Shouto is grateful that it’s a weekend when he wakes up feeling twice as tired as he’d felt before sleeping last night. He’d known it was coming, seen all of the warning signs, but somehow he just didn’t expect it to hit him like this. He’d felt the stuffy nose, heard the slight roughness in his voice, and still he’d thought he could just ignore it and it would go away.
It’s only mid afternoon when Shouto realizes that he doesn’t have a chance at getting up for the day and functioning like a normal human. Everything is cloudy and too much and he really, really hates being sick.
He tries to work on homework, but the words start bleeding together into nonsense. He tries to take a shower, but there is no temperature that feels even remotely comfortable, and halfway through the water starts steaming away when it hits his skin. Changing into his softest pajamas is a start, he thinks, but just pulling his shirt over his head he feels winded and lightheaded. Shouto is irritable and exhausted when he hears a knock on his door.
He grumbles to himself as he makes his way over, takes a moment to find his balance before opening the door with every intention of telling whoever is on the other side of it to fuck off as politely as he can manage.
“Hi Shouto!” Izuku says.
In his mind, the wobbly mirage of a ship sailing into the distance with all of his plans arises. He grips the door jam tightly to keep himself on his feet. His temperature rises again and he feels like Kaminari after he’s fried his brain. Izuku looks up at him with bright eyes and Shouto is just… staring.
And oh, he’s wearing his hoodie. He loves when Izuku wears his hoodie. A lot. It’s a good hoodie. Warm looking. Soft. It suits him. Is Izuku talking? He can’t hear very well, like his ears are full of cotton. Green eyes look him up and down and he watches Izuku’s expression change into attentive consideration, but everything is getting blurry around the edges and he can’t quite focus on the boy in front of him.
Shouto sways where he stands and before he can even try to right himself, Izuku darts forward and sweeps him off his feet. His head swims with the sudden tilt as Izuku moves them into his room and shuts the door with his foot.
“You should have said you were feeling sick.”
“I feel fine,” he says, but lets his cheek drop against his shoulder. How many times is it now that he’s been carried this way?
“I was kind of hoping, after the other day, that we were done lying to each other.”
Shouto can’t think of a suitable response to that as Izuku carries him over to his futon.
Izuku sits at the edge of the bed, and the fact that Shouto doesn’t have it in him to even sit up and pretend to be okay is a telltale sign that he’s in bad shape. He brushes his hand across his forehead and Shouto’s eyes fall shut as he shivers under the gentle touch.
“You’re burning up.”
“Is that a joke?” he asks weakly.
Izuku gets a washcloth from the bathroom and sets it on his forehead. Water steams off of it and the boy frowns at him.
Shouto doesn’t like the crease between his eyebrows, and reaches up to smooth it with his fingers. His hand is slow, heavy, and it takes more energy than it really should. By the time he’s done, Izuku looks more worried, not less, and he sighs at his failure until the fire in his lungs makes him cough.
He’s used to staying quiet when he’s not feeling well. Injuries, illness - better to deal with them silently and not attract attention. His old man would be furious if he had to waste time in bed, so he would sleep when he could and do his best to stay on the defensive until it passed.
But he can’t find it in him to be afraid, even with his body feeling weak as a kitten. Izuku is here, petting his hair like always.
Izuku fidgets on the bed next to him and mumbles a long string of words that don’t mean anything to his foggy brain. All he wants to do is put him at ease, so he cracks open his dry lips and tries to say something good. It hurts, but he finds that he would do far worse to bring back the sunshine in his smile.
He’s not really sure what he says, just that it comes out rough and that he’s having trouble filling his lungs again afterwards. Izuku shushes him from somewhere near his ear, and he doesn’t remember closing his eyes but he must have because he’s falling asleep with a soft voice murmuring something like sweet nothings in his ear. Something soft presses against his temple and he lets his aching body rest.
Izuku presses his lips against Shouto’s temple and brushes damp red and white bangs from his forehead. He’s burning up on both sides, his left especially hot, his right trying desperately to cool him off with short bursts of frost that melt into small droplets and bead in his hair.
It’s just a cold, he tells himself as he dials Iida on his phone with one hand. He keeps his other hand moving through Shouto’s hair, noting how the boy leans into his touch even in his fitful sleep.
“Midoriya-kun?” Iida’s voice crackles across the phone, and he tucks it between his shoulder and his ear as he gets up to bustle about Shouto’s room.
“Iida-kun, do you have a minute?”
Izuku busies himself with rewetting the washcloth and tucking Shouto under his blankets as he talks quietly into the phone.
“I see. That’s unfortunate. I must admit I’m surprised; Todoroki-kun doesn’t seem the type to take ill easily.” It’s true. He’s never seen him so much as sniffle until he sneezed the other day during his confession.
Izuku worries his lip between his teeth. He’s got a theory about that, actually. “I’m worried, Iida-kun. Do you think you could visit Recovery Girl and ask her if she would be alright with coming to the dorms to check on him? Or, or maybe I could bring him there if that’s better?” Izuku pulls at his hair and paces the room. He could carry Shouto, if it came down to that.
“Of course, Midoriya-kun! It’s my duty as class president to look after all of our classmates. I will call you back.”
“Thank you,” he breathes.
He looks back over at Shouto, panting slightly with a dark flush down to his neck. Izuku’s not sure if he should leave him covered up or maybe try to cool him down. He’s honestly considering calling his mother for advice, she always takes care of him when he’s sick. Izuku sits on the floor next to the low bed and twists his hands. Shouto has always seemed so solid and strong. Even in the moments of vulnerability between them, there was something about Shouto that gave the impression that he could flip the switch and be ready for anything, ready to back away. It was what made those moments all the more precious, because he knew it was a conscious choice to open up and stay that way in front of him.
But looking at him now, pallid and shaky… Izuku’s heart is in his stomach as it flips over. He’s positive that if anything came between him and Shouto right now, he would rip it in half without a second thought.
That’s ridiculous, he scolds himself, putting his face in his hands. Recovery Girl will know best what he should do. Until then, he’ll just stay here and watch over him.
Recovery Girl tutts at him when she arrives, and goes about checking Shouto’s temperature. She checks both sides of his tongue with the thermometer, and her lips become a fine wrinkled line when his left side melts the end of it.
“It’s a cold, alright. It’s been going around. It’s usually a simple fix, but his quirk complicates things…”
“I think it might be my fault.” Izuku holds his elbow with one hand. “He’s been having, uhm,” he feels his cheeks heat. “Temperature fluctuations? A lot of them.”
Recovery Girl hums at him knowingly. “That would do it, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately his immune system is shot, and he just doesn’t have enough stamina for me to heal him. From his condition, I have to say he’ll most likely get worse before he gets better.” He had guessed as much… Izuku grits his teeth at the helpless feeling gnawing on him.
“However,” she says kindly. “He will be fine with a bit of rest. You’ll take care of him?” Izuku nods emphatically.
“Then we have little to worry about. He’s in good hands,” she takes his right hand in hers and pats it gently.
“Thank you,” he says when she leaves, clutching a piece of paper with instructions written on it, and a handful of colorful candies. Shouto is still fast asleep.
What will worse look like, if he’s already sleeping like the dead and breathing like it hurts?
