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It’s their last class of the day and All Might has them sparring to warm up for whatever torturous activity he’s got planned. Kirishima pairs himself off with Midoriya because he wants to test his strength and Midoriya always spars like a man with nothing to lose which is both intimidating and manly.
They’ve been at it for a good ten minutes. Midoriya moves like lighting and hits like a freight train. Even with his quirk, Kirishima can feel the tension of each punch vibrate through his bones. He manages to get a few hits in, but Midoriya dodges the majority of them, and always comes back swinging.
Kirishima is completely lost in the exhilaration of the fight when Midoriya suddenly goes still, eyes wide and focused on something just past Kirishima’s shoulder. The rest of the world shifts slowly back into focus and Kirishima turns just in time to see Bakugou, who had been sparring with Tokoyami, sway on his feet and then tip backwards. He hits the ground with a loud thud, and everyone begins moving and talking at once.
“Kacchan!” Midoriya is the first to yell, right as Kirishima is running past a stunned Tokoyami who keeps murmuring that he doesn’t know what happened.
Then, All Might is looming over Bakugou’s other side, across from Kirishima, his fingers pressed gently against Bakugou’s throat, then mouth. By the time he reaches for Bakugou’s forehead, Bakugou’s eyes are fluttering open and his hands are swatting at All Might’s.
“Fuck off,” Bakugou mutters, heatless and dull. “What the fuck.” He doesn’t seem to notice Kirishima, who’s hand has been gripping Bakugou’s shoulder this entire time, and who’s hand is now guiding him slowly upwards.
“Are you alright, Young Bakugou?” All Might asks.
“What the fuck,” Bakugou says again, voice quiet. It’s now that his eyes seem to focus for the first time on the crowd that’s gathered around him, Tokoyami and Midoriya at the front, the former standing stock-still and the latter wringing his hands nervously. Bakugou sucks in a quiet breath and Kirishima watches his face contort. “What the fuck are you looking at!” He spits.
Kirishima squeezes the shoulder that’s still under his palm. “Dude, you passed out.”
“The fuck I did!” Bakugou says.
“My boy,” All Might levels his piercing gaze on Kirishima. “Would you take Young Bakugou to see Recovery Girl?”
Nodding, Kirishima hoists Bakugou to his feet and gets pushed away and cursed at for his effort, which he more or less expected. What he didn’t expect, is Bakugou stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking slowly towards the building entrance.
Kirishima flutters around him like a humming bird, ready to catch him at any moment should he fall. But Bakugou makes it all the way to Recover Girl’s office without faltering – though his usually aggressive, stomping is dramatically reduced and Kirishima can hear him breathing heavily in the quiet of the hallway.
When they arrive, Bakugou just stands in the doorway, silent, and Kirishima has to push past him and inform Recovery Girl what happened himself.
Despite his innate contrary nature, Bakugou follows Recovery Girl’s orders surprisingly well. He’s quiet while she takes his temperature and prods at his throat, but his eyes remained locked on Kirishima.
Kirishima likes to think he’s pretty good at reading Bakugou, but sometimes it’s like Bakugou’s wearing a mask and no matter how hard he tries, Kirishima can’t see past it. This is one of those times. He has no idea what’s going on in Bakugou’s head right now, or why he keeps staring, so Kirishima just stares back and smiles until Recover Girl’s stool rolls between them and breaks their eye contact.
“Well,” says Recovery Girl, smiling placidly. “You have a fever and likely fainted from over-exertion, but I’m not going to heal you.”
Bakugou grips the edge of the bed he’s sitting on. “What?”
“Your body is fighting off this illness well enough on its own, so there’s no reason for me to interfere. If your fever gets worse, or you’re not better by the end of the weekend, come see me again. Until then, drink plenty of water and get as much rest as you can. I’ll let All Might know you’ll have to miss the rest of class today.” Recover Girl gives Bakugou a light pat on the knee. “That’s all, off you go!”
Bakugou hesitates for a moment, then scoffs, hops off the bed, and storms out of the room.
“Make sure he takes care of himself, would you?” Recovery girl looks at Kirishima pointedly.
He nods, then follows Bakugou into the hallway. When the door to Recovery Girl’s office is closed behind him he asks, “You want me to walk back to the dorms with you?”
Predictably, Bakugou snorts. “Fuck that. I’m going back to class.”
“Uh, no you’re not,” Kirishima says. He stands in front of Bakugou and looks at him severely. “And I am definitely walking back to the dorms with you, now.”
Bakugou scowls and this expression, Kirishima knows. It’s the one Bakugou wears every time he’s made up his mind to do something and is ready to blow up anyone who gets in his way. Luckily, Kirishima knows exactly how to handle the situation.
