead, he texts him. The texts will be timestamped, so if he keeps Bakugou updated they’ll have a good record of what happened.

Itching, he texts.

Across the room, Bakugou frowns at his phone, then surges to his feet, stalking over towards the couch and reaching for Shouto’s hand. Shouto shoves it behind his back and gets up, realising he should have informed Bakugou of his plan to investigate the disease in more detail. “Wait,” he says.

“Hah?” says Bakugou.

“I want to see what happens.”

Bakugou’s face contorts into a grimace. “The fuck? We already know what happens, idiot. We’ve been through that loop.”

“More details would be useful,” Shouto says. Bakugou’s got a good analytical mind under all that growling, so he’s confident he’ll agree. “The speed of progression, whether it’s the same order of symptoms every time, how long before I’m incapacitated.”

Bakugou’s face moves through several expressions and finally lands on incredulous. “Incapacitated?”

“Exactly. I--”

“Fucking—” Bakugou starts, and then lunges, trying to grab Shouto’s hand from behind his back. Shouto steps back and back, staying out of Bakugou’s grasp.

“It’s useful information,” he says. “Bakugou. This is a good opportunity to--”

Then Bakugou roars and charges at him, crowding him up against the wall and grabbing his chin, squeezing his cheeks till he can’t really speak any more. Almost immediately, the itch subsides.

“Bakugou!” Uraraka gasps across the room.

“Fuck off, Round Face, I’m saving his life,” snarls Bakugou. He stands there, grip tight on Shouto’s face, for long enough that Shouto’s cheeks start to ache. Then he lets go.

“Fuck you,” he spits. Then he turns and stomps off.

But he doesn’t leave the room.

****

Shouto doesn’t get another chance to investigate anything about the progression of the illness. Every hour, like clockwork, Bakugou appears in front of him and grabs his hand. He seems to have got over his aversion to other people seeing them, but in its place there’s now a silent fury that Shouto has never encountered from him before and doesn’t really know how to deal with. Bakugou doesn’t look at him, doesn’t speak to him, doesn’t acknowledge his existence at all beyond what’s necessary to take his hand. He doesn’t even yell at Shouto when Shouto tries to make conversation, just completely ignores him. It’s – disconcerting.

By the time it’s time for bed, Shouto is beginning to revise his earlier opinion about how difficult it is to spend so much time with Bakugou. It’s one thing in the common room, one thing in normal life where he’s perfectly capable of ignoring Bakugou and honestly doesn’t really care about how mad he is at any given time, but it’s a different matter when Shouto’s lying on his futon in the dark, feeling waves of hostility washing over him from the camp bed. Not that Shouto cares that much about Bakugou being upset, but – Bakugou is doing him a favour. And Shouto doesn’t understand why Bakugou is suddenly so mad at him. And – it’s a lot of hostility for a relatively small room.

“You’re mad,” he says at last.

At first, he thinks Bakugou’s not going to answer. But then there’s a bitter snort in the darkness.

“What gave it away, fuckhead?”

“What are you mad about?”

“Shut up, I’m trying to sleep.”

Shouto rolls his eyes. “Tell me what you’re mad about and then we can both sleep.”

“The fuck? You’re dictating terms now? Maybe I’ll just let you die.”

“I don’t think you’re going to do that,” Shouto says. “You’ve had plenty of chances already.”

And then, suddenly, Bakugou is there, face inches away from Shouto’s, eyes glinting in the darkness, wide, so wide.

“Well maybe some of us give a fucking shit if you fucking die, you stupid fucking asshole, did you ever think about that?”

Shouto – stares. “I – what?”

Bakugou waves his free hand wildly in the direction of the door. “That fucking shit down there. That fucking shit. You want to see what happens? We know what fucking happens, you bastard! I don’t care if you want to know what it feels like to die, leave me the fuck out of it!”

Shouto opens his mouth. Then he closes it again. “I don’t – want to know what it feels like to die,” he says at last.

“Could have fooled me,” snarls Bakugou.

There’s silence for a moment. Then Bakugou makes a frustrated noise and pulls back, getting back into the camp bed, turning on his side to face away from Shouto as best he can without letting go of Shouto’s hand.

Shouto stares at the ceiling. It hadn’t occurred to him that Bakugou would be so upset by this. He hadn’t been planning to let it go dangerously far, and he’s still sure that it would have provided useful information. He’s a little surprised – maybe more than a little surprised – that Bakugou can’t see that. But it’s clear that Bakugou’s genuinely upset, and that it’s Shouto’s fault, and even if the two of them weren’t forced into constant close proximity like this, he wouldn’t like to leave that hanging.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Shut up, Icy Hot.”

“I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

“Well, that’s because you don't have two fucking braincells to rub together.”

Shouto nods. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

Bakugou doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he turns onto his back.

“Can I trust you to tell me when you start to feel that shit coming on?” he says. “Like, immediately.”

Shouto considers. It might not be very convenient – it doesn’t seem necessary – but on the other hand, Bakugou’s doing him a favour. And – he really didn’t mean to upset him.

“Yeah,” he says.

Bakugou nods, shadowy in the darkness. “Fucking good.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

So Shouto does.

****

The next day is Monday, and in the morning Shouto and Bakugou head to class together. Normally Shouto would go with Midoriya, Uraraka and the others, and Bakugou would go alone or with Kirishima and Kaminari, but despite Shouto’s promise the night before, Bakugou’s apparently not willing to be out of arm’s reach for the ten minutes it takes to walk from the dorms to the main building, so they all go together, spilling over the path, almost half the class in one group. When they get to class, Bakugou stalks up to the back and looms over Yaoyorozu, who’s already in her seat.

“Ponytail, I need your desk.”

Yaoyorozu looks up at him. “Excuse me?”

“I need your fucking desk,” says Bakugou, and then jabs a thumb over his shoulder at Shouto.

Yaoyorozu looks at Shouto, then at Bakugou, then sighs.

“I see,” she says, and gathers up her things, moving to Bakugou’s desk.

For the most part, class is normal. Aizawa doesn’t say anything about the new seating arrangements, and neither do any of the other teachers. Bakugou and Shouto get on with taking notes, answering questions, and all the normal activities. But every now and then, Bakugou will put down his pen, reach over, and grab Shouto’s hand. It doesn’t have anything to do with the onset of symptoms – Shouto doesn’t feel any all morning, doesn’t get the chance. Just – every ten or fifteen minutes, Bakugou seems to want to hold his hand.

Shouto doesn’t mind.

****

In the afternoon, things are a little more complicated. They have basic hero training with Class 1-B, which is always interesting. Shouto enjoys facing off against their quirks, testing out their strengths and weaknesses, seeing how they’ve improved since the last time they had training together. It’s a straightforward exercise – simultaneous one-on-one battles, quirks allowed, each member of 1-A paired with a member of 1-B and rotating once a winner becomes clear. But after Shouto’s fought two battles (and won both), Bakugou suddenly appears next to him.

“Hey, we’re supposed to be fighting against the other class,” says Tetsutetsu, who’d been stepping up to be Shouto’s next opponent.

“Fuck off, metalhead,” says Bakugou, and grabs Shouto’s hand.

There’s a moment of dead silence. Then somebody wolf-whistles.

“Who the fuck…?” says Bakugou, spinning on his heel and dragging Shouto with him.

“PDA not appreciated in class!” calls Monoma. “You fools from 1-A may be unable to control your base urges but please don’t subject the rest of us to them!”

Bakugou growls and surges forward, left hand popping with explosions, right hand still clamped around Shouto’s.

“Hey, hey!” calls All Might. “This is a misunderstanding--”

“Bakugou,” says Shouto, digging his heels in and pulling back on Bakugou’s arm.

“Let me go, asshole. That idiot needs to die.”

“You’re the one who’s not letting me go,” Shouto says.

Bakugou pauses, then looks back at him, and down at their hands. “Hah?” he says, but very quietly.

“Please, Kacchan’s saving Todoroki’s life!” says Midoriya.

“It’s very manly,” adds Kirishima.

Class 1-B looks collectively confused.

Time for another round of explanations.

****

That evening, they test it out again. Aizawa points out that if they never let the symptoms come on, they’ll have no way of knowing when the quirk wears off, and after some arguing – and after Shouto promises again to alert him the moment he feels anything – Bakugou begrudgingly agrees. So they sit at opposite ends of the common room, and wait.

Once again, it takes an hour. Maybe it always took that long and Shouto just didn’t notice the itching until it got much stronger because he wasn’t watching out for it. Or maybe it really is accelerating. If it is, that’s – worrying. What happens when it’s five minutes? Or one minute? Will the progression of the disease also speed up? Worst case scenario, will there come a time when if he lets go of Bakugou’s hand he immediately drops dead?

Shouto decides not to share those thoughts with Bakugou. He thinks he probably wouldn’t be very happy about them.

****

And then they discover a new problem. It happens that night, though Shouto never does find out what time because later it doesn’t seem very important and at the time he’s otherwise occupied. But it’s dark. He wakes up, and it’s dark, and every part of his skin is on fire. And there’s no-one holding his hand. He can’t really think – can’t think about anything except it hurts, it hurts – but somehow, he knows, it’s the one thing he knows, someone should be holding his hand, but nobody is. He opens his mouth to speak, to tell someone, someone should be, they should be – but his throat is full of ashes, he’s choking. He flexes his fingers, opens and closes his hand, but there’s nothing there. It’s empty, it’s empty, there’s nothing.

He turns on his side, curling round himself, wrapping his arms round his stomach. He can’t breathe, his throat, his chest, he can’t-- He’s on fire, he’s on fire, he – He--

There’s a noise somewhere outside himself. He knows there’s something outside, outside this bubble of fire and pain where the air feels sharp and hot in his throat and his chest won’t expand, it won’t expand, and nobody is holding his hand. He knows there’s something outside, but he can’t see it, can’t see anything. His eyes are open, but it’s dark.

Another noise, loud, sharp. Then – then. A hand on his, palm to palm, he feels the coolness sliding into his skin, and--

And. The fire burns, brighter, hotter, and the coolness slips away. The hand is still there, but nothing’s happening. He knows something’s supposed to happen, but nothing’s happening.

“Fuck, what--? Why isn’t it--?”

He tries to turn towards the voice, but all his limbs are weighted down. He opens his mouth to beg for help, but there’s no sound but a pained gasp. The hand pulls away from his, and he feels a sob rising in his throat. No. No. He needs it back. Something’s supposed to happen.

Then someone’s pulling at him, shoving at him, feverish fingers scrabbling at his arms, his stomach, lifting him up. It hurts, it hurts and he closes his eyes and gasps, and somewhere someone says, “Just – it’ll be fine, just help me out here, you’re OK, you’re fine, you’re gonna be fine, shit, shit.”

And then suddenly, he’s pressed against something, his whole chest pressed against something solid and cool. So cool, the coolness breaking over him like a wave, washing through him, sweeping away the fire, the heat, the pain, a great, gentle surge.

He breathes in.

He’s resting against something solid, something firm. He can hear a sound – a thump, thump, thump, fast, like a drumbeat. He feels cool. He feels cool.

“You’re OK,” says the voice, close to his ear now. There’s a hand on the back of his head. “You’re OK. You’re fine.”

I’m fine, Shouto thinks.

I’m fine.

****

When Shouto wakes up, he’s lying on his side, facing away from the camp bed, and nobody’s holding his hand.

For a moment, he half-panics, thinking that he managed to drop Bakugou’s hand in the night, and now maybe he’s going to get sick. But then he realises that he’s not alone in the bed. There’s someone behind him, pressed up against his back, legs tangled with his. There’s an arm wrapped round him, a palm pressed against his chest, fingers splayed. There’s breath on the back of his neck. And – Shouto’s t-shirt is gone. He’s bare-chested, and he’s warm. He’s so warm.

He stares at the wall in front of him. This is – different. He’s never experienced – anything like this before.

It feels warm.

Something happened in the night. He half-remembers, like it was a nightmare, except this – configuration, the fact that Bakugou is in his bed, both of them shirtless – this suggests it was real.

He opens his mouth to ask, and Bakugou shifts behind him, pressing his palm more firmly against Shouto’s chest, hot breath on the back of his neck as he speaks.

“Don’t say a fucking word, Halfie.”

So Shouto doesn’t.

Notes:

At last, the cuddles make their triumphant appearance!

Comments are much appreciated ♥

Chapter 7

Shouto feels strange.

It’s not the kind of strange he’s been feeling on and off since he was first attacked with the quirk – not itching, not fever, nothing that hurts. In fact, it’s the opposite. He feels – really good. He’d even maybe say amazing. There’s something about the warmth and solidity of Bakugou’s chest pressed against his back, the weight of his arm slung over Shouto, the soft puffs of breath on the back of his neck. If you’d asked him if he’d like to lie with someone like this – so close, so tangled up – if you’d asked him yesterday, he would have given an emphatic negative. The idea of it – to touch someone with so much of your body, to be so – surrounded by someone else – seems – uncomfortable, overwhelming, unsafe. But now--

But now. It’s – somehow it’s the opposite. He’s so comfortable, so warm. It’s not even that he’s physically entirely comfortable – there are parts of his body that are in slightly awkward positions because of the way Bakugou is, because of how close to him he is – but he’s comfortable in some other way, so much so that he doesn’t want to move the parts of him that are slightly awkward in case it ruins it somehow. And – safe. How can he feels so safe when he’s so – vulnerable? To Bakugou, of all people. Of all people. But he does feel that way, even though it doesn’t really make sense. Safe, and comfortable. The only thing he would have got right if you’d asked him yesterday would have been that yeah, it is strangely overwhelming.

He wonders if Bakugou has ever lain like this with someone before. Maybe this is – something people do? He thinks probably not – it’s so intimate, how can people bear it? – except that it feels so good, so wouldn’t people do it if they could? Friends, maybe? Siblings who are – close in a way that he’s heard siblings often are? Or – lovers?

Yes. He thinks lovers would do this. If he fell in love, he would want to do this.

He thinks about it, thinks and thinks and lies as still as he can so that he won’t ruin it, and Bakugou breathes on the back of his neck, and Shouto thinks maybe he’s fallen back to sleep. But he’s wrong. He finds out he’s wrong when Bakugou speaks.

“You dropped my hand.”

Shouto stares at the wall. It’s strange, not being able to see Bakugou’s face when he speaks to him. But he doesn’t want to turn around. He doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Icy Hot? You fucking listening?”

“Yeah,” Shouto says. He got sick in the night, and he doesn’t remember very much, but he does remember desperately wanting to hold someone’s hand. Bakugou’s hand. So he must have dropped it.

“Fucking – idiot.”

“You must have dropped my hand, as well,” Shouto says, and Bakugou growls and shifts, tangling his legs more closely with Shouto’s.

“Shut up. I woke up and you were – and I grabbed your hand and it – didn’t fucking work.”

Shouto’s not sure if he remembers that or if what he’s remembering is just a strange dream. “But I’m not sick now.”

“Yeah. It worked when I got you like this.”

And Shouto thinks: oh. That’s why this feels so good. Because of the quirk, because the quirk made Bakugou’s touch feel good and like this, Bakugou’s touching so much of him. He feels a kind of disappointment, though he’s not completely sure why.

“Hey.” Bakugou shakes him slightly. “Stop dozing off, asshole. This is fucking serious.”

Shouto opens his mouth to say he wasn’t dozing off, but Bakugou keeps talking.

“I don’t understand what happened. Like, what, you’ve got a fucking tolerance or something now?”

A tolerance. For Bakugou. A tolerance.

“I don’t know,” Shouto says.

“So, what, we’re just gonna have to stay like this till it wears off?” Bakugou sounds a little panicked now, which isn’t a tone Shouto’s really heard from him before. It’s probably difficult for him – from what Shouto can tell, he doesn’t get the same good feeling from touching Shouto as Shouto does from touching him, so this position – this level of contact, vulnerability, for Bakugou of all people – is probably unpleasant. Shouto feels a little bad for forcing him into this position, even though it wasn’t like he did it on purpose.

“Maybe it was just because it got so bad,” Shouto says. He hesitates, then takes in a breath. “Let’s try--” he says, and pulls away from Bakugou. For a second, Bakugou tightens his grip, wraps his arm more firmly around Shouto and tries to pull him back, and Shouto thinks – he wants so much to just let Bakugou do that, to pull him back and stay as they are for just a little longer, he thinks maybe he won’t be able to resist. But then Bakugou’s arm loosens and Shouto pulls away and sits up, sits on the edge of the futon, legs crossed, no part of him touching any part of Bakugou, and tries not to notice how cold he suddenly feels.

Behind him, he hears Bakugou shift and then sit up. He turns so he’s facing side on, so he can see Bakugou. Bakugou’s staring at him, scowling. Not that the scowling isn’t normal, but there’s something tense about his shoulders, his normal restlessness held in check. It’s like the whole world’s holding its breath.

“I feel OK,” says Shouto after maybe half a minute. He feels better than OK. When he thinks about it – when he looks past the fact that he felt better a moment ago, when he was lying in the bed with Bakugou – he feels great, well-rested despite the crisis in the night, filled with calm energy. The quirk. It’s so strange.

“That doesn’t tell us anything,” Bakugou says. “We gotta wait for you to feel bad then see if it goes away with just hands or--” He gestures and scowls some more.

Shouto nods. He finds his phone and checks the time: still early. They have time before they have to leave for school.

“So – we’ll wait.”

So they wait.

****

After an hour, Shouto starts to feel the faintest beginnings of an itch under his skin. He considers waiting till it’s a little stronger, for a clearer test. But then he remembers what he promised Bakugou – that he’d tell him immediately, even though it seems overly cautious.

“It’s starting,” he says.

Bakugou’s been sitting on the floor on the other side of the room, scowling at his phone. Both of them have their shirts back on. He gets to his feet, glaring at Shouto, and reaches down to grab the hand that Shouto holds up.

The itching is washed away in an instant. So that’s good. They won’t have to do the thing where they lie down next to each other again. So that’s – good.

“It’s gone,” Shouto says.

Something seems to ease in the way Bakugou’s standing. He slouches, shifting from foot to foot, and it’s only then that Shouto realises how still he was sitting before.

“Great,” Bakugou says, then, suddenly louder, “Fucking great. So we just don’t let it get that far. Think you can fucking handle that, dumbass?”

“Yeah,” says Shouto, wondering why the room suddenly seems much more crowded than it did before.

“See that you fucking do, shit for brains. I’m going for a fucking shower.”

Shouto raises an eyebrow, but Bakugou’s already turned away, stalking away from him.

Shouto watches him go.

****

That day at school is much like the day before, except that Bakugou grabs his hand maybe every five minutes instead of every ten. It makes sense – Bakugou can’t feel when it’s coming on, and he surely wants to avoid letting it get to the point where he has to lie down and hold Shouto like he did the night before. Shouto thinks it probably doesn’t get to that point until it’s fairly advanced, but still, he understands. It must have been difficult for Bakugou, to hold him that way for so long.

Aizawa sighs when they inform him about the new behaviour of the illness. “Be cautious,” he says, looking at Bakugou. Which is a little odd, because of the two of them, Bakugou is far more cautious when it comes to this issue. Shouto would say he’s over-cautious, which, when he thinks about it, is a little strange given Bakugou’s normal impulsive behaviour.

All of this is a little strange. Shouto doesn’t quite know what to make of it – the way Bakugou’s acting, the way Shouto feels. It’s confusing.

In the afternoon, Aizawa’s running basic hero training, and he takes Bakugou and Shouto aside right at the start.

“I want you two to try training in a way that accounts for Todoroki’s – disability,” he says. “We’ll use the robots as opponents. It’ll be good practice – it’s not unusual for your partner to be hit with a quirk in the middle of a fight, and there isn’t always the choice to just sit it out. You have to learn to be flexible.”

“Hah?” says Bakugou.

“You heard.” Aizawa makes a shooing motion and turns away from them to instruct the rest of the class. Bakugou turns to stare at Shouto.

“Hah?”

****

The training is – unsuccessful. At first, they try just doing what they’re doing in class – every five minutes or so, Bakugou will grab Shouto’s hand. But it’s inconvenient – with both of them actively fighting, they often end up at a distance from one another, separated by walls of ice or rubble, and one of them has to stop fighting and go find the other. The robots get in a lot of critical hits – far more than either of them would usually catch.

“This isn’t working,” says Shouto.

“You don’t fucking say.” Bakugou’s face is smeared with soot and he looks extremely frustrated. “This is fucking stupid, just – sit it out and I’ll come find you.”

“Aizawa said I couldn’t sit it out.”

“Well, fucking – what, then? We’re getting fucking murdered out there.”

Shouto considers. Then he grabs Bakugou’s hand. “Let’s try just – not letting go.”

Bakugou scowls at him. “The fuck? That’s a dumbass fucking idea.”

But he doesn’t let go.

As it turns out, though, it is a dumb idea. Neither of them is used to being constrained, having to take into account someone else’s movements in such a detailed way. Shouto can’t use his fire because Bakugou’s on that side. Bakugou can only blow things up with one hand and can’t propel himself through the air the way he normally does – he tries without thinking at one point, leaving Shouto in a heap with a hand that’s only not blistered because it’s fireproof, and Bakugou jetting off at about 30 degrees to the right of his intended direction. Not to mention the number of times they manage to trip each other up.

It’s a mess.

But the weird part about it is that towards the end of the session, Aizawa comes to watch them for a while, and when class is over, he calls them over and nods.

“Good. We’ll try that again tomorrow.”

“Hah?” says Bakugou. He looks somehow even more frustrated now.

“We did very poorly,” Shouto points out.

“True. But that just indicates you need to work harder. This is a good skill for the two of you to learn. It may take a while.”

He walks away. Shouto stares after him.

“Fuck,” growls Bakugou. “That’s fucking – fucked up.”

Shouto opens his mouth to agree, and Bakugou grabs his hand and starts dragging him back in the direction of the changing rooms.

“Shut the fuck up, Icy Hot.”

****

That evening, they figure out a way to make studying work. They sit on either side of one of the tables in the common room, facing each other, but offset by one seat. That way, Bakugou can hold Shouto’s left hand with his left hand and both of them have their right hand free for writing. It’s a lot easier than the system they use in class – for Bakugou, anyway, because it means he can write continuously – and after a little manoeuvring to begin with, they’re both able to get a lot of work done. Kaminari makes a comment that Shouto doesn’t hear but that results in a minor explosion (literal) from Bakugou, but other than that it’s – peaceful, even with the sound of everyone else in the background. Peaceful isn’t a word that Shouto would generally associate with Bakugou, but still. He’s starting to think that he doesn’t know Bakugou as well as he thought he did.

****

Later, they test the quirk out again. It’s still an hour before the itching comes on, and Shouto thinks that maybe that’s all there is to it, now, that the interval’s shortened as much as it’s going to. An hour is OK – the situation’s obviously not ideal, but his visions of having only a few minutes start to recede. Still, after the test, Bakugou doesn’t let go of his hand all evening, and when eight o’clock comes around, he stands up and pulls Shouto up with him.

“Hm?” Shouto says.

“Bedtime,” Bakugou says. Kaminari sniggers and Bakugou cuffs him round the head without even looking in his direction.

“I’ll come up later,” says Shouto. It’s what they’ve done up until now. He has an hour – more than an hour.

“Fuck that,” says Bakugou, and starts dragging him towards the stairs. Shouto frowns, but he follows along. It’s not exactly that he objects to going to bed early, it’s just that he doesn’t really see why it’s necessary.

When they get upstairs, Shouto brushes his teeth and changes into his sleeping clothes in the bathroom, then heads back to his room. When he gets there, though, he stops in the doorway in surprise. Bakugou is – in Shouto’s bed. He’s sitting slightly propped up, lights off, scrolling through his phone. In Shouto’s bed.

“Bakugou?” Shouto says, coming in and closing the door.

“How can it take someone so fucking long to clean their teeth, fuck’s sake, Icy Hot,” says Bakugou, and then takes off his shirt. “Get the fuck over here, I’m tired.”

Shouto stares at him. “Are we--” he says, and then looks at the camp bed.

“Hah?” Bakugou says, then his eyes widen. “What, you think we’re just gonna hold hands again, after what happened last night? You really are a fucking moron. Get over here, jeez!”

Shouto stares for a second longer. Then he goes and sits down on the side of the futon where there’s still space.

“Fuck’s sake,” Bakugou says, then grabs him and pulls him down. “Why are you still – do I have to do every fucking thing?” As he says this, he grabs the hem of Shouto’s shirt and tugs at it, and Shouto – feeling strange, like he’s in a dream – lifts his arms and lets Bakugou take his shirt off. Then he lets Bakugou push and pull and manoeuvre him around until he’s satisfied with the position Shouto’s in. Then he lets Bakugou press up against his back and wrap an arm around him. He lets Bakugou thread his legs through Shouto’s. He lets Bakugou breathe on the back of his neck. It’s like a dream.

“Finally,” mutters Bakugou, and a few moments later, his breathing evens out into sleep.

Shouto stays awake for a long time.

****

They don’t talk about it – not that night, anyway, or the night after, either. In the morning, they get up, go to school, try again to figure out how to fight while holding hands. In the evening, they study, test out the quirk, go to bed. To the same bed. It’s always the same – Bakugou behind him, hand on his chest, breath on his neck. Once Shouto gets used to the idea that they’re going to be doing this every night, he starts – to think about it. When they’re in class. When he’s eating lunch. When he’s studying. Not constantly – not even for very long at a time – but every now and then he’ll have a moment, a flash of how it feels, to be so – close to someone – to Bakugou, to be so close to Bakugou – and he’ll feel – strangely happy. Knowing that they’ll do it again that night. That he’ll wake up that way, warm and safe. He’s never felt this way before. Not that he hasn’t ever been happy – since coming to UA, he’s been happy a surprising number of times, so many that he’s lost count – but this kind of – feeling is – difficult to describe.

It’s on the fourth night that he realises something: eventually, the quirk will wear off. It’s obvious – it’s what they’re both waiting for, what they’re desperate for. But when it wears off then – he won’t do this with Bakugou any more. They won’t lie in the bed together. They won’t hold hands. And if it is because of the quirk that touching Bakugou makes him feel so good, then maybe he’ll never feel this way again. His breath catches in his throat. He can’t – want it not to wear off. He can’t want that. But he wants-- He wants--

“Stop thinking so loud,” says Bakugou, flicking him in the forehead with his free hand.