It’s Izuku's fault that he’s sick. He’d gone from hot to cold so fast and so often in the last few weeks that it was enough to make even Izuku’s head spin, of course it had taken a toll on Shouto’s body. And with flu season coming, his immune system weakened, it was no wonder he looked like death warmed over. After getting caught in the rain, Izuku was feeling a little more tired than usual, too.
Izuku swallows thickly and sits cross legged on the floor next to his futon to rest his hand on his burning forehead. The heat is enough to prick at him through his callouses, but Shouto stops quivering so he leaves it there.
After their confessions, things between them had been much the same. They still orbit each other like satellites, only now there was a silent understanding that each touch meant more. The day after had been the most awkward, with neither of them really knowing what to do, but it had calmed by the time classes had ended. He thinks back for a minute, examines the picture of him from that day. Did he look more pale than usual? Should he have noticed that he was starting to get sick?
They’d gone to the library together, just the two of them, keeping to themselves and stealing glances over the tops of textbooks. He’d felt a little thrill every time he caught Shouto’s eyes flick away from him right as he looked up, and the realization that he was feeling just as shy and unsure as himself was a relief. Izuku reached out with his feet and trapped his ankle between his under the table, and the faint blush that rose on Shouto’s cheeks was so cute that he couldn’t help but grin.
Shouto had huffed at him and told him to get back to work, but left their feet tangled. After that it was easier to find their balance.
They hadn’t had the chance to really talk it over yet, what it was they were doing, what they wanted. Izuku hasn’t asked yet if Shouto might want to actually go on a date with him.
The thought makes him tingle head to toe with nerves and excitement. Focus, he tells himself when his heart threatens to burst. Izuku peaks at the crumpled paper again and feels his lips shape the words as he goes over it.
He’s not sure how long Shouto will be out for, but if he hurries, hopefully he can make it back before he wakes up. He’ll just grab a few things and be back in a flash. His skin is pink and a little raw when he takes his hand away from Shouto’s forehead, and he clenches his fist a few times.
“I’ll be back,” he whispers.
Shouto wakes feeling like he’s been hit by a bus. The heat on his skin is unfamiliar in the way that it burns him rather than burning atop him, and is contrasted dramatically by the freezing cold ache deep in his bones. Every muscle aches when he tries to sit up, so he lays pathetically still and tries to breathe through the feeling that there’s something sitting on his chest. His eyelids scratch against his eyes when he drags them open, and the light in his room blinds him temporarily.
His room is fuzzy around the edges, and the distorted image makes his head pound. He thinks there was something happening before he fell asleep, a person in his room maybe, or something he had to do, but it’s foggy and fleeting and small weighed against the heaviness in his body. He can’t remember what day of the week it is, and spends a moment considering the consequences of just going back to sleep and screw any responsibilities left outstanding.
He swallows past the pins and needles in his throat and tries not to cough. This will pass, he thinks groggily. As long as father isn’t home, Shouto can afford to sleep for a while longer. He’ll wake up and take whatever punishment waiting for him, he just needs a little while longer to gather himself. Just a little longer.
Somewhere through the fever haze of his thoughts, Shouto hears footsteps approaching his room, and he thinks for a moment that he can feel the floor thud with each heavy thump as it comes closer, his heart rate racketing up with each step. He gasps a ragged breath and sits up as fast as he can, too fast, his head is spinning but he has to get up, he has to be on his feet when-
His door opens just as he pushes himself up, but his legs buckle beneath him and his knees crash painfully into the floor.
“Shouto!” He can’t place the voice right away, not when it feels like his ears are under water, but something in his chest loosens and lets him sit on the floor instead of scrambling to his feet again.
Footsteps pad across his floor, and now he realizes that they don’t sound anything like rolling thunder, they don’t make the floor shake like it’s afraid too. These footsteps pad quietly against his tatami mats like they know how to keep secrets, like they know how to be gentle.
“You have… nice feet,” he tells the boy kneeling in front of him. It’s Izuku, he knows now. Only Izuku could get into his space like this without setting off all of his warning bells.
“I-” he blearily looks up into his pink freckled face and watches the cute change of expression, from concern to embarrassment to smothered laughter. “Thank you,” he settles on, and puts his hands on his shoulders to guide him back to his futon.
Shouto feels weird being manhandled and fussed over as Izuku tucks him in and pushes his hair away from his damp forehead. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d let anyone take care of him this way, and Izuku does it like it comes naturally, like he was born to be kind and soft. It’s beautiful, but it makes Shouto feel like his own rough edges will cut into those same soft hands.
But they aren’t soft, are they? They’re strong hands. Strong, scarred- they’re a hero’s hands. His thoughts are a spiralling mess of fever hot nonsense.
“Don’t get up like that, okay? You have a fever,” his voice cuts through the haze. Shouto’s eyes still won’t focus, so he looks at the shades of green and black in his curly hair as the boy gets up and starts moving around his room. He doesn’t really mind, there’s nothing in his room that he needs to keep hidden, it’s just strange to see Izuku look so at home in his space. It makes the weight on his chest lighten, just a fraction.
“I brought a few things that might help you feel better. Recovery Girl gave me a list, and she said it’s alright if I stay over for a while- if that’s okay with you!” Izuku looks over his shoulder with a worried look and Shouto shakes his head, slow enough not to agitate the headache thumping behind his left eye.
“It’s fine,” he rasps, and frowns at the scratch in his throat. It wasn’t this bad before he went to sleep. He clears his throat (it feels like he’s choking on needles) and tries to sound human. “You don’t have to stay. I don’t want to be a burden.”
Izuku brings over a mug of tea, his mug, the one with the snowflakes or flowers depending on the temperature of it’s contents, and the flowers are blooming cheerfully at him. Through his slightly stuffy nose he can smell his favorite tea.
It’s just the cold that makes his throat tight, he convinces himself and blinks hard. Izuku helps him sit up and keeps a hand on his back while he figures out how to articulate his fingers. The ceramic is warm in his hands in a way that pierces through the deep set cold, different from the blistering heat on his skin. Izuku keeps a finger hooked on the handle just in case when Shouto’s grip wavers.
The tea is sweet on his tongue and soothes the sharp pain in his throat, and there’s a slight aftertaste of something like almonds and sunshine.
“I know you usually take sugar, but the honey will help your sore throat,” Izuku explains with a shy look. His throat closes up and he takes another small sip. It feels like the warm liquid pools in his chest and unravels the tangled knot of cold, and the steam clears his nose enough for him to sniffle.
Izuku takes the tea from him and sets it next to them on the floor, scooting forward until they’re hip to hip, green eyes looking him over carefully. Shouto leans into his touch when he puts a hand on his face, lets his heavy eyes close.
Izuku’s other hand pushes his bangs back and he presses a gentle kiss against his forehead. “You could never be a burden on me,” Izuku whispers against his skin.
Fire blooms in his chest and Shouto gasps, ice rushing to cool the burning heat. He coughs painfully on cold vapor that feels like snow on his tongue. Izuku gives him space, but stays close enough to keep a hand on his knee.
“Was that… okay?” he looks at him with concern.
“Yes,” Shouto says, and is embarrassed by the vehemence in his voice but Izuku just smiles at him, relieved.
