Chapter 31

₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍
⤷ was i not supposed to panic?

THEIR DAYS SETTLED into a strange but rigid rhythm. Mornings were reserved for actual classes, and those hours always felt longer than they had any right to be. Then came lunch, which passed in a blur of noise and chatter and half-finished conversations, and after that Class 1-A was marched straight to Gym Gamma for their allotted training block before Class 1-B took over in the afternoon. Three hours a day. 

It meant Oda wasn’t being ground into complete dust the way he might have been during an all-day camp schedule, but it also meant he had to split his energy in a way that didn’t come naturally to him. 

Physical exhaustion he could handle. But sitting still in a classroom, forcing his brain to engage with lectures and notes while his body still buzzed from the previous day’s training and no sleep was a different kind of trial altogether. By the time the last bell before lunch rang, his focus usually felt frayed at the edges.

Still, he made it through.

Barely.

When midday training finally rolled around the next day, stepping into Gym Gamma felt like crossing a threshold from one world into another. The air was different there, heavy with dust and concrete and the faint hum of quirks being pushed and tested. 

Cementoss had already reshaped the space again, erecting uneven walls, raised platforms, and thick slabs of stone that jutted out at awkward angles. Targets had been embedded into some of them, others left blank.

Oda gravitated toward one of the more open sections.

He stood there for a moment, rolling a steel marble across his knuckles, feeling the familiar weight settle into his palm. Power Loader had been generous, or at least curious enough not to ask too many questions, and Oda had taken full advantage of that. He’d filled one of his pockets with the marbles, each identical in size and density, each one a potential projectile if he handled it right.

Target practice.

It was simple in concept, which was exactly what he needed.

He set a handful of marbles hovering in front of him, spreading them out in a loose arc at chest height. With a subtle shift of focus, he increased the gravity around one of them and flicked his wrist at the same time. 

The marble shot forward with a sharp, metallic whine, slamming into a concrete target hard enough to chip stone on impact. The sound echoed through the gym, a clean, satisfying crack that made a few heads turn.

Oda exhaled slowly.

Again.

This time he adjusted the angle, compensating for distance, and sent another marble screaming across the space. It moved fast enough that it blurred, a streak of dull red that might as well have been a bullet for how quickly it crossed the gap. The target shattered outright, fragments of concrete raining down.

That one made him pause.

He hadn’t meant to put quite that much power behind it.

He took a second to recalibrate, fingers flexing as he dialed the output back just a fraction. Precision mattered here more than raw force. Anyone could throw something hard. What he needed was control. He launched the next marble with a smoother, more measured push, guiding its path mid-flight just enough to adjust its trajectory before impact. 

It struck the center of the next target dead-on, cracking it cleanly without completely obliterating the surrounding structure.

Better.

Soon, the rhythm settled in.

Marbles lifted from his pocket one by one, each hovering briefly before being sent flying. Some he threw straight, others he curved around obstacles, testing how much control he could exert once they were already in motion. 

He practiced ricochets off stone surfaces, bouncing the marbles at sharp angles to hit targets that weren’t in his direct line of sight. Each successful hit sent a small jolt of satisfaction through him, a reminder that this, at least, was something he could do without tearing himself apart from the inside.

The strain was there, of course. It always was.

He could feel it building slowly in his chest, a dull pressure that warned him not to get careless. But compared to full-body techniques or prolonged self-enhancement, this was manageable. The marbles were small. The gravity fields were focused. He wasn’t fighting his own anatomy every second.

If this was going to be part of his arsenal, he intended to master it.

But it didn’t change the fact that he could feel it.

Every so often, in the middle of lining up another shot or adjusting the gravity around a marble mid-flight, there was that unmistakable sensation crawling up the back of his spine. The kind that made the hairs on his neck prickle and his shoulders tense without conscious permission. 

A presence. Focused. Sharp. Hostile in that very specific way that only one person ever seemed to manage so effortlessly.

Katsuki Bakugo.

Oda didn’t turn his head when it happened. He didn’t let his eyes wander. He didn’t give Bakugo the satisfaction of being acknowledged, because he knew—he knew—that the second he did, it would turn into something else. 

A confrontation. A demand. Another line of questioning about things Oda had no intention of unpacking in the middle of a gym filled with teachers and students and concrete structures that could be reduced to rubble if either of them lost their temper.

So he ignored it. Or at least, he tried to.

