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It hadn’t meant to happen, but somehow, the practice rooms in the music hall become her second home. A place away from the hustle and bustle of campus—away from the clustered libraries and claustrophobic student centers. A smaller soap bubble stuck to the inside of one, very large, close-to-bursting bubble: a world encased in another.
Technically, she’s not supposed to be there, allowed only with tentative permission. The practice rooms are meant for music students—everyone knows this—because who are music students if not dedicated to the craft? Ochako wouldn’t know; after all, she studies literature and happens to be lucky enough to snag the last spot in a beginner’s piano class. The only stipulation to her access is that music majors have priority, and she hasn’t run into any problems...so far.
To anyone else, it may seem odd that she’s taking such a random course, but she’s always had a soft spot for classical music. Her affinity and appreciation had grown in tandem with her mother’s CD collection, and before she knew it, it’d become a part of her. As much as she enjoys listening to the timeless classics through her earphones or speakers, there’s something special about being given the chance to listen to the same songs raw and untouched by new musicians.
Here, instead of the chatter of students wafting through the air, words careless with complaints, speculations, and rumors, she can hear the faint singing of violins and harmonizing cellos, the boisterous conversations of percussions, and the gossamer hums of classical guitars.
A cacophony of music. A symphony of chaos.
Like a sweater that’s been worn enough times to shape a person, she wears the music like a second skin, feels it mold to the shape of her being as she tucks herself into the corner of an unused practice room. It becomes a point of comfort to hear the discord blanket her shoulders and keep her tethered to reality.
Ochako sits forward, arms folded across the music stand, its cold edges digging into her skin, a book cradled on the tray. Today, she’s unfocused, words swimming off the pages like shapes carved in sand, washed away when tides swathe the shores with frothing whitecaps and crystalline blue waters. They roll off of the page, tumble into the vast depths of her drifting thoughts.
Her eyes flutter shut, on the cusp of sleep, and she can’t help the wide yawn that stretches against her jaw, a bated breath that’d been sitting in the crevices of her chest after a long lecture on Dante’s Inferno. For one, she’s never had much interest in the nine circles of hell, and in Ochako’s opinion, the idea of nine is a bit excessive, even if it sparks a passionate discussion between the professor and the boy who sits next to her in lecture.
Her brain goads at her to take a nap—just a little one because what’s the harm?—and she squeezes her eyes shut and rubs at them with vigor in a futile attempt at waking herself up. She needs to get through the fifth circle of hell, wrath, especially if she’s determined not to pull a second all-nighter, to the dismay of her roommate, Mina.
And when she blinks, she barely catches the silhouette of a person through the small frosted window of the practice room door. It’s a student—that much she can tell—but the image is so sudden that she’s jerked wide awake, heart swooping and toppling like an acrobat given freedom on their trapeze. For a moment, she can make out a head of wild blond hair and a pursed, displeased mouth, and oops, maybe she’s accidentally taken a reserved room.
Odd—she hadn’t seen a name written on the clipboard hanging next to the door, hadn’t seen a sign that pointed toward this room as a reservation. But then again, she'd been bleary-eyed and sleep-addled, so it wouldn't surprise her if she'd missed a name.
But the figure doesn't move. She stares at him, and in turn, she can feel his gaze bore holes through the glass. Frankly, she's a little nervous that she'll be caught as a non-music student. At the last second, she breaks their little staring game and begins to scoop her belongings into her bag, an apology already settling on the tip of her tongue.
But then the figure moves with a light shake of his head, and he walks away. The door to her neighboring room clicks open before it's hurled shut, and she flinches at the harsh treatment.
She drops her backpack to the ground and slumps back in relief, eyes fluttering shut once more. Since the room hadn't been reserved after all, maybe she'll give into her whims and take a tiny, ten-minute nap—
A harsh chord slams through the wall, forceful enough to stop the quartet that's practicing three rooms down and the one singer two doors down, whose aria cracks like glass at the sudden intrusion. Ochako flinches as it tears down the hall with brute force, and the piano howls with each slam of a chord. Faintly, she remembers her professor mentioning the difficulty of this piece: Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 15 in A minor.
