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Katsuki sits at his Bösendorfer, eyes trained on the yellowed pages of the manuscript propped up on its stand. On the opposite side of the street, Kirishima watches him, crimson eyes at half-mast as he waits for Katsuki to place his hands on the keyboard. Both of their windows are open; blue skies greet Katsuki, no longer capricious with the suggestion of clouds but clear with the promise of stability.
He breathes.
The room is quiet, the air filtering in through the open window crisp and fresh. Further along, Katsuki notes the way dust particulates drift through the more stagnant air in front of his closed window overlooking the park. Sunlight filters in, casting a gold-dappled sheen over his red oak floorboards.
The warmth—the liquid nature of the air—contrasts to the darker hues of Katsuki's living room just across the hall. He can see the charcoal-grey of his couch peeking out from behind the cream doorframe; the jet-black of his marino-wool rug complementing the glass coffee table placed above it. A tasteful flower arrangement sits on top, pale lilies and fronds of lavender colouring the room. The pots of water he normally keeps inside the piano sit to the side, limescale and dried water marks decorating the insides like wallpaper in an unfinished room.
Katsuki's sitting on his favourite piano stool. It's black, with a worn leather seat. The height adjustment knob isn't fussy, like his other seat, and doesn't make the seat drop too fast. Though it's battered, it's served him well, and Katsuki has gotten ten years of use from it. His fingers ghost over ivory keys, bumping over black keys in-between as he finds his start position.
A potted plant sways in the breeze. A cat mews. His shelf full of manuscript is illuminated by light; a treasure-trove of scores begging to be played.
Soon, Katsuki promises. He closes his eyes.
Soft tones of gold and champagne flood his mind, cocooning Katsuki in swathes of calm and collectedness. It's the anticipation—rose-coloured breathlessness—that urges him to sink his fingers into the keyboard. Not yet, Katsuki resists, allowing himself to fully submerge his consciousness in the shimmering viscosity of pre-performance haze. The notes beckon him, their gentle tendrils curling around his wrists and pulling them to the piano. Burst forth, Katsuki, they urge him. Show the world what you can almost grasp in your mind.
So Katsuki does. The first note feels like slipping into something that has already been going for a long time. Like Katsuki is simply joining a glimmering white staircase that moves with ease. Like he slides into a throng of people with a singular destination in mind. Katsuki gently joins the run of notes he's played a thousand times, yet—
This time is different. It's different, because he has an audience. A good pianist knows this: it is wrong to simply play a piece. Music is deserving of performance.
To play a wrong note is excusable, Katsuki breathes, filling his lungs. His fingers settle into the chords, the sound reverberating from the inner parts of the piano. To play without passion is inexcusable, Katsuki agrees, a hand momentarily lifting off the piano as he coaxes a phrase into being.
Beethoven was right, Katsuki decides. No matter how many times you play a piece—once your passion goes, it's pointless to play it any longer.
Yes, this piece is one he's played dozens of times throughout his life.
He's played it to his parents as a young teen, naive and cocky about the future. He's played it to his university professor, who dismissed it as the worst performance of his career. He's played it to a homeless woman, on a train-station piano badly in need of tuning.
And now, he's playing it for a boy with red hair. Not a girl, Debussy, Katsuki thinks, drawing up into the peak of the phrase, the air expelling from his lungs in a gush of breath that feels like discovery. Emerald and lime burst across his vision, teal and jade teasing the corners as the music fades into something mellower. Moss-green hues decorate the back of his eyes as Katsuki's fingers caress ivory, chest shuddering with the sheer emotion of it all.
He's a weathered adventurer, lifting himself from an earthen tunnel into the light of a new day. Not a girl, Katsuki almost smiles, parallel intervalic movement bringing forth burgundy and violet to mix with softer blues as he lets the notes oscillate up, up, up.
He's reaching for the clouds; peach, mauve, lemon-yellow and puffy with serendipity. Then he settles into something darker, fingers beckoning the tone into a new form. Katsuki leans into the depths of the piano, pedal lifting then falling as the sound spirals into a liquid form. The rising sequence in the left hand is solemn, stagnant—until it's not. His hands float across the keys, flattened pads dancing across thin, cool ivory until he reaches the top.
The final notes ring out like bells, echoing through the room like two stars in an indigo sky. For 'The Boy with the Crimson Hair'.
+ +
Eijirou is no expert on the piano, let alone music as a whole. He's a 'dip your spoon into everything' kind of guy; his Spotify wrapped is... interesting, to say the least.
But as he watches the blond man in the opposite apartment complex bare his soul through his instrument, Eijirou wishes that he knew more.