He kept his focus locked on the marbles, on the precise weight of each one as it lifted from his palm, on the subtle adjustments he had to make to keep their trajectories clean and controlled. 

When the feeling of Bakugo’s stare pressed too hard against his awareness, he compensated by throwing himself deeper into the work. He forced his breathing to stay even, forced his muscles to stay loose, forced his expression into the same flat, unimpressed neutrality he wore.

If Bakugo was looking for a reaction, he wasn’t going to get one. Still, it was hard not to notice the pattern.

The stare always came in brief bursts, never constant, like Bakugo was checking on him when he thought Oda wasn’t paying attention. It would hit just as Oda was recovering from a particularly heavy shot, or when he paused to reassess a shattered target, or when he wiped dust from his hands and took a half-second longer to steady himself. 

It felt evaluative. Suspicious. Almost predatory in the way it lingered just long enough to make Oda acutely aware of it before disappearing again.

It made his skin itch.

Oda gritted his teeth and kept going.

He reminded himself that Bakugo didn’t know anything for sure. That whatever had been said back in Kamino, whatever half-formed conclusions Bakugo might be drawing, none of it amounted to proof. This was just Bakugo being Bakugo—angry, perceptive, and entirely incapable of letting go of something once it got lodged in his head.

That didn’t mean Oda had to play along.

By the time the end of their training slot rolled around, the fatigue had finally begun to catch up with him in earnest. His movements were still controlled, but there was a faint heaviness in his limbs now, a subtle drag that hadn’t been there at the start. He slowed his pace deliberately, opting for fewer but cleaner shots, unwilling to push himself past the point where his body would start demanding payment.

That was when the voice cut through the gym.

“Alright, that’s enough! Time’s up!”

Vlad King’s shout echoed across the TDL, authoritative and impossible to ignore. 

Teachers began calling out instructions, students started pulling back from their exercises, and the constant undercurrent of quirk usage began to die down. Cementoss stopped reshaping the terrain, letting the structures settle into stillness, while Ectoplasm’s clones dissipated one by one.

Class 1-A’s time was over.

Oda let the remaining marbles drop back into his palm, then into his pocket, and finally allowed himself to relax his shoulders. He rolled his neck once, working out the stiffness, and took a step back from the pockmarked wall he’d been using as a reference point. Only then did he glance around, just enough to confirm what he already suspected.

Bakugo was gone.

Whether he’d left early or simply turned his attention elsewhere, Oda didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure which option bothered him more. Either way, the oppressive weight of that red-eyed stare lifted, and the gym felt marginally easier to breathe in because of it.

“Class 1-A, out!” Vlad King barked, already waving Class 1-B forward. “You’re up!”

The transition was quick and efficient, students filing past one another in opposite directions, sweat-soaked and exhausted on one side, fresh and keyed-up on the other. Oda joined the flow without comment, hands shoved into his pockets, head slightly bowed as he exited the gym.

He didn’t look back.

Whatever Bakugo was thinking, whatever conclusions he was drawing, Oda would deal with it later. For now, training was over.

𓏵

THE CLASS ROOM WAS tragically quiet the next morning. You could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, the ticking of the clock, and the restless shifting of students in their seats. The only other sound came from pencils scratching aggressively against paper—some more violent than others—as if sheer force could make the math problem surrender.

Every student could feel it: the collective anxiety of a timed problem none of them fully understood. Erasers squeaked across paper, graphite dust smeared across desks, and several students whispered curses under their breath as they scratched out half-baked equations.

Someone muttered about how they knew the formula was wrong; another tried to copy their neighbor before remembering Ectoplasm’s eyes were everywhere.

The particular equation on the board had effectively stumped almost every single person in that room.

Just a few minutes before, Mr. Ectoplasm had given them the problem—one equation, deceptively simple at first glance. He’d said they had five minutes to solve it. Five minutes, which felt like seconds now, bleeding away faster than any of them could keep up with.

And now, the last hand of the clock clicked over.

“Time’s up,” the teacher announced.

Chairs creaked. Heads lifted slowly. Most looked defeated, as if the life had been drained right out of them.

Bakugo sat stiffly at his desk, scowling at his paper, repeatedly smacked the eraser end of his pencil against the desk in a steady, irritated rhythm—thunk, thunk, thunk. Behind him, Midoriya had his fingers tangled in his hair, eyes wide, expression caught somewhere between panic and despair. He looked so frustrated he could cry.

