Chapter Text
“Dude,” Kirishima says, “you sound, not good.”
The list of ways “Bakugou sounds” on any given day includes angry and/or loud. It does not include ‘not good.’ Bakugou doesn’t do not good. He does good, great, and most often, fucking spectacular. Shove it, Kirishima.
Bakugou doesn’t have a chance to say any of this though, seeing as he’s currently bent over coughing his fucking brains out.
Kirishima puts a hand on his back - ugh - and pats twice, hard. There’s a stickiness in Bakugou’s throat that feels like it dislodges, and the coughing finally fucks off. Bakugou feels only the slightest bit dizzy when he stands back up, but again, only the slightest bit.
Kirishima’s giving him a Look. Kirishima gives him a lot of Looks on a lot of different occasions. This Look says you’re being an idiot. Let’s skip to the part where you admit something’s wrong and I try to help.
Bakugou glares. “What, you never choked on your own spit before?”
Kirishima rolls his eyes. “Everyone’s choked on their own spit, Bakugou, duh. That wasn’t -”
“Well maybe I have some strong fucking spit, ever thought of that?”
“Am I supposed to believe that?”
“Sure are."
Kirishima crosses his arms over his chest, but looks vaguely amused, which means Bakugou won. The rest of the class is already changed out, and Aizawa briefs them quickly on the training simulation, and Bakugou breathes thinly and evenly to avoid another show. When Midnight suggests they think of another super move, Kirishima says “spit baller, for Bakugou. He’s got the world’s strongest spit, you know.”
Ha ha, very funny. Bakugou punches Kirishima in the shoulder, but Kirishima just hardens and laughs at his expression before waltzing away to his assigned group.
Asshole.
.
Here’s the thing. Bakugou doesn’t get sick. He simply doesn’t. Sickness is for babies and extras and people who generally lack the ability to create world-ending explosions from their hands. So, not Bakugou.
That’s why he’s pretty sure this is no cause for alarm. Just some weirdly timed mutiny his body’s waging against him, which, whatever. He can handle it. Obviously.
“Uh, Kacchan.”
Bakugou’s head snaps up. He doesn’t remember it falling in the first place. His eyes feel crusty. Was he - asleep?
"Kacchan.”
It’s fucking Deku, whispering behind him. He’s feeling ballsy too, because he reaches forward and taps a finger against Bakugou’s back. Bakugou considers ripping that finger off of his hand. Instead, he throws his gaze over his shoulder and pins Midoriya with a glare.
Midoriya doesn’t balk. His eyebrows are scrunched inwards. He is biting his bottom lip. He looks. Concerned?
“I just -” he whispers, glances up, but Present Mic is still busy yelling words at the chalkboard. “You looked like you fell asleep. I didn’t want you to, I don’t know. Get in trouble or something.”
“I didn’t fall asleep, Deku-dumbass,” he counters. He didn’t.
“Oh. Are you sure? It looked like -”
“Mind your own fucking business.”
“I was just trying to -”
“Well don’t.”
Bakugou turns back around, and Present Mic keeps booming about the awe-inspiring flexibility of English particles, and really, he’s not getting sick. He’s not.
.
Kirishima decides to be subtle about it. But Kirishima’s an idiot, so obviously that doesn’t work out.
Full tissue boxes start popping up around the dorms. Accompanied with a few casually placed cough drops. He starts mentioning water way more often - “ah, I’m so thirsty, wanna come get some water with me?” - and talking about things like sleep schedules - “yeah, I’m gonna go to bed early tonight, it’s nice to get a full eight hours, you know?”
What a fucking moron. Bakugou stares at the cough drop he’d picked up - cherry-flavored, it reads - and explodes it in his palm.
Todoroki, propped up at one of the common room tables, notebook out in front of him, glances up. He’s the only other one here, and his expression is flat.
“I’m trying to study,” he says.
“Good for you.”
He squints his eyes at Bakugou, then at Bakugou’s hand, then at the little stack of cough drops next to him. His lips twitch. “Are you sick?”
