Chapter Text
‘Fucking stupid fuck-ass piece of shit truck,’ you mutter under your breath, attempting to gather your belongings into your arms. Stumbling out of your car, your coffee spills over the front of your blouse while more expletives fall from your mouth.
It’s already easily the worst first day of a job you have ever experienced. Not just this one, your new assistant directing position at the academy, but literally every other job you have had has started out better. Somehow, even though you left your apartment much earlier than you thought you needed, you were boxed in behind a semi truck going practically half the speed limit. This shaved off the extra time you bought yourself, and then some. To make matters worse, your boss and the director of orchestras, Mr. Shouta Aizawa still hasn’t spoken a word to you up to this point. You were hired quite impressively on the spot of your third interview with the choral and musical theater directors, but they made sure to tell you off hand that Mr. Aizawa would be less than excited about hiring an assistant. You assumed that was the reason for his absence from said interviews. Despite the immense talent of the kids at the academy, teaching and directing is always a challenging career path. Mr. Aizawa had been in need of help for years prior. Directing an entire elite high school orchestra had never been a one person job, regardless of how frequently he tried to make it be.
You dash into the school in your tiny pencil skirt and kitten heels already feeling ashamed. On your first day of all days to be arriving in egregiously late, covered in coffee, with a boss that you knew dislikes you at best, there is a pleading hope in the back of your mind that it is all just a dream. A nightmare. A stress induced psychosis.
It isn’t.
Of course, it didn’t get this way with no effort on your part. You had reached out to Mr. Aizawa weeks beforehand via phone and email to discuss expectations, assuming he has any. Assuming he even knows or cares. You’ve been determined to assure yourself that if you lose the job of your dreams, it will be of no fault on your part. Though it has all started to go wrong.
‘Shit, shit, shit, I’m so damn late.’
As you hesitantly open the double doors and slide in, they creek. Silence falls upon the hall.
Some murmurs float up from the orchestra as you stand at the back of the group, clutching your scores to your chest to cover up your coffee stained shirt. You glance to who you suppose is Mr. Aizawa perched on the podium. He has long black hair that ghosts over his shoulders, a bit messy, and his clothes are all black. Though in a generic pair of slacks and a sweater, his clothes still seem to be a bit too big for him, interesting for a fairly tall man.
“Quiet. Eyes here.” Aizawa directs his baton upward and points to it. The students are silent almost instantly. “We have a visitor.” When the majority of the class turns to face you, you wave.
“She’s hot.” A purple haired boy with a lisp utters to his neighbor. The kid next to him nudges him in the stomach.
“Inappropriate, Mineta,” Aizawa scolds. The classroom is mute and still for a moment. A moment that, to you, feels like an hour.
Aizawa’s jaw hangs open in expectation. “Are you going to introduce yourself?” He motions for you to continue.
Your expression morphs to a friendly grin. “Oh, hi! I am Miss Y/n and I’m going to be the new Assistant Director here. I’m looking forwa-”
“Alright everyone let’s get back into it,” Aizawa interrupts and the smile fades from your face. The class starts mumbling, most likely about you, and Aizawa taps his baton three firm times on his music stand.
“Focus. Let’s take the Bernstein again, Movement 1 from measure 124.” In an instant, Aizawa gives a cue to begin and the kids respond to his conducting with impressive charity. They sound absolutely astounding for a high school group, much more than you originally expected.
Still clutching your scores, you creep into the room slowly, trying to muffle the clicking of your heels on the tile floor. Methodically, you move towards the side and then the front of the orchestra to take a seat pressed against the blackboard near the podium.
Aizawa continues conducting the kids but turns his head towards you and mumbles something unintelligible. Popping out of your seat, you move closer to him, only for him to cut off the group.
He leans toward you fully and mutters, “You’re going to want to be standing.”
Taking his words as a command rather than a suggestion, you back up and stand with you back against the blackboard and listen to the rehearsal.
“Horns, in 156, you’re dragging almost a half a beat behind. Subdivide.” When Aizawa critiques, the sound of pencils hitting the music stand comes right after. Each one of the children wrote notes in their music.
“Mineta.” Aizawa frowns. “Yes, you specifically are about twelve cents flat. It’s fairly consistent, which is… impressive.” His voice drips with sarcasm and he smirks. Mineta leans toward the violist ahead of him and asks her what to do to fix the problem, and Aizawa sighs, leaving it to her to explain.
“Iida, that was beautiful,” Aizawa states to the principal oboist. “I’m going to let you take the lead there, alright? So I’ll follow you.” The class shuffles their feet in respect. Iida seems to sit up a little straighter.
“Okay, let’s take it from…” Aizawa fumbles through his score and you notice he’s been conducting without it, just using it for the rehearsal numbers. “Measure 186.”
As Aizawa glides his arms up, the kid’s instruments follow. When Aizawa gives the cue to start again, you can feel the breath of the winds pull you in.
Rehearsal continues for a bit and you let your mind wander, looking over the group, excited to get to know them. Each of the children appears to add so much to the elite group, whether it’s their leadership or their tone, spurring on the extensive progress. A bell rings through the halls and Aizawa gives the orchestra a break, given their homeroom class being two regular class periods long.
“Five minutes,” Aizaw calls out and closes his Bernstein score. Walking past you, he speaks but doesn’t make eye contact. “Come speak with me in my office, Miss Y/n.”
