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Shouto knew he had a problem. He knew that he tended toward existentialism, and he knew that this was a flaw that no one would ever see except himself, because he tended to not vocalize those thoughts.
Most of the time.
It was after their second year finals that he got caught. The finals had gone extraordinarily well that year, possibly because after the events of . . . everything . . . most of the second and third year UA students were at a higher level than the majority of their teachers, and everyone knew it. And Ectoplasm, being a very good homeroom teacher, although not a better one than Aizawa, had bought them all ice cream to celebrate.
Which, Shouto was well aware, was not a thing to get existential about. But he had never let that stop him before and he would not let it stop him now. He watched his classmates all line up eagerly to get their ice cream and that old doubt started to creep in again. He hadn’t done anything, not really. He’d used his quirk somewhat adequately (both sides), he’d finished the practical exam in record time, and he’d done well on the written exam. He’d done well, but he always did well. This wasn’t anything special—definitely not something that warranted a treat.
Right?
Bakugou stomped over and jabbed a hand out, pointing at the slowly diminishing line of classmates going to get their dessert. “Are you going to get some or are you going to stand here looking constipated?”
“The second one,” Shouto said.
He was granted a deep glare for that. And then, like it had been doing more and more recently, Bakugou’s expression softened. Just slightly, but someone perceptive could notice it. “What’s going on?”
Shouto shrugged, watching Uraraka get her ice cream. She looked happy. Everyone looked happy.
Bakugou was still waiting for an explanation.
“It’s just . . . do I deserve this?” Shouto asked softly. “Am I worthy of this?”
Bakugou stared at him like he’d just said grass was originally brought to planet earth two thousand years ago by an alien species that took the shape of cows, which would not be the most far fetched of his conspiracy theories. “Are you fucking with me?”
Shouto gave him a helpless look, or as close to one as he could manage.
“So what? ” Bakugou snapped. “Do you want it?”
Feeling miserable, Shouto nodded.
“For the love of—” Bakugou stormed off.
And now, yes, now Shouto would be deserted by all his friends. For being so stiff and for worrying without reason about whether or not he was deserving of ice cream after finishing his second year finals.
It was overdramatic, he knew it was overdramatic, but it felt wrong to go get the celebratory dessert. Midoriya, ever perceptive, was giving him a weird look too now over a freshly broken nose. It would be better to just suck it up and get the ice cream and then maybe he’d be able to forget the problem.
Just as he was steeling himself to get up and get his ice cream like he was expected to, a cone was shoved into his hand. He stared at it, the two perfect scoops of ice cream in it, one vanilla, one chocolate.
“I don’t know what you like,” Bakugou admitted gruffly, “but I figured your hair is two colors, so might as well go with that.”
Okay, well. Shouto was not going to cry over a cone of ice cream. He was not. “Thanks,” he said. His voice sounded vaguely watery and clogged. He cleared his throat.
“Don’t let that melt.” Bakugou flopped down on the park bench next to him. “I’ll kill you if you do. I went all the way over there for it.”
Shouto took a tentative lick of the chocolate ice cream. It was good—store bought, obviously, but flavorful and cold. It was a hot day out, unusually hot, and the cold soothed his mouth. He was tired after finishing the exam, even though it hadn’t been particularly difficult, and it was nice, sitting in the partial shade in one of UA’s common grass spaces and listening to his friends and classmates all chattering to each other.
“If I ever meet your dad again,” Bakugou said darkly just as Shouto was starting to relax again, “remind me to flip him off. With both hands.”
Shouto felt his mouth curve slightly into a smile, something it did not do often. “Not sure it matters anymore.”
“It fucking matters.”
“Okay,” Shouto agreed. “I’ll remind you.”
“Damn right.”
Shouto finished the chocolate and started moving methodically down to the vanilla, careful not to drip any of the ice cream on the ground, just in case Bakugou felt like acting on his threat. It was sweet and it was good.
He closed his eyes and breathed.