Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Ochako reaches the third floor of the conservatory, she hears the deep, heavy notes of a double bass leaking from the string room. 

Her body stills before she looks at the time on her phone. They had agreed to meet at 4:00 p.m, and it's only 3:45 p.m. There are still fifteen minutes to go, but Bakugou is already there, playing a little étude as a warm up.

As she gets closer, the melody becomes clearer. The bow slides across the strings and the notes pour out of the instrument, past the walls, past the room, past her ears.

Her hand freezes on the doorknob.

Bakugo plays better than she does. 

She already knew it, but—damn.

Bakugo plays way better than she does.

(That's the first thing she told Aizawa-sensei when he assigned the string duets that would work together for the entire semester.

“I know,” the teacher had drawled in his usual lifeless tone, leaning against the desk. The orange light of sunset outlined his hunched figure. 

The class had already been dismissed, and Ochako had told Tsuyu that she would catch up with her later. After everyone left the classroom, she approached her teacher and raised her concerns about the unequal pairing. 

“Or at least that's what I know from your entrance exams,” Aizawa continued, reaching for a piece of paper on the desk. His eyes quickly scanned the document before he looked at her again. Messy locks of hair covered his face, the rest of his hair was hardly kept under control in a low ponytail. “Bakugou Katsuki obtained the highest score in the entrance exam, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have anything to learn.” 

Ochako fiddled with the straps of her bag and smiled, but it felt more like a grimace. 

“I, huh, I don't know how to say this, Sensei. But I don't think Bakugou has anything to learn from me.”)

Peering through the ajar door, she can see her classmate looming over the instrument, his arms wrapped around the wooden body in a waltz where no one is dancing. Or rather, it’s only Bakugou who is dancing, swaying quietly from side to side, rocking his head as he reaches a particular vibrato, his third finger jiggling over the string as he finishes a long note. 

(Aizawa quirked a wary eyebrow. “I’m not saying you have to teach him anything in particular. He shouldn't try to patronize you either.” He let out a long exhale that made Ochako wonder when he last slept for eight hours straight. “As I said during today's lecture, there are things you can only learn by playing duets, especially if you want to develop chamber music skills.”)

The door is slightly open, but Ochako still knocks before entering the room. 

The music fades into thin air as if she had turned off a switch.

Bakugou Katsuki is standing in the middle of the rehearsal room, with a three-quarter-size double bass covering half of his front. He wears a black and yellow flannel shirt and dark jeans, the colors matching his spikes of blond hair. The instrument is a couple of inches taller than him, but it still looks proportional to his broad shoulders and strong arms—as if it were made for him. And maybe it was. The double bass fits him in a way that it doesn’t fit her.

He scowls at Ochako as soon as she enters the room.

“Hey,” she greets him with a sheepish smile. “You’re here early.”

He drops the arm holding the bow and mutters, “So are you.”

The string room is fortified with both large and small instruments, and the lustrous wood floods the otherwise white walls. Unlike the violin or the viola, carrying a double bass around is no easy task, so the students borrow the conservatory instruments for practice. It takes some minutes to tune the double bass and adjust it to the desired height, especially if you need a reduced size like Ochako.

“Yeah, well. I wanted to make sure that no one took the half-size double bass before me,” she says, bringing a hand to the back of her neck. “I'm still not used to playing the three-quarter size because I'm, well... short.”

Red eyes sweep her up and down, making her suddenly aware of their height difference.

If he has any comments, he keeps them to himself.

Both first-year students, they haven’t talked much since the academic year started a couple of weeks ago. But Bakugou is no stranger to her. Not only had he entered college with the highest grades, he had also won the Japanese Double Bass Society’s youth award last year. An outstanding student of Hakamada Tsunagu, Bakugou had probably applied to Yuuei Music Academy following Yagi Toshinori, hoping to be part of his famous string quartet. 

Ochako, instead…

“Uraraka… is your name, isn’t it?” he asks without turning to her, balancing the fingerboard against his left shoulder.

Ochako is not so outstanding. Her high school double bass teacher doesn't appear in music magazines and she hasn't won any awards so far either.

Her greatest achievement has been playing in the youth orchestra of her hometown.

She grabs the half-size double bass and moves it closer to Bakugou’s side.

“Yep, that's me,” she declares, bringing a hand to her waist with a confidence she's not really feeling. “Should we get started?”

Bakugou arrived before she did. He has already set up and tuned the instrument, holds the bow in his right hand, and uses the other to grab the neck of the double bass, but he looks far from ready to play with her.

(He was the one who opposed the student-to-student duet arrangements the most.

“I came to Yuuei to learn from the teachers,” he had protested from the back of the class, arms folded and sprawled on his chair. “There’s nothing people below my level can teach me.”

Aizawa-sensei didn't seem impressed by his opposition. 

“Egos can crush orchestras, Bakugou,” he said, cracking his stiff neck to the side. “Solo practice is important, of course. But don’t forget that music is a social activity. Skills such as leading and following, blending sounds, matching a pitch, can only be learned with a companion.”

“I could learn all that with a teacher too,” Bakugou countered.

The ghost of a smile danced on Aizawa’s face as he laid his eyes on his difficult student for a little longer. 

“Sometimes, a peer’s teaching can be more effective than the instructor’s,” he simply added.)

Ochako wishes Aizawa had told them how it’s supposed to be more effective. They haven’t even started rehearsing yet and she already feels like they are going downhill.

“Listen, Cheeks,” he mutters, eyes fixed on his feet. “You know why two double basses don’t sound well together?”

Downhill at full speed, about to crash and burn. 

Ochako gulps. She’ll have time to complain about the nickname later.

“Huh, eh, no?” She laughs. “I’ve never heard of that before?”

He taps the fingerboard with his left hand, drawing attention to the instrument. 

“Double basses don’t have a fret, you know, this thingy that divides the notes when you press a string down, so the tune of notes is, most of the time, approximate. That’s usually not a problem with higher notes, but…” Red eyes stare at her, and Ochako does her best not to pull back. “Low range pitches clash with each other. If two basses are out of tune, you notice right away.”

“But isn’t that the whole point of the assignment? To learn how to match a pitch, to know when we are rushing or dragging?” She pauses, trying to recall the class they had a few days ago. “I believe Aizawa-sensei said something about developing nonverbal gestures as well…”

He squints at her. “You make it sound as if it's as easy as breathing.”

“Oh! and learning how to breathe together too!”

“Okay, listen.” He sighs and drags a hand down his face. “I really want to do this right. Like, not just right. The best.” His bow is now pointing directly at her. “By the end of the semester we have to play in front of a committee of teachers, and Toshinori-sensei is going to be there. If I do well, he might consider including me in his string quartet next semester. Unfortunately, though, that doesn’t depend on me alone now.”

She frowns. Something about his tone has been bothering her for a while. Because, okay, she may not have accomplished everything he has, but that doesn't mean she's going to slack off or not practice to the best of her ability. That should go without saying.

She adjusts the endpin and gives the bass a quick test pluck before answering. 

“Yeah, well… lucky for you, I don’t really like sucking at things either.”

But they do. 

Suck, that is.

After a quick warm-up, Bakugou leaves the music sheet with Aizawa’s assignment open on a music stand in the middle. They bring one hand to each fingerboard and place the bow across the strings.

They count to four and start.

They sound different—Ochako can tell right away. Bakugo’s ¾ double bass sounds richer and darker, with more resonance in the lower register. Conversely, her instrument is smaller—it sounds more nasal and hollow, and it throws her off. Maybe that's why she’s a few bars behind, or is it because Bakugo is rushing? Either way, they are not matching, let alone blending or synchronizing.

He glares at her sideways and Ochako grits her teeth, presses the strings harder.

They try it again. She tries to follow his tempo, but his articulation is sharp and crisp, while hers is rounder and lighter. His hand span is bigger too, his knuckles are stronger, his fingers way more skilled.

His sound threatens to swallow hers at times, in the intonations and the harmonies, and she can't help but think that they might sound better if she played a ¾ bass like everyone else. Or like Bakugo, right here.

Bakugou stops mid-bar and pulls his bow off the string. 

“What’s wrong,” he half-asks, half-barks.

Ochako doesn’t answer at first. She stares at the music sheet, stilling the vibrating string with her left hand. 

“I think… we’re not hearing each other right.”

He taps his shoulder with the bow and studies the size difference between the two instruments. She knows a harsh review is coming just from the look on Bakugou's face.

“Don't want to be the one to break it for you, Cheeks. But you can't keep playing the half-size forever. That is, if you want to play in an orchestra”

“I know that,” she protests. “I'm transitioning to the three-quarter, but… I'm sticking to what I know during practices and warm-ups. I don't want to risk injuring my hands my first semester of music school.”

Angry, red eyes locked on her hands, Ochako knows what he's thinking right now.

Her hands are too small.

She could've picked anything other than the double bass.

Why did she go with the largest string instrument in an orchestra when she's barely one and a half meters tall?

He has it written all over his face, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he exhales and runs a hand through his hair, the blond spikes catching the light from outside.

“One more time,” he says and resets his bow. “From the top.”

“How did practice go with Bakugou-chan?” Tsuyu asks as she finishes putting the last empty cups in the dishwasher.

Ochako cleans the steam wand of the milk frother with a cloth and a sigh. 

“Not good.”

It's their shift working at the conservatory’s café and Ochako is exhausted. She spent last night practicing on her own with the three-quarter double bass, and now her hands and tendons ache. The physical challenge of playing a bigger instrument goes without saying, but she can tell the tonal difference right away. And it’s a good difference. The three-quarter size indeed sounds rounder, fuller—grounded, and she loves the heavy and rumbling notes that seem to come from underneath her feet.

But playing an instrument for a long time that is not her usual size comes with a price: pain. And even though the semester has just started, she should take a break for a day or two and do some stretching exercises in the meantime. She may lag behind her classmates in terms of practice, but she meant it when she said she didn't want to get injured. Her hands are her working tool: either as an instrumentalist or as a barista.

She wonders what Bakugou would say about all that.

She could go and ask him, because at that very moment, he walks through the door with a group of friends—one with spiky red hair, the other with gold short hair. Ochako remembers them from her chamber music seminar. They talk to each other animatedly, their voices flooding the café as soon as they enter, except Bakugou, who stays a couple of steps behind appearing grumpy and unfriendly as always.

But when he looks up, red eyes meet brown, and,

Fuck.

Ochako panics and hides behind the espresso machine, urging Tsuyu to take their order while she prepares the drinks. Yet it's useless. Bakugou recognized his duet partner right away and hasn't taken his eyes off her. He's wearing a denim jacket thrown over a plain, white T-shirt, and keeps his hands in his black jeans jeans when he orders a large black coffee.

Busying herself with the espresso machine, Ochako puts freshly ground coffee in the brewing basket and uses a tamper to compress it evenly. She holds the port filter by the handle and places it in the grouphead in a parallel position. Then, she pulls it to the right until it points to her chest, feeling tight and secure.

If she looks busy enough, then Bakugou might not strike up a conversation with her. Although he doesn't seem the type to randomly chat with Ochako on his own accord.

But his friends do.

"Don't we all share a class?" asks the blond guy, leaning against the counter with a curious smile. “I’m Kaminari, by the way. I play the cello.”

The rehead guy nods. “Yes, I think chamber music seminar and also ear training, maybe? And, oh yeah. I'm Kirishima, and I play the cello as well, and this guy…”

“Cheeks knows me,” Bakugou cuts him short with a roll of his eyes. “We're paired together for the duet assignment.”

Ochako smiles as she places the first brewed coffee on the bar, ignoring Bakugou’s curt introduction. 

“Huh, yes. Nice to meet you guys. I'm Uraraka.”

“We had a very busy start to the school year, so we haven't gotten to know each other that well yet,” Tsuyu says, locking a portafilter in the second grouphead of the machine. “I’m Tsuyu, by the way. I play the violin.”

Kirishima looks at them back and forth. 

“So you don't play the same instrument?”

“I told you she plays the double bass with me,” Bakugou grunts.

“Oh, that sounds hard,” Kaminari laughs as he picks up the second coffee Tsuyu places on the counter. “Both working with Bakugou and playing the double bass.”

Bakugou shoots him a withering look. “Excuse me, but I'm an excellent partner to work with.”

“That's not something for you to decide,” Kaminari says, slapping his arm playfully.

Ochako places the black coffee on the counter and Bakugou turns to her again. He's frowning when he grabs the coffee and thanks her with a nod of his head.

“Don't be late for practice tomorrow,” he says before slipping away to the table farthest from the counter.

∆

The next day, when Tsuyu and Ochako enter ear training class, Kaminari and Kirishima wave at them and gesture toward the empty chairs nearby. Bakugou doesn't seem too into the idea of sitting all together, but Ochako doubts there is any idea he likes. 

With them, there's also a girl with short, pink hair and a tall guy with black, jagged bangs. The girl beams at them as they get closer.

“Heyy~! I'm Mina! The guys told me they ran into you two yesterday! Nice to meet you both. Hope Bakugou is not giving you much trouble, Ochako.” 

