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Funnily enough, Kirishima was glad it was raining.
Usually he thrived in the sun—but not today. Today it felt like the weather was in sync with him, reflecting his inner landscape so perfectly. So as he trudged through the rain, with no umbrella, he savored the feeling of the cool rain drenching his clothes and his skin.
The music room was all the way across campus from his last class, but the trek was well worth it. Or at least he hoped it would be, today. Unlike the last few times he’d journeyed all the way out there to write songs.
Every time he’d sat down, he’d simply stare at the blank page in front of him, feeling empty and instantly exhausted.
Not one word came to him.
It was like he’d never had a thought in his entire life, there was just a void where his mind should be. Of course, some days were just like that—he knew everyone had their off days. But Kirishima didn’t believe that genuinely talented people were unable to write a single decent lyric for two and half weeks.
Sometimes, he’d managed to squeeze out a line or two, but they all sounded terrible when he sang them over again. And over, and over again. Nothing. Trash.
He was a failure in class. He was a failure in singing. He seemed to be a failure in everything. Even in things he loved. Even in things he once thought he was good at.
Giving up was excruciatingly tempting. It would be so, so easy. But that would also be the most unmanly thing he could do.
So there he was, on a rainy Monday afternoon, walking to the music room.
Something about the pathway leading there cheered Kirishima up. There was no ceiling, so the rain still poured down on him from above, but the walkway was lined with greenery and stone benches here and there. It was cute and made him feel kind of pleasantly mushy.
Best of all, it was completely empty. This far side of campus was rarely noticed or explored, and he was always grateful for it, because he usually did his best thinking alone. Away from all the human noise.
But for the first time since…ever, the music room wasn’t empty when he arrived. Granted, he had never come on a Monday before, but it still threw him for a loop. That was what he got for shaking things up and changing his schedule—he’d just thought the rainy day inspiration opportunities were too good to miss.
Apparently he wasn’t the only one to think that. It seemed strange that it had never happened before—Kirishima was a fool to think of himself as the only one in the whole school to use the room for its intended purpose.
In the middle of the room, sitting at the grand piano, was a person in a black hoodie, hood pulled over their head. Their fingers were dancing masterfully over the keys.
Oh.
Kirishima almost turned away and just walked away, because what was he supposed to do? Barge in, pick up a guitar, and just start strumming away like an asshole? Of course not. It wasn’t manly to interrupt someone else when they were trying to create, so he spun on his heel. But then he heard the music.
It was a beautiful melody, something hopeful and mournful, all at once. To put it lightly, the song was incredible.
It was nothing, though, compared to the movement, the way the pianist's body swayed with every crescendo and shuddered with every diminuendo. There was a physicality to the piece that Kirishima had never seen before, had never even considered.
He had never thought that the way something is played could affect it in a meaningful way. He was wrong—dead wrong.
This pianist was truly something special. Kirishima could tell by the set of their shoulders, the nimbleness of their fingers, the sheer emotion poured into a piece that might have been unremarkable on its own.
He lost himself in the melody, but after a while, Kirishima realized that he was standing in the middle of the courtyard in the rain, now almost totally soaked. His backpack probably shouldn’t get any wetter or he’d need to look into a replacement. And he didn’t exactly have the funds to spare.
He dashed towards the wall next to the door, where the awning would just barely cover him, nearly slipping and falling in the process. He slid down against the wall, cradling his backpack against his chest. His view was obstructed by a potted plant beside him, so some of the physicality was lost, but he could hear even more clearly than before.
Kirishima shifted into a more comfortable position, leaning his head against the wall, stretching his legs out and letting the rain gently drizzle on them.
He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the music take over his brain.
He felt more relaxed and free than he had in a very long time, sitting there in his wet clothes and soaked shoes. If he were less of a coward—and if he hadn’t been sure that his hair had fallen completely flat from the rain—he might have gone inside and introduced himself to this musician.
But he wasn’t brave enough.
Instead, he stayed right there. Listening to the mysterious pianist and their requiem.
In between two of the songs, he heard the piano keys slam all together, a loud and discordant chord that made Kirishima grind his teeth. Like the pianist had slammed their hands on the keys angrily.
And judging from the soft sounds of swearing he could hear, that was exactly what had happened. Kirishima wasn’t sure what had enraged the piano player, but after that, the songs were less calm and more fast paced. Louder. To Kirishima, the playing was just as wonderful as before, but he could tell there was something different. These motifs were shorter, a little more staccato and angry and loud.
