Chapter Text
Futa confuses Mikoto.
A lot.
Mikoto has always liked to think that he is inexplicably excellent at lying. He’s good at it— great , even. There’s physical and oral evidence of it. Gritting his teeth and smiling as though there isn’t vinegar running down his chin has always come naturally.
Mikoto has also found understanding the system of human desire an effortless feat. Friendships exist to remove the burden of loneliness. Fear is a deep-rooted instinct, to continue to live. Love is born from physical attraction, and cannot be rationalized.
Futa breaks all these rules, somehow. Which doesn’t even make sense, because even Mikoto himself knows he is a slave to his nature.
Futa is conflict personified. He is someone that, for once, Mikoto cannot understand. He finds himself grasping straws in his presence; he thinks he knows what comes next but he’s wrong. He’s always wrong.
Mikoto finds himself replaying their moment on the couch in his mind repeatedly. It has happened so often that he can remember without trial the exact texture of Futa’s hoodie under his palms; smell the saltiness of Futa’s quickening breath and know the color his cheeks had brightened to by number.
It has him wanting for things in a way he has never wanted them before.
Futa is gorgeous, sure, and in all the ways that make Mikoto melt. But he’s also invigorating somehow, and Mikoto just can’t understand why.
When he fists his dick in his hand and jerks up and down like there’s no tomorrow, imagining his long, calloused fingers are Futa’s instead of his own, he feels guilty .
The warm, slimy, wetness is less romantic, in a sense. All he feels is cold; alone in his bedroom with the doors and windows closed and the only noises filling the air the creaking of the building as it fights against the summer storm outside.
He stares ruefully at the odd concoction of semen and dollar-store lube that coats his palm, and recalls Kotoko’s harsh whispers from what feels like ages ago.
There are strings of texts from her unsaved number; Did you think about what I said? He’s in a bad mood today, was that you? Don’t fuck this up, Mikoto. Answer me, you dick.
Of course, he doesn’t answer. Why should he, if he already knows what she’s going to say?
Mikoto has come to the conclusion that he’s overestimated his abilities. He’s never had any problems with romance prior to meeting Futa. It was always so simple , so uninterestingly easy to understand his partners that perhaps he’s become lazy. Mikoto feels like a hunting dog that’s been domesticated and fattened up during the summer seasons and is just now realizing how cold and lost he is when introduced to the unfathomable situation in which he is forced to chase .
It’s mind-numbingly exciting; to allow himself to yearn for something he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have. While at the same time, the notion of Futa never becoming his is so infuriating that he can’t keep his hands to himself.
He’s so fucking whipped he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
All he does is want , but at the same time he’s terrified of how Futa will react to his advances. Kotoko had planted that fear into his mind and it refuses to leave him alone.
Mikoto feels beneath the blankets, pawing at the mattress like a cat. He’s spent, and it’s too late to be thinking about deep, hardly comprehensible things with his boxers ridden down to his knees and his sheets gross and slightly moist with sweat.
Mikoto frowns into the open space of darkness ahead of him, his eyebrows furrowing.
Then, he slips off of the bed, grasps his phone from his night stand with the hand that isn’t sticky with semen, and he texts Futa.
-
“It’s too fucking early for this shit.” Is the first thing that Futa says.
He’s not exactly wrong . It’s six in the morning, no doubt much earlier than Futa is used to being awake, and the storm from the night before still soaks the city with its cold, dreary atmosphere. What a day to wake up early.
“Sorry,” Mikoto laughs, hardly feeling sorry at all.
Futa is sporting a pair of basketball shorts, hysterically loose on his legs. Mikoto imagines they dangle on his hips, held together only by a tightly wound draw-string double knotted around his waist. He doesn’t know for sure, though, because Futa has insisted on wearing hoodies everywhere it is socially acceptable, so instead he gets an eye-full of terribly boring beige fabric.
“Sure you are.” Futa hisses.
Kazui’s café feels much cooler in the early hours of the morning. It’s empty, devoid of life, and the cool blues and crystalline windows make it feel like an ice palace.
The dry-erase marker artwork on the window has been wiped away; and from the way Futa is rolling his shoulders this way and that as if they’re sore, Mikoto can confidently assume he’s the one responsible for their absence. He almost misses their messy, childish lines.
The coffee machine rumbles absently, filling the awkward silence.
Mikoto can’t quite put his finger on what’s stopping him from being honest. It’s been months, days stretched on like strawberry taffy, sickly sweet and clinging inconveniently. They were almost at a stand-still; a strange middle ground. Of course Futa is aware Mikoto’s into him, but does he know just how much? Actually, scratch that, Mikoto isn’t sure even he himself knows that.
“Hey, where’s the terrible explanation, huh?” Futa grumbles under his breath, like doesn’t even mean to say it out loud. Mikoto would bet money that he didn’t.
“I don’t have one.” Mikoto sighs, leaning into his hand. The small wooden table creaks under his weight.
Futa’s eyes widen for a split-second. Ah, so he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Mikoto thinks to himself in awe. Does this mean I owe myself money?
“Ehm,” Futa clears his throat, his cheeks growing pink in the bright lighting of the café.
“I just wanted to see you,” Mikoto continues, “Your angry face is comforting, at least to me.”