Bakugou is sprawled on his chair, twirling a pen in his fingers. 

“You guys are supposed to be on my side,” he mutters.

The guy with the jagged bangs snickers and folds his arms over his desk. 

“Nah, we know you too well. It's a bad idea to side with you. I'm Sero, nice to meet you.”

“You don't know me shit,” Bakugou counters, placing the pen behind his ear. “And you don't know Cheeks either. We're gonna crush the rest of you at the end of the semester as the best duet, am I right?”

He pins his red eyes on Ochako, and she suddenly feels the same red spreading across her face. She doesn't know if he meant that, or said it just to show off to his friends but she wasn't expecting Bakugou to be so confident in their partnership. Especially considering how poorly they did on their first practice.

She sits down next to Mina and offers a wobbly smile. “Yeah, I guess so.”

That's when Yamada-sensei bursts into the classroom, flashing a grin that is too energetic for a Thursday morning

“All right, listeners! Time for your ears to get a little workout,” he announces, snapping his fingers in rhythm as he paces the front of the room. “Pair up, two by two, and get ready for some real-time pitch recognition.”

Chairs scrape and murmurs fill the space as students move to find their partners. Bakugou, sitting in the row in front of Ochako, turns over his shoulder and glares at her like this whole thing was her idea, but then Kaminari, sitting next to him, turns around faster, and leans an arm over Ochako’s desk.

“Want to work together?” he asks with a toothy grin, completely unaware of Bakugou’s death stare.

Ochako blinks. “Huh, yes. Sure.”

By then, Bakugou had already looked away and grabbed Sero’s arm.

Later that afternoon, the air in the string room feels thick, too humid from all the students cycling through before them. Ochako wishes they could open the windows and get some of this tension out, but that would risk outside sounds creeping in, and right now she needs absolute silence to focus and hear each other.

Because, once again, they are off.

It's her fault, she knows that. But it's not that bad. She's just slightly off, but that's enough for Bakugou to stop every time with a tight jaw and grit an ‘again’ through his teeth. 

Ochako's hands are beginning to cramp from gripping the neck of the half-size bass.

They start again. The first few notes are fine, but as they move forward comes that minuscule intonation slip in the lower register that throws Bakugo off.

“ Jesus ,” he exhales sharply, the last note still vibrating in the air—perfect tone. “You’re not hearing the damn thing.”

“Well, I am trying,” she snaps, stilling the vibrating strings with her left hand. “I know I’m off, okay? I’m still training my ear.”

His left eye twitches at her last three words.

“Training your…” he scoffs. “See? If you had paired up with me instead of Kaminari in class today, you wouldn’t be struggling right now.”

Ochako blinks, puzzled. She had already forgotten about that.

“Kaminari -kun asked me. I couldn’t say no to him.”

He squints. “You might start saying no to him, or he’ll think his lame attempt at flirting is working.”

Ochako now frowns. What is this? 

“We weren’t flirting.”

“Well, he probably was, and didn’t make sure you got the interval drills as I would have.”

Ochako laughs, but it’s a quiet rumble. “Are you serious right now?”

“Of course I’m being serious. You’re my partner. I have to make sure your ear is well trained. Now, what’s this?”

He plucks two notes in quick succession and raises a brow, challenging.

She can’t believe this guy. What’s wrong with him?  

“Huh, wait,” she says. “Do that again.”

He frowns harder, but pulls at the same two strings, his left hand sliding effortlessly through the fingerboard. 

Ochako closes her eyes and thinks, feeling the notes curling over their heads, in the thick air around them. 

That’s a C and a F.

“Perfect fourth,” she says, fluttering her eyes open.

She doesn’t expect to find Bakugou with a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

“Attagirl,” he says.

Ochako swallows thickly and looks at her feet.

It’s going to be hard to hear anything other than her heart throbbing against her ears like this.

Chapter Text

Ochako is glad she befriended Midoriya, a guy in her Musical Theory class who is majoring in Musicology. He knows a whole deal about theory, and while Ochako is not a half-bad student, it helps to study with someone who knows a whole lot more.

It’s a nice spring day and they’re sitting at a picnic table in the university courtyard. Thick books and notebooks are spread open on the table, that is, Midoriya’s long, detailed lecture notes, and what little Ochako managed to pick up and jot down from Torino-sensei’s classes.

She glances at Midoriya’s notes and copies down a row of Roman numerals and arcane scribbles that look more like spells than something related to music.

 “I don’t know how you manage to pick all this up,” she comments.

Midoriya blinks his round, green eyes at her. “Huh? You mean the secondary dominants?”

Ochako wants to pull her hair out. She’s not even sure what the primary dominants are. What do you mean there are secondary ones?

She drops her head down and presses her forehead against her notes. If she stays like this long enough, her brain will hopefully soak up the information and she’ll be able to catch up with the rest of her classmates.

“I don’t know how I got into the conservatory,” she mumbles more to herself than to Midoriya.

But he’s a good friend and pats her back in a reassuring gesture. 

“Because you probably have a good performer’s instinct. Not everyone can say that about themselves.”

She wonders if Bakugo would agree.

He probably wouldn’t.

(“Don’t collapse your fingers,” he had said during their last practice.

That was the third time they had played together and Ochako could see that they had made progress—ever so little, but progress nonetheless.

It was also the first time they practiced with her playing the ¾-size double bass, which made her feel tense and stiff. She still couldn’t find a comfortable enough position, and the pressure to perform at her best with Bakugou there–ill-tempered and judgemental–was taking its toll on her.

She blinked her eyes up at him, barely registering his words. 

Unlike their other practices, he didn’t seem fed up with her. He was frowning, yes, but this time he looked studious, watchful.

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking at her hand shape.

“Your fingers are buckling at the middle joint,” he explained, mimicking her hand position. His joints bent backward instead of maintaining an arch. “You gotta keep them curved and firm, like this.” 

He changed his hand position so easily, as if his tendons, his bones, his muscles were made of rubber. Jezz, she was so jealous of his hand span, and how flexible his wrists were.

She took a deep breath and did a couple of stretching exercises before trying to form a natural arc from her shoulder to her arm to her fingers.

“Like this?” she fumbled.

She heard the endpin sliding on the wooden floor before she saw Bakugou moving closer, holding his bass by the neck in one hand and reaching out toward Ochako with the other.

Her breath hitched.

“Your knuckles.” He tapped the bone at the base of her index finger as casually as if they touched each other, correcting their body postures every other rehearsal (they didn’t). “They are the capstone of your arch. They have to be firm enough to support your weight. Or any weight. If I were to press against them…” She was not at all prepared for Bakugou to open his palm and lean his weight against the ridge of her knuckles. The skin-to-skin contact sent shivers down her spine, but she tried to stand her ground, keeping her hand firm and strong and not letting her fingers collapse under the pressure. “Yes, just like this. Use your hand muscles.” He also had no reason to run a finger over her forearm after pulling away. Hopefully, he didn’t see her skin prickling, her cheeks flushing. “Your forearm muscles play no role here.”

It was just technical advice. He would have told the same to anyone struggling to maintain a hand shape. Aizawa-sensei himself would have probably told her the same thing.

Then why did she still feel the ghost of his hand pressing against her knuckles hours after practice ended?

His skin was warm, the center of his palm was slightly damp, and a faint metallic smell clung to his fingers after hours of plucking, pulling and playing the strings of his double bass. 

But his eyes were the worst thing—quietly burning through her cornea, like he wanted to make sure she would never let her fingers collapse again.)

“...raraka-san? Are you okay?”

She doesn't realize Midoriya was calling for her until much later. His eyebrows pinched together, she feels bad she made her friend worry while she was… what? daydreaming about Bakugou?

Crap.

This doesn’t bode well.

She shakes her head as if that’d help her rid of the memory, and smiles broadly. 

“Yeah, I’m good. I was thinking about my last practice session with my, huh, my duet partner.”

Midoriya’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline, concern jumping out of the window. Ochako is glad it did, she doesn’t want to talk about what was circling around her mind in specific.

(Bakugou’s hands. 

She can’t stop thinking about Bakugou’s hands.

She tells herself it’s for studying purposes only.)

“Who did you get paired with?” he asks, buzzing with enthusiasm. “I have a friend who also plays—”

“DEKU!!” Someone yells from across the courtyard and they both startle. Ochako doesn’t know who Deku is, but what she does know is that Bakugou is striding toward them, hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, the hood pulled over his head. He doesn’t look very friendly, yet Midoriya still presses his hands against the table and springs to his feet. 

“Kacchan!” he chirps, his enthusiasm contrasting with Bakugou’s glare.

“If you don’t give me back my Simandl book any time soon, I’m never lending you anything in my life again, and you .” His eyes land on Ochako as if he had just realized she was there as well. Her shoulders stiffen at the close examination. “Why are you hanging out with this nerd?”

She blinks, unable to tell if Midoriya and Bakugou are friends or mere acquaintances. Not that she knows how Bakugou treats people other than in a curt and blunt manner.

“Huh, studying?” she offers. “We’re classmates in Musical Theory.”

He gives a long, hard look at their study session, at their books, and manuals, and notebooks, and at the colored post-its trying to highlight the most important bits (everything).

He huffs and, if Ochako is not making things up, there’s a hint of amusement in his gesture. 

“At least Deku will get to teach you something. Unlike Kaminari.”

Ochako almost chokes. 

Why is he still thinking about that?

Midoriya looks back and forth between them, a question mark popping in his forehead. 

“Are you classmates too?” he asks.

Bakugou shrugs one shoulder and sits down next to Ochako. 

Her throat goes dry. When did he get so comfortable being around her?

“We’re paired up for the duet assignment,” he says, picking at his nails like he couldn’t care less about this conversation.

“No wayyyy.” Midoriya sits down across from him, but it’s like he’s bouncing in his seat. Ochako would love to say she’s half as excited about their pairing as her friend is. “Uraraka, did you know that Kacchan won—?”

“Yeah, yeah. Cheeks knows all about that.” He cuts him off with a lazy wave of his hand. “I actually came to take her away. Booking practice rooms has been a pain in the ass lately, and Ashido just told me that her partner won’t be able to make it. She said I could have her reservation if Cheeks and I had time…”

“Wait,” Ochako interrupts him. “I don’t have time right now. I have to work.” Bakugou snaps his neck in her direction, looking outraged as if she had just told him his slap technique was awful. “What? You didn’t tell me anything about it, and I have stuff to do.” She laughs weakly, trying to ease the tension. “My tuition isn’t going to pay itself, you know?”

He scowls and folds his arms over his chest. “What time will you wrap up?”

“Huh… around 8pm. Why?”

“I’ll wait.”

She almost chokes. “What? But that’s like five hours from now.”

“I said I’ll wait, okay? We hafta get fucking better at playing and we won’t manage meeting two times a week for just two hours.”

Ochako sighs. “Okay. I get that. But I can’t just skip work.”

He grunts and runs a hand through his hair. 

“That’s why I said I’ll wait for you. Just… go pour your coffees or whatever shit you do, and I’ll hang around here, keeping this nerd some company…”

“You will?” Midoriya beams.

Bakugou ignores him. “... or reading at the library, who knows. I can ask Hakamada-sensei if we can use his office. We can borrow the instruments from the string room and take them there. Sounds good?”

It sounds like she won’t get Bakugou out of her hair if she doesn’t agree, so she drags a hand across her face and gives in. 

She knew that music school would be full of intense and competitive people when she enrolled, but she didn’t expect to trip on them so soon.

Too bad Bakugou was waiting for her just around the corner.

At 8pm, the last orange lights of the sunset fade on the horizon, swallowed by the deep blue of night. At this time Ochako usually goes home, but now she runs through the schoolyard from the cafeteria to the main building and up the stairs one at a time until she reaches the third floor. Bakugou had sent her a message saying that he was already waiting for her in Hakamada-sensei’s office with two double basses. Ochako felt bad for keeping him waiting (even if all this unplanned practice session was his idea), so she asked Tsuyu to take care of closing the store while she hurried off.

Arriving at the door with the Hakamada characters on the nametag, she stands outside for a moment trying to catch her breath, but Bakugou is quick to tug at the door open from the inside.

The hoodie still draped over his head, he looks like a delinquent who has just broken into their professor’s office.

“Good to know you’re warmed up,” he says, grabbing her arm and pulling her inside. “Now, do a couple of stretching exercises, because we’re going to pull off this damn etude today.”

She’s on a high and she’s not sure what is the cause, other than her career up to this office (maybe it’s Bakugou unmoving confidence, the way he winds her up and presses Ochako to give her best, the best of her best just for him), but her blood is pumping, her cheeks are flared and her short hair is fluffed up, so she ties it up in a ponytail and gets down to business.

It’s the same piece they’ve been rehearsing for a week. It’s barely a three-minute etude, but they’ve never been able to play the entire thing together in a way they’re both satisfied with. 

Ochako has heard Bakugou play his part fully, has seen him charge forward, his lines aggressive and quick, has heard him drop into the background where she's supposed to leap to the front. She has also rehearsed on her own, she knows her lines and how she intends to play them. Still, they have trouble converging. 

