Aizawa Shōta doesn't always play the piano.
It's not that he doesn't know how to - because he does - but it's not something he practices on a daily basis, and it's not something he cares to flaunt or talk about. Especially not to his students.
(It's not like they need to know, anyway.)
When someone asks about his hidden talent, he is quick to brush it off as an activity done on a whim - a training in ambidexterity, essential to hero work.
He doesn't tell them about the nightmares. About sleepless nights and too-loud minds and the peace afforded by polished ivory keys.
(It's not like anyone needs to know, anyway.)
He's never played for anyone before, and he fully intends to keep it that way. It shouldn't come as a surprise; he's an underground hero, and his value for his privacy is a given.
His resolve, however, is shattered after a particularly harrowing attack on his class.
It's a close call for the students of 1-A, and it leaves his kids more shaken than they care to admit. Aizawa knows what will happen next - what he'll find when he returns to the dorms that night. The pro hero knows that once he enters his class' home, he'll find twenty children fast asleep in the common room - finding solace in the safety only numbers can provide. It's become a tradition for his class on occasions like this - but the fact that there even is a tradition to begin with leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. When he sees the pillows formed into haphazard forts, the couch cushions strewn across the floor, and the movie they fell asleep to, still playing on the TV, he tries to think of the trust his class has established with one another, and not the fact that they would never have needed this if he hadn't failed them time and again.
They don't know about the fact that he stands guard over them on nights like this - that his self-loathing at the fact that he's failed to protect them yet again is enough to battle any exhaustion - and he plans to keep this secret just what it is. A secret.
(It's not like they need to know, anyway.)
However, this night is different. Yes, he's correct in his predictions - there are indeed twenty kids in the common room when he returns to the dorms - but they are not asleep as he expected. Instead, the students - his students - sit in silence; eyes tired and staring blankly into space, but still very much awake. They had shut off the lights in their common room - an attempt to aid their effort to sleep, no doubt - but even in the sparse light of the moon filtering in through the windows, he sees their haggard expressions clearly. They are not asleep, but he knows it's not for a lack of trying; the bags under their eyes tell him that much.
Perhaps they're a bit more shaken than he thinks. They look exhausted and bone-weary - aching for the rest that suddenly seems elusive - and without a word, Aizawa sighs.
He knows the feeling well.
More than that, he knows words won't work on them right now; they are far too tired for that. He sees the slump in their spines and the tremble in their hands, and Aizawa almost itches with the need to do something for these kids. He racks his mind to determine his next move, and his efforts are rewarded when a memory springs to mind. A memory of a night, much like this, with Jirō, her speakers, the melodies of Debussy and Mozart, and twenty children sleeping soundly.
Aizawa's smirk is begrudging, but his eyes are steely with determination. His next step is clear now.
There's no hesitation in his stride as he walks towards the small piano in the common area, and just this once, he forgives Jirō for forgetting to bring her instruments back to her room.
He feels their eyes on him now - his movement garnering their attention - but he doesn't meet their gaze, eyes solely on the instrument before him. Without a word, he sits himself down on the piano bench, cracks his knuckles, and plays.
He begins with a quiet melody. Nothing fast; nothing flashy - only hushed notes and feather-light fingers, dancing on plastic keys. The tempo is slow - calming - much like the steady thumps of his heartbeat beating soundly in his chest. He feels the children's surprise at the sudden revelation, but none of them say a word. Silently, Aizawa thanks them.
They understand. He knows they do.
The soft music floats gently across the room, crooning quietly to its inhabitants. The hush that settles over them is enough to make the children lower their defenses, and as a tranquil peace washes over Class 1-A, one by one, their eyes flutter close.
Aizawa plays for hours before he steals a glance at his class. When he does, he sees a few of his kids still struggling to sleep. He plays a few hours more.
He plays even when his hands cramp - even when sleep threatens to claim his as well. He plays and plays and plays, because this… this is all he can do for now. This is what his kids need, so he'll do it for however long it takes.
At the thought, Aizawa allows himself a small, self-depreciating laugh.
Tch. Seems he had fallen hard after all.
Not that he would ever tell them that, of course - that just wasn't him - but he'll show them. They're his kids after all, and he trusts that they're smart enough to understand what he doesn't say.
He plays another song.
(They probably need to know that, anyway.)
Hi! So this is my first contribution to the BNHA fandom! I really hoped it turned out well, but if any of you have any suggestions, please feel free to tell me! All criticism and feedback is loved and appreciated (but please say it in the nicest way you can)! I hope you all have lovely days! Plus Ultra !