Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Fucking— Gah!"

The door is slammed shut so hard it rattles in its hinges. Panting like a raging bull, Bakugou Katsuki starts stomping away before he groans, doubles back and locks it properly, holding back on the ancient key he by some miracle has managed not to break… yet.

It won't do to hold onto the old fart's art restoration studio and shit for ten years only to fuck it up now, so. Bakugou can suck it up. Maybe.

"Oh! Hey there, Kacchan!"

Or not.

"Shut the hell up", hisses Bakugou, shouldering past his shitty nerd of a neighbor in the narrow hallway. That gesture, too, is somewhat less rough than it could be: Shitty-nerd-neighbor happens to be his shitty-nerd-childhood-friend and shitty-nerd-fellow-conservator.

Urgh. Fuck that guy. Tacking on, "Fuck you, Deku", Bakugou pretends not to see the amused glint in Midoriya's eyes as he hums an unbothered Mhm! and joins him on the way downstairs, the wooden stairway creaking and shaking under their feet.

Fuck this shitty building, too. Bakugou takes care to skip the broken step as always.

"Sooo, I'm guessing the collector—"

"Clueless bitch that he is."

"—is adamant on keeping the strainer?"

"It makes no sense! None! It ain't even original to the painting and it's distorting the whole thing. I'll have to square it to shit and add an interleafed lining that's just excessive for a paint layer this stable. What a waste of my goddamn time."

They step out into pale winter-y sunshine, Midoriya giving Bakugou's shoulder a there there-style pat that is too swift to evade before they go their separate ways. "At least your followers will get a kick out of you whining about it", he remarks cheerfully, like Bakugou cares about that at all right now.

"Hah? I don't whine. It's not whining!"

"Sure, Kacchan. Have a good lunch break!"

"Deku, you— Whatever! Bye."

Bakugou marches the few blocks to his local konbini in record time, the quick pace burning through some of his frustration. His late master would have some wise comment to say about how managing client demands and expectations is part of the business, hence part of perfecting the craft. He ain't stupid, Bakugou knows appealing to his ambition was Yagi's favorite method to get him to put a lid on his anger and pull off his best work regardless.

Doesn't make it any easier when said clients are stubborn morons who only have their wallets in mind, not what's best for the painting they claim to love so much — like there are any savings to be made when it's fine art you're collecting.

Urgh!

Throwing himself into the park bench he's claimed as his in his head, Bakugou bites rather aggressively into the first egg sandwich of two while fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket. Untangling the mess of cords that are his earpods comes dangerously close to lighting his fuse anew; it's worth it, though.

Three years ago, Bakugou discovered his very own, infallible method of calming himself down.

Tapping the Instagram icon, he impatiently waits for the app to load before typing @pianoshark in the search bar. His phone autofills the word after the first two letters. Bakugou refuses to feel self-conscious about that. Yes, he hates Instagram. Yes, he has an account anyway, a locked one nobody is following where he stores rare snapshots of cats he spots on his lunch break. Yes, he still uses that app daily, sue him.

No, he doesn't follow the only account that genuinely brightens his day—

—but he does have a not-insignificant amount of the videos bookmarked. Videos that feature three essential things: A piano, a red-haired man, and cats.

Lots and lots of cats. Bakugou would suspect this being the result of some sort of hoarder situation if he didn't know the man is a trained-pianist-turned-animal-rescue-activist who provides music therapy and a home to the twenty-odd cats he's adopted off the streets. Over the years, Bakugou watched him go from merely owning a blind tricolor Persian — she's called Miss Boots since she has four white legs and also an uncreative himbo for an owner — to registering an actual non-profit under the same silly handle and making it his full-time job.

The second Piano Shark Cat Rescue created an official Patreon, Bakugou jumped on the chance to help out, picking the highest tier without hesitation. In fact, he may have been one of if not the first patron.

It's whatever.

(He gets little cat-themed sticker sheets and a new Piano Shark-branded mug every year as part of his tier benefits. Technically, he's entitled to one personal cat video a month as well, but he's never reached out to request one and he never will.

…But if he did, he'd want one of Miss Boots getting extra scritches. The grande dame purrs only when those big, gentle hands scratch her between fluffy ears just so, and something about that soothes Bakugou's soul like little else does. Completely hypothetically, of course.)