He sighs, deep and almost emotional, watching the way Futa’s expression of flustered indignation gives way to something almost— vulnerable?
Mikoto quickly patches over his mistake with meaningless words. “Ah, that was a joke, by the way.”
Futa’s eyebrows scrunch, and the painful countenance disappears within an instant.
“You’re such a weirdo, Mikoto.”
Mikoto’s breath hitches. He was still getting used to it; how Futa said his name. He can remember the way it echoed in the break-room, how Futa had spoken the characters and breathed them to life with his rough, whiny voice.
Mikoto hides his wobbly smile in his cup of jet-black coffee. It’s refreshing, to not have to choke down uncomfortable amounts of sugar. Futa gives him a look, something like annoyance, and he laughs without meaning to, his coffee bubbling up and splashing hotly onto his lips and nose.
He chokes momentarily, making a distressed noise in the back of his throat, bringing his sleeve up to wipe at the coffee. From the corner of his vision, Futa is covering his mouth with his hand, his eyes narrowed into joyful crescents.
Futa releases a snort, and then he dissolves into wheezy giggles, his forehead resting against the assumingely cool table. He stays there for a minute or two, and Mikoto pretends he’s angry while recording the sound of Futa’s laugher on a track and filing it away to replay in the light hours of the night.
Finally, Futa looks up, using the starts of his palms to clear the small droplets of tears pin-pricking the corners of his eyes.
“What are you here for, then?” He says breathily, a dumb smile on his face. It’s adorable, and Mikoto wants to tear off his own eyelashes for daring to look Futa in the face like he doesn’t have the most filthily obscene thoughts about him. “To spit over-priced coffee all over yourself?”
Mikoto feels that around Futa, his polite plastic mask of emotion begins to melt like butter off his face, dripping into the crevices of his cheeks and then down his chin and onto the ground, leaving his disgusting, raw, feelings out for Futa and only Futa to see. It makes him nauseous.
“Actually,” he replies, his voice nearly cracking. He’s sure he sounds like an absolute idiot. “I was hoping to discuss something with you?”
Futa raises an eyebrow, his amused smile dropping in favor of a suspicious frown. Mikoto finds the shape of either of those expressions does Futa plenty good.
“Go on, then. Don’t drag it out, we aren’t high-schoolers who don’t know how to talk about our feelings.” He says with the slightest bit of edge. Mikoto wants to shiver.
“That’s debatable,” He mumbles to himself, and before Futa can vocalize his complaints, “I wanted to talk about your not-girlfriend—uhm, Kotoka ?”
He messes up the name on purpose. It makes Futa’s lips quirk slightly, almost an unconscious muscle memory. To laugh at his roommates shortcomings.
“Kotoko.” He corrects. “What about her?”
Mikoto’s glee immediately dissipates at the topic of Futa’s roommate.
“She keeps texting me,” he groans, tilting his head back and baring the thick line of his throat. “Non-stop, too. It’s really annoying, can’t you tell her to quit it?”
Futa grins a snarky little grin; one that makes Mikoto want to lean over the table and kiss him senseless.
“Just block her,” he says with a shrug, picking up his disgusting cup of coffee. (Mikoto had dared to try it a week ago; it was spicy .)
“I don’t know how to block her!” Mikoto whines, surging forward and invading Futa’s personal space with his horribly fake distressed expression. Futa places his hand on his cheek, pushing him away.
“You’re only, what, twenty-two?” Futa hisses, “you should be able to block someone’s phone number!”
“Twenty-three, actually.” Mikoto chirps, absentmindedly tracing his fingers around the rim of his cup. “And it’s not my fault, everyone loves me so I’m not used to having to block someone’s number.”
Futa glares at him, looking almost like he wants to puke all over the table and then spit any residue vomit into Mikoto’s mug for good measure.
“Old man,” he grumbles. “And that’s a total lie. I could name several people who don’t love you.”
Mikoto raises his eyebrows imploringly.
“Hm? And who are these people?” He laughs, leaning forward and dipping his eyelids low, almost seductively.
Futa takes notice of his purposefully stupid face and rolls his eyes, his hand reaching up to his chin to fondle his mask idly.
“Well, for one, me—“
“You don’t love me?” Mikoto gasps exaggeratedly, flicking fake tears away from his eyes.
“Course I don’t.” Futa responds almost immediately, his sharp, jagged teeth bared in a terribly mean smirk.
Mikoto looks down at his coffee and glares at his distorted reflection in the liquid. He can feel the addictive heat of Futa’s gaze on his skin. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it.
“That’s a lie, I can see you blushing. You’re totally head over heels.” He teases, his mouth a sly curve as he meets Futa’s eyes confrontationally.
The affect it has is delicious.
“Shut up, or I’ll kick you out.” Futa grumbles, his face flushed up to the tips of his ears.
“No you won’t,” Mikoto chuckles, closing his eyes in a way that he hopes looks cool and natural and not like he’s trying to avoid looking at Futa’s cute face. “Because you—“
“If you say ‘because you love me’ I will literally gouge out your eyeballs.” Futa interrupts, leaning his weight over the table and using his pointer finger to stab at Mikoto’s chest.
“—love me.” Mikoto finishes, probably looking a little too satisfied with himself.
