Chapter Text
Sometimes it feels like a fever dream. The type that leaves you with cold sweats and an insatiable, tickling itch. Something so surreal —so completely, brilliantly profound, that the very facts behind this being Kyoka Jirou’s life are an unfathomable, wondrous anomaly.
If someone had told Kyoka when she was a child; that one day she would be living in the hustle of the city with her best friends; studying music at The University of Tokyo; all while secretly posing as the masked lead vocalist known as K of Ultra Studio’s latest punk rock sensations —Electric Moment— she would pass them off as clinically insane.
Yet, so very unbelievably here she is; standing taller than average in a pair of outrageous platform boots, sweat clinging to her skin like sticky mochi or rice. The air is thick with humidity, music and life — dragging her under, pulling her into this world she so very much adores. This was what she’d always wanted. This has always been their dream.
Mina Ashido is standing —bright and undeniably beautiful— to Kyoka’s left at the bar. It had been her idea to come out tonight. As most of the best things in their lives are her ideas. Mina is a persuasive and coherently aware creature. She can so easily perceive what those around her need, and suggest to them the best means to provide such. The members of Electric Moment—who of which consists of all their best friends, bar Mina herself—had needed this night more than anything.
They had needed this escape, and Mina had offered them with exactly that.
Kyoka Jirou had befriended Mina Ashido during the opening ceremony of their first year at high school in their home town of Kiryu, Gunma Prefecture —an atrociously boring place at the very end of human civilization.
Kyoka had been minding her own business, a single headphone hidden from view with a freshly trimmed bob of charcoal black hair—when the entire body weight of none other than her childhood best friend, Denki Kaminari, had come crashing down upon her, startling her from her mid-speech doze.
The story differs between who tells it, but from its most reliable source it’s said that Denki had decided to get a little too handsy with the blank slip of skin between Mina’s obligatory pleated school shirt and her thigh-high unregulated teal-and-white striped socks. It was a very Denki move, and Kyoka would be lying if she said the apology she had given him in regards to her badly hidden snickering wasn’t a tad facetious.
They were informed immediately after a trip to the principal’s office that Mina was a member of their class, much to Denki's dismay, and to Kyoka's ultimate joy. Kyoka and Mina’s friendship was a near instantaneous click of two very typically opposing personalities. Mina Ashido with her mind-numbingly bright head of dyed-pink curls and boisterous laugher —Kyoka Jirou with her more subtle violet-tinted head of maliciously untameable locks and perpetually running iPod.
It was a love at first sight. From the moment Kyoka’s eye line caught hold of those brown-gold balls of ferocious electricity, she knew there would be very little that could separate them from that moment forward. It was the first time since the birth of her younger sister, that Kyoka had found herself tumbling, swirling, collapsing into love. Not a romantic love —not even at that age when Kyoka’s sexuality was just then beginning to solidify itself in its unmovable place of homosexuality. No—Mina Ashido was different, is different. Mina Ashido is the most anarchic love there is. It’s a Mina Ashido love.
Kyoka hadn’t walked into her first day of school hoping to come out with anything other than a brand-new stack of paperwork and hopefully an intact Denki Kaminari, but instead she had waltzed right into the firecracker that is Mina; her middle school best friends Eijirou Kirishima; and the hilarious and unshakable Hanta Sero. It was that day that she found herself a second family, just as fantastic as her first, just as supportive, and magical and amazing. It was that day all those years ago, that she found Electric Moment.
That’s why, just for now, standing here amid sweaty bodies and bouncing coloured lights, Kyoka's poorly-shielded, overwhelming hatred, for anything that includes far too many people and the over-consumption of alcohol is mellowed—just some—by the comforting presence of Mina by her side.
"How are you feeling?" She hears Mina speak above the obnoxious dubstep music. She’s got a colourful drink in hand that smells of pineapple and oranges. She pulls the straw to her lips and takes a sip while waiting out Kyoka’s response.
"Feeling?" Kyoka repeats back, cradling an ever-warming beer in her left hand, "What? You brought me all the way here just to ask me that?"
Kyoka laughs a little —knowingly—because as crazy as that sounds coming from her mouth, this is exactly the sort of thing Mina would do. Mina has never been one for quiet, and when conversations become difficult, quiet, just seems to be so much more so. There’s a long running pause between her question and Mina’s answer. The kind of pause given when someone is considering their words and their impact. The type of pause generally not associated with Mina.
"I'm just worried..." Mina answers, abridging the gap between their bodies with a careful side-step. Her voice is rich with concern, and it leaves Kyoka’s stomach in knots. “It’s been months since…I’m just worried that you’re all…”
It’s not exactly the topic Kyoka had been expecting, but it’s also exactly the topic Kyoka had been expecting. For five-and-a-half, agonizing months, the subject of the departure of their ex-guitarist has been an unspoken taboo amongst the group.
The event had happened, they had all been simultaneously shocked and thrilled—with the exception of Eijirou. They had been chewed out by their manger, forced into a temporary hiatus, begun to pick up the pieces of Eijirou’s fractured heart, and somewhere along the line they’d all moved on. Without ever having to say a word about it aloud.
Regardless, Kyoka turns towards her friend, the same fire in her belly that had been there nearly six months ago when she'd finally worked up the guts to punch N in the face. The very idea of it had been all the more shocking, because at the start, Kyoka would have never expected things with N to ever go sour. He’d been such a nice guy. A tremendously talented artist with a charismatic charm that had each and every one of them fooled. He had his demons, but they were his to bare, at least in the beginning.
Kyoka hadn’t ever let him in, not really. While the others had excepted N as one of their own, Kyoka had always kept him at a distance, unwilling to let yet another person into the jaded circle that was her heart. Kyoka’s love and attention was an exclusivity — one that N with all his craziness and falsehoods had never gained the rights to. Maybe that’s why it had been her in the end —to do what needed to be done. She was the only one who’d never been fooled completely.
"N was a fucking, filthy, junky, scumbag, asshole, and the reason none of us are talking about his sorry ass is because fuck him." Kyoka snaps in response, but she feels immediately guilty for doing so. She knows she shouldn’t talk that way about N in front of Mina.
"I just don't like seeing you guys hurting over this...and Eij—" Mina begins with a wry hesitance, but Kyoka cuts her off.
"He's fine, we're fine, the band is fine." Kyoka assures her, but she’s sure Mina doesn’t miss the way Kyoka chases the words down with a bitter swig of beer.
It’s not a lie perse. In retrospect, compared to a couple months ago, everything does appear to be relatively fine. Their lives have gone back to being mostly docile. The cracks in each of their individual relationships were slowly, but surely, mending with time and honest communication. They’ve even begun practicing again, though they stick away from a lot of the songs written during the era of N, just to play it safe. They watch Eijirou with a careful understanding —but that’s not really anything new.
