Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shigeo drools when he sleeps.

Teru knows this, is supremely aware of it, waits for it, because every Friday his boyfriend spends the night at his apartment studying, playing video games, and sleeping with him.

Birds wake him on this particular Saturday, and he turns over to see a naked Shigeo, mouth open and saliva pooled on his pillow, as promised. He snorts and smiles, insides warm and content. His fingers twitch to disconnect his phone from its charger and snap a picture, but he’s already done that too many times, and it’s bound to get overbearing at some point. So he enjoys the view instead, not willing to tear his gaze away for anything. The world could burn around him, and he’d keep his eyes trained on Shigeo.

Except he hears the lock to his front door click and that’s more urgent than any house fire.

“What? Huh–?” Shigeo slurs, disturbed by Teru’s sudden movement as he sits up.

“We have forty seconds,” he says.

“What? Forty seconds for what?”

But Teru is already out of the bed and tearing through their clothes on the floor. He pulls on his discarded shirt, ignoring the fact it’s wrinkled and has been on the ground all night, then continues searching for his pants.

“Put this on,” he answers instead, tossing Shigeo’s shirt at him. It lands smack across his face.

“Okay…?” he says, and he’s taking much too long to put it on, actually bothering to stretch out the creases first, and Teru’s already fully clothed and less than five seconds away from mortal destruction.

The doorknob to his bedroom squeaks as it turns. Teru stretches out his arm and summons the comforter and with a flash of yellow aura it engulfs Shigeo like a tsunami, covering him from head to toe by the time the door swings open with full force.

“Teru! Good morning!”

A wave of perfume precedes her, and she steps into his bedroom uninvited and unwelcome.

“Mom.”

“How wonderful it is to see you,” she proclaims with saccharine falsity, tugging him into a one-armed hug before promptly moving past him and towards the closet. “You’ve grown so much.”

“I grew a centimeter,” he corrects, watching her rummage through his closet. “Can I help you?”

“Is that any way to speak to your mother?” she huffs, sitting up from whatever it is she’s doing to click her tongue at him. Her bracelets and earrings jangle as she does so, and continue to tingle like windchimes when she returns to violating his privacy. “Where’s your birth certificate?”

“I don’t know. Why would I know where that is?”

“Because it’s your birth certificate. I need it.”

“Okay. And you don’t have it?”

“Dear, if I had it, I wouldn’t have come here.”

“Thanks,” he says wryly.

“Hm? For what?” His mother drags out a box and pries it open.

“Can you not? It’s not in there.”

“Well then help me look for it.”

“Can I brush my teeth first? I literally just woke up.”

She checks her diamond-encrusted watch. “Oh, it’s nine o’clock. I’m still on French time, you see.”

Teru doesn’t bother to mention that it’s two in the morning in France.

“Very well,” Miharu declares, wiping off her polka-dotted dress as she stands. “I’ll make breakfast, how does that sound? Is your body pillow going to join us?”

It’s so quiet Teru can hear his neighbor cough from the other side of the wall.

Shigeo pokes his head out from underneath the bed cover. “Am I the body pillow?”

“Hello! It’s a pleasure to meet you,” his mother purrs, bowing as she introduces herself. “I’m Teru’s lovely mother.”

“Oh. Um. It’s nice to meet you too,” he bows his head just a tad, comforter still pulled up to his chest. “I’m–”

“Well, how does pancakes sound? I’ll be out in the kitchen. Just– scurry out when you’re dressed and ready.” She waves a dainty hand and flits out the door as abruptly as she had come in.

Teru slams the door shut with his powers.

“That’s your mom?”

“Unfortunately.” He lets the tension out of his shoulders and walks up to where Shigeo is still sitting in bed. “Good morning.” He leans in for a kiss; he needs the rejuvenation after what he just experienced.

“Good morning,” Shigeo parrots. “Your mom sounds… nice. She’s making us pancakes?”

“No, she’s gonna order delivery from a brunch place. She calls that ‘cooking.’” He gestures with air quotes before rolling his eyes and picking up the rest of Shigeo’s clothes from the floor. “Don’t get too excited,” he says, handing them over.

“Still. That’s nice of her. I’ve never met either of your parents before.”

“Yeah,” he agrees noncommittally, refusing to elaborate. It wouldn’t do to sour the mood, and maybe he shouldn’t set Shigeo against his mom so early. He’d have plenty of time to develop that opinion himself. “I’m gonna brush my teeth and head out there. You can take your time – seriously – let me talk to her first while you get ready.”

“Okay. I don’t want to be rude.”

“You won’t be,” he asserts with complete confidence.

–

His mother is sitting at the kitchen island poring over the pamphlets Teru’s collected over the years. Her long, manicured bermuda gray nails drum on the quartz countertop as she reads, and she barely spares him a glance as he sits across from her.

“What kind do you want? You don’t have a lot of brunch menus here, so we’ll have to order from this place.”

“Anything, I don’t care.”

“Come on, don’t be indecisive.”

“Mom, I told you to warn me when you’d be coming back to Japan. You never do.”

“It’s my studio, dear. I think I can visit whenever I see fit. I don’t understand why you’re not happy to see me.” She does relinquish her focus on the pancake menu to look up at him now, mascara-soaked eyelash extensions blinking at him in faux bewilderment.

“I’m nineteen now and you can’t just barge in when you feel like it. I have… company. Sometimes.”

“I saw. You haven’t told me about him.”

“I didn’t–” He cringes and swipes the menu from underneath his mother’s palm. “It’s not really your business. And I hadn’t told you yet that I was, um, bi either, so–”

“Oh, please, you thought I didn’t know you were at least a little fruity? I’m your mother.”

Read the menu, read the menu, just read the menu .

Buttermilk.

Blueberry.

Banana.

“It’s not like I care. I was just hoping for a little more openness from my only son.”

Chocolate chip.

Coconut.

Custard.

“You know, I’ve missed you. I worry about you from the other end of the world sometimes–” she reaches out to brush his hair over his ear and he slams the menu between them.

“Custard! I’ll have the custard.”

His mother doesn’t say anything, just slides the pamphlet closer and resumes leafing through it, cherry red mouth pursed with a look of consternation as if she’s seriously considering her choice of breakfast.

Shigeo emerges from his bedroom a minute or two later, fully clothed and head ducked halfway into a bow.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hanazawa.” He shrugs his shoulders up high as he speaks, reminiscent of a turtle withdrawing into its shell. “It’s nice to meet you. Um. Again.” His shoulders haul themselves up even higher as he takes a deep breath and steels himself.

“Hello, my dear. Take a seat–”

“My name is Kageyama Shigeo, I’m a student at the Seasoning Fire Academy, and I have the privilege of dating your son. Thank you for having me!” he railroads into finishing and bows, so deep Teru’s concerned he might tip over.

He sees his mother’s eyes widen out of his peripheral vision, but when he turns to look at her again, her expression is composed as it always has been, like her perfect face is made of wax.

“Well, aren’t you polite. Come on, you’ll need to choose your breakfast if we’ll be ordering it before they close.”

“Ah. Right, ma’am.” Shigeo skitters over to where Teru is sitting and pulls up the chair next to his, careful and deliberate as he places his hands in his lap and stares down at where Teru’s mother has slid the menu.

“Kageyama Shigeo-kun, did you say your name was?” Miharu asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” Shigeo nods, interrupting his focus on the piece of paper before him.

She hums. He returns to scanning the menu.

Teru tries to capture her attention, fearful of whatever it is she’s planning in her serpentine brain, but she already has her target caught in her crosshairs and Teru can only prepare to defend Shigeo against whatever is about to come.

“Tell me, how did you two meet? Since Teru hasn’t been so kind as to tell his own mother about you, I’m curious.”

“Oh,” he says, looking up again from the assorted photos of pancakes. “Well, we– um, we met at his school.”

“You went to school together?”

“No. It was–”

“He was visiting. Mom, can you stop distracting him? He’ll never make a decision at this rate.”

Miharu harrumphs, but keeps her mouth shut, tapping the back of Teru’s hand instead.

“Teru, can you be a dear and get my phone?”

“Where is it?”

“I left it in my bag over by the genkan.” She points to where there is, in fact, an oversized purse sitting by a pair of high heels sharp enough to bore a hole into Teru’s hardwood flooring if she kicked hard enough.

He makes a motion to get up, but she lets out a short whine; he swallows his exasperated sigh and floats the bag over into his mother’s waiting arms.

“Thank you, dear,” she says, unzipping the top and scrounging around for her phone. She rescues it from the depths of her Chanel bag just as Shigeo nods to himself and points to a photo on the menu.

“I’ll have the matcha flavor.”

“Wonderful. Anything else, kids?”

They shake their heads no and she dials the restaurant’s number. Teru nudges Shigeo’s arm while they listen to her place the order, and his boyfriend blinks, glancing over at him in naive confusion.

Teru gives him a smile which Shigeo returns, and he threads his fingers between Shigeo’s, squeezing them in an effort to convey his silent apology for their interrupted morning. Shigeo squeezes them back.

“Now that that’s all finished,” his mother announces, hitting the end call button and returning her laser focused stare on Shigeo. “Tell me more about yourself. What about your family? What do your parents do?”

“My dad’s an accountant. My mom doesn’t work, she mostly stays at home, but sometimes she’ll submit photos to competitions and stuff.”

It happens again. His mother’s Sephora-rimmed eyes grow wide and her jaw tightens. She toys with the diamonds dangling from her hoop earrings and the unnamed emotion is gone.

“And my little brother is in his third year of high school, so he’s studying really hard for entrance exams right now,” Shigeo continues, blind to Miharu’s microexpressions. He’s like a puppy stepping on its overgrown ears in his eagerness to forge a relationship with his partner’s mom and it makes Teru’s heart hurt.

Miharu lets out another hum of interest. She has her chin perched on her wrists like a cheshire cat with the shit-eating grin to match.

“You have siblings?”

“Yeah! Well, just one. Ritsu, he’s my little brother. We’re only a year apart, though, and he’s a bit taller than me and a lot more confident, so people usually think he’s the older one.”

“Shame. I assure you I won’t make that mistake.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind so much. Ritsu looks up to me and that’s all that matters. I just have to be the best older brother I can be.”

“What a sweetheart!” she praises, and now her gaze rotates over to Teru. “Teru, have you met them?”

“Just Ritsu. I… haven’t met his parents yet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is this a recent development between you two? This isn’t too embarrassing for you, is it? You probably weren’t ready to meet me yet.”

“No, it’s fine!” Shigeo rushes to reassure her, waving his hands. “Really! It’s an honor to meet you, and um, well I hadn’t mentioned it yet, but I was kinda hoping…” he shrugs, and dips his chin sheepishly as he looks over at Teru. “...Maybe you could meet my parents soon.”

Shigeo might as well have punched him in the solar plexus for all the oxygen he still has left in his lungs after that.

“Really?”

“You should do that.”

“What?”

Miharu is smirking, her fingernails toying with one of the wooden coasters that adorn the kitchen island.

“I’ll be here until the twenty-second. Do you think your family will have a spare evening for us?”

“Yeah! I’ll ask my mom. But I think they’ll be glad to meet you.”

“Who said you were invited?”

She clicks her tongue. “Teru, I’m taking an interest in your love life. Shouldn’t you be happy about that?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“He can be so rude,” Miharu huffs, attention back on Shigeo. “I hope he doesn’t treat you like that.”

“N-not at all, ma’am. He’s a great boyfriend.”

If Teru would have had any resentment towards his mother left, it’s melted away by Shigeo’s vocal approval.

–

The pancakes arrive twenty minutes later. Apparently satisfied with the information she’s wheedled out of Teru’s boyfriend, she ceases with her line of questioning and drones on about her latest fashion designs she’s set to release by winter. She shoves her phone in their faces while they eat, swiping from picture to picture of suits and dresses she’s handsewn.

They’re vibrant, multicolored sequins threaded into the fabric reflecting in the light. The suits’ bowties glow in the dark. One of the dresses has angel wings affixed to the back.

Teru swallows his custard-flavored pancake. His eyes r ove over every photo, envy and pride for his mother’s handiwork tempering his usual frustration with her. His attempts to feign nonchalance fail as he keeps finding himself whipping back to attention, unable to restrain his upper body from leaning forward over the counter to get a better look.

She gets to a picture of a dress shirt with multiple sleeves so wide they make the shirt look like a robe for a man-sized spider.

He coughs on the chunk of pancake in his throat.

“When did you make that one?”

“A month ago. You like it?”

He snatches the phone from her and zooms in. The gray fabric glistens in the studio lighting. It accents the subtle circular patterns threaded with exquisite care into the seams. Oh God, the buttons are made of googly eyes. 

“It’s supposed to represent biblically accurate angels. The theme for my next set is Christianity. Honestly, if I don’t get featured in Lui, then they don’t understand peak art,” she sniffs.

“Did you bring them?” he asks, losing the battle to his curiosity and flitting back and forth through her gallery.

“Some of them. The ones I still need to work on. There’s some materials I needed to purchase, I thought I might as well visit my old haunts while I’m here in Japan. I’m sure Nippori misses me.”

“I like that one,” Shigeo pipes up, pointing at a scarf with large spikes poking out of the wool at random intervals.

“Good taste,” she commends, her attention focused on Shigeo again, but with the smirk on her face that says he’s passed her appraisal. “Are you interested in fashion, Shigeo-kun?”

“Not as much as Teru is. But I like learning from him. I didn’t know you were a fashion designer, Mrs. Hanazawa.”

“Teru, one would think you’re an orphan!” she scolds, but her eyes don’t leave Shigeo. “Well, don’t fret. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other before I leave.”

–

When it’s time for Shigeo to go home, Teru escorts him to the walkway and shuts the door tight between themselves and his mother. He plants a yellow-tinted hand on the doorknob and it locks with a click. Not that that could keep his mother from barging in on them again if the desire struck her, but at least it would provide them a second of warning.

“I’m sorry about her,” he blurts out.

“Why? I like your mom, she’s nice. And she has an interesting job.”

“She can be really… abrasive. And doesn’t respect my privacy, like, at all. I wasn’t expecting her here today; I never am, she just kinda shows up whenever.”

“That’s okay. I’m glad I got to meet her.” Shigeo falls silent now, lips puckered as he stares at his shoes. Teru waits for Shigeo to collect his thoughts. “There’s just one thing, I didn’t bring it up because I didn’t want to be rude…”

“Shoot. Seriously, you can’t be ruder than her, so.”

“Well, your mom said she’d be staying until the twenty-second, right?” he asks, shuffling from one foot to the other.

“Yeah.” He sighs. “Three whole days, I guess.”

“Well… are we still gonna go to the Mob Choir concert on Monday night?”

“Oh.” He frowns; the conflicting dates hadn’t set off any alarms earlier – he rarely paid attention to the whimsies of his mother’s erratic schedule. “Yeah, don’t worry. I wouldn’t miss it. She doesn’t need me around anyway.”

“Yeah, but it sounds like you never get to see her… you should spend time with her,” he says with a hint of sincere remorse.

“Trust me, she doesn’t care, and it’s one night.” Teru cups a hand on Shigeo’s cheek and plants a soft kiss on his lips. “I wouldn’t miss that for anything.”

“Okay.” Shigeo nods, and the tension in his neck and shoulders relaxes, even if he still can’t look Teru in the eyes out of a misplaced sense of guilt.

“I’ll see you later.” Teru bids him goodbye, tamping down the urge to utter words of affection Shigeo can’t possibly be ready to hear yet, and slips back into the lion’s den.

Miharu’s on the phone when he enters, speaking French in a clipped tone to whatever unfortunate soul is on the other end. He keeps his own mouth shut and works on clearing the table, dumping the dishes into the sink and wiping down the counter.

“Yes. I know. I’ll be back by Wednesday.”

“...”

“He’s fine. We had breakfast this morning. He has a new little companion, did you know that?”

Teru cringes.

“No, not a dog. A partner. Whatever, of course you didn’t. I’ve still got to deal with things over here, and I haven’t even unpacked my bags yet. There’s never enough time for anything.”

Teru can barely make out his father’s tinny voice, but not enough to catch his end of the conversation.

“Alright. Yeah. Bye-bye.”

Miharu reverts to Japanese as she twists around and gives him an inauthentic grin. “Teru! Have you finished saying bye to your beau?”

“Don’t call him that,” he protests. “Yeah, Shigeo went back home.”

“Well. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve roamed around these parts. What do you say to visiting some of the boutiques?”

“Weren’t you going to unpack?” he asks, hiding the spark of interest at his mother’s proposal.

“Oh, please, I’ll only be here three days, what’s the point?” She grabs her keys from the counter and gestures for him to hustle. “Come on. We haven’t got all day.”

–

If there’s anything that makes his mother’s sudden, inconvenient presence in his life worth it, it’s the massive frivolous expenditure on grossly overpriced outfits. The employees take one look at Miharu’s gold plated sunglasses as they march into the store and flock to their side like vultures, holding leather jackets and silver jewelry that could buy off Reigen’s entire bank account.

Teru gets pulled from store clerk to store clerk, his arms getting weighed down by pants and sweatshirts and other garments he can’t make out anymore because the pile has surpassed his line of vision. He ducks out from their talons to a changing room and drops onto a chair, estimating his mother will be keeping them busy for at least another twenty-five minutes.

He discards half of the clothes outright and focuses on the ones that pique his interest. He’s about eight combinations in when he hears a knock on the wood paneling by the drawn curtain separating him from the rest of the store.

“Teru? Are you in there?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, twisting his torso around to get a better look at the gold striped suit one of the ladies picked off the rack for him. 

“What are you wearing? Come out, let me see.”

She’s already swapped out her entire outfit, price tags sticking out of every corner of her body.

“Spin around,” she orders. He follows her direc tion, rotating 360 degrees and coming to a stop as he faces her again. He sets his hands on his waist and tilts his head, waiting for her verdict.

Miharu hums, picks at the fabric on his shoulder, tugs at the hem of his jacket, pulls at a lock of his hair.

“Your hair is getting long,” she remarks.