Shouto bites his tongue.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

****

That night, Shouto can’t sleep. He thinks that Bakugou has long since dropped off – he seems to fall asleep within a few minutes of getting comfortable most nights – but then, when Shouto’s been staring into the darkness for a little while, he suddenly speaks.

“You’re still fucking doing it.”

Shouto starts slightly and Bakugou’s arm tightens briefly around him. “Doing what?” he asks. His voice sounds a little hoarse.

“Thinking. Stop fucking thinking and go to sleep.”

Shouto turns that around in his mind. Bakugou’s said three full sentences to him in a row without calling him any names. That’s – unusual. Used to be unusual. Although now he thinks about it, it’s been happening more and more often lately.

“You seem – less mad,” he says.

“Hah?” says Bakugou. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“When all this started, you were really mad,” Shouto says. “More than usual. But the last few days you seem less mad.”

“What are you, taking notes? Why do you even fucking care?”

“I have to spend a lot of time with you,” Shouto says. He thinks it’s fairly reasonable that he would care about Bakugou’s moods, given the situation.

“And whose fault is that?”

Shouto doesn’t think it’s anyone’s fault. Well, apart from the villain’s. He wonders why Bakugou’s less mad. It seems like he started calming down around the time they started doing – this. Shouto wonders if it has a calming effect on him the same way it does on Shouto. He’d thought that the quirk didn’t really have an effect on Bakugou, but maybe--

“Is it this?” he says. “Lying like this?”

Bakugou stiffens behind him. “Fuck, don’t talk about that.”

“I think it’s the quirk,” Shouto says. “I thought it was only affecting me, but maybe it’s affecting you, too.”

There’s a pause. “You think – what’s the quirk?”

“That makes this feel so good.”

Another pause, much longer. Then Bakugou shifts, like he wants to push Shouto away. He doesn’t, though.

“I’m not less mad, asshole. And this is – bullshit. This sucks.”

“Oh,” Shouto says. He got it wrong, then. “You don’t like it?”

“Why the fuck would I like it?” Bakugou’s voice is loud, with a strange kind of frantic note to it that Shouto’s not used to. “I fucking hate you!”

Shouto’s mouth opens. He stares into the darkness. Oh. He – hadn’t realised. He knew Bakugou insulted him a lot, but he does that to everyone. He knew Bakugou always denied that they were friends, but it seemed so obvious that they were friends according to any objective criteria that Shouto just always dismissed it. But it had never occurred to him that Bakugou hated him. It makes him feel – like something hurts in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice comes out even and calm. Good. He’s always been good at controlling his emotions.

“Hah? What the fuck are you sorry about?”

“I didn’t realise it was so unpleasant for you to be around me. If I’d known you hated me I would have--” He’s not sure what he would have done, what he could have done. Still. “—Tried to make it easier.”

“What?” says Bakugou, then, “For fuck’s-- Fucking-- Why are you – Do you have to be so fucking literal every fucking minute of your life?”

Shouto frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t – I don’t fucking, like, I don’t literally, fuck, I don’t – I don’t fucking hate you, you absolute bastard.”

Shouto – doesn’t know what to say to that. This conversation is confusing. “But you said--”

“I know what I fucking said! If you were a normal person you’d get that sometimes people say things they don’t mean, but you’re a fucking weirdo so you fucked it up! Why are you so fucking weird?!”

It’s a question Shouto’s often asked himself. “I assume it’s to do with how I was brought up, but it’s difficult to know since there’s no way to go back and try again. Maybe I would have been weird even if I’d had a normal upbringing.”

“Agh,” says Bakugou, pressing his forehead into the back of Shouto’s neck.

Shouto chews his lip. “So you don’t hate me?”

“No, Icy Hot, I don’t fucking hate you. You’re just a fucking asshole. Now shut the fuck up, this conversation is fucking terrible.”

The ache in Shouto’s chest loosens. That’s good, anyway. It was – painful, to think that maybe Bakugou hated him.

“Why did you say you hated me?” he asks.

“Shut up!” says Bakugou. “Sometimes people say things they don’t mean, I already said that!”

Shouto nods. He’s already aware of that. “I don’t know how to tell sometimes,” he says.

“Believe me, I fucking know that,” says Bakugou.

Shouto wonders what other things Bakugou says that he doesn’t mean. He has no idea how to tell. Up until recently, he’s mostly dealt with the problem by ignoring almost everything that Bakugou says. But now – it’s more important. To understand Bakugou, at least a little. They’re friends – they’ve been friends – but now things are – different.

“Seriously, go the fuck to sleep,” Bakugou says.

“Did you mean it when you said you don’t like doing this?” Shouto asks.

Bakugou makes a strangled noise and thumps his forehead gently against the back of Shouto’s neck. “I’m not talking about fucking feelings with you, Icy Hot.”

“I think it would be useful, since we spend so much time together,” Shouto says.

“I fucking hate you,” Bakugou growls into the space between his shoulderblades.

Shouto’s reasonably sure he doesn’t mean it.

****

Later, Shouto wakes up.

It’s still dark, and for a moment he thinks that he must be sick again, that that’s why he woke up. But – no. He feels good – really good – and Bakugou’s still pressed up against him, wrapped around him, warm and solid. If anything, Bakugou’s even closer than usual, his grip tight enough to be a little uncomfortable, fingers almost scrabbling against Shouto’s chest. He’s breathing strangely, too, a little too fast, with a kind of hitch as though he’s--

Bakugou lets out a strangled sob, and Shouto understands.

“Hey,” he says. He grabs Bakugou’s hand where it’s clutching at his chest and wraps his own around it, interlacing their fingers. “Hey, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

There’s no response from Bakugou, and Shouto wrestles with his arm – genuinely wrestles, Bakugou’s grip is startlingly strong – until he can turn over and face Bakugou in the bed. There’s a full moon, and there’s enough light coming through the gaps in the blinds that Shouto can see that Bakugou’s eyes are closed, his face contorted, cheeks glinting with wetness. He takes hold of Bakugou’s shoulders and shakes him.

“Bakugou. Wake up.”

Bakugou’s grimace deepens, and then, suddenly, he gasps and opens his eyes. He stares at Shouto open-mouthed for a moment, like he has no idea who he is. Then his mouth snaps shut and he brings up his arm and swipes it savagely across his face.

“Fuck off, candy cane,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Are you OK?”

“I said fuck off!” says Bakugou, and turns abruptly so his back’s to Shouto, curling around himself.

Shouto stares at his back for a long moment. Then he slides forward and presses his chest to Bakugou’s back, reaching to put an arm round him.

“Hah?” says Bakugou, trying to shove him away. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Shouto doesn’t know what it’s called, this thing they do, so he doesn’t have an answer. “This. We need to do this, right?”

“We don’t do it this way round,” hisses Bakugou, trying to struggle out from under Shouto’s arm. He seems weaker than usual, though, and Shouto pulls him closer and tries to remember what else he needs to do. Oh – legs – right. He wraps his legs into Bakugou’s and Bakugou – stops struggling.

Shouto waits. But Bakugou doesn’t say anything else. He’s tense under Shouto’s arm, against Shouto’s chest, but Shouto shifts until he’s more comfortably positioned and somehow Bakugou starts to relax, slumping against him. Bakugou’s hair is tickling Shouto’s nose. That’s unexpected. Shouto thought his nose would be at the back of Bakugou’s neck like Bakugou’s is when they do this the other way round, but actually it’s a little higher. That makes sense, since Shouto’s a little taller. It actually probably makes more sense to do it this way round because of that. Shouto doesn’t mention that, though. He likes it this way, but he likes the other way at least as much. Maybe more.

Bakugou raises a hand to his face to wipe away the last of his tears. Shouto wonders what he was dreaming about. He tightens his grip a little, pulling Bakugou more closely into his chest. He knows that it feels good – safe – when Bakugou does that to him, and although he still doesn’t know if Bakugou even enjoys doing this, he’d like to return the favour if he can.

“If you ever tell anyone I was the little spoon, you’re fucking dead,” says Bakugou, voice still hoarse.

“Understood,” says Shouto, even though he doesn’t understand.

Bakugou growls something unintelligible and shifts around a little, getting more comfortable. Shouto waits till he’s done and then tightens his arm around him again. As for Shouto, he doesn’t need to shift around.

He’s already comfortable.

Notes:

Katsuki definitely does not enjoy spooning with Shouto! Nope! Hates it! >:(

Comments are love ♥

Chapter 8

One of the side effects of going to bed at eight every night is that Shouto’s started waking up almost as early as Bakugou. Another is that when he wakes up, despite the early hour, he feels refreshed, fully rested in a way that wasn’t common before. Although actually, he thinks that might be unrelated to going to bed early – that it might be more to do with the fact that he just seems to sleep better when Bakugou’s there. Maybe it’s because of the quirk. Probably. It doesn’t really make sense otherwise, because surely having someone else in the same bed, with all the attendant jostling and small noises and fighting for space, ought to mean that he sleeps less well? So – it’s probably the quirk. But regardless, Shouto feels – good.

“I feel like shit,” announces Bakugou, the last word a sharp puff of air onto the back of Shouto’s neck.

Shouto frowns. “Are you sick?”

“No, just fucking – losing muscle as we speak,” Bakugou says. “Having to babysit your stupid ass is really fucking up my exercise schedule.”

Right. Bakugou usually goes for a run at this time, before anyone else is awake.

“You can still go,” Shouto says.

“You know I fucking can’t,” Bakugou says, pulling Shouto a little closer in to his chest.

“I’ll go, too.”

“Ha! Your lazy ass wants to come running with me?”

“Yeah.” Shouto’s not sure why Bakugou is so surprised – Shouto trains as hard as anyone in the class, harder than many. And it’s true, since he’s been – constrained like this, he hasn’t been able to train as much, either. Training together seems like an ideal solution.

Bakugou’s silent for a long moment. “OK,” he says at last. “But I’ll fucking win.”

“Win at – jogging?” Shouto says.

“Fucking A! Prepare to be creamed!”

The strange thing is, despite apparently being pretty fired up, Bakugou makes no move to get out of bed, or even to let Shouto go. Shouto waits, and then pulls away from Bakugou himself. For a second, Bakugou tightens his grip – he did that before, Shouto remembers, the first morning they woke up like this – then he lets go.

“Then let’s go,” Shouto says.

****

It’s still dark outside, and the air is frosty and still. Shouto enjoys these kinds of mornings – cold isn’t an issue for him, but he likes the way the air has a kind of bite on his tongue, in his lungs. It feels fresh and strangely clean. The path is illuminated by streetlights, but there’s also a gibbous moon in the sky, low on the horizon, and the treetops are silver against the glow of the city lights. There’s no noise but the crunch of their feet on the gravel and the faint sound of the city beyond the campus wall – quiet in the early morning hours.

They don’t talk, and despite his announcement that he was planning to somehow win, Bakugou doesn’t try to outpace him. They jog at a steady pace, side by side, and every minute or so, Bakugou touches him. He doesn’t try to hold hands – after their experience with trying to train that way, Shouto thinks that would make it all quite difficult – but instead he tags Shouto with his fingertips or his palm, like Uraraka does to make things float, touching Shouto’s arm, his hand, the back of his neck. It’s – strangely pleasant, the constant reminder that Bakugou is there, that he’s paying attention.

When they round the last corner of the last lap, Bakugou slaps him on the back of the neck, then suddenly sprints ahead, skidding to a stop at the dorm steps and turning with a triumphant expression.

“Told you I’d win.”

It’s the kind of ridiculous thing that Bakugou does all the time – the kind of thing that Shouto normally just ignores, which tends to make Bakugou mad (which Shouto also ignores). But today it makes Shouto – feel strangely warm. It’s so familiar, so Bakugou. Why that would make Shouto feel anything at all is hard to fathom, but--

“Here,” says Bakugou, grabbing Shouto’s hand as Shouto reaches him. “Let’s get you charged up so I can have a fucking shower without worrying about you dropping dead like the dumbass you are.”

But.

****

Shouto showers fast, gets dressed, and goes down to the common room. It’s still early, but Midoriya is there, doing some last minute homework. Shouto sits down opposite him and thinks about – everything. It’s been less than two weeks since he was hit with the quirk, but things are so different now. How did everything change so much in such a short time?

“How are you doing, Todoroki?” Midoriya asks. “You look well.”

Shouto nods. “Good, thank you.” He ponders a moment or two. “Midoriya, what does little spoon mean?”

Midoriya frowns. “You mean – like a teaspoon?”

“No, I mean – when a person is a little spoon.”

Midoriya’s eyes widen and a flush rises to his cheeks. “Um, I – uh, that is – well, that’s when – in, you know, in spooning. It’s the person who’s in front.”

Shouto nods. “Spooning?”

Midoriya’s face goes from pink to red. Shouto wonders if he’s getting sick. “You know – you know, uh, uh, when two people are – in bed together and – hugging with one in front and one behind.”

Oh. So there’s a name for that. That’s good, it’s helpful. “Yes, I know all about that,” Shouto says.

Somehow, Midoriya manages to turn even more red, his eyes widening until Shouto starts to worry he might injure himself. “You – do?”

Shouto nods. Spooning. Because the two people are stacked together like spoons in a cutlery drawer.

Midoriya coughs and then stares intensely at the notes he was writing before they started talking. “Todoroki – you and Kacchan--”

“Fuck off, shitty Deku, get my name out of your shitty mouth,” yells Bakugou, appearing from the door to the stairs and marching across the room. He flings himself into the chair next to Shouto and grabs his hand. “Fucking wait for me next time, asshole.”

Shouto raises an eyebrow. “Should I sit outside the door of the shower until you’re done?”

“Fucking yes! Whatever! Fuck off!”

Shouto feels – strangely warm.

It’s probably the quirk.

****

That afternoon, Aizawa assigns them to work on their teamwork again. It’s the fourth time they’ve tried, and they’re not making any significant progress. Shouto’s aware that working with others is one of the areas where he’s particularly weak, and although he’s been working hard to improve – has improved significantly – the problem is that Bakugou is even worse than he is, so he can’t work off his partner’s cues like he would with Midoriya or Yaoyorozu or – almost any of his other classmates.

“Fucking argh,” growls Bakugou when he gets tagged yet again by the robot they’re opposing. “This is fucking stupid! Icy Hot, you’re fucking up my – everything!”

Shouto sighs. He’s not sure why Aizawa keeps making them do this. It’s clear that they’re not going to be able to solve it on their own. They need – help, or experience, or--

Shouto blinks. Or--

“Let go of my hand,” he says.

“Hah?” Bakugou scowls at him. “We tried that, remember? It’s was even fucking worse than this.”

“I want to try something different,” says Shouto.

Bakugou’s scowl deepens and Shouto shakes his head and tugs his hand away. “Trust me,” he says.

“No fucking chance of that,” says Bakugou, but he doesn’t reach to take Shouto’s hand back. Instead, he just stands there for a moment longer, glaring, then put on his right glove and turns abruptly to face the robots. “Stay the fuck behind me, Halfie,” he says, and blasts off.

Shouto doesn’t stay behind Bakugou. Instead, he stays near him – not close enough to collide, but close enough that every now and then – every few minutes – he can dart closer and tag the back of Bakugou’s neck, or his arm where his costume leaves it bare, just like Bakugou did to him when they were running. It doesn’t require either of them to stop like they had to when they tried this before, and it doesn’t require Bakugou to take his glove off. It does require Shouto to be very aware of where Bakugou is and what direction he’s travelling in at all times, and that’s tricky to begin with – it’s hard to divide his attention between Bakugou and the robots – and Shouto doesn’t always succeed, the two of them colliding more than once. But it gets easier as they keep training, and after a while, Shouto realises that Bakugou’s doing it, too – that he’s no longer behaving as if he’s the only person in this fight, that he has some awareness of where Shouto is and moves to intercept him from time to time so that Shouto can reach out and touch him. It’s not perfect – far from perfect – but it’s a big improvement on both techniques they’ve tried before, and Shouto finds he’s starting to enjoy the challenge, not just of being aware of Bakugou, but also of keeping up with him. His agility and mobility on the battlefield have always been higher than Shouto’s, and although Shouto constantly works to improve, having to push himself this hard is both frustrating and exhilarating.

And the robot crashes to the ground.

Bakugou lands next to Shouto. “That – wasn’t fucking terrible, Halfie.”

Shouto reaches out and touches the back of his neck.

“Thanks.”

****

That evening, when he’s done studying, Shouto pulls out his pad of paper and starts writing to his mom.

Bakugou’s still working on math across the table, but after a while, he looks up and frowns.

“The fuck are you doing? Is that a fucking letter?”

“Yeah,” says Shouto without looking up.

“Shit, Icy Hot, who even writes letters these days? Why don’t you just carve a stone tablet and give it to a pigeon to deliver or something?”

Shouto’s not sure what Bakugou’s talking about, so he mostly ignores it. “I’m writing to my mom. I write to her every week.”

There’s a silence, and Shouto looks up to see Bakugou staring at him. He looks – weirdly mad. Shouto can’t think of any reason why Bakugou would be mad about him writing to his mom, but on the other hand, Bakugou generally doesn’t need a reason to be mad.

“What?” Shouto asks.

“Your mom?” says Bakugou, and then makes this kind of – half-formed gesture towards Shouto’s face.

“Yeah,” says Shouto. “I can’t visit her easily any more with everything that’s happening, and she doesn’t have internet, so I write to her.”

Bakugou’s eyebrows draw down. “You were visiting her?”

Shouto feels like something’s happening in this conversation that he doesn’t fully understand. It’s not an unusual feeling for him, but it’s frustrating in this case. It’s his mom. Why wouldn’t he visit her? Why would Bakugou even care?

“Yes. Before we moved into dorms I visited her every weekend.” Then he realises that maybe the reason Bakugou’s confused is that he assumes Shouto’s mom lives in Shouto’s house, like most moms do. Most kids don’t need to visit their moms because they live with them. Shouto forgets that sometimes. “I visited her in the hospital,” he clarifies. “She’s sick.”

Bakugou’s face twists into a grimace and he snorts. “Sick in the head,” he says, looking away. He says it quietly, but not so quietly that Shouto doesn’t hear. And he feels – suddenly cold. He stares at Bakugou for a second, the cold feeling churning in his stomach. Then he pulls his hand away from Bakugou’s and stands up.

“Hah?” Bakugou says, looking back at him and reaching out to grab his hand again. But Shouto jerks it out of reach, grabs his paper and leaves the room. He leaves the dorm entirely, storming down the steps and out into the woods, hands clenched at his sides, the half-finished letter crumpling under his fingers. He stands, breathing in the icy air.

Mom.

It’s quiet. And then – it’s not.

“What the actual fuck, asshole!”

Shouto doesn’t turn around. Bakugou storms up behind him, yelling the whole way.

“What if I hadn’t been able to find you, huh? You can’t just fucking fuck off like that!”

He tries to grab Shouto’s hand, but Shouto doesn’t uncurl his fist, and Bakugou glares at it and then glares at him. Shouto doesn’t meet his eyes, just keeps on staring straight ahead.

“Fucking – sensitive,” says Bakugou. “I know what she did to you, OK?”

That gets Shouto’s attention. His head whips round, staring at Bakugou, and Bakugou blinks and looks briefly taken aback before his customary angry sneer slips back into place.

“How?” says Shouto.

Bakugou’s lip curls, but he doesn’t quite meet Shouto’s eyes. “If you wanted it to be a secret you shouldn’t have been fucking running your mouth to fucking Deku where anyone could overhear.”

Shouto swallows. There’s silence.

“Give me your fucking hand,” Bakugou says at last.

Shouto breathes in through his nose and uncurls his fist. Bakugou grabs it, still not looking at him.

“Listen, Icy Hot--”

“Just because we have to touch doesn’t mean we have to talk,” says Shouto.

Bakugou opens his mouth. Then he closes it again.

They don’t talk.

****

They don’t talk. They test out the quirk – still an hour’s lag time – and Bakugou finishes his homework and they sit in the common room and they don’t talk. Shouto doesn’t talk to anyone – doesn’t finish his letter – doesn’t do anything. Bakugou talks – snaps – yells at anyone who comes near him, but he doesn’t talk to Shouto.

“Man, and here I thought you were getting kinda soft on us lately!” says Kaminari, laughing. “Guess that was too much to hope for.”

Kirishima looks worried. Midoriya, too. But they don’t say anything, and Shouto’s grateful. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

****

But eventually, they have to go to bed. For some reason Bakugou doesn’t stand up to go at eight sharp like he does every other night, but by eight thirty, Shouto’s getting so tense in anticipation that he decides to just bite the bullet and do it himself.

He stands.

“Kinda late for you two, isn’t it?” Kaminari asks, doing his eyebrow thing.

“Shut the fuck up, Dunce Face,” says Bakugou, but he sounds – strangely uncertain.

Shouto ignores them both and heads for the stairs, towing Bakugou behind him. He doesn’t look back.

****

There’s no way round it.

Shouto sits on the edge of the futon and stares at his knees. He just – doesn’t want Bakugou to hold him right now. The idea of it, of Bakugou so close when Shouto is so – angry, it makes him feel like screaming. Like getting up and leaving right now. Like setting fire to something.

“Hey,” Bakugou says from behind him. His voice is quiet, low. “We gotta--”

“I know,” Shouto says. He lies down in the bed, and for a second, nothing happens. Then there’s a cautious touch, a hand on his shoulder. Bakugou embraces him gingerly, like he’s the explosive one. Shouto closes his eyes. It’s – overwhelming. It’s overwhelming. He doesn’t want to feel like this.

There’s a long silence. Minutes tick by. Shouto aches from holding himself so stiffly. Bakugou’s arm is tense around his waist.

“Listen,” Bakugou says at last. “That was – shitty. What I said.”

Shouto breathes in. His throat hurts.

“You don’t know anything about my mom,” he says. His voice is hoarse.

A silence. “Guess not,” says Bakugou.

They don’t speak for a while. And then--

“That scar--”

“It’s not – it wasn’t--” Shouto’s throat closes around the words. He told Midoriya – told him at the sports festival, before he even knew him, just like that. He remembers how the words came out, flat and easy, like they didn’t mean anything. Back then, he hadn’t seen his mom for almost ten years. She was – an idea. A dream. But now--

“It was him,” he says at last. “He was the one. He drove her to it.”

He doesn’t specify who he’s talking about. It seems like he doesn’t need to, though.

“That’s—” says Bakugou. “I mean – Yeah, he’s obviously an asshole, but he could be the biggest bastard in the world and it’s still kinda fucked up to react by pouring boiling water on your kid, you know?”

Shouto’s jaw clenches. He pulls away from Bakugou – tries to pull away. But Bakugou pulls him back.

“No – no, fuck, that wasn’t what I – fuck, I should just shut the fuck up. It’s none of my fucking business.”

Shouto doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to be here, with Bakugou holding him, talking about this.

“Todoroki – shit. I’m just an asshole sometimes, I don’t – sometimes I just do it without fucking – Ugh, everyone knows I’m a fucking asshole, I’m an asshole! This is why I don’t fucking – do shit like talk about fucking feelings.”

Shouto breathes through his nose. Then he unclenches his jaw.

“You are an asshole.”

“Yeah,” says Bakugou. He sighs, the breath hot on Shouto’s neck. “I don’t – whatever. She’s your mom, you forgave her, that’s all that matters.”

“I didn’t forgive her,” Shouto says. “I never blamed her in the first place.”

A silence.

“Well, I guess she’s fucking lucky she had you as a kid, then.”

And that – wasn’t what Shouto expected. He’s not even completely sure he understands it. But somehow he – feels a little less angry. A little less overwhelmed by being in the bed with Bakugou like this.

Behind him, Bakugou takes a deep breath. “I’m – fucking sorry, OK? I’m sorry. So don’t, like – I just don’t wanna--”

Shouto closes his eyes. “OK.”

“OK?”

“OK,” says Shouto again, quiet but clear.

There’s quiet for a while after that. Shouto works to try and relax, with mixed success. He’s very aware that Bakugou’s behind him. He’s not really relaxed, either.

“Hey,” says Bakugou at last. “If you wanna go – If you wanna go see her – I’ll come. I’m sure we could get permission and I can – sit outside or whatever. Or go in. Whatever you want.”

Shouto blinks, staring into the darkness. He’d like that. To see his mom. He hasn’t seen her for a long time.

“No,” he says. “I wouldn’t want her to see me like this.”

A sigh on the back of his neck. “Yeah, guess that’s fair.”

Shouto’s not sure what Bakugou means. “I wouldn’t want her to be worried about me getting sick,” he says. “I know she worries.”

“I mean, duh. She’s your mom.”

Shouto’s mom. His mom.

A silence. Then Bakugou speaks again. “That’s – all? That’s the only reason?”

Shouto frowns. “What other reason would there be?”

“Not – fucking – nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Bakugou kind of stretches and shifts, and somehow fits himself much more closely around Shouto, threading his legs through Shouto’s and pressing his nose into the back of Shouto’s neck.

“OK?” he murmurs.

And Shouto – is OK. He shifts, too, finding the best position. The sense of being overwhelmed has faded. Now he just feels – warm and comfortable. Spooning, that’s what Midoriya called this.

“It actually doesn’t make sense for there to be a little spoon,” he says. He’s been thinking about it on and off all day, even checked in the cutlery drawer while Bakugou was cooking.

“...the fuck are you talking about?”

“In spooning,” Shouto says. “It’s called that because the people are stacked together like spoons in a drawer, right? But you don’t stack little spoons on top of big spoons. They don’t fit right. You stack spoons that are all the same size.”

There’s a long pause.

“Shut the fuck up, Icy Hot.”

Shouto nods, satisfied that Bakugou can’t find a flaw in his argument, and closes his eyes.

Notes:

And thus, their first argument as a couple pair of acquaintances who cuddle shirtless sometimes was resolved!

Comments are always appreciated ♥

Chapter 9

The next night, Shouto is woken by Bakugou crying.

He figures it out quicker this time than before – maybe because it’s not the first time it’s happened, maybe because he’s just more used to thinking about Bakugou, to being aware of Bakugou, what Bakugou’s doing. At any rate, almost as soon as he’s awake, he thinks: he’s crying. It’s very quiet, but he feels the shudder in the breath against the back of his neck and he knows. And he feels – a kind of ache. He doesn’t want Bakugou to be crying. Of course he doesn’t. Bakugou’s his friend.

