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Shoto jolted awake, eyes flying open in shock as his mind was rudely thrust into the waking world. He levered himself upright on his left elbow, panting into the darkness. Tiny puffs clouded the still room with each ragged exhale, his uneven breath shivering in the frosty air.
His hand moved to rest against his chest, feeling his heart thundering painfully against his ribcage. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the familiar sensation. Thud, thud, thud. It raced on, refusing to cease its frantic sprint even as he gulped a few more shuddering breaths.
It’s okay. You’re okay. It was just a dream.
Shoto opened his eyes, letting his gaze trail across the icy bed sheets. The blue duvet was coated in a thin layer of frost, tiny crystals spreading over its surface and spilling down onto the floor. He shivered, suddenly chilled. His body felt damp and achy and an unpleasant wetness crawled over his limbs. It wasn’t unusual for him to sweat heavily during nightmares, but this seemed different somehow. Less familiar. As if…
No. No.
Shoto jolted upright in bed, throwing the covers off his shivering frame and staring down at himself in horror.
His heart thundered to life again, spurred by the horror coursing through his body. No. No, no, no! This could not be happening.
Teeth sank into his bottom lip, tearing at the skin as he tried to fight down the panic swarming through his chest. He felt his throat closing, squeezing tighter and tighter with each breath he tried to drag in.
He looked down again, lips wobbling as he tried to assess the damage. His pants and the surrounding sheets were drenched in cold liquid, far too much to simply write off as sweat. No. This was much, much worse than that.
A sob rose in his throat, wrenching past the swollen blockage holding it shut and escaping through his lips in a strangled gasp. Shivers ran over his body, violent and visceral with panic and disbelief.
How had this happened. How could he have let this happen?
He brought a hand up to his mouth, pressing the back of his knuckles firmly against his lips in a desperate attempt to stifle the sobs that continued to wrench their way up his throat.
Breathe. Just breathe. You have to breathe.
No. No, no, no. You failed. You messed up. You are a total pathetic wretch and now everyone is going to know how much of a baby you are.
Wild threats merged with desperate reassurances, fighting a vicious battle in the chaos of his half-asleep mind.
He shook his head, desperately trying to calm the barraged of thoughts.
It’s okay. You can deal with this. You can hide the evidence and then no one will know. No one has to know. You can keep it secret.
Still trying desperately to swallow down sobs, Shoto climbed shakily from his futon and began to tear the sheets from his bed. They were drenched in liquid, both from the melting ice and… oh gods he had wet the bed.
He bundled the sheets into a tight ball and yanked open the door to his room, sticking his head out into the hallway to make sure no one else was awake. The numbers on the hall clock blared 3:47 in large red letters, so he guessed most of his classmates would be asleep, but there was no way he was taking any chances with such a sensitive matter.
Gulping down fear, he stepped past the doorstep and crept down the hallway to the stairs. His feet padded silently against the wooden floor, leaving tiny imprints of what he hoped was mostly water as the ice slowly melted.
He made it down the stairs without incident, heart thundering in his chest so loud it seemed to throb in his eardrums.
It’s okay. You’re okay. No one else is awake.
He repeated the words over and over in his mind, clinging to them as some desperate form of reassurance as he fought the panic trying to claw its way up his throat.
The common area was dark and shadowed, lit only by the dim glow of the full moon casting its eerie rays through the large glass windows. He passed the kitchen and pushed open the door to the laundry room, flicking on the light with the back of his hand as he moved through the doorway.
Harsh, white light blared through the room, searing his eyes and sending a fresh rush of panic through him. He shook himself, sucking in a few slow breaths to try and calm his quivering nerves. He shouldn’t be scared of the light. After all, he had been the one to turn it on. There was no one else in the room. He was alone.
After a moment of just breathing, he moved over to the washing machine and leaned over to try and tug open the door. His hands shook as he gripped the metal handle, wet fingers slipping numbly as he tried and failed to pull it open. He grunted angrily, shifting the bundle of blankets in his arms and trying again. He finally managed to get the door open and was just about to shove his bedding into the machine, when a voice spoke from somewhere directly behind him.
“What the hell, Icyhot?”
Shoto flinched, whirling around to face the intruder. Fire rose along his left arm, casting eerie shadows against the walls as it flickered to life. Ice sprung from his right foot, crawling across the ground in sparkling white crystals.
Bakugo stood in the doorway, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his black sweatpants. He scowled, eyes narrowed as he ran his gaze up and down Shoto’s trembling frame. “Why the hell are you washing your sheets at 4am?”
