Chapter 45

₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐘
⤷ i’m just biding time.

ON HIS SLEEP MEDICATION, Oda knocked out hard that night at exactly ten o’clock, the kind of instant, bone-deep unconsciousness that felt less like falling asleep and more like someone flipping a switch behind his eyes. He didn’t even remember setting his phone facedown on the nightstand or pulling the blanket up over his shoulders. 

One second he was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wall and counting the minutes to make sure he’d taken the pill early enough, and the next there was nothing at all.

He knew from bitter experience that if he didn’t take it a full eight hours before he needed to wake up, there was no chance in hell he’d be physically capable of getting out of bed. His body would be dead weight, limbs unresponsive, brain fog so thick it felt like drowning. 

So the alarm was set for 6:30 a.m., not because he liked mornings, but because after spending the last week accidentally sleeping in Bakugo’s fucking bed, his internal clock had been forcibly retrained. 

Before all of this, he’d usually woken up at 7:30, slow and groggy but functional. Now, his body seemed to expect 6:30 whether he liked it or not.

When the alarm went off, it was still brutal, but it worked.

Oda surfaced from sleep slowly, awareness returning in layers instead of all at once. First came the sound, the dull, repetitive buzzing of his phone vibrating against the wood of the nightstand. Then sensation followed, the weight of the blankets, the pillow under his cheek, the faint ache in his muscles from training and stress and too many restless nights finally catching up to him. He groaned softly and fumbled for the phone, slapping at it until the noise cut off.

For a moment, he just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, blinking and letting himself register something that felt almost foreign.

He felt… rested.

Not perfect, not great, but rested enough that his thoughts weren’t immediately slipping out of his grasp. His chest wasn’t tight with adrenaline, his quirk wasn’t buzzing under his skin like a live wire, and the room didn’t feel like it was tilting sideways. He let out a slow breath and rubbed a hand over his face.

Getting ready took less effort than it had in weeks. He showered without zoning out halfway through, dressed without forgetting what he was doing, and even remembered to grab his bag before heading out. When he stepped into the hallway, he half-expected to see Bakugo’s door open out of sheer habit, but it stayed shut, quiet and undisturbed.

Classes that day were the most vivid thing he’d experienced in weeks, like someone had turned the saturation back up on the world. Colors felt sharper, voices clearer, the constant background ringing in his ears gone for once. He actually heard what the teachers were saying instead of catching fragments and guessing the rest. Chalk scratching against the board didn’t make his head throb. The room didn’t blur at the edges.

That didn’t mean it was easy.

He sat in his usual seat, notebook open, pen moving as he tried to keep up, but comprehension lagged behind perception. He heard everything, every explanation and every instruction, but turning that information into something usable still took effort. Sometimes the logic slipped through his fingers, leaving him staring at his notes like they were written in another language.

By lunchtime, the mental fatigue had settled in, but it was a clean kind of tired instead of the jagged, panicked exhaustion he’d been living with.

After dinner, he met Todoroki in their usual study spot, a quiet corner away from the worst of the dorm noise. Todoroki already had his books spread out neatly, posture straight, expression calm and unreadable as ever.

“You look better,” Todoroki said as Oda sat down, matter-of-fact.

“Everyone’s been telling me that,” Oda replied, pulling out his notes. “What are we starting with?”

They worked through the material slowly, methodically. Where Oda had been hitting walls earlier in the week, now things actually clicked after a few explanations. It still took effort, but it wasn’t hopeless. He asked questions without feeling like his brain was going to short-circuit, and Todoroki answered patiently, occasionally rephrasing things when Oda frowned or went quiet.

“So if I rearrange it like this…” Oda trailed off, scribbling something down.

“Yes,” Todoroki confirmed. “That’s it.”

Oda paused, then looked up at him. “Oh. Yeah. That actually makes sense.”

Todoroki nodded, like he’d expected nothing less. 

𓏵

AROUND SEVEN, when the sun was sinking low and turning the sky into layers of burnt orange and bruised purple beyond the city skyline, Oda made his way up onto the roof with a cigarette tucked between his fingers and a thin folder of papers pressed under his arm. The air up there was cooler than it had been an hour earlier, the warmth of the day bleeding away as the concrete beneath his shoes slowly lost its heat. 

He settled down near the fence, back against the low stone barrier, legs stretched out in front of him as he lit the cigarette and let the first drag burn its way into his lungs.

He spread his English homework across his lap, anchoring the pages with his knee so the evening breeze wouldn’t steal them away. This was the one subject he didn’t need Todoroki hovering over his shoulder for, the one area where his past actually gave him an edge instead of a disadvantage. 

He’d been drilled in English as a kid until it was second nature. The lessons mostly made sense, even if his scores were never perfect. His grammar was absolute shit, and he knew it, but he could read, write, and understand well enough that it didn’t scare him the way everything else did.

