It Was A Short Story Once
chapter: 4/?? author: N pairing: Mumen Rider/Metal Bat summary: The start of something new. Baddâs little sister is a fan of a different hero. He just wants a date. There are monsters in between. A/N: Guess what N is still alive despite all apparent signs and is posting again. As usual, if you dig it feel free to comment in our inbox here or over at AO3!
When he wakes the next morning itâs to a shirt in his face and Zenkoâs third sternest look. âOni-chan! Youâre going to make me late!â
He yawns as he manages to sit up, using the shirt to wipe his face. âItâs not that lateâŚâ His phone buzzes and sure enough, it is that late. His eyes bug. He trips over the sheets on his way to standing. âAw shi-â Zenkoâs giving him a glare. â-ttake mushrooms. You eaten yet? Got your homework? Is your music packed?!â
A curse is bitten off as his zipper catches the side of his finger. When he looks up, hair mussed, finger in his mouth, pants mostly zipped, he realizes Zenko is standing there with her uniform neatly pressed and bag already on her shoulders.
She hands him one of his protein drinks from the fridge. âHero Day is in three days, onii-chan! Weâre not going to be late, right?â
âCross my heart,â he promises, taking the drink. âLemme find a shirt anâ Iâll walk you to the bus, ok?â
Itâs as heâs digging through yet another accumulation of clothing on the living room floor that Zenko asks, âYouâre still going to wear it for Hero Day, right?â
âIt?â
âThe shirt!â
âWhat shirt?â He asks, absently.
âBaddo!â
He straightens at that and looks at her, lost. She points and itâs then he remembers she handed him a shirt.That heâs still holding. Setting down his still unopened drink he unfurls the shirt.
I <3 MUMEN RIDER stares back at him in bright green and yellow.
Heâs pretty sure the sparkle were added afterward, considering the way theyâre ensuring his hands will have bling for the rest of the day. âUhâŚâ But when he looks up he sees the look on Zenkoâs face and glitterfied or not he canât go back on his word. âYeah, of course. Promise.â
The smile he gets is worth the shit Tanaka is going to give him.
It ends up being Tajima who calls him on it, giving his hands a look out of the corner of his eyes. Theyâre at the batting cages in upper K-City, the ones with the new machines that have three settings and reinforced cage wire after at least two run-ins with mysterious beings.
Badd rolls his eyes at Tajimaâs look. âMy sister.â
CRACK!
âUh-huh.â
CRACK!
âFor Hero Day.â
CRACK!
âUh-huh.â
CRACK!
Round over he puts down his bat to give Tajima a look. âFrom a shirt.â
Tajima just smiles, which manages to make him look half a foot shorter. How that happens, Badd has given up on figuring out. âYou busy afterward?â
Baddâs nose wrinkles. âAfter when?â
Tajimaâs face will probably freeze in an eyeroll someday. âHero Day.â
âTakinâ Zenko to the parade.â
âI mean after that, dumbo.â Tajima pauses as the attendant appears with a new basket of baseballs, giving a respectful nod to the man, before turning back to Badd. âAfter the parade anâ all that.â
He has to think, rolling the borrowed bat in his palm. âMaybe.â Thereâs a question coming and heâs not about to commit. Particularly given how he has yet to actually ask what Zenko has planned. âWhy?â
A proud smile splits Tajimaâs face. âGoinâ to a party at Haninozukaâs.â
âHuh?â
âThird year?â Itâs still not ringing a bell, no matter how much Tajima gestures with his hands. âPrivate academy up the street, big yellow-brown eyes, small-?â
âThe Cookie Mascot?â He pops his lip. âYou sure heâs a third year?â
The attendant slips out with little more than a flash of his glasses and a respectful bow, closing the door behind them. Badd loosens his collar, sweat pooling at the base of his neck from the encroaching summer warmth.
Tajima just shrugs. âWho knows. Anyway, you in? Bunch of us are going.â Itâs when Badd hesitates that Tajima tacks on. âSupposed to be catered, super fancy house, private school girlsâŚâ
Itâs almost too late that he realizes that he should be more excited about that than he is. Perhaps a few months ago, maybe? His preferences arenât exactly secret among his close circle (Tanaka included, and by extension Ennoshita). Though heâs never exactly been one to turn down similar invitations. Reputation, after all, was everything.
