Archive of Our Own

Katsuki's friends have shit tastes.

She knew this already, evidenced by Mina's penchant for garish animal prints and Eijirou's lack of consistent decor minus the shirtless men and muscled women hanging on his bedroom wall, but sometimes she feels it — like changing weather, or the first breeze of high tide.

Or like, tetanus.

Most days she doesn't concern herself with the inadequacies of her friends, but some days it's difficult to not notice — like now, as they crowd around her desk begging her to join them for karaoke after classes end.

"It's a class bonding experience!" Denki defends, and Katsuki scowls as she scribbles harder in her notebook to drown out the sound of his voice. "You don't even have to sing!"

Mina's hands slam her desk, perfectly manicured and painted by the nail decorating phase that Toouru adopted at the beginning of last semester. "She totally does!" She returns with a vengeance, as if not actively nailing shut the coffin of persuasion on Katsuki's behalf.

"How about," she says finally, slamming her notebook shut, "I don't sing or go. Easy." Her nails are painted, too — black and orange and green, with lines that make her nails look like stars and grenades. Girls night isn't always a total loss.

"You idiots have shit tastes. And," she sneers, "if you haven't forgotten, we have midterms next month. I'm not risking my grade to hear Hanta's voice crack."

This time the boy in question squaks his protest, tumbling forward in his leaning chair with a sharp crack as the front legs hit the ground, but Katsuki's already moved onto other things. Such as:

"Oh, I get it," Mina says sly, propping her elbows on the wood and leaning her full weight onto Katsuki's desk — uninvited, might she add — without fear of being shoved away. "You're gonna go see your mystery guy, aren't you."

Eijirou perks up from where he'd been idly comforting Denki, turning wide, innocent eyes onto Katsuki. Not for the first time, Katsuki regrets ever mentioning her record store crush.

"I'm not seeing him," Katsuki growls, though she'd already been making plans to stop inside the store for a moment or two once the clock tipped over into the afterschool period. It's not an inconvenience, slipping into the small nook-and-crannies shop on her walk from the school to the train station: mostly because she's perfected a route that lets her pass it every single day.

As always, convincing her friends of anything is a futile effort: Mina squeals almost immediately, and Eijirou looks seconds away from joining her. "You totally are!"

"I just said I'm not!" Her fingers twitch with the ache of violence, tempting and familiar, but the damage has already been done: the blush rising on her neck, her face, damns her, and the protest falls on deaf ears. By now she's accepted studying as the lost cause that it is, even if slamming her notebook shut over her pen feels like admitting defeat. "I have better shit to do than waste my time slacking off at some record shop! Like studying for midterms!"

The declaration is once again ignored, but she doesn't dwell on it. With her study period officially co-opted by the idiocy of her friends, she deigns to spend the remainder of it anywhere other than here. If the only other option is to fend off another round of accusations and pleas, the least she can do is get a drink about it.

Fortunately her friends don't follow her into the hallway, even if their teasing and laughter spills out on her heels. Eventually the sound fades entirely as she follows one path into another, further from the door and closer to the vending machine, until it's just her and the menu of drinks on display.

"Idiots, the lot of them," she murmurs, arms crossed over her chest as she squints at the beverages on display. In the privacy of her own mind, away from their needling and overexaggerated support, she has to begrudgingly admit that the teasing isn't entirely unfounded. As much as she likes the record store, the appeal of it is twofold — that of the inventory catered towards her niche desires, and that of the quiet-but-passionate cashier who runs the place every afternoon.

Embarrassingly, she also recognizes that her friends are just excited for her. Needlessly, maybe, but not without love; Katsuki has never kept quiet about her disdain for romance, which means her sudden fixation is unable to go without notice. It'd be better if they weren't so obviously supportive of her nowhere-soon love story, but—

"I like the iced coffee, myself."

Katsuki flinches, shoulder knocking hard into the glass separator as she jerks around. The perpetrator is farther than she'd expected, standing roughly half a meter away and looking distinctly uninterested in whatever existential dilemma had stalled Katsuki for this long. Even two years since transferring into Katsuki's class, she has yet to get used to Shinsou's general presence as a whole.

Her responsive scowl comes easy and familiar, as does the impulse to smack the shoulder of someone she's not close enough to allow it. As if she can tell Shinsou's mouth twitches, amused, and Katsuki whips back around to the vending machine with burning ears.

"I don't think I asked for your opinions, asshole," she dismisses over her shoulder, "but you should invest in a damn bell if you're takin' 'em."

Behind her Shinsou huffs a breath of almost-laughter, just loud enough to carry in the otherwise silent hallway. It's the only warning Katsuki gets before there's suddenly the weighted presence of another behind her own, bringing the world to a standstill.

She thinks to react — ask Shinsou what the hell she's doing, or better yet tell her to fuck off entirely — but can't piece together the thoughts to do so, entranced as she watches long fingers press coins into the slot and make the selection for a drink. In front of her the machine whirs in deference to the programmed command, but she's distracted: by the warmth of another body just a breath from her own, by the way Shinsou's height nearly crowds her against the glass, by the scent of lavender and wormwood drowning out her senses.

