Chapter 37

₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄
⤷ i wanna go to bed.

WAKING UP IN Bakugo’s bed was much more familiar and significantly less jarring the third time around, which was a fact Oda absolutely refused to unpack at six-thirty in the goddamn morning. The alarm went off right on time, the same sharp, grating noise that felt like it drilled directly into the back of his skull, and Oda jolted instinctively before his half-asleep brain even registered where he was. The mattress beneath him was too firm, the wall too close to his back, and there was a solid, familiar weight pressed warm against his front.

Bakugo.

Oda groaned quietly into the pillow before he could stop himself, squeezing his eyes shut. His body, however, felt… fine. Just heavy, warm exhaustion and the dull ache of muscles that had actually rested.

Before Oda could even think to move, Bakugo shifted behind him, grumbling something incoherent under his breath. An arm reached over Oda’s shoulder, not even aiming for him, just blindly swiping until Bakugo’s hand swiped the phone off the nightstand.

“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugo muttered, voice hoarse and thick with sleep.

The alarm cut off abruptly.

Silence followed, broken only by the faint hum of the building and the distant sound of someone else’s alarm echoing down the hall. Oda lay very still, staring at the wall in front of him, acutely aware of the fact that Bakugo was awake behind him and had not yet exploded, shouted, or shoved him off the bed.

“…You awake?” Bakugo asked after a moment, voice low and rough.

Oda exhaled slowly. “Unfortunately.” He shifted carefully, peeling Bakugo’s arm off his waist with deliberate slowness so he didn’t trigger some half-asleep reflex. “You’re welcome for the emotional support slash human sandbag service.”

“Tch.” Bakugo rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Wasn’t planning on making it a lifestyle choice,” Oda replied, pushing himself upright and immediately feeling the cool air hit his face. He ran a hand through his hair, blinking blearily. “You good?”

Bakugo didn’t answer right away. Oda glanced back just in time to see him rub a hand over his face, the dark circles under his eyes still there but noticeably lighter than they’d been a few days ago.

“…Yeah,” Bakugo said finally.

Oda nodded once.

They sat in silence for a few seconds longer, the kind that wasn’t awkward so much as fragile, like if either of them spoke again it might crack. Oda swung his legs off the bed, stretching his arms over his head until his shoulders popped.

“Well,” he muttered, standing, “I’m gonna go pretend I was never here.”

Bakugo snorted. “Get out before someone sees you.”

“Trust me,” Oda said dryly, “that was already the plan.”

He hesitated at the door, hand on the handle, then added without looking back, “Same time tonight?”

Bakugo paused, then clicked his tongue. “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

“Obviously,” Oda replied. “See you in homeroom, explosion-boy.”

“Fuck off.”

Oda smiled faintly to himself as he slipped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. The dorm was already stirring, distant voices and footsteps echoing as students dragged themselves awake for another day. Oda walked the short distance back to his own room and stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

Classes and training that day were a lot easier with eight solid hours of sleep tucked neatly into Oda’s pocket.

It wasn’t that the world suddenly felt bright or cheerful or forgiving, because that would’ve been bullshit, but it did feel sharper in a way that didn’t hurt. Colors didn’t blur at the edges. Sounds didn’t stack on top of each other until they were just noise. The constant pressure behind his eyes, the one that had been threatening to split his skull open for days, was gone, replaced by something manageable and almost unfamiliar.

Clarity.

He noticed it first in homeroom, sitting at his desk with his chin propped on his hand while Aizawa droned on about schedules and provisional exam logistics. The words actually registered. They didn’t slide off his brain like water off glass. He could follow them, could retain them, could even jot down notes without his hand lagging half a second behind his thoughts.

That alone felt miraculous.

Even Kaminari didn’t miss it. He leaned over the back of Oda’s chair mid-lecture, whispering far too loudly, “Someone looks fresh-faced today.”

Oda flicked his pen at him without looking. “You can just say I’m handsomer than you.”