He was halfway through cross-referencing a question with his notes when he heard the door behind him crack open.

Oda didn’t bother to look. If it were Aizawa, he’d already be getting yelled at the second the door moved, and if it were one of his classmates, there would have been some loud comment or unnecessary reaction announcing their presence. 

Instead, there were just footsteps, steady and deliberate, crossing the rooftop until they stopped right next to him.

“What is that?” Bakugo asked, his voice flat as he stared down at the scattered papers.

“English.” Oda replied without looking up, mumbling through the cigarette clenched between his teeth as his eyes flicked back and forth between the homework and his notes. He adjusted the paper with two fingers, tapping the ash off the cigarette against the stone at his side.

Bakugo didn’t say anything else. The silence stretched, long enough that Oda became acutely aware of it. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Bakugo stand there for a full minute, rigid and unmoving, before finally dropping down a few feet away and sitting on the concrete.

The blond sat cross-legged, staring out at the sunset, his massive arms braced behind him to support his weight. He was wearing a black tank top despite the chill creeping into the air as the seasons edged closer to winter, bare shoulders and arms already marked with fading bruises and half-healed scrapes. He didn’t look bothered by the cold at all.

Oda felt a flicker of envy he didn’t bother to unpack.

He was cold, but he was always cold, so he shoved the thought down and ignored it. Instead, his eyes betrayed him, drifting for just a second too long to Bakugo’s arms, to the way muscle sat so obviously on his frame. 

Oda wasn’t weak. If it came down to raw output, he was definitely stronger than Bakugo. But his body had been modified into something compact and dense and unassuming, power hidden under a frame that didn’t scream danger the way Bakugo’s did.

Envy, he told himself. Just envy.

He tore his gaze away and forced his attention back onto the homework, the words blurring slightly before he blinked and refocused.

“So, what do you want?” Oda asked at last, not bothering to soften his tone. “I know you’re not here for my company.”

Bakugo was quiet again, the kind of quiet that made Oda’s shoulders tense without him meaning to. The wind stirred, rattling the chain-link fence softly, carrying the distant sounds of the city up to the roof.

“Ask it again.”

Bakugo’s voice cut through the air abruptly, sharp enough that Oda flinched.

Oda’s head snapped up, cigarette coming out of his mouth as he turned. “What?”

“The question that you asked me to answer honestly.” Bakugo commanded, finally shifting his weight. “Ask it again.”

It took Oda a second to recalibrate, to dig through the last twenty-four hours and pull that conversation back into focus. His brow furrowed, and then his eyes widened slightly as it clicked.

He stared at Bakugo for a long, searching moment, trying to decide if this was a trap, or a joke, or just Bakugo being Bakugo. Then he exhaled through his nose and did as he was told.

“Okay, jackass. Fine,” Oda said, voice steady despite the way his chest tightened. “Are you gonna be okay tonight?”

“No.”

Bakugo’s answer came instantly, blunt and unvarnished, and unlike the night before, it was spoken. He didn’t look away when he said it.

“My turn.”

“Okay?” Oda said, caught off guard enough that it slipped out before he could stop it.

“What’s the alternative if you’re not at UA?” Bakugo asked, finally turning his head to look at him directly.

Oda should have expected the question. He really should have. But it still hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

“Sorry?”

“You heard me.” Bakugo shot back.

Oda shook his head, the motion sharp and dismissive, and took a long drag from his cigarette as if he needed the burn in his lungs to ground himself. He held it there for a second too long before finally exhaling and leaning forward to crush the cigarette out against the concrete.

“We’re doing this now?” he asked, voice low and tired.

“What’s the alternative if you’re not at UA?” Bakugo repeated, not even acknowledging the question, his tone unyielding in the way it always was when he decided he wanted an answer.

Oda’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. For a split second, his mind raced through all the reasons this was a terrible idea, all the layers of classification and danger wrapped around that single question. Bakugo probably didn’t even realize how much information he was trying to pry loose, how many lines he was toeing over just by sitting here and asking it so bluntly.

But Oda had agreed to this. He’d opened the door himself. There wasn’t much point in lying now.

“Tartarus,” Oda said finally, a scoff slipping out before he could stop it as he dug into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette pack. He tapped another one free with his thumb, rolling it between his fingers before bringing it to his lips. “They’ll stuff me into containment, poke at me and train me in a dark facility until they can debut me to the world as a hero independently contracted to the Armed Detective Agency.”

He flicked the lighter, the small flame briefly illuminating the sharp lines of his face, and took a short drag before continuing, “I’ll probably end up at the Agency even if I graduate from UA, but with my track record so far this year, I’ll be surprised if I make it through my first year of high school. I’m just biding time for now.”