"You guys have an album to put together, a tour to plan. I just don't want to see your dreams all fall into ruin Kyo...you've all worked so hard."
Kyoka hums her agreement, because sometimes words are hard when you mostly prefer to sing them. She allows her eyes to drift over to where she can see Denki and Eijirou. They’re out on the dance floor, nearly drowning in a mass sea of moving bodies. It would be near impossible to spot them if not for their corresponding heads of spiky blonde and red hair.
They’re wrapped up in each other, dancing to the overbearing beat of the music. Draped in black, and silver, and buzzing excitement. They seem happy enough —bright smiles accompanied by raised arms and swaying hips. She wishes she could convince herself its true. She wants so badly for them to be okay. She wants so desperately to be their saviour, their protector. If she were K—the lively and rambunctious vocalist for Electric Moment, and not just Kyoka Jirou, maybe she could be all those things and more.
"Aizawa and Midnight are working on it." She assures with a wary tone, "They're just looking for someone with the right sound."
In actuality, Electric Moment has more than enough members to make things work from a production standpoint. With Kyoka on vocals, Denki on drums, Eijirou on bass and Hanta on guitar, they could quite easily continue to make music, even perform, without replacing N’s spot on the line-up.
The problem there was Hanta, who has very little confidence in his abilities as a guitarist. Much like Eijirou, he picked up guitar that first year they all met, under the talented guidance of Denki. Which is much to the contrary of he and Kyoka, who had grown up learning any and all instruments that they could from Kyoka’s father. Hanta says he doesn’t have it in him to be the band’s lead guitarist, and their manager Midnight agrees.
"Are you really okay with that?" Mina questions, a tiny grin tugging at her lips, "I know you're not just going to accept anyone they hand you Kyo, that's not who you are. This is your band."
Kyoka lets out a soft huff of air as she considers. That had the potential to be a catastrophically bold statement. From a technical and financial standpoint, Electric Moment belongs to Ultra Studios. From a circumstantial and possibly influential place, it belongs to Kayama Nemuri. Personally —Kyoka believes that from some stretch of luck and lunar intervention, Electric Moment would have never come into existence if not for Mina.
Instead of explaining this though, Kyoka just waves her bottle in a casual circle and says, “Not since we signed a contract. E.M. belongs to The Man now, and we are just his unworthy tools of musical destruction."
"You're so edgy Kyo, how on earth do you manage saying stuff like that with a straight face?" Mina teases, pressing two fingers to the lines between Kyoka's brows, “Is The Man supposed to refer to Midnight or Ultra?”
"I never do anything straight." Kyoka replies simply, downing their rest of her beer with ease, “And both.”
Mina’s laugh is lightening, and despite the negative turn in their conversation it reminds Kyoka why she’s here. She doesn’t order another drink though. She knows her own emotional tolerance enough to understand that drinking when talking like this is never a good combination. If she buys another beer, she has to finish it. Instead, she opts to lean forward and snag the tip of Mina’s straw between her lips, stealing a sip of the sugary-sweet beverage. The alcohol is strong enough to turn the overall flavour tangy —but it’s tasty enough.
When she leans back Mina is watching her. There’s apprehension in her gaze and unspoken words on her lips and Kyoka has the sudden paralysing thought that maybe N is back in the city. That this had all just been a ploy to get Kyoka wasted enough to inform her that her own arch nemesis was back roaming the streets of Tokyo; preparing to snatch Eijirou right back from under their noses and make Electric Moment’s lives a living hell. Eijirou would undoubtedly go straight back to him, and there would be nothing any of them could do to stop it —not even Mina.
“Hey…” Mina starts, sounding almost lost. Kyoka now wishes she had gotten plastered drunk for this conversation, “You know my roommate, Katsuki Bakugou?”
Now this was an unexpected turn of events. It’s not the first time Mina has spoken about her roommate. In fact, over the past two years he’s been a pretty frequent topic of casual conversation. He’s a mixed-race guy attending Todai with a scholarship large enough to get them into an apartment that’s supposedly two times the size of the one Kyoka shares with Eijirou and Denki.
Not that any of them would know —about the apartment, or her roommate. Despite how positively Mina speaks of Katsuki Bakugou; to the point Kyoka thought Mina would marry the guy if Mina wanted to marry anything at all. No matter the circumstances, the guy has remained an unseen enigma for the past two years and a supposedly well-enforced ban on visitors to the apartment has left Mina’s home life and the man within it an uncertain mystery.
"No." Kyoka laughs, batting the question off with a noncommittal shrug, "He never shows his face around us, and he doesn't even let us come over to your place. Why would I know who the hell he is?"
Mina lifts the corners of her lips to form an apologetic, yet fond expression. She knows her friends have always held a personal vendetta against her roommate’s stand-offish behaviour. It was a peculiar way to be when you were rooming with someone who had once been a complete stranger, especially when that complete stranger was Mina Ashido. The others cared more than Kyoka did —but constantly hearing Eijirou complain about his lack of Mina Time was getting old enough to pull the grudge onto Kyoka as well. Mina winks at Kyoka before saying:
"Yeah well, you know him from what I've told you. Anyways, he plays guitar. He also performs once a week at this little bar not far from our place. His friend's come over and pull him down there. I went once, everyone pretty much loved him." Mina explains, leaning over the counter to motion the bartender with a flick of her wrist, "He's a little feisty, but I think you guys will really like his sound."
“Why now?” Kyoka asks, because this all seems so sudden. Especially if Mina knew this guy was sitting on musical talent all those months ago.
Mina doesn’t respond straight away. She waits until the bartender slides her Gin Fizz over the counter. She chirps a quiet thanks and turns towards the dance floor. It’s hard to tell what exactly she’s looking at, but Kyoka guesses it’s Eijirou, “I think it’s been long enough.”
Kyoka waits one beat; two beats; for Mina to get her fill, before asking, “Why him?”
“Katsichi, is like you.” She states it so suddenly that Kyoka is left moderately overwhelmed by the sheer confidence behind Mina’s words.
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Kyoka grumbles, briskly offended that Mina would ever think that she was in any way similar to an antisocial weirdo like her roommate.
“Don’t look so offended, Kyo!” Mina exclaims, blinking away translucent micro-glitter as it falls from her eyelids to her lashes, “You don’t even know him yet!”
Kyoka says nothing, because what could she possibly say? She’d spent so long now not thinking about N’s absence; the band’s hiatus; and the slow downfall of her dreams. She knows that Midnight and the band’s designated handler, Shouta Aizawa have been looking for a replacement guitarist for Electric Moment, but she’d never once considered what it would mean if they found one. Now Mina was here, offering her a solution to all her problems, but Kyoka has no idea, why.
