“Come Along”
for (belated) MikoTotsu Week 2015 ♔ Touch : ⌊ “On an unsuspecting winter’s night little-tiny Totsuka & Mikoto meet for the very first time & wreak very first havoc together”
(fic) childhood Mikoto Suoh + Totsuka Tatara 1196 w | AO3
゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･ﾟ゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ
“Come along Mikoto.”
He doesn’t want to hold her hand. He doesn’t want to hold anyone’s hand. Not on the train. Not crossing the street. Not anywhere. And certainly not in the supermarket.
But the mother Suoh’s grip is inescapable. Whether by the wrist or hood of his little jacket. She kneels to lace up his boot again aside the sliding glass door; her eyes, defined by their stern creases underneath, connect with her son’s – a firm suggestion to behave himself.
They find shelter before the heavier snowfall begins to whisper down.
Once inside Mikoto is set free. In concept at least. He pouts down aisle after aisle – past the colorfully cold wall of milks and juices, past grinning brand mascot cutouts – in the few steps he’s allowed behind the tail of her peacoat.
But even the most vigilant mother lions tire of keeping the leash so short 100% of the time. In the wide open produce section he’s given more room to explore as she inspects winter radishes and answers a phone call all at once. Not that there’s much to look at; Mikoto pulls a mandarin from the bottom of their pyramid display, unimpressed by the avalanche he creates.
The two of them seem to be the only signs of life around so late at night. Until a shopping cart’s nose pokes out from the end of the last aisle. It draws the boy’s attention squeaking slightly back and forth on its wheels. Mikoto frowns under the florescent light, shoves the mandarin in his pocket.
“Stay where I can see you,” the mother Suoh warns without glancing over.
By then he’s already padding over to investigate. A peek into the aisle reveals the source of the squeaky wheel noises.
“Here ! Here!” a voice squeaks just the same. The younger boy in the cart peers down with bright eyes and blond hair dangling over. He’s been jarring the cart back and forth with all his wiggling. The sleeves of his threadbare sweatshirt are too long. He’s been left alone here too long too.
“Please down!”
Tiny hands reach and reach for Mikoto over the side of the cart with all their might. Asking for rescue. For a while all he gets is a steady glare, before one of those too-long sleeves is grabbed and yanked down – out of sheer curiosity.
Totsuka peels away from the floortiles with a dark forehead bruise and a giggle after toppling out of the cart.
“No.” Mikoto uses his favourite word as of late. Realizing his grave mistake, he tries backing away, now that this thing he’s released from its cage is free to hunt him down. It toddles into him on unsteady legs, grabbing hold in a snug embrace around the older boy. Gripping the red-and-black flannel layered beneath his jacket. And Mikoto thought his mother’s hold was inescapable. The more he pushes and squirms the tighter it clings on. Mikoto bats him on the head a few times for good measure. “Let… go.” What’s worse, the little one is fascinated by his hair, and grabs a fistful just to see the pretty red up closer. Mikoto winces at the tugs. Until he’s had enough, and snatches the other boy’s hand in his own. The pulling stops, the squirming stops; they find agreement in a moment of puzzled blinking at each other. As long as Mikoto holds his hand.
Soon brimming with excitement, Totsuka pulls him to see a box rice crackers he’s had his eye on for a while. He’s a few inches too small to reach. So Mikoto - hardly tall enough himself - climbs up on the first shelf to knock it down and rip it open for him. They work up an efficient system going down the snack aisle : the little one points and nibbles on the spoils and Mikoto, basically, fetches and destroys. A trail of crumbles and gutted packaging marks the path behind them.
Not once do they break their hold on each other. Mikoto’s never been entrusted with anything so fragile before. With hardly any weight on him, Totsuka is feather light. It makes him easy to drag around.
When the novelty of their raiding game wears off, the patter of small boots and even smaller shoes can be heard all the way to the other end of the aisle. The pair leans out around the corner.
“Where we’re going?” Totsuka pipes up.
“Shush.”
“Where where where where-”
The older boy tries smother his mouth with the other hand, but it only amuses his new acquaintance and prompts Totsuka to laugh and try to do the same to him. The smack of a knife into a cutting board snaps their attention to the men slicing the heads from an evening shipment of tuna.
“Fish?” Totsuka whispers to him this time.
Mikoto imitates his mother’s grumpy tone and gives him a hard tug, “Stay close.”
Totsuka is happy to do as he’s told. Their sneaking up is sheltered by a wall of live seafood tanks. The bins in front make it easy for two little boys to climb up and look inside. More soft giggles, then the blond one follows the red one’s lead in touching the water.
Vents make the surfaces bubble up in jet streams. The widest, deepest tanks hold fish that seem bigger than even the two of them together; the huge red crabs, though, are Totsuka’s favourites. He’s leaned over the edge, little arm dunked in to try touching one of their pinchers already.
“Hey! Get out of there!” one of the workers shouts from the other side of the tanks.
Mikoto’s scowl threatens them to back off. He bends down to slap the water at the approaching man’s face; when that doesn’t phase them he fires the mandarin in his pocket point-blank, determined to defend his small friend at all costs. All the while Totsuka plays with bubble-eyed rock cod in the next tank over; never once letting go of his hand.
Kitten heels click up from behind in hurrying rhythm. Before Mikoto can throw another handful of fish water his mother has him by the jacket scruff.
“I’m so sorry, please excuse us,” she apologizes as she gathers him up in one arm. Essentially prying the two boys apart.
Of course Totsuka toddles after them as they go. Reflected across the shiny floor. Reaching and reaching. All the way to the front registers.
“Shh,” Mikoto warns him not to get caught as his mother checks out her basket. But Totsuka decides to be as brave as he was. And follows them all the way out the sliding glass doors where she sets Mikoto down in the snow.
The little one runs to take his hand again – shivering in the cold, no less determined to hold on. The lady with the very tired eyes bends over to inspect him and his poor state of dress; Totsuka smiles up, trustingly, recognizing the same shade of crimson-colored hair falling over her shoulder. The mother Suoh’s sigh is visible in the freezing air. She untwines the scarf around her neck, and passes it to her son to wrap around his friend with a bit of guidance (it does get just thrown over the smaller boy’s head at first). The length of wool fabric swallows him up so he can’t see without squirming for a bit. But his shivering goes.
And with this they’re gone too. Tiny hands, fluttering brown eyes reach out to find only footprints in the parking lot snow.
Mikoto frowns, as usual, with his last glance behind. “You can play with your friend later.”
“Later” would come around. But not when either would remember there was a “before”.
゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･ﾟ゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ･*･゜ﾟ