They both talk at the same time. âSure./Guys?â
Thereâs an awkward silence where Tajima brushes his hair back and Badd rubs the back of his neck. âSorry.â
Badd shakes his head and waves it off. âItâs cool.â
And it is, even if itâs started a cog going. Pieces lodging themselves into a thought, making him well aware of just what his late nights and early mornings have added up to. Itâs almost an earthly miracle that Zenko hasnât caught on. Itâs definitely a god-level act of intervention that heâs realizing it now.
Fuck.
Tajima notices even as he picks a bat, swinging it once before deciding itâs good enough. âWhatâs up with you, man? Youâve been acting...â The batter trails, waving his hand with a loose swivel of his wrist.
âYeah, just.â He finds himself swallowing, not sure heâs ready to share his revelation with the class. âBeen a long week, you know?â
âYou failing writing again?â
Which, god bless Tajima, is just the out he needs. âYeah, you know how it is. No way they even read it all either.â Tajima huffs in agreement and takes a swing. CRACK! A perfect hit to hide Baddâs annoyance and second-hand embarrassment at himself. He clears his throat even as the batting machine spits out another. âSo what time?â
When he goes home that night he has more than enough to ruminate on and not enough time to do it. By the time dinner and dishes are done, Zenkoâs homework is double checked and the apartment is swept even the clock seems tired, faded green numbers blinking in and out. His own homework lays strewn on the growing mountain of clothes. Try as he might, however, the only thing done is his name on the assignment.
The pencil he should be using to finish an analysis of the nightâs reading sits between his teeth, new canine marks in the wood. Enamel grinding away as he simultaneously hates himself for at least two different reasons.
First off, the...crush. He nearly bites through his pencil. The last time that concept applied in his life things ended in a fight that lost the team three bats at the next dayâs practice. Heâd hated feeling splintered. Fractured like the barrel of his once-favorite practice bat.
(Coincidentally, thatâd been the first time heâd picked up a metal bat, but thatâs not the point here.)
Would he say swearing off it all was dramatic? Perhaps. But itâd grown from childish melodrama to practicality. Between Zenko and school and work thereâd been little room for anything else. Squeezing in another person became a chore quickly and if the lack of socks on his feet was any indication it was that he had enough of those he couldnât keep up on. Few understood his dilemma. In the end, it was easier to save his nerves and spare someone elseâs feelings than expect understanding.
Itâs not that heâs inexperienced, he muses. He has...enough to know what he likes. Heâs always had a certain jaded charm, a rebel with a cause attitude that draws in a certain type. With fame came the privilege (some would say responsibility) of desire. And he was young and, if he was honest, lonely. It was easy to say yes in the moment knowing there wasnât going to be a next year.
Which, he liked. Right? Lead taints his tongue and he sinks lower on the sofa.
Easy didnât always mean preferred. If that was the case Zenko would play something portable and cheap. Like the flute. Or, hell, heâd take a violin at this point. Flings were just that though. Less commitment, less chance of heartbreak, and easier to break away from without investing parts of himself he just couldnât afford to be left hanging without. Not that he wants that. Wanted that. But itâs been so long since can became should that he isnât sure heâd even want something that was more anymore.
He doesnât like to think about just how misshapen that makes him.
Yet even with the one bedroom apartment over his head and Zenkoâs well-stocked backpack sitting by the door as a reminder, he still feels as if there could be...more. Which is reason number two: that idealism.
It pops up like a tenacious spring dandelion. Stubborn and insistent. A fighting spirit Badd can admire until itâs standing in the way of accepting what should be an easy existence. Fights, piano recitals, a piping hot dish of revenge. Itâs all he wants in life, or rather should be.
Until fucking Mumen Rider.
Mumen Rider, the hero stuck at Class C - Rank 1 permanently. Mumen Rider, the idiot on a bike breaking up bar brawls and B-list villains (and thatâs being generous). Mumen Rider, the hero with abysmal stats and yet a universal appeal that suprasses his own. Mumen Rider, the man withâŚ
He falters.
Thatâs the problem. He doesnât know about the man. Mumen Rider the hero? Yes. Mumen Rider the H.A. member? Enough. But Mumen Rider the man? Not even the forums can help him there, and heâs tried at least four times with different searches.
Which, come to think of it, is...odd. Even his own high school is listed on the internet. It hasnât resulted in a rapid increase of recognition, though the further in rank he climbs the more whispers he hears in the hall. Itâs not a secret, by any means, but heroes are a dime a dozen, if not less for the high turnover rate the business has these days.
His teeth bite through the last shreds of cheap wood and he curses at the splinter in his tongue.