“It’s the look in his eyes.” Mina says, she steps closer to say it. The music near the bar isn’t quite as loud as near the dance floor, but the proximity helps, “I’d noticed hints of it before, at home when he played to himself and no one else —but I don’t think I really put it together until I saw him up on stage for the first time. It was only a small crowd, a room full of people too drunk to really, fully appreciate him. The way his eyes looked though, Kyo. It’s the way your eyes looked all those years ago. The same way they look now whenever the music starts playing. You both get the same shine in your eyes. Like…up until that point you’ve been sleeping, but then…you’re finally awake.”
Kyoka’s heart rate picks up as she consumes Mina’s words. It’s a deafening thing —her heart beat. The pulse and roar of blood through her veins, pounding in her skull, drowning her in white noise faster and faster until there’s nothing left but dense, crushing nothingness. It drags the words from her throat. It dries out her tongue.
She feels so very exposed by Mina’s explanation —so inexcusably, undoubtably known. Have her feelings always read so plainly on her face? Has her delirious passion, her suffocating love for the music always been such a physical, seeable thing? Or was this just another one of Mina Ashido’s odd quirks? And if she saw it on both Kyoka and Katsuki Bakugou, what did this mean for them? Was he truly the same as Kyoka? Could he be the answer she has been so subtly praying for?
“Would he even agree?” Kyoka asks when the ringing eventually subsides. Blinking towards Mina with a sure scepticism.
Mina lays her hand on top of Kyoka’s on the sticky surface of the bar, “I think he would if it was you that asked.”
“When?”
“Tonight.” Mina says, lips curling and eyes shining like she’s won some petty prize at the carnival, “It’s why I dragged you all out, but I wanted Eijirou to…loosen up before we took him there. This is going to be hard for him, but I know you guys will make it work.”
Kyoka’s consciousnesses was a turnstile of emotions. Part of her was dubious of how very little she knew about this guy, and how he’d done very little to demonstrate that he ever had any intentions of changing that. Another part of her however, knew they were running out of time before they would lose Electric Moment forever, “What makes you so sure he’s the right one?”
Mina’s hand overlapping Kyoka’s tightens like a brace. Their eyes meet. Kyoka can see the unmasked pain whirling like the club’s strobe lights around the liquid gold of Mina’s eyes. Such an abnormal combination of naturally occurring colours. Not quite hazel like Denki’s, but not quite brown like Eijirou’s. Like staring into a barrel of bubbling champagne. Kyoka can see the tears accumulating at their recesses.
“Because this time I’m not blinded by anything.” Mina explains, voice thick with an overheard apology, “This isn’t a favour to Katsichi. He doesn’t even know I’m bringing you guys tonight. This isn’t about me anymore. I’m sorry, but I just really want to try and do something right by you guys.” Mina slips her fingers from Kyoka’s hand and up her arm. An action that might seem seeking to people unaware of its true meaning. Kyoka reaches out to snag the sleeve of Mina’s pastel-blue bomber jacket, “Is it…okay for me to have this second chance?”
Kyoka looks at Mina. She looks at the boys in the crowd. She spots Hanta across the bar failing to flirt with a stranger and looks at him too. By the time she looks back at Mina again she’s already made up her mind, “What time’s he on?”. Mina is a beacon –lightening and hope. Electric like each moment has been since they all met.
“We better get going.”
✞———————❖———————✞
It’s this pulsing heat that reminds Eijirou Kirishima of him. It’s the smell of stagnant cigarette smoke —acrid and suffocating like a memory. It’s the lingering taste of Whiskey Highballs and the tang of an illicit secret. It’s the ghostly sensation of a tongue in his mouth and fingers down his spine. It sends his knees quaking. It’s this brilliant feeling —of falling from a great height, surrounded by cascading light and an impenetrable blanket of colour.
It’s these good things that he remembers, that keep Eijirou holding onto the fragments of what was once theirs. This intoxicating, nostalgic vibration of a chaotic love. It’s what keeps him far away from them, even when his body is right here in the moment.
It’s the sound of Electric Moment taking down stadiums and concert halls in the backbone of his mind, reminding him of a dream —a dream that now seemed so much further away. It’s the sound of a Gibson SG singled out in the sound, clinging to him like a virus, seeping deep into his bones. It’s his all-consuming love for a man they will only refer to now as N —that will destroy him, eventually.
Regardless he is here with them anyway, because they are what came before him, and they are what will always come after. These people —his band, his best friends. They are the wave he will ride until he finally comes undone. They are the love he will keep through his Armageddon.
The 1975 singing to him about how they’d love it if we made it, shifts into Panic! At The Disco telling him they have high hopes for a living; but Eijirou feels a million miles away. He’s vaguely aware of the sensation of hands on his hips and chest, and if he closes his eyes he can pretend that it’s him. Even if he knows in the back of his mind that it’s just Denki Kaminari.
He vaguely wonders —just for fleetingly, what it would have been like if this was the love he was destined for. If this boy before him, or any number of his closest friends, had been able to hold a different form of his heart. If his romantic entanglements could be anywhere near as sound and true as his platonic passions —would his heart continue to form these ties that are undeniably destined to eventually be cut loose?
Eijirou Kirishima’s love is like a secret they say. Made to be a product of exclusivity, but occasionally spread to the wrongest of people. But there are many types of secrets —and there are many types of love. None of them ever mutually exclusive. N is long gone now, but Electric Moment is still very much here. Eijirou can still love, and Eijirou can still be loved. This is the thought that keeps him stationed here. That stops him from floating away completely.
“Alright, Eiji?” Denki’s voice vibrates over the thundering bass.
Eijirou opens his eyes once more. He hadn’t even really realised he’d had them closed in the first place. There’re blue and red lights like a roaring police vehicle bouncing off the walls and the faces of the crowd. The large, overhead fan above the dance floor, hits his body and cools the line of sweat surrounding a cherry-red hairline. Every breath is a gasp of humidity and overwhelming perfume and he is high on its energy.
He blinks down —just slightly— because their height difference isn’t that extreme. There’s a flash of bleached-out hair that’s defining feature is a single stripe of its natural black. He looks down into hazel eyes that are an almost shocking yellow. Eyes that have seen Eijirou at his worst; eyes that have seen him at his best. Eyes that have seen him off stage as he is now and onstage as his masked alias, E. They’re eyes that are seeing him now as he is, a little bit less than he was a year ago; a little bit more than he was two months ago.
“Alight.” He yells back, praying the music doesn’t carry it away, “Alright, Denks?”
Denki only nods his head in response, sliding both hands flat up Eijirou’s chest and looping his arms around his shoulders. They dance like this for a while, as close as one can hope to get when intimacy isn’t and will never be an option. Neither of them has ever been very good with words. To touch is to solidify emotions without ever having to struggle for the right thing to say.