Shouto frowns, thoughts catching up to him. “Wait- no. Don’t touch me.” Izuku’s face falls and Shouto’s heart drops. He forgets to breathe before talking, strained and gravely as he rushes to fix the seed of hurt in his eyes. “I don’t have control right now. I could-” he coughs when he takes a breath in. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, hating the desperation in his voice.
Izuku’s eyes are so soft and warm that it strikes him like a physical blow, and his fingers clench around the sheets, aching with cold and the need to touch him despite himself.
“You won’t hurt me.” Shouto begs to differ. “You won’t hurt me,” he repeats, and slowly, so slowly, he drags the backs of his fingers down Shouto’s cheek and he has to bite his tongue to keep the noise building in his chest back. He feels his body shiver with need more than pain.
Heat flares in his cheeks and faster than he thought he was able, he snatches Izuku’s hand away from his face where he can see tendrils of steam coming off of him.
“You were saying,” he deadpans.
Izuku wiggles his fingers in Shouto’s hand until they’re interlocked with his. “Still not hurt,” he says cheekily, like he really believes that he’s completely safe.
Shouto huffs at him, but his headache is pounding behind his left eye at the sudden temperature change and it builds with every beat of his heart, leaves him panting and exhausted. Izuku breaks their hands apart carefully, and he tries not to be disappointed at the loss of contact as the boy pads across his room. They haven’t much talked about their situation yet. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to ask Izuku to rub his head again, even if it wasn’t a hazard.
Izuku kneels next to him and presses a cool washcloth to his left side, setting it lightly across his forehead. He cracks his eyes open (when did he close his eyes?) and sees his hands hovering uncertainly above his left cheek.
“Shouto…?”
He blinks at him curiously.
“Can I- if it’s okay… I’d like to touch your face. Your scar.” Shouto swallows past the pain in his throat. “...Please?” Izuku bites his lip, eyebrows furrowed cutely. He does a quick check of his body temperature, warm but not enough to burn. Don’t burn him. Shouto nods slightly.
He can’t feel the feather light touch on the damaged skin around his eye, but he feels the pressure change when Izuku’s thumb presses gently under his eye near his nose and swipes slowly across his cheek. He repeats the motion a few times until Shouto can’t keep his eyes open. Whatever he’s doing is relieving the pressure building in his head. Izuku’s fingers brush at his temple and tug lightly on his hair and he can’t help the little moan that spills from his lips. Izuku’s hands still abruptly and his moan turns to a small whine in his throat.
“Please don’t stop,” he whispers.
Izuku makes a small soothing noise and caresses the side of his face, threading his fingers through his hair again and again until the dull throbbing is all but gone, and he drifts off.
Izuku spends longer than he really needs to petting Shouto. He’s been asleep for at least twenty minutes, and his leg is starting to fall asleep from sitting in this position for so long, but he just can’t bare to move away, not when he keeps hearing Shouto’s soft pleading in his head.
The heat is building in his palm, though, and he doubts Shouto would forgive himself if he let his hand blister. With regret, he pulls away and goes to re wet the washcloth. The note from Recovery Girl tells him to let the boy sleep for as long as he can, to give him time to burn away the sickness.
Izuku sits at the low table and works on his homework for some time, but it’s hard to focus when he keeps looking over at the sleeping boy. He’s just so…. His heart twists painfully looking at the red and white tangle of hair poking up above the covers. In the end, he brings his text book over next to the bed and lays belly down on the floor next to Shouto, propped up on his elbows. This way he can keep a closer eye on him in case he gets too hot or cold.
That’s what he’s thinking, anyways. Right up until he’s using his book for a pillow and curling around Shouto’s right hand where it lays at the edge of his bed, just barely sticking out from under his blanket and frosting then melting in equal turn. Shouto won’t mind if he holds this hand, will he? He’s just so tired…
He falls asleep listening for any change in the ragged breathing of the boy next to him.
Something is crushing him slowly, like a rolling pin flattening him from top to bottom, stretching him out until he is paper thin and feeble. There are hands scraping along his flesh with nails and digging fingers, kneading him into a ball like dough and pulling him apart in thick stretching tendons. Something like a thick cord is constricting around him until his chest can’t expand with a full breath he can’t breathe, too tight. He is hot, hot, too hot and expanding until there is nothing solid left in him.
“You were made for this,” his father tells him as he slices him into pieces to serve.
He is chewed by gnarling teeth, one bite at a time. “Delicious!” All Might says around a mouthful of bread.
Shouto wakes up feeling even worse than he had before sleeping, and only half of it is because of the disturbing images left seared into his psyche. He can’t even open his eyes at first because everything feels too bright, too harsh. His body is crackling with heat and his skin feels so sensitive that he can feel each rough fiber of his shirt scratch against him. It feels like he’s been lying on a bed of rocks, with how sore and tense his muscles are. Like he’s been training for days without rest. But worst of it is the damnable itchiness. Before he even opens his eyes, Shouto claws at his shirt where it’s stuck to his damp chest. He pulls his right hand out from under something and struggles to sit up, his arm bucking under him until he rolls to the side to try to get up that way.
Everything is itchy and irritating and blurry and he just wants to go back to sleep. He tugs and pulls on his shirt, but it’s sticky with sweat and he’s already out of breath by the time it’s halfway above his head. He growls and gives a weak yank on the fabric until his head pops out. Now he just has to figure out how to untangle his arms from the sleeves…
Next to him, the blurry blob of green and gray stirs.
“S-Sh-AH! Shouto! What are you doing?!”
Shouto turns his bleary eyes to the fumbling mess of boy next to his bed. Izuku is blushing brightly, looking anywhere but at him. “Everything feels… itchy…”
His skin feels suddenly too cold and exposed where air brushes against his bare back and shoulders, the damp of the shirt sticking to his chest feels gross and chilly. He wants to be under the covers again, but his skin feels too raw to be touching anything. He pulls his arms out of the shirt with difficulty and tosses it weakly across the room.
“I-itchy, you said?”
Shouto shivers violently as frost takes over his chest. Izuku’s expression darkens and knocks the breath out of him. Or maybe that’s just the cold. No, it’s definitely Izuku, he thinks as the boy quickly strips out of his hoodie. For all his sudden seriousness, it seems that he still can’t quite look at Shouto’s bare chest. He… doesn’t know how to feel about that, knowing what he does now. Is his heart racing too?
Izuku shifts forward on his knees and pulls his hoodie around Shouto’s shoulders, and he thinks for a minute that it will be itchy and too hot like his shirt was, but it’s soft and pleasantly warm from Izuku’s body heat. They haven’t done laundry together since he watched his friend strip out of it like something out of a movie, and he’s glad- he breathes as deeply as he can through the stuffiness of his nose. It smells like him. Sunshine and earth and something fresh and clean. It’s not as big on him as it is on Izuku; it’s snug around his shoulders. On Izuku, the pockets fall somewhere below his hip, but on him the hoodie’s hem rests at his waist where it should. His hands are pulled gently through the sleeves, fuzzy material ghosting across his skin like little kisses, reminding him of the small kisses on his knuckles, his forehead, his neck, his lips….
Thinking back, he thinks maybe he does understand why Izuku can’t look at him, if he feels anything like this.
“Does your heart beat…?” Shouto asks, feeling almost timid as he’s tucked into the hoodie.
Izuku pauses at the zipper, half undone, and looks into his eyes with concern. “Uhm. Yes?”