Kirishima Eijirou, the Patreon receipt said the pianist's name is. Bakugou doesn't care who he is, really. He's here to see Kirishima's cats enjoy Kirishima's original music, with Kirishima handling both cats and piano with care in every gesture and word, and an abundance of love shining in those red eyes of his.

Bakugou does not care. At all.

Earpods in place, he ignores his disappointment at the lack of a new video. It isn't exactly a surprise: Kirishima tends to post anywhere between noon and early evening — Bakugou's phone vibrates a notification every time he does. There are hundreds of previous posts to tide him over in the meantime.

His current favorite resides at the very top of his bookmarks. It's frankly overkill given Clueless Bitch Client only managed to somewhat piss Bakugou off. It's his lunch break and his non-violent coping mechanism, however.

Favorite video it is.

Pressing play, Bakugou leans back with his legs crossed at the knee and his phone expertly balanced on top, instantly distracted from the sandwich he's munching on. The video opens with Kirishima sitting back down after switching his recording setup on. There's a professional microphone hanging over his head; a brief glance is given to the camera (probably his phone on a tripod, Bakugou has been there, he recognizes what it looks like).

Then: A smile, flashing pointy teeth. Strangely, that has Bakugou's frown lifting even before a single note sounds.

On Kirishima's lap sits Miss Boots, kneading at his thighs and clumsily bumping her head against his chin, demanding kisses with a scratchy Mrrah! Laughing quietly, Kirishima folds immediately, petting her back for good measure afterwards. It's one of the rare videos in which he speaks, a low mutter of "I'll play your favorite for you, hm?" that's more a comfort to the blind cat than an explanation for his silent audience.

Finally, Kirishima's fingers smooth over the keys and he plays.

Plays and plays and plays a melody that fills Bakugou's head like high tide, flooding in and pulling back, draining the tension from his shoulders wave by wave. Not bombastic, not the epic full-orchestra type stuff Bakugou blasts in his studio — this is charged with a weight and meaning of its own, drawn from the depths of an emotion Bakugou can't even hope to name. Combined with the sight of a cat positively melting onto the keyboard and the soft adoration in Kirishima's expression as he moves around her, it's like golden sunlight hitting skin or… Reading the opening paragraph of a well-loved book for the 200th time…

The video ends before Bakugou's brain can come up with a more fitting comparison. Fucking Instagram and its short-ass video limit.

Sighing, Bakugou cycles through four more videos until his sandwiches are gone and his lunch break nearly over. Going to the account proper, he taps on the profile picture and sits through the story updates he's missed, an influx of scraggly-furred kittens from Gods-know-where keeping Kirishima busier than ever these days.

Heh. Cute.

A handful of minutes left on the clock. Bakugou shrugs, he might as well head back and get that strainer shit dealt with. As much as he hates to admit it: Midoriya is right, the more difficult the project, the better it tends to perform with the feral bastards Bakugou calls his target audience. They best be fucking ready to hear his manifesto on why stretchers are superior once and for all.

Bakugou's phone vibrates in his pocket as he's climbing up the stairs to his studio. That same moment, Midoriya looks up from where he's unlocking the opposite door to Bakugou's.

There's mild surprise on his face, then an expression so fond Bakugou makes a disgusted noise on principle.

"I said shut up, nerd."

It changes nothing about the smile hiding in the corners of Bakugou's mouth. Seems like he's getting a fresh fix today after all.

*

"…Now, if my client would've listened to me, I'd be chopping this piece of shit into firewood and creating a custom stretcher like this beauty deserves. Oi, assholes who watch my channel to fall asleep to—"

Kirishima's phone slips out of his hand and right on his nose, causing him to snort awake. "Whuh? Ow. Ah, sorry, Bakugou."

"—you better wake your rude ass up for this", Bakugou continues without pause. Timely callout or not, it's not like he's aware Kirishima was nodding off (or that he exists at all, for that matter). "If I see one 'But Mr. Bakugou, why do you hate strainers so much?' fucking comment, I'll strangle all of you. See this?"

Rubbing the sore bridge of his nose, Kirishima pats down his blanket and, far gentler, the pile of kittens curled between his legs in search of his phone.

There!

On screen, rough hands — those of a craftsman, confident and unwavering — flip a large painting front-side up, the portrait of some fancy lady or other. It's tilted until natural light spills across her face, the camera catching the paint's texture in high definition.

