Chapter 48

₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄
⤷ we gotta do something fun.

RETURNING TO TRAINING on Monday was a shock to all of Oda’s senses in a way that felt almost violent, like his body had been lulled into a fragile sense of normalcy over the weekend only for Aizawa to rip it away without warning. Training with Kaminari and Kirishima the day prior had been productive, or so he thought. That illusion died the second Aizawa stepped onto the field Monday morning with that flat, dangerous look in his eyes that meant mercy was not on the schedule.

There was no warm-up. No motivational speech. No explanation beyond a curt, “Move,” that carried more threat than instruction.

Aizawa drilled them like they were in the military, cycling them through stations so fast Oda barely had time to register what came next before his body was already doing it. Partners were assigned and Oda found himself paired with Sero, who looked at him with a mixture of dread and forced optimism that did not survive the first ten minutes.

Medicine balls came first, heavy and unforgiving, their rubbery weight slamming into Oda’s forearms as Sero hurled them back and forth with increasing desperation. Oda caught, absorbed the impact, and threw back with controlled precision.

“Jesus—okay—okay—why are you so good at that?” Sero puffed, barely catching the ball before it knocked him on his ass.

“I’m not,” Oda replied flatly, already bracing for the return throw. “You’re just bad at pacing.”

“I’m trying over here!”

Weighted sit-ups followed, steel plates pressed into their chests as Aizawa paced behind them like a vulture, eyes sharp and unblinking. Oda’s core screamed as he forced himself up again and again, breath controlled, movements precise, the familiar ache spreading through muscle and bone alike.

“Don’t slow down,” Aizawa said coolly as he passed. 

Sero groaned. “I’m gonna die.”

Weighted pull-ups came next, metal clanking against the bars as they hauled themselves up again and again, arms trembling, sweat slicking Oda’s palms despite the chill in the air. For someone his size—five-foot-two and slim—Oda should have had it easier, at least on paper. Less mass to lift, less surface area to strain against gravity. And in some ways, it was easier. But it didn’t mean it was easy.

His shoulders burned. His grip faltered. His lungs felt too small.

Push the weight sled down the track. Turn around. Push it back. Run a mile. No pause. No water break beyond a single gulp if you were lucky enough to snag one while moving.

By the time they hit sparring, Oda’s limbs felt like they were packed with lead, movements sharp but slower, the edges of his vision threatening to blur if he let himself lose focus even for a second.

“Don’t hold back,” Aizawa called. “You think villains will?”

Sero wiped sweat out of his eyes, forcing a grin that didn’t quite land. “No offense, man, but if I pass out, I’m milking it until they send me to Recovery Girl.”

“Fair,” Oda replied, squaring up. 

They moved, Sero’s tape snapping out in fast arcs, Oda ducking and weaving, using bursts of controlled gravity to redirect rather than overpower, conserving energy where he could because he knew this wasn’t the end. It never was. Spar. Repeat. Over and over, the cycle grinding them down into something raw and shaking.

Oda struggled as much as Sato did across the field, the sugar-powered brute visibly slowing as his stamina dipped, but he held on longer than Sero, whose movements grew sloppier with each round.

“Holy hell,” Sero gasped during a brief transition. “You’re still standing. That’s not fair.”

Oda bent forward, hands on his knees, breath steady but deep. “Life’s not fair.”

He actively avoided looking, but he was painfully aware all the same that Bakugo had been paired with Todoroki. It was impossible not to hear them. Bakugo’s voice cut across the field, sharp and relentless.

“Move it!”

“You don’t have to yell.” Todoroki replied evenly, though his jaw was tight. 

A loud explosion punctuated the argument, followed by Aizawa’s voice, dangerous and calm.

“Bakugo. One more outburst and you’re doing double.”

Oda forced his attention back to his own partner, grounding himself in the rhythm of movement, breath, strain. He could feel the week off training in his muscles, the way his body protested the sudden return to full intensity.