“You know it’s kind’a a huge cock block having you hang off me like this.” Eijirou says into Denki’s ear. They’re close, but Eijirou still has to speak up over the sound of some new Lovelyz song.
Eijirou feels more than hears Denki’s laugh. They lean back from each other, and Denki reaches out to cup Eijirou’s face in both his hands, “The only thing cock blocking you is having a face like this.”
“Jerk!” Eijirou cries, thumping a fist against Denki’s chest. Denki only grins, rubbing the area quickly. Eijirou grins back, because he’s a little in love with him —even if it’s not in the way he loved him.
“You’re not picking any guys up tonight anyways. You’re hopeless.” Denki says, and Eijirou knows he means hopeless as in, ‘hopeless at picking people up’, but it also sounds a lot like, ‘hopelessly devoted’, ‘hopelessly infatuated’, ‘hopelessly not-over N’.
“Denki! Eijirou!” They pivot at the sound of Hanta Sero’s voice piercing through the drum of dubstep and drunkenness.
Hanta is standing at the edge of the dance floor, long hair pulled above his head in a bun —it’s black, like the rest of him, save his pale skin and the coloured light bouncing off it. He’s as tall and thin as he’s always been, standing out despite his clothing by sheer height alone. He meets their gazes through the sea of people, motioning for them with a wave of his hand, nodding his chin towards the exit.
Eijirou and Denki look at each other, both very aware of just how young the night truly is and confused as to why Hanta would want them to leave. Denki shrugs his shoulders after a little non-verbal consideration and loops his fingers with Eijirou’s, leading both their bodies through the ocean of rowdy club-goers until they eventually meet up with Hanta at the door.
Hanta is standing propped up against the wall, scraping black polish from his thumbnail with his bottom row of teeth. He looks up when he catches the noteworthy flash of yellow and red approach him amongst the brown and black. His grin is all white teeth and drunken giddiness. The septum piercing though his nose —the one his sister Masumi despises so deeply— glimmers silver and green under the exit sign. Eijirou is a little in love with him too.
“‘Sup, Hani?”
Eijirou’s voice is rough from hours spent yelling and singing at the top of his lungs. He swallows a little to attempt to clear it. Hanta rolls his eyes in response to the nickname. Eijirou came up with it when they were second years. A play on his name that sounds like the English word for honey. Hanta only lets Eijirou use it.
Hanta pushes himself back off the wall. He looks between his friends, but his gaze lingers on Eijirou with a hesitance that leaves Eijirou somewhat nervous. Had something happened to the girls? Had something happened to Mina? If it had he wouldn’t have smiled like that, but knowing this didn’t prevent the worry some settling in his stomach.
“The girls are waiting out front.” Hanta tells them, as if reading Eijirou’s mind, “Mina says she’s got us a new guitarist.”
✞———————❖———————✞
The streets are well packed by the time the five of them make it to the infamous night district of, Roppongi Hills. The sidewalk is lit in flashes of neon and rainbow. Signs promising cheap drinks and an hour of desperate pleasure are plastered building to building like graphic invitations into a world of forgetting —and possibly—of living.
Kyoka’s friends are immediately absorbed into it’s energy. The ambiance drawing out a certain all-consuming buzz from each of them them. They would have made it here a lot sooner if not for Mina and Eijirou insisting the group cut through the Gai on the way to the station for Jaeger Bombs and food. Now the lot of them were pleasantly tipsy with full stomachs and a certain goal that keeps their feet steady.
Kyoka looks back at the boys —who are staggering just a little bit behind of her and Mina. Denki has his arm slung around Hanta’s shoulder. He’s wearing an outrageous mustard yellow t-shirt that he’s modified with black spray paint and a Sex Pistol’s logo. His hair is messy and crunchy looking from a mix of peroxide, hair gel and stale sweat. He’s talking animatedly about something into Hanta’s ear that has his much taller friend grinning. Hanta’s smile is all milk teeth and pure glee. Kyoka can’t help but mirror it when she sees it.
Eijirou is right beside them, strong arms connected to hands shoved deep into the pockets of grey-wash jeans. His cropped shirt has sheer sleeves that reach his wrists, embellished by spiked studs along the length of his arms that match the choker around his neck —which Kyoka strangely suspects might just be a cheap dog collar. The shirt leaves room to show off his killer abdominal muscles and the shiny silver navel piercing he got to match Mina’s the day he turned eighteen. He’s laughing along with the other two, knocking his hip into Denki’s when he says something stupid.
The streets of Roppongi are just as vibrant and alive as the ones they just abandoned in Shinjuku. The busy sidewalk makes for a condensed and somewhat troublesome journey to their desired destination. Kyoka tugs at the sleeve of Hanta’s [Alexandros] shirt as he attempts to stick himself to the tail-end of a line of youths waiting for Imagawayaki at a storefront –then again with Eijirou when the temptation of fresh Taiyaki pulls his drunken feet to a busy Kurikoen. There’s even a point Mina almost has to threaten a young escort when she won’t take the hint that Eijirou isn’t particularly interested in her services.
It isn’t often these days the group find themselves roaming the bar scene of Roppongi Hills. With Ultra Studios located in Shibuya –the short one-stop commute from there to the club scene in Shinjuku is a much-preferred alternative. Clubs themselves were an unspoken choice of venue that came about mostly for the benefit of Denki, who prefers clubs over smaller bars. Kyoka is the opposite, enjoying the subtler charms of drinking a beer over the sound of laughter and chatting —to the ocean of music and beat. She finds it comforting in a way. It feels a lot like coming home.
In a club however, Denki Kaminari could always be his most authentic self. A self unphased by the traumas of his past and his maiming anxieties. In Shinjuku, Kyoka can see the exuberant and unapologetically loud boy she knew during their twinned upbringings. In a club Denki can be everything he is and more –drowned out by the noise and energy of others –and whether it be Shinjuku or Roppongi, the effect is still drugging and real in the way he refuses to hold himself back. There’s an air to the club scene of Tokyo that somehow overlaps years of hateful comments and supressed energy. There’s a rawness to the person Denki becomes out here that Kyoka finds fulfilling.
A club is not where they are heading though—which should have been obvious—but the boys still seem surprised when Mina guides the group down a gloomy alley cramped between two small Izakayas and a convenience store, stopping before a door marked by a wooden sign with only the word, “Ghost”, burnt into the grain —stained with aged lacquer and seasonal rain.
“Where the hell are we?” Someone breathes begin her, but Kyoka can’t be certain if it’s Denki or Hanta who says it.
Most probably having heard the concern dripping from the question, Mina laughs lightly as she shoves her way through the door, “Just a place run by a girl I went to school with first year, Tooru Hagekure. She was a photography student. She opened this place up after graduation when she inherited the space from her uncle. It’s really something on the inside, wait until you see it!”
