Chapter Text
katsuki’s irritation came in waves, the black hood draped over his head, obstructing his view of the stage set out before him; but for good reason. all he wanted was to decompress, relieve himself of the duties that came with being the no. 5.
“i’m out on saturday. don’t call me. don’t text me. don’t email me. if i see you out in public or on my fuckin’ phone screen unwarranted, ‘m rippin’ yer arms off.”
eijirou—the saint he was—didn’t even attempt to retort, only gave a grin and an affirmative nod that confirmed he was paying attention. “got it.”
“‘nd don’t get into bullshit.”
“mhm.”
“keep the extras in line.” he said, referring to the newly recruited sidekicks.
“planned on it.”
“call only if you or one of the other shitstains’re dyin’.”
the hardening hero let out a long, exasperated sigh, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “i got it, katsuki. trust.”
katsuki grumbled something unintelligible underneath his breath. “good.”
orchestras had always been a guilty pleasure for him, engraved in the back of his mind by his father who had pavlov’d him into a state of serenity as an ear-biting, brat of a child. since then, katsuki found solace in each rhythm, each tune, each recognizable melody that he couldn’t mimic on any string instrument even if he tried. and, truth be known, he tried.
seat 8 row 2, sat before the first violins. a good view. a break from the whiplash of that week—from an covert mission to a burning building, katsuki’s muscles ached from the strenuous activity. and they said that pros did nothing but laze around and look pretty (well, maybe some, but katsuki didn’t necessarily fit into that category).
enamored by the music, he was, albeit the gruff scowl furrowed on his brow, which seemed to be a permanent fixture of his persona despite having his guard down. though, to be fair, it was never truly down. his hero instincts were just that: instincts. something guttural and uncontrollable. something built into him. the only thing that could give him a semblance of control over his inclinations was the theater.
distracted by his own internal monologue. katsuki redirected his attention once the boisterous, repetitive strikes of clapping registered in his ears signaling the end of the piece. he was close enough to the stage to hear page turning and shifting of the instrumentalists, faint whispering with stand partners and those alike. he adjusted his hearing aid’s volume to accommodate to the thunderous applause.
through his own movement, he almost missed the motion out of his peripheral window; the first chair rose, taking a few steps forward as if ready to take a bow. that bow never came, only a stringed bow which was hung delicately on her index finger, nimble and skilled in the craft. he had anticipated a solo—the setlist only entailed so much in the program—and katsuki was quick to make his adjustments in a timely manner before the conductor gestured toward the violinist to proceed.
the thin material of the program in his scarred, calloused hands stained with the sweat that permeated on his palms, but through the darkness, he could make out the name cleanly typed in katakana: “ラミー ベラルーナ”.
lamy bellaluna. she was foreign; he was sure of that. even after rereading it a hundred times over, it still didn’t sound right on his tongue, and the name itself just felt western. and, with a swift glance up at the stage, it didn’t take a genius to realize that she was western. any idiot with a brain could come to that conclusion.
and any idiot with a brain could comprehend the insubstantial gold that came in the form of sound from her fingertips.
how someone could play with such vigor but still maintain a guise of grace was a concept that katsuki could never understand. her bow met string and string created metaphorical, musical voice, one that was almost belligerent, that grabbed the attention of the audience like she had snatched them by the collar. a feeling of weightlessness ran through katsuki’s muscles, relieving him of all stress that had been planting his feet onto the ground and creating a deep pit in the bottom of his stomach.
captivating. she was nothing but captivating. her presence, the intonation of her violin, the sprightly shifting of her fingers from one note to the other; it was all so captivating. bright strands of silk framed her face like an unblemished painting, contrasting against a jet black dress which seemed to only shine further underneath the stage lights. her downturned, pouty lips, a look of concentration, of fire, of passion in deep pools of lobelia blue eyes, a sense of delicacy in her entire being. like she didn’t even have to try. like her poise was effortless, like she was just being herself, as if she had to attempt to be something else (soon enough, katsuki had become uncomfortably aware of his overanalyzation, blinking away his train of thought as if shooing away an insect. he didn’t even know the girl. was this obsession? this might be classified as obsession. he was being stalker-ish. katsuki wasn’t a fucking daydreamer). for a moment, his infatuation overruled the tension, the pressure in his throat that threatened to spill in the form of curses and vile shouts.
the piece came to its resolution, breathtaking silence following suit. katsuki was the one to break that silence. and for a moment, it looked like bellaluna had soaked in his applause before anyone else could; her gaze flickered in his direction.