He tries to prise Bakugou’s arm from around his waist, but it’s – really difficult. Bakugou seems to be holding on with all of his strength, and when Shouto tries to pulls his arm away he just clings tighter, breath coming faster, like he’s starting to panic. Shouto struggles, wrestles with him, trying to at least turn around, and all of a sudden Bakugou gasps, tightens his grip even further, until Shouto can barely breathe, and then abruptly loosens it.

“The fuck are you doing, Icy Hot?”

Shouto stops struggling and manages to turn over. Bakugou’s face is very close in the darkness. His cheeks look wet.

“You were having a nightmare,” Shouto says.

Bakugou snorts. “Bullshit. You must have dreamt it.” His voice is loud, but there’s a strange catch to it.

“Why would I dream about you having a nightmare?” Shouto asks.

“I don’t know, your head is fucking weird,” says Bakugou, and then tries to shove him back over into their normal sleeping positions.

Shouto ignores the shoving. “I want to be at the back,” he says. Last time Bakugou had a nightmare, he thinks that helped. Bakugou didn’t say it helped, but – he thinks it did.

“You fucking what?” Bakugou says, voice rising in pitch. “Like hell. I told you, I don’t do little spoon.”

“They’re the same size,” Shouto says.

“I don’t care about your stupid theory--”

“It’s not a theory. You can check in the kitchen--”

“I don’t need to check in the kitchen! I know what a fucking cutlery drawer looks like, Icy Hot! Why are you such an idiot?”

Shouto doesn’t think it’s idiotic to notice that the spoon thing doesn’t work. “Why don’t you want me to be at the back?”

“I fucking told you already! I don’t do little spoon!”

“Maybe if you thought of it as the spoons being the same size it wouldn’t bother you so mu--”

Bakugou clamps a hand over Shouto’s mouth, eyes glinting in the darkness.

“I fucking swear I will blow up this entire fucking bed,” he growls.

Shouto frowns at him. He doesn’t know why Bakugou is being so childish. But on the other hand, he’s not crying any more, so that’s something.

There’s silence for a few seconds, Shouto breathing through his nose, Bakugou glaring at him from very close. Bakugou’s hand feels very warm on Shouto’s mouth. Shouto feels – very warm. Almost feverish. But he can’t be getting sick, because Bakugou’s touching him.

“Fuck,” Bakugou whispers. Then, abruptly, he lets go of Shouto and shoves him away, then stands up, almost throws himself to his feet. “I gotta--” he says, and then turns sharply and leaves the room.

Shouto stares after him. He wonders if Bakugou – went to throw up? Shouto’s thrown up before after nightmares. Those nights are the worst. He hopes Bakugou’s OK.

Ten minutes later, Bakugou comes back. He doesn’t say anything, just slides into the bed, and Shouto takes his chance where he can, grabbing him and pulling him to his chest before Bakugou can react.

“Asshole,” Bakugou says, struggling feebly, but it seems like his heart’s not in it, and Shouto wins easily, pressing his nose into Bakugou’s hair. It’s damp, which makes Shouto think he must have had a shower, except the rest of his body is dry, so – maybe he just stuck his head under the tap? That seems like a strange thing to do, but Bakugou is strange sometimes, so maybe that makes sense.

“OK?” Shouto says, because that’s what Bakugou always says to him.

“Fuck off, dumbass,” says Bakugou.

So he’s probably feeling better.

****

“What did you dream about?” asks Shouto.

It’s morning, but still dark, still early. They’ll get up soon to go running, but Bakugou doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, and Shouto isn’t either, drifting in a kind of daze, not asleep but not quite awake either.

“Hah? Why the fuck do you care?”

Shouto shrugs and wraps himself a little closer round Bakugou. “You’re my friend.” He thinks friends probably talk to each other about things that are bothering them enough to have nightmares. At any rate, Midoriya would want him to talk about his nightmares, if he knew about them, and he thinks Midoriya’s probably a good example to imitate if he wants to be a good friend.

“Shut up, Halfie, we’re not friends.”

Shouto never really has got to the bottom of why Bakugou keeps claiming they’re not friends. “What are we, then?”

Bakugou tenses up in his arms. Then he pulls away.

“You? You’re a lazy asshole, get the fuck up. We’re burning daylight.”

Shouto thinks about pointing out that the sun hasn’t even come up yet. But he watches Bakugou moving around the room, bare back flexing, and decides not to.

****

That afternoon, in training, they make a new discovery.

They’ve been getting pretty good at their new technique of fighting near each other without colliding or tripping each other up. Shouto’s even looked over to Bakugou once or twice after they’ve taken an opponent down to find him grinning savagely in Shouto’s direction, and one time he even forgot to switch to a sneer when he saw Shouto looking. But then, things go wrong. Or – they go right.

It happens when Shouto raises his hand and flings a sheet of ice at the robot just milliseconds before and only a couple of feet away from the massive explosion that Bakugou lets loose. The result is a sudden shower of wickedly sharp fragments of ice, most of them directed outwards, but some blowing back, straight towards them. Shouto flings himself at Bakugou and throws up an ice wall to protect them both. Bakugou lands heavily on his back, Shouto on top of him. There’s a series of sharp, glass-like sounds as the ice fragments crash against Shouto’s wall. And Shouto--

--stares at Bakugou.

For a second, it seems like everything’s frozen. Shouto’s breath is caught in his throat. Bakugou’s eyes are wide, his mouth open. Shouto’s close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead. Even though the air’s pretty cold from all the ice, Shouto feels – too warm.

And then, time starts moving again.

“The fuck was that?” Bakugou snarls, and literally throws Shouto off, launching himself to his feet and towering over him.

Shouto blinks, feeling dazed. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realise you--”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” says Bakugou, and blows up the ice wall.

On the other side, the robot is collapsed on the floor, making a weird crackling buzz, fragments of ice embedded in various parts of its body.

Shouto stares. Bakugou stares, too. Then he turns back to Shouto.

“Forget that shit,” he says. “Let’s do it again.”

****

They do it again. And again. And by the end of the training session, they’ve figured out how to do it so that they’re in no danger from the flying ice – they knows exactly the angle they both need to fire at, the distance they should be from each other, and they’re even starting to figure out how to aim.

It’s – really cool.

“Impressive,” says Aizawa. Shouto’s been concentrating so hard on the new attack, he didn’t even realise Aizawa was watching. That’s a failure of peripheral awareness. He needs to work on that.

“It’s fucking amazing, is what it is,” Bakugou says, gesturing at the glinting shards of ice embedded in the gym wall. “Icy Hot finally got an attack that isn’t lame as all hell.”

Aizawa raises an eyebrow. “That sounds like a compliment.”

“Hah?” says Bakugou. “It’s my fucking attack! It’s only good because of me! It would be even better if this idiot wasn’t involved at all!”

Shouto frowns. “That doesn’t make sense. If I wasn’t involved--”

“Shut up, dumbass!” says Bakugou, then pulls his glove off and grabs Shouto’s hand, starting to drag him towards the changing rooms. “Nobody cares what you think!”

As they pass by Aizawa, Shouto thinks he looks like he’s trying not to smile. But Aizawa isn’t really the smiling type, so he’s probably wrong.

****

And then, it’s the weekend.

The quirk still hasn’t worn off – it’s actually slightly less than an hour before the itch comes on now, which Shouto knows Bakugou has noticed, but which they don’t talk about – but in some ways, Shouto’s almost forgotten that the quirk is there at all. It’s only been three weeks, but he’s so used to sitting with Bakugou, holding Bakugou’s hand, waking up with Bakugou breathing on his neck, that it’s hard sometimes to remember that this isn’t his normal life. That three weeks ago, he didn’t know what it was like to have someone pressed up against you, how warm it was. Sometimes it’s still awkward, but somehow not nearly as much as Shouto would have imagined if you’d asked him, three weeks ago, how he’d feel about spending nearly all of his time with Bakugou. For one thing, it’s – a lot quieter than Shouto would have predicted. Yes, there’s a lot of shouting from time to time, but there’s also long stretches where they just – don’t talk, or just exchange a few words from time to time, sitting in the common room or lying in the bed or jogging round campus. It’s – comfortable. It’s comfortable.

On the other hand, there are some issues. Shouto has to turn down his sister’s invitation to dinner, because as with his mom, he doesn’t want to have to explain the situation to her. She’ll worry, and he doesn’t want that. He’s fine, he won’t get sick as long as he has Bakugou. But she’ll still worry.

The consequences of that make themselves known on Saturday afternoon. Shouto and Bakugou are coming back from the gym, hand in hand, when Shouto sees a familiar figure in the distance and stops dead.

“Hah?” Bakugou says, looking back at him and trying to pull him forward. But Shouto’s not paying attention to Bakugou. He’s paying attention to the huge, hulking man that’s now striding towards them, scowling. Bakugou frowns at him, then looks in the direction that Shouto’s looking.

“Ah, shit,” he mutters.

Shouto jerks his hand away from Bakugou’s, takes a side-step away from him. There’s sweat on the back of his neck. Even though he works hard to always seem indifferent in front of his old man, he can never quite – never quite--

“Fucking—” Bakugou says, and then Endeavour’s in front of them, looming, glaring down at Shouto, ignoring Bakugou entirely.

“What are you doing here?” Shouto says. His voice comes out cold and clear, not a trace of emotion. Good.

“I had a meeting with Nezu,” Endeavour says. “Your sister and I missed you last night.”

Shouto sucks in a breath, and then Bakugou grabs his hand.

“Sorry about that, pops,” he says. “He was with me.”

The words dry up in Shouto’s throat. He turns to stare at Bakugou, and sees that he’s slouching even more than usual, that his eyes are half-lidded and challenging, that his combination of a loose tank-top and low-slung sweats makes him look like – exactly the kind of person Shouto’s father holds in most contempt.

His father. He turns to look at him, starting to feel panic fluttering in his chest, to find him glaring down at Bakugou. He looks more confused than angry, although there’s certainly contempt there.

“Excuse me?” he says.

Bakugou shrugs. “What can I say? He can’t leave me alone for five minutes.”

And there. There’s the rage, spilling out onto the old man’s face. He turns abruptly back to Shouto, and Shouto grits his teeth and forces himself to stand his ground.

“What is the meaning of this, Shouto?” Endeavour asks. “Don’t tell me you’re – dating this – person?”

“Oh, we’re not dating,” says Bakugou, grinning in a way that makes something strange happen in Shouto’s belly. He lets go of Shouto’s hand, sliding his own hand instead under Shouto’s t-shirt and around his waist. “We’re just sleeping together.”

Endeavour’s eyes bulge. He looks like he might be about to have an aneurysm. “Shouto?!”

Somehow – somehow – Shouto manages to speak. “Yes,” he says, very aware of Bakugou’s arm around his waist. “We’re sleeping together.” His voice is still flat, devoid of emotion, despite the fact that Bakugou’s arm is making him feel – something.

“Anyway, gotta go, we got shit to do,” says Bakugou, and winks – he winks – Shouto starts to feel a little lightheaded – and Bakugou pulls him forward, past the old man, back towards the dorms. Shouto feels – he feels – like his chest’s too tight, but he thinks – it’s over, it’s over, except--

Except when they’re maybe fifty metres away from Endeavour, Bakugou leans up and bites his earlobe.

The only reason Shouto doesn’t yelp is because he’s working so hard to hold himself nonchalantly, he’s so aware that the old man is watching them go. But his heart jumps in his chest and his stomach lurches and even though everything outside him remains calm, everything inside him turns over.

“Wha—” he whispers.

“Sh,” says Bakugou, mouth so close to his ear that his breath tickles. “The bastard’s still watching.”

Shouto doesn’t turn round. Bakugou licks his ear – Bakugou licks his ear – then drags Shouto around the corner of one of the dorm buildings and out of Endeavour’s line of sight. Then he lets go of Shouto, steps back, and grins at him.

“Fuck him, right?”

Shouto stares at him. He can’t – really remember how to breathe. Bakugou – and Endeavour – and Bakugou – and--

“Hah?” says Bakugou, grin fading. “The fuck’s wrong with you? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“He’ll—” Shouto says. His voice comes out in a strangled whisper. “He’ll – lose it--”

Bakugou half-grins again, but he looks less sure of himself now. “I mean, yeah, that’s the fucking point.” He shoves Shouto’s shoulder. “Right? Fucking worth it to piss the old man off, right?”

Worth it. Shouto swallows, thinking about Bakugou biting his earlobe. About Bakugou’s half-lidded stare. About Endeavour, his face, his eyes. And a sort of feeling rises up in his chest, like – joy. Like wild joy. Because – fuck Endeavour. Fuck Endeavour. And because Bakugou-- Because Bakugou.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah. Worth it.”

Bakugou’s grin broadens, teeth showing, sly and triumphant. “Fucking A, Icy Hot.”

And he grabs Shouto’s hand.

****

That night, it’s Shouto’s turn to have a nightmare.

When he wakes up with a gasp, heart thumping in his throat, he doesn’t remember what the dream was about, just the stomach-churning sense of dread that remains with him into waking. He doesn’t really need to remember, though – his nightmares have a pretty limited repertoire. He gulps in air, swallows against the nausea, clenches his fists and unclenches them again. And then.

And then Bakugou shifts behind him and pulls him closer, so close, he can feel Bakugou’s lips moving against the base of his neck.

“Shitty old man?” Bakugou mumbles.

Shouto swallows. Bakugou’s hand moves from his waist to his chest, pressing his palm against Shouto’s heart, fingers spread.

“Shitty old man,” Shouto confirms.

Bakugou mumbles something else, but it’s indistinguishable, and Shouto realises that Bakugou isn’t actually really awake. Then Bakugou presses his lips to the back of Shouto’s neck, and Shouto’s heart starts hammering even faster.

“I’ll fucking… blow his face off…” Bakugou mumbles, nuzzling into Shouto’s neck. His other hand comes up and strokes Shouto’s hair two, three times, before it drops. Bakugou sighs. He’s asleep. Shouto thinks – he’s been asleep the whole time.

But even then – even then. Shouto stares into the darkness, feeling Bakugou so close to him, so warm. His heart starts to slow down. There’s a strange fluttering feeling in his chest. He’s awake. He’s wide awake, nausea and confusion and whatever the fluttering feeling is, and all these – things. All these things.

“Bakugou?” he whispers.

Bakugou shifts slightly. “’S OK, stupid,” he mumbles. “Gotta – big spoon.”

And despite everything, Shouto finds himself smiling.

****

It’s Sunday afternoon when Shouto’s sister calls. He’s with Bakugou, and they’re walking. It’s not something they’ve done before – usually they jog – but today Bakugou announced that they were going for a fucking hike before I shrivel up and fucking die, and since Aizawa doesn’t want them too far from campus while Shouto’s still under the effects of the quirk, they’re walking through the woods close to USJ. It’s nice. Shouto’s actually never been hiking before, so it’s nice.

“The hell you say?” Bakugou says. “How the fuck have you never been hiking?”

Shouto shrugs. There’s a lot of things he hasn’t ever done.

“This isn’t a fucking hike, anyway,” Bakugou says. “Too fucking flat, for one thing. Hiking up a mountain, that’s the shit, steeper the better. Once this stupid quirk wears off I’m gonna take you, you’ll be begging for mercy before we’ve hit five hundred metres elevation.”

“OK,” Shouto says. It sounds like an interesting idea. He’s never been up a mountain before. And then he realises what Bakugou said. That they’d go after the quirk wore off. When they don’t have to spend time together any more if they don’t want. He wonders if Bakugou even realised it – if he meant it. He thinks about whether he wants to spend time with Bakugou after the quirk wears off. If he wants to climb a mountain with him.

He doesn’t have to think about it for very long.

“You’re buzzing,” Bakugou says.

Shouto blinks, and then fumbles in his pocket for his phone. It’s Fuyumi. He puts the phone to his ear.

“Shouto,” Fuyumi says. “How are you?”

“Good,” he says. Bakugou glances at him, his hand tightening slightly on Shouto’s.

“Um – dad said he – saw you.”

“Yeah,” says Shouto. He thinks about Bakugou sliding his arm around his waist.

“He’s – I – we’re a little worried,” Fuyumi says. “Shouto, he said you were – I don’t mean to pry, but he said he thought you were making some – ill-advised decisions about the people you – associate with.”

Shouto blinks. Fuyumi’s trying to talk to him about sex. That’s new.

“I think my decisions are pretty good, actually,” he says.

“Shouto—”

“It’s fine. Trust me.” Shouto lets go of Bakugou’s hand. He could just tell Fuyumi that he’s not having sex with Bakugou, but then she’ll tell the old man, and he’s thinking about Bakugou’s savage grin, the way he said fucking worth it, and he just – doesn’t want to let Endeavour off the hook. Maybe it’s petty – it’s definitely petty – but Shouto’s finding it hard to care. And anyway, even if he was having sex with Bakugou, he actually thinks that would be a pretty good decision. Fuyumi just doesn’t realise that Bakugou’s a good person. Bakugou’s saving Shouto’s life, every day, every minute.

Fuyumi sighs. “I know you’re almost grown, but you’ll always be my little brother,” she says. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

She’s worried. Shouto tried so hard to make it so she wouldn’t worry, but she’s worried anyway.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s really fine. I promise.”

“Well – then I trust you,” Fuyumi says. “But be careful, all right, Shouto? Please?”

“Of course.”

They say their goodbyes and hang up. Shouto puts the phone back in his pocket and contemplates the ground for a few moments.

“Shitty old man?” says Bakugou at last. He’s standing a few steps away from Shouto, hands in his pockets, looking across the path into the trees. His breath mists in the winter air.

“My sister,” Shouto says.

Bakugou considers this for a moment. “Shitty sister?”

Shouto shakes his head. “Amazing sister.” Fuyumi is so much better at being a sister than he is at being a brother.

“OK,” Bakugou says. Then he steps towards Shouto and takes his hand.

They walk for a while longer, neither of them talking. Then Bakugou breathes in through his nose.

“Your old man,” he says, voice soft and hoarse. “He used to smack you around, right?”

Shouto sighs. “Yeah.” It doesn’t hurt to say it, somehow, out here in the winter woods.

Bakugou’s voice tightens slightly. “He smack your sister around, too?”

That makes Shouto’s stomach turn. The idea of his father’s temper turned against Fuyumi – no. No, that’s not – something that could be allowed.

“No,” he says. “He just ignored her. My brother, too.”

Bakugou nods. His shoulders are tense, his grip tight on Shouto’s hand.

“He doesn’t – still--?”

“No,” says Shouto. “Not for a while.” More or less since he started at UA and wasn’t at home much any more.

Bakugou nods, jaw clenched. Shouto thinks he’s done talking – is relieved – but then Bakugou manages to unclench his jaw enough to say, “He ever touches you again, I’ll blow his fucking face off.”

Shouto laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but he just remembers Bakugou, asleep, mumbling about his old man and it’s so – incongruous. Bakugou’s head snaps round, eyes bright with fury.

“Fucking what? You think I wouldn’t do it?”

Shouto swallows another laugh. “I don’t need your protection,” he says.

“Yeah, well, you don’t get a fucking say in that, Halfie.”

And somehow, even though that’s ridiculous and annoying, Shouto feels that fluttering in his chest again. He stares at Bakugou, and Bakugou looks back, and then gets this look on his face like he’s just now hearing what it was he said.

“I mean,” Bakugou says, suddenly letting go of his hand and then advancing on him, shoving him with both hands. “I mean – fuck you, idiot. You obviously can’t fucking look after yourself anyway, or we wouldn’t be in this stupid fucking situation in the first place! So just – fuck you! Fuck off!”

Shouto’s back hits a tree and Bakugou leans in, eyes wide, sneering in Shouto’s face. “Fuck off!” he says. “Fucking – leave me alone!”

Shouto stares at Bakugou. Bakugou glowers back at him, breathing heavily.

“Are you OK?” Shouto asks at last.

“Fuck!” says Bakugou, then turns on his heel and storms off. Shouto stares after him, frowning. He feels – quite confused. And then – Bakugou comes back. He still looks furious, refuses to look Shouto in the face. But he grabs his hand and starts dragging him through the woods, back towards the dorms.

All in all, it’s been a strange kind of afternoon.

****

That evening – after Bakugou’s calmed down and apparently decided to pretend the whole incident in the woods never happened – Shouto lies in the futon and stares into the darkness. He’s been thinking about – everything that’s happened, and he’s come to some interesting conclusions. The first being, that he’s reasonably sure that he’s attracted to Bakugou. He remembers what Midoriya said: you think about that person a lot and you get a kind of fluttery feeling when you see them, and you want to spend a lot of time with them, and thinking about them makes you smile. It all fits. He definitely thinks about Bakugou a lot. He’s thinking about him right now. About the way he got so mad in the woods, but before that – he threatened to blow Endeavour’s face off.

“I don’t get it,” Bakugou says behind him. “You’re always fucking thinking but your head is fucking empty.” He pokes Shouto in the back of the head. “Go to sleep, dumbass.”

“Why wouldn’t you fight me that time?” Shouto asks. “Before all this.” He’s been thinking about it – wondering about it. He’s been thinking about a lot of things today.

“Hah?” says Bakugou. “Fucking – when?”

“Before I got sick.”

There’s a long silence. “Why do you even care?”

“I want to know.”

“Maybe I just couldn’t be bothered to fight a weakling like you.”

“No, I don’t think that’s why,” says Shouto.

“Oh, for--” Bakugou sighs. “You looked – fucking messed up, OK? Something was off. I could have fucked shredded you, but it didn’t seem – right.”

Yes. That seems like it might be the truth. Shouto puts it together with the other things he knows about Bakugou – the other things he’s learned – and thinks – it’s probably the truth.

“Why did you let everyone think you attacked me?”

“Why are we having this fucking conversation, Halfie?”

“I’m interested.”

Bakugou makes a frustrated noise. “Who gives a fuck what those idiots think? They all think I’m an asshole anyway, so why does it make any difference?”

“I don’t think you’re an asshole,” says Shouto.

“Well, that just goes to show once again that you are a gigantic fucking moron.”

“I think you’re a good person.”

“Hah?” says Bakugou. “Fucking – shut up! Shit, did you hit your fucking head or something?”

Shouto grabs Bakugou’s arm and twists under it, turning so he’s facing Bakugou. Bakugou tries to push him back over, but Shouto ignores that.

“I think you’re a good person,” he says again.

Bakugou – just stares at him, mouth slightly open. Then he puts his hand over Shouto’s mouth, even though Shouto wasn’t even saying anything.

“Go to sleep, dumbass,” he whispers.

Then he lets go of Shouto’s face and turns over, curling up until he looks smaller than Shouto would have expected. Shouto lies there for a few moments, staring at his back. Then he shifts over and wraps himself around Bakugou. Bakugou tenses, but he doesn’t complain, doesn’t say anything about being the wrong kind of spoon. Shouto presses his cheek against the space between Bakugou’s shoulder blades and breathes slowly.

Neither of them falls asleep for a long time.

Notes:

Katsuki: *gets so overheated he has to shove his head under the cold tap*

Shouto: I hope he's not getting sick :(

Everyone else: *facepalm*

Thanks for reading, folks! Comments are always appreciated ♥

Chapter 10

Shouto wonders if he should tell Bakugou that he’s attracted to him.

Normally, he would ask Midoriya. Midoriya is very helpful when it comes to social situations where the answer’s not entirely clear. Unfortunately, Shouto doesn’t really get to talk to Midoriya alone much any more, since he’s always with Bakugou. For the most part, he finds spending all his time with Bakugou a lot less troublesome than he would ever have predicted – even enjoyable, much of the time – but it does mean that he never really spends much time with his other friends. Even in the evening, when Bakugou’s friends and Shouto’s friends coalesce around them where they sit hand in hand on the couch, it’s not really the same. So Shouto can’t ask Midoriya.

If it wasn’t for the situation, Shouto would think he should tell Bakugou. After all, they’re friends, and friends should be honest with each other. And in general Shouto isn’t very good at not being honest with people. It’s much easier to just be up front about things. That’s what he thinks, anyway, but he knows that other people don’t always thinks that way. Sometimes people get uncomfortable when he’s honest and he can never tell which things are going to have that effect and which are fine. Sometimes, he doesn’t even find out that he made someone uncomfortable until much later. That’s where Midoriya would be useful. But without Midoriya, if Shouto had to choose for himself, he would just tell him. If it wasn’t for the situation.

But the problem with the situation is that if he tells Bakugou, and it makes Bakugou uncomfortable, then Bakugou won’t be able to do anything about it. He’ll be forced to spend time with Shouto – forced to spend all his time with Shouto – whether he wants to or not. Shouto knows that Bakugou is far too kind to stop saving Shouto even if being with him does make him uncomfortable. And talking about emotions generally does seem to make Bakugou uncomfortable – or mad – or mad and uncomfortable. Shouto remembers how unpleasant it was when he was mad at Bakugou but had to sleep with him anyway. So Shouto thinks it wouldn’t be fair to tell him, not when he has no real idea of what the effect might be. But once the quirk’s worn off, Shouto will tell him then.

Or maybe he’ll check with Midoriya first.

****

“Why do we always sleep like this?” Shouto asks.

He’s lying on his side, staring into the darkness. Bakugou is pressed up against him, one arm wrapped around him, palm flat against his stomach. Shouto feels warm and comfortable. It’s hard to believe that less than a month ago, he had no idea that something like this could be so enjoyable. But all the same.

“Because you got yourself hit with a quirk like a fucking moron,” Bakugou says. “I know you’re a dumbass but I would have thought you’d be able to remember that much.”

“No, I know,” Shouto says. “But we always sleep like--” He gestures at himself, at Bakugou. “Like this.”

“Listen, asshole, if you’re about to start that stupid spoon size shit again--”

“No—” Shouto says, and then wrestles momentarily with Bakugou and manages to turn over so they’re face to face, so close their foreheads are almost touching. “I mean – what about this? This doesn’t even have spoons, right?”

Bakugou stares at him, so close his face looks blurry in the dark. Then he looks away.

“What, and I have to look at your ugly fucking face all fucking night? Fuck that.”

Ah. Well, that does explain it.

