#also smug bastard tohma is my favourite brand of tohma

[kusanagihaku]

think about the consequence

⭢ tohma x mc, 1.2k

h is for height. ˖⁺‧₊⟡ alphabet series | ao3

You grit your teeth. Who the fuck put the loose leaf packages all the way in the back of the cupboard? 

It’s bad enough that you were held up at Sinostra and were sweaty and ten minutes late to your meeting with Jin; now you’re struggling to make Jin his pot of tea too. You can feel his displeasure growing by the minute. 

You strain on your tiptoes, stretching your fingers as far as possible to the back of the cupboard, but your fingertips barely brush the bag of tea you know is in there. Fucking hell. 

Shouldn’t this be Tohma’s job? Or actually, what’s stopping the Frostheim captain from making the goddamn tea himself? Who does he think he is, ordering you to–

“Honour student,” a deep voice, smooth as silk, slides by the shell of your ear. 

A hand reaches past yours, long fingers easily snagging the bag of tea and bringing it down to your eye level. You turn to see the growing smirk of the Frostheim vice-captain, polished monocle glinting in the artificial warmth of the pantry as he looks down at you. 

Fuck. 

He is much too close – close enough you can count individual eyelashes framing the cornflower blue of his eyes, close enough you can lean forward and kiss–

You flush immediately, then spend the next two seconds willing it down despairingly as Tohma’s grin grows wider. Stupid perfect man with his stupid perfect hair and his stupid perfect face. 

He smells oddly warm, too, a mix of sunshine and linen and something spiced. You bite your lip; it surprises you. For some reason you’ve always associated him with the crisp cologne-like air freshener floating around the halls of his house, but there is something so him, so magnetically Tohma, rushing in the undercurrent of his scent that it makes a small part of you wonder what it would taste like.  

You grab the bag of tea from his hands, pointedly looking away. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” he says, insufferable grin still pinned in place as if he knows how fast your heart is thundering, how fast he makes your heart thunder. God, you’d slap him across his smug smile if you could. 

With your lips, preferably, a cheerful and annoying part of your mind reminds you, and you scowl, unwrapping the golden bag between your hands. Maybe so. 

He doesn’t leave after that, either, instead leaning against the counter casually, arms crossed and eyes tracking your movements between the kettle and teapot. “Bai mudan?” 

“Mm,” you say. You shake one, two spoons of loose tea leaves into the clay teapot in front of you as you wait for the water to rise to the right temperature. “Jin specifically requested it.” 

Tohma laughs at that. “He enjoys it whenever he’s stressed.” 

You fold the edges of the bag neatly back into itself and reach for a clip to close the bag just like you’ve seen Tohma do millions of times. Whatever the infernal Frostheim king could be stressed about you cannot fathom – for as long as you’ve been inspector you’ve always seen Tohma handling most of the paperwork and missions. 

Almost as if he can read your mind, Tohma softens. “Institute things, you know?” 

You don’t, you want to say. Institute or not, a man should be able to make his own damn tea. But there is something soft and chiding in the gentle of Tohma’s words that hold your tongue. Always kind, always loyal, the sort of strong and steadfast you could only wish to be. He must have his reasons.

You sigh, an acknowledgement rather than an agreement, and are rewarded by a hum from the monocled man beside you. The loose leaf tea returns to the cupboard, significantly closer to the edge than when you retrieved it. 

Tohma glances down. He opens his mouth again, but you beat him to it. “Yeah, 75 degrees, I know.” 

His eyes crinkle up at that, an amused sparkle behind his monocle you refuse to admit shoots straight through your heart and leaves you some type of giddy. “Good girl.” 

G-

Your brain stops. 

What? 

He– what? 

Your cheeks react before your brain can, burning red at his comment and fueled by the gravel of his voice. What? 

You’ve never been one for praise. But somehow, as you stare at the wisps of steam trailing up from the spout of the kettle (you really should be removing it from the heat soon), the embers of his words settle at the bottom of your stomach, glowing; they leave a flashing red neon sign sprawling Good girl! all over the now dry expanse of your mind. 

Maybe you are one for praise, after all. 

Your hand reaches towards the electric kettle on autopilot, turning it off, but the rest of your brain twitches feebly, failing to restart. 

What does he mean? 

As large as your crush on him has been growing, Tohma has never once been more than courteous towards you. Throughout the hours you’ve spent in the vaults with him poring over paperwork and sifting through the missions and budgets of the general students, he has always been every HR personnel’s wet dream, always staying on his side of the table and conversing about nothing but work. 

You’ve cursed it out before, of course, in the safety of your own shower – wouldn’t it be nice if he looked at you like more than a coworker, for once? 

Except (as you’re quickly finding out) perhaps it is more than you can handle. 

Maybe he goes around calling all the Frostheim girls that, you rationalise, desperately. (You hope not.) Maybe he doesn’t know the effect it has on you. 

“Need help?” Tohma’s voice is close to your ear now, and you startle. Some time between your thoughts going blank and the kettle finding itself in your hand he has moved much closer than you realised – his breath is heated on the tip of your ear, a far cry from the low temperatures filling the rest of Frostheim. 

It’s been a while since you were posted to Frostheim for your very first mission, but the vibrations Tohma’s voice sends through the prickle of your skin is still as strong as back then. You suppress a shiver as you turn, only to see Tohma’s smirk mere inches from your face. 

Oh, this bastard. He knows. 

His hand reaches out to secure the kettle before you can drop it in shock, closing over yours in a soft steadiness as you blink.

“Steady, now,” he murmurs. Whether he’s referring to the kettle in your hands or the irregular bump of your heart, you will never know. His eyes drift briefly down your face, before he turns to set the electric kettle back on the table. 

“Well,” he says, unreadable smile back in place like he hasn’t just melted half your braincells, “I have work to do.“ 

He steps away, bowing slightly; the absence of his body next to yours is immediately noticeable in the empty chill that follows. 

“Best to get Jin his tea soon,” he adds, nudging his monocle up the bridge of his nose, and with that he disappears into the cold darkness of Frostheim, leaving you with the swirl of steam from the kettle and the swirl of thoughts in your brain.