“I will literally pick you up and carry you to the dorms,” he says. “And I’ll walk past the training grounds on purpose just to make sure everybody sees me carrying your cranky ass bridal style. It’s that, or go willingly. Your choice, dude.”
“I fucking hate you,” Bakugou says, but he turns around and starts stomping in the other direction. Apparently, he doesn’t have the energy to keep up the act for long, because by the time they get to the dorms, Bakugou looks like he’s about to tip over at any minute. He doesn’t, though, and Kirishima manages to deposit him into his bedroom with little resistance. He lingers in the hallway for a few minutes, just to make sure Bakugou isn’t going to try and sneak out, then heads back to class.
It’s late Saturday night when Kirishima decides to check on Bakugou. To his credit, he hadn’t come out of his room all day – at least, not that Kirishima had noticed, and if there’s one thing Kirishima always notices, its Bakugou.
So at 8:47 PM on Saturday night, Kirishima stands outside Bakugou’s door and knocks on the hard-wood three times. There’s no answer, but Kirishima waits patiently and is rewarded with the quiet creek of hinges and one pair of narrowed red eyes.
“What do you want?” Bakugou’s voice is hoarse which is strange because with all the yelling he does, Kirishima kind of thought he’d be immune to hoarseness.
“Hey, how you feeling, dude?” Kirishima asks, though he feels like he already has a pretty clear idea if the bags under Bakugou’s eyes and his pale completion are anything to go by.
“Great,” Says Bakugou.
“Has your fever gone down at all?”
“No idea.”
Kirishima sighs. “Well, you want me to get you anything? There’s still some food left from dinner if you’re hungry. Or I could steal some tea from Todoroki’s stash if you want. I think there’s a thermometer in some of the bathroom stuff my mom packed for me too, I can grab it for you.”
For a moment, Bakugou is silent. Then he says, “I don’t need you to fucking nurse me, I know how to take care of myself.”
“Oh yeah?” Kirishima frowns. “So what are you doing to take care of yourself, then? Because you look like shit and you smell worse.”
“Fuck off. All I have to do is take fever reducers and sleep until I’m better, it’s not rocket science.”
Kirishima nearly chokes. “That’s not what you’re supposed to do, Bakugou – oh my god-,”
“Fuck you, Shitty Hair! What the fuck do you know!”
“More than you, apparently,” Kirishima says, smirking. He relishes the expression on Bakugou’s face – not quite a pout but not quite a scowl. “I have like three younger siblings, dude. Who do you think had to take care of them when they got sick and my parents had to work?” Kirishima sticks his thumb out and points it at his chest. “This guy.”
Bakugou says nothing, then sighs, and Kirishima thinks Bakugou may be the only person on earth who can make breathing sound like a curse word. “I don’t have to deal with this,” he says.
“Come ooon, dude!” Kirishima whines. “Let me take care of you!” He makes a fist and flexes his arm. “It’s manly to help out your bros!”
Bakugou’s hand falls from his face, and he says, “There’s nothing manly about this situation. You just want to act out one of your shoujo manga fantasies, you sick, freak.”
Kirishima grins. “Hey, if that’s how you want to look at it, be my guest.” He winks and the look Bakugou gives him almost has Kirishima activating his quirk in self-defense. It’s not exactly consent, but Kirishima knows that expecting Bakugou to verbally accept his offer to help is hoping for too much, so he says, “Okay, first thing’s first: You need a bath, dude.” He puts one hand on the door and pushes it open, revealing the rest of Bakugou – and the state of his room.
He’s a complete mess. There’s tissue everywhere, on the floor, on the bed, on the desk, and Kirishima sees no less than three bottles of Nyquil – which is worrisome because 1. How much of that stuff has Bakugou already taken and 2. When did he get all of it? Bakugou himself is wearing sweats and a loose white shirt that’s damp with sweat. Even Bakugou’s hair looks heavy and deflated.
Kirishima points down the hall. “Bath,” he says. “And make sure the water’s not too hot or you’ll make your fever worse.”
Bakugou flips him off but grabs a towel and his bath tote from his closet and shuffles pathetically down the hall.
“If you’re not out in a half-hour I’m coming in there to make sure you’re not dead!”
Again, Bakugou sticks up his middle finger, and Kirishima thinks he must really be sick if that’s all the fight he’s got left in him.
With a deep breath, Kirishima rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt and heads back to his own room to grab a mask and gloves.
