I Stayed By My Injured Rival's Side, So He Kissed Me To Shut Me Up

The only sound in the sterile white room was the rhythmic, electronic beep of the heart monitor. It had become the soundtrack to Izuku Midoriya’s life for the past seventy-two hours. He sat hunched in a horribly uncomfortable visitor’s chair, the sharp angle of it digging into his spine, but he barely noticed the ache anymore. It had blended into the dull, pervasive exhaustion that had settled deep in his bones.

His classmates had tried to get him to leave. Uraraka with her worried, pleading eyes; Iida with his rigid, logical arguments about rest and recovery. Even Mr. Aizawa had come by, his voice low and firm, telling him he’d done enough. He’d politely refused them all. He couldn’t leave. Not until Kacchan woke up.

In front of him, Katsuki Bakugo was unnervingly still. It was the most unnatural state for the boy who was a living explosion, a maelstrom of motion and noise. Now, he was just a body under a thin white sheet, dwarfed by the machinery keeping him stable. Bandages swathed his chest and arms, but the thickest wrappings were around his hands. His precious, powerful hands. Izuku’s stomach clenched every time he looked at them, the memory of the villain’s attack—the sickening crunch of bone and tearing of flesh—playing on a loop in his mind.

He’d filled three and a half notebooks already. They were stacked on the small bedside table, crammed with frantic scribbles and detailed analyses of the villain’s quirk, the attack patterns, every possible variable he could think of. It was the only thing that kept his own spiraling thoughts at bay, the only way he could feel any semblance of control. He was trying to analyze the problem away, to find a reason, a solution, anything that would make this make sense.

His gaze drifted from the notebooks back to Bakugo’s face. For all the violence of his injuries, his expression was peaceful in sleep, his features relaxed in a way Izuku had rarely ever seen. The sharp, angry lines around his mouth were gone, his blond hair, free of gel, fell in soft spikes across the pillow. There was a dark smudge of soot high on his cheekbone, a remnant from the blast that had nearly killed him. A mark the nurses had missed.

Without thinking, Izuku reached out. His fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second, hovering over skin he hadn’t willingly touched in over a decade. Then, with a feather-light touch, he gently brushed his thumb over the mark. The soot came away easily, leaving a faint gray smear on his own skin. Bakugo’s cheek was warm, the skin unexpectedly soft beneath his calloused thumb. He let his hand linger for a moment longer than necessary, a silent, desperate apology for not being faster, not being stronger, for letting this happen. He pulled his hand back as if burned, his own heart suddenly beating a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the still, vulnerable boy in the bed.

A low groan cut through the mechanical beeping, and Izuku’s head snapped up. His own breath caught in his throat. On the bed, Bakugo’s brow furrowed, his eyelids fluttering. Another sound, rougher this time, escaped his lips as his fingers twitched against the white sheet.

“Kacchan?” Izuku whispered, his voice cracking. He shot to his feet, leaning over the bed, his hands hovering, unsure of where to touch, if he should touch him at all. “Kacchan, can you hear me?”

The blond lashes fluttered again, then slowly, sluggishly, lifted. Crimson eyes, hazy with confusion and pain, blinked against the low light of the room. They roamed aimlessly for a moment, taking in the IV stand, the white ceiling, before they finally landed on Izuku’s face, hovering just a few feet above his own.

Recognition dawned, and with it, a firestorm. The haze in his eyes sharpened into a glare of pure, undiluted fury. It was a look Izuku knew better than his own reflection. The pain in Bakugo’s expression was suddenly eclipsed by a rage so potent it seemed to crackle in the air.

“What…” Bakugo’s voice was a dry, broken thing, a pale imitation of its usual explosive force. He tried to push himself up, a snarl twisting his lips, but the movement sent a visible tremor of agony through his body. A strangled cry was torn from his throat, and he fell back against the pillows, his chest heaving, sweat beading on his temples. The heart monitor picked up its pace, the beeps becoming frantic and sharp.

He glared at Izuku, his teeth gritted. The humiliation of his own weakness, of being seen like this—broken and helpless, by him—was a poison flooding his veins, more potent than any painkiller.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he finally bit out, each word costing him. The venom was unmistakable, a desperate lashing out from a caged animal.

Izuku flinched but stood his ground. “I was worried. You were…”

“Get out,” Bakugo snarled, cutting him off. He tried to lift a hand, to point, but the bandages were too thick, the pain too severe. The failed gesture only seemed to fuel his rage. “Get the fuck out, Deku! I don’t need you here. I don’t want you here. Go stare at someone else, you damn nerd!”

His chest rose and fell in ragged, painful breaths, his furious red eyes locked on Izuku’s, burning with a mix of agony and wounded pride that was more devastating than any physical injury.

The words were acid, meant to burn and scour him from the room. A year ago, they would have worked. Izuku would have stammered an apology, tripped over his own feet, and fled, his face burning with shame. But seventy-two hours of watching the steady rise and fall of Bakugo’s chest, of listening to the machine that breathed for him, had forged something new inside Izuku. The old, familiar fear was gone, replaced by a quiet, unyielding resolve.

He didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. He just watched the furious, pained boy in the bed, his own expression steady.

“No,” Izuku said. His voice was quiet, but it carried a weight that made the single word feel absolute. It hung in the air between them, solid and immovable.

Bakugo’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of disbelief cutting through the rage. He had expected compliance. He had demanded it. This quiet refusal was so outside the bounds of their long-established dynamic that it seemed to momentarily short-circuit his fury. Then, it came roaring back, stronger than before.

“What did you say?” he growled, the sound tearing at his raw throat. He tried to push himself up again, his muscles straining against the agony radiating from his torso and arms. A low hiss of pain escaped his gritted teeth, and he fell back, his face pale and slick with sweat. The heart monitor beeped faster, a frantic staccato in the tense quiet. “I said get the hell out, you useless piece of—"

“And I said no,” Izuku repeated, his tone unchanged. He took a small step closer to the bed, his hands unclenched at his sides. He wasn't a threat. He was a fact. “I’m not leaving, Kacchan.”

“Stop calling me that!” Bakugo roared, the effort costing him dearly. He was breathing in harsh, shallow gasps now, his entire body trembling with a combination of pain and sheer, impotent rage. His glare was murderous. “You don’t have the right. Get out before I blast you out.”

The threat was hollow, and they both knew it. The hands that could level buildings were wrapped in thick layers of gauze, inert and useless at his sides. The sight of them, so still and bandaged, sent a fresh wave of fury and despair across his face. He hated it. He hated this weakness, this room, and most of all, he hated that Deku was the one here to witness it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Izuku said, his voice softening just a fraction, though the resolve remained. “Not until Recovery Girl says you’re cleared. Not until I know you’re okay.”

Bakugo just stared at him, his mouth opening and closing silently. He had no response. The physical pain was a roaring fire, but this—this quiet, stubborn refusal from the one person he had always been able to cow—was a different kind of torture. It was bewildering. It was infuriating. He was trapped, pinned to this bed not just by his injuries, but by Deku’s unshakeable presence. He finally snapped his jaw shut, turning his head to glare at the opposite wall, his jaw tight and a muscle working furiously in his cheek. The silence that fell was thick and suffocating, broken only by the frantic beeping of the monitor and the sound of Bakugo’s ragged, angry breathing.