#grump-mamoru

“Thirty nine!”

Mamoru stares down at his receipt and wills the numbers to change. Unsurprisingly, they remain the same. He can transform into a superhero in the blink of an eye, but he can’t change a number on a piece of paper. It may be the caffeine withdrawal talking but this seems…unfair. Unjust. Unacceptable. He is a reincarnated prince, the rightful heir to the planet beneath his very feet, and yet he cannot get a simple cup of coffee.

“Thirty seven!”

Are they counting fucking backwards now? He takes a breath and stuffs the receipt in his pocket so he can run a hand through his hair. He needs to calm down. He’s just tired. He’s had another rough night of precious little sleep and this is just a bad morning. That’s all. One bad morning. At the end of a bad week. At the end of a bad month. He just—

“Forty!”

He just really needs some coffee. It’ll be ready soon. So long as they serve him in the next—he checks his watch—four minutes he can still make it to the hospital before his shift starts. He thinks. He’s only just started at UoT and he’s still not used to the bus transfers. Getting to Keio was much simpler. He didn’t have to get up so early, and the coffee shop across the street was much faster. Not to mention better. He misses that coffee. He misses Keio. He misses sleeping. He misses…a lot of things.

“Forty one!”

Lucky number forty one strolls up to the counter to claim their prize. They walk away with a tall plastic cup full of frothy green liquid that looks like it was poured directly out of an infected nostril, and Mamoru can’t help but shudder when they take a long, noisy sip from the straw. Who comes to a coffee shop and orders…whatever that is? This is apparently a trend now—ordering non-caffeinated beverages at coffee shops—because the last ten people who have walked away from the counter have had similarly ridiculous drinks. Why does everything have to be dessert, or snot, in a cup nowadays? What’s wrong with a regular cup of coffee?

He needs to find another coffee shop.

“Forty two!”

He needs them to call his number.

He pulls out his phone to distract himself and scrolls through a list of notifications: weather, junk mail, update reminders—up to forty five now, he’s got to get around to doing that—and one text. His thumb hovers over the blue bubble for a moment or two before he eventually presses down.

Training session Fri or Sat ppl. LMK work schedules ASAP. No ghosting Chiba. Ur old ass is getting rusty. 👴

As Mamoru rolls his eyes three little dots appear at the bottom of the screen. He holds his breath.

“Forty three!”

He doesn’t look away from those three little dots, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. He just watches them, transfixed, until finally—

I’ve got a shift at the restaurant Friday night, but I can do AM Sat wide open

He releases the breath he’s been holding in a quiet sigh. Just Makoto. Not— His thumb hits the back button of its own accord then scrolls down through the list of chats, until…there, near the bottom. Sandwiched between an old banking verification and a number he doesn’t even recognize. He reads the date to the right of the name and winces. Again, his thumb hovers.

“Forty four!”

He taps. A string of texts populate his screen. He doesn’t need to read them again, he knows them by heart. But he reads them anyway. Like he always does. He can’t help it. He’s weak; in these moments at least. When no one can see. He should stop looking now. Should close the window. Should delete the whole thread while he’s at it. But he won’t. He can’t. He can do a lot of things—has done a lot of things—but he can’t delete those words.

I love you, Mamo-chan.

“Forty five!”

I’ll always love you. Even if you’ve stopped loving me back.

“Forty five!”

I wish I knew why though. I wish you would tell me what I did wrong.

“Forty five! That’s four five, people. Four five!”

I’m sorry, I get it now, I won’t bother you anymore. Be happy, Mamo-chan. I want you to be happy.

“For the last time, forty five! Going once, going twice…”

Mamoru’s head snaps up. Forty five. Fuck. That’s his number.

He stuffs his phone in his pocket and rushes up to the counter and beanie-boy does not look happy. Mamoru begins to mutter an apology then stops as the barista shoves a large mug topped whipped cream, caramel, and chocolate shavings toward him. Mamoru looks from the mug to the mouth-breather and back again as his brain tries to comprehend what is happening. After an eternity of waiting they finally called his number and yet…this is not his drink.

