Chapter Text
(Suburban Home by The Descendents)
The last chord of the song rang out against the warehouse walls. The soundwaves ricocheted aggressively as the metal doors rattled to the booming bass. It felt like everyone's breath had paused for a moment, a unified instance of understanding. The moment between the song and the crowd was cherished, kept close to the musicians like it could be taken away in an instant. When music spoke the loudest in that brief silence. And then, the cheering. The song landed and the audience took in what the musicians said with their instruments. That was the time when life felt worth living.
He felt alive.
Electricity ran down his arms as he finally lowered them. A towel was snatched from his stick bag and dragged across his brow as he gulped down air. The lead singer was at the mic again, talking to the pit, and he snagged his water bottle and gulped as much water as he could. Glances were shot to the others in confirmation for the next musical assault.
He was just he. In this particular moment, he had no name or body. He was not a person. He was the music itself. When his band mate stopped speaking and looked back for the cue, the feeling of oneness came again in a wave as he counted off their next song; intricate rhythms tumbling out to the mass of rolling bodies in the crowd. Sweat, punches, laughter. A friend picking up the other and making sure they were okay. The people in the back talking each other through their issues. The old heads crossing their arms and nodding along to the beat at the edge of the crowd. The drunk person having too much fun. This was everything. This was the life he wanted.
Screaming through the mic, face melting riffs on the guitar, complex figures on the grounding bass, and then his drums controlling everything from behind. A perfect blend of sound. And then, a wrong note.
Where did it come from? As he drummed, he glanced to his band mates. Was something wrong? Another off note, out of tune, completely wrong rhythms. Slowly, the audience stopped moving, the people stopped talking. Even the drunk person stopped trying to climb up a speaker stack. Another glance and he spotted what happened. The bassist.
They cringed and stopped playing their instrument, checking the strings. They had beads of sweat falling down their forehead, nerves catching up to them as they tried to figure out where they were in the song form. It wasn't a particularly difficult song ( a cover of one of the most famous punk bands ever), but they couldn't find their spot. He yelled at them, trying to tell them where they were and they just stared at him terrified with tears pooling in their eyes. The guitarist's head snapped up and she silently glared at the two. When it was the bassist's turn to sing background vocals, it almost seemed like the world tilted. They were off key and the audience covered their ears. He watched behind the kit as the concert goers started to leave the venue. Panic bubbled up in his stomach and in anger. This idiot was ruining their set. They were ruining his band. Not being able to control himself, he hit the crash cymbals as hard as he could, stopping the music in an instant.
"Do you even know this song? What the hell are you doing?" Bakugou shouted. The bassist's mouth gaped like a fish as they stared in shock at the reaction.
"Sorry, man, I just… The song got away from me. The bass part isn't easy, it took me almost three weeks just to figure this one out." they stammered, holding their bass close. Jirou sighed. She placed her instrument on its stand and then crossed her arms.
"It can be a little tricky." she agreed. Bakugou scoffed. What was this extra trying to say? They didn't even seem to know the original song! And to have his bandmate agree with them?
"Stop trying to be gentle with them." he snapped. Jirou rolled her eyes at his response and collapsed on the threadbare couch next to Denki who had, justifiably, averted his attention to his phone. "It's Suburban Home, 's a punk standard! What's next, they can't play Sedated either?" he shoved his drum sticks in the bag hanging of the snare and grabbed his water bottle again. Maybe he was being a little too harsh, the Descendents did have some difficult stuff… but this person was not even close to the original bassline, and he'd be damned it he was going to go on stage for their first show and have a bass player that could barely keep up. "If it takes you too long to figure out the basics, then you're not fit for this group." he said sternly.
"We are looking for high standards." Denki chimed in. "You seem really nice, but we put in a lot of work for this band. Usually I'd say Bakubro is being a little too harsh, but you had a while to work on this before auditions and, well…" he smiled sadly, rubbing the back of his head. When the bassist looked at him, he looked away as if something on his phone was much more interesting. The bassist then looked to the floor and slowly nodded.
"I guess I get it." they murmured. "I mean, I don't think I'd really be able to commit all that much anyway. I work, like, two jobs." They laughed a little. "Guess it might not be a good fit. Thanks for letting me audition, though." Denki smiled and pushed himself off the couch.