Though, when her professor had pulled up the file to play for the class, the pianist had given it a mischievous flair, notes fluttering through the room with child-like giggles that deepened into hearty laughter. But this—whoever’s playing this now—has embedded a savagery that speaks of unfettered pettiness. He’d meant to wake her up with his playing, and in turn, the complicated tune reverberates down the stretch of practice rooms.
Soundproof walls, her ass.
Scowling, she thumbs the pages of her book and pushes it shut, just as another wave of chords thuds through their shared wall. They shake with repressed force, and she can hardly comprehend what it’d be like to sit in the same room as the abused piano. The way he pounds the keys with unnecessary force is almost heretical, and while she’s no pro nor pianist, she knows it’s excessive.
So she stands, slamming a palm against the wall, calling for him to tone it down a bit. Instead, the song only grows louder, and this affirms her suspicion that he’d been doing this to agitate her. Exhaustion, paired with her flourishing irritation, causes her jaw to grind, and she knows she won’t be able to read a word from her assignment, despite not having the motivation in the first place.
Throwing her things into her bag, she slides it over her shoulder and leaves the comfort of her practice room. Though there’s no competition—just a simple shift in space—it feels like defeat when the door clicks shut behind her. With a heavy sigh, she begins her trek to the elevator, and if possible, his playing is even louder through the door. As she passes the room, she pauses, throwing a withering glare through the frosted glass.
To her surprise, he turns at her appearance, fingers never leaving the black and white keys. Through the frosted glass, she can make out crimson eyes, and just before she turns away, she catches a faint smirk crooking across his face. Startled, she furrows her brows and bites on her tongue to keep from reacting.
Instead, her gaze flits down to the reservation clipboard next to the door, and she finds his signature scribbled in hazardous chicken scratch.
Bakugou Katsuki.
So that’s his name.
Prick.
--
The next day finds her in a different position, where she idly plinks out a hesitant, jerky Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. It’s so butchered and discordant that she’s sure Mozart’s weeping in his grave at her pitiful attempts. Hell, she’d rather weep in his grave with him than play this as an upcoming assignment for her next class.
This time, she’s chosen the room at the very end of the corridor, far from the one Katsuki had reserved the previous day, because one, she likes her peace and quiet; two, she doesn’t want to deal with his frantic, destroy-the-keys playing; and three, she’d rather no one hear her pathetic attempts at the simplest song in existence.
Her fingers stumble over the keys, accidentally tapping black keys, which she knows for a fact aren’t right because everything in C major is meant to be on the white keys—that’s what her professor had emphasized.
She hits another black key—an F sharp? It is— then flinches at the discordant note that widens the canyon between chaos and what’s supposed to be Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Her hands leave the keys as if burned, and she settles them on her lap. Maybe she ought to take a break and read instead? Even with minor practice, her hands feel odd after holding a curved palm for a long period of time.
The door to the neighboring practice room clicks open and shut, and she barely notices when the pianist begins to run through the scales, dancing through arpeggios and punctuating with chords. Just as she pulls her phone out, intent on replying to messages from a few of her friends, the same passion from the day before slams through the walls, akin to a blast of wind on a warm summer’s day.
But rather than the pleasantness that comes with warmth, it toes the boundary that turns a delightful morning into a scalding noon, sun high in the sky. Played with a bombastness that tinges with slight insanity, it bursts through the hall in neverending cadenzas. She has the sneaking suspicion that she’s accidentally chosen a practice room next to one Katsuki has reserved for the day.
As technically skilled as he is, she can’t remember Rachminoff’s Sonata No. 2 Op. 36 ever sounding so ruthless.
An idea comes to mind, one that somehow manages to dredge from the ‘Bad Ideas, Don’t Do It’ recesses of her brain. It hooks on to her interest, and before she knows it, she’s tearing a sheet of paper from her notebook and fishing for the sharpie from her bag, pulling the cap off with her teeth.
Do you always play so harshly?
She takes one look at the message. Then, another. And before she can stop herself, she’s opening the door to her practice room and crouching to check the clipboard next to her neighbor’s door, and surely enough, there it is: Bakugou Katsuki.
