the first time bakugo hears you is late at night. his body is sore from the long patrols this week, so it really doesn’t make sense that he’s up at three in the morning. but when he’s grabbing a glass of water with the window open, summer air blowing in the tufts of his blond hair, he hears it. a minute melody, so faint that he thought he must have been hallucinating from the lack of sleep. a soft, enchanting tune that he last heard in the live orchestra with jirou.
his breathing slows. his heart beats, steady, thud after thud that he feels echo in his rib cage.
even though he doesn’t play the piano, even if he’s only known the harsh bites of snares and basses, it feels bittersweet to him. your sound reminds him of dandelions from a bygone childhood, promises that he never got to keep.
when you leave for work tomorrow, drowsy from a night of non-slumber, you almost trip over and crush the flowers laid at your doorstep. little things of budding tulips wrapped in wrinkled paper, on the cusp of blooming. petals of various hues of yellow and red that remind you of cloudless sunsets in spring, damp from morning dew.
you should play the piano more. -K