“I see,” Shouto says, and turns back over to face the wall. For some reason he feels – a sort of pain in his chest. It feels like – maybe his feelings are hurt? Which is strange, because he’s well aware that his face is unsightly. His scar is certainly ugly, and the left side of his face, and since apart from his colouring the right side is similar, he supposes that none of it is very attractive. It’s different for him. Even before he’d come to the conclusion that he was attracted to Bakugou – probably even before he actually became attracted to Bakugou – he already knew that Bakugou was handsome. That’s a straightforward observation that doesn’t require any kind of emotional component. So it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder if it might be less enjoyable for Bakugou to have to look at him all the time.

(And his chest hurts, and there’s no good reason for that.)

“Hah?” Bakugou says behind him, sliding up to press against him, to wrap his arm around him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What’s what supposed to mean?” Shouto asks. It still feels good, to have Bakugou holding him, but somehow it feels – a little less good. He doesn’t understand why, since they’re doing exactly the same thing they were doing five minutes ago.

“I see,” Bakugou says, in a strange, whiny tone of voice that Shouto realises after a second is supposed to be an imitation of him. It seems like Bakugou isn’t very good at imitations. “The fuck does that mean?”

“It means – I see?” Shouto says. “Not literally see. It means I understand.”

“I know--” Bakugou starts, then growls and presses his forehead against the back of Shouto’s neck. “Fuck, you’re annoying. What do you fucking understand, you stupid motherfucker?”

Shouto frowns into the darkness. He reaches up and touches his scar with his fingertips. He doesn’t know why Bakugou is finding this conversation so difficult to follow. Except – maybe Bakugou wants to hear him confirm it out loud? He’s not sure why. The thought makes the ache in his chest worse, which is not ideal.

“I understand that – I’m unsightly,” he says. “My face.” He wonders if he should apologise. It’s not as though his face is his fault, though.

There’s a dead silence behind him. Then, “Hah?”

Shouto’s frown deepens. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Bakugou’s grabbing his shoulders and half-shoving, half-pulling him back over so that they’re face to face again.

“The fuck are you talking about, Icy Hot?”

Shouto blinks. “My – face?” he says. “That’s what we were talking about.” He’s starting to think Bakugou might be getting sick, he seems so incoherent.

“This face?” Bakugou says, poking him in the forehead, then grabbing his cheeks and squeezing. “This fucking face? That’s the fucking face you’re talking about?”

“...yes?” Shouto says, as best he can with Bakugou gripping his cheeks so hard.

“Motherfucking dumbass asshole idiot moron candy cane bastard,” says Bakugou, then lets go of Shouto’s face, launches himself to his feet, leans down and grabs Shouto’s arm and drags him up, too.

“Bakugou?” Shouto says. He feels – bewildered. And then he feels even more so when Bakugou starts dragging him. He drags him out of the room, down the corridor and into the bathroom, slamming his hand on the light switch like it’s personally insulted him. He grabs Shouto and shoves him in front of one of the mirrors, standing behind him and gripping his chin, forcing Shouto to look at himself.

“This stupid fucking face?” Bakugou says. “This is fucking unsightly?”

Shouto’s really quite concerned about Bakugou now, but also – also he feels kind of mad. He doesn’t get why Bakugou has to make such a big deal about this. It’s not like Shouto looks like this on purpose. It’s not like he wants to.

“You’re the one who said I was unsightly,” he says.

“Motherfucker, I did not.”

“You did,” Shouto says, grabbing Bakugou’s hand and wrenching it away from his face, then turning round so he doesn’t have to look in the mirror any more. Bakugou’s glowering at him, and Shouto glowers back. “You said I was ugly.”

“That’s fucking different!” Bakugou says.

“Why?”

“Because I’m an asshole! We’ve already established I’m an asshole! Why the fuck would you listen when an asshole tells you you’re ugly? You never listen to any other fucking thing I say, you ornery bastard!”

Shouto – feels completely lost. He’s no longer sure whether Bakugou actually thinks he’s ugly or not. He’s not even completely sure he’s still awake. This all seems oddly surreal.

Bakugou’s glaring at him like he’s expecting some kind of response, but Shouto has no idea what. Maybe he should just go back to bed. He starts to turn towards the door, but Bakugou puts out an arm, trapping Shouto against the sink.

“Icy hot,” he says, his voice suddenly much quieter. “You really think that about yourself?”

Shouto shakes his head. “Think what?”

“That you’re – fucking unsightly, or whatever stupid word.”

Shouto swallows. It’s not that it really bothers him – it doesn’t matter, why would it matter? He can become a hero without being good looking. He doesn’t care what people think about the way he looks. But having it dragged out in detail – by one of his friends, no less – it’s more painful than he thought it would be. He raises his hand to touch his scar, but the moment his fingertips brush against it, Bakugou reaches out and grabs his hand, curls his own hand around it.

“That?” Bakugou says. “That’s what this is about? Like that fucking makes any difference.”

Shouto doesn’t understand what Bakugou means.

“Seriously, idiot,” Bakugou says, turning Shouto towards the mirror again. “Just fucking look.”

“I know what I look like, Bakugou,” says Shouto, voice coming out with sharp edges. He looks away, not wanting to meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Apparently fucking not if you think you’re fucking unsightly,” says Bakugou. “What kind of fucking word is that, anyway? Who--” There’s a pause, a breathless silence, and when Bakugou speaks again, his voice is low with menace. “Your shitty old man told you that, didn’t he?”

Shouto grips the sink. He wishes he wasn’t here. “No,” he says. “My mother.” He’s heard that mothers always think their children are beautiful, even if everyone else thinks they’re ugly, so he thinks – he thinks--

“Hah?” Bakugou says, then grabs him and spins him round to face him. “Your fucking mom told you that? She’s the one who gave you the fucking scar in the first place!”

“It’s not the scar!” Shouto says. Not that the scar helps, but-- “It’s not – why are you doing this? I already know – why are you – I don’t need you to tell me this, I already know.”

Bakugou just stares at him for a moment. He doesn’t even look mad, just – stunned. “Tell you what?” he says. “Already know what?”

“Just leave it, please,” Shouto says. He feels cold. He felt so peaceful and warm before they started talking about this. Now, here in the bathroom, where the light’s harsh and bright and the tiles echo with their voices, everything seems – sharp and loud.

There’s a silence. For a couple of seconds, Shouto thinks that Bakugou really will leave it, that he’ll let Shouto go back to bed and that he can start the process of carefully burying this memory with all the others that he tries not to think about.

And then, Bakugou breaks the silence.

“OK, you stupid ass, let me tell you what I already know,” he says, stepping right up close to Shouto and jabbing his finger in his face. “This face? This motherfucking face right fucking here? This is fucking hot. Fucking incredibly hot! It’s so fucking annoying! How can anyone look at this face and think it’s ugly? You are just astoundingly stupid. How are you so fucking stupid?”

Shouto – stares. Bakugou’s glaring at him, and he doesn’t look like he’s joking. And Bakugou does sometimes say things that he doesn’t mean – that Shouto doesn’t think he means – but not usually complimentary things. But--

“Seriously,” Bakugou says. “Seriously. Like, have you not noticed all the fucking extras fucking blushing and giggling over you all the fucking time? Are you really that oblivious? And if so, can you teach me your fucking secret, because I would really like not to be able to see that shit, too.”

“I – yes, of course,” Shouto says. His voice is strangely croaky. “But I just assumed it was because I’m Endeavour’s – because I’m related to Endeavour.”

“Holy fucking shit, Icy Hot!” Bakugou yells. “Since when does anyone simper over fucking Endeavour?”

Shouto – actually hadn’t thought of that.

“You really--” he croaks.

“Yes, idiot, I really,” Bakugou says. “Don’t make me say it a-fucking-gain, or I swear this bathroom is going ka-boom.” He turns Shouto to face the mirror. “Just – look. Just really look.”

And Shouto – looks. But he can’t see what Bakugou is talking about. There’s the scar. The blue eye. The red hair. It’s ugly. It’s always been ugly, even before he had the scar, though he was too young to realise it at the time. It’s not so bad when his left side is covered up – he wishes he could have kept that aspect of his first costume, but it was too restrictive to his movements and his quirk – but even then, it’s – unsightly.

“You don’t see it, do you?” Bakugou says behind him.

Shouto sighs. He feels so tired, all of a sudden. “Can we just go back to bed?”

Bakugou hesitates. “Yeah, OK,” he says at last, uncharacteristically quiet.

Bakugou takes Shouto’s hand and they go back to Shouto’s bedroom. Shouto slides in between the sheets and turns on his side, facing the wall. But when Bakugou climbs in behind him, he doesn’t slide up close and put his arm around Shouto. Instead, he takes Shouto’s shoulder and pulls him over, shoving him until they’re facing each other.

Shouto frowns. “I thought you didn’t want to sleep like this?”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m a fucking idiot who talks shit most of the time,” says Bakugou. That – doesn’t really explain anything, but then Bakugou reaches out and touches Shouto’s scar, brushing his fingertips over it. “Maybe it’s not so bad, looking at you all night,” he says, voice very quiet.

Shouto opens his mouth to speak, and Bakugou turns onto his back, puts an arm round Shouto, and pulls him down so that Shouto’s lying on his chest, one ear pressed to his heart, Bakugou’s hand over his mouth.

“Don’t ruin the moment with your dumbshit nonsense,” Bakugou says.

So Shouto doesn’t speak. He doesn’t really know what to say, anyway. Doesn’t know what to think. He feels like there’s a knot of tangled emotions in his chest, most of them unidentifiable. And Bakugou’s behaviour is – confusing. Although that’s not really new.

After a few moments, Bakugou takes his hand from Shouto’s mouth and puts it around Shouto’s shoulders instead, pulling him closer. Shouto shifts, trying to adjust to the new position. He puts an arm across Bakugou’s chest, shifting so that he’s lying on him a little more, wrapping one leg across Bakugou. He can hear Bakugou’s heart beating – faster than it ought to be, given how fit he is and the fact that he’s not exerting himself. Even so, it’s oddly comforting. He thinks he might enjoy sleeping like this.

He falls asleep to the sound of Bakugou’s heartbeat. Before that, though – when he’s mostly asleep, but still somewhat aware of what’s happening around him – he feels a warm hand on his head, fingers running through his hair.

Later on, he assumes he must have dreamt it.

****

Shouto wakes up feeling a strange combination of peaceful warmth and the nagging feeling that something’s not quite right. There’s something warm and solid against his cheek that’s definitely not his pillow, and a slow, steady thu-thump in his ear. For a couple of moments, he’s confused about where he is, before he remembers the night before and the new position he ended up in, lying on Bakugou’s chest. He’s still there now, sprawled across Bakugou, arms and legs wrapped around him, with Bakugou’s arm around his back, holding him close. He feels – safe. But he also remembers their conversation the night before, and that makes him feel confused. He still doesn’t really understand why Bakugou made such a big deal out of it all. He tips his head up to ask him and sees that he’s still asleep. And-- And--

Shouto stares. He’s been sleeping with Bakugou for weeks now, but he’s never actually seen him asleep, always facing the wall or – occasionally – the back of Bakugou’s head. But now, he sees Bakugou’s face, all the tense lines relaxed, no sneers or smirks, no flared nostrils. He looks – younger, more vulnerable. Handsome in a different way from when he’s awake. Even his hair looks soft in a way that usually it doesn’t. It makes Shouto want to – touch him, touch his face. Brush a hand across his cheek to see if it’s as soft as it looks. Ah, yes, here’s the problem with being attracted to Bakugou. Well. Shouto just needs to keep a lid on that, and then when the quirk’s worn off, he’ll tell Bakugou and then--

--and then, what? If it makes Bakugou uncomfortable – which it probably will – then maybe he won’t want to spend time with Shouto any more. Not that Shouto was expecting to spend time like this any more, but they’ll still be friends. Bakugou said he would take him mountain climbing. But maybe he won’t want to do that if he knows Shouto’s attracted to him. Maybe – they won’t be friends any more.

Shouto’s chest suddenly hurts a lot, but Shouto forces it down. If that’s the way things will be, then that’s the way things will be. He knows full well that people rarely get to keep anything important for very long. So he needs to just – take advantage of this while he can. This moment, here. So that he can remember it later.

It’s while he’s thinking this – still staring at Bakugou’s face – that Bakugou starts to shift, grumbles something unintelligible, and then opens his eyes. For a couple of seconds, he just stares at nothing, eyes hazy. Then he blinks, focuses, and frowns down at Shouto.

“Huh,” he mutters, his voice soft and gravelly with sleep.

Shouto listens to Bakugou’s heart speed up as his body wakes. Bakugou’s arm tightens around his shoulders, then loosens. Shouto closes his eyes for a moment, just to enjoy this a little longer, then starts to sit up. But Bakugou grabs him and pulls him back down.

“Where are you going, dumbass?” he mumbles. “Fucking – ruining it like always.”

So, then. Maybe Shouto will take advantage for a little while longer.

****

Shouto drifts, listening to Bakugou’s heart beating, for an unknown amount of time before Bakugou finally stretches and yawns.

“Better get moving if we’re gonna run before breakfast. Get off me, Halfie.”

Reluctantly, Shouto rolls off Bakugou and then gets up, going to the closet to get his jogging gear. When he’s found it, though, he turns around to find Bakugou standing right behind him. Shouto starts, and Bakugou grabs his face and stares at it intently.

Shouto stares back. The silence stretches out. After an indeterminate amount of time, Shouto realises that he’s forgotten to breathe, and hastily starts again before he passes out.

Then, as abruptly as he grabbed it, Bakugou lets go of his face and turns away.

“Time’s a-fucking-wastin’,” he says, shrugging on his t-shirt.

“What was that for?” Shouto asks.

“Hah?” Bakugou glances back at him. “What? Just because you’re an annoying bastard, I can’t enjoy your fucking stupid pretty face?”

Shouto’s mouth falls open. He feels – something. He feels something. Warm, in his chest.

“Don’t just fucking stand there, what, you want to grow roots or something?” Bakugou says, holding out his hand. “Let’s fucking go!”

Shouto breathes in.

Then he takes Bakugou’s hand.

Notes:

Katsuki: FFS, you are really hot!

Shouto: Actually, only half of me is hot.

(And then the whole dorm exploded.)

Chapter 11

“Oi, Halfie, are you having a fucking seizure?”

Shouto blinks. Bakugou is glaring at him, which isn’t unusual. What is unusual is that, immediately after Shouto registers that Bakugou is glaring at him, Bakugou slaps a hand onto his forehead, hard enough to hurt. Shouto frowns, wondering what Bakugou’s doing.

“Fuck me, how am I supposed to know what temperature you’re supposed to be? You’re so fucking weird,” Bakugou growls, then grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him right in so they’re nose to nose. “You’d better not be getting fucking sick on me, asshole.”

“What?” says Shouto. “I’m not sick.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing, just standing there staring into space?” Bakugou says. “Fucking listen when I’m talking to you!”

“Sorry,” says Shouto. He genuinely is sorry. He’s been… distracted a little too often lately. “What were you saying?”

“I said, we should do some shit with the fire,” says Bakugou.

They’re in Gym Gamma, practising their combined ice/explosion attack. Bakugou started trying to come up with a name for it, and that was where Shouto more or less zoned out. It wasn’t that he wasn’t paying attention to Bakugou – he was, watching him gesticulate, watching him snarl and yell and grin wildly – he just wasn’t – really listening.

The thing is – the thing is, Shouto isn’t really used to – this. Being attracted to someone. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to – be. This has never happened before, and the few times he’s thought about it he’s come to the conclusion that it probably never would. He just – doesn’t really get it, the whole thing, sex, romance, relationships. Doesn’t get it, and doesn’t really care. It’s not something he spends a lot of thought on – it all seems so irrelevant to him, to his goals – but when he’s occasionally wondered why he’s not – like other people that way, he’s always just assumed it stems from his childhood, from his family. The only relationship of that kind he’s really witnessed is the one between his parents, and – well. And so he put it away and didn’t worry about it.

Until now.

It’s probably the quirk. It would make sense – why Shouto would suddenly start feeling things like this now, after never having any similar experience before. The quirk seems designed to force him and Bakugou into close proximity. Maybe it’s supposed to go further than that. He wonders if it’s doing something similar to Bakugou, but – no. He doesn’t see any signs that it is. And even if it isn’t the quirk, it’s still – irrelevant. Shouto has too much in his life to even think about dating or any of that – he doesn’t even know how dating works, what you’re supposed to do – and Bakugou is as focused on his own goals as Shouto – maybe even more so – so it seems unlikely he would be interested, either, even if he were attracted to Shouto. Which, again, seems almost impossible. He and Bakugou are friends, sure, but Shouto doesn’t really think Bakugou likes him very much.

“For fuck’s sake!” Bakugou yells in his face. “What is fucking wrong with you?”

Shouto starts slightly and realises he’s been doing it again. “Sorry – the--?”

“The fucking fire, you fucking idiot!” Bakugou says. “Let’s use the fucking fire!”

It takes Shouto a moment to understand what Bakugou means. Then he gets it. Up until now, they’ve just been practising with the explosions and the ice. Their attacks are brutal, precise, lethal. It’s – almost breathtaking. But they haven’t tried anything with the fire. Not yet.

He looks down at his left hand. Bakugou snarls and grabs it.

“Don’t do that stupid kicked puppy face,” he says. “Who gives a shit about your shitty old man? Show me the fucking fire or you might as well fucking go home and die.”

“That’s a little extreme,” Shouto says.

“My fucking middle name, Icy Hot,” Bakugou replies, which Shouto supposes is fair. “I want the fucking fire. Come on!”

He lets go of Shouto’s hand, staring at him with a level of intensity that makes Shouto’s stomach feel – strange. It’s not like it’s the first time Bakugou’s demanded he use his fire, but it feels – different this time, somehow, to see him with that look on his face, almost hungry. It makes Shouto want to give him what he wants. So he does. He raises his hand, lets the fire rise from his palm. Bakugou’s eyes widen a little, the flames reflected in them, and he grins a savage grin.

“Fucking – yeah,” he says. “Do, like, a flamethrower or some shit.”

Shouto casts around for a target and settles on one of Cementoss’s monoliths. He stretches out his hand and flings the fire at it, a steady stream. It’s not the most precise of actions – he needs to practice more with the fire, he knows that, of course he knows – but Bakugou eyes it for a moment, then raises his own hand and--

BOOM

Suddenly, instead of a single point of flame, a blackened spot in the middle of the monolith, there’s – a starburst, so bright, then gone in an instant, soot radiating out from a central point, heat blowing back towards them, a star-shaped after-image on Shouto’s eyes. Shouto can make clouds of flame that broad, but not with that kind of percussive force, that kind of precise lethality. It’s – impressive.

Shouto douses the flame and stares at the blackened monolith, the wall behind it. Then he looks at Bakugou. Bakugou is beaming, mouth so wide, teeth showing.

“Fucking A!” he says. “Fucking – fireburst, that’s what we’ll call that shit! Gonna mow down everything in our way!”

“It was good,” Shouto says, thinking about how that grin makes Bakugou look so wild, so dangerous.

“Shut the fuck up, Icy Hot, you’re a fucking moron! Let’s fucking do it again!”

So they do it again.

****

Later, in the changing room – after everyone else has left – Bakugou grabs his face and stares at it. It’s the third time he’s done it that day, so Shouto doesn’t need to ask any more what the purpose is. But he still – he still doesn’t really get it. Bakugou says he just wants to look at Shouto’s face because it’s – pretty, but that doesn’t make any sense, not really. Even if Bakugou finds Shouto’s face attractive – even if, and he can’t think of any reason Bakugou would lie about it, but at the same time he finds it so difficult to really believe – the whole staring thing is – a little strange. And Bakugou never did it before today, before last night. It makes Shouto feel strangely uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” Bakugou says, lets go of his face, and turns away to fold his costume and slip it back in his case.

“Can you stop doing that?” Shouto asks.

“Hah?” Bakugou doesn’t even look round, focused on doing up the clasps of his costume case. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like--” Shouto says. He shakes his head. He can’t quite describe it.

Bakugou frowns and glances at him over his shoulder. “No, I fucking can’t. Might as well get some compensation from having to hang around your annoying ass all day.”

Shouto closes his own case with a snap. “I don’t even understand why you--”

“What, I didn’t make it clear enough for your single braincell?” Bakugou says, turning to face him fully, scowl firmly in place now. He jabs Shouto in the chest with his forefinger. “You’re nice to look at, so I wanna look at you. Shame about the fucking personality, though.”

Shouto stares back at him. There’s a silence. Then Bakugou’s lip curls, and he looks away.

“Listen, idiot,” he says. “You know when your mom said that she was having a fucking mental breakdown, right?”

Shouto blinks. He wasn’t expecting – to talk about this.

“I – yeah,” he says, then, “maybe.”

“Maybe?” Bakugou looks back at him now, face incredulous. “Fucking maybe? She’s been in a fucking mental hospital for what, ten years? She threw boiling water on your fucking face, how is that a fucking sane thing to do?”

Shouto sucks in his breath and turns away, grabbing his case. He absolutely does not want to talk about this with Bakugou. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not with anyone.

Bakugou grabs at his arm. Shouto tries to shake him off, but Bakugou tightens his grip until it’s painful, jerking Shouto’s arm, trying to stop him from leaving.

“I’m not trying to – fuck,” Bakugou says. “It’s fucking shit, is what it is. She lost her fucking mind and you lost your fucking mom and – that’s shit, OK? That’s shit. But she was fucked up, Todoroki. She wasn’t in her right mind. You get that, right?”

Shouto stands still, jaw clenched. “Why are we talking about this?” he manages.

“Because you don’t – get it,” Bakugou says. “You act like – fuck, you’re the one who told me, but you act like – like you think she really meant that, all of it, the fucking--” He gestures at Shouto’s face. “You keep saying it’s really your shitty old man’s fault, but then you’re like – what, you really think you’re unsightly? You think that’s why she messed you up, because you’re just so awful to look at that she couldn’t bear it any more?”

Shouto stares at the wall. He feels like he’s not really present in his body. “She’s in the hospital because of my old man.”

“Yeah, sure. She had a breakdown because of your old man. But it was a breakdown, right? She’s not just a prisoner in there. She’s in there because she needs help. Right?”

Shouto swallows. His tongue feels like it’s too big for his mouth, like it’s blocking his throat.

“I’m leaving,” he says.

Then he leaves.

****

It’s quiet, that night. Not that it isn’t often quiet between him and Bakugou, but usually that’s – comfortable, enjoyable, even. But tonight is different. Shouto doesn’t try to turn round to face Bakugou. Bakugou doesn’t shove him and growl at him and press his cold feet against Shouto’s left calf. It’s – quiet.

For a while, anyway. Then Bakugou sighs behind him.

“Listen, I’m not – fucking sorry,” he says.

Shouto frowns into the darkness. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not! I’m fucking right and you’re an asshole. But – shit, it’s not – it’s your fucking mom, right? And that therapy shit is not my bag, like, fuck, I don’t know why I even-- I should have just – kept my mouth shut. Fuck knows, if anyone tried to say anything about my fucking hag of a mom they’d be picking up their teeth for a week.”

Shouto – isn’t completely sure what Bakugou’s trying to say. It’s clear that it’s not an apology, but it also feels like – maybe it is? Bakugou is very confusing.

“Then why did you?” he asks.

Bakugou makes a frustrated noise. “Because I want you to stop being so damn stupid, is all.” He presses his forehead against the back of Shouto’s neck. “I hate that you’re so damn stupid, you fucking dumbass.”

Inexplicably, given that Bakugou’s just called him stupid three times in two sentences, Shouto feels – strangely warm. He’s honestly starting to think he should just give up on trying to understand his feelings when it comes to Bakugou. So often they seem to be doing something unexpected.

“What’s your mom like?” he asks, mostly to change the subject, but also because – he’s suddenly interested. He’s never considered the idea that Bakugou has a mom. Maybe a dad, too. Maybe they love each other.

“Fucking awful,” Bakugou says. “Constantly fucking yelling, you wouldn’t believe.”

Shouto finds himself smiling into the darkness. “That does sound implausible.”

“Right?” says Bakugou, then pauses. “Wait – fuck, are you fucking mocking me, asshole?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Bakugou’s freezing cold feet are suddenly pressed against Shouto’s left leg, his fingers digging painfully into Shouto’s side.

And Shouto’s strangely OK with that.

****

Two days later, Shouto receives a letter from his mother. That’s not particularly unusual. Shouto writes to his mom once a week, and she always writes back. But he’s already had a reply to his last letter, so that’s a little strange.

It’s when he reads it, sitting across the table from Bakugou, holding his hand, that he understands.

Dearest Shouto,

This was a difficult letter for me to write. Perhaps it would have been easier to say this face to face, but it’s so hard for you to visit these days and I didn’t think it could wait. I received a letter from your schoolfriend yesterday, and it’s become clear that there are some things that I should have told you a long time ago. I can’t bear for it to wait any longer.

Before you came to see me for the first time, I wanted nothing more than to see you, but I was also afraid. I was afraid that if I saw you, then all I would be able to see would be the damage I did to you, the evidence of the terrible thing that I did. I knew I couldn’t expect you to come – couldn’t ask you to come – and I was afraid that I would never see you again, and afraid that I would see you again.

But then, that day you came, and I saw you for the first time as a young man, I realised that I’d been afraid all those years for nothing. All I could see was my beautiful son, grown up so handsome, so kind. I know every mother thinks her children are beautiful, but in my case, I’m sure that it’s true. All those other mothers may be deluded, but I am surely right when I say that my son shines like a star.

I should have been clear before, but I was never sure how much you remembered of what happened. I thought – hoped – that you might have forgotten the things I said, if not the pain that followed. That you could have received at least that small mercy. And perhaps I was a coward, as well, afraid to bring it up, to remind you of it, in case remembering made you realise that you’d made a mistake in forgiving me. But your friend’s letter revealed the truth to me, and all I can say is that I am so sorry that I let you go for so many years believing that your mother didn’t like to look at you. I am so sorry, my beautiful Shouto, about this as I am about everything else. I hope you will forgive me, but if you don’t, at least you’ll know how I really feel. And I’m very glad to know that you have friends who care about you so deeply. Please thank him for me.

With all my love,

Your mother

Shouto stares at the letter, at the last word, mother. Then he reads it again, very fast. His throat feels like it’s closing up. His grip on the paper is tight enough that it starts to crumple.

“Halfie?”

He looks up to see Bakugou frowning at him. He realises his grip on Bakugou’s hand is just as tight, a death grip.

“OK?” Bakugou says.