Shoto flinched again. He tugged the sheets closer to his body, fingers clenched against the cold, wet fabric. “I…” He broke off, swallowing thickly as a horrible burning rose behind his eyes. He blinked hard, gulping against the rising lump of emotion crawling up his throat. He wouldn’t cry in front of Bakugo. He wouldn’t.
Bakugo’s eyes narrowed further, glowing like molten lava in the light from Shoto’s fire. He ran his gaze over Shoto’s frame again, lingering at the bunched-up sheets and his sodden pants. A spark of realisation flickered across his eyes and for a moment his angry scowl dimmed slightly. “You wet the bed.”
It wasn’t phrased as a question, but Shoto somehow felt Bakugo was expecting an answer. He opened his mouth then snapped it closed again, jaw tightening. His teeth clacked against each other with the force of the movement, but he refused to wince at the light pain radiating through his gums and down into his jaw. He swallowed, breath quickening until it was coming in sharp, shuddering gulps. “No.” He shook his head forcefully, sweaty strands of hair falling over his eyes to shield them from Bakugo’s gaze.
The world tilted slightly before his eyes, dimming and wavering like he was watching it all through a kaleidoscope. He felt himself sway, trembling legs buckling beneath him.
“Whoa, hey.”
Suddenly hands were on him, gripping his shoulders firmly and guiding him to the floor.
His back pressed against something solid, probably the wall or the edge of one of the washing machines, Shoto didn’t much care anymore. He leaned over, panting as he tried to catch his breath. Each gasp seemed to snag in his throat, strangling him until it felt as if he were choking on air.
“Breathe, idiot. You’re fucking hyperventilating.”
Shoto knew that. Of course he knew that. And Bakugo pointing it out wasn’t going to help him.
“I know,” he ground out through ragged gasps.
Bakugo rolled his eyes, but didn’t move away. “Damn you’re pathetic. I have to do fucking everything for you.” The words were sharp, but his voice held a far gentler tone, something Shoto had only started recognising in the boy recently.
“Trying,” he mumbled.
“Breathe with me, Halfie. Come on. In for four.” Bakugo spoke each count out loud, exaggerating his own breaths so that Shoto could follow.
Shoto did his best to match Bakugo’s breathing. It was nice to have something to focus on. Bakugo’s voice was deep and calm, grounding in a way that soothed him to the very core of his being.
Only as his breaths began to even out did he realise he was crying. He brought a hand up to his face, shakily wiping away some of the wetness even as fresh tears welled in his eyes and spilled eagerly down his cheeks. “I’m not crying,” he snapped, though the bite faded from the words somewhere on the way from his brain to his lips.
“The hell?” Bakugo grumbled. “Why the fuck do you have tears streaming down your face then. Fucking princess.”
“I’m not.” Shoto gulped, taking another slow, shuddery breath. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”
“Yeah, no shit. Didn’t think you were.”
Shoto sniffed loudly, wiping the back of his sleeve against his running nose before it could drip down his chin. He would have to wash these clothes anyway. No point in worrying about getting them dirty.
“So. You wanna talk about why you’re washing your sheets in secret in the middle of the fucking night?”
“No.”
Bakugo huffed out a sigh. “Well too fucking bad. You just had a full trauma reaction when I stepped into the room, so now you’re gonna tell me what the hell was up with that. I’m not gonna let you go back to bed without talking. So spill, Halfie.”
Shoto chewed at the inside of his lip, gnawing away at the already ragged flesh as he grasped for an explanation. His hands trembled where they lay limply in his lap, useless now that the blankets were gone. They now lay in a heap next to the washing machine, now almost completely free of ice crystals. Bakugo must have taken them when he started panicking. “I had a nightmare,” he said finally.
Bakugo tilted his head, raising a single blond brow. “And?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Fine. You had a nightmare and wet the bed. Big deal.”
Shoto froze, hand creeping up to grasp at the fabric of his sweaty shirt. His mind seemed to stall, buffering as he tried to make sense of Bakugo’s words. Big deal. He had expected Bakugo to make fun of him. Call him out for being the pathetic baby that he was. But instead…
“What?”
“What the hell do you mean, what?”
“I just…” Shoto looked away, swallowing. “Never mind.”
“Tch. Let’s get your fucking sheets washed.” He grabbed the pile of soiled bedding from the floor and shoved it in the washing machine, then poured laundry detergent into the machine and pressed the on button.
Shoto stared at the ground through the whole procedure, unwilling to meet Bakugo’s gaze.