The barista is staring at him with a bored, somewhat vacant expression and Mamoru can clearly see that he is wondering why Mamoru isn’t taking the mug and walking away. Apparently the barista can’t tell from Mamoru’s assumedly apoplectic expression that he has no intention of taking the mug. This mug is not his. It’s not what he ordered. It’s not what he wants. Apparently that’s just his life now. An endless string of miserable disappointments that he’s supposed to suffer through silently. But he’s fed up with being silent.

He wants his damn coffee, and he wants it right fu—

“Oh, hello, uh, hey, sorry, excuse me but…I think that’s mine actually.”

Mamoru blinks as a cheerful man with sandy blond hair steps up beside him. He points to the confectionery concoction on the counter and shoots Mamoru an apologetic smile before turning to the barista. “Yes, chocolate macchiato with caramel, right? I believe that’s mine and not this gentleman’s.”

Beanie boy looks from Mamoru to sandy-hair and blinks.

Sandy-hair glances at Mamoru and shoots him another overly apologetic look. “Right, umm, well, if it’s all right, I’ll just grab this and get out of your way.” Mamoru steps to the side and sandy-hair takes the mug and hurries away. Presumably to overdose on sugar.

Mamoru turns back to the barista.

Barista scratches his temple. The beanie must be itchy. Mamoru hopes it is.

“So…what was your order again?”

“Large. Black. Coffee.”

“Right. That’ll take a couple of min—” Beanie boy must have just learned to read facial expressions because his eyes widen and he takes a step back. “I’ll go get it now.”

Mamoru feels a little bit of the tension ease in his shoulders and he breathes a weary sigh. He’s being an asshole. He’s doing that more and more often now. He keeps telling himself it’s the long work hours and the lack of sleep, but he knows what the real problem is. It’s her. He misses her. But there’s nothing he can do about that so he needs to find a better way to cope than being rude to baristas. And co-workers. And neighbours in his apartment building.

The barista comes back with his to-go cup and Mamoru tries to smile and thanks him for the drink. The guy nods but appears otherwise unaffected and that’s fine. Mamoru’s not looking for a new friend, he’s just trying to be a decent human being. A tinkle of bells sounds as he reaches for his cup. A gust of air follows, and a familiar tingle between his shoulder blades compels him to turn. He follows the innate instinct before his mind can warn him against it.

The unmistakable sight of blond odangos makes his heart soar before the inevitable sensation of crushing gloom comes down hard upon his ribs. Just when he thought his morning couldn’t get any worse. He can’t handle this. Not right now. Not again. He’s not strong enough to face another awkward meeting, another painful interaction, another agonizing opportunity to break her heart. Why are they always bumping into each other? Why, in a city as big as this, can he not get through one single week without running into her? Why?

Mamoru knows why. Because they’re soul mates.

He looks around for an alternate exit, a side door, a window, anything so he can avoid being seen. Before he can consider hiding in the bathroom he realizes she’s not approaching the counter where he stands, she’s rushing over to a table. She’s out of breath, her cheeks are pink, and she’s spouting a string of apologies. He’s seen her look exactly like this countless times before, and he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face as the memories replay.

His smile disappears as a new memory implants itself in his mind.

Of Usako, rushing up to a table where a man with sandy blond hair is standing in wait. Where a man with sandy blond hair is taking her hands. Where a man with sandy blond hair is pulling her forward. Kissing her cheek. Making her blush.

“Don’t worry,” sandy-hair says, “your timing is perfect. Your drink just came out. I wasn’t sure if you wanted a muffin, a danish, or a doughnut, so I got one of each.”

Usako laughs with delight.

Usako laughs with delight.

Usako laughs with delight.

Mamoru heads for the door like the building is on fire. He doesn’t hear the barista calling after him, telling him that he’s forgotten his coffee. He doesn’t hear the tinkling of bells as he shoves through the door or the loud rush of traffic as he hits the sidewalk. All he can hear is Usako’s laughter play over and over in his head.