Although, this time, a brief glance between them in the cramped space of Hakamada-sensei’s office is enough for her to know that things will be different this time. Or at least slightly different.

He nods to her, and they count to four.

They start together. A unison entrance, the cleanest they’ve ever managed, the sound dramatic when they accentuate the tones with a vibrato. Since they started practicing together, their different playing styles have become plainly evident. On one side, Ochako leans into her bass like she's hugging the instrument, as if staying close to the strings would help her keep control over the sound when the double bass threatens to spill out of her reach. Bakugou, on the other side, stands tall and firm with his back straight and his shoulders set, a deliberate space between his body and the instrument allowing better bow and arm freedom. His position doesn't waver, even when he plays his lines—strong and intentional, each note pressed with skill and precision. Ochako feels the music buzzing inside of her, the notes vibrating in her chest, and as she plays the accompanying melodies, she truly feels like a canvas where Bakugou writes his music.

Then, there's a shift in the movement and with a nod of Bakugou’s head, he signals Ochako’s turn to step to the front while he fades to the background.

But after a few bars in, her pinky collapses on a shift and the tone wavers. She curses under her breath.

“Stop,” Bakugou says, leaning his bass against the wall and moving closer, the notes still floating in the air. “You’re gonna mess up your hand like that.”

She didn’t expect Bakugou to slip behind her to correct her position, let alone for him to touch her again.

Her breath catches in her throat.

Fuck. She tries not to let it get into her head. She’d had other people correct her position before. What is the big deal now?

His hand finds her shoulder first, pressing her lightly. 

“You’re tense here. Relax. Don't fight the weight,” he mutters, voice sharp but not unkind. He moves to her elbow, softly pushing it upward. “Your arm is dropping here. Bring it parallel to the instrument. It helps if you look at yourself in the mirror.”

There’s no mirror in the office, but they’re standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling window where her reflection is clearly visible under the bright lights. 

Their reflection, to be more precise.

Because Bakugou has one hand on her left elbow and the other hand hovering over her bow. His chest is dangerously close to her back, and his arms form a circle around her. 

It’s not like he’s trying anything—he’s too focused for that, his eyes narrowed in concentration, his frown deeper than other times. Ochako is the one distracted by the reflection. How could she not be when it shows her trapped between the instrument and Bakugo? For some reason, the sight of her being swallowed by wood and flesh makes her head spin, and it’s painfully evident: her shortened breathing, her parted lips, her flushed cheeks…

She presses her thighs together as if that will help her to stay in one piece, but the motion doesn’t go unseen by Bakugou, whose red eyes flick up and meet hers in the reflection.

He seems to read her like a musical score.

And, honestly, it's not hard to realize what she's thinking right now.

She doesn't know how long it takes before he speaks again. 

“Stay with me here,” he says, voice too steady compared to the way Ochako's heart pulsates against her rib cage. “Whatever you're thinking about… just—”

“I'm not thinking of anything,” she protests weakly.

“Well, much better,” he answers, still watching her in the glass. “I want to trust you're right here, right now. Focused. Not stargazing. Not flustered, but here.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. It's like she's high on something she can't find a name for. Maybe it's the three coffees she had during her shift, or the way Bakugou seems to press all her correct buttons, pushing her to the edge in more ways than one. Maybe it's the tension coiled in her lower belly, ready to spring at any moment.

She exhales sharply, trying to release the strain in her body muscles.

“There you go.” She hears him say before Bakugou lets go of her hands and takes one step back. A part of her brain mourns the loss, but she chokes out the feeling. “Now, we're gonna try this again, you hear me? No more distractions.” 

Ochako doesn’t know if it’s her newfound determination, or something else, but this time they do much better. 

They start together as always. Then come Bakugou's main lines, followed by Ochako’s lead. She stumbles here and there when the rhythm picks up speed, but doesn't pause, sliding into the next bar like it never happened. Bakugou’s sound moves to the background, softening his own bow to give her space when she misses a note. And if Ochako is not making it up, Bakugou is adjusting to her rather the other way around.

Then comes the climax. Their eyes find each other, and with a short nod of their heads, they enter the same note at the same time, converging as one and sliding through the last part of the piece. She hears their breath synching when they hold a unison note in high register, pressing the string and jiggling their fingers to pull out a strong vibrato, a powerful sound that quickly dies as they play a few more strokes in the lower register, spiralling downwards until the music fades and they end with one last, long, solemn note.

Okay, they still have to work on the last part, but that was better. Much, much better.

Aizawa-sensei’s review seems positive as well when they present their progress in the next class. He nods his head ever so slightly as the rest of their classmates give a round of applause.

“Next is…” Aizawa looks at the clipboard on his desk. “Tokoyami and Jiro, please come forward.”

“Ha!?” Bakugou cries out, gripping the neck of the double bass as if he were choking a real person. “Is that it? No feedback?”

Aizawa’s deadpan face quickly turns sour, and Ochako certainly doesn't want to know what words their professor has for them now.

She grabs Bakugou’s arm and pulls him away, not before saying goodbye with a small bow of his head. "Thank you for listening, sensei.”

They are supposed to be in class, listening to the rest of the duets, but after storing the double basses with the other instruments, Ochako drags Bakugou outside. Either to give him a piece of her mind or to cool off because she's also riding on pure adrenaline. Probably both. Or mainly the latter because she's panting, dizzy from the lack of air. Was she even breathing while they were playing?

“Try not to make Aizawa-sensei hate us, would you?” She says, bringing her hands to her waist. Her chest rises and falls as if she had just run after a bus that wouldn’t stop for her.

Not like it hasn't happened to her lately—oversleeping because she’s tired from their long practice session and missing the bus entirely.

Bakugou hits the wall with a soft thud of his fist. “It pisses me off,” he mutters. “We didn't rehearse that much just to get a nod.”

“It’s only a state of progress,” she reasons. “It's not a big deal. The important thing is that we are improving.”

He shoots her a sideways glance, his eyes a scorching crimson in the dim hallway light.

“Of course we're improving,” he says. “You're paired with me, and you let me push you as much as I want.”

He—what?

Bakugou definitely didn't mean any of that in another way that is not professional, but the lines between them are blurring and Ochako can't help her skin from breaking in goosebumps or her blood from rushing to her face. It makes her weirdly proud that Bakugou never second-guesses how much pressure she can handle, like he trusts what she's capable of. It gives her a morale boost that keeps her from wondering what she is doing at this conservatory when all her classmates are much better than she is.

She straightens her back and holds Bakugou’s gaze, but her neck hurts from tilting it back. Damn. Why is he so tall? Why is she so short?

“Because I can take it,” she says, wondering if she is the one not keeping it professional after all. “I can take it all.”

His eyes roam around her face, like he's studying her, measuring her, and Ochako’s breath catches as a smirk tugs at Bakugou’s lips.

“Yeah, I know you can take it.”

Chapter Text

For orchestra class, Ochako always arrives first in the rehearsal hall. It takes her a while to adjust the ¾-size bass to her height, as well as the stand with her sheet music. Besides, she likes to warm up properly before the rest trickle in and settle into their instruments. 

That morning, though, someone from the double bass section is already in the hall when she arrives. Todoroki Shouto glides his bow against the thick strings of the double bass almost playfully, like he’s discovering the instrument for the first time, testing its sonority, what notes he can coax out by pressing a particular spot. 

Though they haven't talked much since the school year started, Ochako knows Todoroki well. His father is an important (and scary) conductor, very popular both in Japan and abroad. Almost a celebrity, both lauded and criticized for his controversial conduction style, Ochako would very much like to avoid ever playing in an orchestra under Todoroki Enji.

She wonders if the younger Todoroki can choose not to play under his father’s conduction.

He greets her with a nod of his head and watches in silence as she struggles with the endpin (who secured it so tightly?).

“Do you need help with that?” he asks.

She waves him off. “No, no. Don’t worry. I got this.”

His gaze is intense, maybe that’s why Ochako is fumbling with the instrument. 

“Why do you play the double bass?” he blurts and Ochako stills.

She knows he means well, but he’s definitely implying what others don’t say: that it’s an odd choice for someone of her size.

Still, it's the first time someone has asked in a while, so she tells him.

She plucks a few notes at random. The sound is deep and mellow. 

“In middle school, I wanted to play cello, but my mom signed me up for double bass because she couldn’t tell the difference.” She makes a pause and laughs wistfully. “The teacher said that maybe the bass was too big for me, but that I could play the half-size until I grew taller. The thing is…” She brings a hand to the back of her head and smiles sheepishly. “I never grew taller.”

Todoroki listens with that same impassive look. “Oh. I see.”

“By the time I realized I would never be taller than this, I was already hooked.” She sighs. “I couldn’t back out and pretend I didn’t like playing the bass a bit too much. And, well, that’s the story. What about you?”

The room is filling slowly—chairs creaking, feet shuffling, voices echoing in the hall’s bright acoustics. A chaos of scales and snippets musicalize the morning in fits and bursts.

Todoroki shrugs one shoulder. “Wanted to piss off my father. He insisted I play violin, but I didn’t want to.” 

Ochako nods. “So you went for the complete opposite?”

There’s a smile twitching in Todoroki’s lips as he sets the bow against the strings and plays a long, low note. The sound is so deep, she feels it in her stomach.

“I guess I did.”

A soft melody drifts from the double bass beside her. She almost jumps out of her skin when she spots Bakugou.

How long has he been standing there?

“Don’t look so surprised that I’m in the double bass section, Cheeks,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the strings he plays so effortlessly. “It’s not our first orchestra class either.”

She laughs. “I’m not surprised. I didn’t hear you get here, that’s all.”

“Of course you didn’t,” he scoffs. “You were too busy with Half-and-half, sharing your tragic backstories and shit.”

Todoroki doesn’t seem the least bit offended. On the contrary, he doesn’t even look like he has heard Bakugou.

“Hey, Bakugou. Would you have time to practice with me later?”

He pauses and shoots Todoroki a sidelong glance, the last note hanging in the air. “Why would I want to practice with you?”

Todoroki blinks. “Because we both play double bass?”

Bakugou rolls his eyes and straightens up, letting his hands rest on the body of the bass.

“Nah, can’t do, Half-and-half,” he says. “Already have someone under me later.” 

Ochako’s ears burst on fire. 

Did he have to put it that way? 

Thank god Todoroki is clueless sometimes and didn’t get the innuendo. Because there was definitely an innuendo there. 

(Or is she reading too much into it?)

“I see,” Todoroki hums. “Let me know when you have time, then.”

He turns his attention back to his instrument as if nothing had happened (as if Ochako is not freaking out beside him).

She throws a scandalized look at her duet partner, silently asking for an explanation, because at that moment their teacher enters the class. 

Bakugou holds her gaze, brow furrowed, utterly unreadable. Then he mouths a casual, silent ‘ what?’

But she knows there’s a tiny, smug smile hiding somewhere in there.

When class is over, the double bass players store the instruments in the respective room and Bakugou, swift as ever, slips out of the rehearsal hall before Ochako could tackle him. But she won’t let him get his way this time, and hastily slings her backpack over her shoulder, running off after the idiot.

She finds him down the hallway, heading to his next class with his earphones in.

Ochako dashes to his side and nudges him to get his attention.

He glares at her and doesn’t stop walking, but at least he removes one earphone.

“What is wrong with you?” she shout-whispers, looking around and realizing that the hallway is full of students who may or may not be listening. Crap. She should’ve saved this conversation for later.

“What?” he asks, eyes now looking straight ahead.

“What you said to Todoroki…” she lowers her voice.

“I only said we have practice later,” he explains, like he’s not blatantly lying. “Which, in fact, we do.”

Ochako frowns, almost striding to keep his pace. For every step he takes, she takes two. “You could’ve picked other words.”

“Like what? ‘Can’t do, Todoroki. Tied someone up for later already’ ?”

Her ears flush again and she almost trips. “No, not that either… just.” They slow down as they reach Bakugou’s next class. Ochako lowers her voice too. “Just… keep it between us, okay? You and me.”

Bakugou does a very bad job at holding back a smile. His eyes glint and flicker down ever so slightly to Ochako’s lips before they look up again.

“That I can do.”

∆

Ochako’s friends often stop by the coffee shop where she works, which is perfect—during her breaks, she can join them and unwind a little. That afternoon, Jiro has brought her electric bass and is jamming away, slapping the strings like she’s headlining an experimental fusion gig. The other customers don’t seem to mind; this is a coffee shop inside a music school, after all. Impromptu performances are something they see often and are part of the menu.

“Are you improvising?” Ochako asks, sipping her green tea.

Jiro nods, fingers still dancing over the fingerboard. “Me and Kaminari mess around sometimes—blues, rock, whatever comes to mind.” She glances up with a grin. “You should join us too.”

As they continue chatting, Ochako notices Bakugou walking into the coffee shop, and she stills, the current conversation fading into the background. Baggy jeans and a black V-neck sweater, he heads straight to the counter and leans against it, and, if Ochako is not making it up, his eyes roam around the place, like he's looking for something. Or someone. 

Then, a shadow of disappointment flashes in his face.

