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tender loving care
sixteen and persistent, sick and crushing hard
&
twenty eight and stubborn, sick and in love
—
class 2-A dorms
“you can make it in one piece,” a boy whispers to himself. “you’re fine, bro. just… one foot in front of the other…”
shoto todoroki is pocketing his keys when his neighbor emerges from the dorm next door, looking paler than ever and severely disheveled. todoroki resists the urge to sigh, or to even be shocked. he should’ve seen this coming.
“where do you think you’re going?” todoroki demands.
“ shit ,” the boy hisses under his breath.
hanta sero has been caught, and he hadn’t even managed to get both feet out the door.
he freezes like a deer in headlights, uniform jacket rumpled and hair half a mess. his cheeks are stained a brutal red, eyes dull, and he’s practically vibrating in place from how hard he’s shivering.
he’s sick.
but he refuses to admit it.
there’s been a flu bug going around campus for the last several days, you see, and sero managed to catch it sometime yesterday. he’d been uncomfortable all day, but when hero courses and extra practice came around in the afternoon, he looked pale as a ghost and ready to keel over at any given second. aizawa had sent him to his dorm immediately, and made him swear not to come back to class until he was sure he was over this bug.
todoroki frowns at the surprised look on sero’s face.
“ roki , hey,” he starts, louder now leaning on the doorway for balance. be smooth. be smooth! “didn’t expect to see you out this early!”
todoroki’s frown deepens. “actually, i’m almost late. wait, what do you mean you didn’t expect to see me? we walk to class together everyday.” another door shuts down the hall; sero is most definitely trying to sidle his way out of this, to act natural.
todoroki shakes his head. “you’re still sick. where do you think you’re going?” he repeats.
sero visibly winces at that, like being told the truth physically pains him, and then the wince dissolves into a horrible shiver. “i’m good now, i swear,” he insists, trying to shoulder his bag. “i wanna go to class, roki. c’mon, man.”
i’m good now, i swear.
except he looks like shit. if anything, sero’s gotten worse.
pursing his lips, todoroki heaves that sigh he tried to hold back. then he marches forward to place two firm hands on a taller boy’s shoulders, decidedly pushing him backward into his room.
“wait—“
“you’re shaking,” todoroki states, leaving no room for argument. “take off that uniform. get into something more comfortable.”
“but—“
“no buts.”
then he takes sero’s bag, places it back where he usually sees sero put it. he tugs the sleeve of sero’s jacket to encourage him. instincts sero didn’t know todoroki possessed take over, and before sero can blink, he’s drunk half a bottle of water, in pajamas, under three blankets, with todoroki’s cold hand pressed to his forehead.
“you’re burning up, sero.”
sero shrugs in response, tucking further into the blankets.
which… almost seems like a bad idea. todoroki has very little experience taking care of others when they’re sick, but he’s doing his best. because it’s sero. but he’s pretty sure containing the heat instead of drawing it out can make a fever worse.
“i don't think bundling up is good for your fever,” todoroki says, half to himself.
another shrug. “‘m not moving.”
todoroki’s face scrunches together at the sight of this version of sero. he looks bruised, cold, and sicker than todoroki’s ever seen any flu-sick person look. sero isn’t smiling, or making jokes, nor is he still trying to be slick about his escape to class where aizawa would have likely sent him right back to the dorm.
“i could take you to recovery girl,” todoroki worries his lip, keeping his hand icy. sero lifts his head a bit and, after a brief pause, todoroki takes to trailing his fingers over sero’s cheeks, down his neck.
“‘s jus’ the flu, roki,” sero buzzes, brows pinched at the cold todoroki carries over his skin.
so he finally admits it.
“if your fever gets any higher than it is now,” todoroki insists, voice low, “i’ll have no choice. she won’t mind. you’ll be better in no time at all.”
sero’s lip quirks, the first sign of liveliness since todoroki got him out of his uniform. “she’s prolly too busy patchin’ midoriya up, ya know. got no time for the flu.”
todoroki can’t help but smirk at that, too. he supposes it could be worse; he could be throwing up or completely delirious. or both.
sero’s eyes drift closed as todoroki’s hand settles in the crook of his neck, consistently chilly. todoroki glances around the room, at the hammock, the stacks of manga by the dresser, the mess of his desk. it’s very sero-like in here, and todoroki almost thinks he can take a nap here, too. the silence isn’t overbearing; it’s lulling. the only light source is from sero’s window.
rest is impossible, though, not when his nerves poke at him reminding him that aizawa is definitely going to be angry at todoroki for missing class, that there’s a chance he’ll get sick as well, and that sero probably really needs to see recovery girl. but todoroki will have hell convincing the other boy to get out of bed and do exactly that.
