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Kyouka doesn't know what she's doing here.
For all that Kyouka's first and only successful love has been music, she's always been particularly adamant against being a proclaimed band kid — yet here she is, showing up at Yuuei High's marching band camp with the intention of skipping physical education for as long as she can, and waiting for Denki to hurry his ass up and actually show up.
If Denki doesn't come, Kyouka is leaving from the indignity of being in the presence of a bunch of high schoolers she doesn't know. Of the two of them, Denki is the one who (mostly) knows how to socialize, and Kyouka has been relying on that all summer since she decided to do marching band.
What a terrible decision. She should’ve known to not trust him to actually come when he said that he would.
Resisting from tapping her foot and being general obnoxious, she lets her eyes sweep the premise, catching on a tall, oddly dignified girl who actually isn't on her phone, unlike every other student around. The girl looks straight at her like she’s got some fourth sense for useless bisexuals, and Kyouka's heart abruptly ramps up about 100 BPM, because holy shit.
She’s pretty. Really pretty. Like, jaw-droppingly pretty in the way that wasn’t Kyouka’s taste until this very moment, but suddenly her mind blanks out and she needs to shut her mouth right now.
This is a feeling she has not experienced since Denki himself, and that didn't exactly turn out.
Kyouka promptly drops her eyes to her phone, and pulls out a pair of earbuds for good measure. She imagines punting Denki into the sun for promising to be here and then never showing up and leaving her to stew in her misery in of not only this summer heat, but also attractive girls.
There's a tap on her shoulder, and she starts, turning around and half-expecting Tall, Dark And Pretty to be standing behind her, but it's only Denki in all his bleached hair glory. If anything, his hair looks worse than when she last saw it, which is saying something considering how he's never not had shitty yellow-orange growing out from the persistent roots — static and fraying, frizzy and full of split ends, and probably frying in this summer sun, judging by the gently curling tips.
Kyouka has never been as relieved to see his ugly hair, aside from two other events.
He reaches over, pulls her earbuds out, abruptly cutting off My Chemical Romance, and gestures enthusiastically. Kyouka scowls.
"Sorry for being late," he announces, looking bashful. "Couldn't get my mom to leave the house, so I had to book my ass here."
Kyouka pushes back her frustrated tirade, even though she's been waiting here for almost an hour. She knows it's unreasonable to be upset over her best friend being late — she should've accounted for that earlier, really, with his general affinity for doing so. "That's alright," she says. "Let's get going, 'kay?"
Denki hums, hefting his drawstring bag over his shoulder and nodding. The two of them follow the crowd of students beneath a pair of large white tents, and Kyouka futilely searches for the pretty girl she saw earlier.
She tries to not show her disappointment, but Denki knows her too well.
"Hey," he says, nudging her lightly. "Why're you looking so disappointed?"
"I'm not disappointed," Kyouka says unconvincingly and bland, like a liar.
"Right," Denki agrees, "and I'm in battery. And I’m allosexual. And white."
"How original."
Denki grins, sharp and shameless. "That's what I'm known for."
"And freshmen," a cranky hobo man drawls out, "I hope you know that you're not excluded from these expectations."
Denki lets out an audible squawk, jerking to attention so quickly it's almost funny. Kyouka is about to make a jab before she realizes that maybe she should consider doing the same, following his example and dropping her head.
"Apologies," she says curtly, not knowing the man's name but pretty well certain that he's one of the front ensemble techs according to the information meeting, immediate embarrassment weighing down her bones.
Phenomenal first impressions.
Denki straightens, opens his mouth to start blabbering. Kyouka pokes him hard before he can do so.
The guy studies them for a minute before grunting minutely, releasing them from his skewering gaze and returning to a monotone lecture about taking marching band seriously, and quitting now if not ready for its grueling intensity. Kyouka tries not to squirm every time his eyes sweep anywhere near her, distinctly uncomfortable in her own skin and all too aware of how stupid she must look in pink. Denki reaches out and uses her shoulder as an elbow rest, offering a grounding point from the kicking horse in her useless mind. If Kyouka were enough in her own body, she would be flushed and glaring, but right now, she's just grateful.
Eventually, they're dispatched to leave to their designated sections, and Kyouka quietly follows Denki to stand beneath the overhang.