“I know,” he replies. She doesn’t make any more comments about his new hairstyle, instead pinching his chin and tilting his face at various angles. He’s taller than she is now – has been for a while, but he must have been twelve or thirteen the last time she gave him so much undivided attention like this.

“You look just like your father.” She releases her hold on his jaw. “Wait here.”

“Okay,” he agrees, rubbing at where his mother’s fingertips were digging into his bone. She returns moments later with a sky blue leopard-print tie. 

“Here. This’ll bring out your eyes.”

“Thanks–” he’s about to reach out for the accessory but she’s already swinging the silk around his neck and wrapping the blade around into a windsor knot. From so close, he inhales a whiff of her perfume; the sweet, cloying scent of vanilla and bergamot invades his nose and burns memories long forgotten into the forefront of his mind.

“Can you show mommy again?”

He’s sitting on the carpet of their old home in France, cross-legged as he pushes a toy train around a wooden track. He stops the train after every loop, pretending that tiny, invisible people are descending and ascending the train wagons before yelling “en voiture!” and moving the train to its next identical destination.

“Teru. Can you show mommy your powers?”

“Okay,” he says, and releases his physical grip on the train to direct his open palm at it. He has to rearrange his legs so his knees are touching for it to work right, but the train glows yellow and rotates around the track all by itself. With an extra flourish of his wrist, the train lifts off and pierces through open space, the boxcars linked like a dragon’s tail as it darts around.

His mommy slides next to him and places a hand on his forearm. His aura grabs onto her as if it were electricity, sparking up her arm and into her hair. She smells sweet and flowery. He makes the train loop-de-loop, because she likes it when he does that, and spells his name out in the air.

“You’re special, Teru,” she says, her words tinged with an emotion he’s too young to comprehend. “You’re gonna be big one day. Don’t forget that.”

“There. Don’t frown, you’ll get wrinkles.”

He blinks in the fluorescent lights of the present, and watches as his mother takes a step back, admiring her work. She pats his chest where the tie hangs from his neck.

“Good.”

–

The inexorable wave of Miharu’s caprices leads them to a high-end sushi restaurant next; she shoves their half-dozen bags underneath the table and orders a prosecco before she even manages to sit down.

“You haven’t told me how you two met,” she mentions over a plate of unagi nigiri. Her index finger circles the rim of her wine glass. “You interrupted your boyfriend when he was going to tell me.”

“Since when do you care?” he asks. He stabs at his maki roll with one of his chopsticks; he sounds so childish when she’s around, but he can’t avoid it. The question is genuine. “You’ve never asked about any of my past relationships.”

“I’ve never met any of your past relationships,” she counters. “Stop eating like that, use your chopsticks right.”

Teru lifts the chopstick to his mouth, chomps on the maki roll, chews the rice, considers his next words. Her point is well-met, although for reasons that would only lead to further arguments. Miharu couldn’t meet any of his previous partners if she was never around.

“We met at my middle school,” he begins, chewing over his words now that he’s swallowed his sushi. “He didn’t go there, but– honestly, I’m not even sure why he was there in the first place. But I was being kind of a…” dickhole , his brain supplies, “...jerk and he called me out on it.”

“And that endeared you to him?”

Yes, right away . “We were friends for a long time. We only became official this last winter,” he answers instead.

“And he’s a psychic, too?”

“Yeah,” he says, pinching another maki roll – the correct way this time – and biting into the seaweed. The tuna melts against his tongue, soft and savory. “Wait. How did you know he’s a psychic?”

“Mother’s intuition,” she s ays with a wink. “I always knew you’d end up with another esper. No one else could match your intellect otherwise. You were always so far ahead of your peers.”

He takes a sip of his water. There’s a lot that doesn’t sit well with him about his mother’s proclamation, but it’s too much to try and dissect, so he allows the moment to pass and reaches for another sushi plate off the conveyor belt.

–

It’s seven o’clock when they finally get home. Miharu’s been in Japan for a total of ten hours and has managed to derail Teru’s entire day. He collapses on his bed, shoving his face into his pillow for a gracious five seconds before Miharu bursts in, kicking her luggage into his room and slamming her shopping bags onto the ground next to it.

“These’ll never fit,” she murmurs to herself, though it’s loud enough for him to hear. “I’ll need to buy another suitcase before I leave.”

“Not today,” is all he can muster, wrapping an arm over his face so the overhead light stops searing through his eyelids.

“Of course not. We still need to find your birth certificate.”

He groans. “What do you even need that for? I’ve already been born.”

“Paperwork,” she answers with zero elaboration, already taking a step towards his closet.

“It’s not in there,” Teru snaps, his patience wire-thin. “Listen, how about you focus on the closet out in the foyer and I’ll take care of my bedroom. Deal?”

“Are you going–”

“Yes, I’ll pay close attention. I won’t miss my own birth certificate,” he promises. His mother narrows her eyes but nods, apparently satisfied, and pads off into the adjoining room.

Exhaustion drags heavy on his shoulders, but he presses his palms into his eyes until he sees stars then slides onto the ground, scooting over until he reaches his closet. He pulls out the first box he sees, pries the top open, and peers inside. Books.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ.”

There’s no way the birth certificate is buried within his high school textbooks, but if he doesn’t tear his room apart, his mother will do it for him, so he resolves to pull out each book one by one, flip through the pages, and set them aside onto a pile. He’s halfway done when he feels a vibration from the direction of his bed. Too tired to get up and retrieve his phone, he shoots a string of yellow power towards the device. It darts into his hand and he glances at the notification on his screen.

SHIGEO <3

Energy returns to him like a breath of fresh air and he unlocks his phone at top speed to read what his boyfriend sent him.

Hey, can I call you real quick?

Teru frowns.

Yeah, sure. Why?

His phone screen flashes with an incoming call.

“Hey. Shigeo?”

“Hi, Teru. How was your day with your mom?”

Shigeo’s voice doesn’t sound waterlogged like when he’s been crying, and he’s calm, so he’s not in any danger. He allows himself to relax for a moment.

“Busy. Like usual, whenever she’s here. It’s like she wants to visit every department store in Japan before she leaves.”

“That sounds nice. I like shopping with my mom. She always buys me gum when we go to the mall.”

“I got a bunch of new clothing. I can… I can show you later, if you want,” he suggests, looking over at the mountain of paper bags housing brand new garments.

“Yeah!” Shigeo hesitates before adding: “Um… so, I talked to my parents about meeting you guys.”

Teru’s heart leaps into his throat. Shigeo had insisted his parents were accepting of his sexuality, but doubt and fear still crawl through his veins, paranoia that they’d push Shigeo to try to date Tsubomi instead or any other pretty girl that would no doubt leap at the chance to lie in his arms.

“My mom wants to know, um, hang on…” Shigeo continues, and he hears the rustling of paper. “Okay, my mom wants to know if your mom’s given name is, um…” He dictates the next part like he’s reading it off of a note. “‘Miharu but mi as in pearl, not three.’” 

Annoyance replaces the paranoia.

“Yeah, that’s what she says.”

“Okay.” Shigeo pauses. “I think my mom knows your mom.”

“Fuck. That–” Teru slams a fi st against the ground. “I knew it! I knew it. I knew she was up to something. There’s no way she would’ve been interested otherwise.”

“You don’t think she would have been interested in me?”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant. She’s not interested in anything about my life, never has been. But suddenly she wants to meet your family? I should’ve guessed,” he snarls. The budding headache from earlier has returned in full force. “There’s always an ulterior motive with her.”

“Well, I’m happy I got to meet her. And my parents say it’s okay, you can come over tomorrow for dinner with your mom.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They’re happy to. My mom was really excited I brought you up, actually. She’s been wanting to know more about you for a while. And then I said your name, which kind of derailed the conversation…”

“My name?”

“Yeah. She asked me if I was finally gonna tell her what my mystery boyfriend’s name was and then I said it and she dropped her spoon. And then my dad started laughing. It was really weird.”

“Did she say how she knew my mom?”

“No. She just asked what her name was, and then suggested that one that I just said.”

“Hm,” Teru mumbles to himself. “Alright. I’m gonna go talk to my mom about this.”

“Okay! I’ll text you the details in a bit. We usually have dinner around seven.”

They finish the call and Teru storms into the kitchen where he can see his mother sitting on the genkan, surrounded by scattered cleaning implements from his broom closet. She’s huntIng through a box that, if memory serves him, contains nothing more than some hardware tools and assorted instruction manuals.

“Mom.”

“Yes, dear?” she sighs. “You didn’t find it, did you?”

“No. Mom, you know Shigeo’s parents?” he asks, fists balled by his sides.

Miharu stops her digging, but refuses to look up at him. She picks up a screwdriver and rolls the handle between her thumb and finger, every movement careful and calculated.

“I think I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine. Would you like some?”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Unlike your father, I’m well aware of your age.” She stands up and kicks the box aside. “Will you be a dear and fetch me the bottle of wine from my luggage?”

He grits his teeth. “Not until you answer my question.”

She gives another exasperated sigh, crosses her arms, and pouts. “Well. I didn’t think it was that important.”

He stares at her. Her eyes burn a hole in the floor.

“I’m going to my room,” he states and spins around to march straight back to his bed.

“Teru,” Miharu starts. He makes it halfway back when his mother reaches him, grabbing and pulling him by the shoulder. “Alright, alright. Don’t have a fit. Yes, I met Hana-chan a while ago. It really isn’t that important. It’s not like we’re friends or anything. I suspected who your boyfriend was when he said his name, but his mother being a photographer confirmed it for me. And really, would you blame a mother for being interested in her son’s partner’s family?”

He shakes her hand off but doesn’t move. “Is that why you were so invested in Shigeo?”

“Wouldn’t you be?” She moves to stand in front of him, blocking his view of his bedroom. Not that it really mattered; he could blast past her if her next words offended him in any way. “He comes from a good family, you know.”

The pain from his headache beats its drum behind his eye sockets.

“I’ll bring you the wine,” he mutters, stomping off to where she’s abandoned her suitcase. “And then I’m going to bed. I’ll look for the certificate tomorrow, I promise. Just– just let me decompress.”

“Fine, I suppose,” Miharu agrees, as though she has any say in the matter, but adds nothing more to the conversation, probably cognizant that Teru is able to lock her out of the bedroom indefinitely – or for the next seventy-two hours.

He returns with the wine bottle. She takes it from him and inspects the label.

“You know what? I’ll save it for the dinner. It’s a 1994 Château Margaux. I’m sure Hana-chan will appreciate it.”

“Sure.” He shrugs and slams the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Miharu wakes him at six in the morning. He moans into his pillow and pulls his comforter up to his neck in an effort to shield himself from her jabbing, but it’s ineffective against the pig-headed insistence of a mother with an itinerary in mind.

“Teru, don’t tell me you’re sick,” she frets, tearing the cover off his body. “Do you always wake up this late?”

He peels open his crust-laden eyes to squint at his phone screen.

“Mom, it’s 6:14. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Language, Teru. You were sleeping in late yesterday morning, too, but I thought it was just because you had your beau over. You don’t have class today, do you?”

He sits up, glaring at his mother who is fully dressed in a canvas jumpsuit with platform shoes dangling from her hand.

“No, it’s Sunday. And summer break.”

“Perfect. I called the storage unit and their automated voicemail said they open at 6:30. That will give us plenty of time to search for your birth certificate before lunch. What time did your boyfriend say we could come over?”

“Seven,” he exhales, now completely awake.

“I’m sure we’ll find it before then. There’s only so many places it can be!” she asserts with a flick of her wrist.

–

They make it to the Hanazawa-Gauthier family storage unit by 6:45. It’s dusty inside. He sneezes, covering his nose with his shirt collar as he starts tiptoeing around long-forgotten furniture and broken childhood toys. He catches sight of his Cozy Coupe he used to ride around in, powered by the amber light of his esper energy.

“Hey, I didn’t know this was in here,” he laughs, popping his head into the space underneath the hood. It’s so small. The world used to be so big.

“Oh, yeah, you used to love that thing. It was a great way to improve your fine control over your powers,” Miharu remarks, already pacing over to a promising stack of boxes. “I think we have some old documents in here. We’ll start with these.” She cranes her neck around towards Teru and points at the top box. “Teru-chan?”

“Yeah,” he concedes, and the cardboard comes floating down to a graceful plop by her feet.

“Get the rest, too. Spread them out around the room where you can. We’ll start on opposite ends and work towards the middle, that way we won’t accidentally check any of the boxes twice.”

It’s as good a plan as any, and it’s at least a task they can perform in silence, without the need of further mother-son interactions. Some of the items are interesting, too, relics of the past that spark memories buried deep within the recesses of his mind.

He’s leafing through a diary he’d kept when he was six or seven, the dramas of early elementary school scrawled in messy French, then later Japanese as he grew more comfortable with kanji, when Miharu makes a noise from her end of the room.

“Did you find it?” he asks, tucking the book back into its corner and pacing up to where his mom is now curled around some coveted item.

“No, this is something else,” she answers, loosening her grip on it to reveal a weathered old fashion magazine.

“What is that? Your first commission or something?”

“Oh please, you think I kept any evidence of that around?” she scoffs. “My first outfit was atrocious compared to the designs I release now.”

“Okay. Well, let me know if you find my birth certificate. I’m kinda feeling like I should have that for myself by this point.”

“That’s the idea, dear,” Miharu sing-songs as she returns to her search, though she sets the magazine aside on the concrete floor with a delicate pat.

Curious, but not enough to bother his mom about it, he paces across the room to his side of the junkheap and resumes rooting around a box that appears to mostly contain items from 2005, if his diary and elementary school ID are any indication.

Contented with enough evidence that the box is devoid of his birth certificate, he lifts the cardboard flaps and folds them shut, moving counter clockwise in their makeshift circle to the next box. Miharu moves counter clockwise with him, always one hundred eighty degrees away, back to back, never managing to get any closer, her own quest parallel to his own.

“Hey, mom?” Teru speaks up when three hours have passed and they’re no closer to finding the birth certificate. His back is twinging in pain from the constant crouching, and he’s arms-deep in a massive chest of documents that had seemed promising at first, but ended up containing random paperwork from his father’s company. His dad’s signature is scrawled on half of them, and he finally manages to spot a date in the upper-right corner of what looks to be a contract – 2008.

“Yes, love?” Miharu says from her perch on a broken footstool.

“How did you meet Shigeo’s mom, anyway?” he asks, flipping over another one of the stapled packets. Concept sketches for one of his father’s outfit designs. “You never said.”

“Oh.” He hears her take a deep breath – still facing away from each other – before she clears her throat and continues. “We met at a support group for pregnant women. When I was pregnant with you.”

“Wait.” His head snaps around to look at her. “Shigeo’s younger than me.”

“She was pregnant with him, too.”

“What– you’re lying.”

“Now why would I lie? Have you ever known me to be a liar?”

Teru tosses the packet back into the box.

“Okay, I’m not lying. When I was pregnant with you, I attended a support group for… expecting mothers and Hana-chan joined about a month or two after I did. She was the only member there who wasn’t completely insufferable, so I got to know her a little better. Still, we weren’t close or anything.”

“So…” he starts, reeling from the mental image he’s just been given. “Did…” It suddenly occurs to him that that stormy night in 2012 may not have been the first time they’d met. “Did you ever see Shigeo, after he was born?”

“No, dear. We moved back to France a few weeks after you were born.”

“Oh,” Teru sighs, somewhat relieved.

“Hana-chan did meet you, though.”

“What?!”

“Don’t yell, Teru, I have sensitive hearing,” Miharu complains, massaging her temple.

“Hana– Shigeo’s mom met me?”

“Right after you were born. She met you before your own father did. Not that it amounts to much, she was just checking in on me.”

Teru’s heart slams against his ribcage. He rubs his sweaty hands against his pants, and if it weren’t for the thought of a woman who looks like Shigeo bending over him and cooing over his chubby cheeks, he’d have blamed the rising temperature in the room on a faulty thermostat.

He doesn’t ask any more questions after that, terrified of uncovering further truths he wouldn’t be able to handle. What if his mother has turned Shigeo’s mother off to him entirely already? his panicked brain supplies. What if Mrs. Kageyama knows Teru a lot more than what his mother’s letting on? He freezes with a dusty book in his hands. What if he’s related to Shigeo somehow?

He grabs ahold of himself and refocuses his attention on the task before him. Open box, empty box, refill box, close box. Maybe Mrs. Kageyama knows where my birth certificate is, the sardonic thought comes unbidden and he squeezes his fist so tight his fingernails press lines into the skin of his palm.

–

Miharu releases them from their search by ten-thirty, stating the need for brunch before the day has progressed so far that it becomes “just lunch.” There’s still another ten or so boxes with no promise of his birth certificate among them, but his back is screaming and his knees are bruised from the cement floor, so he follows her to Flâner without protest.

Despite having just over thirty-six hours to find a vital government document that, debatably, proves the existence of her sole successor, she eats her nutella crepe and drinks her mimosa with the leisurely grace of one who has all the time in the world and none of the burdens.

They drop by a fabrics store right after, and it’s when Teru manages to peel off from his mother and duck into the needle arts aisle that his phone buzzes with the warning of an incoming text message.

My mom wants to know if you guys have any allergies or preferences for dinner .

The anxiety-induced fever comes back and he shoves himself face-first into the balls of colorful yarn. His mother, Shigeo’s mother, Hana-chan , Miharu’s nickname echoes in his eardrums. He plunges his fingers into a dark blue skein of yarn, clenching at the wool like it’ll provide the stability that his own mother manages to undermine every time Europe bores her and she deigns to pop back into his life.

He stares down at his phone screen, almost typing a quick go-ahead to cook whatever it is Mrs. Kageyama finds fit to make, but he comes to his senses before he can hit enter; Teru might be able to withhold his expensive tastes, but he can’t say the same about his parents.

He sighs, holds up the wool he’s sunk his claws into, and gives himself until the count of five to collect himself and search for his mom again.

It doesn’t take long to find her. She hasn’t left the corner of the store where the giant bolts of quilter’s cotton are stacked side by side but is joined this time by an unfortunate young shop assistant who has long lost her soul to customer service, given the stone cold expression on her face.