“Well, everyone knows that,” Kaminari stage-whispered, dodging the pen and grinning. “Glad you’re doin’ better.”

Oda paused, then shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve always been fine.”

“Uh-huh.” 

Bakugo didn’t say anything, which was notable in itself.

Oda felt the weight of his stare a few times throughout the morning, brief and sharp, but there was no hostility in it. No agitation. Just… awareness. It was different. 

By the time they hit Gym Gamma, Oda felt steady in his own body in a way he hadn’t in weeks. The fatigue wasn’t gone entirely, but it sat in his muscles instead of his bones. When he moved, his movements were cleaner. More intentional. His balance in the air came easier, his gravity control responding without that half-second delay that usually meant he was pushing too hard.

Cementoss noticed too.

“Your output is more controlled today,” he observed as Oda launched a steel marble through a concrete target, the impact clean and precise instead of explosive and sloppy. “Your recovery time between uses has improved.”

Training didn’t feel like survival today. It felt like work. Hard, demanding work, but work he could actually do instead of just endure. His stamina held. His focus didn’t fracture. Even when his chest burned and his muscles screamed, his mind stayed anchored, able to judge when to stop instead of blindly pushing.

And when he finally did sit down on the edge of the platform, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his neck, it wasn’t because he was about to pass out.

It was because he’d earned the break.

Oda wiped his face with the hem of his shirt and leaned back on his hands, staring up at the artificial sky of the training dome. Somewhere across the gym, Bakugo was blasting through another concrete wall, shouting something aggressive and triumphant, and for once, Oda didn’t flinch at the sound.

He just closed his eyes for a second, feeling the solid weight of sleep in his chest like armor, and thought, not for the first time that day, that this—this version of himself—was a hell of a lot closer to who he needed to be.

And that maybe, just maybe, borrowing a little peace from the most volatile person he knew had been worth it.

After Wednesday came Thursday and Friday in a blur of structured intensity, the kind that left Oda pleasantly sore instead of hollowed out. Training ramped up, the teachers clearly trying to push them right up to the edge without tipping anyone over it so close to the provisional exam.

The rules were laid out clearly and repeated often: the weekend would be a break, technically, but not a free-for-all. Light training only. Sign out with Mr. Aizawa. A supervising teacher present at all times. No exceptions. No “just one more run.” 

Monday loomed over all of it like a fixed point in time.

The provisional licensing exam.

And somehow—somehow—Oda felt prepared.

The realization hit him late Thursday afternoon, standing alone in Gym Gamma while waiting for Cementoss to reset a section of the course. His breathing was steady. His muscles ached in ways that made sense. His mind wasn’t scrambling to catch up with his body or lagging behind it, and for the first time in a long while, that terrifying disconnect between thought and action wasn’t there.

He knew what he could do now.

The gold marbles sat comfortably in the pouches on his belt, familiar in weight and balance, no longer foreign tools. He’d trained until he could send them curving through the air on instinct alone, altering their trajectory mid-flight without overthinking it, letting gravity do the work instead of fighting against it.

His combat skills had sharpened too. He’d learned how to anchor himself midair instead of drifting, how to snap a kick at the exact moment his gravity barrier reinforced the strike. The difference between those fractions of a second was the difference between bruising concrete and shattering it, and Oda finally understood that.

By Friday evening, as the dorms settled into that low hum of exhaustion and anticipation, Oda realized something else had quietly become routine without him ever consciously deciding it would.

Every night, without fail, he ended up in Katsuki Bakugo’s room.

It wasn’t discussed. There were no awkward negotiations or lingering looks or words that might make it into something it wasn’t. It simply… happened. 

Oda would settle into the desk chair, hoodie pulled tight around him, phone dimmed to near darkness, gravity humming low and steady under his skin. He’d say nothing unless he had to. Bakugo would pretend not to notice him unless he absolutely did.

And more often than not, it ended the same way.

