#mp100 valentines week | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

amaranthinecanicular · 8 years ago

Text

Mob receives a love letter. It’s the duty of the Body Improvement Club to support him.

[Happy belated Valentine’s Day, folks. Originally written for the MP100 Valentine’s Week but not finished in time because of course.

Alternative title card: that one profile pic of Musashi, which reveals that he is a zero at love but a hero at nosiness.]

Gouda Musashi’s lovelife is, to be frank, nonexistent.

This is fine. More than fine. There are other things to focus on, more important things. The club, and the members that compose it. Muscles. Not flunking out of high school. Squats. Justice. Leg day, which is every day. Even if by some chance he did wish to engage in a teenage romance, there was no one he wanted to receive his affections. Spring of youth or no, Musashi knows that his time is well spent.

That is not to say that he has no interest in love whatsoever. “Musashi!”

Onigawara jogs up beside him. This is a surprise; Musashi dismissed the club ten minutes ago, and though he elected to run for a while longer, he could have sworn Onigawara had retired with the rest of them. Maybe he did–he’s still in his work out clothes, but he’s heaving for breath like he just sprinted to the club room and back. Musashi thinks to slow down for him, but there’s no need; in Onigawara’s eyes is a spark of fierce determination that never dies, and he keeps pace.

More important things, Musashi thinks. In spite of all his demons, in spite of all the cards and boulders and mountains stacked against him, perhaps just in spite and nothing else, Onigawara has persevered. It’s been two years since he joined the club, and even though he’s all but stopped getting into fights, he never really stops fighting. The things he fights are just different now–he fights to improve and he fights to overcome, and these days Musashi can’t look at him without feeling a pang of admiration. More important things. Onigawara is one of them.

He asks what’s up, and waits patiently while Onigawara pants out an answer.

“Shadow… leader,” he says, a nickname of Mob’s he never kicked the habit of using, “got a… he got a… love letter,”

This draws Musashi up short. Jogging in place counts as drawing up short. “A love letter?”

“Yeah. Someone–someone stuck it in his gym locker. Real fancy paper, too, nice handwriting. Asked him to meet behind the school tomorrow, after club ends.”

“Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day,” Musashi says, and if he’s pointing out the obvious it’s only because he’s so shocked. Onigawara doesn’t mention it. The surprise fades; secondhand joy sets in. The hard lines of Musashi's face are not naturally given to smiling but he smiles all the same. It must be a fearsome sight because Onigawara’s gaze barely touches him before it skitters away again. He coughs into a fist like he tried to regain his breath too fast, and Musashi wipes his face clean and channels his positive energy into lifting his knees higher. He doesn’t mention it either.

Instead he says, “Kageyama deserves congratulations,” and Onigawara meets his eyes again to nod.

“Figured you’d say that. That’s why when everyone else was patting Shadow leader’s back, I came to get you.”

He’s smirking–it matches well with the way he finally stands straight and puffs out his chest. Musashi is touched by Onigawara’s thoughtfulness, but before he can thank him a thought occurs: Mob has not received a love letter since middle school The first one was a trick played by Onigawara; the second was a trick played by a girl called Emi. Musashi frets. What if it’s another trick? What if it isn’t? Will Mob know what to do? Over the years he’s seen Mob grow, exponentially and in more ways than one, but he has never had the best luck with romance. And tomorrow is Valentine’s Day—surely that makes preparation all the more complex. Which doesn’t even touch the question of who.

“We should help him,” he says, and Onigawara blinks his eyes into twice their size. He grins, tells Musashi it’s a great idea, and then, remembering he’s meant to be scowling, grumbles, “It’s alright, I mean.” He looks embarrassed to have been caught out being sincere. Musashi doesn’t mention it.

The others are waiting in the clubroom to fill Musashi in; apparently, despite Onigawara’s efforts, they missed Mob by a handful of minutes, so the club extended Musashi’s congratulations for him. In return Musashi tells them about the plan to help out Kageyama out tomorrow. They are… less enthusiastic than he thought they’d be.

He crosses his arms over his pecs and flexes. “I’m sensing some reservations. Care to tell me why?”

Kumagawa runs one hand through his mohawk and says, “Isn’t it Kageyama’s business?”

“Yes, and as his fellow club members it’s our business too.”