Satisfied with her finding, she slides the note under his door. Not a minute passes before the music cuts off, and she hears the telltale whine of the bench as he climbs off. His silhouette pans over the glass as he glances down at her, and she scoots toward the wall, letting her back hit the other end of the corridor. She waits for his response, listening carefully over the croon of Glazunov’s Elegy Op. 17 being played by a lone cellist from Katsuki’s neighboring practice room.
A rustle of paper. Footsteps. Rummaging. A light thump and severe scratching.
The paper flies from under the door.
Fuck off.
Of course.
--
Imagine her surprise when she comes back the next day to find Katsuki already in his practice room, running through his scales like clockwork. She’s just settled on the bench when F major cuts off part of the way, and there's a brief moment of silence that shatters when his door slams open, colliding with the wall with enough force to kill someone.
To her even bigger surprise, a sheet of paper is crammed under her door. She blinks at it, uncomprehending. Then, again and again, because what the hell?
Slowly, she picks herself up, and through the frosted glass, she notices his silhouette leaning against the large windows, arms crossed and expectant. Reaching down with shaking hands, she picks the note off of the ground and dusts it off.
How does a non-music extra like you end up here?
Both brows arch at his question. Non-music extra? Technically, he’s half-right in that she’s no musical prodigy, but an extra? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Her mind percolates through his words, taking time to absorb the full weight of his question. Insult. Whatever.
Pen—she needs a pen.
She grabs one from her bag, scribbles down her response, and sends it under the crack.
How do you know I’m not a music student?
His answer is immediate.
I heard your half-assed attempts at Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
Her face positively burns, and she wants to die. For one, she didn’t think she’d been playing loud enough for someone to hear, and two, that someone being Bakugou Katsuki, apparent ‘virtuoso,’ makes the situation even more mortifying. Her face falls into her hands and she whines in embarrassment before sliding her message under the door.
I’m taking a beginner’s course.
He disappears from the frame, and it’s another minute before she gets a response. This time, he doesn’t bother moving back to his spot, opting to return to his practice room, thereby ending their odd conversation. From the other room, he starts over at C major.
Curiously, she watches their shared walls and listens to the way he effortlessly transitions to D major. Then, she unfolds the page and reads his response.
No shit. I can tell, newbie. Practice stretching your hands. Your fingers are too bunched up.
--
His advice helps.
Of course it does.
What else would she expect from a budding professional?
Their relationship is odd. Strange. Weird. Every synonym she can find in the thesaurus can be applied to her new friendship—or is it acquaintanceship?—with the volatile pianist. At first, they send one or two notes under the door, usually questions from her side and criticisms on his end. Though his words border between civility and downright rudeness, his advice is succinct and, not shockingly, on point.
Somehow, through their shared wall, he can hear her determined albeit miserable attempts at some of the simpler tunes, and she knows she’s played something wrong, when his door opens and a sheet of paper comes flying from the crack under her door.
It sounds like shit. Your middle and ring fingers are too stiff, and you’re rushing. Stretch them more and use a metronome.
By now, she’s gotten used to his scathing words. After all, in her head, he wouldn’t be Katsuki without swearing here and there, even on paper. And that’s one of the things that could be considered strange—not his swearing, that’s completely normal—but the fact that she’s never seen him face to face, let alone spoken to him outside of that first encounter when she’d slammed her hand against their shared wall.
Every meeting has always been on paper with the added barrier made from wood and frosted glass erected between them. His appearance is fuzzy to her, as hers must be to him, and it would be so, so easy to traverse over and twist the handle to his door and gaze at him in person. But something in her wants to retain this mystery and preserve the slowly unfolding enigma that is Bakugou Katsuki.
In all fairness, he could do the same. Inwardly, she waits for the day he barges into her practice room and begins to berate her over her awful playing and lack of technique. In fact, she almost pictures him to look like Beethoven (they share the same wild hair and downward twist of their mouths), spitting criticisms that would let the whole building know about her beginner's status—she imagines that he’d naturally be as loud as his playing.
As each day passes, the expectancy grows.
But he never comes, so she assumes that he either isn’t bothered by their peculiar exchange or that he doesn’t want to shatter this tentative mystery between them. Somehow, she suspects it’s a little of both.