"Don't worry about Aizawa," Denki tells her. "We're not the only people he had to call out, yeah? And people like him are always less salty than they seem."
"Sure."
"I like your hair," he adds, wiggling his fingers at the purple-dyed tips. Kyouka doesn't want to admit that she initially dyed it for the hopes of that sole intention. "It looks cool!"
"Cooler than yours," she retorts, and Denki gasps in mock offense.
"My hair is fabulous, excuse me!"
"As fabulous as dry straw growing from a horse's ass."
"Alright, children," Salty Hobo intones, manifesting out of thin air and leaning against the wall. "If you weren't paying attention, call me Aizawa. I'm your pit tech, but don't think I won't make you do pushups if you aren't doing shit. Get in a circle, and introduce yourselves — name, grade, mallet experience. Go."
Denki perks up. "Can I go first?" he asks eagerly.
"No," Aizawa responds, not even bothering to pretend to think about it. There's a certain cutting, morbid amusement to that response, like he's thrilled to merely spite a teenager.
Kyouka is suddenly filled with crippling dread for this season.
What doesn't help is the fact that the moment Kyouka finally looks up, the first person she sees is Tall, Dark And Pretty.
She drags Denki by his hand into the misshapen circle, careful to not be located diagonal to the pretty girl's gaze while still keeping a solid three teenagers between the two of them. Denki follows her gaze, lips quirking up.
"Hurry up and get started. We haven't got all day." Aizawa yawns to emphasize his point, and Kyouka tries to push down her flare of irritation at his asshole-flavored pushiness.
"My name is Shouto Todoroki," says a boy who looks uncannily like Zuko from Avatar. "I'm a freshman. I have not played in an ensemble setting prior to now, but I have performed a variety of marimba solos and duets in professional competitions. I look forward to participating in Yuuei’s front ensemble this fall and winter season.”
… What the fuck is this freshman.
This is the part where Kyouka quits to preserve her own dignity.
There’s an anxiety-ridden kid named Izuku who has never touched a mallet in his life; a boy who looks straight out of his early 2000s emo phase who’s played both marimba and vibraphone but adamantly despises xylo; a junior girl named Itsuka who Kyouka is pretty sure she’s seen performing a number of I&E’s before.
And there’s Momo — also known as: Tall, Dark And Pretty. And Talented, Kyouka amends when she starts speaking.
“My name is Momo Yaoyorozu,” Momo says, in the exact same format as Shouto, as apparently that’s how pretty people talk. “This coming year, I will be attending Yuuei High as a freshman. I have competed in Aichi and attended a number of masterclasses on various mallet techniques. I look forward to participating in Yuuei’s front ensemble these following seasons!”
Kyouka is fucked, because not only is she pretty, but she’s also almost definitely insanely talented and cute. Like, what kind of middle schoolers attend master classes, let alone for mallets?
(Later, she'll find out how absolutely loaded the girl is. "I should've guessed," she tells Denki, and he gives her a very judgemental look.)
Ibara is a sophomore who will be on her second year of marimba if the placements proceed well, Mezo is a senior quad player who wants to finish off his final year with drumset, and then it’s Denki’s turn.
Denki steps forward, and Kyouka braces herself for whatever bullshit her best friend is going to decide to spontaneously spew out.
Inhale. “Hi, I’m Denki, I’m fresh meat at this school and I played marimba in my middle school percussion ensemble. Ummm. I hope I don’t get slaughtered too brutally here?”
Momo stifles a laugh, and Kyouka wishes Denki was funny enough for Momo to actually laugh because she’s pretty sure those repressed laughs might be what kills her.
“I’m Kyouka, also a freshman,” Kyouka says before anyone can say too much about Denki’s atrocious introduction or Denki can put more foot in his big mouth. “Denki and I both played marimba in the same pit. I look forward to this upcoming season.”
Denki unsubtly holds up his hand for a high five. Kyouka tactfully ignores him.
Aizawa scrutinizes the two of them for longer than Kyouka would like, before moving his attention to Kyouka’s left. The second epitome of sleep-deprivation stands next to her, and he’s still scowling at Denki like he’s personally offensive for his very existence.