They exchange glances. Musashi realizes he’s missing something. “What?”

“Well,” says Shimura, who elbows Yamamura, who elbows Kumagawa, who elbows Sagawa, who says, “You can be kind of nosy, Captain,”

He says it very gently, like he’s breaking the news of some great secret, which is absurd. Musashi doesn’t say that it’s absurd because that would not be befitting of a captain, but he does correct him, exactly as stern and patient as does befit a captain.

“I’m not nosy. I’m attentive. The wellbeing of every member of this club is my responsibility.”

“Even of their love lives?” says Yamamura.

“Especially their love lives,” Musashi wants to say, except he doesn’t, because Yamamura’s dubious tone makes him suspect that would be unwise. Instead he says, “Kageyama is an invaluable member of this team. It’s our job to support him.”

No one looks particularly convinced. No one except Onigawara, who bulls his way to Musashi’s side and thrusts his brow down and his shoulders forward. Suddenly it’s two against four instead of one against the world.

“I’m with Musashi,” he says. “Shadow leader’s putting his heart on the line and you losers want to let him go into battle alone? How the hell does not having his back make any sense?”

He challenges them with his scowl. He doesn’t need to—Musashi can see as his words take effect, begin to turn the minds of the club one by one. Yes, Mob had always been there for them in his soft and steadfast way, had always given all of his effort, and he would be more than willing to lend his hand, powers, and friendship during a romantic crisis of theirs, wouldn’t he?

This time the level of enthusiasm meets what Musashi originally expected. Onigawara flashes him a private grin, there and gone, and he swells with pride, and stands a little taller.

“You want to help me?”

Mob’s surprise shows in little ways, the slight uptick of both brows and the slackening of his mouth. He stands in the club room dressed in his work out clothes and still clutching the letter, which Musashi can now confirm is, yes, tucked into a very nice envelope with very nice handwriting. He wonders if Mob has let it go since yesterday.

“To formulate a plan of attack,” clarifies Onigawara, which isn’t the phrasing Musashi would have chosen but works just as well. Mob considers it. Into the silence filters the white noise of other clubs getting started: band practice in the music room down the hall, whistles blowing from the track and fields outside. The sounds are cheerier, the rooms seem to glow–a result of adolescents in the throes of Valentine’s Day, Musashi knows, though he has never empathized. The overall feeling he’s gotten all day is pink: pink roses passed from boys to girls, pink hearts exchanged and received, pink in the sky, even, as the sun begins to sink. It’s there in Mob’s cheeks, a faint rosy hue as he comes to a decision.

“Thank you all for thinking of me,” he says, sincerity shown through his crinkled eyes if not his smile. “That’s very nice of you. But I think I can handle it.”

Musashi manages not to show his disappointment. “If you’re certain,” he says, and thinks that It’s too bad Onigawara’s work to bring the club around will go to waste. But even he can admit that if Mob doesn’t want their help then it would be wrong to push it.

Mob is still talking, thoughtfully. “I think so. It’s not first time I’ve been confessed to, so I think I know what to say. Though, I guess the first time was just a trick by Onigawara-senpai.” Onigawara slouches even closer to the floor, which is a feat. He slouches a lot. “But the second time—well, I guess that was a trick also, because Emi lost a bet. Um. B-But I made a friend that time, too, so, um. So.” Now the flush is making him look vaguely ill. He’s certainly sweating like he’s ill. “Maybe. Maybe I could use some help.”

Musashi nods once and tries not to look too glad of it. He turns to the club: they square up, crack their knuckles, bright eyed and ready to help. “All right, boys. We need ideas for what Kageyama will do if he decides to accept or decline his admirer’s affections. Do you have any idea who this person might be, Kageyama? Not that you have to tell us if you’re uncomfortable. We respect your privacy, of course,” he adds, not at all hastily and not at all because he’s nosy. He can feel the club side-eyeing him and refuses to look at any of them.

Mob does look a little uncomfortable, but also like he’s panicking, and eager for help. That side wins out. “I think… I think it might be Teru,”

The name rings familiar, but not familiar enough for Musashi to place it. The rest of the club seems to be feeling the same. Mob is too busy twiddling his thumbs to elaborate. Onigawara is busy gaping.