“roki?”
“yes?” todoroki turns back to the sick boy and catches his hardly open eyes, dull and deep. it’s always an experience holding eye contact with sero, thousands of layers deep, full of unsaid things and repressed feelings. he tries not to look away.
“have i ever told ya how pretty you are?” sero asks, words slurring together as he fights to stay awake. ah, maybe todoroki spoke too soon about him not being delirious.
yes, you have. almost everyday. have i ever told you how i never want to hear from anyone else? and that i never want to stop hearing it from you? have i told you how pretty you are, even pale and shivering and sick?
todoroki smiles for him, a special smile reserved solely for sero. “a few times.”
the raven haired boy starts to frown a little, as if coming to a realization. a bad one. “you’re gonna be late for class.”
there it is.
“i’m already late. it’s alright.”
“gonna miss class.”
“we can catch up together.”
“aizawa’s gonna kill us.”
“he certainly would’ve killed you if you’d shown up to class still sick after he told you not to come back until you recovered.” todoroki pauses. “i did you a favor, so you’re welcome for that.”
sero huffs out a breath of what might be laughter, then he frowns again. his arm snakes out from underneath his mountain of blankets, tapping todoroki’s icy forearm. “you’re gonna get sick.”
todoroki plants his hand back on sero’s forehead, examining the blotchy red spots on his cheeks and the purple-blue tint under his eyes. “maybe.”
then sero starts to whine , trying to push todoroki’s arm away. “don't want ya t’get sick, roki. you gotta go .”
oh, sero. hopeless, selfless sero.
todoroki doesn’t budge. “let me take care of you first, alright?”
another feeble push. “roki, go. you’ll get sick .”
maybe he really should take sero to recovery girl. but his eyes are falling shut again, and he looks ready to clock out at any second. perhaps after a nap todoroki can convince him to get up; that or todoroki can carry sero down to recovery girl himself. that’s the more realistic outcome.
“don’t worry about me. just rest, okay?”
sero gives up pushing, and the worry lines in his forehead disappear. he’s got his hand resting on todoroki’s forearm, and todoroki tries pushing forth a little more cold into the contact.
“too good to me,” sero mumbles.
todoroki doesn’t have anything to say to that, because it’s not true. sero deserves being treated with goodness, more than most people todoroki’s ever met. including himself.
eventually, sero falls asleep, but not without a fight, and not without telling todoroki how pretty he is two more times. todoroki does what he can to keep him comfortable and cooled down, but ultimately he settles for curling up next to the sick boy and smoothing over his cheek with his thumb, staying awake to watch for any movement or signs of sero taking a turn for the worst.
someday i’ll find the words to tell you just how much you mean to me, out loud and face to face. someday i’ll have the courage to tell you, to show you.
it's after waking up in a coughing fit that sero ends up going to recovery girl, with a fever high to make even aizawa nervous. todoroki walks him all the way there, keeping his feet under him and enveloping him in cold to try and push the fever away.
it’s when sero’s sound asleep on one of recovery girl’s beds that todoroki plants a kiss to his forehead, caution be damned. it’s the solemn look on a sleeping sero’s face that sends todoroki tumbling headfirst into realization.
realization that he’s pretty sure he loves sero. sero with his raven hair and sparkling eyes, spidery limbs and knowing smiles. surely this is what love feels like. surely.
i think i’d steal all the stars from the sky for you. i think that’s how much i care about you. it’s terrifying.
—
twelve years later, shoto’s agency
“sho? you in here?” pro hero creati’s gentle voice asks from somewhere across the room.
the sho in question is slumped at his desk, lights off, a blanket wrapped tightly around his grimy hero costume. he’s awake, but barely, and momo can see him shivering.
“‘m here.”
“are you okay?” she makes a move to flip on the light. “obviously you’re not okay. maybe—“
“ don't turn on that light,” a severely uncomfortable shoto hisses, turning his head to look at her through shadowed eyes. his head is pounding, pressure building up at his temples. he’s pretty sure he’s about to throw up, so he lies (you know, like a fool) and says, “i’m fine.”
“did you find him? why’s it dark—oh, he’s in there ?” mina ashido joins momo in the doorway, looking like she just came in from a rather busy patrol, covered in dust. “hey, shoto, what’s up with you? we thought you went home.”
