Room 1-A was all but empty, desks unattended, cubbies cleared out, silent except for the bump and shuffle of the two students left behind on clean-up duty. Deku dumped the last bit of paper scrap swept from the floor into the trash. He knotted the top of the bag and hoisted it. He offered one glance over his shoulder, momentarily catching eyes with Bakugou who leaned against the open window, dusty erasers in hand.
“I’m taking the trash out. Don’t lock the door behind me,” Deku said, and he freed one hand from the trashbag to reach the doorknob.
Deku paused. He heard footsteps approach from behind him, and he turned just in time to see Bakugou, inches from his face, snap his hand up and ignite his palm. It burst, fiery hot, and the heat breezed over Deku. Deku shut his eyes on reflex, but only in response to the heat. He didn’t flinch, and he certainly didn’t cower.
Bakugou lowered his hand in increments, annoyed, perplexed. His lip twitched, and a scowl overtook his face. “That. Why didn’t you flinch?”
“Hmm?” Deku glanced to Bakugou’s hand, lowered and still smoldering. “Well I would have blocked you if you actually tried to attack me.”
“No! I mean why aren’t you afraid of me?” Bakugou leaned back. He glanced around the classroom, eyes sharp and bothered. “It’s pissing me off.”
“You did this all the time when we had clean-up duty in middle school. Maybe I’m used to it.”
“Bullshit.” Bakugou stalked around Deku, hands in his pocket, blocking Deku’s path. “You used to flinch every time. Now you’ve stopped doing it. It’s been pissing me off for months. What’s different, huh? Do you think I’m weaker than I was in middle school? Because I’m not. I’m stronger. I could crush you into a sniveling pile of ashes.” Bakugou removed his hand from his pocket. He flexed his fingers, inches from Deku’s face. “I might even feel like proving it, just to wipe that bored look off your face.”
Deku set the trashbag down. He turned away from Bakugou, moving toward the window and retrieving the erasers Bakugou had left on the sill. Deku held them out the window and slammed them together twice, their dust trailing down to the stories below.
“Are you ignoring me?” Bakugou asked through clenched teeth.
“Sort of. If we fight again then Aizawa-sensei is going to come up with a real punishment this time. I don’t want to miss anymore class because of you, so let’s just drop this, okay? I’ll do the erasers if you take the trash down.”
“No. No, no, no,” Bakugou answered. He lifted the trashbag, held it from beneath in his palm, and he slammed his other hand down on top. The bag burst into flame, hot a violent and reduced to ashes in a single moment. The air spiked hot, acrid and dense and choking with the smell of burnt plastic and smoke. The charred black remains trailed through Bakugou’s fingers as he moved toward Deku. “You don’t order me around. Stop acting like you’re not afraid! You are! I know you are!”
Deku set the erasers down. He rubbed his eyes, just a bit black beneath with exhaustion. He’d been up most of the night studying. “You’re acting a lot like your middle school self right now, Kacchan. Does being on clean-up duty with me again bring you that far back?”
“Far…? No! There’s no ‘selves’, Deku! I’m me, and you’re you! And you’re supposed to be afraid of me!” Bakugou clenched his fists, and his nerve faltered. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?!”
“You really want to know?” Deku leaned against the window sill, one hand set to his chin. He looked to the side, thinking. “Well, it’s not really you who’s changed, if that makes you feel better. It’s me. I think I just finally realized you’re not someone I need to be afraid of.”
“You’re wrong,” Bakugou answered, tense. “I’m still better than you. I’m still stronger. I can still destroy you. I haven’t gotten weaker. Even with your quirk you’re no match for me, I’ve proven that!”
“Sure, I guess, you’re still stronger than me.” Deku grabbed the erasers and pushed off the window sill. He moved to the chalk board, laying them back in the tray. “But you’re not better than me, Kacchan. That’s what’s changed. I’ve finally realized you’re not better.”
“I beat you! In our fight I beat you!”
“Yeah, but I’m not just talking about strength. Let me see if I can explain.” Deku opened the closet, pulled the broom and dustpan back out. He set to work on the pile of ashes by Bakugou’s feet, and Bakugou stepped to the side. “Growing up, you spent so much time doing everything you could to feel like you were better than us. Better than me especially. I really believed that for the longest time. And I still believe you’re incredible…but not better. And not the best.”
