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Bakugou is just slinking into bed when his phone pings with new messages. They come in rapid succession, and he picks it up quickly so that the vibrating won’t wake Kaminari, who is still snoring softly in the bed across from his.
He sits up on his elbow to read through them, exhaling through his nose when he sees that they’re all from Kirishima. He’s asking him to come down to Studio H, the one hidden away with broken mirrors and dusty barres. No one but him and Kirishima knows of that studio, and him requesting that he come down when it’s a quarter to midnight can only mean what he’s suspected is true: his nerves have gotten the better of him. A frown pulls at his lips. He’s not angry with Kirishima, nor does he loathe the idea of helping him perfect his pas . No, it’s the performance he’s helping him with that annoys him.
Simply put, the casting to this year’s winter production of The Nutcracker is horseshit, Bakugou thinks.
He’s not even just saying that because he unceremoniously landed the role of the Rat King, no, it was more than that. He should’ve been the Nutcracker Prince. It’s only fair; he’s put in the most work out of all the other male dancers and it shows. Guess that hack Aizawa saw the glint in his eye as something mean rather than something fervent, and decided to cast him as a character that people should fear rather than fawn over. Arguing and trying to convince him that this was a mistake did nothing but make Aizawa annoyed with him, and he blocks out the memory of being glanced over, an unimpressed expression mixed with disappointment gracing his tired face.
Instead, to make matters worse, the role was given to Todoroki, who didn’t deserve it at all. Yes, he had technique and grace, but what good was it when the passion that burned behind your eyes wasn’t from the love of your craft but from anger and rebellion? The fire was there, but for all the wrong reasons. The asshole barely even did anything during rehearsals, yet the instructors were all over him, practically drooling at his sylphlike poise.
The only spots he thought were cast correctly were that know-it-all ponytail chick receiving the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy and that girl with the round, pink cheeks being cast as Clara. Ponytail moved with refined elegance, softly, like a fairy dancing across the stage should, and Pink Cheeks gave the Clara role something classic: a bouncy personality with various different emotions underneath the surface (joy for when she receives the nutcracker toy, bravery for when she wars with the rats, wonder for when she arrives in the land of sweets). Plus, Clara is one of the few ballet characters who remains on stage for almost the entire production. Pink Cheeks (Uraraka?) is strong enough for that, he knows she is.
There were other good calls, such as four-eyes as Drosselmeyer and frog-face as Chinese Tea, but Todoroki as the Nutcracker Prince and himself as the Rat King? If only the roles were switched, he would have no qualms at all with the casting.
He tells himself he’s not sulking when his phone pings again, this time with Kirishima asking him if he’s even awake. Bakugou sends off a message saying that he’ll be down soon, which grants him a reply consisting of nothing but smiley faces and exclamation points.
Idiot.
Bakugou gets out of bed and quietly changes into his dance belt and tights. He collects his bag, shoes and a hoodie for warmth before toeing into slippers and leaving the room. He admires the December snowfall through windows that are wide and tall, tip-toeing as silently as possible on polished stone floors.
He gets to Studio H and peeks through the door’s glass to see Kirishima stretching face down, his red hair spread out on the wooden floor like spilled paint. He wants to chastise the other for not putting his hair up, but he realizes that the nerves from being cast in a major soloist part have gotten him all shook up. At first, he was just a background dancer, never one to stay in the spotlight longer than need be. Now, in just a week, he would be dancing around the corps de ballet , dressed in white, sparkling and glittering as the Snow King.
He opens the door and Kirishima startles out of his stretch. His panicked expression is replaced with relief when he realizes that it’s just his friend, not a security guard, and the hidden away studio he’d found was still a secret to only them. He smiles and begins to say something but Bakugou interrupts him, throwing down his bag and replacing the slippers on his feet with dance shoes.
“Tie your hair up.”
“Oh right!” Kirishima says and Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Sorry I’ve kinda just been out of it since, you know, the list went up.”
Bakugou wants to say that he should suck it up because that was at least a month ago, but he instead pulls out his phone and plays the Nutcracker suite. It fills the dusty studio with violins and woodwind, serving as background noise as the two stretch. Their soles touch, legs forming a diamond shape until one pulls the other closer and the shape breaks, legs out in a straight line. They pull and grip, adjusting each other and holding tight. Kirishima is so close Bakugou can see how his roots are starting to turn peach. He was going to need to remove the color eventually, as he's been told a hundred times since he'd landed his role. Bakugou imagines what his friend would look like as he whirls around on stage in the wintery waltz, his bright crimson hair catching attention like blood on freshly fallen snow.
