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Bakugou scowls at the mess left in the music room. Like all things in UA, the room itself is set up by someone with an unlimited budget - brass instruments, strings, percussions and the heavy, expensive piano. And like all things in UA, a massive villain-lead incident caused the last class to stop mid-practice and head straight forward into danger leaving behind a big fucking disaster of clutter and music instruments strown about.
All he needs is a new set of drumsticks to borrow until next shopping trip and here Bakugou is struck dumb by the pigsty, knowing he is incapable of just leaving the room like this. How the fuck can he leave without doing the bare minimum of clean up? Knowing the room would be messy, taunting him for every waking moment like a ghost.
Fuck, fine. Sighing deeply, Bakugou starts the laborious process of tidying up. The big things get righted on their stands, the violins find their corresponding cases and the music books get helpfully stacked away neatly on the shelves. At least the music room smells nice, Bakugou thinks. The wood of the instruments, the static hum of the amplifiers and quiet softness of tools waiting to be used means that Bakugou doesn't rush through his self-appointed task.
The acoustics of the room are perfect. His steps echo, tapping on the ground left, right - left. The thump of the last clarinet case closing vibrates up his arms and Bakugou mindlessly stretches his wrists behind his body. His fingers touch the cold, smooth surface of the piano sitting innocently in the corner.
Bakugou glances at the big instrument and furrows his brow. His finger presses down and a high note sings out, holding as long as Bakugou doesn't move.
Finger lifting away, Bakugou shifts. His hands rest on the keys without playing them, his mind trying to think of a song. Drums are easy, a tempo and a beat done using a few different surfaces and a powerful hit. Bakugou has the stamina, the energy to hammer out the pulse of the song. When he plays, his body aches with it - his heart and veins and blood pumping, spreading the soundwaves created by his own skill.
Piano brings none of the excitement of the drums. Or at least Bakugou doesn't see the comparison. The piano is all soft melodies, pretty and soothing.
Bakugou wonders if he can even play it any more. Sitting down on the hard bench seat, his fingers tap out the practice scales his grandmother drilled into him eons ago before his quirk manifested. The three notes of the boring childhood song about some girl and her white livestock is easy enough to play by memory.
Easy isn't good enough. Bakugou grabs the closest piece of sheet music and puts it on the stand. Biting his lips, Bakugou tries to play this unknown piece, his fingers clumsy and landing too hard, too jarring on the keys. He is too slow, his left hand noticeably tripping over itself. Bakugou growls, knowing he is making the instrument sound like crap. Bakugou is butchering the so-called classic piano music, wincing with every mistake he makes.
"Fuck!" Bakugou spits out, slamming down his hands to make a loud, thunderous chorus of notes.
"Ah! You almost had it, little musician!" A voice pops up behind Bakugou's ear.
To say Bakugou overreacts is a complete and utter lie. He has a totally reasonable response to a human with the botched, Johnny Rotten-ruined erect mohawk hair appearing out of absolute thin air.
That is Bakugou screams manly-like and smashes his palm right into Present Mic's ugly goggles. Only the instincts honed by years of quirk use stops him from removing the teacher's eyebrows.
Present Mic lets out an ungodly screech, windmilling his arms as he flies backwards out of Bakugou's range. "Fuck kid!" Present Mic says, one hand clutching his heart and his other pressed on his red, bruised and slightly bleeding nose. "What did you do that for?"
"You snuck up on me!" Bakugou shouts, his face an embarrassing pink. "I could've blown your head off."
Present Mic blinks loudly at him, his head dramatically tilted back to stem the flow of blood from his nose. "Ah. Yes. My bad."
Bakugou shakes his head at his teacher. Present Mic is not a hero Bakugou usually pays attention to - english is a simple class and Present Mic hardly helps out with the physical training aspects. He is strong, obviously, but his lanky bean-pole esque body shape and eardrum bursting quirk isn't really what class 1A needs to succeed.
Still. Aizawa will tear Bakugou a new one for hurting the teacher even if his actions are justified by the dumbass going around doing jumpscares. Bakugou tosses a bunch of tissues at Present Mic in a quasi-apology.
The teacher mops up his face, his strangely cheerful smile enhanced by the drying flakes of blood on his cheeks.
