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Mikio struggled to overcome his negative thoughts. They hurdled at him when he was doing something important; such as training.
“You’re not good enough,” whispered a voice. “How do you expect to beat Gearless Joe? You’re pathetic. You’ll never win.”
Mikio’s mind endlessly ridiculed him. It made him feel little. Mikio did his best to shoot comebacks of his own under his breath, like: “this gear will surpass Yuri’s” and comments that belittled Joe. A stray dog had nothing on him. /Nothing/.. or so he desperately tried to convince himself.
Mikio was in his lab, sporting his gear. He was throwing strong punches into the air. “Raise automatic control to 50%!” He demanded his smart computer.
“Synchronization at 30%.. 45%.. 68%.. 70%..” buzzed the computer.
“Higher!” Mikio shouted through clenched teeth.
“79%.. 85%.. 98%..”
“Give me more!!”
“Maximum output,” warned the computer. An alarming ray of electricity collected at the cords stuffed into the back of his gear shortly after the device’s words. The computer’s screen flashed red, the percentage of synchronization failing. “Synchronization dropping. 98%, 85%, 79%, 70%, 68%, 45%, 30%.. stability lost.”
Mikio, both exhausted and disappointed, crumbled to his knees. He hung his head low as he panted. Droplets of sweat dripped from inky blotches of hair onto the flooring. He was tired but wouldn’t give up so easily. Thus, Mikio reached for a shot of adrenaline, switched the moderate level of five up to six, and stuck it onto the side of his neck. Thrums of energy painfully rushed his body in waves. Mikio’s eyes blew wide as he cried out in pain. He sat quivering for several seconds before slowly standing up. “Restart at 60%..”
Hours into practicing, Mikio had enough. He was drained and in need of a shower.
If it didn’t mean so much to him, Mikio would’ve thrown off his gear. But, because it was his entire life, /his dream/, he carefully removed his second skin and hung it up. He made a mental note to clean it as soon as possible, since nothing was worse than gear slick with sweat and though he’d come to regret it in the future, Mikio would push away the task of doing so until he was back at training. It couldn’t be too bad of a decision, right?
“Right.” Mikio agreed. Without another thought, Mikio left the room and headed home. Upon arrival, ordered take-out and turned on the shower to kill time.
Mikio stood under the warm water; drenching his hair and dampening his skin. The water’s temperature was supposed to help relax his aching muscles but failed to do so with the way Mikio was tensing. What the hell would he do if he were to lose to Joe? He couldn’t lose. If he were to lose, he’d never reach his goal. Mikio came this far. It was too late to turn back now.
All this pondering was giving Mikio a headache and he had been biting his bottom lip so hard his teeth had broken skin. He could taste the metallic ting of blood. It was upsetting.
Mikio wiped his lips and reached for the shampoo. Mikio lathered his silky hair in it twice, added conditioner, and washed his body. Ten minutes later, just in time to hear the doorbell ring, Mikio dried himself off and got dressed. He had ordered fried chicken. Mikio hadn’t eaten anything other than instant ramen in what must’ve been weeks. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he was home, either. Mikio had been staying both days and nights in his lab to perfect his gear. Nobody worked harder than him and after all his hard work, Mikio himself felt like he deserved a break.
Mikio answered the door and was instantly greeted by a cheery young man.
“I knew it was you! I recognized your name! You’re the famous Mikio Shirato!!” Squealed the worker. “I’m such a big fan!!”
“Ah, is that so?” Mikio smirked. “It is always an honor to meet a fan.” Mikio smoothly cooed. Then, his voice turned serious. “Tell me.. about this upcoming fight..”
“Hm?” The worker blinked. “Oh!! The one of you versus Gearless Joe, right? What about it?”
“Yes, that one.. who do you think would win?”
“Huh?” The guy snorted. “You're joking, right? Of course /you’ll/ win! You’re Mikio Shirato!! There’s no way you could lose!!”
Mikio snickered. His fan’s praiseful words didn’t make him feel better. He wanted to ask how he was so certain he’d win but bit his tongue.
“Thank you for your kind words.” Mikio prattled with a small bow of the head.
