Runnin' with the devil

Part 1

"Yeah!" Kirishima says. "This is a new band for him, though, I'm interested to see how he'll do..."

"Oh?"

Midoriya shakes his head. "Kacchan doesn't have the best track record with not getting kicked out of bands. He's volatile."

"He is an asshole," Kirishima confirms. "But he's our asshole."

Why exactly are you guys all friends with him, Shouto wants to ask, but he settles on keeping his mouth shut for now.

Mina returns, her arms laden with beer, and trades the others cash for them. Kirishima squeezes Midoriya's cheeks with one hand, and Midoriya goggles innocently up at him like a goldfish.

"Can you try to pace yourself, like, at all tonight?" Kirishima asks him, and Midoriya beams, patting his arm reassuringly.

"I'm great at pacing," Midoriya says. Uraraka nearly spits her beer out from laughing. Kirishima tucks Midoriya further under his arm, looking very content to be blatantly lied to.

Shouto realizes he's smiling faintly and looks away, suddenly awkward. He hasn't been offered a drink, because they know better by now. Not that any of them ever pressure him ("More for us!"), but it does all remind him again, make him wonder if he's still sort of a fifth wheel. He isn't sure what exactly Kirishima and Midoriya have going on, but it seems to be something. At the very least, Shouto recognizes it as a something he's never experienced.

The lights start to dim. The club has really filled up since they arrived; Shouto can feel bodies pressing against his back, now, and feels glad that they made it to the front, where there aren't so many bodies in front of him. He has a clear view of the stage, and it makes it feel less claustrophobic.

"Starting, starting!" Mina squeals, as purple, blue, green, lights of all colors, start to sweep and strobe across the stage and crowd. 

The stage is small, no fancy curtains, but it feels more alive that way, as the band takes their positions. It seems like they're local favorites—the crowd starts going wild when they see them. Two guitarists, one blond with a jagged black streak in his hair, excitable smile plastered across his face; the other his polar opposite, his face nearly obscured by his sleek dark bangs and the large black hood of his sweatshirt. The keyboardist, a tall, beautiful girl who draws lots of excited noise from the crowd just with a small smile and wave. And the bassist and lead singer, spiked wristbands, dark eyeliner; she has an infectious air of anxious excitement.

But the drums remain empty. The other four start to warm up, guitars winding through some riffs, keyboard through scales and presets, bass thrumming. The crowd hoots and hollers. Still no drummer.

"Oh, hell," Midoriya says, "you don't think they already dumped him..."

Then, almost like they have some kind of unspoken signal, the cacophony of the instruments stops. One low, growling chord strikes out from the hooded guitarist, and he lets it hang, blanketing the crowd, which starts to shout.

"Here we go," the lead singer hums into the mic. She's got a low, honey voice, matches nicely with the guitar.

The second guitarist fires off next, his instrument adding to the sound, the frenzy.

"Thank you, for coming out tonight!"

Shouto starts to feel it—the hum in the air, the thrumming in the ground, mixing together inside him. The lead singer glances to the side, and a real smile lights up her face as one last person joins them on the stage. Shouto's stomach flips over.

This guy must be the drummer. He's got a riot of blond hair partially covered by a faded grey beanie. Multiple piercings in each ear. Black, low-slung jeans with ragged holes in the knees. Black, sleeveless Van Halen t-shirt, the standard Douchebag Cut, made for the gun show. This can be forgiven. His biceps beg to be put on display. It would be a crime to cover them.