The establishment Mina guides them into is far from the same colourful world as the streets above. The walls are all painted a deep grey —almost black— and covered toe-to-brow in various frames pictures and loose Polaroid photographs. It’s a reach from what Kyoka had been expecting when Mina had described Bakugou playing in a little bar in his free time. Though Kyoka may be slowly learning not to have expectations about this guy at all.
They proceed down a poorly lit stairway, ancient fluorescent lights blinking like fireflies as they go. The wooden stairs creek with their movements, but Kyoka can already hear the sound of them blending into the music down below. The sound only gets more defined as they approach a bright rectangle of light and step off the stairwell into a room filled with people. Kyoka’s hand reaches back for Denki —he takes hold of it without hesitation.
The space attacks Kyoka’s senses in a far different way than their usual clubs ever do. It’s just as congested as any of their other hangouts, but there’s a lot less movement and a lot more standing around and talking. The nutty aroma of sake mixed with the smoky complexion of cigarettes hits their noses. It reminds Kyoka of the year they'd spent in places just like this —before Electric Moment’s discovery. They would play and drink until the air grew thick and their vision twisted. She suddenly felt overwhelmingly nostalgic.
Kyoka sees a flash of red in her peripheral. Eijirou steps up between Kyoka and Mina, slinging his arms around their shoulders, "So, where's this life saving guitarist we've been hearing about?" He says it with a smile; a bounce to his words Kyoka isn’t sure she believes.
She eyes him, looking for any sign his enthusiasm may be feign. More than anyone, Kyoka is aware that the prospect of possibly obtaining a replacement for N’s spot on the lineup may be a deadly dose of reality for Eijirou. Maybe if Hanta had decided to step up it would be different.
This however, this was inviting someone new to stand where he had stood. This was opening something none of them wanted to open. This was endings and begins. Fresh truths and confronting lies. This was opening themselves to new possibilities —and Kyoka is terrified that Eijirou might not be capable of handling it.
“It’s best we don’t bother him until after he performs. He’s very funky about that stuff.” Mina tells him. Either she doesn’t sense any falsehood in Eijirou’s behaviour, or she chooses to ignore it.
“After some, Eiji?” Hanta asks from their far right, next to the bar. He’s already ordered a drink and is receiving his card back from the bartender, nodding his head at the man in thanks.
Eijirou’s reaction is immediate and leaves Mina with a proud grin and a straightness to her posture, “Screw you Hani.” Eijirou looks away from them all out into the crowd, but Kyoka doesn’t miss the slight flush up his neck to his temples that she knows isn’t the whiskey, “I just really wanna play again. Properly I mean. With a purpose. I miss it a lot.”
The silence that follows could drown an Olympic athlete. It’s a dense, present thing around them, and only them, in this room crammed with humans and noise and a cloud of youthful ignorance. This is a first time confession for Eijirou. The rest of them at one point or another have all agreed to how much they miss everything they had been striving to achieve. The music was still there; they could still play; but everything they had pushed so long for had disappeared overnight.
Yet, Eijirou has never been apart of those conversations. Maybe —no, definitely—because he had lost so much more that evening than just a future in the music industry. Kyoka wishes she could understand how he feels. Maybe then she could have been better for Eijirou all this time.
Kyoka has never loved though, at least not like that. She loves her friends, she loves her family, but the only love outside those that she has ever known has always been the music. The music was there for her whenever she needed it, the music will be there when everything is but dust; and bone; and nothingness. She can’t begin to understand what it was like for Eijirou to watch someone he loved walk away like that, because unlike people, the music is incapable of abandoning you.
“Yeah, right, because you totally haven’t been obsessing about meeting this guy for two years.” Denki mocks from her left side. Kyoka knows it’s a diversion. She’s grateful for it.
“Another one for the flirt and fly.” Hanta adds, catching up with them, drink in hand, “Least it you bang him he can’t keep you banned from the apartment.”
Kyoka wants to see the value in Hanta’s point, but she’s too distracted by Denki repeating the phrase ‘flirt and fly’ between breathy laughs. She begins to laugh too, the reality of the comment’s accuracy sinking in.
You see, Eijirou’s been playing this game lately. One where he goes out with the guys and pretends that he’s not hurting. He’ll put on his flashiest outfits —the ones that show-off most of his well-toned body. He’ll down three shots minimum; six shots max. He’ll flash his Eijirou Kirishima bubbly charm. The one that had every student at Kiryu High his best friend and every queer man in the shady side of Shinjuku throbbing with want. He’ll flirt, and swoon, and end his night untouched and quiet —a look in his eyes like he’s bare witness to some sort of cruel tragedy.
It shouldn’t be funny, but the annoyed twist to Eijirou’s lips and the deep lines where his eyebrows are meeting is very funny.
“I do not flirt and fly.” Eijirou grumbles, knocking his arms back from around the girls’ shoulders.
“Of course you don’t, baby.” Mina agrees, patting a flat palm over his chest, “Because you don’t even know how to flirt.”
“You should see how fast he bails when he realises a guy actually wants to take him home.” Denki continues. Eijirou is fuming.
“God. I hate all of yo—.” Eijirou begins, only to be cut short by the sound of a shrill scream.
“Mina! You made it!”
Kyoka watches Mina coast a glance towards the origin of the voice —which just so happens to be a blur of brown hair and bright clothing heading directly for them. Kyoka doesn’t even catch the chance to breathe before the person bounds upwards off the ground of strong calves, clashing with Mina in a hug that very nearly barrels the two of them over.
Mina —strong as ever, catches the girl easily, knees bending as she takes the brunt of the assault with unbelievable ease. Both hands hold tightly to thick thighs and sky blue leggings, maintaining the two of them as a singular, unrelenting structure. The girl grins, holding Mina’s cheeks in the both of her hands, laughing in her face like it’s the first time they’ve seen each other in years. It’s a strange thing —watching Mina interact with people outside of their group— it’s so easy to forgetting sometimes that it’s not just Electric Moment under her spell.
"Ochichi!" Mina wails back, letting the girl slip back to the ground before her, “And where’s Izuchan?”
The girl shifts her weight back and fourth from her toes to her heels like she’s using up excess energy. She points across the crowd, not bothering to search, because she clearly knows who Mina is talking about and exactly where they are right now. Mina’s eyes float across the room, Kyoka’s do as well. At the very edge of the stage, standing apart from the rest of the crowd who have dispersed whilst the stage is cleared for the next act, are two men.
One of the men is a little shorter than the other, with dark curls and a forest green sweater with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It’s also hard not to notice the guy’s obnoxious looking red sneakers. He’s talking to another guy who looks a little out of place in his flashy looking jeans and branded shirt. He’s got his hair tucked up into a beanie that’s covering his ears and is cradling two empty-looking glasses in his hands. Mina nods at the scene in acknowledgement, so Kyoka assumes one of them is the person she was referring to.