"ANYway," Present Mic says, throwing the used tissues into the garbage with perfect aim. "As I was saying before my narrow escape from death, you were starting to play so well! Why did you give up?"
"I didn't give up!" Bakugou snaps. "I just got sick of playing it. I don't like piano. I'm a drummer."
Present Mic hums and slides into the open space next to Bakugou, pushing him aside with his hip gently. The teacher sets his fingers on the lower keys and starts playing a gentle song that sounds vaguely familiar, something that is played in elevators. "I love piano but I know what you mean. I used to play bass, back when I was desperate to be part of the music scene no matter what."
"Let me guess - you played like shit."
"I played like shit!" Present Mic agrees. "Then I started playing second guitar, then lead and finally I became the front man, the singer."
The song morphs from elevator music to the sheet in front of Bakugou. Present Mic repeats the first bars over and over again, his mustache twitching in Bakugou's direction, obviously egging Bakugou to join in.
Bakugou glares and places his hands into position. He tries to match Present Mic's pace, his fingers lousy next to the smooth, nimble dance across the keys that Present Mic is doing. Each wrong note cause him to flinch away, his brain whirling warning signs on repeat that says wrong, wrong, wrong.
Present Mic doesn't flinch though. A random note gets thrown in between the bridge, high pitch and perfectly on purpose to offset Bakugou's misplaced one. Bakugou snarls and powers through his mistakes, his focus fully on the sheet music and his own fingers.
"Ah, listen to that music!" Present Mic laughs. "Amazing, great - wonderful!"
Bakugou sneers, finally following the sheet music and not fucking up once. "It's piano."
Present Mic abruptly stops. "Okay, sure, I get it. Old person music, no fun. You like things loud right? Let's get the drums out!"
Present Mic wraps his surprisingly strong fingers around Bakugou's bicep and pulls him away from the piano. Present Mic is like an unstoppable force, his energy almost manic as he grabs a bunch of lap drums. Bakugou nearly stumbles, caught up in Present Mic's personality. He holds the drum awkwardly unsure what the teacher is planning.
Present Mic's grin twists into a smirk. "Okay - show me what you got." And he starts up a rat-at-tat-tat on repeat, slow and steady like a ballad.
It stinks of a challenge. Bakugou's heart pumps and his palm stretches, knuckles cracking. He slams his hand on the drum, loud and sudden and drawn out. He lets the sound linger before hitting the firm surface with a rapid fire, gattling gun style. It's fast, his hand a blur as he destroys and overwhelms Present Mic's accompaniment.
This is Bakugou's domain, he thinks with glee.
Pur-rum-pa, Bakugou rolls his wrists with the movements and Present Mic follows Bakugou's lead. The room is loud, the noise thunderous and when Present Mic whoops joyfully, there's a tugging at Bakugou's sternum. His lungs expand and he gives a shout of his own, his snarl morphing into a smile.
Present Mic starts to sing, short little words that make up a shanty. His high notes are clipped and clear, and the words roll through Bakugou like a wave in a storm.
The second verse leads into a refrain and Bakugou sings with Present Mic, catching on to the lyrics quick. His own voice, too young for a proper baritone hits the alto pitch and Present Mic seamlessly harmonizes with Bakugou's less refined singing. Their eyes meet in the small room, Bakugou dizzy with the passion, their new connection. His body feels weightless, tethered to Present Mic through the strange combination of drums and old songs.
They are making music. Together as one, spontaneously partnered and matching each other's pace. Sweat drips down Bakugou's forehead as the music swells. His bones rattle under his flesh. His heart becomes a part of their two-man band as he uses the pulse of it as inspiration.
Ba-bathump. Ba-bathump.
The song comes to an end, Bakugou panting from the effort, his fingers numb.
Present Mic cheers. "HOLy, yes! That's fucking inspired, did you hear us? Ah, oops, don't tell Shouta I swore in front of you, he will pout ha."
Bakugou wipes away the sweat on his forehead, enjoying the ache in his arms. "Fuck, why aren't you the music teacher?"
"Don't wanna be." Present Mic says. "I can't measure someone's grades on an artistic level productively. Language is a little easier." Makes sense, Bakugou thinks. "Anyways, music is fun for me! I already have my radio show, and me and the old band practice when we can."