Kyouka half-wants to slap him.
When the introductions are finished and Kyouka is standing before a plethora of oversized boards, she sees Momo making her way towards a vibraphone.
See, here’s the thing — Kyouka doesn’t have a whole lot of confidence in her playing ability, especially not after those introductions where both Shouto and Momo shot her minimal accomplishments (is being center marimba of a middle school ensemble even an accomplishment?) straight into straight to battery-land — somewhere distant, fantastical, objectively strangling and crushed. So Kyouka was entirely ready to book it for the glock, even though there evidently isn’t a glock pulled out on this fine day, so she was prepared to shove herself on a vibraphone — except it turns out that Momo might as well have a crippling case of insecurity if after all that indirect bragging, she went straight for the vibes.
And Kyouka distinctly does not want to be on the same instrument as Momo, because that would mean spending more time around one another in hypothetical sectionals if she makes it in, and that already gave her enough heart attacks back with Denki.
So naturally, Kyouka ends up on a marimba. And these marimbas are massive.
In middle school, she shared a 4.3 octave with Denki, and though he frequently pecked all over the board, she’s had plenty of opportunity to be the sole player of the marimba when coming in for practice. 4.6’s aren’t much bigger than 4.3 in terms of length, but their resonator structures make them approximately twice as heavy as 4.3’s, and Kyouka never wants to push a board like this ever in her life.
Lugging over three hundred pounds uphill my ass.
But for now, she gingerly rummages around in the mallet bags to take a look at the heads. All of them are relatively well wrapped — none of the yarns are fraying, meaning that it won’t be crunchy like playing a xylo.
Denki makes a face at her from where he's standing behind an equally oversized marimba, since all the other vibes have been already occupied by equally insecure freshmen. (Except for Shouto; he started on a marimba, and frankly, Kyouka would be even more unimpressed with herself if he'd even tried for a vibe.)
"Pass these around." Aizawa materializes behind her and shoves a stack of paper onto her board, gestures at the others.
Kyouka does not squeak. She would never.
If Denki says that she did, he's lying.
Kyouka takes the first and passes the rest to Salty And Sleepless, who scowls but accepts the stack. Once it's finished making rounds, Aizawa lists off the exercises they'll be learning. "Make sure you know all of them in your major scales, and be able to transpose Dirt to your minor scales. You should know your modes as well, though they will largely be limited to that and octaves. I expect them to be clean to a reasonable degree by tomorrow’s camp."
Momo raises her hand. "Aizawa, if I may ask, why must we know the modes? Rarely are any aside from Aeolian and Ionian utilized in compositions. Perhaps Lydian or Mixolydian are applicable on occasion?"
Aizawa bares his teeth. "Excellent question. One — you're in the prelude to a world class indoor percussion ensemble, and it’s only logical that world class ensembles are expected to know what they're doing. Two — I feel like it."
Izuku is stuttering from where he's planted behind the xylo.
… Maybe he doesn't even know what scales are, let alone modes.
“I quit,” Denki whispers to her. “This guy’s a fuckin’ psycho. I can’t do math, but. Three forms of minor? Five other modes? In this lengthy-ass exercise called ‘Dirt’? ”
Kyouka agrees. Maybe they should both quit while they’re behind.
Momo nods, so incredibly serious in a way that looks unfortunately good on the tall girl, and Kyouka can’t help but feel a flare of anger at this guy who challenges a group of largely freshmen to learn over one-hundred scales in a new exercise by the next camp. He’s already assuming that everyone trying front ensemble for perhaps the first time in their high school careers are already relatively experienced in mallets.
Momo raises her hand again.
“Yes.”
“Aizawa,” she says politely, “do you not feel as if that is a harsh assignment for the first day of band camp? Some members of this ensemble have already stated that they have no prior experience in mallets — perhaps not even in musical theory.”
Aizawa merely rolls his eyes. “Then learn them. Consider this to be an assessment rather than a deciding factor.”
“What’s the difference,” Denki says loudly.
Aizawa ignores him. “Get started on the packet. I’ll check in in half an hour. Come to me or the upperclassmen if you can’t play mallets — if you hold two mallets wrong without asking for help, you’re on aux: the frog, to be specific.”
