Chapter Text
Shouto has a problem.
It took root that morning. Class 3-A were carrying on with their hero training in Gym Gamma as per usual, and Shouto was sparring with Katsuki, again as usual, whose ever-present scowl flinched nein at Shouto’s icy barrage. In the midst of firing up (ha) one of his weaker moves in which he lacked control—that was, without say, a fire attack—Katsuki stood across from him breathing heavily, his countenance one of his typical snarky, challenging scowls, sparking up between the fingers as Shouto conjured up his own fiery tempest across his left arm.
Then, he heard from behind him: “Do you think Bakugou and Todoroki-kun secretly… angrily… you know—”
“Fuck? Hell yeah, dude. No doubt. With that tension?”
He hadn’t even been aware of his incessant external scrounging for words lodged in his throat, so against his will, he released the fiery vortex in said opponent’s direction with no prior warning whatsoever and no indication that he would attack at all. It headed toward Katsuki’s right side faster than he thought an accidental release should have.
In his stumbling, bumbling stupor, Shouto clumsily released a shattering range of ice aimed directly between the approaching flamey vortex and Katsuki to block it, but apparently he couldn’t even do that much because the ice materialized straight down the center at Katsuki so fast he couldn’t stop it. He hoped the flames would somehow melt the ice so Katsuki wouldn’t have to be hit by both, but that probably wouldn’t happen because Shouto was strong and his powers were also fast. And he was going to accidentally kill his classmate right then and there. Holy shit.
Heroes didn’t kill other heroes, right? Not even angry, generally resentful, makes-children-cry ones?
No. They did not. Three years at UA into the trash that Katsuki so loved to collect. Shouto’s career as a pro hero was prematurely over.
But somehow, some way, some kami heard his screeching internal cries, and Katsuki, the equally powerful and fast adversary he is, half-rolled his eyes (because he didn’t have time for the other half) and ducked his arms behind him, launching himself forward faster than Shouto saw his ice moving. It all happened so fast. He heard Katsuki loudly growl something akin to “stupid fuckin’ halfie move outta the way,” but he just stared and stared for what felt like minutes at the incoming body attached to flaming red eyes.
The impact was greatly undermined to the class as the ice and fire ostentatiously clashed opposite them at the same time Katsuki crash-landed unto the entirety of Shouto’s body. His sweaty, bare, toned (Shouto noted) arm splayed across Shouto’s neck as his entire body laid prone on top of Shouto’s own. Half their classmates stared at them while Shouto flickered his eyes amongst prying pairs of eyes stoically, and the other half gleamed with wondrance at the paradoxical frozen-over burnt patch of ground at which Katsuki stood moments ago.
Seconds after the impact at Shouto’s unceremonious mumble of “please get off, you’re hurting me with your grenade arms,” Katsuki hurriedly pushed himself onto his elbows, not without sparing Shouto an angry bellow of “you dumbass fucking Oreo, what the fuck was that,” got up, brushed his knees off, and stumbled over to the so-called “geodude bastard” to continue sparring.
Shouto was left on the floor smelling like burnt sugar for five minutes before Aizawa came over and asked him if he needed to go to the nurse’s office, or not, he didn’t care.
And now, Shouto is sitting in the kitchen, accompanied by Izuku and a few others he couldn’t hear, see, nor pay mind to over his intense focus on heating and reheating the glass of tea in his hands repetitively. Over and over and over again. Izuku, who is sitting beside him at the counter, glances at him nervously, periodically chuckling in airy bouts. It’s past dinner time, Shouto has been sitting there doing nothing but freeze his tea obsessively for the past hour, and he hasn’t eaten dinner. Izuku is worried.
“Um… Todoroki-kun,” he begins.
Shouto hesitates in his actions, but only for a second, still staring intently down at his glass held with both hands. “Yes. Izuku…-chan.”
Izuku’s right eye twitches and he screams internally. Todoroki-kun did not call people -chan, lest it be… Asui. And not even then. Something is wrong. “Is something wrong?”
Shouto contemplates this for a moment. Is something wrong? He hasn’t showered yet, he hasn’t eaten yet despite Katsuki’s reluctantly gracious (hot) soba dorm-dinner, he’s training on a goddamn cup, and his thoughts haven’t strayed far from the events of this morning. Or, more specifically, those words he heard immediately preceding Katsuki’s Shouto-induced near-death.
“Yes. Something is wrong. Do Bakugou and I look like we have sex?”
Izuku chokes, spitting out his water almost comically, sputtering out incoherent half-sentences.
