Shouto is not like Katsuki.
He shows up early to Izuku's apartment – earlier, even, than Izuku has told him to be here (which is, to say, thirty minutes before they really have to leave). Izuku's prompt, he's delicate with times, but this is a whole new level of punctual. And he's also not like Katsuki in the sense that he takes Izuku's invitation to come in.
It's all flowery, the words exchanged, the delicacy with which they interact. Izuku's nervous to allow Shouto into his life and Shouto's worried about intruding. They dance with one another, and Izuku vaguely thinks it resembles the way curtains flow in the wind, the way they tangle and detach without ever truly touching, without mingling enough to mean much. And he sighs, his metaphors have been getting all too palpable lately, and he knows he needs to sit down and compose something soon before he's left making metaphors for his toast in the morning.
Shouto settles on the sectional in the living space, eyes the baby grand piano in the corner as if he's waiting for it to play on its own. Izuku is only half-ready when Shouto arrives, and so a few moments after he's shown Shouto his apartment (which he almost feels embarrassed of now, considering he's seen Shouto's massive penthouse), he disappears back into his bedroom and finishes changing.
He's laid out a white suit jacket with a violet undershirt and black pants. His wig tonight is short – it's a similar violet color, his fans enjoy the redundancy of his hair matching his clothing – and he has his favorite gray contacts in. He almost feels a little shy stepping out into his own living room, knowing Shouto is there, but he braces himself and reminds himself that he's Loverman now. And he thinks, deep down, that he doesn't like feigning Loverman in the comfort of his own home, but it's too late now; this persona is what pushes him through most tough encounters in his life.
Even if he can't consider this a tough encounter. It's just Shouto.
And Shouto watches him, watches the way he peeks his head around his bedroom door, as if checking to make sure Shouto is still there. His lips are upturned but Izuku can't really call it a smile, per se; but it's nice to see nonetheless. And the moment is gone quickly enough, with Shouto clearing his throat and nodding towards the door. "Are you ready?" he asks, his voice cool and collected as if he's playing the role of a hero, because technically now he is, he's playing the hero who protects Loverman.
Izuku nods and grabs for his duffel, which lounges on the couch just beside Shouto. Inside is his composing notebook, a spare set of clothes for when he inevitably gets tired of wearing a suit, his emergency makeup case in the off chance something goes wrong. He doubts anything will; while Katsuki has always felt like he can intimidate away the danger, Shouto seems to welcome it, but his presence says 'I dare you to hurt him', and somehow it's just as comforting as Katsuki.
They're out the door and in the elevator not even a minute later, and Shouto already seems much more adept at this than Izuku's expecting. He keeps his posture rigid, hands at his sides but close to his pockets. Izuku wonders vaguely if Shouto also uses non-lethal weapons. And when the elevator stops Shouto holds out his arm, walks in front of him, then allows him to continue towards the side exit. They aren't spotted by anyone, thank god – Izuku thinks that now, they'll both be walking paparazzi targets, considering just how notable Shouto's hair is. It hasn't come out to the press yet that Loverman has a new bodyguard, but he gives it another six hours before questions are asked and they're figured out.
Shouto drives them in that same navy-blue car he picked Izuku up in just days prior. "Driving again?" Izuku comments idly, and Shouto just nods, opens the passenger side door for him and he steps inside. Shouto gets in and they're off down the road towards the venue.
It's a new place, and Izuku vaguely thinks to himself that if there's any worse time for Katsuki to transfer he can't imagine when that is. New venues are always stressful, especially owned by people he doesn't quite know; they're going to Smirnoff's, a retired man in the business industry whose Quirk is converting water into alcoholic beverages. He's from America – Izuku could tell on the phone with his stilted Japanese and American accent – but he pays well and he wants to get his lounge's name out there. Normally Izuku wouldn't be worried about new venues this much, but the shooting is still decently fresh in his mind and he can't help his anxious thoughts that assume this to be a trap.
"Nervous?" Shouto asks from beside him, and he jumps a little. He looks down, notices he's wringing his hands, and realizes he was probably mumbling, too.
"Yeah," he admits, rubs his neck sheepishly and awaits a lecture on how he shouldn't be, especially with the number four hero at his side. But he's reminded again that Shouto isn't Katsuki, that he's so much different from Katsuki.
