Work Text:
BANG! BANG! BANG!
”BAKUUUGOOOO!!! WAKEY WAKEY!!!”
Kirishima’s voice could be heard down the hallway of Class 1A’s dorms as he stood proud and full of reckless joy. Waiting with him were Kaminari, Ashido, and Sero, giggling and bracing themselves for the inevitable yelling, explosions, and death threats.
But… nothing.
No stomping. No muffled curse words. Not even a grumble.
The group all exchanged wary looks. Ashido’s brow furrowed, her laughter dying in her throat. She knocked once again on the blond’s door—softer this time. “Bakubabe? You in there?” she called out, her voice dripping with unfamiliar concern. It wasn’t like Bakugo to not get up on time.
A few moments passed before the small sounds of rustling blankets and shuffling feet were heard. The doorknob twisted.
When the door finally cracked open, the group looked like they just saw a murder scene.
Bloodshot eyes. Tousled, matted hair. Shirt clinging to sweat-soaked, pale skin. And an irritated pink nose, possibly from rubbing it too much. The blond squinted his eyes like their mere presence was enough to offend him.
”The fuck you extras want?” Bakugo rasps, voice raw and nearly unrecognizable.
“Holy shit—Bakugo!!! Are you… sick?!” Kaminari blurted.
Kirishima slapped the back of the electric boy’s head. “Of course he’s sick, Denks! Just look at him!”
Sero crossed his arms and shook his head. “Ay, ay, ay… Aizawa told you not to train for too long outside in the snow yesterday, tú cabrón,” he muttered.
Ashido didn’t bother with the useless commentary—she was too busy shoving Bakugo back into his dorm room.
”Enough with the small talk!!! Bakubabe, no arguments. You need rest! Now. You aren’t allowed to die on us the day before our big Christmas party!!! What about our plan with Midobabe?-” She slapped her hands over her mouth and looked around. Kirishima and Sero were outside the dorm, too busy focusing on a brain-dead Kaminari. She sighed in relief.
Bakugo didn’t protest; he flopped down onto his bed and gripped his sheets. Ashido grabbed her hand bag and rustled through its contents. The blond was too exhausted to even process Ashido’s previous words.
”Hold on… I know I had it in here… Is that? No… A-ha!” She held up a small pill bottle. “Ibuprofen!!! Here,” she stated before shaking two of the capsules out. “Take these. It should help with the aches.”
Bakugo grunted before whispering, “I dœn’t- I don’t need your help, Raccoon Eyes.” He snatched the pills from her hand in an instant and downed them with no water. Ashido smiled, touched by the fact that Bakugo actually accepted her help.
”Awwh, you DO love me!!! Anyways, rest up Bakubabe. We’ll be out here if you need anything!!!” She approached his door, and before leaving she yelled out, “I’M ONE TEXT AWAY!!!” Ashido shut the door behind her, and the footsteps of the rest of the Bakusquad boys followed after her.
Bakugo groaned.
He absolutely despised being sick. It only happened once in a blue moon for him, but when sickness did hit? It hit him hard. He couldn’t remember the last time he was sick. His memory was fuzzy. Was it middle school? Yeah, it was probably middle school. That one week where he couldn’t eat anything, threw up his guts, and his mom hovered over him like a military nurse. He thought that was the worst of it. Boy, was he wrong.
His head throbbed like a heartbeat, his body ached, and worst of all, Ashido’s fucking painkillers just heightened his pain all together. Every nerve felt too tight. Every brush of air was too hot on his skin. Every inhale was like someone stabbing into his chest.
He collapsed back onto his mattress, head hitting his pillow. In one direction, he was too hot; and in another direction, he was freezing. The thermostat betrayed him, his blankets betrayed him, hell, even his body betrayed him. The agony wasn’t stopping anytime soon, and Bakugo felt like he could cry.
In that one moment, he wished his mother were there with him.
He still remembered the familiar scent of peppermint wafting into his room whenever she’d brew some iced tea for him—specifically when he was sick. And her hiyajiru… god, what he would do for a taste of her homemade hiyajiru right now. It was the only kind of soup that actually helped him when he was ill with its soothing, cooling qualities.
Peak nostalgia for Bakugo was being wrapped up in his favorite All Might blanket while sipping on peppermint tea and drinking his soup, all while binging old All Might reruns on his TV. Occasionally, he’d invite Izuku over, but he ordered him to stay away from himself so that Bakugo wouldn’t make his best friend sick. And that’s exactly what Izuku would do.
That was comfort.
That was his peace.
Ugh, being sick was making him sappy and gross. But he was still alone, feverish, and probably suffering of hypothermia or something. And somewhere, out in the common room of class 1A, the news was already spreading:
Katsuki Bakugo was sick.
——————————————
“Seriously, he’s sick. And on Christmas Eve of all days too!” Ashido whined, dramatically falling onto a beanbag and rolling onto her stomach.