Where do I get a metronome?
His response is quick.
Download an app.
So that’s what she does.
--
Oi, what’s your name, newbie?
She stares at the question and comes to the startling realization that while his name is written on the reservation sheet, hers isn’t because she isn’t a music major. To reiterate, she’s only allowed in rooms that don’t have reservations—a special circumstance for a non-music student who’s taking a beginner’s music class.
She switches her gaze back through the frosted glass, where his silhouette stands in front of the window. From what she can see, he has awful posture, back slouched with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Does he look the same while playing on the piano? Her professor had emphasized a straight back and that posture was important for performance, but she supposes someone could play while curved over the keys.
At the same time, the amount of vigor that tumbles through his practice room speaks volumes about how he must sit. There’s no way he can slam his hands on the keys while slouching.
His cough draws her back to the present, and she scrambles for a pen before scribbling her answer. Her hands shake a little, which makes no sense, but she can’t help but feel taken aback by how long it’d taken for him to ask.
I’m Ochako. You?
Yes, she already knows his name, but it’s always courteous to ask, right? That’s what a normal person with manners would do. With that, she slides her answer under the door, and he disappears to read it. There’s an audible cluck of his tongue as he reappears and slaps the page against the window, using the pane as his support as he writes his response.
And then, the sheet is sliding under the door, and Katsuki is trudging back into his practice room. Picking it up, she searches for his almost-illegible handwriting and rolls her eyes.
Katsuki.
That’s it. That’s his one-worded answer.
Typical.
--
On rare occasions, she finds herself sitting at the foot of his door in the corridor, cross-legged, as she trades nonstop messages with Katsuki, who sits on the other side. Neither of them brings up the fact that there are more conventional ways to communicate, like speaking face to face. Neither wants to break that strange, precarious friendship that begins to bloom between them.
Favorite song?
The page is practically covered in questions and answers, comments and snark, wit and sarcasm, and she’s surprised at how much she anticipates his notes.
To listen or play? I need context, newbie.
That’s another thing about Katsuki that interests her: his ability to create nicknames on a whim. She taps the pen against her jaw in thought before scribbling her answer.
Both? Are they different?
This time, his response takes longer, and she scoots back as a trio of violinists brushes past her, watching her curiously. It’s evident that the room next to Katsuki’s is hers. After all, her door is wide open, Dante’s Inferno lying face down, its spine tented on a music stand, and a book for beginner pianists sits on the bench, flipped wide open to Mary Had a Little Lamb.
All in all, it’s a mess that belongs to her, the beginning pianist who should have no business sitting outside of her practice room.
Then, his response slides from under the door.
No shit they’re different. Playing: Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata 3rd Movement. Listening: Debussy’s Rêverie. You?
She can see why he’d like to play that particular piece. Neverending arpeggios that come with flicking wrists and flying fingers, a blur of movement that requires precision, strength, and most of all, speed. If his playing style is anything to go by, the third movement for Moonlight Sonata is a perfect fit for him—technically challenging and bursting with power. A true presto piece.
On the other hand, she’s taken aback by his listening choice. Debussy? As in Claire de Lune’s Debussy? She has a faint recollection of Rêverie, but if memory serves her right, it’s a gentle piece that doesn’t need strength nor speed, just a sense of tranquility and beauty. Smooth, like a running stream, and calm, like a lullaby.
Rêverie? That’s surprising. I like listening to Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 27 No. 2, and I can play a mean Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
Quirking the corner of her mouth in amusement, she pushes it under the door. There’s a rustle, and she hears an airy huff on the other side. Whether it’s a scoff or a laugh, she can’t tell. Rubbing her hands along her shorts, she waits for an answer. This time, he takes a moment longer to respond.
Your Twinkle Twinkle Little Star is passable. Could be better if you stopped *rushing*. And what—suddenly, I can only listen to songs I can play? And Nocturne Op. 27 No. 2 is alright—at least it’s better than Op. 9 No. 2
She wonders how strong his sarcasm must be if she can practically feel it through his chicken scratch.
What’s wrong with Op. 9 No. 2? It’s a classic!