“Teru?” he squawks. “As in Black Vinegar High’s shadow leader, Hanazawa Teruki?”

“Ex-shadow leader,” Mob corrects, seemingly on instinct. Then he blushes. “And yes, that Teru.”

The grainy image in Musashi’s mind snaps into clarity: a lithe boy in the bruisey colors of Black Vinegar Mid, blond and blue-eyed, with incredible strength that belied his appearance. He could never forget such exceptional musculature.

“You walk home with him sometimes,” says Shimura, and yes, Musashi remembers that now too. The neutral lines of Mob’s expression seemed to soften, just a little, whenever he met Hanazawa at the school gates. They’re softened now. This would explain why.

“Oh my god,” says Onigawara. “Oh my god. You two would be the ultimate power couple—you could rule the whole prefecture. Oh my god.” Musashi coughs pointedly, and Onigawara remembers that he is no longer a delinquent. He still looks a little starstruck.

“He’s very special,” Mob agrees. He’s smiling–really smiling, with his mouth and not just his eyes. Musashi doesn’t think he knows he’s doing it. “I care about him a lot. I don’t want to screw this up.”

Not on Musashi’s watch. “You won’t. We’re here to support you and make sure of that.”

So they start spitballing ideas. Yamamura suggests Mob sing a song to express his feelings. Kumagawa suggests he make chocolates and a card, to show that Hanazawa is worth the effort. Shimura suggests he draw a puppy on the card, because puppies are the best. Sagawa suggests just speaking from the heart. This is seconded by Onigawara. But Mob has no talent for art, no time to make chocolates, and the likelihood of him freezing up in the middle of a song is too high. In the end, after much debate, Sagawa’s idea is the one that sticks. (Personally, Musashi likes the puppy option, but he is willing to concede that he is less than an expert in the field of romance.) Composing the most eloquent way for Mob to express his feelings is harder, and the gentlest way to let the confessor down if it turns out not to be Hanazawa is harder still, but they manage. For optimal productivity, they lift weights at the same time.

In no time at all club hours are over. The shadows have grown long with the setting sun and Mob, armed with two separate speeches jotted on flash cards, a storebought box of chocolates (courtesy of Shimura, who dashed down to the nearest convenience store and back and sacrificed the perfect coiffe of his hair in the process), the original letter and six pillars of support, he sets out to meet his mystery admirer. By the wobble of his knees and the sweat clinging to his brow Musashi would say he still looks like a man on his way to the gallows. But there are other tells too–the perpetual color in his cheeks, the brightness of his eyes–and Musashi thinks, mostly, he just looks excited. Happy.

Out of the school, around to the back. Kumagawa sees him first, being the tallest among them, and points him out to the rest. Hanazawa is exactly where he said he’d be: framed by the school on one side and the treeline on the other, backlit by the sky. He catches sight of them–of Mob–only seconds later, and the friendly smile he’s sporting visibly brightens into something genuine. Mob makes a very particular sound to see it, something between a pleased hum and the dying croak of a bullfrog. Musashi thinks he can hear the frantic hummingbird-patter of his poor heart making a break for it.

Mob trips his way up to Hanazawa while the Body Improvement club pretends to walk away and then piles together behind a tree. Who’s nosy now, Musashi thinks, but doesn’t say. He’s straining to hear what’s going on as it is.

“Hello, Hanazawa-kun,” Mob says, his voice crackling over each word, and Hanazawa says it back–oh, his voice broke too, that’s actually precious.

“Hello, Kageyama-kun,” Hanazawa says again, looking only mildly mortified, and this time manages to keep his tone even. “Are you surprised to see me?”

“Not really. I thought maybe you liked me for a while, but I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it. I guess I wasn’t,”

Hanazawa’s pride takes a visible hit at Mob’s bluntness–Musashi feels a sympathetic wince ripple all through their party–but he rolls with it admirably. More than admirably. The expression on his face is too raw for admiration, too tender. “I shouldn’t have expected you to be. You really are amazing. Here.”

They exchange chocolates, Hanazawa smoothly and Mob fumbling. Hanazawa says he’ll cherish it, tucks it away, and then holds out his hand—a question. Mob, looking confused, drops the letter into his palm in answer, and Hanazawa chuckles, reaches out with his other hand to weave their fingers together as clarification. Mob stares down at the delicate knot made of their hands, and Musashi can no longer see his expression.

