Chapter Text
The beer bottle you had ordered stands half empty on the high top, small ripples crashing in on themselves to the rhythm of the bass coming from the speakers nearby. Bar venues are always hit or miss: either no one in attendance even knew you were playing, idly nodding their heads, but moving to the far wall so they could hear their own conversations, or a typically ordinary joint is over capacity to accommodate an audience all the way to the street; and the owners cut your pay because they have some weird complex about how much traffic your bands brought compared to their usual patron numbers. Tonight is starting to look like the latter. You curse at how this might affect the gas fund, then down a couple of large swigs from the hoppy-light beer. At least this place has a designated venue in the back with a decent-sized capacity. Young twenty-somethings move in droves into the venue, a fair amount stopping by the bar for a $3 12 oz can of beer.
In your periphery, a man leans over the stool to your left, asking the bartender for a single whiskey shot. “Rye whiskey,” he clarifies, “none of that sweet shit.” You snort involuntarily, blame it on the three-quarters of a beer you’ve had. Hey, you get him! Regular bourbon makes you sick it’s so sweet. He glares at you then, not passively or quickly; it’s like you can hear him screaming at you and chucking the now-empty shot glass at your head with just a look. But he doesn’t, just asks (demands) another from the bartender, and actually sits down. Taking him in some more, you put that unkempt ash-blonde head to a name.
Being “In Retrospect, Inconsequential "'s first headline tour, your label had suggested a few local bands to be your second string, while they contacted the cities you were stopping at for their own local bands to open. Given their recent rise in popularity thanks to the bassist’s constant shit-posting on social media, it was a no-brainer that you picked “Under Allegiance” to join you on your two-month-long journey across the nation. Their sound, from what you could gather from their first EP on Spotify, is loud but blended, punchy where it needs to be, and pairs well with your own. You had heard their praise from both label and locals alike. People loved them and wanted to see them outside of your city. Despite never having seen a gig of theirs, your band contacted them within a day of receiving the list of potentials.
All of them seemed cordial enough, with their vocalist, Kirishima, being surprisingly professional (and a bit of a sweetheart, honestly) in the groupchat you had created for the tour. Everyone had shared their appreciation for being invited onto the tour and excitement for it to start today. That is, except Katsuki Bakugo. Not so much as a thumbs-up reaction from him. “Probably just part of his image,” Jiro joked during soundcheck. If he wasn’t going to put effort into building rapport with the other bands, then none of you were going to care. You figured that if he continues being a mysterious douche, they would probably drop him after the tour anyway.
Until you heard their soundcheck from the green room.
His independent warm-ups were clean, meticulously on beat (was he classically trained?), and left no room for assumption of mediocrity. Your frustration with his skills on the drums and lack of communication skills had made you hungry, so you slipped out the back for dinner with Jiro and your own drummer, Tokoyami. You had come back an hour before the opening set, full and in need of a pre-show-jitters beer, which finally put you face-to-face with the aforementioned overqualified percussionist.
“Bakugo?” you ask with a furrowed brow, astounded at the disdain he simply looked at you with. Not that you didn’t know it was him. But maybe he hadn’t realized it was you.
“You a fan?”
The nerve. The balls. The absolute audacity of man. He did not even look in your direction when addressing you. Just downs his second shot and pulls out his phone. Your first instinct is to pour the rest of your beer on him, or better yet, throw the whole damn bottle. However, you decide against it; getting through the rest of this tour is probably going to be easier without him whining about an attempt on his life. But you refuse to let the disrespect slide. Had he done any research into the band he would be seeing nearly every day for the next two months? Looked at a single image of you all on your social media? Hell, arrived at the venue early enough to catch your soundcheck? You had done all of these things when you were in his position, he didn’t have to worship the ground you all walk on by any means, but by god at least know the faces of your band?
Finally, a moment of clarity arrived. A sly smirk that surely screamed ‘mischief’ formed, and you quickly covered it with the incredulous, overjoyed smile of an adoring fan.
“Oh my god, yes! I’ve been to, like, all of your shows here.” Bakugo rolled his eyes, clearly irritated at your adoration, and you cringed at how thick you were laying it on.
