Here we are. This is the first creative writing piece I've ever gotten published! You can see this story alongside numerous other great fics and a ton of beautiful artwork in True Colors: A Mob Psycho 100 Appreciation Zine on , which released on the first anniversary of the anime ending. Seriously, it's all fantastic stuff, and it's all free!
That said, any optional proceeds will go to Active Minds — a charity benefitting mental health.
For my part, I had to give a little love to our boys in the Body Improvement Club. I'm super excited to be able to share this with you all, and maybe somewhere down the line I'll write up my other MP100 idea related to sentient broccoli. Let me know if you check out the broader project!
Musashi Goda's form outstrips the modest concrete bench. His hulking thigh meat squishes up against the rough-cut granite bottom of a picnic table, set along the river that has long served as the Salt Middle School Body Improvement Club's running path. He does everything in his power to sit like a normal human.
Luckily, years of maintaining peak physical fitness gives Musashi the self-awareness he needs to not snap his seat like a twig via the wrong distribution of weight. He does so without a second thought. Instead his attention is trained on the younger boy stretching in the grass before him, focus tempered by the cinnamon smell of gym chalk that burns his nostrils as hands fold over his mouth like a tent.
Mob currently has his lower body contorted into a halfhearted warrior pose. His arms stretch high, fingers laced to crack his knuckles toward the sky. The short-sleeve, collared tee that wraps his body in an embarrassingly ugly doodle of a monkey shows Musashi that Mob has more muscle definition than the last time they met.
That recognizable sting in his tear ducts is quickly dismissed. No need to get so emotional at the slightest sign of improvement, Musashi lies to himself.
"Kageyama."
The stern comment passing through the gruff-voiced high schooler's fingers leads Mob to immediately stop what he's doing. Mob's arms relax until both hands land atop his bowl cut, and he looks to Musashi with curious (some say naive) doe eyes.
"Hm?"
"You don't have to prove anything to me, you know."
Mob scrunches his face in confusion, and finally straightens out his posture to approach the table where his companion sits. The loose fabric legs of his cargo shorts brush with a soft scratching sound.
"What do you-"
"I entrusted you with the Body Improvement Club for a reason, Kageyama." Musashi lowers his hands to the table, feeling its gradual left-leaning slope. His shaggy sideburns are exposed. "If you only wish to arm wrestle because you believe I need convincing about your abilities, I won't dignify the challenge."
Confusion turns to surprise as Mob's eyes age into those of a deer in headlights.
Sensing his thoughts are confirmed, Musashi grasps the table tight and prepares to leave the shady cover of a nearby red iron bridge. Micro-fractures ripple out from his thumbs as they bore into the granite.
"That's not why I asked you here today, Musashi-senpai."
The older boy immediately plants his half-raised rear flush against the seat again. Mob's soft-spoken assurance and bright smile cause all of Musashi's muscles to relax instantaneously.
Which is good. The tucked white button-up of his Peppercorn High School uniform – worn casually without its accompanying suit jacket and tie – is far easier to rip than his preferred workout attire.
"You see, since becoming vice captain of the Body Improvement Club, I decided to put more effort into holistic training." Mob watches his spindly legs sidle between the stone table and chair, and then looks back at his companion upon sitting. "With my stamina up, I've been lifting weights too. I just wanted to show you the results of my training so far."
Mob mimics every piece of media he's ever seen by holding his right arm up, pulling back its sleeve with his left hand, and then flexing. The barest hint of a muscle shows on his otherwise lanky limb, and a bit of fuzz developing under his pit is exposed. This is enough to have the slim boy beaming.
Narrator's Note: Mob's current workout routine involves lifting 10-pound dumbbells, or about 4.54 kilograms. This is approximately the weight of an adult cat.
Musashi is stunned silent. He stares at Mob, mouth agape, frizzy pillar of hair rustling in the breeze.
