Chapter Text
It wasn’t pouring—just a steady glaze of rain, like the sky couldn’t quite commit. The streets gleamed, blurred by neon signs and city smog, every puddle reflecting a version of the night that didn’t quite exist.
Kirishima Eijirou walked with his head tucked slightly down, trumpet case slung over one shoulder, the other hand jammed in his jacket pocket. The chill didn’t bother him. He liked this kind of rain—quiet, soft, the kind that made the world feel like it was waiting for something to happen.
His shoes tapped out a slow rhythm on the cracked pavement. Not nervous. Not exactly. Just… alive. Wound up. Hopeful in a way he didn’t like to name out loud.
He turned the corner, and there it was.
The Velvet Tank.
The sign buzzed low and red above the door, flickering once every few seconds like a slow heartbeat. The building itself was old brick, one window boarded, another fogged by years of cigarette smoke that never fully left. He could hear the thrum of bass and laughter even from outside.
The place had history.
Some said Coltrane’s cousin played here once, or that a world-class vocalist got her start here behind the bar between sets. It wasn’t just a bar. It was a crucible. If you stepped on that stage, you were either making something real, or you were about to get swallowed whole.
Kirishima pulled the door open.
Warmth hit him first—liquor, old wood, that subtle electricity of live music in the air. The lighting was low, everything tinged in gold and red. The stage stood at the far end, elevated just enough to command attention but not so high that it separated you from the crowd.
He walked past familiar faces—drummers, guitarists, singers—some lounging in booths, some setting up, others already a few drinks in. They nodded at him. A few smiled. He wasn’t a stranger here, but he wasn’t a regular either. Not yet.
And there, already at the bar, like a ghost that’d been summoned by the sound of tuning strings—was him.
Katsuki Bakugou.
The pianist.
Kirishima froze for half a second, caught off guard by how real he looked in person. Like he belonged in sharper lighting. In headlines. Not here, half-silhouetted by a flickering red lamp and nursing a glass of water like it owed him something.
People noticed him, of course. Some whispered. Some pretended not to look.
Because Bakugou didn’t show up casually.
He didn’t play unless he meant to.
And from what Kirishima could tell, he wasn’t playing tonight.
His shoulders were too still. No twitch in his fingers, no shift in his eyes when the band changed tempo. Just tension. Quiet and coiled. Like someone holding back something sharp.
The battered Steinway upright was already onstage, waiting. Untouched.
Kirishima exhaled slow. Steeled himself.
He’d been here before.
Not just to listen—though he’d done that too, tucked in the back, letting the sound wash over him like heat. Watching. Studying. Dreaming about when he’d be ready to step up and speak for real.
The first time he played, it hadn’t gone well.
He’d choked on the second chorus. Lost the pocket. A whole solo dropped an octave too soon. He’d left before the crowd finished clapping, convinced it was pity, not praise.
But he came back.
A second set. Then a third. Each time a little steadier. A little braver. He’d earned nods, handshakes. Even a smile or two.
Still—he hadn’t played here in over a year.
He didn’t know why it was tonight. Why his feet had brought him back like this. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was something in the air.
Or maybe it was just time.
He made his way to the sign-up sheet by the emcee’s stand, each step through the golden haze of The Velvet Tank drawing him closer to something he didn’t fully understand yet.
But he could feel it.
The night was setting up for something.
Whatever this night became, it would begin with him.
He wrote his name on the signup sheet with hands that didn’t quite tremble—but didn’t quite feel steady either.
Eijirou Kirishima, solo horn.
The emcee gave him a nod, then moved to call up the next name on the list.
He wasn’t on for a while. Three, maybe four players ahead of him.
Kirishima made his way to the bar, set his trumpet case carefully by the stool, and ordered a whiskey—neat. Something about the heat of it helped settle the swirl in his chest.
He sipped slowly, listening.
The first act was a duo, upright bass and alto sax. Smooth, a little too clean for Kirishima’s taste, but technically sharp. The crowd gave polite applause.
