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“Y’know, frowning like that causes early wrinkles.”
Denki sets his glass on the bar with a deliberate meticulousness; watching the way the bubbles froth at the rim before turning his eyes to the girl seated on the stool next to him.
She was the epitome of one of those dark angels; dangerously charming with striking makeup, hair mussed and short, nails inked to match the curve of her black-tinted lips and sharp cut of eyeliner. She wasn’t the type that Denki usually found himself drawn to— when he was armed with nothing but his charisma and a drink the wrong side of strong— but it was difficult to pass by when she was hunched over with an expression as sour as her gin and tonic. There was something in the fold of those eyebrows that whispered to him; a mouth sealed with words that couldn’t be said, and, well. Denki never could resist his curiosity.
Her eyes snap up from her drink, seething with a deep intensity that would’ve made plants wilt; all dark and spiteful and exactly the right amount of punk to intimidate and intrigue. “What?”
“I mean— “ Denki’s taken aback by the blaze behind those eyes; esoteric mauve under fluorescents and strobe lights, “— It’s scientifically proven. Frowning causes wrinkles, like smiling.” He swallows and adds, “But I think smiling wrinkles would suit you better.”
She blinks at him languidly, eyes creased and cut feline. “Leave me alone.”
Well, that was off to a great start.
Denki considers leaving her alone and rejoining his friends across the club, knocking back drinks and lamenting about ‘the old days’. He can see them from where he sits, can hear their laughter: Sero and Ashido bent over their drinks giggling and Kirishima no better, then Bakugou, tight-lipped and bitter, hidden in the corner of the booth with a lone lemon water.
But then his attention flickers and it’s like he can’t leave. It’s a magnetic or electrical attraction, or something as equally fancy-worded pulling them together. Fate, electrons, Denki’s terrible sense of humour, whatever.
Denki makes his decision and swings around on the stool, swallowing the rest of his vodka-lemonade to flag down another. He can feel those eyes on him, peeking from behind her glass like an anxious bird, and he pretends not to notice. He’s played this game before.
Just as expected, she rises to the bait. “Why are you still here?”
“Hm?” He looks at her with fabricated surprise. “I’m enjoying my drink. Why are you still here?”
“I told you to leave me alone.”
“But I’m not talking to you,” Denki answers smoothly, sipping his new vodka-lemonade and letting the tartness hit his throat with a wince. “Now’s the exception because you talked to me first. On a technicality, I should be saying it to you.”
Now it’s her turn to be taken aback, mouth agape in furious speechlessness. She looks torn between moving away and punching that smarmy grin off his face, and it’s her change in expression that makes Denki hesitate.
“Do you really want me to leave?” He asks quietly, drink in hand, body already turning. Her eyes are still narrowed, still sharp, and for a second it seems as though she’d tell him to get lost again.
But then she softens and sighs, exasperated, and waves to the bartender. “Do what you want.”
Denki’s grin is wider this time; discarding the drink to drop his chin to his palm. She only acknowledges him when a new glass is in front of her, and even then it’s barely more than an annoyed glance.
Unfortunately, Denki’s absolutely delighted. “Can I ask your name?”
“No.”
“I’m Kaminari Denki.”
“I don’t care.”
“Aw, I’m wounded— “ His eyes catch on a label on the breast of her jean jacket, a thin, embroidered stitch in English that reads, “— Jirou.”
For a split second, her eyes widen in alarm, then dip to her jacket. Her expression clouds to irritation and he hears her breathe something that sounds suspiciously like “for fuck’s sake”.
“Wore the wrong jacket, huh?”
She glares at him. “Clearly. Not many of the knuckleheads I meet speak English.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation,” he says mildly, meeting her eyes with what he hoped was gentle invitation, “I don’t know your first name. That jacket could be your boyfriend’s.”
Her entire body tenses and— ah. That was the missing piece of the puzzle.
Oops.
Breakups were a horrible, horrible thing. Denki had been through far too many— of both his and his friend’s— to expect anything less from a relationship anymore. It was a curse: dating, kissing, make up, breakup, never speak again. A vicious cycle that never ended.
But for the world’s standoffish introverts— people like Bakugou, for instance— they were hit hard. Grief lasted days, weeks, months. It was hard to jump from one to the next like a game of leap frog— what hurt hurt, and what stayed stayed.