Shouto takes no mind to this and continues, “Like bunnies? Just because he’s so angry with me—or everyone—or the world? And apparently his sex drive reflects his anger—”
“Todoroki-kun,” Izuku interrupts breathlessly, wiping the countertop with his sleeve. (Unsanitary, Shouto notes; he will have to chide Izuku about that later when he’s not disgustingly occupied in the brain.) “Um, I’m not going to say no—”
“What do you mean—”
“Because Kacchan looks at me like that, too! Angrily… I mean. But he looks at you kind of…”
“Kind of…” he implores. Kind of what? Disgustedly? Repulsively?
“Hungrily?”
What the fuck.
At Shouto’s lack of response, Izuku goes back to anxiously muttering to himself around the rim of his glass as he scribbles in his notebook. He spares Shouto a worried glance now and then but nothing more. Shouto stops subjecting his tea to extremities and inquires himself.
Bakugou Katsuki. Red eyes, blonde hair, toned bod (oops, he didn’t mean to think that), almost nonexistent inside voice, permanent displeasure. Explosions left and right, no respect for private property, does he ever pay for the things he damages?, calls his mom a hag, can’t look at children under the age of six or else they’ll cry.
Bakugou Katsuki. Sparkling vermilion eyes, matching quirk with a hint of destruction, fluffy pale hair, constantly glistening (sweating) all over, unwavering resolve, most selfishly determined and prideful person Shouto has ever met but in the strangest, oddest, most captivating way. Shouto has always thought this despite the threats to his personal security. Hell, even Kirishima admitted that Shouto and Katsuki make a great team in combat, so he was unarguably talented with an enthralling quirk to match.
He’s kind of pretty, Shouto suddenly and accidentally recognizes, and he shuts the thought out immediately.
He thinks he’s probably the only one who has ever thought that about Bakugou Katsuki and it’s probably not a good thought to have of someone who probably used to kick puppies. It does not mean Shouto thinks McBursty is specifically attractive, just that he’s. Pretty. Generally pretty. With his flaming eyes, well-defined arms, admirable resolve, inside voice which (when it’s heard) is such a smooth yet daintily husky baritone…
“Oh my god! Todoroki-kun!”
Izuku is waving his arms around frantically and Shouto snaps out of his thoughts, but he scans the room and sees that nothing is wrong. His friends are behind him on the couch looking over now, but nothing is out of place. But Izuku is losing his shit, sputtering unintelligibly and grabbing for his glass of water and—
“Why are you on fire?!”
Oh my fucking god. He’s on fire.
Is there any way he can explain this rationally? How is he supposed to tell Izuku—in front of many others—that he caught on fire because of his own quirk and because he was flustered about Bakugou Katsuki? How was he even on fire when his control had improved so much, even on his weak side? Is it even possible to just catch on fire unwillingly?
Hell if anyone else knew, Shouto didn’t know how to explain it either. He was flustered this morning and almost killed his classmate; now, he’s flustered again for the same reason and set himself on fire. So he gives Izuku the most honest, candid answer he can.
“This is just kind of how my day is going.”
He figures that’s good enough for Izuku, who panics in distraught and begs him to please, put himself out, to which he complies, and the eyes behind him stop gawking as Izuku’s calm settles in. Shouto smells like burnt sugar again, the same as this morning, so he wills himself to go back to the rooms to shower with no dinner.
He finds himself outside of Katsuki’s dorm room after his shower with a towel slung over his shoulders. He can’t pinpoint why, but he feels strangely… empty? But not in the desolate, dry, depressing way, more in a way in which he’s craving something. Not something to eat, but… something. So he ends up in front of Katsuki’s door with no clear objective in mind, no words prepared, unsure of why he’s even there, and he knocks.
“What?!” Katsuki no less than yells through the door.
Um. Maybe this isn’t a good time to… bother Katsuki? Is it ever a good time to disturb him, better yet knock on his door to try to impede on his abode?
Shouto says nothing and raps gently on the door again. He hears exasperated, angry mumbling and shuffling on the other side and the door swings open to Katsuki frowning, tying the drawstrings of his sweats. He leers expectantly at Shouto. Oh, right, he should say something… but what. He hadn’t planned on Katsuki even opening the door, nonetheless expecting Shouto to need something from him. He was craving something that led him to this door, but what…?
Katsuki rolls his eyes and looks like he’s about to shut the door, and Shouto perks his attention up, calming his internal dialogue.
“What time is it?” he asks.
“Bitch do I look like the weatherman to you?”