"It's okay to be nervous," Shouto says, and he's speaking under his breath like it's some big secret. "You had an attempt at your life. That's nerve-wracking." He's staring straight forward but somehow Izuku feels like he's staring straight into him, through him even, like he's some sort of ghost under analysis. Like he's never been opaque, always a transparent being and Shouto's able to read him so easily, to know exactly what to say. Because it is nerve-wracking, and while that's maybe a weak term considering, it's how he feels. He's not a hero. He doesn't face attempts on his life often, and Katsuki does. And Katsuki didn't understand that Izuku isn't used to going to bed knowing someone has tried to kill him, and somehow Shouto does.
"Right," Izuku whispers, and his voice is quiet and small, and he's trying his best not to sound like Izuku right now – he's Loverman right now – but it's hard when Shouto's just so easily summed up how he feels in this very moment. "This left up here," he points to the next intersection, and his hand is trembling a bit as he does. He hopes he can quell his nerves before he sits down to play.
The nerves only rocket as the building comes into view. It's two stories, sandwiched between two much taller city buildings with short alleys on either side, and the entire wall facing the road is covered in windows. They're mirrors from here, but Izuku knows anyone with a simple enhanced eyesight Quirk can see right through it. And Shouto pulls into a community parking lot just across the street, and before Izuku can even address his hesitance Shouto's saying it for him.
"An entire wall of windows," he muses, counts them mentally. "Forty-six along the front. Okay." He smiles, soft and small, down at Izuku. "Let's hope you're not set up in front of them, ah?"
"R-right!" Izuku wrings his hands.
"I'm joking," Shouto adds shortly thereafter. "It doesn't matter where you are, I'll protect you. That's my job, isn't it?"
Izuku feels his cheeks get hot, knows he must be blushing bright red and blotchy. "R-right," he squeaks, feels his chest tighten and his entire being is shrieking at him for being so awkward and embarrassing. But Shouto ignores it and instead walks with Izuku at his elbow into the building.
The interior is nothing short of gorgeous. There are tables lined with violet tablecloths – what a coincidence, Izuku thinks idly – a gorgeous chandelier draping raindrop-like crystals. The light catching them makes them each reflect different colors, scattering a rainbow across the dark tile floor below. The bar is a full circle in the center of the ground floor, and it somewhat resembles a carousel with the way the shelves of alcohol slowly rotate at its core. The barstools are white and they catch the different crystal colors elegantly.
There's a blond man standing just behind this circular bar, and he looks up when the door swings open. "Oh! You must be Mr. Loverman!" he says, excited and bubbly and Izuku likes him.
"That's me," Izuku replies with a charming smile and a small bow. "Your lounge is gorgeous, sir."
"Oh, I don't own it!" The man has vaulted over the counter now, but Shouto keeps him from getting too close by holding out his hand and shaking his head once. He bounces from foot to foot standing in front of them now, respecting boundaries but his excitable nature keeps fighting to come closer. "I'm the son of the owner. My dad's upstairs in the VIP area."
Izuku nods to Shouto, thanks the man and they travel further into the lounge, up a semi-spiraling staircase that arcs into the second floor. About half of the second floor is open to below, and Izuku notices now that the wall of windows is perfectly untouched. He exhales, relieved that he won't be playing directly next to them. He knows Shouto's capable of saving him from a bullet – Shouto's done it before – but it doesn't quite sound like the ideal gig.
The man downstairs was right. Another man, much older and with graying blond hair, adjusted menus on tables behind a semi-transparent partition. Izuku can see a red velvet rope hanging just by the entrance, though it isn't hooked together. Shouto and Izuku approach cautiously, and Shouto clears his throat. The man turns and smiles, a small candle jar in his hand that he haphazardly places on one of the lounge tables. "Mr. Loverman?" he asks, his eyes settled on Izuku, and Izuku's not sure he's ever been addressed before a pro hero of Shouto's standing twice in a row like this.
"That's me," he says and gives his same charming smile, then bows his head shortly. "It's very nice to meet you, sir. You must be the owner?"
"That's me," the man replies, matching Izuku's smile with one of his own. "I am Mr. Smith."
His Japanese is stilted just as it was on the phone, Izuku notices. He leads Izuku and Shouto into the VIP area that he was just arranging items in, and Izuku can see near the far corner a solid white grand piano. "You will play here, okay?" Mr. Smith says, and Izuku nods in understanding, wanders over to the bench while Shouto sits at a nearby booth, and Mr. Smith says a short "I'll leave you to it" and leaves the area.
This piano is new. Izuku can tell by the heavy press of the keys when he first lifts the cover. He can tell by the crisp sound when he thumbs middle C, the hesitance of the keys to give when he strums a broken C major chord. And it feels nice. He hasn't played a new piano since, well, since he got his own baby grand, and the keys on that thing started feeling worn and easier to press just a month in with how much he played the damn thing. None of these keys stick more than the others, though, and the pedals are tough to press but sound clear and crisp and amazing, and Izuku exhales, tilts his head up to the ceiling, and lets his eyes close as he warms up.