When the blond finally turned back around to face him, Shoto kept his gaze down, shuffling his feet anxiously. “Sorry,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What the fuck are you sorry for?”
“You had to wash my sheets. And… you weren’t supposed to see me… like this.” He cringed, fighting a losing battle against the fresh wave of tears that rose in his eyes. “I’m. I’m a mess.”
“Yeah well, fuck that. You had a fucking nightmare. That shit sucks.” He tapped his hand firmly against the edge of the washing machine before moving over to the laundry room sink to wash his hands.
Shoto didn’t reply. He was suddenly feeling very unwell. Maybe it was the bone shaking panic, but all of a sudden, his chest crawled with a horrible seething nausea. He swallowed, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. His fingers had finally begun to warm up after being frozen in ice and the motion seemed to calm him.
Bakugo glanced at him, eyes narrowed. He was leaning up against the side of the washing machine, left hand shoved in his pocket while his right scrolled through his phone. “You gonna shower?”
Shoto looked up, startled by the sudden words. “I have to wait for my sheets,” he stated blandly. Bakugo should know that.
Bakugo huffed out a heavy sigh. He turned off his phone and shoved it back in his pocket. “I’ll watch your sheets. Just go take a fucking shower. You stink.”
Shoto winced at the loud words, but couldn’t find a good enough excuse to argue. “Okay.” He got up and started towards the door, making it only two steps before he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “Bakugo?”
Bakugo scowled. “Hm?”
“Thank you.”
~*~
Shoto leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes droop over as drowsiness played with his feeble consciousness. After showering, Bakugo had helped him make his bed and encouraged him to go back to sleep, but by that point it was already 4:45am and he couldn’t find the courage to go back to sleep anyway after his nightmare. So he sat at his desk and scrolled tiktok, watching silly cat videos through bleary eyes until the sun rose and it was finally time for class.
“Alright, class. I hope you remember we have a special guest coming in today.” Aizawa’s tone did little to imply the guest was actually special. He sounded bored and tired, a point that was emphasised by the dark bags under his eyes and the way his lips barely moved with each word he spoke.
Kaminari squealed in excitement from the back of the classroom. “Ooo! I forgot Endeavor was coming in today!”
And with those simple words, Shoto’s heart plummeted into oblivion.
No. No, no, no. How could he have forgotten Endeavor was coming into the school? Aizawa had mentioned a week before that he would be doing a talk at the school and Endeavor himself had informed Shoto of it a few days prier, but he had neglected to mention to Shoto that he was expected to participate in the interview.
He hunched over in his seat, making himself as small as possible as Aizawa quieted the chatter that had risen throughout the classroom.
“That’s enough,” he drawled sleepily. “I expect you to behave better than this. I’m too tired to deal with your utter chaos today.”
Shoto suspected in reality Aizawa just didn’t want to deal with Endeavor’s shitty mood after dealing with the rambunctious class 1A, but he had more pressing matters to be concerned about in that moment.
“Alright, behave.” Aizawa grabbed his large yellow sleeping bag from under the desk and trudged sleepily towards the door.
Just as he reached it, the door to the classroom swung open and a large figure strode through, towering over the desks in all his fiery glory. “Class 1A!” He boomed. The flames of his beard flared along with the syllables of each word, effectively drawing everyone’s attention to the front of the room.
Shoto felt his hands begin to shake. He clenched them together in his lap, squeezing his pencil so hard it snapped in half. The sharp wooden edge of the splintered device stabbed against his hand, pushed roughly into the soft flesh of his palm by the force he was gripping it. He glanced down, watching blood well up around the edges, tiny specks of crimson painting his pale skin.
“Shoto!!” Endeavor’s voice boomed out over the classroom, echoing loudly against the walls.
Shoto flinched.
Everyone sat frozen, unmoving. Not even a whisper could be heard as everyone unfroze and slowly turned to face the owner of that name.
“Come on up here, son! I can’t do much of a demonstration without my prodigy there to help.”
Shoto swallowed thickly. No, no, no. He couldn’t go up there. He stared down at his clenched hands, looking anywhere but at his father. The blood smeared against the edge of his shirt as he clenched his fingers even tighter.
People were staring at him, watching him through wide, curious eyes.
Shakily, he got to his feet and made his way slowly to the front of the classroom.
As he walked, everyone’s heads snapped back around to face him.
He stood frozen and stiff, face schooled into the expression of cold indifference he had perfected so well.
“Don’t look so stiff, boy. This isn’t a test.” Endeavor gestured towards the rest of the class, booming out a fake laugh.
