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“This is the most pointless debrief ever,” Katsuki growls.
Todoroki hums noncommittally. Before Katsuki can glare at him for his nonchalance in the face of Katsuki’s incredibly valid frustration, Todoroki taps on his foot.
Katsuki looks at him.
“Checking your nerve endings,” Todoroki says, ignoring Katsuki’s responding sputter. He shuffles closer in a move that should be inelegant as all fuck, given he’s just dragging his ass across the floor to be next to where Katsuki’s lying on the couch, but somehow he manages to look graceful. Bastard.
“Get fucked,” Katsuki grumbles, watching balefully as Todoroki systematically prods at pressure points in his leg.
“Reaction tests are very important,” Todoroki chides. His face does that thing it does, the one that Kaminari says is literally the same as every other expression Todoroki makes, man, I dunno what you’re talking about, but Katsuki can tell is — a smile, maybe. Something warm and fond and fucking annoying.
“If you wanna test my reflexes so bad, I could kick you,” Katsuki threatens.
Todoroki pays this no mind, instead rising from the floor. It’s pretty unfair, Katsuki thinks bitterly, that everything he does looks elegant and fluid when Todoroki’s skills off the battlefield are… sub-optimal, to say the least. It’s a fucking deception. Competent-passing, instead of the blaring warning signs that should go off every time he opens his mouth or just tilts his head to the side. You’d think that would be a safe movement, right? Fuck no. Every time Todoroki tilts his head to the side, there’s a part of Katsuki gearing up, ready to take whatever psychic damage comes his way.
“What are you doing?” Katsuki asks warily. It’s not like — Katsuki trusts Todoroki, all right, he does. Even if he denies it when Todoroki is being especially annoying, it’s not the kind of thing that changes. You can’t really go through all the things their class has been through together without learning how to trust each other, and what Katsuki has with Todoroki — it’s beyond that.
So.
He trusts Todoroki, and probably always will. It’s not that he’s worried about what Todoroki’s doing out of any — safety concerns or anything, it’s just… sometimes having Todoroki so close can be dangerous for Katsuki’s health.
“I’m checking your shoulder,” Todoroki says. It’s patient in a way people rarely are with Katsuki.
That can also be dangerous for Katsuki’s health.
But Katsuki is eighteen now, not the fifteen year old boy-king who tore people to shreds for daring to look at him with anything that could be mistaken for pity, so he bites back the retort on the tip of his tongue of you’re not a fucking doctor, asshole, and instead grudgingly thrusts his shoulder towards Todoroki. Not very close, only about an inch, because he’s still Bakugou Katsuki, and that means reluctant to show any weakness or be taken care of, but — enough that Todoroki will recognise it for what it is.
Acquiescence, grudging acceptance.
Trust, maybe.
Again, not something that ever changes from Katsuki’s end, but that’s not the same thing as Todoroki knowing. If there’s anything Katsuki’s learned from the past three years at UA, beyond how to make actual friends and also that all of those friends will inevitably be assholes who will annoy him to hell half the time and steal his moves the other half, it’s that even something as seemingly irrefutable as a fundamental truth of the universe can shift depending on who’s at the centre of it.
Case in point: Todoroki Shouto. There had been a time when he’d been convinced that all he was built of was anger, when anyone else with fucking eyes could have set him straight. They did, even — Deku yelling at him about how fire was his power, not his shitty dad’s; Yaoyorozu and Kirishima staying in Todoroki’s room after that first battle they ever called a war, in the aftermath of that fucking broadcast from the walking corpse; Iida showing up for him, every time, and telling him there was nothing to apologise for.
(Katsuki, even, over & over: let’s see this better way, ground out reluctantly during their remedial classes, but ground out all the same; just say ‘I’ll never forgive him’ if you really hate the guy, an offering provided because someone should say it, should tell Todoroki that it’s okay to hate, even if he doesn’t, even if there’s something more complicated than anger there; you ain’t him, spat out in the quiet of Katsuki’s room in the hospital after that fight against Dabi, in the aftermath of Todoroki’s brother and his murderous rage, because even at the height of Todoroki’s fury, he had chosen a form of rebellion that only hurt himself.)