“Get over here you FUCK— “
Futa lunges, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and tugging, targeting the infuriating cowlick atop his head that he had never managed to keep down. Mikoto notices, out of the corner of his eye, Futa’s ungodly coffee is inches away from the edge of the table.
“Nah-ah-ah,” Mikoto sighs, “you still have to help me block Kotoko’s number.” He tuts, pushing Futa away as gently as he is physically capable of, ignoring how small his shoulders feel under his hands.
Futa gives him a nasty glare, wrenching away from Mikoto’s grip with just enough force that his elbow knocks into the cup of coffee and sends the drink flying onto the floor and somehow, by the will of the gods, onto Futa’s shirt.
They both stare at the coffee on the ground for about ten seconds, and then the coffee on Futa’s poor beige sweatshirt for five. Futa punches him.
Mikoto holds his cheek in a poor attempt at acting like being in pain as Futa bends down and picks up whatever remains of his mug. Mikoto tries to keep his eyes away from Futa’s backside, which is a fruitless effort because said attempt to not look only makes him want to look more.
“I swear, he’s a fucking problem magnet.” Futa mumbles to himself, cupping the shattered ceramic in his palms.
“I can hear youu…” Mikoto groans, folding into a squat next to Futa’s hunched figure, making an attempt to aid Futa in wrangling the dangerously sharp pieces of aesthetic blue coffee mug.
Sadly, like all things in life, Mikoto only manages to make things worse.
Futa, apparently, with his nonexistent peripheral vision, (which he could have if he just got a fucking haircut) does not notice Mikoto’s presence at his side, which makes the sudden company of a large, calloused-palmed hand next to his what the equivalent of a Five-Nights-at-Freddie’s jump-scare would be to an eleven-year-old boy.
Futa grunts quietly in surprise, his palm that had been hovering over a particularly sharp cut of ceramic jerking and slicing across its edge.
On his unhealthily pale skin, a sickly red line blooms; liquid trickles down his wrist, disappearing into the sleeve of his hoodie.
“Shit!” He cusses, dropping the carefully held shards in his unharmed hand to the ground and using it instead to cradle his wound.
Mikoto gulps, his eyes drawing to the contrasting red still flowing generously from Futa’s hand. He’s almost frozen, the mass of his limbs a weight too heavy to lift.
The cut is likely shallow; just a thin carve of skin parting and spitting ichor from its maw with distress. But somehow, the violent pink of Futa’s flesh peeking out from the carmine wetness stares him down with an unspoken accusation.
“ Fuck , are you just going to sit there and stare like an idiot or are you going to help me? ” Futa breaks the silence, still clutching his bleeding hand like a lifeline.
“Right,” Mikoto mutters, more to himself than to Futa, standing from his crouching position and walking right past Futa’s suffering frame.
“Hey! Where the hell—“
“Where’s your first aid kit?” Mikoto interrupts, swerving around to meet Futa’s eyes in an unnervingly cold manner.
“Uhmnnn…” his words trials off into a gurgle. “Employee break room. Third door on the cabinets, bottom shelf.” Futa answers robotically, shuffling uncomfortably.
Mikoto nods mutely, marching out of sight.
His mind is racing, shuttering images of Futa’s thick, soupy wound again and again without end. His hands tremble as he pries open the door of the cabinet, shoving aside a large box of ‘My Little Pony’ brand bandaids to reach the already opened first aid kit. On the front of it is a neon yellow sticky note, it reads; “Haruka, remember, do NOT use the ice pack on your burns. You KNOW what happened last time!!!!” With a small, angry-faced doodle with comically spiky teeth.
The image makes him quirk a smile. He removes the first-aid kit from the cabinet, (not without knocking a bottle of pain-reliever medicine and what is likely a spare inhaler—although he isn’t sure with how many stickers have been smothered onto the plastic—to the floor.) cracking it open hastily and fumbling through its unorganized components for a gauze pad.
He tucks the kit under his arm as he walks out of the employee lounge, attempting to project a braver demeanor. He fails immediately the moment he meets Futa’s angry blue-grey eyes.
He’s taken to sitting huddled on their shared table; the spilled coffee has been cleaned from the floor, and the pieces of broken mug are no where to be seen.
Futa is glowering in the direction of the break room, which is likely how they had made eye contact so quickly. It makes Mikoto’s stomach burn; to know Futa was waiting for him.
“Well?” Futa hisses, gesturing with his head to the still-bleeding cut on his hand. Mikoto’s cheeks flush red, and he fumbles with the first aid kit momentarily before setting it down on the table in front of them and removing the needed materials.
“Did you already wash your hands?” Mikoto rumbles, pulling Futa’s hand closer by his wrist to examine the cut.
Futa nods, his mouth screwed into a shaky frown. His fingers are tense where they lay motionless, likely attempting to not clench down and risk irritating his injury.
“Alright,” Mikoto confirms, limiting conversation in favor of picking up a gauze pad and wetting it under the sink behind the counter.
“Now stay still.” He says firmly, scooting into his seat across from Futa, taking his hand and gliding the moist gauze pad over the slit of the cut, cleaning the red from its surface.
Futa makes a little face that consists of scrunching up his nose and narrowing his eyes. Mikoto smiles mildly, something that could be taken as either an attempt at comfort or some sort of passive aggressive mockery; Mikoto is betting Futa is seeing the latter.