Ochako blinks, and then the shadow is gone. But she swears that she saw it there.

Bakugou asks Tsuyu for a coffee and, while she works the espresso machine,  leans in to say something. Tsuyu listens and then tilts her chin toward Ochako’s table.

His eyes are quick to find her—red locked on brown.

Ochako feels a warm sensation creeping up her cheeks and a tingling in her stomach.

It doesn't help that Bakugou gestures to her.

It’s a small motion, nothing flashy. But the way he does it—low at his waist, palm up, two fingers curling inward—makes her feel lightheaded. And it definitely doesn't help that he keeps a blank, unwavering face during the entire exchange.

Ochako goes, but not because he tells her to. Her break was about to end anyways.

She grabs his wrist and hides it from view. “Told you not to do that.”

Bakugou thanks Tsuyu for his coffee and grabs it from the counter. 

“Have time on Friday?” he asks, changing the subject entirely and,

What?

She gapes at him. Is she asking her out?

“Don't get your hopes up, Cheeks,” he adds, sipping his coffee. “It's for class. There's this bar downtown. Experimental string ensemble plays there on Friday.” He points at Jiro with the hand holding his cup. “Your friend there sometimes joins too. Though probably not this week. Anyway, thought it might help.”

She frowns. “Help with what?”

“Our duet, idiot.” His eyes flick toward her. “Might give you ideas. About dynamics or whatever. What do you say?”

∆

This is not a date. 

She repeats to herself—this is not a date.

Then why is Bakugou's hand on her lower back as he leads the way? 

Well, he's not actually touching her, but Ochako knows his hand is there. The heat of his palm is unmistakable ghosting over her shirt, and the hair on her neck bristles, and,

Is it going to be like that all the time? The entire night?

The bar is low-lit and narrow, tucked behind an alley. She would've missed it if Bakugou hadn't guided her (hence, the hand on her lower back, she tells herself) (now it makes sense) (does it?). Inside, the murmur of conversations rises above the sound of strings being tuned and glasses clinking. They find a small high table near the band where they settle, and Bakugou asks if she wants something to drink.

He's wearing a gold chain and it hangs from his neck, glints under the soft lights when he leans in.

Ochako stares. 

Then, she remembers she’s supposed to answer.

“Huh… a beer?”

She searches through her bag for her wallet, but Bakugou nudges her softly. “You pay the next round.”

The band, it turns out, is composed of Kirishima (he waves at Ochako with a big grin), a guy with gray hair and sharp teeth, and another guy with long, dark blue bangs covering his eyes. The latter is quite good, Bakugou says, but apparently he's extremely introverted and avoids big concerts, always performing in small gigs like this one.

“He's always playing a different instrument, depending on the mood,” Bakugou says, setting his glass on the table. “And the fucker plays them all like a goddamn pro,” he adds, not hiding the hint of jealousy in his voice.

Ochako laughs and sips her glass as she watches the trio warming up, playing improvised snippets and offbeat notes at random. 

“Isn’t playing a lot of instruments, like, spreading yourself too thin?” She asks. “I reckon you lose your focus and, I don't know, I'd get a mess in my head.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Bakugou drums his fingers against the table as he thinks. “But it also makes you more versatile, broadens your perspective.”

“You play anything else?”

He gives her a flat look. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know?” She shrugs and folds her arms over the table. “I have never asked you before.”

“Well, I also play the drums.”

She raises her eyebrows. That, she didn’t expect.

“Wow, but that’s another thing entirely.”

He preens. “Why do you think I’m good with rhythm and timing?”

Ochako laughs. That surely explains some stuff.

“You didn’t think of studying percussion?” she asks after a brief pause.

He takes a long gulp of beer before answering. 

“Yeah, but I like bigger stuff better.”

That’s when the ensemble begins to play. One double bass, one guitar, one violin–quite a trio, Ochako thinks. What they play is not a coherent melody, though. Or not at first. It neither has the almost mathematical accuracy of a typical classic piece. It’s looser, but not less intricate. There’s no direction, but there’s intention. The guy with the dark fringes slap the strings with the flat of his palm, the grey-haired guy taps the wood of his violin here and there, turning it briefly into a percussion instrument. Kirishima, for his part, moves his fingers along the neck of the guitar so fast, plucking the notes as if he were playing piano. 

As a musician, it’s interesting and illuminating to watch, but most importantly, it’s fun. They look like they’re having fun, observing and gesturing at each other with a nod of their heads, a tap of their feet. No wonder why the public is so engaged, drinking in silence, both cocktails and beers and, of course, the music. 

Ochako is not sure whether the first song lasts three minutes or ten, but she claps enthusiastically as they finish, stretching out the last notes.

She leans slightly toward Bakugou as the ensemble moves onto the next song. 

“Maybe we need to be more like them,” she murmurs, voice low enough to get lost in the music. “We’re still too stiff. We need to loosen up.”

She feels, more than she sees the curl of his smile. When she glances up, she finds his gaze already on her.

“Loosen up?” he answers quietly, index finger tapping the side of his glass to a rhythm the ensemble is inventing. “Don’t threaten me with a sweet time, Cheeks.”

She squints at him. At least the dim lights conceal the heat rising to her cheeks. 

“You told me to get ideas from the ensemble,” she mutters. “You can’t say I’m not focusing later.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he brings one finger to his lips, signalling they keep quiet as the next song swells. The gesture alone is enough for Ochako’s brain to short-circuit.

She needs a little moment to keep it together, so she excuses herself and picks their empty glasses, walking to the bar for another round. 

When she goes back, Ashido is standing next to their table, talking to Bakugou in a small voice.

She beams at Ochako the moment she spots her.

“Hey, Ochako! I didn’t know you were coming.” She elbows Bakugou. “Why didn't you tell me?”

He grabs his new glass and mutters. “Why should I’ve told you?”

“Ohhh, so you wanted to keep Ochako-chan just to yourself,” Mina snickers. “That’s okay.”

Ochako nearly chokes. “No, no. Mina. It’s not like that. This is… just for the duet assignment, that’s all.”

Ashido’s eyes narrow, glancing from Bakugou to Ochako, then down at the beer glasses on the table. 

“Right. The assignment. Anyway… I leave you two to keep… studying? See you in class!”

She grins and gives Ochako’s arm a knowing squeeze before disappearing back into the crowded bar.

But Ochako finds it hard to focus on the music–or solely on the music–after that. 

Has Bakugou told his friends anything about… them? 

Well, she doubts it.

He doesn’t seem like the type to, and there’s nothing to say about them either. 

Is there? 

Sometimes the air feels a bit too charged in the practice room. Although that’s to be expected. They’re focused and enthralled, trying to merge their sounds, alling their pitches, sharpen their technique. It must be that stored tension that makes Ochako find Bakugou so attractive—every one of his movements is rich and opulent and so are the notes he coaxes from the strings. 

She’s spent a lot of time staring at his hands, at his strong and bony knuckles, his unhesitant fingers. 

Now he’s cupping his chin in one hand while the other lies flat on the table, tapping the wood to another song. It might bethe beer, or the fact that she hasn’t gotten laid in a while, but she shouldn’t be thinking how Bakugou’s fingers would feel in her mouth, or shoved inside her—-

No.

She looks away quickly and takes a long sip of her drink.

What the hell.

She can’t be thinking about that here.

Or anywhere, for that matter.

Bakugou is her partner in the duet assignment. They’ll keep seeing each other for the whole semester. Her grades depend on their collaboration. 

They can't mess around like that.

Actually, she shouldn't even find him attractive. She shouldn't let herself get carried away by this weird (weirdly pleasant) power dynamic either, where a word, a look from him is enough for her to get all worked up. In every sense of the word.

Then.

Why does she agree when he offers to walk her home? 

The bar is about a twenty-minute walk from the small apartment she rents, a two-story residential building made of thin steel and concrete that she can barely afford with her part-time job and her parents’ support. It’s not that late at night and the streets are brightly illuminated–people stroll around too, returning home after a night of drinks or simply walking their dogs. She could’ve told Bakugou not to worry, good night, thanks for everything, see you in class on Monday, but she didn’t want their not-date to end so soon.

So she chats all the way home about the bar, about the music, about how she’s going to check more experimental bands later on her laptop because that was so much fun, but she’s not sure if Bakugou is listening—he stares straight ahead, hands in his pockets, nodding from time to time.

When they stop in front of her apartment building, she turns to him.

Bakugou is taller than her and his head eclipses the streetlight at the end of the lane, his blond spikes of hair catching the faint glow. A shadow falls across his face, making his crimson eyes stand out even more, and Ochako feels that same shadow draped over her like a blanket.

She wants Bakugou’s arms wrapped around her like a blanket.

Maybe that’s why she clears her throat and asks, “You wanna come up?”

Wait. 

What?

She’s also struck by her own words, because she usually doesn’t do this. 

(Actually, she’s never done this.)

But she has read books and watched movies, and knows this is a shared language for occasions like this. Neutral enough to not mean anything, but also loaded enough to mean a lot .

It’s a good move. If Bakugou turns her down, it won't be a big deal—they’ll keep practicing as usual because of course she only meant a cup of tea at that time. 

But if he says yes, well, that's something for future Ochako to figure out.

Bakugou doesn’t answer right away. Towering over Ochako with his hands in his pockets, his eyes roam around her face as if he were actually considering the offer, and her heart picks up speed.

Is he?

Then he huffs a breath through his nose, almost like a laugh. 

“Nah.”

Her heart clenches. And it hurts. But maybe that’s because she’s pressing the keys too hard against her chest.

She looks down. “Right. I mean—yes, it’s late. We should…”

“Don’t ask me that,” he cuts her off, his voice quiet. Resolute. “Not unless you mean it.”

She sucks in a breath and whips her head up. There’s no trace of a smile on his face, either teasing or taunting. He’s so goddamn serious and, does that mean…?

He takes a slow step back, already turning. 

“Night, Uraraka,” he says and starts walking away.

Ochako stares at him until he turns at the end of the street.

She wonders if Bakugou had ever called her by her name before.

Chapter Text

She has a weird dream that night. Or more than weird, unusual. Slightly twisted. Or straight out twisted, because why is she blindfolded?

How did this happen?

In her dream, she's sitting on her apartment’s floor with her eyes covered (and her skin tingling), but other than that, everything seems normal. Her legs are crossed and her forearms rest on her thighs, palms up. There's someone there with her too, his legs crossed, their knees brushing. She knows it's a man because his tone is low and deep as he hums two notes, one after another in ascension. 

They seem to be doing ear training, the blindfold helping her sharpen her senses. With nothing to see, all she can do is hear.

And feel.

Feel the long fingers wrapped around her wrists, holding her hands up.

Feel the faint, stingy pain throbbing in her palms.

The hum fades in the thick air between them and then she speaks, “Thats… a G and a A. A major second.”

The man chuckles, and a silky, but firm string brushes over her palm. 

It's a bow. 

“This game ain't fun if you've gotten this good, babe.”

Ochako quivers. “Am I good?”.

“Yep, very good. Though I can't say that I'm impressed. I knew you could pull this off.”

She feels melting under the reaffirming words. She did well. She didn’t disappoint.  

A callused finger trails the inside of her wrist, slow enough to make her toes curl.

“You know what this means, right?” 

Ochako shakes her head, unable to speak. She’s afraid she’ll dissolve into an incoherent pleading if she were to part her lips.

Something glides across her leg. The bow again, slipping under her skirt like a curious hand, running up her thigh until it rests against her hip and hooks under the elastic of her underwear.

“It means you earned something,” he continues. “Is there something you want?”

Ochako doesn't hesitate. Her voice shakes, but that doesn't mean she's less convinced. Rather, she's desperate. 

“Touch me,” she says.

She hears a huff, a soft, breathy laugh before he murmurs, “Lay back.”

Her back against the floor, she brings her knees together and lifts her hips.

The bow drags down her panties.

She wakes up with a start, panting in the dark. 

Her heart is racing and her head spins, it almost feels like she's drunk.

And well, she did drink that night, but not enough to have Bakugou sneaking in her dreams like this.

(Because that was Bakugou, right?)

She plops down on her bed again, her heart still hammering against her chest—the dull ache in her palms too real, the ghost of the bow brushing her leg definitely way too real.

What the hell. 

She brings a hand to her forehead. What is wrong with her head? And where the hell did that come from? She's never been into whatever was happening there, with the blindfold and the stick. And, wait . Why did her palms even hurt? He was hitting her hands every time she got the intervals wrong?

Man, that's fucked up. 

Bakugou’s critical, pressing, slightly mean approach to their rehearsals has put a rocket up her ass and she has improved like crazy in the past weeks, but he has never done anything to hurt her. What's more, he has tried to make sure she doesn't hurt herself with a bad technique or poor finger positioning. And if she happens to get flustered when Bakugou gets too close, well, that's to be expected, the idiot is good looking, and his stage commanding, and it's not like every time he grips the neck of the double bass she wishes that was her and—

Oh my god.

She's fucked up.

It's hard to look Bakugou in the eye after this discovery.

Too bad for her that she has to see him almost on a daily basis, spend several hours with him even, just the two of them.

