Chapter 22

₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍
⤷ you’re really that stupid?

THE BATHROOM HAD finally gone quiet by the time Oda finished, the echo of running water and careless laughter fading as the other boys filtered out one by one. He lingered longer than necessary, hands braced against the sink, breathing slow and controlled while the faint sting from the eyedrops settled. The contacts stayed in, thin and uncomfortable against eyes that already felt too dry. He kept his head angled down the entire time, gaze fixed on the porcelain basin instead of the mirror above it, because he already knew what he would see if he looked up.

Grey.

The same pale, washed-out grey that had stared back at him from old photographs, from memories he tried not to unpack this late at night, from a face that looked too much like his father’s. 

He told himself it didn’t matter, that it was just a color, that no one here would notice or care, but the thought didn’t stick. It never did. Taking the contacts out completely would have been smarter, healthier, the thing every doctor and handler and supervisor had told him to do, but tonight he didn’t have the energy to deal with the fallout of being seen like that. Definitely not with Ango looming in the back of his mind.

So he straightened, shoved the small bottle back into his pocket, and left the bathroom without looking back.

The communal sleeping room was dimmer than the cafeteria had been, lights turned low and soft, the air filled with the quiet rustle of bedding and the low hum of whispered conversations tapering. Futons were spread across the floor in loose rows, bags tucked beside them, shoes lined up near the wall in uneven clusters. 

Most of the class was already settled, bodies stretched out or curled in on themselves, exhaustion winning out over any lingering excitement from the day. A few heads lifted when Oda walked in, then dropped again just as quickly, everyone too tired to do more than register that he’d returned.

“Edooo.”

Kaminari’s voice cut through the quiet with its usual lack of restraint, dragging Oda’s attention to the far side of the room where the blond was half-sprawled on his foam mat, arm flung out possessively over the empty space beside him. He smacked the mat with an open palm for emphasis, grinning. Kirishima sat next to him, legs crossed, phone angled between them, the screen dimmed but still glowing faintly.

Oda huffed under his breath as he crossed the room, shoulders relaxing just a fraction now that the day was finally winding down. “Dork.”

Kaminari blinked at him, genuinely caught off guard. “What?”

Oda dropped down onto the mat beside him with a quiet thud, stretching his legs out and letting his weight sink into the foam. “Who nicknames someone’s last name?” he asked, tone dry but not unkind.

“Me. I do. That’s who,” Kaminari declared, folding his arms with exaggerated seriousness.

Kirishima leaned around Kaminari, expression shifting from amused to concerned as he took a closer look at Oda’s face. “You good, man?”

“Yeah?” Oda replied, brows knitting slightly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your— Your eyes are glassy,” Kirishima said, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should even point it out.

“Oh.” Oda lifted a hand and rubbed at his eyes, barely registering the lingering sting. “No, it’s fine, just put eyedrops in is all.”

“Allergies?” Kirishima asked.

“Sure,” Oda muttered, gaze drifting toward the far wall. It was an easy excuse, one people understood without asking follow-up questions, even if it wasn’t technically true. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had something as normal as allergies, not when his body’s idea of malfunction tended to involve internal damage instead of sneezing.

Kaminari sat up. “I’m just relieved we’re even allowed to be here,” he said, glancing sideways at Kirishima. “I didn’t think we’d be allowed to since we failed the practical.”

“Oh, yeah, I was gonna ask,” Oda turned his head toward them. “What happened with that?”

“Starting tomorrow we have extra classes at the end of the day,” Kirishima groaned, dropping back onto his hands and letting his head fall back dramatically.

“It’s better than not getting to come,” Kaminari countered quickly, tone lighter, like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

“You sure about that?” Kirishima shot back, eyebrow raised.

“Beats regular summer school,” Oda muttered, staring up at the ceiling now too, the thought alone enough to make his stomach twist.

“Like you know anything about summer school, Mr. I Got In On Recommendation,” Kaminari scoffed, turning his head just enough to smirk at him.

“I got in for skill, not grades,” Oda replied flatly, giving him a sideways look. “My grades are ass, I’m shocked I’m not in those extra classes with you.”

“Maybe Aizawa took favor on you,” Sero chimed in as he wandered over, dropping down onto an open mat nearby with a tired grin.