“And if you can’t read music?” asks Denki, knowing exactly how to read music with the precise proficiency of a first year piano player.
“And if you can’t read music, then move to the tuba line,” Aizawa deadpans.
Denki nods, satisfied.
They play in C major the whole camp. Octaves, green scales, Dirt, then in sixteenth notes, and triplets, and triplets and sixteenth notes.
Needless to say, when Kyouka gets home, the first thing she does is go straight for the keyboard and start pecking out Dirt in All The Goddamned Scales.
(She quits after Dorian in C. It’s too late for this bullshit.)
— ♮ —
[The schedule is as follows:
9:45 AM - Set up
10:00 AM - Warm up with band
11:00 AM - Exercises and Individual time
12:00 PM - Lunch
1:00 PM - Individual time and Exercises
6:00 PM - Dismissal]
“It was a logical ruse,” Aizawa announces shamelessly on Day Two of band camp, as Izuku shakes in his shoes and confesses his failure after they finish warming up with the band. “I don’t expect you to be able to learn a new exercise in twelve major scales, twelve minor scales in natural, harmonic, and melodic, as well as five other modes transposed across twelve keys after the first day of band camp. That would be one-hundred and eight equal temperament patterns, and absolutely absurd.”
Well.
There needs to be an allotted time for Mental Breakdowns, because she’s headed straight towards one because of this sole tech. The other techs and staff seem nice enough — Yamada (he told them to call him Mic for some reason), Kayama (Kyouka almost wishes she was bold enough to dye her whole head purple), Ishiyama (Denki jokes that the guy has enough tension that could be used as a crappy snare drum), some others that she didn’t take note of, and Nezu (the band director who pisses her off).
But Aizawa.
Momo raises her hand. Kyouka has a foreboding sense of dread for what she’s about to say.
“Aizawa,” she says, “after practice, I rehearsed to accomplish the task you assigned.”
“Impressive,” Denki whispers, awed. “Overachiever, but impressive.” It’s not quite enough to enunciate Kyouka’s own thoughts, but about as accurate as it gets.
Aizawa's eyebrow quirks. "Oh? Please do demonstrate."
Shouto nods, entirely seriously. "Momo," he addresses to the tall girl, "would you permit me to play as well?"
(That could've been Kyouka, if only she'd pushed through and suffered the stupid modes.
… Fuck, this really could become a Denki 2.0. God, she hopes not.)
“Oh,” Denki says, no inflection in his tone. “That’s double the overachievers. Ah, fuck it all; I might as well move to the bells while I’m behind.”
“Bell kit’s for aux,” Kyouka points out. “Aux is for those who can’t hold two mallets right.”
Denki holds up two mallets in the middle of the stick, and moves his index finger inward until he’s making two technically-abysmal fists. “Aux,” he proclaims. “Let me have the glock. Please. ”
“If you keep talking while people are waiting on you, you’ll be on aux — two mallets correct or not,” Aizawa cuts in. “Shut up.”
“Yes, Sensei,” Denki says cheerfully, and Kyouka could astral project herself into the void out of sheer exasperation as the guy’s eyebrow twitches before he turns back to the pair of Overachievers.
“What’s the BPM?” Shouto asks.
Momo tilts her head, considers. “Does 138 BPM sound manageable?” she responds, pushing a pair of marimbas to face each other. Shouto moves over to help her.
“Agreeable,” he agrees agreeably, shuffling the mallets in the bags. “Chromatic: Major, minor, harmonic, melodic; Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Locrian. Starting on C.”
Kyouka may have perfect pitch, but if these two have perfect tempo, she’s eating her socks without any soy sauce — and that’s a pretty tall ask, considering how much she’s been sweating in them from the moment she came out here to practice.
Perfect fucking tempo. Check that off the list of unholy talents that mere mortal humans should not be in possession of. Alternatively, they’re both gods walking amongst the human beings.
That might be more likely.
Denki actually scoffs when she says that to him. “Katsuki would probably complain about them fluctuating in tempo by a single beat per minute between scales. I think our lack of perfect tempo is more impressive than anything, rather than the expected.”
“Katsuki has unreasonably high standards,” she interjects. “Remind me why you’re friends with him, again? Is it the fried braincells?”
