That's his line, advice often gently leveled at someone he cares about. There is nothing gentle about the grin, prompted by Paul's infectious laughter, that flashes blindingly sharp across Midoriya's face now. It's almost embarrassing the way he sometimes runs his mouth or gets carried away like this, but he knows who he stole it from during their first year at UA: the other side of his coin, a person who embodies victory.

"So is--what you did--"

All at once, the concept of rudeness reminds him they're being watched. His grin falters a little. The subsiding tide of ruddiness in his face briefly rises again. He scoots to his side and curls an arm around his back as much to hide his face from the referee and spectators as to help Paul. He wants the rolling of Paul's laugh, the battle-heat rising off their shoulders, and nothing else. He licks his lips and unexpectedly tastes the blood that smells like milk. It's strange that it's not his own.

"You wanted to try your new style on me, but we could have done that anytime. We gotta get up, we still have to bow..."