“ Fuck— be careful!” He whines as the pad sinks into the center of the tear.
“I am being careful,” Mikoto responds, lifting the blood-tainted pad from Futa’s palm and examining the wound thoroughly.
“You’re acting like Shidou,” Futa complains as Mikoto rips open a new gauze pad and presses it insistently against his leaking cut. “Haruka burns himself all the time making coffee, and whenever I’m not around Shidou has to make sure the burns are treated correctly.”
“You know a lot about burns?” Mikoto hums absently, feeling satisfied at the lack of flow at the entrance of Futa’s palm.
“More than you could guess.” Futa grumbles, leaning his chin on his free hand.
Mikoto stares at his face for a moment; Futa’s eyes meet the surface of the table, his mouth drawn into a tight line and his eyebrows furrowed.
“Bad memories?” Mikoto asks lightheartedly, digging through the first aid kit for a container of Vaseline.
Futa’s gaze flickers to meet the side of Mikoto’s cheek with a deep discomfort. He sighs shakily, his tongue ghosting over his chapped lips.
“No, I was just imagining you in one of Shidou’s ugly doctor’s uniforms.” Futa jokes weakly.“White isn’t your color.”
“It’s not?” Mikoto smiles, raising his eyebrows far into his fringe. “Then I suppose when we get married, you’ll be the one in the dress.”
“Ah, fuck off.” Futa hisses, his words dissolving into whimpers as Mikoto rubs the newly acquired Vaseline over his cut, his thumb pressing insistently against the pink-fleshed slit.
“Don’t be dramatic, Futa.” Mikoto laughs, reaching for a roll of gauze bandages as Futa blows on his wound.
“I’m not— hey , put those down, It’s not that bad—!”
“Shush,” Mikoto sighs, pressing a finger against Futa’s lips. Futa goes cross-eyed; Mikoto’s sure he’s contemplating biting off Mikoto’s finger. He wouldn’t put it past him.
Thankfully, instead, Futa presses his bony wrist into Mikoto’s hand palm-up, staring at him insistently.
Mikoto grins smugly, beginning to wrap the long, rough-textured bandage around the wound on Futa’s palm, stringing it along with his hands and maneuvering the gauze around his thumb and over his knuckles until the wound is covered completely.
Mikoto loops the last expanse of gauze around Futa’s wrist twice; holding it tight in one hand while he takes with another a strip of paper tape, applying it gently as he tucks the bandages’ ends into itself.
Futa wriggles his wrist.
“Sloppy,” he grumbles, his cheeks glowing red.
“No thank you?” Mikoto whines as Futa begins immediately snatching up the disorganized array of first aid supplies strewn across the table in front of them; reapplying the neon-yellow sticky-note to the front of the kit as he goes.
Mikoto shuffles, making himself more comfortable atop his wiry chair. He rests his chin on the tops of his forearms, staring dazedly out the brightening window of the cafe. Would regulars begin showing up soon? Mikoto wasn’t sure.
“Mikoto!” Futa calls from somewhere outside his vision.
He perks up immediately, looking too late towards the source of Futa’s voice.
A tall black coffee is slammed down onto the table in front of him; a few scalding droplets land on the front of his shirt, and when he looks up he notices Futa has changed from his irritating beige sweatshirt to a two-sizes-too-big uniform dress-shirt.
Mikoto must’ve been staring, because Futa has become a particularly pleasing shade of red, his body rigid.
“Ah, sorry—“ Mikoto begins to apologize.
“It was the only thing still clean.” He grumbles defensively, gesturing to the coffee quickly.
Mikoto raises an eyebrow.
“Is this my thank you?” Mikoto asks with a confused smile, grabbing the base of the cup and peering in curiously; black coffee, nothing more and nothing less.
Futa furrows his eyebrows.
“Why? You want something—“
“No.” Mikoto says a little too loudly, bringing the coffee to his lips.
“It’s a perfect thank-you-gift.”
-
Morning classes always wore Mikoto out, and today wasn’t an exception.
“Ahh,” Mahiru stretches next to him, her almond-blonde hair bouncing playfully. “I thought he was going to talk forever .”
Mikoto snorts, “Mappi, you were literally asleep for half of the lecture.”
Mahiru cries out, standing up and slapping her palms down onto the flat expanse of the desk in front of her.
“Mikotooo! Don’t call me out like that, I was…up late! ” She dissolves into giggly whispers.
Mikoto raises an eyebrow.
“Mappi, did you just make a sex joke?” He asks playfully, leaning foreword into her space and grinning.
Mahiru’s cheeks flush a healthy pink, her lips parting to deny.
“It’s not a sex joke! ” She squeals, shaking her hands up and down.
“Of course, how could I accuse you of that kind of—“
“ Mikoto! ” Mahiru slaps him lightly on the arm.
Mikoto cries out in fake pain, berating Mahiru as they stand from their seats and walk towards the door, wrestling their heavy book bags over their shoulders.
The freshness of autumn washes over Mikoto’s nose, as sweet maple air glides over his skin in refreshing strokes.
It’s been so long; the comforting bustle of people in his peripheral, the crunching of leaves.
Mahiru’s heeled feet click rhythmically next to his. They walk in a satisfyingly uneven pattern side-by-side, a mixture of taps and pats and other mutually uninteresting noises.