Kirishima squints sleepily. What is he supposed to be seeing here?

"No impasto, the paint layer's smooth as fuck. A master made this, s'built to last centuries. Cracked in places, sure. Here, and here. Old retouching over here, there's a small tear underneath I'll have to address. Later, don't get fucking impatient. Main point: None of this is goin' anywhere, so immobilizing the canvas with a strainer is…"

Close-ups of Bakugou's current project visualize his increasingly passionate ramble about different kinds of wooden supports or… something. The staples holding down the canvas are removed — "Oh no, not staples", yawns Kirishima in sympathy, remembering the conservator's strong opinion on those — and the painting is taken off the strainer.

Despite the curse-heavy commentary courtesy of Editing Bakugou, the Bakugou shown in the video is all stone-faced concentration, thinning lips or a more-severe-than-usual frown the only thing betraying his irritation. With his wild undercut, pierced eyebrow and arms covered in thick-lined tattoos, he cuts an intimidating figure for sure.

A walking contradiction, this favorite YouTuber of Kirishima's. Because, when it comes down to his craft, Bakugou Katsuki from Twin Stars Restoration commands a level of patience and skill that's almost inhuman.

Piece by tiny piece, any and all previous conservation efforts are reversed. The surface grime is removed, the yellowed varnish carefully dissolved and wiped off, the naked paint and worn canvas underneath handled with a delicacy bestowed only upon the irreplaceable. Kirishima has watched this man break down and rebuild dozens upon dozens of paintings over the years, weeks of dedicated work condensed into hour-long videos uploaded every other weekend. In a sense, witnessing a neglected piece of art receive the care and attention it needs to return to its former glory is healing in itself.

Listening to Bakugou's gravel-y voice explain the process step-by-step time and time again adds to the soothing effect these videos have on Kirishima.

As unfamiliar as the subject matter may be to him — Kirishima enjoys fine art as much as the next guy, like, he's been to a modern art museum once or twice in his life and is wildly determined to visit the Louvre just because — that ambition? The dedication to trouble-shoot, adapt, refine and reinvent every motion and technique for the optimal result?

It's manly as hell. Definitely something Kirishima lives by as well.

Well, he aspires to at least. Right now, he's barely hanging on by a thread, eyes drooping again and back aching from the position he's been stuck in for… an hour? Perhaps two, his sleep schedule fully dictated by the kittens he's keeping company on the couch. While they're already looking better than when they were abandoned at his doorstep two nights prior (no note, no nothing, just left there in the snow with a flimsy cardboard box for protection), Kirishima won't risk their tentative recovery for anything.

They've experienced enough human cruelty in their young, young lives.

"You annoying shitheads asked for more retouching footage", grumbles Bakugou into the relative silence of Kirishima's loft apartment. The cats are so used to his voice, they barely react to Kirishima turning up the volume in an effort to stay awake. "This one ain't too complex, so I'm letting it play out in real time. Don't bitch about the color matching until the final varnish is on or die. I'll be back when it's done."

Not a second later, the audio track transitions to the opening note of Carl Orff's O Fortuna and oh, Kirishima is wide awake after that, startling so hard he hears a protesting mewl below. Murmuring, "Sorry, sorry, I didn't expect him to blast Carmina Burana", Kirishima pats the head of the little black tomcat reigning over the litter, his big yellow pupils staring at him accusingly.

So small yet so bossy. How is a man to resist?

(He hasn't gotten around to giving any of them proper names yet, too busy fussing over their low weight and a possible aftermath to their stay out in the cold. Kirishima makes a mental note to put a poll in his story tomorrow. Or today, technically.)

Two hours. Time for more formula. Getting off the couch involves plucking six tuckered-out kittens off the blanket, plopping them in a lavishly cushioned carrier for easy transport and a long groan on Kirishima's part at the prospect of moving. He doesn't pause the video, placing the phone atop the carrier and glancing at Bakugou's progress as he pads across his living room, humming along to the badass track he chose to underscore it with.

Makes Kirishima's fingers itch to compose something more dramatic soon. Hmm.

Once the sight of their human in the general vicinity of the kitchen registers, cats show up from all corners of the loft. Kirishima did his best to maximize the amount of cat beds, nooks, crannies and cozy spots he can fit in the apartment; it doesn't take the new additions to highlight that Piano Shark is outgrowing this space at a rapid pace. Fighting off all kinds of curious noses and begging paws, Kirishima chuckles at their antics, then sighs.