And, of course, Yaoyorozu sat tall and composed, her expression calm and confident. You didn’t have to guess who had gotten the right answer.

“So, who thinks they have the answer?” Mr. Ectoplasm asked, sweeping his gaze across the room of students.

Two hands shot up immediately—Yaoyorozu’s and Iida’s. Ever the model students. Todoroki, after a moment of deliberation, slowly raised his hand as well, almost out of obligation.

But the teacher’s gaze didn’t settle on any of them. No, his sharp eyes landed instead on the boy who hadn’t even looked up when time was called.

His pencil still moved steadily, but the scrawls in his notebook were far from math. The page was covered in scribbles, messy sketches, half-written thoughts, and odd symbols that looked nothing like numbers.

In the small space that did hold math, only fragments of an attempt existed—no real solution in sight.

Oda didn’t care that the test had ended. His posture was loose, head tilted slightly forward, messy black hair hiding most of his face. He could feel the teacher’s shadow fall across his desk, and he knew the second the footsteps stopped that he was being singled out.

“Edogawa. Care to enlighten the class on what answer you came up with from all those pictures?”

Mr. Ectoplasm’s tone was half-annoyed, half-challenging. 

Drawings. If you’re gonna call me out, at least give me the decency of calling them art, Oda thought dryly. His pencil didn’t stop, though; he shaded in a line, smudging the edge of graphite with his fingertip until it blurred.

“I think it’s obvious that I don’t have the answer,” he said finally, voice flat and grumpy. He lifted the pencil from the page and ran his finger once more over the line of lead, blending it until it looked like smoke. “Why don’t you call on Yaoyorozu who actually raised her hand? Or call on someone with a better math grade than mine? Especially if you’re gonna quiz us on topics over half the class doesn’t understand.”

A quiet snort came from somewhere behind him—probably Kaminari or Sero—but Oda didn’t react. He simply spun his pencil between his fingers and finally looked up, meeting Mr. Ectoplasm’s glare with a blank, unimpressed stare.

For a brief moment, neither said anything. The teacher’s translucent jaw twitched slightly, a sign of barely contained irritation, but he spoke evenly when he finally answered.

“Iida. What answer did you get?”

“440.767.”

“Incorrect. Yaoyorozu?”

“432.077.”

“Correct. Now let’s go over it as a class.”

Finally, the Hero Program’s math teacher walked away from Oda’s desk, his long coat brushing faintly against the floor as he moved down the aisle.

The tension that had been gripping Oda’s shoulders loosened by a fraction. He blew air through his lips, the sound quiet but sharp, a sigh more out of frustration than relief. With a small flick of his wrist, he shook out his bangs, the strands falling loosely back into place across his forehead, and ran a hand through them until they no longer clung to his skin.

He leaned forward again, glancing down at his notebook—an organized mess of sketches and faint pencil lines—and picked his pencil back up, continuing the small doodles he’d started before being interrupted.

He tried his best to fall back into the rhythm of what he’d been doing before. Normally, this was how he kept himself grounded, but now, even that wasn’t working.

His focus slipped between every sound—the tap of a pencil somewhere to his left, the soft squeak of sneakers against the tile, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. It was all too loud.

Oda ran a nervous hand through his black hair again, pushing it back before letting it fall into place. His fingers lingered at his scalp, his knee bouncing once before he forced it still. He glanced up toward the clock mounted above the whiteboard, squinting at the slow-moving hands.

The sight made something twist in his stomach.

Ten more minutes.

Maybe twelve.

The realization made him shift in his seat, crossing his legs under the desk and locking his ankles together, as if physically restraining himself could make the restless feeling go away.

His pencil scratched against paper, though the lines no longer formed anything coherent. He wasn’t even looking at the page anymore. His brain was split—half on the dull droning of the lesson, half on the faint hum of nerves crawling under his skin.

Oda really just wished class would get out sooner. His stomach was tight, his hands cold despite the warmth of the room. The longer he sat there, the more he could feel that instinctive urge pressing at the back of his mind—to stand up, to leave before the bell. He was half-convinced he’d do it, too, if the bell didn’t ring soon enough.

Then he felt it. That prickling sensation along his neck—someone watching him. Not just watching. Glaring. It was too sharp, too pointed to ignore. He could practically feel it digging into the side of his face.

He hesitated, his pencil pausing mid-stroke. Slowly, without turning his head, he let his eyes drift to the left.

And immediately regretted it.

