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Shouta considered himself a rational man — for the most part, anyway. The one thing he struggled with most? Taking care of himself. He’d never admit that shortcoming to any of his partners though; they were already well aware, and he really didn’t want to listen to the inevitable chorus of “we told you so” that would follow.
But, for as awful as he was at it, he wasn’t completely reckless. He patched up his injuries after each night’s patrol, sustained himself on caffeine and jelly packets, and reluctantly dragged himself to the ER if things got bad enough.
So it wasn’t his fault that he got an infection.
He couldn’t quite figure out how the criminal had managed it, but somehow they’d nicked his side with a blade. Shouta didn’t notice until he was halfway home, the villain left in police custody. The world tilted dangerously as his legs gave out beneath him — the telltale sign he’d lost too much blood. When he pressed his palm against the wound, it came away slick with crimson, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if any one of his partners found out, they’d have his head.
Rather than telling them, Shouta hauled his heavy body back to his apartment, disinfected and stitched up the gash, then went to bed. The injury wasn’t severe enough to justify a hospital visit, and honestly, he’d probably bleed out in the taxi before he even made it there.
The point being, he’d done everything right. Dabbed antiseptic wipe over the gash, sanitised his needle and thread, and secured bandages around his torso with just enough pressure to hold the wound closed. And yet somehow, he’d woken up the next morning with a fever of 103 and the kind of searing pain that made his vision blur. It didn’t make sense. He was certain he’d cleaned it thoroughly, and infections didn’t take hold this quickly — at least not ones from normal blades wielded by normal criminals.
Shouta’s first instinct was to haul himself to the hospital: call a cab, make it to Musutafu General, and get pumped full of antibiotics. But the hospital was about a half-hour drive away, while UA sat just a 10 minute shuffle from his apartment. It made more sense to drag himself to campus, where Recovery Girl could help him with considerably less hassle.
That’s how he found himself stumbling toward the UA gates, burying his face in his capture weapon and doing his best to project his usual “don’t talk to me” aura. If anyone stopped him now, they’d immediately know something was wrong. As if the pungent, sickly-sweet stench of infection permeating his jumpsuit wasn’t already sickeningly obvious.
Part of him had to wonder if this was quirk-related. The infection crawled through his flesh at an alarming rate, much faster in comparison to anything else Shouta had treated before. The cut had barely been worth stitching, yet here he was. Each pulse of his heart sent waves of agony radiating from the site, like someone had replaced his blood with gasoline and struck a match. As built-up as his pain tolerance was, Shouta found that pain never got any nicer to experience.
Dragging himself up the steps and down the hall, Shouta avoided students left and right as they arrived for the day. His own homeroom class would be starting soon— Shit. No time to find a substitute now. Shouta froze mid-step, torn between moving toward the infirmary and going to tend to his responsibilities in the classroom.
If his brain didn’t feel like it was actively melting, Shouta would’ve dragged his ass to the infirmary. But somehow, his feet had other plans, steering him toward his classroom, the fever-induced haze clouding his better judgement.
He’d barely made it halfway down the hall when a familiar drawl caught him off guard. “Hey Doll, you feelin’ alright?” A too warm palm pressed against his lower back, sending shivers up his spine as Snipe’s mask came into view. Shouta sucked in a sharp breath, fighting the urge to collapse back against the man’s sturdy frame.
“Fine.” He grunted, the word rasping from his throat in a way that was too sandpaper-rough to pass for his normal brand of grouchiness. Shouta could practically feel Snipe’s frown beneath his mask. The cowboy’s palm pressed against his forehead for barely a moment before jerking away like he’d touched a hot stove.
“Jesus, Shou! You’re burnin’ up like a goddamn furnace—”
“I said I’m fine,” Shouta growled, only to double over as his lungs seized. The coughing tore through him, each hack burning his chest and scratching his throat painfully. Snipe’s steady hands kept him upright, the cowboy’s voice dropping to a soothing murmur as his fingers traced circles between Shouta’s shoulders.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Calloused, work-worn hands gently cupped his cheeks, tilting his head up as the coughing fit subsided. Perfect, just what I needed — the whole gang is here. Higari hadn’t suited up in his Power Loader gear yet, giving a clear view of his concern, while Ken stood beside him wearing what he could only describe as a look of exasperated worry.
“Coming to work sick, again?” he drawled, eyebrows arching.
Shouta bristled, words forming on his tongue when more familiar faces rounded the corner. “Wouldn’t be our Shouta if he wasn’t working himself to death,” Hizashi quipped with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the worry in his eyes. Nemuri appeared at his side, arms crossed and lips pursed, while Toshinori lingered behind them, lanky frame draped in that ridiculous yellow pinstripe suit he seemed so fond of.