Shouto – lets go of Bakugou’s hand. He stands up, feeling like his feet aren’t quite touching the ground. He leaves the room, up the stairs, walking fast, almost running. He can hear voices – a voice – behind him, muffled, like it’s underwater. He doesn’t look back.

He reaches his room, steps inside, and shuts the door in Bakugou’s face.

There’s a moment of breathless silence. Shouto stares at the door. He’s sweating, he realises, his palms slick, the back of his neck prickling.

Then Bakugou hammers on the door.

“The fuck, Icy Hot?” he yells. “You know you can’t be on your own!”

Shouto knows that. He knows it. But he needs to be on his own. He can’t bear anything else.

“Please,” he says. He says it loud, so that Bakugou will hear through the door. His voice cracks. “Just for a few minutes.”

Another silence. A single thump against the door.

“You start feeling bad, I wanna hear about it immediately, got me?”

“Thank you,” Shouto whispers, then clears his throat and says it louder, so Bakugou will hear.

Bakugou grunts, then it’s quiet. He’s gone. Shouto is alone.

Alone with his mother’s letter.

He sits on the futon and folds it up, hands trembling. Then he unfolds it and reads it again. His throat is burning, his eyes. He hadn’t even thought – hadn’t ever considered that he cared enough about this issue to feel like this. It’s not even important, it’s not important. But – he’s been wrong. He’s been wrong, all this time, about what she thought. He refolds the letter, unfolds it. He touches his face, brushes his fingers against his scar. He thinks about what it’s like, to have a mother. To have a mother again, after all this time.

Shouto doesn’t know how long it is since he last cried – maybe ten years, maybe that long – and he doesn’t cry now. But there’s something in him, something that wants to. He thinks if he could – if he could, maybe this would be easier. It’s like there’s – something building up inside him, pressing against his eyes, his cheeks, his throat, but there’s no way to get it out. It just keeps building, until he can barely breathe.

He refolds the letter. He takes a few deep breaths. A few more. He tries to take all his feelings and pack them away, like usual. But this time, it doesn’t work. They just keep – spilling out. His throat is still burning. A few more deep breaths. He knows this is nothing he can’t handle. He’s dealt with worse than this. So much worse.

At last, he feels as though he’s on something of an even keel. He stands up. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but there’s the faintest itch under his skin, so he can’t afford to give himself any more time. He goes to the door and opens it, a faint dread in his stomach of going back to the common room where everyone will be talking and laughing.

But in the event, he doesn’t need to go to the common room. Bakugou is sitting on the floor in the hallway outside Shouto’s room, his head tipped back against the wall.

Shouto swallows. “Bakugou.”

Bakugou surges to his feet. “Fucking finally,” he says. “Thought I was gonna have to break the fucking door down.” He grabs Shouto’s hand, the faint coolness washing away the itching. Then he puts his other hand on Shouto’s shoulder and peers into his face. “The fuck was that about, anyway?”

Shouto tries to take a deep breath, but it’s like there’s an obstacle in his throat. His fingers tighten around the letter, and Bakugou glances down at it, then looks again, staring for a second.

“She wrote to you.”

“You wrote to her,” Shouto says.

Bakugou’s mouth flattens. “Thought she should know what a dumbass you are.”

Shouto nods. He swallows. “She thinks I’m beautiful,” he says. His voice sounds hoarse.

Something changes in Bakugou’s posture, some tension that Shouto hadn’t even realised was there flowing away.

“Of course, idiot,” he says. “She’s not fucking blind.”

Shouto’s eyes are suddenly blurred. He blinks, and Bakugou’s face comes back into focus. His expression is horrified.

“Shit,” Bakugou says, then shoves him back into his room and slams the door behind them. “Don’t fucking--”

Then he grabs Shouto – grabs him, wraps his arms round him and pulls him close. And Shouto realises – he’s crying. He’s crying.

“You asshole,” Bakugou mutters in his ear, tightening his hold on Shouto. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

Shouto tries – he tries not to.

Then he stops trying. He presses his face against Bakugou’s shoulder, grips the back of Bakugou’s shirt. Bakugou’s saying something that mostly seems to consist of fucking asshole and it’s fine, it’s OK. Shouto doesn’t really listen to the words, just to the voice.

Bakugou keeps talking, and Shouto listens.

****

The next evening, in the common room, Yaoyorozu appears in front of Shouto while Bakugou’s in the bathroom. She looks nervous. It reminds him a little of when she asked him if he was sleeping with Bakugou.

“Todoroki – have you been all right lately?”

“The quirk illness is still there,” Shouto says. “It doesn’t seem to be progressing much.”

“No, I meant – with – everything else?”

Shouto can’t think of anything else that would be particularly important. “How do you mean?”

Yaoyorozu bites her lip. “Yesterday – when Bakugou chased you out of the room – we all heard him yelling at you.”

Shouto frowns. Was Bakugou yelling? He remembers he heard a voice behind him on the way up the stairs. He wasn’t really thinking about it at the time.

“And this morning,” Yaoyorozu continues, “you – I’m sorry, this is so personal, but – you looked like you’d been crying?”

Huh. Shouto knows that he looked bad this morning – his eyes bloodshot and underscored by dark marks – but he didn’t know that it would be obvious he’d been crying. Still, it’s been a long time. He supposes people who cry more often must be better at recognising the signs.

“I just – I know you have to spend time together because of the quirk, but if he’s – still bullying you--”

Shouto stares. Still? When was Bakugou bullying him before? Then he remembers: another conversation like this, with Yaoyorozu, after he’d tried and failed to get Bakugou to fight him.

“The fuck do you want, Ponytail?”

Shouto looks round to see Bakugou approaching, face set in a sneer. Yaoyorozu touches his arm.

“I’m here if you need me,” she murmurs.

Then Bakugou grabs his hand and drags him off to sit on the couch.

****

Shouto thinks about it, after that. They’re surrounded by a group – Midoriya, Uraraka and Iida are there, along with Kirishima and Kaminari – but Shouto’s not sure what they’re talking about, letting the sound wash over him. Yaoyorozu thinks Bakugou is bullying him. It’s ridiculous, on the face of it – he can’t even imagine a scenario where Bakugou, of all people, could bully him – but she doesn’t seem to think so. And – she’s not the only one. He remembers Jirou being angry, Sero, Ashido, he remembers Midoriya yelling at Bakugou. That was weeks ago now, when they didn’t understand what was happening. But – he thinks maybe they still don’t understand. Not about the quirk, the illness, but about Bakugou. He thinks back to the way he thought about Bakugou, weeks ago, before all this happened. He thinks about Bakugou, angry, saying Who gives a fuck what those idiots think? They all think I’m an asshole anyway, so why does it make any difference?

It does make a difference, Shouto thinks. It makes a difference.

He stands up.

“Hah?” says Bakugou, looking up at him. But Shouto doesn’t look back.

“Everyone,” he says. “Listen for a second.”

The room grows quiet, a few whispers exchanged as his classmates turn to look at him.

“You’ve all got it wrong,” Shouto says. “About Bakugou, I mean. He’s not bullying me. He’s a very kind person.”

He feels Bakugou’s fingers tighten around his, and he squeezes back. “When he and I were fighting, it was because I asked him to fight me. He was doing me a favour. And the second time, I asked him but he refused because he was worried I was ill. Even though I tried to force him to fight me, he was careful not to hurt me.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “He’s been – very kind to me, these past weeks. He’s a very kind person. So I thought you should know that you’ve all got it wrong.” He checks to see if he’s covered everything, then nods. “Thank you for listening.”

There’s a dead silence. Then it’s broken.

“Hah?”

Shouto looks round to see Bakugou surging to his feet, eyes wide with fury.

“What the actual fuck, Icy Hot?” he snarls, then rips his hand out of Shouto’s and shoves him in the chest hard enough that Shouto stumbles back a step. “You fucking asshole.”

Shouto blinks, a little surprised. Though it is Bakugou, so he supposes this response is not entirely unexpected.

“Fuck you,” Bakugou hisses. Then he turns on his heel and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

There’s another silence.

“Kind, huh?” says Hagakure, snickering slightly.

“Excuse me,” Shouto says. He heads towards the door – still vibrating slightly with the force of Bakugou’s slam – but before he reaches it, Kirishima is suddenly in front of him.

“Todoroki, man,” he says, and Shouto is startled to see that his eyes are glinting with tears. “That was so manly.”

Then he hugs Shouto. Shouto stands, stiff with surprise, and then remembers to put his arms round Kirishima in return. Kirishima tightens his hold, then lets go, wiping his eyes.

“You’re good, you’re good,” he says, slapping Shouto on the back. “Go get your man.”

“My--?” Shouto asks, but Kirishima shoves him slightly towards the door, and Shouto decides that going after Bakugou is more important than finding out what Kirishima is talking about, so he heads in that direction. Behind him there’s a lot of noise, but he doesn’t bother listening to any of it.

He has other things to do.

****

He finds Bakugou standing on the second floor landing, shoulders hunched, fists clenched, like he got this far and couldn’t make it any further. Shouto approaches him cautiously.

“Bakugou—”

Bakugou spins to face him. “The fuck do you want? Fuck off!” he yells – almost screams, Shouto grimacing at how loud it is.

“I wanted to check on you.”

“Why do you fucking care?” Bakugou says. “Why do you care?”

Shouto blinks at him. There are tears in his eyes, he realises with a jolt. His face is contorted with rage, but there are tears. Is that – Shouto’s fault? He thought he was doing the right thing, but now--

“We’re friends,” he says.

“No!” Bakugou says, then shoves him. Shouto steps back, and Bakugou steps forward and shoves him again, and again, punctuating each exclamation with a shove. “No! No! Fuck you! Fuck off!”

Shouto’s back hits the wall, and Bakugou leans into his face, tears starting from his eyes.

“How fucking dare you?” he snarls.

Shouto really doesn’t understand why Bakugou’s so mad – madder than Shouto’s seen him for a while, and he’s seen a lot of Bakugou being mad lately – but he does understand that Bakugou’s crying, and he’s pretty sure he’s responsible for that. It’s not what he wanted – not what he intended, not at all. He’s at a loss for what to do – he’s not used to people crying, not people he cares about – until he remembers the night before, what Bakugou did for him, how much it helped. So he steps forward and puts his arms around him.

“No!” Bakugou yells, struggling a little, but Shouto holds on, and after a second or two Bakugou suddenly stops struggling and hugs him back, fiercely, burying his face in Shouto’s chest.

“No,” he says, muffled against Shouto’s shirt. “No. Fuck you.”

“OK,” Shouto says, for want of anything better.

Bakugou growls. But he keeps hugging Shouto, so Shouto thinks he probably got it mostly right, this time.

They stand like that for a long time. Shouto’s not sure how long. At one point, Midoriya appears on the stairs, but when he sees them, Bakugou’s head still buried in Shouto’s chest, he pauses, smiles at Shouto, then tiptoes back down again.

Eventually, Bakugou pushes him away and swipes viciously at his eyes.

“Don’t ever pull any shit like that with me again, Halfie,” he says.

“Understood,” says Shouto. “Do you mean the hugging, or--?”

Bakugou’s eyes narrow. “Did you just say understood even though you have no idea what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah,” says Shouto. “Sorry.”

Bakugou closes his eyes. “I fucking hate you,” he says. Then he opens his eyes and grabs Shouto’s hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

****

They don’t talk about it – any of it, Shouto’s mom, whatever it was that happened with Bakugou after Shouto made his announcement in the common room, the tears. Shouto’s pretty sure Bakugou doesn’t want to talk about it, and Shouto’s content as he is. More than content – he feels as though something’s changed, something’s better than it was in his life. Maybe just because of his mom – maybe. But whatever it is, as the week goes on, he just feels – relaxed. In the mornings he wakes up with Bakugou – face to face or same-size spoon to same-size spoon, or sometimes just sprawled over each other – and they talk about nothing in particular, or they don’t talk at all. They go running, breath steaming in the frosty morning air. They go to class. They do homework. They sit next to each other in the common room. They go to bed. It’s unremarkable. But Shouto thinks it might be the best time he’s ever had in his life.

The rest of Shouto’s life might be unremarkable, but training is exciting. Bakugou and Shouto have been working on the fireburst attack, and it’s gone from impressive to terrifying, fire moving at startling speeds, fire as a projectile weapon – Shouto sometimes finds himself just staring after they’ve tried it, breath caught in his throat at the sheer power of it all.

It’s a few days after Bakugou’s breakdown, though, that training takes a different turn. Aizawa’s decided that Shouto and Bakugou’s example is worth following, so they’re out in one of the training grounds today, dispersed in pairs around the mock-up city to work on potential combined attacks. Shouto and Bakugou have been instructed to just keep doing what they’re doing. They’ve tried out a few ice attacks, a couple of firebursts, when Bakugou turns to him with a grin.

“Hey, Halfie, what about that fucking thing you did at the sports festival?”

“What thing?” Shouto asks.

“Where you made the air go boom. That was pretty fucking cool.”

Shouto takes a moment to marvel at the fact that Bakugou apparently just paid him an unforced compliment, then nods. “The cold air expanded rapidly when I used my fire.”

“I fucking know how it works, idiot, unlike some people I pay attention in physics.” Bakugou flicks him in the forehead. “But, like – we could blow that up, right? Make an even bigger boom.”

“Huh.” Shouto hadn’t even considered that before. “I don’t know if it would work.”

Bakugou flexes his fingers with a manic grin. “Only one way to find out.”

And Shouto – finds himself nodding. He thinks maybe he would agree to anything when Bakugou looks like that. That’s probably not ideal. “OK.”

So: Shouto cools the air down, coating the buildings in ice, layer after layer, until his own face is stiff with frost. Bakugou’s shivering, and Shouto thinks it probably won’t work, since Bakugou needs to sweat to make his quirk work. But Bakugou still has that gleeful glint in his eye, and so Shouto will try.

“Ready?” Shouto says.

Bakugou raises his hands. “I was born ready.”

Shouto takes a deep breath and ignites his left side, pushing as much into it as he can, as quickly as he can. At the same time, Bakugou flexes both his hands with a look of wild joy on his face that Shouto will remember, later on.

And then there’s a noise.

Noise isn’t quite the right way to describe it. It’s more like a wall. Like a tidal wave. Like an avalanche, picking Shouto up and flinging him backwards through the air. The noise, surrounding him, rushing forward, dragging at his limbs, solid, churning, all-encompassing.

Shouto lands on something hard, his head smacking against it, the breath knocked out of his body.

And then another noise, this one less incomprehensible: a cracking, rumbling roar. Shouto knows that noise.

He opens his eyes to see the building above him begin to topple. There’s no time, no time to get up, no time to run. All he can do is fling his arm up over his face, ice arcing out above him, around him, as the debris rains down.

And then everything goes black.

****

When Shouto opens his eyes, everything is black.

His tongue is coated in dust, and he coughs, once, twice. The sound echoes sharply. He’s in a small space, then. He reaches up to find a smooth, cold wall above him, an arm’s length away. Ice.

His head hurts. His leg, too. His face is sticky with blood and dust. He thinks his left wrist might be broken. And there’s something else, too. An itch.

Under his skin.

Notes:

Oops, lads. Maybe read the risk assessment first next time, mmkay?

Chapter 12

Shouto has never been claustrophobic, which is lucky, because this isn’t the first time he’s found himself trapped in a small, dark space. Even so, the air feels thin in his chest, and he finds himself gasping a little. Has he injured himself, is that why it’s a little hard to breathe? Ribs, spine, solar plexus? Or is it just fear?

He draws in a breath – forcing himself to do it slowly – then begins a careful check. Toes – fine on his left foot, painful on his right. Ankles, the same. Calves – ah, it’s his right knee that’s the problem. Not broken, he doesn’t think. Definitely sprained, possibly dislocated. He’ll come back to it when he’s finished the rest of the check. Hips, fine. Stomach – he presses against it with his right hand, no pain, no rigidity. Ribs – bruised, definitely, but not enough to explain the breathing issues. Hands – right hand, fine, left hand, swollen and painful. It hurts to move it, so he uses his right hand to explore his left arm. Wrist – probably broken. Elbow – swollen as well, but not broken, he doesn’t think. Shoulder – feels like one giant bruise. So that arm’s going to be a problem.

What else? His neck is aching, but he can move his head OK, so probably no spinal injury. One side of his face feels stiff and slightly sticky, and his head hurts a lot, so some kind of head injury. He feels reasonably lucid, though, so probably not too bad. So mostly it’s just his left arm. Which means fire could be tricky. But then, given the size of the space he’s in, and what’s protecting him, fire would be a terrible idea anyway – even if it didn’t melt the ice and result in his immediate death by crushing, he’d mostly likely suffocate from lack of oxygen before he could use it to do anything useful.

Oxygen. Right.

Shouto reaches out with his good hand, running it along the ice wall. It’s disconcerting how completely dark it is, as if his eyes are still closed. He feels around the contours of the wall and finds it encloses him completely, a long, Shouto-sized half-bubble, like a capsule (or a coffin). How long has he been down here? Long enough for the itch to appear, anyway. How much air is there in this space? How much has he already used? How long before someone finds him?

Too long, Shouto decides. He can’t afford to just lie here and wait. Not with the air running out. Not with the itch.

He considers. There’s no light coming through the ice, which means that most likely it’s completely buried by rubble. Any weakening of it could be extremely dangerous. On the other hand, if he doesn’t replenish the oxygen, he will die. (If Bakugou doesn’t find him before the itch progresses – no, not the priority right now.) So, then, he needs to find the best way to make a hole in the ice without producing too much structural weakness. His head hurts a lot, and his thoughts are sluggish, but – an arch. An arch will be the strongest. Where? At his – his feet, he thinks – yes, where the structure is lowest, and where if it collapses, it’ll crush his legs but not his – his head, his chest.

So.

Shouto takes a deep breath and begins to maneouvre his body around so that he can reach the lowest ice, near his feet. Immediately, several parts of him – his knee and left arm the most prominent – begin to protest loudly. His head swims with pain. It’s dark, which means that he can’t tell if his vision is blurring out or not, but it certainly feels like it is. He grits his teeth and keeps shuffling round, doing his best to avoid putting weight on his injured joints. And he doesn’t think about the itch. He doesn’t think about that at all.

At last, he’s within arm’s reach of the area that he’s reasonably sure is the best target for an air hole. Within his right arm’s reach. His left arm is – more problematic. He tries to reach forward with it, and that just results in – something. Possibly he blacked out briefly. With how dark it is, it’s difficult to tell. But he needs – air. He needs air.

Shouto sucks in air between his teeth, and then reaches over with his right hand and takes hold of the part of his left arm that seems least injured – the forearm, equidistant from the broken wrist and the swollen elbow – and lifts, pulling his arm up and forward. He half-screams while he does it, which helps a little. He doesn’t actually even know if his quirk will work properly, given how messed up his arm is, but he needs air, so it’ll have to work. Anything else is not an option.

Finally, his fingertips are pressed against the ice. It hurts, but so much of Shouto hurts at this point that it’s barely more than background. He needs a – tunnel, a small tunnel through the ice, small enough not to weaken it, big enough to produce airflow. It’s precision work, even at his best, even when he can see what he’s doing. If his quirk doesn’t perform as expected, he’s likely to be immediately crushed. His heart sounds very loud in his ears. He wonders if Bakugou’s looking for him. And he realises, for the first time, that Bakugou was standing next to him when the explosion happened. That Bakugou must have been hit by it, too.

It feels like something turns over inside Shouto. Like the whole of his insides turns over. Bakugou can’t make ice. He can’t make an ice (coffin) capsule to protect himself. If Bakugou was under the falling building--

--but no. No. Bakugou is – incredibly strong. Incredibly smart. Bakugou would have blown the rubble away before it came anywhere near him. Surely. Surely.

Shouto needs to stop thinking about this before the oxygen runs out. Shouto needs to--

Shouto closes his eyes and focuses on the fingertips of his left hand.

At first: nothing. Then: pain. Heat, throbbing, painful heat in his hand. Heat shouldn’t hurt him, not his left side. But he hurts anyway. And there’s a quiet hiss. The air temperature starts to rise. There’s water against his fingertips now, which is good. But then a drop of water falls on Shouto from above.

Shouto’s mouth goes dry. He reaches up with his right hand, cooling the ice wall above him at the same time as he melts it below. He’s still not skilled at using both his quirks at the same time, and the effort makes his head spin and ache. The pain in his left arm is building up, throbbing, pulsing not just in his arm but in his neck, behind his eyes, the heavy weight of it combining with the uneven spikes of pain from his head injury to provide a truly unpleasant experience. He tries to focus, tries to control the cold and the heat at the same time – he can’t afford for his fingers to ignite, he needs to be careful, so careful. There’s a hole in the ice now, his hand sliding inside it, reaching for the back wall, melting through. He’s aware that he’s breathing hard, panting, even. He’s not sure if it’s from the exertion, the pain, or the lack of oxygen. Whichever it is, all it’s going to do is deplete the oxygen even further. Something drips in his eyes, and he doesn’t know if it’s sweat, blood, or melting ice from the ceiling. Maybe he’s about to be crushed. He hopes it’s fast, if so.

And then – there’s something. The faintest touch of air on his fingertips. He swallows, pushing his hand further into the hole, ignoring the nausea that rolls in his stomach as the edges scrape against his swollen wrist. He can feel the ice at the back, and then he sends more heat, and then – there’s something else against his fingertips. Not ice. Rock, covered in grit. The rubble that used to be a building.

Shouto removes his right hand from the ceiling and grabs hold of his left arm, dragging his hand back out of the hole. The pain is intense, but he ignores it, dropping to lie flat, cheek pressed to the ground, mouth up against the hole he’s made. The air coming through is stale, dusty, but he sucks it in greedily, feeling his lungs expand as though it’s his first breath in this world.

He can breathe. He can breathe.

He lies there for a long time – he doesn’t know how long, time seems barely to exist in this icy darkness – just breathing. Then he remembers why he chose this end of the ice capsule to make a hole: so that if it collapsed, it would only crush his feet. But now his head is there. The ice seems to be holding fine – the space is a little smaller now, he thinks, he must have increased the thickness while he was trying to maintain the low temperature – but it’s not worth the risk. He needs to move back.

Shouto moves back. Then he passes out. When he comes to, every part of him aches. And the itch is worse.

He’s solved the immediate problem of potential suffocation, but now – there are other problems. If it wasn’t for the quirk, he could probably survive down here for a while. Probably long enough for the rescue team to find him. He doesn’t seem to have any immediately life-threatening injuries. Dehydration would be his next major concern.

But dehydration isn’t his next major concern. The itch is. The quirk. He feels – hot. Too hot. Is he emitting heat? He can’t afford for that to happen. He reaches up, pressing his left hand against the ceiling. Activating his quirk makes his whole body start to sting, like needles under his skin. He’s too hot. Or too cold. He wants – Bakugou. He wants Bakugou.

How long has it been? Shouto has no idea. Are they even looking for him? Of course – of course they are. But without knowing how much rubble there is on top of him – without knowing what the damage is like, how much ground they have to search – no. No, even then, even if it was just a single building collapse with a Todoroki is in here! sign attached, they still might not make it in time. Moving rubble is straightforward for many heroes – Uraraka, Midoriya, probably Sero – but moving rubble without causing further collapse is a very different proposition. And if they’re not sure exactly where Shouto is…

Shouto holds his breath. It’s silent. It’s dark. His thoughts are turning in circles, turning and turning. He wonders if he actually already died. Maybe he died and this is what death is like. Or maybe they thought he was dead and sealed him in this coffin, and now he’ll die for real because Bakugou is somewhere up there under the sky and Shouto is down here in his grave.

He blinks. He thinks he blinks – it’s so hard to tell in the dark. No, he’s not dead. He’s not in a coffin. The ceiling is made of ice, not wood. And Bakugou – and Bakugou. Bakugou wouldn’t leave him to die. Bakugou could have left him to die at any time these past weeks, but he never did, even when he was angry, even when he was embarrassed. If Bakugou’s alive (if Bakugou’s alive), he’ll be looking for Shouto. Shouto needs to stay alive too, so Bakugou can find him. He needs to – he--

A ripple of pain runs under Shouto’s skin, starting somewhere near his stomach and racing out in all directions. He gasps, trying to turn on his side, to curl around himself, but the movement jars his injured knee and Shouto chokes out a groan, eyes watering. Things are – getting difficult. He has no idea how long it will be before the quirk kills him, but he does know that there’s a period of incoherence first, a period where he won’t be aware of what’s going on around him. He can’t afford for that to happen. He needs to be awake, aware, as alert as he can be, so that he can help Bakugou find him. He needs to help Bakugou. He needs Bakugou.

And then: there’s a noise. For a second – more than a second, a long moment, stretching out in the darkness – Shouto thinks he imagined it. It’s silent down here, silent and dark, the only sound Shouto’s breath and the occasional threatening creak of rubble or ice or both. But that wasn’t what Shouto heard. What he heard was like – a voice. No words he could make out, just a faint sound that sounded like it was made by a person.

And then he hears it again.

Shouto scrambles, turning on his stomach, turning his body so his face is near the hole in the ice, listening, listening. He’s not thinking about being crushed any more. He just thinking about the fact that somewhere out there, beyond the ice, beyond the rubble, is a person. A person (Bakugou). He’s not alone. He’s not alone.

Shouto opens his mouth and tries to call out, but his voice is choked with dust and dryness, and it comes out as a whispered groan. He slaps his good hand down on the ground, coughs, tries again. This time is a little louder, more of a croak, but nothing that will penetrate the rubble, nothing that whoever is out there will hear. Another wave of pain rolls through him, leaving him breathless, and he thinks – wouldn’t that be something, some kind of irony, if the person out there was this close but never found him, if he died here listening to their voice but unable to respond.

No. No, Shouto will not die. When the quirk wears off, Bakugou is taking him up a mountain. Shouto’s never been up a mountain. He needs to go. He needs to stay alive so he can go. So he can--

Shouto hears the noise again. He opens his mouth, strains to shout, digs his fingers into the dirt in frustration. The strain makes his head throb, and then there’s something – like lightning running up his spine, forcing his body to turn rigid. He jerks, once, twice, a third time. The pain of it in his arm, his knee, makes his mouth hang open. Then whatever it is leaves him, leaves him limp on the floor, his mouth still open. He thinks he might be drooling.

What…?

Nothing feels real, down here in the dark. His head is spinning, he can’t even identify what parts of him hurt any more. There are needles under his skin, and it’s so – it’s so hot.