When was the last time he heard her laugh? When?

Mamoru doesn't know when. He can’t remember.

***

Ain’t nobody hurt you like I hurt you But ain’t nobody love you like I do Promise that I will not take it personal, baby If you’re moving on with someone new

***

Happy Birthday, Mamoru! Sorry bud, this is a breakup fic. What can I say? I both love and hate the breakup arc. The song that inspired this fic is Happier by Ed Sheeran.

Thanks for reading! ❤️

Be sure to follow @usamamoweek for all of this year's content!

He watched the five of them from his secluded vantage point, a habit that also dated back to the early days when he’d been separate, alone. When he hadn’t been one of them. She’d changed that. Changed him. Changed everything. For a time, they’d embraced him as part of the team, a true equal. For a time, he’d stepped out of the shadows to stand among their ranks. For a time, he had known exactly where he belonged. At her side. Always at her side.

For a time…

Now he was the one who had changed everything. Broken everything. He was separate again. Alone again. Banished back to the shadows by his own self-imposed exile. Excommunicated from the only team, the only family, he’d ever known. And the only woman he’d ever wanted. Now he was forced to hover in the cold recesses outside her orbit, deprived of her warm, soothing light. He’d thought his long history as a lone wolf would ease the transition back to solitary life—he’d done it once, he could do it again. How naive he’d been. Loneliness had never been easy, but he hadn’t understood the true blessing of his own ignorance until he’d lost it.

You can’t miss what you never had.

Truer words were never spoken.

Their chatter died down as they each said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. When she lingered, so did he. He watched with a hooded gaze as she shed her transformation, triggering the familiar ping of awareness in his chest. Then she dug into the purse hanging at her hip and pulled out her phone. His lips pursed as the screen lit her features. His eyes narrowed as she scrolled through her notifications. And his fist clenched when her mouth curved in a smile. Not just any smile, a familiar smile. A smile he knew all too well.

A smile that, until recently, had only ever been for him.

Before he knew it, before he could stop himself, he was in front of her. She started, gasped, looked up, and he watched the gamut of emotions cross her features—surprise, alarm, recognition, relief, and finally, dread. His splintered soul shrivelled when she forced herself to smile, to hide her apprehension. He tried to remind himself that this was his fault, that he only had himself to blame, but he was still blinded by that earlier smile. The smile that had disappeared the moment she’d seen him.

“Mam— Tuxedo Kamen,” she said, catching her mistake as her gaze slid over his uniform. “What… What are you doing here?”

It was a fair question. After all, he never lingered after a fight. Not anymore. Not since…

Mamoru didn’t care about fair though. Fair was a foreign concept now.

“There was a battle, where else would I be?”

He didn’t recognize his own voice, and by the look on her face, neither did she. Her mouth opened in surprise, but she said nothing. Perhaps speechless, perhaps cautious. Perhaps both.

“You were late tonight,” he said, his gruff tone full of rebuke. Her brow furrowed before her lips moved in a silent bid to form words, but he didn’t wait for a response. “Did you have somewhere more important to be?”

This was not a fair question. It was, in actuality, a petty trap. He already knew the answer. Knew precisely where she’d been. What she’d been doing. And whom she’d been with.

Again he watched the swift progression of emotions flicker through her wide blue gaze—hurt, confusion, comprehension, shame, and finally, anger. She tucked her phone away in her purse, hiding the evidence no doubt, before crossing her arms.

“What do you mean, somewhere more important?”

He crossed his arms in kind, not to mirror her action, but to keep himself from reaching out for her purse, for the phone inside it, for the text chain he desperately wanted to read. “I think you know what I mean.”

When her nostrils flared, it transported him back to the old days, when everything he’d said seemed to light the fires of her outrage. “No, actually, I don’t,” she said, angling her chin. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“Are you guilty of something?”

