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Eijiro’s quirk is generally pretty easy on him. Sometimes, he’ll get some aches, maybe some stiffness. But it isn’t like Midoriya, who can’t seem to last more than ten minutes before breaking all of his bones, or Ururaka, who vomits after using her quirk.
He turns up to the gym late, nearing 10 o’clock. He’s always been a night owl, and really, Eijiro enjoys the quiet. No one ever trains this late, and if they do, they also don’t feel like talking. He’s a social guy, of course, don’t get him wrong. But sometimes, it’s nice to not worry about appearing any way. Just to be.
It isn’t until he reaches for his water bottle that he realizes he can’t flex his hands.
He stares down at them, spiky and impenetrable. He tries to bend his fingers, one at a time. No success. Eijiro frowns. His arms won’t bend the right way, either. It’s like an action figure who hasn’t been played with for a long time, creaky and painful.
Eijiro sighs. He had pushed too far. He wishes he had only trained one side, so he could at least bring his things upstairs. As it is, he can’t pick up anything at all.
“Shit,” he murmurs to himself.
This hasn’t happened in years. Not since he was young, and his mom was there to give him a warm bath and put him to bed.
Now, he’s on his own.
Eijiro stands, stumbling towards the showers. Even his legs are stiff, his whole body unable to correct itself. As he reaches for the faucet, he runs into another issue: he won’t be able to undress.
“Fuck!” Eijiro yells, frustration gripping him. He can feel his muscles beginning to ache, and he remembers the pain of it as a kid. Before he had gained control of his quirk, he had often been bedridden, crying and begging for his mother to help.
Anxiety begins to claw its way into his heart, a feeling of impending doom striking him.
Desperately, Eijiro slams his hand onto the shower handle, forcing it to hot as his muscles seize even further, rendering him nearly immobile. The scalding water hits him, dousing his clothes and making him feel heavy.
He can’t tell if it’s tears or shower water on his face.
The shower burns his skin, but the aching only gets worse, turning to sharp spasms as his muscles constrict and harden over and over.
“Shitty Hair!”
Eijiro’s eyes snap open, searching blearily for whoever was calling his name. Blond hair comes into view, and Bakugou’s angry red eyes are suddenly staring at Eijiro.
“Jesus, what the fuck are you doing?” Bakugou growls, dropping to his knees. “That shit’s boiling, come on.”
A hand seizes Eijiro’s arm, pulling him out of the water. He hadn’t even realized he had fallen to the floor, but as Bakugou drags him out of the shower, he vaguely recognizes the scrape of the ground against his bare calves.
Another spasm seizes his body, and Eijiro groans.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Bakugou asks.
Eijiro opens his mouth, but words don’t come out. Instead, a shaking sob makes it’s way out of his throat, and now he knows its tears.
Bakugou recoils, and Eijiro misses the warmth of Bakugou’s hands. The longer he’s out of the water, the colder he’s getting, and it’s only making the spasms worse.
Eijiro blindly searches for Bakugou, forgetting that his friend likely won’t take kindly to being grabbed like a little kid looking for his mother. But Bakugou’s warmth returns, hands settling on Eijiro’s shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” Bakugou asks, voice softer.
“My-my quirk,” Eijiro chokes out.
Bakugou’s eyes scan Eijiro’s body, and when he looks back at Eijiro, he looks… concerned.
“You can’t control it,” Bakugou says.
Eijiro nods clumsily, barely even able to control his neck.
Bakugou looks almost sad, and Eijiro wonders if he’s hallucinating from the pain.
And then, Bakugou’s arms have slid under Eijiro’s back and thighs, and he’s being carried like a princess. Eijiro would laugh, but he’s still in so much pain, and Bakugou is so warm, and for just a moment Eijiro basks in the comfort.
Bakugou is talking lowly, maybe scolding Eijiro, maybe trying to console him, but Eijiro doesn’t really care.
Heat radiates from Bakugou’s palms, and Eijiro leans into it, searching for the relief the heat brings.
“Jesus, Kirishima, what the hell have you done?” Bakugou mutters. It echoes around Eijiro’s pain-fogged brain, the use of his name rather than an insult striking him vaguely.
“Trained too hard,” Eijiro says, his words slurring as they make their way into the elevator.
“Idiot,” Bakugou says, but there isn’t any bite behind it.
The elevator ride is silent, as Eijiro’s body relaxes incrementally from the heat of his friend’s hands. He’s still in pain, but the areas that Bakugou’s long fingers can reach are beginning to dull.
The elevator opens, and they step out into the dark hallway. Eijiro is grateful everyone is asleep. Bakugou should be asleep. He’s always asleep first. Why isn’t Bakugou asleep?
“Why aren’t you asleep?” Eijiro mumbles.
“What?”
“Your bedtime.”
Bakugou pauses, before snorting. “I couldn’t sleep. I was going to train. Then I found you.”
“Sorry,” Eijiro whispers. Guilt claws at him.
“Stop,” Bakugou says, scolding. “Didn’t need to train anyway.”
Eijiro shrinks away from his friend’s harsh voice. Realistically, he knows that Bakugou isn’t mad, not really. However, in his pain addled, sensitive state, he can’t lend any brain power to deciphering the other boy.
“Shit, no, come on, it’s fine,” Bakugou says hastily. “I’m not mad. Calm down.”
Eijiro opens his mouth to respond, not even sure what he’s going to say, when another spasm hits him. It’s the worst yet, like his spine is being ripped out. His vision goes dark, his hearing just a dim ringing.
When the pain fades to an ache once more, Eijiro’s vision clears and he finds himself on the floor, Bakugou vague outline in his face. “C’mon, Eijiro.”
