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Everything just kinda—melts, when they’re playing together.
What should be set in ultrafocus under the bright lights instead coalesces into blurs of color; purple sliding across the stage, making Jirou’s fingers sliding over her bass glow. Yellow, like a passing ray of sunlight, lighting Kaminari’s hair near neon as he rears backwards with his guitar. Pink skittering at Mina's feet as she dances at her keyboard, playing tag with her heels. White sets Sero’s biceps aglow as he slides his fingers across his synth.
All of it only in flashes, as the blur of Eijirou’s sticks hitting his drums is all he can really grasp. The audience themselves are a sea of barely visible figures. Only the crashing of their hands, raised above their heads, rocking with the music. Only pieces of wide smiles and fragments of faces as they sing along.
The pedal at his foot seems to kick by itself as sweat drips into his eyes and his hair tie steadily comes loose, his sticks going harder harder harder as the beat picks up, goes faster faster faster, the crowd cheering, loud, louder than they’ve been all night, the lights now spinning all over the venue, and it’s all a blurred haze where one thing sinks into another, indistinct, indiscernible from each other—
Except for Katsuki, clear as day.
With a backdrop of hundreds of people, Katsuki stands like an angel amidst the desert; heatwaves sliced clean, every piece of him graphic. Clearer than a looking glass, than a spring stream running along bedrock.
He sings into his microphone, flicking hair off his forehead with a glare so lethal Eijirou doesn’t know how the first row doesn’t drop where they dance. His entire body rocks with it, voice full enough to make Eijirou never want to eat again. It fills the room, soaring louder than the clash of all the instruments being played to the bones behind him.
Katsuki kneels, broad shoulders dipping down, to grasp at the hands of the audience members in front of the stage. His microphone stand dips with him, but his hold is firm on the mic as he continues to sing, other hand pressing against dozens of people clamoring just to graze against him.
All Eijirou can see is his back, his blond hair, the golden slip of skin where his black tank top has ridden up.
All Eijirou can see is Katsuki.
They met by happenstance.
Kaminari had dragged him to a party that honestly, neither of them were really invited to, hosted by a friend of a friend of another friend. After shoving him out the door, saying come on! Sero’s gonna be there, he knows everyone! It’ll be fineee—now Eijirou’s stuck spectating a spectacularly bad game of beer pong. He watches as the golf ball Kaminari haphazardly tosses sails directly into a potted plant.
“Touchdown, man.” He encourages. “I know that plant felt really left out.”
Kaminari giggles, sloppily tapping Eijirou with his newest cup of many. “You know I’m an empath.”
Eijirou nods seriously. “You could definitely feel how it wanted beer instead of water.”
Behind his frankly comically large cup, Kaminari nods back at him, before pausing and frowning deeply. “Water,” he whispers. “I miss her.”
“I can get a glass for you, dude,” Eijirou says, a little worried at how forlornly Kaminari is looking at the floor. “You just stay here for a minute, yeah?”
Kaminari is now forlornly looking at Sero, who is the only person at the table who’s successfully playing. “Sero,” he says. “Sero, do you remember what water tastes like? Help me out, man. It’s nice? Or evil, like vodka?”
“Right,” Eijirou says to himself, before promptly beelining to the kitchen.
There are too many people packed into the house. The lights are honestly turned a little too dim, because Eijirou is only about eighty percent sure of where he’s stepping. There are a dozen people in the hallway to the kitchen, so he weaves his way through them, carving a path that’s filled with a few too many shoulder checks and elbow jabs.
He chances a glance over his shoulder, making sure Kaminari hasn’t tried drinking various alcohol in the search of rediscovering what water tastes like—when his gaze gets caught.
It’s only a second. It’s only a flash of his red eyes behind a bathroom door being swung open. It’s their eyes locking in a liminal space, in the fleeting free air of when one person rocked forward in a laugh and another leaned backwards with a smirk, leaving that one, short alley of distance between them, a straight shot to look at each other. It’s barely a moment.