“Ah, the professor’s cancelled the class,” Mahiru blurts, intruding upon the silence. When Mikoto looks at her, she’s gazing happily at her phone screen, her fingers messing unconsciously with the fuzzy orange charm dangling from her phone-case.
“Does it say why?” Mikoto responds halfheartedly. He’s already thinking of other things to fill the time in between his now cancelled class and the one that comes after.
“Something about…an anime ending? Mob…something. Ah, it doesn’t matter!” Mahiru shakes her head back and forth, putting her phone back into her pocket.
Mikoto sighs through his nose, his eyes flirting about the curves of a orange-leafed tree, tracing each jagged line and protruding root. In truth, the warm colors had been reminding him of Futa. The reddish leaves puffed in shapes similar to his unkept hair; the dreary grey puddles pooling in crevices along the streets had Mikoto seeing Futa’s sharp eyes in them.
It was embarrassing! What had started as sexual attraction was—it was becoming something else . And it was a problem!! Mikoto didn’t have time to wax poetry about Futa’s pretty eyes, or his funny hair, or his jagged teeth or his wicked smile, or— augh!!
“Since we’ve got some free time, why don’t we stop by that funny café your… friend works at?” Mahiru’s voice breaks through his cloud of thought.
“Uh, sure,” he says without thinking, pausing only momentarily to reflect on what he just agreed to.
“Great!” Mahiru chirps, hooking her elbow around his and dragging him further in the direction of the campus exit. “To be honest, I didn’t want to bring it up, but I’ve been dying to go back, y’know!”
Mikoto draws his lips into what’s no doubt an uncertain smile, his long legs having no trouble keeping up with Mahiru’s insistent leading.
“Is that so?” He wheezes out a reply, his cheeks ruddy from what Mikoto wants to delude himself into thinking is the cold.
“So!” Mahiru bats her eyelashes, drawing him close as they prance across the cross-walk and turn the corner onto the street that leads to their dreaded destination. “See, I got that chilly-looking guy’s number while you and your friend were talking in the storage closet—why were you guys talking in a storage closet, by the way? Ah, no matter! What was I saying? Right! I told him I’d been having some nasty stomach pains, and he just up and gave me his number! So foreword!! Told me he’s a doctor . Isn’t that cute? So shy, hehe!”
Watching Mahiru giggle to herself about men and their odd flirting, Mikoto prays silently.
“Mappi, are you sure he’s not actually a doctor—“
“Im sure!” Mahiru squeals with the slightest bit of strain to her voice. Mikoto wishes she’d stop falling in love with gay men.
He murmurs out a weak little “alright…”, which makes Mahiru grip his arm a little tighter in what Mikoto thinks is either a threat or an indirect way for her to keep herself from going off the deep end.
When they arrive, Futa is leaning against the outside wall of the café looking a concerning amount more murderous than usual.
“Futa?” He calls, which makes his head whip scarily fast towards the source of his voice.
As they approach, Mikoto is sure he sees Futa’s eyes zero in on Mahiru’s arm around his, but maybe that’s just him being delusional.
“If you two are looking for a date spot, I don’t suggest Kazui’s.” Futa hisses, pressing his folded arms closer to his body.
“ Not a date.” Mikoto clarifies with a nervous laugh. Mahiru raises her eyebrow next to him.
“What’s wrong with… Kazui’s was it?” Mahiru opts to say in lieu of addressing the odd tension. “Are you closing early?”
“I don’t think you want to know.” Futa grumbles, digging into his unseen pocket and taking out a crimson-cased phone, glaring at the screen like it’s personally offended him.
Mahiru gulps awkwardly, shuffling her feet like she does when she’s nervous. He doesn’t blame her, he also gets nervous talking to Futa—although for different reasons.
“Mappi,” he hums comfortingly, “why don’t you go and find somewhere else to entertain yourself?” He stuffs a wad of cash into her hand.
“I’m going to…coordinate here.”
While Mahiru doesn’t look entirely happy, she complies, looking over her shoulder curiously as she walks away, her eyes judging them both unknowingly.
As soon as she’s out of eye-shot, Mikoto makes himself comfortable at Futa’s side, dropping his soft expression and watching him for an explanation.
“So?” He hums, digging his hands into his pockets absentmindedly.
Futa looks at him a moment; his pretty eyes stand out in the bright clashes of color surrounding him. He looks beautiful, and Mikoto hates it.
“Old man Kazui and old man Shidou are getting it up in the employee break-room.“ He says plainly, still staring at his phone. Mikoto coughs painfully.
“You mean…?”
“Do you need me to repeat it for you?” Futa bites, his nose scrunching with deep aggravation. “They are raw-dogging it in a public establishment. Is that good enough for you?”
“Good enough, good enough!!” Mikoto wails, waving his hands back and forth.
Futa laughs a little under his breath, then, as if realizing he’d shown a positive emotion in Mikoto’s presence, he frowns deeply and continues to look at his phone screen.
“So then, why are you standing out here? No one would blame you for going home.” He asks, twirling a fried lock of hair around his finger-tip.
Futa looks at him like he’s stupid.