Shouto fixes his blank stare on Katsuki’s red eyes and just stares. Katsuki returns the gaze angrily, as per usual.
Blinking once, twice, Shouto deadpans in the most catatonic tone he can manage: “What.”
“Did I fucking stutter?” he scowls, rolling his eyes. “What do you want, halfie?”
“I—”
Sorry for almost killing you today but here is a sincere apology, would you like a bouquet of frozen roses?
“I was showering because I caught on fire earlier and started smelling like burnt sugar.”
“Okay, and?”
“Does that have anything to do with your sweat?”
Katuski gives him a face and goes “HAH?” and Shouto, despite his distinct inexpressive features, really thinks he’s gonna die right there. Affirming his presumptions, Katsuki threateningly asks, “Do you wanna die or something, halfie?! What the fuck does my sweat have to do with you—you catching on fire?! Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?!”
Shouto ignores the grimace he’s given and calmly proceeds, thanking his brain for recalling that time they worked together to detonate some villains with Katsuki’s nitro-sweat and his own flames. He remembers that Katsuki’s quirk activates with nitroglycerin and that nitroglycerin, on top of being explosive, smells like burnt sugar. Aizawa’s words rung within him somewhere. He only remembered that part of the lecture because at the words “burnt sugar,” he had pictured Bakugou Katsuki, known for his nitro-sweat, as a creme brulee. Yes, a creme brulee with Katsuki’s face plastered onto it, his face on the burnt sugar and hair as the pale yellow custard. The image still haunts Shouto to this day.
He once mentioned it to Iida, who insisted that he apply for UA’s mental health sessions for the unsettling nightmares about dessert he was getting.
He continues, “Your sweat is explosive so I think it set me on fire. From training, when you flung yourself on top of me.”
“I did not fucking fling myself on top of you, you stood there stupidly and chose to become a helicopter pad!” he yells, glowering. “And so what—what if it did? Why the fuck else are you here, 3-D glasses?”
“Well,” Shouto speaks. He ponders what his true reason for coming here is but figures since he hardly visits this particular dorm room and it’s an early night, he can get a learning experience out of this. For science. “I want to know if your bodily fluids can set me on fire. During class, Aizawa said nitroglycerin is extremely unstable—”
“Like you, half-and-half?”
“Ow,” he pauses briefly. He notes that Bakugou Katsuki is an emotional trauma jabber but is not too insensitive about it. He continues, “And it detonates or… lights on fire… at the slightest shock or heat.”
“So what the fuck do you want me to do about it?” Katsuki deadpans.
“Can I touch your sweat?”
Katsuki ends up stepping backwards faster than Shouto can comprehend and swings the door on his face. Before it can completely shut, Shouto hastily freezes it in place to the ground (“I sincerely apologize for breaking this rule, Aizawa”), leaving a substantial enough gap for his body to pass through. He begins to wiggle himself through when the other male starts outright screeching about Shouto’s apparent death wish and his wilting inhibitions to not blow the door frame off and Shouto with it.
Blow… Shouto?
Said male internally flushes, burning the image onto the interior of his skull despite knowing full-well that’s not what Katsuki’s unreasonably angry spewing meant, but he reacts against his will anyway. He fully steps into the room and stands awkwardly in front of the door while Katsuki threatens his very life.
Just another day in the life of Todoroki Shouto.
“Fucking no, the fuck, Icyhot?!” he bellows, sparking near his fingertips somewhat defensively. “I just fucking showered so my sweat is gone, fuckwad.”
“Well, your hands are obviously about to detonate, Bakuno, so one, you’re sweating in the hands, and two, please don’t explode in this room or in my vicinity or I’ll have to take defensive measures.”
“I’ll fucking explode in this room, in your ‘vicinity,’ and in your ass, shitface, I’ll do whatever the fuck I want,” he spits, holding his stance. Then he falters, his eye twitches, and Shouto realizes he probably recognizes the implications of that sentence.
Katsuki stops sparking and stands up straight, face hard yet blank, showing the least of a scowl Shouto has ever seen on him since he met the guy.
“I guess if you want to?” Shouto asks, and it comes off as a question despite not having meant to. He blinks at Katsuki who turns his head to the side, crossing his arms, and scoffs.
“I’m not interested in you that way.”
“What way?”
“Pick one.”
He huffs and throws himself onto his bed. Shouto stalks carefully toward him, cautious not to set off Mr. Human Bomb, setting himself down on the desk chair and scooting to be beside Katsuki’s bed. He removes his towel and places it on the backrest. Katsuki doesn’t protest—just stares down at his own sweating palms with some unreadable expression on his face. Shouto raises his eyebrows slightly in surprise at the lack of screeching at his presence but takes it as a sign to proceed with his experiment.