“What do you mean you don’t have amaranth purple?” Miharu scoffs, removing her sunglasses to gesticulate with. “I’m sorry, I’m just confused. This is Nippori Fabric Town, isn’t it? I want to make sure I didn’t walk into the wrong establishment, I suppose my eyesight might not be as good as it used to be.” She accentuates her backhanded comment with a hmm? that makes it clear she knows her eyesight is twenty-twenty.

“Mom,” Teru interrupts to the relief of the underpaid employee.

“Hold on, dear, I’m in the middle of something.” She holds a finger up like that has ever stopped him from dragging in his mother’s reigns.

“Mom, Shigeo wants to know if there’s anything you want for dinner,” he bulldozes on.

“Why, what’s Hana-chan planning on making?” Miharu turns around to face him, sliding the sunglasses onto her forehead. The shop assistant – he spots her nametag now, labeled with the surname Takaoka – starts tip-toeing away down the aisle until she finally disappears around the corner.

“I don’t know, I just got a text asking if we have any preferences.”

“Tell him to have her make something that pairs well with cabernet sauvignon. Oh, never mind, she won’t know what that means. Tell her to make braised lamb with a side of grilled vegetables, portobello mushrooms or eggplant especially.”

“This isn’t a Doordash order. You can’t just plan out a three course meal on the Kageyamas’ dime.”

Miharu clicks her tongue, but doesn’t fight his point. She toys with the strap of her oversized purse before stating: “no bittermelon.”

“Bittermelon?”

“It’s horrid.”

“Okay, fine,” he concedes, shifting his attention to his conversation with Shigeo.

“What do you have there?” Miharu asks, pointing with her chin at the ball of yarn in his left hand.

“Oh, it’s yarn…”

“I can see that.”

“Let me finish. I picked it up ‘cause I’ve been thinking of what to give Shigeo for Christmas and it’s the same color as his powers, so… I don’t know… maybe I could knit something.”

“Dear, that’s pink, that’s not even close,” she huffs, jostling his shoulder as she moves past him. “What is it with today, is everyone suddenly colorblind? Honestly….”

He stares at the wool he’d been convinced was blue when her assertion suddenly clicks.

“Hey. Wait, how do you know the color of Shigeo’s powers? Mom?” he asks, chasing after her. “Mom, why do you know that?”

–

They ride back to Teru’s studio apartment in silence, Teru too shocked and angry to speak while Miharu continues to hold up her lackadaisical facade. He can see her inspecting her manicured fingernails out of his peripheral vision, but he refuses to lift his attention from the posted signs on the back of the taxi driver’s seat. Maybe if he reads them another half dozen times, his mother’s behavior will start to make sense.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” she finally says as their cab turns onto the highway. “I told you I had your powers when I was pregnant with you.”

“Yeah, but,” Teru stammers, “you never said anything about meeting other moms like that. And Shigeo’s never mentioned that; I don’t even think he knows. And you saw them. You saw his powers–” His brows furrow. “Why didn’t you ever get in contact with the other kids from that group? I thought I was alone….”

“I told you, Teru, the mothers were insufferable. We never got along, and when we moved back to Japan it had already been seven years. I doubt they even remembered me.”

“Mrs. Kageyama seems to.”

“Wonder of wonders.”

He breathes out through flared nostrils; sucks in another breath through gritted teeth; lets it out again through his nose.

“Teru, I don’t know what– are you crying?”

“You told me I was special.”

“I did, and it’s true.”

“I thought you meant I was the only one.”

“Well, it’s hardly my fault if you misinterpreted me.”

“I WAS SEVEN!” he barks, throat hoarse and raw. “I was seven when we moved here, and you knew people I could’ve talked to.” The flurry of memories, both real and imagined, nearly chokes him. 

“Teru, I can’t even find your godforsaken birth certificate, do you honestly think I kept any of their numbers?”

“Why can’t you find my birth certificate, mom?” he snaps, voice rising despite the presence of a third audience member in the vehicle, the driver who has kept his eyes on the road like a devout priest. “Why isn’t it in that ginormous Chanel bag of yours, or– or at home in France or something? Y’know, with the rest of the important documents you have to have.”

“I don’t know, you were born nineteen years ago, and the last time I saw it was when I used it to get you registered for school here. That’s how I know it’s here, in this country.”

“Right, and you don’t have any copies.”

“I need the original.”

“Just order it again! Doesn’t the government keep those records?”

“I’m leaving in two days, I’ll remind you, Teru, and I need it soon.”

“Whatever. You’re right. You’re leaving in two days, so none of this matters, anyway. My life will go back to normal then.”

They’re plunged into icy silence again, but this time, Miharu doesn’t move other than to gaze out the window at the passing landscape. Teru doesn’t wait for her to pay the taxi driver when they get home, storming up the stairs into his studio and slamming the bathroom door shut behind him. He rotates the shower faucet handle until he could make tea with the water that surges out of the showerhead and throws himself under the stream. The skin on his chest and arms turns red as he’s pelted by sub-boiling water, but he doesn’t move other than to curl up in a ball in a corner of the tub.

Japan is hectic and loud. Cleaner than Croissant City, but marked by signs everywhere he can’t read. He clings to his mother’s hand as they leave the airport, his other fist wrapped tightly around his child-sized luggage. It rumbles after them, a drum roll of suspense for whatever his birth country is going to offer.

–

“And he speaks Japanese, of course,” the receptionist lady at his new school surmises. She’d smiled at him when he came in with his mom and gestured for him to take a candy from a bowl on her desk.

“Of course. We speak Japanese at home, and he speaks French with his father’s side of the family. And I had a tutor work with him on his Japanese as well.”

Teru squints at the candy wrapper, mouthing the katakana as he processes them.

Me… ro… n…

“Any English?”

“We had him work with an English tutor this past year, but not as much, just the basics. We know Worcestershire has a solid English program, so we weren’t too worried about it.”

Gu… mi…

“The blond hair is natural?”

“Yes, and he’s not dying it, so get that thought out of your head. If he comes back home with black, I’ll burn this place down myself.”

“Oh, dear. It’s policy to ask. Students should have natural hair colors, though if that’s how it naturally grows in, he should be fine.”

“Good.” His mom rubs circles along his shoulder blades and he looks up at her. She’s still trained her laser focus on the receptionist lady, who fidgets underneath the searing heat of her intense scrutiny. “Teru,” his mom finally says, turning her attention to him. “Are you excited for your new school?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. The candy wrapper crinkles in his grasp.

–

His classmates burn holes into the back of his head. They whisper about him when they think he’s not listening and speak to him slowly when they notice that he is.

“ Hello ,” they snort and giggle in English. One of the boys summons up the courage to add: “ You… speak… Japanese ka?”

“Stupid!” one of the girls admonishes. “They don’t use ka in English.”

“I don’t speak English,” Teru answers instead.

“Oooh, his Japanese is pretty good,” another one of the boys laughs. “Where are you from? New York?”

“I’m not American,” he replies, and returns his attention to his workbook.

“Hey, new kid,” another student hisses a week later, tossing paper ball after paper ball at his shoulders and upper back. “Hey. My older brother needs help with his English homework. Can you, like, look at his notes or something?”

“I don’t speak English,” he repeats, rubbing at the spot where the last paper ball landed.

The kid screws his lips up like he’s caught a whiff of something awful. “Seriously? You think you’re too good for my brother?”

“No, I mean my English really isn’t that–”

“Hanazawa-kun, Ohira-kun, enough chatter,” their math teacher interrupts. “Ohira-kun, thank you for volunteering. Would you please answer question number eight?”

Ohira flings a venomous glare at Teru.

–

“Mom?” Teru finds his mother smoking out on the balcony early Wednesday morning before school.

“Oh, Teru,” she says, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Good morning. What are you doing up?”

“Can I call Auntie Claire?”

“Why do you– oh, crap,” she mutters underneath her breath, snuffing out the cigarette. “It’s your birthday. Teru! Come here,” her tone shifts to sickly-sweet, opening her arms wide. “Happy birthday.”

He obliges, allowing himself to get enveloped in his mother’s embrace before pursuing the topic again. “Can I? Call Auntie Claire?”

“It’s the middle of the night in France, dear,” Miharu tuts, squeezing him tighter to her chest. His nose wrinkles; she smells of tobacco this early in the morning, when he’s usually asleep. “They’re all snuggled in bed. You don’t want to wake them.”

“Oh.” He tucks his chin so he’s not suffocated by his mother’s tar-infused robe. “When will they wake up?”

“Listen,” she says, pulling him away and patting his head. The movement is stiff and robotic. “Go to school and I’ll have something yummy for you when you get back. Then we can see about getting in contact with your cousins in the evening. How does that sound, darling?”

“Okay,” he shrugs, considers what he should say, how he should say it, if he’s even allowed to say it. “I don’t think I like Japan that much,” he admits, quiet, ashamed.

“Nonsense,” Miharu waves a hand, reaches for the cigarette box on instinct, drops it. “You were born here. What’s not to like?”

–

He scribbles the French flag in his notebook with the colored ballpoint pens his mother had bought for him while he was at school on his birthday. The nibs roll across the paper like water, and he’s immersed in his doodling when a flurry of movement and a “helloooo” interrupts his concentration.

He glances up from his defaced notebook to see Kitada-chan bent over his desk, peering at the rough sketches of French paraphernalia that border his science notes.

“What are you doing?”

“Um… drawing,” he answers. She takes a bite of her pocky and points at the flag.

“What flag is that?”

“The French flag.”

Kitada frowns; it’s the same expression Ohira had three days ago – like Teru is eating tuna and natto all in one.

“You don’t have to lie about where you’re from, you know.”

“I’m not. I mean – my mom says I’m from here, but I grew up–”

She stabs her fingernail at the flag. “The French flag doesn’t have green on it. Even I know that.”

“That’s not green…”

“Whatever. I was gonna try to be friends with you, but I don’t wanna be friends with a liar.”

She marches back to her gaggle of girlfriends and Teru’s left to ponder his pens he no longer feels so thrilled to use.

–

Someone leaves half a baguette on his desk the day after. It’s deformed and crumbling all over the wooden desktop, like it had been smushed into that same mysterious person’s bag and dumped unceremoniously on his property. He ignores the snickering as he disposes of the bread and wipes his desk clean.

“What is it, hon?” Miharu sighs that same night when he approaches her in her home office. She’s nursing a glass of wine and a headache, if the bottle of painkillers and the way she’s holding her forehead are any indication of his mother’s wellbeing.

“Mom,” he starts and doesn’t finish, shuffling his feet as he waits for his mother to pursue the topic for him.

“What is it, dear? Mommy’s got a ten o’clock deadline,” she prompts, removing a pen from where it’s entrenched in her nest of dyed honey blonde hair and etching out a quick design on her oversized roll of plotter paper.

“When can we go back home?”

“What do you mean? We are home,” she says, erasing the last line she drew and shoving her hand into the desk drawer until it comes out with a ruler.

“To Croissant City,” he explains.

“Why do you want to go back there? You don’t like your school?” she asks, dragging the ruler across the smooth surface of the paper and drawing straight, rigid lines.

He shakes his head no.

“Speak up, dear. Use your words, mommy’s busy.” She hasn’t lifted her head from her project since he came into the room.

“No.”

“Why? The other kids bullying you or something?”

He nods.

“Words, Teru, please.”

“They don’t think I’m French or Japanese. And no one wants to be my friend.”

“Have you used your powers yet?”

He shakes his head before remembering she can’t see him. “No.”

“Well then, what are you waiting for? How many times do I have to tell you, Teru, that you’re special? Show them what you’re capable of, and I can’t think of a single person who would look down on you after that. You’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand.” Her pencil slips in her grasp, creating a wobbly line. “Ack, just typical,” she growls underneath her breath, flipping the pencil around and erasing the mistake.

His mother’s attention fully engrossed in her work, Teru takes the cue that the conversation is over and returns to the living room.

–

Teru shuffles into the classroom on Monday with his head down. He crams his books into his desk and lays his head on his arms, blocking out the world around him until their homeroom teacher saunters in and addresses the class. 

His powers flicker underneath his fingernails and between his fingers as he toys with his pencil all day. It flips around and around his index finger like a perpetual motion machine, imbued with the nervous energy he’s been accruing all weekend.

No one notices. He doodles a crude goldfish in the margin of his notebook, the kind that’s just an infinity symbol with a straight edge for the tailfin. He dots an eye next, then runs his pencil over the main oval body until it resembles a dorsal fin. His cousin Jean had kept a goldfish for a while; he’d forget the existence of that poor animal until several days had passed and he’d toss an entire bottle of fish flakes as repentance for starving it. He would tap at the glass as it ate, the fish desperate for sustenance and powerless to stop the shockwaves.

The peace in Teru’s bowl is disturbed right at the end of lunch.

He’s returning from the bathroom with five minutes to spare when he opens the door to Class 1B to see Ohira standing at the entrance, arms crossed and smirking.

“Excuse me,” Teru says, attempting to duck through when Ohira shifts to the side to block his way again.

“Hang on,” he holds a hand up. “I need the password.”

“Password? I don’t have a password,” Teru replies, weaving to the right. Ohira side steps and his path is cut once more.

“Then I guess you can’t get in.”

“I don’t care about the stupid password,” he whines.

“C’mon, it’s not that hard,” the other boy teases. “Just try to guess the word I’m thinking of.”

“No.”

Ohira clicks his tongue. “Do you need help? Do you want me to give you a dictionary?”

Ohira’s body ragdolls as he’s thrown across the room in a flash of bright, yellow light. He hits the far wall and crumples onto the ground, conscious but gasping for the breath knocked out of his lungs.

Twenty-some students stare at Teru as he enters the room unhindered, but he pays them no mind.

“Was that the password?” he shrieks, watching the other boy clamber onto his knees, his fearful eyes trained on him. “Was that it? Wait–” Teru lifts an arm, a movement which causes Ohira to flinch, but in lieu of attacking him, the books in the class 1A library rattle and rumble until a children’s dictionary flies loose and zips to a stop before his nose. Some of the other children scream but he pays them no mind. The book’s pages flip on their own, coming to indiscriminate stops as he reads out loud the easiest hiragana he can decipher without sounding stupid.

“River? Carrot? Snake? No? Hairbrush? What is it then?”

Ohira shakes his head, lips trembling as he mumbles, “nothing. It was nothing. Sorry.”

“Whatever,” Teru scoffs, relieving his power’s grip on the book. It falls with a resounding slam on the ground, but his frustration and self-hatred don’t let go of him quite so easily, so the pinpricks of energy return to his palms and he catapults Ohira’s desk against the blackboard. “Find somewhere else to sit.”

–

A couple of girls from one of the other classes walk up as he’s untying his shoes the next morning. They gawk at him for a bit before one girl elbows the other and she steps forward, bowing a bit as she whispers conspiratorially: “we heard you’re an esper.”

“Oh. Yeah,” he says, tucking the shoes into his cubby and exchanging them for his uwabaki. “What about it?”

“Can you show us?” her friend pipes up.

“Sure…” he hesitates, scrutinizing the way the two girls giggle nervously behind their hands. He pulls out the shoes he just put away and holds them out. The shoelaces slither to life and wind themselves into two perfect bow knots.

“Cool!”

“That’s amazing.”

Warmth floods him, acting as a salve to the pain he’s not yet old enough to put into words. All he knows is that this is the first interaction with a peer that didn’t involve his blond hair or western features and he craves more.

“Yeah, it’s, you know,” he shrugs, “it’s easy.”

The same girl who’d first approached him leans forward again and asks: “what else can you do?”

–

The climate around his presence changes dramatically. Students clamor to see him use his powers for menial tasks and lose their minds over a floating notebook or two. They approach him during lunch or recess or after school to request he use his powers to pull pranks on the other kids or to steal a bag of chips from the convenience store. He ignores the stupid ideas and indulges the harmless ones; eventually, some of the classmates he rejected return with bribes and he appeases their requests, too.

Not everyone appreciates his presence, but those that don’t give him a wide berth. Ohira avoids him, going so far as to duck down random hallways to avoid passing him. Another kid tries to pants him and ends up glued to the ceiling for it, which quashes any other talks of humiliating the foreign esper kid.

The rest comes naturally. He flies to school, touching ground in the courtyard where everyone can see him, finishes first in every race and athletic competition, steals the upper grade teachers’ test results and sells them to the fourth and fifth graders. If it’s been a week or two since someone last cooed over his powers, he summons them to float his desk or to teleport across the room and back – fast enough the teachers don’t notice, their backs turned to the students, but his classmates definitely do.

–

“Teru!” his mother shouts and claps her hands one afternoon while he’s watching TV and sipping on a juice box. “Wonderful news,” she announces, stepping in front of him so she’s blocking his view.

“Mom, I can’t see,” he complains, but she ignores him, bending down so she’s at his height.

“Mommy found a new friend for you. What do you think about that?”

“I have friends,” he says, leaning on his elbow to try and peek around her. The protagonist shouts his super special move he’s been saving for the last three episodes and Teru bites his lip in frustration.

“This one’s an esper. Just like you!”

Suddenly the anime doesn’t hold his interest anymore.

“What?” he asks, barely gasping out the question in shock.

There’s a knock on the door and Miharu moves to answer it, swaying on her feet in excitement. “That’s him now!”

“What? Wait– mom, you didn’t tell me–” He scrambles to get up, but it’s too late, and his mother has already opened the door.

“Welcome! Come in, come in, make yourselves at home,” she gushes, ignorant of his panic. Teru streaks out of the living room and into the foyer, skidding to a stop at the sight of their unscheduled guests.

Shigeo.

A faceless mother and a seven-year old Shigeo stand on the other side of the threshold, waiting for Miharu to finish prattling on about the house and the furniture and her special, special son.

Shigeo doesn’t appear to be listening. He’s peering at their house through the bangs of his bowl cut – and how long has it been since Shigeo had that hair style? – his dark eyes moving from side to side as though searching for something.

“Hi,” Teru squeaks when his mother has to stop talking so she can take a breath. “I’m Teru. I can– I can move stuff with my mind, too.”

Shigeo crinkles his nose, but doesn’t respond. His mom stands motionless, a mannequin dressed in drab, indistinct clothing.