Around her in the common room were Jirou, Yaomomo, Uraraka, and Hagakure, all sitting in a circle and whispering small sympathetic noises as if Bakugo could hear them three floors down.
”Ugh, I was sick on my birthday once,” Hagakure huffed. “It was torture!!! I can’t imagine how Bakugo feels right now. He’s like, aggressively anti-germs.”
Yaomomo nodded solemnly. “We should make him some soup, don’t you think?. Perhaps ginger? Or miso?” she suggested.
”I’m down for soup duty,” Jirou chimed in. “I heard Ojiro had some ginger root near the back of the fridge. I can look up some easy recipes.”
Uraraka, however, looked hesitant. “Should we… tell Deku? Bakugo’s his best friend. Shouldn’t he know too?”
And because the universe has a flair for drama, a certain green-headed boy walks into the common room yawning—hoodie slightly too large for him and hair still in his All Might bonnet. “Shouldn’t who know what? What’s up, guys?” he asked softly.
The girls all froze as if they were caught discussing a crime. Yaomomo and Ashido quickly looked away, and Jirou sighed before getting up and mumbling, “I can’t do this today.” Uraraka groaned before getting up on her own to fill in a currently clueless Izuku.
“Deku…” she said carefully. “Mina was just saying that Bakugo’s, uh… kind of sick today. She thinks he has a fever? She already gave him some painkillers, so that should help. We were gonna make him some soup and stuff if you—”
She cut herself off because Izuku’s face had gone white. Like real white. Like “a villain just attacked a hospital” white.
“Ashido gave Kacchan what?!” Izuku said, voice suddenly too loud, too sharp.
”Um… Ibuprofen?” Uraraka asked-stated, clearly confused on why this was such a big deal.
Izuku ran a hand up and down his face, settling on top of his head. “He’s not supposed to- Kacchan’s pain gets worse if he takes painkillers. It reacts weirdly to his quirk. He’s probably in a lot of agony right now…”
Ashido physically cringes. “Oh, oh my gosh. I’m so sorry, Midobabe. I didn’t know.”
Izuku didn’t respond, because suddenly, nothing else mattered. Not the party. Not the soup. Not the vague flutter in his chest at the thought of Kacchan being sick and vulnerable.
”I need to fix this. I’ll- I’ll be right back. I’ll fix this!” Izuku told himself before activating his One For All at 2% and sprinting off.
Meanwhile, somewhere upstairs, Kaminari and Kirishima were making their grand reappearance, gently balancing a steaming mug of ginger-honey-green tea between them like it was a sacred offering.
“Think he’s gonna throw it at us?” Kaminari whispered.
“Only if he’s strong enough to move his arms,” Kirishima whispered back.
——————————————
A soft knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Bakugo rasped, barely audible.
Kaminari and Kirishima stepped in, cradling a steaming cup of tea between them. “Hey, Bakugo. Thought this might help you feel a little better,” Kirishima said, setting it gently on the nightstand.
Bakugo slowly forced himself upright. the effort made him dizzy, but the cup in his hands felt warm — almost comfortingly so. Too warm, maybe. Hot, actually. He brought it to his lips, eyes half-lidded and unfocused—
snatch.
The cup of tea in his hands was now not in his hands. What? Where? How?
Green. Big Eyes. Freckles. Hoodie.
Deku?
Izuku stood in the middle of Bakugo’s dorm room, shouting at Kirishima and Kaminari for their foolishness. “Kacchan overheats if he drinks hot beverages!!! Have you ever seen him drink hot tea before? It’s for a reason!” He sighed before he barked out orders at them, who currently looked like two deer in headlights.
”Kirishima, take this tea back and brew a new one, specifically peppermint with 6 ice cubes. Kaminari, go grab me a small bowl of ice and another bigger empty bowl.” The condiment duo saluted and yelled out in unison, “Yes, Deku!” before sprinting out of Bakugo’s dorm room. Izuku approached his best friend and placed a hand to his forehead.
”Kacchan.. you’re heating up badly. Do you want me to open up a window?” Bakugo attempted to protest, but he couldn’t do anything except nod. Izuku got up off of his knees and met the blond’s window before pulling it up—releasing snow-chilled air into the small space. A soft breeze swept through, and he saw it: the way Bakugo’s body relaxed ever so slightly. The tension in his shoulders loosened. The clench in his jaw softened. He turned over, mumbling something inaudible.
Izuku stepped back to where he was kneeling and got close. “What was that, Kacchan?”
“You… take care of me so well… fuckin’ Deku…” Bakugo croaked. Izuku felt his ears turn red.
It crept up his neck and into his ears like second nature, the way his name sounded coming out of Bakugo’s mouth, all gravelly and half-lucid, like he was stuck in a fever dream and Izuku was the only part of reality that stayed.