Shit. That was it. Mumen Rider the hero was just that. A hero. The man beneath the goggles, for all he knows, is boring. Plain. Fucking Haruna for all he truly knew. What happens as a hero wasnât always a translation to what happens when the mask was off. (Heâs never forgotten meeting Sweet Mask for the first time. He likely never will.)
He spits slivers of wood from his mouth. All youâve got to do is go out with him. Just once. Youâll see. It ainât gonna work out.
Just one date. Heâs always been a decent enough judge of character. One date and heâll know if itâs going to be something worth the eventual, enveloping reminder later on down the line. Sound logic. He can live with this decision. And with a âfuck youâ to schoolwork his eyes slide closed⌠Only to fly open again ten seconds later.
How the fuck is he going to ask the guy out?
By the time Zenkoâs dragging him off the bus for the parade he still doesnât have an answer. The street is busy with the sounds of bands, noodles frying. Confectionaries that layer the smell of sweet upon sweet. Heroes mingle, some behind booths to promote themselves, others attempting a less overt form of marketing. Cameras ensure encounters are recorded. He can spot at least four Hero Association press people attempting to be sly about their photos. Colorful strings of lights sway in the late spring breeze.
Itâs A-City at its finest, but of course it would be. The Association is big on looks. True to form there isnât even gum on the streets.
âBaddo, come on!â Zenko is pulling his hand. How she got a schedule already he doesnât know. Her smile is bright though and he can see her best friend waving by the shaved ice cart. âMina is already here!â
He lets himself be dragged, shifting in his jacket. His own hero duds may be at home, but his bat sits straight and strong against his spine. Just in case. âAâright, aâright, Iâm cominâ!â
She lets go of his hand in favor of Minaâs, leaving him to shove his fingers into his pockets and chaperone from a distance, lest he be accused of hovering. (He would never.) Two things of candy floss, three bags of popcorn, and a paper cone of soy wasabi almonds later they head off to find seats for the parade. He ignores the looks he gets. Heâs used to the coy glance overs and second sneak peeks.
âHey, Zenko, hold on!â Sheâs running ahead of him, the bright strains of parade music drifting over the crowd. Did they start early? He loses her quickly in the crowd, leaving him carrying a half empty bag of soy wasabi almonds. He dusts his fingers off on his shirt, adding green glitter to the mix. Two seconds and he's lost her, god damn it. âCanât see yaâŚâ
âNeed some help?â
Heâd been reaching for his phone, but that all goes out the window as his body freezes. Fuck. When he turns the phoneâs long since out of his mind.
Mumen Rider is straddling his bike, one foot keeping him upright, another poised on a peddle. Thereâs a few new scratches on his goggles. Badd swears he can see the glint of glass embedded in the riderâs helmet. None of those details he knows he really should know, but there you go.
âUhâŚâ Score one for not his pride.
Badd knows they arenât alone, but it feels like it. A part of his brain recognizes parade music, the screaming of a megaphone, the shriek of the crowd. Theyâve got Sweet Mask headlining this year with a rare appearance by Tornado and Blizzard together (for the last time if tabloids are to be trusted). A thousand things to look and see and do.
Mumenâs head tilts a bit, enough so that Badd notices then hates himself for cementing in his memory. âNice shirt.â
It takes Badd a moment to process that. When he looks down, dumbly, it hits and he feels ready to sink into the concrete. Fuck fuck fuck. How bad does it look? Does it make my arms look small? Is my hair ok? His hand goes up to check for fly away hairs. Almonds go flying.
âItâs not like I l-like you or anything.â Fuck. âMy sisâ bought if for me.â God damn it, stop talking. âItâs laundry day.â
By now his mind has stopped trying and heâs pretty sure his heart is going to fall into his stomach and dissolve in acid. It would probably be a kinder fate than the slow descent into agonizing mortification happening right now.
To his credit, Mumen Rider doesnât laugh. âI like the glitter. Greenâs my favorite color.â And the man actually gives a smile.
It does nothing to help Badd not stare. âMakes sense. You know.â He waves a vague hand at all of Mumen Rider.
Of course heâd know, why wouldnât he know?
Mumen Riderâs hands tighten a bit on the handlebars. âYeah. ListenâŚâ Thereâs an awkward pause and Badd has to stop himself from biting a nail. âI know youâve been following me for awhile.â
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
âI was just wondering if there was a reason?â Mumen Rider is calm through it all, not even raising his voice.
