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He must’ve had a nice life before this. A loving father, a caring, kind mother, friends who cared about him. A girlfriend, maybe. He seems a bit too young to have a wife or kids. Maybe pets, a home. But it had been too long for Bakugou to remember anything of his past, and he spends his days rotting away here.
He’s not sure why he’s here, in this house. Why he can’t leave. He sighs, looking out the window.
It must feel good outside. Temperature, a breeze. He can’t feel any of that. Instead, he’s simply numb, unable to touch, unable to be seen, unable to communicate.
And not for the first time, he craves for something real.
Moving is always harder the more you do it, the less you grow attached to a house. Thankfully, your mother swears this house will be their last. They want to grow old and die in this house, and you, quite frankly, just enjoy the short distance from your college to here.
Your father told you he wasn’t sure why the other family before yours moved so quickly, in such a hurried rush, selling to whoever wanted it first, but who are you to complain? It’s a nice, two-story house with an attic. It’s white on the outside with a pretty gate securing it, and a tree with a makeshift swing on the side. It’s very pretty, you could see yourself growing up in a place like this.
Shame the family didn’t leave sooner.
“Make sure to put the bedframe in your room first, okay? Set up your bed before anything else.” Your father hands you the box.
“Alright,” you mumble, moving your hands to push your headphones down to rest on your neck before grabbing the box. He smiles at you, hand sitting on top of your head and ruffling, messing up your hair. “Ah—stop that!” You move away from him, box rustling in your hands.
He laughs warmly at you, “Okay, okay. Go, I have more boxes for you to carry.”
“Where’s mom?” You raise an eyebrow, looking through the windows of the house. She didn’t seem to be in there.
“She went to go get us Chick-fil-A after we’re done.”
“Nice.” You nod in approval, turning around to put the box in your room.
Your room is on the second floor, blessedly next to the bathroom. Further down is your parents' room, and the other room to the right of yours is… you’re not sure.
After putting your box down on the floor, you brush off your hands on your pants, curiously eyeing the room. You know you have to still help move, but.. You’ll be quick. You walk into the room, looking around before your eyes widen. Oh wow.
The family before yours left an entire piano? Just how rich were they? You’re walking towards the piano before you notice a note laid upon the piano, slightly askew and about to fall off.
You pick it up with gentle caution, reading what’s on the note.
‘To whoever sees this, please take care of this piano. A dear friend of mine treasures this piano, and he’d be very hurt if you guys were to do anything to it.
Thank you.
— Eijirou’
Huh, weird. You recognize this name, though. He was the son of the past family. You wonder why he couldn’t just take the piano for him and his friend, though.
You put the note down into your pocket, eyes focusing on the piano once more. Sure, you’d take care of it. Maybe you could even learn how to play it, in your free time.
You swipe some of the dust off, watching it fall off onto the floor.
“Did you put the box down yet?” You hear your dad call.
“Sorry! Coming!” You walk out of the room, letting the sun glow down into embers on the piano.
Unpacking didn’t take as long as you thought it would— it was actually pretty relaxing. The only thing you have to do left for your room is to hang up all your posters and paintings, which really shouldn’t be that long.
Crickets chirp in the distance as you try to sleep, turning around and shifting positions for what feels like the thousandth time as another car drives past.
Insomnia is something you’ve had to deal with for years. It used to not be this bad, but eventually it got worse overtime. You’ve tried entire routines to help yourself sleep easier but no matter how much you butter yourself up and let yourself relax before bedtime, it never helps.
You sigh loudly to yourself, and that’s when you hear it.
The keys of a piano.
But that can’t be, right? Your parents are sound asleep, the snoring present from a couple of rooms over. So how are you—
The dim sound of a full song is playing now, only adding to your tired confusion. You sit up in your bed, removing your eye mask. “What the hell..?” You grumble to yourself, somewhat fearing your own life.
Grabbing your phone and turning the flash on, you slowly and nervously walk down the hallway outside of your room, slowly opening the door to where the noise is coming from.
The darkness in the room envelops the corners, but in the center, all the light from the moon is shining on the piano and reflecting on the boy playing it beautifully. He seems to be about your age, hands masterfully dancing on the keys to move from tile to tile.
He seems focused, not noticing your presence. He messes up and makes a noise similar to a grunt as he tries to brush over his mistake. “Damn it,” he huffs, moving his hands away from the piano and going to stand, looking up.
You two make eye contact. He stays rooted in his seat. “.. The hell are you looking at, huh?”