“Yeah, somehow I doubt it,” Oda sighed, one hand coming up to rub at his face. “I do not want to know what we’re doing tomorrow.”

“Especially since this was the first day,” Sero agreed.

Bakugo’s boots scuffed against the floor as he passed them, shoulders hunched and hands jammed deep into his pockets, irritation rolling off him in waves even as the room quieted down for the night.

“Tch. Weaklings.” Bakugo muttered as he walked past.

The insult landed the way it always did but Kirishima didn’t even hesitate.

“And at least we’re doing it with friends, right, Bakugo?” Kirishima mockingly called after him, voice loud enough to carry across the room.

“Go to hell!” The ash blond snapped before walking out. The door slid shut behind him with a dull thud.

Kirishima snorted, shaking his head, but the word he’d used—friends—didn’t fade so easily for Oda. It dropped into his chest like a stone, heavy and unexpected, and then sank lower, settling somewhere uncomfortable. He lay back on his mat, staring at the ceiling, letting the feeling exist without immediately trying to name it.

He’d never had friends. Not really.

He’d had his twin brother, a constant presence from the moment he could remember existing, someone who shared his face, his history, his losses. He’d had his older sibling, a distant memory. He’d had his aunt, technically the same age as him, a relationship so strange and tangled it barely fit into any normal category. Those were family, all of them bound by blood, or obligation, or circumstance.

But this—this was different.

These people weren’t tied to him by anything unavoidable. They could have ignored him. Written him off. Kept their distance the way most people always had once they realized he was odd, quiet, difficult. Instead, they’d pulled him in without much ceremony, without asking for explanations he didn’t know how to give. It was unfamiliar, and because of that, it felt fragile, like something that could shatter if he moved the wrong way or said the wrong thing.

“Man, do you think he’s ever had any good friends?” Kirishima asked, still staring at the doorway Bakugo had disappeared through, his voice thoughtful rather than mocking now.

“I don’t think he’s able to be a good friend,” Sero scoffed, shifting where he sat.

“I think he’s probably had as many good friends as Edogawa has and to that I answer: none,” Kaminari said decidedly, nodding to himself.

“What?” Oda blinked, turning his head toward him. “How did I catch a stray?”

Kaminari rolled onto his side to face him fully, expression earnest in that unfiltered way he had. “Have you ever had a good friend?” he asked. “That’s a trick question. You do. Me. So—”

“You?” Oda repeated, genuinely taken aback.

“Yes! What the hell do you think I’ve been doing this whole time?” Kaminari jabbed him lightly in the shoulder, grinning like this should have been obvious.

“Flirting,” Kirishima and Sero said at the same time, which immediately wiped the grin off Kaminari’s face and snapped his spine straight.

“Shhh,” Kaminari hissed, glancing around dramatically. “He’ll catch on.” He said jokingly, though his ears were faintly red.

Oda side-eyed him, unimpressed but not entirely immune to the warmth creeping up his neck.

“They’re kidding,” Kaminari added quickly, motioning back toward Kirishima and Sero. “And they’re your friends too. We’re stuck together for the next three years assuming none of us bomb so hard Aizawa gets us expelled.”

“Yep,” Kirishima grinned, easy and certain.

“Totally,” Sero agreed, voice calm, like there had never been any doubt about it.

Something knotted low in his stomach, tight and unfamiliar, the kind of sensation Oda usually associated with danger or pain or the warning signs that his body was about to betray him again. But layered over that knot was warmth, slow and spreading, a feeling that didn’t make sense to him no matter how he tried to analyze it. 

Friendship was something that existed effortlessly for the boys around him, something they tossed back and forth without thinking, like a shared joke or a shoulder bump in the hallway. For Oda, it was foreign territory, uncharted and unsettling, and he had no framework for what you were supposed to do once you found yourself standing in it.

He didn’t know how to respond to it. He didn’t know what the rules were or how easily it could be broken. He didn’t know how much of himself he was supposed to give or how much he was allowed to keep guarded. The uncertainty sat heavy in his chest, pressing against his ribs.

But he did know one thing.

“Oda.” His own name slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it, the sound of it strange on his tongue in this context.

“Hm?” Kaminari looked up from his phone, eyebrows lifting, attention immediately shifting to him like it always did.

“If we’re friends…” Oda started, his voice steady despite the way his shoulders tensed, “…No one calls me Edogawa. That’s my guardian’s name. I go by Oda.”