His response is prompt.
It’s mainstream as hell. Fuck, even No. 1 is better.
They launch into a full on debate on the technicalities between mainstream classical music, ‘classics,’ and timeless classics. Through it all, she learns that she enjoys their time together, and she likes to think that he does too.
--
One day, it strikes her that she’s never heard him speak before, and she wonders what his voice sounds like, whether it’d be smooth and pleasant or deep and gravelly. Or he may even surprise her with something more high pitched! But that seems unlikely, and her gut tells her it’s going to be deep and gravelly, something that matches the intensity of his playing.
And boy, that opens up a can of worms.
That stray thought leads her down a winding path of questions, and it pauses long enough for her to wonder at his appearance once more. She’s only ever seen him through frosted glass, so unfortunately, she's only able to compile a list of what she knows onto one hand.
1) He’s much taller than her—pretty much towers over her.
2) He slouches when standing, even with his arms crossed over his chest or hands stuffed in his pockets.
3) He has a head of wild blond spikes that she likens to Beethoven’s portrait hanging in the music lobby, though that’s an observation she’ll take to the grave.
4) His eyes are a startling shade of crimson. Though she’s never actually seen them, she knows that the frosted glass plays a part in dulling that brilliant shade.
—and that’s it. See? One hand.
That’s all she knows about him, and her curiosity burns to know whether his face is all angles or soft curves, how bright his eyes gleam without the murkiness of the frame that sits between them, or even what his smile would look like.
If he ever smiles, her mind snarks, and she shoves the sass down.
Who knows? Maybe he has a nice smile.
--
Today, Beethoven’s Sonata No. 23 blasts through the door in all of Katsuki’s glory, and she shuts her eyes to listen to the way his notes blaze with energy. There’s a liveliness to his playing—not in a jubilant celebration of happiness. Rather, it’s a forceful reminder that there is happiness to be celebrated, a rallying cry that there are emotions to be discovered in every facet of life, and that one should reach out and seize the moment.
She’s come to learn that his style of playing, while brash and brazen, does a perfect job to reflect whatever thoughts and emotions run through his head at the current moment. Clutching the sheet of paper to her chest, she settles on the opposite end of the corridor, and the top of her head brushes against the bottom of the window frame.
Per usual, his playing is superb, and she takes the moment to enjoy the flair he adds to the piece. And before she knows it, he hits the final few notes, leaving the last few to tremble through the silence.
Why piano?
While it’s just two words, she knows it’s a loaded question when she slides it under his door. The bench groans as he moves to the door, and there’s a slight rummage as a shadow falls under the crack.
A breve of silence passes, filled only by the whine of a viola down the hall as it trills through a concerto that’s not loud enough for Ochako to identify. And when even more time passes, she begins to fidget in fear that she might have pushed it too far. Maybe his reason is personal, and he doesn’t want to tell a stranger he’s never even seen, for god’s sake. They’ve been passing notes for so long that she sometimes forgets they’re barely friends.
Luckily, before her paranoia can eat her alive, the sheet comes flying back, and she leans over to pull it up, heart hammering in her chest.
I like it, and I’m good at it. What other reason do I need?
It’s so—it’s such a Katsuki way to answer. Matter-of-fact and straight to the point, and she snorts into her laugh before clasping a hand to her mouth to stifle her amusement. The shadow shifts as she uncaps her pen to write out a response.
No, no, that’s totally fair. I like reading, and that’s enough for me to dedicate the rest of my life to it. Why do you only play fast pieces? Is it because they’re more challenging, or…?
A speculative hum muffles through the door, and it's enough to send the field of butterflies in her stomach into a fluttering storm. She clutches the hem of her skirt, pinning her notebook over her lap as she resists the urge to let out a delighted gasp at the discovery.
Katsuki has a low timbre, pleasant and deep. She likes it—likes it a lot more than she would've expected. In the forbidden recesses of her mind, she wonders what her name would sound like shaped by his lips. Then, clenches her fists tighter to avoid slapping her cheeks to rid herself of the traitorous thoughts.
His shadow moves as he pens his answer.
They're fun as hell, but that's not to say slow pieces are easy. They can be fucking hard too. Sometimes, harder.
