Chapter 49

₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑
⤷ way too into dudes for this.

ON FRIDAY, THEY HAD four straight hours of training, which already put Katsuki in a foul mood before the day had even properly started. The first two hours were physical conditioning, the kind that made your muscles scream and your lungs burn, and like always they did it in their gym uniforms under Aizawa’s flat, unforgiving stare. Katsuki pushed through it on pure spite and momentum, teeth clenched, sweat dripping down his spine as he refused to be the first to slow down or complain. If anyone thought being benched the prior week had softened him, they were dead wrong.

By the time Aizawa finally called a break and told them to change into their hero costumes for quirk training in Gym Gamma, Katsuki’s shirt was clinging to him and his arms felt like lead. He welcomed the locker room more than he’d ever admit out loud.

The locker room was loud in that uniquely Class 1A way, metal lockers slamming, voices overlapping, the air thick with steam and the smell of sweat and detergent. Katsuki stalked to his locker and yanked it open, already halfway into peeling off his uniform when Sparky’s voice cut through everything else.

“So yeah, then Aizawa just stares at me like I’m the dumbest person he’s ever seen,” Sparky was saying, animated as ever, waving his hands around as he talked. “I swear, dude, I thought he was gonna expel me out of spite.”

Edogawa was standing a few lockers down, already halfway into gearing up, nodding along absently as he listened. Or at least, that’s what it looked like. Katsuki could tell, even without trying, that Edogawa wasn’t really paying attention. His responses were delayed, half-hummed acknowledgments instead of actual words, his focus clearly on the pieces of his costume laid out in front of him.

“Uh-huh,” Edogawa murmured as Sparky continued rattling on, fingers busy fastening something around his waist. 

Sparky didn’t notice the lack of engagement at all. “And then Sero trips over one of the cones—no offense, man—”

“Hey!” Tape Arms protested from across the room, though he was laughing.

“—and Aizawa just sighs like he’s reconsidering all his life choices,” Sparky finished, grinning. “I’m telling you, last week was brutal.”

Katsuki tried to focus on his own locker, on the familiar motions of pulling on his costume, tightening his gauntlets, checking the seals. He really did. But his eyes kept drifting traitorously toward Edogawa.

Edogawa wore a stomach guard under his red jumpsuit, a piece of gear Katsuki had noticed before but was noticing a lot more closely now. It was metal, contoured to fit his frame, with a thin layer of padding between iron and skin. It covered him from his lower ribs to his hips, split cleanly down the front so it could open wide enough for him to step into it before sealing shut and zipping up the back. 

Katsuki knew what it was for. The pressure Edogawa’s quirk put on his body was no joke, and that guard was meant to reinforce him, keep him from tearing himself apart from the inside out. It had clearly worked during the provisional exam. 

He wasn’t staring. He told himself that firmly. He just… happened to look over at the exact moment Edogawa adjusted the guard, the metal catching the light.

And then there were the markings.

Those damn red markings snaked down Edogawa’s arms and legs, visible now that he was in nothing more than his stomach guard and underwear. They shifted subtly, not enough to be obvious, but enough that if you looked too long you’d notice. Katsuki’s gaze followed them against his will, tracing the patterns, the way they wrapped around muscle and stood out on pale skin.

“—and then Mic starts laughing, which honestly made it worse,” Sparky was still going.

Edogawa snorted at something Sparky said, a short, sharp sound of amusement, and pulled his suit’s tank top on over his head. The fabric slid down over the guard and his shoulders, hiding most of the markings but not all of them.

Katsuki felt his jaw tighten.

When the hell had the two of them gotten so close?

Sparky leaned in a little closer to Edogawa, still talking a mile a minute, and Edogawa let it happen without complaint. No snapping. No biting remark. Just quiet tolerance and the occasional grunt of acknowledgment.

“Seriously though,” Sparky said, lowering his voice a bit like he was sharing a secret, “you should’ve seen Midoriya’s face when—”

“Hey, Bakugo—”

A hand slapped down on Katsuki’s shoulder, solid and friendly, snapping his attention away so abruptly it almost made him flinch.

“What?” Katsuki snapped on reflex, jerking his head toward the source.

Kirishima stood there, already in his costume, grinning like he always did, completely unfazed by Katsuki’s tone. “You good? What’s got you in a mood?”

“I’m fine,” Katsuki growled, shrugging Kirishima’s hand off his shoulder. “Mind your own damn business.”

Kirishima raised his hands in surrender, still smiling. “Alright, alright. Just sayin’. Aizawa’s gonna give us extra if we’re late.”