“Because I too easily get emotionally attached to people who bully me, it turns out.”
It's impressive. Their syncing is near flawless, because Kyouka can't hear Shouto at all for the majority of the exercise, and between the rests, their shifts and downbeats are impeccable. Note accuracy — better than anything middle school Kyouka could ever hope to achieve. Sixteenth notes — even; single eighth note of each scale — perfectly timed. She wishes she could be them, holy shit.
Kyouka’s the first to clap when the pair of them finish Locrian in B. Momo flushes pink as the rest of the ensemble join in, Aizawa grudgingly nodding in their direction.
“A terrible idea for your mental wellbeing,” he says, “and certainly not the most flattering rendition of Dirt, but rather impressive for a pair of unacquainted freshmen on their second day of band camp. If only the rest of you freshmen showed such dedication.” His eyes seem to bore into Kyouka at that statement, and she glares straight back because she’ll be damned if she didn’t practice at all.
“We’re not unacquainted,” Shouto states bluntly. “I’ve played a number of duets with Momo in the past.”
“Shouto —”
“Our fathers tried to get us to date each other when we were thirteen,” Shouto continues, oblivious to Momo burying her face in her hands. “It didn’t work as well as he was hoping, because both of us turned out to be gay.”
“Oh my god,” Denki whispers gleefully.
Shouto puts his mallets into the mallet bag. “Thank you for allowing me to join you,” he says to Momo, starting to push the board back to where it was initially set in the line. "It's always an honor." He lines it up without having to adjust twice, and moves to stand beside a frozen Denki.
Kyouka makes a face at him. “Is Denki alive or not?”
“Oh, I’m definitely alive,” Denki answers unconvincingly. “Kyouka, I think you’ve got a chance!”
Kyouka tries to stop her cheeks from heating up. “Shut up!”
“But Kyouka —”
“Unless you want me to pulverize then boil your bones into liquid soup to feed to the rats that live in your mother’s shoes, I would strongly advise shutting up.”
Denki shuts up.
— ♮ —
Day Three of Band Camp: Yuuei’s Front Ensemble Receives Music for Movement 1, Draft 1.
Aizawa spreads the sheets out on one of the marimba boards and beckons everyone around. “Parts aren’t official yet, but I have general instrument assignments for now. Consider these temporary. There won't be official auditions for fall season, but know that there will be for winter. Permanent placement listing will come out by the next band camps.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket lazily. “Itsuka, you’re on xylo, and now the most exposed member of this entire band. Congratulations — your freshman tryout has finally paid off.
“Mezo, drumset. You didn’t try out for anything else in the first place. Have fun carrying. Reiko and Sen, synth. Enjoy pressing the sample buttons and dealing with Nezu whenever he wants to make his inputs. Izuku and Minoru, you’re both going on rack. You have potential, particularly with your already existing rhythmic integrity — just not enough experience to begin on our limited number of boards. You’ll have another opportunity in auditions for winter.”
“That’s not fair,” Minoru complains. “Is it too late to move to the winds? Maybe I should join the flutes. They’re full of girls, right?”
Aizawa spreads his hands. “Be my guest. I'm sure you'd make an excellent tuba player. Regardless, Hitoshi, Denki, Kouji, and Shihai will be on vibes. Momo, Shouto, Kyouka, Fumikage and Ibara will be on marimba. Nice job, Ibara. Any questions or objections?”
Fuck.
Momo = marimba. Kyouka = marimba. Marimbas = sectionals together. Sectionals = A Whole Lot Of Time Spent Together.
Kyouka cannot.
“Um, Aizawa?” Kyouka blurts out, raising her hand frantically.
Aizawa blinks at her. “Yes, Kyouka?”
“I — uh —” She freezes up, because everyone’s eyes are on her right now and she can’t remember exactly how to formulate words like a normal human person would. “I would prefer to be placed on the vibraphone. Um.” Swallow.
Denki glances at her. Need help? he mouths, and she nods frantically.
“What Kyouka means to say,” Denki cuts in, nudging her gently, “is that she thinks that vibes are cooler than marimbas, and she’s always wanted to try at least a season on them since sixth grade. She wouldn’t mind moving lines, that’s all!”