Gulping down a lump in your throat, you nod your head and he meanders along. You quickly lean over the concertmaster to introduce yourself. “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Miss Y/n. What’s your name?”
“I’m Momo Yaoyorozu, but you can just call me Momo,” the tall brunette responds.
“Thanks Momo. Do you know about how long you’ve been rehearsing these pieces?” You ask.
“About a week and a half, I think?” She counts the days on her fingers but stops as Aizawa calls out to you.
“Miss Y/n? Come here.”
You give Momo a thumbs up and scamper to Aizawa’s office.
“Close the door please,” Aizawa requests, standing up and refilling his thermos from the coffee machine at his desk. “Are you late to everything or are you just late to things that involve me?”
“I-um…I didn’t- I…” you stutter nonsense.
“That was rhetorical.” He sits and motions to the chairs in front of him, so you take a seat.
He lowers his head. “You’re going to want to present yourself with more confidence around the kids, so I would ditch the death grip on the scores.”
When you nod but don’t put them down, he expectantly raises an eyebrow at you and waits.
“I uh…” your voice trails off as you reluctantly lay the scores in your lap.
Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose. “I suppose you don’t have anything else to wear?”
You shake your head.
Rifling around in a drawer of a utility closet near his desk, he hands you a t-shirt with the logo for ‘Cats, the Musical’ with UA’s production team listed. “I have a shirt from last year’s show. Here.” It’s decently small.
“Go ahead and change, and then put your scores down. Have you taken a look at the Nielsen?” He asks.
“They’re… They’re playing a Nielsen symphony?” You question.
Aizawa sighs and rolls his eyes. “Nevermind. We’ll copy my score for it later. Go change.”
Graciously taking the shirt, you walk out the door briskly and quietly but turn back into the office to see if he wants the door open or closed. You find yourself face planting directly into his chest. He stares down at you with an expression of pure irritation, and all you can manage is a small apology before skittering your way to the restroom.
Right as you reach the bathroom, the students begin filing out and back into the hall. You wait until they’ve all left before closing the stall behind you and taking off your blouse, folding it to hide the stain and slipping into the dark purple t-shirt. It fits you incredibly snug, hugging your curves and making you self-conscious. For school, you would never wear something so form-fitting, but it still covered you up and wasn’t doused in coffee, so you deal with it.
Returning to the rehearsal hall, you hear Aizawa calling out some measure numbers to the group. You make your way over to the chair you had previously sat in, place down your scores and your soiled shirt and turn around, returning to the spot you stood earlier.
The blonde principal flutist leans over to the second and whispers, pointing in your direction, while the pink haired flutist giggles.
“Something you’d like to share with the class, Aoyama?” Aizawa sneers.
“No… Sorry, Aizawa-sensei.” Aoyama slouches in his seat behind his stand.
“Good.” Aizawa states before returning to rehearsal.
While you listen, you nervously start to fold your arms over your stomach. Aizawa’s words replay through your head, ‘You’re going to want to present yourself with more confidence.’
‘I was,’ you think, ‘Until I was late, then spilled coffee everywhere, and oh yeah, my boss decided to be an ass even though I’ve never-’
“Miss Y/n. Did you hear me?” Aizawa’s question pulls you out of your thoughts.
“Um…” You’re caught entirely off guard.
“I said, what do you think?” He repeats.
“Oh, um… sounds great!” You say with encouragement.
The class begins to giggle, and Aizawa rolls his eyes at you as he turns back to the orchestra.
“What I was hoping Miss Y/n would say is that the bassoons are coming in a bar early.”
A bassoonist with dark, pointy hair raises his hand.
“Yes, Sero?”
“I think we are missing a measure.” Sero replies.
The two of them converse back and forth to locate the mistake in the part, but you tune it all out. All you can think about is how embarrassed and angry you are. This job was supposed to be your dream job, fun and exciting. But of course it has to be ruined by Aizawa. Why did it have to be a guy like him?
The rest of rehearsal goes by with little bumps in the road. The kids sound incredible for how little time they’ve had on the music, and Aizawa, though terrifying, has excellent critiques for them. His comments are objective, succinct, and efficient. None of the kids seem to be affected emotionally, and appear to understand his thoughts and their roles. Once the class time ends, Aizawa excuses them and the students start to pack up their instruments in their cases.
“Come with me, Y/n, and bring your belongings,” Aizawa states, staring straight at you and purposefully over-annunciating. You follow him into his office and he shuts the door behind you. Again asking you to sit, he starts to unpack his insufficient lunch. You take a seat in front of his desk and let your eyes wander anywhere but at him. He takes a breath as if he is about to speak, but stops and looks at you with furrowed brows.
“You didn’t bring a lunch?” He asks.
“Um… no. Thought I would just go to the cafeteria.” You say, noticing your leg bouncing up and down uncontrollably.
“Oh. Well then nevermind. Go ahead and go to lunch. Just bring one tomorrow so we can talk.”
At his request, you stand and grab all of your things, nodding at him and moving towards the door. “Thank you, Mr. Aizawa.”
“It’s Dr. Aizawa, to you,” he replies.
When you lock eyes with him again, your brows reflexively tent at his stern demeanor.
“You can leave your stuff here, you know. You don’t have to carry it around everywhere,” he grumbles.
Placing your belongings next to the door, you nod again and leave the office, making your way to the cafeteria.