Oda would wake to an arm around his middle, heat pressed into his back, Bakugo’s breathing heavy but even, his quirk quiet for the rest of the night. They didn’t acknowledge it in the mornings beyond the bare minimum—grunts, insults, a shared understanding that they’d both slept and that was what mattered.

It was strange. It was temporary. And it worked.

By the time the weekend rolled around, Oda found himself signing out for light training with a calm certainty he hadn’t expected to feel so close to the exam. He still checked in with Aizawa. Still followed the rules. Still made sure a teacher was present. 

But the gnawing fear that he was missing something crucial, that he’d collapse the moment pressure was applied, wasn’t there anymore.

𓏵

WHERE THE FUCK IS this idiot at? The thought looped in Katsuki’s head on repeat as Sunday night dragged on, irritation crawling under his skin the longer the minutes ticked by. He lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling, eyes flicking to the clock every few seconds like the numbers might magically change. It was getting late—too late—and tomorrow wasn’t just another training day or another class. It was the provisional exam. The thing they’d been grinding themselves into the dirt for. 

And Edogawa was nowhere to be seen.

Katsuki had gone over the logic in his head already and hated every part of it. There was no way he’d told the guy to come by early. There was no way he could’ve told him. He didn’t have Edogawa’s number, didn’t want it, didn’t need it—except now, apparently, when the gravity-idiot was late for the one thing Katsuki had actually, silently been counting on. 

Going to sleep early before something this important was basic. Obvious. Common sense. Something even an idiot should understand.

Which made Katsuki more pissed the longer Edogawa didn’t show.

He rolled onto his side, stared at the wall, and growled under his breath. Fine. If the bastard needed things spelled out for him, Katsuki would spell them out. Loudly, if necessary.

He swung his legs off the bed and stood, pulling his shirt straight with a sharp tug. Before stepping into the hall, he cracked his door open just enough to check. The dorm had settled into that late-night hush where every sound felt too loud and every step echoed more than it should.

Satisfied no one was around to see him doing something this stupid, Katsuki slipped out and stalked down the hall toward Edogawa’s room.

He stopped in front of the door and knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Then he waited, jaw clenched, counting in his head.

Ten whole seconds.

Nothing.

Katsuki blinked, staring at the door. Was this kid for fucking real right now?

His foot started tapping against the floor without him realizing it, a sharp, impatient rhythm that matched the spike of irritation in his chest. He stood there a moment longer, giving the door one last chance to open on its own before his patience snapped completely.

Then his hand dropped to the doorknob.

He shoved the door open without hesitation.

Fair was fair. Edogawa had never bothered with knocking when he barged into Katsuki’s room, so Katsuki wasn’t about to respect boundaries now.

The room was empty.

Katsuki froze just inside the doorway, eyes sweeping the space in one quick, sharp glance. The room was clean—almost aggressively so. Minimal. Bare. No posters on the walls, no clutter on the desk, nothing personal lying around to give any hint of where the hell its owner might be. The LEDs lining the upper corners cast a faint glow, outlining the neatness in soft light that somehow made the emptiness feel more obvious.

“Damnit,” Katsuki muttered under his breath.

His irritation flared hotter, sharper, like a spark catching on dry kindling. He took another step in, scanning again, just in case he’d missed something obvious. That was when he noticed it—the curtains at the far end of the room shifting slightly, brushing against each other with the movement of air. The glass door leading out to the balcony was cracked open, just enough to let the night breeze slip inside.

And with it came a smell.

Cigarettes.

Katsuki’s lip curled in disgust. Oh, that’s right. The idiot smoked. Of course he did. Because why not stack another bad habit on top of everything else?

Edogawa wasn’t on the balcony, though. A quick glance confirmed that. Which meant—

Katsuki’s eyes lifted toward the ceiling, his annoyance twisting. He closed the door behind him and headed back into the hall, feet thudding softly against the floor as he passed Edogawa’s room and followed the corridor to its end.

There.

A staircase.