It takes almost the whole thirty minutes for Kirishima to clean Bakugou’s room. He finds two more empty Nyquil bottles under Bakugou’s bed – Kirishima is definitely going to have a talk with Bakugou about reading directed use labels – and fills up an entire grocery bag with dirty tissues. On his way downstairs to grab some food, and possibly some tea, he throws Bakugou’s bed sheets into the wash.
Midoriya, who is in the laundry room sitting on top of a dryer and chatting with Todoroki (who is also sitting on top of the same dryer), eyes Kirishima as he unloads Bakugou’s sheets. Blessedly, because Midoriya is a good boy who minds his own business (mostly), he says nothing. Kirishima returns the favor by not commenting on how damn closely Midoriya’s got himself pressed up against Todoroki.
Just as he’s about to leave, Midroiya decides to pipe up. “Um, Kirishima-kun?”
Kirishima turns to look back at Midoriya.
“Is Kacchan still sick?” he asks, leaning forward on the dryer.
After a breathy laugh, Kirishima says, “Yeah. He’s kind of a nightmare to take care of. I found, like, twelve bottles of Nyquil in his room and it’s only been one day.”
Todoroki snorts at this and Midoriya smiles fondly. It wouldn’t surprise Kirishima to learn that Midoriya knows exactly what kind of hell sick-Bakugou is like. “Thank you for taking care of him, Kirishima-kun. It’s really impressive that he’s willing to accept help from you.” says Midoriya. “I hope he feels better soon! B-but, don’t tell him I said that!”
Kirishima laughs and sends Midoriya a thumbs-up. “I got you, dude.” He moves to turn around but thinks better of it and looks back at the pair of them. “Hey, Todoroki?”
Todoroki’s head inclines towards him, which is probably the Todoroki-version of a verbal response.
“Do you mind if I use some of your tea for Bakugou? The spicy one?”
“Sure,” Todoroki shrugs.
“Thanks, man!” Kirishima waves and then beats a hasty exit toward the kitchen.
By the time he makes it back upstairs to Bakugou’s room with food and tea, it’s been a solid forty-five minutes since Bakugou left for his bath. Because Kirishima is kind, and a great bro, he lets Bakugou soak for another ten minutes while he puts clean sheets on Bakugou’s bed. Then, he decides to go make sure Bakugou hasn’t stroked out and drowned in the bath.
There’s a small hoard of people cluttered around sinks, brushing their teeth and washing their faces. Kirishima notes with barely restrained laughter that Mineta has to use a stool to reach his sink. Kaminari waves at him as he passes by. He’s wearing a bright yellow sleep shirt that says Danger! Electric Fence! which is both stupid and hilarious. Kirishima waves back, grinning, and heads to the back of the bathrooms where the private shower and bath stalls are. Thankfully, there’s only one being used. Kirishima stands in front if it and clears his throat.
“Bakugou? You alive in there?”
The faintest of fuck off’s floats through the closed door.
“I’m coming in dude,” Kirishima says. “It’s been, like, an hour.”
There’s a brief splashing noise and Bakugou says, much louder this time, “Don’t fucking come in, pervert!”
“Too late.” Kirishima thrusts the door open and steps into the small room, sliding it closed again behind him. “Not like I haven’t seen it before.”
Bakugou is glaring at him over his drawn-up knees. He looks pale and his eyes are glazed and bleary, blinking up at Kirishima in confused rage. Bakugou looks like the angry dog in a vine Kaminari showed him the other day and it takes all of Kirishima’s strength not to laugh.
“Did you fall asleep?” Kirishima asks. “Your hair’s still dry! Dude!”
“Fuck off,” Bakugou says listlessly, head falling back to loll against the edge of the tub.
“Holy shit, you’re seriously fucked up, huh?”
“Go die,” Bakugou says, and Kirishima puts his hands on his hips.
“Alright.” He shuffles over to the small stool next to the bath and sits down, grabbing the showerhead off the wall next to him. “I’ve got you covered, man. Sit up a bit.”
With some gentle prodding, Kirishima manages to coax Bakugou back into an upright position. The bathwater is verging on cold, and while Kirishima is glad that Bakugou didn’t steam himself to death, sitting in cold bathwater is probably not doing him any favors either.
He checks the showerhead water to make sure it’s a good temperature, then says, “Head back,” and pushes lightly against Bakugou’s forehead. Kirishima is both surprised by and thankful for the lack of resistance.
Under the pressure of warm water, Bakugou’s hair fully deflates. For a moment, Kirishima has to stop and stare at it because this is the only time – besides when Best Jeanist got a hold of him – that he’s ever seen Bakugou’s hair be anything other than a blown-out mess.