It’s enough.
Eijirou’s gaze gets caught, and he finds his footsteps easier with an anchor to guide him. It might be the low lighting, or the slight haze in the air, but Eijirou thinks he sees the guy stand up a little straighter from where he’s leaning against the wall.
Eijirou spots his foot tapping, and before he can think about it, he asks—
“You like this song?”
He hums. “S’ not bad.”
Eijirou grins, nodding at the floor. “It’s got you moving, man.”
He glares at him, lethally red. “God forbid a guy moves his fucking foot.”
Eijirou shrugs, leans against the wall with him. “God forbid a guy admits he likes a song. Does being nonchalant usually work?”
Eijirou doesn’t know how to explain it, but his glare—it goes heavy.
“Work on who?” The guy asks, voice low. “People who go to shitty parties like this?”
Eijirou laughs lightly, resisting the urge to blink hard, the way you do when you step out into the sunlight after coming out of a movie theater. “You can’t think it’s that shitty if you’re here too.”
He nods to the bathroom door, rolling his eyes. “I’m only here cause of the loser hacking up her guts in there. She dragged me to come with her.”
Eijirou frowns. “Is she okay—”
The door flies open, a gorgeous blond woman stumbling out. “Katsuki,” she says, smacking her lipgloss. “I lowkey texted Inasa and he’s lowkey outside waiting for me so I'm lowkey gonna leave with him.” She leans forward, pinching his cheek. “Text me when you’re home safe, ya? You’re the goat, love you!” She blows him a kiss as she disappears into the crowd, leaving only the faint scent of floral vanilla behind.
“Yeah,”the guy—Katsuki—says dryly. “She’s fucking fine.”
Even though his friend has left, he doesn’t budge from his spot. And even though he doesn’t go to shitty parties like these, Katsuki doesn’t leave.
“I’m Eijirou.” He hears himself saying, eyes caught on the gold chain Katsuki’s wearing at his collarbone. “I like your name.”
Katsuki doesn’t say anything, but Eijirou snaps his gaze up just in time to meet his eyes again.
Unexpectedly, he asks—“You like this song?”
Eijirou blinks, before smiling wide. “Yeah. S’ one of my favorites to play.”
Discreetly, Katsuki straightens up a little. Interested. “Yeah? On what?”
“The drums.” Eijirou stretches out his fingers, looking down at how his knuckles flex and retract. “I play with my friend Kami—he does bass. He’s crazy talented.”
Katsuki hums. “And you?”
It feels like a test. Eijirou looks at him, considers how Katsuki is looking back.
“You need to find out.”
Something like a smile pulls at Katsuki’s lips, too slight to put a name to it. “S’ funny that you said it’s one of your favorites to play. One of my favorites to sing.”
Without realizing, Eijirou steps a little closer. “You sing?”
This, now, can be classified as a smirk, as Katsuki tilts his head. “You need to find out.”
Eijirou laughs, shaking his head. “Guess we gotta play this song together, then. I need to see what you’re made of.”
“You think you can keep up?” His tone is coarse, but he’s not mean.
“Yeah.” Eijirou replies. “I’ll prove it to you.”
The song switches to something else. It feels like the conversation slips away with it, but—they both stay standing. Eijirou doesn’t think anything could make him walk away.
He watches as Katsuki tilts his head back, eyes closed, Adam’s apple gently flexing.
formidable, Eijirou thinks, dragging his eyes away from the long line of Katsuki’s neck. you’re so formidable to me.
Somehow, his eyes make their way back to him, to the soft spot at his collarbone, the gleam of gold. He wonders.
will you let me follow you?
Katsuki finds him, like he usually does.
Eijirou’s on the balcony of his hotel room, open air ruffling the pages of his notebook set on the small table. The pages are filled with half-formed thoughts; half a lyric from one night blended into another sentence he wrote while still half asleep in the morning. It’s all unfinished. He knows the words will come to him, like they’ve always done, but it’s—frustating.
