Chapter 2: The Only One Who Gets You
The ventilation system hummed its low, constant note. A single fluorescent tube flickered overhead, painting the infirmary in pulses of pale light and shadow. Izuku lay flat on the narrow cot, his chest rising and falling in ragged intervals, the thin sheet tangled somewhere around his ankles. Sweat cooled on his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms.
The ceiling tiles swam in and out of focus.
His body felt wrung out. Hollowed. The relentless pressure that had been building under his skin for days—weeks, if he was honest—had finally broken. Scattered. Aftershocks of green lightning still crackled faintly at his fingertips, harmless now, just the last vestiges of a storm that had passed.
Bakugou hadn't moved.
He was still straddling Izuku's hips, his weight a warm, grounding pressure. His hands were braced on either side of Izuku's head, fingers curled into the thin mattress. His breathing was heavier than usual, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed somewhere just past Izuku's left ear.
The silence stretched.
Izuku swallowed, his throat dry. "Kacchan."
"Shut up." The words came out rough, scraped raw. Bakugou didn't look at him.
"I was just going to say—"
"I said shut up." Bakugou's gaze snapped down to his, and there it was—that familiar fury, but beneath it, something else. Something that made Izuku's stomach flip. "You don't get to talk right now. Not after that."
Izuku's face burned. The memory of what he'd just done—what they'd just done—rushed back in vivid, Technicolor detail. The way he'd arched off the cot. The sounds he'd made. The way he'd sobbed Bakugou's hero name like a prayer.
Bakugou's expression shifted. A muscle in his jaw jumped. "Don't."
"What?"
"Don't do that thing where you apologize for existing." Bakugou pushed himself up, swinging his leg over to sit on the edge of the cot. He didn't go far. His knee pressed against Izuku's thigh, a point of contact that felt deliberate. "It's annoying."
Izuku pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing at the dull ache in his lower back. The sheet pooled around his waist. He was still mostly naked, he realized, and Bakugou was still fully dressed, and the disparity made his face heat all over again.
"I wasn't going to apologize."
"Bullshit."
"Okay, maybe I was going to apologize a little."
Bakugou snorted. It was almost a laugh. Almost. He reached down and grabbed the discarded infirmary gown from the floor, tossing it at Izuku's face without ceremony. "Put that on before Recovery Girl comes back and has an aneurysm."
Izuku caught the gown, fingers fumbling with the thin fabric. He pulled it over his head, the cotton soft and worn against his oversensitive skin. "Where is she, anyway?"
"Old lady went to get supplies. Said she'd be back in twenty." Bakugou checked his phone, the screen illuminating his face in the dim room. "That was forty minutes ago."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." Bakugou's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You've been out of it for a while."
Izuku's stomach dropped. "How long?"
"About an hour. Give or take." Bakugou pocketed his phone, finally turning to look at Izuku fully. The flickering light caught the sharp angles of his face, the hard line of his jaw, the unusual softness around his eyes that he'd never admit to. "You passed out right after. I checked your vitals. You're stable."
"You checked my vitals?"
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm not useless."
"I didn't say—"
"You were thinking it."
Izuku opened his mouth, closed it. The familiar rhythm of their bickering was comforting, a lifeline back to normalcy after whatever the hell that had just been. But there was something different in the air now. Something unspoken sitting between them like a third person in the room.
Bakugou stood up, stretching his arms overhead. His shirt rode up, exposing a strip of toned stomach. Izuku looked away quickly, but not quickly enough.
"Your eyes are gonna get stuck like that if you keep rolling them," Bakugou said, his back turned.
"I wasn't rolling my eyes."
"Sure you weren't."
The door to the infirmary swung open. Recovery Girl shuffled in, her small frame silhouetted against the bright hallway light. She took one look at the scene—Izuku in a rumpled gown on the cot, Bakugou standing suspiciously close—and sighed.
"I leave for one hour," she said, closing the door behind her. "One hour."
