Chapter Text
The grit of chalk, the shuffle of paper, the stain of ink.
That’s all school was to Bakugo Katsuki, self-proclaimed leader of Aldera Middle School.
A place to learn everything he would need to springboard himself into the top hero school in the country: UA.
Everything else? Just writhing masses of nobodies, gossip, and half-assed delinquency. Obstacles to his inevitable success that either existed to be destroyed or ignored.
Like a certain quirkless brat sitting two seats over to his left, head buried in a notebook.
Bakugo tapped his pen impatiently against the paper. On the board, the date was neatly written in the right-hand corner: September 16th, a Tuesday. Mr. Shimizu, the math teacher, stood at the front of the classroom, neatly writing the quadratic formula and an example problem down: slow as a sloth.
It really got on his nerves, more so than normal, because Flashlight kept flickering his stupid light quirk from his seat. Sitting behind him was Sticky Fingers, a girl with a weak arachnid quirk. She flinched each time the light hit her face. Intentional or not, it didn’t matter: it was distracting.
“Oi, Flashlight,” Bakugo hissed. “Stop messing with Sticky Fingers and keep your damn eyes shut.”
Flashlight opened his mouth to protest, but quickly reconsidered and abandoned his taunting. Sticky Fingers visibly relaxed in her seat. Bakugo huffed in response, snapping his gaze back to the blackboard, still not even a third full. He held back the urge to explode his desk right then and there.
Cowardice was a defining trait of extras. No fighting back, no arguing, and no thirst for vengeance. It was incomprehensible to him, so much so that he didn’t even deem them worthy enough to destroy.
Unfortunately, there was a singular exception: Deku.
The aforementioned quirkless brat. The nerd was currently quietly mumbling incoherent nonsense to himself. It was like a fly buzzing in Bakugo’s ear: unrelenting and annoying.
Their mothers were long-time friends, so Bakugo had been forced to become acquainted with the nerd since preschool.
Back then, it had been utterly unbearable. Deku clung to his shadow like a vampire, always rattling off questions and hypotheticals about quirks, heroes, or whatever crap he had taken an interest in that week. Then, Bakugo would have to deal with the incessant scribbling and mumbling as Deku filled notebooks with that same nonsense. Words couldn’t even begin to describe what a hero-worshipper the kid was. It was pathetic.
Bakugo liked heroes too—naturally. He just had never been weird about it.
But, God, the worst part of dealing with him back then was the crying. Deku cried at everything. Someone raised their voice? Got hurt? Teased him? The ‘Midoriya tears’ would start and never stop until they filled the whole Shinano River. Bakugo had been convinced for the longest time that the nerd actually possessed some sort of water quirk.
Fortunately, all it took was a single use of his quirk, Explosion. A single tiny blast, and all that irritating behavior would go away. It made everyone fall in line. Even Deku, eventually.
Times change, though.
Such a change was unwelcome in Bakugo’s world.
Consistency was a trait he prided himself on heavily. Consistent grades, attendance, workout routine. Not once since his quirk came in had anything about him changed—at least in his personal opinion. He still had the same sense of self and dream: to become number one, no exceptions.
Deku, on the other hand, had recently evolved from an extra into a competitor. Not on Bakugo’s level…yet. Yes, he still retained the trademarks of a coward: cowering, stuttering, fleeing. But it was a lot less evident now.
Bakugo hadn’t even seen him bring a single hero notebook to school since the last incident. Sure, he had tried to burn the damn thing last time, hoping it’d stop Deku from making so much racket. Or maybe to kill his pipe-dream about pursuing heroics. Maybe a bit of both.
But still…the change was jarring.
Regardless, the most concerning of all was that plain-faced Deku now had the guts to lie directly to his face. That level of defiance wasn’t something he could afford to let go unchecked.
It immediately put him above the rest of the spineless nobodies; it made him an obstacle worth destroying.
Bakugo should’ve felt smug. He wanted to. Finally, a challenge—a real one—had presented itself.
But something in his brain hesitated, and Bakugo hated second-guessing.
He spared a glance at the twerp, face finally torn from the notebook in his hand.
The mumbling had quit. Rare. Off-putting.
Bakugo took note of the slight protrusion of what he could only assume was a bandage on his shoulder. Probably from their latest little chat—if a pushy interrogation counted. He tsked to himself. He hadn’t hit him that hard; Deku was just weak.