Bakugou must notice his hesitation, because his eyes open a crack and glares at Kirishima.
“What!” Kirishima turns off the showerhead and reaches for Bakugou’s shampoo. “I didn’t say anything!”
With a snort, Bakugou tilts his head back up and leans forward, hair flat and dripping around his ears.
Kirishima sneaks as many glances as he can before he has to stick his soap-covered hands in that very hair.
Up until this point, Kirishima hasn’t really given much thought to the act he is currently carrying out. His bro is sick. His bro needs help. Kirishima helps his bros. It’s a simple and logical equation. But now Kirishima’s fingers are combing through Bakugou’s hair, brushing gently behind his ears, against the back of his neck where Bakugou’s hair is short and fine, then up again, scraping the crown of his head – and Bakugou is leaning against the side of the tub, silent as the grave, eyes closed, head tilted. Kirishima feels something like panic well up inside him, though he can’t bring himself to be upset about it.
“Head back,” Kirishima says.
Bakugou’s reaction is delayed, but he shifts away from the edge of the tub and tilts his head obediently.
When he grabs the showerhead this time, Kirishima’s hands are shaking, just slightly. He cups Bakugou’s forehead to keep the soap from getting in his eyes. It’s warm, the skin fever-hot, and Kirishima thinks he should take Bakugou’s temperature when they get back to his room.
After he’s finished rinsing the soap from Bakugou’s hair he says, “Done,” and stands up. “You need help drying off, or are you good?”
“Fuck you, shit for brains,” is Bakugou’s response.
“I’m going to take that as a ‘no’, but I’ll wait outside in case you slip and die.” And Kirishima does just that. Thankfully, Bakugou emerges a few minutes later with still damp hair and a towel around his waist. He looks unsteady, but they make it out of the bathroom and back to Bakugou’s room without incident.
When they get there, Bakugou spends a few seconds squinting around at his room as though he doesn’t recognize that it’s his anymore after Kirishima cleansed it. Kirishima leaves to re-heat the food he’d brought and make Todoroki’s tea, mostly under the pretense of giving Bakugou time and privacy to change.
When he returns, Bakugou is standing in front of his bed, staring at the flame-patterned blanket and sheets with a pinched brow. “These aren’t mine,” he says, as Kirishima sets his tea and a bowl of soup down on the desk.
“Oh, yeah,” Kirishima scratches the back of his neck. “Your sheets were disgusting, so I threw them in the wash. I didn’t know if you had any extras and since we all have the same size bed, I just used some of mine. Plus, they match your quirk!”
Bakugou’s face twitches. “Whatever.” He sits down on the bed with a huff, then scans the room again and sneers. “Where’s my fucking Nyquil?”
“Hidden,” Kirishima says.
“What the fuck?”
“You can’t just dope yourself up on Nyquil and hope you don’t die, dude.” Kirishima reaches for the thermometer he’d fetched from his room and uncaps its case. “I’ll give you some after you eat and drink something. Now, open up!”
“Fuck no.” Bakugou recoils sharply, then groans and puts a hand to his head, wincing.
“Come on, Blasty. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” Kirishima sits next to Bakugou on the bed and waves the thermometer slowly back and forth in front of him.
“I hate you,” Bakugou says. “I hate you more than fucking, shitty Deku.”
Kirishima pouts. “I know that’s just the fever talking, you can’t fool me Bakugou.”
Bakugou snatches the thermometer from Kirishima’s hand and sticks into his mouth with far more force than necessary. He then glowers at Kirishima – or tries to.
Kirishima rests his chin in his hand and stares back. “Adorable,” he says, and swears he sees steam coming out of Bakugou’s nose when he expels a single, rageful breath. That feeling from earlier in the bath is creeping its way around Kirishima’s chest again. Bakugou’s hair is starting to dry and Kirishima likens it to a slow rising dough. He’s afraid if he makes too loud a noise it might deflate. He also wants to get his hands back in it, but that’s not going to happen any time soon.
The second the thermometer beeps Bakugou rips it out of his mouth and stares at it, frowning. Kirishima has to peel it out of his hands to get a look.
He hums. It’s the same as it was yesterday, but Bakugou hasn’t exactly been doing a stellar job of treating himself. Kirishima puts the thermometer away and hands Bakugou the leftover soup from dinner. “Here.”
Bakugou takes it and eyes Kirishima as he crawls back onto the bed and props himself up against the wall. “You’re really just going to sit there and watch me eat, huh?”