By the time Aizawa finally called it, the class looked wrecked, bodies slumped, chests heaving, sweat-soaked uniforms clinging to exhausted frames.

“Good,” Aizawa said, entirely unimpressed. “You survived. Same time tomorrow.”

Sero collapsed onto the ground beside Oda, staring up at the sky. “I hate him.”

Oda lowered himself to sit, arms trembling as the adrenaline faded. “Yeah.”

Across the field, Bakugo was still arguing with Todoroki, voice hoarse, posture rigid with frustration, and Oda didn’t look—didn’t need to. He already knew.

Monday had come back swinging.

They always had training after classes, no matter how mentally exhausted you were by the end of the school day, your body was still expected to perform. 

Tuesday’s was quirk training, Wednesday’s was rescue training, Thursday’s devolved into what everyone unanimously agreed was the world’s worst game of tag, and Friday’s would be a brutal hybrid of physical conditioning and quirk usage. 

Thursday’s tag exercise was particularly cruel. 

Three students at a time were designated as taggers, tasked with capturing as many of their classmates as possible and hauling them into a makeshift jail within ten minutes. The terrain changed every round, obstacles shifting just enough to keep anyone from getting comfortable. Seven rounds total, one for every possible tagger rotation, until every single student had been a hunter once. 

By the end of it, everyone was bruised, panting, and pissed off in equal measure.

So by the time Tuesday rolled around before quirk training Oda caught Aizawa in the hallway. He waited until the hallway cleared, until the noise of his classmates faded into distant echoes, and then spoke.

“Aizawa,” he said, voice even, hands shoved into the pockets of his uniform pants.

Aizawa turned, capture scarf still loosely wrapped around his shoulders, eyes tired and sharp all at once. “What.”

“I wanna change tutors.”

That alone earned him a look, slow and assessing, like Aizawa was deciding whether this was worth his time. Aizawa’s brow furrowed slightly, already suspicious. “To who?”

There was the smallest pause before Oda spoke again. “Bakugo.”

Aizawa stared at him.

Not a glare. Not annoyance. Just a flat, deeply unimpressed stare that made Oda feel like he’d just announced he wanted to train underwater while on fire.

“You wanna switch from Todoroki,” Aizawa repeated slowly when they were alone in the hall, his tone careful in a way that was almost more threatening than yelling, “to Bakugo?”

Oda shifted his weight, kicking the toe of his shoe into the ground, scuffing the tile. “He owes me a favor.” He lied.

Aizawa didn’t blink. “Be honest,” he said. “Are you just looking for a way out or are you serious?”

“I’m serious,” Oda replied without hesitation.

“I’d rather leave you with Todoroki,” Aizawa said bluntly. “Are you having issues keeping up with him or what?”

“No,” Oda answered quickly. “Todoroki’s fine.” He hesitated just a fraction of a second before adding, “Look, if you make me explain this, it’s gonna turn into a therapy session. He offered, alright?”

That earned him another long look, Aizawa’s eyes narrowing just slightly. “So if I bring this up to Bakugo, he’s gonna be fine with it?”

“Yes,” Oda said.

Aizawa’s stare sharpened.

“Yes,” Oda repeated, firmer this time, jaw setting.

Aizawa exhaled through his nose. “Is this gonna be a problem?”

“No,” Oda scoffed, the sound quiet but sincere. “Maybe he just wants to get back on your good side.”

“I don’t have a good side,” Aizawa replied flatly.

“Better side,” Oda shot back without thinking.

For a moment, Aizawa just looked at him, eyes unreadable, weighing whatever combination of red flags and unspoken context he was piecing together. The silence stretched long enough that Oda wondered if he’d pushed too far, if this was the moment it all unraveled.

Then Aizawa sighed, deep and tired. “Fine. But if your grades slip, you’re going back to Todoroki. And if I catch some late-night fight on Ground Beta, you’re both gonna have hell to pay.”

