Chapter Text
Every day passed by in the same, ordinary way.
Hope’s Peak University was one of the highest ranked schools in the country, hand-picking the best possible students to educate in a manner that would launch them head-first into their careers, designed to orchestrate the greatest scheme of programmed perfection in educational history.
When Kiyotaka was first scouted, receiving that pristine white letter in the mail, he couldn’t believe it was real. Hope’s Peak wasn’t the kind of school you could study for, and apply to when your grades were the best in your region. It was all down to personal choice and word of mouth.
He still couldn’t understand why he was scouted.
Well, he knew why, since it was written in bold letters at the top of the acceptance paper.
The Ultimate Moral Compass - to achieve a degree in political science, with electives in social morality and economics.
But he didn’t know why him.
Kiyotaka knew he was a sucker for the rules; he liked when things were held in place, whether moral values or school rules, and he took pride in both conforming to them himself and ensuring others did the same. It brought him a sense of satisfaction to see the product of such systemacy, and to understand why these guidelines were written in the first place.
Good rules and good moral conduct brought correctness. Order. Consistency.
But beyond his appreciation for this order, he wouldn’t particularly consider his talent, well, a talent. Yes, he put enormous effort into running strict regimes, directing his former high-school classmates to follow along, and doing what he could to ensure those around him were maximising their capabilities as both students and members of the community, but it certainly didn’t seem “ultimate talent”-worthy to him.
It just felt like the right thing to do.
Hope’s Peak was supposed to be able to launch all of its graduates into a high rank of whatever career they were destined for, related to their ultimate talent. For Kiyotaka, though, he knew all this would do was land him on an equal playing field with everyone else studying politics. With the reputation of his grandfather pulling him further and further away from social acceptance, he was exactly what he needed to give himself a chance at a slither of public redemption.
His own personal determination and perseverance, combined with a Hope’s Peak graduation, was sure to be enough to change things around. As long as he worked hard, harder than ever before, and kept trying to be a true and honest citizen, then he knew he could turn things around for himself.
There was another thing, though, that he had hoped Hope’s Peak would be able to assist him with.
Kiyotaka wanted to make a friend.
Through all his years in high-school, riddled with torment and exclusion, pained with oppression and victimisation, he’d had this dream about University. That amidst all the hurt, it would be something different. That he’d be able to reshape his reputation, develop some more social skills, and change things for the better.
Of course, his primary focus would be his studies, and he would not be making sacrifices or cutting corners to prioritise socialising over that. With such an incredible opportunity literally being handed to him, he would be an idiot to not make the most of this education!
However, that wouldn’t stop him from trying harder to make it happen.
He joined the pupil congress, he spoke at class events. He said hello routinely to the people he sat with in classes, even though they tended to find another seat after a few times of being paired with him. He tried so desperately to make friends with people before mentioning his name, to try to avoid guilt by association and people judging him because of his heritage.
To his disappointment, but admittedly not his surprise, it hadn’t seemed to make much of a difference.
It was three months into the year now, and he still spent most of his free time either in the library or his dorm room, alone, revising excessively for his classes. It was good for him, and it was definitely helpful, but it wasn’t the change he had been hoping for.
He wouldn’t let it stop him from getting his hopes up, though, and he certainly wouldn’t let it dissuade him!
He got things done, he worked hard, he studied.
And when things felt tough, when assignments were piling up and extracurriculars were taking up his weekends, and there was that horrible, creeping sense of loneliness waiting in each corner of his dormitory, Kiyotaka knew there was still one way he could completely clear his head.
He closed the door to the music practice room gently behind himself, making a soft clicking sound as he did.
The room was small, to the point he reckoned he could stand in the middle and stretch his arms out either way, and probably touch either side without having to lean very far.
He didn’t bother to try.
The inside of the room itself was bare, the walls were blank. There was a mid-sized piano against the back wall, and one poster above it which explained the basics of which note corresponds to which key. In the centre of the room was a crouch table and a matching stool made of a pale grey wood.
More importantly, the room was quiet. It was noise cancelling, for the sake of all the students trying to focus in the other study rooms dotted around the department. Kiyotaka assumed even music students had to do theory, it couldn’t just be playing instruments all the time.
He pulled back the stool next to the table and took a seat. It was small, short-legged, making him just too close to the floor for comfort.
He lay his guitar case on the ground, clicking open its silver fastenings. It was ironic, really, how he could let such a delicacy lay on the ground, skin-to-skin with the practice-rooms carpet. He’d saved up for months just to buy a hardshell case, rather than dragging his guitar around with only a strap to hold it to his back.