Katsuki takes a breath, unbidden, and her lungs fill with scented fields. The machine hums again but she's too dizzy to notice.

And then there's a can being pressed to her hand, cool and slightly damp in her palm. When she looks down it's a canned green tea, the same thing she gets every time.

"See ya, Bakugo," Shinsou says to her left. By the time she looks up the other girl is already halfway down the hall, hair falling around her shoulders and disappearing around the corner.

Katsuki blinks at her retreating back, then down again at the can in her hand. For some reason the sound of stopping at the record shop on her way home sounds even more appealing than before.

Technically, it's Jirou who first recommends the shop.

Katsuki wouldn't admit it if asked, hard-pressed to compliment anyone so freely no matter how sensible their ideas, but the secret of it exists between them, the weighted knowledge of the shop now shared. Often Katsuki doesn't take recommendations from anyone when it comes to music, let alone those in her class — she's suffered enough class-curated playlists to find it a pointless effort —, but coming from Jirou she makes an exception. She's the only person who knows music as well as Katsuki does, after all.

It's why Katsuki complains to her one weekend, studying at a cafe that splits the difference between their respective homes, about the difficulty of securing a Western album she'd spent the better part of the year hunting down.

"My ma won't pay for the import fees," she had moaned despondently, and Jirou had snickered while copying her notes.

"Smaller Western bands alike that are harder to find overseas," she had agreed easily, pen clicking beneath her thumb. Mid-word she had paused and looked up thoughtfully, ink staining her fingers, and gone, "Have you been to 'Eraserhead's?"

Katsuki, admittedly, had been curious, and Jirou had pulled out a stack of sheet-music-themed sticky notes to scribble an address on the top of them. "He's a music teacher with a shop off of the Ginza line. My dad met him a couple years ago, but he tends to get good stock from America in. If nothing else, if you ask nice he might get something imported for you."

Then she'd paused, looking up with something sly to her smirk, and added, "So maybe you should just hope for the best."

At the time Katsuki had halfway launched across the table to shut her cackling mouth, but it didn't stop Katsuki from accepting the handwritten location in earnest — nor from making the trip from U.A. to Eraserhead Records three days after at the end of classes. And admittedly — reluctantly — she has to acquisce that it was an exploration well-rewarded.

Eraserhead Records — named by and after its owner, Aizawa "Eraserhead" Shouta" — is best explained as a piecemealed masterpiece of collected works from across the world. Aizawa himself doesn't seem like much of a music buff on the surface, but Katsuki has gotten in plenty enough argument with him to understand otherwise — and has thusly seen the amount of care, effort, and research that goes into curating the global music scene stocking his shelves.

And, notably, he's completely unbothered by the confrontational way in which she navigates the world. It really had been luck that first time that she'd come across the album she was looking for, but despite her abrasive personality he hasn't hesitated to import others for her as requested over the handful of months she'd been coming by. That alone is enough to get him and his shop in her good book.

Well — that and his nephew.

"We got in that new Breaking Benjamin vinyl you wanted," is the first thing he says to her when she enters that day, and she has to imagine Izuku's freckled face saying it to avoid flushing the way her body wants. Tall, lean, and decorated in black, Hitoshi — the name written by hand in crude kanji on his nametag — is every bit the alt-punk stereotype she tries to avoid, and somehow all the more alluring for it. It helps that he's all dry wit and music knowledge, the only person aside from Jirou who can meet her bar-for-bar on Western Hot 100s with idle commentary suggesting his intellect isn't only bass-clef-deep.

Did she also mention that he's hot?

It's more shallow than she likes to acknowledge or admit, but hard to forget in the moment — namely when she grins at his greeting, wide and sharp, and then has to keep from faltering when his eyes squint like he's grinning right back behind the face mask permanently attached to his face.

"Don't act like you're not interested in it."

Her bag makes a heavy sound when it hits the floor beneath the counter, freeing her arms up to brace against the top as she leans forward. As promised his hands are preoccupied with the faded cover of Phobia, a record she'd stumbled across randomly while practicing on her drums and subsequently become obsessed with. Dance With the Devil had gone gold on her MP3 player, and it had been quick work to request an import from the only music shop in Japan that she trusts.

"I didn't say that, pretty girl," he drawls through the fabric, and she ignores the way the teasing remark sparks warmth up her spine. "You wanna take a look?"

"No shit, dipshit." Ignoring the flush crawling up her neck she takes the vinyl eagerly, pretending that Hitoshi's thoughtful eyes on her don't make her fluster worse. It's in perfect condition, as is to be expected, and she sighs almost dreamily at the weight o it in her hands. "It wasn't a hassle to get, right?"

Hitoshi hums, tucking errant strands of purple hair behind his ears. The near-constant of his beanie hides the top of his head from view, obscuring whether the shocking ends are part of a greater die or something all-natural. "Nah, it was pretty easy. Yamada knows a shop in California that was happy to send it over."

