Mr. Loverman

Chapter 1

Izuku scrambles inside his apartment, searching for his duffel bag – oh god, he really needs that. It's nearing sundown, and he really probably should have been at the bar an hour ago, but his alarm didn't go off and that's thrown off his entire day. He even lost track of his favorite suit – how did he manage that – and has to settle for a slightly less-tailored one. The shoulders aren't wide enough for anyone else to notice, but he can feel them hanging just too far off, and it makes playing just a touch harder. He doesn't want to disappoint.

Katsuki's just outside the door, waiting for him when he opens it. "Asshole," he gripes, "I've been out here for like, forty-five minutes."

"You're welcome to knock, Kacchan," Izuku replies with a shrug. The blond just sends sparks down his fingertips, in a way that's meant to be intimidating but Izuku always just finds it fascinating.

"We're gonna be late," Katsuki says finally, wrestling the bag from Izuku, and they're moving for the elevator.

"I don't need you to carry that," Izuku says, just as the elevator doors ding and they step inside. The inside is nice; the back of the elevator doors is a huge mirror, and it's well-lit and the carpet in here isn't as worn as his last apartment's elevator. He gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror, notices that he forgot to brush his hair after getting out of the shower again. It's curled this way and that, frizzy and unmanageable, but totally him and he chances a smile. Katsuki is looking down at his phone, hastily typing a message with one hand while the other slides into his pocket. A tranquilizer gun, probably, Izuku muses. Katsuki doesn't use lethal weapons.

"Nobody's going to get us in here," Izuku says.

Katsuki glances up from his phone, shoots Izuku a look. "That's what they want you to think."

Izuku snorts a laugh. "Seriously? We're in a completely-contained box," he's smiling like he does when he knows he's right, waiting for Katsuki to admit it. Of course, Katsuki never does, but it's fun to imagine he will someday.

"Shut up, nerd," he grunts, the closest to admission he's wrong Izuku will ever get. He grins wider, and it's practically reflecting light back off the mirror in front of them.

They reach the first floor. The lobby is classy, complete with a small fountain in the center and everything. The receptionist, Kiyoko, waves all friendly to Katsuki. "See you on the news, Ground Zero!" she calls, just like she does every time, because she knows Katsuki will snap and yell and cause a scene.

And Katsuki doesn't disappoint. He whips his head around, fireball in his hand menacingly. "Quit fucking saying that!" he shouts, gathers the attention of some of the people in the lobby – mostly side-heroes and upper-middle class people. Izuku laughs, waves over his shoulder to Kiyoko.

"See you later, Kiyoko!" he chirps.

"Bye, Izuku!"

She's friendly. Izuku likes her, has stopped and chatted with her on multiple occasions when she's still here after a long set. She always asks what he's up to, and he always chimes a laugh, says "it's a secret", and she never presses.

They step out onto the street and a car is waiting already. Katsuki opens the door for Izuku, scans the area with narrowed eyes, then taps the hood of the car, throws the bag in and gets in himself, and they head off. The back of the car is blocked off from the front for the most part, with a partition window that Izuku opens every single time to say 'thank you' personally to the driver. "So," Katsuki begins, busying himself with straightening his own suit jacket, "Gran Torino's, huh?"

"He asked me to play there for old time's sake," Izuku says with a vague wave of the hand. Gran Torino's bar isn't in the best area, and it's been a long time since Izuku played there, but he was a regular in his early days. When he was just getting on his feet as a musician. Gigs only paid eighty dollars a night, but Izuku didn't have anyone he had to split the money with, and the eighty dollars normally covered his groceries. He lived with the bartender, Ochaco, at the time, paid rent here and there where he could, but being a new face in such a big city made money scarce.