So hot. But he can make ice. He can freeze this space – freeze himself, encase himself until he dies, throat full of ice. But he could also freeze – out there. There’s a hole in the ice and he could send new ice through, into the rubble. If he could send it far enough – would it reach the surface? Would someone see it? Would they know what it meant?

Shouto has no idea. He has no idea. But he also has no choice.

Shouto takes a deep breath, coughing on the dust in his throat. Then he puts the tip of his right index finger to the ground, right by the hole in the ice. It’s precision work, again, he needs so much control and he has none, he has nothing, just pain and heat. But he can’t fail. He needs to go with Bakugou, up the mountain. If he doesn’t go, Bakugou will go alone. Shouto doesn’t want that.

He focuses and pushes the ice out, out of his fingertip, along the ground, snaking through the hole. He can’t see what’s beyond, has no idea what’s happening to the ice after it leaves his line of sight. He just has to hope. He just has to hope.

He focuses on the ice. Focuses on the ice. There’s a stabbing spike of pain in the back of his head, but he ignores it, ignores the way his stomach is rolling, the way his whole body is shaking. His right index finger is steady, and that’s all, that’s the only thing that matters. He keeps pushing the ice out, imagining it spreading through the rubble, finding the cracks and the pores, reaching for the surface, for the light, the way that he wants to. He imagines Bakugou, seeing ice seep out of the pile of debris and knowing, knowing what it means.

Ice presses against his fingers and Shouto frowns. He lifts his hand, feeling around to see where the ice came from. And he finds: nothing. No hole in the wall. It’s filled – overfilled, ice pushing back into the space behind.

He filled up the hole.

Shouto’s chest aches with a sharp, sudden pain. So he’ll die, then. So he’ll die. After all this, after everything. Just when he thought that maybe – things could be different from how he expected. Things could maybe be better, maybe, maybe.

Things were better. They were better. He had that, for a while.

He closes his eyes. He thinks about his mother. It’ll be hard for her, he thinks. Fuyumi and Natsuo will take care of her, though. And at least--

There’s a noise. A noise, louder than before, and repeated, he can’t make out what it’s saying, but it’s the same thing, over and over, like someone’s calling. Like someone’s shouting.

Here, Shouto whispers, or maybe shouts – he can’t hear very well, his ears are buzzing. Here, I’m here. He presses his mouth to the ice where the hole used to be, calling silently. And he hears the answering call – not answering, they can’t hear him, but he can hear them, he can hear them. And something else: creaking and groaning, shifting of the rubble beyond the ice coffin.

Someone’s out there. Digging. Bakugou.

Bakugou, Shouto says, not even trying to put any sound behind it. Bakugou.

Then a wave of heat washes over him and he’s not really sure any more, not sure if he’s just imagining things, not sure where he is. There’s ice against his cheek and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know why it feels so hot. His lips are moving. His arm hurts. He can’t remember why his arm hurts. He can’t remember why it’s so dark. He can’t remember.

And--

CRACK

Shouto starts, opening his eyes – or maybe they were already open, he doesn’t know, there’s no light. And then – and then there is light, faint light filtering through the ice, through the ice that’s splintered with a spiderweb of cracks that mean that it’s collapsing, that Shouto will be crushed. He tries to reach up with his right hand, to seal the cracks, to save himself, but before he can there’s another CRACK and the ceiling collapses, showering Shouto with chunks of ice. He wraps his arm over his head, trying to protect himself – futile, that’s futile – but instead of rock pouring down after the ice, there’s only – light. Light, and air, and dust. Shouto can see the sky through the hole in the ice. He blinks at it, astonished.

Then he can see something else: Midoriya, face streaked with dirt, peering through the opening, eyes wide.

“Oh, thank--” Midoriya says. Then he’s leaning in, reaching for Shouto, taking him by the shoulders. Shouto sucks in a gasp as Midoriya drags on his bruised shoulder, and then he’s being pulled out through the hole, out, out, into the world, into the air.

Midoriya wraps his arms around Shouto for a second, saying something that maybe comes out garbled or maybe Shouto just can’t understand words any more. Then Midoriya raises his head and starts to scream.

“I’ve got him! Kacchan! Kacchan, here, I’ve got him!”

Shouto blinks into the daylight. The street is strewn with rubble. There are people – his classmates, his teachers, some others he doesn’t recognise – climbing over the rubble, moving it, calling out. They stop moving when they hear Midoriya call, heads up, looking towards him. And then, in the distance, a figure detaches itself from a group and starts to run. He sees – black and red and orange and ash-blonde hair and he recognises. He recognises.

“Bakugou,” he whispers, trying to move, to go towards him. But he can’t move. None of his limbs work, nothing works. Midoriya is still holding him up, arms wrapped around him.

“He’s coming,” Midoriya says. His voice sounds hoarse. “He’s coming, hold on.”

Bakugou is running, a kind of shambling run – he’s limping, Shouto realises. His costume is torn and filthy, and even as he runs, he’s ripping the top half off. Shouto tries to take his own costume off, but his fingers don’t work, nothing works. Bakugou’s hair is dark in patches, and Shouto realises that it’s blood. He realises it. And then.

And then Bakugou’s there, sliding to his knees, grabbing Shouto from Midoriya and tearing his costume from his shoulders and chest, throwing his arms around Shouto in a way that should hurt, with Shouto’s bruised shoulder, his broken wrist.

It doesn’t hurt. It feels like sinking into cool water, like everything is flowing away, washed away, nothing left but gentle coolness. His chin sinks onto Bakugou’s shoulder and he leans against him, feeling every inch of the contact between them. If he’d died, he would never have had this again. But Midoriya came for him, and Bakugou came for him, and he didn’t die.

“Bakugou,” he whispers, voice dry as dust.

“Right fucking here, you stupid fucking asshole,” Bakugou half-sobs in his ear, one hand clutching his back, one on the back of his head. “I’m right here.”

So then, Shouto thinks. Maybe everything’s going to be OK.

Notes:

Aizawa: For the love of God, do not say everything's going to be OK! Have I taught you nothing?

Chapter 13

Notes:

Hi guys! Some of you have asked for a Bakugou POV for this, and I haven't yet decided whether to do one or not, but if I do I will add it as a separate story in a series rather than as a chapter here. So I've made this into a series so if you want to be notified if I do post a BKG POV you can subscribe. No promises, though!

Shouto feels safe.

He’s not really fully aware – not asleep, but not truly awake either. His chin is resting on Bakugou’s shoulder, Bakugou’s arms around his back holding him close, holding him up, Bakugou breathing thickly next to his ear. There’s someone else, too, someone who pats his head gently from time to time. He thinks it’s probably Midoriya. Now that the relief brought by Bakugou’s touch has faded, Shouto’s aware that he’s still injured – his head is throbbing, his shoulder and wrist, his knee. It all seems almost irrelevant, here in this warm space with Bakugou so close, with Midoriya there too. He doesn’t feel like anything could really hurt him, not here.

There are other people nearby – voices he recognises, a few he doesn’t. His classmates, mostly. They’re talking quietly, sounding tired, relieved. Sometimes one of the voices comes close and there’s a touch on his arm, his head. He doesn’t open his eyes. He’s safe here. He’s safe.

“Is he asleep, or unconscious?” asks someone. Aizawa, his mind supplies drowsily.

“Asleep,” Midoriya says from nearby. The hand touches his hair again, smoothing it down.

“Always falls asleep when he’s let it go too far, fucking lazy asshole,” Bakugou mumbles in his ear, tightening his grip on Shouto, burying his nose into the crook of Shouto’s neck. “He’s fucking hurt, too.”

“You’re both going to Recovery Girl as soon as we get a stretcher that’ll take two,” Aizawa says.

“I’m fucking fine,” Bakugou grumbles. His voice sounds thin and scratchy, a lot quieter than usual, even this close to Shouto’s ear.

“And both of you are going to hear a lot more about this once you’re better,” Aizawa says, like Bakugou didn’t say anything. “What you did was incredibly stupid.”

Shouto expects Bakugou to snarl back, to defend himself, but he’s just – silent. Then he adjusts his grip on Shouto, breathes into his neck.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”

****

Shouto drifts. Sometimes he’s more awake, sometimes more asleep. He’s aware of snatches of the journey to Recovery Girl, a sense of movement, Bakugou still wrapped around him. He’s awake enough when Recovery Girl kisses him to be aware of the sudden reduction in pain – and the sudden increase in exhaustion, which pushes him over the edge into unconsciousness.

When he wakes up, Bakugou is still there.

They’re on one of the cots in Recovery Girl’s office, tangled together in the narrow space. Bakugou is half turned on his side, one arm thrown over Shouto, eyes closed, mouth open. Shouto has his nose mashed against Bakugou’s chest. Both of them are shirtless. It’s – a little uncomfortable. But Shouto – but Shouto doesn’t want to move. If he could, he thinks, he would stay like this forever. He doesn’t remember ever feeling this contented before. Although he could do with being able to breathe through his nose.

He’s tired, though. He’s still so tired. He closes his eyes.

The next time Shouto’s kind of aware, it’s dark and Bakugou’s holding him tightly, petting his hair. He’s shifted from the position he was in before, and now he’s lying on his side facing Bakugou, Bakugou’s cheek pressed against his ear, Bakugou’s arm around him, shifting like he’s trying to find a way to pull him closer even thought there’s no space between them at all. Shouto tries to shift, too, tries to help, but his limbs feel so heavy. When he moves, though, Bakugou suddenly stills, the movement of his hand in Shouto’s hair stopping entirely.

“Go back to sleep, idiot,” Bakugou whispers. There’s a strange crack in his voice.

Shouto does what he’s told.

****

The third time Shouto wakes up, it’s light somewhere outside his eyelids. He’s sitting up a little, leaning back against something solid and warm. Bakugou. Bakugou has an arm round his chest. Shouto feels warm, like he’s floating somewhere warm and safe. It’s a strange feeling to have, here in Recovery Girl’s office.

“Still sleeping?” says a voice – Aizawa – and Shouto realises that they’re not alone.

“Like the fucking dead,” says Bakugou, and then tightens his grip on Shouto. “I mean – fuck, like a – like a log or some shit.”

Shouto opens his eyes. Aizawa is sitting by the bed. He looks exhausted.

“Apparently not,” he says.

“Hah?” Bakugou grabs his chin and tilts it up and back, meeting his eyes. He looks fine, but there are still patches of dried blood in his hair. “Fuck, Halfie, when’d you wake up?”

“Just now,” Shouto says. His voice comes out strange and rough. He clears his throat and looks at Aizawa. “Was anyone else hurt?”

Aizawa shakes his head. “You two were far enough away that you just damaged the buildings and each other. Although it was extremely loud.”

Shouto swallows. If they’d been closer to their classmates – what might have happened? It doesn’t bear thinking about. But Shouto thinks about it anyway. “I’m sorry.”

Aizawa sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “It was stupid,” he says. “The consequences could have been very severe.”

“They were fucking severe,” Bakugou growls. Aizawa fixes him with a glare.

“And they could have been much worse.”

Bakugou doesn’t respond to that. Aizawa glares at him a moment longer, then looks at Shouto. He sighs again.

“House arrest, cleaning duty. A week. And an essay from each of you concerning how important forward planning is when trying new things with your quirk.”

It’s less than Shouto was expecting. It’s barely anything, given that they’re already confined to campus.

“And when this business is over,” Aizawa says, gesturing vaguely at Shouto, at Bakugou, “we’ll see if we can find a way to deploy that battle combination safely.”

Bakugou lets out a breath, hot against Shouto’s neck. He doesn’t say anything, though. Shouto doesn’t, either. They got off lightly. If you don’t count the hours Shouto spent dying in an ice coffin.

“Speaking of which, I have news from Tsukauchi,” Aizawa says. “The villain who hit you two with the quirk is finally talking.”

“He didn’t hit us two,” Bakugou says. “He hit this idiot.”

Aizawa waves his hand. “It seems that the person who can temporarily relieve the illness is the first person the victim touches after being hit by the quirk,” he says.

There’s a silence. Shouto tries to remember what happened, the day he was hit by the quirk. He barely remembers the villain at all, doesn’t remember Bakugou touching him. Bakugou didn’t touch him, back then. Things were very different.

“Fuck,” Bakugou says, then groans and lets his head fall forward against Shouto’s shoulders. “You mean I did this to myself? Fucking – that’s fucking bullshit.”

“Bakugou?” Shouto says. “Can you remember what happened?”

Bakugou scoffs. “Of course I fucking can, Halfie, some of us have a functioning brain in our heads. You were standing around like the lazy asshole you are and I flicked you in the forehead to get you moving. Fuck, I’m never fucking touching anyone again. Especially not you.”

Shouto’s not sure how to respond to that. Bakugou’s currently shirtless and cradling Shouto against his chest. Normally Shouto would just point this out, but the difference between reality and Bakugou’s claims is so yawning this time that Shouto’s not even sure how to start. He decides to change the subject instead.

“When will it wear off?”

Aizawa sighs, face grim. “Unfortunately, all the victims up until now – all the ones the villain knows the fate of – died within the week.”

“...hah?” says Bakugou. Shouto feels his stomach sink. It’s been almost a month already.

“Unless you figure out the identity of the person who can help fast – even figure out that there is a person who can help you – you’re not going to last long,” Aizawa says. “If it hadn’t been Bakugou…”

Shouto swallows. If it hadn’t been Bakugou, then what? Not many people touch Shouto. Perhaps it would have been a random passer by, jostling against him. Even if it had been someone he knew, it would have to have been someone who would touch him again soon, or he never would have found out about it. If it hadn’t been Bakugou, Shouto would be dead.

Bakugou’s arm tightens across Shouto’s chest. “Fuck,” he whispers.

There’s a silence. Then Bakugou speaks again.

“But it’s gonna fucking wear off, right?”

“Most quirks of this type do,” Aizawa says. “We’ve been very lucky so far. Hopefully our luck will hold.”

Shouto didn’t feel very lucky when he was trapped under the rubble. But now – now he realises just how lucky he’s been. He’s had a few close shaves – some closer than others – and some uncomfortable times, but overall his experience of this quirk has been not too bad. Actually – maybe good, on average. Maybe better than his life’s ever been for such a long stretch of time.

How strange.

Aizawa stands up. “You two are obviously feeling better, so get back over to the dorms and get cleaned up. Class starts in an hour. We’ll just keep – doing what we’ve been doing for now.”

They’ll keep doing what they’ve been doing. So even with this new knowledge, nothing’s really changed. Shouto would have thought that he’d feel frustrated about that – that he still has no idea when the quirk might wear off, that there’s probably no way to have any idea if even the villain doesn’t know. He would have expected maybe to feel desperate by now.

Bakugou squeezes him one last time before letting go and starting to get off the bed.

Shouto actually feels pretty OK.

****

When they get to class, Shouto gets a lot of hugs. Yaoyorozu hugs him, and Iida, and Uraraka, Asui – all the girls, actually. Kirishima, of course. Midoriya hugs him last, squeezing him tight until Bakugou snarls at him and drags Shouto away to their desks. Midoriya smiles tearfully at Shouto before slipping into his own desk. It’s all – a lot. But it’s nice. Shouto’s never been hugged by so many people in such a short space of time. He’s never been hugged by some of those people at all. It’s nice.

They settle in, Bakugou sitting across from Shouto at Yaoyorozu’s desk, and it’s a morning like any other. It’s hard to believe that only yesterday Shouto was buried in rubble, desperately trying to alert his friends to his location. His wrist and his knee still ache faintly, and he’s really tired considering how long he slept for, but overall, it’s like the whole thing was a dream. Nothing has changed.

Except, as it turns out, something has.

Shouto notices it first about ten minutes into their first class. It’s English with Present Mic, and both Shouto and Bakugou are scribbling notes as fast as they can when Shouto notices that he feels a kind of – itch. It can’t be the quirk, because Bakugou only let go of his hand a few minutes ago, but it feels similar. Shouto ignores it, focussing on his notes. A minute or two later, Bakugou grabs his hand, and it goes away. Shouto probably should have started paying more attention at that point, but he’s tired and focused on his studies and it was probably nothing anyway.

(Except, as it turns out, it wasn’t nothing.)

It’s not until second period that Shouto really notices it. Ectoplasm’s clone is stalking up and down the aisles as they all sweat over algebra, and Shouto’s just constantly – distracted. By an itch. Which can’t be the quirk, because the quirk takes an hour to start itching, but it feels like the quirk. Shouto wonders if it’s some kind of psychosomatic thing, like he’s concerned about the quirk and so he’s started imagining it’s coming on even when it’s not. There could be any number of reasons for it. He’s feeling kind of warm, but that could be – the heating or – something else that Shouto can’t think of that would somehow evade his body’s thermoregulation. Right? Because otherwise…

Shouto tries to turn his page over and realises the paper is frozen to the desk. He blinks at it, heart pounding. It can’t be right, it hasn’t been enough time. It hasn’t even been ten minutes.

He tries to melt the ice with his left hand and the paper instantly catches fire.

Shouto slams his hand down on it, snuffing it out, then reaches out and grabs Bakugou’s hand. Two things happen: Bakugou’s pen skitters out of his hand and lands on the floor, bouncing twice and coming to a halt by Midoriya’s desk; and Shouto feels a cool wave surge through his body, instantly soothing the itch and flushing the excess heat from his system.

“The fuck?” Bakugou hisses. “I was fucking writing!”

Shouto swallows, looking at Bakugou’s hand in his, then looking up at Bakugou. Bakugou glares back. Then his expression changes. He glances at the clock on the wall. He stares at Shouto. Shouto stares back.

Bakugou lets go of Shouto’s hand.

“You tell me when,” he whispers, pulling out his phone and setting a timer.

Shouto withdraws his hand from Bakugou’s desk, clenches it into a fist and shoves it in his lap. Maybe he’s just – imagined it. Maybe he misremembered how long it was since Bakugou last held his hand. It could be a fluke. It could be fine. It could all be fine.

The numbers on the page blur in front of his eyes. He’s so focused, so alert, waiting for any sign from his body that something is wrong. It makes him feel like every nerve he has is vibrating. His jaw aches from clenching it. But it could still be fine. Maybe--

He feels the faintest itch under his skin. The faintest, but rapidly getting less faint. A lot more rapidly than in the past.

He’s not imagining it.

Shouto reaches out, and Bakugou’s already there, eyes on him, grabbing Shouto’s hand before Shouto’s even reached halfway across the gap between their two desks, his phone clenched in his other hand, the timer reading 5:37.

“Fucking five minutes?” Bakugou says. “You gotta be shitting me! Yesterday it was a fucking hour!”

Ectoplasm straightens up at the front. “Bakugou, is there something you wanted to tell the class?”

Bakugou’s head jerks up. Then he launches himself to his feet, dragging Shouto up with him.

“We’re fucking fucked,” he says.

****

Recovery Girl takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. She looks tired and she’s stopped smiling. Shouto’s stomach churns, twisting around itself. He’s never seen her look anything other than calm and reassuring. This is – very bad.

“We should send them both to the hospital,” she says to Aizawa. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, expression dark.

“They’ve already said they don’t know how to fix it,” he says.

“I sent them the samples I took before. If they develop some kind of cure, the quicker they can get it into him the better. And if things take a turn for the worse, they have much better facilities for caring for – for patient care.”

They’re talking about Shouto, of course. Shouto, who’s sitting there holding Bakugou’s hand and thinking about how Recovery Girl doesn’t look reassuring and maybe that means that this time he really is going to die.

“Why can’t somebody just fucking fix it?” Bakugou says. His voice has a strange note in it that Shouto doesn’t remember hearing before. “Get that fucking asshole villain in here and I’ll fucking make him tell me how to fix it.”

Aizawa scrubs at his eyes. “He doesn’t know how to fix it, Bakugou.”

“Well fucking – find someone who does!” Bakugou says, jumping to his feet like he wants to start pacing. He can’t pace, though, because he’d have to let go of Shouto’s hand. He sits down again, growling deep in his throat.

Aizawa sighs. “The hospital, then.”

****

They get a private room, but the bed’s barely bigger than the one in Recovery Girl’s office. Shouto doesn’t really want to get on the bed, anyway – he feels fine, as long as Bakugou’s holding his hand he feels fine, he’s not an invalid – but there aren’t a lot of other choices. Someone comes in and takes his blood, and Bakugou’s, runs a few basic tests on both of them. After that, they’re alone.

There’s silence for all of a minute, and then Bakugou lets out an explosive sigh.

“This is fucking stupid. What, we’re just gonna sit here and wait until--?” He shakes his head. Shouto wonders what the until is. Until he can’t let go of Bakugou’s hand at all? Until he dies? What if they just stay like this for weeks without it changing? What if they’re like this forever?

“Argh,” says Bakugou, then throws himself off the bed, dragging Shouto with him. “Just because we gotta be in the stupid hospital doesn’t mean we have to just sit in here and stare at the wall till we go crazy.”

So they don’t. Instead, they walk. They walk down corridors, up stairs, through canteens and gift shops. They do a circuit of each of the hospital parking lots. It’s not as enjoyable as walking in the woods on campus, but Bakugou’s right – it’s a lot better than sitting in their room staring at the wall.

“Bakugou,” Shouto says when they’re trying to find a way up onto the roof because Bakugou has this idea that there might be a helipad. “If I die--”

Bakugou spins, eyes wide and furious, and slaps his free hand over Shouto’s mouth. “Shut the fuck up, fucking bastard,” he says.

Shouto blinks at Bakugou over the top of his hand. Bakugou scowls back.

“Maybe I gotta put up with your stupid ass and the stupid-ass things you say, but you start talking about dying and I’ll fucking kill you myself,” Bakugou says.

Shouto’s not sure that makes a whole lot of sense, but he nods anyway and Bakugou takes his hand away from Shouto’s mouth.

“Like I’d let you die, anyway,” he says. “After I put in all this fucking work keeping your dumb ass alive.”

He turns back to face forward, half-dragging Shouto as he marches down the hall looking for a staircase door.

“Thanks,” says Shouto after a couple of minutes.

“Hah?” Bakugou glances back at him. “The fuck are you thanking me for?”

“For putting in all this work keeping me alive,” Shouto says. He remembers lying in that dark space under the rubble and thinking about Bakugou. Even then, even when Shouto was just imagining him, Bakugou was putting in work to keep Shouto alive.

“Shut up, Halfie,” Bakugou says. “Not like I fucking wanted to.”

But there’s no heat to it.

****

They eventually find the roof, but they don’t find the helipad. It’s windy on top of the hospital, the sky packed with a thick wad of grey clouds, an occasional raindrop cool on Shouto’s skin. They stand hand in hand at the railing, looking out over the city towards the sun, sliding into the narrow space between the clouds and the horizon. Neither of them says anything for a while.

“Hey, Halfie,” Bakugou says, sounding offhand. “Why’d you want me to hit you, anyway?”

Shouto tries to refocus his brain from thinking about the sunset – how beautiful it is, how pleasant it is to be here with Bakugou, how strange that it can be pleasant and at the same time he can be so afraid he might never do this again – towards Bakugou’s question.

“When?”

“Before all this shit.” Bakugou waves his free hand. “When you were like oh, please fight me, I need you to teach me shit because I suck.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Fucking might as well have.” Bakugou shakes his head. “What – what was all that shit about?”

Shouto tries to remember. Those days, before they figured out that Bakugou’s touch washed away the symptoms of the quirk – they’re like a blur in Shouto’s mind. “I thought – it felt good when you hit me. So I wanted you to hit me more.”

Bakugou stares at him. “What, like a sex thing?”

“I don’t think so.” Shouto’s not exactly an expert on sex things, but-- “It was the quirk. I’d noticed that I felt better when you touched me, but you mostly touched me to hit me so I hadn’t really made the connection.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t at my best.”

“That’s – pretty fucked up,” Bakugou says.

Shouto shrugs again.

Bakugou turns back to face the sunset. “I mostly touched you to hit you, huh?”

“Yeah,” Shouto says. “Most people do.”

“The fuck?” Bakugou turns sharply back to him. “Who the fuck is hitting you?”

Shouto stares at him. “I meant – in training.”

Bakugou’s expression freezes for a moment, then he scowls and looks away. “Well fucking – say so next time, shit.”

They stand there quietly for a few more moments.

“So it wasn’t – because you needed someone who wouldn’t care about hurting you?” Bakugou says at last. He doesn’t look at Shouto, staring fixedly out towards the sunset, the line of his jaw tense.

Shouto frowns a little. “No,” he says. “It was because of the quirk.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou says, and his shoulders slump a little. “Obviously.”

Shouto’s not sure exactly what’s bothering Bakugou so much about the fighting – that was weeks ago, anyway, Shouto was sick then – but he feels like – he wants to do something. Make Bakugou feel – less bothered. He’s not sure what to do, though. Without really thinking about it, he interlaces his fingers with Bakugou’s, and that feels like somehow it might help. Bakugou glances down at their joined hands, but doesn’t say anything about it. Does he look a little less bothered? Shouto’s not sure.

“That’s not true, anyway, about no-one touching you except to hit you,” Bakugou says. “That shitty nerd puts his fucking paws all over you.”

It’s true, Midoriya does touch him more than anyone else. Anyone except Bakugou, anyway. “Yeah,” Shouto says. “It’s nice.”

Bakugou’s hand tightens slightly on his, his lip curling.

“A lot of people hugged me this morning, too,” Shouto says. It feels like a long time ago. He wonders if any of their classmates will come to visit them in the hospital. He wonders if he should tell mom and Fuyumi and Natsuo about being ill.

“Shut up,” Bakugou says, and then suddenly he lets go of Shouto’s hand and instead puts an arm round his shoulders, pulling him in closer to Bakugou’s side. “None of those fucking extras can hug for shit.”

“Some of them are very good huggers, actually,” Shouto says. “Kirishima, for example.”

“Pfft, like you know shit about hugging,” Bakugou says.

And Shouto decides that Bakugou has a point there.

****

It’s not until later that Shouto remembers the last time he interlaced his fingers with Bakugou’s, how Bakugou screamed at him and shoved him out of his room.

A lot’s changed since then.

****

They sleep in the hospital bed. It’s narrower than Shouto’s futon, and there’s much further to fall out, so they have to sleep closely wrapped around each other. It’s a little too warm, and every time Shouto moves he gets an elbow in the ribs or a knee jabbed against his thigh. They could probably have just stayed in the dorms. It’s not like there’s anything actually going wrong.