Too bad Ochako sucks at playing dumb, because Bakugou has caught her looking at him many times, and she can no longer say it's an accident. If he asks, she'll say she's studying, but Bakugou is too sharp. He probably knows that there's more than meets the eye.

They are rehearsing like any other day, but Ochako’s head is foggy. She has to concentrate real hard to stay in sync, to keep from slipping out of rhythm. The fingerings, shifts, and bowing patterns don’t trip her up the way they used to, though. Lately, they've been practicing so much that the piece flows like a second nature, almost as easy as breathing.

(That it's hard to breathe when Bakugo is around her is another thing entirely.)

Lately, too, Bakugou doesn't correct her as much as he used to. He watches her–yes, with a frown, of course–but he's quieter, less temperamental, though still grumbling here and there about the parts that need to be improved.

She wonders if it's because she's gotten better, or if it's because something has changed after that night at the bar.

Nothing should've changed. 

They went, had a couple of drinks, listened to great music, and then Ochako was back in her apartment. By herself, as Bakugou had turned down her invitation.

Don't ask me that unless you mean it, he had said.

Well, who said she didn't mean it?

“Shit—!”

She messes up a shift, her hand cramping into a bad shape mid-slide and sending a sharp jolt of pain up her wrist. 

She drops her bow with a hiss.

Bakugou leaves his double bass aside in an instant. 

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” she blurts, clutching her hand against her chest.

The crimson in his eyes is as hard as a gemstone. 

“That doesn't sound like nothing. C’mon.” He reaches out a hand and takes hers. “If it's bad we don't want it to get worse.”

Ochako doesn't know how it can get any worse than this. Bakugou is holding the back of her hand and running a thumb across her palm, pressing and looking for any sore spots, and she's not breathing. His fingers are calloused from all the hours practicing, his skin dipped in the smell of steel and copper. All of her senses are invaded, and she's starting to feel light-headed.

She tries to blink the haze away, only to find Bakugou staring at her. Half annoyed, half concerned.

“What is it?” He repeats, thumb still pressing the center of her palm.

She shakes her head and tries to pull her hand away, but he doesn't let her.

“You've been acting weird this last hour,” he continues, and she's going to keep acting weird if he doesn't let go of her hand because this is doing things to her, because this is exactly how Bakugou was in her dream last week, and— “Whatever.” He sighs, his hands slipping out of her and, no. Her stomach falls to the floor. “You gotta tell me if you don't feel well enough to practice.” Her chest clenches. No, this is not— “We can't be wasting our time—”

“I’m fine,” she says at last. The simmering disappointment in his eyes is the last thing she wants to see. She brings her hand to her chest again, but only a dull ache remains. “This thing… it reminded me of a dream I had, and it threw me off. Like a déjà vu, that's all.”

He raises a wary eyebrow.

“A dream?” A pause. She nods. “What did you dream about?”

“You don't wanna know,” she rushes to answer, only to realize that it sounds worse than it actually is. Indeed, Bakugou looks more confused than before. “Wait, no . It was nothing weird. I swear, I was, huh, blindfolded…” Fuck , it does sound weird. But she already started, she can't back out now. “I was blindfolded and there was someone with me, and we were doing… ear training.”

Bakugo blinks. “You are studying even as you sleep?”

“No, that's not…” She waves her hands at shoulder height. “It wasn't so much about music, but about…”

Another pause. Then, Bakugou presses, his patience clearly growing short.

“About what?” 

Ochako parts her mouth, but no sound comes out.

Is she going to tell him?

He rolls his eyes and starts to turn around. “Okay, I'm out.”

“I was punished,” the words stumble out of her mouth and Bakugou freezes. Shit, she's actually telling him. The color rushes to her face and she trips on her tongue. “If… if I got the intervals wrong… I was punished, and this person hit my hands with the bow.”

His body half turned towards her, Bakugou opens his eyes wide, his eyebrows almost touching his hairline. This is the most puzzled Ochako has ever seen him, and that only makes her want to bury herself underground harder.

The silence stretches, the air thick around them, until Bakugou speaks again.

“And if you got them right?” he asks in a murmur very uncharacteristic of him.

Ochako can't believe her ears. “What?”

He takes one step closer. She doesn't know what to do with her hands.

“What if you got the intervals right?” he insists, maybe too invested for being someone else's dumb dream.

Ochako looks down and clenches her sweaty hands in her skirt. Why is she wearing a skirt that day? She's usually in sweats or jeans, but now…

“I was… rewarded.”

“How?”

The bow slipping under her panties, pulling them down. Calloused hands that looked exactly like Bakugou’s parting her thighs and—

Her face is on fire and she can't speak.

Probably Bakugou caught that anyway.

He must have, because he snickers softly, hiding half his face with the back of his hand.

Ochako is so embarrassed, she wants to die.

“Wow, Cheeks. Didn’t know you were into that stuff.”

“I’m not!” She snaps, wondering if her face is turning purple by now. God, why did she go and tell him? She should've kept it to herself. “I swear! I'm not sure where that came from.”

Bakugou exhales through his nose and runs a hand through his hair, and if Ochako didn't know him better, she would say he's as affected as she is by this exchange. After all, his ears are pink, and his breathing looks heavier than before, and—

Shit.

Is he into this stuff?

Did she just add fuel to the fire?

Man.

Help.

“Okay, so this is what we’re gonna do,” he says at last, dropping his arm to the side, and avoiding looking Ochako in the eye. That doesn't make his voice sound any less commanding. “We’ll take a five minute break and you’ll go and splash water on your face or whatever helps you cool down, because I need you here when you get back, okay? We still have a lot to practice.”

Ochako feels terrible they had paused their practice to… what? talk about her fantasies?

How did it come to this?

She claps her palms together and holds it in front of her face, as if praying.

“Please, don't tell anyone!”

“What thing? That you like to get your ass spanked?”

She chokes. “It wasn't my…! It was my hand! My hand!”

His chuckle is almost cruel. She doesn't know why she likes the sound of it.

∆

She's in the library with Midoriya and can’t find the book she is looking for. It's one on tonal harmony for music theory class, very thick and dense, but it's mandatory reading. She's been so absorbed in practicing, either with Bakugou or by herself, that she hasn't found any time to sit down to read anything, but if she doesn't start now, all her homework will pile up and she'll be swamped with deadlines by the end of the semester.

“I would lend it to you,” Midoriya had said, pinching his eyebrows together in a silent apology. “But I already lent it to Todoroki-kun.”

She checks the computer in the library. There are ten copies, and the earliest return date is one week from today.

She hates it here.

“Last time I saw Bakugou walking around with that book,” Tsuyu says the next time Ochako and her share the morning shift at the café.

Ochako almost gets her portafilter turned over in the espresso machine.

Of course it had to be Bakugou.

She still cringes when she recalls how their last practice session went. Why did she have to go and talk about her wet dream with her duet partner that she has to see at least three times a week? Couldn't she tell, I don't know, Tsuyu? Why did she have to tell anyone at all?

During her break she is outside the café, leaning against the brick wall. Phone pulled to her ear, she listens to the waiting tone. Her urge not to fail her classes are greater than her ego and, what the hell, she still has to see Bakugou in a couple of days.

After several rings, someone answers on the other end.

“Hello? ” It's a groggy, raspy voice, mildly annoyed, and yep. That's indeed Bakugou.

"Hi, Bakugou-kun! This is Ochako,” she chirps. “Huh… you see, I was looking all over for this book for Musical Theory class and it's been impossible to find," she explains, rocking on the heel of her feet. “Tsuyu says you had it with you. Can you lend it to me for a couple of days?”

Bakugou grunts and something makes her think that he has just woken up to this call. Which is weird. He struck her as the kind of guy who was up and jogging at 7am, to start practicing at 8am and then ready for classes at 9am.

“Okay,” he grunts, sourness dripping from his voice. “But you come and pick it up. ”

She nods. “I get off from work at noon. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I'll text you the address to my place. See you then."

He hangs up and then she goes over the conversation again.

His place, he said?

Bakugou lives in a residential building nicer than her own (sleek, modern, with automatic gates and freaking elevators ), in a neighborhood definitely better than her own, Ochako is almost embarrasesed that he walked her home last time. Good thing it was dark enough, so he probably didn't see the parking lot overrun with weeds just beside her building, the aging storefronts of the konbinis, or the thick power lines threading over their heads. 

She knew he came from a wealthy family, hell, she's the exception to the rule, because most people at the conservatory are filthy rich, enrolled from a very young age in music classes, prepared for future success. But she never realized how loaded Bakugou was.

Looking up at the building her neck aches, and when she sees her reflection on the elevator’s mirror, she regrets she didn't put on something nicer than a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt. Then she frowns at her reflection. 

Who cares. She's just there to pick up a book, that's all. 

(Still, she can't help but feel out of place.)

Bakugou opens the door, looking as sleepy and grumpy as he sounded an hour ago over the phone. Grey sweatpants and a white tank top on, he doesn't say hi to Ochako and just steps aside, gesturing to her to come in.

She shouldn’t come in.

But she comes in because she's an idiot and because she's curious about what Bakugou’s apartment looks like. It's a studio like hers, but it's bigger and more modern, and damn, the guy is tidy as shit. No dishes in the dryer rack, no random socks on the floor, the bed neatly made, a floor-to-ceiling shelf stuffed with books, CDs, and vinyls, but what really strikes her is the instrument.

Taking up a good chunk of a corner, stands a brand new double bass. The wood is almost black, catching reddish glints under the noon lights, the curves smooth and elegant. Ochako has probably never played an instrument of this quality, she doubts the double bass she bought second (or third, who knows) hand could compete , but she can perfectly picture Bakugou’s hands seated around its silhouette.

(She wishes he could see him play.)

The instrument looks heavy, important, and above all, expensive, and of course the idiot owns something like this. How could he not.

“Here's the book,” he says behind her back, unaware of how dumbstruck Ochako is.

She turns to him and gestures at the instrument, buzzing with excitement. “Why have I never seen you with this before!?”

He raises an eyebrow, the thick book held lazily in his hands. 

“I don't want to drag that beast around campus just to watch as it cracks in half, thank you very much.”

She receives the book, never tearing her eyes off the double bass. If she could only brush the wood with her fingertips, she would die a happy woman.

“You want to play it?” he asks casually, as if offering a glass of water.

She flinches and whips her head toward him. His spiky blond hair points in all directions, locks pale and thin, contrasting with the red in his eyes. Is it the color that always makes him look annoyed? Or is it the perpetual frown in his brow? Ochako wishes she could reach out and smooth the wrinkles in his forehead. 

Instead, she laughs and takes one step back. “Nuh-huh. I don't want to be the one who breaks it. This thing probably costs five times my rent.”

He frowns harder. “I wouldn't offer if I thought you'd break it, Cheeks.”

She should be used to the nickname by now, hell, Bakugou calls everyone funny names, hers is not special. Still, she can't help the shiver that runs down her back. 

She doesn't wait for Bakugou to offer again. It's not an opportunity that comes every day either. Even in the conservatory, they don’t have instruments of this quality hanging around. So she positions behind the double bass, a bow in her hand and settles in. She doesn't play something they've practiced before, but chooses a piece from the classic period that she likes, a lively allegro moderato , light on its feet, but rich in sound.

Her fingers dance higher up on the strings, where the double bass doesn't often go, less of that rumbling tone that seems to come from underground, and more of a playful, warm voice. Leaning over the instruments, she goes in search of the notes, fingers gliding up and down the fingerboard, stopping at a point to jiggle and string, coaxing the sound out of it. The notes pour down the strings crisp and clean—she doesn't know if it's just a suggestion or if the instrument actually makes it sound better, but whatever it is, the music feels alive, pleasant, a whole.

It's barely a two-minute piece, but Ochako feels satisfied. 

It’s only when she looks up from the instrument that she realizes how intently Bakugou is watching her.

And she stills.

It slowly dawns on her where they are. Not that she didn't know before, but now she's weirdly aware that this is his apartment, his space , and it's just the two of them. No one else. No one is gonna knock on the door and say their practice time is up. No one can even open the door from the outside.

She swallows.

Is it weird (yes, it's probably weird) that she doesn't hate the feeling of being trapped?

The longer the silence gets, the thicker the air grows around them, and that's something Ochako doesn't hate either—this heady feeling that showers over her when she's around Bakugou.

She looks away and clears her throat, trying to keep it together.

“Is it good?” she asks.

Hands on his sweats’ pockets, he rubs a heel against his feet, shifting his weight in silence. Then, he sighs.

“You’re doing good,” he says. “You don't need me to tell you what to do…”

He trails off and blinks his eyes up, staring at Ochako from under his pale eyelashes. Something simmers in the red of his eyes and burns in Ochako’s face, where his gaze roams. He parts his lips, but doesn't utter a word. Instead, his eyes dart down, tracing her neck, her collarbone, her T-shirt with a V-collar, and settling in the curve of her chest.

Ochako feels her throat drying up.

He's ogling her and he's not being subtle about it. What's more, it’s like he wants her to realize his intentions in a silent language they had just invented.