Then suddenly, the music stopped completely, right in the middle of a measure. Kirishima heard the sounds of paper shuffling.
Oh, shit. The pianist was leaving.
Kirishima wasn’t really in the mood to be caught creeping on someone else’s music session, so he tucked his legs in as tight as he could and hid his face behind the plant. Not very manly.
He heard the door slam open and slam shut quickly, rattling in its frame. Then the sound of echoing stomps against the pavement across the courtyard.
Through all this, Kirishima didn’t dare peek over to see who had played so artfully, so beautifully. He was too ashamed.
He waited until the sound of the stomps could no longer be heard. Then he stood up, icy cold and sopping wet from the rain. But he felt lighter and brighter than he had in weeks.
He finally had inspiration.
Kirishima didn’t have time to stay any longer at the music room, but as he ran back to his apartment, he was certain that he’d have something to write that evening. Something worth singing.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
All Bakugou wanted was the chance to sit at the stupid fucking piano and play some stupid fucking music. Not that any of it had been any good lately—not that he had been any good lately.
And then today Deku just had to get a better score than him on the organic chemistry exam. It was only one fucking point, but it felt like just another wide chasm that Bakugou was failing to leap across.
So at the moment, there was nothing that Bakugou would love more than to erratically slam his hands across the piano keys and pretend like that was how the piece was supposed to be played. He wanted to play awful chords and stomp on the pedals and just make some shitty sounds, intentionally, for once.
Which meant the last thing that Bakugou wanted was to find the music room already occupied when he arrived.
Bakugou couldn’t see this interloper, but his first instinct was to barge in and tell the stupid singer to shut the hell up—to give Bakugou his room back. He needed it more than they did. He was about two seconds from boiling over or exploding.
He was about to do just that—his hand was on the door—when he, in a rare moment of quietude, actually listened to the singer.
Bakugou pulled his hand back slowly and walked to a corner where he knew there was a hidden bench. He sat down, and for once in his goddamn life, he just listened.
The emotion in the singer’s voice was clear and powerful, paired so beautifully with a soft acoustic guitar melody. It hit Bakugou’s heart like a baseball bat and rang in his ears like a tolling bell.
It was probably the nicest singing voice he’d ever heard, like a fucking siren without the whole leading-you-to-your-fucking-death part. Leaps and bounds from his shitty half-and-half roommate’s singing in the shower.
What really got him, though, was the song. He’d never heard it before. He’d never heard anything remotely like it before.
The lyrics were… they were like words he’d wanted to say before, but hadn’t really been able to. Feelings verbalized in a way Bakugou had never quite managed to do, despite repeated efforts—words that spoke his heart so clearly and succinctly that he wondered why he ever had any trouble at all.
And in the voice of this singer, they felt even more meaningful, somehow. Like this person had bared their soul through melody. Through guitar strings. Through vocal cords.
Bakugou wasn’t the type to lurk around a dark corner to listen to some random extra. But maybe this time, maybe just this once, he could allow it.
This one time, he allowed himself to sit in a dark corner and enjoy the song from this random singer.
As a little time passed, it was clear that the song was still a work in progress. Some lyrics were repeated in different melodies, different styles, differing syncopation. Words were switched around and back again. Other lines were replaced with entirely new verses.
But Bakugou was thoroughly impressed nonetheless. Even the things that the singer had deemed unworthy of their song, whatever melodies or lyrics, all struck a surprising chord with him.
It was… special.
So much so that Bakugou couldn’t help himself when he pulled out his journal and began scribbling some of the words he could hear and writing ideas for what the music could be like.
And Bakugou stayed doing that until the person singing seemed to have worn themselves out for the day. He found himself a little disappointed that the person wouldn’t continue. He’d wanted to hear more.
Instead, he heard them pack their stuff up and heard them shuffle out into the courtyard. He heard them leave, steps eventually fading as they walked down the path.
A few minutes after the footsteps had passed, he jumped up and dashed into the music room. Sitting down at the piano bench, he exhaled the smallest puff of air, a satisfied little huff.
It was good to be back.
Reaching into his bag, he took out his usual sheet music, placing it underneath the notes he had scribbled from the song he’d heard.
After a few warm-up scales and melodies, Bakugou tested out a few of the things he had written, humming some of the words under his breath.
And maybe Bakugou spent the rest of the afternoon writing accompanying music for a song he’d only heard once. And maybe writing music to another song. And maybe… maybe it came out really good.