The words settled between them, hanging in the air alongside the smoke curling up from Oda’s cigarette. Bakugo didn’t immediately explode or snap back like Oda half expected. Instead, he went quiet, eyes fixed somewhere past the fence and the skyline beyond it, absorbing the answer in silence.

“And that doesn’t piss you off?” Bakugo asked at last, his voice lower, stripped of its usual sharp edge.

Oda sighed, a slow exhale that carried more exhaustion than irritation. “That’s two questions,” he said, glancing sideways at Bakugo before looking back down at his homework. “But no. Like I said, I don’t really waste time being angry over things like that. I don’t have the energy and I’m trying to actually enjoy the time I have. I told you before, this is the best my life has been in years.”

Bakugo stared at him for a long, unreadable moment, red eyes narrowed slightly. Then he looked away again, jaw tight.

“You never fail to depress,” he muttered.

“No one is making you talk to me,” Oda shot back without missing a beat. “If I depress you so much then go away.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Bakugo scoffed, snorting under his breath. “I didn’t say you depressed me. I’m saying you’re depressing in general.”

“Piss off,” Oda snapped, irritation flaring as he shuffled his papers and tried, unsuccessfully, to refocus on the homework in his lap.

Bakugo didn’t stand or leave. He stayed right where he was, planted on the concrete beside Oda.

He was quiet for a minute again. 

The wind moved across the rooftop, tugging at the hem of Oda’s hoodie and carrying the lingering smell of smoke away from them, and for a second Oda wondered if that was going to be it. Another half-conversation left hanging. Another near miss.

Then Bakugo spoke again.

“Your turn.”

The way he said it made Oda stiffen immediately. It sounded deliberate, like Bakugo already knew exactly what he wanted Oda to say or ask and was just giving him the courtesy of the rules they’d set. Or maybe he was prompting him, pushing him to use the opening he’d been given.

Oda narrowed his eyes, studying Bakugo’s profile for a second, the hard line of his jaw, the way his shoulders were set like he was bracing for impact. Slowly, reluctantly, Oda relented. He turned his gaze away, focusing instead on the city lights beginning to glow beyond the UA wall, and brought his cigarette back to his lips. He took a long drag, buying himself a few extra seconds to think, the smoke filling his lungs and steadying his nerves.

“Do you want my help?” he asked finally, cautiously, his voice quieter than before.

He exhaled, watching the smoke drift upward and disappear into the darkening sky.

“Yes.” The answer came immediately. Just one word.

Oda nearly choked.

The smoke caught in his throat and he coughed hard, turning his head away as he fought the burn in his lungs, eyes watering slightly as he dragged in a sharp breath of clean air. He hadn’t been prepared for that. Not for how fast it came, or how sure it sounded.

“You serious?” Oda asked once he could breathe again, his throat still burning as he spoke, disbelief slipping through despite his attempt to keep his voice even.

Bakugo didn’t flinch.  “That’s two questions,” he shot back flatly. “I already answered you.”

Oda stared at him, then threw one hand up in surrender, half exasperated and half rattled. “Alright, fine. Ask yours.”

Bakugo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood, dusting his hands off against his pants as if the conversation had already reached its conclusion. He turned toward the door, posture casual.

“I’m saving it,” he decided.

“You’re what?” Oda demanded, twisting in place to watch him, irritation flaring as Bakugo started to walk away.

Bakugo didn’t stop. He didn’t even turn around.

“I’m going to bed at eight,” he tossed over his shoulder, as if that explained everything.

And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft metallic click that echoed far louder in Oda’s head than it should have.

Oda sat there on the rooftop, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, staring at the closed door in stunned silence.

What the fuck just happened.

He felt… outplayed. Completely and utterly duped.

𓏵

ODA PACED HIS ROOM until the digital clock on his nightstand glowed eight sharp, the red numbers flipping over with a soft, merciless click that felt louder than it had any right to. Back and forth, heel to toe, from his desk to the foot of his bed and back again, like if he kept moving his thoughts wouldn’t have time to catch up with him.

There was no way. There was absolutely no way Bakugo was being serious.

Except that Bakugo was always serious, in his own warped, blunt, emotionally constipated way, and the realization made Oda feel like his brain was slowly melting somewhere between his ears.

There were so many things wrong with this situation that he didn’t even know where to start pulling at the thread.

First of all, he’d been played.

That part alone pissed him off more than it probably should have. Bakugo had gone up to the roof with a plan. He’d asked his question, forced Oda’s hand, answered honestly in the most infuriatingly efficient way possible, and then walked off.

Second of all—and this was the part that really threw him—Bakugo had asked for help.

Not yelled for it. Not demanded it. Asked. In his own blunt, inflexible way, sure, but still. Katsuki Bakugo did not ask people for help. He barely tolerated people existing in his general vicinity. And yet here Oda was, standing in his room, staring at the clock, because somehow he’d agreed.