Elbows on the railing, Eijirou looks out at the city skyline, lit up in the dark. He doesn’t turn around when he hears Katsuki slide open the balcony door and settle next to him.
“Can’t sleep?” Katsuki asks, voice quiet.
“Can’t write.” Eijirou nods to the notebook. “‘S not even—stuck in my head. It’s just not there.”
Katsuki always wants excellence, and he knows how to achieve it. He trains his voice until it can hit the rafters of the stadiums they play, echoing with no strain beyond his natural rasp. He forces the band to practice until the sun has set far below the horizon, Kaminari and Jirou’s fingers red from pressing against their fretboards, Sero and Mina’s hands cramping up over their keyboards, Eijirou’s arms trembling from the force of wearing the drum skins raw. Katsuki is relentless in making Riot perfect—knowing this, anyone else would think that Eijirou wouldn’t want to be open like this. Riot’s lyricist with no lyrics, weakness laid wide open.
But Eijirou only lets the night air run over his shoulders, calm. He knows, deeper than anything else, that Katsuki won’t turn away from him. He doesn’t hide from Katsuki—can’t begin to think to hide from Katsuki—and without fail, Eijirou knows he’ll stay.
“Think you just need something new in your head.”
This makes Eijirou blink and turn to face him.
“Need something new?”
Katsuki’s profile is lined with the glow of the city, lining his long nose and sharp chin. Lining his eyes, still so sharp under the moonlight.
“Yeah.” He rolls his shoulders, muscles moving under his white tee. “Your head’s empty. Fill it with something new.”
Eijirou laughs, shaking his head and leaning on the railing again. “Just fill it with something new, huh?” He bumps their shoulders. “It’s that easy, mister lead singer?”
“Mhm.” And Katsuki finally turns his face, setting them inches away from each other. “You got it. You know you do.”
Moonlight lines his lips, as he says simply, like it’s nothing—“I know you do.”
Eijirou blinks again, feels that same feeling from the night they met rise up in him.
“You really sure about that?” Eijirou says, voice soft.
Katsuki’s eyes flick over his face, before pushing off of the railing. Before he slides the door open, he says over his shoulder—”I wouldn't be here if I wasn’t sure about it.”
Eijirou hears it clearer than Katsuki says it—about you.
He stays on the balcony until the sun comes up. When he finally goes back inside, the notebook is finally filled—with the lyrics of a love song.
What started as a gag has become the fan’s favorite part of the show. One night, Mina flung a shitty wig Kaminari bought from a decrepit costume store over the micstand, neon blue bob causing the crowd to go into an uproar. After countless jeers of kiss her, kiss her! Katsuki pantomimed dipping a person with the mic, beckoning ear-splitting cheers from the crowd.
@riooootgirl: i’m buying a wig RN omg spirit halloween i;m coming for ur neck be ready
@debbyryandupe: bro i went to amazon and ALL THE BLUE BOBS ARE SOLD OUT i’m so sick of u hoes
↪ @kellerbeller: ok but why were u also looking at the wigs…..
↪@debbyryandupe: god forbid a girl is curious
↪ @kellerbeller: its okay to say u also want to roleplay as bkg’s microphone girlfriend don’t be ashamed
↪ @dema_gorgon: well. be a little ashamed
@paladin_notstrait: im crying why did u guys want him to kiss the mic he already sings with it damn near in his mouth U see how shiny it is with his spit
@n1co_9: thank you bakugou katsuki for the fuckass bob resurgence ♡ midlength wavy brown wig next okay
Management, naturally, insisted they keep it going. Katsuki tried driving their tour bus into a wall after Mina and Kaminari gleefully did a haul of their order of a dozen wigs in various colors.