Eijiro blinks. He hasn’t ever heard his given name come out of his best friend’s mouth. As his eyes focus, he can see Bakugou’s expression clearly. He looks… scared.
“‘re you okay?” Eijiro mumbles. Something must have really been bad, if Bakugou is scared. Maybe there’s a villain somewhere. Shit, he needs to-
Bakugou barks a sharp, possibly hysterical laugh. “Me?”
Eijiro frowns. “Mmhmm.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re really not with it,” Bakugou says. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”
Eijiro is picked up once again, and he leans into the warmth of his friend. If Bakugou would stop being so prickly all the time, he would give really good hugs, Eijiro decides.
Eijiro’s back makes contact with a soft surface. Bakugou slowly slides his hands out from under Eijiro, and an unintentional whine slips from his lips.
Bakugou has disappeared, and Eijiro could cry. He knows it wasn’t likely that Bakugou would stay, but Eijiro really, really wishes he wasn’t alone. He misses his mom.
“Hey, stop crying.” Eijiro jumps, surprised by the voice. “I’m working on it, alright?”
Eijiro frowns in confusion. His eyes finally find the source of the voice. Bakugou is standing in front of a dresser-not Eijiro’s.
Bakugou had brought Eijiro to his room.
Eijiro really does cry now, the kindness of something as simple as sharing his space making his heart swell with love for his friend.
“Jesus, stop, it’s fine,” Bakugou says, returning to Eijiro’s side. “I’m gonna take your shirt off. Your pants too. They’re soaked. Don’t you dare make a joke about it.”
Eijiro couldn’t if he wanted to, because his throat is clogged with tears. Bakugou helps Eijiro remove his clothes carefully, leaving his boxers on, which Eijiro is very grateful for.
Bakugou retreats with the wet clothes, putting them somewhere across the room.
The bed dips again, and Bakugou sits awkwardly at Eijiro’s knees. “Where does it hurt the most?”
Eijiro honestly has no idea. It feels like every inch of his body has seized, something invisible squeezing as hard as it possibly can.
Of course, in a cruel twist of fate, he gets his answer in the form of a spasm wracking his chest. It sucks the air from his lungs, like something has cracked all of his ribs. He reaches up, grasping his chest and hoping Bakugou understands.
“Alright, alright,” Bakugou says. “You’re fine.”
Something hot and soft is laid onto Eijiro’s chest. A heating pad. Eijiro whimpers embarrassingly, but the relief is wonderful.
Hands wrap around his upper arm, squeezing and working at the tense muscles. Eijiro blinks his eyes open to stare at Bakugou, whose face is burning red.
“Wha-”
“It’ll make them stop cramping,” Bakugou muttered. “Don’t make it weird.”
Eijiro chuckles softly, leaning into Bakugou’s hands. They’re so warm. He must be heating them with his quirk.
Eijiro feels his muscles begin to loosen as Bakugou massages his arm. The hardening retreats, leaving his right arm normal once again.
Tears slip from his eyes from the sheer relief. The energy it takes from his body to be that rigid for that long is excruciating.
Bakugou moves over his body, Eijiro’s eyes slipping shut the more his limbs relax. He dozes, letting Bakugou fix it.
At some point, Bakugou begins talking, not really at Eijiro. Some complaint about their history class. Eijiro listens absent-mindedly to his friend’s gravelly voice, softer than Eijiro has ever heard it.
Eijiro isn’t sure how long they spend like that, but the absence of Bakugou’s warmth is stark. Eijiro opens his eyes, finding Bakugou across the room, digging through his dresser.
“What’re you doing?”
Bakugou doesn’t turn. “You need a shirt. And pants. I’m not sleeping next to your naked ass.”
Eijiro blinks. “What?”
“Shut up, Shitty Hair,” Bakugou says. Eijiro is beyond confused. Bakugou returns with one of his skull shirts and a pair of gray shorts. He tugs the shirt over Eijiro’s head, but throws the shorts at his face. “Put these on. I’m going to the bathroom.”
Bakugou leaves the room, and Eijiro still has no idea what the hell is going on. Eijiro slips the shorts on, and he traces the skull emblem on the shirt with his fingers. He smiles, fully planning to steal this and never give it back.
Eijiro, Mina, Kaminari, and Sero had had a running bet for months now on who would be able to get one of Bakugou’s shirts first. After several weeks of no success, they broadened it to all clothes. Still, nothing. Now, Eijiro had his shirt and his shorts. Score.
The door opens again, and Bakugou returns, changed into sleep clothes and smelling of toothpaste.
“That’s my side. Move,” Bakugou says, standing over Eijiro.
“What do-” Eijiro begins, before being shoved towards the wall. Bakugou climbs into the bed, pulling the blankets over his shoulders. Eijiro’s eyes widen. “You-I-I can go back to my room-”
“Go to sleep,” Bakugou says.
“But-”
Bakugou’s palm lands on Eijiro’s mouth. “Shut up. Sleep.”
“Bakugou-”
Bakugou props himself up on his elbow. “I’m not letting you sleep in your own room. You just spent the last hour and a half losing your fucking shit, and I have absolutely no trust that your quirk isn’t going to get stuck again, because you’re a fucking idiot. So shut up and go to sleep.”
Eijiro frowns, raising an eyebrow. “Are you… are you worried about me?”
Bakugou blinks slowly at him, before rolling over and turning the lamp off. “Sleep.”
Eijiro laughs. “Aw, Bakubro, you are!”
The silhouette of Bakugou’s middle finger is framed in moonlight from the window.
Eijiro snorts. “Thank you, Bakugou.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bakugou says. “Go to sleep, Eijiro.”
Eijiro smiles. “Good night, Katsuki.”