Shouto's in a booth just off to the side, watching. Izuku can feel his eyes on him, but still he remains calm, he promises himself to be Loverman now, and it's so much easier to feign his confidence when he's playing a piano. For shits and giggles he plays a cover of a Christmas song – Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas – with the weather chilling and Christmas just a month or so away. And Shouto, teasingly, boos from his spot at the booth. "It's too early for Christmas music," he chides, and even with his eyes closed Izuku can hear the smile on his lips.
"Never too early for Christmas music," Izuku shoots back with a teasing grin, opens his eyes and meets Shouto's gaze. It's stern, professional almost, the way Shouto watches him like he's watching a royal artifact at some museum. And Izuku can't be quite sure, but he feels like he hates it. He hates the way Shouto's watching him like it's his job to do so – which is ridiculous, because Izuku knows it's his job to do so – but that look, that serious look in his gaze, Izuku wishes it were love, he wishes Shouto would look at him the way he looked the first few times he watched Izuku – Loverman – play. Like the music Izuku played was just for him, and there were no life or death worries because Izuku had Katsuki and Katsuki was meant to protect. And Shouto could relax.
But Shouto can't relax now, and Izuku can tell by the strained look on his face that he's trying very hard not to.
Warming up on this piano, aside from that, is delightful. After Izuku finishes another Christmas song, a gaudy and broken chord and damper pedal version of Frosty the Snowman that sounds so much classier than the original, he pulls his composing notebook from his bag. He's already crafted a set for the evening, but without knowing the atmosphere he'd had some trouble. He takes out his pencil as well, taps it to his chin. Serenade and Midnight should be switched, he thinks, and maybe he should replace Crystallize with Deafened.
"Shouto?" Izuku calls out, and Shouto seems to startle at the sound of his voice; without the piano, it's quiet in here. The only sound is the faint chatter from below where the owner and his son have a conversation, and even then their voices are so soft and muffled that it's impossible to know what they're talking about.
"Loverman?" Shouto questions back, tilts his head. "Something wrong?"
"Ah, you've heard all my music, right?" Izuku suddenly feels ashamed of what he's about to ask, and he rubs his hand to the back of his neck nervously.
"Of course," Shouto replies, leans back in the booth now knowing that it isn't a worry of safety.
"I'm having trouble with the set," Izuku admits finally, sheepish and shy as he returns his gaze to the piano in front of him. "Do you, ah, want to help me?"
Shouto's up from his spot at the booth before Izuku can finish asking his question, and he bends over Izuku's back to read the composing notebook Izuku's put on the stand of the grand piano. "Opening with Serenade, ah?" Shouto muses, scanning over the list.
"I'm considering switching it," Izuku says quickly.
"With Midnight?"
"Mm," Izuku hums his affirmation.
It's quiet as Shouto reads and rereads the list. And Shouto's mumbling is quiet but deafening in Izuku's ear, hearing him talk his way through how the setlist should be arranged. "And what if you played Vertigo at the end here?" he gestures just after Izuku's last song on the list, Windpipes, something soft and light and airy but Shouto's right – it doesn't quite fit here.
"You're a musical genius, Shouto," Izuku teases, but his voice is as airy as Windpipes is and he sounds more like he's sighing than anything.
Shouto sighs in response, blows a bit of his bangs out of his face and rubs his forehead. "If I was the musical genius here, I don't think you'd be able to be my bodyguard," he teases, gentle and almost nervous, as if he's afraid he's overstepped. But Izuku laughs, and even without looking Izuku can feel some of Shouto's tenseness bleed away when he does.
"I could scare them away with a Sonata, or something!" Izuku shoots back. "I was always pretty bad with classical music."
"Hm?" Shouto sits at the other end of the piano bench, which isn't really big enough and their thighs brush and Izuku really needs to remind himself that Shouto's not, nor would he ever be, interested in him romantically just because they sat on a piano bench together. "You're bad at classical?"
"Well," Izuku feels his face heat up, and somehow even with the piano in front of him he can't activate Loverman mode (he's taken to calling it that, like some sort of Quirk), "I know how to play it. The problem is that I kind of…embellish too much? My music teacher used to have me play classical down to the last note but I'm a free spirited-type person."
"That doesn't make you bad at it," Shouto argues with a huff. "I don't really know much about classical music, but I know that it's probably boring to sit there and do the same thing over and over."