A few nervous chuckles filtered across the room, all forced and tentative.
Shoto wanted to curl into a tiny ball and crawl under Aizawa’s desk. He shifted awkwardly, twisting the chilled fingers of his right hand into the material of his uniform pants.
“Now Shoto. Why don’t we begin with a demonstration of how to talk to civilians in a scene of crisis, since that’s an area you’ve needed extra… practicein.
“I, uh…” Shoto swallowed. A clammy sheen of sweat collected on the back of his neck, sticking the fabric of his shirt against his skin in a horrible way that reminded him of that morning. He shuddered, shoving those thoughts aside as quickly as they arose.
Focus.
“Shoto.” It wasn’t a question. Endeavor was staring at him, stern eyes narrowed into slits of piercing turquoise.
“Sorry.” Shoto clawed nervously at his shirt collar, feeling suddenly claustrophobic, as if the material was wrapping around his throat and slowly tightening until it cut off his air supply. Nausea pooled in his stomach, reawakened after festering away semi dormant for most of the day.
He felt his body sway slightly. Or maybe it was the room that was moving, dipping up and down around him. Maybe he was losing his vision. That would explain why his sight was suddenly marred by hazy dark clumps. He shook his head, blinking rapidly in some hope it would dispel the barrage of grey fog gnawing at his vision. But the motion only made the dizziness worse.
His stomach clenched, soured by the spinning colours dancing before his eyes. He clenched his teeth, sucking in air slowly through his nose.
In, out. In, out. You’re okay.
But he was not okay. He was very much not okay. With each passing second, the nausea grew, swelling in his stomach until it was strong enough to rise up his throat and spread across his chest in great tingling waves.
“Shoto, speak up. We only have a short window for this interview. I warned you about this weeks ago.” Endeavor was talking again. His voice was sharp and low, holding a familiar deadly tone of warning that spelled imminent disaster for Shoto if he didn’t respond.
He needed to speak. Say something. Anything. If he could just get this damn interview over with he could slip out of class and hide in the bathrooms until the nausea faded. But Endeavor wasn’t backing down and Shoto could feel his stomach convulse with a fresh wave of queasiness.
He took a shaky breath, bringing a fisted hand up to press against his forehead. “I don’t… feel well.” The words came out thick and breathy, as if all of the emotion and fear from that horrible day were held in that one simple phrase.
“You are fine. You’re just overreacting,” Endeavor growled. He gripped Shoto’s arm, heated nails digging against his skin like tiny fire ant bites.
Shoto shook his head, trying to pull away. His body seemed to vibrate with nausea, head spinning as his vision swam blurrily. He needed to sit down. Or lay down. Or get out of there. “No. I… really don’t feel well.” His stomach lurched painfully, jolting an ominous warning of impending doom.
He swallowed thickly, dragging his grip away from Endeavor and stumbling away from the man. He needed to get out. He was going to throw up.
“Shoto! You do not act so disrespectfully. You should have prepared better. If I knew you weren’t going to take this seriously, I wouldn’t have bothering giving you the honour of sharing my spotlight.”
Shoto’s throat went numb. He gasped, hunching over as liquid rushed up his throat. It was too late. There was nothing he could do now. Making it to the bathroom was a far-off hope, distant and forgotten in the back of his mind. This was happening here and now whether he wanted it or not.
He coughed wetly, squeezing his eyes shut so he didn’t have to watch as his stomach gave a violent lurch and he heaved up a rush of vomit onto the floor.
Immediately, chaos erupted in the classroom. Shouts of “Todoroki!” and “oh my god!” echoed shrilly through the small room, but all Shoto could do was open his mouth and let another rush of liquid spill onto the floor.
“Shoto!” Endeavor bellowed. He leapt away from his son, beard flaring with a fresh surge of orange flame at his surprise.
Shoto kept his eyes firmly closed. His legs trembled beneath him, threatening to give out, but he didn’t dare move for fear of stepping in the messy puddle at his feet.
“Get the hell out of the way.” An angry voice suddenly snapped over the din of concerned students.
Shoto stiffened, embarrassment and relief flooding him simultaneously in a strange mix of countering emotions.
A hand gripped his shoulder and suddenly he was being dragged across the room.
“Stop,” he tried to gasp, but Bakugo ignored his plea and continued to drag him.
Shoto stumbled as they rushed out of the room, feet catching on the doorframe and sending him tripping against Bakugo’s side. His stomach swam at the sharp motion, clenching forcefully as it tried to push up more vomit. He brought a hand up to his mouth, pressing his knuckles firmly against his lips.
