Loose Threads
Thinking "Intro to Sewing" would be easy was your first mistake.
Getting a crush on Mitsuya Takashi was the second.
Lying to him was the third.
By the time you realize how deep you're in, it's already too late to escape with your dignity intact.
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《 Pairing 》 Mitsuya Takashi × Reader
《 Genre 》 Fluff || Birthday Fic || Chaotic Romantic Comedy || Romantic Tension || Bad Excuses || Escalating Lies ||
《 Words 》 4K
《 A/N 》 Happy Birthday to the handsome and incredible Mitsuya Takashi!
♡
The costume room had become a battlefield that evening sometime between five-thirty and six.
Racks of clothes were scattered across the floor, hangers clacked together like bones, and bodies rushed past in every which direction—carrying wigs, masks, shoes, and armfuls of fabric.
Someone was shouting for more spirit makeup. Another person was going on about a missing sword. Two chorus actors were arguing over whose tabi socks were who’s as if that even mattered right now.
And at the center of all the chaos, you stood, clutching a clipboard to your chest that you hadn’t even had the chance to look at in the last ten minutes.
This is fine, you told yourself. Totally fine.
You had this.
Or, at least that’s what you had told Mitsuya over the phone about twenty minutes ago when he had called.
“Hey, my sisters had an emergency come up,” he’d said, his voice apologetic over the phone. “So, I’m gonna be a bit late. Can you hold things down until I’m able to get there?”
You had nodded, apparently committed to making bad decisions both in his presence and absence, so you answered without hesitation.
“Sure, of course! I’ve totally got this.”
You did not, in fact, have this.
Now, the cast of Yotsuya Kaidan was one inconvenience away from total mutiny!
“The Kimono for Tamiya Iemon is all wrong!” one of the male actors barked at you while holding up a richly patterned robe with sleeves far too decorative for his role. “Why do I have the servant’s costume?”
“Because I have yours!” another actor yelled back from across the room.
You looked between them both and swung your index fingers, gesturing for them to swap.
“Switch.”
You then moved forward, only for another inconvenience to be brought to your attention.
“Where’s Oiwa’s mask?” cried the leading actress, clutching her wig with both hands. “Who moved my mask?!”
“I’m on it!” you called, voice two octaves higher than normal. You then scrambled to get to a rack, shoving aside layers of garments as you searched desperately for the mask.
In the distance, someone shouted your name again, but you were too focused on the task at hand to respond.
The labels…you noticed as you read the tags. They’re all wrong.
You shuffled through the costumes some more. You faintly recalled Mitsuya explaining the labeling system. Of course, you had nodded the whole time, more focused on the sight of his lips rather than the info coming out of them.
Now the labels were all attached to the wrong garments. How had that even happened?
You shook your head. Actually, no time for reflection.
You yanked a pale robe free from the crowded rack, seeing the needed mask attached to the robe and nearly cried in relief.
The white gown!
Oiwa’s gown.
Long, flowing, ghostly, dramatic—exactly what the leading actress needed for the final scenes.
“Found it!” you yelled.
Across the room, the actress playing Oiwa threw her hands up in relief. “Finally!”
You rushed to get across the room, gathering as much of the long fabric that you could into your arms. It was longer than you expected, trailing behind you like a bridal train.
Then someone brushed past your shoulders.
That’s when you stumbled.
Your foot came down on the hem of the robe.
Then, you felt it—a sharp tug followed by a sound so small, it almost didn’t even register.
Riiip.
You froze.
The room didn’t.
People still shouted. Hangers still clattered. Somewhere in the room, was someone laughing hysterically for reasons unknown to you.
But in your hands, the white gown sagged strangely.
Slowly, you looked down.
A jagged tear split the lower part of the gown, several inches wide.
No!
No, no, no!
From the doorway, the instructor’s voice boomed over the noise.
“Places in ten minutes!”
The leading actress swept toward you, snatching the gown from your hands. Then she saw it.
Her shocked inhale could’ve sucked all the air out of the room.
“YOU TORE IT?!” she shrieked.
Every head in the room turned.
The actor missing his kimono turned.
The actor missing a sword turned.
Even the two actors fighting over socks turned.