“Kageyama-kun,” Hanazawa starts, “I—”

“Yes.”

Hanazawa chokes on his tongue. The Body Improvement Club collectively chokes on each of theirs. Mob’s brain catches up with the breathless intensity of one word that fell out of his mouth.

“Ah, wait, I did it all out of order. I had. I had things prepared to say, and so did you, and I interrupted you. Oh no. I’m sorry. Um. Do you—do you want to start over? I didn’t ruin it, did I?”

“Did you say yes?”

Hanazawa’s tone of awe makes Mob duck his head, and the duck becomes a nod. He says, almost too quiet to hear, “Yes. Um. Are you saying yes?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, yes,”

“Then—then are we…?”

“I think so. Are we?”

“Yes. Can we…?”

“Yes,”

Mob kisses him, a quick and earnest press of lips, and Onigawara whoops. Four sets of hands slap over his face at once. Mob and Hanazawa take no notice; the kiss has ended but their foreheads are still pressed together, they’re levitating an inch or two off the ground, they’re giggling and they’re smiling—Musashi thinks they’re smiling, but his vision is too blurry to tell. He’s surrounded by suspicious sniffling, though, so he doesn’t feel particularly bad about it.

The okay for cheering is given when they touch back down. Mob whispers something into Hanazawa’s ear; Hanazawa laughs, nods, kisses Mob’s cheek, then starts to make his way round to the front of the school; there’s a definite spring in his step. Mob watches him go with a tender look that melts back into shyness when he turns to the club and gives a little thumbs up.

They explode from behind the tree, tripping over their own feet and each other to dogpile Mob, take turns ruffling his hair and lifting him into hugs and slapping him on the back.

“I’m sorry I forgot all of your advice,” Mob says between jostles, “I got nervous and eager and confused and I didn’t know what to do-”

“You did great,” Musashi says, to a fervent chorus of agreement. He knows his face isn’t the kind for smiling but he honestly can’t help it. “Where did Hanazawa go?”

“I told him I’d meet him at the front gates, after I was done speaking to you.”

Some playful coos. Sagawa might be crying. “Then we’ll walk you to the gates and he can walk you the rest of the way. Come on.”

The parade starts again. Shimura and Yawamura lift Mob onto their shoulders, and Musashi is just thinking that this might be the most successful Valentine’s Day he’s ever experienced when Onigawara calls his name.

“Can you hang back a minute? I’ve got something to say to you.”

He looks unhappy–or maybe not unhappy. Maybe anxious. He didn’t a minute ago, and why should he? The plan went off without a hitch–minor hitches, inconsequential hitches–but here he is, chin jutting out and cutting down, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shadows carving deep pockets beneath his eyes. Concern bubbles up in Musashi’s gut, and all thoughts of romance flee his mind. There are more important things.

He sends off the rest of the club without them and ignores their curious eyes. And they called him nosy. “Is something the matter?”

“No, nothing’s the matter. Why would something be the matter? Can’t a guy just wanna talk to another guy? What’s the matter with that, huh?” He cuts himself off at Musashi’s raised brow, screws up his face, screws up the words in his mouth. “Ugh, sorry, that’s not what I meant to say.”

He takes a breath–Musashi breathes too–and says what he means to say.

“There was a girl, back during all that recorder crap. She told me–when we were kids, she told me she was gonna marry me. I thought if anyone would believe me it would be her. But it wasn’t. It was you.”

“You’ve, uh, you’ve done a lot for me the past two years, even when I was being an ungrateful little shit and didn’t deserve it,”

Musashi blinks. This… isn’t what he expected this to be about. “Don’t sell yourself short. You were the one who chose to change and followed through, and you were never once ungrateful.”

Onigawara looks furious, and maybe embarrassed. “Oh my god, shut up. Do you have to be so–so fucking you all the time?”

Definitely embarrassed. Musashi’s mouth twitches. “I think I always have to be me, yes.”

“No, nope, shut up, I was talking and I don’t need your once-in-a-blue-moon sense of humor fucking this up. I was saying. I was saying, that I used to be an ungrateful little shit–do not interrupt me, I swear to god–and I don’t want you to think I’m still the same ungrateful shit I was back then, so. Fuck. So, here.”