Kyoka decides to eye-down the girl instead. She’s not as tall as Mina, but not quite as small as Kyoka (no one is really as small as Kyoka). Her hair is bleached out to a chestnut brown and cut off just above the shoulders in a bob a little longer than Kyoka’s own hair. She’s wearing sky blue leggings and a pastel pink-and-blue 80s style windbreaker that’s just a little too big for her. Beneath that is a white tank top that does nothing to hide how well endowed she is in the chest area. Kyoka flushes and looks away; elbowing Denki in the stomach when she catches him staring.
"Guys, this is Ochako Uraraka.” Mina introduces, clearly realising she is yet to do so, “She's one of Katsuki's childhood friends. The two of them and their friend Izuku Midoriya moved here from Hakone for school a few years back."
Kyoka nods in acknowledgement, sparing Uraraka a fast glance that reveals a brilliant smile which boasts two very round cheeks and a lot of teeth. Kyoka decides that if this Bakugou character is even half as friendly as his childhood friend, then maybe he’s not so bad after all.
"And Ochichi, these are my friends from home!” Mina exclaims, proceeding to introduce each of the boys individually. Even going as far as to warn Uraraka against Denki’s often aggressively flirtatious behaviour (something he has matured out of, but she still teases him about it regardless). He flicks her a rude finger gesture in retaliation, "And this gorgeous punk goddess here is Kyoka Jirou, she's the one Katsichi really has to impress tonight.”
Kyoka spins her hand in a wave, eyeing off her own feet rather than opting to look back up at Uraraka again. Mina’s praise fills Kyoka like a drag from a cigarette. Warmth filling her up like smoke laced with fire and toxic chemicals. She’s never been very good with compliments. As a child they had only proven to indent her with nerves. She’s just as terrible at accepting them now.
To the surprise of no one —Eijirou steps forward and takes Uraraka's hand within his. He leans in and holds his lips to the edge of her knuckles in a polite greeting, "Lovely to meet you Uraraka-san."
Uraraka’s smile grows impossibly wider as she takes her hand back, caressing the tips of her fingers along the skin of her knuckles where Eijirou’s lips had just been.
Mina scoffs, looking between the both of them with intense eyes. “You.” She states, prodding her finger into Eijirou’s hard chest, “Are a queer.” She turns her finger onto Ochako, flicking it against her nose upwards, “And you.” She rolls, leaning back, “Have a girlfriend. Stop playing the straight game in front of me for the shits. It’s mundane.”
Eijirou breaks his polite smile into an all-out monster of a thing. He laughs as he cords a strong arm around Mina’s shoulder, ruffling her curls, “Just teasing man!” He gleams, turning back to Uraraka, “It's really great to meet you regardless! Any friend of Mina's is a friend of mine!"
Uraraka mirrors his enthusiasm, stepping forward to land a playful punch against his chiffon bicep, “I like this one, Mina! I know I good dude when I see one!”
Eijirou puffs his chest out in a masculine display that very much contradicts his outfit of choice —but Kyoka supposes that’s just Eijirou at his full potential. Nothing stops her friends from feeling like the manliness-man there ever was, even when he’s got his belly showing.
Uraraka exchanges quick greetings with both Hanta and Denki, and Kyoka can tell she’s not much phased that the two of them aren’t really looking at her eyes when she does, "C'mon you better all get some drinks, Kacchan is gonna be on soon."
***
It’s about another fifteen minutes before Kyoka notices a small congregation of people accumulating about the stage at the rear of the bar. Uraraka notices too, and quickly ushers the group as close to the actual edge of the platform as they can manage.
It’s surprising how quickly the crowd intensifies around them when a petite girl announces the name Katsuki Bakugou from centre-stage. Ghost, isn’t a big place compared to most of the clubs found in Roppongi. Regardless, the crowd here is still large enough to make Kyoka feel somewhat akin to a cornered animal.
She forgets all that though —when who she can only presume is Katsuki Bakugou makes his way onto the stage. Descriptions had warned her, but nothing could have nullified the shock of seeing him in person. Katsuki Bakugou swaggers onto the stage with the confidence of a pro; orange Fender Telecaster slung out in front of him. He doesn’t look up at the crowd, and Kyoka can tell for sure it’s not because he’s shy.
He’s a kind of shocking beauty. He has this unusually pale skin, and ashy blond hair that’s strands pick up the light —sending it white if one blinks too quickly. He’s thin, but lean —like Denki, but taller. He bleeds an aggression apparent in his mannerisms alone. Kyoka may not know what he’s so angry about, but she can feel it bursting off him like small pops of emotion and flaming turpentine.
He stops himself mid-stage, still not looking up as he adjusts his hold on the guitar and situates himself in a casual stance. There’s a deadly anticipation breeding in the room around her. People have gone quiet, even those that never bothered to move from the bar. It feels like Bakugou has a watermark plastered on the crowd. Like everyone here tonight was here for him, and if they weren’t they soon would be. Kyoka finds that her body is oddly jittery.
Bakugou begins to play, and it’s exactly like standing ground zero during an explosion. The type of thing that leaves you quaking in it’s aftershocks. One moment Kyoka is standing between her friends, the next, her mind is a war zone. She finds that her breath catches on every second inhale. That is, once she actually begins breathing again. It’s a deadly, passionate clash of music and feelings. Kyoka almost feels nauseous under the raw power of it. She fears that if she were to step too close, she may burn away completely.
The song is a familiar tune, Mr. Brightside -The Killers, but it sounds different somehow. Like she’s listening to it for the first time. His body moves like fire, his play-style sounds like it too. Loose and wavy; burning hot and incinerating. It dances through the air
His technique is fine-tuned and impeccable. He knows what he’s doing, and Kyoka is remarkably impressed. He behaves unlike someone who plays predominantly in solace and more like a natural-born stage presence. He belongs up there, shrouded in music and appreciative cheers. He belongs up higher —crowds larger than this, people who would jump through hurdles just to hear him play like this. Stages; stadiums; recording studios; Electric Moment. Katsuki Bakugou belongs with Electric Moment.
Bakugou slams the sole of a heavy boot against the floor of the stage platform and changes the song. It takes Kyoka a beat —but she soon pinpoints the song as Take It Or Leave It – The Runaways. Kyoka’s happiness is a bonfire —enormous and smoky warm. This song is music practice with her father on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It’s days spent dancing across the balcony connecting the Jirou and Kaminari homes to the sound of a scratchy LP on her parent’s antique record player. It’s the smell of burnt rubber and the taste of menthol cigarettes watching late night street racing with Eijirou and Hanta on a school night.