It went upward, narrow and industrial, wrapping around once before ending at a steel door at the top. Katsuki climbed it quickly, taking the steps two at a time, and stopped in front of the door. It looked like it was meant to be locked—heavy, reinforced—but the handle told a different story. Bent. Loose in a way that suggested it hadn’t broken naturally.

Katsuki stared at it, jaw tightening.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Thought so.”

Probably a gravity quirk. Probably Edogawa. That punk.

Katsuki opened the door.

Warm night air rushed in immediately, brushing against his face and carrying with it the sharper bite of cigarette smoke, stronger up here than it had been in Edogawa’s room. The rooftop stretched out wider than he’d expected, unfinished and bare in a way that made it feel almost abandoned despite being brand new. 

A low stone banister ran along the edges, backed by a tall chainlink fence that wrapped all the way around, its metal faintly glinting. This was the very top of the boys’ tower, high enough that the sounds of campus were dulled to almost nothing, leaving only the hum of far-off traffic and the whisper of wind.

The rooftop hadn’t been touched yet. No footprints, no chairs, no forgotten equipment. Just raw concrete, open sky, and one idiot stretched out in the middle of it.

Edogawa lay flat on his back, an arm relaxed behind his head, one knee bent slightly, a cigarette balanced between his lips. He looked painfully at ease wear an oversized black hoodie. The hoodie swallowed his frame, hanging loose around his shoulders and chest, but his legs were bare below the hem of baggy shorts, exposed to the warm summer air.

Katsuki’s eyes snagged on them immediately.

Glowing red markings—identical to the ones on Edogawa’s arms—traced down his knees and calves, curling and wrapping, slipping into his socks in smooth, sinuous lines. They pulsed faintly, slow and steady, like something breathing just under the skin. It was unsettling in a way Katsuki couldn’t quite articulate, especially against the quiet stillness of the roof.

The markings on Edogawa’s cheeks shifted as he turned his head, red lines subtly sliding with the movement as his gaze landed on Katsuki.

“The fuck are you doing?” Katsuki snapped, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

Edogawa barely glanced at him. “What does it look like?” he shot back, voice lazy, unbothered.

“Like you’re giving yourself lung cancer, you idiot,” Katsuki retorted, stepping farther onto the roof despite himself.

Edogawa smirked faintly, eyes drifting back up to the sky as he took another slow drag, exhaling smoke in a thin stream that disappeared into the dark. He didn’t even flinch at the insult. “If I die from organ failure,” he said casually, “I doubt it’ll be the lungs that kill me.”

Katsuki scoffed, folding his arms. “Real sunshine outlook you got.”

“Just a ball of optimism,” Edogawa replied dryly.

Katsuki clicked his tongue, irritation simmering again. “There’s balconies in our rooms. The hell are you doing on the roof?”

“You can see the stars up here,” Edogawa said, like that alone should’ve settled it.

Katsuki snorted. “So you broke the automatic lock?”

“You can’t see the stars in Yokohama,” Edogawa continued, completely ignoring him. “Too much light pollution.” He took another drag, then added, “We all have our own ways of relieving stress. Who are you to judge mine?”

That tone—that calm, righteous, infuriatingly composed tone—made Katsuki’s jaw tighten. He hated when Edogawa got like this, when every word felt measured and dismissive, when he somehow managed to sound superior without raising his voice once.

“Yeah, whatever,” Katsuki scowled. “I wanna go to bed.”

“Go ahead,” Edogawa said easily, smoke curling from his lips. “No need to wait on me. I’ll wander in eventually.”

The way he said it—casual, unconcerned, like Katsuki hadn’t just come looking for him specifically—lit a hot spark of annoyance in Katsuki’s chest. He scoffed, turning sharply on his heel.

“Idiot,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else.

He reached the door and yanked it open, letting it clang softly behind him as he headed back down the stairs, the smell of smoke and the image of glowing red markings lingering longer than he wanted them to.

The stairwell felt too quiet on the way down.

