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“Up you sit,” Hizashi murmurs in Shouta’s ear. He can feel the heat rolling off of him, uncomfortable where their temples are pressed together, and it makes him cringe. He needs to find their thermometer. It’s been a while since either them ran a fever like this.
Spread along the sofa, Shouta makes a noise that, while it contains no words in any language Hizashi knows, does sound suspiciously like it means ‘no’. For a moment he looks so miserable that Hizashi considers letting him be, but he gathers himself against the impulse. One of them has to remain strong here.
“No, no, come on.” This time Hizashi hooks his fingers behind Shouta’s shoulders and tugs- which, heavy- until the other man is irritated enough that he deigns to crack his red-rimmed eyes open and lever himself properly upright under his own power. Hizashi frowns. The bags under Shouta’s eyes are dark as bruises, and his skin has taken on a clammy sheen that doesn’t seem to bode well.
“It’s just a cold,” Shouta says, dismissing the concern he can see growing over Hizashi’s face. “Stop looking at me like that. A nap and I’ll be fine.” His voice sounds like it’s coming out of the wrong end of a gummed-up airhorn.
Hizashi hums noncommittally, well-versed in recognizing bullshit when he hears it. He’s a radio host and high school teacher. If Shouta thinks that’s going to be enough to convince him, he’s even more sick than Hizashi thought. “If it’s a cold, it’s a nasty one,” he murmurs, passing one hand over his husband’s forehead, sweeping his hair back and feeling his temperature again for a moment. “You look like shit. I’m going to get you a fever reducer. If it’s still like this tomorrow, there’s no way you’re teaching. Have you eaten anything?”
The silence that follows as Hizashi walks away to dig through their medicine cabinet is answer enough. He returns with a glass of water and a bottle of bufferin, watches while Shouta dutifully swallows two pills. It’s not that Shouta isn’t capable of taking care of himself- he is. He’s a grown man and a pro hero. He got along just fine before he and Hizashi were ever together, and if left to his own devices would undoubtedly survive whatever virus he’s come down with now, but.
Self care isn’t Shouta’s strong suit. Even on good days, the chances of him having slept a full seven hours and made himself a meal that wasn’t comprised in some way of fruit and jelly pouches are slim. It’s one of the many areas of his life where he’d prefer that his students do as he says rather than as he does. Shouta is a workaholic and a soft-hearted fool, and his tendency to carry as much as possible on his shoulders means that, sometimes, things like taking care of his own more basic needs falls to the wayside. And that’s on good days.
On bad days, when he’s sick or injured or stressed, Shouta’s tendency to neglect himself turns into the stuff Hizashi’s nightmares are made of.
And so while Shouta could take care of himself, Hizashi didn’t really want him to. And, he figures, this is what husband privileges are for.
Carefully, he threads his fingers through Shouta’s tangled mass of black waves and scratches at the tender skin of his scalp. The effect is immediate. Shouta sighs and drops his head against Hizashi’s stomach, eyes closing.
“Okayu for dinner?”
“Mm. You’re making a big deal out of nothing, you know.”
“Maybe,” Hizashi hedges, not willing to give up ground just yet. “But if you get dinner and a nap out of it, then it sounds like a win-win to me!”
“You worrying while I relax- how is that win-win?” Shouta frowns at him, pulling back so that he can look up at Hizashi’s face.
“You make it sound so bad. ” Hizashi runs his hand down the back of Shouta’s neck and squeezes lightly, kneading at the tense muscle he finds there. “Not everything is that dire. It wouldn’t kill you to let someone else take care of you every now and then.”
Shouta hums noncommittally and Hizashi smiles. “Besides, can you imagine Bakugo with a head cold?” He asks, tugging gently on Shouta’s hair. “Your classroom will never recover. Your class will never recover. Poor Midoriya won’t last the month.”
“I don’t want to think about it,” Shouta groans, hiding his face in Hizashi’s shirt again. “If I’m running a fever, I’ll stay home,” he agrees eventually. “But if it’s gone, I teach.”
“That’s the spirit!” He unwinds Shouta’s capture weapon and drapes it over the back of the sofa.”Onwards toward recovery in the spirit of Plus Ultra! Or in the spirit of not having to herd around two dozen little hero hatchlings while they snot all over everything. ” Shouta makes another unhappy sound and pulls away. Hizashi takes advantage of the sudden distance between them and steps back, patting his lover on the shoulder. “Alright, then. I’m going to go start dinner. You are…?”
“Going to shower,” Shouta says with a grimace, sitting forward gingerly. His whole body seems to ache and protest the movement. “I feel like I’m soaked in sweat.” There is still some clamminess to the pallor of his skin, Hizashi notes, watching him.
“Take your time,” Hizashi murmurs, pressing a kiss to Shouta’s too-warm temple. “I’ll be here when you get out.
They part ways then, Hizashi to the kitchen and Shouta down the hall to the bathroom. Dinner is quick work. There’s nothing simpler than cooking okayu, and even dressing it the way Shouta likes with a little bonito and kombu doesn’t add to the cooking time. In no time at all he has it simmering happily on the stove, clouds of gently-scented steam wafting from the heavy-bottomed pot. Hizashi stirs it absentmindedly, keeping the rice from sticking, humming little snatches of songs under his breath while he works.
Soft footsteps pad back down the hall some fifteen minutes later and Hizashi is greeted by the sight of a freshly-washed Shouta. He looks better for the shower, more comfortable, if no less pale than before. “Go sit on the sofa,” he directs gently. “I’ll bring it in to you once it’s done.”
Shouta hesitates. He takes issue with that suggestion, evidently, as seconds later the kitchen fills with the gentle scraping sounds of a chair being scooted out at the table. Hizashi is more than capable of choosing his battles, so he lets it go, turning back to the pot on the stove while Shouta stares blearily at his back from halfway across the kitchen.
“You look a little better,” he says a handful of minutes later as he ladles careful spoonfuls of the porridge into bowls. “The shower must have helped.”
Shouta wraps his hands around his bowl gingerly and pulls it closer, shoulders dropping slightly, tension in his jaw seeming to ease as Hizashi watches. “And the pills,” Shouta comments quietly, inhaling the steam coming off of his bowl.
They sit in silence together for a few moments, Shouta seeming to let the okayu warm him through the ceramic and Hizashi watching Shouta.
Beneath the table, Shouta knocks his ankle into Hizashi’s, tangling their feet together. Hizashi smiles at him, and makes a small, questioning sound in the back of his throat.
“Thank you.”