“Amane’s school has an early release today, and Shidou was supposed to pick her up here and walk her home.” Futa grunts, clicking insistingly at his screen. “ Obviously he can’t do that now , because he’s getting his ass—“
“Wow! Okay, I get it, your colorful vocabulary is unnecessary!” Mikoto squeals, his shoulders shooting high.
Futa huffs, amused, shoving his phone back in his pocket.
“That’s rich coming from you,” he snorts, leaning his head back against the wall behind him in a way the bares his neck to the cold. Mikoto shivers inwardly.
“Is it now—“
“Mister Futa. Mister Kayano.” A monotone voice says from Mikoto’s blind spot. It makes him jump; just a little. He can hear Futa immediately burst into snarky little giggles that Mikoto would find incredibly annoying if he didn’t find Futa so attractive.
Futa pushes off from the wall, his hair fluttering slightly in the wind. It catches onto Mikoto’s nose as he draws near; a wave of strawberry-scented shampoo washing over him and then vanishing as he goes.
“Freakily punctual as always, brat.”
Amane, with her choppy green hair and pasty white skin, narrows her eyes in annoyance.
“Of course I am, unlike Mister Shidou.” She huffs, adjusting the straps of her large randoseru backpack. The girl sniffs once in through her nose, it’s pink tip twitching like a rabbit. “Where is he anyways?”
Futa and Mikoto share a look.
Futa groans a little under his breath, his fingers reaching up to pinch and rub at his temples.
“Uhm…yeah, Old man Shidou is having some… back problem s.” Futa coughs.
Amane looks unfazed by Futa’s uncomfortable demeanor, instead directing her gaze to Mikoto, her owlish eyes picking him apart bit by bit like a reality tv host.
“Is he joining us?” She asks accusingly as Futa approaches her and takes his place by her side.
Futa glances up at Mikoto; there’s a millisecond of electric eye contact, but it ends as soon as it starts. Mikoto can feel the tips of his ears burn.
“I don’t know,” Futa shrugs, eyeing him almost warily. No —eagerly? Something in between the two.
Mikoto smiles lopsidedly, marching foreword and claiming the spot beside Amane.
“Sure am!”
Futa raises his eyebrow in a particularly judgmental way. “What about your girlfriend?”
Amane’s eyebrows scrunch up a little as they begin to walk. Her funny hat sways as she moves; her footsteps are light and almost entirely silent. She walks with uncomfortable perfection.
“Mister Kayano has a girl -friend?” She says in disbelief, not-so-subtly hooking her arm around Futa’s elbow and looking Mikoto up and down.
“Amane—“ Futa starts with a distressed hiss.
“She’s not my girlfriend.” Mikoto answers for the umpteenth time, also hooking his arm around Futa’s elbow. Maybe in retaliation. He doesn’t really know.
“Then why are you two always frolicking together whenever I see you?” Futa retaliates, maneuvering both Amane and Mikoto around on the sidewalk until they’ve found a more convenient position; Amane is sandwiched between them, their elbows linked. Mikoto feels his cheeks warm slightly. This is totally a: married-couple-with-a-child sort of thing, and his heart can’t take it.
“We are not frolicking .” Mikoto scoffs as the café disappears behind them, making way for different sets of shops and landscapes.
Amane exhales loudly, dragging them both foreword with inhuman strength. Her little black Mary-Janes don’t even so much as scuffle as she walks, which makes Mikoto a bit self conscious.
“Mister Futa, Mister Kayano, with all due respect; you two talk too much.” She says with an air of suffocating sophistication.
Mikoto brings his hand down to the top of her head, where her hat sits perfectly without a single thread out of place. He ruffles it back and forth, mussing up her perfectly groomed hair and, in the process, dragging the rim of the hat down to conceal Amane’s eyes completely.
The girl flails for a moment, whining endlessly all the while and wrenching her arm from his stubbornly afterwards, folding them over one another and wrinkling the smooth white fabric of her puffy sleeves.
“Children under five feet tall don’t get opinions,” Futa snorts, to which Amane scowls. “Speaking of which, have you eaten yet?”
Amane’s stomach rumbles, comically on-queue.
“Of course she hasn’t, she’s just gotten finished with school, hasn’t she?” Mikoto chimes in, ducking down to Amane’s eye level. It has the opposite affect of what he had wanted; which was to seem more approachable. Instead, its almost like she finds the action threatening, as her lips dip into a deeply hateful frown.
“None of the restaurant’s around here would meet the nutritional criteria—“
“If you’re talking about your whole vegan complex thing, you can always order a salad. Now hurry up, tiny children should eat when they’re hungry.” Futa groans loudly, walking foreword more vigorously than before.
Amane glares viciously in Mikoto’s direction, as if it was his fault Futa had chosen today to be himself. Mikoto rolls his eyes at the both of them, following after.
The cool, autumn breeze kisses Mikoto’s cheeks, leaves swirl and dance along the ground by his feet; it’s a lovely morning, one Mikoto would’ve loved to spend on his front porch with a cup of tea, reflecting on his life and being grateful for his blessings.
Instead, he stands at the register of a McDonald’s at ten-forty-five in the morning, stiffly smiling at the half-dead-looking employee manning it.
“One black coffee, a happy meal, and seven hash brown’s.” He asks politely, ignoring Amane’s murderous stare burning holes in the back of his shirt and taking out his Hello Kitty themed wallet to pay.
