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Shouto turns over in bed, pulling a blanket up to block the sunlight filtering in through the gap between his curtains. The pressure in his face shifts as his sinuses begin to drain; he lets out a groan and notes his dry mouth and throat.
He’s never had a cold before, himself, but he’s seen it go around between his classmates enough times to recognize the symptoms immediately. He tucks his head close to his chest and sniffles miserably.
Maybe, he thinks to himself, I can just… sleep it off…
His alarm quickly dismisses that idea.
Over a decade’s worth of training forces him upright. He wipes the sleep from his eyes, hunches over, and just groans. He’s never needed to keep a box of tissues in his room, and he’s beginning to regret that now.
He shambles to the shared bathroom, one arm raised in front of his face to block his dripping nose from view. He gets a few odd looks on the way, but his classmates are all rushing to get ready for the day themselves, and don’t have time for more than a quick greeting.
It’s not until he passes Iida on his way back to his room, costume case in hand, that he remembers why everyone is in such a rush today. The whole day has been cleared for combat training, starting in less than an hour.
He grips his wad of stolen paper towels a little tighter and hurries back to his room, ignoring the way his vision swims and head begins to throb as a result.
Shouto makes it to the gym just behind Sero and Kaminari, painfully aware that he’s usually among the first to arrive. Nobody comments on his relative tardiness, but Midoriya slides up next to him and appraises him with a worried expression when he thinks Shouto isn’t paying attention.
Shouto is always paying attention, so jot that down.
“Want to do some stretches?” he asks, and Shouto nods, following him to one of the large padded mats already laid out on the gym floor. Some others join them, chattering amongst one another as they warm up for the day’s challenges.
“I hope I get paired with Bakugou,” says Kirishima, twisting his arm up behind his back “I think I can kick his ass this time.”
“You can fucking try,” says Bakugou, appearing at the edge of the circle, hands planted on his hips.
Shouto leans down to touch his toes, and uses the ensuing argument to hide his sniffles. A chill runs down his spine and he nearly topples over. Midoriya’s arm shoots out as if to grab him, but he stands on his own, easily disguising his stumbling as he moves into a set of lunges.
“Who do you want to get paired with, Todoroki?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind facing anyone.”
“Ooh, hear the confidence! The bravado! This is the one to beat, you hear?”
“Lay off,” says Jirou, batting at Ashido with one of her earjacks. “It’s too early for this.”
Shouto is trying to decide whether he has time to run to the bathroom and blow his nose when All Might finally arrives, just seconds before the first bell goes off. He thinks of the crumpled paper towels stashed hastily in his utility belt, and his face goes hot at the thought of taking one out and loudly blowing his nose into it in front of the entire class.
He’d rather just die, he thinks.
Though he’s much smaller than he used to be, All Might’s booming voice still cuts through the chatter in an instant. He starts going over the rules of their round robin matches, likening it to the sports festival, and Shouto thinks, Shouldn’t we have done this first?
He’s paired up with Midoriya first, which feels a bit like favoritism — though whether it’s in favor of him or Midoriya, he’s not entirely sure. They split off from the group and find an empty mat to spar on, first without their quirks, and then with.
On any other day, Shouto would feel cool confidence, balanced by blazing ambition. Today, he just feels… tired.
“I can go easy on you,” Midoriya offers, which is so incredibly insulting that Shouto finds himself throwing the first punch before the whistle sounds.
“You never have before,” he says, sidestepping Midoriya's counterattack. Midoriya smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
They settle into a comfortable dance, chasing each other in a tight circle, neither landing a hit that the other can’t trade. Shouto nearly steps off the mat a few times, and his whole face goes hot as he struggles to regain balance.
Midoriya slows each time, giving him a second to recenter himself. Where is the boy from the sports festival, he wonders, who wanted Shouto to give his all?
He waits, listening to the rhythm of their feet on the mat. Step. Pause. Step, step. Pause. Shouto blocks, steps to the side, always on the back foot. He watches Midoriya’s movements and finds them repetitive, predictable. Exploitable.
Shouto waits for Midoriya to step forward with a punch, always delivered with his full body, and then he drops low, sweeping Midoriya’s leg and tackling him to the mat.
Midoriya kicks and squirms, trying to get himself unpinned, but Shouto is heavier than he is, has trained longer than he has. He takes the errant kick to his stomach, the palm pressed desperately against his face, and he holds Midoriya down until he goes limp.
“Good one,” he says, breathless. Shouto pushes off of him, then offers him a hand. He pulls Midoriya to his feet and the two dust themselves off, waving All Might down to record the results of their first match.
Shouto’s already sweating, even on his cool side. He grabs his water bottle from beside the mat, draining it nearly halfway in one long, frantic gulp. His throat and mouth are still like sandpaper; his throat especially keeps sticking together, peeled painfully apart when he swallows.
He regrets not taking some cold medicine before leaving the dorms, but it’s not like he has any. He’s sure someone has some squirreled away somewhere, or that their teachers could provide some if asked. If he feels any worse later, he’ll consider it.
“Todoroki, are you ready?”
Shouto pops his water bottle lid shut and sets it down next to Midoriya’s, nodding. “I won’t go easy on you,” he warns, and Midoriya smiles; this time, he notes, something comes to life behind his eyes. Now there’s an expression to watch out for.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Midoriya has gotten stronger since his internship. All of them have. But Midoriya especially no longer needs to break himself just to use his own power. The blasts of air that might have sent Shouto sprawling against the wall now just send him skidding towards the edge of the mat, still on his feet. It’s still impressive, but infinitely more manageable, at least for now.
