Chapter Text
“Fuck, I gotta piss.”
“Huh? Wait! Kiri, get the hell back here!” But Kirishima was already vaulting over the partition that separated the makeshift backstage, away from the roar of the raucous crowd. It was one of those perfect summer nights, the slightest hint of a breeze sending shivers over his bare torso as he tumbled onto W 59th, dodging the Ubers and horse drawn carriages. He stumbled down 7th Ave, anxiety spiked at every blacked out business. It was 11pm on a Thursday and fuck he was practically seeing stars from the cramping in his stomach.
It had started even before their first set of the night, Kaminari pouring him a shot every time they stomped off the makeshift stage set up in Columbus Circle, Mina and Sero stumbling after. It was their first paid gig as a band and the audience of die hard rockers and passing tourists was deafening. He had pounded each shot with barely a blink, his red lacquered guitar still clutched in one hand as the screams from the crowd pulled them back on stage.
Now he was properly buzzed and holy shit if he didn’t find a bathroom he was just going to piss against a building, fuck the lines of tourists taking photos of-
Kirishima stopped as a door to his left opened. He dove through, before it could close, legs trembling.
“I’m so sorry but can I use your bathroom?!” He practically shouted at the man sitting behind a glass partition.
“I’m sorry sir, but only performers are allowed back here.” The man leaned back slightly, his security bag shining under the fluorescent lights.
“I’M a performer,” Kirishima yelled, waving the guitar somehow still clutched in his hands.
“Sir, not that kind of-"
“Fucking get out of my way.”
A voice behind Kirishima bit out. Words dried up in Kirishima’s throat as he turned.
A blonde haired boy stood in the entranceway, clad in black jeans and a casual suit jacket that was cut perfectly to highlight broad shoulders tapering into a lithe waist. Kirishima’s eyes flicked back up to meet red eyes glaring into his.
Oh shit, he was hot. A shiver travelled up his spine as the blonde pushed past him.
“Welcome to Carnegie Hall, Mr. Bakugou - sir.” The man behind the glass stood with a formal nod, “the hall is ready for you to use, please stay as long as you need.” The boy just grunted as he pushed through the unlocked gate.
“Please just let me through,” Kirishima yelled, a little more desperate this time. Now he had to pee, and maybe one of the hottest guys he’d seen in the city was walking out of his sights.
“Just let him through,” the boy called back, without turning.
“Thanks, man,” Kirishima practically bounced as he raced after him, his Doc Martens making scuffing noises against the polished floor
“Go down the stairs, its to your right, but come right back,” the guard yelled after him. Kirishima barely heard him. He just followed the blonde as he pushed open the door to the stairwell with his shoulder. Kirishima was waffling between racing down the staircase and trying to talk to the boy now walking next to him.
“Quit fucking following me,” red eyes glared into his suddenly, “I thought you were in a hurry.”
“I am it’s just...” Kirishima shifted slightly, but the cramp in his stomach was answer enough, “shit.” He flew down the rest of the stairs, embarrassment burning hot on his face as he pushed through the door marked “Mens.”
“So uncool,” he huffed to himself afterwards as he washed his hands. His eyes caught on a flash of pink in the mirror. He grimaced as he rubbed off the vibrant lip print on his shoulder, courtesy of one pink haired drummer. He stared back at himself in the mirror, taking catalogue of the rest of the damage. His red hair had somehow retained its spiked shape despite the heat of the night, though the black eyeliner that Mina forcibly drew on him was smudged around his crimson eyes and he somehow lost one of the small gold hoops lining his left ear.
“So uncooool,” he repeated, pushing himself away from the mirror before picking up his guitar and heading to the door. It took him a moment to place a noise filtering through the halls.
“Huh?” He followed banging, percussive notes, pushing through a thick set of doors, only to find himself in front of another heavily padded door. He looked up at the vaulting black painted walls covered in pulleys and levers. There was a desk pushed to the side covered in what looked like tv monitors and buttons.
A loud “fuck” pulled him out of his thoughts.