Slow pieces? Difficult? The skin between her brows pucker in thought.
Seems counterintuitive. Don't slow pieces give you more leeway when playing?
She twirls her pen idly as she slips the page under the door. This time, she can hear the scratch of his pen as he writes out his reasoning. In the meantime, she shifts into a more comfortable position since it feels like this will be another one of their longer conversations.
As crass as Katsuki seems—and socially inept at times—he likes to talk about music. Will wholeheartedly engage with her over the nuances of a piece or fill in any gaps left behind from her professor's lessons. Hell, he'll even write out whole paragraphs or draw full diagrams to explain music theory to her.
Seems like it, doesn't it? But whoever says that has no fucking clue what they're talking about. You're a newbie, so I'll make this an exception for you. You can get used to playing any song on this goddamn planet with practice—that's a given. With fast songs, you can let go—go fucking wild if you want.
But slow songs? That shit gets sentimental. You gotta pay attention to the amount of pressure you use to press on the keys. Too much, and you've fucked up the mood. Too little, and no one will hear your shit. There's a balance that comes with slow songs. You think a baby's gonna wanna listen to you keysmash Brahms' lullaby?
The sarcasm is strong with this one, but she sits back and reads over it twice more. She hadn't considered that perspective, and while the idea had seemed counterintuitive, his reasoning makes sense. It's not difficult to assume he's put a lot of reflective thought into his techniques and experiences, so it's no wonder he's able to hone his skills close to perfection.
She likes that.
Wait, why have I not heard you play a slow piece? I thought you liked challenges?
Not a minute passes after she slips it under the door that a loud cluck of his tongue snaps through their barrier like a whip. Startled, she wonders—not for the first time—whether she's annoyed him.
I don’t play slow songs.
That’s it. No other reason, and her curiosity burns brighter than a blistering star. She quickly jots down a short ‘Why?’ before sliding it under the door. There’s another annoyed cluck, and this time, it’s audibly annoyed, followed by an exasperated sigh.
More pen scratching.
Then—
It’s too sentimental to play in public.
Oh.
Well, that changes things. She’d assumed that he avoided slower songs because they would’ve been viewed as ‘weak’ or ‘inadequate’ compared to pieces in presto or allegro. To know that he’s self-conscious about emotions—it’s just an assumption, he’d practically implied it—renders him more human to her. More relatable instead of that unconscious label of ‘untouchable virtuoso’ she’d mentally given him.
I see! One day, I hope I can hear you play a slow piece. :)
He snorts in response when he receives her hopeful message, and barely any time passes before she receives his response.
In your dreams.
--
She lies in bed, wide awake. Not because Mina’s pop music blares in their living room, nor is it because her roommate is belting out the lyrics as she tries and miserably fails to write her semester essay. It’s because her mind’s still in the music building.
Even as she shuts her eyes, flashes of its long corridor and wooden doors and wide, open windows appear behind her closed eyelids. She can practically feel the sunlight beam through the pane, can see the dust motes twirling and pirouetting through the air. But more than that, she can feel the wall at her back as she waits for Katsuki’s note to slide under the door.
By her side, her fingers twitch, and as silly as it feels, they tap out the keys to some of the simple songs she’s learned. More than anything, her knuckles rise and fall in tandem to a light Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. She thinks to Katsuki’s auditory observations, to his brief but valuable pieces of advice.
She wonders if he does the same when he’s not playing. Whether he lies in bed and shuts his eyes, only to see notes and clefs and crescendos swirling across his vision like stars glittering on an inky gradient. Whether his fingers tap to the beat or run across the surface like they do over black and white keys. Whether he hears the song in tandem to his imaginary playing.
She wonders if he knows how beautiful his playing is.
At first, it’d sounded rough and jagged, but over time, she’d realized that there’s a chasm between her initial impression and the rawness and vulnerability that exposes itself in the midst of his playing.
Now, with the knowledge that he views slow pieces as a glass barrier, transparent and fragile, between his heart and the audience, she wants to hear him play something in dolce or cantabile. She wants him to open himself up, shatter the barrier he’s erected to shield himself from the world, and let go.
