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it’s so hard to be good for your age
Katsuki’s performance goes well. He usually leaves the stage with flying marks and he doesn’t expect anything else this time around either. Why would he? He is the best damn double bass player at the whole conservatory.
He doesn’t get a standing ovation but only because no one does—it’s not proper at a place like this. He does, however have to stand there, awaiting the end of the applauding until his feet start hurting.
He doesn’t feel proud, he just feels accomplished. He walks off stage and runs into the person who follows him, that annoying blond violinist who picks a fight with everyone. He turns back around, narrowing his eyes at him when the kid purposefully bumps his shoulders into Katsuki’s.
“What?” he asks, voice a bit hoarse from not having talked for what feels like hours. Realizing just how parched he is, he clears his throat.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” the kid puts his free hand up, with a slimy smile on his face. “I apologize.”
“If you have something to say—”
“Don’t you think letting them applaud for so long was unnecessary? I mean, this wasn’t your finest work.”
“What,” Katsuki grumbles, not quite a question and the kid grins like he got him. Katsuki hates him so much, he could drown him in a teaspoon of water.
“Oh, I apologize, that was quite rude of me, wasn’t it? I just meant, compared to your usual work, this was, average, so to say.”
Katsuki stares at him for what feels like the longest time. He stares at him, until the kid walks away, up on stage, his performance starting. Katsuki stares, his mind rolling around the word average, not quite comprehending it but he also can’t say it caught him off guard.
Well, he knows he did well. He thought so. He still thinks so. He usually does great, is all.
“Go eat a cactus, Monoma,” he says, finally leaving backstage, ignoring the fact that the person in question is not there anymore and can’t hear him.
He doesn’t care what he has to say. He doesn’t even play the same fucking instrument and Katsuki knows at least ten violinists that are better than him. His words don’t matter. He doesn’t matter.
Katsuki does not think about his words or him after he leaves the backstage.
when you know that your work’s not good enough for the stage
Mashirao prepared for this concert a lot. He knows he’ll only be in the background, as it will be mostly Jirou’s singing the audience will care about but he likes accompanying her and the others, he likes playing in a band, he likes the music they make together. And he wants to make sure he puts his best version out there, as he knows everyone else will.
Besides, he likes drumming. Takes his mind off things.
So, when he goes in the direction of the room his drum set is stored in and hears someone playing it, he gets a little frustrated, probably understandably. He doesn’t know why the drum set gets disrespected so much—people think they can just play on it if no one does at the time. Mashirao usually doesn’t mind but it gets to a point and it’s an hour before his performance.
At least, whoever is playing it sounds like they know what they’re doing, if a little heavy handed about it.
“What are you doing?” he asks once he opens the door to the music room drummers usually play at and finds Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, sitting behind his drum set, hitting the trampolines like they personally affronted him.
Bakugou doesn’t answer for a while. Mashirao likes to think he’s a patient person but there’s a difference between patient and a doormat and again, his performance starts in an hour.
He practically tears one of the drumsticks out of Bakugou’s hands who then finally looks up at him. Mashirao kind of wishes he didn’t—if looks could kill, he’d probably be dead right now.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he barks, which means he at least understood the question.
“This is my drum set, and I need it,” he states calmly, hoping that it’ll be enough to get the other to leave. It isn’t, of course.
“Why? It’s still string instruments ‘til like, eight,” Bakugou tells him as if Mashirao doesn’t know that.
“Shouldn’t you be there?” Mashirao asks him instead of pointing that out and Bakugou looks taken aback for a few seconds, like he’s surprised Mashirao recognized him.
“I’ve already played,” Bakugou shrugs, trying to take the drumstick back—which, the audacity—but Mashirao leans out of his reach. Bakugou sneers at him.
The guy’s damn lucky he’s a good bassist and has the face of a model because his attitude is awful.
(A part of Mashirao is disappointed by it—he’s heard enough rumours but a small, silly part of him had imagined a situation where he would interact with the Bakugou Katsuki and it’d go well, and Bakugou would maybe even be kind to him and he could maybe, just maybe crack the other’s mask enough to see behind. He didn’t really consider himself an idealist, always having his feet on the ground but in his occasional daydreams, he lets himself float a little, a few feet off the ground, just to see what it feels like.)
“That’s a shame. I would’ve loved to hear you, you’re usually pretty good up there,” Mashirao admits, even though he has already decided he doesn’t like the guy. He’s somehow worse than the rumours, actually. Still, that doesn’t matter because there’s a sense of solidarity at a conservatory that he wouldn’t give up for anything and that usually includes being nice to each other—which is something Bakugou doesn’t seem to be aware of or at least decided to ignore.
“Pretty good, huh?” Bakugou asks back and Mashirao narrows his eyes because he sounds, bitter, somehow? He starts laughing then, strained and Mashirao can’t help but take a step back in surprise. “Pretty good, yeah. I’m pretty good.”
What the fuck is this guy’s problem?
you got the skills of an idiot who got too much praise
“Whatever,” Katsuki stands up, letting the drumstick fall on the ground. “You can have the damn drum set. Good luck out there, or whatever.
He starts walking away, pushing his hands into his pockets, trying to imitate nonchalance after that absolute disaster of a reaction to someone praising him but the drummer kid, another blond because of course, calls after him.
“Wait,” he catches Katsuki’s wrist who flinches away at the touch. He feels his pulse skyrocketing because why do these people think it’s okay to just keep touching him, dammit. “Um, you wanna talk about it, or—”
Now, Katsuki can’t say he’s well mannered, no. He is usually fairly well composed, though—music and years of practice help with that. Being on the verge of tears or a fucking meltdown for all he knows certainly does not.