“Won’t happen,” Oda said curtly, not missing a beat.

Aizawa made an annoyed face, already turning away. “Alright,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll allow it for now.”

And then he was gone.

𓏵

AFTER THURSDAY’S TAG-RACE training, the dorms felt less like a place to relax and more like a temporary refuge for the physically destroyed. The common room smelled faintly of soap and shampoo from everyone coming straight from the showers, steam still clinging to hair and clothes, skin flushed and muscles trembling in that deep, bone-heavy way that only came after being pushed too far for too long. 

Oda had dropped onto the couch with the kind of exhausted precision that suggested if he misjudged the distance by even an inch, he might simply fold into himself and never get back up again.

Kaminari followed shortly after, dragging his feet. He didn’t even bother easing himself down, instead flopping onto the couch next to Oda with a dramatic groan, limbs splayed in surrender, damp hair sticking out in every direction.

“That’s it. No more. I’m calling in sick tomorrow,” Kaminari decided, voice muffled slightly as he stared up at the ceiling.

From the kitchenette, Yaoyorozu glanced over the rim of her teacup, steam curling delicately around her face. “You need a doctor’s note for that,” she chimed, tone calm and utterly unsympathetic.

Sero let out a weak laugh from where he had collapsed into an armchair, arms dangling uselessly over the sides. “I dunno how you’re gonna fake sick to Recovery Girl,” he added. 

Kirishima, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, towel still slung around his neck, tilted his head thoughtfully. “You think her quirk works on illness?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“No,” Ashido answered immediately from her spot on the floor next to Jiro, where she was stretching her legs out with a hiss of discomfort. “But she’s hard to lie to.”

Kaminari groaned again, the sound long and theatrical, and then shifted closer until his still-wet hair brushed Oda’s shoulder. A second later, he leaned fully back against him, sitting sideways on the couch as if Oda were just another piece of furniture. The back of his head bumped lightly into Oda’s collarbone.

“Think she’ll believe me if I say I have food poisoning?” Kaminari asked, staring off into the middle distance like he was already drafting his excuse.

“Food poisoning from what?” Jiro asked dryly, one eyebrow lifting as she glanced over. “You’ll just get Lunch Rush in trouble.”

“Or get in trouble for lying in general because who’s gonna believe that bullshit?” Oda added, voice flat, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion as he stared ahead.

That, apparently, was the final nail in the coffin of Kaminari’s fragile hope. He let out a pitiful noise and tipped his head back, looking up at Oda upside-down, hair brushing against his jaw. “I bet you’re wishing you were hacking up blood right now.”

“I’m never wishing for that,” Oda snapped, scowling down at him.

“Man,” Kaminari said, blinking slowly, “you are testy when you are tired.”

Almost on cue, the sound of footsteps approached from the hallway. Oda didn’t need to look to know who it was. Bakugo stepped into the living room with a plate piled high with food balanced in one hand. He looked as worn out as everyone else, shoulders tight, posture rigid, but there was something familiar and sharp in the way his eyes immediately scanned the room.

Kaminari blinked, noticing him a second too late. “Whoa,” he said, already grinning, “went back for seconds, huh, Bakugo? Careful or you’re gonna get—”

Oda leaned back abruptly.

The sudden movement dumped Kaminari off his shoulder, his head sliding down until it landed squarely over Oda’s lap. At the same time, Oda’s elbow came down hard into Kaminari’s ribcage with brutal accuracy, cutting him off mid-sentence before he could finish whatever suicidal comment had been forming.

“Ow!” Kaminari yelped, legs kicking instinctively as he clutched at his side. “Oda! Jesus—where do you get all that strength from? You’re like five hands tall!” he complained breathlessly.

Despite the protest, he didn’t move his head from Oda’s thigh, instead rolling onto his side with a wince.