“What?”
“I saw Kirishima buying cough drops at the store. Are you sick?”
“Why would Kirishima buying cough drops mean I’m sick, asshat?”
“Because you’d never buy them for yourself.”
Bakugou clenches his fists. His chest does this splintering thing where it tries desperately to force a cough out of him, but he uses all of his strength to hold it in. “You don’t know shit.”
“Well Midoriya thinks you are, anyway.”
“Of course he fucking does, ‘cause he’s an idiot who can’t keep his nosy fucking ass out of other people’s -”
Uh oh, too much yelling. The thing in his chest spreads, crawling up his throat. His head pounds sluggishly, and honestly, this is a waste of time anyway. Bakugou flicks Todoroki off, and ignores the gaze on his back as he walks down the hall.
.
It’s a Tuesday when Bakugou admits to himself that maybe, maybe he is sorta, kinda feeling a bit under the weather.
He wakes up and it’s like someone pumped lead in his veins. He feels heavy and slow, bumping into shit on the way to the bathroom, and when he looks at himself in the mirror - yikes. His skin looks a few shades off, his eyes puffy and tired, his cheeks the only bright spots of color on his face.
What the hell is this bullshit.
He takes a morning shower, and it helps draw out some of the pressure in his skull. Bonus, it also masks the sound of his coughing, which refuses to be stopped up this time. He coughs and coughs and coughs , ribs aching, and spits a wad of something frankly gross looking that disappears down the drain.
Ew.
He runs the water as hot as it can go to burn the achy feeling out of his muscles, and then steps out and is immediately shivery again. Typical. He changes quickly though, talks himself into eating a lackluster breakfast, and stomps his way to class.
Aizawa’s already there. Miracle of all miracles. It’s not like him to be here this early, but whatever, Bakugou doesn’t really care. He shuffles past the podium and doesn’t really process it until Aizawa’s called his name for the second time.
“-ugou.”
Oh, shit. He pauses, looks up. “What?”
Aizawa blinks. He narrows his eyes, and then blinks again. “I said we were starting to think you wouldn’t make it.”
Huh? Read the room Teach, Bakugou doesn’t -
He glances over his shoulder. The classroom is full. Everyone’s already at their desks. He looks at the clock. He’s two minutes late.
He’s two minutes late .
“Oh,” he says, dumbly.
He’s not looking at Aizawa anymore, but he can practically feel the eyebrow arch. “It’s fine, just go sit down.”
Bakugou trudges to his spot, head down, and refuses to let his cheeks burn about it. So, he lost track of time. Big deal. It happens to everyone. Well, it happens to everyone else. But Bakugou’s not going to have some identity crisis over it. He’ll just move a bit quicker tomorrow. Yeah.
“Kacchan,” Midoriya tries again between classes. “Are you ok? You look -”
Bakugou spins around, glares with as much force as he can muster. There’s an explosion growing in his chest and a dull throb in his head, and Deku better back the fuck off. Midoriya’s lips become a thin line, all pressed together, but he doesn’t say anything else.
.
“Bakubro, you ever been to an open-casket funeral? You kinda look like the bodies do. Ya know. All pale and ugh, I’m a dead person, that sorta thing.”
Bakugou considers throwing Kaminari out the window. Ashido smacks the idiot on the back of the head though, which is an acceptable substitute.
“Shut up, Kaminari,” she hisses, then looks over to Bakugou. “You look fine, Bakugou.”
Gee, because he’s so concerned with how he looks. Morons. No one mentions his late arrival to class. He figures Kirishima gave strict orders not to, what with the pointed looks he gives everyone else, as if Bakugou’s blind and can’t tell what’s going on here.
“You don’t want any more of your lunch?” Kirishima tries a bit later. Bakugou looks down; even the smell of the food makes his stomach roll.
“Nah, you can have it.”
“Dibs!” Kaminari calls instead, snatching Bakugou’s tray and pulling it across the table. Ashido smacks him again, while Sero laughs.
“Dude, you have the awareness of like, a boulder,” he says.