Shouto breathes out something like a laugh. “No, I mean- fast, does it...,” he takes a hand from the zipper and places it over his chest where his heart is beating unevenly. “Like this,” he whispers. Izuku’s hands are rough and calloused and it should feel unpleasant on his oversensitive skin, but it just feels nice.
Izuku looks at his hand with wide eyes, then turns them up to meet Shouto’s. “I- uhm. Y- well,” he stumbles over his tongue, then swallows. Shouto watches his adam's apple bob and thinks for a moment that he might like to kiss it.
Izuku takes Shouto’s free hand in his and carefully presses his palm against his chest, where his heart is slamming against his ribs. He has to blink a few times before the information processes.
“That feels like it would be painful,” he muddles through his clumsy thoughts.
Izuku smiles at him shyly. “Not… not exactly.” He laces their fingers together where they’re pressed against his heart, and Shouto’s pulse sky rockets.
Izuku gives an astonished laugh. “I can feel that,” he breathes, and splays his fingers over Shouto’s chest.
Shouto looks again at the freckled skin of his neck. The delirious part of him thinks he might be able to do what Izuku did, press a small kiss there under his jaw. He could be brave. He leans forward just a bit, eyes locking with the dark rings of green around Izuku’s blown pupils, and tries to duck his head.
About halfway through, he realizes that he has little to no control over his forward momentum, and curses his fever addled brain for thinking this was a good idea. Izuku quickly moves their arms from between them and scoops Shouto up under his shoulders before he can fully fall forward, and as grateful as he is for the save, he can’t help but blow at the bit of white hair hanging in his face at his helplessness.
Izuku chuckles at him, and he can feel it where his forehead is pressed against his throat as he maneuvers himself around to hold Shouto firmly against him.
“Shouto,” he whispers in his ear, and it still gives him chills to hear his name in Izuku's mouth, so close. “Do you mind if I- uh. Can I hold you? In- in your bed, I mean…” he can’t see, but he’s suddenly sure that the boy is blushing. Shouto lets his eyes close and noses at the soft flesh beneath his ear in a parody of a nod. Izuku shudders around him and he thinks he might be embarrassed about this later. About all of this. But for now he lets his body stay limp in his arms as Izuku leans them back, a firm hand holding the back of his neck until his head hits his pillow. After a bit of adjusting, Shouto peaks his eyes open and feels his eyelashes brush against the underside of Izuku’s throat- he thinks that Izuku must feel it too from the way he lets out a little gasp and tightens his hold on him. He’s holding him against his chest, like when they were on the couch but reversed. It’s… amazing. It feels amazing. He feels safe and warm and every ache in his body is dulled because this-
Shouto loops an arm around Izuku’s waist and tries desperately to get closer, a fine tremor moving through him as strong hands thread through his hair and rub his back soothingly through the hoodie. Tomorrow… tomorrow he’d let himself be embarrassed by the way he’s so shamelessly seeking comfort from this boy holding him. He nuzzles his face into the crook of his neck and takes a shuddery breath. He can feel the heat on his skin receding, slowly but surely.
The frustration of feeling so weak, the fog in his brain that won’t let him think clearly, the lingering fear in the back of his head at being so helpless- they’re all put on the back burner when Izuku tucks him under his chin and starts murmuring a long string of soft words into his ear. It’s nothing he can fully make out, just quiet nonsense meant to sooth him, and for that, they are perfect.
He is being lulled into sleep when he catches a few words… “-you’ll be okay, love, it’s okay-”
Shouto’s eyes pop open and his head snaps up.
Izuku’s words cut off as Shouto’s forehead slams into his jaw, a strangled yelp in his mouth. His body is humming with nerves as he watches the boy rub his jaw with confusion.
“What did you just say?” he breathes.
“Wha-?”
“What did you… you called me something just now?”
Izuku’s eyes slowly widen in dawning horror, and he can see his freckles disappearing under his intense blush.
“I-” he cuts himself off with his hand over his mouth and jerks backward. Shouto keeps his hold around his waist, but there’s no strength in his limbs to keep him there, so he throws a leg over Izuku’s too.
“What did you call me?” he asks again.
“I… I said… I called you love? I- I’m so sorry! It just- it just slipped out!” he says through his fingers, his pretty eyes are as wide as he’s ever seen them, watching him carefully. He wonders what he must look like, fever dazed with a thousand thoughts bubbling to the surface. He can’t wrap his mind around this, something doesn’t add up, and he can’t bring himself to say it because it sounds too… He can’t say it. But for all his worries, it must be written on his face by the way Izuku slowly inches forward.
“Shouto…? Are you okay?”
He’s not, actually. His head is swimming with words and cluttered thoughts and gnawing anxiety. Izuku props himself up on one elbow and leans over him. “Shouto, can you please say something? I’m… I’m a little worried over here,” he tries to keep his voice even, but Shouto can see his mouth is a wobbly line.
“Is this like when I called you beautiful…?” he asks, a hand half raised as though waiting for permission to touch him. He swallows tightly. Shakes his head, reconsiders, and nods in answer to both. Gently, Izuku’s hand rests on his cheek and his thumb brushes under his eye. This is weird, he wants to say. He doesn’t know how to respond to this kind of affection. Was unsure before they had confessed.
Shouto sniffles and buries his head into Izuku’s chest, holding onto him as tight as he can as his breath stutters. Izuku starts up his quiet string of nonsense again. Only this time, he pays attention to every word. Izuku settles back into the pillows and pulls Shouto in closer as he talks, stroking the back of his head and resting his fingers at the back of his neck like a shield. With the leg that’s still thrown over him, Shouto brushes his foot over a solid calf in appreciation.
Beautiful.
Strong.
Love.
Izuku murmurs the words into his hair like tiny promises, and Shouto thinks for a moment that he’s going to die because his heart is racing and his hands are shaking where they grasp the back of Izuku’s soft shirt.
He thinks about the praise he’s received in the past, impersonal compliments about his quirk, his heritage, floating over him without ever touching him. The cold detachment of his father’s appraisal makes him feel like the only thing he has worth praising is manufactured. Even Fuyumi, who is kind and warm to him, stays away from excessive praise. She understands where his disdain for admiration came from. Their language is one of small reassurances, seeking each other out in the aftermath of Endeavor, small nods before giving each other space to cope on their own. His mother’s comfort is almost similar. In his memories, her hands stroke his head gently like this. Her words are a warm breeze that whispers around him. But it’s still not quite like this sturdy heat that he’s wrapped in.
Izuku’s comfort feels different. It doesn’t drift around him, it nudges into him like a cat rubbing its forehead against his cheek, all soft fur and contented purring. It holds him steady like solid arms and blooms in his chest and he can’t breathe- his heart is overflowing with affection and relief.
Izuku’s chest rises and falls against his, and he matches their breathing until his heart rate slows to something approaching normal.
They hold on to each other for so long that if not for the quiet mumbling, he would think that the boy had fallen asleep. It’s a small wonder that he hasn’t passed out yet, mostly due to the building pressure in his sinuses from laying down for too long.