Bakugo dropped onto the far end of the couch with a deliberate heaviness, planting himself as far away from Oda and the yellow-haired idiot sprawled across him as the furniture would allow. His plate balanced on his knee, posture rigid, shoulders tense, eyes fixed forward like he was daring anyone to comment. The faint clink of silverware against ceramic was the only indication he was even eating.

Yaoyorozu moved gracefully around the couch, careful not to step on anyone’s limbs as she handed Jiro a steaming cup of tea. The warmth fogged the air between them for a second before Jiro accepted it with a tired nod. Yaoyorozu straightened her posture immediately afterward, smoothing her skirt like she hadn’t just come from the same exhausting training session as the rest of them.

“I’m off to bed,” she announced, voice polite but final, exhaustion slipping through the cracks despite her composed tone.

“Good night!” Ashido called after her, already waving.

“Thanks for the tea,” Jiro added, lifting the cup slightly in acknowledgment.

Once Yaoyorozu disappeared down the hall, the common room felt noticeably quieter, the space shrinking in on itself now that there were fewer voices to fill it. That left Ashido sprawled on the floor, Jiro perched with her tea, Kaminari half-dead across Oda’s lap, Kirishima leaning back against the couch, Sero melting further into his chair, Bakugo radiating irritation from the far cushion, and Oda sitting stiffly in the middle of it all, trying very hard not to acknowledge how warm Kaminari’s head felt against his thigh.

“I’m pretty sure Mr. Aizawa’s trying to kill us,” Sero said, slouching even further.

“Yeah, this week’s been such a drag,” Ashido agreed, flopping backward until she was staring at the ceiling, arms spread dramatically like she’d been defeated.

“The rescue training was good for us,” Kirishima pointed out, ever the optimist, though even he looked like he was barely holding himself together.

Jiro blew carefully over the surface of her tea before taking a small sip. “It was the part of the provisional exam that we did the worst on as a class.”

“Which is probably why he made us do it,” Sero finished, tone resigned.

“Tag was fun,” Kaminari offered weakly, voice muffled as he sank further into the couch cushions, clearly lying to himself.

“No it wasn’t,” Kirishima and Ashido said at the exact same time.

Oda silently agreed, jaw tightening slightly at the memory of sprinting until his lungs burned and his legs felt like they were filled with wet cement. He didn’t bother voicing it.

“I don’t think I’ve been this exhausted in a while,” Kirishima continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we still have to survive tomorrow.”

Kaminari let out a dramatic whine and collapsed fully onto his stomach, arms flopping uselessly. He reached lazily over Oda’s lap, stretching just far enough to poke Bakugo in the side with one finger. “Hey, remember when you said you’d kill me?”

“Fuck off,” Bakugo snapped instantly, not even looking at him.

Kaminari lifted his hand in surrender. “Oh, now he doesn’t want to.”

“Maybe tomorrow will be easier,” Ashido offered, though even she sounded unconvinced.

“Have you met our teacher?” Sero shot back without missing a beat.

Oda let out a slow breath, shoulders dropping slightly. “He never goes easy on a Friday.”

Jiro nodded in agreement, cradling her cup. “Probably ’cause he knows we have the weekend to recover.”

“If this keeps on going I’m not gonna be able to move anymore,” Sero grumbled, shifting in his chair like even that tiny adjustment was too much effort. “My everything hurts.”

“Whining about it isn’t gonna help,” Oda commented flatly, eyes half-lidded as he leaned back against the couch. His tone wasn’t unkind, just tired, the kind of tired that made blunt honesty easier than sympathy.

“Take an ice bath,” Kirishima added immediately, nodding like this was the most obvious solution in the world.

Sero turned his head slowly to stare at him, expression somewhere between disbelief and betrayal. “Not all of us enjoy torturing ourselves, Kirishima.”

“It’s good for you,” Kirishima shot back, completely unfazed.

“I’d take advice from the guy who turned his room into a gym,” Ashido chimed in, grinning as she propped herself up on her elbows from the floor.