“Bakugo-san, could you solve the following problem for the class?” Mr. Shimizu’s voice cut through his thoughts. Bakugo was fifty percent sure someone with Parkinson’s disease would have taken less time to write the absurdly simple problem down.
As he stood to answer, the extras swiveled their heads to face him, expectant as usual.
Except for Deku. That was new.
Bakugo felt the familiar heat of anger burn in his palms, but he instinctively shoved them in his pockets to avoid blowing anything up. Did the nerd think he wasn’t good enough for his attention? Just ‘cause he had become a better obstacle?
He’d have to address that later. “The answer is x=-5/12.”
Mr. Shimizu smiled and nodded, turning back to the board to write the answer. “Correct. As expected of you, Bakugo-san.”
The extras’ whispers flooded the room: some thankful they hadn’t been called on, a few groaning about not understanding, and others impressed by Bakugo’s intelligence.
Bakugo sat back down unfazed. Another defining trait of extras was mindlessness. Easily stupefied, they were too weak to think for themselves, let alone protect themselves. It was why they needed heroes—someone like him—and why their words held no real weight. The strong protected the weak, but the strong still were the only ones who could acknowledge strength.
He continued to steadily thump his pen as the lesson continued, still annoyed. The whispering abated by the time Mr. Shimizu had written down the next problem. The middle-aged man’s great enthusiasm about math filled the void left behind.
After some time, the bell rang, echoing and melodic. The class let out a collective sigh of relief then. Mr. Shimizu quickly cleared the chalkboard, wrapping up the lesson with quick tips on how to solve quadratic equations, before hastily collecting his materials and disappearing down the hallway.
Lunch time. It wasn’t a period Bakugo looked forward to. The food was bland. The extras got rowdy. And he couldn’t do anything except deal with it until next class.
As the class slowly descended into its usual chaos, a handful of extras filed out of the room, off to their assigned tōban—lunch duty. He lazily watched them as he put his feet on top of the desk. A bit indecent, but a thousand times more comfortable.
Flashlight stretched his arms dramatically and groaned, “Thank God! I was just about to fall asleep.” Directed at everyone and no one in particular. His friends laughed at his antics.
Bakugo rolled his eyes and surveyed the classroom. Most of the extras were still seated, either talking with neighboring extras or lying down on their desks. The notable exceptions were Drill Head and Sticky Fingers, who were pushing their desks together with some other extras. Pinocchio and Pufferfish Face, too. They had gathered in the corner of the room and were discussing Death Arms’ latest fight.
Just how it should be. Predictable and forgettable.
His gaze stopped on the singular anomaly.
Deku, again, talking. Talking—conversing, actually. To Fragrance Freak.
What the hell?
Bakugo stared. The girl, who sat in front of the brat, didn’t often step out of line. Reserved. Sometimes redirected Flashlight’s or Spiky’s attention when their attempts at humor became too cringy to ignore, but that was it. Nothing more than a breeze in the background, as was her role.
And Deku—Deku didn’t talk much anymore. Unless someone initiated it first, but even then, he would only give half-mumbled half-answers and barely be able to hold any eye contact at all.
Now he was a completely different person. He was nodding along to whatever Fragrance Freak was yammering about. No muttering. No scribbling. No fidgeting. Just calm, normal behavior.
That wasn’t how Deku acted—not how he was supposed to, either. It rubbed Bakugo the wrong way.
He tore his gaze away, cracking his knuckles.
Perhaps they’d need to have another friendly chat.
“Ōtsuka-sensei is totally going to put me on cleaning duty next week.” Pigtails groaned to her friend. “It’s going to suck so much.”
“It’s not that bad, girl. How do you know for sure anyway?” Matchstick looked back at her friend nonchalantly, preoccupied with burning the skin of the salmon with her quirk: Fire Hands.
Pigtails shoved a bit of rice into her mouth. “Because Inaba-chan got cleaning duty this week, and he always gives it to me after her.”
Bakugo picked at his food absentmindedly, barely listening to the two extras go back and forth. Lunch was the same slop as always: plain rice, grilled salmon, miso soup, blanched spinach, two pitiful orange slices, and milk. At least, unlike Pigtails, he hardly ever got any tōban duties. Definitely something he was meant to bring up with Mr. Ōtsuka, but if the man wasn’t going to assign him any, who was he to complain?