Around 2 in the morning, Shouto gets up to use the bathroom. It’s just round the corner from their room, but by the time he’s coming back, he’s starting to feel – a little strange. But when he steps through the door of their room, something happens. It’s so different from what’s happened before that at first he doesn’t even realise it’s the quirk – instead of a slow itch leading into fever and pain, it’s like everything slams into him at once, like a freight train, taking his breath away – and with it, his balance. He goes down hard, grabbing at anything to steady himself and knocking everything off their tray table with a clatter.

“Shit, what--?”

Bakugou’s up and wide awake in a second, dropping to his knees by Shouto’s side. Shouto grasps for him, for his hand, his own other hand wrapped tight around his stomach, panting as his vision blurs.

Bakugou doesn’t bother holding Shouto’s hand, though. Instead he just scoops him into his lap, wraps himself around him, the pain slipping away in a moment.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the sound of them breathing, both too fast.

“OK?” Bakugou says at last. He sounds shaken.

“OK,” Shouto whispers.

He hears Bakugou swallow, right by his ear. “The fuck – the fuck, why were you away so long?”

“I wasn’t,” Shouto says. “It was less than five minutes. It came on – really suddenly.”

Bakugou’s breath sounds harsh in the echoing room. “OK, well – fuck, well we’ll just – we just won’t let go at all then.”

Shouto licks his lips, staring straight ahead, at the featureless hospital wall. He feels an itch under his skin. Bakugou’s pressed up against him, the whole of his chest pressed against Shouto’s back, but--

“It’s still not completely gone,” Shouto whispers.

Bakugou’s holding him, and it’s not completely gone.

Chapter 14

Notes:

Well, this beast is lumbering to a close! One more chapter to go after this one. This chapter was hard to write, but I got there in the end. Hope you all enjoy it!

Bakugou is mad.

That’s not particularly unusual – if Shouto had to estimate the amount of his life Bakugou spends mad, he’d say it was at least 50%, which is a significantly lower estimate than he would have given a few weeks ago, but still more than anyone else Shouto knows except his old man. But Bakugou’s anger seems somehow different from usual. He’s jabbing at the call button like he wants to destroy it, snarling at the nurse when she comes into the room, the way he talks to the doctor who eventually appears is genuinely vicious. The whole time, he keeps hold of Shouto, keeps his arms wrapped around Shouto, Bakugou’s chest to Shouto’s back. It feels good, safe. But the itch is still there.

By morning, nothing has changed, except that Shouto is a little tired, a little more itchy, and Bakugou’s anger is if anything slightly sharper, slightly more out of control. The doctors do more tests and then leave. Aizawa arrives, face darkening when he hears the latest development. No-one offers any possible solutions.

“I should call my sister,” says Shouto.

“What’s she gonna do?” Bakugou asks. “She a fucking quirk scientist?”

“I think she’ll probably want to see me,” says Shouto. “In case--”

Bakugou slaps his hand over Shouto’s mouth.

Aizawa hands him his phone.

****

“The hospital?” says Fuyumi. Her voice sounds uncertain on the other end of the line. It’s a little strange, talking to her like this, with Bakugou’s breath against his other ear, Aizawa leaning by the window, scowling.

“Yeah,” Shouto says. “I’ve been hit by a quirk. It’s probably fine, but--” He’s not sure it’s probably fine. The quirk has almost killed him several times already. If Bakugou’s touch is no longer enough to dispel it--

“Are you hurt?” Fuyumi asks. “What kind of quirk?”

“It – makes me sick,” Shouto says. “It’s really fine.” He doesn’t know why he keeps telling Fuyumi it’s fine. He doesn’t want her to worry, but – maybe she needs to worry. If she does need to worry and Shouto tells her it’s fine – if she thinks it’s fine and then it isn’t-- He wants to find a way to warn her without worrying her, but he doesn’t know how. He wishes Midoriya were here. He’d know how.

Suddenly, the phone is pulled out of his grasp. He looks up, assuming it’s Bakugou – it’s the kind of thing Bakugou would do – but it’s Aizawa. He nods, looking slightly apologetic, then steps away.

“Ms Todoroki, I think it would be a good idea if you came to the hospital. Your brother’s condition is – unpredictable. Things may get worse very quickly.”

Shouto swallows. Now Fuyumi will be worried. He wonders what she’s saying.

“Yes, I think it would be a good idea to inform them as well,” Aizawa says, walking across the room to the door. “No, we really don’t know. I’ll explain--”

He steps through the door and closes it behind him. Shouto stares at it. Fuyumi will come. She’ll worry. Maybe Natsuo will come, too. Maybe--

“She’ll tell my old man,” he says, realisation curdling in his stomach.

Bakugou shifts behind him, curling his legs around Shouto.

But he doesn’t say anything.

****

After that, people start arriving. Fuyumi first, twenty minutes after he called her. She comes in with a determined smile that turns wobbly as soon as she sees Shouto. She hurries over to the bed and hugs him – and Bakugou with him – holding him tight, pressing her lips to his hair. Then she pulls back, wobbly smile back in place.

“How are you feeling?” she says.

And Shouto – suddenly feels like crying. It’s strange, until now he’s just felt a kind of general unease, some guilt about worrying Fuyumi, anger at the thought that his old man is probably going to come here. But now, looking at Fuyumi’s face, the way she’s trying so hard to keep it together, it’s like it becomes real. The itch is under his skin, getting worse, even though he hasn’t told anyone that yet. It’s getting worse, even though Bakugou’s pressed against as much of Shouto as he can reach, skin to skin. The doctors come by occasionally, but they always look sombre. And Fuyumi– And so--

And so Shouto is probably going to die.

He swallows, coughs. “Thanks for coming,” he says. He thinks – maybe it would have been easier if she hadn’t come. But then he would never have seen her again. No – that’s not what this is about. This is so that she can see him. She’ll be the one who remembers this. Shouto will be gone.

“Oh, Shouto,” Fuyumi whispers, and then she’s crying.

“Shit,” Bakugou whispers in his ear, and Shouto lunges forward, tries to reach out for her, because he hates to see her cry, but Bakugou won’t let go of him.

“Let go,” Shouto says.

“Absolutely fucking not,” says Bakugou.

“Oh – Bakugou,” Fuyumi says, and then she’s hugging them again, but this time mostly Bakugou. “Thank you so much for helping my brother. Thank you so much.” She’s crying on them – on Bakugou – and Bakugou half-growls. Shouto elbows him in the ribs.

“Yeah, well, couldn’t exactly--” Bakugou starts, but then it seems like he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. “If he wasn’t such a--”

Fuyumi sniffles and lets go, taking Shouto’s hand. “Natsu will be here soon,” she says. “He’s fetching Mom.”

Mom. Mom’s coming here. He’s never seen her outside her hospital room, not since he was six years old. He’s not sure he wants the first time to be her seeing him like this. But then again, maybe there won’t be another opportunity.

And then his father arrives.

“Shouto!” he yells, stalking in, wearing his hero costume, eyes furious, hair and beard on fire. “What is the meaning of this?”

Shouto feels every muscle in him tense up, and he knows Bakugou feels it too from the way he tightens his hold.

“Dad,” Fuyumi says. “Don’t--”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Shouto says, cutting across before she can try to make peace. He doesn’t care about peace, not right now. “I’m trying to personally inconvenience you.”

The old man stops dead, glaring down at Shouto. His eyes flick over to Bakugou, then back to Shouto again.

“Don’t joke about this,” he says, voice still too loud. “This is a serious situation that demands serious action.”

“Maybe you could set the quirk on fire,” Shouto says.

Endeavour’s eyebrows draw down. “Shouto—”

“No,” Shouto says. “I don’t care. It’s fine if you want to visit, but don’t – pretend like you can do anything about this. This isn’t-- It isn’t--” He takes a breath, a wave of lightheadedness surging through him. Behind him, Bakugou shifts, like he’s trying to get closer.

“Getting worse?” he murmurs.

Fuyumi’s hand tightens on Shouto’s. He sags back against Bakugou’s chest. Yes. It’s getting worse. He doesn’t want to fight with his old man right now.

The old man’s just standing there, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. He’s clenching his fists, then releasing them again. Clenching and releasing.

“Dad,” Fuyumi says, her voice thick with tears, “let’s not fight, OK? Just – please, we’re not going to fight.”

The old man looks at her, then at Shouto, then at Bakugou.

“When I saw you two before,” he says. “That was – because of this?”

Shouto half-expected Bakugou to answer with some kind of provocation, but he’s silent.

“Yeah,” Shouto says.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I thought it would wear off on its own,” Shouto says. “I didn’t want to worry Fuyumi.”

Fuyumi clasps his hand between both of hers. “Oh, Shouto. You know you can tell me anything.”

To Shouto’s surprise, his father suddenly straightens and then bows.

“Bakugou,” he says. “Thank you for helping my son.”

There’s a moment of silence. Shouto can’t see Bakugou’s expression, though he can feel his breath against his neck.

“Yeah, whatever,” Bakugou says at last.

****

And then: more people. Midoriya with Iida and Uraraka, then shortly afterwards Kirishima and Yaoyorozu. Natsuo with his mother. Kaminari and Asui. All Might. No-one seems to know what to do or say, so they just mill around the room making small talk that even Shouto can tell is awkward, buying each other snacks and drinks from the vending machine and the cafeteria, disappearing and reappearing with flowers and stuffed toys and balloons from the gift shop until the room starts to look like a child’s birthday party. The advantage of having so many people wandering in and out is that they can mostly keep each other occupied, so Shouto doesn’t have to talk to them. And he doesn’t, for the most part. That’s not really unusual – Shouto isn’t exactly the life and soul of the party, even when he’s well. The unusual part is that Bakugou is largely silent, as well. His presence is steady, though, the warmth of his chest against Shouto’s back, his arms around Shouto, keeping him close. If it wasn’t for the situation, it would be pleasant. Comforting. No, it’s comforting anyway.

The other thing that happens is that people touch him. Almost everyone who comes in, even Iida. They touch his hand, his shoulder. Some of them hug him. Some of them – Fuyumi, Mom, Midoriya, Yaoyorozu – touch his hair. He used to think he was a person who didn’t like being touched. But he was wrong.

And through it all, the feeling under his skin gets worse: deeper, sharper, more painful. He starts to feel too hot, and activating his right side does little to improve matters. He tries not to make it too obvious, but he knows Bakugou’s aware of it. And Midoriya, who always sees everything.

He thinks about what it’s going to be like. If it’s the same as it has been the times before, he’ll reach a point where he can’t think clearly any more. Where everything will just be heat and pain. Eventually, he won’t be able to see. He doesn’t know what he looks like when he reaches that point, but from the way Midoriya reacted after the first time it happened, he thinks – it’s not pleasant to witness. He looks at all the people – all the people he cares about, all the people who care about him. His mother. Fuyumi. Natsuo. All his classmates. Even his old man. And he thinks that he doesn’t – He doesn’t – want them to see him like this. He doesn’t want them all to see him, to watch him as things get worse. To watch him die. And Mom – she thinks he’s beautiful. He wants her to remember him that way, not – like this. Not like this.

“Bakugou,” he murmurs, when attention is mostly turned away from him.

“What?” Bakugou snaps, very quietly. A few people have tried to talk to him, but he’s been communicating mostly in grunts and angry monosyllables, and so nobody’s tried for that long.

“I don’t want them to watch,” Shouto says. He’s sweating, his hair starting to stick to his forehead. He knows he should tell them himself, tell them all to leave. But he’s so tired. He’s so tired.

There’s a silence.

“Hah?” whispers Bakugou.

“Please,” says Shouto.

He hears Bakugou swallow, so close to his ear. Then he hears him clear his throat. And then--

“Hey!” says Bakugou. It’s the loudest sound there’s been since his father stopped yelling. Everyone turns and stares. Shouto looks away, up at the ceiling.

“You all need to get out,” Bakugou says. His voice is hoarse.

“Excuse me?” says Endeavour. Shouto closes his eyes. He doesn’t want this – for it to be like this. It would have been easier not to tell anyone.

“You heard me, old man,” Bakugou says. “Just fucking – leave us alone. Just get out!”

It’s strange. Bakugou sounds – strange, an uncontrolled note in his voice that Shouto isn’t used to hearing. And he’s – not telling them the right way. This is just going to piss his father off, which Shouto would normally be in favour of, but now--

There’s a general hubbub, some yelling that Shouto doesn’t listen to, and then someone takes his hand. He opens his eyes. It’s Midoriya. He looks like he’s on the verge of tears.

“Shouto,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want us to leave?”

Shouto swallows. “Please,” he says.

Midoriya nods, then turns.

“Everyone,” he says, raising his voice. “Everyone, I think that Shouto wants to be alone now. So perhaps--”

Shouto stops listening. Midoriya is taking care of it. He’s so happy Midoriya is his friend.

****

People say goodbye. It seems like a blur of teary eyes and smiles, gentle touches. Aizawa squeezes his shoulder. Yaoyorozu kisses his forehead. Kirishima hugs him and cries on his neck. Eventually, only his family and Midoriya are left. And Bakugou. Always Bakugou, silent and steady behind him.

“Shouto – you can’t mean you want us to leave as well?” Fuyumi says. She’s long since given up trying to restrain her tears, and they stream freely down her cheeks.

Shouto feels – too hot. The feeling under his skin has gone from an itch to a pain, a sharp pain, like needles. He doesn’t know how much time he has left before he loses his ability to understand what’s going on around him.

“Please,” he says.

Fuyumi bursts into sobs. She hugs him, strokes his hair. Natsuo hugs him too. His mother presses her forehead against his. “I love you,” she whispers. “I’m so grateful to have you in my life. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

Shouto touches her hair. He thinks maybe he should be crying, too. But he just feels – hot. He thinks it probably won’t be long now. At least everybody got to say goodbye. That’s something.

His father stands and stares for a long time. Then he puts a hand on Shouto’s head.

“If—” he says, then chokes and trails off. “I never wanted--” He shakes his head. “I haven’t been a good father,” he says at last. “But I love you.”

And then they’re gone, Midoriya shepherding them out of the door. Shouto watches them go and then slips sideways, not out of consciousness entirely, but not truly present, either. It’s better, here. It seems a little less painful.

There’s someone talking nearby.

“Oh – did he pass out?”

That’s Midoriya.

Some more talking that he can’t really hear.

“I’ll go see. Maybe they’ve found something--”

“Tell them if they don’t fucking find something I’m going to blow this fucking hospital sky high.”

A pause.

“OK, Kacchan. I’ll tell them.”

There’s a warm hand on his hair. “I’ll be back soon, Shouto.”

And then it’s quiet.

****

When he comes back to himself, it’s dark. There’s a little lamp by the bed, a circle of light that illuminates almost nothing. He can see the vague outline of Bakugou’s arm across his chest. He thinks they’re alone, although he can’t really see very well so he’s not sure.

And he hurts.

“Bakugou,” he says. His voice comes out rough, almost shredded. Behind him, Bakugou stiffens up, his arm tightening across Shouto’s chest.

“You’re awake,” Bakugou says. “Fucking – lazy ass, sleeping all over my—” He trails off into a kind of cough.

“I didn’t mean to,” Shouto says. He’s not sure what it was he didn’t mean to do – maybe just everything, everything since he was hit by the quirk. He feels like he needs to apologise to Bakugou, though. For – something.

“Stupid motherfucking--” Bakugou says. He coughs again.

“It was good,” Shouto says. He feels strangely dazed. Everything’s a blur of heat. He thinks about how cool he used to feel when Bakugou touched him. How even now, when the coolness is gone, it’s something, to have Bakugou here, to be able to feel Bakugou, warm and solid. “I’ve never – it’s been really good.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Bakugou says. “Good? Fucking good? You’re fucking--” He chokes. “Fuck. Fuck.”

Shouto reaches down and takes Bakugou’s hand where it’s resting on his stomach, interlacing his fingers with Bakugou’s. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “It’s been good.”

“You asshole,” Bakugou whispers.

Shouto leans his head back on Bakugou’s shoulder, staring into the darkness, eyes half-lidded. Waves of heat crash over him, and he thinks that this is probably the last opportunity he has, to talk to Bakugou. They’ve spent so much time like this these last few weeks, alone in the dark, talking and not talking. He’d never imagined he could spend time with someone like this. He wishes it didn’t have to end.

And then he realises: he told everyone else to leave. His classmates, Midoriya, even his family. He wanted to spare them, didn’t want them to have to watch. But Bakugou – but Bakugou is still here. Bakugou’s watching. He wants Bakugou to stay – the idea of Bakugou not being here is – terrifying. But it’s not – fair. After everything Bakugou’s done for him lately, after all the sacrifices he’s made. Shouto can be selfish sometimes, he knows that. But maybe now’s a good time to make a change.

“Bakugou,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to stay.”

“What?” says Bakugou. “What – what did you just say?”

“It’s not helping anyway,” says Shouto. He thinks that if Bakugou stops touching him, the process will probably speed up, but maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing. “You don’t need to.”

There’s a silence. Shouto’s not really sure how much time passes – everything seems kind of hazy – but then suddenly Bakugou’s shaking him. Not hard – not enough to really break the contact between them – but it’s a surprise anyway.

“You stupid motherfucking bastard,” Bakugou’s saying. “You fucking asshole. You fucking say that to me, after all this? How fucking dare you?”

Shouto blinks. The room is very dark. Bakugou’s angry. Bakugou’s always angry, but this – he sounds like – something else. Like maybe he’s about to cry. How strange.

“Sorry,” he says. He’s not sure what he’s apologising for. He thinks he probably has a lot of things to apologise to Bakugou for.

“You should be fucking sorry!” Bakugou says. He’s not shaking him any more, just hugging him close. “You should be fucking – You should be sorry, you--”

A shiver of pain passes through Shouto, and he loses most of his awareness of what’s going on around him. But he thinks that he hears someone crying.

****

Later, someone is shouting.

“The fuck do you mean, you don’t know? You have the most advanced fucking quirk research facility in the country, don’t you? How come you can’t do your fucking jobs?”

Shouto shudders. It’s so hot. It’s so hot. He feels like his skin is being peeled off, piece by piece.

“Hey, sh,” says the voice that was shouting. It’s very close to Shouto, to his ear. “Sh, it’s OK. You’re – fucking OK, you’re going to be OK. I’m here, I’m right fucking here.”

Shouto is suspended in darkness, hot, dry, black. But there’s someone with him, someone holding him, talking. Someone is right there.

He’s right there.

****

It hurts.

He tries to turn, tries to push away the pain, scratch it away from his skin, but he can’t move his hands, can’t even remember how to move them. He wants to speak but he’s not sure he has a mouth. He can hear sounds – a gasping sound, interspersed with occasional pained noises. It’s so dark. It’s dark, he tries to open his eyes, but they’re already open. It’s dark.

“Sh, Shouto, sh.”

There’s water flowing on his skin. It sizzles and evaporates. He wants to open his mouth, hope that some of the water will trickle inside. He’s so thirsty, his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth, his throat is like sandpaper. But even though he must have a mouth for it to be so dry, he can’t find it to open it. He feels terror rise up inside him. He needs the water. He needs it.

“Sh,” says the voice again, and then another voice.

“You know he meant for you to leave as well, right?”

“If he tells me to leave, I’ll leave.”

“Wow. Asshole.”

Steel points rake across his skin, tearing it open.

It hurts.

****

Something’s holding him.

He’s moving, back and forth, restless. It’s nauseating. Something is wrapped around him, warm and solid, moving him back and forth. Even though he’s too hot, even though his skin is burning, the touch feels good. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand.

There’s a shock of pain, bright, blinding, and everything turns white for a second before the darkness crashes back. He’s shaking, jerking against the thing that’s wrapped around him. But the grip just gets tighter, steadying, warm. Moving him, backwards and forwards.

“Damn it,” a voice whispers, close to him, so close. “Damn it.”

He slips, slides. Underneath him is nothing. He’s so close. Sliding down.

He feels something touch his face, his mouth.

He slides down.

****

Shouto opens his eyes.

It’s bright. Daylight. Blinking against the light, it takes him some time to figure out where he is. The room is so white, everything is so bright. It’s so white. It’s so--

--hospital.

Shouto swallows. His throat is dry. It’s – unbearable, he’s not sure it’s ever been so dry. He rubs his eyes, looks around to see if there’s any water. He sees Midoriya, his green hair sharp against all the white. He’s asleep in a chair by the bed. His face looks pale and drawn, freckles standing out. Beside him there’s a small table with a jug of water and a glass.

Shouto reaches out, hand shaking. He takes the glass and swallows all the water. He pants, setting the glass back down. He’s in the hospital. He’s in the hospital and Midoriya is here. And--

And Bakugou.

Shouto suddenly becomes aware of it: Bakugou, a solid mass behind him, a strong arm wrapped around him. And he remembers. He remembers – not everything, most of what happened after everyone left is a blur of pain and darkness. But before that. The quirk, steadily worsening.

And now?

Shouto considers his body. There’s no pain, no heat. No itch, even. He feels – wrung out, heavy, but somehow – clean. Like everything bad that’s happened to him in the last weeks has just been – washed away. He wriggles his fingers, his toes. He feels – better. He feels better.

Is he better?

Carefully, Shouto disengages Bakugou’s arm from around him and slips out of his hold. Bakugou, as it turns out, is asleep too, and he grumbles and shifts, but doesn’t wake. He’s grasping for something, though, and Shouto grabs a pillow and stuffs it under Bakugou’s arm instead. He slides off the bed, manages to catch himself before his knees buckle, then takes a careful step. He’s not itching. He’s not touching Bakugou and he’s not itching. But it’s been like that before. Maybe the itch will come back, in a few minutes, or a few hours. Or maybe--

Maybe it won’t.

He looks back at Bakugou. Bakugou looks, if anything, worse than Midoriya. Even though he’s asleep, there’s a frown on his face, like he’s angry about something. His eyes seem sunken and shadowed. Shouto considers and decides that’s probably his fault. He imagines it’s not easy, watching someone die.

But Shouto didn’t die.

There’s a sound near the door, and Shouto looks up to see it open. His sister’s face appears, pale and strangely hollow-looking, her eyes red and raw. She looks at the bed, frowns, and then scans across the room until her eyes land on him. She stares at him. He stares back.

“Fuyumi,” he says. His voice comes out in a threadbare whisper.

Fuyumi’s mouth drops open. “Shouto?” she says, her own voice barely louder than Shouto’s. Then, suddenly, she’s moving, running forward, throwing herself at Shouto, throwing her arms around him. Shouto stumbles, almost falls – it’s Fuyumi who holds him up, Fuyumi who’s sobbing into his chest, holding him tighter than he knew she was capable of. “Shouto,” she sobs. “Shouto.”

He doesn’t know whether it’s the sound of the door or of Fuyumi crying, but suddenly it seems like everyone’s awake, awake and pouring into the room. There’s gasps and shouts, and everyone’s touching him, crowding in so they can touch him, hug him, kiss him. He’s bewildered at first, but when he understands what’s happening – when he understands that to them, it’s like he’s come back from the dead – he tries to reach back, to hug back, to accept what he’s given. After all, maybe he has come back from the dead.

Through the crowd of beaming faces, he catches a glimpse of Midoriya. He’s standing back, beside the bed, smiling and crying. He waves at Shouto when he sees him looking, and Shouto waves back and thinks Midoriya. Midoriya didn’t leave him, even though Shouto told him to. He should have known Midoriya wouldn’t leave.

And there, sitting cross-legged on the bed, leaning forwards, elbows on his knees: Bakugou. He looks strange, his eyes too wide, face intent, focused. He’s focused on Shouto. He doesn’t wave, and Shouto doesn’t, either. But once he’s seen Bakugou, he can’t look away.

It’s not until things have calmed down a little, though, that Bakugou and Midoriya come closer. Midoriya hugs him enthusiastically, still crying, but looking so happy. So happy.

“So it’s gone, then?” he says. “It’s gone for good?”

Shouto doesn’t know. But he’s not really listening to Midoriya, because Bakugou is coming towards him, with that strange, wide-eyed, intent look on his face, and Shouto realises, he suddenly realises that if Bakugou touches him, then they won’t know. The only way to know if it’s gone for good is for him and Bakugou not to touch, to see if the itch comes back. Shouto needs to know – he needs to know that it’s gone for good.

Bakugou comes towards him, and Shouto steps away.

Bakugou stops moving, staring, staring. Shouto opens his mouth to explain, but then his mother is there, hugging him again, kissing him again. His father, standing gruff and silent – but he cried, too, and that was maybe the most surprising thing of all. They want his attention, and he gives it to them willingly. Maybe he’s been too stingy with it in the past. Maybe he ought to think about how he could change some things in his life.

He gives them the attention they want – they’re his family, he loves them – but he’s aware, he’s always aware of Bakugou, standing on the edge of the group, silent, watching. There’s a point where Kirishima slaps him on the back so hard that Shouto stumbles and almost collides with Bakugou, and he has to catch himself, has to twist almost painfully to make sure he doesn’t brush against Bakugou. He succeeds, and then Bakugou steps back himself, back and back, and Shouto thinks: good. He’s understood.

But they still haven’t spoken, and that doesn’t seem right. So Shouto turns from the bright circle of his sister and his mother, Midoriya’s beaming smiles and Kirishima’s tearful hugs. Bakugou’s standing by the bed, somehow alone despite all the commotion in the room.

“Bakugou,” Shouto says. “Thank you.”

There’s a chorus, then – his family especially, so grateful, but his classmates declaring what a great friend Bakugou is, what a hero, how manly.

Bakugou stands through it all, silent, looking at Shouto with that wide-eyed stare. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and turns away, scowling.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says.

And Shouto thinks – oh. That wasn’t what he was expecting.

But with everything that’s going on, there isn’t time to think about it.

Chapter 15

Notes:

Whew, OK, so you guys had a lot to say about the last chapter, huh? I'll be working my way through as many of those comments as I can, but in the meantime, a huge thanks to everyone who dropped me a line -- I read and appreciate every single one ♥

And now, the grand finale!

After that, there are a lot of questions. The doctors take Shouto for tests, they peer into his eyes, listen to his heart, draw his blood, and ask questions, questions, questions. Shouto doesn’t have much to tell them: it all got worse, then it got better. He wasn’t conscious for the part that they care about the most – the part where something changed, where worse turned into better. He doesn’t know the answer. He doesn’t even know if better is for good, now, but – but. It’s been over an hour since he woke up, since he stopped touching Bakugou. He feels – a little tired, but otherwise normal. No itch. If anything, he feels – clean. Light, like something’s been washed away. He doesn’t know what happened, but he imagines it was something to do with Bakugou.