“No problem!! Oh, by the way! I’ve added some extra things to your order. Hope you don’t mind!! I was just thinkin’, an athlete needs to get his carbs in some way, right? Even if it is from fast food.” He giggled. Pushing the large bag into Mikio’s toned arms, he spun on his heels. “Anyways, I gotta go now! Enjoy your food!!”
Mikio was dumbfounded. “Oh? My.. thank you.” He preened. Mikio watched from the corner of his eye as the delivery boy hopped back onto his bike. He would’ve loved for him to stay to compliment him more and boost his confidence, yet Mikio knew better. He had to work. Delivery probably didn’t make you that much money, anyways.. but Mikio was in a bad place. The thoughts he was having was evidence that his ego was decelerating.
All his life, Mikio would walk around holding his head high, and would /know/ that he had the highest status in the room along with some other things; like how he was the most attractive, smartest, and most worthy.
Mikio knew he was smart. He knew he was handsome, too. He liked flaunting it. Liked flipping his hair, batting his eyes, curling his lips around an innocent bystander who showed the slightest interest in him. Mikio deserved to be craved. He had to be praised, complimented, loved, /lusted/ over. He wanted so much. Wanted to hear someone say how beautiful he was, how much he meant to them; that he was their entire word. Wanted to feel hands pressed to his perfectly sculpted chest glide towards his toned abdomen until they landed on his hips; /wide/ hips, at that. His hips alone could take down that whole stupid megalo boxing tournament. Mikio knew so because when he looked in the mirror, Mikio was pleased with what he saw. He had been gifted with good looks all his life. He could get any man or woman he wanted. All he had to do was say it but what was the fun in that? Mikio would much rather have someone chase after him. Not the other way around. Mikio wanted someone to throw themselves at his feet, hug his ankles and blabber how meaningless they were compared to the almighty Mikio Shirato. It was what he deserved. But this was a long time ago. Mikio hadn’t felt that cocky in weeks. Not since he started rigorously training. You see, Mikio could /easily/ develop an unhealthy fixation on things, like training or in this case, eating.
Mikio could train day and night, temporarily forcing the exhaustion from his body by pumping himself full of lab-made adrenaline but it all took a strain on his body. By the time practice was over, Mikio’s body would feel so heavy. He'd have sweated out all of his calories from a measly breakfast he had earlier that day or the breakfast he had skipped. Mikio could never remember. All that mattered is the /hunger/ he’d feel clawing at his belly. It was irritating how starved he’d feel after mercilessly exercising his body to the core. That’s pretty much how he ended up in this situation; carrying a bag stuffed full of unhealthy food he’d soon pack into his tight belly.
Mikio had always distanced himself from fast food. He knew how fatty it could be; the obscene amount of butter and oil and lard that is used to make a dish taste as good as it did. Mikio had always thought of himself as being too good for it. Coming from the Shirato family, Mikio naturally had money. He was capable of affording expensive dishes a low-class man could only dream of tasting. Until now, he never had a reason to eat fast food. Mikio had only ordered some because he was hungry. He wasn’t in the mood to dine in a restaurant. He wanted something fast, no matter how sloppy it had been made. This was the thought process that led him to making the decision. The decision to order fried chicken.
Mikio unbagged the items. He had originally ordered a five piece meal that came with a small side of mashed potatoes, macaroni, and a drink. But inside, he found three cookies- still warm- a chicken sandwich, and that his sides had been upgraded to large containers.. looks like the guy was a true fan after all. What type of strings had he pulled? Did he pay out of his own pocket?.. no matter. Mikio was too hungry to think any further.
Mikio popped open the box of chicken. As soon as he did, a delicious smell wafted out, prompting a long growl from his stomach. Mikio, muffling the senses screaming at him, telling him that this meal alone was “enough” to ruin his perfect physique, dug in and as he ate, all those negative thoughts came back to him.
“You’re useless. You’re /nothing/. No wonder why your little sister inherited the Shirato group. You’re weak. Your sister- a /woman/- is more capable than you. Yet, here you are, sulking. /Eating/. You’re not a Shirato. You’re a coward,” growled the voice. It was much lower now. It only continued to silence itself until it was no more. Mikio successfully blocked out the voice by stuffing his face.