Metal Bat - master of the fighting spirit, hero A-Class 21, the comeback kid, 10th districtâs finest flirt and best chance of getting into the championships - would later recount exactly twelve things he could have said that he probably should have said.
Instead, he says in a mad rush of syllables, âYou wanna go out sometime?â
Immediately he feels his face go red, though in the delusional state that heâs in he swears Mumenâs pinkens as well. Thereâs the muddy warble of a tuba blaring that seems to fit Baddâs general state of mind. Really all he needs is a meteorite or a god-level disaster to strike to finish him off.
Thank god Mumen takes away the question of whoâs supposed to speak next. âLook, you seem like a nice guy.â Mumen shifts. âAnd Iâm flattered-â
Badd knows where this is going. Heâs given this speech himself and he canât say itâs any easier to be the one hearing it. Every almond heâs eaten sits like a rock in his stomach. âBut what? Iâm not your type?â
âYou were kind of stalking me,â Mumen says with a frown.
Badd notes he didnât answer his question. âFollowinâ. Not stalkinâ.â Because only weirdos did that.
âBecause you heart me?â Thereâs a twitch of Mumenâs lip and Badd finds himself reddening again. âIâm flattered, truly. Your work is impressive. Youâve got a passion for hero work, Metal Bat-san, and an inspiring gift.â And if that doesnât immediately plaster itself to the inside of Baddâs rib cage he doesnât know if anything ever will.
But this is still a rejection and no matter how he feels about praise thereâs still the end of that sentence to get to. He tries not to let his disappointment show. âBut ya ainât interested. I get it.â He shrugs, trying to keep the roll slow. A hand sweeps his hair, leaving soy wasabi powder. âNot your thing." And he gives him a look. "You're not one of those pro-family people, right?"
Mumen's hands go up. Fast. "NO. No. Gods, no. Just..."
So it's him then. "Right. Forget I said anythinâ, ya?â
Heâs ready to bail on this conversation entirely so he can go lick his wounded pride in the anonymity of the crowd.
But Mumen isnât moving. âItâsâŚâ Aside from in front of a camera, itâs the first time heâs seen Mumen flustered. âNot that.â (Itâs a confession drawn out, rusty in use.) Mumen has a hand at his neck now, fingers curling. A deep breath in. âYouâre just a kid.â
And Badd stops short of saying anything at all. âHuh?â Because if thereâs any word heâd use to describe himself itâs never kid. It hasnât been for nearly ten years. Itâs a title that has his hands suddenly making fists and a defensive wall a mile long springing up.
Mumen bites his lower lip just enough for Badd to hate that he notices. âYouâre, what, sixteen?â Badd refuses to give him the satisfaction of a verbal answer. âYouâre too young.â
âToo young for what? âLove?ââ He hates himself for actually doing the air quotes. âA relationship? Think I donât know what I want? I ainât that young, you know, and I donât need the likes of you assuming that just because Iâve got a few less years that youâve got this better idea about what I âneedâ to be.â
âItâs notâŚâ Mumen starts, trailing helplessly. âYou dropped that.â
Which has Badd confused until Mumen points to the ground. The rest of Zenkoâs soy wasabi almonds litter the ground, wax paper flapping in the breeze. Mumen is staring at him and he stares back, not sure if he heard that right. âExcuse me?â
âYou dropped that. And the cleaning crew worked through the night to make sure the streets were clean for today.â
Heâs incredulous, until he remembers the first time they locked eyes and the four way intersection and the intricacies of justice displayed in the way Mumen Rider considers himself very much a part of. Itâs part of the charm that has Badd even here to begin with, wearing this shirt, even asking this stupid question. Which means that...
Oh.