It was far more convenient, and also much more protective. It was absolutely worth saving months of allowance and picking up extra tutoring to cover the costs.
The guitar was heavy in his hands as he lifted it out of the case, laying it gently across his lap. He reached one arm around its body as if embracing it in a hug, carefully resting his hands across the strings.
He brought his other hand to the neck, where he found a position for his free hand to occupy.
Eyes closed, he started to play.
Kiyotaka let the strings twist through his fingers, effortlessly gliding down the guitar's neck. Pinch harmonics, twangs, all the intricacies of the piece he’d most recently learned vibrated into the air, filling his ears with the sweetly familiar sound.
The guitar was so enjoyable because of its complex simplicity. Every sound, whether a note or a chord, had to be calculated. It was all planned, regardless of if intentionally or not - whether you were improvising or playing a historical piece, unknowingly the movements had to be processed in a musical system inside your mind so they fit together.
Yet it wasn’t like a jigsaw puzzle - there was no one way for it all to fit together to make the correct picture. It was more similar to a rubix cube. You can spend hours learning techniques and patterns to solve a rubix cube perfectly, learning how to get it done faster and faster until you can solve it in a matter of seconds, or you can work with it, trial and error, for hours, days even, until you find all six faces in harmonious colour. Regardless of the path taken, of which there are endless possibilities, the end goal could always be achieved.
Correctness. Unison. Order.
The guitar had always served as a distraction; when he was a young boy, he had been gifted one by his grandfather, before his fall. He would practice every day, relistening to the same CD’s his father had, learning how to replicate the sounds solely by ear.
When things started going wrong, it was always there for him. He didn’t need lessons or textbooks, although it would indubitably have helped his progress. If anything he considered it a more effective distraction to have to use all of his brain to figure out what needed to go where to play correctly.
Just as he reached the end of Yuquijiro Yocho's Sakura Variations, twitching his hands over the fourth and fifth fret, a sound of clapping echoed from behind him, dragging him back to reality.
There was someone in the room.
He quickly snapped his head upward, swinging around to spot whoever had entered.
“Sorry,” he began to apologise, awkwardly shifting his guitar around to sit beside him. “I thought I had locked the door.”
“It’s fine,” the man in the doorway raised his hands in acceptance, letting out a soft chuckle. “You don’t gotta be so serious.”
He wasn’t a familiar face to Kiyotaka. His hair, spiked into points with a thick layer of gel, was a neon orange colour, twinned with the tuft of a beard that he had. Amongst the bright colours were several sparkling points of silver metallic piercings, littering his face like the pins on a notice board.
Judging by the guitar case hanging off his own side, and the fact that he was trying to use the music room, Kiyotaka could only assume that he was a musician as well. Although, he doubted it was similar music styles to his own, simply based on the way he chose to dress himself - ripped skinny jeans, a plethora of assorted jewellery, and more safety pins than an old lady would keep in her sewing box.
Kiyotaka knew it was wrong to make a judgement of someone based solely on their physical appearance, however he wasn’t oblivious to the fact that dressing this way was usually self expression for the systematically oppressed side of music. Or rather, those angry about it.
He rolled his shoulders to free himself of the tension that arose from craning over that small of a stool for such a long time, still holding the head of his guitar with a loose hand.
With the other, he cleared his throat. “My apologies again. You can use this room, honestly, I’m not even a music student. Please, consider it yours.”
Despite his sincerity, the other boy laughed. “Dude, come on. I’m the one who interrupted. Anyone can use the rooms. I’m not a music student either! And like, your playing? That was seriously cool. I’m surprised you’re not a music student.”
Kiyotaka felt himself redden - this was merely a pass-time to him, a way to clear his mind. Never in a million years would he consider himself good enough to be a music student, or even to be mistaken for one.
“I think that’s an overstatement, however I appreciate the compliment!” He said, likely too loud judging by the surprised look on the other boy's face.
“You’re welcome,” the boy replied, leaning against the door frame. “You been playing long?”
“I’ve been here for,” he checked his watch. “Just over forty minutes.”
“No,” he laughed again, rolling his eyes this time. Kiyotaka swallowed - he couldn’t tell what this man's intentions were. His hands felt hot. There would likely be handprints on the back of his guitar after this, which he made a mental note to polish off.