Though it was pathetic, Mikio found comfort in eating. It was the only comfort he could get his hands on, for Mikio didn’t have any friends, a lover, or family close enough to him that he could rant to or be held by. Mikio had nothing other than himself and the items that money could buy. Nobody could blame him for falling into this unending cycle of binging, could they? Everyone had such high expectations of Mikio. He couldn’t afford to fail now. He was a Shirato. He needed redemption.
That night, as one would have guessed, Mikio feasted on fast food. The next day after rigorously training, he stuffed again. It became a recurring pattern. At the end of each day, he’d eat unhealthy amounts of food, only to burn it all of the next day. Stuffing was one of the only things that kept him going other than his pride. Mikio yearned for the warm feeling. The feeling of being full; feeling safe and comfortable in his skin. The feeling he could only get from overeating. It was silly but it did the trick for Shirato.
Fast forward to a week later, he was in the ring boxing with Joe. He was doing great in the first half. He was mopping Joe up. Mikio was landing clean punches on his target. All was well until it happened. Mikio was reckless. He ran in for a punch, missed, and as soon as he did, Joe gave him a firm uppercut. The force was enough to send his body into shock. Mikio’s world went black. He crumbled to the ground and fell with a thud. When he came back to his senses the crowd was chanting Joe’s name. Mikio had lost. All it took was a punch to the jaw. Mikio Shirato had lost fair and square. He could hardly believe it.
Mikio was numb. “You win.” He told the battered boxer in front of him as he shakily came to his feet. He raised a fist high and left the ring. He tried not to be a sore loser. He really did. He even wore a smile as he made his exit. When he passed the waves of fans, his bottom lip quivered. He lost. He fucking lost to a fucking stray. He wouldn’t be fighting Yuri, he wouldn’t be proving himself as being worthy. His whole world came crashing down within a matter of matches. It had all been for nothing. He had worked so hard only to lose.
After his loss, Mikio fell off the face of the earth for several months. He kept himself cooped up in his home, lazing around in his depression, doing nothing. He let his education go to waste until one day, a familiar face showed up at his door. The face belonged to the delivery boy from before his match.
“Mikio!!” Shouted the man, his eyes widening in surprise when Mikio opened the door for him. “Dude, I saw what happened! That match-! It.. it totally wasn’t fair! You should’ve won! You left Joe bruised and limping! You walked off the ring with nothing more than a scratch! I..” he sighed heavily. “I’m so sorry about that, Mikio. You should’ve won. I-“
Mikio shook his head. He was leaning in the doorway. “No. I lost fair and square. Joe was the rightful winner.” He defended, a small frown on his face. During his months of hiatus, Mikio had changed. He had gained some weight. His hips, cheeks, belly, chest, legs, and arms had some cushioning to them. Even so, he was as attractive as ever. Maybe even more attractive, according to the youngster who may or may not have had a fat fetish.
The delivery boy found himself blushing. He knew it was wrong to steal glances at the grieving man’s body but couldn’t compel himself to do otherwise. “I.. I missed seeing your fights.. every now and then I replay your matches..” he murmured. He was getting nervous now, being so close to the new Mikio Shirato.
“Mm..” Mikio grunted, not paying too much attention. He had been trying not to think about megalo boxing. The guy in front of him didn’t do much to help with that.
“I-I.. yeah. Anyways.. here’s your food.” He hummed, holding the bag out to Mikio. “Ya know.. the college I go to.. they’re hiring. I was thinking.. I dunno.. if you’re interested in getting outta your house a lil.. maybe you should apply. It would be nice seeing you around some more, ya know? I /know/ they’d love to have you, too, since you’re smart and all. I’m guessing you got a bunch a degrees too..” Peeped the bashful man.
Mikio perked. College, huh? He had never thought about being a professor before. Maybe it would be good to get out of the house. He needed to get his shit together.
Mikio smirked. “Why don’t you come in? Tell me more about this /college/.” Mikio cooed. He stepped aside to welcome him.
The delivery boy smiled brightly. “S-sure!!” He chirped, cheerily walking inside. He placed the bag on Mikio’s table and sat on the couch. Mikio joined him and for hours the two spoke about the college he had mentioned. He said enough good things about it to convince Mikio to turn in an application.
This was Mikio turning a new leaf. A leaf that had nothing to do with megalo boxing. A leaf that was dedicated to his own happiness and companionship with the students and teachers that attended said college. Finally, Mikio’s future was starting to look bright.