“Like he needs an excuse,” Tape Arms added from nearby as he finished adjusting his gear.

Across the room, Edogawa finally finished gearing up, tugging at the hem of his suit to settle it properly. He glanced up just in time to catch Katsuki looking.

For half a second, something unreadable passed between them.

Then Edogawa looked away first, turning back to Sparky as if nothing had happened.

Katsuki clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking softly, and turned back to his locker with a scowl.

Get your head in the game, he told himself harshly. This wasn’t the time for whatever the hell that was. They had quirk training. Gym Gamma. Aizawa.

And Katsuki Bakugo did not lose focus.

𓏵

THAT NIGHT, Katsuki’s room was lit by the warm overhead light and the glow from his desk lamp, the curtains pulled just enough to keep the city lights from bleeding in and distracting him. Papers were spread everywhere—math worksheets, history readings, English prompts, all stacked and half-overlapping in a way that would have driven anyone else insane. Katsuki knew exactly where everything was. Edogawa, on the other hand, looked like he was one strong breeze away from losing track of what page he was even on.

They sat on the side of Katsuki’s bed, backs against the wall, legs stretched out or bent at odd angles as they worked. Katsuki had claimed the desk chair earlier, then decided it was annoying to keep swiveling back and forth to look at Edogawa’s work, so he’d dragged his stuff onto the bed instead. He leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, scanning over Edogawa’s notes with a sharp, critical eye.

“This is exactly why we’re doing it tonight,” Katsuki said flatly, tapping the edge of Edogawa’s notebook with his pen. “You keep putting shit off and then act surprised when you’re drowning in late work.”

Edogawa scowled without looking up. “I wasn’t drowning.”

“Yeah, it was still bad,” Katsuki shot back. “And don’t give me that look. You do everything on Sunday night like some kind of psychopath.”

Edogawa finally glanced up at him, eyes dull with exhaustion but mouth still sharp. “It’s called prioritizing. Weekends are for resting.”

“No,” Katsuki corrected immediately. “Weekends are for getting ahead so you don’t screw yourself later. Rest comes after.”

Before Edogawa could fire back, his phone buzzed against the mattress. The sound was sharp in the otherwise quiet room, and Katsuki’s eyes flicked to it automatically.

Edogawa groaned, fishing it out of his pocket and flipping it face-down. “Ignore it.”

Katsuki raised a brow. “You gonna tell me why the hell your phone’s been vibrating every five minutes?”

Edogawa dragged a hand down his face. “Kaminari.”

“Of course it is,” Katsuki muttered. Then he paused for a beat. “…What does he want?”

“The same thing he’s wanted all evening,” Edogawa replied dryly. “He’s still trying to convince me to go to that movie party thing tomorrow.”

“Lame,” Katsuki said immediately.

“Exactly,” Edogawa agreed, then paused. “Well. Lame for me. Apparently it’s his emotional lifeline.”

The phone buzzed again, longer this time, like Kaminari had switched from messages to calls or was just aggressively typing out another essay-length text.

Katsuki reached over without asking and grabbed the phone, holding it up just out of Edogawa’s reach. 

“Hey—” Edogawa protested, lunging for it and missing when Katsuki leaned back. “Give it back.”

Katsuki ignored him, squinting at the screen. “He’s really committed to this, huh?”

“What does he say?” Edogawa asked tightly.

Katsuki read aloud in a monotone, “‘If you don’t come I will literally perish. This is not a joke. My soul will leave my body. Also Kirishima says he’s bringing snacks and Sero picked the movies.'” He snorted. “‘Also pls.'”

Edogawa groaned again, this time burying his face in his hands. “He’s exhausting.”

“You’re friends with him,” Katsuki pointed out. “That’s on you.”

“I didn’t choose him,” Edogawa said into his palms. “He just… attached himself.”

“Sounds familiar,” Katsuki muttered before tossing the phone back. It landed on the bed and immediately buzzed again, like Kaminari sensed it had been returned.

Edogawa glared at it. “I’m not going.”

“Good,” Katsuki said. “You’ve got homework.”

“I know,” Edogawa snapped. “Which I am doing. Right now. On a Friday. Under protest.”

“Under supervision,” Katsuki corrected. “Now stop whining and finish this section.”

Edogawa followed his finger, jaw tight, but he did what Katsuki said. He scribbled out an answer, paused, erased part of it, and rewrote it cleaner.

Another buzz. Then another.

“Jesus Christ,” Edogawa muttered. “Does he sleep?”

