The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe. Katsuki hated it. He’d been there every day for two weeks, and it still made his chest tight, even if his boyfriend was sitting up in bed now instead of unconscious or hooked to too many wires.

Katsuki leaned against the doorway. The cast on the other’s leg was a brutal white contrast to his skin, and his left arm was cradled in a sling, shoulder and collarbone still recovering from being shattered. His ribs were wrapped beneath the hoodie. He looked like hell.

“You ready to get the fuck out of here?” he asked gruffly, voice low but not unkind.

His boyfriend looked up and gave him a crooked smile. “I’ve been ready for a week.”

Bakugo crossed the room in a few strides and gently cupped the side of his face. “Yeah, well. Your skull didn’t agree, dumbass.”

He leaned in and kissed his forehead. Carefully. God, he wanted to hold him, wrap himself around him, feel the rise and fall of his chest without machines monitoring it.

A nurse came in to go over discharge papers. He’d already memorized the medication schedule. Knew which painkillers were safe and which would make him loopy. Knew how to help him shower without hurting his ribs or jostling his busted shoulder.

The ride back home was quiet—Katsuki driving one-handed, the other occasionally reaching over to rest on his thigh, thumb rubbing soft circles. His boyfriend didn’t say much, probably tired from the walk and the meds.

When they pulled up to their apartment, Katsuki jogged around the car to open the door. “Alright, lean on me. Don’t be a hero. That’s my job.”

His boyfriend snorted. “We are heroes.”

“Yeah, well. Time for me to carry your useless ass.”

Inside the apartment, Katsuki had cleaned everything. Changed the sheets. Cleared the coffee table. There were ice packs already in the freezer and water bottles by the bed. He’d even shoved the couch closer to the window.