He sniffles and gasps until it becomes clear that the congestion in his nose is going to suffocate him unless he sits up. Izuku props him up against his chest while he coughs until his throat is raw, reaches over him to grab his tea from the floor next to them and waits patiently for him to drink. The tea is slightly cold, and the honey has settled at the bottom, but it helps. The cup is taken from his hands and Shouto tries to wipe at his puffy feeling eyes before the other boy can see. Izuku just smiles softly at him and shakes his head, uses the hood of the jacket to pat his face dry.
“It’s funny, I get like this when I’m sick, too,” Izuku murmurs. “I get sick, and all of a sudden it’s like my emotions are dialed up to a hundred.” He scrunches his nose in embarrassment. “If you can imagine, I cry even more than I normally do. It’s just,” he sighs. “Something about being so vulnerable physically makes it impossible to hold everything back, you know?”
He does know. He thinks he didn’t before this, but he understands perfectly now. His whole life was holding things back when he’s weak, until Izuku. Shouto considers trying to communicate this, but decides it’s too… too much. He’ll only butcher it if he tries to say these things now.
“Oh, Recovery Girl left some medicine for you. Your body feels a bit cooler already, so this will mostly be for the pain. It’s just a couple of pills, I’ll get them.”
Shouto watches him dig through the duffel in the corner of his room and pull out an armful of water bottles and a small package of pills.
He fumbles the bottle handed to him, and struggles with the cap with tired fingers until Izuku pulls it gently from his grasp. The seal clicks as it breaks easily, and he feels a growl of irritation tickle his throat.
“Don’t be like that,” Izuku scolds him lightheartedly and hands him the opened bottle and two pills. “You’ve had a fever all day, you can’t expect yourself to be running like normal. You haven’t even eaten anything- oh my god.” Izuku stops and looks at him in horror. “I’m the worst. You haven’t eaten anything all day, I’m supposed to be taking care of you!”
Shouto downs the pills and finishes half the bottle while Izuku devolves into a muttering mess. He likes the way he pushes his green curls back from his forehead, and takes a moment to appreciate the freckles dotting his hairline before wading in.
“Izuku,” he has to repeat it a few times over the tide of words that sounds more like a grocery list than anything before he gets Izuku’s attention. “It’s fine. I’m not really hungry. I don’t usually eat that much when I’m ill anyway.”
He meant it to be reassuring, but the boy looks appalled. “Shouchan, who usually takes care of you when you’re sick?”
No one, is the answer. Fuyumi, says the smallest voice in his head that would say anything to put the boy at ease. He’s not a liar by nature, though, no matter how nice it would be to avoid admitting to what he guesses is a grievous sin by the mounting suspicion in Izuku’s eyes. He goes for a mostly true middle ground.
“I… take care of myself.”
Izuku’s lips thin, but he doesn’t look surprised. Of course he doesn’t, Izuku is always too observant, too clever. “Your sister never…?”
Shouto winces. He couldn’t afford to advertise when he wasn’t feeling well, not when he lived in the same house as Endeavor, number two hero and slave driver. Izuku seems to understand that it’s an Endeavor issue, because he curses under his breath.
“I can’t…” Izuku grits his teeth. “I don’t want you to be alone like that anymore.” And for a second, Shouto thinks he sees the Hero Deku looking back at him, determination and iron will and so much care that he feels chills break out across his arms. “If… If you’ll let me…. I want to help you, when you need it. You don’t have to deal with things by yourself.”
“Oh...kay….”
Izuku gives him a shy half smile, ducking his head a bit, and the spell is broken. “I hope you’ll let me take care of you for a while longer, Shouchan.” He takes a deep breath that makes his cheeks puff up for a moment before letting it out in a rush. “I’m going to find some food, okay?”
He pushes himself up and Shouto is left staring after him.
Kirishima haunts the halls with no real direction, feeling mopey. He can’t go back to sleep, and he’d run out of things to do in his room ten minutes ago. He’d go looking for someone to hang out with, maybe go outdoors for some fresh air, if he wasn’t certain that Bakugou would have an absolute cow at him for it. Even walking around like this is a bit of a risk, with that drama queen on his ass. He sighs.
He’s had a pretty good day so far. He got to sleep in a little, finish some homework, spend some time with Bakugou… Not bad at all, until about an hour ago when Bakugou had bodily removed him from the common room on the grounds of being the walking plague. Which, he rolls his eyes to himself, is a total exaggeration.
He feels a little bit stuffy, but that’s it. It wasn’t a big deal, just a little sneeze, but Bakugou had been in his face immediately.
They’d been sitting together in the common room. Sometimes, if he’s quiet, Bakugou lets him put his head in his lap when he’s reading. Well, he pretends not to notice when Kirishima does it, and uses his forehead as a book-rest. Kirishima had just wanted to chill for a while, maybe doze off. But then he’d gone and ruined it by sneezing, turning his face into Bakugou’s shirt.
“Did you just fucking sneeze on me?” Bakugou had looked down at him with half a snarl on his face. “That’s fucking gross, you bag of germs. Are you trying to get me sick too? The hell is wrong with you, if you’re sick you should be sleeping it off like the weak ass invalid you are.”
Kirishima wrinkles his nose at the memory of being literally thrown over Bakugou’s shoulder and tossed into his dorm. He stuffs his hands into his hoodie’s pockets and wiggles his fingers against the soft lining. It’s easily the most comfortable thing in his closet, and totally matches his look with the black and red. He’s still not super confident about using it in his seduction scheme; Bakugou’s reaction to it has been lukewarm at best, but he hasn’t pulled out all the stops yet either so it’s hard to say.
He turns down a hall and sees an unruly head of green curls in front of him.
“Hey, Midoriya. How’s our boy Todoroki doing? Iida told me he’s sick.”
“Kirishima-kun!” He stops and waits for Kirishima to catch up to him. Jeez, this kid smiles like the sun. “Yeah, he’s… you know how Hagakure-san was feeling a little under the weather last week? It’s been going around, and uh. Because of all of the- you know how I made him… catch… fire?” Midoriya scratches at his neck. “And then he was also out in the rain, and then there was snow so... he wasn’t in top shape to fight off a bug.”
“Yikes, hard deal. Don’t worry about it too much, alright? Todoroki is tough. And now he’s got a cute boyfriend looking after him” Kirishima winks exaggeratedly.
Right on cue, Midoriya blushes hard, looking down the halls for anyone who might overhear. “Kirishima-kun! We’re not- you know we haven’t-”
“I know, I know, but soon, right?” Kirishima had gotten two texts in the middle of the night the day of the crazy rain storm. One was a garbled mess of typos basically telling him that all of his hard work had paid off and a kind offer to help with any and all things concerning his pining for Bakugou. The other was a simple, perfectly punctuated ‘Thank you.’
“M-maybe. When he’s feeling better. Uhm. I’m actually going to the kitchen right now to find something for us to eat, did you want to come with me?”
“I could eat.”
They fall into step together. Midoriya has always been easy to talk to once he relaxed, and they have no shortage of common interests, from pro heros and hero history (they can gush about Crimson Riot for hours once they got going), to their classes and classmates. Of course, the conversation inevitably turns to Bakugou, because he’s just gay like that, he guesses.
“I’m just wondering if he does it on purpose, you know? I’m pretty persistent, so maybe he just got tired of pushing me away, but like, he touches me sometimes?"
Midoriya gives him a startled look. “He touches you how?”