“Cold showers help too,” Oda added, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. The familiar sting flared up again, a reminder that he’d kept his black contacts in way longer than he should have, but he ignored it like he ignored most discomfort.

“Oh, so you’re both sadists,” Sero scoffed, flicking his gaze between Oda and Kirishima. “Good to know.”

“You’re the one who’s complaining,” Oda fired back without hesitation. “Don’t like the advice then don’t complain about the problem.”

“Oooh, that’s a good one. I’m putting that one away for later,” Jiro commented, lips twitching as she glanced at Oda over the rim of her tea.

“This is depressing,” Kaminari complained, letting his head flop dramatically against the back of the couch. “We gotta do something fun soon, or I’m gonna drop out.”

“Drop out or fail out?” Jiro retorted instantly.

“Can’t you just not roast me for one day, jeez!” Kaminari whined, kicking his heels lightly against the couch cushion in protest.

“We could draft a list of ideas and have Iida and Yaoyorozu present it to Mr. Aizawa,” Kirishima offered, clearly serious about it.

“Do you know how long that’d take?” Sero demanded, sitting up just enough to gesture with his hands. “And anything that he even so much as senses that we touched is gonna be shot down immediately. He’s allergic to a good time.”

Kaminari’s foot kept kicking back and forth as he stared into space, eyes unfocused as his brain churned. “…A good time, huh?” he muttered to himself.

Then suddenly he shot upright so fast he nearly headbutted Oda, energy snapping back into him like a switch had been flipped. “Let’s have a party!”

Oda immediately made a face, brows knitting together. “Do you want us to be expelled?”

“I don’t mean have a rave,” Kaminari shot back quickly, waving his hands. “Movie party. Just the seven of us. We can do it in my room since I got the biggest TV. We can watch all the classics and play a bunch of dumb games.”

Silence followed his idea, heavy and contemplative, stretching just long enough to make Kaminari visibly nervous.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” he pressed, desperation creeping into his voice. “I need fun or I’m gonna die.”

“Then die,” Bakugo grumbled from his end of the couch, shoveling another bite of food into his mouth.

“You just said you wouldn’t kill me,” Kaminari fired back immediately, pointing at him. “Come on, are you guys with me or not?”

Kirishima and Sero glanced at each other first, the shared look one of silent negotiation, before both of them turned back toward Kaminari.

“Only if you scratch dumb games for video games,” Sero offered, lifting a finger like he was setting terms on a contract.

“Done,” Kaminari grinned instantly, the tension in his shoulders evaporating like he’d been waiting for literally anyone to say yes.

“Okay, I’m game,” Sero said easily, settling back into his chair with a satisfied huff.

Kirishima shrugged, broad shoulders rolling. “Me too.”

“Ashido? Jiro? How ’bout it?” Kaminari turned his attention to the girls still sprawled on the floor, his hopeful energy practically radiating outward.

Ashido made an exaggerated pondering face, tapping her chin with a finger as if this were a deeply philosophical question. “Will there be good food?”

“Sure,” Kaminari answered immediately, no hesitation.

“Hmmm.” Ashido drew it out, milking the moment before she glanced sideways at Jiro. “I’m down if Jiro is.”

Jiro shot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass, annoyance flashing across her face before her eyes flicked up to Kaminari. The hopeful, almost pleading look he gave her made her shoulders sag. She let out a long, resigned sigh. “Fine.”

“Heck yeah!” Kaminari exclaimed, throwing his arms up in victory just as Bakugo stood up from the couch and headed toward the kitchen, plate balanced in one hand.

Kaminari immediately leaned back, draping an arm over the couch and tracking Bakugo’s movement with his eyes. “What about you, Bakugo? Down for a good time?”

“Go die,” Bakugo snapped without even slowing down, shoving his hands into his pockets as he turned for the stairs.