Those jobs were for extras anyway.
“Yo, Akio-san,” Rock Head jokingly feigned a punch at Snail Eyes’ shoulder. “Have you started your high school applications yet?”
“Nah, I’ve been procrastinating.” Snail Eyes waved a hand dismissively while he wolfed down his lunch.
“What about you, Bakugo-san?” Rock Head turned to him, smiling.
Bakugo glared in return, clenching his chopsticks in a hand. “Yeah, ‘course I’ve started preparing. Unlike some of you, I’m not stupid enough to leave my future to chance.”
Snail Eyes sank a little further into his seat.
“Wait, Bakugo-kun, you’re applying to UA, right?” Pigtails called from her seat.
“Duh.” Bakugo didn’t even turn to face her. The room suddenly quieted; its attention was focused on him. That tended to happen when “UA” was mentioned.
“That’s so cool!” She squealed and then shook her friend. “Don’t you agree, Kayoko-chan?”
Matchstick deactivated her quirk and nodded. “Totes.”
“Damn, I wish I could apply to UA, too! But my pops said it’s too expensive, all the training and mock tests and stuff.” Rock Head pouted, resting his head on the back of his chair.
Bakugo snorted, “If you were actually strong, you wouldn’t need any of that crap. I’m still getting in. No shitty shortcuts needed.”
“Nagashima-sensei was, like, the top athlete in his year, right? You really think you’re stronger than him?” Sticky Fingers questioned incredulously from across the room.
Bakugo snapped his head towards her, irritation flaring. “Who do you think I am? ‘Course I’m stronger, shithead. I’ve been preparing since I was seven. Morning runs, cardio reps, quirk tests. Real prep, not the bare minimum textbook bullshit. Even if I was blindfolded, none of the geezers here could even graze me.” He let a few explosions spark brightly in his free hand for emphasis.
The room tensed. A few extras froze; others forced nervous chuckles. Typical.
Bakugo caught sight of Deku staring. Not in fear or anything. Just focused and unreadable.
Fucking creepy.
Sticky Fingers shrank back into her seat. “Right, right. Sorry, Bakugo-kun.”
“Psh. Whatever.” He turned away and snacked on an orange slice.
Flashlight’s nasal voice shattered the silence. “Ay, Bakugo-san, what about your hero name? It’s probably something really badass, right?” He flashed his quirk a few times, blinding the extras sitting around him.
Bakugo paid no mind to the light. “Obviously. Ain’t gonna name myself something stupid.”
“Yeah, yeah! Something like “Pyro Power” or—”
Bakugo grunted, “Hell no. That sounds like a knockoff.” Flashlight’s smile faltered as the others snickered. “I’ll be number one. I don’t need a try-hard name.”
Flashlight chuckled sheepishly, “Right. My bad.”
The bell rang, marking the end of lunch. The extras on tōban duty grumbled about clean-up as they took up lunch trays. Bakugo took his sweet time as usual, ignoring the clamor of extras ensuring all the desks were returned to their proper place.
Still half the day to go.
Outside, rain lightly drizzled from the cloudy sky. The squeak of shoes bounced off the gym walls as rubber balls soared through the air.
Due to the weather, they had been given a chill day of playing dodgeball—Bakugo’s favorite game. The one where he could punt as many extras as he wanted and get away with it. Teamwork be damned. The strongest didn’t need teammates; they were just a formality.
He stepped out of the way of an oncoming ball, letting it hit the extra behind him. She cursed in frustration before walking off to the sidelines. On the other side of the court, Giraffe Neck whooped in celebration of the successful hit. His fallen teammates cheered him on from the sidelines. Mr. Nagashima, the gym teacher, stood nearby, supervising the game.
Bakugo smirked as he picked up a ball and hurled it straight into the gut of Rock Head. The boy made an ‘oof’ sound and quickly ran off to the side, clutching his stomach the whole time. The extra he had been next to flinched, eyes darting from Bakugo to his teammates.
“Bakugo-san! No reason to hit so hard,” chided Mr. Nagashima half-heartedly. He never penalized him.
“I’m just playing the game, sensei.” Bakugo grinned as he hurled the ball Flashlight passed him into another extra. Those on the sidelines made impressed and sympathetic sounds at the display of power.