“Um–” Teru glances around, remembers the juice box he’s still holding in his hand, holds it up. “Look, see?” The plastic straw shines bright yellow and unscrews itself from the opening, dipping up and down in midair. “I can do more stuff, too, like teleporting really, really fast and– and I just learned how to fly…”

Shigeo screws his eyes shut, opens them again, glowers at him. His knife-sharp pupils slice straight through Teru, leaving him chopped and peeled, his soul exposed to the open air.

“Mom,” Shigeo speaks at last. He tugs on his mother’s sleeve. “I don’t like him. Can we go home?”

--

He startles awake to cold water spraying his face and lapping at his legs. The temperature in the bathroom has plummeted significantly in the time he’s dozed off and he rubs at the goosebumps on his arms, cringing at the thought of having to finish washing up in frigid water. He hurriedly runs through his routine before escaping the shower’s polar grasp and wrapping himself in a towel.

It’s quiet when he emerges, still only in a towel because he hadn’t had the foresight through his anger to bring a change of clothes, but his mother isn’t anywhere to be found. A fact he should have expected –  if she’d been around, she would have barged in or slammed on the door complaining of his egregious waste of water.

There’s a handwritten sticky note on the kitchen counter with his mother’s scrawled handwriting. He snatches it, reads it, then crumples it and tosses it into the trash.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I needed a goddamn break from you anyway.”

Despite his bitter declaration, there’s still another six and a half hours before he’s due to go anywhere, and his impromptu nap means he’s now too energized to lie down and slack off.

He coordinates an outfit, then another, swaps out blue jeans for black slacks, tries on a tie, decides it’s too formal, reconsiders the dress shirt he chose. He’s certain Shigeo would like the ruffles, but his parents might be too traditional to embrace his eclectic tastes, and the sudden memory of his mother’s admission that Mrs. Kageyama has met him before has him collapsing onto his bed with a groan.

He beats a fist against his forehead, thunk thunk thunk, rattles the anxious thoughts that refuse to leave him be. His fingers itch to toy with his phone, to text the one person he always seems to turn to whenever life weighs on him.

I don’t have anything to wear tonight

It takes Shigeo four minutes to respond, time Teru spends nervously scrolling on Mobtter through glazed eyes, absorbing none of it.

Your wardrobe is five times bigger than mine

Affection washes over him, muffles his rising panic attack, allows him some respite.

None of it’s good enough. I don’t know if your parents would like any of my fashion choices.

Just wear some nice jeans. My parents aren’t the type to notice that stuff.

Teru lets out a shaky breath.

Hey , he starts typing, deletes it, retypes it again.

Hey, did you ask your mom how she knows my mom exactly?

Yeah. She said they met at a support group for women pregnant with esper kids.

Teru rolls up onto his elbows.

You knew that already?

That your mom had your powers when she was pregnant with you?

Oh. Yeah, my mom told me when I was little. Did you not know that?

No, I did. I thought you didn’t.

I did, I just forgot. It’s been a while since my mom and I talked about it.

“Like my mom would ever let me forget,” Teru gripes. He drops the phone on the mattress and draws his attention to the mountain of clothing heaped onto the foot of his bed.

I’m gonna go get ready now 

He shoots off the final text and returns to the task of making himself as presentable as he can, diving through the ocean of garments he’s amassed over the course of the afternoon.

–

“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Kageyama,” he coughs, bows, straightens his back again. “My name’s Hanazawa Teruki, I’m a first year at Seasoning City University, and it’s a pleasure to meet you!”

His reflection provides no feedback.

Too formal, and they already know my name, he decides, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, straightens his suit jacket. He’d erred on the side of caution and pulled together a simple dress shirt and pants combination paired with a lapis blue jacket reminiscent of his old middle school uniform. It’s oddly superstitious of him, but he can’t help but feel at least a little comforted wearing something similar to when they first met. The tie his mother picked out the day before rests on his chair, Teru not quite ready to pull it on yet.

He sucks in a breath, clears his throat, starts over.

“Yo, I’m– nooooooooo ,” he groans, sliding his hands down over his face. “Why would I say that?”

He holds out a hand, takes it back. Shigeo was always pretty traditional, his parents are probably traditional too, he assesses. Bow it is. How deep? Would once be enough or would he need to bow to each parent?

He tries another bow – too deep – then another – much too shallow and he hesitated on his ascent – another – another – another –

“Teru, what the hell are you doing?”

He barks out a scream, whipping around to see his mother leaning against the doorway to his bedroom, a lit cigarette perched between her fingers.

“Mom, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You were too busy, I suppose. Looking like one of those little dippy birds,” she says, rotating her wrist as she parades across the room and pauses at his table. “Good to know you’re not a smoker,” she comments at the presumed lack of an ashtray. “Inconvenient for me though,” she adds, taking another drag, then sliding the window open and flicking the cigarette out the opening.

“It’s called a bow, mom, they do that here,” Teru replies, ignoring her blatant littering.

“I am Japanese, lest you forget, dear,” she says, returning her attention to his table. “Are you planning on wearing this?” Her hands play with the silk tie, wrapping the fabric around her wrist as she flips it from front to back.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Nothing. It’s a good choice.” She crooks her index finger at him to come forward – a flagrant unJapanese gesture for someone who just claimed to have come from this country – and he obeys, squaring his shoulders and facing her.

Miharu wraps the tie around his neck again, loops the knot, tightens it. She smells of nicotine and tar this time, and he resists the instinct to recoil.

“There,” she announces when she’s done, patting him on the chest. “Handsome, like always.”

He pinches the soft fabric, contemplating the way the silk reflects the fluorescent lighting as she paces past him and up to her as-of-yet unpacked suitcase.

“Well, I suppose I better get ready myself. Wouldn’t do to look worse than my son,” she sighs, rummaging through her luggage. “Maybe I’ll try out one of the new dresses I bought,” she tacks on with a murmur.

“Did you– ugh, mom, I’m still here. ” He winces, averting his gaze from his now half naked mother.

“What? Oh, please. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

I hate her. I hate her. I hate her, he repeats in a mantra, skimming through social media on his phone to keep from accidentally burning his retinas again.

“Did you find my birth certificate?” he asks, favoriting a ramen recipe on his timeline.

There’s a pause before his mother responds, and he’d have looked up at her if he wasn’t afraid of what he’d see. “Not yet. You’ll have to help me tomorrow again. It’s my last day.”

“Okay,” he replies, sucking on his lip. “I’ll be gone tomorrow evening, though, so it’ll have to be early in the day.”

“Is that so?” Miharu hums, but doesn’t question why. “I suppose it will. Teru, zip me up?”

Released from his ocular prison, he swings his body around to see his mother standing with her back turned to him, clad in an extravagant floral print peplum. He sets his phone aside, about to walk over to her before remembering who made the request in the first place and having the fastener zip itself with a twitch of his wrist.

“Thank you, dear,” Miharu says, popping a makeup kit out of her bag – one of several, to be sure – and rotating the mirror he’d been bowing to earlier. “Are you ready?” she asks, rounding her lips to an O as she applies a shade of apple-colored lipstick.

“I– yeah, I am, I guess,” he stammers, his nerves from that entire afternoon rising once more. His palms feel sweaty and he grips his pants legs, and he can’t find it in himself to stay angry with his mother with the more pressing issue at hand. Try as he might, she always seems to wheedle her way out of any sort of confrontation.

His dream hasn’t ceased haunting the depths of his mind, anyway.

“Wonderful,” she smacks her lips, tilts her head this way and that, and, satisfied with her appearance, shuts her makeup kit with a snap. “Let’s get going, then.”

–

The Kageyama family residence rests halfway down an innocuous street in the center of Salt District’s middle-class neighborhood. It’s identical to the houses on its left and right, but it belongs to Shigeo and Ritsu and his parents, and if he was blindfolded and forced to pin a thumbtack on a map, he’d hit it every time.

His mother jabs her thumb against the doorbell, three seconds longer than polite company probably should. He shifts his weight and hugs close the wine bottle he’s carrying. His fingernails chip at the label before he catches himself and manages to stop his nervous fidgeting.

Shigeo comes out first, to his immense relief, and Teru keeps his eyes trained on his boyfriend’s reassuring smile when Mrs. Kageyama follows right after.

“Hey,” Shigeo’s soft monotone soothes the tension in his muscles and he envelops him in a hug.

“Hana-chan,” Miharu sweeps past as Shigeo unlocks the front gate, and it’s the first time Teru gets a good look at his partner’s mother.

She’s about the most motherly mother he’s ever seen; he’s pretty sure he’s witnessed at least three or four dozen Mrs. Kageyamas in malls and parks and middle school graduations, holding toddlers’ hands and bringing forgotten bento boxes to administration offices – and yet, she fits seamlessly into the puzzle of Shigeo’s life.

“Look at you. It’s so nice to see you again,” Miharu crows. She grips Hanako by the shoulders and leans in, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. “Dear, don’t panic, but your hair needs a touch-up.”

“I don’t dye my hair.”

His mother’s eyes widen. “You’re saying the gray is a choice, then?”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Hanazawa-san.” Hanako gives Miharu a tight-lipped smile before switching gears and redirecting her attention to Teru. “You must be Teruki-kun.”

He inhales deeply, willing his pulse to slow and his heart to settle. He lines his feet so they’re pointing straight ahead and bows at a perfect ninety degree angle.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extends the wine bottle. “We brought this for you and your family. It’s a 1994 Chateau Margaux. We hope you enjoy it.”

“Oh, my,” Hanako says, though she accepts the gift. “You certainly didn’t have to. We’re just happy to finally meet Shigeo’s partner. He was being so secretive about you.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Shigeo mutters, a light dusting of red creeping over his cheeks, and Teru has to keep his heart from kicking up again.

“You were being shy, then,” Hanako concedes with a grin and a shake of her head that betrays more to the story about Shigeo’s prior willingness to divulge information. “Well, in any case, it’s wonderful to meet you, too,” she continues, dropping the topic in lieu of refocusing on Teru. “You’re a handsome young man.”

“Did you expect anything less?” Miharu butts in, hands on her hips and a knowing smirk plastered across her face. “He’s been a model kid since he was a baby.”

Teru’s stomach twists.

“I can’t argue with that,” Mrs. Kageyama admits before addressing Teru again, and he waits for the dreaded I’ve known you since you were a baby talk, the kind that distant family members like to rub in full-grown teenager’s faces, ignorant of how little it matters, how much he’s changed.

“Well, why don’t we get out of this heat, then? Dad and Ritsu and setting the table. Are you hungry?”

“S-starving,” he stutters.

–

The smell of curry roux and garlic entices him into the main room, makes his stomach growl in a reminder that he actually probably really is hungry, though he’s too stressed to feel it. Ritsu nods at him over the half dozen glasses he’s hefted into his arms. Teru nods back.

“Welcome, welcome!” Mr. Kageyama shouts, dropping the last spoon onto the table with a clatter in his eagerness to greet them. His features are a closer match to Shigeo’s than that of Hanako’s, given his rounder face shape. “Hanazawa-san, hey, you haven’t aged a day! What a coincidence to run into each other like this again, huh?”

“Yes, quite, um…” Miharu hesitates. “Yosh–”

“Taro. My name’s Taro.”

“Right. Fancy that.”

“Hello, Mr. Kageyama,” Teru bows as practiced. “I’m Teruki. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“They brought wine, Taro,” Hanako says, holding the bottle like it’s a prize she won for best son’s boyfriend. “I hope it pairs well with the curry.”

“Does it have mushrooms in it?” Teru’s mother asks, but her question is drowned out by Taro’s enthusiastic exclamation.

“Oh, that’s the good stuff, isn’t it? And here I thought our sake might impress them,” he guffaws, like he’s said some sort of joke. Maybe he has and Teru’s missed it. “It’s an honor to meet you, too, Teru-kun. It’s an honor to meet anyone who can make my boy happy.”

Teru’s eyes sting and he blinks away any evidence of tears. “Y-yeah.”

“Ritsu, introduce yourself,” Hanako hisses as she sweeps away into the kitchen.

“I was going to,” he hears Ritsu grumble with a glare at his mom before his facial expression resets into a textbook smile. He bows. “Welcome to our home. I’m Kageyama Ritsu, nii-san ’s younger brother.”

“You really did have a second one,” Miharu remarks to Hanako, who’s just returned with a bowl of edamame. “Well,” she adds to Ritsu: “Thank you for hosting us. I imagine you had no choice in this affair.”

“Oh, I’d always choose to meet nii-san ’s boyfriend’s family,” Ritsu says, and coming from anyone else, that would have sounded like a warm-hearted compliment. But having known little bro for as long as he has, he can’t avoid hearing the veiled threat hidden in his words.

“The curry’s almost finished. Please, seat yourselves, make yourselves comfortable,” Hanako claps her hands and gestures for Shigeo to sit at one of the end chairs. Teru grabs the corner seat next to his, his mother directly to his right, leaving Ritsu in the unfortunate position of having to take the other chair at the head of the table right by Miharu.

He watches Shigeo reach across the table to grab a fistful of edamame and plop them on his plate. It’s endearing, and he itches to pluck one from him, but his hands are shaking far too much to reveal them to the company in the room with them.

“What have you been up to in these past twenty years, Hanazawa-san? Are you still designing outfits?” Hanako asks, scooching her chair in across from Teru.

“Of course, dear, how could I do anything else?” Miharu picks an edamame pod between her dainty fingernails. She pops out one of the beans. “France has been a lot more receptive to my tastes than Japan could be.” Out pops another. “And you? Busy being a mother?”

“Growing up they could be a handful sometimes,” Hanako says. “But now that they’re older I have so much free time I’m not sure what to do with myself. This one’s always gone,” she ruffles Shigeo’s hair who dodges a little too late, “and that one’s always locked in his room.” She points at Ritsu.

“I’m studying,” Ritsu protests.

“I know, I know. He’s worried about entrance exams,” she explains. “He’ll be fine though, won’t you, Ritsu?”

“If I can master calculus before February.”

“There, see? He’ll get into the best university and we’ll be all alone.” She squeezes Taro’s arm, who’s currently stuffed his mouth full of edamame.

“They weren’t so bad when I took them,” Teru dares to contribute, finally scooping up a couple of edamame pods. “Ritsu’s smarter than even me, and that’s saying something.” He sweeps a hand through his carefully-coiffed hair.

“What are you going to school for?” Hanako questions, and maybe he shouldn’t have spoken up because now all Kageyama eyes are on him and it’s bad for his blood pressure.

“Education.”

“Education?” His mother’s voice rises.

“Yeah.” He shrugs off the embarrassment of his own mother not knowing his profession. “I kinda had a tough time growing up and I wanted to help change that for kids now. Be a positive influence. Plus I’d say I’m pretty good at tutoring Shigeo.”

“That’s wonderful,” Hanako says. A timer dings and she stands. “Oh. That’s the curry. Taro, leave some edamame for our guests.”

“Oops,” Taro gulps. “Sorry. I like my vegetables.” He rubs the back of his neck and laughs.

Teru shakes his head and gives the man the most dazzling grin he can summon. “It’s no problem, sir. I’m saving my appetite for the curry.”

“A smart man,” Taro states, snatching one last edamame before his wife returns with the large pot of curry.

“Alright, it’s hot, so be careful,” she warns, beginning to pour a helping into Teru’s bowl, then Miharu’s.

“Do you need help?” he offers, about to stand but Hanako tuts at him to stay put.

“Thank you, Teru-kun, but it’s fine. Just enjoy the meal.”

“It… smells delightful.” Miharu scoops up a spoonful, regards it with a discerning look. “What brand is it?”

“Oh, I made it from scratch.”

“Of course. I usually order curry at this fantastic Japanese place in Mille-Feuille, if you ever come to Croissant City you have to go, I’ll take you there.”

“Thank you, Hanazawa-san, I appreciate the offer. Maybe when both of the kids are finally out of the house we can travel outside the country,” Hanako replies, placing a hand over Taro’s.

Miharu nods, a flicker of a frown marring her meticulous face.

“Well, dig in, everyone. Enjoy.”

“This is delicious, ma’am,” Teru says after the first bite; it is good, probably – his nerves have dulled his taste buds along with his sense of hunger, but if the smell is any indication, Shigeo’s parents don’t have any need for Japanese restaurants in Mille-Feuille. He turns to Shigeo. “You never told me your mom was this good at cooking.”

Shigeo blinks at him with a blank expression and tips his head to the side.

“Thank you, Teru, I appreciate that,” Hanako says, suddenly snapping her fingers. “Oh! We’ll need a corkscrew for this, won’t we?” she asks, grabbing the wine bottle. “Taro, I just sat down, can you get the corkscrew?”

Something jabs his leg and he doesn’t have to look down to figure it’s his mother.

“I can handle that,” he says, reaching his arm out.

Hanako lets out a questioning hum but passes the bottle over. He clamps a fist around the bottleneck. It glows yellow, the color saturating into an increasingly more vibrant amber before the cork rockets into the air with a loud POP. It curves in a perfect arc, landing solidly in the center of Teru’s palm.

“Enjoy,” he says, returning the bottle to the table.

Taro oohs and aahs, clapping his hands at the display. “That’s quite a party trick,” he praises.

Hanako doesn’t react much, only lifts the bottle again and asks Miharu if she wants any. Teru tries not to let it bother him.

“Of course,” his mother replies, pushing her glass forward. “Teru. Teru? Wine?”

“He’s nineteen,” Hanako says, raising an eyebrow.

“Teru can drink. The legal age in France is eighteen, after all. His cousin’s already training to be a sommelier. And besides, what’s one year?”

Teru debates biting his tongue, but his mouth moves almost of its own accord, his charm pushed to the nth degree. “I mostly just drink when I’m over there, ma’am, but it’s alright, if it makes you uncomfortable….”

“It’s a special occasion, I don’t see what’s wrong with letting the kid have a little,” Taro chimes in and Hanako gives him a look.

“You’re a terrible influence,” she admonishes him, though without much heat. “Alright, Teru, if your mother says it’s fine, would you like a little?”