He not-so-gingerly reaches for an unsuspecting Katsuki’s right hand with his left and grabs at it. Katsuki whips to the side to face him, his expression flashing all of shock, bewilderment, anger, and—embarrassment?—and he retracts his hand so fast it’s almost comical, as if he’d touched fire.
Shouto knows this will be difficult because everything regarding Bakugou Katsuki is difficult. Ignoring the conscience that urges him not to use his powers on innocent people, he freezes Katsuki’s bed sheets to effectively trap his lower body underneath them. He hastily clambers on top of Katsuki, legs on either side of his waist, and grabs for his hand. Shouto remains calm (or, tries to), reaching for Katsuki’s right hand and forcibly intertwining their fingers, whereas Katsuki screams bloody murder and different variations of “DO YOU WANNA SEE STARS, ICYHOT?! HAH?! HALF AND HALF BASTARD?! I’LL TAKE YOU RIGHT FUCKING NOW!” as he, pretty effectively, reaches for Shouto’s neck to presumably choke him to death, seizing his now very hot and sweaty hand around and under the base of Shouto’s jaw.
Shouto’s chin tilts up, forcing his lids to hood to gaze downward as Katsuki’s hand pushes him up by the neck which, as a result, makes his back arch slightly to accommodate for the stretching of his spine. One of his hands rests on Katsuki’s chest for support (and to restrain him lest he risk his actual life here) while his other holds Katsuki’s hand to his chest protectively in this uncomfortable predicament. He rubs his thumb across Katsuki’s hand inquiringly.
“Ah, as I expected,” Shouto declares, albeit slightly choked with the hand around his neck blocking airflow and putting pressure on his pulse points. “Slightly oily.”
“What the fuck does that mean, Hypothermia?!” Katsuki yells indignantly, not even protesting his advances anymore but not letting off the choking either.
“Your nitroglycerin. It’s oily, like Aizawa said it should be—”
“Holy shit, guys! I was right!” Shouto hears this from the hall, and both their eyes shoot wide open as they slowly turn toward the source of the voice.
It’s Kirishima standing at the frozen doorway, but he’s looking to the side and not at them, waving his hand in a “come here” gesture, and—oh, no. There are others.
Half the class seemingly materializes behind him to peek through the opening and everything suddenly rings in Shouto’s ears. Everything being the ten thousand words of his classmates all at once in a little less than five seconds.
“Of course...! With that tension…”
“Ah… A fated battle between men.”
“He likes choking. Guys, Todoroki likes choking.”
“Oh my god! My eyes! I wanted boobies, not this!”
“Damn, I knew I heard some dirty talk down here! ‘Do you wanna see stars, I’ll take you right now’—ha! Bakugou, you dog!”
“They’re kind of cute…” He could practically hear the fondness in this one. He could also almost (key word: almost) agree.
And suddenly—suddenly Shouto spontaneously combusts into flames for the second time today, involuntarily, unwillingly, not asked for, definitely not desired, and he almost doesn’t notice because of the heat creeping up his neck. His classmates’ brows abruptly shoot up in synchronization, but he only notices at Katsuki’s disgruntled bellow of “I will detonate this entire fucking dormitory if you shit-for-brains don’t get out of my sight right now, don’t make me throw the fuck up,” and they leave. Shouto clambers off, hastily defrosting Katsuki and clearing his throat as he stands up. He brushes off invisible dirt from his pants and—oh, he’s still on fire.
“Dude, you’re on fucking fire,” Katsuki deadpans. He clears his throat, too, sitting upright again. Shouto swears his cheeks are red, though that might be a byproduct of his recent literal state of flames.
“Yeah, I know, Sparky Sparky Boom Boom.”
Katsuki grumbles to himself. “Shut the fuck up, Katy Perry. It smells like an incinerated smore in here.”
Well, that was a new one. It had no bite to it, as if he wasn’t even trying… Where was that Bakugou fire?
Shouto dismisses the unfamiliar lack of bite and puts himself out, deeming his impromptu experiment a success and briskly making his way out the door before Katsuki can pull himself together enough to catch the rosiness painted on Shouto’s cheeks. He calls out a good night and thanks for letting me let you set me on fire to Katsuki, hastily thawing out the door on his way out.
Shouto thinks he got more than just a successful experiment out of tonight, though he isn’t sure what, and falls asleep later smelling like burnt sugar. Again.