Bakugou rolls his hip and swings on his feet. His head cranes back, neck long and jaw taunt. The low fall of his sleeveless black tank reveals mildly defined abdominal muscles and too many inches of skin. The silver of the piercings that line the column of his ear wink at Kyoka under the overhead lightening. There’s gauges in his lobes with decals of tiny skulls on them that are remarkably adorable despite what he probably thinks. There’s also a large bandage covering the nape of his neck, which is an odd accessory she chooses to look over.
The song abruptly changes again. This time it’s BOYS BE LOCKSMITH. — The Pillows. It’s a change of pace that Kyoka can’t even be mad at. He’s playing alone; no band, no vocals. He’s only playing covers, but Kyoka can’t even fault that either, because he’s doing it so well. They’re not mimics of the original songs, but they’re also not inaccurate either. They’re just different. Bakugou is just different.
—
Eijirou Kirishima’s love is like a secret they say.
Made to be a product of exclusivity, but occasionally spread to the wrongest of people.
But there are many types of secrets —and there are many types of love.
None of them ever mutually exclusive.
There are very few moments.
Ever at all—
When Eijirou isn’t thinking of him.
At 3 A.M.
When the world is far too quiet.
In the middle of a class,
Or the dance floor at midnight.
When the world is far too loud.
When he’s surrounded by friends,
Or running heal-to-toe in solitude.
When the radio plays,
The familiar tune,
Of a song by Electric Moment.
He is always thinking of him.
He isn’t thinking of him right now.
And if Eijirou Kirishima’s mind,
Weren’t tinder and kerosene;
And if Katsuki Bakugou’s existence,
Weren’t currently a lighter to his every sense.
Then maybe he would realise.
That this is the first time,
In just under two years,
When he wasn’t the focal point.
Of every single;
Fleeting;
Or nagging;
Always, all-consuming;
Thought.
Katsuki Bakugou is an enigma.
He should not exist.
He is grace on the stage.
He is a bonfire contained.
He is every little thing Eijirou has ever been warned of—
In the form of a stranger;
Of a ghost.
Kyoka Jirou’s hand is an anchor,
A sturdy foundation.
Solid and warm—
As a concrete street,
On a summer day.
He prays to her with silent words,
A strong force to his touch.
But maybe she too,
Is already far gone.
Maybe they are both too soon—
Lost to him.
Katsuki Bakugou’s smirk is,
Liquid nitrogen—
Aflame.
His rolling hips,
An invitation.
For wandering eyes,
And Eijirou Kirishima’s
—broken heart.
He is a distant memory.
Just for now;
Just these few drunken moments.
He will be back on Eijirou’s mind tomorrow.
Of that Eijirou cannot deny—
But for now his body is singing;
Humming;
Vibrating;
The sound of this guitar.
And in a world,
Where he still so often
Screams his name.
All Eijirou can manage is—
—
“Holy fuck..."
Eijirou speaks it like a breathe. Kyoka catches it between the screeching end to Bakugou’s last song and the commotion of the small audience. The sudden outburst is so quietly violent; the profanity so rapidly out-of-character, that Kyoka instinctively squeezes tightly onto his hand. She isn’t certain of the precise time they started holding hands—too distracted by Bakugou’s performance to bare it mind—but she knows she’s very grateful for it.
Bakugou’s guitar falls silent as he drops it from his hands. The object swings back and forth on its shoulder strap like a pendant. There’s twinkling droplets of sweat beading down from his hairline to his jaw, clinging like stalactites to his skin. If he looked down now he’d inevitably catch her staring, but Kyoka can’t pull her eyes away.
There’s this atmosphere right here —in the middle of a strange bar hidden in an alley in Roppongi Hills. There’s this undeniable, irresistible feeling of kindred possibility. There’s Kyoka Jirou —her heart full of music, her mind full of song — watching Katsuki Bakugou stand on an unimportant stage in an equally unimportant corner of the universe, looking like a star amongst mundanity. This moment is music and fire. A sublime epiphany. This moment is so insanely electric.
Denki and Hanta are shocked still on Eijirou’s other side. Denki has a hand on Hanta’s shoulder, leaning into him like a support. He seems affected similarly to Eijirou. His normally pale cheeks are tinted in a blush. His mouth is slightly parted, eyelids lapsed as he eyes down the stage dreamily.
Hanta is stiff-backed and gaping. He looks impressed. Hanta may not be the most confident in his guitar skills, but he still loves the instrument with every oxygenated fibre of his being. Witnessing a performance like this one would be just as mind-numbingly fantastic for him as it was for her —as it so clearly was for all of them.
“He’s…” Eijirou says. He’s looking pretty, and young, and borderline alive for the first time in the longest of times and Kyoka attempts to banish the odd feeling churning in her gut.
“Everything we’ve been looking for.” Kyoka concludes, because she’d rather think of anything that isn’t the desperate sense of awe pulsing off Eijirou’s every extremity. His feelings show like poorly worded answers to a very complicated question. It threatens to eat her alive. She says it also, because she means it.
Bakugou raises both his arms and farewells his audience with a duo middle-finger solute. Turning on his heals, he proceeds to stalk his way back to the edge of the stage, jumping off with a brutal smack. Kyoka can see that Uraraka and Midoriya are already hovering around a table where he lands.
Uraraka doesn’t hesitant in leaning in to wrap her arms around his shoulders, only pulling away when Bakugou’s hand between them pushes their bodies apart. He’s got an awful scowl on his face, and though Kyoka can’t hear him, she’s sure what he says to her isn’t very pretty. Uraraka lays a punch against his bicep, but she’s laughing, which is reassuring enough.“That was amazing, Kacchan!”
Midoriya —who of which is obviously keeping his distance from the pair—nods in agreement. His male companion from earlier is nowhere to be seen, and despite the death glare Bakugou proceeds to send him, the guy looks pretty content. The relationship dynamic between these three is an odd thing to witness this close.
“I’m always fucking amazing.” Bakugou snaps back at Uraraka, “Also don’t call me that in public you Fucktard.”
“Well he just got ten-thousand percent less hot.” Denki grumbles, scowling in Bakugou’s direction.
Mina winks at Denki, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, “It’s all words. He’s harmless.”
“Yeah man, give him a chance.” Eijirou boasters. He swipes his fingers through the front of his hair, breaking apart its gelled strands.
“You.” Denki says, pointing his thumb downwards in Eijirou‘ line of sight, “Don’t get an opinion, when you’re making ‘The Face.’”
Eijirou—who is now making a very different type of face—looks ready to drop Denki to the floor. Eijirou isn’t a fighter though, so instead he seems to opt for stepping in close to Mina. Shoulder to shoulder with his slightly smaller human-shield. There’s nothing to indicate from the outside that Mina is generally the one to throw punches, while Eijirou is more of a diplomatic bystander, but it’s true.
He presses into her like maybe she’ll be the one to pick the fight with Denki for him. She doesn’t. She does however take Eijirou‘s hand in hers, motioning for the group to follow as she leads the lot of them the short distance to Bakugou’s table.