He gave a strong push on the thick panels, and practically stumbled as the doors swung open. Light blinded him for a moment before his eyes found a familiar blonde head sitting behind a giant black box.
“Ah sorry I - woah,” the word fell out of his mouth as his gaze took in the surroundings. He was standing on a stage, all light wood paneling, but oh-. His eyes traveled to the first row of plush red velvet seats and then up and up. Rows and rows of seats unfolded before him. Shadows from the lights making it seem like an audience of ghosts were staring down at him and Kirishima couldn’t help the bubble of excitement pop in his stomach.
“What the hell are you doing here?” An angry voice pulled his gaze, and he turned to see furious red eyes staring back at him.
“Was that you playing?” Kirishima ignored the question, walking over to examine the black instrument. His eyes widened as he got closer. It had to be at least 12 feet long, so glossy he could see his own awed face staring back at him. He followed the dark curve of wood to where the boy sat, fingers still perched over a familiar pattern of black and white, “a keyboard!” He shouted triumphantly, “this is sick!”
“Have you never seen a piano before?” The blonde’s face was incredulous.
“I mean yea,” Kirishima leaned over to look inside, marveling at the thin lines of shining wire and red velvet gleaming in the light, “but not like this! It’s so big! I thought they were smaller. Ya know, you can like pick them up and put them back down.”
“That’s not a piano, thats a child’s keyboard dumbass.”
“Oh shit, cool. Hey name’s Kirishima,” he cut him off with a grin, “you?” The blonde just stared at him a moment before turning with a scoff.
“Are you fucking serious?” He closed the lid of the piano gently.
“The guy at the desk called you Bakugou, that it?” The alcohol buzzing through his system spurring his sudden curiosity.
“If you know it, then why did you bother asking,” the boy named Bakugou pushed back on the bench, getting up with a frustrated huff, “fuck this.”
“Ah, sorry. Did I interrupt your concert or something?” Kirishima took a slight step forward, tone teasing. The guy was clearly skittish, eyes flickering to the door, out to the audience. Anywhere but on Kirishima.
“tch,” he scoffed, “I was practicing, idiot. Ever heard of it.”
“Hey! I practice! I’m a musician too!” He slung his guitar across his chest, “but usually it’s bunch of us practicing together, ya know, vibing off each other. Practicing by yourself seems...kinda lonely.”
“I’m a classical pianist, it’s not exactly a group activity.”
“A what?” Kirishima let out a little laugh.
“A classical pianist.” Bakugou practically hissed back, red flush blooming across the back of his neck, “what the hell hick town did you crawl out of.”
“Hey,” he started than stopped with a shrug, “we got a Starbucks this year! And it’s only a 20 minute horse and buggy ride.”
Bakugou stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Kirishima couldn’t help the peel of laughter the burst out of him.
“Oh shit, your face, I’m just kidding man.” He wheezed, “I’m from New York too! Just, ya know, the upper part.”
“This is a waste of my time,” Bakugou scoffed before wrapping his hand around the door handle.
“Wait,” Kirishima was reach out before he could help himself. One hand slamming against the door.
He was taller than Bakugou, he realized vaguely as blond hairs fluttered in front of his eyes. Warmth seeped through the brief moment of contact as Bakugou’s shoulder brushed his.
“What the hell do you think your doing.” Livid eyes glared up at him, full lips pulled into a frown that exposed just the slightest hint of teeth.
Kirishima swallowed hard.
Oh shit, he fucked up. He opened his mouth to apologize and step back when red eyes flickered down to his lips. It was barely a glance, but Kirishima could feel the grin spreading across his face.
“Don’t smile, shitty hair” Bakugou hissed, but his eyes flickered down again, lingering a heartbeat longer on the pink smudge across his chest.
“Not my hair you’re looking at, dude,” Kirishima laughed, but kept his hand on the door, Bakugou trapped between.
“Shut up.”
“Can I hear you play again?”Kirishima leaned forward a little, until he was inches from the shell of Bakugou’s ears, “I’ve never heard a pianist play before.”