Those dark red irises met his instantly—hard, fiery, and unmistakably angry. The look in them was sharp enough to cut. Oda didn’t need to see the rest of the face to know who it belonged to. Oh come on. His stomach dropped.

He flicked his gaze back down to his paper, forcing his pencil to move again. The graphite broke against the page from the pressure. He ignored it, scribbling over the same line again and again. Anything to act like he didn’t notice, like Bakugo’s glare wasn’t burning holes in the side of his head.

He counted down the seconds in his head, every tick of the clock louder than it should’ve been, wishing lunch break would come quicker so he could bolt out of that classroom and get as far away from those red eyes as possible.

𓏵

“Oda. Oooda. Odasaku!”

The sound of his name snapped Oda out of whatever half-dream state he’d fallen into. He jolted slightly, his knee hitting the underside of his desk with a muted thunk as he blinked and turned to his left.

For a second, he looked completely lost, his expression blank and unfocused. It took him a moment to realize he was sitting sideways in his chair, elbow hanging lazily off the backrest, and another moment to process that someone had been poking him.

“You good, dude?” Kaminari asked, tilting his head a little as he leaned halfway across the gap between their desks.

“Ye-ah.” Oda’s voice cracked in the middle, a rasp that gave away just how tired he was. He cleared his throat quickly as if that could hide it. “Just spaced out.”

Kaminari didn’t seem convinced. He poked his shoulder again, lightly this time, like he was testing if Oda was really awake. “You’ve been spaced out for like, five minutes.”

“Lay off him, you idiot.”

Jiro leaned over from the other side, and swatted Kaminari’s arm with the back of her hand. The boy cringed dramatically away from her.

“But seriously, dude, you sure you’re getting enough sleep?” Jiro added, her dark eyes scanning him critically. “You look rough.”

So much for laying off. Oda sighed inwardly and dragged a hand down his face, the heel of his palm pressing against tired eyes. “I’m fine,” he said, though his tone wasn’t convincing in the slightest. Even he didn’t buy it.

“Really?” Kaminari frowned, resting his chin on his palm. “Because I don’t think anyone would blame you if you were having trouble sleeping.”

Oda shook his head quickly. “That’s not it. Guess I’m just spacier than normal.” He said it lightly, forcing his voice to sound casual, hoping they’d take the hint and drop it. Please just forget about it.

He shifted in his chair, trying to look more at ease, though the tension in his jaw said otherwise. What really tested his restraint wasn’t the conversation—it was the glare. He didn’t need to look to know where it was coming from; he could feel it. Bakugo had been staring daggers at him for what felt like forever. Oda could practically sense the irritation radiating from two rows over.

Glare and pry all you’d like, asshole, he thought, keeping his expression neutral. I’m not caving.

Instead, he turned in his seat, forcing his focus back toward Kaminari. “So.” Oda looked blankly at the mustard-haired boy. “How are your grades?”

It worked instantly. Kaminari blinked, thrown off, then cringed with an exaggerated groan. “They’re not that bad, okay?” he started defensively, launching into a full-blown rant. His hands waved animatedly as he tried to explain away every missing assignment. Oda didn’t buy a single word, but he didn’t interrupt either. Kaminari’s rambling was surprisingly comforting. It filled the space in his head that anxiety liked to crawl into.

As Kaminari went on about how his grades were “technically passing if you round up.”

Jiro rolled her eyes, amused. “So, you think you can pass this next test?” she asked, twirling an earjack around her finger. Her tone was teasing but light, the corners of her mouth curving into a grin that said she already knew the answer.

“It’s not that bad!”

“Mhm.”

“It’s really not!”

“How’s your math grade?”

“Sh-shut up! Leave me alone.” Kaminari sputtered, cheeks red as he crossed his arms defensively. “How are your grades?” He jabbed an accusing finger toward her.

“Passing,” Jiro stated simply, that smug little smirk never leaving her face.

Oda leaned back slightly in his seat, listening to them bicker. The edge of his earlier tension dulled to something manageable. Bakugo’s glare was still there, but Oda ignored it easily now, keeping his eyes fixed on the small, harmless argument unfolding beside him. It was enough to keep his thoughts quiet, at least for a while.

Kaminari grumbled on until the bell rang for lunch. He jumped up as soon as the sound came and yanked Oda up by the arm. “Come on, let’s go, Jiro is bullying me.”