Things will work out.

The Christmas donation drive was enough to secure rent for a house on the very outskirts of Tokyo, a good few months at minimum. If his Patreon keeps going strong, he'll be able to modify the patio as planned and let the cats roam outside without endangering the local bird population. Fostering a box of kittens won't throw him off too badly in terms of costs, but…

Things have to work out. Most of these animals have yet to regain their faith in anyone but Kirishima, and he's hellbent on keeping them safe and happy until he can find them the perfect forever home.

For some, that forever home is him. His promise counts double in those cases.

Speaking of which: A grouchy Mrreh announces even Miss Boots is hoping for a late-night — more like early morning — snack. Kirishima picks the old lady up before she can run into trouble with the others, holding her to his shoulder like the baby she still is to him despite her respectable age of sixteen.

"Alright, alright. Let me through, you guys, breakfast isn't for another, uhhh… Five hours. Let me through, jeez. Don't give me that look, Mochi, I know for a fact Mina slipped you a treat before she left. Nope, kiddo, you stay right there, you're actually getting something."

By the time the kittens are happily purring and set for the night, bellies round with the cat milk he bottle-fed them, Bakugou's new upload is long over. Guiltily, Kirishima scrolls back to the point the retouching starts, waits until he's successfully brushed his teeth, crawled into bed and defended his pillow from two feline take-overs to press play. This time, he'll give Bakugou his full attention and watch the fancy lady portrait come back together!

Kirishima is dead asleep before O Fortuna has run its course.

*

Sometimes, Bakugou wonders about roads untraveled. About forks in the winding path he has walked in life, and the versions of himself he peppered across an alternate history with every step taken.

Sometimes — not often, because tough decisions have rarely made Bakugou hesitate but that doesn't automatically make them good — he thinks of what-ifs. What if he hadn't co-signed the papers to Twin Stars with Midoriya Izuku of all people, and instead left art conservation behind?

What if Yagi Toshinori hadn't gotten in his car that night?

What if Bakugou had actually faced those conflicting emotions that had regularly overwhelmed him as a teenager, and he hadn't fucking vented it all on the one kid who gave a damn about him?

Exhaling a tch into his double-shot macchiato, Bakugou strikes that last one off his list of ultimately pointless musings. A fuck-ton would've had to change to prevent that particular shit show from happening at all, so much so that he probably wouldn't recognize himself by the end of it.

Perhaps Midoriya, too, would've ended up a completely different person, happier, and that's a far more depressing notion to consider.

Reframe that thought, he reminds himself, consciously unclenching his fingers around his enamel mug. Stuff got out of hand, he was forced to confront the consequences of his shitty fucking actions, it somehow got better, now they're here.

…Well, he fucking tried.

Not for the first time, Bakugou's eyes flit to the date at the top right corner of his laptop screen: January 21st, a Saturday. February is fast approaching and with it, an anniversary he'd rather forget but can't. That damned nerd will insist they travel across half the country to see that specific grave, say their prayers at that specific shrine, and visit their parents in Shizuoka for a few days while they're in the area. Only then will they finally return to Kyōto and the blissful routine of their studios, fine art and decorative art respectively.

Rinse, repeat, every year the same tradition for the past decade.

Bakugou glares at his inbox, nurses his coffee, watches snow fall outside and pretends his knee isn't bouncing off-rhythm to the Metallica song playing from his massive headphones. That his skin isn't itching with the urge to move, go on a run, e-mails and ice-slicked sidewalks be damned. Ten whole years, gone just like that, huh? Hundreds, perhaps thousands of paintings restored without input from the man who essentially granted him a new outlook on life, or at least a shot at a less toxic one.

Fuck. Even a few rounds with his punching bag at home would do the trick. This coffee shop is too feel-good and hipster-y for him — if only their feel-good, hipster-y everything bagels didn't kick so much ass.

Bagel first. Then punching bag. Then… Weekend plans of some sort.

Those are a thing, judging by the three Whatsapp notifications he's received from Sero in the past hour. A quick glance at the preview — broski, blah blah blah, LotR marathon tonight, whatever whatever — and Bakugou decides to ghost him some more. 'Broski', how disgusting.