He pulls one hand from his pocket and shoves a box into Musashi’s chest. Resting on the pink tissue paper within are slightly misshapen, undoubtedly homemade, and undeniably heart-shaped chocolates. His brain short circuits. “I–Onigawara, is this–?”

“Tenga,” Onigawara says. “Call me that from now on. If you fuckin’ want to, I guess.”

Pink rises into Onigawara’s cheeks like the dawn, and Musashi remembers, very suddenly and very unhelpfully, that they are both only sixteen. He has no idea what the hell he’s doing.

“Thank you,” he says, because he’s a fucking idiot. If looks could kill Onigawara would be a murderer. Musashi wants death. “I mean. I mean thank you for the chocolates, and yes, I will call you that.”

They stare at each other. Onigawara’s face is practically glowing, with sweat and anger and with–happiness? Is that happiness? If Mob’s heart was a hummingbird then Musashi’s is a sledgehammer, pounding away in his throat, and he thinks he might look the exact same. Does that mean he’s happy too?

He thinks that’s what that means, so he says so, and Onigawara’s eyes go wide, and then he punches him.

It’s almost a relief. This is much more along the lines of what he expects from Onigawara, except no, he was mistaken, it’s not a punch at all. It feels like a punch because everything about Onigawara feels like a punch–he’s so brutally passionate about everything he does, Musashi has never seen anything like him, he barrels forward and never looks back, with a glare like an uppercut and a smile like a left hook and a kiss like a haymaker. Because that’s what he’s doing now, kissing Musashi’s cheek with bruising force, and ding ding ding Musashi is down for the count. KO. Match over.

Onigawara shoves him away, almost gently, and immediately turns and stalks off. Musashi would say it’s more of a dead sprint if he had the capacity to think at all, let alone identify exercise techniques.

“I like you,” he blurts out after him. Onigawara—Tenga—stops, turns, and smiles. Left hook, utterly devastating. How unfair to hit a man while he’s down.

Tenga says, “You damn well better,” and then he does run. As soon as he’s out of sight the rest of the Body Improvement Club spills out from where they’d been eavesdropping behind a tree, while Musashi is left trying to blink stars from his eyes. They don’t want to go.

“Way to go, Captain,” says Kumagawa, and “Looking good, Captain,” says Shimura. Yawamura says something similar and Sagawa doesn’t say anything because he’s crying a little. Mob nudges him.

“Congratulations, Captain,” he murmurs. His smile is a soft curve on his face, except for right there at the very corner, which is just a little sly. Musashi has no idea what the fuck is going on or what the fuck just happened, but he thinks, maybe, his love life is not as dead as he thought it was. Not by a long shot, apparently.

And that’s–that’s fine. Musashi thinks he might have some dopey expression on his face and he doesn’t care. The club is still clapping him on the back, punching him on the shoulder, congratulating, smiling. The stars are still in his eyes and the chocolate is still in his hands and the whole world is dyed pink. It’s more than fine.

(“Am I really that nosy?” he asks, not too many days later. He’s appreciating the new pages of the manga Tenga has been sketching in his free time, though he loses his place in favor of nursing his pride at the answer.

“Duh. You could give that damn student council a run for their money.”

Musashi wilts; Tenga barks a laugh. But he adds, “Besides, if you weren’t so nosy I would’ve never joined your stupid club at all.” And Musashi thinks, well. Well, in that case, being nosy isn’t all that bad.)

#mob psycho 100 #ran's writing #terumob #tengouda #is that their ship name?#mob #kageyama shigeo #hanazawa teruki #musashi gouda #onigawara tenga #body improvement club #happy valentine's day folks #mp100 fic #mp100 valentines week #mob psycho 100 fanfic

368 notes · View notes

goodlucktai · 8 years ago

Text

You don’t have to say ‘I love you’ to say ‘I love you’

MP100 Valentines Week

Day 8; Confessions or first kiss pairing: terumob

Story tag

Teruki's bag is waiting for him outside his front door when he gets home, a small bundle of fresh wildflowers nestled carefully on top -- and as he comes closer, he can feel the powerful impression of Shigeo’s affection as clearly as if Shigeo is standing right next to him, wrapping the sentiment around his shoulders like a borrowed coat.