His voice is not suggestive, but it's low and throaty enough for Ochako to get the message.

“... unless you want me to.”

Ochako is not breathing, the blood pumping in her ears, her heart hammering against the instrument she holds close to her chest. She didn't realize how hard she was grasping the neck of the double bass until that moment.

“I… huh… I don't know?” she says before she has a moment to think it through.

If Bakugou was testing her, she clearly failed.

He blinks and the hungry shadow is gone in an instant, so fast that Ochako wonders if it was even there for starters, or if it was all her imagination.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

The built up tension soon vanishes into thin air, and he drops his shoulders, exhales sharply. Ochako had set the book on a nearby table and now Bakugou picks it up again and hands it to his classmate. 

In the gesture, Ochako realizes that she has to leave.

And Bakugou reinforces the idea. “Give it back to me soon.”

Chapter Text

Ashido Mina, ever the enabler and the social butterfly, suggests they throw a party before everyone starts stressing about midterm exams. Todoroki, sweet summer child, doesn’t seem to know what it's like to have around thirty college students over who want to go all out and tear the house down. Or maybe he does know, which is why he offers his house (Endeavor’s house) to host the event in the first place.

If Ochako was stunned by Bakugou’s apartment, she almost faints at the sight of Todoroki’s house because this is not a just house, it’s a fucking estate, with a large traditional Japanese construction made of wood, sliding doors, and tatami floors, connected by walkways, a middle garden and… a pond with koi fish?

Rich people are insane.

In the main room, everyone is seated at a long, low table, helping themselves with some snacks and opening one beer after beer. Ochako sits with her friends, laughing and chatting about their first few months at the conservatory. Their favorite topic is the shenanigans of teachers Aizawa, Yamada, and Shirakumo, and their theories about why Aizawa-sensei ended up as their friend.

“I think Aizawa-sensei has a crush on Shirakumo-sensei!” Ashido argues.

Jiro shoots her a wary look. “I think you just like pairing people up.”

“Oh, I can certainly think of many couples!” she says, as if Jiro has just challenged her to raise the stakes. “You and Kaminari, for instance.”

Jiro almost spits out her beer. “Me and who?”

“Or Yaomomo, whichever you prefer.” Now it’s Yaoyorozu’s turn to choke on her Prosecco. “There’s also Hagakure and Ojiro, but they’re already dating so they don’t count.”

Hagakure slams her hand on the table. “What do you mean it doesn’t count!?”

“And there’s also…” Ashido’s eyes scan the group, searching for more victims, lingering on Ochako for a split second longer. Ochako doesn’t get to tear her eyes away fast enough before the damage is done. “There's also Ochako and Bakugou, of course.”

She wants to jump on Mina and slap a hand against her mouth, make her shut up, but that would only make things worse. Or maybe the boys just don't care, too invested in thumb-wrestling or whatever thing they're doing on the other side of the table.

Instead, Ochako sips her beer and offers a puzzled smile.

“Why is that? Because we're paired for the duet assignment?”

“He's always staring at you,” Tsuyu points out and wait, what?

(When was her friend going to tell her about this?)

Hagakure nods eagerly. “Yes, last time at orchestra class, you dropped your music sheets, and I noticed he was checking out your ass.”

“Honestly, I would've checked Ochako's ass too,” Mina agrees. “I mean, you got a great booty, my friend.”

Ochako wants to bury herself three meters underground.

(Bakugou did what? And Mina, what the hell!).

Momo covers her mouth with her hand in embarrassment. 

“I didn't know you talked like this after a couple of beers.”

Mina slaps her friend’s back with an open hand. “Pull the stick out of your ass, Momo. We're having fun!”

After that, Ochako no longer registers anything. Her eyes are lost at the end of the table where Bakugo had apparently just won an arm-wrestling match. Grinning smugly, he rolls down the sleeve of his shirt and grabs his beer.

Then he looks up and his eyes find Ochako.

The sound around her cancels out as they stare at each other for a moment. His smile fades little by little, and Ochako finds it hard to believe that he could've been staring at her ass at some point.

But then she remembers that time at his place when his eyes strayed (very intently) to her chest and, well, there's always the possibility.

Someone found an old video online of professors Aizawa, Yamada and Shirakumo when they were young and still studied at the conservatory. Everyone gathers around, curious to watch it, but the phone screen is too small, so Todoroki suggests they move to the movie theater and watch it on a big screen instead (and why does he even have a movie theater in his house?) (Nothing should surprise Ochako anymore).

Unlike the rest of the house, the theater room follows a more Western style with carpeted floors, soundproof walls, a screen that takes up an entire wall and a state-of-the-art stereo system. There are two sofas and several armchairs, but still not enough room for everyone. After all the seats are taken, the rest sit on the floor. Ochako is about to join them when she realizes that the only free spot is at Bakugou’s feet.

And she freezes.

Mina comes behind her and, of course, she’s of no help.

“Wait, Ochako. I’ll take this space.” She rushes over and sits down at Bakugou’s feet. Then, she reaches an arm back and pats the guy’s lap. “You can sit with Bakugou here.”

The rest is not paying attention to this exchange, handing out bags of chips and beers while Todoroki and Midoriya try to connect the phone to the TV. Ochako is glad no one else notices when her brain stops computing because—

Mina, what’s wrong with you today?

Bakugou raises an eyebrow and slaps Mina’s hand away. 

“I'm not a fucking beanbag.”

She grins in mischief. “Oh, come on. Just for a little while.”

Ochako presses her lips into a line and clenches her beer. The metal sinks under her fingers. 

“Don’t fool around, Mina. If you squeeze with the rest, I can sit down on the floor as well.”

Her friend gives her a knowing smile. 

“You too, don't act like you've never sat on a guy before.”

At that remark, Bakugou looks up at Ochako from under his lashes and stares at her for a long, silent moment.

Then, he slowly spreads his knees where he's slouched in the armchair, like he’s challenging Ochako.

They turn off the light and she has to make a quick decision. Encouraged by the alcohol, most likely, Ochako thinks okay, whatever, and moves to sit on Bakugou's lap, perpendicular to his knees, her legs pulled over his, and shit, her feet don't even touch the floor.

(Like, she knows she's short but—)

Eyes glued on the screen, she tries to sit up straight, leaning on the armchair’s side. Still, she can't ignore the heat radiating from Bakugou's body, the smell of his cologne, and his arm which may or may not be wrapped around Ochako's waist. Hands holding the beer can, she takes a sip here and there and watches the screen, but can't, for the life of her, tell what they're watching.

His soft breath brushes against the short hair over her nape and it's hard to resist the urge to arch her back.

Does he feel the same way? Because he's sitting still, breathing normally, but Ochako doesn't ignore the way he grips the arm of the chair, his knuckles white, his veins bulging.

“Is that true?” he asks, his hushed voice brushing her cheek.

Ochako looks at him out of the corner of her eye, her heart picking up speed.

“What thing?”

He's frowning, his eyes gleaming like a stoplight. “What Mina said.”

Oh, that.

She sips her drink. 

“Huh, yes. It was.”

“Was it good?”

Her throat closes, and she almost starts coughing. 

“I guess it wasn't good,” he says with a little smile, patting her back softly.

She glares at him. “Jesus, Bakugou.”

“Was it recently?” He resumes the interrogation and, seriously, what is wrong with him?

“No,” Ochako mutters, looking at the screen again. “Right now, I'm focused on school.”

He chuckles. “That's my girl.” 

Her body shudders and she covers her mouth, choking back a curse (or, worse, a moan). Of course, her reaction doesn't go unnoticed when she's pressed this close to Bakugou. 

This is embarrassing.

Embarrassing and intoxicating. Way more than alcohol.

A hand lands on her thigh. “Stop squirming,” he murmurs in her ear, and—

God.

Bakugou giving her orders while touching her leg is definitely not helping her to stay still. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He might be affected by alcohol, too. He’s never been this bold, this straightforward before. What he usually does is tease, hovering close to the line that blurs the limits between a musical partnership and something else, but never crossing over to the other side. 

Now he’s standing on the edge.

“Oh, my bad,” he continues, his thumb sliding between her pressed thighs. “Forgot you're into this shit.” 

Ochako knows he's lying. How could he have forgotten? The way he holds her thigh through the fabric of her jeans doesn't feel like he has forgotten. 

She pulls her hand off her mouth and grabs his wrist, preventing his hand from sliding closer to her—

“Jeez. Why did I have to go and tell you that?”

“Hmm. I think you know quite well,” he says, his voice drunk with something other than wine. He doesn’t move closer but grabs her tighter. “You wanted to test me, didn't you?”

“That’s not—”

“And I did a great job, don’t you think? Holding back and shit.”

Ochako’s breath hitches.

Is this conversation actually happening or is it all in her head?

“Have you been holding back?” she asks in the quietest murmur.

A wary smile tugs at his lips. “Can't you tell, Cheeks?”

Then someone turns on the light and the conversation resumes as everyone gets up and slowly scatters around the house. Bakugou pats her on the back, telling her to get up too, and she wobbles out of his lap.

The room is clearer now, with the lights on, but Ochako still feels like she's being kept in the dark.

At the next rehearsal, Bakugou is five minutes late. 

It’s not like he’s awfully late, but it’s unlike him. Most of the time, he’s guarding the practice room at least ten minutes before their time slot starts, pacing in front of the door like a caged lion and storming in as soon as the previous duet’s booking ends. So yes, it’s weird when he shows up at 8:07 p.m., looking a bit disheveled, his white T-shirt wrinkled under his cardigan. He greets Ochako with a nod, drops his backpack to the floor, and rummages through his belongings for his bow, rolling up his sleeves before settling behind the double bass.

Ochako watches the entire sequence, arms folded over her chest.

“Don’t start,” he says, not even granting her a look.

It is the words that upset her more than the delay itself. She hadn’t been that annoyed before, but now she is.

“Don’t start what?” she snaps. “If I were the one running late, you’d be chewing my head off.”

“But I’m here now, okay? Sorry I wasted your precious five minutes. Now let’s do this shit—we only booked an hour.”

He slides the bow across the strings and plays a few notes, as if that settles the matter. But it doesn’t.

This isn’t like her either. She’s usually more easygoing and laid-back. Ochako doesn’t know why she’s so irritated. It feels like all the tension they’ve built up over the past two months is veering in the wrong direction.

“Why are you making it sound like it’s my fault we’re wasting time? You didn’t even text me, or try to—try to—”

Her voice trails off mid-sentence. At that moment, Bakugou leans forward to adjust the sheet on the music stand, and the collar of his T-shirt dips down, revealing a small, fresh hickey on the crook of his shoulder. Or two.

She stops breathing.

Well.

So that’s what this is about.

It all makes sense now—why she was upset. Maybe a part of her already suspected it. The clues were all there: the delay, the messy hair, the wrinkled clothes, the way he barely looked at her when he arrived, the defensiveness, his refusal to explain where he was, with whom. 

Doing what.

He owes her no explanation or apology. This shouldn’t matter. What Bakugou does in his free time isn’t her business as long as it doesn’t interfere with rehearsals. And technically, being five minutes late isn’t a big deal. They’re wasting more time now arguing than they would’ve with a delayed start.

But she can’t shake it off. She stares at her duet partner for so long enough that Bakugou notices.

His eyes follow her gaze, and it doesn’t take him long to realize what she saw.

He pulls his shirt collar up to hide the bruises.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he mutters. “Some of us can focus on two things at a time, like college and getting laid. Now that we’ve cleared the air, can we start fucking rehearsing?”

Ochako nods, not sure if anything has been cleared up, but she turns on the metronome anyway. With one hand on the fingerboard and the other resting on the bow, her head is anywhere else and her heart weighs heavy, buried many meters underground.

∆

She needs to unwind, too.

Maybe it’s all in her head. Maybe she's just attracted to Bakugou because she hasn’t hooked up with anyone in a while. Where would she even find the time, when Bakugou takes up so much of it? 

But not anymore. 

If he can go and find space in his schedule for extracurricular activities, well, so can she.

The hands gripping her waist are so large and calloused, and this guy pounds into her hips with so much force, so much rage that this definitely is not helping her to forget about Bakugou but—

Maybe this isn’t about Bakugou. Maybe she just has a type. And her type is menacing, slightly unhinged men who are willing to fuck her hard.

Dabi was that kind of guy, she had thought the night they met, a few months before she started at the conservatory. She and her friends had gone out partying, and his blue eyes had found hers across the dance floor. A few hours later, she was bent over the sink in the men’s bathroom, being railed like he was trying to carve his shape inside of her. Not that she minded. He was a good lay, and terribly good-looking under the cold lights of the bathroom, his white spikes of hair eclipsing the flickering bulbs.

(Yeah, shit, she definitely has a type.)

The sweat cooled on her skin as she adjusted her skirt and wondered what to do with her ruined panties. She hadn't expected Dabi to turn her around and nudge her against the sink, kissing her far more gently than he’d just fucked her—but she didn’t mind. Actually, she kissed him back. He was a great kisser, and you don’t find that every day.

He gave her his number in case she wanted to meet up again.

She took his word for it, but never actually wrote to him.