“Don’t you dare throw up on me,” Bakugo growled, but he didn’t push Shoto away, instead tightening his grip on the taller boy’s arm as he dragged him down the hallway.
The closest bathroom was located at the end of the hall, and Shoto was relieved when they made it there without incident. His stomach continued to clench, causing his throat to convulse with dry heaves, but nothing came up and he was left spitting drool into his cupped hand.
Grimacing in distaste, Shoto wiped his messy hand against the edge of his uniform jacket as Bakugo deposited him on the ground.
“What the hell, Icyhot? Are you fucking sick?”
Shoto shrugged. He brought a hand up to his mouth, wiping dazedly at the slimy drool coating his chin. “No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Bakugo frowned, eyes narrowing to amber slits. “Is this about last night?”
Shoto gulped, eyes burning as a hot wave of shame slammed over him. He hunched over, shivering like he had just been doused in a torrent of icy water.
“Don’t look so fucking pathetic.” Bakugo got up and angrily stomped over to the paper towel dispenser at the other side of the bathroom. He grabbed a wad of towels and shoved them under the tap.
Shoto didn’t answer. He let out a slow, shuddery breath, trying to calm his racing heart. “Everyone saw.” The words fell limply from his lips, quiet and drenched in shame.
“So fucking what.” Bakugo crouched down next to him and handed over the wad of soaked paper towels.
“I threw up, Bakugo. In front of everyone. In front…” He broke off, breath hitching as a sob caught in his throat. He clenched his teeth, refusing to let himself cry. He had already cried in front of Bakugo once that day. He was not going to let it happen again.
“Big deal.” Bakugo huffed in annoyance and snatched the unused paper towels from Shoto’s hands. “Damn you’re useless. I have to do fucking everything for you.” He reached for Shoto’s shoulder, then hesitated, lips pursed in thought. “You okay if I touch you? You’re not gonna freak the fuck out again are you?”
Shoto nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again, confused by how to properly respond to Bakugo’s question. Finally he just mumbled, “Yeah.”
“Good answer. You’re a fucking mess.” Bakugo leaned over and brushed the wet paper towels against Shoto’s chin, then along his cheeks. “God, you’re so gross. How the fuck did you manage to get it in your hair?”
Shame crawled across Shoto’s cheeks, hot and thick, but he didn’t pull away. Something about Bakugo’s touch soothed him. He didn’t remember the last time anyone had cared for him in that way.
Suddenly, a loud buzz vibrated against his leg. He stiffened reflexively, looking down at his pocket. He could see the bright light of his phone screen shining through the material as it lit up with a text. Swallowing, he pulled the device out and looked down at the screen.
Texts. There were so many texts.
Endeavor: Shoto
Endeavor: Why did you leave
Endeavor: This is ridiculous
Endeavor: You need to get over yourself
Endeavor: I am ashamed with your behaviour. As I’m sure your teachers will be when I inform them of this absurd overreaction
Endeavor: I thought you were over that whole getting sick from ‘anxiety’ phase
Endeavor: You will need to overcome this pathetic habit if you ever hope to be a hero
Shoto gasped in a frantic gulp of breath, lungs shuddering as they tried to take in the suddenly thick and soupy air. Shame swamped him, drenching his body in heavy waves of guilt and a thousand other unnamed emotions. His fingers clenched around the phone case, nails digging into the plastic material.
He had known such a text would appear, but somehow he had expected a little more leeway. Endeavor tended to assume an entirely different demeanour in public, but he supposed that didn’t exactly matter when it came to texts.
He swallowed, squeezing his eyes closed as the words tumbled over and over through his mind. Pathetic. Absurd overreaction. ‘Anxiety’ phase – with the little quotation marks as if it were some made up concept Shoto had created to hinder his father’s work. And he supposed it sort of was. Endeavor was right. He was pathetic. Heroes did interviews all the time. What kind of a pathetic person couldn’t handle talking in front of their class without getting sick? If he couldn’t handle the stress now, there was no way he could handle standing in front of a whole crowd of raging reporters.
“What,” Bakugo demanded.
Shoto flinched, reflexively clutching the phone even tighter. He could feel the colour draining from his face as the looming words of his father stirred the smouldering coals of nausea in his stomach. “Nothing,” he muttered.
“Yeah, fuck that. No way in hell I’m gonna believe that was nothing. Now give me your fucking phone.”