“Oh,” he whispers for absolutely no one to hear, handling the flowers as carefully as spun glass; breathless with a feeling too heavy for him to hold on his own, and too precious for him to put down. “He’s always two steps ahead of me.”

It’s more of a comfort than anything else, and Teruki crouches right there in the outer hall even though his muscles ache and even his eyes are sore, digging his phone out of his bag to send Shigeo a text that says Thank you.

And then, before he can rethink it, because Shigeo deserves better than a second-rate coward, Teruki sends another text right after the first that says Can I see you tomorrow?

The flowers go in a glass of water by the window, his dirty clothes in the hamper – and Teruki should shower, at the very least wash his face or do something with his hair, but he's too tired to do more than climb into a pair of pajamas and fall into bed. His body is exhausted and his head hurts. There's an unnatural heat curling under his skin that probably should worry him, and a jittery feeling keeping him on the wrong side of consciousness, keeping his fingers curled around his phone.

It’s almost ten o’clock on a school night, but the reply he's waiting for comes after a few minutes:

Yes.

Teruki rolls over, pinning the phone to his chest in the cradle of his hands, and laughs breathlessly. He'll make things right – he will. He can't make a whole field of flowers bloom for Shigeo, but he can make a gesture of his own, one just as beautiful, he knows he can. It'll be the most romantic thing in the world, because anything less than that wouldn't be enough to convey even a fraction of these impossible feelings.

He falls asleep riding the backs of bright and brilliant ideas, and sleeps straight through his alarm in the morning.

“-- knew something was wrong. He’s very sick. What should I do?”

A hand on his forehead peels him slowly out of a dreamless sleep. Muted sunlight spills through the curtains at the window, and his eyes are hard to force open. Sweaty fringe sticks to his face, and the world tips and sways drunkenly when he tries to lift his head.

“Shigeo?” he says stupidly, even though he knows better. It's a school day, isn’t it? And then his stomach gives a nasty lurch, and in the second it takes to bend over the side of the bed a wastebasket has seemingly materialized in front of him.

Fingers comb damp hair back from his face, unfailingly gentle, cool against his flushed skin. Teruki leans into them, eyes half-lidded, and wonders what time it is.

“-- said no, I’m staying here. I’m not leaving him, shishou.”

There’s only one ‘shishou’ that Teruki knows, and he lifts his head so fast that he blacks out for a second or two.

“Master Reigen?” Teruki asks. It comes out in a jumble, like word salad. He doesn’t let that discourage him. “Tell him -- ask him -- I need Shigeo. I’m supposed to see Shigeo today, I said I’d -- “

“That doesn’t matter,” the voice says, and it’s pointed towards him this time, a little closer, a little softer. The wastebasket is lifted away from him, and a second gentle hand joins the first, easing him back down into bed. Teruki clings to consciousness stubbornly. “Just go back to sleep. I’ll wake you when the medicine arrives.”

What? No, no --

“It does matter,” he contests hotly, and his vision is swimming but he thinks he can just vaguely make out a pale face floating close by. He glares at it. “Of course it does, what -- what else matters? I have to see him. I’ll go find him on my own if you won’t help me.”

“Of course you will,” the voice says, and a hand settles on his forehead, heavy with something purple-and-blue, something familiar that sends thoughts of sleep swirling through all his waking ones. Teruki’s traitorous eyes droop the rest of the way closed almost immediately. “Rest first, Teru. Shigeo can wait.”

But that isn’t fair, because Shigeo has waited already. He’s been waiting all this time and now he’ll have to wait even longer, and sooner or later he’ll get tired of waiting, won’t he?

Teruki’s whole body hurts, but there’s a weight on his heart that hurts more. He's too used to companionship to lose it now. His apartment feels lonely when it’s empty, and he’s glad he has people to miss when they’re not around, and Shigeo ruined him for being alone anymore. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore.

“You won’t be,” the voice says, impossibly. It’s the last thing Teruki is aware of before he gives in to sleep. “Not ever.”

The next time Teruki wakes up, he’s not in his apartment. The unfamiliar bed is warm, the smell of detergent clinging to worn-soft sheets, and Teruki feels groggy and wrung-out and impossibly weighted as he forces himself upright.

Almost immediately, a broad hand settles against his forehead.