And, from just one look at her posture, he knew which category Jirou fell into.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Denki’s not entirely sure what there is to talk about, or why the question falls from his lips like they’d known each other a lifetime instead of ten minutes. Maybe it’s a biological instinct deep, deep down, something primal that piques his need for a solution. Emotions to patch and words to tack that frown upside down.
“No.”
That was always the first answer. To deny help or a chance to speak; it was second nature to most of mankind. Out of spite or pride, whichever came first, and it’s that that makes him realise Jirou reminds him of Bakugou. It was the stubbornness and rough attitude, the glaring and the irritation, but still charming in her own, nonsensical way. There was a certain ambiance about her that pulled at him, something that was absent with Bakugou.
Denki nods silently, but doesn’t move away. He runs his finger over the lip of the glass, tracing each swirl and bubble in the liquid below, and it takes her all of five seconds to huff through her mouth and glare at the amalgamation of bottles on the shelves.
“He was an asshole,” she says blandly, by way of reasoning, “and it took me way too long to realise. He’d cut me off from all my friends before I knew it, and now I’m at this godforsaken club on a Friday night, drinking overpriced drinks that I don’t even like.”
She lifts her tonic to her lips and murmurs into the rim, “Christ only knows why I’m telling a stranger.”
“Probably because you need to talk,” Denki points out, gesturing vaguely with his drink before taking a sip. “Lucky for you, I’m all ears! For a cutie, too. But,” he continues when she turns to snap at him, “You don’t have to sit alone, y’know. Don’t push me away if you want me to stay.”
He considers bringing her back over to his friends and all their ruckus, but decides against it. If he had trouble chipping that outer wall, he doesn’t want to think about what would happen in the presence of Ashido and Sero.
She stares at him and he can see the gears turning. Under the lights, through the contours of darkness, he can sense her hesitation, the uncertainty beneath that mask of black and skull earrings. By all means, Denki was just a stranger at a club’s bar, but if he eased her discomfort for a few hours in this crappy place and never saw her again, that would be enough.
A tragedy, but whatever. There were plenty more fish in the sea.
“Fine,” she grumbles, running a hand through her hair before turning— just slightly— towards him. “You can stay. But don’t expect me to serenade you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Denki laughs, and raises his glass. “To telling me to shut up!”
“Not the words I would use.” Then there it is; a smile. The faintest twitch of her lips when she lifts her tonic, eyes mellowed beneath the strobes. Denki lingers on that smile a little too long, but eventually tears them away, this time towards the stage at the back of the club.
‘Stage’ is too pretentious; it’s barely more of a lip: a booth for the DJ and various lighting, a small square for karaoke singers, another square for the lone mic on a rickety stand. Nothing particularly impressive, not in comparison to other clubs he’d been to (especially when there was enough of a stage for him, Kirishima, and Ashido to regale a merry crowd after a few large pints), and there was already some poor soul up there singing along to some offbeat J-POP.
“The music in here’s amazing, don’t you think?” He mutters stiffly, swallowing the last of his drink and shuddering at the sweet sharpness. “I’m all for J-POP, but, man.”
“A cacophony of wailing cats,” Jirou answers crisply, turning her attention, too. “You’d think this place would have better music with the price.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” Denki waves away another drink offer and pushes his glass back. “I’ve found that the better clubs are cheaper, and have a better stage, actually. More revenue, or something.”
“That’s not how it works.” She rolls her eyes at him, and wrinkles her nose when a broken note cuts through the air through the thump thump thump of the bass. “Yikes.”
Denki clicks his tongue. “I could totally sing that.”
Jirou laughs; barely more than a breathy snort, but plenty for Denki to glance at her, surprised. “You’d be an entire symphony of wailing cats. Wailing, dying cats.”
“You don’t know that!” Denki fakes a pout and watches as the chipper girl onstage bounces off with all the confidence of a rock star, smiling widely. “I could be the next Teshima Aoi.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“And you can sing better?!”
Jirou hesitates, the dregs of her drink inches away from her lips as she stares at the stage, the karaoke box, the mic; expression unreadable. A moment passes before she answers. “Yes.”
A weight settles between them; one so heavy with curiosity that Denki’s pointed staring and Jirou’s pointed not looking at him becomes uncomfortable within seconds. Denki decides that Jirou’s the solution to a hard riddle, born through subtleties and hints rather than straightforward answers. Understanding her, even knowing her for such a short amount of time, is like unravelling a piece of string a sentence at a time.