“don’t feel like moving,” shoto groans and turns his forehead back into the flat of his desk. he thought about icing his hand and using it to cool his head, but he’s already so bitterly cold, and he’s too out of it to use his quirk how he wants to.
how heroic was it for shoto, one of the top ten heroes, to get so sick he literally couldn’t even use his quirk properly?
even the darkness makes his head hurt, his stomach twist.
“i think he’s sick,” momo murmurs.
“i am not sick,” shoto retorts.
“he’s definitely sick,” mina shakes her head. she turns to momo, lowering her voice. “i’ll get hanta on the phone.”
this catches his attention. “ don’t . let him finish his patrol.”
mina gives him a scathing look, already pulling her phone out. “his patrol ends soon, anyway, so no harm done. you need to go home, sho. so unless you want one of us to take you…”
momo’s eyes widen. shoto curls into himself at the thought of moving at all, at the prospect of mina’s awful driving. “mina—“
“also,” she interrupts, tilting her head toward him. “he’ll be upset if we didn’t tell him his lover wasn’t doing well.” she pauses for dramatic effect. “am i wrong?”
shoto groans again, which makes his head hurt. mina smirks, exits into the hall to dial hanta.
“when did this start?” momo asks him mildly, crossing the office. she moves his discarded boots out of the way, hangs his coat on the rack, observes the state he’s in.
shoto’s eyes are shut tight. he should probably be making a move for the trashcan soon with the way his stomach is twisting and turning like this. he should also probably answer honestly, because momo could generally always see through anyone’s bullshit.
“...last night.”
“last night?” she squeaks, obviously surprised. “why did you come to work today?”
“wasn’t bad til just a bit ago. probably just a—a common bug. just gimme a bit, i’ll be—“
momo comes up behind him, careful and kind as she rubs his back. “you didn’t tell hanta you were feeling bad?”
he doesn’t respond.
“oh, shoto,” she mutters, half to herself. “you push yourself too far. it’s okay to take a break when you need one. you’ve been telling that to us for over ten years now, you know.”
then she gets a grunt in response, followed by his most miserable moan yet. shoto pulls back from the desk, already reaching for the trashcan. his cheeks burn, feverish and embarrassed. if only momo could turn around or something—
too late.
his throat burns. how long has it been since shoto has been sick this badly? momo rubs his back through it all, respectfully quiet. it’s awful.
then the door opens, and yellow hallway light pours in, spotlighting shoto in all his sickly glory as he kneels on the ground, clutching that stupid trashcan like his life depends on it. it’s awful.
please go away, shoto thinks. please let me wither away and die here in peace.
pro hero cellophane stands in the entrance in all his 6’2 glory, decked in the crisp black, yellow, and white of his costume. he isn’t looking yet, and if shoto didn’t want to crawl into a hole at this exact moment, he’d take this opportunity to admire hanta, with his broad shoulders and thin waist. that costume does wonders for his figure; shoto should tell him that, shoto has told him that, but—
it’s been thirteen years. shoto will never tire of admiring hanta. shamelessly or secretly.
now shoto considers telling him to go away. he’s exposed and embarrassed himself enough already in front of momo, and now—
it’s been thirteen years, and pro heroes shoto and cellophane have seen it all, yet shoto is still cripplingly embarrassed to be found crumpling on the floor in such a state.
“he’s in here? oh—“ hanta pushes the door open even further, turning his focus to the state of his lover, as mina so kindly described him. “shoto, there you are,” he says, voice horrendously soft.
“he’s—“ momo frowns at the multicolored head dipped into the trashcan. “well, he’s not doing good. i think he has a fever. and he threw up.”
shoto winces.
hanta is on the floor next to them in the blink of an eye, hair slicked back from his helmet. his hand finds shoto’s neck, feeling for the heat of his fever. the touch is generally a comforting gesture, but shoto nearly flinches away from it. sero looks a little distraught, like he’s never seen a sick person before.
let me be sick in peace, dear god.
it’s at this moment shoto seriously considers melting into the floor. he hasn’t been sick since middle school, probably. this is so embarrassing , he thinks bitterly. throwing up in front of your boyfriend and your best friend, unable to even stop yourself . he groans again.
“when did this start?” hanta asks no one in particular.
“i’m fine,” shoto mumbles, hating the taste in his mouth. what he would give to be at home, hidden under seventeen blankets with no light in sight.