“Fuck off,” rough hands came up to push him back, lingering just a fraction too long on his bare stomach as Bakugou stomped back into the hall. The touches were like fire streaking against his skin.
“C’mon man. You look so cool sitting there, it’s crazy. Guys that play instruments are really manly,” He laughed, trailing after. He felt like a lost puppy, but he couldn’t help it. That slight crack in Bakugou’s facade had the blood singing in his veins. He wanted to know everything about him and then some.
“I’m not a fucking music box,” he huffed but sat back down on the bench and opened the hood of the piano, “do you even know any classical music?”
“Oh yea. My sister got married last year and she walked down the aisle to that famous one,” he said thoughtfully.
“Yea,” Bakugou snorted, playing the chords without even looking, “Wedding March from Lohengrin. Boring, basic. Try again, red.”
“Fine, how about this one?” Kirishima grinned before swinging his guitar around. He plucked out four descending chords, trying to remember the exact progression he heard.
“Pachabel’s Canon. Fuckin come on. Pathetic.” Bakugou rolled his eyes, “How about this.” He played 9 chords in quick succession, and Kirishima’s eyes lit up.
“Oh yea, yea. The ballet one with the rat.”
“Tchaikovsky. The Nutcracker.” Bakugou looked at him again, “you fucking suck at this.”
“Not my fault man, “Kirishima perched himself next to Bakugou on the edge of the piano bench, guitar in his lap, “never really heard it growing up.”
“Clearly. Move. I can’t play with you sitting there.” Bakugou elbowed him in the ribs, but Kirishima just inched closer.
“I thought you were a professional,” their knees brushed once, twice, “teach me what I should know.”
“Not enough time in the day to teach you that,” Bakugou laughed harshly.
“Probably,” Kirishima just grinned, their knees brushed again and stayed there, “fine, then play me something cool.”
Bakugou looked thoughtful for a moment, his fingers traced keys before he gave a short nod.
Kirishima watched wide-eyed as a flurry of notes peeled from his fingers. Soft at first, then a little louder, broken up by sudden bursts of chords. It was over too soon and Bakugou looked back at him face impassive.
“What was that?!” Kirishima asked, awe clear on his face, “it sounded like the notes were, I dunno, chasing each other or something. That was crazy fast.”
“Yea,” Bakugou huffed a surprised laugh, “Rachmaninoff Etude Tableau Op 39 No. 6. He nicknamed it ‘Little Red Riding Hood’.”
“Oh shit, yea, I can hear that” Kirishima laughed, “Play another.”
“How come I’m the only person playing?” Bakugou threw a look at the red lacquered guitar.
“You want to hear me?” His heart stuttered in his chest, “here?” He looked around at the empty theater and the excitement bubbled again, “Really?”
“Well I gotta know if you’re good enough to even bother teaching.” Bakugou leaned back with a smirk, “I ain’t teaching you shit if you suck.”
“Cold, man,” Kirishima laughed but shifted on the bench a little, sliding his fingers over the well travelled metal wires.
He had just played an entire 5 set concert, didn’t even bat an eyelash when the mics cut out for half a song and he had to scream the rest of the lyrics. But here he was, sweating it out over one person.
“Fine,” he laughed again before finding the right fingering. He gave an experimental brush and cleared his throat, “you’ll definitely know this one.”
He felt for the E5 chord under his calloused fingertips. He lost his pick somewhere but it was fine, he gave himself into the rhythmic pulse of the first set of chords.
“Yah-hee, icky thump who'd-a thunk? Sittin' drunk on a wagon to Mexico. Her hair wet what a-”
“What the hell kind of lyrics are those,” Bakugou interrupted, voice incredulous. Kirishima looked up from his strings, wide-eyed.
“It’s ‘Icky Thump’! White Stripes?” Kirishima gaped, but the blank look on Bakugou’s face remained, “you’ve never heard of the White Stripes?!”
