Work Text:
When angry knocks on his door made Shouto fall out of bed at — he checks his watch — 2:30 in the afternoon, he did not expect Pro Hero Dynamight to be at the other end.
It’s not that Bakugo hasn’t been at his door before. In fact, he’s over quite often.
For practical reasons, of course.
Neither of them are in the habit of willingly being checked out by medical after their shifts, so it was only a matter of time until Shouto showed up on Bakugo’s doorstep — due only to the convenience of proximity to their apartments and nothing else — with a knife wound he couldn’t reach in need of stitches. He returned the favor two months later when Bakugo ended up in similar circumstances.
They fix each other up and go on their way.
This time is different.
Bakugou is standing on the welcome mat Fuyumi got him as a housewarming gift — for once, not bleeding on it — in the middle of his shift with a plastic bag in his hand and an annoyed look on his face. Before Shouto can say anything, he shoves past him and heads straight to the kitchen.
Shouto eases the door shut and follows behind him. “What are you doing here?”
“Heard you were sick.” He grunts out while rifling through his drawers, grabbing out whatever he deems suitable.
Oh, yeah. Now that his shock has worn off and he’s reminded of his… predicament… he realizes that his legs feel much weaker than usual. A shiver racks through him.
He walks around the corner and plants himself at the kitchen island, watching the blonde turn on his stove. Shouto doesn’t have much in his kitchen, but Bakugo somehow makes do.
“What are you doing?” He asks again.
Bakugo turns on his feet to stare at Shouto. His gaze is sharp, analyzing, and Shoutou winces when he swallows under it. “Have you eaten today?”
The look on Bakugo’s face makes him glance away. The same floor he has lived on for two years is suddenly the most interesting thing in his apartment. He starts counting the knots in the wood planks.
1…2…
“Thought so.”
Shouto bristles.
How did Bakugo even know he was sick? He woke up this morning to a throbbing headache and, because of the way his quirk affects his internal temperature, waves of intense temperatures wracking his body in place of a standard fever. He’d slammed his hand on his phone and miserably typed out a text to his secretary, calling out before promptly falling back asleep until now.
Aside from that, he didn’t tell anyone else that he was sick. “How did you k-”
“Stop asking questions.” Bakugo snaps, causing Shouto’s mouth to audibly click shut.
On any other day, he would be stubborn. He would continue asking questions all day, both out of curiosity and just to annoy the blonde.
(Being in class A for so long has taught him how to tease, much to the pain of his old classmates, who already couldn’t differentiate his tone.)
Today, he resigns himself to the most challenging act — keeping his eyes open — as Bakugo starts boiling a pot of water. He fiddles with the rings on his hands, twisting and turning them around before switching to taking them all off and putting them back on.
After losing count of the number of times he’s repeated this, a bowl is set in front of him. The hand placing it is calloused and scarred, with only a few patches of unmarred skin peeking out here and there. He watches the way it flexes as it retreats from the bowl, and he follows it with his eyes to find the rest of Bakugo looking over him.
He must have changed his shirt at some point because now a worn, grey T-shirt that Shouto recognizes as one of the spare clothes he carries around is draped over his work pants. For a second, Shouto mourns the loss of missing seeing his bare torso and the way the rest of his arms and body would flex as he stretches to take his shirt off and-
What.
“Aren’t you in the middle of your shift?” Shouto asks because that’s a much better train of thought to go down.
“‘Called out,” Bakugo mutters, padding around to finish making his own bowl of what Shouto now recognizes as Okayu. Something warm pools in his gut at the realization that Bakugo probably called out in the middle of his shift to make him food. He nods and thanks him for the food, taking a small spoonful of the porridge so as to not upset his stomach any more.
They sit and eat together in a comfortable silence. Shouto tries not to scarf down the meal despite how good it is and ignores the way that Bakugo’s staring at him.
He looks up at the blonde when he finishes. He’s still staring at Shouto, a soft look on his face despite his scarred skin limiting his mobility of expression. “Done?” Bakugo- Katsuki asks.
(This is not Bakugo, he realizes. Bakugo is rough-edged and impersonal. He cares in a way that leaves no room for vulnerability, breaking cameras to preserve victims' privacy and cussing reporters out when they get in the way of shit. Bakugo is the teen he met in their first year of high school, lacking any shred of reality and coping mechanisms.
No, this is Katsuki. The boy who fought alongside him in the war and came out of it traumatized — forced to learn how to be vulnerable to survive. This is Katsuki, who cares for his friends with a furious intensity and knows when to hold back. The man who worked his ass off to do better when hit with the reality check that is U.A and therapy. Katsuki, who doesn’t coddle Shouto when he’s sick, yet shoves food in his face anyway. Who has grown so much since they were kids — because that’s what they were, when they were fighting in a war, kids — and still managed to retain his stubbornness.)
Shouto tilts his chin down in a lazy nod and Katsuki grabs his bowl, heading to the sink to wash their dishes.
When did this start feeling so normal? Shouto wonders.
The lull of the running water makes it even harder to keep his eyes open. He manages to catch himself when his head drifts down and snaps back to attention, ignoring the wave of nausea that hits him when he moves his head too fast.
Katsuki shuts the sink off and throws him a look. “Go to bed.”
Shouto stares at him. “You took the day off.”
“And?”
“Might as well do something.” He shrugs.
Rolling his eyes, Katsuki moves to hang up the dish towel in his hands. “If you don’t rest, you’re going to be useless tomorrow too.”
Shouto goes silent. Contemplating.
He listens to Katsuki’s footsteps inching closer to him and realizes he doesn’t want Katsuki to go. He sniffles, going to wipe the back of his hand under his running nose. The medicine he took this morning has definitely worn off by now, and he’s reminded of just how bad he felt when he woke up sick and alone this morning.
He doesn’t want to be alone again.
A hand lands on his shoulder and shocks him out of his thoughts. Katsuki tugs him up and Shouto wobbles as he tries to catch his balance, turning to face him and locking eyes with him in the process. They’re a few inches away from each other, now. Katsuki, who was definitely trying to lead him to bed and force him to sleep, stands frozen.
It hits him then, with him being extra sensitive and sick-brained.
Oh.
Oh.
Shouto wants to kiss him.
His breath hitches.
He thinks that Katsuki’s eyes flicker down to his lips for a moment, but he’s struggling to process anything through the fog sludging his brain.
A moment later, the hand returns to his shoulder and starts guiding him to his bedroom, softer.
“If you’re going to kiss me,” Katsuki starts and Shouto whips his head towards him in surprise. “You need to get better first. I’m not letting you get me sick, Icyhot.”
Shouto scoffs. “You’re already going to get sick from touching me.”
Katuki shoves him harder through the doorway and catches him when it causes him to lose his balance.