“Probably not,” Katsuki said. “You gonna mute it or what?”

Edogawa hesitated, then sighed and finally silenced the phone. The room settled again, the only sounds the scratch of pen on paper and the faint hum of the dorm building around them.

The black haired boy bent back over his work, shoulders relaxing just a little despite himself. And even though his phone was finally quiet, Katsuki could practically hear Kaminari’s outrage through the silence.

Too bad.

𓏵

GOING TO BED AT nine-thirty had probably felt like a small personal defeat for Bakugo, even if he hadn’t said it out loud. Oda had noticed it anyway, the way Bakugo had stared at the clock, the way he’d grumbled while turning off the light as if the universe itself had conspired to waste his time. Still, Bakugo hadn’t kicked him out, hadn’t told him to hurry up or deal with it tomorrow. He’d just sighed, rolled over, and muttered something about how Oda’s math skills ‘being ass’. For a Friday night, that counted as generosity.

Oda had been out almost instantly, the combination of exhaustion, medication, and the familiar weight next to him pulling him under without a fight.

When he woke up, it wasn’t to an alarm or a nightmare or the dull panic that usually hovered at the edge of consciousness. It was just… awareness. Warmth. Pressure.

Too much pressure.

He blinked slowly, brain foggy, and the first thing he registered was Bakugo—because of course it was Bakugo—buried face-first into his chest. His arms were wrapped tight around Oda’s torso, one forearm locked across his ribs, the other hooked solidly around his back, as if he’d decided sometime in the night that letting go simply wasn’t an option. Oda could feel every inch of it, the sheer mass of him, the solid heat radiating off his skin through the thin fabric of Oda’s hoodie.

Oda was never warm. Ever. Cold hands, cold feet, cold core—it had been that way for as long as he could remember. But this morning, with Bakugo pressed against him like a living furnace, his skin felt uncomfortably hot, almost overstimulated, like his nerves didn’t quite know what to do with the sensation. It was too much and somehow not enough all at once, and he hated that his first coherent thought was how easy it would be to just… stay like this.

He tried to shift, testing the hold carefully, but Bakugo didn’t budge. If anything, his grip tightened by instinct, muscle memory taking over even in sleep. Trapped, Oda let out a slow breath through his nose and reached blindly behind him toward the nightstand, fingers brushing wood, knocking lightly against the edge before finally finding his phone. He fumbled it into his hand and squinted at the screen.

10:30 a.m.

He stared at the time for a second longer than necessary, then swiped down to see the notifications. His lock screen was a disaster. Message after message, missed calls, group chat pings. Kaminari. All Kaminari. At least sixty notifications, most of them variations of begging, guilt-tripping, and increasingly dramatic threats about how the movie night could not and would not survive without him.

He didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed about it.

As he lowered the phone slightly, there was movement against him. Bakugo let out a low, indistinct mumble, followed by a sharp inhale, the kind that came from surfacing halfway out of sleep rather than actually waking up. The sound vibrated faintly against Oda’s chest, and he stiffened before he could stop himself.

“You gonna sleep all day or what?” Oda said, his voice rough from disuse, the words cutting clean through the quiet room.

“Shut up,” came the muffled response, thick with sleep and irritation. It was followed by the faintest shift, Bakugo’s head tilting just enough that Oda could feel warm breath ghost across the fabric of his hoodie. One red eye cracked open, unfocused, dragging its way up until it met Oda’s gaze. The look lasted all of a second before Bakugo’s eyelid fell shut again like the effort alone had been offensive.

“God,” Bakugo muttered, voice deeper now, more awake but still heavy. “You have no body heat. It’s like sleeping with an ice pack.”

Oda scowled down at him, irritation flaring instantly, sharp and defensive. “Sorry, jeez—” He tried again to pull back, shoulders tensing as he attempted to create space between them.

He didn’t get far.

Bakugo’s arms tightened reflexively, muscles bunching as he dragged Oda closer instead, eliminating what little space there had been. His face pressed further into Oda’s chest, nose and mouth tucked against him.

“Did I say it was a bad thing?” Bakugo demanded, the words muffled but unmistakably annoyed. “I sleep hot anyway.”

Oda froze.

For a long moment, he didn’t move at all. He just stared down at the crown of Bakugo’s head, at the messy spikes of blond hair, at the rise and fall of his chest against his own. His mind raced in too many directions at once, all of them deeply inconvenient. The rational part of him told him to get free, to sit up, to put distance between them before this crossed some invisible line he wasn’t sure he was ready to acknowledge.