“No.” Shoto clutched the phone to his chest, feeling his thundering heart pound where his shaky hand pressed against skin.
“You look like you’re about to hurl again. Give it.” Bakugo swiped at the air, trying to snatch the device from Shoto’s hand.
“What the hell, Bakugo,” Shoto snapped. He shuffled backwards until his back pressed against the rough tile of the bathroom wall.
Bakugo lunged forward and this time succeeded in snatching the phone away from Shoto’s sweaty grasp. He clicked open the screen and stared down at it.
There was silence for a long moment, broken only by Shoto’s panting breath as his mind spiralled in panic.
“What the actual fuck?” Bakugo snarled. Tiny explosions sparked from his free hand, the one not holding the phone.
Shoto flinched at the outburst. “It’s nothing. It’s fine.”
“This isn’t fucking fine, Icyhot. What the hell?” Bakugo was fuming now. His eyes glinted and sparked in the light from his tiny explosions, giving the illusion that they were actually on fire.
The image sent a chill of fear through Shoto’s body and he gave an involuntary shudder. “Give it back.” The words were shaky and unsteady, but his gaze was firm as he reached out a hand to Bakugo.
“No wonder you freaked the hell out this morning. Fucking…” Bakugo ground his teeth.
“Bakugo, give me back my phone.”
A loud creak followed by a sudden swooshing sound interrupted their argument.
Shoto’s head snapped up, body stiffening as fear stabbed through him. Endeavor was there. He had come to find them. And if he was there, there was nothing to stop Bakugo from flying at him in a violent rage of explosions and screamed expletives. That couldn’t happen. He couldn’t drag Bakugo into this. This was Shoto’s fault. His burden to bare. He was the one who had messed up.
“Sensei,” Bakugo growled from his spot crouched on the bathroom floor across from Shoto.
Shoto’s eyes flicked towards the door, focussing in on the figure standing there. Aizawa. It was Aizawa. Not Endeavor. He let out a slow, shuddery breath, suddenly exhausted.
Aizawa crossed the room in five powerful strides, crouching down next to Shoto’s hunched form. “Are you alright?” His tone was urgent and full of concern, but he didn’t sound angry.
Shoto nodded. He opened his mouth to try and speak, but the words got stuck somewhere along the way and only a puff of chilled air left his lips.
“No he’s fucking not,” Bakugo interrupted. He jumped to his feet, stalking over to where Aizawa was kneeled next to his ill classmate. “His fucking dad just texted saying what a failure he was. Like, what the fuck?” He held up Shoto’s phone, shoving it in Aizawa’s face.
Aizawa glanced at the screen just long enough to read the texts before looking up at Bakugo. His lips tightened, but his expression remained neutral as he carefully spoke. “Thank you, Bakugo. We will discuss this at a later date, but for now I want to make sure Shoto is stable.” He turned back to the ill student. “Shoto, are you with me?”
Shoto nodded numbly, though his eyes remained fixed on the floor.
“Good.” Aizawa kept his voice calm as he continued. “Endeavor has left the school and I am giving you the rest of the day off.”
Shoto’s mouth snapped open, ready to protest, but Aizawa stilled him with a simple wave of his hand.
“There will be no argument. From what I’ve heard and seen you are quite unwell and I refuse to allow students to participate in my lessons in such a state.”
Shoto let his mouth fall closed. He still couldn’t find it in himself to speak, so he simply nodded again. His head was still spinning and heaviness weighed at his limbs, dragging him down into a deep pit of exhaustion.
“I’m staying with him,” Bakugo spoke up. He raised his gaze to meet Aizawa’s, chin tilted upward in a solid display of stubbornness.
Aizawa frowned. “I cannot allow you to miss class, Bakugo. From what I’ve seen, you are not sick.”
Bakugo huffed out an annoyed sigh, gesturing wildly towards Shoto. “Yeah, but he is and he doesn’t know the first thing about looking after himself. Fucker just sat here uselessly while I cleaned up the vomit all over his face and hair.”
“Bakugo,” Aizawa warned.
“Tch. I’m staying with him.”
Shoto watched the exchange through half lidded, bleary eyes. He felt a strange warmth blooming in his chest at Bakugo’s words. It was an odd, unfamiliar feeling to him. He hadn’t expected to feel that way, especially about someone like Bakugo, but there he was, almost longing to stay with the blond. Something about his rough voice soothed him in a way he had never experienced before. It was comforting. Grounding. Suddenly the thought of going back to the dorms on his own and sitting alone in his room made his insides crawl with anxiety. He didn’t want to be alone anymore.
