MHA Holdiay series

The biting wind of late autumn seemed to seep into everything, including Shoto Todoroki's bones. He shivered, the persistent cough rattling in his chest. He tried to focus on Professor Aizawa's lecture on advanced quirk control, scribbling notes even as his vision swam momentarily. This week had been a blur of exhaustion, a fever that refused to break, and a stubborn denial of being actually sick. He couldn't afford to fall behind.

He just had to make it through Heroics practice.

That, however, proved to be a monumental task. During their sparring exercise, Shoto stumbled, his ice quirk sputtering weakly instead of forming a solid wall. A Kacchan-brand explosion echoed across the training ground as Bakugo effortlessly dodged the pathetic stream of frost.

"Oi, Icy-Hot! What the hell is wrong with you?" Bakugo's voice, even laced with irritation, cut through the general murmur of practice. "You moving like a damn zombie!"

Shoto straightened, attempting to ignore the throbbing in his head. "I'm fine, Bakugo."

"Fine my ass!" Bakugo barked, stalking closer. He stopped inches away, his crimson eyes narrowed. "You're paler than a damn ghost, and you're sweating like a pig. What the hell are you trying to prove?"

He knew, deep down, that Bakugo wasn't really asking. He was stating. Bakugo always saw more than he let on – a frustrating, endearing trait when it came to their secret relationship.

"Just a bit tired," Shoto mumbled, turning away.

That was enough. With a speed that surprised even Shoto, Bakugo grabbed his wrist, his grip surprisingly gentle despite the fire crackling in his palms. "The hell you are. You're coming with me."

Before Shoto could protest, Bakugo was dragging him towards the dorm building, ignoring the confused stares of their classmates. He didn't release his hold until they were inside their shared dorm room, the small space a sanctuary they had carefully carved out for themselves amidst the chaos of university life.

Bakugo shoved him none-too-gently onto the bed. "Stay there. Don't move."

Shoto, too weak to argue, simply watched as Bakugo rummaged through their shared closet, pulling out a thick blanket and a thermometer.

"Open," Bakugo commanded, brandishing the thermometer like a weapon.

Shoto complied, and the silence stretched on, punctuated only by Bakugo's frustrated huffs. Finally, he pulled the device away, his lips thinning into a grim line.

"Hundred and two. Idiot. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't want to be a bother."

Bakugo scoffed. "Like you ever bother me? You're already here, Icy-hot." He disappeared into the small kitchenette, returning with a glass of water and some pain relievers. "Take these."

The next few days were a blur of fever dreams and Bakugo's surprisingly competent care. He brought Shoto cool compresses for his forehead, brewed strong, throat-soothing teas, and even forced down bland but nutritious meals. He grumbled incessantly about Shoto's stupidity and weakness, but his touch was gentle, his eyes watchful. He even put on some low jazz music – a bizarre but welcome choice. Shoto realized, in a haze of fever-induced clarity, that this was Bakugo's way of showing affection.

One evening, Shoto woke up feeling significantly better. The fever had broken, leaving him weak but clear-headed. Bakugo was asleep in the armchair beside the bed, his spiky blond hair a mess, a book of hero analysis open on his chest.

Shoto felt a wave of warmth spread through him, a sensation that had nothing to do with the lingering effects of the fever. He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from Bakugo's forehead.

Bakugo stirred, his crimson eyes snapping open. He blinked, confusion clouding his features before recognition dawned. "You're awake. How do you feel?"

"Better," Shoto said, his voice still a little raspy. "Thank you, Bakugo. For everything."

Bakugo shifted uncomfortably, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. He averted his gaze. "Whatever. Just don't get sick again, you pain in the ass."

Shoto smiled, a genuine smile that reached his mismatched eyes. He reached out and took Bakugo's hand in his. "I'll try not to."

Silence fell between them again but it was a comfortable silence, filled with unspoken emotions. Bakugo's hand tightened around Shoto's.

Bakugo sighed, a sound that held a strange mixture of exasperation and tenderness. He leaned in close, his breath warm against Shoto's cheek. Then, without warning, he pressed a soft kiss to Shoto's lips.

"You're welcome," he mumbled, pulling back slightly, his eyes searching Shoto's. "And... I love you, damn it."

Shoto's smile widened. Finally, the truth, spoken aloud in the quiet of their shared space. He reached up, cupping Bakugo's cheek.

"I love you too, Katsuki."

And in that moment, surrounded by the remnants of fever medicine and the scent of ginger tea, Shoto knew that even the fiercest explosions could be followed by a quiet, enduring warmth. This was their secret, their love, and their own unique brand of care, forged in the fires of rivalry and tempered by the quiet moments they shared in the heart of their complicated, beautiful life.