Chapter Text
The hallway echoed with the sound of chaos. More specifically: Monoma.
“—And I say again,” he announced, practically twirling into the Class 1-B common room like it was a stage and he was the headliner, “that Class 1-A’s dominance is a myth, perpetuated by propaganda and an overabundance of plot armor!”
Kendo sighed without looking up from her textbook. “Monoma. It’s eight in the morning.”
“Exactly!” he cried. “A perfect time for truth!”
A few chuckles broke out among the others. Tetsutetsu gave him a lazy thumbs-up. “Didn’t they wipe the floor with us at the sports festival?”
“Details!” Monoma said, waving dramatically. “Did Picasso win every art contest? Did Shakespeare get A’s in literature class?”
“You’re comparing yourself to Shakespeare now?” Kendo muttered, flipping a page.
Monoma posed near the window like a tragic hero. “I simply dare to be great. Unlike certain glory hounds in Class 1-A who—”
“Good morning, 1-B!”
The voice came from the doorway—Kirishima, grinning like always, flanked by Kaminari and Mina.
Monoma’s face twitched. He immediately spun on his heel. “And speaking of mediocrity wrapped in muscles—!”
“Hey, we brought snacks!” Mina said, holding up a box of mochi. “Peace offering?”
Kendo stood, hands already mid-karate-chop. “Monoma. Please. Don't ruin the mochi.”
“Let the record show,” Monoma said, backing off with exaggerated grace, “that I am a gracious king.”
They shared snacks, light jabs flying back and forth between the classes. Monoma, predictably, couldn’t resist needling Bakugo from a distance ("Still angry over your loss to Todoroki, I see"), and was ignored with laser precision.
Then, like an ill-timed sneeze during a performance, Mr. Aizawa’s voice crackled over the speaker system.
“All first-years, check the campus portal for your Parent-Teacher Conference schedule. That is all.”
Silence. Monoma froze mid-bite of mochi. Just for a second. Kendo noticed.
“...You okay?” she asked casually.
He snapped out of it instantly. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason,” she said, eyeing him.
“Are you implying,” Monoma said, rising to his full five-foot-nine-inches, “that I, Neito Monoma, student of unrivaled potential, performer of elegance and intellect, would be nervous over a meeting with faculty?”
“No,” Tetsutetsu said. “More like nervous about your parents.”
Monoma’s smile froze. “Tch.”
Just a flicker. Then it was gone.
He laughed. “Please. The Monomas are pillars of excellence. I’m sure my mother will arrive in a limousine. Or perhaps a helicopter this year.”
“I thought you said last year she was touring abroad during the festival,” Kendo said carefully.
“She has a demanding schedule,” Monoma replied breezily. “The world needs art patrons. Anyway!” He clapped his hands. “Much to prepare. Many things to rehearse. The world expects brilliance, and I’m just the man to deliver it.”
He turned and marched toward the hallway. Kendo watched him go. She didn’t say anything. Not yet. But she made a mental note. He’d dodged that question again.