Todoroki presses his fingers against Katsuki’s arm, and Katsuki looks at him.
There’s a cool current running across his skin; at the same time, the air around it is warmed. Todoroki’s brow is furrowed in concentration, and he’s humming. Just a quiet thing, barely audible, but Katsuki’s so aware of it.
It’s — cute, okay? Fucking sue him. It’s a ridiculous habit, the kind of thing Todoroki really should kick before they graduate, but he used to be so silent all the goddamn time, and Katsuki just… likes it. Likes the reminder that Todoroki’s there, likes the suggestion of growth — not just that Todoroki knows he’s allowed to take up space now, but that this whole thing is a new development, a new application of his quirk to try utilise for healing.
“You’re getting better at that,” Katsuki says at last. The wound feels fresher, the air moist; honestly, the sensation’s not great, but he’s sat through enough first aid lectures to know that this is the optimal healing environment. He knows Todoroki, and knows that for all he’d want to make someone feel good, he’d want to do right by them most of all. Katsuki can respect that.
It’s not like this is his first rodeo, anyway. He can take a fucked up shoulder. It’s still less aggravating than not being allowed into one of the debriefs for a mission they were part of.
(“Clearance issues,” one of the pros had said harriedly as they rushed into the meeting, pulling the doors shut behind them.
Katsuki had looked at Todoroki incredulously. “What, so we’re good enough to be in the fight but not to hear about it? Riddle me that, jackasses.”
Todoroki, with a muted sigh, had just taken Katsuki by the hand and dragged him into the spare meeting room.
Katsuki, more susceptible to being pulled into Todoroki’s orbit than he’d like to admit, had let him.)
Todoroki quirks his lips up at him. Not much, because even these days, his face doesn’t move that much, but — one corner a little higher than the other, warmth bleeding through every inch of it, if you know how to look.
Katsuki knows how to look.
“Thanks,” Todoroki says. He produces gauze out of nowhere and starts bandaging Katsuki’s shoulder before he can protest.
He remains silent anyway. Mostly, he’s thinking about the feeling of Todoroki’s fingers against his skin; the steady care of them, the surety. An hour ago, those fingers were twisting ropes of flame, weaving them around columns of ice as a shield against shrapnel and monstrous things with too-large teeth. Now they’re gently piecing Katsuki back together.
“There,” Todoroki says, all quiet satisfaction. That’s when Katsuki swoops, plucking the roll of bandage out from where it’s balancing on Todoroki’s lap and seizing Todoroki’s hand. “Baku—?” Todoroki begins, confused, before Katsuki cuts him off.
“Your turn, dickhead,” Katsuki says. He’s absolutely furious that, despite his word choice, he doesn’t sound insulting in the slightest. He chooses to focus on unravelling the bandage on Todoroki’s left forearm instead, because if he dwells on that too long, he’ll explode or blush or something else ridiculous and terrible.
“You don’t have to do this,” Todoroki tries, because he’s a hypocrite.
“Replacing dressings is very important,” Katsuki retorts in the same chiding tone Todoroki used on him earlier. He sucks in a breath at the sight of Todoroki’s arm — he’d fucking love it if they could come out of a fight for once without Todoroki getting some sort of gruesome-looking damage, especially considering he’s not even a close-combat fighter and shouldn’t be this close to any teeth — but quickly sets to work, soothing himself with a litany of muttered swearing.
Todoroki is quiet. It’s not the type that makes Katsuki itchy, all his internal alarms fucking blaring warning signs at him that Todoroki’s about to drop something either insufferable or unsurvivable; nor is it the broody sort, the one that usually only presents itself in the wake of something related to his father or brother. Katsuki hasn’t seen that one for a while, actually. He hopes, somewhere deep inside himself, that they can keep it that way.
