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Smoke billows out of your mouth as you stare off toward the pretty girl on the drums. Big pink curls held back by a black and white gingham hair band, hazy spotlight shining on her giving a halo. Sweat drips down the side of her forehead when she hits the hi-hat, you can see her arms flexing through her loose bell sleeves from across the bar.
She spins a drumstick on one of her pink knuckles, yellow irises flashing up to you with a wink. Normally you’d feel a touch embarrassed to get caught staring. You recognize most of the group from campus, anyone’s eye would get attracted to something nice to look at in class. Quickly looking away if any of them accidentally looked in your direction. But tonight you ash your joint in the tray on the tacky bartop next to you, smiling at her. You’ll have to thank Camie for the smoke-flavored courage.
Camie dances closer to the stage, her silk green slip dress swaying and rising along with her arms. A tactical, well-thought-out move. She told you she was trying to take one of the band members home tonight, “any one of ‘em will do, if I can get more though…” she winked before you left her dorm earlier. You think she probably has the blond guy on keys in her pocket. You should probably call dibs before she gets the girl too.
As the orange embers creep closer to your fingers, you put out the roach and go back to watching the band. Looking at the stage is like peering through calcium-stained glass, a warm combination of smoke and the old spotlights from the theatre next door makes the whole room hot.
The redhead looks like he’s putting his whole soul into the guitar, dark eyebrows furrowed and eyes squeezed shut. His sweat-soaked white button-up does nothing to hide the finely cut body beneath it. The greek god of a man, some textbook you read last week probably contained a sculpture resembling this holy display. Suspenders straining over his broad shoulders. Is it legal for an entire group to be this foxy?
Camie’s boy hasn’t stopped making eyes at her ever since she grooved her way to the front. A real pretty boy, you could see your hands running through his golden hair, see if that black zig-zag over the side was natural. You’ll see if Camie’s in a sharing mood tonight. Though you’re not sure if you are, you sure do love the drums.
Your eyes trail behind the greek god and land on the bass player. You’re not sure how you missed him, though the sticky sweet of Gimlet in your throat answers that for you. Bright, deep red eyes burn in your direction. Is he looking at you? Nah, you glance towards the top shelf bourbon and whiskey behind you, sweaty man probably wants a stiff one.
And it might be the gin speaking for you, but it almost looked like he smirked when you met his eye. With the mean look and scrunched bridge, he also could’ve had an itchy nose.
Sweaty, but still– pretty. You didn’t think you could say pretty so many times in a song, but tonight’s full of firsts. Big calloused hands pluck at the strings of the bass, muscles flexing with every move. You’ve never seen a man look so beautiful in a tight orange sweater-tee, showing off a slim waist tapered into black slacks.
Pink hair winked at you first though, and you’re a sucker for a drummer.
(Unless there’s a compelling offer.)
When their set is over, Camie is quick to lay game down hard and sweet on the pretty boy from the keys. Denki, she purred to you as she passed, her hand squeezing your thigh before leading him to the end of the bar. Denki’s eyes glued to her the whole way down.
You watch as the girl heaves a large case with ease on top of one of the speakers, deciding now is a good chance to talk her up.
“What are ya drinkin?”
The sudden gruff voice next to your ear makes you jump, slipping straight off of the bar stool. You look to the side and the bassist is sitting on the rickety, rust-colored stool next to yours. And he dwarfs the seat in a way that makes it look a bit too small for him. It’s much darker on this side of the venue, not to mention he looked much smaller on that stage. Almost intimidating when he’s right in front of you.
He leans towards you, eyes like a lion circling- side of his mouth twitching when you move your head away from him but your feet force you to stand your ground, “Know what you’re smokin,” he chuckles, low and rumbly, “Good grass from what I can tell.”
You scoot back onto your stool, looking for any sense of composing yourself even as you can feel him picking you apart in his mind. You smile and hold his eye contact as you grab your glass, wet from condensation, and swallow the rest of the drink. “Nothing anymore,” you remark. You slip some green under the cup and turn back around to see if you can chase, but something is pinching the back of your white dress.
You squint at him, “Let go, bass boy.”
He turns his head to the side, “Bakugou.”
“Excuse me?”
“Let go, Bakugou.” He says.
The name Bakugou does something for you. What was it? The disk jockey places a new record on the player as your brain flickers through the files that hold Bakugou.
He looks you up and down with little decorum as your thoughts stall, grinning when recognition snaps into place in your eyes.
First year of uni. Teacher’s assistant that everyone had a crush on. Mean as all hell, but a gift straight from God’s ass as a tutor.
The first time you got something below a B in your statistics course, you stared at his beat-up loafers while asking what days he has free TA hours because you were terrified to look him in the eyes.
You turn to him fully and he releases you, waiting to see how you respond.
“Bakugou?” You stare at him and he flicks his gaze over your face, “What the fuck?”
It’s been almost five years— still the hot TA in your mind though. Sitting in study rooms while he nudged you for the next question and you steeling your will to pretend he wasn’t the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. That’s fresh in your mind as well. Still true.
God, he’s fuckin fit.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
You move to snap at him, but falter when he takes your glass and tilts his head back to take one of the ice cubes. Watching as he swirls it over his tongue, then crunches it in his molars.
“Ah,” Bakugou grunts, “Look who’s drinking hard spirits like a big girl.”
You find yourself sitting on the stool before you know it.