Finally, something he’d done that wasn’t complete shit. He couldn’t stop the victorious grin the crept across his lips as he played the new melodies on the piano keys. There was no stopping him now.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Kirishima was unceremoniously elbowed for the thirtieth time that day. Smushed into the small armchair next to Sero, there wasn’t a lot of room, and since Sero was playing a Smash Sudden Death match against Kaminari, getting elbowed was just collateral damage.
Kirishima hadn’t bothered taking a remote control.
His mind was too busy thinking about his mysterious pianist, the one he’d been—somewhat creepily—listening to for about two weeks now. It was fortunate that the mystery pianist seemed to have a rigid schedule, so Kirishima always knew when to expect him.
“Ha! Take that! You won’t be winning this time,” Kaminari shouted triumphantly, shooting up to his feet from his perch on the arm of the chair. He got closer to the screen, squinting as his fingers flew over the controller.
Kirishima had offered his own seat, but Kaminari refused. He’d said that the arm was “more hype” and “heightened his battle senses.” Kirishima didn’t feel like arguing with him, so he didn’t.
But, despite all his claims, Kaminari was losing very badly. Very very badly.
It wasn’t entirely due to his complete lack of finesse or skill, though those certainly didn’t help. What Kaminari didn’t know was that Sero had given him a broken controller, so some of the combos couldn’t be triggered properly.
Sero most definitely could have beaten Kaminari without cheating, but he said that it was funnier to annihilate him completely, and who was Kirishima to disagree.
So Kirishima watched as Kaminari valiantly tried and failed to beat Sero.
When the metaphorical dust settled, Sero was victorious and Kaminari flopped onto the floor, hand dramatically resting against his forehead and the other hand holding an imaginary wound in his chest. “Avenge… me.” Then Kaminari fake-died.
Before Kirishima could tell Kaminari to avenge himself, his phone alarm started to ring. All three of them jumped up in surprise.
“Shoot, I better get going guys.” Kirishima grabbed his phone and shut the alarm off.
Sero seemed confused. “Dude, I thought your tutoring session wasn’t for, like, another two hours. Why are you heading out so early?”
Kirishima, in the midst of shoving his stuff into his backpack, paused and felt his cheeks start to burn a little. “I have, uh, something I have to do beforehand, so I have to leave early.”
And that was definitely the truth. But Kirishima didn’t really want to say what he was doing beforehand, because he really couldn’t tell his friends about his pianist.
Not to say that he was embarrassed about having memorized when a stranger went to the music room and going to listen to their music in secret—but it was a little bit awkward to explain. And maybe he was a little embarrassed.
Okay. Maybe he was a lot embarrassed.
Kaminari chuckled from his spot on the floor, sounding very pleased with himself, if the tone of his voice was anything to go by. “Oh Sero didn’t you know? Kirishima has to go see his boyfriend. His secret boyfriend.”
“Secret boyfriend? This is the first that I’m hearing of this, and I am shocked. Shocked for one that you would tell loose-lips Kaminari and not me, but also shocked that it’s not—”
“I didn’t tell anyone anything because I do not have a secret boyfriend! I swear!” His voice might have done that thing where it became very high-pitched, but he wasn’t lying! He still felt his face turn red in betrayal.
He didn’t have a secret boyfriend, or a boyfriend at all. But he was definitely enchanted by the mysterious pianist’s music. Were the two things comparable? Nope. Not at all.
“I don’t know, sounds like something who had a secret boyfriend would say,” Sero hummed, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
Kirishima looked at his watch. “As much as I’d love to continue to explain that I definitely do not have a secret boyfriend, I’m gonna be late.” He threw his backpack over his shoulder and dashed out the door, ignoring Sero and Kaminari playfully telling him to enjoy his date, and to bring his boyfriend around for dinner one of these days.
Glancing at his watch again, Kirishima groaned. He’d have to run if he wanted to make it in time.
And run he did. He couldn’t find it in himself to be too ashamed about it as he sprinted across campus to the music room. Instead, he was buzzing with excitement.
He was always curious to see what his pianist would be working on this time. Maybe, Kirishima thought, they would be working on what he fondly thought of as their song.
Not that it was actually their song.
It was more like Kirishima blatantly stole bits and pieces from this stranger, but Kirishima hoped that, if he ever got the courage to speak to his pianist, they wouldn’t mind being the source of Kirishima’s “inspiration.”