The employee takes a brief moment to stare as he fiddles with the button mimicking Hello Kitty’s iconic yellow nose, struggling desperately as it refuses to release the poorly placed flap that doubles as Hello Kitty’s nonexistent mouth, before interrupting his cash fumbling in monotony.
“We stop serving breakfast at ten—“
“ Please .” He wheezes with an exhaustion someone of only twenty-three years of age should not be feeling.
The employee and Mikoto meet eyes in a brief moment of understanding; their eye bags are extremely apparent. Mikoto can assume this employee is only ever-so-slightly farther gone than he is. (At least he still has the energy to use concealer. He prays for them inwardly.)
“…Alright, but it’s thirty cents extra.” They mumble at last, dragging their fingers to punch the numbers into the register, their hands sagging downward as they take the money from Mikoto’s palm. It’s an unsettling five minutes of his life Mikoto will never get back.
“And and uhm, would you mind making that happy-meal…vegan?”
The employee looks at him with the eyes of a dead person for a long, hard moment.
“Of course, sir .” They grit out, stabbing at the buttons of the cash register violently. Mikoto figures they’re imagining the plastic keys are different parts of his face.
“What took you so long?” Futa grumbles accusingly as he approaches, tray of food in hand. Amane looks like she’s trying to incinerate it with her eyeballs.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that and instead wait patiently for the gratitude I am entitled to.” He sings as he sets the array of edible heart-attacks’ down onto their uncomfortably sticky table.
“… Thank you .” Futa responds insincerely, which is a win in Mikoto’s book.
Amane pokes the neon red box of fried food in front of her experimentally; it shifts slightly, making a quiet scuffing sound. Her nose twitches again— like it did before —as if she found the noise offensive.
“You have to open the box to eat the food inside, brat.” Futa says from his place across from her, a hashbrown stuffed halfway into his mouth. Mikoto sips his coffee as a means of restraint, so he doesn’t reach out and flick away the crumbs clinging to Futa’s round cheeks like some sort of weirdo. The coffee tastes like lukewarm bean-water.
“I’d hardly consider this to be food .” She seethes, her fingers teasing the edges of the red box. She pulls apart the bright yellow curves of the handle slowly, as if she expected some sort of bloodthirsty grease monster to leap from the confines of the box and bite her face off or something.
“Yeah, well, it’s edible . And anyways, you’re so tiny—and not to mention you refuse to eat meat. How do you expect to grow if you don’t feed yourself properly, huh?” Futa has made his way through his first hashbrown and is now going to town on his second one.
“Mister Futa, you are not in the position to be making those kinds of comments—“
Mikoto slurps his coffee loudly, swishing the bitter brown liquid in circles within his inflated cheeks. He swallows when Futa glares in his direction threateningly. Ah, so that’s where Amane learned that from.
“You know, Futa?” Mikoto leans sideways into his space. Futa narrows his eyes in suspicion. “You’re kinda acting like a grandma right now.”
Amane snorts quietly, slapping a palm over her traitorous lips before they can do any more damage than they already have.
“What the hell does that mean??” Futa splutters, his hashbrown smushing pathetically in between his fingers. Mikoto happily watches the greasy fried potatoes ooze out and down the grip of his hand. “No I don’t!”
“You do! Nagging Amane about how skinny she is, saying she needs to eat more. That’s a totally grandma thing to say!!” He laughs, snatching a hashbrown from Futa’s oddly organized pile and licking a long, wet, stripe along its side before Futa can steal it back.
“Eugh, get out of here with your disgusting old-person intuition. Are you sure you aren’t projecting?”
“I’m only three years older than you, you know!” Mikoto complains around a mouthful of fried potato.
“Sure could’ve fooled me .” Futa retaliates, wriggling in a panic when Mikoto grabs him by the shoulders and holds him in place, hovering his saliva coated hashbrown over his mouth.
Abruptly, Amane slams her hands down onto the sticky table, a peeled apple halfway hanging from her lips.
“I can’t watch this. Mister Futa, take me home.” She demands after chomping the rest of the apple past her teeth aggressively.
Futa raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t question it; he simply stands from his seat at the table and flowers at the grease and potato residue on his palm, excusing himself to the bathroom to clean himself up.
It leaves Mikoto alone with a disturbingly violent little girl; she sits still, rigidly straight with her hands folded over one another.
“So,” he begins nervously, the nape of his neck breaking out into a cold sweat. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Are you romantically interested in Mister Futa?” Amane asks instead.
All at once; the employee (who is still standing half-dead at the cash register, pretending they aren’t eaves-dropping.) slips on an unseen obstacle, slamming their face into the counter in front of them, while a fuzzy rabbit wearing a miniature McDonald’s uniform with a matching hat appears out of thin air making a horrified screeching noise, Mikoto breaks out into a series of loud, painful wheezes.
“ Excuse me? ” He brays, pounding his chest with his fist.
“Do you wish to court Mister Futa? Yes, or no?” Amane repeats in that dreadfully monotone voice of hers.
“ Court ?” Mikoto parrots. What kind of outdated customs is this girl’s school teaching her? “I’m not—me and uhm, Mister Futa are just friends .”
Mikoto wipes the post panic-attack tears away from his eyes, meeting Amane’s scrutinizing gaze. Mikoto doesn’t know if he’s ever met an elementary school girl this terrifying.