“This is why no one likes you!” Kaminari shouted after him.

“Shut up!” Bakugo shouted back, already halfway up the stairs before disappearing from view.

“Yeah, that’s about how I expected that to go,” Sero chuckled, shaking his head before glancing over at Kirishima. “Think you can convince him?”

“I doubt it,” Kirishima grumbled, “And why do I always gotta be the one to drag him along?”

“If he doesn’t wanna go, he’s not gonna,” Oda muttered, gaze flicking briefly toward the stairwell before dropping back down.

“Well then we’ll just have fun without him,” Kaminari decided, the words barely out of his mouth before he suddenly snatched Oda’s phone straight out of his hand.

“Ey!” Oda lunged for it and missed, fingers snapping shut on empty air. “What the hell? Give it back.”

“I need it for a second,” Kaminari insisted, sticking out a foot to keep Oda at bay while he fiddled with the screen.

“What could you possibly need it for?” Oda demanded, irritation sharp in his voice.

“You’re the only one whose number I don’t have,” Kaminari stated plainly, like that explained everything.

“What?” Oda reached again and missed, scowling. “I never said I’d go, you dumbass.”

Kaminari stopped mid-motion just to gawk at him. “I invite you to a party and you don’t agree to go? What kind of best friend are you?”

“I’ve got shit to catch up on,” Oda snapped, eyes narrowing as he noticed Kirishima very deliberately glancing at the phone. Sure enough, Kirishima casually read the number off the screen, typing it into his own phone with all the subtlety of a brick, clearly planning to pass it along later.

Oda finally managed to tackle Kaminari after a brief, chaotic scuffle that involved the couch cushions nearly being sacrificed and Sero shouting commentary like it was a sporting event. The two of them went down in an ungraceful heap, Kaminari yelping as Oda wrenched the phone free from his hand and rolled away with it, clutching recovered stolen property.

“What could you possibly have to catch up on that has to be done on a Saturday night?” Sero asked as Oda pushed himself up into a seated position.

Oda scowled, brushing hair out of his face as he righted himself. “I’ve got late work. If you’ll remember, I was kidnapped and injured,” he said flippantly.

“Ugh, Oda! You can’t use Kamino as an excuse for everything. It’s an easy out,” Kaminari complained, still half-sprawled on the couch and rubbing his shoulder.

“Dude,” Jiro cringed immediately, the word sharp and disapproving as she shot Kaminari a look.

Kaminari opened his mouth, clearly about to defend himself, but whatever he was going to say died on his tongue when he caught Jiro’s expression. He shrank back a little, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the couch fabric.

Jiro didn’t know—and couldn’t know—that Oda had already used that same excuse on Kaminari earlier in the week for a reason that went far beyond missed assignments. A reason that was sitting about ten feet away upstairs, explosive and volatile and very much not something Oda wanted dragged into the light of day. The fact that Kaminari was poking at it now made Oda’s skin itch.

“Look, I’ll think about it, alright? It’s a maybe,” Oda conceded at last, exhaling through his nose as he slid his phone back into his pocket.

“I’m gonna turn that maybe into a yes,” Kaminari chimed, instantly regaining his grin.

“I doubt it at this rate,” Oda shot back snarkily as he pushed himself to his feet. His joints ached, the familiar dull reminder of how hard the week had been, and his internal clock was already screaming at him. It was past eight. Bakugo was absolutely going to be pissed.

“Hey, where you going?” Kirishima called after him.

“Bed.”

“Already?” Sero asked, incredulous.

“It’s eight o’clock,” Ashido pointed out, tilting her head.

“Let him sleep, he needs his beauty rest to maintain that face,” Kaminari chimed, completely unapologetic.

“Piss off,” Oda called back over his shoulder, not even slowing as he started up the stairs, already bracing himself for whatever awaited him at the top.

author’s note-

updates will be every other day now to give me time to write and edit! i’m running out of pre-written chapters, sorry.