“Keep your fuckin’ panties on.” He stood up quickly, pulling out a twenty from his wallet and tossing it carelessly onto the sickening fusion of liquors and beer on the bar mat. “ Listen, if you’re that much of a fan, we’re ending the tour at the Cobra Theatre downtown. Buy me another shot there or somethin’.” You put your hand on his elbow, trying to hold his attention for a few more seconds.
“Wait, is it like… your tour? That’s so cool!” Bait set.
“Pfft. May as well be. The headliner will be washed up by next year anyway. Probably will be too embarrassed to tour again when half of the crowd leaves after our sets.” Bait taken.
Bakugo walks away all smug, probably more enamored with the fantasy he had just told you than with the oh-so-adoring fan fawning after him. Downing the rest of your beer, you order a rye whiskey shot and close your tab. Like hell you’d let him know you like that shit too.
After the opener, a brand new beat-down hardcore project (they refused to refer to themselves as a ‘band’), you moved to the middle of the crowd to watch the opening song of Under Allegiance. Their crew brought out unsuitably high-quality banners, one with a “U” and the other an “A”, and placed them on either side of the drum kit. Their gear was premium, not a sign of a marketplace amp or a secondhand guitar in sight.
“Who the hell funds these guys?” You yell over the crowd noise to Tokoyami, who looks equally surprised at the sheer affluence of their setup. “Gotta be parents. Enough to supply them with the nicest pedals, just not enough to get them signed as an industry plant.” He eyes up the smooth, undamaged amps and high-tech tuner that the guitarists are passing around. “Yet.”
“They better not!” Jiro chimes in behind you, lazily plopping her chin on your shoulder. “I really don’t want touring with a sellout on our record.” All five members of your band have gathered to see what this band is really made of, if they can hold it together when a big crowd forms.
“Oh, come on!” Koda, always the voice of reason, interjects on your party of whining, “If they were gonna sell out once they gain some fame, they probably would not have kept on such a controversial member.” You mentally put a pin in that one. You are certain who Koda is referring to, but what did he do that would make even Koda call it that?
Your rumination is cut short as the first strum from Sero’s guitar blasts out of the speakers. Bakugo smacks his sticks together to a count of three, and UA kicks off their contribution to the tour.
It’s nothing none of you haven’t heard before. Catchy hard rock with a touch of early shoegaze. But it’s their synchronization that makes them stick out. It feels like if you put them all in a different room but told them to play their whole set at the same time, they’d breeze through the whole damn thing without so much as a metronome. Their individual skill and group harmony were incredible, and you can’t even hate them for it. You aren’t mad that you brought on such a talented band, not at all! Just pissed that the walking dickwad known as Katsuki Bakugo was clearly talented beyond belief.
Alright. Maybe that brief interaction is getting under your skin a little too much. Just deal with that frustration on stage.
As Under Allegience finishes up their first song, you all quietly march your way through the door that leads to the green room. Mina tosses you a bottled water from the mini fridge and plops down onto the tattered leather couch. “Warm that voice of yours up before you ruin it screaming with a random fan on stage again.”
“That was last year!” you whine, but begin your usual routine anyway. The only bad part about being a vocalist is that you can’t participate as much in the pre-set pep-talk that is needed for Koda to even think of walking on stage. How she’s managed to come this far is well beyond any of you, but you appreciate it nonetheless. How this band landed a headline tour, albeit an amateur one, is even more beyond you.
Finishing up your final warmup, you were going to start getting sappy on everyone, on how proud you are and how happy you are that you all found each other and started this project when -
“Who the FUCK let you back here?”
Every single head whipped around at breakneck speed. All of Retrospect, all of UA, every stage crew, and you swear you saw the door security peek his head in. Bakugo doesn’t cower at the eyes being directed toward him instead of you, but he doesn’t wipe that furious look aimed at you off his face either. “Dude… who the hell are you talking about?” Kirishima looks more confused than your squad does. Bakugo aggressively gestures his head toward you, “That extra.”