Bakugou is an enigma.
The man captivated Eijirou from the very beginning, his hunched posture and grumpy demeanour instantly triggering Eijirou's friend-making instincts. Through a series of amusing attempts to corral Bakugou into conversation, Eijirou began noticing the blond's tells. The way his shoulders would hunch when he was embarrassed. How his nose would wrinkle if he was confused. The subtle shift in his stance when he was tired. The light blush, high on his cheeks, when he opened up to Eijirou for the first time.
And now.
Eijirou has always known that Bakugou is a pianist; it's hard not to notice when the sound of scales and exercises and studies echo across the narrow street separating their bird-boxed lives. However, he did get a shock upon spotting a large poster of the blond down at the metro.
Eijirou recalls the way his jaw dropped, crimson eyes widening in disbelief as he scanned the bold moderna font.
'Bakugou Katsuki performing live at Wigmore Hall!'
'Saturday 8th May 20XX'
'Book your tickets online'
So Eijirou did just that.
He remembers, as the sun's pearl-star rays caress the gentle curve of his face, how it felt to sit on the edge of his seat. To watch with bated breath as his blond neighbour walked on stage to thunderous applause. To choke on air as the piano became a mirror of Bakugou's soul. It is often said, Eijirou thinks, that artists are unintelligent. Doing a brainless job.
But I think that's wrong, he smiles, leaning on a hand. The large window, double glazed and clean from all Eijirou's scrubbing, is open. The flower baskets either side house a myriad of colours.
There's magenta nestled alongside deep violet. Periwinkle mingles with lemon-cream. Boundless, burning vermillion compliments velveteen scarlet. Yet the most beautiful colours Eijirou can see are the notes Bakugou plays, lingering in the air. Artists aren't stupid, Eijirou hums, making himself comfortable.
They are simply speaking a language no one else can.
Crimson irises shift over to where Bakugou is sat, the iridescent light casting an ethereal glow over his body as the blond readies his hands on top of the keyboard.
Bakugou's hands were the first thing that tipped Eijirou off to the man's profession. Lithe, muscular digits linked to slender palms had captivated Eijirou's attention, and after he'd finished moving into his flat, he'd seen the piano.
Upon spotting the sleek black instrument, Eijirou was instantly enamoured with its glossy finish and touches of gold. Now, he watches as Bakugou lets his eyes fall shut, chest rising with a gentle inhale as he allows reality to fall away.
Fondness etched on his features, Eijirou breathes softly, his breaths pulsing in and out of him like the beating of a bird's wings. Bakugou's music has always been magical.
The sky is beautifully clear; the clouds having moved on over the course of the day. Eijirou lets his hand loll from the windowsill, eyes fluttering with emotion as the first notes of Bakugou's piece float through the crisp air.
Eijirou hears music differently to Bakugou.
They've had a conversation about this before—back in autumn, when it was fairly chilly and Eijirou managed to convince the blond to meet up at a cafe. "I pick it apart in my mind," the blond had explained, absently tracing a finger round the rim of his tea cup. Eijirou had sat, listening attentively, head cradled comfortably in a soft blue beanie. "As a musician, you automatically analyse the music you hear," he'd told Eijirou, frowning when the redhead had nicked his biscoff.
Grinning, Eijirou had nodded. "That's lit, bro!"
He'd gotten a smack for his 'awful teenager language,' as Bakugou had put it.
Eijirou snorts quietly, letting the beautiful sounds wash over him. Unlike Bakugou, Eijirou can't see the colours the blond once described to him. Eijirou thinks it's fascinating. I mean, what other person can say they see colours when they listen to music? I think that's a rarity, Eijirou muses, heart swelling as the music reaches its climax. Bakugou always looks most beautiful when playing the piano, Eijirou decides.
His brow is creased, mouth open as he pours his entire being into the keyboard, body undulating with feeling and emotion and life. Suddenly, Eijirou feels a tear roll down his face.
Such is the power of Bakugou's music, Eijirou thinks, wiping his cheek. He's unable to take his eyes off the man in front of him; the blond spikes, the sharp jaw, the elegant frame. The dexterous fingers, nimble in their movements as they conjure up a wonder of human creation that Eijirou almost can't comprehend.
And suddenly light is spilling from Bakugou's soul, wrapping Eijirou in something warmer than a hug. He's flying, hair whipping around his face as the music curls around his consciousness, describing something deeper that Eijirou isn't yet able to tap into. His mind settles, his eyes open, and Eijirou is free.
The man opposite drops his hands from the keyboard, still in the sound world he's created, still holding the precious bubble of a wordless language in his hands.