“You stare at his lips when he talks.” Amane begins; “You look at him the way my dad looks at the ceramic Jesus statue we have in our living room. Whenever possible you engage in physical contact with him. You follow him around like a puppy-dog. You paid for his entire meal even though he didn’t ask you to. Your mouth and eyebrows began to twitch unanimously when he insinuated that you had a lover. And also, your face is bright red right now, Mister Kayano.”
Mikoto is sure it is.
Was he really being that obvious? So obvious that some freaky little girl could see right through him?? Is this what it’s like to be read?? If so, he doesn’t like it!!
“Listen,” he gurgles, grabbing her wrist from across the table. Amane flinches, attempting to move her arm away. Unfortunately, while she is undeniably much, much smarter than Mikoto, he is still an adult man, and she is an elementary school girl.
“You can’t tell anyone about…that. If you did my life would literally be over .”
Amane looks him over skeptically.
“I don’t need to tell anyone. They already know. You’re very bad at hiding things, Mister Kayano.” She deadpans, yanking her wrist away from him.
“Ah,” Mikoto croaks, slamming his face down onto the table.
He hears an audibly aggravated sigh, and then the crunching of apple slices. Behind him, a series of footsteps grow louder and louder until at last coming to an abrupt stop right at the foot of their table.
“What’s up with him?” Futa’s voice rings muffled above him.
“He says his coffee is going to give him explosive diarrhea. We should probably leave before it starts.” Amane, the little shit, answers.
“I thought lying was a sin.” He groans accusingly, lifting his head speedily.
“Not lying,” Amane glowers, gripping tight onto her Happy Meal box.
“Alright,” Futa interrupts before Mikoto can start a brawl with a literal twelve-year-old. “Amane, let’s get going. I don’t want your weird parents to go all Jesus-crazy on me.”
“Jesus-crazy is not a word.” Amane replies matter-of-factly, standing from her seat and following Futa to the door, dumping her box of fried food into a nearby trash can happily.
“Heyyy, wait for me!” Mikoto whines, abandoning his coffee on the table like a dick and running after them down the sidewalk.
Futa turns, poking a finger at Mikoto’s chest and stopping him in his tracks.
“Nuh-uh. You aren’t coming with.” He hisses under his breath, “You don’t want to . Her parents are crazy . Like, crazy-crazy.”
Mikoto grins, “I like crazy people.”
“I know. ” Futa growls, his eyes droopy and tired. “Which is why you aren’t coming. Now shoo, go find your little girlfriend. I’m sure she’s looking for you.”
“ NOT my girl—“ the door slams in Mikoto’s face. “…friend.”
-
Mahiru stares at him with a mixture of pity and ecstasy, with a little nibblet of annoyance sprinkled in somewhere along the way.
“So you think you’re into this guy, but you don’t know for sure?” She exclaims, taking a dainty sip from her pink, over-sized curly straw.
“Yes, Mappi.” Mikoto groans into his forearms, abandoning all cool-responsible-classmate acts in lieu of whining like a toddler. “And I don’t know what to do about it.”
Mahiru makes a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat. “Well, if you like him, just confess! Love is a beautiful thing, Mikoto. Why would you ever deny yourself something beautiful?”
Mikoto lifts his head, looking Mahiru in her pretty brown eyes.
“It’s not love, and if it is, it is absolutely not as beautiful as you described.”
Mahiru gasps like she’s been wounded.
“Cheer up!” She sings, “I’m sure everything will turn out alright. Love prevails over all! And anyways; if you’ve gotten to the point of liking him, it can’t be long before he returns your feelings.”
Mikoto blows bubbles into his milk tea with his straw, and watches the way they fizzle and pop like volcanic eruptions.
“He definitely doesn’t like me—at least, not in the way I like him.” He grumbles, sighing loudly.
“Just to clarify,” Mahiru intercepts, her free hand twirling around the bedazzled earring on her left lobe. “This guy you like is the study-buddy? That cute little red-head with the short temper?”
Mikoto’s eyes go wide. He blows a particularly large gasp of air into the straw, which flies down into his cup of milk tea and end with the plastic top almost exploding from the air pressure.
Mikoto coughs a few times, attempting to dislodge a tapioca pearl stuck stubbornly in his throat.
When he does manage to get it out, Mahiru is waiting by his side with a frantic look on her face, her slender hands shaking him by the shoulders.
“Is that a yes or a no?? TELL ME MIKOTO!!”
“Yes…” he gurgles, and Mahiru immediately releases him, pumping her fist triumphantly.
“I knew it! Well then, the solution is clear: confess your love and GET MARRIED!!!” She proclaims loudly, earning more than a few judgmental stares from any surrounding customers.
“Woah, Mappi,” He whisper-shouts, leading her back into her seat. “We aren’t going to get married . He hardly even tolerates me, if I proposed he would file a restraining order !”
Mahiru tilts her head, pushing her bottom lip out like what he just said didn’t make any sense.
“So what?” She chirps obliviously.
So what?
Mikoto hangs his head in defeat.
“How would I go about telling him, then? We’re friends, and nothing more.”
Mahiru perks up visibly at his compliance, her mouth twisting into a pleasant smile. “I think I have a friend who can help you out!”