Nearly everyone talks at once. “That’s our vocalist, dude.” “Are you blind?” “You can’t keep doing this shit, man.” Mina is nearly pissing herself, doubling over on the couch laughing, and you think you hear Koda let out a “Huh?”
You did not hide the absolute bliss of seeing his bandmates slap him over his head for his ignorance. “Did you call me an ‘extra’? What does that even mean?” Oh god, he is pissed.
“At the bar. You told me you were a ‘huuuuuuge fan’,” he shook his head back and forth in hypoerbolation. “You got a split personality or something, dumbass?”
Everyone is quiet now. Most of your guys would totally expect something like this from you. Hell, they would have done the same thing in your shoes. You probably should have considered how that might have pissed off their whole band, though. Hopefully not. You’ll deal with that later.
You stand up, grabbing a new water bottle out of the fridge while talking. “Dude, I was fucking with you.” You make a point to still your body before speaking again. “Can’t wait to see if half the crowd disappears like you said, though.” Your eyes narrow, and you can’t help the way your lips curl up in a sneer.
Embarrassed by your own level of anger, you slink off to the hallway that leads to the stage, not wanting to deal with the fallout. UA oughta keep their asshole, dickwad, douchebag drummer in check, anyway.
The crowd looks exactly the same size, but you are certain they have gotten louder. The rest of Retrospect quickly follows you on stage, and luckily, none of them look like they got their ass chewed by UA. Jiro wanders toward you, plugging in amps and helping Tokoyami adjust the drum kit to his preferred layout. “You pretended to be a fan? What for?” She didn’t seem mad, if anything amused. “Because he had no idea who I was. I thought it would be a fun little joke. Didn’t think he’d get his britches into such a twist,” you huffed. She laughs, bright and airy and so like her. “Well, he’s pissed. Not that he didn’t deserve it.”
The crew promptly wheeled off UA’s tacky banners, revealing the larger backdrop that Mina and Koda had hand-painted with your logo. The reveal sets in the nerves all of you were pretending not to notice. You’ve performed at bigger shows with bigger venues, sure, but this was something else entirely. A tour, for your band, your upcoming album.
Breathe in through your nose for four beats. Breathe out through your mouth for eight. Repeat two more times. You are not here. You are sound traveling to the crowd. An instrument of voice. A performance of emotion.
Tokoyami fills out the cacophony of noise coming from the crowd with his signature drum fill. The cheap lights in front of the stage whirr to life, scanning from side to side at your feet, and the crowd roars in applause. Mina and Jiro fire off a few chords together while Koda plucks at the bass, their tempo slowly increasing to match your racing heart. You can feel the noise vibrating through your entire body. Then all sound stops. “And in retrospect, it’s all inconsequential.”
You don’t black out during performances, as some musicians say happens to them. But the second you’re done, you forget about the time you spent wondering if you fucked up that note, if you held that growl too long, if you messed up Koda’s timing by coming in too early. All you can think of in that moment is overwhelming joy and pride in your bandmates. The gratitude that all of these people took time out of their week to come see you. Who cares if it’s a 500-cap venue that functions exclusively as a bar 90% of the time? This is the only thing you have ever wanted to do, and goddamn does it make you happy.
You all walk off with an air of absolute giddiness in your gate, Mina practically skipping. All of UA are standing to the side of the stage and, to your relief, three of the four smile and congratulate you all on a great first performance. Bakugo, at the very least, isn’t glowering anymore. His posture is engaged, but his face is uninterested. Just nods his head as you walk by, trailing behind everyone else on the way into the green room.
“SHOTS!” Mina screams the second she sees everyone gathered in the same room, materializing a vodka handle from her bag beside the couch. She lays out as many plastic shotglasses as can fill the small coffee table in the middle of the room and fills them with particular skill. “What about the opener?” Kaminari inquires. You’d seen them slip out soon after their set, but not before finding your group and thanking you for the opportunity. They seemed like a nice group of guys; they’ll still be around for the next tour.
“They’re straight-edge.” Tokoyami, ever the conversationalist. “At least you’re considerate,” Jiro adds with a tilt of her head. She and Tokoyami each grab a shot and wrap their arms through the other’s, taking the drink.
