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There’s a plastic box under the bed in Izuku’s dorm room, stuffed to the brim with cartons of band-aids, antiseptic sprays, ace bandages, and other medical supplies. A piece of duct tape on each side ensures that the lid stays securely on, preventing its contents from spilling out and onto the floor.
It’s useful, half because Izuku has a tendency to get himself hurt—his body is rarely found without a band-aid or two, and sometimes three—and half because his classmates have a tendency to get hurt, too. That’s less a fault of their own, and more that they’re prone to injury because of their training classes, but Izuku digresses.
His makeshift first aid kit is of little help to himself, though, because while he tries to tend to Todoroki’s injuries, his own go ignored.
His own are more pressing, probably, though none of them warrant paying a visit to Recovery Girl. His fingers had seared with pain as he worked during their training class period, and the large scrape across his forehead still has small pieces of gravel stuck to it. There are other wounds, too, but Izuku is only half-aware of them. He’s preoccupied, currently.
Todoroki is perched on the edge of a chair they’d rolled into the bathroom, and his bottom lip is pushed in a slight pout, split on the left side. When Izuku dabs a cotton pad over the cut, Todoroki instinctively jerks away from the sting of the alcohol. Izuku, from his sitting position on top of the counter, leans and lets his back rest against the wall.
“You have to stay still, Todoroki-kun,” Izuku insists. He sets the palm of his left hand against the counter, lets out a slight hiss of pain when his fingers brush against the hard porcelain, and draws it back to rest on his thigh.
“I’m trying to,” Todoroki answers, sighing.
From experience, Izuku knows how the alcohol stings, and he’s sure the taste of it against Todoroki’s lips doesn’t help whatsoever. His mouth curves into a sympathetic frown before he dabs the cut again, more gently this time. Todoroki blinks, but he remains still. Well, he bounces his leg up and down, but that doesn’t get in Izuku’s way, so he doesn’t mention it.
“Midoriya...” Todoroki warns when the cotton pad is tossed to the side. “Midoriya, you’re still bleeding.”
Izuku blinks back, then, shaking his head. “It’s not serious,” he denies. “You’re still—Uh.” The adrenaline surge from training has long since worn off, so he carries a dull, residual ache. Tending to Todoroki’s injuries with nimble fingers is becoming more challenging, because his hurt , they throb, demanding attention. Izuku clears his throat.
Gingerly, Todoroki brushes his ring finger just below Izuku’s hairline. A small fragment of pebble falls, clattering against the tile, and he frowns. Izuku mirrors his expression, face falling.
Todoroki doesn’t wait for a response, but stands from the chair, waiting expectantly. Under his gaze, Izuku’s shoulders hunch in on themselves and he stops his feet from swinging against the counter, switching positions so that he sits with his back against the cool metal of the chair.
His shoulder blades press into the back as he leans; his hero costume had since been shed, and he remains in just a pair of sweatpants and a binder. He feels slightly out of place, slightly too exposed, but it’s not because of Todoroki. (In fact, Todoroki is quite possibly the only person that he’d allow to see him in this attire. Not that he’s insecure, it’s just...personal.)
When Todoroki soaks a fresh cotton pad in alcohol, Izuku’s shoulders stiffen and he draws back slightly, sinking into himself.
“You’ll just want to get this over with,” Todoroki says. Izuku doesn’t think his words are meant to be comforting, but that doesn’t stop him from finding comfort in them. He glances at Todoroki, tilts his head upwards, and closes his eyes, bracing for the sting.
It’s a bit ridiculous, because Izuku has dealt with—and will continue to deal with—far worse pain, but he still grimaces as Todoroki removes the remnants of rock, cleaning out the scrapes that join the dusting of freckles and acne scars already on his face.
Todoroki hums lowly, and then asks, after rifling through Izuku’s plastic bin, “Purple or blue?”
Carefully opening one eye, after he’s sure the alcohol won’t drip down, Izuku spots the band-aid box on Todoroki’s lap, grins, and asks, “What if I wanted tan?”
Todoroki shrugs. “Do you?”
“Not really.”
“So, purple or blue?” Todoroki repeats. There’s almost double the amount of blue to purple, because Izuku always reaches for purple. (Izuku’s hierarchy of band-aid colors goes: purple, blue, green, tan. It always has, and probably always will remain in this exact order.)
“Purple,” he says, not pausing to think.
Delicately, Todoroki smooths one band-aid and then another over the afflicted area, leaning back to admire his handiwork, and tosses the resultant trash aside.
“Well, I can help you now…” Izuku says behind a nervous laugh. His hands (his fingers, more specifically) still throb, but Todoroki has a thin cut midway up the left side of his neck, and blood has dripped down and onto the shirt he’d changed into, an old shirt belonging to Izuku, with All Might’s faded image emblazoned on the front. It’s mostly dried along the length of the cut, flaking slightly, but Izuku’s own injuries can stand to take a back seat.
“I’m not bleeding,” Todoroki says, not harsh but with an air of finality, and holds out his right hand expectantly. When Izuku keeps his own hands planted firmly in his lap, Todoroki brushes a finger against the cut on his neck, holding it up.
“See? No blood,” he says. “Now give me your hand.”
Izuku almost doesn’t oblige, not because he doesn’t trust Todoroki, but because his palms begin to clam up at the thought of resting his hand on Todoroki’s palm, which waits open in front of him, not impatient in the slightest.
“I. Uh—” he chuckles, fixating his gaze on a spot of… nail polish, maybe, that’s on the floor between them. He sets his fingertips in the palm of Todoroki’s right hand, and grimaces slightly. If Todoroki observes that his palms are sweaty, he doesn’t say anything, and Izuku definitely owes him one. (Or two, or three.)
“It’s like you’re icing it,” Todoroki says, shrugging. “Better, though; my hands don’t melt.”
“A lot better,” Izuku agrees. He doesn’t say so, but it’s certainly more pleasant. Ice doesn’t gaze down at him with what seems to be all the concern in the world. Ice doesn’t make his heart hammer in his chest. Ice doesn’t hum quietly under its breath, doesn’t give Izuku reassuring squeezes. Todoroki does all of this, and Izuku begins to think that maybe this injury wasn’t so bad, after all.
After all is said and done, when Izuku’s hands no longer hurt, Todoroki lets him clean up the long cut on his neck. Izuku carefully sticks his last remaining purple band-aid over top, for good measure.
“We match,” Todoroki observes. “But you didn’t need to use your last purple one on me.”
“I can always buy more,” Izuku says, brushing him off. And, when they emerge from the bathroom with their matching purple bandages, pink flush high and hot on Izuku’s cheeks, he doesn’t mind at all.