[ The interactions that he's had with the other hosts are a pattern of ebb-and-flow. His ire is a lively thing that rises swiftly and cools just as rapidly, a whirlwind of teenage hormones and a deep-seated something else that eats away at his defenses. As Shiro recants his prior stance, the tense line of Bakugo's shoulders softens. The crease in the middle of his brows grows shallow, until his already narrow gaze is more open. Startled, almost, by how Shiro also "ebbs-and-flows", desperate to control and compose himself, as Bakugo isn't.

Little else staggers him, physically and emotionally in one go, than the raw sensation of Shiro's honesty as it pours through like moonlight over a clear lake. Pure, simple. A natural thing that butts up against the hasty defenses he's rallied within himself and seeps through the inevitable cracks. Slowly, his hands find the depths of his disguises pockets. Or folds of cloth, he can't quite tell which is which, but his hands vanish all the same. Shoulders curling, head lowering, eyes darting off to one side. Guilty? Or dismissing his own feelings on the matter? ]

Nobody ever stops learning.

[ Everyone could stand to learn more. Like everything about him, there's no filter: the thought is simply there, unbidden before the two of them. ]

I know what fighting is, though. I know what it feels like to believe wholeheartedly in an ideal, and isn't that what war's really about? Protecting an ideal.