The first time I truly hated Bakugo Katsuki, he’d just incinerated my meticulously crafted diorama of the Great Wall of China for our history project. A project, I might add, that was worth 30% of our grade. He’d claimed it was “too damn boring” and that he was doing me a favor by “lighting a fire under my ass,” a sentiment punctuated by a smug grin and a crackling explosion in his palm.

That set the tone for our entire U.A. career. I was the studious, strategic, and infuriatingly calm (at least outwardly) tactician. He was the explosive, arrogant, and undeniably powerful powerhouse. We were oil and water, yin and yang gone horribly wrong. Every class was a competition. Every training exercise felt like a personal affront.

"Oi, Calculator," he'd bark, his crimson eyes always narrowed, "coming up with another dumbass plan to overthink things?"