But it’s not either of those types of quiets, and it’s not even the focused sort, where his brow furrows and his lips twist all pouty, and Katsuki sometimes has to clench his fists and count down in one of those goddamn breathing exercises Gang Orca made him learn so that he doesn’t get overwhelmed by the urge to just fucking kiss the bastard, give in to those closely-guarded whims, because Todoroki is just so —
Anyway. It’s not that type of quiet.
Katsuki can feel Todoroki’s eyes on him as he works. It’s fine. He’s used to it at this point. Eyes on him in general, but especially Todoroki’s. He almost snorts at the thought — they’ve come a long way from that first sports festival, fifteen and furious and demanding Todoroki’s attention, haven’t they?
No more declarations of war.
He finishes bandaging Todoroki’s arm, carefully smoothing the strip down, and decidedly does not think about how it might be a declaration of something else.
“Thanks,” Todoroki says. It doesn’t escape Katsuki’s notice that it’s the second time he’s said it to Katsuki’s zero, which —
Katsuki grunts. Tries to say you’re welcome, or an incredibly belated thanks — you too, and instead ends up with a simple, “Just don’t get eaten next time, asshole.”
“I wasn’t eaten,” Todoroki points out. “Only bitten. A little.”
“Yeah? Next time, aim for not at all,” Katsuki snaps, but there’s no real bite to it. Something which Todoroki is clearly very fucking aware of, if the warm tilt to his lips is any indication.
It’s the kind of thing that wouldn’t mean anything on anyone else’s face, but on Todoroki, it feels like something halfway-monumental. It fucking floored Katsuki the first time he saw it, when Todoroki was fifteen and quietly amused, warmth radiating off him like he’d activated his quirk, but he hadn’t. That was just what fondness looked like on Todoroki Shouto, on his unreasonably pretty face, the one still learning what actual facial expressions felt like.
Todoroki is taller than Katsuki — not by much, but enough that Katsuki has always been aware of it, fiercely competitive as he is — but Katsuki has always been broader. Not a more steady presence, exactly, because Todoroki is built like a block and Katsuki is always in motion, but one with more momentum. Difficult to knock off-course, whether he’s whirling through the air with his Howitzer Impact or he’s just squaring his shoulders and charging forward, refusing to let any extras or villains get in his way.
So Katsuki has never considered himself easy to budge, but the sight of that expression on Todoroki’s face the first time had knocked him flat on his ass, metaphorically-speaking. He’d fared a little better physically, but not much: stared a little too long, eyes a little too wide, blood rushing to his cheeks, before he forcibly turned his head away and scowled at the fridge, muttering something on autopilot about how Kirishima and Jirou needed to stop making smoothies if they were going to take up all the bench space.
He’d pushed past it, obviously, and then again the next time, and the next, all the way until now, where the slightest tilt to Todoroki’s lips still feels a little like someone’s turned off the oxygen in the room, but he’s learned how to breathe through it.
Todoroki Shouto is no different from every other world-changing thing Katsuki has dealt with in his life, and there have been many.
You learn to cope.
“All right,” Todoroki acquiesces, bringing Katsuki back to Todoroki’s newly-rebandaged arm, still resting beneath his own fingers.
There are still arguments about whether skeletal forms hold any sort of muscle memory. It’s taken for granted by most people, but scientists have further questions. They’ve long since decided that muscle memory exists in the brain — a type of autopilot, where agency for actions is no longer active, but happening in the back of your mind, a feature of evolution — but have since been trying to figure out if it could exist in the muscles too. Katsuki had read about it once, with phrases like myonuclear permanence knocking around his skull for days as he tried to make sense of the theories.
All this to say that it’s probably not something built into his muscles that has his fingers gently closing around Todoroki’s wrist on reflex. It’s Katsuki’s own brain betraying him, blaring to the entire world that there is something so instinctual to him about taking hold of Todoroki that his brain directs his body to do it even when he isn’t thinking.
One, two, three.
Katsuki lets go.
It’s a little funny and a lot terrible that holding onto Todoroki is something his body does unquestioningly and letting go is an active choice he has to make it obey, but he’s not going to think about it.