“All of you are sick,” he seethed after Eijirou forcibly sat him on the couch. “Sick and twisted weirdos, all of our fuckass fans. There’s no way I’m doing that again.”
He turned to Eijirou, gaze vindictive. “Why are you allowing this bullshit to happen? You need to be worried about how our fans have this fucking—freaked out complex. We should be using the money spent on this shit donating to goddamn mental health clinics.” In response, Eijirou picked up a brown wig from the litany spread across the floor and fit it over Katsuki’s head.
“Dude, you should totally get curtain bangs,” Eijirou said seriously. “Brown isn’t your color, but that’s okay, not everyone can rock multiple shades like I can—”
Eijirou had gotten tackled. Now, for Riot’s fan-favorite lovesong, Mina skips across the stage every show to fit the mic with a wig for Katsuki to croon to.
Mina takes her job very seriously. Currently, she’s equipped with hair scissors, bright pink combs, hairspray, and a canvas wig head stand to tease and style for the next show as she sees fit. She’s used the company card to buy herself a cheetah print hairdresser belt to fit her tools neatly at her waist.
As Eijirou sits against the couch of their tour bus with his notepad trying to brainstorm lyrics, he watches her dig around the storage box full of assorted hair colors. He hums. “Let’s do something new for tomorrow. The blondes and brunettes have gotten their moments.”
“Hm, we haven’t gone red yet, right?” She slings a luridly red wig onto the mannequin head, the long strands spilling over the edge of the table. Mina pats it, sighing. “Gotta feed our ginger fans.”
Katsuki has staunchly refused to take any part in dealing with this part of the show, usually growling at them when they ask what haircolor he wants to be in love with that night.
As he resolutely reads a book on the opposing couch, nary a gaze cast at them, Eijirou doesn’t expect this time to be any different—but instead he looks up. For some reason, Eijirou’s chest skips a beat at how Katsuki’s eyes scan over the red hair.
Katsuki tilts his head. “Cut it shorter.”
Mina huffs. “Look at how nice and long it is! It’s so prettyyy.” She says, running her fingers through it.
“And risk it getting tangled with the mic wires? Fuck no.”
Mina sighs before relenting. “Goodbye, long, luscious locks.” She raises the scissors, blades level with the mannequin’s chin, before Katsuki stops her again.
“No, not that short. Stop at the shoulders. Go a little lower.”
Eijirou’s hair starts to itch where it rests against his back—loose, hitting a little under his shoulders.
Mina dutifully chops it off, locks of synthetic red falling to the ground. She grabs the wig head and presents it to Katsuki like a trophy. “Well, mister hairstylist. Is this good enough for ya?”
And Katsuki—his eyes flick to Eijirou first. Like he’s considering something.
His gaze flicks to the wig again and he grunts as he goes back to his book. “Quality of that hair is shit. But yeah, it’s good.”
Mina rolls her eyes as she starts to tease the wig with a bedazzled comb. “It doesn’t matter, you’re gonna be using this thing for like, three minutes.”
Not looking up from his book, Katsuki flips a page. “Red’s my favorite. Gotta pay special attention to it.”
Eijirou feels his stomach flip so violently he’s surprised his ribs are still intact.
Mina sighs. “Singers are so dramatic. Eijirou, would you be a doll and broom this up for me pretty please?” She bats her eyelashes as the unforgiving bristles of her comb frizz up the hair into oblivion.
Smiling shakily, Eijirou nods as he dutifully goes to their mini kitchen at the end of the bus to grab the broom. When he comes back, Katsuki’s eyes don’t move from his book.
But Eijirou remembers how they looked at him earlier, going from the red at Mina’s hands to the red on his own head—like he was considering something.
Like he was comparing.
He stares at the garish color at his feet, sweeps the plastic locks into the dustpan, and thinks about the lyrics sitting in his notebook.