Kaminari shovels rice into his mouth and shrugs. “Boulders are cool.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Bakugou considers braining himself on the table. Instead, he rests his chin on his hands and tries his hardest not to fall asleep.
.
“Do you need to sit out?”
Bakugou looks up. At some point, Aizawa had lagged behind their little procession to USJ, and apparently Bakugou had too, because the two of them are pulling up the rear. Bakugou’s pretty sure he’d been standing next to Kirishima, but Kirishima’s a few steps ahead of him now, talking to Sero but with one ear obviously tuned into their conversation.
Oh, so it’s some sort of fucking conspiracy then. Whoever got Aizawa on board’s gonna pay.
“Sit out of what?” Bakugou says when he remembers Aizawa’s question.
“Hero courses.”
“Why?”
“Work with me here, kid.”
“I don’t need to.”
“You don’t need to work with me, or you don’t need to sit out?”
“Either.”
Aizawa has his own brand of Looks too. Like Kirishima’s, but more disappointed. The one he’s giving Bakugou now says do you like to be a problem child, or is it just all you know?
He sighs. “Have you at least gone to see Recovery Girl?” he asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.
“Why would I -” a cough slinks its way up his throat, and he pauses, breathes as slowly as he can to swallow it down “-go see Recovery Girl?”
Now Aizawa just looks annoyed. “Do you want me to spell it out for you?”
“Not really.”
Aizawa rubs his forehead with a curled fist. He huffs out a breath through his nose, and then another one through his mouth, and really, it’s all a bit dramatic.
“Give me even one reason,” he says after a long moment, “and I’m pulling you out.”
He looks at Bakugou like this is a threat and Bakugou needs to recognize it as one; as if. Bakugou’s in perfect shape. There will be no reasons. No matter how much Aizawa seems to think otherwise.
Halfway into training, it seems there might be a couple reasons after all, but Bakugou does a stellar job of hiding them because he’s Bakugou, not some inexperienced pissbaby. He’s teamed up with Todoroki, Asui, and Uraraka, and they’re navigating through the simulated earthquake, finding ‘victims,’ escorting them to safety, the usual. It should be easy. It is easy. And yet.
Bakugou’s body decides to betray him a bit more, like this morning wasn’t bad enough. He bends over to help an elderly man out of the space Round Face has cleared and his head does this ridiculous whoosh, darkening a bit at the edges. Whoa now. He only stumbles a bit, latching onto the nearest rock to steady himself, and not even the old man says anything. He catches Asui watching him, and scowls until she stops. Only a few minutes later, he’s firing off mini-explosions to clear a path to the next civilian when his chest shakes, a shake that starts small until it’s ripping its way out of his mouth. He has to stop, press a hand to his own ribs, and will them to be assholes later. Not now, in front of everyone, with Aizawa primed to bench him.
“Bakugou, maybe you should -” Uraraka starts.
“Can it, Round Face,” he forces between coughs, and there’s one awful slide of a moment where he thinks he might gag and actually vomit before the coughing subsides. See? Bakugou’s got it covered.
Except towards the end of training, when he feels vaguely like he’s floating above his body, he trips over a stupid misplaced rock and really, who even put a rock there in the first place? He stumbles, and stumbles again, and apparently that’s all the cue his head needs to do the whooshing thing again. For half a second, his vision is entirely dark. Uh oh. Someone grabs his bicep and squeezes, and his vision abruptly flashes back.
“You need to sit down.”
It’s Half and Half. His expression is distinctly unhappy.
“I’m fine,” Bakugou says. His tongue feels heavy and fat.
“No you’re not.”
Bakugou rips his arm away and forces a glare that feels a bit on the weak side. Only a bit. “Didn’t ask for your fucking opinion.”
“Bakugou, seriously,” Uraraka chimes in. She’s standing next to Asui, both of them a few steps behind Todoroki like they’re scared Bakugou’s gonna explode. Maybe he will, just to spite them. “You don’t look -”
“Why’s everyone so worried about how I look! Fuck off, seriously. It’s not a whole -” He coughs, the sort of cough that threatens to be an avalanche, but he manages to trap it behind his teeth. “It’s not a big deal.”