'Yamada' she recognizes as the loud-mouthed broadcaster who occassionally frequents the store, an artifcate of Aizawa's past that the man can never seem to voice a clear opinion on. She'd heard his radio show 'Put Your Hands Up Radio!' just the once, and it had left an impression on her ears that she wasn't eager to repeat.

Maybe she would sometime though, if only so the extra viewer rating could make up for having to say 'thank you' to a man with vocals that could rival her mother's.

That being said—"Bet your old man was happy about that," she grins knowingly, peeking up through her hair to meet Hitoshi's eye.

The face he makes in return is complicated, a facsimile of a cringe even when his tone betrays amusement. "As happy as he can be, I guess. He and Yamada are—complicated."

"Hear that," she hums in turn, opting not to pry further. Family is complicated enough without outsiders attempting to pick apart the truth; she would know. "My ma's been on my ass about going to Prom at the end of the semester."

Even now the thought makes her blood boil, remnants of rage still settled in her bones from the last screaming match they'd had over her resistance to the stolen event. Principal Nedzu, who'd approved the annual third-year dance three years prior, had stolen the idea from Toshinori-sensei, who in turn stole it from his time in America. Katsuki — who in her bones is resistant to unnecessary displays of goodwill and camaraderie on principle — had opposed participating in this year's gathering with a ferociousness that still rock the dinner table most nights.

She's yet to mention to her mother that she'd already agreed to go with her friends after a truly impressive pitch from Mina that included a lot of tears and a lot of embarrassing photos. She finds that her mother is easier to deal with when she doesn't think she's won.

Hitoshi doesn't seem any more excited on her behalf, looking similarly pained at the mention. "Tell me about it. Yamada's been looking at suits since I mentioned it to him."

At this Katsuki perks up, finally tearing her gaze away from the tracklist to her companion. "You're having a dance too?"

"Ah." Shinsou's ears turn pink, and Katsuki watches him look elsewhere. "Yeah. It's something stupid my school does. I'm not super fond of 'em, but Yamada is. Something about 'essential high school experiences'? He even got Aizawa into it."

Where do you go to school, Katsuki nearly asks, but holds her tongue. "Are you planning on going with someone?"

Hitoshi, who'd seemed entirely disillusioned with the idea, looks back to her with interest. Even with the face mask she can feel that quietly appraising gaze, and she resists the urge to backtrack in embarrassment.

"If someone interesting asks," he finally settles on, attention lingering on Katsuki before looking back at something behind the counter. Katsuki, despite knowing better, turns pink all over again.

Someone interesting. She's plenty interesting, in her not-so-humble opinion, so all she has to do is ask, right? How hard could that possibly be?

"I need your help."

If a single phrase could bring the world to the end, Katsuki thinks this would be it. You'd assume as much anyway based on the way her friends react, all coming to a dramatic lurch in the argument that had been spilling out across their pushed-together desks.

It's almost comical, all things considered: Mina is still halfway across the makeshift table, mid-reach for Denki's phone, and Hanta is taking the moment of distraction to steal his English notes from under his nose while Eijirou looks torn between cheering them on and calming his best girl friend down. He almost looks grateful that Katsuki has interrupted the way she has, but only barely. Most likely because he's already deduced that neither of them want to be involved with whatever she's looking to ask.

Denki, still leaned halfway back in his chair, breaks first when he asks, "You what?" It's like he has a preternatural talent for pissing Katsuki off, pushing buttons that she didn't even know existed.

"I said," she starts, shoving at the back of his chair until its legs are falling back into proper place on the floor with a loud thunk, "that I need your help."

And then, before she can think better of it: "How do you ask someone out?"

"WHAT?"

Katsuki sighs, already aged considerably by this conversation. "I'm trying to figure out how to ask music-store-guy out, and you fuckers are the only people who might be able to scrap together enough of a braincell to give me some non-idiotic ideas."

In a perfect world she wouldn't have needed to ask them at all, but she'd reached a standstill in her own brainstorming. Romance wasn't exactly one of her strong suits, and the obsessive-compulsive perfectionist in her didn't want less than a 100% success rate.

The only reason she asks now is because the classroom is empty for all except her friends, scattered across the building to take advantage of their lunch period. Even Shinsou is gone from her own perpetually-filled seat, off to grab a drink or meet with a teacher or take a nap in the sun-filled courtyard or whatever else it is that a creep like Shinsou does with her time.

"You're asking him out!?" Mina nearly shrieks, and despite the previously-acknowledged empty classroom Katsuki launches across the desks to cover her mouth.

"Will you shut up!?" Already she's tired of this, red all over and barely restraining herself from calling this off entirely. Asking Hitoshi flat out would be better than this mess.

But she needs their help, she reminds herself. Worse, she wants their help. It accounts for a lot right now.

"Listen," she says with a measured breath, waiting until she has Mina's — and the rest of the Bakusquad's — rapt attention before pulling back even an inch. "I just want some ideas. I don't even know if I'll ask him out or not." She's totally going to, but those are semantics. Her friends only need the bare minimum in details right now. "Can you just—give me a couple ideas so I can decide if they're shitty or not?"

Mina nods, and though Katsuki can feel her smile pressing into the palm of her hand she reluctantly pulls back. Better to get this out of the way now, rather than suffer through it later.