“Show me,” he finally settles on.
“No.”
“Why?”
Jirou stares at him like he’d spontaneously grown a shark tail. “Did your goldfish brain forget we’re in a club?”
“So?” Denki shuffles closer, hands propping up his chin and eyes fluttering expectantly. “Everyone’s too drunk to care! This club’s always got karaoke going on. Or…” His lips twitch playfully. “Is big, bad Jirou too scared?”
That does it.
Her expression changes, switching from softened to something entirely composed of malicious spite, and she is so much like Bakugou that he can’t help but laugh as she gets to her feet and shoves him away vindictively.
Denki throws his change onto the counter when he catches his balance, and bounds after her like a puppy before she disappears through the crowd. Unlike the bar, the air on the dance floor is thick: stale sweat and a press of bodies, life through laughter and lust. She’s difficult to pick out in a crowd: a small, birdlike creature slipping between bright neon and colourful clothes, and he loses track of her twice between the time it takes her to get to the stage.
He’s a few rows back when she steps up and leans over the booth, speaking quickly to the DJ, who looks about as shocked and delighted as Denki. After a few minutes of back and forth, she takes her place at the centre spot, and meets his eyes categorically before sliding them shut. Jirou’s fingers rise to grip the base of the microphone, tongue wetting her lips, body stiff and composed, waiting, and then the music begins.
The song that comes on is deep and dark; a roomful of secrets between her lips and the lines of a riddle, a puzzle. It’s a stark contrast to the overly upbeat pop on a continuous loop that all the heads around Denki turn in wonder, and see this aberrant newcomer on stage with her rockstar makeup, jean jacket, and platformed boots.
He can feel the surprise in waves; the allure this random stranger has in a club for spoilt teenagers and house music. It’s fascinating, how she manages to capture attention with her presence and atmosphere alone, but then the intro finishes and her eyes snap open and—
Oh.
Oh.
For a second, Denki’s world stops in motion, like somewhere someone hit the pause button. The dancing stops, the chatter quietens to white noise, and this tiny world is captivated by a voice that is unearthly; so fluidly rough that a chill sweeps down Denki’s spine, all the way to his bones.
Jirou may look like an angel, but she doesn’t sing like one. She sings like a siren, a creature that entices and enchants; pulls men to their deaths through her voice alone, with Denki caught in the middle. Waves of ice wash over his head, and it’s as if his breath is knocked away by each word that slips from those painted lips. Her voice is scratchy and deepened from drink— syrupy sweet soured with lemon and cherry— and the rhythmic thump thump thump of the bass rocks through Denki and matches each beat of his heart.
Denki can only see her, can only see those eyes flutter with each crescendo, her chest stutter with every vibrato. Her fingers slip from the mic to pluck at a phantom guitar, lay in her palms by the God of music; the perfect piece to a backbeat of a rumbling drum and a lowly bass.
Jirou owns the stage like it’s her birthright; a throne of music built by each catch of her voice.
“Denki!” The scream in his ear startles him from the trance with a yelp, and when his head whips around all he can see is pink candy floss and bubblegum.
“Where were you?!” Ashido scolds him, drunkenly, wobbling on her ice pick heels, and Denki quickly steadies her with an arm around her waist. “We’ve been— we’ve been lookin’ for ya!”
Her cheeks are flushed with cheer, and the contrast to the darkness that is Jirou actually makes him wince.
“I was— “ He stammers, brain hazy like the lasting effects of enchantment, and glances at Jirou with his heart in his throat. “— talking.”
“I know!” Ashido’s clearly delighted, her voice nothing short of childish laughter as she buries her face in the crooked collar of Denki’s polo shirt. “Who is she? Her voice is amazing!”
The crescendo rises again, in tandem with the fine edge of Jirou’s voice, and suddenly she screams; a blood-curdling, shrill sound that sends prickling shivers all the way to Denki’s core.
And, when she meets his eyes through the crowd, she laughs, and he knows that sound is just for him.
Denki’s heart jumps, voice caught with words in his throat; dry as parchment and not nearly as well-worn as it should be. There aren’t plenty of fish in the sea. He realises now that he’s the one being baited by the fisherman, the siren— the one above all.
He turns to Ashido, smiling giddily. “My future wife.”