“So,” Todoroki says, “on a scale from Hatsume to the war—”
Katsuki snorts, twisting himself a little so his shoulder is pressed next to Todoroki’s for the purpose of bumping them together.
“First of all, Hatsume is more dangerous than half the fuckin’ things we’ve faced,” he retorts. He’s pressed up against Todoroki’s cooler side right now, wound all the way around, like his body is trying to replicate the feeling coiling deep in his gut. Maybe it’s working. It’s Todoroki’s cooler side, but all Katsuki can think about is how warm he feels, leaning into the line of his body like this.
Todoroki laughs, a quiet thing. It echoes through Katsuki’s chest regardless, rattling through his ribcage like the entire cardiovascular system of his body exists to catch all the pieces of Todoroki that flit past, holding them close.
“Secondly,” Katsuki says, shoving all his thoughts about Todoroki into a box labelled do NOT fucking open if you have any survival instincts at all, “today was — worse than the shapeshifter from last year, but not as bad as that fucker with the goddamn reader quirk or whatever the hell Deku called it.”
“I didn’t mind that one,” Todoroki says thoughtfully.
“That’s because the idiot brought out creatures made of water when you were going at him,” Katsuki scoffs, elbowing him in the side. “You could just fucking freeze them and then spend ten minutes admiring their construction. I had a goddamn armoured dragon.”
Todoroki’s lips quirk up at the sides, a little higher on the left than the right. “You seemed like you were enjoying yourself to me,” he says. Before Katsuki can refute his statement, he adds, “I remember you laughed a lot. Between the swearing and shouting, I mean.” He pauses, then smiles. It’s sincere and fond, the kind of thing that would look soft on anyone, which means it’s goddamn devastating on Todoroki’s stupid pretty face. “It was nice,” he says, effectively completing a hat trick of K.O.s to Katsuki’s system.
It takes a few moments for Katsuki to reboot. Then he says, a little quieter than before, “I didn’t say it wasn’t an interesting fight.” It’s the closest thing he has to acquiescence. “Just objectively, fucking terrible to deal with. Kaminari was complaining about about smelling like a swamp for weeks.”
“At least he didn’t get transformed into anything that time,” Todoroki says.
“Low fucking bar,” Katsuki says, snorting. He shakes his head. “Reckon it’ll happen to him again before we’re done?”
“Before we graduate?” Todoroki checks. At Katsuki’s nod, he hums. “It seems unlikely,” he says slowly. “Given we only have a few weeks left. But…”
“But if it’s going to happen to anyone, it’ll be him,” Katsuki finishes.
Todoroki grimaces, but nods. “If it’s an animal again, it’d be best if it did happen before we finish at UA. At least Kouda would be around to communicate with him.”
“You don’t think he’d be around after?” Katsuki asks. He shifts a little, turning his body so he’s half-facing Todoroki, half-beside him.
It’s quiet for a moment. Todoroki looks deep in thought. Katsuki waits him out. Nobody’s ever accused him of being patient, but three years with anyone would teach you how to navigate their silences, and he’s pretty damn fluent when it comes to Todoroki.
“I suppose he would be,” Todoroki says at last. Katsuki watches as he looks down at his hands. “I think I just didn’t consider that we’d still really — ” He cuts off, gesturing awkwardly. “I didn’t let myself think too much about it all,” he settles on in the end.
Katsuki keeps his eyes trained on him, translates that to something more stark. I didn’t think about whether we’d still be around after we graduated, in case we wouldn’t be.
He swallows, then nudges Todoroki in the shoulder again.
“Hey,” he says, low and quiet. “You know them. We’ll be fuckin’ geriatric and everyone will still be in each other’s business. Nobody knows how to leave anyone well enough alone.”
Katsuki thinks, but does not say: I’m still here. I’ll still be here.
From the way Todoroki smiles at him, bright and brilliant, as he knocks his shoulder back against Katsuki’s, Katsuki thinks he hears it anyway.