Without realizing it, her fingers have stopped moving, bunching the fabric of her covers into her fists, and she quickly releases them. Turning to her side, she stuffs them under her cheek in a futile attempt at clearing her mind, face burning.
It’s a while before she’s able to fall asleep.
--
There’s something wrong. She can tell.
There’s something brutal in the way Katsuki plays the third movement of Beethoven’s Sonata No. 17 — a different sort of force that deviates from his usual playing. It’s angry, notes whirling like a storm, each beat thundering through their shared wall and each slam pounding through the air like splinters of lightning.
She flinches at the ferocity of his playing. Even in destruction and chaos, there’s a whirl of beauty that peeks from his skillful technique. Shifting on the bench, she glances at their shared wall in concern before standing and slowly moving toward the raging pianist. Even a few steps closer magnifies the fury and ire that inundates the piece, and it’s almost overwhelming, on the brink of collapse.
Placing her shaking hand against the surface, she feels the tumultuous vibrations shake against her fingertips like the rumble of neverending thunder.
And then it happens.
The piece derails, flies from its constraints, and his fingers have lost the battle against the slow build of frustration and wrath: he’s crossed the boundary into Dante’s fifth circle of hell. In a fit of accrued irritation, he ends the piece midway, and a blistering chord made from turmoil and pandemonium crashes against the piano, discordant and ugly.
It echoes in the lingering silence. She feels—knows—that those in the other practice rooms have paused in Katsuki’s wake, stunned at the bold display of anger. The resulting stillness feels unnatural, and it sends ice shards coursing through her veins. Shuddering, she steps back and holds her hand to her chest and waits.
But nothing follows.
No music. No slam of the door.
Nothing.
Tentatively, she reaches for her notebook and tears out a clean sheet of paper. Then, after writing her message, remains careful as she opens her door, stepping into the hall. Like she’d suspected, silence reigns in the corridor.
Katsuki’s no longer at the bench nor does he appear to be anywhere in the room, seemingly vanished like a phantom. That is, until her gaze flits down to find his figure slumped next to the door, hand fisted in his hair, head hanging in defeated disappointment.
Crouching down, she hesitates before sliding the message under the door. Fidgeting, she stands and steps back. Waits.
The sheet doesn’t return.
Before she can stop herself, she touches the handle of the door, where it trembles in her grasp. But she doesn’t get a chance to twist it.
Instead, the wood rattles as he slams a fist against the barrier. It pierces the air like a gunshot, and she flinches at the sound.
Then, her message returns, and ‘Are you alright?’ is torn in half.
He may as well have torn her heart in half as well.
Thinning her lips, she’s barely able to breathe as she makes her way back to her room, packs her bag, shuts the piano, and leaves.
--
Standing in front of the double doors, she takes a deep breath and touches the strap of her bag. The music building looms before her, and where it used to provide a sense of comfort, she only feels hesitation.
The echo of Katuski’s discordant note rings in her ears.
Once more, she turns around and leaves.
--
As her literature professor gestures toward the screen depicting the sixth circle of hell, heresy, Ochako can’t stop her thoughts from drifting to the practice room. To the slight ache in her fingers that yearns to glide against smooth keys. Even if she can’t produce anything more than beginner material, she enjoys listening to the music students pour their heart and soul into their solos and duets.
Enjoys the transparency as their notes progress in pitch and in crescendo.
Enjoys thinking back to all of the music she hears as she makes her way down the corridor.
And yet, now, all she can conjure up is the moment Katsuki’s fist had slammed into the door, causing the handle to thrash against her palm, and she’d pulled away as if scalded.
No matter how badly she craves the solace of the music building, she can’t go back—not yet.
--
It’s about a week and a half later when she overcomes her cowardice and re-enters the music building. To her dismay, only one room has no reservation, and she finds a familiar figure in the room next door. Pausing, she gazes at him through the frosted glass, and when he turns, she hurriedly twists away and enters the empty practice room, shutting the door behind her with a muted click.
With her heart thrumming in her chest, the bag slides from her shoulder to rest against the bench, and she shakes her head to clear her thoughts. Today, she’ll practice—she absolutely needs to after over a week of absence. Cracking open the piano, she hovers her hand above the keys and inhales deeply.