“Like- I don’t know, like when he lets me put my head in his lap. Sometimes he touches my hair. Especially if it’s down. And I know it sounds crazy, but I swear I’m not hallucinating- sometimes he’s… gentle. Gentle for him anyway.”
“That’s… telling.”
“See, but I don’t know, because it’s Bakugou, that could be his way of flirting or it could be that he just felt like it that day and I was convenient. I was hoping you might be able to shed a little light on this one for me.”
Midoriya rubs his chin. “Well, I’ve known him our whole lives, so I guess I’m as close to an expert as you’re going to get. But to be honest, I can’t say much about what goes on inside his head. I know his behaviours, and our history. But Kacchan hasn’t ever been open about his feelings. And asking.” He hunches just a little. “Asking would be disastrous.”
“You guys… what exactly is his problem with you?”
“It’s… complicated.”
Kirishima frowns for a moment. He knows how hard Bakugou is on him, noticed how he used to flinch when Bakugou got too close. It bothered him then, and it bothers him now. But he can’t apologise for someone else’s behaviour, and he doesn’t want to. Instead, he stops their progress with a hand on his shoulder and, giving him plenty of time to back away, tucks him into a tight hug. Midoriya gives a startled little laugh and brings his arms up around Kirishima to return the hug.
Whatever happened between them isn’t his business. Not unless they want to talk about it. But he can still keep on eye on them. They’re both his friends, no matter what. And he knows that he can kick Bakugou’s butt in sparring (he’s won at least twice, no matter what that adorable jerk said) if he gets too ornery. He’s like a dog, you just have to run out all the extra energy and he calms right down.
Kirishima squeezes him once, lifts him a little off his feet, just because he can and he likes the way Midoriya gives a thrilled little sound, and sets him down gently.
“You guys are both super weird,” Kirishima says and pats down Midoriya’s flyaway curls. “But I’m glad that your friendship has changed.”
Deku gives a sheepish grin. “Yeah, I guess it has changed. I’m glad too.” He gives a conspiratory nudge. “And I’m glad for you, Kirishima-kun. You should give yourself credit where it’s due.”
“Huh?”
“Kacchan really likes you, Kirishima-kun. He wouldn’t let you do half of the things you do if he didn’t. I’ve never seen him let anyone touch him so casually before, except maybe his mom, but even that’s mostly because she’ll bite his head off if he gets too snippy with her. And if he touches you like you said… I can’t say what he’s feeling, but he doesn’t do that with other people. You’re special to him.”
Kirishima feels his heart stutter in his chest and tries to laugh off the way his face heats. “Aha, you think? He’s a pretty special person, himself. I know he’s kind of an asshole, but…”
Midoriya nods. “I know. I see it too.”
And he knows that he does. Midoriya has a way of looking into people instead of at them that’s both unnerving and impossibly reassuring. It’s why he trusts Midoriya’s judgement, and why he trusts him with Todoroki, who is strong and powerful, but so, so fragile. The softest parts of him are still growing and developing, and Kirishima has always been fiercely protective of the people closest to him. Not that he has any kind of claim on Todoroki just because they’re friends, but… he feels better knowing that he’s in Midoriya’s care. He looks down at his feet while they walk.
“Hey. I know I don’t have to tell you this but… you’ll be careful with him, right?” He doesn’t need to specify.
Izuku stops them with a hand on Kirishima’s elbow and gives him a hug around his middle.
“Kacchan is lucky to have you, Kirishima.” Kirishima feels a little heat in his cheeks and now is as good a time as any to scram, no big deal, he’s not embarrassed.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re all very lucky, but we’re never going to get anywhere if we keep stopping to hug it out in the hallway” he pushes him away with a teasing smile.
They’re just getting to the kitchen when Midoriya leans over and says in a stage whisper, “Nice hoodie, by the way.”
Kirishima’s cheek twitches. “Thanks,” he drawls, heavy with suspicion. Then, “And where is your hoodie, Midoriya?”
Midoriya’s steps falter. “Uhm. Actually, I- Todoroki-kun is wearing it right now.”
“Ohhohoo, really now? I hope it’s still in one piece when you get it back.”
“Kirishima-kun!” he chides with a bright blush.
“And you can drop the “Todoroki-kun,” everyone knows you two are on a first name basis.”
“It-it’s embarrassing…I can’t even call Uraraka by her first name unless it’s just us, and she’s my best friend,” he hunches down, and if he were wearing his hoodie like usual, the fluffy hood would be up around his ears. Oh man, he really wishes he could see Todoroki wearing it. He can just imagine how that’s going, wearing the hoodie that started this whole love affair.
Kirishima hip checks him playfully to get him to loosen back up just as they come to the kitchen, where a heavenly aroma thick with spices is wafting out into the hall.
The kitchen smells amazing. His steps slow and he lets Kirishima go in ahead of him as he sniffs again. Amazing and familiar.
“Woah! You cook, bro?”
“Of course I fucking cook, you animal.”
Izuku freezes at the entrance of the kitchen. Bakugou is standing at the stove in front of a giant steaming pot, and he realizes why the smell is nostalgic. His mom and Bakugou’s were always exchanging recipes and this soup- chicken broth and vegetables and enough spice to clear a stuffy nose in seconds- had been a staple in both households for as long as he could remember, especially when he was feeling sick.
The smell is almost enough to relax him, but it’s never completely safe to disregard Bakugou, even if he is wearing an apron and bright red socks. He really doesn’t have the energy to argue, not when half of his brain is still thinking about whether or not Shouto’s fever will spike again, so he skirts the edge of the kitchen and stays on the opposite end to riffle through the cupboards for something quick and easy to make that would be good for Shouto’s throat. He would cook something himself, would love to, but with Bakugou already at the stove…. Things may be changing between them, but that doesn’t mean he wants to rub elbows and cook next to him. That would be just asking for trouble.
Izuku is about to call it quits and head to the cafeteria, the lunchtime hero Lunch Rush would be on campus for another hour or so as per his weekend schedule, he can ask him to make something. Before he can even close the cupboard door though, Kirishima and Bakugou’s conversation cuts through the quiet hum of his muttering.
“Hey, why don’t you let Midoriya take some up to Todoroki. You made enough to feed half the class already.”
The heat of Bakugou’s eyes on the back of his neck makes him feel like a rabbit in a fox’s den. He risks a glance back and sees sharp red eyes glaring at him like he had suggested it. “Fuck no,” he says with finality.
“Come on babe, don’t be like that!”
“It’s okay, Kirishima-kun! I was just thinking about going to the cafeteria,” he says with a strained smile. He really, really doesn’t like being the center of attention. He eyes the distance between himself and the exit, calculates in his head, and is ready to bolt when-
“Hey.” Bakugou’s voice, sudden and aimed at him makes his spine stiffen as he peeks over a cabinet door. “Your mom still makes that spicy curry dish right? Tell me what the fuck she uses that tastes like fennel.”
Curry…? That seems a little out of the blue but- oh. Izuku has to rewire his thinking for a minute, the shift in his train of thought catching up as he thinks over the words carefully. He’s...offering a bargain, he thinks. That’s what is sounds like, anyway, and it makes sense along the lines of the Kacchan he knows from childhood. Bakugou won’t want it to look like kindness, but he is worried about his classmates getting sick, Shouto included, or else he wouldn’t have made such a huge pot of soup because that is definitely too much for him to pour down Kirishima’s throat. The evidence supports his theory, and he chew over his options. So he does want to share, then, he thinks.