And it was definitely the most inspired Kirishima had been in a while. For the first time in weeks, music was easy again. It was fun. He’d forgotten that it was supposed to be fun.
Today’s melodies were fast and electric. Kirishima could barely keep up, trying to count beats and get a sense of the rhythm, trying to track motifs and melodic lines. The time signature kept changing but every shift sounded intentional; it sounded like a masterpiece being chipped out of the marble.
The notes were happy in a way that Kirishima had started to think his pianist wasn’t capable of—every other piece had been somber, angry, or some strange mix of the two.
This one, though. This one was special. This one, more than any other, showed who the pianist was. Kirishima felt warmed by the music.
In that moment, Kirishima wanted nothing more than to meet his pianist. He needed to know who shone so brightly, had to reach toward that bright sun.
But then, the music stopped, and without the motivation of the music, he felt cold. And terrified. And weak. He needed more time.
He closed his eyes and heard the pianist stomp past him.
When he opened his eyes, he looked down and saw the time. He had to run to his tutoring session—so it probably had been a good thing he didn’t try to talk to his pianist today.
He ended up late to his tutoring session, and despite the reaming he received, he couldn’t help but feel it was worth it.
Because next time, he would be ready.
-- -- -- -- -- -- --- -- -- -- -- --- --
Lately, Bakugou had been feeling better—slightly. He had his own fountain of inspiration that he found himself drawing from quite regularly, making it easier to create, to enjoy playing music the way he used to.
His own music was blooming again. Finally, he was creating melodies that properly expressed what he wanted them to express—unnecessary anger wasn’t burdening his work anymore, and it changed everything.
If he wanted a song to sound happy, it could sound happy. He’d never been able to do “happy” before. It was always boiling anger, always pain, always unending sadness.
The piano was his friend, now, not his enemy—not an insurmountable obstacle anymore. Not a job, not a weight on his shoulders.
When he was on that bench, when his fingers met the ivories, he fucking enjoyed it. And the fun kept him coming back, what keeps him in the music room, repeating melodies designed to wrap around the acoustic rhythms of his singer.
Despite promising himself it was just a one time thing, Bakugou found himself lurking outside the music room at least once a week. Hearing the singer’s songs evolving, like they were improving just as much as Bakugou had been.
The stupid part was that he wanted to be a part of the reason this singer was growing, developing. But the was stupid as fuck—his singer didn’t know he existed. And that was probably for the best.
Every time he found himself being a fucking stalker, cowering behind a plant like a coward, he considered just introducing himself to his singer. Like an actual, normal person.
But the fleeting thought would be interrupted by one thing or another. Maybe it was an appointment. Or an upcoming test. Maybe it was the fact that when Bakugou thought about it, it felt fucking ridiculous.
It was, in short, humiliating. Bakugou wasn’t supposed to be some shy, stupid shithead running around behind someone else.
But there he was, waiting for some anonymous singer, waiting for inspiration.
So Bakugou decided he would no longer creep around like some extra, this was the last day. He’d hear a little of the singer’s song, and then he’d go in, introduce himself and that’d be that.
And if the singer thought Bakugou was a weirdo, they could fuck right off. Bakugou didn’t need them. No.
As Bakugou settled on his decision, he heard the door to the music room open, accompanied by soft humming. The singer. Bakugou felt a rush of adrenaline.
Now or never.
He stood up. He took a deep breath.
And then his phone rang.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! He forgot to put his phone on silent.
The humming stopped.
Bakugou scrambled to fish his phone out of his pocket, jumping back onto the bench and tucking his knees in. Fuck!
“What the hell do you want Deku?” Bakugou angry-whispered into his phone.
“We need—wait, why are you whispering?”
“I—” Bakugou felt his face warm, “I am in the fucking library, okay. So if you’re done—”
“No, wait! Don’t hang up!” Deku sounded frantic, “There’s a—” he was cut off by the sound of a crash and a bang.
“What the shit are you doing?”
“I’m at your apartment!”
“You’re at my place? All those sounds, are you breaking my shit?” Bakugou really wanted to yell, but he couldn’t, not here.
“No! Well I’m not breaking anything. It’s Todoroki! I was visiting and there was this bird and—Todoroki get down from there, you’re going to fall again—then the other bird got out too and—no! Bad bird! You have to come down here now!”
“I’m in the middle of something!”
“Please, Kacchan. For the sake of your stuff at the very least. I’ve got to go now—Todoroki stop throwing plates at them!” Deku hung up.
Fuck. He needed to be there.