Todoroki actually rolls his eyes. Uraraka frowns. Asui looks back and forth between them.
“It’s dumb to hide sickness,” she says flatly. “I thought you’d be smarter than that.” Then she ribbits, a condescending ribbit of all things, and Bakugou’s had enough. He turns on his heel, and storms away from the conversation. The simulation ends only a few minutes later, which at least means no one else bothers him. He goes back to the dorms, and locks himself in his room, and plows through as much homework as he can with the splitting headache working its way into his skull, and calls it a fucking day.
.
Wednesday is Tuesday on fucking steroids. Wednesday is waking up cold even though it’s barely September and trying to think through a drum in his head and moving so slowly it’s like he’s underwater. Again, Bakugou doesn’t get sick. The few times he was sick as a kid, his mom had said the same thing to him:
“I don’t know, shit, I don’t get sick, I can’t - what the hell are you supposed to do?”
This is what his mom had done that time: stuck a thermometer in his mouth every five minutes, read a lot of articles about progressively more alarming illnesses, and basically worn a hole in the floor with how much she’d paced around, talking to herself or to him or into a phone. She’d brought him to the doctor on day three, and Bakugou remembers hating it. It was too clean and too bright and too cold, and smelled like medicine and alcohol wipes and sickness. No thanks. They’d diagnosed him with the flu and sent him back home, and the rest of the week had been a blur of drinking water and laying on the couch and feeling like a waste of damn time.
That was the last time he can remember, and it was almost a decade ago. His mom hadn’t known what to do then; how the fuck is he supposed to know what to do now ?
Maybe he doesn’t have to do anything. He trusts his body’s immune system to handle this. He’s not wimp enough to resort to things like shots and pills and doctors. He’ll push through, and if it sucks for a bit, it sucks for a bit. He’s not about to give everyone the fucking pleasure of seeing him as anything even close to weak. He’s sure that’s what they’re all waiting for anyway, why he keeps catching stray glances and slanted frowns; waiting for an empire to fall. It’ll be a long wait, assholes. Hope you have fun.
Class is a blur. Aizawa makes a face at him but doesn’t say anything. He tries to take notes, but his brain prefers to go fuzzy and tune out most of everything being said; he ends up doodling instead, which he hasn’t done since middle school when all the shit he learned was pointless. But this is what he’s been reduced to, it seems. Drawing squiggly lines on his notebook as everyone around him drones on and on about shit he can’t bother to pay attention to.
He expects to be hungry for lunch, because he couldn’t muster up the energy to eat breakfast. He’s not. He stares at his tray and the thought of forcing any of it into his mouth is honestly and frankly horrible. But. He also sees the way Kirishima looks at him; Ashido and Sero too, for that matter. Kaminari is the only one who’s blunt as always.
“You gonna eat that or nah? Let me know if the answer is or nah.” He winks, and Bakugou glares, and forces himself to shovel down a few tasteless bites. Ugh.
Kirishima pulls him aside in the locker room as he ties his shoes, slowly and deliberately, because the damn laces don’t want to just fucking lace already.
“Uh, Bakubro?”
He grunts.
“Friend to friend here. Bro to bro. Man to man.” He pauses. “I think you should sit this one out.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes. “That what you think?”
“Yes. Literally yes. You look, I don’t know dude. Bad. Like, actually bad.”
“I’m -” He directs a cough into the crook of his elbow; it sounds deep, wheezy. His head pulses with the force of it. “Fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“Bakugou, I don’t!” He lets out a frustrated breath, and yeah, this is Irritated Kirishima now. A rare sight, so Bakugou should honestly feel impressed he was able to summon it without even trying. “Clearly you’re sick, or something. I don’t get why you won’t just admit to it. You working yourself to the ground isn’t proving anything.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“See! This is what I mean! Why can’t you just -”
He takes a long breath in, lets a long breath out. Bakugou finally finishes tying his shoe; hell yeah. Standing up is a tricky thing that requires both feet planted firmly on the ground and a careful, measured movement back into an upright position. Kirishima is staring at him, arms crossed over his chest, visibly pissed.