Bakugo surveyed the court. His team had more players than the other, but not by much. Not that it mattered anyway: his teammates were all about as useful as a coat on a hot summer’s day. The other side was like a bunch of ants, shuffling around aimlessly. Among them was a certain green-haired twerp, purposefully stationed behind one of the bigger extras. Not nearly as jittery as he usually was.
His grin widened as his hand found another rubber ball on the ground.
‘Using human shields, huh? That’s pretty cold-blooded for you,’ he thought.
A ball nearly nailed him, but he deflected it with his ball. It ricocheted into the gym’s side wall and tumbled back onto the other side. Multiple extras moved to snatch it. Bakugo ignored his team’s shouts to take out Matchstick, the only remaining decent thrower. She wasn’t a priority.
Instead, he let the familiar heat of his quirk settle in the palm of his throwing hand. The sparks began to ignite against the ball. Mr. Nagashima threw a disapproving look: an unspoken warning that was never followed through on. Students weren’t meant to use their quirks freely in school, but the rule was also mostly a formality—hardly ever enforced, especially on Bakugo.
With careful precision and borderline maniacal glee, he reared his hand back and aimed for Deku’s head.
Bakugo shouted, “Hey, Deku! Catch this!”
The boy turned to face him, emerald eyes widening. Finally, the panic that had been missing from his face this whole time came flooding back in.
Bakugo released the ball from his hand, letting it whizz through the air from the combined force of his explosion and the throw. But just when it looked like the ball would hit its target, Deku threw himself to the ground. The smoking ball grazed his back before he landed with a hard thud on the polished floor.
The class stared. An extra on the sidelines called out, “Jesus! It’s just dodgeball…”
Mr. Nagashima blew on his whistle hard. “Bakugo-kun! No quirks!” He then pointed to Deku. “And Midoriya-san, you’re out.”
Despite his team’s protests, Deku wordlessly accepted the call, dusting himself off briefly before skittering off the court. As he did, he spared a glance at Bakugo. A bit pained, shocked, and…calculating.
Bakugo stared back, clenching his hands into fists. The extras on his team were reprimanding him, but he didn’t hear any of it. Bakugo recognized that look, but from when?
In frustration, he shut the thought from his mind. There were more pressing matters.
First, Deku lied. Now, he was dodging. What next, he’d show up with a quirk?
Bakugo despised it all: the audacity, the learning, the change. Extras didn’t do that: obstacles did.
As if to mock him, Deku sat on the sidelines, calmly observing. The pain was already gone from his expression, like nothing had ever happened.
Bakugo turned back to the court, steadying himself.
Later. Later, he’d deal with it.
The game promptly resumed with another blow of the whistle.
Bakugo didn’t throw another ball after that.
By the time the 7th-period bell rang and the daily cleaning was done, the rain had stopped. The clouds remained, painting the sky ash gray.
The end of the day was always the slowest. All they did was sit in homeroom and listen to Mr. Ōtsuka’s drone on about random club announcements, high school application reminders, and the afternoon weather forecast.
Bakugo draped an arm over the back of his chair, one leg resting on top of his desk.
Only a handful paid any real attention; the rest doodled, passed notes, and talked quietly among one another. Someone threw a paper airplane across the room when Mr. Ōtsuka’s back was turned.
Normally, Bakugo would join in on the shenanigans, but today was different. His mind couldn’t stop drifting—to Deku. To what he had done in PE class.
If not for the other changes, he might’ve chalked it up to dumb luck: a moment where the nerd’s clumsiness happened to work in his favor. But that wasn’t the case. Deku had been off ever since he came back last week after disappearing for three days with no real explanation.
Bakugo tilted his head to the side, eyeing the nerd. He was resting his head on his desk. A bored look uncharacteristically sat on his features. Another subtle change, but in line with the pattern he kept noticing.
Two Fridays ago. Deku’s unpredictability emerged. It had been bewildering, hearing Deku lie—even more so with the lack of crying afterward. Bakugo had originally thought it was impossible, with the way he spoke like he had a speech impediment and wore his heart on his sleeve. But, irritatingly, he had been proven wrong.