âYouâre not just givinâ me a brush off, right?â Mumen actually looks a bit hurt so Badd clears his throat. âSo when ya say Iâm too youngâŚâ
âRight now.â Mumen licks his lips. âYouâre too young for me right now.â Justice rests against Mumenâs hips as he holds his hands up, anticipating a comment. âCome back when you make S-Class and we can talk then.â
A tick then two goes by as Badd processes this. âI might never make S-Class.â
Mumen just smiles a bit. âNot sure that many papers and that many people could be wrong.â
Which is also true. Heâs already in A-Class, and there are betting pools regarding if heâll be one of the few heroes to make S-Class in less than a year of hero work. âAll right. When I hit S-Class then.â
Mumen Riderâs shoulders slump a bit in relief. âCould you do me a favor until then?â
âDepends on the favor.â
âWould you stop following me? It gives the wrong impression.â
Badd canât help himself. âIn case you havenât heard, Iâm king of makinâ impressions.â
âDoesnât saying that negate the validity of that claim?â
âAinât a claim, itâs fact.â
Mumen huffs lightly. Badd swears thereâs a smile in there. âEither wayâŚâ
âYeah, yeah, fine.â Badd waves off the conversation, wrist settling on his hip. âCould take a lesson from me, though, ya know.â
Mumenâs other foot stops idly moving on the pedal. âIs that right? And what would you teach me, Metal Bat-san?â
Baddâs grin is toothy. âLotsa things. But mostly on makinâ a splash. Youâre a hard guy to find.â
Which he feels like Mumen does know, from the single shoulder shrug that gets. âSeems a made an impession on someone." Badd can feel his face reddening as Mumen glances at his shirt. "But you're right. I donât really like the publicity. There are others more deserving.â Badd frowns a bit, but Mumenâs phone buzzes and the cyclist fishes it out to flip it open with a thumb. âIâve got to go.â
That also surprises him, considering his own phone didnât ring. It couldnât be the Association. Yet another question to add to his growing list.
âYeah, sure.â Not that Mumen needs his permission to go. Mumen gives him a polite nod and pushes off. He watches, then calls after him, âYouâre gonna say yes, right?â
Mumen just looks over his shoulder and gives him a thumbs up, making him wonder if the cyclist even heard him at all.
Wax paper crumples under his foot as he turns. Lifting his shoe, he scoops it up and turns it in his fingers. All heâs got to do is make it to S-Class. It canât be that hard. Right?
As the paper finds a bin and almond dust is wiped off on his jacket, he hears his name being called.
âBadd! Badd!â
Looking up he finds Zenko making her way toward him, Heroâs Guide in hand. âYouâll never believe who I got!â
âProbably will,â he quips, bending his knees so he can look over Zenkoâs shoulder and properly admire each new signature in her Heroâs Guide.
By the time heâs replaced the lost almonds, listened to three speeches by various Association officials, and stood in line to get Child Emperorâs signature, heâs had enough of Heroâs Day. His skin itches and he's restless. Zenko, however, is ecstatic and that's enough to curb his complaining.
The mood comes back, however, hours later at the promised party. True to reputation, the Mitsukuni Mansion is a study in grandeur. A sweeping front drive, finely manicured lawn, and butler at the door are certainly nothing Baddâs every grown accustomed to. The grandiose chandelier of the foyer and elegant stemware serving sparkling apple juice, itâs a surrounding that should be utterly and absolutely captivating.
All he can think about is Mumen Rider.
The party goes on behind him, a string quartet (a fucking string quartet) providing the nightâs entertainment, and honestly if heâd known it was going to be this kind of a party he wouldnât have come. Even his hero gear feels out of place. A bright smear of red against the elegance of black and white and pastels.
Dancing isnât normally his thing, much less ballroom, much less being served on literal silver platters. Which is how he finds himself on the overlook, sipping sparkling juice and watching the influx of even more fashionably late individuals flood up the front stairs.
Watch all ya want, it ainât gonna be him. The juice is overly sweet and his nose tingles from the carbonation. It just makes him all the more restless.
Tajima chooses that moment to make his entrance, arguing, loudly, with Izumi, Mihashi in tow. âIâm just saying, whatâs the point of a chocolate fountain if youâre not allowed to dip stuff in it?â
Izumi wrinkles his nose and yanks Tajimaâs drink away. âJust because they say finger food doesnât mean your actual fingers.â
Mihashi, brave soul he occasionally is, attempts to step in. âYou canât deny, having those guys do it for you seems kind of excessive.â
Tajima rolls his eyes, dramatically, then catches Baddâs eyes and grins. âHeeeeeey, Badd! This is where you disappeared to! Thought youâd be schmoozing all those ladies in there!â
Itâs obvious the drinking has gone beyond cider. His first thought is whoâs going to get Tajima home. His second thought is, âYou got any left?â
âAny what?â Even buzzed Tajimaâs got his senses.