“Fine. Do what you want. But this isn’t gonna end well.”
“It’s gonna end fine.”
“It’s not.”
“Ok.”
Kirishima glares, and glares some more, and then gives up with this giant flopping of his upper body that looks like defeat. “Just, come on,” he sighs, and walks by Bakugou’s side all the way to Ground Beta.
Training is hell. Actual and literal hell. Again, Tuesday but on steroids. By the time he’s back at the dorms, his head is trying to prove exactly how loud it can pound in his ears and his chest is supporting the weight of a small mountain dropped on top of it. His fingers shake. His back aches. His mouth is stuffed with cotton.
He tries to do homework and falls asleep at his desk, then wakes up at - what the fuck, three am, fuck this - and trips onto his bed and buries his face in his pillow until he falls asleep again. Thursday rises blue and sunny and joyous, and Bakugou wants to die. Wash, rinse, repeat.
.
“Kacchan.”
It’s Midoriya. Midoriya’s at his desk. Are they in homeroom? He scans the faces, then looks out the window; it’s still morning. Yeah, homeroom it is.
“Kacchan,” Midoriya says again. Bakugou would like him to shut up. A lot.
“What?” he says. His voice sounds funny; raspy and tight.
“You should’ve outgrown this,” Midoriya says.
Hm? “Outgrown what?”
Midoriya shakes his head. His lips are all pursed again. What’s he so worked up about?
“The whole I’m-not-sick thing.”
“‘m not,” he says, reflex now. He is tired, everywhere, and yet he only just woke up. Hmm. Must be a sign that his body is putting all its effort into fighting whatever stupid melodrama is going on inside him. So it’s a good thing then. Nice.
“Kacchan.”
Is dumb fucking Deku still talking to him? He squints his eyes up and tries to look at him for longer than two seconds, but the classroom lights are blaring and send little daggers into his forehead and nope, Bakugou would rather look somewhere else. The wall maybe. Or at Kirishima, who is watching them from across the room like a creep.
“Kacchan.”
“What? What, fuck Deku, what do you fucking want?” he snaps. He’s not in the mood to be bothered. Not even a little.
Midoriya doesn’t seem to care. “I’m giving you two days, and if you’re not better by then, I’m doing something about it.”
“You’re not my fucking mom.”
“No, I’m not, but clearly you aren’t capable of taking care of yourself, so someone has to -”
“Not capable my fucking ass.” His voice still sounds weird. He coughs to fix it, and then keeps coughing, and then even when he’s done, it’s still raspy. Great. “I - can you just leave me the fuck alone? Fucking shit, geez.”
Not his most eloquent moment, but Midoriya takes the hint. Or at least, Bakugou hopes he does. He crosses his arms on his desk and shoves his face into them, the darkness a welcome relief, and he can tell Midoriya lingers for a bit longer before eventually giving up and wandering over to his desk.
Who’s Midoriya to act like he knows what’s good for Bakugou? To act like Bakugou needs help? It’s always been his fucking MO, and no matter how many times Bakugou tells him to fuck off with the savior-Midoriya bullshit, he comes wandering back around like a fucking plague. Bakugou doesn’t need help. Not from Midoriya, or Kirishima, or Todoroki or Uraraka or Aizawa or any of them. Just wait until he’s better. They’ll all be eating their damn words.
.
Friday comes and goes, and Bakugou remembers none of it.
.
On Saturday, right before hero courses, Aizawa pulls him aside again. His expression means he’s not kidding. His lips look like Midoriya’s: a thin, jagged line pulled across his face.
“Are you even taking medicine?” he says, sounding like he’s working his way towards mad.
“Hm?”
“I said are you taking medicine.”
“Why would I be taking medicine.”