"What about inviting him out to a fireworks show?" Denki asks first, fiddling with a broken radio now that he isn't risking his neck on desk chairs. He'd found the carcass of one a couple weeks ago at a thrift shop and has been poking at it with a set of travel tools since, insistent on reviving the broken electronic through nothing but sheer willpower if necessary. "You can be like 'I think you're hot, fuck off, die, go to Prom with me' and he'll be like 'oh Kacchan, how forward of you', and there'll be this perfect fireworks backdrop that—"

"It's December, asshole," she reminds him with a scowl, dropping heavily into her own seat. "'Sides, he's already on track for hearing loss—" not that she's getting off any better "—and I don't want him complaining about me making it worse."

Eijirou hums, promping his chin on his hand. "What about a letter? You could leave it on the counter at the store."

"Oooh!" Mina gasps, clapping her hands in excitable agreement. "That could be so cute! You could decorate the envelope and write 'from your secret admirer', and then wait for his response! It's simple enough to work perfectly!"

Simpler than she wants, maybe, but hard to mess up — even if she makes a face at the suggestion of writing anything sappy. "He wouldn't know it was from me then," she corrects distractedly, but imagines herself drafting something fortright but demure anyway. It feels less confrontational than she's used to—and more likely to fuck everything up if the message is misconstrued.

"But maybe. I'm not great at the whole 'love letter' shtick though." Even the thought of standing behind the music shop, holding out a perfume-scented letter and asking him to accept her feelings, makes her want to vomit.

Finally Hanta hums, taking on the challenge of leaning back on his chair's legs now that Denki's abandoned it. "What about a CD?"

Katsuki perks up despite herself, watching curiously. "A CD?"

Hanta nods, but it's Mina who goes, "Ohhh, that could be a good idea. You said he likes music, right? You could burn him a CD with his favorite music on it."

"Or one of those playlists that does the sentence thing — like songs called 'will' 'you' 'make' 'sweet' 'love' 'to'—OW!"

"He'd probably appreciate the sentiment," Eijirou adds helpfully, patting Denki's arm in sympathy as he nurses his kick-bruised-calf. "He sounds like a cool dude, y'know? I bet he'd like getting a playlist like that from you. And," he adds cheerfully, "I can totally give him a good talking to if he doesn't!"

At that Katsuki barks a laugh, grin wide and teasing. "Down, boy," she teases, and all but Denki laugh at Eijirou's sheepish grin. "But you guys are right — a CD might be the way. He could even play it on that stupid stereo they have."

Which means she has to be careful about what she puts on there, lest Aizawa and Yamada be exceedingly likely to hear it, but she can work around that. Half the effort to making a good plan is starting with an idea.

Though—she frowns, tugging at the low frizz of her hair. "How the hell do you make a CD?"

After another week, Katsuki thinks she has a perfect plan. Most of that time is dedicated to actually burning the CD — it turns out to be a surprisingly difficult process, she finds, especially when you apparently need a CD drive to actually insert it into the computer — and the rest is spent on crafting her perfect speech, filled with sonnets and rhyme schemes and words that aren't "fuck off" or "die" or "take me to Prom you stupid asshole." It's perfect. It's 110% guaranteed to make Hitoshi say yes, a likelihood so great she doesn't even bother correcting the impossible math.

In the end, it actually happens like this:

They're both at Eraserhead's, sitting in the back office around boxes of opened records from the Record Store Day shipments that will be on sale at the end of the month. Hitoshi is flicking through the plastic covers with moderate interest, deciding on what stock will be going where, and Katsuki is carefully cutting the tape on a box of rock albums that she'll parse through to call dibs on. Somewhere in the corner a speaker is playing a playlist that's slowly started to accumulate Katsuki's favorites, and in her pocket the CD burns against her thigh.

"You're quiet today," Hitoshi says without looking up, and Katsuki bristles with a natural defensiveness. It's an unfortunate instinct, she's found: prying eyes make her skin twitch with discomfort.

"Pot-kettle-black," she retorts easily, because she knows that Hitoshi knows enough of English idiom — by way of Yamada, if nothign else — to understand the implication. Naturally, he just snorts a laugh.

"It'll be easier if you just talk about it," he sings, and the irritation melts. They've known each other only so long, and already he's slipped past all of her defenses. "Your secret's safe with me, scout's honor."

Katsuki's mouth purses, hands paused on her current box of interest. Through the gap at the top of the box she can see dark-colored covers and jewel case edges, neatly stacked in their plastic cling wraps.

There's a plan. She'd spent days on it, carefully building out the perfect plan and speech and enticement to convince him she's worthwhile, and the only things he hadn't accounted for was him catching onto her early.

"'t's really not a big deal." Her thumb catches on the flap of the box, considering her words carefully, before her hand falls to her hip where the CD waits. Slowly she slides her hand into her pocket, feeling out the edges of the jewel case she'd misappropriated for her purposes, before pulling it out with a careful touch. "I, uh — I made something. For you. Or whatever."