“Finally,” Reigen says, leaning back into the chair drawn up beside the bed. His expression gives nothing away, but his appearance is a little more rumpled than usual. “Your fever broke a few hours ago, but you’ve been sleeping like the dead since we brought you here."

Reigen’s apartment? “When was that?” he asks hoarsely, trying to keep up.

“Yesterday. The morning after you left here in the first place. If you were this sick, you should have said something then, instead of taking off on your own.” The psychic’s tone is somehow both mild and stern. “What is it with you espers, anyway? Will you break out in hives from asking for help?”

It was the jump, Teruki realizes belatedly, in the functional part his mind. Even with as much as he’s used to teleporting in small increments, the human body isn’t designed to fold through space the way his did; especially not in such a big way, and especially not when his physical and mental stores were already wrung dry after an afternoon of rigorous sparring.

Qi depletion, probably. Hopefully nothing worse. He relays as much to Reigen, watching anxiously as the man drags a hand down his face with a ragged sigh.

“You kids are going to be the death of me, you know that?”

And Teruki can’t help it. His face crumples, eyes burning -- so frustrated with himself he can’t stand it, for making problems for Reigen, for making Shigeo wait and then never showing up -- and god, if Shigeo didn’t hate him before he does now for sure.

“Oh, hell,” Reigen is saying, too quickly. “Come on, don’t do that. I didn’t mean it.”

“No, it’s -- I’m sorry,” Teruki mutters, fisting the blankets over his knees tightly in shaking hands. Staring carefully at his hands, forcing back hot tears. “I don’t mean to -- to be such an inconvenience. Especially after everything you’ve already done for me. So thank you for this, but I can -- “

“'Go home now’? Not happening.” Reigen’s eyes are heavy on the side of his face. “Mob would come after us both.”

Teruki’s head snaps up. It doesn’t do wonders for his headache, but he hardly cares, blurting, “Shigeo was here?”

“Up until a little while ago. He’s been all but camped by your side for the last two days.” At that point, Reigen seems to remember the tray canted precariously on the corner of his computer desk, and reaches back to relieve it of a sweating glass of water. Teruki numbly lets the glass be folded into his hands, riveted to Reigen’s every word. “I’m amazed you slept through most of what you did. You really must have been out of it.”

He vaguely remembers the sensation of an aura-heavy hand on his forehead, soothing him to peaceful sleep through fever and full-body aches. He covers his mouth, heat rising in his face.

“He was in my apartment.”

“Yeah, he was.” Reigen sounds some combination of exhausted and amused. “We had to relocate because he almost went next door to pick a fight with your neighbors. They were being “too loud,”” he explains, crooking his fingers in exaggerated air-quotes to Teruki’s mounting disbelief, “and “disturbing your rest.” I barely managed to convince him that ruining your relations with the other tenants in your building wouldn’t be remotely helpful to you in the long-run. And I mean barely.”

Teruki gapes. Shigeo’s capable of being irritable, but to outright confront someone, or try to, over something so petty? That doesn’t sound like him at all. Unless he’s so angry or annoyed that he hit the limit on that internal counter of his, Teruki realizes, with a sinking sense of dread, and there’s been nothing to bring him back down.

“Anyway, Mob was driving me crazy, so I sent him to pick up the schoolwork you’ve missed,” Reigen says, rising to his feet. He winces, pressing the heels of his hands into the small of his back, and Teruki is abruptly, acutely ashamed of his seat in Reigen’s bed. The man waves a hand, as if reading his mind, and adds archly, “When he gets back, he’s your problem.”

How something so innocuous can sound so much like a threat, Teruki has no idea.

Reigen bullies him into eating a full bowl of soup and finishing a second glass of water and then helps him to the bathroom for a shower. “I can sleep on the couch,” Teruki insists at that point, veering stubbornly toward the sagging sofa in the living room. Reigen looks like he's holding onto the last vestiges of his patience as a flagging Teruki climbs gracelessly onto the worn cushions despite the man telling him “no, don’t, the bed is fine, will you just --”

“This is exactly why I’m not a father,” he gripes under his breath, tucking a pillow under Teruki’s head and drawing a duvet up over his shoulders with unending care. “Goodnight, brat.”

Teruki forgets to be worried, and falls asleep almost immediately. Wondering what he did to deserve all these kind people he has now.

