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Mikey loves Takemichi.
"Do you hate me?" Mikey asks, suspecting--knowing the answer, but needing confirmation regardless.
Takemichi's eyes softens, thin layer of ice melting to something unfathomably deep, something almost unbearably soft and it makes him hurt, makes him want to double over and clutch his heart, snatch it back before it can be shattered, even though he already knows the answer, and has heard it plenty of times before
It hits him one day, a harsh slap to the face, reminiscent to the way Draken would slam him into the ground years ago as kids.
The realization comes with a certain thought of oh. Its a lilting cadence that echoes happily in his mind as he pretends to sleep in the kitchen, listening to his boyfriend turned chef cut vegetables with an intimidating precision.
You should've been a swordsman. Mikey think to himself, smiling at the visage of a Takemichi who used blades. Daggers, maybe something longer, he'd be a dual wielder, though certainly the blond would be formidable enough with only one. Toman had been a gang that didn't use weapons, but it was an intriguing thing to think of.
"I need my hands to cook, Manjiro. In case you've forgotten." Takemichi responds--making the teen notice he'd spoken aloud-- but for once his voice is amicable instead of tense and high strung from stress, and it holds nothing but amusement.
"You're strong enough to do both and you know it, Takemitchy." Mikey hums, turning in his small, circular chair so that his back rested against the extended counter. "Unless of course, you're scared."
The words don't hold any actual heat, beyond friendly mocking and he knows that the blond is aware of that fact, so the former delinquent doesn't bother to move when one of the ornate kitchen utensils end up planted in the wood next to his head.
"See?" He questions lightly, smiling as turns slightly, the cool aura of metal sliding across his face, onyx handle utterly enticing. "A master marksmen already."
"You're awfully friendly today." The 19 year old says, offhandedly, as if not expecting an answer.
And Mikey doesn't offer one, holding the knife with reverence, admiring the well tempered minerals, the faint smell of steel hiding under a scent that was so wholly Takemichi and it was inexplicable to imagine marking a weapon with something as fleeting as olfactory perception but he supposes it works.
It dawns on Mikey then, that he's currently holding a piece of his partner-- he's seen first hand how Takemichi fawns over his kitchen utensils and baking tools-- that this knife is the closest he's ever been to the other's heart. This is a part of the person he loves.
His lips part, onyx eyes wide with visible, unabashed awe. He runs a slim, almost gnarled finger along its fine edge, using the back side as to not draw blood.
He's holding Takemichi.
The comparison takes his breath away. He wonders if Takemichi's skin is this cold, this smooth, or if it blazes as warm as the stove-top fire and riddled with dips and crannies. Mikey sees his own face within the gleaming metal and his reflection stares back, warped and inhuman.
The image takes the fighter by surprise, filling his heart with an irrational sensation that feels too close to disappointment.
If the knife is a part of Takemichi, and Mikey's reflection is ruined within the blade's surface, is that how the baker sees him? As something less than human, less than equal? Blemished and undesirable?
It fills the teen with unwelcome panic.
"-jiro. Manjiro. Oi! Mikey, you in there? Or has the thought of dorayaki finally taken over your brain?"
The blond's voice is like an ocean, and with it comes a wave of contentment and reassurance that the fighter happily drowns in. He sighs and his eyes fall close, letting out a confirming grunt, so that the other will know he's alright.
There's a light hand cupping his cheek and Mikey tilts his head into the embrace, learning that no Takemichi's hands in fact aren't cold and yes they are very warm, and utterly soothing.
He realizes that he's fallen head over heels. But its fine, because he trusts the baker to catch him.
"Do you hate me?" Mikey asks, suspecting--knowing the answer, but needing confirmation regardless.
Takemichi's eyes softens, thin layer of ice melting to something unfathomably deep, something almost unbearably soft and it makes him hurt, makes him want to double over and clutch his heart, snatch it back before it can be shattered, even though he already knows the answer, and has heard it plenty of times before.
A milky thumb skims over the rough planes of his face, mapping the jagged, imperfect features, the same features that that part of Takemichi saw as unworthy.
The gentle finger presses into the corner of his mouth and less than a second later his boyfriend's lips follow, igniting Mikey from the inside out.
It burns him, its scorching, and yet he stays, ignoring the misgivings that claw at his back, the voices that rise and tell him to run. That tell him Takemichi will leave, that one day his lover will disappear, slip through his grasp like a phantom, like the last person he'd loved with the same passion.
His life is on an ever moving flight of stairs, the blond always urging him up, up and forward, pushing gently, insistently and it terrifies him.
Mikey's had enough of falling.
Takemichi pulls back, a sad, but understanding grin on his face at Mikey's unresponsiveness and the boy wants to slap himself.
He stops the warm hand from leaving his cheek, which had become cool in the brief moment the blond let go, and gives his lover the most earnest expression he can muster, one genuine enough to rival Chifuyu's if he so dares.
"I love you." he says, expression hardening to one of determination. "I love you. So fucking much."
His reward is a blinding smile, the one that crinkles the edge of Takemichi's eyes, turning them into crescents. Its so gorgeous it makes his eyes hurt and his heart jump.
"I love you too!" The baker chirps, and Mikey can't speak, feels like he might burst into tears even attempting to formulate words, let alone string them into a coherent sentence.
It stupid. Its so stupid because he knows.
He knows.
He knows the answer, he always knows the answer, because its Takemichi.
Mikey loves Takemichi. It hits him, just like it always does and the realization is enough to make his knees buckle-- or would if he hadn't already been sitting.
The blond gazes at him with a silly little smirk, before lifting a hand showing off one of many scars.
"I'm not perfect either Manjiro. No one is, even if it seems that way." the peck to his lips is too chaste for him to return properly. "And besides, not liking certain things, and having skewed views of our partners keeps it all so very interesting, don't you think?"
And this is why Mikey loves Takemichi.
This is why Mikey falls once more, for the third time that day, and most certainly will fall a little bit in love all over again later.
Takemichi acknowledges the fighter's fears, confirms them even, and the teen is grateful for it.
A beast that is exposed is much easier to defeat than one that lurks in the shadows. So the blond drags them all from the depths of darkness, putting them in the open and encouraging, forcing Mikey to confront them.
So Mikey does.
He accepts that he is inhuman to a part of his lover, something completely other, but also recognizes that a warped image isn't enough to scare Takemichi away.
It never is. And never will be.
Takemichi is here to remind him of that fact.
And so, for the fourth time Mikey falls, and for once he doesn't feel fear, because the idiotic, cry baby hero is there to catch him, just how he always does.
It's that simple.