The room fell silent.
The leading actress lifted the ruined white gown like evidence in a murder trial.
“She tore Oiwa’s gown!”
Gasps erupted all around you.
Someone somewhere, whispered, “She cursed the production!”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
Your pulse hammered in your ears. Your hands shook in terror. Your thoughts scattered like dropped pins across the tiled floor.
This was not how tonight was supposed to go.
All you’d had to do was survive maybe ten minutes without anyone realizing that you had never correctly threaded anything in your entire life until Mitsuya got there.
Now everyone was going to know you were a fraud.
But this is what happens when you lie for a cute guy.
It had all started a few months ago when you realized you needed an extracurricular credit.
“Intro to Sewing” was hardly what you would’ve chosen, but you’d waited until the last minute, so it was one of the few remaining courses still open.
When you signed up, you’d thought it would be a breeze.
An “easy A.”
Which, in hindsight, was your first mistake.
You also thought it would be lame.
That was until you saw the gorgeous guy with lavender-black hair standing at the front of the classroom, talking to the instructor.
Baddie with a sewing needle was what you later called him when telling your friends about him.
He looked young enough to be another student, and at first, you assumed he was.
But when he stayed at the front of the room and the instructor introduced him as both the assistant and the costume designer for the college’s kabuki production, you realized he wasn’t there to learn like the rest of you.
He was already an expert.
Which meant he’d be helping everyone.
That’s when you knew you needed to get close to him…
Academically, of course.
So, that’s what you did.
You told the instructor that you were far more skilled with the needle than you actually were.
And anything you didn’t know?
You’d figure it out under the supervision of…Mitsuya-senpai.
He had chuckled softly when you called him that.
“You know, you don’t have to keep calling me senpai,” he said. “Mitsuya-san is fine.”
You two were hanging out after class where he was working on tailoring some of the garments for Yotsuya Kaidan, the play the theater department was going to present later that semester.
You frowned. “Oh…but isn’t that the respectful term for a senior?”
“It is… He nodded, a faint color touching his usually pale cheeks “I just like to be casual with the students, so they feel comfortable with me. Besides, I’m not any older than most of you anyway.”
You sat up straighter. “I’ve been meaning to ask you how you got into sewing and clothes design. You’re so good at it despite being so young.”
He paused, his silver-lavender eyes glancing up in thought for a moment before he started to explain while he continued working.
“Well, it just started out as a hobby when I took it in school,” he said, his eyes still on the fabric in his hands. “Then my sisters kept tearing their clothes.”
You grinned. “Oh, so you practiced on them?”
He laughed softly. “Something like that. Our mom didn’t have much money to replace things, so whenever they used to get tears or rips, I would patch them up and make them look new again.”
“Awe! That’s so sweet,” you gushed.
“That’s survival,” he corrected, lightly. “Then later, I started making uniforms for Toman.”
You tilted your head to the side. “Toman?”
“Mhm.” He nodded, glancing up at you through his spectacles for a split second. “My old gang.”
Your brows lifted in shock. “You were in a gang?”
He smirked. “You sound disappointed.”
“No!” you shook your head, vigorously. “Just…surprised.”
“Well, I was,” he said glancing up for a moment with a gleam of pride in his eyes. “All throughout my teens.”
You looked at him in a different light now. You never would’ve guessed especially since he looked so debonair in appearance today.
“But that was a long time ago,” he continued as he worked. “Once I realized I had a talent for it, I got serious about doing it professionally. I registered in college, and got an internship, but I came back to get a bit more experience working on plays. It’s a good way to build up my portfolio.”
You stared at him in awe, newly impressed. So, not only was he gorgeous but he was smart as hell, too!
“No wonder you’re so talented,” you praised. “You’ve been doing it your whole life.”
“It’s what I love doing,” he said with a grin, but he surprised you when he turned the tables. “So, what about you? How did you get into sewing?”
“Oh…” it caught you off guard for a second, but you quickly recovered. “…um, my grandma taught me. She used to make all kinds of costumes because she worked on a lot of TV productions and plays when I was growing up. It kind of just stuck with me.”
Technically, this was mostly true. But the part about your grandmother teaching you to sew was a lie. You had never paid any attention to her job as a seamstress. But he didn’t have to know that.