“he’s not fine,” mina cuts in from the doorway. “hanta, please take him home. we’ll cover for you for the rest of the day, alright, sho? no worries.”
ah, mina. ever the natural leader. shoto appreciates the concern, even if he desperately hadn’t wanted to get caught whining around in his office. it’s minor, really, nothing big , he tells himself. you guys don’t need to be worried about me. you have jobs to do, and i’m just getting in the way . that thought leaves a familiar burn in the back of his throat.
“and as long as you need after that,” momo reassures him.
he vomits again. everything is horrible.
hanta sends a distressed look at momo, then at mina. a look that says what the hell can i do for him? he takes over rubbing shoto’s back as momo stands with a pitying look at her friend on the floor. she only hopes shoto isn’t too embarrassed (he is); she hopes he knows it’s okay to take a break, to go home and heal (he doesn’t, not really, not even after all this time).
after mina gives hanta a short run down on what he should do when he gets shoto home, both women bid hanta a silent good luck , then a quiet get well soon, alright? to shoto. then they're gone, and it’s only them left in the darkness of his office.
“can you stand?” hanta asks quietly as shoto starts to lean up.
“so embarrassing,” shoto mumbles, trying not to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. his hero suit is too warm, too tight. the floor hurts his knees. his feet are cold. “‘m sorry, hanta.”
“what? what are you apologizing for?” hanta doesn’t take his hand away from shoto’s back. “you don’t have to apologize, sho. i came to take care of you, okay?”
just like you always do for me, hanta thinks.
the sweetness and reassurance laced in hanta’s voice makes shoto hurt even worse. his eyes sting. why is it so hard to accept a helping hand? from your boyfriend no less?
shoto frowns and hanta watches his brows furrow, his lips purse. then his shoulders begin to shake. shoto’s crying, which makes him feel even worse.
“hate being sick ,” he whispers as tears track down his cheeks. “so gross. so embarrassing .” he turns toward hanta, on his way to being completely distraught. “wanna go home, hanta.”
it’s a horrible sight, to see someone you love so out of control, so sick they can barely stand, so feverish they can’t see straight. it’s horrible because it feels like there’s nothing you can do, and hanta sighs, because he can’t take his pain away. he pitches both hands up, pushes shoto’s hair away from his forehead, and plants a ghost of a kiss there. his skin is scalding, slick with sweat.
shoto lets out half a sob.
“i’ll take you home, sho. i’ll take you home and fix you up and you’ll be better in no time at all, okay?” he whispers hurriedly, holding multicolored locks back away from shoto’s face.
a few more tears fall as shoto tries to nod. nodding makes the pounding in his head worse.
hanta scoops him up like he weighs nothing at all and carries him straight out of the building.
—
half an hour later, in shoto and hanta’s home
getting shoto off the floor had been easy enough, despite him because six feet of solid muscle and jelly-like limbs that refused to work properly. getting him out the door went smooth, as did getting him into the car and down the road. hanta had stolen a stray trashcan and gave it to shoto for him to hold on to in the passenger seat. just in case.
the entire ride home, shoto had only stared straight ahead at the road, unseeing. he didn’t throw up again, thankfully.
once hanta had gotten him into their house, he started running cold water for a bath, then got to work attempting to remove shoto’s hero costume.
that was hard, because shoto was horribly feverish at this point, like the car ride just allowed the heat to build, and he was insisting he could do it all himself then stumbling as soon as he stood up, trying to get hanta to turn around or leave the room.
“you don’t have to totally strip. it’s not a regular bath, silly.”
“don’t want you to see me like this.”
shoto is hopelessly defiant in this state.
“i promise you there's nothing to be worried about,” hanta insists. “i’m mostly here just to make sure you don’t pass out in the tub.”
shoto has the audacity to pout.
“you really think me seeing you in boxers is that bad?”
no response. being sick has made shoto both unnecessarily shy and even more stubborn than usual.
hanta lifts a brow at shoto’s indignant silence. “shoto, i hate to break it to you but i’ve seen your ass before. several times.”
shoto looks properly scandalized at that.
“why’d you have to say it like that?” he whines, head falling back.
hanta tries not to laugh. “come on, angel. let me help you.”
shoto flushes all the way down his chest at hanta calling him angel, like he’s seventeen and yearning all over again.
now he’s out of his costume and shivering and refusing to get into the bath.