“I meant playing the guitar. Y’know, like I’ve only played for a couple years. Those were lifelong skills you’ve got.”
“Oh, right,” he shook his head, frowning slightly at the embarrassment of the misinterpretation. “I’ve played since my childhood. Around twelve years or so.”
The other boy nodded slowly, seemingly impressed. Then he hesitated momentarily, looking to one side, as if deep in thought, before snapping his gaze back at Kiyotaka.
“What’d you say your name was again?”
“I never gave you my name.”
He rolled his eyes. Again. Kiyotaka noted it as being a rather ugly habit. “Well what is it?”
“Kiyotaka Ishimaru. Yourself?”
The boy grinned. “Leon Kuwata. Hey, Ishimaru, how would you like to be a part of a band?”
Kiyotaka blinked. “A band?”
“Yeah, y’know. Like a rock band. My band needs a new guitarist.”
Rock music wasn’t necessarily Kiyotaka’s forte. Perhaps classic rock, such as a touch of the Beatles or the Kinks, but by the way Leon was dressed, he doubted that it was music to a similar degree of that matter.
Besides, he had only just met this boy. And he wasn't a good guitarist! He had decent skills, which he wouldn’t be modest about, however that was nothing towards the likes of what would meet a band's standard.
He wasn’t sure he could bear to let a group of people down like that.
Then it struck him suddenly, the other aspect of a band. A band implied a group.
This man, Leon Kuwata, was actively inviting him to be a part of a tight knit social group.
He opened his mouth to reply, closing it and repeating a few times in hesitation.
“Dude, I know you’re probably star-struck or whatever, but I kinda need an answer.”
“Right, sorry.” Kiyotaka cleared his throat. “I appreciate your offer, however I only just met you. It seems inappropriate to agree to the communal event of a “band” with a complete stranger.”
He put the words in air quotes, hoping the other boy would understand his meaning.
Instead, he tilted his head back and groaned, closing the practice room door behind himself and leaning back against it.
“I know this is weird, okay?” He looked up at Kiyotaka. “But my band, we’re desperate for another guitarist. We’ve got this battle of the bands coming up in a while, and we’re gonna be hopeless without someone else’s help.”
It wasn’t like Kiyotaka to ever deny a fellow student help when they really needed it, but something inside him told him that this wasn’t going to be as easy as assisting with maths homework.
“Kuwata, whilst I understand your stress, I still feel like this is too out of the blue.”
“Please.” He said, his tone strangely serious. “I know we’re strangers, kinda, but the band could change that! We’re called Electric Blue - look, we’re meeting tomorrow for practice. Just come along, we can see if you gel with us, yeah?”
“Why can’t you ask an actual music student? I’m sure there's hundreds of professional guitarists in this school.”
“We’ve got…some bad blood. Besides, they’re probably all in their own stuff for battle of the bands, okay? Since it’s such a big deal.”
Leon threw his hand in front of him to emphasise the point.
Kiyotaka pinched the bridge of his nose, processing it all. This was all just so sudden, and so strange, that it made his head spin. Taking time out of his strict revision schedule to meet this unknown band, presumably going to a stranger's house, to play an instrument he wasn’t that good at in a semi-professional setting?
That wasn’t Kiyotaka Ishimaru at all.
“I’m sorry, again, but I can’t justify abandoning my studies to help out a stranger.”
Leon hit his head against the door behind him, letting out a long sigh, seemingly defeated. His right hand was twitching beside him, picking at chips of black nail polish which were scattered across his other fingers.
“My name's Leon Kuwata, I’m eighteen, I’m here on a baseball scholarship. I play with my band on the weekends and my favourite foods gyudon. I’ve got over twenty piercings, if you’re counting each ear separately, and I’m like, the best baseball player in the country, or something. Got world records n shit.”
He sniffed, turning his shoulders inwards. “We aren’t strangers anymore, ‘kay? So it ain’t stranger-danger, or whatever. It’s me, my friend from high-school, and his brother's friend.”
“A world record is impressive.”
“That’s not the point! Look, if I give you my number, would you at least think about it?”
Kiyotaka paused again. It wasn’t an idea he was comfortable with at all.
…But something inside of him didn’t want to just reject it.
“Fine,” he said, holding back a smile as Leon's demeanor instantly perked up again, grinning as he fished inside his jacket pockets for presumably his phone. “But I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to help you.”
“You’re such a life saver. Or, you will be, if you do this,” Leon winked at him. “Which I’m sure you will. Trust me dude, you won’t regret it.”