Badd laughs even as Izumi shoots Mihashi a clear look. âWe donât have anythingâŚâ
Mihashi looks nervous now (not that he doesnât usually). Badd takes it upon himself to slap a supporting hand on the kidâs shoulder lest he vibrate out of his skin. âCâmon, Iz, you anâ I both know this party fucking needs it.â
Izumi looks between the three of them, Tajima wiggling his nose, and Mihashi rubbing the back of his neck,. He sighs deeply. âSeriously, it wasnât from me, ok?â The flask comes out and the drinks suddenly become something far more tolerable. âWhy am I always bringing the alcohol? When you gonna chip in, Badd?â
He takes a generous sip of his own drink. âWhen I ainât got your butts to save.â
Mihashi stares at his glass, both hands clasping the stem as if it were a lifeline. âAre you sure we should be doing this? It isnât our house, and if weâre caught Momoe willâŚâ
âWeâre fine, weâll be fine,â Tajima says, draping an arm over Mihashi and leaning in. âPartyâs too fancy anyway. Needs something more exciting than a chocolate fountain. Which why are they called that anyway? Not like they want you drinking the chocolate either.â
âPretty sure they donât want ya drinkinâ out of the normal fountains either,â Badd points out.
âThat is not what you said that time at-â
âHey, we said weâd never talk âbout that again!â A quick flick of Tajimaâs nose stops the story - no one needs to relive that, least of all people not there - but has them devolving into a face making competition that ends with Izumi snorting into his glass and Mihashi laughing.
Itâs easy, easy to be here giving a fuck all to the noise behind them. To pretend like itâs another party, another night, another remarkably normal moment where the metal bat on his back isnât the definition of his existence.
âYouâre in a better mood,â Tajima says to him, low, as Izumi and Mihashi compare game scores on their phones. Theyâve switched now to leaning by the entrance to the house, watching the dancers go by, the music faster though no less foreign. Waiters scurry by, giving them the odd look. âFind someone?â
Badd snorts and finishes his drink. His tongue burns now and heâll have to walk it off before he gets home. âSaid it yourself. All these people here ainât in my league.â
âYou've met all of them?â
âDon't need to.â
Tajima hums. âGot high standards there.â
âThe highest.â He doesnât really, but even now thereâs a part of him that isnât sure how to turn Metal Bat off.
âKnow what they say about standardsâŚâ
He snorts. âThey were meant to be broken?â
Itâs not really funny, but Tajima laughs anyway. âYou, my friend, break everything.â
Which earns the baseball player a wicked grin. âHavenât broken you yet.â
âOnly because you said I havenât got a brain to break.â Tajima slugs him in the arm before finishing his own drink, smacking his lips. âStill, those âstandardsâ of yours? Gonna leave you high and dry.â
Perhaps maybe Tajimaâs right, a part of his brain suggests. But itâs not an issue, says his heart, because thereâs that hazy promise of a date. Just as soon as he makes S-Class. He can wait that long, right?
âDoesnât matter if it does,â he shrugs.
Tajima squints at him. âSo there is someone.â
âNever said that.â
âDonât bullshit me.â
âAinât bullshitting if Iâm not saying anything.â
Tajima watches him for a long moment before looking back to the sea of people. Servers duck and dodge in white and red, obvious among the soft ball gowns and silk collars. Badd canât deny there are several beautiful people there. But the glasses are stylish and elegant, hair neatly kept.
He hums. âAlready know what I want.â He gestures with the now empty glass toward the ballroom of people. âAnd trust me, it ainât anyone you see in this joke.â
Theyâre interrupted by the clatter of a tray. (Turns out, silver sounds just as loud as iron.) Badd moves to grab the serving platter as it rolls by, smooth even with the warm burn in his chest. Heâs conscious of all eyes on them as he holds the tray out to the server scrambling to pick up glass.
The server takes it, head down, messy brown hair hiding what his glasses donât. âMy apologies, sir. I didnât watch where I was stepping.â
âYeah, ya didnât.â Zenko would be disappointed in him and he screws his mouth up a bit, ready to attempt something less in your face. He stops at the red tinge across the serverâs cheeks, suddenly tongue-tied in an uncharacteristic stab of uncertainty.
âHey, no worriesâŚâ Tajima starts, but the server is already on the floor, sweeping up broken glass with his hands. Another server is already moving in with a cloth. Tajima glances at him and shrugs. âSo when do I get to meet her?â At silence Tajima adds, âHim?â
Thereâs no chance of his answering that. Mihashi saves the day, however, with a particularly awful rendition of the latest K-Pop ballad. It's a less than subtle sign that theyâre actually there for anything but the food. It gets them âescortedâ out, with more apologies than heâs heard in awhile. Theyâre not the only ones leaving, as a bicyclist speeds down the drive ahead of them. Though itâs tempting to think of earlier that day Badd instead wrestles the flask from Izumi and the rest of the evening they spend at the school track finishing the flask under the bleachers.