The words hung in the air between them. For a split second, none of them spoke. Kirishima just stared at him, eyes wide. Sero blinked like he was recalibrating. Kaminari froze entirely, phone slipping forgotten into his lap.

Then Kaminari’s face crumpled in a way that was so sudden and dramatic it almost startled Oda into flinching.

“Oh my god, it’s happening!” He grabbed Oda by the shoulders and gave him a shake, all unrestrained enthusiasm and zero regard for personal space. “We’re officially friends!”

“I’ll take it back,” Oda threatened immediately, body going rigid at the unexpected contact, instincts flaring even as he didn’t actually pull away.

“Nope. Can’t take it back,” Kaminari declared, grip firm, grin impossibly wide.

“It’s out there now,” Sero agreed, leaning back on his hands, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“No going back,” Kirishima added.

“You’re all dumb,” Oda sighed, exhaustion threading through his voice even as something dangerously close to fondness tugged at the edges of it.

“You’re not much academically smarter, my friend,” Kaminari teased, finally releasing him but staying close.

Oda shot him a glare. “I never should have told you that.”

Kaminari just laughed.

𓏵

AN HOUR LATER, when the room had finally gone quiet enough that even Kaminari’s restless shifting had slowed and Kirishima’s breathing had evened out into something heavy and regular, Oda slipped out from his bedding with practiced care. He moved slowly, deliberately, every step measured, his hands already sliding into the pockets of his hoodie out of habit. The camp was quiet in that particular way only remote places ever were, and he welcomed it more than he probably should have.

He knew exactly how much trouble he could get into if he was caught. He knew Aizawa’s stance on breaking rules, especially ones tied to health and safety, and he knew Ango would lose his mind if this somehow got back to him. None of that stopped the tight pressure in his chest that had been building since lights-out. Old habits were hard to kill, especially the ones that had kept him functional for years.

Outside, the night air was cool and damp, carrying the smell of pine and earth, and Oda leaned against the side of the building as he lit up a cigarette, shielding the flame with his hand. The first drag burned like it always did, and he exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping an inch as the tension finally loosened its grip. 

The stars were bright out here, unpolluted by city light, and for a moment he just stood there, staring up at them, pretending this was the only place he existed.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until they were already close.

“Tch.”

The sound was unmistakable, sharp and annoyed and entirely too familiar.

Oda didn’t jump, but his shoulders stiffened as he lowered the cigarette slightly, turning his head just enough to see Bakugo standing a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes blazing even in the dark. Of all the people he could’ve run into, this was just about the worst possible option.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Bakugo growled, gaze flicking to the cigarette. “You’re really that stupid?”

Oda took another drag anyway, eyes forward, voice flat when he replied. “Yep. You want one?”

“Go fuck yourself.” Bakugo snapped, stepping closer. “I came out here ’cause I couldn’t sleep. Then I see you pull this crap.” His lip curled. “Figures.”

“If you’re gonna lecture me, get it over with,” Oda muttered, exhaling smoke into the night. “I’m not in the mood.”

Bakugo’s jaw tightened, hands clenching at his sides. “You were coughing up blood a few weeks ago, you idiot. You almost dropped dead in the arena. And now you’re out here doing this?”

Oda finally turned to look at him fully. “Hmm and you really seem like you could use one.”

Bakugo stepped in. “Say that again.”

“Relax,” Oda said, tone even, though his muscles had gone taut. “I’m not picking a fight. I just needed five minutes.”

Bakugo stared at him like he was trying to decide whether to blast him into the trees or not, anger warring with something less sharp, less explosive. Finally, he scoffed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Don’t I know it,” Oda replied, flicking ash away.

There was a long, tense silence between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the forest and the faint crackle of the cigarette. Eventually, Bakugo clicked his tongue and turned away slightly. “If Aizawa catches you, don’t drag me into it.”

“I won’t,” Oda said quietly.

Oda watched him walk off, the tension slowly bleeding out of his shoulders once he was gone. After another moment, he crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe, grinding it into the dirt until it was nothing but ash. He stood there a little longer, breathing in the cool night air, before finally heading back inside, already bracing himself for whatever tomorrow was going to throw at them.