“Sure. If you don’t mind. I appreciate it.”

She pours a couple inches of the dark red liquid into his cup and is about to retract the bottle when another glass slides in from the right.

“Who asked you?” she asks.

“What? He’s getting to drink some,” Ritsu protests.

Hanako’s eyelid twitches but she doesn’t respond, only drizzles what barely qualifies as more than a drop of wine and sets the glass back in front of Ritsu with a warning clink.

“Shigeo?” she sighs.

“Huh? Oh. Um.” Shigeo squirms, discomfort marked in the way he ducks his head and fidgets with his fingers.

“Here,” Teru cuts in, sparing Shigeo from the pressure of making a split second decision. “I’ll pour you some of mine. This is too much for me, anyway.”

“Okay. Thank you, Teru.”

“You’re welcome.” He gives his boyfriend a wink and reaches over underneath the table to pat his knee.

“Now that we’re done with that,” Hanako says, taking a sip of her own cabernet. “Teru, tell us more about yourself. We’ve been dying to meet you.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know that I’m that interesting, to tell you the truth,” he replies. The wine is sweet and sublime and he internally curses his mother for having good taste. “I’m a pretty normal guy. I’m busy with school now, but I like watching romcoms in my downtime. Uh–” he chuckles, he really is going to have to get his blood pressure checked after this. “I like going shopping for new clothes, checking out the season’s fashion trends, y’know. Especially if Shigeo comes with.”

“Oh, I guess that explains…” Hanako trails off.

“He gets it from me,” Miharu adds with no attempt at hiding her pride. “Teru always used to watch me so intently when I’d design my outfits.”

“I liked the colors.”

“And you’ve really grown into it. I’ve seen your wardrobe.” She downs half her glass. “Will those kids you want to teach appreciate it?”

“I’m thinking of being an art teacher,” he supplies.

“Well, that’s something,” she says, staring at what’s left of her maroon liquor as it sloshes around.

“I’ve been speaking with my professors about possibly student teaching at a local school,” he continues, leaping at the chance to talk about aspects of himself that might actually impress someone. “It’s still early, but we can start with observations and assistant teaching and we’ll see if I’m good at it.”

“My sister was a history teacher before she had her kids. Maybe you can talk to her,” Taro suggests.

“Dear, it’s been thirty years.”

Taro laughs. “I guess you’re right! Things have probably changed since then.”

“I’d still love to hear what she has to say,” Teru pipes up. “I could use any advice right now.”

“I’ll mention you to her. Maybe we can have a larger Kageyama family gathering.”

Teru nods, ignoring the way his heart has found its way halfway up his throat at the idea.

“Auntie Hatsumi’s really nice.” Shigeo’s contribution acts as a salve to his growing anxiety and he tamps down the instinct to kiss him.

“And what about you?” Miharu asks Shigeo as she pours herself another glass. “I know my Teru is stellar. What are your plans, Shige-chan?”

Shigeo’s forehead pinches at the nickname.

“I’m gonna be a firefighter,” he says simply.

“Honorable.” The remark is drier than the wine, devoid of real interest. “And what brought that decision on?”

“I want to help people, too. And I’m good at– I like exercising.”

“He can bench press one thirty,” Teru says. And it’s really hot, he thinks, but doesn’t dare voice.

Miharu makes a small noise of acknowledgement. “And your powers?”

“My… powers?” Shigeo parrots. “What about them?”

“I’m sure they’ll come in handy. How have those been coming along? I haven’t seen you use them yet.”

“I don’t use them that much,” he says. “Only when they’re necessary, really. I don’t like to rely on them.”

If Miharu was less concerned with appearances, she would have spit her wine out. Teru watches her swallow it instead with a gobsmacked look on her face.

“Whyever not? Those powers– they’re a gift. You haven’t worked on them with him?” she asks, turning now to Hanako.

“I have a master,” Shigeo clarifies. "He helped me learn how to control them. But I don’t really need his guidance with that anymore.”

“Oh,” Miharu places a hand on her chest in relief. “I see. But you… don’t use them?”

“Sometimes. If my master needs help exorcizing a spirit and his partner’s not around. Stuff like that.”

“What about going to class? Getting things from across the room?”

“I– I get up and walk.”

Miharu’s hands clench around her glass. It’s full again. Teru can’t remember seeing her fill it up a third time.

“What about you?” she redirects to Ritsu. “Are you normal?”

“No,” he says, levitating his spoon.

“You went through that again?” she whips around to Hanako.

Hanako shakes her head. “He didn’t develop his powers until he was thirteen or so. Ritsu, put that down before you twist it.”

“I’m not as good at it as nii-san ,” he says, guiding the spoon into his curry and releasing the energy around it. “But I’m not normal, either.”

“And you use them?” Miharu’s fangs have sunk into the topic like a dog on a drumstick and no amount of tug-of-war will force her to let go.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes…” she repeats to herself, like Ritsu just admitted to personally paying for surgery to remove whatever part of his brain gives him his powers.

“Mom–”

“I thought– didn’t you encourage them to use it? Why wouldn’t–?”

“Hanazawa-san,” Hanako raises a hand to stop her. “I think you have the wrong idea. Shigeo and Ritsu were always welcome to use their powers whenever they wanted to as long as they didn’t break anything. If they don’t feel like they need them, then that’s fine, too.”

“Uh– uh-huh…” she stammers.

“And you?” Ritsu says. “You’re normal, I’m guessing?”

“Oh, I’m the furthest thing from it,” Miharu sighs. “But no, I’m not an esper. Not since Teru was born.”

“So you were never an esper.”

“Hey, this curry was incredible,” Teru interrupts, his knuckles white as he grips at the edge of the table for dear life. “There wouldn’t be seconds, would there?”

“I’m afraid that’s everything that was in the pot,” Hanako replies, peeking into the aforementioned pot. “But we can get started on dessert if you’re still hungry.”

“I’d love that. Thank you very much, ma’am.”

Mrs. Kageyama gets up to wander into the kitchen and Teru lets out a shaky breath. Shigeo’s foot brushes up against his and he slaps on a fresh smile as he makes eye contact with his boyfriend.

“Having a good time, Shigeo?”

“How strong are your powers, then?”

“Oh no,” he whines, twisting around to see his mother accosting little bro again.

“As I recall, your mother could barely contain your older brother’s aura. She struggled so much until I helped her.”

“Well, you and the EMM,” Taro supplies.

“Oh please, those people couldn’t give themselves advice to get out of a paper bag,” she dismisses.

“I can control them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“And what can you do?”

“Telekinesis. Force fields. The usual.” Ritsu’s expression is stone cold neutral and even Teru’s having trouble discerning what his angle is.

“Teleportation? Teru can do that.” She glances at Teru.

“I’m not doing that right now, mom.”

“I’m just saying.” She shrugs.

“No. I’m not that fast,” Ritsu replies. “And I know. I’ve seen him do it.”

Miharu hums, content with that, apparently, and resumes drinking her wine.

The dessert is apple pie, but it might as well be made of sawdust for all he manages to taste through his increasing stress. He sneaks a look at his phone to check the time, hoping against hope that it’s time for them to go home soon.

“Y’know,” his mother speaks again, swirling the wine in her glass. “It’s so nice to see you two again.”

“Likewise, Hanazawa-san,” Hanako answers courteously.

“Look at you. What a happy family,” she slurs. “Two sons. A loving husband. It’s so, so nice to see you still with Yo– Ta–”

“Taro.”

“Yes.”

“How’s your husband, Hanazawa-san?”

“Oh, he’s fantastic,” she waves a hand. “He just sold a wedding dress for three hundred thousand euros. Can you believe that?”

Taro snorts in shock.

“Wow. That’s– that’s a significant amount of money,” Hanako comments.

“Yes. Well. He’s very success– successful.” Her other hand twitches and a splash of wine splatters onto the table. “Oh, dear. Teru?”

“Yeah. I got it.” He lifts a finger and the puddle bubbles up into the air. It bobs about until it finds purchase in his napkin and soaks itself into the paper square.

“Anyway. As I was saying–” She pauses, head bent over, staring at the middle distance between herself and the table, then, just as quickly, snaps back to the present. “He’s got quite the company over there.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Hanako says.

“Oh– that– that reminds me.” Miharu hauls her beagle-sized purse onto her lap and digs around its contents. “I brought something for you.”

“Oh, Hanazawa-san, you didn’t have to. The wine was enough–”

“Shush, dear, it’s not what you think it is.” She grabs ahold of the mystery item lodged within the depths of her void-like bag and whips it out, dropping it with a loud slap in front of Hanako.

It’s a magazine. 

“Turn to the page I have dog-eared,” Miharu orders.

Hanako’s gaze flicks to Miharu, then to the magazine, but she obeys.

“Oh my goodness.”

Taro leans over, curious, his own jaw dropping at what he sees.

“Look at that. Those are the ones you took, right?” he asks Hanako.

“What is it?” Shigeo straightens up.

“Well, they’re photos that I took nineteen years ago,” she explains, folding the magazine over so the dog-eared page is in plain view as she passes it to Shigeo.

Teru’s heart plummets.

“Is that you, Mrs. Hanazawa?”

It is her. It’s her and it’s him, too, and it’s only the facade of the perfect boyfriend he has to maintain that keeps him from leaping over the dining room table like an enraged animal and ripping the magazine to shreds.

“How far along were you then? Do you remember?” Hanako questions, flipping to the next page. Oh God, there’s more of them.

“Twenty-one weeks,” Miharu answers with misplaced pride.

The spread displays a collage of photos of his mother in assorted outfits he has no doubt she designed herself. This would have been benign if it weren’t for the baby bump she sports in every single picture.

“So that’s…” Shigeo starts.

Don’t finish that, don’t finish, don’t finish–

“Teru,” his mother affirms.

“Wait, I wanna see,” Ritsu demands, making grabby hands.

Teru wants to scream. If he could melt into the floorboards, it wouldn’t be enough. He’d need to be vaporized to remove the lingering horror irradiating his body.

Ritsu doesn’t make any remarks, but the creeping grin tells Teru everything.

“Mom, why did you bring that?” he hisses, but Miharu’s too far gone to hear.

“Those are still some of the best photos I’ve had taken of me,” she brags, takes another drink. “Got me a lot of good connections.”

“Really? I didn’t know,” Mrs. Kageyama says.

“I’m telling you, my dear,” she covers her mouth and hiccups. “Wasted talent.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence. I’m honored you think so highly of my photography.”

The magazine makes its rounds before finally stopping in front of Teru. The page drags him in, making him face the reality of his pregnant mother being photographed by Shigeo’s pregnant mother. Miharu is wearing a long, flowing dress in one of the pictures along with a heavy fur coat and a large sun hat. She almost looks the same as she does now, but with less wrinkles and healthier skin. She’s posed so that her belly is protruding, one hand placed against her lower back and the other above her stomach, and any lingering hopes of being adopted dissipate along with his pride.

“Keep it,” Miharu says. “I don’t need it.”

“Are you sure?” Hanako frowns. “You’ve kept it for so long. It seems pretty important.”

“Please, it’s been in a w-warehouse for the past two decades. Add it to your portfolio… or… whatever.” She hiccups again. “Although I’m sure your photography’s improved since then.”

“Well, thank you, Hanazawa-san. I appreciate it,” Hanako replies, taking the magazine and tucking it into her lap and out of everyone’s sight.

To Teru’s relief, the rest of the dinner passes by without too much trouble. Miharu continues to spill random musings and opinions no one asked for, but they’re mostly harmless, and her words gradually wind down to a vague mumble by the time Hanako stands up to gather the plates. Teru keeps his own mask stapled firmly to his face, redirecting the attention from his tipsy mother whenever possible.

“I’ll help,” he offers immediately, summoning the dishes into a neat stack and zipping into the kitchen with the plates perched on his hand.

“Oh, thank you, Teru-kun. You don’t have to–”

“It’s no trouble ma’am, I’m happy to do it.” The faucet turns itself on as the dishes soak themselves in the water and the silverware marches in a single file line off the table and across the middle space towards the sink. He’s squeezing dish detergent into a sponge – with his own hands – when a pressure on his shoulder makes him jump and look up.

“I can take it from here, Teru, thank you,” she says, not unkindly, taking the dish detergent from him and setting it aside. “I’m happy to have met you. I look forward to getting to know you even better. I know your mother is heading back to France soon, but you’ll come back and visit us, won’t you? We’d love to have you again.”

Teru’s soul trembles.

“Y-yes. I– it was great to be here. Everything was amazing,” he stammers.

“You’re a very talented esper. I’m glad Shigeo was able to grow so close to you. I’m sure it means a lot to him.”

“Oh, I don’t know– he’s a lot better than I am.”

“Still. Shigeo struggled a lot growing up, so it’s good he has people he can relate to in his life.”

“Right,” he says, swallowing the bitter truth that it was more Shigeo who helped him than the other way around.

“It looks like your mom is getting ready to go,” she observes, and he glances out to the dining room to see Miharu wobbling on her two feet as she wraps a shawl around her shoulders. “You should go help her. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

He bites his lip and nods, tracing his way back to his mother’s side. She’s rambling about the merits of high-rise jeans when he wraps an arm around Shigeo’s waist and gives him a quick peck on his temple before addressing his mother.

“Hey, mom, we should get out of their hair. I wouldn’t want to keep Shigeo up too late,” he says, squeezing his boyfriend’s hip who turns to give him a faint smile.

“Oh, Teru. You agree with me, right?”

“Sure, mom. We should go, though.”

“Mrs. Hanazawa, will you two need a ride home?” Taro asks pointedly, though the polite tone in his voice doesn’t falter.

“Don’t bother, I’ll call a taxi.” She shrugs off the offer.

“Let me take care of that. And you’re welcome to sit on the couch while you wait,” he says, pacing over to the landline.

“Well, alright. If you insist,” Miharu sighs, throwing herself onto the aforementioned furniture like a damsel in a film noir. “Teru, come join me.” She pats the spot next to her.

Left without any alternative, he obeys, sitting with his legs held together and hands in his lap. His mother lounges by his side, throwing an arm over the back of the couch while the other hangs off the side of the armrest. Shigeo leaves to join his own maternal figure in the kitchen, to Teru’s disappointment, which is compounded when Ritsu pulls up a chair and plops himself down across from Miharu.

“So you’re a fashion designer.” He says it like he doesn’t believe her, even after the horrifying photos that got passed around halfway through dessert.

“Couldn’t be anything else,” she replies, squinting at Ritsu through alcohol-blurred eyes.

“And you live in France? Like, most of the time?”

“I visit once or twice a year.” 

It’s more like once or twice every other year, but Teru stopped counting a long time ago.

“So you’ll be back in like six months or something?”

“We’ll see. It all depends. Why, are you eager for my company again?” she purrs and Teru grimaces. Ritsu makes eye contact with him for a moment before returning his attention to Miharu.

“No. Just wondering.”

If the comment was meant to prod at her, she doesn't take the bait. Instead she squirms around to look for her bag, which she must have left back by the table because it's not glued to her hip now as it usually is.

“Teru. Teru? Can you get my bag for me? Mommy's feeling a bit woozy and she needs her hand mirror.”

“Yeah. Hang on,” he says, aiming a palm at her purse abandoned two meters away. He catches sight of Shigeo and Mrs. Kageyama behind the kitchen counter. They're talking in hushed tones, Hanako's head bowed towards Shigeo's with a warm, loving look in her dark brown eyes. He watches as she cups a hand over his cheek and he leans into the comforting touch.

Miharu's bag lands square against her chest.

Chapter Text

Teru manages to get up before his mother shakes him awake. It’s still half past sunrise in the morning, but the motivation not to be assaulted by his mom convinces him to roll out of bed and drop onto the empty futon Miharu has left behind. He clumsily grabs his phone and peers at his screen.

There’s a text, but it’s not from Shigeo. It’s from Ritsu instead, sent a mere five hours prior.

your mom’s kind of whack, dude

nice baby pictures, tho

“Great,” Teru sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He unlocks his phone to check his text messages in case Shigeo’s text didn’t register as a notification, but there’s nothing new there. He’s not sure why he expected his boyfriend to text him, but there’s a knot in his chest that won’t budge until he hears back from him.

Good morning

Can’t wait to see you later tonight

He sends off the last message with a kissing emoji and, as if on cue, Miharu slams the bedroom door open, marching straight into his personal space.

“Oh good, you’re awake. Your coffee machine is broken; I’m not sure what’s wrong with it, but the liquid that comes out of it is rancid.”

“It’s just a Nescafe.”

“Ugh,” Miharu shudders. “Nevermind. We can get coffee on our way there. Are you ready yet?” she asks her blatantly crusty-eyed, pajama-clad son.

“No.”

“Come now, Teru. It’s our last day together. We should make the most of it,” she huffs before sweeping out the bedroom.

–

He falls asleep in the taxi. The constant early morning starts paired with having to deal with his headache of a mother catch up to him in the gentle swaying of the semi-public vehicle as they leave the Mobbucks drive-through, turning left, then right, as they weave through traffic. He awakens to the door being opened, his head suddenly supported by nothing but thin air.

“Come, Teru, we’re here.”

“Ngh.”

The air hasn’t heated up yet, lending itself to a more bearable temperature than it has been the past few days. He blinks, trying to orient himself through the haze of interrupted half-dreams.

“Mom. Where are we?”

“Oh, dear. Don’t you recognize this place? We used to come here all the time.”

He squints up at the skyscraper that’s currently hiding the freshly risen sun.

“Dad’s office building?”

“If there’s any place that still has your birth certificate, it’ll be here.”

He doesn’t protest, too exhausted and worn down to argue. At least they won’t be sitting on cold concrete.

The elevator spits them out onto the seventh floor. He really had nearly forgotten this place – out of anger towards his father or just the passage of time, he can’t quite tell. The lobby is smaller than he remembers it being – that, or he’s bigger. Likely the latter, given he hadn’t played one-person hide and seek in his father’s office since he was nine.

The receptionist is on the phone when they enter, fingers flying over her keyboard as she multitasks. She glances up at the two visitors, opening her mouth to tell them to have a seat when recognition lights up in her eyes.