Then again, it was Sero who had suggested anger management via cat videos. Not that Bakugou had asked for neither his advice nor his opinion (or Kaminari's for that matter). Unfortunately, Idiot #1 and Idiot #2 stopped being scared of him about a week into sharing a dorm back in art school. Bakugou has been suffering ever since.

Another fork in the road. A chain of annoying coincidences, more like.

Buzz buzz. Bakugou rolls his eyes and unlocks his phone.

Bakugou pointedly slaps his phone screen-down on the table, although the target of his passive-aggressiveness isn't there to see it. No more distractions.

Forty minutes of typing, deleting, retyping. He growls under his breath, gives up on client inquiries altogether. Ever since he took to YouTube to show the world what conservation work should ideally look like, he's been flooded with requests and job offers every single day, serious or otherwise. He's booked out for months in advance, which is nice for business but a pain in the ass to justify to the 'What do you mean, you won't drop everything to fix my shitty painting overnight?' crowd.

Bakugou deletes another such message unanswered. Entitled fucks.

A Piano Shark video is playing before he's even registered he reached for his phone again. Bakugou props his chin on the tattooed knuckles of his fist, eyes closing to enjoy the music. More intense than Kirishima's usual stuff, lower tones interspersed throughout invoking a storm in his mind's eye, or some sort of battle. It tickles Bakugou's brain in the same way heavy metal does, harboring the potential for deep focus if he allows himself to get carried away by it.

A morning upload for once. It's his third time listening to it.

There are two cats in the shot, Bakugou knows without looking. Mochi, as round-faced and fluffy as his name suggests, and a nervous Siamese he hasn't seen much before. Shy Guy, the caption says. Both are spread over the top of the piano, remarkably unfazed by the loudness and drama. Cats tend to run away from Bakugou no matter what he tries — how Kirishima draws them in like that is a total mystery to him.

(Bakugou is not envious of that. He's not.)

Bagel, punching bag, grocery shopping for okonomiyaki, Rings marathon.

None of that is advanced by Bakugou's idle scroll through Kirishima's story: Cats sleeping on offensively red pillows and blankets; a jacked, gray-haired guy tagged as @t4muscle grinning while carrying crates of cat food around, stacked ridiculously high; a selfie of Kirishima himself.

Bakugou puts his thumb on the screen to pause and read the text alongside it, confirming the kittens are out of the woods. Apparently they kept him up all night — again. It definitely shows, exhaustion obvious despite his signature smile. His crimson hair is bunched up in a sloppy bun instead of spiked up.

Below in bold text: Help me name them? 🙏🏼🙏🏼

Bakugou raises an eyebrow, taps onwards. One by one, the kittens flash by, emojis next to their faces indicating their sex and how feral they are (represented by a row of chili peppers): A snow-white ball of fluff, a female; two male tabbies, one orange, one brown; a female tortoiseshell; a tuxedo cat, also female… and a maximum-level spicy tomcat, black as pitch.

His ears are pinned back, fangs bared in a vicious hiss. Bakugou hums approvingly. Badass.

The posts each have an embedded window to reply. Bakugou has e-mails to ignore and mind-numbingly corny cat names to prevent. His account is locked anyway, that will keep him anonymous.

Bakugou blinks. Stares. Realizes. Shock sinks into his gut like a solid block of ice. The heat rising to Bakugou's cheeks burns all the brighter. He… Kirishima can reply to these?!

Fuck this fucking app. What's the point of locking an account then? Why the hell would a creator as big as @pianoshark even respond to random people's DMs?!

Oh fuck, he replied. Before Bakugou can close the app, forget Kirishima Eijirou ever existed and move countries while he's at it, another message pops up.

The little black kitten, absolutely destroying a toy mouse on a string. Hushed laughter off-screen, then: "You show that mouse what's what, Dynamite!"

Oh. That sure is Kirishima's voice, deep and amused. Using the name Bakugou chose for the cat (and himself, back when he was a shithead teenager mercilessly camping noobs in World of Warcraft). Okay. This is fine.

Just the guy he's not-followed for ages, replying and listening to him. No big deal.

Throat suddenly bone-dry, Bakugou downs the pitiful dregs in his mug. Cold coffee, bah. A glance at his phone has his face warming once again, getting up to finally grab himself that stupid bagel.

Gods, does he hate social media.