“What he said,” Kyouka agrees hurriedly, because he isn't exactly wrong. “Exactly that. That exact phrasing. Every word.”
“Sixth grade,” Aizawa repeats, unimpressed.
“Sixth grade,” Denki affirms for her.
Aizawa sighs and looks at Kyouka. She twitches, uncomfortable under his gaze. “Are you sure about that?” he asks. “You’re an excellent mallet player already, especially as a freshman, and your musical touch is rather intuitive. From these past few days, I’ve found that you possess some of the best technique in the pit already.”
Kyouka… doesn’t know how to take that. How does Aizawa go from being one of the most objectively irritating asshole adults she's ever had the pleasure of interacting with to… this? Hitoshi is scowling and Denki is standing closer to her than he normally would, and Momo is looking at her from across the circle and Aizawa is waiting for a response.
And Kyouka has no words.
"Hey," Denki says quietly. "You can talk to him after if you want. Don't worry about it — Aizawa's an ass, but he's not mean. Not that mean, anyway."
"I'm sure," she says, and she's surprised by how solid her voice sounds to her own ears. She clears her throat, steps forward. "I would like to be on the vibe line. Um. Thank you for your compliments, though." She curses herself for not possessing the grace of Denki's essays.
Aizawa finally lets out a hum. "Very well," he says. "Adjustment — Denki, you're on marimba, and Kyouka, you're on vibes."
"But —" Hitoshi breaks in, and Aizawa silences him with a single look.
"You didn't come here to bitch," he says. "So don't."
(She can't help but wonder if there's more to it than that.)
"And remember," Aizawa adds, raising his voice, "these placements are temporary, though consider the instruments set. No centers have been assigned yet, let alone inners or outers, and I'm still considering the board layout. Take a part, pick a board, and start learning A to D. We'll get to piecing it together after lunch break."
Gingerly, Kyouka picks through the remainder of the pile once the crowd has dispersed. Momo is patiently waiting for her board to be cleared of music, and she shoots her a sheepish smile.
"Sorry," she apologizes.
Momo smiles softly. "Don't worry about it. You're Kyouka, right?"
"Right," Kyouka says. Her name has never sounded nicer. "And you're Momo."
Fuck, she already knew that. This is fine, everything's fine.
Kyouka hurries over to the vibe that Denki's playing next to. Denki's staring at his music with open horror on his face.
"Kyouka," he says, "if I ask to be moved back to the vibe line, will I get not only better music, but also an unholy shower of compliments from Aizawa?"
"I don't think he'd have a plethora of good things to say about you, dude."
"Thank you, my new favorite vibe player. Please give me your chords, now."
"Wait," Kyouka says, holding back her laugh. "Are you complaining about a sixteenth note run?"
"Yes!"
Denki despises them. He's got a personal vendetta against the very concept of sixteenth note runs, and she has enough grace to not ask about it.
Kyouka tries to peer over his shoulder to take a better look, except he's got an entire two inches on her and it makes all the difference. "How long?"
"Eight measures," he says miserably.
Kyouka regards the initial tempo in her own music — an unfortunate 192 BPM. "Four mallets?"
"Four mallets," he admits dejectedly.
"I'll be at your funeral."
"Don't forget the xylo. Play good music for me, will you?"
Kyouka hums and turns towards her own music to take a proper look. There aren't any eight-measure, four-mallets sixteenth-note runs in her music, though there's a fair amount of lateral glisses, and some of the rhythms look like an entire pain. Who puts fourlets into music for incompetent marching band kids?
Oh, right — Aizawa and Nezu, because of course they wrote the music to be as humanly impossible to play for people who can't count (read: the winds, it's the winds).
“I’d better start learning this shit.” Kyouka sighs and reaches forward to fix the dropping stand, and Denki helps her shove her music into the stupid plastic sheets.
Sight reading has always been relatively easy for Kyouka. She breezes through A-D, checks in with Denki to confirm her counting (and to see how he’s doing), and at lunch, she sits with Denki and his friends from battery, which unfortunately includes Katsuki. Katsuki only laughs at Denki’s complains about the sixteenth note runs and Kyouka’s fourlets, and shows them his weird-ass rhythmic modulations.
