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The room was too quiet, too small, too close. Bakugo stared at the ceiling of Midoriya's dorm, counting the seconds between each creak of the heating system that wasn't doing its damn job. Three days. That's how long it had been since he'd lost control, since his quirk had torn through his room like a grenade in a shoebox, leaving nothing but scorched walls and the burnt smell of his own stupidity.
Now he was here, back-to-back with the one person who made his chest tight in ways that had nothing to do with combat training.
The mattress dipped slightly as Midoriya settled in, a respectful gap between their bodies that might as well have been a canyon. Bakugo could feel the heat radiating from him anyway, could smell the faint scent of whatever soap he'd used—something clean and simple that made Bakugo's teeth clench. HE shifted, trying to find a position that didn't make him hyperaware of every breath, every small movement.
The blanket was pathetic. Thin and useless against the chill that had settled into the room like an unwelcome guest. Bakugo's jaw tightened as another shiver ran through him. He could warm himself easily—his quirk was literally fire and explosions—but the memory of his destroyed room was too fresh. The last thing he needed was to blow up Midoriya's space too and end up sleeping in the goddamn hallway.
He shifted again, pulling the blanket tighter. His elbow connected with something solid.
"Tch... damn it."
The words came out harsher than intended, frustration bleeding through.
Midoriya's head turned, and Bakugo felt the weight of his gaze even in the darkness. "You okay?"
Bakugo froze. Of course he was awake. Of course he'd noticed.
"Yeah. Just..." Pride wrestled with honesty. Honesty won by a hair. "...cold."
He grumbled the admission, yanking the useless blanket around himself like it might suddenly develop insulating properties through sheer force of will.
"I can turn up the heat if you want."
The offer was casual, easy. No judgment in it. Somehow that made it worse.
Bakgo glanced over his shoulder, caught a glimpse of Midoriya's profile in the dim light seeping through the window. "No. I'm fine."
His teeth chattered, betraying him immediately. Traitor body.
"Oh. Okay."
Midoriya turned away, settling back against what like a stuffed animal—an All Might plush, fluffy and ridiculous and somehow perfectly fitting for someone who could offer warmth without making it feel like charity. Bakugo watched him cuddle the thing, jealousy sparking hot in his chest. The plushie was pressed against Midoriya's chest, probably soaking up his body heat, getting warmed by hands that were right there, just inches away.
Another shiver rattled through him. His pride could go to hell.
"Actually... maybe the heat wouldn't hurt."
The words tasted like defeat. Midoriya was already moving, sliding out of bed with an ease that made Bakugo's chest constrict. He abandoned the plushie, walking to the thermostat in nothing but shorts and a thin shift that had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of skin above his waistband.
Bakugo looked away, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. "...75."
The number hung in the air—an admission of just how cold he actually was. The room was at 60. Fifteen degrees of difference. Fifteen degrees of weakness he'd just confessed to.
"No problem."
The heating system kicked on with a mechanical groan. Midoriya returned to bed, the mattress dipping again as he reclaimed his spot and gathered that damn plush back into his arms. Bakugo watched from the corner of his eye, tracking how Midoriya's chin rested on top of the plushie, how his arms wrapped around it like it was something precious.
"Thanks... I guess."
The gratitude scraped out of him, rough and uncomfortable.
Warmth began to creep into the room, but it was slow, too slow. Bakugo lay there, muscles tense, listening to Midoriya's breathing even out. The plushie was right there, pressed against Midoriya's chest, probably warm as hell now. The envy was irrational and sharp and completely undeniable.
He stared at the ceiling, replaying the explosion that had brought him here—the anger, the loss of control, the disappointed look on Aizawa's face when he assigned Bakugo to Midoriya's room "because you're less likely to murder him than anyone else."
The stuffed All Might plush mocked him from its position of privilege, getting warmed by a body that Bakugo was trying very hard not to think about.
His resolve cracked like ice under pressure. "Hey, can I ask something of you?"
"Yeah, what's up?"
Bakugo's pride staged one last protest before surrendering entirely. "Can I... borrow that plushie for a bit?"
The silence that followed felt eternal. Then Midoriya glanced down at the plushie, then at him, and something shifted in his expression—understanding, maybe, or recognition of just how desperate Bakugo actually was.
"Sure."
The plushie was passed over, and Bakugo's hands closed around the soft, warm fabric that smelled faintly of Midoriya. He pressed it against his chest immediately, feeling the heat seep into his skin, and something in his shoulders finally relaxed.
"Thanks."
"Mhm."
Midoriya rolled over, facing away again, giving Bakugo privacy with his borrowed warmth. But the head was fading, leaching away into the cold air, and Bakugo found himself shifting closer without conscious thought. Their shoulders bumped—accidental contact that shot through him like electricity. Midoriya's skin was warm even through his shift, radiation heat that made Balugo's cold feel even more pronounced.
He couldn't help it. "...Deku?"
"Yes?"
Swallowing his last bit of pride hurt worse than any training injury. "Can I... get closer?"
"Sure. Come here."
Relief hit him hard. Bakugo closed the distance, pressing against Midoriya's back, and the trembling in his muscles finally started to ease.
Midoriya jerked forward. "Holy crap, you're freezing!"
Embarrassment flared hot. "Tch. Yeah, well, some of us aren't walking furnaces."
But Midoriya was already turning, facing him now, and then his hands were on Bakugo's arms—warm, impossibly warm, stroking gently like Bakguo was something that needed careful handling. His breath caught. The touch felt like fire against ice, melting through his defences faster than any explosion could.
"I don't need your pity warmth," Bakugo grumbled, even as he leaned into those hands like a plant toward sunlight.
"Just accept it."
The words were simple, direct, leaving no room for argument. Bakugo's jaw clenched, his pride making one final stand before collapsing completely under the weight of comfort and want and the undeniable fact that Midoriya's hands on his skin felt better than anything had in days.
"Fine. But don't tell anyone about this."
Midoriya's fingers continued their gentle path along his arms, warming him from the outside in, and Bakugo closed his eyes, surrendering to the touch and wondering if the cold had been the problem at all.