You quickly point your phone at him, the flash going onto the wall instead of the floor it was previously focused on. “What are you doing in my house?” You whisper shout, “You thug! I’ll tell my parents!”
He glares at you, pointing an accusatory finger. “Hey! I was here first, you dumbass!” He’s shouting so loud, you’re amazed that your parents are such heavy sleepers.
“This is my house! Get out!” You walk closer to him, shoving him. He looks shocked at you, eyes wide and mouth agape the longer you shove him.
“How are you—”
“Honey?” Your mom yawns, rubbing her eyes, “What’s wrong?”
“There’s a creep in our house!” You yell, pointing at the blonde man. “Call the damn police!”
She’s staring at you, and then him, and then back at you confusedly. “What?”
“This creep! Mom, why are you acting so normal about this?” You flail your arms, your voice subconsciously getting louder.
“... But there’s nobody there? What are you pointing at?” She walks towards you, “Do you feel okay?”
Beside you, the boy is laughing. Hard. “She can’t see me!” He exclaims. “Connect the dots, or are you really this stupid?”
“Shut up!” You glare at him, seeing your mother flinch. “No, not you. Mom, I’m fine. Just go back to bed. I think I had a nightmare.”
You assure her until she’s closing the door, going back to her room. You’re too busy looking back over at the smug boy. “Why can’t my mom see you? What is happening ?”
“Well, what do you think?” He gruffs at you, moving closer, forcing you to walk back this time. “I’m a ghost.”
Now, most people in your situation would laugh it off, find another conclusion, and continue denying it. But you’re led down a different path of thinking.
You’ve always been insanely interested in ghosts and their existence in the world multiple times. How they’ve been proven to be true more often than not, and yet it’s seen as something that’s not a fact.
And also, how else would your mother not be able to see him? It’s all making sense, puzzle pieces connecting beautifully. It all just makes sense to you.
You look over at the piano, and then back to him. He’s towering over you, close enough to the point where if he was alive you’d feel his breath on you.
He's actually… quite attractive.
Before you can ponder on that any longer, you frown. “If you’re dead, how are you able to touch the piano?”
He shrugs, “Hell if I know. Do I look like an expert to you, shit for brains?”
“Creative.” You snark in reply, moving away from him to walk towards the piano. Your fingers idly touch the hem of the piano. “I wonder if this is what ‘Eijirou’ meant, then.”
“Shitty hair? You know him?”
Oh. It seems he has awful nicknames for everyone, then.
“Know of him,” you clarify, “He left a note on the piano. He used to live here, right?” Your voice is a mumble, soft and unfocused as you tap the keys on the piano.
“That’s none of your business.” He looks to the window, voice quieter than it was before. “He was my friend.” He says, then.
“Didn’t know you could make friends,” you laugh, and continue talking before he can start yelling at you again, “Why did they move?”
“Why do you care?” He crosses his arms, which makes you think it must’ve been complicated. You shrug.
“You’re right. Sorry.”
You lay your hands on the piano, tapping random keys in the hope of making a song. The boy laughs at you, mockingly, sitting on the chair next to you. Your shoulders brush against one another, real and tickling.
“You’re awful at this.” He comments, swatting your hands away. You sit them in your lap, the ghost of a frown on your face.
The boy (whose name you still don’t know) is staring at the piano for a minute, before resting his hand on two of the tiles. He presses down on them and begins to play.
It’s a complicated song, jazzy in a way that makes you feel upbeat and sad at the same time. Sometimes there are repeating chords and other times he lets his hand run through them, making it sound like an entirely new song.
You think it sounds quite beautiful.
You watch him play in silence, studying his face, how focused he looks, how calm he looks. Something you haven’t seen from him since you first met 20 minutes ago. He seems like such a dickhead, but you’re not so sure now.
The music is comforting, and you find your eyes drooping. With a yawn, you lean your head down and let the sounds of music accompany you to sleep.
The sun is warm on your back and cheek when you wake up, the soft lull of the wind and birds outside rustling the leaves giving you a nice feeling as you stretch. You look around, eyes hard to open and wetness in the corner of your mouth. That was.. the best you’ve slept in a long, long while.
You think you had an odd dream, your mother, a piano, a ghost. You almost laugh at the thought, before your eyes drift down to the note on the floor, right beside you. It’s the same note Eijirou left, just turned around and used it on the other side.
‘If you ever want to hear me play again, just say my name.
— Katsuki
P.S. You drool in your sleep.’