The green-haired boy barely had time to respond before Bakugo tugged on his sleeve.
A weak gesture. Barely a twitch. But it was enough to make Izuku freeze.
“…stay here. Jus’ sit. Don’t leave yet.”
“Kacchan,” Izuku whispered, heart pounding. he brushed Bakugo’s hair back — soft, a little sweaty, spiked in all the wrong directions. “You’re sick. You should rest—”
“‘Rest better with you here,” Bakugo muttered. then: “Don’t make me say it again, damn nerd.”
Izuku laughed under his breath. Breathless. Too fond.
“…Okay. I’ll stay.”
Bakugo’s fingers grazed Izuku’s hand, and the latter laced their hands together without hesitation.
Kirishima and Kaminari come by a couple minutes later with the items he requested, then they made their leave.
Izuku dabbed at Bakugo’s forehead, repeatedly rubbing small ice cubes over his hands, and let him sip some of the peppermint tea Kirishima had brewed. He rubbed ice cubes over his veins and blisters, calming his nerves and lowering the intensity of Bakugo’s blisters.
“After this, I’ll make you some hiyajiru. Would you like that, Kacchan?” Izuku asked smiling. Bakugo nodded.
After downing his glass of tea, Bakugo laid back down with Izuku by his bedside. The blond wanted to tell him off, tell him that he’s not his mom, tell him that he can take care of himself. But he couldn’t. Fever-fogged, barely functioning, the words slipped out like they were second nature:
“…why’re you so good at this,” Bakugo mumbled.
“At what?”
“…taking care of me.”
Izuku froze. His heart leapt out of his chest.
Bakugo wasn’t done.
“You always… remember my shit. Like y’know me better than I do. Peppermint tea, hiyajiru… how, Izuku? How’re you so good at this, and so cute and so… so fuckin’ great…” he rambled. Izuku didn’t stop him. Didn’t interrupt.
He squeezed Bakugo’s hand and softly replied with, “Go to sleep, Kacchan.”
The freckled one waited until Bakugo’s breathing leveled out and the tension in his face melted away. He looked so peaceful.
Izuku leaned forward, kissed Bakugo’s fever-warmed forehead, and whispered:
“I know all this because I love you, Kacchan. So, so much.”
——————————————
The next morning, Bakugo woke up on time: 5:30 A.M.. No alarm, just his subconscious readjusting himself back to his regular routine.
He stayed in bed and looked at the ceiling, slowly blinking. His body didn’t have that weird ache anymore. His skin didn’t feel clammy. Hell, his hands didn’t even have blisters anymore. His throat still stung a little, but it didn’t feel raw. Not like an aftertaste of whatever illness he had.
What did linger was a small warmth in his chest.
Not fever-warmth. Not fireplace-warmth. Something softer. Something that reminds him that there’s always hope, even in the worst circumstances. Someone with green curly hair and eyes that could light up a city with how bright they are.
He sat up slowly, pushing the covers off. The air in his room is cold — the winter morning seeping through an open window, fogging up the edges of his consciousness like breath on glass. He shuffles over and shuts it, fingers brushing ice-kissed metal, then turns around to head back to bed.
That’s when he sees it.
A bowl. Plain, ceramic, sitting neatly on the edge of his nightstand. Next to it is a folded note, paper edges curling ever so slightly in the cold air. Bakugo just stands there, unknowing if he should read it or not. Because he knows who it’s from.
Yet he still sits down and reads the note away.
His eyes scan over the messy kanji, obviously rushed—so obviously Deku.
”to my dearest kacchan:
merry christmas!! hope you’re feeling better today. i made your favorite: hiyajiru! i hope you like it :)))
p.s. there’s another cup of peppermint tea in your fridge <3”
Bakugo reads it again and again. His thumb brushes over the loopy tail of the heart at the end like it’s something sacred. His fingers tremble slightly. Not from fever. Just… from something. He sets the note down gently and looks at the bowl. The soup is still cold, clearly made last night. The miso has settled slightly at the bottom, bits of cucumber and tofu floating lazily across the surface. It smells exactly how it should. Exactly how he likes it.
Bakugo picks up the spoon and takes a bite, letting the chilled broth sit in his mouth for a second before swallowing. It’s good. No, it’s perfect. Just the way he’d make it for himself. Just the way his mom used to make it when he was small and sick and miserable, bundled up in blankets and too prideful to ask for help.
He chews slowly, methodically. He doesn’t know if it’s the taste or the note or the memory of Izuku whispering “I love you” against his skin, but suddenly he can’t stop smiling.
Like… really smiling.
”You damn nerd…” the blond mutters. “Y’have no idea the impact you’re having on me.”
Bakugo’s fever may have gone, but, gosh, he’s still burning up, and it’s all Deku’s fault.