But only if I play my cards right.
“How do you know it isn’t fennel?” he hedges, risky, but he can’t afford to just roll over this early in the game.
“Don’t give me that shit,” he swings the spoon in a wide arc to swat at him, and Izuku narrowly ducks behind the cabinet door to avoid the hot droplets that fling out at him. Soup broth splatters the floor between them, and he’s about to try again when Kirishima cuts in cleanly, going right over top of whatever chess game was about to unfold.
“Oi, Bakugou, what was that about not making a mess in the kitchen?”
Bakugou is derailed as he lets himself get riled up with Kirishima’s dig. As he watches the two of them, Izuku suddenly remembers something from the movie night. Shouto had said something about a secret weapon when he made Bakugou back off. Maybe Kirishima wouldn’t mind being his secret weapon, too. So far, it seems incredibly effective, Bakugou’s shoulders drop half an inch as his attention is redirected.
If he looks closely, there’s a slight dusting of pink on Bakugou’s cheeks when he looks at Kirishima from the corner of his eye, like he doesn’t want to fully face him and oh, that’s excellent. Izuku is so glad that they got him his own hoodie. He wonders if Kirishima notices it too, or if he’s too busy looking at the apron tie at Bakugou’s waist.
“Fuck off, Shitty Hair.”
“Just saying, if you’re gonna get on everyone’s case about keeping the kitchen clean, you’d better be doing your part too.” He says it with a goofy smile that even has Izuku blinking at it’s brightness.
Bakugou curses over his shoulder and whips the hand towel from his shoulder and drops it over the spilled drops on the tile. He pushes the cloth over the floor with his foot, and with a twist of his ankle, flicks it into the air to catch in one hand while the other stirs the large pot on the stove.
That was way more flashy than it needed to be. Izuku bites back his sudden grin, because Kacchan is showing off.
“And you know what, speaking of hypocrisy, you’re the one who was complaining about everyone getting sick and being useless. So what, you’re going to deny Todoroki your soul healing soup just because poor Midoriya here,” Kirishima shoots him a wink, “is the carrier? Unacceptable! I won’t stand for it!”
“Then it looks like you’re going hungry too, fucker.”
“You unbelievable ass,” Kirishima says like it’s a term of endearment, grinning widely. “You were so worried about me this morning, though, weren’t you?”
Bakugou goes red, with anger or embarrassment, he can’t tell now. His snarl twists up his face and his fists clench around a series of small explosions as he growls low, like an animal.
He can’t fully see it, because he’s instinctively focused on the greater threat in the room, but he swears he sees Kirishima shiver where he sits, and… oh. He doesn’t want to know about that, that’s his childhood friend and- and Kirishima, that’s just-
“I should-”
“Deku!” he barks, cutting him off. With jerking motions that should make pouring soup impossible, he fills two bowls and puts them on a tray, shoves it at him so that he has to move with it’s momentum to keep it from spilling. “Take this and get the fuck out! Tell that shitty Half and Half bastard that if he doesn’t get better by Monday, I’ll fucking kill him myself.”
“I- wha-”
“Oi! Kirishima! Get your ass off the table. Since you want to be such a smart ass, you get to cut vegetables. You want me to feed the whole fucking dorm, then fine, grab an apron.”
Kirishima glows, and Izuku has a minute to stand around, dumbfounded, watching them banter about the appalling bad manners of sneezing on people, and how anyone with so much as allergies was a burden upon society and come on Blasty don’t be so cold!
Izuku bites the inside of his cheek.
“H-hey...Kacchan?” he interrupts.
“Fucking- what?!”
“It’s anise. In the curry. Star anise.” Izuku smiles widely snags a pack of saltine crackers from the counter on his way out and ducks out of the kitchen before Bakugou can decide to chuck something at him. He hears as he leaves, slightly muffled and thoughtful over Kirishima’s laughter.
“Motherfucker, seriously?”
When Izuku comes back, he’s balancing a tray of two bowls of soup and a package of saltine crackers. He sets it on his low table and waves him over. Before Shouto can fully settle, Izuku has tucked a pillow behind his back and snagged a medium blanket from the duffel to throw around his shoulders.
Shouto pulls at a corner of it, soft and plush and brightly colored, kind of hideous but mostly cute. “You brought this from your room?”
Izuku rubs his neck shyly. “Ah, yeah. I thought- uhm. It’s just that I know you like soft things, and when I’m sick I like to bundle up. I wasn’t sure if you’d have anything like that in your room, since it’s so bare.”
“How do you know I like soft things?” he asks, dumbfounded.
Izuku blushes and tucks his head. “Oh. Well, you kind of… when I wear soft shirts, or my hoodie, sometimes you worry the fabric between your fingers. Not all the time, but I noticed you uh,” he bites his lip. “You touch me more when I’m wearing something soft. And!” he rushes to add when Shouto’s mouth drops open. “That’s what you said you liked about the pajamas, with the paw print. You said they were soft.”
“I didn’t realize... “ I’m always watching you, Shouchan… I really, really like you. He can feel himself start to blush and forces his thoughts away before he can catch fire again.
Izuku must see the discomfort on his face, because he hurries to say, “I like soft things too, though, it’s not a bad thing.” And that he did know. Izuku enjoys creature comforts like soft blankets and hoodies and curling up on the couch near the window when it’s raining. He just didn’t realize that it had rubbed off on him. He doesn’t think he used to seek those things out before. More worrisome is that he’s been unconsciously petting his friend’s soft clothes, apparently with enough frequency for a pattern to become clear. How had he ever managed to keep his ridiculous crush a secret?
And he hasn’t had a chance to really examine the string of events leading up to this strange halfway point between them, but there’s something tickling at his brain.
“Izuku,” he starts slowly. “How long have you known that I have feelings for you?” And it’s self punishment to try to talk about this when he’s sick and starting to feel the very beginnings of his repressed embarrassment for his earlier display of neediness.
“N-not that long! I didn’t know until we had that movie night, and even then it was more of a… hopeful guess?” They’ve already confessed, but it sends sparks through his chest to see Izuku blush and talk about hope in the context of actually wanting Shouto to feel this heart pounding torture. “The uh- wooing was kind of a calculated risk.”
“What gave me away?”
Izuku wrings his hands in his lap and looks around the room. “Ah. You… I felt you kiss my hair.” He feels the blood drain from his face from sheer mortification. “I mean, I think I did? Actually, I should just- I should ask at this point, shouldn’t I?” He looks up through his lashes with nerves so thick it makes his own seem small. “So… did you?”
“I- yes. I did.” It shouldn’t be this hard to admit, clearly things are mutual between them or they wouldn’t be sitting here talking right now. Still, his heart twists painfully right up until Izuku lets out his breath like he was holding it.
“Oh,” he sighs with a hint of a smile. “I’m glad.”
“You didn’t mind?” Izuku shakes his head. “It doesn’t bother you then? That I...touch you, like that?”
“Never,” Izuku breathes, looking down at his soup. Shouto’s heart flips over and his lips tug into a half smile at his earnestness. He doesn’t know how he makes it look so easy to just say things like that. He wants to say something back, tell him- something, any one of the things on the tip of his tongue- but nothing comes.