Each step echoed just a little too loudly, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls and following Katsuki. He shoved his hands into his pockets harder than necessary, jaw clenched, replaying the image of Edogawa sprawled out on the rooftop like nothing in the world could touch him. Calm. Glowing. Smoking like he didn’t have a care in the goddamn universe.

Idiot.

Katsuki pushed through the stairwell door and stalked back down the hallway toward his room, irritation crawling under his skin in a way that refused to settle. He told himself he was annoyed because Edogawa was breaking rules. Because he was smoking. Because tomorrow was the provisional exam and the idiot was clearly sabotaging himself.

None of those explanations sat right.

He shut his door harder than necessary and flicked the light off, plunging the room into darkness. The bed waited, sheets still rumpled from earlier, still warm from his body heat. He sat down on the edge of it and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor.

Fine. Whatever. Let him do whatever dumb shit he wanted.

Katsuki lay back and stared at the ceiling.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

The room stayed silent. His body didn’t relax like it should’ve. Instead, his muscles stayed tight, coiled, waiting for something to go wrong.

His chest felt… wrong. Too empty. Too quiet.

“Tch,” Katsuki muttered under his breath, rolling onto his side and punching the pillow. Sleep didn’t come. Not even close.

He tried shutting his eyes, tried forcing his breathing to slow the way he’d been taught years ago, but the darkness behind his eyelids immediately filled with memories he didn’t want. Crumbling buildings. Hands grabbing. The sickening weightless drop of being yanked through space.

Kamino.

His fingers twitched.

No. Not tonight. Not before the exam.

Katsuki shot upright with a growl, swinging his legs off the bed. He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, then scrubbed a hand down his face in frustration.

“Damn it,” he hissed.

Before he could overthink it—before pride could catch up and stop him—he was already moving. He shoved his feet into his slides, yanked the door open, and stalked back down the hallway.

The stairwell door creaked faintly when he pushed it open again.

The climb back up felt longer this time. Slower. His annoyance shifted into something sharper, more restless, the kind that had nowhere to go and nowhere to land.

He shoved the rooftop door open again.

Edogawa was still there.

Still flat on his back. Still staring at the sky. 

Edogawa didn’t look over this time. “You forget something?” he asked calmly.

Katsuki stopped a few feet away, fists clenched at his sides. “You’re still out here.”

“No shit,” Edogawa replied. He flicked ash with a small, lazy motion of his fingers. “You said you were going to bed.”

“I tried,” Katsuki snapped.

That finally got Edogawa’s attention. He turned his head, eyes glinting faintly blue-gray in the dark. “And?”

“And it didn’t work,” Katsuki said, jaw tight. The admission tasted like acid.

For a moment, Edogawa just studied him, expression unreadable. Then he sighed, long and slow, and lifted himself onto his elbows. “You’re gonna hate this.”

“Spit it out,” Katsuki growled.

“You’re wound too tight,” Edogawa said evenly. “You’re not gonna sleep like that. Not tonight. Not before something stressful.”

Katsuki scoffed. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not,” Edogawa replied. “I’m speaking from experience.”

That shut Katsuki up more effectively than yelling ever could.

Edogawa sat up fully now, swinging his legs around and stubbing the cigarette out against the concrete. He stared at the crushed filter for a second before nudging it aside with his shoe.

Katsuki scowled. “So what, you got a fix for that?”

“Yeah,” Edogawa said simply. “Same one that’s been working all week.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.

Katsuki looked away first. 

He didn’t move as Edogawa stood, dusted off the back of his hoodie, and walked past Katsuki toward the door. “Come on. We should get some sleep. Tomorrow’s gonna suck enough without us being half-dead.”

The blond hesitated.

Then, with a sharp click of his tongue and a muttered curse, he followed.

Neither of them said anything on the way back down.

When they ended up in Katsuki’s room again—Edogawa dropping into the desk chair, Katsuki collapsing onto the bed—something in the air finally settled. 

And Katsuki finally slept.