No longer half-distracted, she can see the way that Hitoshi perks up with eager curiosity on his chair a foot from hers. The expression only brightens when she shows off her peace offering, hand outstretched to take on the gift.

"What's this for?" He asks curiously, and then pauses when he reads the perfectly-pressed kanji written across the front. Will you go to Prom with me?

With her plan out the window, she finds room to be embarrassed. Not shy, because Bakugo Katsuki doesn't get shy, but—something close. Something with the same name.

"I think you're cool, or whatever," she starts, pulling jewel cases out of the box and setting them aside for sorting. "You're hot and I like you, so…."

"Ah."

At his own station Hitoshi is still quiet, looking down at the jewel case like something will crawl from the text to bite him. The longer they sit in the silence the longer Katsuki grows uncomfortable with it, and her face flushes darker as she rushes out, "You don't—have to say yes or anything. If you don't want to—"

"I want to!"

They both pause, finally staring at one another with equal surprise. It doesn't sound like rejection, necessarily, but it doesn't sound like an acceptance of her feelings either — which Katsuki understands wholeheartedly when he adds, deflated, "But I—don't think that's a good idea."

Katsuki's fingers curl around the edges of her box, sick with an anxious nausea. Hitoshi is back to not meeting her eye, fingers pale around the CD promposal, and she wonders briefly if he might try to give it back. She may very well punch him if he tries. "Well why the hell not? It doesn't sound like you're uninterested, so what the fuck is the hold up?"

Hitoshi's hand curves over the back of his neck, a motion that suddenly seems familiar beyond her usual exposure to it. If not for the anger settling in her gut she might be able to interrogate that further.

"I haven't been entirely honest with you," he confesses awkwardly, fingers twitching up towards the edge of his mask, and she's about to press him for answers when he suddenly tugs the fabric down beneath his chin.

And then it's not Hitoshi, the cool and casual cashier who practicaly semi-owns her favorite record store, but Shinsou. Quiet, sarcastic, abrasive Shinsou, who sits a row over and always keeps her head down during lessons. Who watches her enough to know her favorite drink and shared her earbuds during a study period and takes naps in the courtyard when the sun hits the grass just right.

Shinsou. Shinsou Hitoshi, who she now knows the full name of.

"I was going to tell you," he—she—says when Katsuki's been quiet long enough, looking for all the world like a man put on the chopping block for execution. Katsuki is trying-and-failing to reconfigure her worldview around this knowledge—that of which the same man who reserves her favorite albums without her asking is also the girl who smells like lavender and wormwood whenever she passes by. "I just—didn't know how."

Katsuki takes a breath that shudders in her chest, her world frozen. The whole time, she wants to ask, but she knows that answer already—can piece together through context clues the way he'd never deemed it fit or relevant to let her in on the joke.

"You didn't know how?" She repeats faintly, quiet with disbelief, and there the anger sparks—a match struck against the red phosphorous and binder of her temper. She doesn't even realize she's standing until her chair is crashing to the ground, fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. "You didn't know how?"

Hitoshi—Shinsou—goes pink with shame or embarrassment or something else, something Katsuki can be assed to identify. "Katsuki—"

"You had ample fucking opportunity to tell me, asshole! It's been going on for months!"

Kami does she want to punch something. Shinsou, preferably, but she imagines that will make things feel worse before they feel better. More than that she's struck by the sudden urge to run and never look back, lest Shinsou expose more of her soft core to the world.

"I know!" Shinsou says mournfully, fingers coming up to cover her face. Her nails are painted the same black that they are in class, chipped in all the same places. Katsuki can't believe she never noticed before. "I just—I didn't want you to find out this way, I promise, but the longer it kept going the longer I didn't know how to say anything—"

Katsuki's back hurts with how harshly she tugs it on, books weighing down her shoulder. "Didn't know how to?" She scoffs in repetition, "Or didn't want to?"

The resulting silence hurts more than anything, and frustratingly enough she feels tears bite at her eyes. "Fuck," she says emphatically, and then with fervor, "Fuck!"

"I can't believe I got caught up in you you stupid asshole," she sniffles as she rounds the corner out of the office, ignoring how Aizawa and Yamada obviously pause to watch her storm past the counter. Shinsou is hot on her heels, calling her name desperately, but Katsuki turns to shove her back before she can get any closer. "Fuck you, Shinsou! Did you think it was funny watching me pine after you this whole time!? Was it all just a joke!?"

More than anything that seems to make something in Shinsou break, desperation shattering across her features. "Pretty girl—"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!"

At that they all finally pause, Katsuki halfway to the doorway and Shinsou looking stricken feet away. Aizawa and Yamada look about ready to intervene, both of them perched like they're prepared to jump the counter if necessary, but Katsuki is done with entertaining this joke. It'll be too soon if she never sees Shinsou again.

"Just—" she takes a breath, caught harsh in her chest, and whines when tears finally fall unbidden down her cheeks. She hates this. She hates her. "Just don't talk to me, asshole. You can keep the CD."

Shinsou looks physically pained by the concession, face twisted unpleasantly. Her lips part as if to say something again—Katsuki's name, perhaps, though she can't be assed to hear it now—but Katsuki is already out the door, rushing down the street before any of them can chase after her.