"I haven't heard of your band." Bakugou says. He tries to remember what Earlobes always babbles on about, but he is sure this is the first time he's really heard Present Mic play.
"Ouch," Present Mic laughs, stumbling around and pretending Bakugou shot him in the heart. "There goes my ego."
Bakugou flushes when Present Mic winks exaggeratedly. "Oi! Don't make your shitty band my problem!"
"Like your shitty piano playing?" Present Mic throws back. Bakugou chokes out an unexpected cackle - what kind of teacher says shit like that?!
"Do you wanna die?" Bakugou huffs out, resisting the urge to cave and laugh out loud.
"Why, you going to pick up the harp next?"
Bakugou's mouth drops open at the gall on display. "What - urgh, fuck you!"
"Ah, maybe in a few years. You are still a bit too young for my tastes." Present Mic ducks and dodges the drum thrown at his head. "I'm kidding! Joking!"
"Pervert!" Bakugou squawks. "You - "
Present Mic laughs and laughs. "Kid, your face! I've never seen you speechless before."
Bakugou thinks twice about saying 'fuck you' again and decides to get creative, his spirit of spite rising from the ashes of his embarrassment. "I ain't one of your groupies!"
"I know, I know." Present Mic wipes away his tears of happiness and flaps his hands in some weird peace dance. "You are a definition of a screamo-emo. My classic punk is not to your tastes."
"Eh? The fuck bullshit you on, old man. Ain't nothing wrong with screamo - and I do like punk, just not the shitty crap I bet you put out."
Present Mic laughs again and spins into a corner of the room. He lifts up a vinyl record and a record player to match and pops it into place.
Bakugou squints at the first chords, the bass slow and crappy to match the haphazard drums. A familiar women's voice starts singing, a man providing back up vocals. Guitar is solid, the music bopping.
"Who's all in it?" Bakugou asks, the women's voice pinging his memory annoyingly.
Present Mic's smile is too smug as he shimmies in a little dance, his fingers tapping out the bass line. "Well, you didn't hear this from me, but that's the old garage band I had in high school. Midnight on vocals, Aizawa on the drums and me on the bass! Great times, fun times."
The guitarist remains unnamed and Bakugou makes the executive decision not to ask, strangely unwilling to cause that nostalgic look on Present Mic's face to fade.
Wait.
"Aizawa plays drums?!" Bakugou gapes. "The fuck - what the fucking hell?"
Present Mic cackles again, his long mohawk gleaming in the light. "Oh, he said it was the least distasteful instrument. I had to bribe him to come to practice."
"Are there videos?" Bakugou feels giddy with it - shit, to see his teachers like that, in a band? Goddamn, hearing them is wild enough. He wonders if Ears knows and figures she must.
"Eh, now seeing those would cost you." Present Mic says. A new song starts and he really gets into dancing now, feet shifting on the floor without a care. "Again - maybe when you are older."
"Why not now?" Bakugou asks. He kind of feels like dancing too - but there's an awkwardness, his body self-conscious of how much he never dances, how he might suck at it. They are in an almost empty room, all the lights on and harsh.
Present Mic's hips swing in a borderline illegal way, free and wild. "Simple! Aizawa will murder me if I show those to his students. But - hey, you won't be a student forever."
"Nah, I won't be." Bakugou confirms. Time is forever marching forward after all.
There's a cheer in the air and Present Mic dances, spinning around. He wiggles right into Bakugou's space and throws out a hand in offering. "I'm still your teacher too, Bakugou. And you look like you are yearning to dance."
The beat from the vinyl echoes in Bakugou's ears, music doing what music always does. Connecting to the listeners, the band and instruments leading the hearts and brains and emotions of who ever happens to hear it. Present Mic on the record plays a bass line recorded ten, fifteen years ago. Present Mic in the now grins carefree, none of the stress of teaching or heroism weighing him down in this moment. And Bakugou hears the music, his body responding naturally to the recorded sound of time long gone.
Stealing his spine and throwing caution to the wind, Bakugou reaches out and lets Present Mic spin him, their feet thudding on the ground of the music room, heads bobbing on beat. Together they listen and dance to the record.
When the refrain hits, Bakugou sings loudly and Present Mic joins in, their noises a perfect harmony.