(You’re too focused on the bartender stirring your drink with precision to see the drummer walk by with a wink to Bakugou and a brunette on her arm. He’s blushing when you glance back at him.)
You laugh as you press your temple to your palm, elbow sticking to the counter, almost empty drink in your hand. You don’t remember Bakugou being quite the conversationalist, but you have no complaints now.
“How did you even recognize me?” You gesture to yourself, ice cubes swirling in the glass, “And then why would you come over, I don’t think I was that interesting to tutor— unless I was your worst student. Don’t answer that.”
He snorts at that, grabbing your drink out of your hand and placing it back on the wood, “Don’t sell yourself short.” Bakugou nods to the now empty stage, “And you weren’t my worst, fuckin idiot on keys was hell on wheels to teach.”
You snicker and point loosely to distant corners of the bar, “I swear some other alums you tutored were here too.”
You look over at him again, but he’s already facing you. Eyes on yours, but not in that burning, fiery way like earlier. It’s just warm now, something to swirl and get lost in. You find yourself leaning towards him but you swear it’s not because of him. You’re just a little tipsy, you think. Bakugou presses towards you as well, at the same slow drifting pace of the music.
You stop when his knee hits the plastic leather of your stool, his figure nearly looming over yours.
“Maybe I came over-”
“Because I never gave you back that watch?”
“—because someone wouldn’t stop eyefucking my band.”
You fling back like a rubber band when he whispers, spine straight as a rod. He smiles at your expression, a mean glint in his eye.
“I absolutely was not.”
“Really?” He asks. You were never much of a liar.
But there’s no point in not trying. “Really.”
“So you weren’t hitting on Mina?” You stare at him so he tries again, “My drummer.”
You blink at him for a second before turning around and taking in the people you could see around the place, “Oh my god the drummer.”
He made you lose the drummer. Bakugou cackles like a hyena at your despair.
(He buys you a basket of fries at the diner next door as an apology. Though he does eat half of them which lessened the sentiment in your opinion.)
You stare at the concrete of the paved paths weaving through the campus as you and Bakugou walk side by side back to the dorms. It’s quiet and shiny with early morning dew as you make your way back.
He told you that he was walking you back to the dorms while you were hopping down the steps of the diner. You had no real complaints, you had a feeling that you might’ve woken up next to the university mascot’s statue if he didn’t accompany you.
Though now you’re not sure how to feel. The warmth radiating off of your cheeks and the man next to you makes you feel like you just finished a nice date. But that wasn’t a date. That was just- That was-
It was two old fri- Hm. Acquaintances? Associates? Teacher and student? That one makes you feel off. Teacher’s assistant and pal. You cringe. Pal?
Rattling off different ways in your head to define your relationship with Bakugou, you don’t notice him slowing down near your dorm building. He clears his throat when you’re a few feet ahead of him.
“Oh!” You turn.
You stare at him as he stands under the streetlamp in front of the dorms. The background seems to crumble away the longer you take him in. The soft light blond of his hair looks heavenly at this time between night and day. Cold air nipping at his cheeks. He looks heavenly in this time between night and day.
You’re not bold or sober enough to invite him up.
So you guess this is goodbye for now.
“So-”
“Breakfast tomorrow.” Bakugou pushes the words out of his mouth like they are boiling on his tongue.
“What?” You rub your eyes to see if that will help you hear words that have already been said.
“Hell. What day is it now? Today? Tomorrow? I don’t fuckin know when. As soon as possible.”
You’re not sure but you love whatever day today is.
“I just,” you watch as he rocks from foot to foot, hands in his pockets. You never thought you’d see a nervous Bakugou. “It’s been a while and I-” He starts walking over and stops right in front of you. You’re too busy taking in the sight to even think of moving. “I just gotta see you again. If you’re okay with that. If you want.”
Something roils over in your stomach mixed with confusion. He’s gotta see you again?
If you were sober, you’d see the precious, delicate moment in your hands. A version of Bakugou you only ever got glimpses of when nights got a little too late in the library, when he came over to your dorm and you made him his favorite tea, keeping company and telling stories from your classes while he graded assignments. If you were sober you’d see the glimpse become a moment, enveloping the man as he is.
But you aren’t.
“Are you sweet on me?” You crinkle your nose and wag a finger at him.
Bakugou is perplexed, with a hint of bewilderment. “Am I sweet on you? Are you- What! What else would I- A whole year of- How did you lose more of that brain the longer you were in school?”
You were too lost in how he interrupted himself several times, “What?”
“Yes,” He grits out, “I am.” Bakugou turns you around and starts pushing you toward your dormitory’s front door.
“And I am going to be here in the morning to remind you because you’re drunk. And you’re not gonna remember a goddamn word I say, so listen to me when I say:”
He stops you abruptly and spins you around, hands warm on your shoulders, “If you say yes, I am taking you out and you’re going to fall the fuck in love with me and I am going to occupy all the empty spaces in your mind to make up for the years you put me through.”
You blink up at him.
Bakugou grabs the key ring out of your hands, reaches behind you, opens the door, and walks you backwards inside. Placing the key ring back into your hand, he walks back to the door and gives you one look before he closes it, “It’s only fair.”
(He was right and you did wake up with very little memory of the night before. Breakfast with him was amazing though, good god the man can cook. So sweet of him to offer. You spilt hot coffee on your lap when he asked you to get dinner with him while he washed the dishes. You said yes.)