[musical inspiration behind this: November]
“Yeah, I’m on my way. No I’m not eating, Kirishima. I swear. That’s just background noise from the train. Oh, well how about fuck you? I’m hanging up now. Okay. See you, asshole.”
Bakugou slips his phone back in his jeans pocket, readjusting his violin irritably. There’s really no good way to carry an instrument case, especially when you’re holding a sandwich in one hand. So he lied about eating: between sleep and practice and college, when the fuck is he supposed to grab food?
If he thinks about it, Bakugou can’t recall a single day where he’s been on time. Kirishima, the cellist who just called to guilt-trip him, never fails to remind him of this. The repercussions of being late will probably be harsher today, though: there’s a new star pianist Aizawa wants everyone to impress into joining their orchestra. Being the first chair violinist means Bakugou is the one who’s supposed to be doing most of the convincing, but the last thing he wants is to be stuck with some snobby music prodigy.
The last one he knew—a flutist from Tokyo—ended up pissing everyone off with her pre-performance demands. (A whole fruit basket every time? As fucking if.) Bakugou would rather eat his violin than deal with another stuck-up brat like her. Unfortunately, this mindset won’t save him from Aizawa’s wrath.
“Katsuki, as first chair you’re supposed to be here first. First chair, as in first here. First!” He spews off another long line about being ‘first’ and ‘responsibility,’ but Bakugou isn’t listening anymore. He looks over Aizawa’s shoulder at the musician who’s been causing such a fuss.
He sits straight-backed behind the grand piano like he belongs there, halfway through a piece that Bakugou doesn’t recognize. It’s full of lilting notes that rise and fall like the winter wind, both joyful and heart-breaking. Bakugou can’t even hear the music anymore when their eyes lock, his gaze torn between icy blue and stormy gray. His heartbeat is pounding much louder than the orchestra can play.
“What the hell are you looking at?” Aizawa demands, grabbing him by the shoulders and shattering the moment. “Pay attention when I yell at you, dammit.”
“Sorry,” Bakugou mutters, trying and failing to get another glimpse of the mysterious, beautiful, potentially-detestable pianist. “Fuck, get out of my way. I’m sorry, okay? Won’t be late again.”
“You say that every time.”
“Yeah, but I don’t mean it every time. I won’t mean it this time either if you don’t get the fuck out of my way.” He’s coming on too strong, but there’s adrenaline pulling in his veins. Bakugou knows Aizawa doesn’t have to put up with his shit—but he knows he will, anyway.
As expected, Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Ugh. Just… go take your seat. If you don’t convince that pianist to join us, I swear I’ll— I don’t know what I’ll do, but it’ll be harsh, so… avoid it.”
Bakugou ignores him in favor of approaching the stage. Kirishima catches sight of him first, eyeing his empty chair pointedly. The rest of the orchestra is glaring at him in a much less understanding way. Bakugou ignores them, too, taking out his violin while side-eyeing the pianist. He’s like a two-tone photo, red and white and gray and blue. Beautiful, just like the music he plays.
Speaking of music, he’s still playing the same melody… What is it?
“Bakugou, come on.” Kirishima pauses by the music hall’s glass front doors, adjusting the red scarf knotted around his neck. “Hurry up or I’m leaving you behind.”
“Leave, then,” Bakugou grumbles, leaning against the wall. “I’ve got something to do.”
“Huh?” Kirishima shrugs. “Well, whatever I guess. See ya.” He waves and disappears, letting in a gust of cold wind that makes Bakugou shiver.
Bakugou despises the weather in November, and it will only get colder the closer it gets to the new year. Unfortunately, his leather jacket does little to protect from the chill—but he won’t risk breaking his image with some oversized peacoat. Still, it’s fucking cold.
“Where is he?” Bakugou grumbled after several minutes of freezing silence pass. He starts to move, then sags against the wall again. “Ugh… I stayed just to see him?” he mutters to himself. “So fucking stupid.”
“GYAH—” Bakugou jumps, smacking his elbow against the wall hard enough to crack it. “Ow! Fuck.” He glares at the cause of his misery: Todoroki Shouto, the pianist who he’s supposed to have won over by now. “Don’t sneak up on people like that, asshole.”
“You’re the one who’s standing here in the dark,” Todoroki replies, pulling on a long navy blue coat—exactly the type Bakugou wouldn’t be caught dead in, but somehow looks made for this guy. He brushes strands of mixed red-and-white hair out of his eyes, which only cements Bakugou’s impression that fuck, he’s pretty. Seriously, the scales were severely tipped when the gods created this bastard…
“What are you doing?” Todoroki repeats, oblivious to Bakugou’s lustful stare.
“Uh… Aizawa told me to walk you back,” he lies instantly. “It’s dangerous at night.”
Todoroki scrutinizes his face for a while before sighing. He slings a messenger bag over his shoulder and strides across the lobby. Shit, his legs are long. “Don’t do anything weird.”
“Weird—? Hey!” Bakugou hurries after him. “Hey, what the hell do you take me for, huh?”
Todoroki glances over his shoulder, flashing an unusual half-smile that makes Bakugou trip in surprise. “I was only kidding.” He starts walking again, saying something else that’s nearly blown away by the wind: “You can tell him I’ll join the orchestra.”
Pause. “…Huh?” Another pause before Bakugou shakes his head and runs after him, exhaling a cloud of fog. “Hey, you’re not kidding, are you?”
“No, I’m serious. The way you play is…” Todoroki glances at him sidelong. “Well, it’s very nice to listen to.”
“Really?” Bakugou stops for another second before catching up to him again. “Oh shit, by the way… What was that song you were playing earlier?”
“Oh, that?” Todoroki hesitates. “It doesn’t have a name yet, but I was thinking November.”
“Huh. That’s kind of plain, though?”
“I don’t know… I just have the feeling it will be an important month.” The corner of his mouth twitches in the beginnings of a smile. “I could teach it to you, if you want.”
“Fuck,” Bakugou says, softly and without much feeling. He exhales slowly, breath frosting out into a pallid cloud in the chilly air. How’d he get to this point? He was supposed to be 100% against a bratty new piano prodigy—no matter how nice the dumb, pretty piece of shit is to look at. When the fuck did he start wanting the bastard to stick around?
“Fuck,” Bakugou says again, more quietly, “I guess I’d like that.”