Until that day.

Dabi lives in a questionable part of town, like her, in a somewhat rundown building just like her. His apartment is a studio on the second floor like her own, and his hunger mirrors hers. That's why he asked no questions when she showed up at his door. He wordlessly tangled his long fingers in her hair and pulled her close for an open-mouthed kiss.

Was she desperate to undress right away, tugging at his belt as soon as her shirt slid down her shoulders? It probably was, but he didn't say anything about it. He lifted her up by the thighs, her legs wrapped around his middle, and carried her to the bed, making sure she didn’t fall by gripping her ass tight.

Now her ass is sore, probably red, from how hard he smacked it. The flat of his palm sounds loud and sharp against her skin, and maybe Bakugou is right—maybe she does like being smacked like this.

Thinking about Bakugou makes her walls clench. A pathetic whimper slips from her lips, and Dabi notices. He keeps grinding into her ruined body, face-down on his bed, while he lazily puffs on a cigar. He fucks her while smoking like it’s no big deal. Ochako doesn’t like the smell of smoke. But damn it looks so hot when a grey cloud curls around Dabi’s shoulders, don't ask her to make sense of it right now.

“Color?” he rasps, his hand landing on the back of Ochako's neck. With her head buried between the pillows, she endures the assault on her hips.

“G-green.”

His fingers tighten in her ponytail. “And what if I pull your hair?”

“Yes,” she chokes out, already nodding.

He tugs hard and tears a cry out of her.

She chants some more. 

“Yes. Yes. Fuck!”

Her hand slips between her thighs to look for her clit, swollen and neglected in the past five minutes, because any touch (she draws small circles), any brush of skin against her (fuck the circles, she's just frantically rubbing her digits against her clit at this point) would’ve make her come like she's coming now, with Dabi’s cock buried deep inside her, being fucked stupid while she thinks of Bakugou. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Took you a while to write,” Dabi says as they both lay side by side in his bed. He smokes another cigarette while Ochako stares at the ceiling, catching her breath, all her muscles wrecked. 

Her legs won’t close. Good thing the curtains are drawn—she’s not exactly post-sex goddess material right now.

“Yeah, things happened,” she mumbles. Her ass still stings. She might’ve got a little carried away (just a little).

He chuckles. “Boyfriend?”

“No, there’s no boyfriend,” she mutters, rolling over and sitting up on the edge of the bed. Shit. How’s she going to get home like this? Or make it to class tomorrow? She really hadn't thought this through. If she’s lucky, her mind might’ve cleared a bit by now. Being sad and horny doesn’t let you think, precisely. “Can I use your shower?”

“Go ahead,” he says, flicking ash into a tray on the bedside table. He’s lying long and idly on the crumpled duvet. At some point, while Ochako was still recovering, he removed the condom and threw it away, putting on his black boxers again. “I can’t keep you here long, though. Got stuff to do. But hit me up if you ever wanna hang out again. Or cheat on that not-boyfriend, I don’t care.”

Dabi is more of a menace than she originally thought. But honestly, what did she expect? He looks like the kind of guy who’d bang you against a wall before your skirt’s even off. 

That’s not how it went down that day—but Ochako can totally see that happening.

∆

The next morning, she oversleeps and now is late for class.

For the midterm exam of their duet, no less.

Goddammit.

She hadn’t really thought it through when she called Dabi the previous afternoon, but she needed to scratch that itch and Bakugou wasn’t going to do it for her.

Well, this is why she can't walk and chew gum at the same time. She gets distracted too easily.

Overslept and panicking, she doesn't get to wash her hair that morning. She rubs her entire body with soap and throws yesterday's clothes straight into the laundry basket, but the smell of smoke clings to her hair like cold, hard proof.

She tries her best to disguise it, putting on a baseball cap, her high, short ponytail poking through the eyelet. It's not like she's never been to class looking like a skater anyway. Bakugou shouldn't find it weird.

“Didn't know you smoked.” It's the first thing he comments as they make the final adjustments before presenting their progress.

And why is he always so observant, it's something Ochako can't get her head around.

Standing side by side in the waiting room, they barely greeted each other when they met that morning. He wore an oversized pullover with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and gave a short nod in Ochako’s direction, without taking his eyes or hands off the instrument as he warmed up.

Ochako bit her lower lip. Their relationship was tense right now, to say the least, but musically speaking, they’re fine. She shook her head and made a beeline for the storage room where she picked up her double bass. They could be better, for sure, but it's only the midterm exam. They’ve worked hard these past two months. They’ll get through it. By the end of the semester, they will be perfect. Especially now that Ochako has decided to put an end to her little infatuation with Bakugou. And if she feels weak, well, Dabi’s number is still saved on her phone.

“I don't smoke,” she says, running her hand across the strings. Her fingers ghost over the fingerboard, but no sound is produced.

She doesn't dare to look Bakugou in the eye, but she can tell the moment the music stops.

(And she imagines his red eyes widening, his body stiffening.)

She can also tell that he wants to say something, ask something, but that's when Shirakumo-sensei peeks out from the main room and calls them up, saying it's their turn for the exam.

Chapter Text

It's never easy to guess what Aizawa is thinking. Normally, Ochako can live with that, but it's unnerving now that their teacher has to give them feedback on their progress. Ochako feels her heart in her throat, her hands gripping the instrument and the bow, her hands clammy with sweat. Bakugou's uneven breathing rings loud and clear in her ears. 

The same way it was painfully clear all the times he slipped during their presentation. 

Or at least, it was clear to Ochako, because she knows the piece inside and out. Good thing Bakugou is a skillful artist and managed to mask most of his mistakes. Still, he looks so pissed at himself, because he had a firm grasp on this piece from day one, and now…

“Your interpretation of the presto agitato is interesting, Bakugou, but emotionality can’t come at the expense of control,” Aizawa deadpans, scribbling something on his notebook. “You're communicating intention, which is good, but articulation gets lost when you rush transitions. And you have to match your partner's pulse. Listen harder. And for you, Ochako.” He pins his eyes on her and she flinches. “Don't let Bakugou’s energy throw off your phrasing. You both have to find a shared ground. Somewhere between your steadiness and his volatility. That will make you both converge.”

It's weird trying to convince herself that this wasn't her fault. Bakugou only made a comment (didn't know you smoked), and she only replied (I don't smoke). The spiral of restrained rage that he fell into after that has nothing to do with her. It’s not that she went and blurted ‘hey, yesterday I hooked up with some guy because I can’t stop fucking thinking about you’ two minutes before their presentation. That would’ve been her fault, and a shot in her foot as well because her grades depend on their joint performance. He just went and assumed the rest of the story, getting mad as a result.

Whether or not he correctly assumed the story is another thing entirely.

They both exit the classroom, moving to the adjoining instrument room to store their double basses. She almost expects Bakugou to snap at her, spit hurtful words, toss the blame on anyone that is not him.

She doesn’t expect him to run a hand across his face and exhale sharply. 

“I fucked up,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

Ochako doesn't know if he's grumbling out loud or talking to her, but she decides on the latter.

“It's okay, Bakugou,” she says, trying to offer a reassuring smile. Maybe that will bring some normalcy back to their strained relationship. “Everyone screws up once in a while.”

His hand still pressed against his face, he uses the space between his fingers to glare at Ochako.

“Well, that's the thing, Cheeks. I'm not like everyone else.” He drops his hand to his side and sighs. “Have you ever seen me make the same mistakes I did today?”

She blinks. That's some inflated confidence there, though not entirely baseless. Bakugou is right—he doesn't make that kind of beginner's mistake. He never loses control like this. Control is what he has the most: over tempo, over phrasing, over dynamics, over his fingers sliding across the fingerboard.

(Over Ochako with a single glance, with a gesture of his fingers).

Her silence spoke volumes.

And then, he scoffs. “Yeah, exactly.”

They don’t talk much after that. After all, it’s still midterm exam time and there's plenty to study, many exams to take, and some other pieces to perform. Plus, Ochako works at the coffee shop and she can’t have a break for her life.

She’s exhausted and could use a week of sleep..

On Friday she closes the late shift and is finally free to go home and pass out until Sunday. After sliding her bag over her shoulder, she drags her feet through the long hallways of the music school as she heads to the subway station. Unlike daytime, the halls are quiet at this hour. Most of the practice rooms are empty, but some others are occupied by late-night musicians—the lights on reveal their presence, as does the distant murmur of music.

She walks past a practice room and stops in her tracks when she hears a double bass.

Not just any double bass.

After half a semester of practicing with Bakugou almost every day, she can tell right away when he's playing.

The door of the rehearsal room is closed, but some tall windows are open way above Ochako’s head, letting in the summer night breeze. The double bass plays in tandem with a piano, and Ochako remembers Bakugou mentioning something about practicing with Shinsou Hitoshi for chamber music class.

It makes sense. Shinsou looks like someone who could sleep all day and practice only at night. 

They can’t see her as she stays outside and hears them play. They make a nice duo, Bakugou and Shinsou. The piano and the double bass, played in their hands, are two independent forces that refuse to submit to each other, but still manage to converge into a common sound. A sound dark and thick, eerie at times. Or at least it makes Ochako feel uneasy. 

But then the rehearsal winds down and the bass line trails into nothing, and Ochako hears voices coming from inside. 

"How did the midterm go? ” Shinsou’s voice asks.

Ochako blinks. Why does Shinsou’s voice sound so clear in the hallway? She studies music, she should have a better understanding of how sound travels through the air, and yet…

“Not well,” Bakugou grumbles. The wall is non-existent at this point, Ochako could be in the practice room with them for all she knows. “Fucked up a couple of times. Aizawa said my presto agitato was shit or something.”

But she’s not in the practice room with them, and it feels wrong to overhear a private conversation, so she resumes her way home.

Or not.

“What happened?” Shinsou asks and Ochako freezes after taking one step, her ears pricking up.

She wants to know what happened too. From Bakugou’s own mouth, if possible, but she’s been too much of a coward to ask. They’re already in a weird spot when it comes to their relationship. She doesn’t want to make it worse.

Bakugou takes a bit to answer, and Ochako can picture him balancing the neck of the bass on his shoulder, like he's wondering if this is an issue worth giving mental space or not.

“I was mad…” Apparently, it is. “Just before the exam I… huh, I kind of… I got the feeling that Cheeks might’ve hooked up with someone the day before.”

Ochako slaps her hand against her mouth. A necessary measure because right now she is not trusting herself nor her reactions. Not when her heart pounds against her ribs and the floor wobbles beneath her feet.

Shinsou chortles weakly in answer. “Man, let her have a life.”

“I didn’t tell her anything. ‘m not stupid,” he retorts. “It’s just…”

The sentence floats in the air, and then Bakugou dispels it away with a long sigh, one that rumbles with frustration.

“What?” Shinsou presses, although his voice is dry, almost uninterested. “You wished that was you?”

The pause is agonizing. Ochako will pass out for real if she keeps holding her breath like this, but right now she can’t bring herself to move a muscle.

“Kinda,” he says. “But we can’t,” he continues and her heart clenches. “That’d destroy the duet.”

“What? But how?” Rather than being involved, Shinsou sounds confused, like he can’t make sense of how Bakugou’s logic works (and neither can Ochako for that matter).

There’s a trace of a smile in Bakugou’s lips. Ochako can’t see it, but she can hear it.

“If I knew I could pull her,” he says bitterly. “I bet the last thing we’re doing is rehearsing.”

Bakugou could’ve punched her guts, and it would’ve felt exactly the same, because…

God.

Her head is spinning and her blood is pumping.

She has to lean against the wall to give herself a moment.

Fucking Bakugou.

What does he mean by ‘if I knew I could pull her’ ? 

He knows damn well he can, but…

That’d destroy the duet.

Then that’s why.

That’s why he’s been holding back.

Shit. She needs to get out of there.

She needs to get out of there as soon as possible before Bakugou walks out of the practice room and realizes that Ochako was outside hearing how he acknowledged that, if he had less self-control, he’d have her against the wall for the two hours they usually book the practice room.

She hurries down the corridor and runs to the subway, trying not to think of what he really meant. Because Ochako already knows Bakugou well enough to read the subtext, and what he meant wasn’t something he could tell Shinsou just like that. 

Or anyone for that matter.

(If she were mine, he had said between the lines, if she were mine, I’d ruin her for anyone else.)

A week after the midterm exam, they are back to rehearsing again. 

Bakugou looks the same as always. The same upright posture as he wraps his arms around the double bass, the same dexterous fingers running down the neck of the double bass, the same right hand plucking deep notes from the strings. His brows knitted together, he still pauses mildly annoyed when they rush in a particular bar or when she misses an entrance. Each time, he makes them start again from the top and Ochako regrets she didn't do enough stretching exercises during the past week. 

After the two hours of practice, her knuckles are sore and throb in pain. 

As they leave, Bakugou locks the door to the room and glares at her. 

“Just because you did well in front of Aizawa doesn't mean you are allowed to practice any less.”

She frowns. “I haven't practiced any less. But I… huh, we had the exam week and I’ve been working shifts at the coffee shop. So it's not like I could practice more .”