Bakugou remained silent this time, face a mask of stone. Deku pulled another trashbag from the closet to empty the ashes into.
“Kacchan, you tried so hard to drill it into my head that I didn’t deserve all the things I wanted to accomplish. It got to me. I started believing I wasn’t actually accomplishing anything. I got into UA because I was lucky, because All Might helped me. I kept telling myself that, that it was just because of luck and because of other people’s help that I could do anything. Not like you, who could do everything on your own. But you know what, Kacchan? I realized something. I think we both owe a lot to luck. Maybe you were just lucky to be born with that quirk.”
Bakugou’s lip twitched again, revealing teeth this time, but he still did not speak.
“You were born with that quirk. I wasn’t born with one. You were lucky, and I wasn’t. There’s no reason you should have had that quirk over me, even though you spent so long convincing me of that. Quirks are luck. Hard work isn’t.” Deku swept up the last of the ash, clearing the floor of everything but the black coating the rim of Bakugou’s shoes. “I’m not saying you don’t work hard. You do. But you don’t work the hardest.” Deku cinched the tie on the new trashbag. “I do.”
“So what?” Bakugou answered, tense. “You work harder and I’m still stronger than you. You’re worse. You’re weak. You’re just insulting yourself.”
“Not at all. It’s an advantage, I think. I’m willing to work harder than you, Bakugou. I am working harder. I’m better at learning from my mistakes. I’m better at improving. I’m better at handling failure, because I spent most of my life thinking all I could do was fail, thanks to you.” Deku set the trashbag down. He left it alone, and moved to face Bakugou. He held eye-contact, full attention set to Bakugou. “So eventually I’m going to be stronger than you. And I think you know that. I think that’s why you’re so panicked right now. You can’t handle anyone being better than you, and I’m the worst person in your mind to be better.”
“It’s never going to happen,” Bakugou answered, but some kind of apprehension lingered in his eyes, holding him back. He didn’t move to attack, like Deku thought he might.
“You need it to never happen, Kacchan, because I don’t think you’d be able to handle it if I really did pass you. I actually worry how you’ll handle it, or any kind of failure once we’re professionals, you know, Kacchan? Because you can only handle being the best, no worse than that—you can only handle being the best in every way. You don’t know how to deal with it when you slip up, even a little. You won the Sports Festival, but you couldn’t handle that you didn’t win it exactly the way you needed to in order to prove you’re the best. And you couldn’t handle losing to me in the villain-vs-hero fight. And I’m actually afraid for you, how badly you’re handling what happened when the League of Villains captured you.”
“Shut up…” Bakugou whispered. He jerked forward, hoping Deku might flinch. Deku did not. “That’s not your damn business.”
“No, I guess not, but I still worry for you. You needed to be top of our middle school, and top of UA. How are you going to handle being a debut hero with a low ranking? How are you going to handle the years and years it’ll take for any of us to climb the ranks. Worse, Kacchan, how are you going to handle the failures you face being a hero? It happens to every professional. Sometimes it happens a lot. Villains get away. People get hurt, or even die sometimes, when you can’t save them. You might even get hurt. You could get hurt so badly that you’d have to give up being a hero all-together. Could you handle that?”
Bakugou reached out, he grabbed Deku’s arm, his grip deathly-tight. Deku could feel the heat radiating off the palm the held him.
“I’ll shut you up, if you don’t want to shut up yourself. I’m not going to fail as a hero. I should kill you right now for suggesting I would.”
Deku set his free hand to Bakugou’s arm, and gently, he pried it off. “Exactly. You don’t know how to handle failure, so you just keep on saying you won’t fail, you won’t fail, and that’s an impossible way to live. I’m better than you at that—I’m better at failing, Kacchan. If I’m a low-ranked hero, if some of my missions fail, if I’m injured so badly I have to retire, I know I could endure it. My dreams are as strong as yours, Kacchan, but I also know how to keep going if those get crushed. I’m strong like that, Kacchan. Stronger than you. I’m afraid that you’d just break.”
Deku opened the door, and the air in the hall was cooler, unaffected by Bakugou’s explosions. A breeze washed over Deku, clean, untouched by the smell of burnt plastic and ash.
He stepped into the hall, and he gave one last look to Bakugou, who stood frozen, stricken, pale.
“I’m not afraid of you, Kacchan. I’m only afraid for you.”
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