“Talk about it? Please,” Katsuki laughs and it’s still strained but the kid doesn’t look so scared of that anymore. “What would you even say? I mean, fuck, if I’m average, you’re like, trash, practically,” he shakes his head, tone bitter and he feels himself get angrier by the second, “If I’m average, literally no one deserves to be at this damn school. If I’m average, then who is good, huh? Who the fuck is—” he bursts out and he doesn’t see the guy’s reaction because his vision starts to blur and his damn ear rings and he hates hates hates—
The guy starts drumming. It’s an Arctic Monkey song which Katsuki knows and recognizes and it’s not exactly calming but it is grounding and he catches himself listening to the beat and the guy’s, frankly, horrible voice with which he sings the lyrics. He shakes his head, trying to get the heaviness of his eyelids to go away and stares at the guy behind the drum set instead who is, by all means, average. Like, he’s not bad. Simply not that good either.
Katsuki wonders for a second if that’s what people thought when he was on stage, playing Schubert’s Arpeggione Sonata instead of a half-good alternative band when the guy switches songs, this time playing My Chemical Romance and Katsuki would be lying if he would say that doesn’t distract him from his thoughts.
His voice isn’t any better than the drummer kid’s but he does join him anyway, singing along to The Sharpest Lives, first, lowly, then a bit louder, until the damn drumming session turns into half-a-concert and Katsuki feels his heartbeat slow, matching the rhythm of the music.
so if you need a failure, you can ask where the nearest is
Mashirao likes to think of himself as patient and thick-skinned—so many times has it been thrown at him that he’s average, plain, that he likes to believe that he’s used to it. He doesn’t even register it as an insult, just a general truth of life.
Or at least, he likes to think so.
Bakugou is clearly different. He cannot bear the thought of being average. Of being someone like Mashirao.
He likes to think of himself as patient and thick-skinned but the thicker skin is, the more gaps there will have to be between plates so the person can move and it is not impossible to get under the skin with a comment through the gaps. Clearly.
Bakugou has quieted down, playing with one of Mashirao’s drumsticks, his back to the wall as he sits with his legs pulled up, so his knees are closer to his chest. He doesn’t look at Mashirao but he’s still humming Mama, seemingly not even noticing that he’s doing it and Mashirao tries to feel accomplished that he was able to help him calm down. He thinks about leaving him behind and taking his drum set backstage, which he should’ve done ten minutes ago but he doesn’t. He keeps staring at Bakugou and wonders why he thinks it would be so damn bad to be average.
He isn’t, is the thing. He’s anything but. Mashirao has no idea why he could ever think of himself as average but that’s not the point, the point is that the mere idea caused him to react like that and it’s just—
Mashirao likes to think of himself as patient and thick-skinned. Sure, the comment already got under his skin through the gaps but he’s still patient. He could get it out from where it entered, through the gaps because he’s patient. He shouldn’t let this get to him, mostly because it’s not about him and also because he doesn’t have the time or the energy for this.
“You know,” he murmurs and winces at how he sounds, “I always thought about what it would be like to talk with you.”
Bakugou turns to him, slowly, almost mechanically. Like, he has to drag himself back from somewhere. His eyebrows furrow.
“You’re kind of what I expected but also not at all. Isn’t that weird?”
“It’s fucking weird that you thought about talking with me,” Bakugou says, throwing the drumstick a bit higher and catching it with ease. “What, you daydreaming ‘bout me or some shit? Have a crush on me?”
Mashirao shrugs. He doesn’t, obviously. Or, well, it’s just that crush isn’t the right word. But he thinks everyone at the conservatory admires Bakugou. He’s more of a presence than a person.
“You’re more of a presence than a person,” he tells him and Bakugou furrows his eyebrows even further. “It’s like, everyone knows your name and who you are but no one knows, well, you.”
Bakugou barks out a laugh and turns away from him, still playing with the drumstick.
“I know you don’t want to talk about whatever happened but—Well, it’s a bit nice to know what you are, you know, a person.”
He tilts his head to the side, not saying anything, just staring at Mashirao, like he’s seeing him for the first time.
“Alright, blondy, let’s get you backstage. I wanna see you play up there,” he finally says, throwing the drumstick at Mashirao before pushing himself up.
It’s—well, it’s surprising that he even remembers that Mashirao said that. He almost wonders if he’s hallucinating when he says that he wants to see him play.
“Even if I’m average?” he asks, quiet despite himself. Dammit. He didn’t have enough time to get the comment out from under his skin.
Bakugou hums noncommittally and instead of answering, starts taking apart the drum set for carrying. Mashirao ignores his stomach dropping and joins to help him because he really does have to get backstage. He should’ve like, twenty minutes ago. His bandmates are going to be so pissed.
“I never fucking said that. By the way,” Bakugou says after everything is packed up. “You’re decent on the drums,” he adds and Mashirao almost drops everything he’s holding. Instead, he smiles at Bakugou, genuine and he huffs and turns away and it only makes Mashirao smile wider.
His bandmates are pissed at him but he’s still there on time to get ready and he ended up practicing so it all turns out fine. And when he’s up on stage, playing to his heart’s content and everyone is looking at Jirou, his eyes find Bakugou’s, who’s attention is solely on him.
As if he wasn’t plain. As if he wasn’t average. As if he mattered, not just as a part of the group but as Ojiro Mashirao.
He smiles at Bakugou who doesn’t turn away this time, watching him intently and Mashirao wonders if he’s idealistic for thinking that maybe this is the beginning of something but his feet are on the ground and he only ever lifted them to play the drums.
As he keeps drumming, he wonders if Bakugou knows that he’s playing for him. He thinks he does.