Aizawa let out a heavy sigh. He ran a hand through his long, wavy hair, lips tilted in thought. “Very well, but this is a one-time thing. I will not be giving out free passes to skip class on a regular basis.”
A rush of relief swept through Shoto’s quivering body. He felt some of the tension melt from his stiff shoulders as he leaned back against the bathroom wall.
“But—” Aizawa held up a hand, catching the kids’ attention before they moved off. “There are some ground rules. Both of you need to go straight back to the dorms and Shoto needs rest. So no training or gallivanting around the place on some crazy adventure as you all seem so fond of.”
“I’m not stupid. Idiot Icyhot couldn’t even make it three minutes into a fight right now without collapsing.”
Shoto levelled a glare at him, but the resulting expression came out as more of a tired grimace.
“Right… I will be back to check on you when classes are over.” Aizawa stood up and brushed off the knees of his pants where they had wrinkled from his time squatted on the floor. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
With one last warning look at the two students, he strode across the room and pushed open the door.
Once it fell shut behind their teacher, Bakugo turned to Shoto. “Come on, let’s get you back to the dorms, Halfie.” He approached Shoto and reached out an arm to haul the taller boy to his feet.
Shoto swayed, dizzy from the sudden change of position, but Bakugo’s strong arms were there to guide him upright and keep him from falling. “Thanks,” he mumbled, voice breathless from the exertion of standing.
“Tch. You look like shit. Should be in bed.” He helped Shoto across the bathroom and through the door, keeping it propped open with his foot so they could pass through without it closing on Shoto’s shoulder.
The walk back to the dorms felt like an eternity to Shoto. He stumbled every few steps, mumbling apologies under his breath each time his elbow pressed against Bakugo’s side.
Bakugo grumbled, but didn’t snap at Shoto or try to push him away.
It was strange, but Shoto was too exhausted to worry too much about what these new softer actions meant.
By the time they made it through the doors of height’s alliance, Shoto was sagging heavily against Bakugo’s side. His eyelids drooped and his breath came in ragged pants as he stumbled through the front entry way.
“Shit. You gonna pass out?” Bakugo’s voice wavered in and out of focus.
Shoto shook his head, humming incoherently under his breath. Honestly, there was a good chance he was about to pass out, but he didn’t want to admit that to Bakugo despite how dizzy and disorientated he felt. “T’red,” he mumbled instead.
“Yeah, no shit.” Bakugo rolled his eyes, but didn’t let go of Shoto’s waist as he dragged him through the front lobby area of the dorms.
They took the elevator, Bakugo leaning Shoto against the wall as he punched in the number on the keypad.
Shoto stared at the panel as Bakugo’s fingers hit the button. There was something strange about the selection, but his tired mind couldn’t seem to work out where exactly his confusion stemmed from until the elevator dinged, signalling its arrival on the fourth floor. “My room’s on the fifth floor,” Shoto mumbled, blinking at Bakugo in confusion.
“No shit. We aren’t going to your room, Halfie. Can’t trust you alone in this state. You’re a fucking mess.” Bakugo helped him out of the elevator and dragged him down the hallway. He paused once they reached his room, shifting Shoto’s weight so he could unlock the door.
Shoto stumbled through the doorway, too tired to properly process the inside of his classmate’s room. Any other time, he would have paused to study Bakugo’s interior design, but in that moment, all he cared about was getting somewhere he could lay down.
As if sensing this desire, Bakugo pulled him inside and deposited Shoto’s limp body on the bed before stomped back over to shut the door.
It closed with a loud bang and Shoto flinched.
A spark of remorse flicked across Bakugo’s eyes and for a moment Shoto could read his expression clearly. The urge to apologise rose to his lips, but he clenched his teeth and swallowed it down. Bakugo didn’t like when he apologised excessively.
“Lay down, idiot. You need to rest.” Bakugo strode back across the room, fumbling around with the laptop perched on his desk.
“But this is your bed,” Shoto protested.
“Yeah, and?” Bakugo unplugged the computer and folded it up, sticking it under one arm and grabbing a few textbooks from his desk. “We’re gonna watch a movie.” It wasn’t worded as a question, just one of Bakugo’s oh so familiar forceful statements that Shoto didn’t dare argue with.
“Okay.”
Bakugo lay the textbooks on the bed and set up the laptop so Shoto could properly see the screen.
While his classmate set up the movie, Shoto curled into himself on the bed, tugging his jacket a little further around himself. He was shivering slightly, body shaking from some strange combination of cold and the last dregs of adrenaline as they filtered out of his system.