Izuku looks over at him, a hesitant smile quirking at his lips. "Exactly," he says, soft and pensive, like he's never heard anyone agree with him before. Because he hasn't. Even friends and family have taken the stance of his teachers on this front, that classical is classical. Which is, of course, why many of Izuku's personal compositions take on a classical sound and throw in embellishments and new notes and strange, chaotic chords that roll from the strings like landslides, beautiful and heavy and dangerous with how different they sound. It's his branding, to reinvent classical music, to let it dance off his fingertips. He incorporates new, modern piano techniques with the classical world he's been raised in, and he firmly believes it's part of the reason he's become so easily popular.
"How's practice going?" the owner peeks his head around the wall divider, and immediately Shouto is on his feet, rubbing his neck and excusing himself to resume his duties.
"It's great," Izuku says, throws a charming Loverman smile over his shoulder, and Mr. Smith returns it with ease, as most do when he smiles. "This piano is new," he notes. "Like it's never been played."
"It hasn't!" Mr. Smith replies, claps his hands together excitedly. "I've been waiting for a pro to play it."
"I wouldn't call myself—" Izuku's saying, but he's cut off by Shouto nearly immediately.
"You certainly can't find anyone better in Japan," he says, calm and cool and Izuku can't help but think the roles have reversed here, the tables turned in this game they're playing with each other. Izuku is back to being his shy, stuttering high school self in the wake of Shouto, who's always been beautiful, always relaxed but ready for anything, always a source of admiration for Izuku. And now he's openly defending Izuku's talent when even Izuku can't, for god's sake he's a celebrity, and pianists don't become celebrities for just nothing.
"So I've heard," Mr. Smith is saying, and it's blotting out Izuku's internal panic the way he's smiling so wide. So Izuku allows himself a small smile in return, and he bows his head respectfully.
"I hope to live up to my legacy," he says respectfully, and Mr. Smith gives a short, boisterous laugh that rings through the acoustics of the VIP area. It almost reminds Izuku of All Might, back when he used to obsess over him as a child, back before his gradual decline in the hero industry following his career-ending injuries. This man is blond, like him, with the same decently frail frame, but he has a certain…cockiness to him that Izuku's never seen from All Might. It's not too noticeable, probably just the arrogance of showing off a new lounge, but it's present and Izuku's not a fan of it.
He's leaving the area again just a few moments later, calling over his shoulder that he's finishing up a few last-minute things and that the venue will open in an hour or so. Shouto doesn't return to the piano bench with Izuku, but he does lean over the piano to look at the changed setlist once more, and nods his head. "I think this is a good one," he says, his voice soft and contemplative, like he's critically thought about this setlist as if it's more than just another gig. But Izuku supposes that, for Shouto, it's not just another gig; it's his first gig working as Mr. Loverman's bodyguard, and while it feels more or less normal to Izuku, it might not to him.
"Any special requests?" Izuku asks, his voice just as quiet so as not to disturb the atmosphere they've created around each other. "I usually play an encore at new venues."
Shouto hums. Again, contemplative. Pensive. It's beautiful, truly, the feeling of having someone care so genuinely for his work. He's met fans before, heard the heartwarming stories, and that does instill in him a sense of pride, but it's so different from the people he knows and works closely with. He wonders, vaguely, if his mother would have felt the same about his music if she'd gotten the chance to hear it. He feels a lump in his throat vaguely and reminds himself not to cry, not now, he's lucky to still have her. She's just gone deaf, some chance run-in with a villain that had a deafening Quirk that she never healed from. But she used to be his biggest supporter, and her inability to hear is what spurred him to release an album to begin with.
"I think Del Tango," Shouto says softly, and Izuku's nearly forgotten what they were talking about to begin with. He blinks, and Shouto blinks back, then clears his throat. "For the encore."
"Ah! Right!" Izuku claps his hands together once, a sheepish grin meeting Shouto's gaze. "Sorry, sorry. Zoned out for a second."
"It's okay," Shouto assures. "I don't mind."
They settle on Del Tango and Vibrato for his two encore songs, and briefly Izuku explains the procedure following a set. "Usually people will gather around a table reserved for me, though it doesn't look like there is one today," Izuku's eyes scan the VIP area while he speaks. "In that case, they'll probably come up to the piano. I prefer if they don't touch my hands," he wiggles his fingers. "Or, like, any part of me. There are some suspicious people out there with Quirks that determine other people's Quirks, and the last thing I need right now is for that news to get out."