𓏵

TRAINING BEGAN AT 5:30 the next morning, a time that felt borderline cruel even by UA standards. The sky was still a muted gray-blue, and a cold mist hung low between the trees. Oda hadn’t been sleeping much to begin with, his nights fractured into shallow stretches that never quite counted as rest, but being woken up while it was still dark put him in a particularly sour mood. His body felt heavy from exhaustion layered on top of lingering pain, and he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his PE jacket.

Standing outside in their PE uniforms, lined up unevenly on the packed dirt, dome students were yawning openly, others were stretching with stiff, half-hearted movements, and a few just stared ahead with glassy eyes like they hadn’t fully woken up yet. 

“Good morning class.” Aizawa’s voice cut through the haze as he led them to a wider opening in the woods, “Today we begin a training camp that will increase your strength. Our goal is to increase your strengths exponentially so that each of you earns a provisional license. This will allow you to continue to fight the dangers that fester in the darkness. Proceed carefully.”

There was something about the way he said it that made a few students straighten instinctively, like their bodies knew better than their brains what was coming. Then Aizawa reached into his pocket and pulled something out, and Oda immediately recognized it. His lips twitched despite himself.

“Look alive Bakugo. Try throwing this for me.” He tossed the softball toward the ash blond, the same unassuming piece of equipment from the very first day of class.

Bakugo caught it easily,  “Yeah sure. Like in the fitness test.”

“That’s right. When you first stared school, your record was 705.2 meters. Let’s see if you’ve improved.” Aizawa’s eyes followed Bakugo as he stepped into the open space.

“Oh I get it. We’re checking our progress!” Ashido realized, her eyes lighting up despite the early hour.

“A lot had happened to us the last three months. Maybe he can throw it a whole mile now!” Sero added, and Oda couldn’t help the snort that escaped him.

“I sure hope he can.” Oda snickered under his breath, tilting his head slightly as he watched Bakugo roll his shoulder. There was a particular satisfaction in holding that record over the blond’s head, especially considering that the last time they’d done this, Oda had launched the ball about a hundred miles. 

“Shut up, short-stack!” Bakugo hollered without looking back, irritation flaring hot and immediate, but he still took a moment to warm up, swinging his arm in a controlled arc and forcing himself to breathe evenly.

“Come on, get it Bakugo!”Kirishima called out with infectious enthusiasm, completely unfazed by Bakugo’s mood.

The ash blond smirked, confidence snapping into place. “I’ve got this. No one blink.”

Then he threw, explosions flaring just enough to propel the ball forward in a blistering arc that tore through the air and vanished into the trees beyond the clearing. A few students leaned forward instinctively, tracking its path even after it disappeared from sight.

But it wasn’t a mile.

“That was 709.6 meters.” Aizawa’s calm announcement landed, and the clearing went momentarily quiet as the number sank in.

“That’s it? Kinda disappointing.” Sero frowned, clearly expecting more.

“You’ve had a single semester at UA, and due to your various experiences all of you have definitely improved.” Aizawa continued, his gaze sweeping over the class as several students straightened unconsciously. “But most of those have mostly been limited to mental paralysis and technique with a slight increase in stamina along the way.”

Oda felt that one hit a little too close to home, his jaw tightening as he listened. He could feel the truth of it in his own body, in the way control and strategy had sharpened while the fundamental limits of his quirk still pressed painfully against his organs.

“As you can see, your quirks haven’t improved much on a fundamental level.” Aizawa said, his tone blunt but not unkind. “That’s why we’re now going to focus on improving your powers. This will be so hard, you’ll feel like you’re dying.”

A chill ran through the group.

𓏵

NONE OF THE BICKERING—or rather, the so-called training—with his brother had prepared Oda for what Aizawa put him through. That had been rough, sure, but it had always carried an unspoken safety net. Someone else watching. Someone else ready to step in. Someone else who already understood exactly how far Oda could go before something inside him gave out.

This was different.

This was what Oda’s hell actually looked like.

From the moment Aizawa had singled him out, there had been no easing into it, no gentle escalation, no room to hide behind technicalities or clever workarounds. Aizawa wanted precision so sharp it bordered on cruelty. Everything Oda thought he understood about his quirk was dragged into the open and dissected piece by piece, and it quickly became clear that what he’d learned at UA so far barely scratched the surface of what Aizawa expected from him.

Learning to fly was not in the contract.