(“Snares,” Denki laments, sighing.
“Snares,” Kyouka agrees.)
Lunch ends, and band-bonding activities ensue, where Kyouka doesn’t really pay attention to anyone outside of percussion and guard. There’s some sophomore named Neito who Katsuki shares at for a solid three minutes of staring contest with, and she thinks to herself that she does not want to be involved with battery whatsoever.
Returning to pit, they follow up with some more exercises, this time covering other Major scales of Dirt and green scales, as well as double-stops and alternating. There’s more individual time, where Denki pesters her for most of the hour to note-check for him, and she’s actually rather surprised by how accurate he’s been so far. Momo and Shouto have finished the rest of the movement by the time Denki reaches D, and he tells her that he wants to switch with Midoriya.
By the time Aizawa is properly repping various segments near the end of the camp, Kyouka's unadjusted hands are falling apart, blood smeared across the palms and middle finger burning beneath the tape she's had to rewrap three individual times. Denki wordlessly gives her his rapidly ceasing tape, keeping a roll in his pocket at all times, and Kyouka quickly and ineffectually wraps her left hand until Aizawa calls that their break is over. Kyouka bites her lip and tries to not let her frustration show, because that absolutely was not five minutes, but —
Kyouka isn't a whiner, or a quitter. She'll deal.
(If Kyouka gets a… tape tan, she will never come back here.)
So she pushes through the sixteenth note runs, feeling the mallet stick dig into her bloody hands and pulling away with red on the tips, and grits her teeth because she can tell that Momo is bleeding and hasn't said a thing.
She doesn't even have tape.
At the next water break, Kyouka snatches Denki's tape without waiting for permission and saunters up to Momo, unceremoniously holding out the tape and trying to not make eye contact.
"Um," she says, flatly.
Momo is dressed in a soft pink button down and jean shorts cut mid-thigh, dark hair swept into a perfect high ponytail and capped with a dark green sunshade.
Kyouka is wearing her dad's high school band tanktop, sweaty armpits and newly purple-dyed hairtips sticking to the back of her neck, an ugly grey cap pulled over her bangs and white ankle socks turning brown in the relentless heatwaves of July. Kyouka suddenly feels very, very inadequate, and incompetent, and insecure. And definitely more sweaty than she already was.
Denki laughs at her from the corner of her eye. The jerk.
"Um," Kyouka repeats, more forcefully. "Do you… need — would you like tape?" She cringes at the awkwardness of it all but refuses to let that show.
Momo blinks at her, drops her eyes to the object thrust between them for a few moments then Kyouka's ugly hands, then accepts the roll. "Oh! Thank you, Kyouka," she says, smiling. "It didn't occur to me that I might require some in my general inventory when coming here. I greatly appreciate your offer." She laughs, the sound going straight to Kyouka's useless bisexual heart, and she can still see Denki laughing at her.
She'll kick him into the sun at the next given opportunity, she will.
"No problem," Kyouka says sweetly, making eye contact with her traitorous friend. "You're always welcome to ask for tape from me if you need it. In fact, you might as well take this whole roll —"
And because Denki has no guts for shit like disrupting social interactions that could have consequences on attempted flirting due to age old obligations, he can't object to her shamelessly giving away his entire roll of tape to her new infatuation. Momo thanks her again with that incredible smile, and Kyouka lets her heartrate soar another 150 BPM or so.
"I hate you," Denki whispers to her the moment she sidles back next to him.
She sticks her tongue out, vindicated and petty. "That's what you get for having no pity for me."
"That roll was five bucks!" he protests. "I'm going to have to ask my mom for more, ugh."
Kyouka suddenly feels kind of bad, knowing his whole awkward familial-relationships. "Sorry," she says guiltily. "I'll make sure to bring some next time and share, alright?"
Denki's responding grin is brighter than the goddamned sun, and that's saying something considering how she's currently melted to her bones here.
"Aw, I knew you cared about me, Kyouka!" he exclaims, slinging his arm around her.
"Shut up before I take it back," Kyouka grumbles.
They both know she won't.
"Kyouka and Denki," Aizawa calls, louder than necessary and promptly turning all attention to them. "Take a goddamned run, and don't come back until you're ready for this pit."