Fuck Shinsou Hitoshi. She can rot in Hell for all Katsuki cares.

Like most things in life, Katsuki arrives to Prom early.

Getting out the door had been the hardest part, once her mom had keyed in to where she was going and why. It had taken ten minutes of screaming to convince Katsuki into pictures and another five to ward off her mother's attempts to fix her hair and makeup, the old hag insisting all the while that she can make Katsuki look better.

She doesn't need to look better. She's a fucking catch.

It's the only reason she's still attending Prom at all, having decided to swear off the dance altogether after her disastrous falling out with Shinsou. That and Mina's secondary pitch, where she had promised that Katsuki would be allowed to mute the group chat for one whole month without complaint. She's more than happy to ignore the self-proclaimed 'Bakusquad' for as long as she can get away with.

Even if it means entertaining them now, standing by the pushed-in bleachers away from the main floor as Denki and Eijirou do some weird shuffle a few feet away. The dance had barely started when she'd arrived an hour previous, but it's in full swing now, a crowd of horny teens all twisting across the "dance floor" like one massive, writhing hive mind. It's enough energy to make her warm even from a distance, and she can feel sweat pooling on her chest just from proximity.

"You look like a dying bird," she informs mindfully when Denki finally takes a break to join her, sweat making his ill-fitting suit cling imposibly to his torso. Her nose wrinkles when it looks like he may bring her in for a hug, just to be a dick, but he fortunately just goes for a cup from the punch bowl instead. Eijirou is the one she really has to be mindful of.

"That's what chicks like!" Denki informs her in a conversely gleeful tone, taking a swig of sugar-free punch and then making a face as if it offended him personally. "You could try it, Kacchan!"

He's lucky that she's in no mood to punch him tonight. She's still tempted though, and nearly says as much when she suddenly hears:

"Bakugo?"

Katsuki doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. It's only just that she even manages to avoid squeezing her cup into oblivion, withheld by the knowledge that it'll stain a dress she has no interest in spot-cleaning for the remainder of the night.

Still — it's only just. Her unoccupied hand still clenches into a fist at her side. Her fingers still itch for violence.

"What do you want, Eyebags?" She asks coolly, not bothering to turn and give her classmate — her stupid crush — the attention the latter obviously wants. It leaves Denki twitching uncomfortably, looking to make excuses away, but Katsuki can't find the will to care. It's his friends' stupid fault he's in this mess in the first place.

There's a rustle behind her, the shifting of fabric just barely perceptible over the music playing low through the speakers. "Can we, uh — can we talk?"

Katsuki scoffs, finally turning away from Denki — who she ignores making his immediate escape at her back — so she can appraise Shinsou who is—

Handsomely beautiful, infuriatingly enough. The suit she wears is lean-cut to her figure, and despite having no coordination on their parts the tie she wears is the same pale lilac as Katsuki's dress. Her hair, slicked back into a perfect low ponytail, is neat enough that she idly wonders if Yamada did it, or if she'd had to swat his hands away from encouraging more gel than she'd already combed through. Katsuki can imagine it, almost — Shinsou sat at a vanity or the dining room table or the counter behind the bar, bent over a handheld mirror so that she can catch every errant strand.

In the strobe lighting of the gym, her mouth looks impossibly pink. It almost makes Katsuki want to kiss the frown from her lips.

And just like that the anger comes to a standstill, swollen inside of her with nowhere else to go. When she takes a deep breath it comes out tired, shoulders slumping with the effort.

"There's nothing to talk about," she tries, but it sounds weak to her own ears. Suddenly she regrets letting Denki go.

Especially when Shinsou, pouting so deeply already, worries her gloss-slicked bottom lip between her teeth with an obvious anxiety. She looks defeated in a way that looked unfamiliar before that day in the record store. "Please, Katsuki."

Everything in Katsuki yells at her to run far, far away from this, but she doesn't. In part because she doesn't run from things, and in part because the sooner they get this over with the sooner she can pretend none of it ever happened.

"Fine," she growls, frustrated with them both. "Come on."

Without waiting she grabs Shinsou's wrist, setting her cup down on a random table without plans to return for it. Depending on how things go she might not even come back to this stupid dance, assuming she doesn't kill Shinsou first.

"I'll be back!" She shouts to Mina, who looks after her with concern but only raises her own cup in acknowledgement. To her side Eijirou seems interested in stepping in, but she waves his concern off. She can almost bench as much as him anyway.

It's only once they're past the gym doors that she finally lets go, shoving Shinsou back against the wall leading back where they came from.

Shinsou, with the weariness of someone who definitely ran here, wheezes as she collapses back against the wall, her fingers fumbling where they tuck sweat-slicked hair back behind her ears. Out here in the hallway it's cooler and quieter, tucked away from the noise and heat of the gynasium, and though Katsuki's lips are pursed with displeasure she can't say she hates the peace and quiet.

She hasn't seen Shinsou since that day in the music shop.