There was a pause during which she seemed to consider his words, then the heat left her gaze and she uncrossed her arms. “No,” she said, “I’m not. But something tells me you think I am.”

“Could it be your conscience?”

When she took a step back, he stepped forward, seeing her retreat, indulging the urge to give chase. “What is this? What’s with you?” Her features pinched in a scowl. “Did you come here to pick a fight with me?”

“No.” Yes. “I came here to tell you that you need to take this job seriously.” When her eyes went wide with astonishment, he peered into their depths, searching for secrets, searching for truth. All he found was indignation.

“Seriously? You don’t think I’m— Who do you think you—”

While she stammered and stuttered, too overcome with fury to form a complete sentence, he fisted his hands to keep from grabbing her, from sweeping her into his arms, from silencing her sputtering lips with a hot, claiming kiss.

Finally, she propped her hands on her hips and snapped, “Take off that ridiculous mask. If you’re going to stand here and accuse me of something, you can at least look me in the eye when you do it.”

A part of him hesitated, reluctant to shed his cover, his advantage, but the monster inside him was bold, impetuous, and raring to go. He released the transformation with nary a glance at his surroundings; too focused on her, too consumed by bitterness, to practice caution. A small thrill rushed through him as her eyes ran over him, as her breath caught and her angry gaze softened. Though her reaction lasted only a moment, he relished it.

She appeared to steel herself, straightening her posture, adjusting the strap of her purse, squaring her jaw. “Right. Now, what is it you want to say to me?”

I love you. I need you. I’m miserable without you.

“You’re slipping.”

“I’m slipping.” She echoed the words with none of his heat, none of his accusation. Just dull, lifeless incomprehension.

“Yes,” he said, dipping his chin in a single tight nod. “You’re distracted. You’ve lost focus.”

“I’ve lost focus.” Her confusion seemed to fade as she, again, repeated his words. The wide blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The pink bow lips pressed together. “Of what, exactly?”

Me. “Your duty.”

She balled her hands into fists—a telltale sign that she was losing patience. “I was late to one battle, and you think—”

“One battle is all it takes,” he countered, showing his own impatience. “One moment of hesitation, one mistake, can cost lives. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?” Rich, coming from him. If she only knew what a hypocrite he was.

Her features slackened, shocked no doubt by his sobering question. Regret flared, signalling he’d pushed too hard, gone too far, before her expression hardened. Suspicion marked her gaze. Anger curved her lips. Resentment soured her tone. “You haven’t said a word to me in months. I can’t remember the last time I saw you outside of battle.” He could. Granted, it had only been an hour ago, but his memory went back much further than that. “Now, after months of ghosting me, you ambush me out of the blue to lecture me about duty?”

It was a valid question. Reasonable. He wasn’t in a reasonable mood though. He was, in fact, in a very unreasonable mood.

He raised his chin. “Someone had to.”

She arched a brow. “Is that so?” Stony-eyed, they stared each other down, each willing the other to bend, to capitulate, to concede. When neither did, when their stalemate threatened to go on without end, she pursed her lips in a bitter scowl then sighed. “Right. Message received. If that’s all, I’m gonna go.” Lowering her chin, she gripped the strap of her purse and stepped around him. When he shifted, causing their arms to brush, she paused. “I know this is important,” she said quietly, without looking up. “I would have been here sooner if I could have, but—” She broke off and shook her head before resuming her steps.

He should have left it at that. Should have swallowed the bitter words that rose up. Should have let her go. Instead he turned, took one look at her retreating back, and gave in to weakness.

“But you couldn’t get away from your date?”

***

Annnnnnd...scene. (Well, not really, but that's it for this snippet.)

If you're wondering why I wrote this nonsense what happens next, so did I so did I. Now, I'm not one for spoilers, but I can tell you that these two aren't kids anymore, they're full blown #adults, so it would be COMPLETELY REASONABLE to assume that they resolve their issues with a calm, rational discussion.

...

...

SPOILER: They don't.