What the hell was even happening right now?

Oda scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaled sharply, then finally stopped pacing when the time hit exactly eight. The decision, apparently, had already been made for him. He reached for his medication, tucked the bottle into his pocket and grabbed a water bottle from his desk, pausing only long enough to tug off his hoodie and replace it with a clean one.

He knew Bakugo hated the smell of cigarettes. That was as far as his generosity extended.

A minute later, he stood in front of the door one room over, staring at it like it might bite him. He knocked twice, firm but not loud.

The door opened.

And instead of angry red eyes and a shouted insult, Oda was suddenly grabbed by the collar of his hoodie and yanked inside so fast his feet barely had time to leave the floor. The door slammed shut behind him before he could even think to brace himself.

“What the hell?” Oda demanded, stumbling a half-step before regaining his balance, adrenaline spiking.

“You wanna be caught?” Bakugo snapped, already glaring at him like this was somehow Oda’s fault. “We’re in enough trouble as it is.”

“Give a guy a warning, Jesus,” Oda muttered, straightening his hoodie and shooting Bakugo an annoyed look. Standing there in Bakugo’s room again—this time on purpose—made the whole thing feel even more surreal. The walls, the bed, the familiar layout that he really shouldn’t have been familiar with at all. “Look, we gotta talk about this.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Bakugo scowled, already turning away and dropping down onto his bed like the conversation was a nuisance.

Oda frowned, then pulled the pill bottle out of his pocket and held it up between them. “There’s a new variable,” he said, “and I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”

Bakugo shot him a flat, unimpressed glare that said he already didn’t.

“Look, just—” Oda started, then stopped, reorganizing his thoughts before forcing them out in a way that didn’t sound completely unhinged. “This stuff knocks me out. Like, I’m dead for eight hours. I’m assuming you asked for my help ’cause you didn’t sleep last night, but I didn’t hear anything, which means if you go boom, I’m not gonna know even if I’m in the room.”

Bakugo didn’t say anything.

That was almost worse.

Oda blinked at him, unease creeping in. “Are you following at all?”

The blond rolled his eyes like Oda was the idiot here. “So just sleep in the bed,” he said. “You always end up here anyway.”

That stopped Oda cold.

He hadn’t expected that. Not the immediate concession, not the lack of argument, not the way Bakugo said it like it was the most obvious solution in the world. Oda stared at him for a second, genuinely thrown.

“So you’re fine with that?” he asked slowly.

“I’ll just roll over,” Bakugo decided, already shifting to lie down and turning his back like the discussion was officially closed. “Turn off the light.”

Oda stood there, medication bottle still in his hand, staring at Bakugo’s broad back and wondering, not for the first time that week, who the hell this person was and what they’d done with the real Katsuki Bakugo.

Honestly, one fight with Midoriya and the guy had mellowed out like six levels.

The black haired boy stood there for a few seconds longer than was socially acceptable, medication bottle dangling loosely from his fingers, brain still trying—and failing—to catch up to how casually Bakugo had just rewritten the terms of this entire arrangement.

Sleep in the bed.

Like that was nothing. Like this hadn’t been the single most contentious, confusing, deeply inconvenient detail of the last two weeks of his life.

“…You’re unbelievable,” Oda muttered finally, mostly to himself.

Bakugo didn’t turn around. “You gonna keep standing there for decoration or what?”

Oda huffed a quiet, humorless laugh and shook his head before moving. He shut off the overhead light like he’d been told, plunging the room into dimness broken only by the faint glow of the city through the window and the soft red numbers of Bakugo’s alarm clock. 

He set the water bottle down on the desk, took out a pill, and rolled it between his fingers.

Oda sighed quietly as he popped the medication into his mouth and took a swig of water.

He hesitated, then kicked off his slippers and lay down on the side of the bed he’d somehow defaulted to weeks ago, facing the room instead of Bakugo’s back. He pulled the blanket up to his chest, acutely aware of the warmth already lingering in the mattress, the way Bakugo’s presence was a solid, unmoving weight at his back even with the small gap between them.

The medication hit faster than it had in his own bed. Maybe it was the warmth. Maybe it was the simple fact that, for once, his body didn’t feel like it had to stay alert to survive the night.

His thoughts started to blur, edges softening, the constant background tension finally easing its grip.

Right before sleep dragged him under completely, Oda felt Bakugo shift behind him, the mattress dipping slightly as the blond rolled onto his other side.

The space between them closed just a fraction.

author’s note-

the views on this fic just sorta spiked out of nowhere, wow. i did die laughing last night because the disclaimer chapter has more reads than any other which means people read the disclaimer and went “NOPE!” which is just so funny to me. idc if people don’t like it, i just had a good laugh about the view count.

also my BSD fic is continuing to update so check it out! i’m actually so proud of it rn.