“They’re soooo fucking,” Mina whispers into your ear, and you giggle. You both know damn well they would rather die than tell everyone they are hopelessly enamored with each other, for whatever reason. “Speaking of…” she adds, quieter this time, “I totally wanna do their vocalist.” You elbow her ribs now, nearly spilling your drink in the process. “Never change, Ash.”
With everyone sufficiently buzzed, conversation flows like that bottom-shelf vodka, and you hate to admit it, but all of you get along much better than you initially thought after seeing their high-class gear. Damn these rich kids and their charming attitude. Bakugo is the quietest of you all, even more so than Koda. You’re not surprised, though, given his earlier fuck up. With luck, he’ll learn some humility.
Sero stands suddenly in a lull of conversation, raising a cheap beer to the air. “To this stupidly long tour,” he staggers forward slightly. Koda leans forward on the couch toward you on the floor, “Is he slurring already?” You giggle and lay your head backwards on their lap. “At least you’re not the only lightweight.”
“-that Bakugo wouldn’t stop bitching and moaning about us asking to go on. Even if he’s too damn prideful to talk to you himself.”
You look over to Bakugo then. He rolls his eyes, but the tips of his ears, now peaking through his hair, weighed down by sweat, definitely turn a little red. Cute when he’s bashful.
You make a note to slap yourself later for even thinking that. Everyone cheers and takes a drink, and the room returns to a lower level of volume. Tokoyami lightly tosses his empty shot glass at you to get your attention. “Smoke?”
The sun has left the brick siding of the bar deliciously warm as you lean against it. Blowing out menthol smoke, you look toward the night sky and count the number of stars you can see in the light pollution of your city - twenty. You wonder in which city you’ll be able to count the most.
“We really gotta learn how to quit this shit while we’re on tour,” Tokoymai breaks you out of your trance. Not wanting to think about your shared bad habit, you change the subject.
“So you and Jiro, huh?”
His lips upturn slightly, but he doesn’t entertain you with any sort of an answer. Just takes another drag before squishing his cigarette against the wall. “I’m turning in for the night. We leave at nine. Don’t sleep in.” A yawn escaped at the mention of sleeping. Tokoyami knows what that means for you; he’s always been the most perceptive of your bunch. “I’ll let everyone know you're headed home.”
Kicking off the wall after finishing your cig and third star-count, you turn toward the direction of your apartment and begin to take a step before hearing the back door open. A mess of ash blonde and whatever 80’s death metal t-shirt saunters over. Bakugo stuffs his hands in his back pocket while waiting for you to acknowledge his existence.
“You always gonna be this quiet when I’m around now?”
“You always walk home alone?” His voice is much less grating now. It’s still rough, but softened around the edges. Deep and suave while he looks at his shoes and toes at the gravel. “Well, I only live like, two blocks away, so…” you trail off, not exactly sure why he came out here in the first place. Bakugo takes off in swift strides away from you, grumbling that sounds like, “Mom’d kill me if she found out I let ya walk home alone.”
Just plain weird.
You trail one step behind him in silence for most of the trek. Two blocks didn’t take long to walk at all, just as you expected. “It’s the building to the left up there.”
Bakugo stops when he reaches the door, stands looking away while you fish your keys out of your bag. You kick yourself for noticing the pronounced strain of his neck from trying so hard to look as far away from you as possible.
He calls your name after you unlock the door, looking pitifully pained that he has to talk to you anymore. You’re already halfway through the threshold, but decide to entertain him anyway. Bakugo rests his arm up high to the side of the door frame and leans toward your body. Much to your dismay, he smells like expensive cologne and sweat, and his face is unfairly free of any sort of blemish. The amber light of a lamp you forgot to turn off accentuates the dip of his shoulders into his collarbones through the frayed hem of his shirt, and you can’t help but take it all in. He notices, dramatically pauses his speech to cock a brow at your examination.
“Don’t try some shit on me like that again. It’s not cute.” Just like that, he’s walking away all smug again. Your face is heated; with embarrassment or attraction, you’re not exactly sure. God damn that rich kid and his charming good looks.
This is going to be a long fucking tour.