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Mikey may be an idiot but he definitely isn’t a dumbass.
His friends will try to argue otherwise, but Mikey knows better. Only smart people would know how this dumpster fire of a process works anyways.
Armed with google translate and step by step instructions from Tumblr, Mikey feels certain he’s making the right choice as he begins to enter Draken’s credit card info. Proxy services are the devil but he’d do anything to bring fuwakororin Takemichi home.
This version he’s in his stage outfit from his group comeback late last year. Mikey gives the previews another look through. Offensively orange-blonde hair curled all around the top, all white outfit with a mini red arm band, neat Black Dragon decal in the back, tiny black patches for eyes, and a silly little u-curved smile. Perfect.
A few years back his company released a fuwakororin version with Takemichi’s ultra rare dark hair and all of Japan lost their goddamn minds trying get a hold of a plush for themselves, let alone resell.
Mikey will get his own one day and raise his very own army of round, lifeless eyed Takemichi plushies.
He has to shake himself back to reality to finish before pre-orders are cut-off but he’s drawn right back in. It’s so pathetically cute and round — he has to take a break from punching numbers to lean his head back and close his eyes.
Inhale. Yearn. Exhale. Yearn.
He needs a fuwakororin Takemichi for himself more than anything in the world.
Mikey specifically bought new bedding for this — swapping out his old sheets for bright white ones topped with a brand new comforter Emma helped him find the other day.
His blue-and-cream patchwork knit blanket is folded over the corner of his bed and like the Pinterest wet dream he is, Mikey even has fairy lights streamed all over his room in a cool, effortless way that definitely didn’t take hours of hustling Draken to raise or lower his giraffe limbs to reposition the lights.
It’s only just starting to warm up but Mikey knows at night he’s going to sweat through all these layers. Doesn’t matter though. Who else will spoil this plushie in a way it deserves? The way Takemitchy, his Mitchy needs to be loved and taken care of?
He deserves the most beautiful, lush blankets Draken can afford, so Mikey can learn to control his pores and train his sweat to not, sweat.
He’s even commissioned Mitsuya to sew a set of matching pillow cases: one for him and one tiny sized one for Mitchy.
His albums and fan goods are displayed on a bookshelf Shinichiro and him scrapped together using leftover planks of wood and white paint from renovating Gramp’s old toolshed during the winter. Mikey can barely tell left from right most times but he put his damn heart, sweat, and balls into this leaning bookshelf from hell.
It’s magnificent in all it’s crooked glory and holds one of his most prized possessions, his favorite album signed by the group, which is resting smack dab the center surrounded by its very own Mitchy harem of keychains, slickers, and tiny standees.
Posters of Takemitchy are scattered on his walls. Some official — either from albums where he had to cough up extra coin to have them shipped in a tube (creases be damned) or torn off flyers he made his friends sweep across the city to permanently borrow from record shops.
Once, Peh and Pah even brought back a life sized standee of Mitchy they yoinked from the front of a cosmetics store when the group was endorsing their products. Takemitchy looks so pretty here, with a streak of face cream across his blushed cheek and his rosy lips twinged in his signature endearingly awkward smile.
Unfathomable darkness meets ocean blue. He can see the small flecks of pearl and silver across Mitchy’s eyelids and the tiniest flick of eyeliner from the ends of his lashes. “God,” Mikey moans softly, reverent. “You’re beautiful.”
His favorite piece is framed on the wall facing his bed, close to the standee. It’s by his favorite artist on Twitter when they had their commissions open for a bit.
Mikey knows it’s cheesy. It’s him and Mitchy riding his Babu; Takemitchy in the backseat with his arms around Mikey’s waist as they’re cruising along. Sunset oranges and pinks set the mood, with Takemitchy’s eyes half closed with a gentle, sleepy smile and Mikey looking forward with a tiny u-shaped curve of his own. He wants this so bad it’s insane.
Inhale. Yearn. Exhale. Yearn.
Mikey turns back around to his screen and finishes typing in the expiration date and security code. Trusting the auto-translated terms and agreement page have his best interests at heart, Mikey accepts and clicks through to check out.
In six months (hopefully, or else) fuwakororin Mitchy will be home where he belongs, right next to him.