"Hell yeah, of course! There's tons of bands looking for a bassist. I'm sure you can find the perfect group! Hey, before you go, let me get you a beer." Denki led the bassist to their case and, once their instrument was away, led them from their reheasal space. Bakugou clicked his tongue and slouched on the throne. He raised an eyebrow at Jirou.
"C'mon…" he prompted. "It wasn't that good."
"Yeah… Yeah, it wasn't that good." Jirou confirmed.
The rehearsal space grew quiet as they waited for their next bass audition. It wasn't a hard place to find. A small industrial building right on the bus line that they all pooled in to rent. Luckily it was cheap, and their friend/manager/fellow musician/punk house organizer, Mina, knew a guy who knew a guy who knew some other guy's cousin that owned the place. All to say, they got a major discount on their monthly payment. They decorated it with random furniture they found at garage sales and in dumpsters, painted on the walls (much to Bakugou's annoyance), and figured out how to muffle their sound to surrounding buildings by stapling egg cartons to the drywall— wherever there was any. The most consistent thing about the space was a mini fridge (traded for a painting that Jirou created) full of beer and the occassional take out. Each had a key that they definitely did not illegally copy so they could all access the space whenever they wanted to. Denki was almost always there, or at least was always there before the others would get off their jobs.
All three of them had been playing together in various forms for years. They all met towards the end of their community college days, as thick as thieves. They treated each other like sibilings, although one of them would never admit it out loud. They hadn't always been in a band together, as they all had their own ventures into the scene, but once they created Riot, it all was perfect. Well, perfect if they could finally get a bass player that was consistent.
Prior to this mess, they had one that was good, if not great. His name was Monoma and he was a whiz at chord changes. He didn't know much about theory, like Bakugou, but he could pick up a bassline within a few minutes. He was cocky, but who wouldn't be when you were that good? Who knew that the cockiness would but heads with another proud personality.
"It's not a problem, Bakugou, you only think it is because your head is to stuck up your ass to figure it out." Monoma had shouted. The drummer slammed his sticks down and stood up on his feet, jabbing his finger into the bassist's chest.
"I never asked for your fucking opinion, dumbass, I'm telling you. It's a bad venue and we're not ready yet. You can't just sign us up for some gig and not tell us about it!"
"What, are you the owner of this group, or something? It's not just your decision. You want this band to get somewhere, we gotta start somewhere. You can't be a perfectionist, especially with this kind of music Jirou, Denki, back me up." Monoma turned towards the other two. Bakugou ground his teeth as he also looked over to his friends. Denki opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking.
"Honestly, bro, it's kind of shitty for you to not even talk to us about what we want to do. Like I get it, we're not gonna be polished, but..." Denki murmured. He glanced at Jirou for some support. She nodded and added, "We'd be down if you said something, but we have jobs and lives and you can't just spring that up on us." Monoma's cheeks turned red in anger. He whipped back to Bakugou.
"You wanna have a shit band that doesn't perform, be my guest. I'm tired of you all being cowards about this. Especially you and your goddamn perfectionism." He slipped his bass off his shoulder and started towards the door. "Until you idiots get serious about this, I don't want to hear from you, especially you." He pointed at Bakugou. "Call me when you wanna finally be a band. We're through." as he said the last part, his eyes bore into the drummer whose own cheeks turned red and his hand shook.
Mina's bubblegum pink curls came into view as she walked in with Denki, a clipboard in her hand. She flopped on the couch, laying her head on Jirou's lap and flipping through the pages. Mina had joined their friend group later down the road, a few years ago. She was in her own riot grrrl band called Choke and The Spits with two other women. She was the lead singer and was probably the most engaged performer the group had ever seen. Mina was mesmerizing on stage, not just with her voice and outfits, but also with how she moved. She majored in theater, where she met Denki, and utilized her degree in her performance as much as possible. While Riot was more focused on their sound, Choke and The Spits was all about the theater with props and costume changes. One of their songs, that wasn't performed often because of the clean up, involved blood spurting from the performers into the audience.
"So, babes, they weren't the one?" she asked.
"Not even close." Bakugou snorted.
"What, they don't get the Blasty's seal of approval?" she shot back. "I'm starting to wonder if that's just an urban legend at the point." Denki and Jirou laughed.
"Nobody gets that, not even Jello Biafra himself." Denki joked.
"Who's next?" Bakugou asked, ignoring his friends' comments. Mina smirked and then looked down at the list.
"Well, out of all of the ones that called and actually read the flyer, just one more. He said he'd be here at 5, but I guess the bus is running late." She said. Jirou checked her watch.