“Really?” He asked, interested. “She do the costumes for anything I would know?”
You shrugged. “Probably not. It was all small productions back in America.”
He nodded. “Well, that explains why you chose to take ‘Intro to Sewing’ as an elective. It’s not typically the most popular class foreigners choose.”
“Oh, yeah!” You said, your voice a little too high as you lied about your abilities. “I’m totally into it. Practically sew my own booties as a baby.”
“Well then,” he said, holding out the needle to you. “Show me some of those lifelong skills.”
He gestured to the ornate robe on the mannequin before him.
You bit your lip, suddenly feeling your heart race with anxiety. You needed to come up with an excuse quick!
You took the needle from him, pretending you were actually going to thread, but instead, you chose to get him talking again.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
It was his turn to tilt his head at you with curiosity. “Why?”
“Well, I just keep hearing students talk about a curse in regards to the play,” you start to explain. “I don’t want to mess up Oiwa’s dress.”
You ran a hand over the delicate white kimono Mitsuya was working on for the character, Oiwa. The leading actress had gone on and on about the importance of the dress and how central it was to the play being successful.
Mitsuya rolled his eyes. “All the actors are just a little superstitious, but none of it is true.”
He then stepped closer to you. “Here, let me show you.”
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he was standing.
Way too close.
Close enough to smell clean detergent and something faintly warm underneath.
Close enough to forget your own name.
“First, thread the needle,” he instructed, breath hitting the back of your neck.
Despite your racing pulse, you nodded.
You pinched the thread, squinted, and pushed the needle toward it.
Silence.
Then, very gently he said, “the thread goes through the needle.”
You froze.
“Right!” you quickly covered. “Of course, I knew that. I was just making sure you knew.”
A small laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
“That so?”
You tried again, missed the eye of the needle five times, then somehow bent the thread backward.
Mitsuya took the thread from your fingers and looked at you, suspiciously.
“You’ve done this before?”
“Of course.”
“Mm…”
You pressed your lips together. That single sound from him carried dangerous levels of disbelief.
He lifted the thread, rolled the end between his fingers, then guided it cleanly through the needle on the first try.
Show-off.
“Now knot the end.”
You took it and tied a knot directly in the middle.
He looked at it. Then at you.
“Why there?”
You shrugged. “…It felt right?”
He shook his head, smiling to himself.
“You’re interesting,” he said, but it was what he did next that made your pulse skyrocket.
He stepped behind you, reaching around to take your hands into his.
“Hold it like this.”
His fingers adjusted yours around the needle, warm and steady.
The room immediately became too hot.
“Use your thumb here,” he guided. “Index finger here. Keep the fabric taut.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Small stitches.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t pull too hard.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re not listening.”
You blinked, slowly coming out of your trance once you realized what he said.
“I am!” you insisted, shaking your head.
“Then what did I just say?”
You gulped, feeling caught. “…that I wasn’t listening…”
“Before that.”
“Um…”
“I told you not to stab yourself.”
You blinked. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
You had absolutely no idea if he was telling the truth or not because you had just been that out of it.
He leaned closer, voice lower near your ear.
“Try one stitch.”
With shaky hands, you pushed the needle through crookedly, snagged the fabric, and nearly sewed the sleeve to itself.
He caught your wrist before you could make it any worse.
“Wow,” he murmured. “You really were relying on me to get here eventually, huh?”
*
The leading actress’s gaze now bored into you, intensely.
“Well?” she snapped, shaking the gown so the tear fluttered. “Fix it.”
Fix it. As if you were a human sewing machine.
You swallowed. “I—okay, but because of the curse, we’re kind of…”
“Don’t you dare blame the curse,” she hissed, stepping closer until you were nearly nose to nose. “You said you could sew. So, sew.”
She thrusted the dress at you.
From the hallway, the instructor called again, louder this time.
“Places in five!”
Your throat tightened. Every second stretched, unbearably long, while the whole costume room waited for you to perform a miracle.
You knew you couldn’t, so, you did the only thing left you could.
Tell the truth.
“I can’t,” you blurted. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
The silence that followed was somehow worse than the screaming.