“I am not. I’m pointing out your failing–“

“La la la la–! I can’t hear you~!” Kaminari sang as he pulled Oda behind him. “Let’s go, Ods. Lunch!” The yellownette declared.

Oda sighed internally but followed Kaminari out as requested. Oda stuck his hands into the pockets of the black zip-up he wore over his uniform.

“Do you think you’re gonna pass this test?” Kaminari asked as they stood in line for lunch.

Oda looked up when he realized he was being spoken too, he’d been spaced out while staring at the floor. “Uh, yeah?”

“Awh man!” Kaminari let out a whine. “Can I copy your math work?”

“I mean, you can, but it’s not gonna help you on the test. And I’m also a C on average in math.” Oda answered with an unimpressed gaze.

“Hey. Don’t tell me the perfectly logical outcome of my actions. I’ll deal with it when it comes up.” Kaminari retorts as he crosses his arms.

“Don’t cry to me when you have two days until it and a failing grade.” Oda replied flatly.

“Oh come on, you’re not gonna help your buddy out?”

“Help you how? I’m trying not to fail, I definitely can’t save you.” The short boy scoffed and glanced around the lunch hall. A month ago, this was his nightmare. It wasn’t so bad at the moment, but Oda would never give Kaminari the credit for that.

Kaminari let out a hopeless cry as two students pushed their way through the line behind them.

“Hey you two!” Eijiro Kirishima’s grin was practically blinding as he appeared behind the pair, dragging a grumpy blond behind him. Oda had to physically stop himself from cringing when he saw Bakugo and made a conscious effort to avoid his gaze. “Mind if we cut in with you guys?”

No, please take him away. Oda wanted to beg Kirishima.

“Hey man, sure.” Kaminari grinned instead and Oda silently cursed him as he turned to face forward in line, not bothering to acknowledge who he was with.

Part of Oda wanted to turn around and yell at the blond, tell him to fuck off with that glare, but Oda also didn’t want to ruin Kaminari’s mood. Oda bit his tongue and played with the silver chain on his neck. He didn’t miss the occasional staring gaze from other students.

The boy who won the sports festival. The boy who got abducted at a training camp. The boy who seriously needs a hair cut. Oda was known by most of the school for something. That, paired with Bakugo’s glare, nearly chased Oda out of that lunch room, only saved when they finally got to the lunch counters.

Oda got curry and ice. The meal he got four out of five days a week. Predictable, yes. Lunchrush said as much, but Oda did not care. He got his food and waited only for Kaminari and let the yellownette pick where they sat. 

To Oda’s dismay, Kirishima and Bakugo sat down with them. 

Should Oda be grateful the boy had basically saved his passed out ass from the League Of Villains? Yes. Was he? Yes. But. If Bakugo would not let go of a few passing comments All for One had made, Oda’s life was gonna crumbling down.

I will not be peer pressured. Oda thinks as he repeatedly bounced his heel under the table as stood as the pair sat down.

“Hey man,” Kirishima stared down at Oda’s plate. “Is that all you’re gonna eat?”

Oda blinked at the boy with plain black eyes. “Do I look like I eat that much?”

A beat of silence followed that statement before Kaminari snorted. “Dude. I think you just short-joked yourself.” He wasn’t able to hold back a laugh which Oda didn’t appreciate.

“It wasn’t a joke, it was a retort— and stop laughing, asshole.” Oda kicked him under the table but that didn’t stop Kaminari’s amusement.

“I can’t believe you short-joked yourself—”

“Say that one more time, I dare you.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t—” Kaminari cackled like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all year.

“I didn’t mean to start a feud, sorry.” Kirishima chuckled as he sat down.

Oda nearly stood up to walk away when Bakugo sat down across from him. He fell silent despite Kaminari’s continued mockery and focused on his food, now wanting to just eat and leave. Oda was capable of fighting, but he was slowly learning that when his future and secrets were in danger, he was more a flight kinda-person. He didn’t know how to feel about it, but he’d analyze it later. Right now, he just wanted to eat and leave.

“So, how are your grades, Kirishima?” Kaminari asked the boy across from him.

“Uhhh—” Kirishima chuckled nervously. “Passing?”

“Barely.” Bakugo commented.

“Its— Its not that bad.” Kirishima says weakly.

“Mhm.”

“I bet you’re passing with shiny colors, aren’t you, Bakugo?” Kaminari teased like it wasn’t something he himself should be trying to do.

“Mhm.” Bakugo gave the same passive response.