The next time he wakes up, the room is painted red and gold with the sunset that leans through the window. There are muted voices in the kitchen -- Serizawa and Reigen making dinner, if Teruki had to guess -- and a familiar aura very close by.

“There you are,” Shigeo says softly. It’s better than a bucket of ice water dumped over his head in waking Teruki up right away. He bolts upright, his heart a hot lump in throat, but Shigeo’s eyes are a pretty brown in the warmly lit room, and his expression is open and caring, and none of the itchy agitation Reigen described seems to be present at all. “I hope you’re feeling better. You were very sick.”

"I -- no, I’m fine. More than fine. Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”

"I was happy to.”

Something drops a long, leafy tendril on Shigeo’s shoulder, and Teruki follows it up to the hanging plant over their heads.

The flowers are blooming.

All of Reigen’s potted plants are flowering, bursting into life larger than their small confines and covering the flat surfaces of the living room and the windowsills in earthy greens. It’s more subtle this time than a whole field springing into sudden growth and color, but it’s still breathtaking to watch.

“I don’t mean to,” Shigeo says abruptly. Misconstruing Teruki’s silence, apparently. Watching him warily, as though waiting for him to disappear again. “It just -- on its own. And they grow. But I can try to not -- “

“Don’t you dare,” Teruki says, absolutely forbidding. Mostly playful, partly serious, he adds, “It’s the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen you do. Even moreso than the snow.”

“You thought the snow was impressive?”

“Shigeo! Of course!”

“You didn’t say anything,” Shigeo points out -- and he’s smiling now, which is what Teruki was aiming for all along. “I thought maybe you thought it was boring and you were just trying to be nice.”

“No way,” Teruki insists. “I love everything you do.”

“That’s good,” Shigeo says peacefully, “since most of the things I do seem to be for you.”

And nevermind the fact that he’s in rumpled pajamas, wrapped in a thick blanket, with probably the worst bedhair Seasoning City has ever seen. Nevermind how cinematic he wanted this moment to be, how perfect it was every time he closed his eyes and dared to dream about it.

Because there’s a familiar tug in his chest, one that has never steered him wrong, pushing him bravely forward -- psychic magnetism, or something close to it, insisting right here, right now.

Teruki reaches out, and catches up both of Shigeo’s hands in both of his own, and blurts, “There’s something I need to tell you. Something -- something important.”

Shigeo smiles at him, full and sweet and slow, and says, “It’s okay, Teru. I know.”

Teruki draws up short, feeling frozen to the spot. Even breathing would be too bold. “You know,” he clarifies cautiously.

“You’ve told me a hundred times already.” Shigeo’s fingers squeeze around his affectionately. “Just not in so many words.”

“Oh,” Teruki whispers helplessly, heart beating a painful tattoo against his breastbone. He can barely see through the haze of heat rising to his face, hands trembling in Shigeo’s calm ones. Their faces are bare inches apart, somehow, and Teruki’s breathing hitches.

“You can still say it if you want to,” Shigeo offers kindly; but Teruki shakes his head, clinging to Shigeo’s hands, and closes the distance left between their lips with his heart in his throat.

Kissing him is bumpy, a little clumsy, noses getting in the way, teeth knocking. But Teruki is nothing if not a quick study, and Shigeo is nothing if not willing to learn, and Teruki is tugging him up on the couch for a better angle when Reigen’s voice from the kitchen doorway says, “Alright, kids, dinner’s rea -- oh my god.”

They don’t quite spring apart, but they do lean away from each other to laugh. Dimple is saying something along the lines of “finally, good god, what took you two so long” and Serizawa is hiding a tiny grin behind his hand, and Reigen is ranting:

“I’m happy for you, but he’s sick, do you want to catch whatever he’s got? Mob? Do you want to bring your brother’s wrath down upon my household? Is that it?”

Already, Shigeo is slipping back under that blanket of careful repression, and it’s something like a cloud passing over the face of the sun. But his eyes are still bright, full mouth still smiling, and Teruki knows where to look to find him again.

He’s always known, really.

#mp100 valentines week #mp100 #mob psycho 100 #terumob #my writing #its finally over #its finally......its finally done #title borrowed from 'for him' by troye sivan go have a listen #the long way round #mp100 fic

153 notes · View notes