Yanking himself free from the concerned grips of his partners, Shouta lashed out with a bitter edge to his voice. “Yeah, I get it. I’m your walking disaster of a boyfriend. Can we skip the lecture this time?”
The six of them shared glances, a silent conversation passing between Hizashi, Nemuri, Snipe, Ken, Higari and Toshinori — each face bearing its own blend of concern and tired resignation.
“Don’t—”
“Okay, let’s go.” Before Shouta could even think to protest, Toshinori’s lanky frame expanded from gaunt and twig-thin to his hero form, muscles bulging as he scooped the smaller man onto his shoulder like a sack of rice. The sudden movement pressed against Shouta’s wound, sending white-hot pain shooting through his side. His vision swam, face going pale as his stomach threatened to empty itself of its contents then and there.
None of them seemed to realise, their casual banter trailing behind All Might as he carried Shouta toward the infirmary. At least, Shouta assumed that was their destination as the world grew hazy around him.
The world tilted again as All Might's too-broad shoulder jostled his wound, pain spreading like wildfire through his veins. Shouta's vision blacked out at the edges, the sounds of his partners' voices growing muffled and distant, like he was underwater. He tried to speak, to warn them about the infection, but all that escaped was a pathetic groan as unconsciousness claimed him.
--
When consciousness came back to him, it was a slow crawl, and Shouta gradually became aware of a weight pinning his legs to the bed. With effort, he pried his eyes open, lashes crusted, sticking together from dried sweat. The world swam in a blur before a familiar shape gradually solidified at the foot of the infirmary bed.
"Ryo?" The name was raspy in his throat, barely louder than a whisper. A flicker of amusement warmed his chest as the dog hero's head snapped up, drowsy eyes instantly brightening with recognition.
"Shouta! Are you okay?!" Ryo’s concerned expression softened slightly, relief evident in his brows as they furrowed. “Ya gave us quite the scare there, pup. Recovery Girl said your wound was infected with some kinda quirk-enhanced bacteria.”
he shifted his weight on the bed, careful not to jostle Shouta’s bandaged side as he got closer. “The others have been takin’ turns keepin’ watch. Been out cold for nearly two days now!”
Shouta's lips pulled into a frown, hand instinctively reaching to ruffle the soft fur of his partner’s head. “Oh… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you all.”
Ryo perked up, tail thumping gently against the bed. “We just care, y’know? And none of us like seein’ you hurt.” He leaned forward, nuzzling his snout against Shouta’s palm with a soft whine. “Next time, promise you’ll tell one of us before it gets this bad?”
Shouta sighed wearily, wincing as he adjusted his position. He wanted to offer the reassurance they sought, but the truth was, “The infection wasn’t this bad when I cleaned it up. If it had been, I would’ve gone to the hospital, at the very least.”
His partner continued to nuzzle against his hand, the gentle pressure a comfort. Shouta could tell by the way Ryo twitched that he was restraining himself from launching into a lecture about self-care. Instead, the dog hero simply sighed, his warm breath ghosting over Shouta's skin.
They at there in silence them until the infirmary door slid open, quiet voices spilling into the room. Shouta felt a sudden urge to melt into the ground as his partners' concerned gazes fell upon him, one by one.
"Shouldn't you all be teaching right now?" he muttered, voice still rough around the edges.
Hizashi dropped his chin on top of Ken's shoulder, his usually boisterous voice softer than normal. "It’s a Saturday, babe.” Oh, right. Out for two days.
The door slid open once again, accompanied by a cheerful voice. “We brought takeout— Oh, Shouta!” Anan abandoned the food delivery, practically shoving the bags into Sekijiro’s unsuspecting hands as she rushed to his side. Her eyes lit up with relief. “You’re awake!”
Nemuri followed the other woman, gently brushing Shouta's sweat-dampened bangs from his forehead. "Had us worried there, pretty boy. You know I can't bear the thought of losing my grumpiest boyfriend."
Shouta's almost smiled despite himself. He looked around at the eight concerned faces surrounding his bed—Hizashi, Nemuri, Toshinori, Snipe, Ken, Higari, Ryo, Anan, and Sekijiro—all watching him with varying degrees of relief and lingering concern.
"I'm fine," he mumbled, gaze dropping to the floor as heat crept into his cheeks. "Just pissed I got stabbed at all," he added with a huff as Toshinori carefully repositioned his pillows, calloused fingertips lingering near the edges of his clean bandages. For all his protests, something in his chest warmed at having all nine of his partners fussing over him, their concern wrapping around him like a familiar blanket.
As exhausted as he was of being mothered by his partners, Shouta couldn't deny the relief he felt at having them all here. Maybe he was just getting soft as he got older, but the thought of waking up alone sounded a lot worse than enduring their collective fussing. With a reluctant sigh, he settled back against the pillows, silently accepting not only their care, but the takeout containers being passed his way too.