It's only been three days since, but she hadn't been to school for any of them and Katsuki hadn't bothered reaching out to check in. She couldn't stand the thought of it — of being rejected or dismissed again, or worse, of being let in. Not when every day since haunts her with thoughts of Shinsou's quiet remorse, sounding genuinely miserable as she says, "I don't think that's a good idea."

Katsuki's mouth twists, and she crosses her arms over her chest like it might hold all of herself together before anything can risk spilling out.

"Bakugo—"

"Shinsou—"

They both pause awkwardly, staring at each other as their names tumble untethered into the air. Katsuki feels pinched and piecemealed together, and inexplicably something in her loosens and relaxes when Shinsou laughs quietly.

"Sorry," she says first, voice quiet with the rasp that Katsuki recognizes from the music shop, the train station, the way she'd smiled small and said good song, right? weeks ago in class. Something in her clenches painfully. "I, uh…."

Her tongue traces her lips, smearing the faint shimmer of gloss as she looks away. On her thigh her fingernails — painted orange, painted green, painted black — tap, tap, tap nervously. "I didn't really plan out what I'd say, so — sorry. I'll try to make it quick, promise."

Shinsou takes her bottom lip between her teeth, thoughtful. Katsuki wants to kiss her. Katsuki wants to scream at her to never talk to her again. She shifts on her feet and settles for neither.

"When I was a kid," Shinsou starts finally, properly, "I wasn't very popular. I've always liked dark colors and, uh — 'weird' music, and kids thought it was strange that I'm raised by my uncle — Aizawa. It was like I was speaking a language that no one else but him or Yamada knew or understood, and the mere existence of it was enough to make people wary of me. They thought it was scary or something, I guess.

"But then," she takes a breath, fingers carding nervously through the slick-top of her hair, then curling awkwardly over the back of her neck, "I met you. And it was like for the first time ever I met someone who spoke the same language as me."

Katsuki's fingers dig into her biceps, the fabric of her dress crushed against her chest. Embarrassingly enough she can feel her eyes stinging with the telltale burn of tears. She hates how easy it is to make her cry.

"So then why," she starts, voice thick, and then scowls at her own ineptitude. She refuses to start crying over Shinsou Hitoshi over all people. Not again, at least, and certainly not at Prom. "Why didn't you tell me? I thought you—" liked me, she thinks but doesn't manage, the words caught in her throat.

To her credit, Shinsou doesn't seem any more encouraged by the question. If anything she looks nauseous by the entire scenario, pushed to her limit by the a trap of her own making. Well tough shit, Katsuki thinks; she'll damn well reap the consequences of what she sowed if Katsuki gets a say in it. Which she does evidently, seeing as Shinsou came all this way just to lie in the bed she made.

"I thought you wouldn't like me anymore if you knew," she admits mournfully, looking as if the admission alone pains her. "I was—cool and mysterious at Eraserhead's, and at school I'm just—me. I wanted you to keep seeing that version of me."

"I've never once thought you were cool." Katsuki's amendment comes with a wet scoff, hands dropping to catch at her ribboned waist. "You're a fucking loser is what you are."

It doesn't have the bite it should, judging by the way Shinsou laughs. Maybe she didn't want it too, though — maybe it's enough for the way Shinsou relaxes minutely, looking relieved by that alone. Like the last three days all she's wanted was for Katsuki to call her a goddamn pussy for copping out like this.

"You're right," she agrees easily. And then Katsuki watches as she reaches into the pocket of her suit pants, pulling out a small rectangle wrapped in paper. "I'm a real big loser actually, which is why I spent the last three days making this. For you."

Katsuki flushes, unprepared, but slowly reaches out to accept the packaged present with a wary eye. As she begins picking carefully at the taped edges Shinsou continues, "I listened to your CD. An embarrassing amount actually, I'm pretty sure even Yamada's sick of it at this point. I didn't know how else to return the favor, so—"

It's a cassette. A small thin brick in bright lime green, the same as the stitched beanie Shinsou often wears in the store. On the front is a white label with dark ink, and when she squints she can make out shaky English written in Sharpie. For My Pretty Girl.

Katsuki thinks she can hear the blood in her ears and her heart in her throat. Or her stomach, maybe. She doesn't know if she wants to throw up or cry or both.

"I have a player you can use," Shinsou adds quietly, fingers picking at fabric of her pants. Her fingernails are printed the same red as Katsuki's eyes. "Back at the shop, I mean. If you don't have your own."

She wants to be angry, but the emotion falters. "You're so stupid," she finally manages, embarrassed to hear it come out as a warble, and then jerks her head up to the ceiling to futilely keep the tears at bay. "You're a stupid, selfish, one-braincelled asshole and I hate you so fucking much and you were so mean to me—"

Shinsou laughs, sounding endlessly fond, and Katsuki squeezes her eyes shut even if she wants to glare. "I'm being serious asshole, you're so fucking stupid and I genuinely can't believe I like your dumbass—"

"Katsuki," she interrupts, and Katsuki is about to snarl what when there are hands suddenly cupping her face and lips pressing soft and quick to her own.