"It's currently 5:37. Well, at least we know he's a typical bassist."
"Finally, one that sort of fits the stereotype." Denki said, a sly look on his face.
"Tch. Stereotype or not, we shouldn't accept him being late. It's a bad look. If he's not here in the next three minutes I say he can't audition. I got shit to do." Bakugou grumbled.
"What crawled up your ass and died?" Jirou asked, giving him a pointed glare.
"It's almost his bed time." Denki quipped only to have to duck as a drum stick flew towards his head.
At that moment, running footsteps came barelling up the stairs. All four friends turned their heads to see a tall and burly blur of red shoot through the door, huffing and puffing.
(Blue Train by John Coltrane)
"I am so sorry!" the blur said as it swung its case of its back. "I was gonna catch the bus but it was earlier than what it said on the schedule so I had to walk here from the other side of town and then I checked my phone and saw I was way late so I literally booked it here and ran, like, ten blocks just to make it. I'm not too late, am I?" When the bass was finally out and strapped, it was easier to take in the chaos in front of them. A man, about six foot three inches stood near the drum set, plugging into the amp with a bright red chord. It matched his hair that was tied back in a loose bun. When he turned, he held a bright red bass. His black t-shirt had a picture of some musician playing a saxophone with the name John Coltrane over it and he had gray cargo shorts on and… oh god, Bakugou thought. Red crocs. How the hell did this guy run 10 blocks in crocs? He looked up at the man's face and received a radiant grin.
"You're late." Bakugou said with a frown. The grin faded in an instant.
"Oh, well, yeah. I didn't mean to be, just sometimes to buses are off schedule and, well, I know I should've probably taken an earlier bus, but I didn't get out of work until later." He scratched the back of his neck. "I mean, I would've been late if I showed up on time anyway. It's like what my former professor always said, 'If you're early, you're on time. If you're on time, you're late. If you're late, you're fired." He laughed a little, trying to ease the tension he felt as the drummer glared him down.
"Why'd you even bother showing up if you're late in the first place?" Bakugou growled. The man blinked rapidly at him and stammered, lost and scrambling.
"Okay, that's enough grilling from you, bro." Denki said, scooting in front of the other and putting his hand out to shake. "I'm Denki Kaminari. The scary one who doesn't understand what grace is, is Bakugou Katsuki. The quiet one is Jirou Kyouka, and Pinky is Ashido Mina." They all greeted him, one with a snort, as the man waved back. Mina looked at her clipboard then back up too the man's face.
"And you must be Kirishima Eijirou?" she asked. Kirishima nodded.
"Yeah, that's me." He shifted slightly and then fiddled with his bass, air-playing a bass line to help calm his nerves.
"Well glad you can make it. Maybe we should start with some questions?" Jirou asked and after a nod, she continued. "So, how long have you played?"
"About thirteen years, give or take. My mom wanted me to be in band so I started on the tuba, but then I switched the bass when I got to middle school." Bakugou snorted a little and when he got a quick glance from Kirishima, he stopped.
"Tuba's cool I guess…" he mumbled. Kirishima's beaming smile came back.
"Have you ever play any punk music?" Denki asked.
"Never." Kirishima said. It almost felt like the air sucked out of the room.
"Wait what?" the blond asked. "Like, never never?" after a nod he continued, "So what made you want to try it out?"
"Well, it looked like fun. I mean I don't listen to it either, but I did check out one song by some English band. Oh geez, what was it called…?" As he thought, Bakugou hid his face in his hands. Don't tell me, he didn't listen to— "The Sex Pistols, Anarchy in the UK." The group collectively groaned. Kirishima gained an even more confused look. "Is that, like, not a good band or something?" Nobody answered him.
"So you've never played punk music and you've never actually listened to punk music. You think you can play punk music?" Bakugou asked. Kirishima nodded. "What've you played before? Rock at all?"
"No, not rock either. I mean, I'll play whatever gig I'm called for, but I primarily listen to and perform jazz." he said with a small grin. He looked down at his shirt. "Jazz is literally the best music ever." Denki glanced to Jirou who then glanced to Mina, who shrugged. Bakugou had completely put his head on his snare drum. "I could pick it up, though." Kirishima continued. "I mean, from what I understand, punka and rock is mostly just, what, four chords? Couldn't be too hard." At that, Bakugou lifted his head up and his glare came back.
"Wanna bet?"