“Cold?” Bakugo asked bluntly.
Shoto’s eyes flicked to meet his gaze and he found himself nodding. “A little,” he answered, teeth chattering.
“Tch. Could’ve said something. I have blankets you know.” Huffing, Bakugo abandoned the now fully set up computer and stalked over to the closet in the far corner of the room. He grabbed a large orange blanket from the top shelf and bundled it under his arms before walking back over to the bed.
“Take your jacket off. You’ll be more comfortable.”
Shoto obeyed, dragging the sleeves off and setting the jacket gently to the side.
Bakugo shook out the blanket and lay it on top of him, tucking the edges around his shoulders. “There. Bet you love soft shit like that, huh, Halfie?”
Shoto hummed, too distracted by the sudden warmth and comfort that washed over him to form a proper response. The blanket was thick and fuzzy, made of soft fleecy material that sent shivers of comfort through his body each time it brushed against his skin.
“Right, now watch the movie.”
Shoto frowned, lips turning down in what could almost be described as a pout. He turned to Bakugo, eyes glassy and wide. “But you can’t see the screen.”
Bakugo rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve seen this movie hundreds of times.”
“But…” Shoto trailed off. He stared down at the fuzzy orange blanket, fiddling idly with the hem. Unbidden, his mind brought back snatches of memory from the previous hour. Bakugo gently wiping the cloth against his face. The way his fingers were so soft and careful as he brushed back Shoto’s bangs. The overwhelming sense of comfort that flooded him every time Bakugo would stand close to him or hold him steady when he swayed.
He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry and barren. “You could… uh… lay down too. There’s lots of room. I don’t take up much space.” He stared hard at his hands, looping the fabric of the blanket tightly through his trembling fingers.
A sharp intake of breath startled him from above and before he could stop himself, he was glancing up at Bakugo.
“What. I… well.” Bakugo coughed awkwardly. His cheeks were tinted pink and he wouldn’t meet Shoto’s eyes. “I guess. If you’re gonna be all whiny about it.” He rolled his eyes, but his tone held no malice. It was gentle and kind, almost… hesitant?
Shoto didn’t think he had ever heard Bakugo sound hesitant. Instead of answering, he scooted over on the bed, moving so there was enough room for Bakugo to crawl in next to him.
Bakugo scoffed under his breath, but took off his jacket and climbed into bed next to Shoto. “You’re such a sap,” he muttered under his breath.
“Mm.” Shoto pulled at the blanket, shifting so he could drag half of the soft material over Bakugo’s chest.
“Tch. Let’s just watch the damn movie.” He clicked the play button on his laptop and leaned back against the headboard.
The intro music began to play, but Shoto found himself struggling to focus on the movie. He glanced at Bakugo through the corner of his eye, watching the blond’s expression soften when he thought Shoto wasn’t looking. Bakugo had nice features. He wondered why he had never noticed that before. Maybe he really did have a fever.
The first scene began to play, but Shoto couldn’t drag his eyes back to the screen. He watched Bakugo’s lips move in time with the dialogue, clearly quoting lines he had memorised after years of watching his favourite movie time and again. He liked being there with Bakugo. He felt warm and calm and most of all safe.
Bakugo had been so kind to him all day. He hadn’t judged him for anything that had happened and Shoto felt his eyes water at the realisation of just how much that meant to him. “Bakugo,” he whispered.
The words came out breathy and soft, but Bakugo’s head whipped around to face him.
“What? You better not be one of those people who talks during movies. Fucking annoying.”
Shoto filed that little piece of information away for later use, but pressed on. “Bakugo.”
“What, Halfie?”
Shoto waited until Bakugo’s eyes met his before finishing the sentence he had begun. “Thank you.”
“Tch. It’s nothing. Just watch the damn movie.”
“Okay.” Shoto smiled then, snuggling back down under the blanket and turning his attention to the movie. His eyelids drooped heavily and he found himself beginning to drift. Slowly, his head tipped to the side, cheek resting against Bakugo’s warm shoulder.
He stiffened for a moment, prepared for Bakugo to yell and kick him out of the bed, but nothing happened.
Maybe this is okay, Shoto thought drowsily as his eyes slid closed. The quiet voices of the movie filtered through his consciousness, accompanied by Bakugo’s soft, gentle breaths. Bakugo’s shoulder was warm against his cheek, comforting in a way he never could have imagined heat ever could be.
This was nice, he thought sleepily. And maybe, just maybe, this didn’t ever have to end.