It's chaste, enough that Shinsou is already pulling away by the time Katsuki's eyes open with surprise. There's worry still creasing her face that she rightfully deserves, but affection too — a longing that Katsuki aches to meet with open arms.

"I'm sorry," Shinsou says properly for once, looking genuine for it as she rubs a gentle thumb over Katsuki's cheek. The cassette tape in her hand suddenly feels impossibly heavy. "I won't do it again sweetheart. Scout's honor."

The pet name curdles sweetly throughout her body, warm and molten, and whatever fight Katsuki still had drains immediately. She reaches her free hand up to poke harshly at Shinsou's shoulder, as is her given right, but then curls it sweetly over the back of Shinsou's neck beneath the heavy weight of her pony tail.

"That doesn't make it okay," she emphasizes, pouting cutely, but adds softer, "but it's a start. You better fuckin' make it up to me."

Shinsou's responsive grin is brilliant enough to make the hurt ease out entirely, looking entirely too please as she knocks her forehead to Katsuki's own. "Anything you want, princess. I'll spend the rest of my life makin' it up to you if I have to."

Katsuki, unbidden, flushes again. She'll get a migraine at this rate. "Start with giving me a dance asshole," she complains instead, then as if having changed her mind tugs Shinsou down to press their lips together again. Shinsou has to start making it up to her, after all.

("You're going to get us caught, pretty girl," Shinsou complains with lighthearted favor as they step into the dark entryway of the record store, using her only free hand to lock the deadbolt at their back. The other was stolen by Katsuki on their way off of school grounds, commandeered in her mission to wrap entirely around Shinsou's arm on the walk back. Shinsou would tease her more for it if she wasn't so cute pouting up at her, especially with the suit jacket hanging around her shoulders.

"Like sensei will care," Katsuki's voice scoffs quietly in return, softened by the fear of a girl with a single digit bedtime. Or perhaps it's just in deference to how quiet the store becomes at night, quieter without foot traffic outside or the overhead speakers to make it louder.

Shinsou, reasonably, doesn't point this fact out to her, even when Katsuki squeezes her arm tighter as they round the front into the back office with only streetlamps and moonlight to guide them. She was practically raised in this shop; she could navigate this place with her eyes closed if she didn't think Katsuki would punch her for it.

"You can sit here while I get the stereo set up." 'Here' being the couch pressed up against the back wall, an older piece of furniture that someone traded Aizawa once in exchange for a used electric guitar that he'd been waiting ages to get rid of. It's perhaps the most Yamada-esque thing he's ever done, which Shinsou suspects is in part due to the fact that the actual man had still been touring America at the time.

It only takes a moment to start the cassette playing, the beginning notes of Saint Asonia carrying quietly into the office. At some point Katsuki had evidently become tired of the perpetual darkness and discovered a table lamp, which now casts dim light over her face and the curl of her body where she waits patiently on the couch.

Shinsou's thought it dozens of times before, but she looks beautiful. She hopes to remind her of that for the rest of their lives.

"Don't look at me like that," Katsuki says as Shinsou approaches her, looking pleased and thoughtful despite the token protest. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything." She takes up the cushion to Katsuki's left and watches, fondly, as she settles into her side like they've done this a thousand times before. Like she belongs there, even — which she does.

Katsuki's fingers picking at the leg of Shinsou's pants, and then settle cupped over her knee. "Why didn't you just tell me that you were a girl?"

Shinsou blanks, visibly caught off guard. "What?"

Pink lips pout, Katsuki's cheeks puffing as if she's found a particularly annoying thread she hasn't yet stumbled upon the end of. "The whole time I knew you as Hitoshi, I used he/him pronouns. Why didn't you correct me?"

"That's—well—" There's a flush creeping up her neck now, an embarrassed realization as Katsuki eyes her curiously. She wishes she had a better explanation but, "I just didn't think it was important, I guess…?"

Katsuki's eyes squint, assessing.

"So you paraded around as man—"

"Katsuki."

"—intentionally obfuscated any identifiable features—"

"Baby, can we please not—"

"—and then rejected me and evidently reciprocated feelings because it didn't seem important?"

Shinsou is flushing properly now, her head fallen back against the couch as Katsuki picks her apart. Even spelled out like that, it still doesn't seem quite as big as Katsuki makes it sound. She's happy and comfortable as a woman, but the natural adrogyny afforded to her by her fluidity are something she enjoys exploring all the same.

The fact that she'd almost fumbled the prettiest girl she'd ever met, though….

"It wasn't one of my finer moments," she admits remorsefully, rolling her head to the side to meet Katsuki's eyes. "I didn't think being mistaken for a guy would blow up so spectacularly."

"Just like a man to be so dumb," Katsuki teases, but the blow is softened by the hand bracing against Shinsou's knee and the other now tugging at a loose lock of hair. "Guess I'll have to stick around to think for the both of us, huh?"

Pleased, infatuated, Shinsou watches eagerly as Katsuki leans forward, her grin impossible to hide with their mouths this close. "Guess you do."

He's a teen, a teenager in love / I'm a fool with a curse and a crush. What a magic distraction / What's the point of romance? I never wanted to be a teenager in love.)