Shouto nods his head once. "I'll freeze anyone in place who steps out of line," he assures, and though Izuku knows he's serious a short laugh still leaves him.
"You and Kacchan are pretty similar in that sense, huh?" he asks softly. He notices Shouto tense and wonders what could be so bad about what he's said, but he doesn't wonder for long as his brain is screaming at him to apologize, stupid, but Shouto nods after a moment.
"We are," he says, quiet. Not as thoughtful as earlier, nor as soft. He sounds stern, cool, collected – like he's put on his hero mask again. Izuku can't help but assume he's struck a nerve.
"Sorry," he says quietly.
"It's okay."
Nearly the moment the venue opens it's packed, mostly with upper-middle class people who don't work as heroes. Izuku – Loverman, now – has taken to the piano and hasn't quite started his set yet; he's playing a cover of some American pop song by Mr. Smith's request to allow guests some time to be seated before the real show begins. And surprisingly, Mr. Smith walks around the location and greets nearly every guest personally; Izuku's never known Present Mic or Midnight to wander their lounge floors, much less the grumpy Gran Torino. He wonders if it's a difference of culture, or a difference of Quirk and hero status.
He starts his set with Midnight, having switched that with Serenade. It sounds right, in the moment, and it commands the crowd gathered in the VIP lounge. A few others gather around the screen dividers outside the VIP area to listen through them as Loverman plays the piano, strums the keys like they're the individual heartstrings of everyone in the crowd. Midnight is easy, rolls off his fingertips like muscle memory. It's a newer song of his, released on his third album, but it's always a favorite, always a good warmup song before he begins for the day. He takes the time to look out on his audience. There are no stage lights here; the grand piano is up on a platform, but there is no artificial focus on him. There are no lights directing the crowd's attention, aside from the dimly lit chandelier draped over the piano, which serves to illuminate Loverman just enough to be visible, it seems.
He can see quite a few familiar faces, though none of them are heroes. He wonders where all the heroes are, but he supposes he can't really be upset that his crowd isn't full of them; they're likely out keeping the rest of the city safe. Plus, if Izuku had a choice of one hero to protect him in Katsuki's absence, it would certainly be Shouto.
There's a microphone angled at the stage here, too. It catches his whistling tune as Loverman blends seamlessly from Midnight into Static, a song he'd composed after watching Denki's first pro hero battle. So electric, so impressive – and Denki had been so excited, it was like watching a puppy in its first snow. The song itself strikes a memory within Izuku, and it's easy to pour emotion into. He's picked songs he knows well, considering this is a new piano and relatively tight in its keys. He's only stumbled once, and judging by the unphased faces of his audience, nobody noticed. That's also a reason he embellishes his pieces – it's hard to tell what's a purposeful note and what's a fumble.
Shouto's eyes are glued to him, for the most part. Izuku still feels like he's being ogled, like he's a prized vase on a pedestal just aching to be stolen, but somehow now it doesn't feel quite so bad. It's comforting, but somehow it's still unnerving, like Shouto is not and will never be seeing Izuku how Izuku wants to be seen by him.
But that's okay. Shouto's just his bodyguard, after all.
Serenade follows. It's melancholy, his first song in this particular set with a minor key. And Loverman pours Izuku's emotion into it, the bite of Shouto waltzing back into his life with the ease of a man who'd never left, of not even recognizing Izuku, of being so receptive to Loverman, so professional with Izuku. He's living a double-life, and he pours that into his music, and it's thick, it clings to every note desperately, hoping to be heard. Mr. Loverman, admired by all; Izuku, admired by none. They're polar opposites. Izuku is plain. Loverman is ever-changing, expressive. Izuku is Quirkless; Loverman doesn't need a Quirk to be happy.
It's cold here, on the stage. He can feel chills running down his spine. He wishes Katsuki's warmth were here. A few times he scans the crowd, just to be sure he's not here. He doesn't expect him to be, but it hurts all the same when he's not.
He's crying by the time he strums the final broken chord of Serenade, not enough to be noticeable under such dim lighting, but he can feel a tear bunch with another at his chin. Discreetly he wipes it away as another wave of applause charges at him from the enveloped crowd, and he feels his shoulders shake with the sob threatening to spill from his lips. It's rare Izuku feels so much emotion playing now, but he supposes it's fitting with everything that's happened in the past few months alone. He glances over while he moves into the next song, Last Night, and sees that Shouto has migrated from his seat in the booth to a table much closer to the stage. He's still watching, there's still that intense look in his eyes, but Izuku hopes that the glint in his eyes isn't a trick of the light.
Love.