“You should eat,” Izuku says after the silence stretches too long. Too late, he berates himself.
The soup is thick and warm, and even through his cold he can smell the savory steam of chicken broth and vegetables. He hears Izuku hum around a bite and watches his tongue dart out to lick his lips. The boy seems to catch him staring and his cheeks go a little pink around his smile.
“Kacchan makes good soup, doesn’t he?”
Halfway to his mouth, the spoon in his hand pauses. Slowly, carefully, he sets it back into the bowl with a wary eye.
Izuku snorts and giggles into his hand. “Don’t worry, Kacchan’s a little rough around the edges, but he wouldn’t mess with food. He’s always been a good cook, it’s a point of pride for him.”
Shouto looks at his food skeptically.
“It was nice of him to make it though. He made a huge thing of it, since so many of us have been feeling under the weather lately. I think that Kirishima sneezing on him was the last straw. He said something about people not having enough sense to take care of themselves, bringing down the rest of the class, but I think he’s just worried.”
“You have an… interesting perspective on his personality.”
“We’ve known each other practically our entire lives. He doesn’t like it, but I know a lot about him. Kacchan won’t admit it, but he really cares about people once he’s accepted them. You have to earn his respect, but once you have it, Kacchan is… well, he’s still a handful. But when it comes to caring for people, it’s all or nothing.” Izuku’s face is pinched in concentration, maybe examining some old memory.
“Where do you think you are on that scale?” he asks gently after risking another bite. It is very good, and having something in his stomach is helping the peakid feeling.
Izuku shrugs with a half smile but his eyebrows are furrowed like it hurts. “That, I don’t know. I wish I did.”
Shouto moves his socked foot until it bumps against Izuku’s thigh, and shivers go up his leg when the boy grasps his ankle firmly and squeezes.
When Izuku meets his eyes again, there’s no trace of any heavy emotion, just bright green watching him from under thick lashes, and he nags with exaggerated worry. “You’d better eat all of that.”
He glowers. “If I’d known you were such a mother hen, I wouldn’t have let you in this morning.”
“Shouchan,” Izuku says with mock innocence. “You told me that my feet are nice today. I have reason to be concerned.”
Shouto frowns at him in indignation and turns away.
“See how much sense you make when you’re on fire…” he says under his breath.
He hears a quiet snort of laughter and glares.
After food, Shouto starts drooping a bit, so Izuku drags him back to bed. Shouto doesn’t let him carry him this time, and he’s caught between disappointment at not being able to hold him, and relief because if he’s up and being stubborn again he’s on the road to recovery. Izuku grabs his laptop from his bag and joins Shouto on the bed when he pats the space next to him.
It feels weird to be in a boy’s bed, but it’s a little bit easier that it’s a futon, because he can lay half on the floor and it doesn’t feel quite the same as being in bed with Shouto. They lay next to each other and watch the hero network reruns of All Might interviews and the latest news. Shouto surprises him by participating in his quirk analysis of new heroes, and it’s not surprising how intelligent he is, only that he’s so willing to chat casually. Izuku knows that small talk isn’t usually Shouto’s favorite thing, but this laid back dialogue feels natural and easy, a mild back and forth flavored with small quips.
It’s nice, he thinks. Especially after Shouto adjusts his pillow and brings his head closer to his, until their foreheads are almost touching.
“What time is it?”
Izuku grabs his phone and squints at the brightness. “It’s 9:30 right now. Why?”
“Are you… staying?”
He looks over at him, and in the dim light he can see the hesitation on his face. “I mean… I don’t have to? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed, I just- Recovery Girl gave me permission to look after you until you felt better-”
“It’s okay,” he interrupts gently. “I’d like it if you stayed.”
Izuku’s mouth parts as he blinks at him, and he can’t help the wide grin that splits his face.
Shouto’s blue eye glows in the dim moonlight streaming in through his curtains and he sees his gaze catch on his lips before Shouto’s breath falters and he falls into a coughing fit, turning his face into the pillow.
He tingles from head to toe from just that small look, but shakes himself as he sits up to feel his way over to the stack of water bottles (he might have brought too many after all). He presses a one into Shouto’s hand and helps him sit up to drink. He waits for the boy to catch his breath and raises one hand to his own forehead to mime checking his temperature before pointing to Shouto. He nods and Izuku brushes the red and white hair back to press his palm to his forehead. It feels almost normal, but just in case… He holds Shouto’s eyes with his and gives him a sheepish look.
Careful not to startle him, he leans in. Shouto’s eyes widen as they get closer and closer until he can press his own forehead against the back of his hand. Like this, he can feel the very faint difference in temperature between them. More than that, he can feel the slight displacement of air with every shallow breath between them, and it’s exhilarating to be so close. When their noses brush, Izuku thinks for one heart stopping moment that he could tilt his head just a little, barely an inch, and their lips would meet again. He remembers the soft graze of their lips, the imitation of a real kiss, and wonders what it would feel like to press them together with a fraction of the need building in him. Something in his chest shivers and he can’t help the little laugh that he knows Shouto must feel against his mouth. He pulls away still smiling, and Shouto’s face is priceless, caught between panic and disappointment and it gives him chills because he’s rarely so expressive but right now he can read him like a book.
Izuku lets his hand slide from his forehead down to hold his face, brushes his thumb over to rest just below his bottom lip and gives him as daring a smile as he can with his heart pounding. Blue and brown eyes dip down to trace his mouth and he thinks he can feel the temperature rise.
“Careful,” he whispers into the stillness between them. “Your fever only just broke.”
Shouto’s eyes snap up to meet his and his expression clears into one more composed, and, he quietly delights, just a little bit irritated. It gives him thrills to think that Shouto wants him too, even a little.
His hand feels heavy when he takes it away, but he’s already pushed the boundary so much today, he feels like he needs to bring it back to more neutral territory before they cross into something they’re not ready for yet.
“I was worried about you, you know. I’m really glad your fever is gone.”
Shouto catches on quickly, drawing back just enough to bring his legs up to his chest. “Me too. The dreams were starting to get to me.”
“Dreams?”
Izuku’s jaw drops as he listens to Shouto tell him about being rolled out and baked into bread, and loses it completely when he tells him about being eaten by All Might.
“He- he called you delicious?!” the stitch in his side pulls painfully as he keels over, but Shouto doesn’t seem offended by his laughing so he doesn’t bother to reign it in.
“He did,” he says matter of factly, and there’s humor glinting in his eyes despite the deadpan delivery. Izuku is laying on his back, half on the bed and half on the floor looking up at Shouto when he turns those flashing eyes on him. The blue one always seems to catch even the dimmest of lighting, while the brown one looks almost black. “Do you ever have fever dreams?”
Izuku hums low in his throat. “Yeah. I once dreamed that All Might told me that the only way I could be a hero is if I ate one of his hairs.”
“That’s… pretty unbelievable.”
Izuku tilts his head at Shouto and smiles.
Someday, he really hopes he can tell Shouto the truth. He wants to share everything- his years of being quirkless, his months of training, every little hurdle he had to overcome to get here, to have the right to stand at the starting line next to incredible people like Kirishima, like Iida and Uraraka and Kacchan. Like Todoroki Shouto.
“Yeah. It really is.”