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You were a mess–a sniffling, wheezing mess. Not that Kirishima didn’t think you were drop-dead gorgeous, snot and all. But really, you looked sick. Very sick. As it stood, you could barely keep your head upright; You’d nearly fallen asleep twice during Present Mic’s English lecture, and the only reason you’d avoided a scolding was because your lovely boyfriend had made sure to sit up very straight, his broad shoulders shielding you from your teacher’s line of sight.
Afterward, during lunch, he’d made a point of suggesting you swallow your pride and visit the clinic, seeing as you were obviously struggling with, well, everything. But you’d refused to cave–giving up just wasn’t your thing.
“Heroes don’t get sick days, Eiji.” You’d grumbled through another fit of coughs. “If they did, then society as we know it would crumble.”
And you were right, even if he wished that you weren’t. So he’d settled for mumbling a reluctant “don’t push yourself too hard” and dropping the issue.
Afternoon training is when everything went sour. Kirishima had been paired up with Aoyama–Aizawa had said something about testing the limits of his hardening against the blonde’s (surprisingly destructive) naval laser. Meanwhile, Ojiro was assigned to be your sparring partner. It’d been obvious that you still weren’t feeling your best, but at least you hadn’t had the misfortune of being partnered with Bakugo. Your quick-tempered classmate wouldn’t have had any qualms with beating the living crap out of you, even in your weakened state. No, Ojiro was better. He was capable of showing restraint, especially when he knew that he had a very intenseKirishima glaring into the back of his skull.
Everything seemed fine at first. Recognizing that you’d never be able to take your classmate hand-to-hand, you’d opted to exercise caution–wear him down from a distance. And for a while, your tremors had done just that; They’d kept Ojiro hopping across the battlefield, never able to find a stable patch of ground, never able to catch his breath. But then, he’d been able to steady himself, just for a second, but it’d been enough time for him to ricochet forward. In order to avoid being trapped by his tail, you’d leaped, rolling along the pavement in a clumsy maneuver. It wasn’t a catastrophic move–you could still recover, Kirishima had reasoned.
Only you never got up. You’d just laid there on the pavement, not coughing, not panting. Eerily still.
And Kirishima bolted, shoving his way past his classmates, ignoring the debris and the confused chatter as he made his way over to you. The sight of your chest, rising and falling steadily, had been enough to draw a relieved exhale from him. Still, he’d refused to leave your side, even when Recovery Girl arrived and confirmed that yes, you were, in fact, just unconscious. Only the threat of Aizawa’s capture weapon had been enough to make him step back long enough for two robots to load you onto a stretcher. Seeing them haul your crumpled body off had nearly killed him.
He should’ve stopped you earlier. Dammit, why hadn’t he made you go back to the dorms before this happened?
“Because I’m fine. Really, Eijiro, I am.” You answer your boyfriend’s question later when he visits you in the clinic, once training is over and once all of his complaining has earned him a hall pass from one thoroughly irritated Aizawa.
“Listen, I understand wanting to be strong,” Kirishima offers, fighting to keep his voice level. “But you passed out, babe! Do you have any idea how scared I was?”
You chew on your lip, sniffling a bit. Before you even finish sitting up in the bed, Kirishima is handing you a tissue, sporting this pathetic frown you wish you hadn’t seen.
“If that’d been a real fight, I don’t even wanna–” He stops midway through the sentence, shaking his head. “No, I can’t even think about what would’ve happened.”
“I’m sorry.” You mumble, defeated. “You’re right, you’re totally right. I should’ve stopped earlier–I mean I’ve been dizzy all day, I should’ve known better.” You breathe heavily, dropping your tissue into the waste bin beside you.
“It’s just,” you continue, “I don’t know, I didn’t want to give everyone a reason to think I’m weak–didn’t want them to think that I couldn’t handle a little cold.”
“Nobody thinks you’re weak.”
“Well, now they do.” You laugh. It’s a humorless sound. “I ate it out there, and now everyone in the class is gonna think I’m some wimp that faints when she gets worked up.”
“No. Hell no.” Kirishima assures, rolling his chair in closer. “Everyone knows you felt like absolute crap today. They saw you hold your own against Ojiro, even looking as terrible as you did.”
You scoff, pretending to be offended by his little “terrible” comment.
He snorts, smiling wide. “No offense. You’re always beautiful to me, babe.” Kirishima’s expression softens. “But seriously, after watching you fight through it, they probably think you’re even more of a badass.”
You sigh, shaking your head. “You’re wrong”
Two words from you are enough to make every muscle in his body go rigid.
“I wasn’t just holding my own in my match. I was about to win.”
Kirishima relaxes, his grin returning.
“Well, I guess we’ll never know for sure.” He pats your shoulder with his free hand and tries to ease you back down into the bed.
“No,” you insist, resisting the push of his hand. “If Ojiro had taken one more step to his left, the pavement would’ve crumbled beneath his feet.” Seeing Kirishima’s confused expression, you gesture towards the floor, grinning like a madwoman and looking much more animated than you had all day.
“Sewer! I obliterated the cement all the way down to the sewer beneath the training grounds!” Your enthusiasm catches up with you and you’re momentarily overwhelmed by another bout of hacking. “If I’d been conscious, then monkey-man would’ve been going for a swim and I would’ve won.”
Kirishima stares at you, completely at a loss for words. The silence doesn’t last though. Less than a second later, he’s doubled over in laughter, using his wrist to brush tears away from his face. He still looks thoroughly amused when he straightens out, delighted eyes meeting your own.
Reaching out, he ruffles your hair. He would’ve kissed you if he’d been sure it wouldn’t have posed a risk of spreading whatever you had to the rest of U.A.
“That’s my girl.”