It's the wrong thing to say. Aizawa's face sharpens. “I’m calling it. You’re going to Recovery Girl. I gave you space and thought you’d have the common sense to go yourself, but congrats on proving me wrong. Come on, we’re going.”
Most of it’s been a fog, but at the mention of Recovery Girl, Bakugou’s head screams red alert and forces him to pay attention. He pushes space between them. Aizawa’s eyebrows furrow downwards. “I - no, I’m not. I don’t need to.”
“Can’t exactly believe you on that one, kid.”
But Bakugou’s head is spinny, his skin itchy, his throat fucking ragged. He’s tired of being tired, and even more tired of feeling like this. He just wants to do what he wants. And what he wants is to go to his room, and lay on his bed, and stay there for maybe a year. He doesn’t want to be picked and prodded at, pulled apart like some fucking science experiment, examined with a condescending eye and a voice saying “hmm, Bakugou, guess you’re not as strong as you think.”
Realistically he knows Recovery Girl won’t say this. But she’ll think it. They all will. He can’t - he won’t - he doesn’t want to -
“Please don’t make me.”
He doesn’t mean to say it. What he means is you can’t make me, but it comes out this way instead. Bakugou watches Aizawa’s expression do this weird thing where it pinches inward and then goes slack. He presses his hand to his face again and shakes his head.
“This is ridiculous, Bakugou,” he says, but even as he says it, Bakugou gets the feeling he just won the fight. “You know your way to my office, right?”
Bakugou nods.
“Second drawer, I’ve got some pain relievers. Take some, keep drinking your fluids, and go back to your room. Rest. Seriously. Take a nap. I’ll send someone to check on you later.”
Bakugou hums, and Aizawa gives him a long, long look. He’s upset. But he looks tired too. That makes two of them, go figure.
“You have my number?” he says abruptly.
“Yeah.”
“Call me if you need.”
Bakugou won’t need. He finds the pain relievers, and takes two, and trudges to his room, and turns off the light, and is asleep in seconds.
.
At some point, someone must check on him. Not someone. Kirishima.
His skin is sticky. His throat feels like it got cheese-graded. The boulder on his chest is being an asshole.
Kirishima’s hand is on his shoulder, then his forehead. Bakugou swats it off, and Kirishima makes a noise like snorting.
“You awake?”
Did he not just slap Kirishima’s hand? Dumb question. He tries to say yes, but it comes out as a groan. Well. A for effort, or whatever.
“Come on, have some water.”
It’s dark in his room. He opens his eyes and the sun is setting outside, making the sky pink purple orange red. It burns his eyes, so he looks away, to where Kirishima is all crouched over next to him, face wearing an expression he’s never seen before. Or maybe he has, and he’s just too tired to remember.
“You good to sit up?”
“Duh,” Bakugou forces, and doesn’t let Kirishima help him. He bends to a sitting position. The room tilts but rights itself again. As soon as he’s up, the cough lodged deep inside him rears its ugly fucking head, and he spends what feels like eternity hacking until his body’s too tired to keep it up; his ribs cave inward, and his back creaks in protest.
Hey, realization time. Being sick fucking sucks.
Kirishima tilts him water - what the fuck even, but Bakugou’s too tired to stop him - and then puts pills in his hand that Bakugou wordlessly swallows, and then asks if he’s eaten, which no he hasn’t, so Kirishima produces two snack bars.
“They’ll be light on your stomach,” he argues. Bakugou manages half of one before his body decides it’d rather not, and so he stops and shakes his head.
“I’m full.”
“No way are you -”
“I’m full.” Bakugou’s more awake now, or, well, at least awake enough to know this is dangerously close to coddling territory. Bakugou will not be coddled. He will not be given water and medicine and food and looked after like he’s a fucking kid. He won’t.
“Do you need anything else?” Kirishima asks quietly. His face is blurry in the near-dark. He’s biting his bottom lip, and a massive crease splits his forehead. Bakugou is irritated and uncomfortable and it flames on his skin.
“Shut up,” he says. Kirishima raises an eyebrow, and Bakugou scoots back into his bed, rolls so his back is facing Kirishima. “I don’t. I’m fine.” He coughs, but only once. “I’m going back to sleep.”