Bakugou shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "He was overheating. I handled it."
"I can see that." Recovery Girl's gaze was sharp, knowing. She walked over to Izuku's bedside, pressing a cool hand to his forehead. "Temperature's down. Pulse is normal. How do you feel?"
"Tired," Izuku admitted. "But better. A lot better."
"Any residual pain? Numbness? Tingling?"
He flexed his fingers, testing. The usual static that lived under his skin was quiet now. Calm. "No. Just... heavy."
"That's expected." Recovery Girl pulled a small flashlight from her coat pocket, shining it briefly into each of his eyes. "Your body went through quite the ordeal. You'll need to take it easy for the next few days. No training. No hero work. And absolutely no Quirk usage unless it's an emergency."
Izuku nodded. "Understood."
"I mean it, young man. Your body is still adjusting to the changes in One For All. Pushing yourself too hard could cause permanent damage." She pocketed the flashlight, her expression softening. "You're lucky Bakugou was here."
Izuku glanced at Bakugou, who was studiously examining the posters on the far wall. "Yeah. I know."
Recovery Girl patted his knee through the sheet. "I'll write you a note for your afternoon classes. Both of you." She shot Bakugou a pointed look. "Since apparently you've appointed yourself his keeper."
"Aizawa did that," Bakugou muttered.
"Mm-hmm." Recovery Girl didn't sound convinced. She walked to her desk, scribbling on two small slips of paper. "Here. You're both excused for the rest of the day. Go home. Rest. And Bakugou—"
"What."
"Make sure he actually rests. Not just lies in bed thinking about training."
Bakugou snatched the notes from her hand. "Yeah, yeah. I got it."
The walk back to the dorms was quiet. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but charged. The campus was mostly empty at this hour—classes still in session, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the paved pathways. Izuku kept his eyes on the ground, watching his sneakers scuff against the concrete. His legs still felt a little unsteady, his muscles loose in a way that was almost pleasant.
Bakugou walked half a step ahead, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the autumn chill. Every few seconds, his head would twitch to the side, checking the perimeter. Old habit. Hero instinct. Or maybe he was just trying not to look at Izuku.
"You don't have to walk me all the way back," Izuku said.
"Yes, I do."
"I'm not going to collapse again."
"You don't know that."
"I'm pretty sure I'm not."
"And I'm pretty sure you're an idiot who doesn't know his own limits." Bakugou stopped walking, turning to face him. "So just let me do my job, okay?"
Izuku stopped too, caught off guard by the sudden intensity. "Your job."
"Yeah. My job." Bakugou's jaw tightened. "Aizawa assigned me to monitor you. That's what I'm doing. Monitoring."
"Right." Izuku nodded slowly. "Monitoring."
Something flickered in Bakugou's expression—frustration, maybe, or something deeper. He looked away, staring at a point somewhere over Izuku's shoulder. "Look. What happened back there—"
"Don't," Izuku said quickly.
Bakugou's eyes snapped back to him. "Don't what?"
"Don't do the thing where you pretend it didn't happen. Or the thing where you act like it was just—just protocol or whatever." Izuku's hands were shaking. He shoved them into the pockets of his gym shorts. "I'm not stupid, Kacchan. I know you're just doing what Aizawa told you to do. But you don't have to pretend it didn't mean anything."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Bakugou stared at him. The wind picked up, rustling through the trees lining the pathway, scattering leaves across their feet. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called out. The sound felt obscene in the tension.
"Who says I'm pretending?" Bakugou said finally.
Izuku's heart stuttered. "What?"
"You heard me." Bakugou stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He was close enough that Izuku could smell the familiar scent of him—smoke and sweat and something sweet underneath. "You think I do that for just anyone? You think Aizawa could order me to do something like that?"
Izuku's mouth opened, but no words came out.
"I've been watching you for months, Deku. Longer than that." Bakugou's voice was low, rough-edged. "Watching you burn yourself out. Watching you push past every limit you've got because you think you have to prove something. And I've been waiting—" He stopped, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
"Waiting for what?" Izuku whispered.