Kiyotaka gave him a weak yet forceful smile, nodding quickly. He really hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed when Kiyotaka inevitably bailed.
But he certainly would at least think about it.
Leon paced back and forth in the box he was allocated out of their practice space in Hiro’s garage, between old paint cans and crates of gardening equipment and a mangled bicycle.
His guitar lead snaked across the concrete floor, wriggling between his Fender Stratocaster and the stack of amplifiers they’d set up in the corner for himself, his mic, and Hiro’s bass.
Hiro was sitting on the floor cross legged, his navy-blue bass draped over his lap, fiddling with one of the tuner pegs. Behind him, further back, close to the door which led from the garage to Hiro’s cramped kitchen, was the drumkit they’d set up for Mondo.
It was beaten up and so old it was probably considered vintage, but Hiro’s mom had gotten it for an absolute steal of a price at a neighbours garage sale. For what it was worth, the sound was still great, and Leon thought it added to the punk-rock authenticity of the band.
Mondo had both drumsticks in one hand, his other occupied with his phone, which he was aggressively jabbing at with an oversized thumb.
Eventually, he shoved it back into his pocket, mumbling to himself something about bad customers.
“So, Kuwata,” Mondo called, nodding his head up. “Why’d you say we had to practice today?”
Leon stopped his pacing. After his unexpected meeting with Ishimaru earlier, he’d immediately texted the guys, asking them for a practice session. He needed to break the news that their asses were saved for battle of the bands.
…And that he’d asked someone else to join the band without consulting them first.
On the first time he’d ever met him.
“I have something to tell you guys.”
The two looked at him expectantly.
Well, Mondo looked expectant. Hiro looked kind of dazed, his eyes half closed. Judging by the fact it was four PM, Leon suspected he’d probably only woken up an hour ago.
He took a deep breath, then flashed a bright smile at them both. “So, I met this guy today.”
“Shit man,” Hiro nodded, leaning back on his hands. “Congratulations, I mean. I didn't think you swung that way.”
“No, dumbass,” he rolled his eyes. “I’m not gay. What I meant was I met this guy in the practice rooms at Hope’s Peak. He was playing guitar really well. Almost as good as I can!”
Mondo’s expression hardened, and he nodded towards him, wordlessly signalling for him to continue.
“And I think he could be our new guitarist.”
The half-asleep look vanished from Hiro as his eyes widened on him. Mondo's brow furrowed. He said nothing, rolling his shoulders to crack his knuckles.
Leon maintained a smile, but his eyes twitched. The silence wasn’t helping his confidence at all. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. But he’s really good! He’s gonna come down tomorrow, see if he can play along with some of our stuff-”
Mondo scowled. “You told him to come already?”
Leon scratched the back of his neck. “Well, yeah. I told him we’re needing a guitarist, and he could join.”
“We don’t need another guitarist. We’re a set as we are! If we need someone else, we can pick them together!” Mondo shouted. His temper was quickly wearing thin, as usual. It was normally aimed at Hiro though, for not tuning properly or being “too jazz-funk”, not at Leon. He swallowed hard.
“But we’re desperate! I’m serious about winning the battle of the bands, man.”
Mondo rolled his eyes. “No, you’re serious about trying to impress that Maizono chick. An agreement’s an agreement, dude. No inviting anyone to the band unless everyone is cool with him.”
Leon sighed, pressing open the seal on his energy drink with a satisfying crack. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But we seriously need someone, and this guy was honestly a menace on guitar.”
“You heard him play?” Hiro asked, but his voice sounded skeptical.
He nodded enthusiastically, trying to be convincing. “I accidentally walked in on him and we got talking, then he showed me a shit tonne of stuff he knows how to play. It was honestly lame, but the talent was there. Not as good as me, but y’know,” he shrugged, taking a sip. “It’s better than nothing.”
“What kinda guitar does he have?”
Leon let out a short laugh, scratching the back of his neck. This was already going down like a lead balloon, and the daggers Mondo was glaring into him didn't make the conversation any easier. “Well uh, that’s the thing. He was playing a classical guitar, but-”
“You’re fucking with us.” Mondo groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’ve gotta be. You asked some random to not even try out for us, but to join the band straight up, with a fucking classical guitar?”
“Dude, give it a chance! I think this could be what we need! I’ll lend him some of my gear, we can just start with chords, it’ll be an advancement!”