"BAKUGOU!" Eijirou yells.
It bursts, billions of colours exploding as Bakugou turns to look at Eijirou.
They make eye contact, and it's like the bifröst has descended to meet between their mortal bodies, linking their souls as one. Then Eijirou's turning, sprinting towards his door. He doesn't have to look to know that Bakugou's done the same.
He thunders down the stairs, heart leaping into his throat as he skids past a resident, ignoring their cry of confusion. Finally, Eijirou slams past the entrance door, eyes desperately scanning the road.
Where is he—
Where is he—
Where—
There.
Bakugou crashes into him, strong arms wrapping around Eijirou's waist as the blond locks eyes with him.
Eijirou can scarcely believe it's happening. Bakugou, the man he's been head-over-heels for for all these years, is finally in his arms. "Bakugou," Eijirou breathes. The blond shivers, eyes aflame with hope and want and longing. Bakugou touches his cheek, careful in the way he caresses the skin.
Eijirou's own hands are deceptively soft. Standing at six-foot-five, many people have been shocked by how soft and well-kept Eijirou's hands are. In contrast, Bakugou's own hands are rough and bony from years of piano practice. Eijirou drops his own hand to rub a thumb over the back of Bakugou's large knuckles.
They feel strong. Powerful.
Eijirou can't get enough.
"Your playing was beautiful," Eijirou whispers, grinning when the tips of the blond's ears turn pink.
"Thanks," Bakugou mumbles, pressing his face into Eijirou's large chest. The redhead chuckles, carding a hand through silky blond locks. "I don't think I've ever connected with something as much as that song," Eijirou whispers, closing his eyes. He feels Bakugou tense in his arms, and for a moment, Eijirou wonders if he's said something wrong.
"Piece," Bakugou murmurs, hands tracing nonsense patterns on Eijirou's back. Eijirou quirks his head, opening his eyes.
"Huh?"
Crimson meets scarlet, and Bakugou gives a fond huff. "Piece, not song. Songs are sung," Bakugou corrects, snorting when Eijirou flushes slightly.
"Oh! I didn't know that," the redhead says, abashed. Bakugou shakes his head, pulling their bodies flush against one another.
"Not many people do," the blond mutters, attempting to burrow under Eijirou's arm.
The action is so unexpectedly adorable that Eijirou has to physically stop himself from going "Aww!" loudly.
"Hey, hey," Eijirou giggles, amused. "Let me see your face, Bakugou."
Grudgingly, Bakugou stands up straight, staring defiantly into Eijirou's eyes. His nose twitches, and his mouth jumps ever so slightly. Eijirou could write a book on Bakugou's facial expressions. "Handsome," Eijirou grins, laughing raucously when Bakugou's face blooms scarlet and the blond whacks him on the shoulder.
"Fuck!" Bakugou exclaims, then slaps a hand over his mouth. Eijirou chortles, pressing Bakugou against himself as he rocks them gently. Leaves flutter through the air; a testament to the changing of seasons.
Bakugou catches one in his hand, staring at it briefly before presenting it to the redhead. "Looks like you," Bakugou smirks, holding up the burgundy leaf with pronged edges. Eijirou opens his mouth to argue but finds he can't refute Bakugou's claim. Dramatically faking his disappointment, Eijirou lets his mouth snap shut and pretends to weep, casting his eyes to the heavens. Bakugou snickers at him, playfully bonking him on the head with the leaf. Eijirou catches the blond's hand with his own, and suddenly they're face to face.
Eijirou's brain leaps into overdrive, his palms sweating up a storm as his legs start to shake.
You're gorgeous, Eijirou thinks.
"You're prettier," Bakugou breathes.
Oh.
Must've said that out loud, Eijirou realises, colouring slightly. Bakugou tilts the redhead's chin, smiling when Eijirou's eyes widen a fraction. His lips part automatically, breath held with bubbling anticipation.
"I want to kiss you," Bakugou says, and the world stops spinning. "Is that okay?"
Eijirou dips his head to press his lips to Bakugou's. It isn't a deep kiss, nor does it last particularly long. But to Eijirou, it's as if a great valley has appeared and he's flying, flying, flying.
They pull away, just a fraction of an inch, hearts pulsing, heads bowed. "Is that alright?" Eijirou says breathlessly.
Bakugou nods. "More than alright, Red," he grins easily, leaning up for another kiss.
+ +
Somewhere, up in the sky, the eye of a star twinkles.
Boy with the red hair, hmm? considers a lone soul. Why not, it concludes, brightening the night with a faint whisper of marigold and saffron.