Last Thursday, the day Deku returned. The brat came in like a corpse, a whole shade lighter: to the point even his freckles had faded. Bakugo hadn’t thought much about it at the time. Same with his atypical silence. Just seemed like leftover symptoms from whatever illness Deku had been careless enough to pick up. That had seemed the only logical explanation for the absence.
Friday. The pallor wasn’t as bad. Deku kept staring at the other extras like he was discovering sight for the first time. Worse was the brat’s blank expression that accompanied it. No apparent excitement or apprehension, or anything normal. Simply curious and aloof. The gears were still turning, but the habitual mumbling rarely came. None of the others noticed, but Bakugo did. He couldn’t afford not to.
Yesterday, Monday. Rock Head—or maybe it was Flashlight—activated his quirk for something dumb near his desk. Bakugo prepared himself for Deku’s usual nerd-out session, but, like the mumbling, it never came. Instead, the nerd straight up flinched away. At that point, it didn’t seem like sickness anymore.
And now, today. The dodge, the look Deku gave him—the one he still couldn’t pinpoint.
He couldn’t see the whole picture yet, but it all ruffled Bakugo’s feathers more than he’d ever care to admit.
He stopped his leg from jumping to the flow of his thoughts.
Deku still half lay on his desk, staring at nothing.
The seat between them was empty; the extra that sat there was absent today.
Bakugo made a split-second decision. “Oi. Deku.”
Deku blinked out of his daze, barely turning to face him. “...What?”
There was a hint of panic in the relatively indifferent tone, but that was all.
No stuttering. No senseless apology. No childish nickname.
“Fancy move you pulled off. Back in PE.” Bakugo fully lolled his head to the side to stare him down.
Deku sat slightly more upright. “Yeah…I suppose so.” There was more hesitance in his tone.
“You been going to cram school?”
“No—” Deku shifted under his unrelenting gaze, his posture stiff. A normal reaction.
Bakugo cut him off. “Don’t lie.”
He finally turned to face him, gaze averted. “...I’m not.”
“Uh-huh. Sure, nerd.”
A moment of silence passed. Bakugo chewed the inside of his cheek, debating.
“My old hag wanted to know how you’re doing.”
“I’ve been doing fine.” Bakugo narrowed his eyes. The answer was too robotic—too rehearsed—for his liking.
“Hmph. Sure.” He looked at their teacher, words still pouring out over the class. “And that’s why you skipped school last week, huh?”
Deku tensed.
“I wasn’t skipping,” He finally said. “I was—”
“Sick, supposedly.” Bakugo finished for him.
“...Yeah. I was.”
Bakugo gave a grunt of acknowledgement. “And what did you catch then?”
Another beat of misplaced silence.
“I dunno. The flu. A fever.” Deku didn’t flinch at the implication, and that pissed Bakugo off more than if he had.
He looked away. “Huh. New strain? Well, just don’t pass it on to the rest of us.”
Deku’s frigid calmness persisted.
“Are you ever going to apologize?” He abruptly asked.
Bakugo snapped his head back toward him, visibly surprised. For a second, he was rendered speechless. This was a first.
He composed himself quickly. “For—Why would I? There’s no reason to.”
“I thought so,” Deku said, tone level. Like he already knew what the response would be. His expression shifted into something unreadable. Disappointment? Acceptance?
Bakugo didn’t get a chance to respond before the other turned away. Their conversation was over, it seemed. Outside, the rain started again, pattering against the pavement. Someone groaned about the crappy weather.
Reluctantly, he set his leg down, sitting somewhat correctly for once. Irritation burned through his veins, but he subdued the impulse to activate his quirk with a few controlled inhales and exhales and a flex of his hand. Deku always pissed him off. This emotionless skinwalker that looked like him, even more so.
“...Well, that’ll be all. The bell should ring any moment now. Have a safe afterno—” Mr. Ōtsuka’s voice was drowned out by the final bell of the day as it pierced through the entire school. He didn’t bother to finish his sentence.
The class broke out into a flurry of conversation as chairs were scraped across the floor. Bags were rustled as they were slung around and over shoulders.
Bakugo watched the room begin to file out before grabbing his bag. He got up slowly, glancing at Deku a final time.
He was still turned away, distracted. Still everything except normal.
Bakugo glowered, shoving his hands into his pockets, before stalking away to the crowd of extras exiting.
Outside, the rain drummed on.