You do everything hot and I’m way too into dudes for this.

The thought landed fully formed, unwanted and unhelpful, and Oda clenched his jaw as he debated, not for the first time, whether his sanity would survive another minute of this.

Oda stayed very, very still after that.

Not because Bakugo’s grip loosened but because Oda suddenly became painfully, embarrassingly aware of everything all at once. The weight of Bakugo’s forearm locked around his waist. The heat radiating off him like a furnace. The way his breath puffed warm against Oda’s collarbone every time he exhaled, slow and steady now that he was drifting back toward sleep instead of waking up.

Oda swallowed hard.

This was a terrible idea. A catastrophically terrible idea. It had been manageable before when it was just about sleep, about keeping Bakugo grounded through nightmares and keeping himself from spiraling into his own. But this—this was different. 

This was his brain very helpfully supplying thoughts he did not ask for and absolutely did not want.

He stared up at the wall, jaw clenched, counting his breaths like that was going to magically cool his skin or slow his heart back down to something reasonable.

“You’re crushing me,” Oda muttered finally, mostly because he needed to say something before his thoughts got any worse.

Bakugo shifted slightly, one knee hitching up and pressing against Oda’s thigh, which absolutely did not help. “You’ll live.”

“That’s debatable,” Oda shot back, though his voice came out a little thinner than he liked. He tried again to wriggle free, carefully this time, testing the hold instead of yanking outright.

Bakugo responded by tightening his arms again in a way that made Oda’s brain short-circuit.

“Stop moving,” Bakugo grumbled. “You’re gonna wake me up.”

“I am awake,” Oda snapped quietly. “You’re the problem.”

Bakugo huffed, a lazy half-laugh vibrating against Oda’s chest. “Relax. It’s Saturday.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to be used as a pillow.” Oda said, even as he very much noticed that Bakugo had shifted his weight so Oda was pinned more securely against him.

Bakugo’s eyes closed again. “Too bad.”

There was a long pause after that, the room settling back into quiet. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, warming the edges of the bed while the air stayed cool enough that Bakugo’s excuse almost made sense. Almost.

Oda glanced down at his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. Another notification buzzed through, Kaminari’s name lighting up the display like a personal threat.

He sighed.

“If I get yelled at later, it’s your fault,” Oda said, more to himself than Bakugo.

“For what,” Bakugo mumbled.

“Kaminari,” Oda replied. “He’s been blowing up my phone since last night.”

Bakugo shifted just enough to tuck his chin more securely against Oda’s chest, clearly settling in. “Tell him you’re dead.”

“I think that would just make him show up in person,” Oda said flatly.

Bakugo snorted. 

Silence fell again, heavier this time but not uncomfortable. Oda could feel Bakugo’s breathing slow, his weight sinking more fully into the mattress, into Oda. He was drifting off again, the sharp edges of his awareness smoothing down.

Oda, unfortunately, was very much awake.

He stared at the wall, counted the cracks in it, mentally recited his schedule, anything to keep his thoughts from spiraling back to the fact that Katsuki Bakugo was wrapped around him.

After a while—long enough that Bakugo’s breathing evened out completely—Oda carefully shifted his arm, slow and deliberate. He slid it just enough to reach the edge of the blanket and tug it up over Bakugo’s back, partly to keep him warm and partly to give himself something to do with his hands.

Bakugo didn’t wake. He just let out a quiet, satisfied sound and relaxed further.

Once he managed to extract himself from Bakugo’s grip without triggering another argument—or worse, another involuntary nap—Oda retreated back to his own room. It felt strange every time he crossed that threshold now, like he was stepping into a space that technically belonged to him but no longer felt lived in. 

He realized, distantly, that he was almost never here anymore. Between nightly study sessions in Bakugo’s room and waking up tangled in said explosion boy’s bed more mornings than he was willing to count, this place had turned into little more than storage.

Still, routine was routine, and he forced himself through it.

He gathered his clothes first, tugging open drawers, scooping fabric into his arms without much thought. Hoodies, shirts, sweats—most of them smelled faintly like smoke and detergent. He hauled everything down to the laundry room, started a load, leaned against the machines while they rattled to life, and waited just long enough to convince himself he wasn’t avoiding anything by doing this.

After that, he went back upstairs and tidied his room. There wasn’t much to clean. Oda wasn’t messy by nature; years of being monitored and controlled had beaten that out of him early. A book here, papers stacked there, bed made with military precision even though he barely slept in it anymore. When he was done, the room looked exactly like it always did: neat, impersonal, untouched.