“Excuse me, please hold,” she tells whoever is on the other side of the receiver, hitting a button and standing to give them a bow. “Mrs. Gauthier. A pleasure to see you. Please, have a seat while I call Mr. Matsugi.”

“Thank you, dear,” Miharu purrs, though she makes no move to sit. She takes a sip of her coffee, threading her hand through Teru’s hair, pushing aside his bangs and picking apart a small knot he’d missed in his rush to get ready that morning.

A middle-aged man with glasses enters the lobby soon after, arms locked to his sides as he offers them both another bow. He has more wrinkles around his eyes and forehead than he did ten years ago.

“Mrs. Gauthier. And Teruki-san. What a surprise. We didn’t expect you here today. How was your flight into Japan?”

“Terrible, as always. First class keeps getting smaller.”

“What a shame. How can we help you both?”

“I just want to get access to the backroom, especially my locker.”

“Of course. This way, please,” he says, guiding them into the main office. It’s an enormous space, the interior of which is lined with dozens of open desks. Despite the hour, they’re already occupied by a mix of French and Japanese workers, mostly younger to middle-aged looking men and women scribbling on plotter paper and typing enthusiastically at their computers. The furthest wall is replaced entirely by floor to ceiling windows that face the bustling western neighborhood of Capital City. He can see the sun poking above the concert hall where he’ll be heading with Shigeo later that night. His phone feels heavy in his pocket.

Mr. Matsugi leads them to a door in the corner of the room, gripping the handle and swinging it open for them.

“Ma’am. Sir.”

Miharu hums her approval as they enter. The closet space, still quite large for an office but much smaller than the main area, has a row of lockers pressed up against one of the walls. The rest of the area is packed with racks of clothing, abandoned designs and fabrics deemed unworthy of the Gauthier name.

“Anything else I can do for you two?”

“Not right now. I’ll let you know.”

“Very well. Please seek me out or any of my assistants,” Mr. Matsugi bows again.

“Bye Mr. Matsugi.”

The fifty-some year old man smiles at Teru. The crow’s feet around his eyes crinkle with the genuine expression.

“Alright. Here we go,” Miharu says, extracting a small copper key from her voluminous bag. She inserts it into one of the lockers and it creaks open. A tsunami of clothing tumbles out, spilling at their feet, along with the accumulated dust of years’ worth of abandonment.

Teru sneezes. So does Miharu.

“Oh. What’s this one doing here?” she wonders out loud, picking apart an argyle sweater from the tangled pile. “Not bad. Hold this,” she orders, shoving it into Teru’s arms. He holds his breath, craning his neck to the side so as not to continue breathing in the cloud of floating dirt spores.

The sweater smells of must and disuse. The interior of the locker isn’t much better, though once the rest of the clothing has been emptied out, it starts to look less like a mishap at a wool factory and more like a regular locker.

Underneath it all at the bottom of the locker lies a plastic box. She gives a hup as she lifts the storage container, setting it on one of the blue chairs.

“Fantastic.” She smacks her hands together as if to clean them off and unhooks the lid, revealing multiple manila folders.

“Think it’s in there?” he asks, watching as she takes out one of the folders and begins leafing through it.

“Probably.” Miharu turns to face him, appraising the sweater he’s holding. “Do me a favor. Wear that for me.”

“Now?”

“Well, we don’t have all day.”

He sighs, but decides it’s not worth the fight, and shakes out the sweater. Once it doesn’t ignite his sinuses, he pulls it on, wrinkling his nose as a final dust mite finds its way into his nostrils.

“Done. Mom?”

Miharu looks up from her coveted documents.

“Oh! Hm.” She picks at a piece of lint on his arm. “Try that hat,” she says, pointing at a felt bucket hat hooked on one of the racks.

He returns with the apparel.

“Who made this?” she questions, smacking the folder shut and snatching the hat off his head. “Why’d Laurent reject this? It’s delightful.” She clicks her tongue. “Try that polo over there, the yellow one next to the big coat.”

“Mom! Aren’t you supposed to be looking for proof I exist or something?”

“I’m looking, I’m looking. It’s not that much and I’m sure it’s in here. It’s all that’s left. Come on, do it for your mother.”

“I don’t want to change in here. What if someone walks in?”

“Lock the door,” she answers simply, licking a fingertip as she flips through the papers.

He suppresses a groan but does as she asks, turning the lock with a spark of yellow power and peeling off the sweater and his shirt. To her credit, she does focus on her search while he changes, collapsing onto the only other chair in the room and tucking into a second manila folder.

“Oh, yes! That works very nicely,” Miharu praises when he finishes smoothing out the polo. “Do you want it?”

“Can I just take it?”

“It’s in the reject closet and the entire company belongs to your father anyway. You can have anything you want.”

Unable to argue with that logic, he spots a body-length mirror crammed behind one of the racks and carries it out into the open. It does fit him nicely. Miharu must spot the smile he gives himself in the reflection because she continues: “pick something else. Whatever you like. Put it on and show it to me."

He contemplates his surroundings. There’s a hawaiian shirt tossed haphazardly onto one of the lockers and a pair of neon orange jeans hanging near it. The jeans squeeze worryingly around his waist as he tugs them on. Have I gained weight? he thinks before he can shove that idea out of his head – no. It’s just not the right size. But maybe he and Shigeo can cut down on the eating out for a bit.

Miharu doesn’t give him any verbal input when he returns to stand before her, hands on his (screaming) hips. She just sets down the current stack of documents she’s perusing, her bright blue contacts gazing with intense concentration up and down his frame.

Her fingers hook into the belt loops and yank them skywards. He yelps, diaphragm spasming at the sudden crush of fabric.

“These don’t fit you,” she says.

“Yeah, no shit,” he gasps, shoving a couple of fingers in between his abused midriff and the waistband.

“Then why wear them? Find something else. And watch your language,” she admonishes, sitting and crossing one leg over the other.

“They look cool,” he protests, obeying and taking them off, disguising his sigh of relief as one of exasperation instead.

“Not on you, they don’t. That’s your weakness, Teru. You have wonderful fashion taste, but clothes aren’t only about color and texture. The fit matters, too. The most innovative pair of jeans will look terrible on the wrong person.”

How would you know ? he thinks, the words forming on his tongue when the phantom memory of his old wig settles on his head. That thing had been heavy. And unwieldy. As much as he’d loved the hairpiece, having to duck to walk through entryways hadn’t been the most enjoyable experience.

It’s his mom’s job to know about fashion, he decides, replacing the pair of pants on its hook. That’s how she would know.

The next time he approaches her, she gives him an approving nod. “Better.” She leans forward lanto unbutton the hawaiian shirt, opening the panels to reveal his undershirt, and he catches another noseful of her vanilla and bergamot. “Strut.”

“Strut,” he repeats, monotone.

“Oh, come on. You used to do this for me all the time. Remember?”

He does. No matter the anger, the constant frustration and betrayal that surge and batter him like ocean waves whenever he sees his mother again, he can’t scrub the memory of setting up chairs in the living room and calling her to watch him catwalk down the hall in her fur coat and heels.

It was the only time, outside of when he used his powers, that she’d put her work away and really watch him, coo over his attempts to mimic the models that wore his father’s designs, tell him he looked better than they ever did.

He grips the edges of the shirt. He can’t remember liking clothes before that.

“Fine,” he assents, pushing the racks aside and clearing a narrow space for him to parade down. He starts at the end of the backroom, arms crossed, and face scrunched into an expression of distaste as he takes a measured breath and lets go.

The first few steps are stilted, recalcitrant and awkward, but he gains speed and confidence as he saunters past the lockers. He reaches the end, digs the balls of his feet in the ground, and hits a perfect 180 degree turn, strolling back to the start.

He whips his head around to face his mother again and falters. Miharu is smiling. He’s seen her grin countless times before at customer service representatives and high-class waiters, snort at fat ladies in striped dresses, snicker under her breath at poorly displayed mannequins. But the smile she’s sporting now as she waves at him and directs him to put a hand on his hip is different. It makes his skin crawl and his stomach clench.

The smile reaches her eyes. It makes the corners wrinkle despite the layers of skin lotion she’d slathered on that morning.

“...Teru.”

“Huh– what?” he coughs, unnerved.

“...I think your father’s lost his mind,” she continues, as though he’d been listening the whole time. “Half the things in here are marvelous, and the other half just need a touch up or two.” She chews on her cherry red lip. “Wait here.”

“Mom–”

But she’s already gone, leaving him in the walk-in closet of rejects. He slides the hawaiian shirt off, folding it into a neat square and depositing it on one of the benches; it really does fit him well. Shigeo would probably like it.

He fetches his phone, heart rate spiking at the text notification.

Good morning

Me, too

Are you having a good time with your mom?

His thumbs hover over the keyboard. Yeah, right , he itches to write, but an unfamiliar emotion stays his hand. Before he can analyze the feeling further, Miharu barges into the backroom again with an underpaid intern in tow.

“You can leave them here,” she orders, and he sees the tray of hors d'oeuvres Miharu has somehow managed to get the staff to materialize for her. Two shots of espresso in miniscule ceramic glasses clink along the edge of the silver platter balanced precariously behind the pile of petit fours.

“Lovely, lovely, thank you,” Miharu chirps, already shooing the intern out. “And tell Matsugi-san to bring the gougeres once he finds good quality ones. Well,” she says after she’s locked the door once more. “We’ve got a lot to work with here. Give me that coat.”

–

It doesn’t take long before Miharu whips her phone camera out and begins snapping pictures of Teru mid-stroll in the combination suit/cargo shorts that his father had judged to be too avant garde to fund. He feels he should protest, groan and complain like other teenagers having their photo taken by a parent would, but the camera’s been his friend for as long as his mother hasn’t, and the routine of posing for a picture is more familiar to him than any other interaction he’s had with her so far. So he elongates an arm, tilts his head, angles his hips and flashes his teeth at Miharu’s glitter-coated phone case.

It’s well past lunchtime when she decides they’re finished. There’s three mounds of clothing stacked about the room – the TAKE, the LEAVE, and the BURN pile.

“Are you sure about those loafers?” Miharu asks as she pops the last raspberry pastry into her mouth. “They’re not eye-catching enough, dear. Pretty dreadful, if you ask me.”

“I have a messenger bag it could work well with. And if not…” he says, turning the shoe around. The black leather shines in the fluorescent lighting. “...I can give it to Shigeo as a gift.”

“How sweet.”

Teru runs a tongue over his teeth – hesitates to take his mother’s bait. The cynicism in her voice dangles before him like a worm on a string, makes his stomach wriggle with the frustration she always imparts upon him. We were doing so well, he thinks, clearing his throat and biting out a: “I guess we’re done.”

“It would appear so,” she agrees, taking up the plastic storage container.

“Wait– did you– did you not find my birth certificate yet?” Teru asks, rewinding their morning in his head. “Mom!”

“Oh, relax, dear, I have the rest of the day to go through this box. It’s in here, don’t worry.”

He rubs a hand across his face, takes a deep breath, reminds himself he can just order his own copy later, and scoops up the TAKE pile. “Well, I’m not helping you anymore. I need to get ready for tonight.”

“I know,” she says primly, hooking the loafers off the top of his precarious pile. “C’mon. Might as well get going, then.”

–

Hairdryer. Earrings. Eyeliner. Cologne. Floss. Glitter. Cologne. More?

He grips the porcelain washbasin as he scrutinizes his reflection. His blue eyes stand out in sharp relief against the liquid eyeliner and orange crop top.

Hot , he affirms. Then his ringtone goes off and his pulse skyrockets.

“Why am I like this,” he mutters to himself, hitting the answer button. “Ah, Shigeo. I’m almost ready. I can come pick you up at your place, in like… twenty minutes?” He toys with his bangs. They look better when they’re swooping up, but they won’t obey him today, falling too flat on his forehead.

“Okay. I can wait for you outside. You didn’t answer my questions earlier,” Shigeo steamrolls on, hitting each sentence like it’s a checkpoint on a list.

“Hm? What question?” Teru asks, lifting his pointer finger and emitting a yellow string of energy to his hair. It curls on command, bouncing into a perfect kink.

“If you’re having a good time with your mom.”

“Oh.” All at once, he’s too aware of his maternal figure sitting just outside the bathroom door. “I– I guess.”

Shigeo lets out a concerned hum but doesn’t ask for further clarification. “Ritsu said that he can help you deal with your mom if you ever need it.”

“Really?” Teru nearly gasps. “He seriously told you to tell me that?” It’d taken Ritsu a month before he stopped calling every hour whenever Shigeo came over to hang out. Even now, Teru still has trouble discerning little brother’s attitude at times, despite his own natural talent for reading others.

“No.” Shigeo pauses, then continues: “He didn’t say to tell you that.”

He chuckles. “That makes more sense.” He bites his lip; still, such a caring display from Ritsu seems out of character directed at anyone other than his older brother. “Well then, don’t tell him thanks from me.”

Shigeo’s silence permeates their connection before he utters a confused: “okay?”

“Alright,” Teru snorts, capping his bottle of cologne and returning it to its rightful place in his bathroom cabinet. “I’ll see you in twenty?”

They bid each other a temporary goodbye, forbidden words of affection sticking to Teru’s palate, unable to give voice to them yet. Miharu is sitting at the kitchen table when he emerges, a glass of chardonnay in her hand and a stack of papers spread across the surface of the table.

“Well, don’t you look nice,” she appraises, swirling the sickly-colored liquid around.

“Thanks,” he replies dryly, searching the counter for his wallet. He finds it tossed on top of the microwave oven along with his keys. “I’ll be back later tonight. Don’t wait up for me,” he says as though she has a bedtime.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she responds, her tone just as desiccated as his.

–

Shigeo is waiting outside as promised, playing a game on his phone as Teru approaches. He glances up at him, his soft grin melting Teru’s heart like butter.

“Hey,” Teru says, pulling his boyfriend into a hug. Shigeo’s arms wrapped around his waist are strong and solid. He tucks his face into the crook of Shigeo’s shoulder, savoring the warmth of his skin before sliding up to press their lips together. His boyfriend’s breath smells hot and familiar as they part, and he cups a hand around Shigeo’s jaw, dipping in for one last kiss before finally letting him go.

“Are you okay?” Shigeo tilts his head the way he does when he’s confused and concerned.

“Fine,” he reassures. “Just feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“We saw each other yesterday.”

“I know,” he chuckles, throwing an arm over Shigeo’s shoulders and leading him down the street. “Just feels like longer than that.” He gives him a squeeze. “Nice shirt, by the way. Very fitting for tonight.”

Shigeo tilts his chin down to look at what he’s wearing; it’s a Mob Choir band shirt with the name of the logo pasted across the front in psychedelic font.

“Yeah, I’m really excited for tonight.”

“Me, too,” Teru concurs, forcing the muscles in his back that have been tense since his mother arrived to relax.

–

When Shigeo had arrived at his apartment with a bouquet held in jittery hands, it had taken Teru multiple seconds to stop dissociating and come to terms with the fact that, without any manipulation, coercion, or engineering of his own, he’d somehow used up his stores of luck for the rest of his life. If formerly straight-as-an-arrow Kageyama could fall in love with someone like himself, then either everything was possible or nothing else ever would be. He woke up the next three nights in a cold sweat, fearing the entire confession a fever dream until he’d catch sight of the vase of flowers positioned neatly in the center of his table.

After six weeks of private existential crises, he’d finally mentally settled into his role as Shigeo Kageyama’s boyfriend, along with all that entailed. The world hadn’t crumbled in on itself yet – despite its attempts to do so in the years prior to Shigeo’s confession – and with no hints of that happening any time soon, he’d been forced to confront the reality that impossibilities could come to pass.

The darkness in the concert hall brings all of the anxieties back.

He grasps for Shigeo’s hand in the throng of people that crush around them, waves of legs and torsos threatening to take his boyfriend away from him forever. Shigeo, none the wiser, lets Teru get ahold of his wrist, a buoy in the sea of excited fans.

They find their place in the typhoon, bobbing about to the music, Shigeo’s glow-in-the-dark necklace lighting their murky corner of the dance floor.

“26, 27, 28, 29, 30!”

Shigeo sways his head left to right as he dances, lost in the ebb and flow of the music.

“ 31, 32, 33, 34, 35!”

Teru’s fingers pinch around his boyfriend’s belt loops, scrabbling for purchase on his hips as they undulate to the drowning rhythm.

“ 36, 37, 38, 39, 40!”

The image of his mother surfaces out of the depths of his mind where he’d thought he’d shoved her for the night. Her faux blue eyes, sharp as an osprey, rake over and dive into him, the same way she always, without fail, somehow figures out exactly how to get under his skin. “ How sweet.”

“ Mob! Mob! What do you want? Mob! Mob! Why do you want? Mob! Mob! Who do you want? Move! Move! Just like Mob!”

Shigeo’s bouncing gradually moves him away from Teru and, in a moment of sudden fear, he rams his body into Shigeo’s, pretending he’d just been shoved from behind by the crowd. He doesn’t seem to mind, ceasing his stimming to gaze down at Teru instead.

Teru beams at him, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and ignoring the urge to cringe at the texture.

“Are you having a good time?” he howls over the heavy electric guitar riffs.

The other man nods, the luminescent rope about his neck dipping with his movements. He mouths invisible words, but Shigeo’s voice is so soft, it doesn’t stand a chance of carrying over the tempestuous beat.

“Yeah!” he replies as though he heard, figuring the response relevant enough to the realm of questions Shigeo could have just asked.

“41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 8, 9!”

Satisfied, his boyfriend resumes his dancing, waving his arms about in broad strokes as he aids the band in their counting.

“50! 1, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 8, 9!”

Teru tries to join, but his voice wavers.

“60! 1, 62, 63, 64, 65!”

Shigeo bumps into a girl, stopping for a second to turn to her and utter an apology no one can hear anyway.

“66, 67, 68, 69, 70!”

The girl laughs and twirls her long, black hair, leaning in to whisper in Shigeo’s ear.

“71, 72, 73, 74, 75!”

Whatever it is she’s expressed to him, it makes him wrinkle his nose and laugh, too.