“So… you’ll help your buddies out and help us study?” Kaminari asked hopefully.

“In your fucking dreams.” Bakugo grumbled, shooting the mustard haired boy a glare.

Kaminari let out a disheartened sigh. “Worth a shot.”

There was a beat of silence before Oda stood up with an empty tray, having eaten what little food he’d gotten in record time with the pure motivation to get free of the group.

“Ey— where you goin’?” Kaminari asked as Oda walked around him to leave.

“To study, you loser.” Oda retorts. No, that was not what he was doing but it was a decent excuse.

“Take me with you in spirit!” Kaminari called after him.

“Then I won’t get anything done!” Oda called back before he put is tray away and left the lunch hall.

He couldn’t get away faster.

He came into the bathroom, paused to make sure it was empty and then slumped back against the door when it closed behind him. “Control yourself.” Oda mumbled out loud as he pinched the bridge of his nose and pushed down the growing feeling of unease inside of him.

It would probably help if he let the energy out now, but Oda was tired from days of not sleeping properly. Naps during class when he’d flinch awake didn’t really count. At the end of the day, the boy was exhausted.

He wandered to the sink and set his hands on the counter, staring at his reflection. He still didn’t recognize himself. Who was this black haired boy? Oda didn’t know. If he squinted hard enough, he could still see what remained of his father’s face in Oda’s reflection. He still had his dad’s face and lopsided smile— if Oda would ever bother to smile— but Oda had covered anything else that was his dad’s in his reflection. Oda had never looked anything like his mother, though, he blamed his small size on her.

Oda let out a sigh and turned on the sink, letting water gather in his hands before he splashed it against his face. Just stay conscious for god’s sake.

He turned off the sink and glanced up and the mirror, flinching when he saw someone standing against the door behind him. With the sink running, he didn’t hear the blond enter.

“For fuck’s sake.” Oda sighed, trying to appear nonchalant as he turned to grab paper towels to dry his hands. “Make a noise, you fucking weirdo.”

Bakugo didn’t speak for a long moment, and Oda hoped he wouldn’t but he did. “If you’re trying to pretend like you’re fine, then you’re doing a poor fucking job.”

“Speak for yourself, Mr. Dark Circles,” Oda retorts as he chucked paper towels into the trash. “What? Did you mess up your eyeliner this morning?”

Bakugo glared. “You’re not funny.”

“Not trying to be.” Oda walked to the door but Bakugo didn’t move out of the way. “Move.”

“No.”

“The fuck you mean, ‘no’?” Oda made a face. “I have math to work on, can you get the fuck out of my way?”

“Don’t feel like it.” The blond says, leaned back on the door with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“What the hell are you trying to accomplish here? Because between the staring and the following me into the bathroom, this is starting to feel a little stalk-er-y, Bakugo.” Oda crossed his arms and tilted his head, holding back the urge to hit him.

Bakugo kept his staring glare on the boy for a moment before he rolled his eyes and stepped out of the way. Oda could’ve skipped with joy as he reached for the door handle.

“What did All for One mean?” Bakugo asked abruptly. It was the second time he’d asked that but it still made Oda cringe to a stop, frozen at the door of the bathroom. “When he said you were ‘one of his”?” Bakugo continued his question staring the shorter boy down.

Oda tried to stop the panic boiling inside of him. “I-I have no idea.”

“Bullshit. You panicked too fucking hard to not know what he meant.”

“We were kidnapped, was I not supposed to panic? Isn’t that a normal fucking response?” Oda snapped defensively, sending him a glare.

“Why was that what you panicked at?” The blond demanded.

“Because it was a weird thing to say.”

“Are you just a compulsive lair, is that your problem?”

“Why do you care so fucking much?”

“I don’t.”

“Then stop asking and mind your own business. And stop staring at me, you fucking weirdo.” Oda yanked the door open to leave.

“Hey—!”

Oda didn’t know what it was about being reached for, but his quirk activated on reflex. A hum crashed violently through the air as his body was covered in a violent red outline and he turned to avoid Bakugo’s reach.

“Touch me and you’ll regret it.” Oda snapped as the air shook around his body, warped by the pull of his gravity quirk.

The activation of Oda quirk made Bakugo stop. The blond had gone against this quirk, several times now, and lost every time.

Oda didn’t wait for Bakugo to reply or even react. He turned on his heel and left the bathroom, his quirk deactivated as soon as he got into the hall. 

He couldn’t get back to class faster.