"For you to stop being such a self-sacrificing idiot and notice." Bakugou's eyes were blazing now, that familiar fire, but it was tempered with something else. Something fragile. "Notice that I'm not doing this because I have to."
The words hung in the air between them.
Izuku felt lightheaded. It wasn't the Quirk exhaustion—it was something else. Something that had been building for years, buried under rivalry and resentment and the sharp edges of Bakugou's pride. He'd always known there was something there. Something complicated. But he'd never let himself look at it directly.
"You..." He swallowed hard. "You mean..."
"I mean I'm not gonna spell it out for you, nerd. Figure it out." Bakugou turned away, resuming his walk toward the dorms. "Now come on. You need to eat something before you pass out again."
Izuku stood frozen for a beat, his brain struggling to catch up. Then he jogged to catch up, falling into step beside Bakugou. His heart was pounding. His skin felt too tight. But this time, he didn't try to ignore it.
They walked in silence for a while, the dorm building growing larger on the horizon. When they were almost there, Izuku spoke.
"Hey, Kacchan?"
"What."
"Thank you. For... for everything."
Bakugou didn't respond immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter than usual. "Don't thank me. Just don't do anything stupid."
"I can't promise that."
Bakugou snorted. "Yeah. I know."
They reached the dorm entrance. Bakugou pulled out his keycard, swiping it with practiced ease. The door clicked open, revealing the familiar warmth of the common room. Empty, thankfully. Everyone else was still in class.
Bakugou stepped inside, holding the door open. Izuku passed through, brushing close enough that their shoulders touched. The contact sent a shiver down his spine.
"Kitchen," Bakugou said, pointing. "Sit. I'll make you something."
"You cook?"
"I do everything better than you. Cooking included." Bakugou was already in the kitchen, opening cabinets, pulling down pots and pans. "Now sit down before I decide to let you starve."
Izuku sat on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, watching Bakugou move through the space with an efficiency that bordered on military precision. He chopped vegetables. He seasoned meat. He worked like he did everything else—with absolute focus, refusing to accept anything less than perfection.
It was mesmerizing.
"You're staring," Bakugou said without looking up.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just turn on the rice cooker."
Izuku reached over, flipping the switch. The rice cooker hummed to life. He watched Bakugou work, the knife moving in precise, rhythmic strokes. The afternoon light slanted through the kitchen windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air.
"Hey, Kacchan?"
"Mm?"
"What happens now?"
Bakugou paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board. He didn't look up. "What do you mean?"
"With... with us. With whatever this is." Izuku gestured vaguely between them. "Do we just go back to normal? Pretend it didn't happen?"
Bakugou resumed chopping. For a long moment, he didn't answer.
"That depends," he said finally.
"On what?"
"On what you want."
Izuku considered this. The question was terrifying. So many possibilities. So many ways to mess this up. But beneath the fear, there was something else. A quiet certainty that had been growing for years, buried under everything else.
He thought about the way Bakugou had held him. The way he'd touched him. The way he'd looked at him like there was nothing else in the world.
"I don't want to pretend," Izuku said.
The chopping stopped.
Bakugou turned, wiping his hands on a towel. His expression was unreadable. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
They stared at each other across the kitchen island. The rice cooker beeped, signaling it was done. Neither of them moved.
"Fine," Bakugou said, and his voice was rough, but there was something in his eyes that made Izuku's chest ache. "But if you think I'm gonna be soft about this, you've got another thing coming."
"I wouldn't expect anything else."
"Good." Bakugou turned back to the stove, pouring oil into a sizzling pan. "Now shut up and let me cook."
Izuku smiled. It was small, tentative, but it was real. "You're really bossy, you know that?"
"And you're really annoying. We've been over this."
"Have we?"
"Shut. Up."
Izuku laughed. The sound was quiet, almost breathless. But it felt like a beginning.