Kaminari asks him about it, when they’re alone. The rest of the band had gone to their rooms to sleep, but they had stayed behind at the hotel bar. Kaminari has known him the longest, before Riot was ever a thought, so it shouldn't come as a surprise that he sees it first.
“So,” Kaminari says, stretching out the o. “You and Bakugou, huh?”
Eijirou blinks at him. “What?”
Kaminari swirls his drink around before spinning in his stool. “You, Bakugou, love, kissing, happily ever after, all that jazz. Or rock, I guess. When’s it gonna happen?” He waggles his eyebrows, but he just ends up looking like he’s trying to get a spider off his face. Their time at the bar did not help with his coordination.
Eijirou frowns and uses his palm to push at Kaminari’s forehead. “You still can’t handle your alcohol? You only had like two drinks, man.”
“Don’t need to be sober to know you want a wing off that songbird.” Again, with the unattractive eyebrow wiggling, and Eijirou smacks at his forehead a little harder.
“Dude.”
“You’re not saying no.”
“Why would I ever agree to wanting a ‘wing off that songbird’? I don’t think anyone wants that, man.”
Kaminari kicks at Eijirou’s ankles. “You do. Can see it on your face.” He wiggles his fingers at Eijirou, rings glinting in the dim lighting. “Can hear it in your songs, too.”
Eijirou coughs, rubbing at his neck. “They’re not—about anyone specific. They’re just whatever’s in my head, man.”
Kaminari leans forward. “You mean whoever’s in your head, right?”
And his natural instinct is to keep the facade, say no, of course not, it’s not like that—but he thinks back to the balcony, Katsuki’s face inches away from his. He thinks back to Katsuki’s eyes looking at him over his book as his hair rested over his shoulders. He thinks back to the very first night they met, leaning on a wall neither of them were supposed to be on, only listening to a song they both knew.
Eijirou’s lips twist. “....it’s that obvious?”
Kaminari downs the rest of his drink. “Have you seen all the fan edits online? You guys give them a lot of material to work with.”
Eijirou sighs before standing up and pulling Kaminari with him. “I haven’t seen them. Send them to me later.”
As Kaminari trips over his own feet, he giggles. “You soooo want a piece off that set of pipes—”
“I can drop you right now—”
“Bet you wouldn’t be talking to me like that if I was a different blond, huh? I thought I could be your type, man, should I curse a little to get you in the mood?”
Kaminari doesn’t get dropped, but it’s a very, very close call.
In the wings right before they go on stage, Eijirou pulls the hair tie off his wrist to tie his hair up before they start playing—just for it to be yanked out of his hand.
He frowns before turning around and seeing Katsuki, black rubber hanging from his fingers.
“Don’t tie your hair up tonight.” Katsuki says, as though he hadn’t forcibly taken the hair tie from him. “It falls out anyways with how goddamn hard you play.”
“Maybe if someone braided my hair for me it would stay put.”
Katsuki rolls his eyes. “I told you I can’t braid hair, dumbass.”
Eijirou flicks his forehead, ignoring how Katuski scowls at him. “Dude. You totally can. You’re just hoarding all your skills from me cause you’re evil.”
In retaliation, Katsuki pulls at a strand of his loose hair, making Eijirou hiss—before wrapping it around his finger. “S’ not even long enough to braid anyways.”
It’s mesmerizing, how the stage lights always make his eyes glow. “Grow it out first.”
Eijirou can hear the fans start to cheer louder, minutes away from them walking on stage. “Leave my hair down, grow it out. You just want me to do whatever you say, huh?”
Katsuki’s quiet. Always so loud, so vocal, but constantly quiet with him. “Yeah. I do.”
Katsuki’s hand slips away as he slides the hair tie over his other wrist. “Pay attention to me tonight, yeah?”
Eijirou’s eyebrows furrow but before he can ask hey what—
“We go on now, hello, move your asses!” Mina comes barreling through, pushing at Eijirou’s shoulders. “Go go go go—”
Eijirou is forced to walk onstage, Mina at his heels, as the lights come on down on them full force. He’s smiling, waving at the crowd, but he’s only thinking of one thing.