Just as she touches her fingers to the worn ivory, a single note resonates from the room next door, followed by another and another: a broken, harmonious chord that tethers the moment between them, slowing time until it's just them and Katsuki’s rich tune. Followed by a delicate but bold introduction of the melody, there’s a light progression that permeates the shared wall with an aching sweetness that tugs on her heart strings. It sings with a fluttering gentleness that catches her breath.
Stunned, her hands fall limply to her lap, intention forgotten as she recognizes the docile tune.
Slowly, she stands and cautiously moves to the wall, eyes fluttering shut as she listens to the gossamer notes quiver between them. And then, she’s sliding down until her back hits the wall, head lolling back to listen to the poetic melody.
Is this really happening?
There’s no denying the familiariarity of Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 27 No. 2.
He'd remembered.
It seems like ages ago since she'd told him that this was her favorite piece. And he must've taken it into account to remember such a trivial fact.
Heat pricks at the back of her eyes as he reaches the fioritura, embellishing it with ornaments, and slowly, she realizes there’s something underlying the song—something hesitant and scared but profoundly heartfelt.
An apology.
This is Katsuki’s apology.
For the first time, she gazes through that transparent barrier to find the regret and guilt that tinge his heart. This is his exposure, his vulnerability, and he’s finally letting her in. And now, she understands—fully comprehends why he doesn’t play slow pieces because the glass that stands between them is as clear as day, almost nonexistent.
It leaves him bare, emotions naked for his audience to judge, and it’s as if she’s entered his world. She can feel his remorse in every touch of his fingers to the keys.
Remorse...and something else she can't quite put her finger on—all she knows is that the strings around her heart tighten more and more, squeezing every last drop of emotion from its chambers and sending them surging through her veins.
When he reaches the end, he leaves the final note humming between them—a secret only for her ears, and as with all secrets, she takes this one and holds it close and dear as one would cradle a butterfly in their hands.
A stillness descends between them as it had before, yet this one is different. It’s filled with stunned disbelief on her end, open vulnerability on his, and uncertainty from both.
She swipes the back of her hands against her cheeks, feeling them glide easily over fallen tears, and takes a shaky breath. Her chest still aches with the song, as it always does, but now, there’s a meaning behind its mellifluous poem: one gifted to her from Katsuki.
The neighboring door clicks open and shut, and she watches as Katsuki’s figure fidgets outside of the frosted glass. There’s a rectangular silhouette that sits in his hands—a note, she realizes—and he crouches to slide it under the door. When he stands, he waits for a bated moment before retreating to his room.
Shakily, she moves to pick it up, only to find her ‘Are you alright?’ taped back together. But with the light beaming down on the page, she realizes there’s something written on the back. Flipping it over, she finds his note.
I’m sorry.
Whatever he’d felt that day, whatever had troubled him—he knows he shouldn’t have taken it out on her. She runs a finger down the tape, feeling the sheet bow under her touch. With a smile quirking at the corner of her lips, she writes down her message, stares at it for a moment, and makes a decision.
Leaving her room, she stands in front of his, heart hammering against her ribcage, before slipping it under his door. His silhouette bends to pick it up, and she knows he’s read it when his head lifts toward the door. And with her hand positioned, she knocks twice.
There’s a slight hesitation as his door cracks open, and she finally settles her gaze on Bakugou Katsuki.
He’s more handsome than she'd expected. With brilliant crimson eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw, he appears to be hewn from marble. She blushes lightly, and the tips of his ears turn scarlet as he palms the back of his neck. A nervous energy trembles between them, filled with thrumming anticipation and crackling anxiety.
She gestures to the sheet of paper in his hands, and he huffs, breaking the tense atmosphere as he turns her message back to her.
Can I come in?
Arching a brow, she inhales deeply as a small smile plays on her lips. Then, he steps back and cocks his head toward his room in a silent invitation, mouth crooking into a mirroring smile.
As she crosses the boundary, she meets his gaze once more—her volatile pianist—and thinks to herself that she’d been right.
He really does have a nice smile.