They ask Bakugou questions, too. They test him, Shouto assumes – occasionally they’re in the same room, they catch sight of each other, but mostly they’re in separate orbits, being led from test to test, question to question. When Shouto does glimpse Bakugou, Bakugou always glances at him, then scowls and looks away. Shouto wishes he wouldn’t look away. He wants to talk to Bakugou – it feels strange, to be away from Bakugou for so long after all the time they’ve spent together. Like something is missing. But the tests will be over soon, so he answers the questions.

And then: he’s discharged. He sits on the bed, Bakugou leaning against the wall with his arms folded, glaring at nothing. Aizawa is there, too, hands in pockets. The doctor tells him they don’t really know much more than they did before, but he seems to be fine at present, so he might as well go home. Home. Shouto doesn’t want to go there, but he glances at Aizawa and Aizawa nods.

“Back to school, then,” he says. “You can come to class or not, but make sure you two can get in touch with each other fast.”

In case it gets worse again. Nobody says it. Nobody says anything. Bakugou doesn’t say anything – doesn’t even act like he heard what Aizawa said.

Aizawa raises his eyebrows. “Todoroki?”

“Yeah,” Shouto says. There’s something uneasy in the pit of his stomach, looking at Bakugou, at the way he’s avoiding Shouto’s gaze. He was thinking – after this was over, he’d tell Bakugou about being attracted to him, but suddenly – he’s not so sure. Something’s already wrong, and he wants – he wants them to be friends. He doesn’t want to ruin that, whatever it is they’ve been doing these last weeks.

“Bakugou?”

Bakugou’s silent for a couple of seconds. Then his lip curls into a sneer.

“Whatever,” he says, and pushes off the wall, stalking out of the room before anyone can respond.

Aizawa shrugs and follows him, and Shouto gets off the bed. Back to school. Back to normal. Maybe now, it’ll be finally back to normal.

But the uneasy feeling in his stomach doesn’t go away.

****

They go back to class, in the end. Shouto feels fine and he doesn’t want to miss any more classes. Bakugou has no reason to skip class if Shouto is there. So they go. For a few minutes, it’s a little strange – everyone staring at them, at him, people reaching out, smiling, clapping him on the shoulder, patting his arm. Then he sits down and class starts, and the strangeness fades. It’s like nothing ever happened, except that Bakugou is still sitting across the aisle from him, glaring at his notebook. After a while, even that changes – the glare starts to fade and Bakugou starts to look the way he does when he’s studying, a fierce focus, unwavering attention that makes Shouto feel a little – strange. He thinks about what it would be like, to be the object of that attention – what it has been like the last few weeks, the times it’s been directed his way – and he feels – strange.

It’s halfway through class when Bakugou reaches for Shouto’s hand. Shouto is focused on his own work, but part of his attention is on Bakugou – something he doesn’t even realise until it happens. He sees it out of the corner of his eye – Bakugou, still immersed in his notes, lays down his pen and reaches over without looking, automatic after the number of times they’ve done this. And Shouto starts to reach back, automatic as well, before he remembers that they need to make sure – he needs to make sure. He needs to know it’s not coming back. So he jerks his hand away, out of Bakugou’s grasp, just before they touch.

Bakugou starts a little and turns, making eye contact with Shouto for the first time in hours. His face looks – strange, wide-eyed, like it did this morning in the hospital. He stares at Shouto, then looks down at his own hand, arrested in mid-air, reaching for Shouto. Then his face darkens.

“Fuck this,” he growls – snarls – and suddenly he’s on his feet, kicking his chair back so suddenly that it topples over, sweeping all his notes and pens from the desk into his bag. He stomps three steps forward, to where Yaoyorozu’s sitting at desk 17.

“Get up, I need my desk back,” he says.

Yaoyorozu looks up, brow furrowing. “Excuse me?”

“You fucking heard me, Ponytail, give me my fucking desk!”

“Bakugou,” says Aizawa. “What’s the issue?”

Yaoyorozu glares up at Bakugou for a long moment, then gets to her feet and gathers her things. Bakugou throws himself into the seat as soon as it’s vacated, setting out his pens and pencils with an almost vicious precision.

“No issue,” he mutters.

Yaoyorozu comes back to her own desk, smiling a little at Shouto as she settles in.

But Shouto doesn’t smile back.

****

Something’s not right. Not in Shouto’s body – that, at least, seems to be functioning correctly at last. But Bakugou is – Bakugou. He’s the same way he was before any of this ever happened, but Shouto – but Shouto really thought that he’d misunderstood. That actually, Bakugou wasn’t really like that at all. He remembers Bakugou’s warm arm around his waist, Bakugou making his old man mad, Bakugou writing to his mom. And yet, here’s this Bakugou again, perpetually angry – angrier than before, even – and barely acknowledging Shouto. Something’s not right, but Shouto isn’t sure what it is, and he has even less idea of how to fix it. But he wants to fix it. Bakugou is his friend. Bakugou is – kind, and warm, and Shouto would want to fix this even if he wasn’t attracted to him. He doesn’t want to lose that Bakugou, the one he’s known for the last few weeks. He only just found him.

After school is over, Shouto hurries to catch up with Bakugou, who’s heading back to the dorms with Kirishima. Maybe Bakugou is just tired, after being up all night with Shouto, trying to keep Shouto alive. Maybe Shouto’s done something to upset Bakugou – he can’t think of anything, but Shouto often upsets people without noticing. And they haven’t talked. They haven’t talked since this morning – haven’t talked since last night, before Shouto finally slipped into the half-darkness. The last thing he remembers is Bakugou calling him an asshole and Shouto apologising. And since he woke up, they haven’t been alone, haven’t had a chance. And Shouto feels like there’s something missing.

“Hey,” he says, finally catching the two of them. “I was thinking we could go for a walk?” Shouto never used to understand why people did that, just walking around. He didn’t understand it until he started doing it with Bakugou, and now – now he understands.

Bakugou and Kirishima stop walking. Kirishima grins at him, but Bakugou – Bakugou looks him up and down, lip curling.

“Why the fuck would I want to go for a walk with an asshole like you?” he says.

Shouto blinks. Kirishima stops smiling, turning to stare at Bakugou, mouth slightly open.

“I thought--” Shouto says.

“Yeah, well, think again, moron,” Bakugou says – he spits it, it’s not like his usual casual insults, there’s genuine venom there. “I’d rather fucking throw myself off a bridge.”

Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and stalks away, shoulders hunched. Shouto watches him go, but he doesn’t look back.

There’s a silence, Shouto and Kirishima both staring after Bakugou. Then Kirishima turns back to Shouto.

“Shit, I’m sorry, man,” he says. “I don’t know what’s got into him today.”

“It’s fine,” Shouto says. It feels like something’s stuck in his throat.

“I really thought he--” Kirishima says, then shakes his head. “Thought you and him were--”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Maybe he doesn’t know what Shouto and Bakugou are. Shouto certainly doesn’t.

Maybe they’re not anything.

****

That night, Shouto doesn’t sleep.

Aizawa wanted Bakugou to sleep in his room, but Bakugou point-blank refused, so instead they have a system whereby Shouto has a temperature sensor on his wrist and if it gets too high it’ll trigger an alarm. The hospital sent it, Aizawa says. So that he could sleep alone.

So Shouto sleeps alone. Except he doesn’t. He tries – he really does. He’s been tired all day, and by the time he gets to bed at eight-thirty, he’s exhausted. He lies down on the futon and closes his eyes. But it feels – wrong. He tries turning on his side, but that’s even worse. The bed feels weirdly big – too big – and cold, and he wants to – he wants – he misses--

Eventually, he dozes a little, clutching a pillow to his chest. He wakes up before dawn, though, restless, and he can’t bear being in the bed a moment longer. He gets up, goes out onto his balcony for some fresh air.

Below him, Bakugou jogs out onto the forest trail like a ghost. Alone, for the first time since--

Shouto stares at him. Stares and stares. But Bakugou doesn’t look back.

****

“Todoroki, are you OK?” Midoriya asks him when they’re walking to the main building. “You look pale. You’re not getting sick?” He reaches up, trying to touch Shouto’s forehead, and Shouto brushes him away. He’s not sick. He spent the whole night alone and he isn’t sick. He hasn’t touched Bakugou for twenty-four hours and he isn’t sick. The quirk is gone.

“I’m just tired,” he says.

“Are you sure?” Midoriya says. He’s fluttering, anxious. Shouto knows he should be patient – Midoriya was there with him in the hospital. He’s watched Shouto get sick several times now. Of course he’s worried. But Shouto – doesn’t feel patient.

“It’s fine,” he says, and then, when Midoriya reaches for his forehead again, “Midoriya! I told you I’m fine!”

Midoriya freezes, hand still outstretched. “Oh – OK,” he says. “Sorry.”

Shouto clenches his fists. In the distance, he can see Bakugou walking ahead of them, hands in pockets. His shoulders are hunched, and as Shouto watches he sees him yell at Kirishima. He doesn’t hear the words, but the way Kirishima steps back and raises his hands, the way Bakugou’s head is angled, the shape of his mouth – when did Shouto learn so much about how Bakugou looks when he’s angry?

A stupid question. The same time Shouto learned all the other things he knows about Bakugou. The things he thought he knew.

“You and Kacchan--” Midoriya says, and Shouto blinks and turns back to him, realising he’s been following Shouto’s gaze.

“It’s fine,” Shouto says.

“He can be prickly sometimes, but I’m sure once he’s had a chance to process this he’ll be--”

“It’s fine,” Shouto says again, and walks away, because he can’t think of another way to get Midoriya to stop talking.

Midoriya follows behind him. But he stops talking.

****

It’s not a good day.

Shouto feels simultaneously exhausted and on edge, sharply aware of everything that’s going on around him. It’s not the illness – it’s nothing like he feels when that hits – which means that he has no way of fixing it, nothing to do but keep pushing on through the day, trying to listen to the teachers, make notes, trying to connect thoughts together. He thinks about they way he used to feel, when Bakugou touched him and washed everything away in a wave of coolness. If he was sick right now, things would be easy. Bakugou would touch him, and everything would feel good. And Bakugou would touch him.

But he’s not sick, just tired. And Bakugou doesn’t touch him. Or at least, he doesn’t touch him all morning. But at lunchtime, when Shouto’s wearily putting his stuff away, Bakugou suddenly stalks over to him and looks him up and down.

“You look like shit,” he says.

Shouto stares. He hasn’t been this close to Bakugou for – since yesterday, anyway. Up close, Bakugou doesn’t look great, either. His eyes look bloodshot, dark shadows underneath them. And he looks mad.

“Tell me you’re not fucking sick,” Bakugou says.

Shouto coughs. “I’m not sick.”

Bakugou nods, then suddenly puts his hand over Shouto’s face. Not his forehead, but his whole face, his palm against Shouto’s nose, fingers spreading out across his cheeks, his forehead. His hand feels warm, no hint of coolness. Shouto feels just as bad as he did before. And he doesn’t understand what Bakugou’s doing.

Just a suddenly, Bakugou lets go, shoving Shouto’s face in the process. “If you’re fucking sick and you’re not telling me--” he says.

“I’m not sick,” says Shouto. He feels a little dazed. “I’m just tired.”

“Fucking good,” Bakugou says. “Because I’m not wasting any more of my time hanging around with your pathetic ass. If you get sick again, don’t come crying to me.”

Then he turns and walks away, leaving Shouto, mouth a little open, staring after him. He can still feel the warmth of Bakugou’s hand on his face, the point where the pad of each finger was pressed into his face. But Bakugou’s gone.

He’s gone.

****

That evening, Aizawa comes to the dorm. Shouto’s sitting around one of the tables with his friends – Midoriya, Iida and Uraraka are all there, talking about something that Shouto stopped listening to a while back. There was a time when he wished for a little time with his friends without Bakugou there, but now – now he just wants to go to bed. He’s thinking about doing just that when Aizawa makes his appearance.

“Todoroki,” he says.

Shouto looks up. So does everyone else. They’re all there, gathered in various groups, and it seems like everyone wants to hear what Aizawa has to say to Shouto.

“The doctors at the Quirk Research Institute contacted me this afternoon,” Aizawa says. “They think they might have discovered what deactivated the quirk illness.”

Shouto sits up a little. “What was it?”

“They believe it happened when you and Bakugou kissed,” Aizawa says.

Shouto blinks. “I – what?”

Aizawa nods. “Given that the quirk was activated by him touching you, it seems they think the cure is--”

“True love’s kiss!” Midoriya says, jumping abruptly to his feet, his chair scraping back against the floor.

There’s a brief silence. Aizawa stares at Midoriya. “--the ingestion of the saliva of the person who set the quirk off,” he says.

Midoriya stands still, mouth slightly open. “Oh,” he says after a moment. “Um. Sorry.”

Shouto becomes aware that everyone’s staring at him. Or, no, not just at him. They’re looking at him and one other person – the only person in the room who’s not looking at Shouto at all. Bakugou is sitting on one end of a couch, glaring at his phone like he wants to tear it apart. He’s not scrolling, just glaring, holding the phone so tightly that his fingers are white. The room is – very quiet.

“Bakugou?” Aizawa says. “Are you listening?”

Bakugou’s jaw clenches. Then, suddenly, he surges to his feet, shoving the phone in his pocket.

“What the fuck ever,” he says. “Who fucking cares why it’s gone? It’s gone, so I don’t have to ever spend time with that bastard again. Next time I’ll let him fucking die.”

And he turns, slamming his way out of the room. The sound of his feet, heavy on the stairs, fades, and then there’s silence.

Aizawa turns to Shouto, raising an eyebrow. “I take it you two broke up?”

Shouto stares at him. Aizawa stares back. Then he shrugs.

“None of my business,” he says. “Anyway, thought you’d want to know.”

And he leaves.

There’s a brief silence. Midoriya puts a hand on Shouto’s arm. Then Yaoyorozu gets up and comes over to Shouto’s table.

“Todoroki,” she says. “I just wanted to say that I’m really glad you’re better and I’m – sorry Bakugou is behaving so cruelly towards you. You don’t deserve it.”

Shouto stares at her. And he realises – he sees it in front of his eyes, like it’s actually happening. The same thing again – everyone telling him how terrible Bakugou is. And Shouto – doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear it.

He stumbles to his feet. “I’m going to bed,” he says.

“Todoroki,” Midoriya starts, but Shouto doesn’t turn back to hear what he has to say. He just leaves, climbing the stairs in a daze, closing the door to his own room and sinking down to sit on the floor with his back to it. There’s no-one here – no-one to look at him, no-one to tell him how sorry they are, no-one to glare and tell him he’s pathetic. He’s alone.

And. Bakugou kissed him. Bakugou didn’t deny it, so it must have happened. Bakugou kissed him, and it saved his life. And then something changed, and now Bakugou can’t even look at him without sneering, and Shouto doesn’t – understand. He’d thought that after this – they’d be friends. Real friends, friends who like to spend time together, who talk, who are interested in each other’s lives. That’s what he wanted, even to the point where he was in two minds about telling Bakugou he was attracted to him in case it ruined their friendship. Bakugou – was going to take him up a mountain. Shouto’s never been up a mountain. He wanted to go – he remembers, lying under the rubble in an ice coffin, wanting that. He remembers dying in the hospital, knowing it would never happen. But Bakugou saved his life. And Bakugou said they would go. He said they would go after the quirk had worn off, so he must have had some kind of plan to be Shouto’s friend after that. But now--

But now. Shouto stares at the futon, rolled up in the corner. The camp bed is still there, too, folded up beside the desk. He imagines spending another night staring at the ceiling, feeling like something’s wrong. Something is wrong. And maybe he can’t make it right – he doesn’t know how it went wrong, so he doesn’t know how to make it right – but at least he can – at least he can--

Shouto stumbles to his feet and opens the door. He goes down the stairs one floor. He knocks on Bakugou’s door.

“Fuck off!” yells Bakugou from inside.

“Bakugou,” says Shouto. His voice comes out hoarse.

There’s a silence. Then the door suddenly opens, Bakugou standing on the other side, wearing a t-shirt and boxers, already sneering.

“The fuck do you want?”

What does Shouto want? Is that even relevant?

“Are we still going up a mountain?”

Bakugou’s brows come down. “Hah?”

“Up a mountain,” Shouto says. He feels – tired and muddled. And sad. He feels sad. “You said when this was over you would take me up a mountain.”

Bakugou stares at him. It’s very quiet. Then Bakugou’s nostrils flare and he starts to turn away.

“Fuck off, Icy Hot,” he says. “We’re not friends.”

He’s closing the door. He’s closing the door and turning away, and Shouto reaches out. He reaches out and grabs the door.

“I’m attracted to you,” he says.

Bakugou freezes, still half-turned away.

“I didn’t want to tell you because you would be forced to spend time with me,” Shouto says. “And then I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you might not want to be friends. But if we’re not friends, then--” he shrugs. “I’m attracted to you.”

Bakugou stands very still for a moment. Then he turns back towards Shouto.

“What the fuck?” he whispers.

Shouto stares at him. He wonders if he should say it again. But Bakugou already heard. He doesn’t think Bakugou can be any angrier with him than he already seems to be, but on the other hand, Bakugou has an impressive capacity for anger, so…

“Are you fucking with me?” Bakugou asks. His eyes are suddenly wide, the way they were in the hospital.

Shouto shakes his head. Bakugou stares at him for a moment longer – stares with those wide eyes – then suddenly reaches out, grabs Shouto by the front of his shirt and hauls him bodily into the room, slamming the door behind them. It’s dark inside, and Shouto doesn’t have the chance to orient himself before Bakugou’s shaking him, hard enough that his teeth clack against each other.

“What the fucking fuck, you fucking bastard,” Bakugou says. “You’re fucking attracted to me? You can’t fucking stand me! The fuck are you talking about! Why are you such an asshole?”

Shouto catches his breath, grabs Bakugou’s wrists and wrenches them away from his clothes. “What?” he says. “What do you mean, I can’t stand you? You’re my friend.”

“You don’t even want to touch me!” Bakugou says. “Oh yeah, must have been fucking hell for you these last weeks, huh? Having to touch me all the time? Sorry to fucking put a crimp on your day by saving your fucking life, princess.”

“What?” Shouto says. “What? Of course I want to touch you!”

“Oh yeah? Then what the fuck was that in the hospital?” Bakugou says. “You wouldn’t let me come near you! After everything, after-- I thought--”

And Shouto – understands. He understands, and he realises what an idiot he’s been. What an incredible idiot.

“That’s not—” he says. “Bakugou, that wasn’t-- I just wanted to make sure the quirk was gone. If you’d touched me, it would have reset the timer. I thought – you understood.” He remembers thinking, back in the hospital, that he needed to talk to Bakugou about it. But he never did. He never talked to him about it.

“What?” whispers Bakugou.

Shouto swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Suddenly, Bakugou is shoving him, pushing him backwards, step by step, until his back hits the door, his head colliding with it with a thud. “You’re sorry? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No,” Shouto says. “I’m not kidding. I am sorry.”

Bakugou stares at him. His eyes look very wide, glinting in the dim light filtering through the gap under the door.

“You’re attracted to me,” he says at last.

Shouto nods and opens his mouth, but Bakugou puts a hand over it.

“Don’t fucking talk,” he says. “Don’t talk.”

Shouto doesn’t talk. They stand there for what feels like a long time, Bakugou’s hand over his mouth, Bakugou staring at him, eyes wide. Then, at last, Bakugou takes his hand away. Shouto feels – breathless. Like something’s about to happen.

“Did you really kiss me?” Shouto says.

Bakugou swallows, loud enough that Shouto can hear it in the stillness. “Fucking– You were fucking – dying. I was throwing everything at the wall.”

“You told the doctors about it.”

“Yeah, well, gotta make sure they have all the info to fix the fucking quirk, right?”

“You didn’t tell me.”

Bakugou is silent, staring at him. “You were being an asshole,” he says at last.

Yeah. Shouto sees it now. He didn’t mean to, but he sees it.

“It was my first kiss,” he says. “I don’t even remember it.”

Bakugou blinks. Then he steps forward, reaches up, grabbing the back of Shouto’s head and bringing him down. And – they’re kissing, Bakugou’s lips against his, warm and soft, Bakugou’s hand in his hair, his other hand sliding down to Shouto’s ribs. Shouto doesn’t know what to do, how it works, not really, but he opens his mouth and runs his tongue along Bakugou’s lower lip, reaches for Bakugou, for his face, for his hair. It feels soft under his hand and Bakugou makes a noise, pulling Shouto forward so they’re pressed against each other, stomach, chest, hip. Bakugou’s hand curls in Shouto’s hair, pulling a little, and Shouto breathes into Bakugou’s mouth and feels dizzy and warm and like the thing that was missing isn’t missing any more.

At last, Bakugou pulls back, just a little, leaning his forehead against Shouto’s, one hand cupping Shouto’s cheek, running his thumb along Shouto’s cheekbone.

“Gonna remember that one?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Shouto breathes. His second kiss. He’ll remember it.

“Fucking good.” Bakugou stays like that for a long moment, so close to Shouto that his face is blurred, breath hot on Shouto’s lips. “Fuck,” he whispers, then, “Shit. You almost--”

And then he’s hugging Shouto, arms tight around him, face buried in his neck. He’s squeezing so hard that it’s almost painful, his shoulders shuddering a little, and Shouto thinks maybe – maybe he’s--

“Don’t ever--” Bakugou mumbles into Shouto’s neck. “Don’t ever fucking--”

Shouto thinks about the hospital, about what he remembers – not much of the worst part, not even half of it. But Bakugou was there for all of it, awake. Throwing everything at the wall and not knowing, not knowing. He hugs back, as tight as he can, one hand on the back of Bakugou’s head.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

It’s like that for a few moments – maybe longer – Bakugou hugging Shouto and Shouto giving back as much as he can. He’s done things wrong, he got it wrong, and Bakugou – Bakugou gave everything to Shouto and Shouto got it wrong. But maybe he can try and make up for it. He can try.

At last, though, Bakugou presses his lips against Shouto’s neck and then pushes him back, holding him by the shoulders, looking him up and down. He nods, like he’s satisfied. “Fucking – OK, then. Come the fuck here.”

And then there’s movement, a whirl of movement, Bakugou grabbing Shouto and dragging him towards the bed, pulling Shouto’s shirt off and dropping it on the floor, fiddling with the buttons of his fly.

“Get these off,” he growls.

Shouto goes to open the buttons, but he feels – a little overwhelmed. He’s not sure what Bakugou wants, what Bakugou expects him to do. He’s not sure he’s ready for whatever it is Bakugou expects.

“What are you doing?” he asks as Bakugou shoves his pants down.

“Solving a problem,” says Bakugou, shoving Shouto bodily into the bed and then climbing in after him. Shouto tenses up, but then Bakugou settles in behind him, chest pressed against Shouto’s back, arm around Shouto’s waist. His legs tangle with Shouto’s, and Shouto understands. This is what Bakugou wants. And Shouto wants it too. It’s familiar. It feels right.

“What problem?” he asks.

“Insomnia,” says Bakugou, the word a puff of air against the back of Shouto’s neck. The feeling of it produces a sudden flood of memories in Shouto, of emotions. So much has happened – so much has changed. He could have died – would have died, twenty times over, if not for Bakugou. But he wouldn’t change it. He wouldn’t change it.

“Bakugou,” he says.

“What?”

Shouto picks up Bakugou’s hand where it’s draped over his stomach, fits his own hand against it, their fingers interlaced.

“Thank you.”

Bakugou sighs against his neck.

“Shut up and go to sleep, dumbass.”

“Bakugou?”

“What?”

“Are we dating now?”

“The fuck kind of stupid question is that? Of course we’re not fucking dating.”

“Oh.” Shouto shifts, finding a more comfortable position, pressing himself closer to Bakugou. He lies there for a little while, thinking about how warm he is. About how he hopes that maybe things are fixed now between him and Bakugou. “Can we go up the mountain?”

“Mm?” Bakugou already sounds half asleep. “Fucking – yeah, fucking kill you, steepest – fucking mountain--”

Bakugou’s breathing evens out, and Shouto smiles into the darkness.

****

The leading edge of the sun is just appearing over the horizon when Shouto makes it up the last stretch of the trail, almost twisting his ankle more than once on a fist-sized rock that he doesn’t see in the dawn shadow. Up here, the sky is clean and blue, the wind fresh. The treeline is far below them now, the forest dark and mysterious, carpeting the knees of the mountain. The sliver of sun is bright gold, a single small cloud pink in the blue. At the top of the trail, Katsuki is waiting for him, a sihouette against the sky.

“Told you it’d fucking kill you,” he says, reaching out to haul Shouto up the last few steps, teeth bared in a triumphant grin.

“I’m not dead,” Shouto says. He’s a little out of breath, but otherwise he feels fine. Better than fine, as he breathes deeply and looks at Katsuki’s face, at his smile.

“It’s a fucking metaphor, dumbass.”

“Yeah,” Shouto says. He’s not thinking about what Katsuki’s saying, just about what he is, right here, his hand warm in Shouto’s, his face brightening as the sun rises.

Katsuki snorts and lets go of his hand, shoving him lightly then pulling him in for a kiss. “Idiot half-n-half,” he says, rubbing his cheek against Shouto’s like a cat.

They turn to watch the sun rise, side by side on the edge of the mountain. Shouto understands it now – why Katsuki likes to come up here. It’s wild and beautiful and dangerous. It makes him feel free.

“It’s a good date,” he says.

“I told you, we’re not fucking dating.”

“We are dating, though. We’re on a date right now.”

“Shut up.”

Shouto shuts up. The sun is halfway up, now, golden light flooding across the land, deepening the shadows in the valleys and under the trees. Katsuki takes his hand, interlacing their fingers. His palm feels warm against Shouto’s.

“OK, Halfie?” he says.

Shouto breathes in through his nose. He feels clean and content.

“OK,” he says.

Notes:

And there it is! Thanks to everyone who's stuck with it, and especially to those who've kudosed and commented -- you guys really made this a lot of fun for me ♥ I love these two idiots and it's great hearing about how you love them too!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Touch Sensitive