“sho, the cold is gonna help draw out the heat from your fever. your quirk isn’t really stable right now,” hanta gestures to the tub. “so this is the next best option. you gotta do it.”
shoto stares at the tub with pure disdain, arms wrapped around himself. then he glances back at hanta, heterochromic eyes muted and heavy. and finally, finally , unfreezes from his spot and climbs into the tub.
hanta helps him, little by little, one dip at a time. it’s not super deep, but shoto has to submerge at least up to his chest for a bit in order for this cold bath to be worth it.
generally, shoto is hardly ever bothered by cold, but he’s having issues self regulating right now. obviously, or else this bath wouldn't have even been considered. his skin breaks out in goosebumps.
hanta feels awful. he sits on the edge of the tub, holding shoto’s quivering hand and dipping his free hand into the water, dragging it over shoto’s neck and forehead. he’s cheeks are blisteringly red.
“after this, you can get into something comfortable,” hanta promises him. “i’ll make you soup and tea, if you want. you can finally get some rest.”
shoto’s eyes are closed, brows furrowed as he tries not to complain about the cold. hanta only flicked on one light in their bathroom, because surely both would’ve been too bright. he’s just glad shoto hasn't thrown up again. hanta isn’t sure how well he could handle that.
he very nearly called his mother when they stumbled into the house and shoto tried to collapse on the couch and not get back up. he’s doing his best here.
shoto squeezes sero’s hand when he brushes some water over the back of his neck, wetting the ends of two toned hair a little by accident. he doesn’t say much at all in the tub, just sits and takes it as the cold works to draw out his fever. maybe him not saying anything ridiculous is a sign that his delirium is starting to ebb, along with his initial fever.
i wonder if he remembers taking care of me in the dorms all those years ago. shoto todoroki, always reaching out a hand for others but refusing to accept a helping hand in return.
even despite being hopelessly in love for twelve and a half years, shoto has a hard time asking for or accepting help from hanta. from anyone at all, really, but especially hanta.
it’s taken a lot of time and devotion, but it works. they’ve torn down a lot of walls and defenses together.
hanta smiles fondly at the memory of tiny shoto and tiny hanta holding hands for the first time. oh, how far they’ve come. the panic in tiny hanta’s chest, the pinkness of tiny shoto’s cheeks.
“too bad you're sick,” hanta starts, teasing, “i can't kiss you until you’re better.”
shoto peeks a gray eye at him. he looks exhausted. he pulls his free out of the water and reaches up, dancing his fingers over hanta’s cheek, like he’s trying to be sweet. then he splashes him with all the strength he can muster.
sero gasps outright before bursting into a fit of laughter. that water really is cold.
“wish you’d kiss me anyway,” shoto grumbles, still peeking as hanta tries wiping away specks of water from his face. “we live in the same house, so you’ll prolly get sick, too, han.”
he’s already talking a little smoother. that's progress.
hanta grins. “think so?” he takes shoto’s hand again, brings it up to his lips. “you gonna make me take an ice bath if i catch a fever, too?”
“just out of spite.”
“whatever makes you feel better.” then hanta kisses his hand once, twice for good measure. “come on, let’s get you dried off.”
—
shoto is now bundled with his favorite blanket on the couch, a warm cup of tea cradled in his hands. he’s got the most outrageous red and green christmas pajama pants on, covered in little trees. he’s also wearing one of hanta’s hoodies.
and by hanta’s hoodies, that is to say, pro hero cellophane merch. it’s huge, even on shoto. it’s black with yellow markings that mimic hanta’s costume, cellophane written in hanta’s own handwriting across the back. shoto has the hood pulled over his head. his eyes are fixed on the tv, where he’s put on totoro .
he’s already doing ten times better. now he just needs to eat and rest.
hanta rounds the couch with a bowl of steaming soup. shoto looks up at him with pure wonder in his eyes, lips parted like he might’ve just been about to fall asleep. hanta takes the half empty cup from his grasp and replaces it with the bowl.
then hanta folds his long legs up underneath him and sits next to shoto.
“thank you, han,” shoto murmurs, blowing the steam away.
hanta glances at him, at the light returning to his eyes. red and white hair peek out of the hood. his chest tightens just a bit, like he’s sixteen all over again. “you don’t need to thank me, angel.”
shoto falls asleep immediately after finishing his soup. hanta lets him collapse onto his lap; hanta lets his fingers dip into soft two toned locks; hanta lets his heart soar.
i’d steal all the stars in the sky for you. that’s how much i love you. i’ll never tire of loving you.
—