“No,” ears flushed red as Bakugou scowled, “sounds stupid.”
“Ouch man,” Kirishima laughed, letting his other hand drop. Of course the ‘classical pianist’ would think his playing was shit, but damn if that didn’t hurt.
But it was like Bakugou could hear his thoughts
“That’s not what I meant. The fucking song is dumb. I can’t even tell how you play,” he shifted on the piano bench, before crossing his arms over his chest, “play me another.”
The smile crept back on Kirishima’s face.
“Nu-uh,” he lifted both hands in the air, “you next, remember.”
“Fine,” Bakugou rolled his eyes, before swinging his leg back towards the piano, “tell me what you think of this one.”
Kirishima listened as notes unfurled along the keys. Different from before, softer somehow, like he was playing a completely different instrument. And the music. Damn. Kirishima felt something hard press at his throat as the notes seemed to crawl into his chest. It was like that time he found out his grandma had died. He had been sitting on a park bench talking numbly to his mom when he saw a snowflake fall, then another. Soon the entire park was blanketed in clean, glittering snow. He remembered being surprised, for a moment, that beautiful things could still happen even in the midst of tragedy.
“ ‘The Meditation’ from Massenet’s opera Thais,”Bakugou turned to him, “What’d you think?”
“Oh man,” Kirishima laughed and pressed the heel of his palm to his eye, “so sad. But beautiful. Beautiful and sad. I don’t know how to describe it, but it kinda reminds me of this one.”
He pulled his guitar up, quicker this time, his fingers finding the right strings.
“What else should I be? All apologies. What else should I say? Everyone is gay. What else should I write? I don't have the right. What else should I be? All apologies.”
Bakugou was nodding along when he finished, a small smile on his face.
“I like that one,” Bakugou said thoughtfully, “the music matches the emotion of the text.”
“Totally,” Kirishima voice hitched with excitement, “Kurt Cobain was a genius and he barely had any musical training! That’s what I’m trying to be.”
“An idiot who’s never seen a piano before?” Bakugou barked a harsh laugh.
“I’ve seen one...it’s just,” he fingered the small chip on the head from when Mina had tried to jump off the stage and drunkenly tumbled into him instead. It had been their first disastrous gig at some local college bar. They’d learned from then though, “I just want to learn from doing, ya kno? I don’t need to sit in some stuffy classroom to learn how to play with emotion. Music is more than just the notes on the page. Gotta experience living yourself to give it life.”
Bakugou looked at him, mouth askance slightly.
“Sorry, that probably seems really dumb to you,” he laughed a little, “I bet you’ve been studying for years. That’s kinda amazing. Maybe I’m just jealous you got the chance” he shrugged, and stared at the scuffed toe of his Docs.
“Show me.”
“Huh?” Kirishima looked up to see red eyes staring intently into his.
“Teach me to play the guitar.” Bakugou repeated, face serious.
“Oh uh, sure!” Kirishima brightened as he pulled the guitar over his head, “now put him on your lap like this.”
“Him?” Bakugou snorted, throwing him a sideways look.
“Oh, yea, ha,” Kirishima felt himself flush all the way to his hairline, “All the great rockers name their guitars. This is Red Riot.” He laughed a little as he threw his leg over the piano bench.
“Like the cartoon character?” Bakugou leaned back a little, accepting the guitar carefully, “Nerd.”
“No way, it’s like the famous rocker Crimson Riot. Though it’s kinda confusing, cause our band is called Red Riot too. Mina keeps trying to get us to change it to Alien Queen, but it doesn’t have the same ring, ya know?” He rambled on, heart beating out of his chest as he slid a little closer. “now put your right hand like this.” A shiver like electricity raced through him as he wrapped his hand around Bakugou’s.
Slender, surprisingly delicate fingers pressed against the strings, contrast to the rough callouses along Kirishima’s.
The blonde’s head was bent, so he couldn’t see his expression, just the barest hint of pink on the tip of his ears. Kirishima bit his lip, debating briefly.