Shouto braces himself and holds up his palm. A single wall of ice should be all he needs to —
To —
Midoriya launches at him, dodging an attack that never comes. Shouto sees the confusion on his face as he soars overhead, clearly having expected an ice wall to slide down.
Shouto stares, wide-eyed, hand frozen in place out in front of him. It sways in his vision, his fingers doubling, tripling. Midoriya lands in a crouch in front of him, blurry at the edges.
“We’re, uh, using our quirks now, right?” he asks, as if he’s really not sure.
“Um.” Yes. Yes, they’re absolutely supposed to be using their quirks now. Shouto’s head is already pounding; he can feel his heartbeat picking up, his whole face going hot. He squints, trying to push past the mounting pressure in his skull.
He tries again to summon his ice, and just barely manages a puff of white frost that falls pitifully to the ground. He tries once more, but only the tips of his fingers go white, covered in icy crystals that fade almost instantly against his body heat.
“Are you… feeling okay?”
Shouto swallows. “I, uh…”
Suddenly he remembers when, a few weeks ago, Tokoyami had come down with a cold and couldn’t summon Dark Shadow for more than a few minutes at a time, and never in any shape larger than a small cat. Dark Shadow had also just seemed generally subdued, more fatigued than even Tokoyami himself.
And a few months before that, when Midoriya had gotten sick — hadn't he struggled to control his quirk? But then, he was always struggling with that near the beginning of the school year. It was only recently that he had begun to master his power, just as he had urged Shouto to himself.
“Here,” says Midoriya, suddenly at his side, reaching up to steady Shouto with hands at his shoulders — when did he start swaying? “Do you want to sit down for a second?”
“No,” he says, but he lets Midoriya guide him to the floor anyway, aware that it’s a losing battle. His stomach is starting to churn despite his simple breakfast; he’d rather not throw up on one of his only real friends.
“Does this kind of thing usually happen when you get sick?” Midoriya asks, waving at someone. Shouto shakes his head and immediately regrets it. “No? So this is new?”
“No,” says Shouto, through waves of nausea, “I mean I don’t get sick. I’m not sick,” he tacks on, a beat too late. Midoriya purses his lips but says nothing.
He leans over and holds his head in his hands, breathing through his mouth. Waves of heat rush over him, each followed by chills, shivers down his whole body. His head is going to burst open, or maybe just split right down the middle.
“He needs to go see Recovery Girl,” says Midoriya, one hand still on Shouto’s shoulder. He can hear, distantly, the din of combat, and hopes everyone else is too preoccupied to notice this moment of weakness. He shouldn’t have tried to push through this, fuck, he’s never ever going to try this again. He hopes he never has to.
“Yes, I think you’re right,” All Might says, leaning over and looking Shouto up and down. His brows furrow and his mouth twists into a frown. “Would you be willing to take him? I really don’t think he should go on his own.”
“Of course,” says Midoriya, already helping Shouto to his feet.
“I’m not…” Shouto trails off to let out a cough, “I’m not that sick.”
“You’re too exhausted to even use your quirk,” says Midoriya, looping Shouto’s arm around his neck to better support him. Shouto squeezes his eyes shut.
“Never stopped me before,” he bites out, and he feels the way Midoriya winces, can even picture the kicked puppy look on his face. He softens. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be — you’re fine.”
He squints at the floor, letting Midoriya lead him across the gym, weaving between mats and hoping that nobody will take notice of them. He’s sure they already have.
He tries, when Midoriya isn’t really looking, to summon his ice, his fire, anything. By the time they reach Recovery Girl’s office, he’s failed dozens of times, and is now shivering against Midoriya’s frame, leaning into him for warmth.
Midoriya sits them down on a cot, talking to Recovery Girl in low, hushed tones. Shouto leans his head on Midoriya’s shoulder and closes his eyes, sniffling.
Recovery Girl says something, and Midoriya tries to stand up, but Shouto starts to slump over, eyelids fluttering open. Midoriya sits back down, propping Shouto up against his side. He grabs Midoriya’s sleeve and pulls him closer, desperate to stave off the cold.
“Stay,” he croaks, eyes slipping shut again. He swallows, parting his dry throat. His body, usually so finely tuned, can't decide if it's hot or cold, and there's nothing he can do about it. The hollowness inside of him is jarring, frightening.
It was one thing to refuse the power that welled up so readily within him. It is another entirely to have it ripped away, depleted overnight by a weakness he cannot control. He turns his face into Midoriya's shoulder, not sure what he's hoping to find there.
This will pass, he knows. In days, or weeks, he will wake up and feel fine; he will reach for his power and find it reaching back for him, the way it always has. But in the interim, he is stuck as a shell of himself, deprived, scooped out and made hollow.
Midoriya squeezes his hand. His vision is swimming; Recovery Girl stands in front of him, a little plastic cup in hand full of dark purple liquid. He stares into it, and sees no reflection.
“It'll help,” she says. He takes it. It's sickeningly sweet, lingering in his mouth even after she gives him water to wash it down with. He leans against Midoriya and shudders, stomach churning.
“You should go back to class,” he rasps, but his fingers curl into the fabric of Midoriya's sleeve.
This will pass, he reminds himself. This will pass. This will pass.
“It’s okay,” says Midoriya, just above a whisper. “I’m right here.”