Mondo grit his teeth. “You’re so full of shit, Kuwata. How many damn times do we need to remind you this ain’t your band? It’s a team. A gang. Not something willy-nilly anyone can join like a damn after-school club.”
“You’re not listening! We need this, dude. You know we do. It’s not gonna be the same again, but we can’t keep going like this! One guitar never sounded good. Not since…” Leon trailed off, biting his lip.
Unconvinced, Mondo slammed his drum-stool backwards, marching himself towards the back door in the garage that led back to Hiro’s kitchen, grumbling something under his breath that sounded like an insult.
Hiro let out a long sigh, rocking back on his heels. “If it helps, I think it’s a good idea.”
He could tell he didn’t mean it, and Hiro’s support wouldn’t really change anything either way. “Thanks, Hiro.” Leon responded, his voice flat.
He knew Mondo had a point. Back when their last replacement guitarist left right before a gig in their freshman year, flaking at the last minute, they’d made a promise that they’d only let other people into the band if everyone was okay with it. She’d been another one of Leon's shitty ex girlfriends, who had a great deal of skill but a huge lack of loyalty, to both the band and Leon.
So it was technically his fault for letting her play with them. But how was he supposed to know? She was hot as shit and made them appeal to a bigger audience. Girls didn’t often listen to all-boy bands unless they were boybands, which was totally different from Electric Blue. They were hardcore, not some dance-around pansies.
Regardless, nobody was ever truly going to replace their original guitarist. Not in Mondo’s eyes, at least.
They couldn’t just avoid it forever, though. If they wanted their band to get anywhere, Leon couldn’t do lead guitar and rhythm guitar all on his own, as well as managing the vocals. It worked for recordings, but it lost half the vibrance live. And with the battle of the bands right around the corner they needed whatever help they could get.
He wanted to win. So badly. Not just to impress Maizono, even though that was definitely a plus side, but to prove a point. To his parents, to his coach, to everyone who said he should stick to what he knows. Stick to baseball. Give up music.
Like hell was he gonna let one of Mondo's tantrums fuck this up for him.
The rest of Kiyotaka’s day was peaceful, to a degree. He left the practice room to Leon, choosing instead to read in the library for the remainder of his free time, and had completed the rest of his classes relatively painlessly.
Aside from being the only one in his tutorial who had done the work, and a small misunderstanding with a female classmate of his, who he didn’t understand when she had apparently made a joke, and she proceeded to make fun of his speech mannerisms to her friends.
Seriously, he thought people would have matured at least a little, and left that kind of behaviour in high-school.
Kiyotaka was aware he spoke strange, just as he was aware that he walked with an uptight posture, that he wrote in traditional cursive, and that he prioritised things differently to his classmates. Whilst it was all things they could criticise him for, he also knew he was really in the right for it. They were all healthy, beneficial habits, which mattered more in the long run than conforming to modern-day standards of poor posture and sloppy handwriting.
It did get rather tiring to continuously defend it, though.
His evening routine was always the same; when he got home, he got changed. He would attend the gym for an hour, push/pull/legs split weekly, then return to his dorm again. He would shower, cook something as nutritional as he could manage on a student loan diet for dinner, and then settle in to study. One hour recapping what he had covered in class that day, one hour attempting further work, and then it would be time to sleep.
A routine he could follow, rinse and repeat. Three months of similarity.
As he stared at his economics textbook, he rested his head in one hand, gripping at his hair. He’d reread the same sentence four times now, yet he still wasn’t processing any of the information written down.
Today had been different, a break in his usual routine, because of that one small interaction with that boy.
He kept thinking about it. Honestly, he was still quite touched at the fact Leon had liked his playing, even if he didn’t appreciate being walked in on. And that small interaction - a positive, friendly interaction, where the other party was actually interested in what he was doing, was really quite heartwarming.
It was only one conversation, and the shame over feeling so moved by something so small made a warmth grow in his chest.
The shame grew heavier when he recalled how needy the boy had seemed. If he was some kind of punk like he appeared to be, Kiyotaka could only assume how important this music was to him. Not to be stereotypical, but people who liked that kind of thing tended to have harsher backgrounds.
He felt bad that he couldn;t be of any use to him, even if he was a stranger, and felt even worse at the fact he’d likely gotten his hopes up. What if Leon had already told the other members of this band, and they were all expecting his arrival tomorrow, and he let down a whole group of deprived teenagers?!
Kiyotaka glanced at his phone, sitting silently in the corner of his desk.
What if he didn’t have to let them down?