In the dead quiet, a hanger suddenly slipped from the nearest rack and snapped against the tile with a sharp crack, like the room itself had just clapped back.
Someone yelped.
Someone else whispered, horrified and delighted, “See? It’s the curse!”
You swallowed hard before continuing, forcing the words out before you could chicken out. “I-I lied about… about being skilled. I can barely thread a needle even on a good day.”
The leading actress’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again like she couldn’t decide which disaster to address first.
“Where is Mitsuya?” someone demanded from the back. “He’s the only one who—”
Then, as if summoned by name, the costume room door swung open.
Mitsuya stepped in with his bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly mussed like he’d been moving fast. His eyes swept the room—racks on the floor, faces turned, the white gown held up by the actress—and then landed on the tear.
“Mitsuya!” she practically lunged at him. “Your assistant ruined it! We’re on in five and she tore Oiwa’s gown!”
Mitsuya didn’t even blink. He took the gown from her hands with a gentleness that didn’t match how sharp his focus suddenly became behind his glasses.
“Okay,” he said, calmly. “Everyone breathe. This is fixable.”
“You,” he pointed at the actress, “stay in your base layers. Don’t put the wig back on yet. I need access to the hem.”
His gaze then flicked to you, but not in anger. He was… assessing.
You braced yourself for the disappointment. For the I knew it. For the lecture you deserved.
Instead, he said, “I need a clear table. Now.”
Instantly, you moved before your brain could even catch up, shoving aside a pile of garments and a few boxes until the table surface appeared.
“Good,” Mitsuya said. “Find me white thread. Not off-white. White. And bring the small scissors—the tiny ones.”
“On it!” you squeaked, already half running.
Behind you, you heard Mitsuya get straight to work—fabric laid flat on the table, pins clicked open, him assessing the tear.
You snatched a spool from the supply cart—bright white—and grabbed the tiny scissors.
When you came back to the table, Mitsuya held out his hand without looking up. You placed the thread and scissors into his palm like an offering.
“Thank you,” he murmured. Then, finally, just for a second, his lavender eyes lifted to yours. “We’ll talk later.”
Your stomach dropped, but he was already back to work.
“Hold this edge,” he instructed, guiding your fingers to the hem. “Just keep it flat. Don’t pull. Flat.”
I can do flat, you thought, desperate. I can do flat like it’s my major.
The rest of the room seemed to compress around the table. People stopped moving as Mitsuya’s needle flicked in and out with quick, neat stitches that made your earlier lies feel like a personal insult to fabric everywhere.
“Is it going to show?” the leading actress asked, voice smaller now.
“Not from the audience,” Mitsuya said. “And if anyone sees anything, they’ll think it’s part of the haunting.”
He didn’t look up when he added, “I need four safety pins and the white ribbon spool. Top drawer. Hurry.”
You literally dove for the drawer, hands shaking so badly the pins rattled like tiny bones. Ribbon. Pins. Back to the table. You made it without dropping anything, which felt like its own miracle.
“Places in two minutes!” came the next countdown from the instructor.
You weren’t sure what mojo Mitsuya did on the dress, but in another minute, he was lifting the gown, checking the line, and giving one firm nod to himself.
“Put it on,” he told the leading actress. “Carefully, step in. If you rip it again, I’m sewing you to the floor.”
A strangled laugh escaped someone. The actress paled, but nodded furiously, and started changing with renewed urgency.
The costume room roared back to life around you, but you stayed frozen at the table, fingers still holding the box of pins like you’d been assigned to it permanently.
Mitsuya’s hand brushed your wrist, lightly, before he took the box from you.
“You did good,” he said under his breath, like he wasn’t sure you’d believe him. “Next time, don’t try to carry a ghost gown by yourself.”
Then, softer, meant only for you, he added, “And don’t disappear after curtain call. We’re going to have a conversation.”
*
Thanks to Mitsuya, the production had been a hit, even despite the “curse.”
No one noticed the tear in Oiwa’s dress, and the actress put on an amazing performance.
After the show, all the actors thanked Mitsuya, giving him all the praise he deserved, while everyone mostly ignored you, which honestly, was the most you could ask for.