Pay attention to me tonight.
As he settles on his drum stool, he feels the worn wood of his sticks as he watches Katsuki greet the audience with a yell into the mic. He feels it settle in, the haze of losing himself in his movements, foot finding it’s home on his pedal as Jirou starts playing the opening riff. From where he sits, Katsuki is haloed in the light. Eijirou is always watching him in pieces; his back, broad shoulders flexing. His side profile on the balcony, his eyes behind a book. Despite it, Eijirou knows, from that first night—I’ll follow you.
As their set goes on, Eijirou swears he can feel Katsuki’s eyes on him more and more. He thinks he’s going crazy, and he might lose it with how his hair is already sticking all over his nape, but tonight feels different. When he slides over to have Mina sing into the mic with him, or when he moves down the stage to press back to back with Sero, Eijirou can sense it; how Katsuki’s eyes are drilling into him, instead.
He glances up to lock eyes with Kaminari, who’s already looking at him with a shit eating grin.
fan edits, Kaminari mouths. Eijirou looks away and decides that both of them need to focus on playing.
Finally, they run through their setlist and wind down to the last song. Mina skips over with the lurid red wig, shaking it out to the roars of the crowd.
“This one is for you, ginger beauties!” She says into the mic, squishing her cheek into Katsuki’s before setting it into place. But Katsuki shakes his head, grabbing the mic stand and walking dead center to the middle of the stage, until he’s almost at the very edge.
“No, it’s not.” He says, the crowd gasping. "It’s for someone else.”
He turns, back to the audience, for once—facing Eijirou. From across the stage that feels like it stretches for miles, Katsuki locks eyes with him.
“They should know who they are, if they’ve been paying attention.”
Eijirou feels like he’s going to melt all over his drums.
And Katsuki sings the love song Eijirou wrote, with the color that matches Eijirou’s hair, gaze grilling into Eijirou’s eyes, and he thinks yeah. I get it now. I see you, with no surprises.
It’s never been hard, being with Katsuki. It’s been as simple as walking towards him in a crowded room, waiting for him on a balcony, thinking about him in every instance of life. Of all things, Katsuki made sense to Eijirou—and this, like everything about them, makes sense to Eijirou. What else could it be, when it comes to them?
you guys give them a lot of material to work with, echoes Kaminari’s voice in his head.
So as his sticks hit the cymbals one last time, copper ringing out into the stadium, Eijirou’s risen from his seat before they stopped shaking. His sticks clatter to the floor as he strides towards Katsuki. Everything is a blur, as it always is when they play, everything except Katsuki, who’s panting at the mic with a grin.
Eijirou sees his face in full, grin wide. No pieces, no halves, only clear and true.
Eijirou grabs ahold of Katsuki’s face, hands still sore from gripping his sticks, Katsuki’s cheeks balmy with exertion, and pulls him in.
Waiting for all that time was worth it for this one moment. Their lips meet, as Eijirou kisses the lyrics he wrote into the mouth that sang them. Katsuki, who strives for excellence, reaches for it here too as he grabs Eijirou’s waist and pulls him in closer, kissing Eijirou until he's dizzy with it. The crowd is screaming loud enough to rock his skull and he thinks he can make out Mina and Kaminari squealing behind them, but nothing matters—he’s paying attention to Katsuki, just like he asked.
“You mean it?” Eijirou says into his mouth, smile wide. “You’re singing it for me?”
And he expects Katsuki to smile back, pull on his hair again with a yes, idiot, I don’t say things I don’t mean—
But he goes soft. Loud, wild Katsuki goes quiet as he tucks Eijirou’s hair behind his ear, pulling it off his temple.
“I’m doing it all for you, Ei.”
Katsuki isn’t formidable to Eijirou anymore—he’s loved, through and through.