Fuck it, he thought with a wild laugh. Kirishima placed his hand on Bakugou’s hips. The boy jumped at the contact, but didn’t push him away.
“It’d actually be easier if you sat like this,” he turned him so his legs straddled the bench, back now inches away from Kirishima’s chest, “This way, I can show you like this.” He returned his hand to cover Bakugou’s left, “we can start with something basic.”
“You get all the girls like this?” Bakugou snorted and Kirishima tried to look anywhere but at the line of white skin above his collar.
“Not really my type,” his answer was a hum as he placed Bakugou’s right hand above of the body of the guitar.
Bakugou released a breathless, ‘ha’, and Kirishima swore he could feel the heartbeat thudding in his chest.
“And what’s your type?” Kirishima’s voice was light, but he could feel the blonde shifting in his arms. Red eyes turned to look at him, excitement and hesitation warred across his features.
“Not idiots,” Bakugou answered with a snort.
Still, when Kirishima leaned in ever so slightly, he mirrored the movement. They were locked like that for a heartbeat, nothing but air and a desire that almost blinded him. A physical ache inside him demanded that he close the distance, figure out if the prickly blonde tasted as good as he smelled.
“Fuck,” Kirishima whispered despite himself. Bakugou’s lips curled up in a smirk and that was all Kirishima needed. Lips were crashing together, despite the awkward angle. Heat seared through him, and he moved his hand to Bakugou’s cheek partially to steady himself and partially to deepen the kiss. Now that it started, he wasn’t sure how he was going to stop. He wanted more.
“Katsuki.”
The shrill voice had Bakugou pulling back with a start.
A blonde woman was standing in the door, practically the spitting image of the of boy whose hand still lingered on Kirishima’s chest.
“What do you think you’re doing,” she advanced towards them, gaze furious, “is that...a guitar?” She practically spit “and-“ she stopped dead in her tracks when she noticed Kirishima behind the piano. Her eyes widened, “Oh - I. Katsuki!”
“Stop yelling hag,” he was already pulling the guitar over his head and shoving it roughly into Kirishima’s chest, “fucking told you not to come here.”
“You have - he has his Carnegie Hall debut tomorrow,” the woman turned to level her angry glare at Kirishima, “he should be in bed sleeping, not playing around. A guitar, Katsuki?” She turned her glare back to the boy, “do you want to ruin all the nerve endings in your fingers?! How the hell are you going to play then?”
“Get the fuck off my back,” Bakugou hissed, chest still heaving slightly. He was bursting off the piano bench before Kirishima could stop him.
“I’m sorry ma’am,” Kirishima went to standup, only belatedly realizing he was still shirtless and clad in maybe too tight leather pants. He sat down again quickly, but not before the womans’ face went red. A mixture of embarrassment and rage twisting on her face.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a - I was playing at the Rock Festival in Columbus Circle just now and it’s a really-“
“Oh, you’re the reason we missed a rehearsal with the orchestra this afternoon,” the woman rolled her eyes, “ that stupid festival has blocked off most of Midtown. Katsuki was supposed to be practicing - Katsuki. Don’t walk away from your mother!” The blonde haired boy in question was already halfway across the stage.
Mother? Kirishima felt his heart drop all the way down to his feet. And Bakugou was leaving and he didn’t even get his number and...
Damn it.
“Can I see you again?” The words escaped his mouth before he could help it. Bakugou paused, shoulder hunched all the way up to his ears.
“I’m sorry, what?” The blonde woman answered before her son could, “He has a very busy tour scheduled lined up. His concert tomorrow here and then-“
“Can I come to the concert?” Desperation and the last dregs of alcohol buzzing through his system gave him a courage he never could have imagined. But he couldn’t just sit there and let Bakugou leave.
“Young man, really.” The woman scoffed, her eyes wide, “I don’t think you can afford it, for one.” The statement was punctuated by the slam of a door. Bakugou was gone. “Katsuki, get back here!”
Fuck.
He wiped his palm over his face. When he looked up again he was alone in the empty theater.