It was certainly better than being yelled at for your incompetence.
Now, you were cleaning up around the costume room, the time a little past ten at night. Mostly everyone had left, but a few staff still lingered—far enough away that their voices blurred into background noise.
The adrenaline crash made everything feel both too bright and too quiet at the same time. You folded discarded sashes, rehung stray kimonos, and scooped fallen hairpins into a plastic bin—anything to keep your hands busy and your brain from replaying Mitsuya’s earlier, very calm, but very terrifying promise:
We’ll talk later.
If you could help it, that conversation would never happen. You were excellent at vanishing when feelings got involved. Tonight’s plan was simple: clean until no one could accuse you of abandoning the costume room, then quietly evaporate.
You just needed to make it to the exit without running into your very cute, very competent, but very disappointed supervisor.
Knock. Knock.
Startled, you jumped so hard you nearly dropped the bin of hairpins. You turned around and—of course—there he was.
Mitsuya leaned against the doorframe like he’d been there the whole time, lavender eyes bright with that look he got when he was about to be annoyingly right about something.
“Mitsuya? You’re still here? I thought you left already.”
“And leave you here alone with all this fabric?” he asked, glancing at the mess you’d been taming. The corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s dangerous.”
He pushed off the doorframe and walked in, stopping a few steps away.
“But,” he added, voice gentler than your impending doom deserved, “we have to talk.”
Your stomach did an acrobatic routine. You stared at the floor wishing for a trapdoor you could jump through.
“Look,” you started, rushing the words before you could lose your nerve. “I know what I did was wrong, and I’m sorry—”
“No.” Mitsuya’s tone wasn’t angry, just firm. “I’m not asking for an apology yet.” He then tipped his head to the side. “Why did you lie?”
The answer hit you so fast it slipped out before you could dress it up.
“Because I like you, Mitsuya,” you confessed, voice small but steady. “I like you a lot.”
For a second, he just stared at you like you’d confessed to a crime instead of a crush.
“You took a course for three months,” he said slowly, “for something you weren’t even interested in… just because you like me?”
You glanced away, cheeks burning. “I know it was stupid…”
His brows pulled together. “What if I hadn’t made it on time tonight?”
“I’m sorry,” you blurted. “I really am. I didn’t think things would get this far. I just…” You swallowed, forcing yourself to look at him. “You showed up on that first day, and I wanted to get close to you. The only way I could think to do that was to pretend I was into what you were into. You’re impressive, and passionate, and—”
Mitsuya’s voice softened. “And you thought…?”
“That if I could pull it off,” you admitted, “then maybe it wouldn’t matter that I couldn’t sew. I could learn. Or…” you winced, “at least not embarrass myself in front of you.”
He exhaled like he’d been waiting to hear that for months.
“I don’t like you because you can or can’t sew,” Mitsuya said, stepping closer. “I like you because you’re funny, cute, and a little devilish.”
Your face scrunched up, cutely, like your brain had an error. “Did you just say you like me?”
Mitsuya chuckled. “Yeah, I did.” His gaze flicked to your hands—still clutching a hanger—then back to your face. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
Surprised by his question, you looked off to the side for a moment as you thought of how to respond, but when an idea suddenly popped in your head, you smiled, softly.
You looked back at him, then stepped closer—like you were walking back into the very first day of class.
“Hi Mitsuya-san. I’m a new student, and although I’m not really any good at sewing, I wanted to introduce myself and say I think what you do is really amazing. If you’re free, would you mind hanging out to teach me sometimes?”
He smiled at you, genuinely. “That depends. You gonna listen this time?”
You nodded eagerly and did a little salute. “I promise, Mitsuya-san! Teach me everything!”
Mitsuya laughed softly, shaking his head like you were impossible.
“Good,” he said, stepping in. He leaned in closely like he was about to share a secret. “Then listen carefully.”
You leaned forward too, holding your breath like a model student.
His eyes flicked down to your lips for a brief second.
“Is this…part of the lesson?” you whispered.
Mitsuya’s mouth curved. “The only part you won’t mess up.”
Then, he closed the distance and kissed you—warm and soft and so unfairly confident, like he’d been waiting to do it since the first time you lied about threading a needle.