“76, 77, 78, 79, 80!”

He’s suffocating. He mentally grabs at any coherent thoughts he can muster, at the singular plea for a pause button, not long, just long enough to gather his wits, to figure out why he’s barely treading water when he’s supposed to be having the night of his life with his caring, if blunt boyfriend.

All his brain dredges up is the certainty that when all of this is over, she’ll be there. With her perfume, and her wines, and her sardonic attitude, around when she’s not needed and gone when she is.

Shigeo is sweet, and honorable, and comes from a good family. On all accounts, he shouldn’t be here. Like Shigeo’s homework, the math never added up, and Teru had grown complacent in his acceptance of the impossible.

Fucking get a grip , he admonishes himself, shoulders hunched and neck tense. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Teru has lived alone since he was twelve and with a maid since he was nine. Before then, his parents had alternated babysitting him, overlapping on rare occasions when a fashion show in Capital City was scheduled to run. He’d been eight when he’d sidled up next to his father in one of the breakrooms, hand on his cocked hip as he announced he was thirsty and demanded to know where the drinks were.

Laurent had given him one sidelong peek out of his wire-rimmed glasses and exhaled a: “ pfft. You’re just like her.”

It’s so hot. The giant room with heaving bodies swells with the music, spotlights shining columns of light at random audience members. One of the spotlights flashes over Shigeo. The glitter that had transferred from Teru to Shigeo sparkles off his light skin and dark hair, rendering him ethereal, a fantastical being from Teru’s wildest imagination.

The girl is gone, and so is the light. Now it’s just Shigeo, himself, and the increasing internal pressure threatening to burst out of him like a geyser.

Yellow flickers around his wrists and his ankles as he dances. He feels it run up through the back of his neck and through his hair. He blinks, and breathes, and oscillates his body to the music, determined to snatch his parents and bury them in the recesses of his mind where they belong.

“Mob! Mob! Whatever you want! Mob! Mob! Whatever you want! Mob! Mob! Whatever you want! Move! Move! Just like Mob!”

He grabs Shigeo’s waist again, closing the distance between them and crashing their lips together. Shigeo stiffens – Teru berates himself for not having cleared this with him earlier – but he melts into the embrace, returning Teru’s kisses with almost as much fervor.

“81!”

Shigeo’s tongue is wet.

“82!”

So are his lips and teeth.

“83!”

He moves on to nip at Shigeo’s jaw.

“84!”

If Shigeo didn’t have enough glitter on him before, he’s certainly going to now.

“85!”

Little brother’s going to be so mad.

“86!”

He might even rescind the offer to help.

“87!”

What is he even planning to do anyway? Kick her ass?

“88!”

She might enjoy it.

“89!”

Teru could have torn his bedroom apart as a kid, and the only criticism she’d have would be to quiet down, she had a deadline she was working on.

“90!”

She’d been much tougher on the quality of his family drawings at age five than any destructive usage of his powers.

“91!”

His boyfriend tries to whisper something into his ear, but he doesn’t hear him over his own heavy panting.

“92!”

If Shigeo had completed sucking all of his powers out when they’d first met–

“93!”

 –and he’d never gotten them back–

“94!”

–would his mother even bother searching for a birth certificate?

“95!”

“Do you really want me?” he mouths into Shigeo’s collarbone, yellow sparks flying from his tongue.

“96!”

A thumb tilts his chin up, tugs him from his stupor.

“97!”

Shigeo’s brown eyes meet his. They glimmer with unspoken concern, and the realization hits that he’s revealed far too much.

“98!”

His boyfriend’s eyebrows furrow, lips downturned. He opens his mouth to say something.

“Ninety-niiiiiine!”

Before Shigeo can get any words out, a thunderclap of blinding yellow energy envelops his body and he finds himself staring at his own reflection through the graffitied glass of the stadium’s bathroom mirror.

–

The train is quiet at this time of night. There’s only a smattering of other people in the car with them, spread out so as to avoid unnecessary social contact. Among them, a young mother with her six or seven year old son sit across the row and off to the right, the little boy tapping at a tablet while she runs her fingers through his hair. Teru averts his gaze and refocuses on Shigeo instead.

“That was so much fun,” he enthuses, clasping Shigeo’s far shoulder. “We should go to more concerts.”

“Mm,” Shigeo hums, his attention focused elsewhere. Teru tries to follow his line of sight, but can’t with the way his head is turned.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yeah,” he replies, short. Monotone.

Teru gnaws on his lip, inhales a deep breath. He’s about to ask another follow up question when Shigeo mercifully cuts the tension between them.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Is this about the teleporting? I told you, I suddenly, like, really needed to go to the bathroom. Didn’t mean to be quite that showy, but…” he shrugs, “I totally wasn’t gonna make it otherwise.”

“Okay,” Shigeo resumes his clipped tone. Teru grits his teeth.

“Anyway,” he says, ignoring the open air that has once again curdled and thickened like rotten milk. “I heard from some of my classmates that ALL OFF is gonna be performing at the end of the year. What do you say to getting tickets for that, hm?” he asks, shaking his boyfriend’s shoulder.

Shigeo’s mouth twists. The fluorescent light above them flickers.

“You’ve been using your powers a lot.”

“What?”

“I’ve just noticed. You’re using your powers a lot. Ever since your mom showed up, I think.”

“So?”

Shigeo’s stare drops off to the side again. Teru makes the mistake of moving his own gaze and accidentally makes eye contact with the little boy.

“What are you trying to say?” he asks. The question feels rough as sandpaper on his tongue, far more abrasive than he’d meant it to be.

“It’s just something I’ve noticed.”

“Okay? Thanks.”

“Why? Why have you been using them so much?” Shigeo charges on ahead, blind to the tonal shift that threatens to flood their entire conversation.

“Is that a problem? I thought we were supposed to, like, accept all of ourselves.”

He frowns. “It’s not like you.”

Bitter bile rises to the back of his throat. “It’s exactly like me,” he bites out. “Or did you forget how we met?”

Shigeo’s brows crease. “You’ve changed since then.” His voice, usually bland and monotonal, is laced with a thread of anger. “You said so yourself.”

“Yeah, it’s the part of me you don’t like, right?” he sneers, though his insides are quaking, swirling and churning and nauseating him.

“I didn’t say that,” he replies, voice soft again. “You were using your powers a lot yesterday at dinner, in front of my parents. You don’t need to impress them with that.”

“No, I know. I know that.” He chances a glance at the mother and son again. The kid’s shut his eyes and is leaning against his mom’s arm, head lolling with every bump of the train carriage. “I know that.”

The rage is leaking out of him, leaving behind the drenched remains of fear and insecurity.

“You can use your powers if you want to,” Shigeo says, attention now trained on him, and it’s Teru’s turn to avoid his eye contact. “But it doesn’t look like you want to. To me. More like… someone else wants you to.”

“My mom’s a pain in the ass,” he reveals, curling his knees up to his chest.

“Have you tried talking to her?”

He shakes his head. “Listen. Your parents are great, Shigeo. Don’t concern yourself with mine– seriously.”

Shigeo narrows his eyes and shifts in his seat. He nibbles on the corner of his mouth, twiddling his thumbs, and it’s because Teru has known him for so long that he can’t blame him for being unable to heed his own warning. His tender sense of care and justice, like his aura, is too powerful to be contained. Once again, his heart wrenches at the admission that his feelings for this man are far deeper than he may be ready for.

“I still think– she’s– she’s your mom. If you told her how you really feel, she has to listen to you. I mean– parents are people, too. Maybe she doesn’t know how much she’s affecting you.”

“I don’t think she’d care.”

“Well– have you tried?”

He shrugs. “No. I guess not. It wasn’t ever worth it. She’s always been so– busy and stuck in her own fucking… world or whatever. It’s like… she always somehow seems to get what she wants. She’s good at that.”

“I think she wants to have a good relationship with you.”

He bursts out into a sardonic peal of laughter. “That doesn’t sound like her. If she wanted a good relationship with me, she wouldn’t have left me here.”

Strong arms wrap around his torso and he looks down to see Shigeo pressing his cheek to Teru’s shoulder. His biceps squeeze him, solid and comforting, and altogether a bit too tight.

“I can’t breathe,” he wheezes and Shigeo recoils.

“Sorry! You– you looked like you needed a hug.”

“It’s okay,” he coughs and gives his boyfriend a grin. “I think you cracked a kink in my back there. Thanks,” he adds, covering Shigeo’s hand with his own and leaning in to kiss him on the temple. “I’ll talk to her. Nothing will come of it, but I’ll do it, okay?”

Satisfied, Shigeo nods and opts to squeeze his hand instead. “And, um, if things don’t go well, well– my parents really liked you, so you can borrow my mom if you want. Whenever you want.”

His eyes sting suddenly, the image of the train car wavering before he blinks away his unshed tears.

“I’m glad.”

–

After Teru accompanies Shigeo to the safety of his own home, he takes the long way back to his studio, sans powers, and in no rush to see his mother again despite the promise he’s just made. By the time he meanders his way to his entryway, it’s one in the morning. The streets are quiet and dark, the only sound the passing of a car and the click of his key as it turns.

“I’m home,” he says when he enters, kicking off his shoes and relocking the door behind him. The lights are on, dashing what miniscule hope he had of avoiding conversation with her that night. “You up, ma?”

No one answers, to his surprise. Given how she’s always puttering about when he retires to his bed, and shakes him awake at the crack of dawn, he’d assumed that Miharu simply does not sleep – or that perhaps she ingests the negative aura of those around her to supply her with a wealth of youth and boundless energy, like some kind of yokai.

“Mom?”

Still no response. Her shoes are in the genkan, so she hadn’t left, and he entertains the fantasy that maybe she’d succumbed to the need for sleep while watching TV.

“Mom?” he calls again, stepping forward then freezes.

His apartment is a mess.

Claw.

“Mom?!” he’s shouting now, skidding past discarded boxes and crumpled clothing. He slips on a loose sheet of paper, tripping and crashing into his bedroom door and slamming it open in the process.

Miharu is slumped over his table, face smooshed against the wood grain. The chaos has followed her, surrounding her with more abandoned articles of clothing which trail back to her open suitcase. There’s a half-empty bottle of wine grasped loosely in her hand and another at her feet.

Of course, he reprimands himself, tip-toeing around the items on the ground. Claw was dismantled five years ago.

She reeks of alcohol and tobacco. Her bleached blonde hair drapes over her face like a curtain, concealing her from Teru and the half dozen boxes of cigarettes scattered about the table.

“Mom,” he prompts one final time, poking her shoulder.

“Huh?” She awakens with a start, peering up at him with bleary eyes. Now that her hair isn’t blocking her face, Teru can get a good look at her; her makeup has smeared trails of black tar down her cheeks. Only a hint of red on her bottom lip suggests the previous presence of lipstick, the majority of it having transferred from her mouth to the wine bottle’s rim instead. One of her earrings is missing and the other is hanging by a thread, threatening to make the jump with one more shake of her head. 

“ Laurent?” she slurs, voice shaky. “C’est toi?”

“No, it’s me. Teru,” he replies in Japanese to keep from confusing her. He slides the bottle out of her hand and sets it by his bed.

“Oh. Yer back. How’w’z yer date with–” she hiccups. Her head dips before she manages to right herself. “With Hana’s–”

“It was fun. Shigeo says hi.”

“Mmm,” she mumbles, rubbing her forehead.

“Are you drunk?” he asks; it’s a stupid question, but he’s at a loss to ask anything else.

“No, dear, ‘m fine.” She makes a movement that appears to have been an attempt at getting up, but trips over her own feet as the back of her chair tumbles backward.

“Mom!” he yells, extending an open palm. Her upper body halts, suspended in a semi-transparent cloud of yellow and green discs.

“Oh, thank you, love,” she babbles. Her arms dangle below her. “Would’yu be a dear and help mommy t’the bathroom? She’s feeling a bit woozy .”

“Yeah,” he grunts, slipping under her armpit and hoisting her body weight onto his side. They stumble out his room and to the washroom, step by clumsy step. She’s light as a feather, her bird bones much too fragile for such a headstrong, pig-headed woman. Her head bobs against his shoulder as they sidestep the wreckage she’s left behind.

He positions her next to the toilet, checking she’s able to hug the porcelain rim on her own before retreating and pressing his back against the now closed door. The sound of retching echoes through the door as he slides down to sit on the ground. His phone, long forgotten in his back pocket, digs into his butt, and he yanks it out, flipping the screen on absent-mindendly.

Did you get home safe?

His fingers hover over his keyboard.

Yeah. Sorry, I took the long way home! 🙂 Needed the fresh air~ I am safe and sound 👍

The phone clatters on the floor between his legs as he hunches over and tucks his head between his knees. He’s exhausted; his ears are ringing from the concert, and his soul feels like it’s leaking right out of his body, trickling into a puddle underneath him.

The nauseating melody of Miharu’s gagging subsides to nothing after five or so minutes and when he enters the water closet again, she’s crouched into a fetal position on the cold, hard tiles, her head shoved into the space between the toilet and the wall. If it weren’t for the way her shoulders are shaking and the muffled sobbing, he would have assumed she’d fallen asleep again. 

His body breaks out into a cold sweat. Hanazawa Miharu doesn’t cry; Hanazawa Miharu makes other people cry. In the span of his almost two decades, he can’t recall a single instance where she’d shown any negative emotion other than annoyance or disgust. He’d just as soon have assumed that she’d had her tear ducts surgically removed.

Yet against all odds, she’s thrown herself onto his washroom floor, one arm pinned against her eyes in an attempt to block out the light while they leak black tears.

“Hey.” He squats down next to her. She tenses up, rolls up onto her elbow and squints at him.

“Oh, Teru,” she sniffs, wipes at her cheek which only succeeds in smearing her makeup even more. “When did you get home?”

“Uh– just now,” he lies.

“Mommy’s caught some kind of… virus…” she mumbles, screws her eyes shut, and begins crying again.

“Um…” he hesitates. Every fiber of his being screams for this situation to end; mothers aren’t supposed to get wasted and cry, especially not the haughty old hag variety his mom belongs to. He flushes the toilet and lowers the lid so he can at least sit while he waits for Miharu to stop sobbing, or for something to kill him, whichever comes first.

“I can’t find it…” she finally chokes out.

“What? My birth certificate? It wasn’t in that box?”

She shakes her head. “No. I can’t find it… I don’t know where I put it…” she mutters at such a low volume it’s hard to pick out her words.

“That’s… okay, mom, we can get a copy or something, who knows where it–” He cuts himself off, grips the edge of the toilet seat, rewinds the conversation in his head. “What do you mean, you don’t know where you put it? Mom?”

She moans and tries to meld her body further into the wall.

“Mom, what did you mean by that?” No response. “Mom!”

She startles and peels herself off the porcelain tiles.

“Don’ yell, Teru.” Her words manage to carry an ounce of exasperation, despite her current pathetic demeanor.

“When did you find my birth certificate?”

“Mmm, yesterday,” she says, her admission apparently providing her with the energy to try to stand, which mostly consists of wedging her body behind the toilet tank and squirming her way up.

“Stop,” he says, scooping her underarms and holding her steady. “What do you mean, you found it yesterday? Where?”

She gives a long, world-weary sigh, like he’s the one being a bother rather than the fifty-some year old who appears to have drunk her weight in chardonnay.

“Was in one of the boxes… at the storage unit.”

A wave of anger roars through him, and for a moment he sees so much red he has to count to ten. Miharu, perhaps sensing his rage, or simply too out of her mind to contain herself, starts weeping again and he almost shakes her, demands that she make some kind of backhanded remark to make him feel shitty and small instead of having to watch her fall apart like this.

“Why didn’t you tell me? What was the point of everything we did today?”

Miharu wrinkles her nose, a sign of her usual personality bleeding through her inebriation. “You would’ve… just run around with your little boyfriend.”

“Yeah, and?”

Her head bows to the right like her neck can’t sustain the weight of her skull before rotating around until she’s resting her forehead against his shoulder. She garbles something he can’t make out.

“What?”

“...hate me anyway…” she says, the rest of her words muffled by his shirt collar. Her body collapses limp against his chest and he’s forced to squeeze her into a hug to keep them both from tumbling to the ground.

He clicks his tongue. Despite his frustration with her, he’s not ruthless enough to leave her there, and her equilibrium is about as stable as an etch a sketch in an earthquake.

He can make it easy for himself, though.

“I’m gonna float you to bed, okay?” he says, as though she has any chance of resisting or even voicing dissent at this point. She lets out a hngh which is as close to an opinion she’s able to give and he rests a palm against her arm, redirecting his aura around her until she wobbles into the air like a balloon.

He floats her down onto her futon, disconnecting his powers from her as soon as she’s securely placed on the cotton mattress. She grumbles and rocks from side to side for a bit before settling down to accept her fate.

He throws a blanket over her and is about to head out to the kitchen area to assess the damage of the chaos she’s caused when surprisingly strong fingers wrap around his ankle, sharp, manicured nails nicking the skin around his Achilles heel.

“What?” he demands, temper flaring despite the pathetic look on his mother’s face, the piteous way her limbs are wrapped up all around each other. God, she just admitted to lying and wasting his time and he still can’t get angry at her without being the asshole.

“Stay.” She clenches his ankle tighter, words weak but filled with an anxiety foreign to Miharu’s voice. “Wait. Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures, lifting his leg to break her grip. “I’m just gonna clean up your mess. Maybe I’ll find my birth certificate in the process, like you wanted.” And then you can leave, just like you always do , he adds mentally.

“I know you hate me.”

The temperature in the room plummets twenty degrees. His stomach churns with an as-of-yet unnamed emotion, some undiscovered facet of human experience between fury and shame and pain. He rotates to face her again, ratchets his upper body until he’s looming over her.

The blanket is tangled up around her legs, trapping her to the futon like a forsaken insect in a web. She’s lifted her weight up onto her right elbow, her messy bangs falling all over her face and poking at her eyelids. She blinks as though to prevent them from scratching her cornea, but that does nothing other than make her squint even more.

He grinds his teeth, chewing on words he can’t seem to spit out.