It was important to make one thing very clear—Odasaku Edogawa did not fly. He never had. He levitated by standing on pieces of earth he broke free from the ground, manipulating gravity around those fragments and anchoring himself to something tangible. There was always weight beneath his feet, always resistance, always something to catch him if his focus slipped.

That was how it had always been.

So when Aizawa told him to let go of the rock and stay up, Oda had stared at him like he’d lost his damn mind.

“You want me to what?” Oda had asked flatly, hands shoved into his pockets, sweat already dripping down the back of his neck.

Aizawa hadn’t even blinked. “Alter the gravitational field around your own body. Stop relying on external mass.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“That’s how you’ve been using it,” Aizawa corrected. “Not the same thing.”

And that had been that.

Now here he was, hours later, hovering several meters above the forest floor, his entire body screaming at him to stop. The air felt wrong around him, thin and resistant, like he was pushing against something invisible with every breath. His quirk flared hot and unstable in his chest, pressure building behind his ribs in a way that made his teeth grind together.

“Higher,” Aizawa called from below, voice maddeningly calm.

Oda clenched his jaw and forced the gravity to shift again. His body jerked upward another meter, his stomach lurching violently as his sense of orientation twisted. There was nothing under him. Nothing to stand on. Nothing to catch him.

Just air.

His focus wavered.

Immediately, gravity snapped back into place and Oda dropped.

“Shit—!”

He barely managed to reassert control before hitting the ground, his boots slamming into the dirt hard enough to jar his spine. Pain flared up his legs and straight into his abdomen, sharp and nauseating, and Oda staggered forward, bracing his hands on his knees as his vision swam.

Blood crept up the back of his throat.

He swallowed it down.

And the worst part was—Aizawa was right.

As miserable as it was, as much as his body protested, there was something different about this kind of training. He wasn’t just refining an inherited weapon or learning how to minimize damage. He was reshaping how his quirk existed inside him, forcing it to obey rules he chose rather than ones he’d been taught to fear.

For the first time, the power felt… his.

That realization carried him through the rest of the day, even as his organs screamed in quiet revolt, even as his vision blurred at the edges and his hands trembled when he wasn’t actively focusing on keeping them still.

By the time evening rolled around and classes A and B were herded together to make dinner, Oda felt hollowed out. Empty in that dangerous way that came from pushing past your limit and pretending you hadn’t noticed.

Everyone was exhausted.

Voices were low and strained, movements sluggish as students chopped vegetables, stirred pots, and argued half-heartedly over instructions that barely made sense anymore. Someone burned rice. Someone else spilled an entire pot of soup. Kaminari nearly electrocuted himself trying to light a stove before being bodily dragged away by Jiro.

Oda stood off to the side for a moment, watching it all with dull eyes.

“You gonna help us or what?” Kirishima asked, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead as he hauled another bundle of supplies across the clearing.

“I can’t cook,” Oda replied honestly.

“Oh.”

So instead, Oda took the only task he could handle without risking disaster. He moved firewood.

Sato had already cut it into manageable chunks, and Oda went back and forth between the pile and the stoves, lifting, stacking, and repositioning the logs with careful, minimal uses of his quirk. Just enough to ease the strain off his arms. Not enough to make his insides protest louder than they already were.

By the time dinner was finally served, it looked… questionable.

The rice was undercooked. The stew was too thin. Something tasted faintly like charcoal.

No one complained.

Oda ate quietly, spooning rice into his mouth and focusing on the familiar texture more than the taste. He didn’t care about flavor, not when there was a dull, grinding ache deep in his abdomen that made every breath feel measured.

Kirishima slurped loudly beside him. “Man, I’ve eaten worse.”

“Have you?” Sero asked skeptically.

“Yeah,” Kirishima said around a mouthful of food. “Kaminari’s cooking.”

“Shut up! It’s not that bad!” 

Oda barely reacted. His focus was inward now, monitoring the warning signs he knew too well. The pressure. The way his chest felt too tight. If he pushed any more today, he’d start coughing blood. 

So when he finished eating, he stood carefully, ignoring the way the world tilted for half a second, and moved off toward the edge of the clearing. He needed rest. Actual rest. Before his quirk decided to collect its due.

Tomorrow would be worse.

He knew that.

And somehow, despite everything, the thought didn’t scare him as much as it used to.