“Ok, ok. You, uh. You do that. If you start feeling worse, please text me.”
Bakugou grunts. Not likely. First Aizawa, now Kirishima. If they just stopped bothering him, maybe he’d get better faster. Ever thought of that one, assholes? Clearly not. Kirishima pokes him on his back, then does it again again when he doesn’t react.
“Bakugou, I’m not joking. You’ll text me if it gets bad.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Bakugou says, just to get Kirishima to stop yapping. It works. There’s a noise like sighing, and Kirishima mutters a few things to himself - “not even charging your phone, dumbass. I’ll fill up your water, leave the rest of this too in case you get hungry, maybe you can -” and Bakugou drifts off as the words fade into the background.
.
The next time Bakugou wakes up, it is very, very clear that something is wrong.
There’s a noise. An annoying noise. Somewhere far away. What the fuck. It travels kilometers and buries itself in Bakugou’s ear and makes his heart beat so loud he can feel it in his head.
Bakugou swings his arm over towards the noise. It travels in slow motion and then hits something hard. Said ‘something’ vibrates against his skin like a million tiny ants crawling on his arm. What the fuck is that. He forces his eyes open, and it takes a second, two seconds, five seconds to realize what’s going on.
His phone. His arm’s on his phone. His phone is lighting up and shaking. Someone’s calling him?
He fumbles to grab his phone and squints away from the awful burst of light and doesn’t even look at the contact, just swipes with shaking fingers - shaking fingers? - until it finally answers.
The voice is too tiny to be heard. Oh, right. Bakugou presses the phone to his ear.
“-checking in. I texted you a bunch of times, and I’m sure you’re just sleeping and you’re mad at me now, but I’m about to go to sleep and figured I’d send a text before to check in with you and stuff. But you didn’t answer any, and well, I know this is annoying. I - you can be mad at me and all. I just, you know. Wanted to call and see how you’re feeling. Better safe than sorry.”
It’s Deku. His voice splinters in Bakugou’s head. What the fuck is he talking about? Nothing Bakugou cares to understand. His body reminds him how exhausted he is; he’s really, really exhausted. Why is Midoriya calling when Bakugou is this exhausted. Kinda rude of him. What time is it even? Not any time Bakugou’s interested in being awake for. He’d rather be asleep. Yeah. There’s an awful ache all in his bones and a blanket tossed over his brain and wait, why is he awake again?
“-chan? Kacchan, you’re freaking me out. Are you ok? Can you say something? Kacchan?”
Bakugou tries to form the words fuck off. They don’t come out. He tries to breathe instead, and it gets stuck in his chest, and the ten ton weight crushes further in and then he’s coughing, and fuck, holy shit, this isn’t fun. This is not fun at all. His body jerks forward, and his lungs try to forcibly eject themselves from his mouth, and each cough is a knife to his head, and holy shit, is he about to throw up?
“-oming to your room, I don’t care if you’re mad, Kacchan, this is. Don’t move, ok? I’m coming. Is your door locked? I can -”
The phone falls at some point. Bakugou can’t feel his fingers. All he hears is his own coughing, loud loud loud, an explosion all up in his ears, nitroglycerin coating his chest, struck with a match, blasting him open from the inside out. The room is dark. Is it? Are his eyes even open? He can’t tell. There is a fire in his face, and he scrubs his hands against his eyes, but that only makes the fire hotter.
There is a new noise. A loud one. Louder than Bakugou even. Someone’s pounding on the wall. Or his door? They might be shouting too. It’s hard to tell.
Bakugou’s mouth makes a noise like a cough that’s closer to a retch.
The crashing noise outside his head bursts inward, and turns out Bakugou’s eyes are open after all, because he gets a sudden glimpse of Midoriya and Kirishima, dressed in pajamas, lit up in the glow of the hallway. They look weird. Scared. What a couple of fucking babies.
Bakugou tilts to the side, vomits, and his head turns off the lights.