“Your f’ther hates me too,” she continues, remembering that she has a left hand she can use to rearrange her hair. “Replaced me with that French whore.” She collapses onto the futon, having expended enough energy in her attempts to scramble up and speak with him at the same time. “Half my fucking age,” she garbles one last time before passing out.

It’s quiet again. He misses the car that had drifted by earlier and envies whoever had been behind the steering wheel.

The outside air provides little respite from the burgeoning tension in his every muscle nor from the soreness behind his temples that threaten a splitting headache, so he rockets off of his balcony and into the stratosphere, far above the twinkling city lights and his strained maternal relationship. Ever since Shigeo blasted him and the fragmented pieces of his school vertically up eight and half kilometers, he’s found a calming sort of peace in being suspended over the clouds, supported by nothing but his own powers.

He allows himself to drift under the constellations, focusing on piecing the stars together into random strings instead of the mass of information his mother dropped on him. Despite the broiling season, it’s chilly in the ozone layer, which probably isn’t helping his head, but he can’t drag himself back down to earth, even if it means having to take a dozen ibuprofen come morning.

His back pocket vibrates. Concerned Shigeo was somehow able to pick up on his discomfort despite the cheerful text, he unearths his phone, sparing an invasive thought to what would happen if he dropped it from fifty kilometers above the earth’s surface, and flicks it on.

It’s Ritsu. Relieved, he clicks the link to the video; it’s a short youtube clip titled CRUELLA DE VIL FIRST SCENE. Perplexed that little bro would send him a Mobsney video at half past one in the morning, he returns to the chat where there’s now a singular line underneath the link.

didn’t know your mom was in a movie

The laughter that bursts out of Teru almost scares him – hadn’t expected that sort of reaction from himself, and the tears that leak out the corners of his eyes and cover his vision with a blurry film surprise him further. He wipes the liquid from his face and writes a short reply.

Almost. My mom abhors black and white

what the hell are you doing still up? Ritsu types in a flash.

What are YOU doing still up?

im always up

Teru chuckles, watches as the three dots dance above the chat bar while he waits for Ritsu to finish.

nii-san’s worried about you

he didn’t say as much, but I can tell

Yeah, well. My mom’s leaving tomorrow, so he can stop worrying soon

yeah i dont think it’s that simple, but okay

listen, i dont really give a shit about the details but shou’s been bothering me about sparring again soon so if you ever need to let out steam or whatever

you’re free to use him as a punching bag

The mid-summer warmth encompasses him as he descends, chasing away the frost that had begun to form ice-white fractals along his barrier.

Thanks, i’ll consider it

Might take a break from using my powers for a little while after this

Just to… sort some things out, i guess

He alights on his balcony railing and crouches so he can sit on it, legs dangling over the edge while he watches Ritsu type again. The dots disappear, reappear, then disappear again, and he’s sure Ritsu has given up on whatever it was he was trying to say when they suddenly show up once more.

well. i have street fighter too if you wanna punch pixels instead. since youve met our parents now i guess you can come in our house

He stares at his screen in disbelief, checking the number at the top just to make double sure that he’s been talking to Ritsu all along. It’s him alright– he’d play with the idea of possession, but Dimple is cruder than little bro himself, so that’s not it. He clutches his phone case tight and sends a thank you little bro with a kissing emoji.

also STOP wearing glitter if youre going out with nii-san he came in to say good night and there’s GLITTER on my BEDSHEETS now

Teru’s laughter rings out over the deserted streets.

–

Miharu’s in the same position he left her in when he returns. He slides the glass door shut behind him as quietly as he can, tiptoeing around her prone body and into the rest of his little apartment. He’s in no mood to clean up her mess, but he pokes around the chaos just to see if he can spot a certain important government document. When nothing of interest turns up, he runs a hand through his hair and drags his feet back to his bedroom.

He’s pulling his pajama shirt over his head when his mother stirs in her sleep, tossing an arm over her face and mumbling incoherently. He’s afraid she’s about to wake again, but, to his immense relief, she settles into her fitful boozy sleep before she’s able to regain consciousness.

Teru bunches up the fabric of his pajama pants in his fists as anguish bubbles up within him.

“Fuck’s sake,” he swears under his breath, pouring as much vile frustration as he can into the two words. He’d been fine. He’d managed just fine for the past ten years on his own. Pretending he didn’t have parents had done him more service than their sparse presence had. Yet even after a decade of missed calls and sporadic drop ins, his mother’s misery has to vomit itself all over his life and his relationship and his physical space. She couldn’t keep her shit to herself, had to drag his father’s infidelity in through the cat door like a mangled bird and leave him to pick up the shattered, blood-soaked pieces.

Hanako would never do this. Shigeo’s platonic ideal of a mother was too busy making katsudon for dinner and hanging up laundry and placing a cool palm on hot foreheads when her children were sick, and, maybe, feeling concern over a particular son’s peculiar little boyfriend. If her life crumbled around her, she’d still give Shigeo the same warm, loving look she’d given him last night, cup her hand over his cheek and speak to him in low, comforting words.

Miharu’s hand drops to her side, manicured fingernails half curled up and twitching in her sleep. He reaches forward, slow and hesitant, taking her skinny wrist and tugging her forearm up. Her palm is hot and clammy against his tear-streaked cheek but he holds her there anyway, breathing in the smell of vanilla and bergamot until he decides he’s stupid for doing this and crawls off to bed.

–

“Teru.”

His head is pounding.

“Teruuuu.”

He leans up onto an elbow. Miharu’s dressed in a bright saffron midi dress that somehow captures the sun’s rays and bounces them straight into his unprepared retinas, a citrine encrusted travel pillow hugging her neck. Clearly airplane attire. There’s no sign of last night’s Miharu, of the smeared makeup and slurred words spilling every secret Teru wished he hadn’t heard. Instead, her skin is pristine, blonde hair curled and framed around her diamond-shaped face.

“Oh, good. My flight’s in three hours. Come to the airport with me? Mama needs help with her luggage.”

“I–” he starts but she’s already turned her back to fiddle with her suitcase. Do I even have a choice? he thinks as she releases the handle and rolls the Rimowa out to the main entrance. Teru collapses back onto his pillow and counts his breaths until he gets to twenty, then slips out from under the covers.

–

The train rumbles steadily around them, the barely audible track-a-track-a accompanied by the low hum of soft conversations from the other passengers. Teru taps desperately at his phone to keep from falling asleep, determined to at least stay conscious until he’s dropped his mother off, if for no other reason than to avoid being shaken awake by her one last time. Miharu glares out the window, keenly focused on the city landscape despite her dark sunglasses.

He’s in the middle of watching Gyaru-Gyaru-Chan’s newest makeup tutorial when a notification drops in from the top of his screen, obscuring the girl’s pretty face with the words did you talk to…. He cringes, but it’s Shigeo, so he opens the notification anyway. It’s exactly what he suspected.

Did you talk to your mom? How did it go?

Teru grits his teeth, flicks his gaze to his mother who hasn’t moved an inch, squeezes his phone, glances back at his screen, up to the lights, then around the cabin, kicks at the empty seat in front, turns his attention back to his mother, opens his mouth, and decides to go to the bathroom first.

She’s in the exact same position as when he first left and the impossible suddenly occurs to him.

“Mom?” he asks, poking her on the shoulder. She jumps and tears her sunglasses off to glare at him.

“What, dear?” Her chin is red from where she’d been resting it against her fist. He decides not to mention it.

“I appreciate, uh…” he pauses, searching for the right words to start this cursed conversation. “Thanks for cleaning up. I guess.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your apartment was spotless when I got here.”

“Right.”

“I don’t see any reason why it wouldn’t be spotless when I left it.” She sniffs, puts her sunglasses back on, crosses her arms, and immediately slouches.

“Okay– mom, before you go to sleep again–” he says, poking her shoulder. She startles.

“Wasn’t sleeping, dear. Just resting my eyes.” She stifles a yawn.

“Before you rest your eyes,” he amends, curtailing the surge of bitter frustration he’s rewarded with anytime he tries to have a frank conversation with his mother. “I think you should tell me now. Since you’re leaving. I mean… did you find my birth certificate,” again , he rages internally, “last night or not?”

“No, I didn’t,” she admits.

“What did you even need it for?” A note of irritation burns through the latter end of his question, but he gives himself a pat on the back anyway for keeping it together so far.

Miharu shifts her weight around. Her sharp fingernails clack against the armrest as she drums them, likely deep in thought though he can’t see her pupils from behind her designer cat-eye sunglasses.

“Your father–” she cuts herself off, clears her throat, starts again– “we’re getting a divorce.”

Teru’s heart sinks. Even with his mother’s drunken bean spilling the night before, hearing that his parent’s marriage is getting dissolved doesn’t inspire any positive feelings. He may not have seen them in one room together since he was ten, but their divorce violates one of the core tenets of his universe: he’s an insanely talented esper, surpassed only by the most amazing man he’s ever met, and his parents live happily together on a continent very, very far away.

“We’ll be splitting the finances,” she continues, words measured. “So I decided it would be… prudent to set up a bank account. For you. And have some of his money transferred into it while we’re still in the negotiation phase. That was what my lawyer suggested, anyway.”

“I don’t understand. Why the rush, then?”

“He wants to finalize the divorce as soon as possible.” Her nails stop their clicking against the hard plastic between them. “And I want to make sure he doesn’t spend all of your money on that hussy.”

“Why not just transfer it to yours?”

“I’m only entitled to my half. I won’t get another cent more without your name tied to it. His lawyers have seen to that.”

“Oh,” is all he can dredge up to say. His hands squirm in his lap.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to figure it out. You can have access to my account in the meantime while I order a copy of your birth certificate. I’ll have my lawyer stall the process or something.” She excavates her wallet from her massive bag and slides out one of the shiny black credit cards. “Here. Don’t use the other card you’ve been using. It might get canceled. And do me a favor, Teru. Don’t be like your father. Don’t start spending it all on Shigeo.”

Hearing Shigeo’s name from his mother’s mouth shocks him so much he doesn’t recognize it for a second.

“Thanks…” he murmurs, thumbing the raised numbers.

“Well,” she huffs, interlacing her fingers and stretching her arms out before leaning back in her seat. “Any other questions?”

The credit card gleams in the sunlight streaming in through the window.

“What are you gonna be doing now?”

“Getting out of your hair, which I’m sure you’re thrilled about,” she replies acidly.

“I mean–” he chews on his words, tries to cobble together his scattered emotions. “What are your plans? Now that dad’s out of the picture?”

“I’m not sure I understand.” She lowers her sunglasses to peer at him. “The same as always. Make clothes. Sell them. Redefine fashion. Your father can’t stop me from doing that.”

“No, yeah,” he grunts. He’s had all his questions answered, but he still feels unfulfilled, a gaping void inside him yet dissatisfied by the conversation. He fits the credit card in his shirt pocket and centers himself, focusing on Shigeo’s confidence the night before. “Hey… mom…”

“Hm?”

“Listen. I…” His voice cracks. “I’m– I hate it when you’re here. You come in like you haven’t been gone for months or sometimes years and you turn my life fucking… upside down just because you’re bored and you feel like it. It’s irritating and disruptive and disrespectful. But…” The memory of the warmth of Miharu’s hand against his wet cheek almost chokes him. “I hate it even more when you’re not here.”

He looks up at his mother who has, against all odds, refrained from interrupting him. Her expression is stone cold neutral, lips set into a firm line.

“I know you didn’t want me, okay? And maybe you don’t want me now, either. But I want a mom. And– I know the only reason you care about me is cause of my powers, but I have a life now. I’m dating someone I love,” his stomach swoops at the admission, “I’m in college studying something I’m really excited about, I have hobbies, I even volunteer sometimes” – he doesn’t mention it’s in a dinky office run by a conman and his partner – “and– I don’t know, I guess– whatever. Shigeo said I should talk to you.” He concludes, running out of steam.

His phone vibrates; he ignores it.

“Are you done?”

Teru nods.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He snaps around to look at her again. “What?”

“I know all those things. Well– not the volunteering. I hope it’s not somewhere with dirty people,” she winces, waving her hand about. “I’m not sure where you got the impression I don’t care.”

“You’re joking.”

“Hah?”

“Mom, you’re never here! You didn’t even know what I was in school for until two days ago. You met Shigeo three days ago. Excuse me for getting the impression you don’t give a shit.”

“Well, it’s a good thing, isn’t it, since you hate it when I’m here?”

“You’re not– listening!” he hisses, straining not to yell. “Okay, I’m sorry I phrased it like that, but every time you’re here you make it entirely about yourself! Looking for my stupid birth certificate that you couldn’t even keep track of – twice! My life gets derailed to take care of your whims. I just wish you’d–”

“Be more like Hana-chan?”

They’re plunged into darkness as the train rushes into a tunnel.

“Out of all the people on this planet, you found him…” Miharu says acerbically. “Teru. I’m never going to be like Hana-chan. But you can’t say I never provided for you. And you were always so self-sufficient. You didn’t need us around; you said so yourself.”

“It’s not about that, mom. Money and powers aren’t everything. Also, I was twelve. I just didn’t want a nanny messing around with my things.”

“And what do you propose, exactly, then? God knows I don’t have a maternal bone in my body. And apparently everything I do with you is self-serving.”

The black credit card seems to triple in weight in his pocket.

“Not– not everything. Mom, look, tell me the truth, okay? Promise?”

She narrows her eyes at him but nods.

“Why did you keep pretending to look for the birth certificate even after you found it?”

“Because I’m selfish.”

“You promised!”

“Is that not the truth? I monopolized your time so you would spend it with me instead of your little boyfriend who you probably see every day anyway. It’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?”

“You wanted to spend time with me? If that’s true, then– then why are you always gone?”

“I have my life and you have yours. You’re not going to be willing to move to France, are you?”

He shakes his head no.

“There you have it. Besides. I know when I’m not wanted.” She cups her chin in her palm again and glares out the window. Her reflection in the darkness of the tunnel stares back at her.

“You could… call,” he suggests.

“Call? Call who?”

“Me. Sometimes. Call and ask how I’m doing, how my day went.”

Miharu grimaces, lips curled back in distaste. Despite everything, Teru almost laughs.

“Or just call me to complain about your life.”

“I don’t understand you, Teru. You clearly dislike it when I visit, and yet you’re asking for more. Are you some kind of masochist?”

“No, mom. I just… want a mom. And I guess moms are supposed to be annoying, sometimes. Sometimes ,” he clarifies, holding a finger up. “And other times moms should leave their sons alone with their boyfriends.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the difference,” she sniffs.

“I could tell you,” he says. “And you could listen.”

Sunlight whips onto them once more as the train zips out of the tunnel, leaving the damp darkness behind.

Miharu reaches forward to run her fingers through his bangs.

“How serious are you about that boy?” she asks, smoothing down some of his flyaway hairs he hadn’t had time to comb over properly that morning.

“Very,” he replies. “I love him.” I love him, I love him, I love him , he repeats in his head, the itch to tell Shigeo that continuously present and ever growing. Soon , he promises himself, letting the buzz of anticipation course through him. Soon.

“Will you invite me to the wedding?"

“Of course, mom,” he breathes.

“Well, that’s good then,” she says, retracting her arm. “I suppose I’ll need someone to talk to now that your father has decided he won’t put up with me anymore.”

“I look forward to being inconvenienced.”

Miharu shakes her head, though she doesn’t hide the look of amusement on her face.

They settle into silence again, only the bits and pieces of their fellow passengers’ voices and the rail below serving as a background track to the catharsis of their conversation.

His phone vibrates again. His heart races when he sees the name on the screen.

“Shigeo?” he hisses as he taps the accept call button, quiet enough to not disturb the other passengers.

“Teru-kun?”

“Mrs. Kageyama?”

His mother perks up to glare at him, already attempting to snatch the phone from his ear. He slaps her hand away but holds it closer so she can hear better.

“Oh, good, I hope I caught you in time. Is your mother there?”

“Yeah. Why?"

“I was flipping through that old magazine she gave me when something fell out from between some of the pages, it looks like– like a birth certificate. I figured it was impor–”

Miharu succeeds in swiping the phone away this time, already yelling into the receiver before Mrs. Kageyama can finish her sentence.

“Hana-chan! Yes, love, oh, you’re a lifesaver. I’ve been looking everywhere for that…. Mm. Would you be a dear and hold onto it for me?... Yes. Oh, thank you, thank you. I’ll make sure someone comes over to pick it up. Send my regards to your son!” She hits the end call button and unceremoniously drops the phone in Teru’s lap.

“You shoved my birth certificate into that magazine?”

“Oh, please, I’m sure it got all jumbled up in there,” she waves in the direction of her bag.

“You used my birth certificate as a bookmark…”

“I did no such thing!”

He snorts before letting out a long breath and slumping in his seat. “Guess I’ll fly out there once we get off.”

“Oh, don’t bother. I’ll just take the same train back,” Miharu states, already tapping away at her own phone.

“Uh, mom? You’re not gonna make it. We’re already almost at the airport. There’s no way in hell–”

“Who said anything about making it? Oh, don’t give me that look. Aren’t you the one who said you wanted to spend more time with his mother?”

“I– yeah, but–” he stammers, the idea of spending a calm, intimate evening with Shigeo slipping away.

Miharu roars with laughter, loud and unbecoming, slapping her knee as she gasps for air. “Your face is priceless, Teru. I told you already, didn’t I? I know when I’m not wanted. And besides, at this point, any excuse to use your father’s money is a treasure on its own. I’ll book a hotel for a night. What’s the most expensive hotel in Capital City?”

“I don’t know, probably something somewhere in the Edamame District?”

“Ooh. Not a bad idea. This one has an all-you-can-eat soba bar. Mm, the view’s not that great. Teru, what do you think?”

He shuffles over to peek at her phone screen. “Mom, you can see the Capital City tower from there, what are you talking about?”

“Yeah, but it’s a little far. At that price point, it should be closer. You’ve been spending too long with the poor, dear, your taste is diminishing.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then clicks it shut, instead watching Miharu continue to search through luxury hotels like they’re nothing more than different brands of cheese at a deli, and decides maybe it’s okay to watch his mother treat herself, just this once.