Kirishima pulls his phone from the pocket of his sweats. “Are you kidding me?” He meets Bakugou’s gaze. “When I found you, you were swimming in snot and tissues, you smelled like a dead body, and you had chugged God-only-knows how many bottles of Nyquil. That was after one day.” Kirishima holds up a finger to emphasize his point. “No way do I trust you to do shit-all that I tell you to, now. I’m staying.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Don’t test me,” Kirishima warns. “I’ll tuck you into bed if I have to – kiss on the forehead and everything.”
Bakugou scrunches his face and makes a noise of disgust, but he at least starts eating the soup.
It takes him a while to finish, Bakugou doesn’t seem to have much of an appetite, but Kirishima has a dragon’s hoard of puzzle game apps on his phone, so he’s got plenty of time and eventually Bakugou does finish the soup.
The tea goes a lot faster. Bakugou gulps it down like a man dying of thirst, gripping the mug with both hands. Kirishima sees the fog in Bakugou’s eyes lift for just a split second before Bakugou finishes the last of it and then exclaims, “Fuck that Icy-Hot piece of shit!”
“He’s got great tea,” Kirishima agrees.
“Where the fuck…” Bakugou examines the tea bag as though it might divulge the secrets of the universe to him, but there’s nothing on it besides a small red logo stamped onto the paper at the end of the string.
“I’ll see if I can find out where he gets it.” Kirishima scoots off the bed and goes to Bakugou’s desk, where he has hidden the Nyquil.
Bakugou groans upon seeing the bottle. “Finally.”
“You are a literal addict,” Kirishima says, uncapping the Nyquil and pouring a very measured amount into the cup. “This is coming with me when I leave tonight.”
Bakugou scowls as he takes it and tips the cup back like he’s doing a fucking shot. Kirishima tries not to notice the way his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows – or the way he licks the inside of the cup like he’s desperate for every last drop, holy shit. Kirishima nearly has to shield his eyes.
“Are you done?” he says, and Bakugou’s arm springs forward, measuring cup in hand. “Jesus.” Kirishima takes it from him.
“What?” Bakugou says and Kirishima just looks at him.
“Absolutely nothing, dude. Go to sleep.” He makes sure there’s a tissue box and Bakugou’s water bottle within easy reach of his bed, then gathers up the soup bowl and mug. On his way out the door, Kirishima pauses to say, “I’ll be back tomorrow morning to check up on you.”
Bakugou’s resounding, “Whatever,” follows him out into the hall.
This time, Kirishima does not knock before entering Bakugou’s room. Mostly because after last night, he’s not sure Bakugou would actually let him in again. He’s expecting to find an irritated lump under a pile of blankets in a dark room. What he gets instead is bright sun filtering in through opened curtains and Bakugou, back to his door, hunched over his desk scribbling into a notebook.
He whips around in his chair when the door opens and – oh God – he’s got a headband on, pushing that frizzy blond hair up away from his eyes and exposing his whole entire forehead. Kirishima can’t even begin to process what he’s seeing, and Bakugou doesn’t give him much time to.
He’s on his feet and yelling in an instant. “You ever heard of knocking, asshole?” Bakugou says, marching across the room.
Kirishima holds up his thermometer as though it were a peace offering that might save him. “I told you I was gonna check up on you! I thought you’d still be a sleep!”
“Well you’re wasting your time. I’m fine. Your shitty ass cured me.”
Kirishima uncaps the thermometer.
“Don’t.”
“I gotta,” Kirishima says.
“Fucking don’t, Kirishima I swear to God. I said I’m fine.”
He pulls the thermometer out of its box. “Dude, I gotta.”
“I’ll fucking kill you, put it back.”
Kirishima makes a calculated move and jabs the thermometer towards Bakugou’s mouth. He misses and Bakugou rears back, cursing and holding his nose.
“Oh my God,” Kirishima says and bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.
Bakugou’s face is flushed red, and he yells, “You shoujo-loving piece of shit, it went all the way up my fucking nose!”
At this, Kirishima finally sputters and breaks out into hysterics to which Bakugou reacts badly.
“I’m going to fucking blow all the shitty hair off your ugly head!” He grabs Kirishima in a choke hold and pulls him down. Kirishima’s laughter raises an octave and he drops the thermometer. “You’ll be a bald mother-fucker by the time I’m done with you, do you hear me? ” Kirishima escapes briefly from Bakugou’s hold to reach for the thermometer and Bakugou tackles him to the ground next to his bed. “Don’t even think about it, you asshole, there’s no way that thing’s going in my mouth ever again!”
Kirishima thinks, laughing dazedly as he is pinned beneath Bakugou’s annoyingly strong thighs, with Bakugou’s hands buried threateningly in his hair, that maybe he should try to take care of Bakugou more often.