Next came a vocalist. Young, nervous, a little pitchy—but with a voice like crushed velvet and the guts to try something new with an old Motown standard. She got a real cheer at the end. Kirishima clapped loudest.
Third was a guitarist with fingers like quicksilver and no sense of restraint. His solos went on too long. The crowd murmured when he left, distracted, unimpressed.
Kirishima stayed quiet through it all, letting the whiskey settle in his blood. The bar was warm and worn in, like a favorite coat that didn’t quite fit anymore. He watched the stage, the crowd, the way energy moved like breath across a room.
And then, always, his eyes drifted back to the bar.
To him.
Bakugou hadn’t moved. Still seated. Still watching.
What is he waiting for?
Kirishima’s stomach twisted. Not fear, focus. Pressure and possibility tangled together.
He turned back to the stage. Tried to breathe.
Play like the note matters. Like it hurts if you don’t play it right. That’s all.
The emcee stepped up again.
“Next up, we’ve got a new name. One horn. Eijirou Kirishima.”
Scattered applause.
Kirishima rose. Picked up his case.
Didn’t look at the bar this time.
The lights were warmer up here. Not brighter, just closer. The kind that made everything look a little softer around the edges, like a fading photograph. He stepped around the Steinway and found his place just left of center, where the horn mic stood.
He clicked open the case. His fingers moved on instinct, checking valves, adjusting the mouthpiece. Not rushed. Not slow. Just intentional.
The bassist gave him a small nod. The drummer waited, still and silent.
Kirishima closed his eyes for one long second.
He thought of the first time he played for a real crowd—some tiny upstairs room with terrible acoustics and a mic that kept cutting out. He’d rushed everything, every note spilling over itself in his panic to sound like he belonged.
Afterward, his teacher had clapped him on the back and said, “You don’t play to prove you’re good. You play to tell the truth. So tell it.”
That stuck. Even now. Especially now.
He could feel the room behind him.
Low conversation. A drink being set down. Laughter barely held in the throat.
And somewhere deeper—like a current under all the noise—
Bakugou.
Watching.
What the hell does he see when he looks at me?
He stepped up to the mic. Trumpet in hand.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t introduce himself.
Just let the silence stretch, just long enough.
And then—
He played the first note.
It was soft. Barely there.
A note with no armor. A thread pulled from somewhere deep.
Then came another, fragile and slow, like he was trying to piece something back together that had been broken too long.
He played like he was searching.
Not for applause, not for approval.
For something real.
The drummer brushed the snare like a whisper. The bassist followed with ghosted pulses. The room listened.
Kirishima’s horn didn’t scream. It ached.
Every breath was careful. Every phrase a question.
Down at the bar, Bakugou hadn’t moved.
But his eyes were fixed. His glass was empty.
And he was listening.
Kirishima didn’t see it—too lost in the music, too busy pulling memories and longing through the bell of his horn.
But he felt something shift.
The sadness turned. The pain warmed. The groove deepened.
His next note soared.
Clear. Strong. Still trembling at the edges.
And then—
The piano answered.
Bakugou didn’t ease in. He dropped a chord like a strike of lightning.
Kirishima stumbled for half a breath, then hit back with a phrase that snarled and twisted.
They weren’t blending. They were arguing.
Trading licks like accusations. Chords that cornered. Melodies that deflected.
But underneath the noise, it was intimate. Like they were letting each other in through the cracks.
Bakugou played with fury. Kirishima met it with heat.
It was messy. Fast. Gorgeous.
A fight without words. A confession without shame.
Then—
Bakugou stopped.
One last thunderous chord.
Kirishima answered with a single note.
Quiet. And complete.
The silence that followed was almost sacred.
And then the crowd exploded.
But Kirishima didn’t hear it.
Not yet.
He was still staring at Bakugou.
And Bakugou, for the first time all night—
Stared back.