“So,” Kirishima starts, “won’t be long before we’re up on stage.” Bakugou grunts in reply, welcoming the burn that fires through his muscles as Kirishima pulls. He continues, “Heard that the tickets have been sold out for weeks now.”
“They should be, we’re fucking amazing.”
Kirishima chuckles. “Yeah.”
There is silence until it is replaced by flutes and violin plucks, the beginning to the Waltz of Snowflakes. When Bakugou thinks that they’ve stretched enough he sheds his hoodie and retrieves his phone to pause it. In this, the Snow King greets Clara into the kingdom of ice and frost. They dance for a bit before the Snow Queen flits in with the corps , which Bakugou always inwardly cringes at whenever he watches. The dozens of girls dancing around out of sync in a flurry of milky skirts just makes him annoyed.
“Ready? Get into position,” he says, thumb hovering over the play button.
“Hold on.”
“What?” Bakugou arches an eyebrow at Kirishima, who is nervously fidgeting with the underside of his shoes. He brushes a stray lock from his sweaty forehead and looks up at the other, mouth opening and closing, like he’s struggling to say what he wants to. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Do you… do you think I’m a good dancer?”
“Yes,” Bakugou says without missing a beat. Kirishima doesn’t seem happy with the answer, so he tries again.
“Good enough to be in a major soloist spot?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously Bakugou?”
“Yes?” he says, confusion in his voice. “You deaf or something?”
“No, no it’s just… I feel like I don’t deserve this role.” Ah, there it is.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… Like, I dunno I just feel that… Ugh.” Kirishima lies back on the floor. He puts his face in his hands and rubs.
Bakugou kneels next to him and grabs his wrists to pull them away. “Spit it out, Ei.”
Kirishima flushes a little and looks away. “It just feels like this spot was given to me because Deku hurt his leg.”
Bakugou stares at him, and stares and stares and stares, until he flicks Kirishima in the forehead. “Fucking duh you were given the spot because Deku got hurt. That’s how being an understudy works.”
“Yeah but if Deku were perfectly fine right now I’d just be watching from the sidelines, doing nothing. Again.”
“No, you’d probably be a background dancer. You’re too good for them to not even have you on stage,” Bakugou says, thinking that he’s making the other feel better but failing if Kirishima’s frown was anything to go by.
The thing about that damned nerd is that all the teachers love him, almost as much as Todoroki. They all think that him overworking himself is some admirable showcase of practice, perseverance and persistence. Out of all the boys in their level, he’s hurt himself the most to get the top spot, and anyone with a working brain could tell that this was bad practice. That’s why he didn’t feel even a speck of worry when he watched Deku fall to the floor in pain, almost dropping a ballerina, crying about his knee being in pain. Teachers who cheered him on for damaging himself to get to the top were suddenly quiet.
He actually hated to admit it but Deku, despite his horrible work ethic, was one of the better male dancers, right up there with Todoroki and four-eyes. He could even add Kirishima to the list, with his favorable build and high agility, but his dancing was plagued by low self-esteem and a lack of motivation at times. Everyone, even the instructors, knew his legs could go higher, knew he could jump farther. Moments where he believed in himself shined through the self-doubt when he rehearsed and Aizawa could see it, which is why he’d been given the Snow King spot. Well, the Snow King’s understudy spot. But he's in the major role now, and that's all that really matters.
Bakugou rises. “C’mon, get in position.”
“But-”
“You didn’t just get the spot because that idiot doesn’t know how to take care of himself, Ei. You got the spot because you deserved it. You’re a quick learner, and you work insanely hard. It’d be bullshit if you went another year at this school without getting any proper recognition for how great you are.” And he is great. Usually understudies memorize the dance they’re supposed to do and call it a day, but Kirishima would actually mirror Deku’s moves in the back of the studio near the barre, listening to Aizawa whenever he would correct Deku's foot placement here, or suggest more flow in his arms there, and fix his moves to fit Aizawa’s standards.
Kirishima stares at him, mouth agape. He’s grasping for words again, probably to disagree, so Bakugou smooths his thumb over the other’s lip. “No more talking,” he murmurs, grabbing Kirishima’s hand and pulling him up, “let’s dance.”
Kirishima swallows his fears and says no more.