Which meant, his singer would have to wait. Until next time.
Bakugou leaned his back against the wall and listened to the singing for just one more moment before packing his things and going.
Next time.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
Kirishima needed to write some music today. He had to. Something about the way he had woken up that morning had put his brain onto thinking about his song.
And his pianist wouldn’t be there today, according to their schedule.
But even if they were there, Kirisihima would be ready for them.
First, he had to cancel his standing plans. Which he felt really guilty about canceling last minute—especially because they were normally his favorite plans. But today was a music day.
So he texted multiple apologies and promised to pay for food for the next three weeks. And sent more apologies.
And then he was on his way to the music room. For some reason that day, he felt light. Carefree and bubbly.
Because his brain was so busy thinking about his music and songs and the pianist, his body went on autopilot. He didn’t even realize he arrived at the music room until he put his hand on the handle.
The weird part was, his hand wasn’t the only one on the handle. Someone else had reached for it at the same time.
He turned towards the person, “Bakugou?”
“Kirishima? This is what you fucking canceled our plans for? What are you doing here?”
Kirishima’s brain was slow to process, but then he looked at Bakugou and he saw his black hoodie and suddenly his brain connected the dots.
Angry pianist. Black hoodie. Most talented, amazing person he knew.
Oh. Oh!
As his mind started to combine the once distinct figures in his mind; his face warmed as he did.
His pianist was his Bakugou! Not that Bakugou was his, but he was… he was his friend. And wow, his music—it was so wow. Kirishima was supposed to be a songwriter, yet he was floundering for words, or thoughts in general.
He was a flustered mess.
“Well?”
Kirishima pulled his hand back and put it on the back of his neck, “Bakugou! I didn’t know you played piano! That’s so manly, dude! And—”
Bakugou held up his hand, “Wait. How the fuck do you know I’m here to play the piano?”
Kirishima was confident that he couldn’t get any redder than he already was. He was so relieved, happy, overjoyed, and a little bit—a lot a bit—in love. “Can we go inside?”
Despite the suspicious furrow to his brow, Bakugou nodded and pulled the door open. The two of them walked in and sat down on the piano bench together.
The bench was pretty small, so Kirishima was smushed into Bakugou’s side, and Kirishima still felt very flustered. Very.
“Are you going to say anything now Shitty Hair?”
“Right! So I don’t want to sound creepy, or weird, and oh man am I glad it’s you because that makes this just a little bit easier and less weird.”
Bakugou glared at Kirishima, and Kirishima knew he was telling him to get on with it.
“So for the past few weeks, I—well it started as an accident. But it just—you’re really talented, you know that? You’re so good, Bakugou.”
Bakugou had turned his gaze from Kirishima to the piano keys, and though he stayed silent, Kirishima saw his face turn slightly pink.
“And I heard your playing, and you inspired me! And,” Kirishima slid the backpack off his back and reached to grab his songbook. “And you inspired me to write all this.” He gently handed the notebook to Bakugou.
Bakugou flipped through the pages, but Kirishima couldn’t look at him while he did, so he closed his eyes.
“I’ve never been so inspired before. I’ve wanted to meet you for so long. Before I knew it was you. I guess I just wanted to say… Thank you.”
Kirishima opened one eye to look at Bakugou. He was staring at Kirishima mouth agape.
“Oh the universe thinks it’s fucking funny huh,” Bakugou muttered. “I guess this makes it less embarrassing for me, but… me too.”
“You too?”
“You inspired me too.”
They were both looking at each other finally and, wow, their faces were very close. It was a very small piano bench.
“I did?”
“Yeah. I heard you once, and I kept fucking lurking because you were the best thing I’d ever heard. I didn’t know it was you.”
There was a pause, and they just sat there looking at each other. Cheeks flushed with realization.
The knowledge that Kirishima had inspired Bakugou too made him feel brave. “There’s, uh, one other thing. If we’re being honest.” His voice came out surprisingly quietly, but Bakugou was probably close enough to hear every breath anyway.
“What’s that?” Bakugou said, leaning just the slightest bit closer.
“I love you. I’m in love with you. Have been for a while now.” Kirishima leaned a little closer too.
Bakugou smiled softly, “Me too.” He leaned in the last bit of the way.
Their first kiss was short and sweet; they pulled apart after neither could stop smiling.
“What do you say,” Bakugou said, turning towards the piano once more, “we work on a song together? But for real this time? No more hiding in the shadows.”
“There is nothing else that I’d rather do.”