“Hiya, Katsichi, You were rockin’ cool up there tonight.” Mina tells him in lieu of a greeting.
Bakugou snaps his head towards them. He has these slotted brown eyes that come across as more of a molten amber. His look is intense, lip pinched at the right-hand corner in an irritated fashion. His nostrils flare as he sniffs. Everything about him —from his expression, to his defiant lioness stance; the arms crossed over his chest, to the way he unhealthily clicks a titanium tongue bar against his front teeth—blares like a warning sign against attempting to approach. Mina, unchallenged and possibly immune, does not seem to care.
“Oh great, it’s Invader-Fucking-Zim.” Bakugou growls and the eye roll he gives Mina is nearly toxically displeased, “Don’t call me that in public, either.”
“Stingy.” Mina retorts —her own type of brave that Kyoka will never comprehend.
Mina throws a beer towards Bakugou, who catches it one-handed with a graceful ease. She’d acquired it before his set and held onto it through his performance. It’s probably a little warm now, but the bottle still bleeds in a way that matches the sweat clinging to his brow. Bakugou snaps the head of the bottle against the edge of the table to open it, sending the cap flying dangerously in an unknown direction.
Bakugou downs half his beer in a single, long swig before asking, “What do you want, Mina?” Kyoka notes how he uses her given name.
Mina ushers into Bakugou’s space and lays a careful hand on his chest. He visibly stiffens under her touch, nose pent and wrinkled. He makes no move to pull away, but glares at Mina’s face, then her hand, then back to her face again. The hand not holding his beer is clenched, but remains by his side.
The pair of them exchange hushed words that Kyoka can’t make out. Mina slides her hand from his chest to his shoulder as she speaks to him. Bakugou flicks a look towards Kyoka and the boys. Much like Midoriya, they’re sticking to the sidelines, but clearly for very different reason. Bakugou makes an audible tsk noise as he looks back to Mina who responds by shaking her head, talking to him quietly until Bakugou looks back up at the group again —this time making direct eye contact with Kyoka. She holds his eyes, even if it is a little intimidating to do so.
Bakugou steps back then, reaching his hand up to forcefully remove Mina’s from his body. He looks irritated, but when she turns, Mina looks pleased. Bakugou downs the last half of his beer in silence, throwing the bottle in Midoriya’s general direction, who catches it with fumbling hands.
“Everyone, this is Katsuki Bakugou.”
Bakugou stays rooted to his place by the table. Uraraka leans up behind him, chin on his shoulder as she grins at the band. She hugs her arms around his waist; Bakugou lets her, though with obvious distaste. Despite—if Kyoka hadn’t definitively heard Mina mention that Uraraka was gay earlier—she would assume the two were a couple.
“Don’t mind his manners. His Ma never taught him any.” Uraraka adds.
Kyoka swears she hears Midoriya suppress a laugh. Bakugou shoves his friend off. The two of them bicker back and forth a few times. Uraraka has her arms crossed over her chest defiantly. Despite the fact that Bakugou has a good foot on her and a far more abrasive tone, she doesn’t look at all worried. If anything, she looks mildly entertained. Kyoka guesses this is probably just how they are.
“Their parents are close.” Mina whispers in Kyoka’s ear as the two continue to fight it out, “Katsuki’s parents are chemists. Work with something to do with some biochemical rigmarole that’s relevant to Ochako’s parents’ contraction business. I’m not quite sure. I know they grew up together though. Midoriya and him were neighbours.”
Kyoka hums so that Mina knows she’s listening. She doesn’t take her eyes off Bakugou though —who’s rubbing his temples like the argument that he started is now all too much for him.
Kyoka understands them a little better now, because she too grew up with Denki Kaminari by her side. Their two families connected far before the two of them were even thoughts. Their parents’ were high school buddies that just happened to move into two homes apart of the same renovated office building in Kiryu. Kyoka and Denki were together from the very night Kyoka was born until now. They too, argue like this.
Bakugou turns his head and catches Kyoka watching him. The two of them watch each other. Kyoka can hear Uraraka talking still, but the sound seems water clogged and muffled to her ears. There’s people moving in the blur of the world around them, but Bakugou is in crystal clear focus. His mouth is pulled into a harsh line. His skin is supple looking and light. Like a ceramic doll, or more likely just the results of a favourable gene pool. His gaze is analytical—like he isn’t quite sure what to make of Kyoka. Which is fair, because she isn’t quite sure what to make of him either.
This is the man Mina said shares her eyes, but Kyoka can’t seem to find it now that he’s been cast from the stage. If she offers him the opportunity to shine with them, will she be able to see it too?
“Like the show?” Bakugou quarries, voice low and rough. He’s still looking directly at Kyoka. He has to cut Uraraka off to ask it, and now both opposing groups have fallen silent around them. Bakugou’s smirking now; looking at Kyoka like she’s a fly to be swatted, a challenger.
Kyoka says nothing, so Eijirou very over-eagerly speaks for her, “Loved it.” His words sound far away. Like he himself is far away. Maybe he is.
“You’re really talented.” Hanta adds from directly behind Kyoka. He places the two of his hands on her shoulders and adds pressure. Maybe he assumes her silence is fear instead of thought.
“Fucking obviously.”
Kyoka blinks, but Bakugou still has eyes only for her. Even when Midoriya takes some hesitant initiative and moves to try and steal Bakugou’s attention with a quiet murmur of the Kacchan nickname. Bakugou’s mouth only twitches as he continues to stare at Kyoka like her answer is the only one he’ll take as gospel. Like her thoughts are the ones that matter. Kyoka isn’t sure how much Mina told him, but she isn’t sure it matters. Kyoka had made her mind up the moment Bakugou’s feet hit the stage.
“Got something to say Short Stuff?”
Bakugou’s posture is a viper on edge. His eyes are fire and gasoline. His music is LCD and practiced talent. He is an impossibly beautiful creature and it should be even more impossible that he is here.
Kyoka fidgets her fingers at her side and she thinks she might be able to feel it. The string of fate that brought them to this exact accumulation of seconds and breaths. A guitar string maybe, thin and invisible, tugging them towards each other like everything that had occurred up until this point was just useless canon fodder. Battles that Kyoka had fought only to get here to the final boss.
Kyoka takes a careful steps in Bakugou’s direction, letting Hanta’s hands fall. She raises her own, palm up, letting the guitar string of fate guide her. The space between them is walking on hot coals and intensity. There’s a surge that shoots up her legs; in her veins; to her finger tips. Bakugou watches her—unconcerned and solid—fingers clenched around his own crossed arms. This is a positively electric moment.
“Katsuki Bakugou, I’m Kyoka Jirou.” She finally introduces, “And I want you to be the next lead guitarist of Electric Moment.”