He rolls his eyes and moves down the hallway. Ochako trails behind not because she's following him, but because they’re both heading to the subway. 

Bakugou drops the keys on the building’s reception desk and they both exit through the front staircase. They don't talk much as they walk in silence. It’s 7pm on a summer day, but the heavy clouds in the sky darken the afternoon. Ochako wants to believe that the air charged around them it’s because of the weather and not because all the things left unsaid, about to roll off the tip of their tongues.

In a way, it is because of the weather.

Ochako feels two drops land on her forehead before an unexpected summer rain starts pouring down on them. 

She shrieks, he curses under his breath, and the two start running down the street as a shower falls hard on their heads, almost hurting. Her wet bangs cling to her eyes and won't let her see, but then Bakugou grabs her arm and drags them both under a roofed bus stop. 

Her vision blocked, she hears the rain rattling on the roof and feels Bakugou’s hands pushing her back against the inside panels of the shelter. They're both out of breath and soaked wet, and when she brushes the hair off her face, she realizes how close they are from each other. The bus stop is narrow and a handful of passersby have also taken shelter under the same roof, so they have to cram themselves into the little available space.

Bakugou blinks down at her. She blinks up at him. A drop of water falls from a lock of his hair and lands on her cheek. It feels weirdly intimate. And cold. She shudders, suddenly aware of the wet clothes clinging to her body, of the water in her hair running down her back. 

And her body betrays her in the worst possible way.

She can't help the cold air from grazing her chest, can't stop the ache that follows as her hardened tips tighten beneath the soaked cotton, her shirt almost translucent at this point. The collar hangs low, heavy with water, and a few drops run down the curve of her chest before disappearing into the fabric.

She notices when Bakugo’s eyes drop.

And when he stares.

He's staring, and is making little to no effort to pretend he's not. What's more, his eyes darken in a deep maroon shade and his lips part as if he's about to say something but changes his mind at the last minute. 

He shifts closer, and all the hair on her body stands on end.

She breaks eye contact and crosses her arms over her chest, but it's too late already. He saw that. And she saw that he saw that. Her cheeks burn in the same maroon shade as his eyes, not entirely from embarrassment.

(But a big part is embarrassment. They're in public, Jesus.)

The rain keeps rattling over the roof, filling the silence, but that doesn't make the moment any less awkward. Or arousing.

After what feels like ages, he clears his throat and speaks. 

“Oi. Cheeks.” His voice is hoarse, like he's stood in the rain all night. It makes something coil in her stomach, tight and warm. “My place is close by. You need dry clothes or something before you start flashing the whole damn street.” She chokes on her spit. Her warm face could've dried her hair at this point. “You can call a taxi after that. Standing here like idiots is not gonna help.”

She could have said no. She could have said I'll take a taxi now, don't worry about me. She could have reminded him that all these months he had restrained himself from crossing this line for the sake of their duet.

(Actually, she couldn't have said that, not without admitting that she had overheard his conversation with Shinsou.)

Yet she does none of the above.

She nods and says, “Let's go.”

She wipes the foggy mirror with her hand, and big brown eyes stare back at her. There's a towel thrown over her head and she rubs it against her wet hair. Bakugou lent her length-knee shorts and an oversized black t-shirt—maybe in an attempt to prevent the bus stop incident from happening again. She blushes once more as she recalls the shift in Bakugou's eyes, the way his jaw tightened and his throat bobbed at the sight of her chest. 

She presses the towel against her face and groans. 

What the hell is she doing here?

When she steps out of the bathroom, Bakugou is in the kitchen making tea. His hair is still wet, but he's also changed into dry clothes, his new shirt stretching at his shoulders.

He turns around when he hears the door click open and looks Ochako up and down. Not in the same way he did on the bus stop, but it still makes her feel flustered.

She tugs at the collar of her (well , his ) shirt, and says “I’m swimming in these clothes.”

He cracks half a smile. “Not a look you haven't pulled off before.”

It's true. Everyone knows that Ochako has an eclectic style. Sometimes she pulls off really cute outfits. Other days she throws on the first thing she finds. Indeed, she has shown up to their rehearsals in sweatpants and massive t-shirts more than once.

She frowns and walks over to him.

“I like being comfortable,” she argues. 

He reaches out a hand and tugs at her shirt. Not hard enough to pull her close, but hard enough to make her breath hitch.

“Yeah? Are these comfortable?” he rasps, and it's hard to tell if he's being derisive or suggestive.

She swallows and holds his gaze.

Ochako could tell him, could admit how much he wants him. He probably knows anyway. But she also knows that he's not one to back out from a decision, and if he already made up his mind, this is not happening.

(They are not happening, no matter how much they dance around each other.)

She could insist, yes, but she would rather spare herself the heartbreak.

He flicks his eyes down at her lips before looking up again.

“Uraraka…”

Unless, he won't let her.

His voice is barely a murmur, and his eyes have softened under the kitchen lights. The rain has turned into a quiet rumble outside, tapping lightly on the windowpane. His fingers pull at the fabric of her shirt, make her gravitate around him.

And she's an idiot who doesn't know how to get out of his orbit. Something else has to do it for her.

The washing machine cycle ends at that very moment and it starts to beep noisily.

Bakugou lets go of Ochako and exhales sharply. The sudden and intimate buildup dissipates, and she doesn't know how to feel other than disappointed.

“You really don't want to wash your clothes?” he asks as he heads to the bathroom.

Bakugou had already offered, and however nice is that they're having a little domestic moment, she is not going to hang her freshly laundered bras on his balcony. 

“Yeah, I'm good. I—”

She trails off, distracted by a stream of notifications flashing on a phone. It's Bakugou's phone, lying face up on the kitchen counter.

camie: 📸
camie: 📸
camie: my roommates are out tonight
camie: you know, if you want to stop by
camie: 👀

Ochako swallows what feels like rocks and looks the other way. Seeing her double bass break would have hurt less.

When Bakugou walks out of the bathroom balancing a laundry basket against his hip, Ochako is putting on her shoes in the genkan.

He raises a confused eyebrow. “Uraraka?”

But Ochako slings her bag over her shoulder, one hand clutches the plastic bag with her soaked clothes.

“I… I have to leave…” she stutters, unable to look him in the eye. “Thanks, I… I'll see you in class.”

She forgets about the fancy elevator and runs down the stairs, her throat on fire and her chest tight. Bakugou goes out into the hallway and calls her name, she thinks, but she is not hearing anything other than the blood throbbing in her ears. 

She wonders if this Camie is the same girl from last time. If this is the girl Bakugou has been seeing to keep his thoughts and hands off Ochako. Something that has half worked because this tension that has settled between them has never dropped in intensity, what's more, it has only tightened.

Or maybe Ochako is thinking too highly of herself and this girl is not a random hookup, because these two are even sexting , sending nudes and more stuff. She’s never thought of sending Dabi a lewd picture and he hasn't asked for them either, because all they do is meet, fuck, and say goodbye.

But if Bakugou is at a different stage with this girl, then…

She texts Dabi (and ignores Bakugou's messages) while on the subway. She has no money to call a taxi, but the rain has let up enough that she won’t get soaked running from Bakugou's apartment to the station and from the station to her own apartment. 

Her feet splash in the small pools of water while she protects her head with her backpack.

Dabi arrives as she is drying her hair, a black raincoat thrown over his head and zipped up to his nose. His pants, however, are wet and his combat boots are muddy, so he's quick to kick them off at the genkan.

Ochako doesn't mind if Dabi starts undressing as soon as he steps into the apartment. He knows why he's been called here—to help Ochako take her mind off things, blow off some steam, and relieve some stress. He doesn't seem to mind either that she calls him just for this. All the contrary, he smiles when she searches for his mouth in the half-dark, when she drops to her knees in the hallway. 

(He groans ecstatically when his fingers slide with ease inside her, when she grabs one of his hands and brings it to her neck, asks him to stay there and squeeze only a little.)

(She has a vague recollection of Dabi kissing her forehead the next morning, the distinctive smell of smoke wrapping around her, a raspy voice saying he had to go.)

A couple of hours after that, the doorbell rings and it makes her jump on her bed.

Well, it's not only the doorbell, but the voice coming from outside as well.

“Uraraka,” Bakugou calls her, more exhausted than annoyed (although definitely annoyed). “Just cut your shit and let me talk to you.”

She fumbles on the bedside table in search of her phone. Several missed calls from Bakugou look back at her. The stream of messages asking “are u okay?” or “did something happen?” makes a little wave of guilt to ripple through her. Maybe that's why she gets dressed in a hurry, ties her hair into a ponytail and reaches for the front door. She's not dying to face Bakugou right now, but maybe he deserves an explanation, however little sense that explanation makes.

She shouldn't have left like that yesterday. Now she regrets it.

(But when she thinks of Bakugou's phone flashing with messages the night before, her throat burns with resentment.)

She opens the door just enough for Bakugou to verify that she's alive.

Unfortunately for her, the guy is smart. He looks irritated and uncooperative at first, as if someone else had dragged him against his will to check on Ochako. But as soon as the door opens, his expression changes. It takes him one, two seconds to scan her and feel the faint scent of cigarettes coming from inside the apartment to connect the dots.

It's hard to stand her ground when he holds a hand against the door and pushes it open another couple of inches, as if that might clear his doubts.

“Bakugou,” Ochako says, her voice hoarse. “What are you doing here?”

He exhales through his nose, eyes flicking inside the apartment where the bed is unmade and the curtains are drawn. Whatever. She lets go of the door. He saw all that already. 

“Well, Cheeks, you left my place last night in the middle of a goddamn flood and never answered any of my messages, so I'm sorry if I wanted to make sure you got to your place in one piece,” he mutters, never sparing her a glance. He pulls back and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Little did I know that you ran off to get laid by some guy.”

“Didn't you make plans with some Camie anyway?” She counters, because Bakugou doesn't get to question who she sleeps with.

(He, too, gets his share from someone else).

He blinks, confused. 

There’s a pause. Then, he tries a, “How do you…?”

But she cuts him off. 

“Your phone was buzzing like crazy. I'm not stupid.”

She wishes she felt a little less guilty of peeking at his phone. But it was face up for anyone to see. What was she supposed to do? 

Bakugou takes one step inside the apartment and grabs her by the collar of her shirt. 

“So that was your solution?” He snaps. “Run away and call your current hookup? Did you…” His eyes drop to Ochako’s t-shirt, that is, his own. He recognizes it instantly and her stomach churns. She put on the first thing she found lying around, and maybe it's the worst thing she could've chosen. But she never thought he would react like this—with sparks flying from his eyes, too close to igniting. “ Fuck , don't tell me you slept with him using my clothes?”

Ochako meets his gaze, jaw clenched, weirdly confident now that nothing could get worse than this.

“That's because you won't do it,” she says, voice quiet but biting. Her hands close around Bakugou’s wrist. “And I was tired of you brushing me off.”

His teeth almost crack from how hard he grinds them. It's dangerous, the way he looks at her right now. He's never looked at her like that before, but it's all coming together—regret, anger, betrayal, restraint, contempt. It's all burning behind Bakugou’s eyes, melting like an erupting volcano.

No wonder he breaks.

He steps fully inside the apartment, and slams the door closed, leaving the world outside.

“Don’t fucking turn this on me!” he spits, pulling her closer by the t-shirt. This close, Ochako can see the hurt buried underneath the fury. “You think I don't want to? You think that this is not the only thing I can think about when I'm near you? Fuck, Uraraka,” he curses, letting go of her and running a hand across his hair. It sticks up in stubborn, angry spikes. “You don't know what this will do to our duet, it will ruin everything . That's why I've been… shit . Can't you see?” His voice cracks and she presses her back against the wall. “Can't you see you're the only thing I want that I cannot have?”

She stops breathing. Her heart could've stopped too for all she knows, the blood not reaching her brain and buzzing in her ears.

She expected many things. Except for Bakugou to feel like this.

He can't be serious, right?

“I don't know how this is supposed to help our duet either.” It's the only answer she can manage.

Bakugou exhales slowly. The anger drains out of him like water from a cracked dam. He steps closer, until their foreheads nearly touch. His hands come up—gentle, now—resting on her shoulders like he’s grounding himself.

“Were you thinking of me?” he murmurs, barely parting his lips. “While he fucked you, did you wish it was me?”

Ochako closes her eyes and lets out a shaky breath. She's weak, so weak. She can't lie when Bakugou asks her like this

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, I did.”

His grip tightens and the muscles in his arms twitch. He's trembling—something wild coiling up inside him again, but he steps back again before he can let it lose.

Where does he get so much self-control, so much willpower? Because Ochako has none of that. It's embarrassing how obvious it is that she's at his feet.

She leans in closer, but then he steps back, lets go of her as if he had caught fire.

There's fire, too, in her throat as she swallows the rejection. One more time. 

“No. I'm not doing this,” he grits out, balling his hands into fists. “Not after you just fucked another guy.”

He doesn't look back as he reaches to the door and yanks it open. A square of light drapes inside Ochako’s apartment before Bakugou slams the door shut and she's wrapped in darkness again.