Then he took what little homework he had left—thin stack, mercifully—and made his way up to the roof.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, the familiar rush of wind and open sky hitting him immediately. He settled into his usual spot, legs stretched out, papers spread across his lap. He lit a cigarette with practiced ease, inhaled slowly, and let the smoke ground him as his eyes scanned the page.

Honestly, the work was going better than it ever had before.

That realization annoyed him more than it probably should have.

With Bakugo’s help, things were… clicking. Concepts that had once felt abstract or impossibly distant were starting to make sense, settling into place in his head. He wasn’t just memorizing anymore. He understood. It felt surreal, like his brain had finally been given permission to function the way it was supposed to, even if it was years too late.

Years behind.

Oda had never gone to middle school. Or grade school. His education had been a curated thing, tailored and controlled, private tutors cycling in and out under his parents’ watchful eyes. He’d learned what they thought was useful, and nothing more. And by the time he should have been sitting in a classroom with kids his own age, he’d been locked behind reinforced walls instead, training endlessly for a quirk he couldn’t survive on his own.

That gap followed him everywhere.

Three years behind. Maybe more. Enough that his grades had been irredeemable on paper, enough that every test felt like proof that he didn’t belong here. There had never been hope of catching up—not really. Not until Katsuki fucking Bakugo had decided to step in like it was nothing, like it was obvious, like helping Oda was just another problem to be solved.

Oda still didn’t know why.

Maybe Bakugo hated owing people, and this was his way of balancing the scales. Oda helped him sleep, helped keep his quirk from spiraling out of control at night, so Bakugo helped him not fail out of school. Clean and simple. Transactional. That explanation was easier to swallow than the alternative, so Oda stuck with it.

He didn’t let himself think about it any further.

He took another drag from his cigarette just as the door behind him creaked open again.

“Really? This early?” a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

Oda didn’t bother turning around. He exhaled smoke slowly, eyes still on his homework. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“It’s Saturday,” Bakugo shot back, footsteps approaching. “Which makes noon early.”

Oda scoffed, finally glancing up just enough to acknowledge him. “Says the guy who religiously goes to bed at eight every night.”

Bakugo’s steps were nothing more than scuffs in his slippers, soft against the concrete roof as he moved closer. “Maybe you should attempt to handle your addiction better.”

Oda didn’t even bother to look up when he snapped back. “Maybe you should mind your own damn business.”

There was a pause after that, just long enough for Oda to register Bakugo lowering himself down beside him. A few feet of space remained between them, Bakugo’s body turned outward toward the skyline instead of toward Oda. 

“You’re testy today,” Bakugo remarked, voice flat but not unobservant.

Oda exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening around the cigarette as irritation bubbled over into honesty. “I’m so fucking far behind.”

Bakugo turned his head then, finally, making a face like Oda had just said something objectively stupid. “The hell you’re not. You’re actually almost caught up.” Before Oda could protest, Bakugo leaned over and snatched one of the assignments straight off Oda’s lap, eyes skimming the page.

“Yeah, I know. In assignments,” Oda scowled, irritation sharpening as he gestured vaguely with the cigarette. “But as far as training goes this week was hell. And based on what Kaminari said, they did all their combat training last week. Which means we missed out on whatever they learned and they’re banned from teaching it to us. We could ask Aizawa which is probably what the jackass wants because he’s on a power kick.”

Bakugo huffed, eyes flicking sideways at him as he handed the paper back. “For someone who does as he’s told, you’ve got a lot of problems with authority.”

Oda shot him a look, finally turning his head fully now. “Right, because you take it so well when you’re told to do something.”

“Just saying,” Bakugo muttered, scowling as he shifted his weight. “Maybe you should just ask.”

Oda scoffed, shaking his head. “Why don’t you just ask?” He took another drag of his cigarette, smoke curling upward as irritation threaded through his voice. “And like he’d let us train together anyway. He already assumed you tutoring me was some way of triggering another fight.”

Bakugo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “Maybe we’ve built rapport seeing as that hasn’t happened,” he shot back. “It’s worth a shot.”

“Uh-huh,” Oda scoffed again, unconvinced, cigarette burning low between his fingers as Bakugo suddenly stood up.

The movement startled him just enough that Oda blinked and turned, watching Bakugo step away with purpose. “Ey, where you going?”

“To ask our teacher to train. You coming?” Bakugo called over his shoulder without slowing down.

“Motherfucker—” Oda cursed under his breath, scrambling to gather his papers and shove them into his bag as he hurried after him.