The burning sensation in his now-red eyes return, and a single tear rolls down Musashi's left cheek as he closes those eyes. One could swear the twinkling liquid is ready to ascend and burst into a new patch of stars that fills the potholes of an uncaring universe with an all-encompassing pride bursting from his seams.
"Kageyama…"
Mob's enthusiasm trickles back toward concern seeing Musashi's somber expression and rolling tear. Luckily, it only lasts a moment. Soon Musashi's lids burst open to unleash a fiery gaze, chiseled features hardening as he puts on his most determined face.
"I will never turn down such a strong showing of self-determination. Your challenge is accepted. And it always will be!"
The burly boy slams his right elbow on the table hard enough to kick up a cloud of silt. Veiny biceps bulge and twinge as Musashi holds out his hand; fingers taut as they curl inward like predatory claws. Hairline tears run across his sleeve until the waxy brown button holding his cuff pops off, pelting a tree before it lands in the river's soothing waters. The fabric unravels from there, blooming like flower petals to expose his musculature beneath.
"Come! Fight on, Kageyama!"
Mob swallows hard seeing the raw energy emanating from Musashi's statuesque form and glaring eyes. There's no turning back now.
He lines his arm in tandem with Musashi, more visibly uncomfortable with the rough surface digging into his elbow. Their hands clasp together, and Mob's is completely consumed by the broad, calloused palm of his former captain. Mob shivers and sweats, but he doesn't retreat.
Musashi's look of adoration says more than words ever could.
"Ready?"
Mob nods.
"Ready."
Another flex kicks up more dust on Musashi's side of the table.
As the arm wrestling match begins, Mob grasps the table's edge with his free hand for stability. He throws as much power behind his right arm as he can muster, enough so that he involuntarily gasps from the sudden strain. Mob catches his breath again with gritted teeth, and begins to grunt every few seconds of his assault.
Push, Shigeo. Push!
You've conquered cults.
Saved the world countless times.
Asked out the girl of your dreams, and survived the rejection.
You.
Can.
Do.
This.
All Musashi needs to do is hold his arm where it started. He is an impenetrable wall.
Though Mob never gains a single inch of ground on this battlefield, that doesn't mean he lost the war. Despite Musashi's stony face and seeming lack of effort, his mind races. He feels Mob's every fiber poured into this; he can literally feel it. Mob's face is red as a tomato, and his legs kick wildly under the table while trying to find a foothold in the grass. All this effort to make his presence known through the minutest fraction of a push.
Tears stream down both Musashi's puffed-out cheeks, breaking that stony expression as the high schooler swells with emotions.
"I've never been more proud of a disciple, Kageyama."
Musashi suddenly thrusts his arm like a lever, and slams Mob's hand into the table. The younger boy gasps in shock and pain as the momentum sends him flying out of his seat. He tumbles cartoonishly down the grassy knoll toward the riverbed, yelping as his clothes and hair become more disheveled.
With his arm free, Musashi wipes his face using the tattered remains of his sleeve. Translucent stains linger in the white cotton as it absorbs his flood of tears.
Mob's bruised arm shutters as inch-by-inch, second by agonizing second, he raises a tantalizingly warm takoyaki ball by its bamboo toothpick skewer. It's a perfect bite, one with a beautiful swirl of mayo and just the right ratio of bonito flakes; the kind of bite that Reigen taught Mob to cherish.
Any moment spent with a perfect bite of takoyaki is better than a thousand paychecks, Reigen used to say.
Even then, Mob never believed his boss believed that pearl of wisdom.
The grassy green-scuffed boy's lower lip quivers as it draws the shaky morsel closer. He can feel the steam against his nose, smell every spice.
Then, it slides off the pick.
All of that beauty, gone in an instant. Lost to an anticlimactic plop in a half-empty cardboard boat tray.
Mob stares down inescapable tragedy. His arm is too sore to stay risen, and drops onto the exposed leg of his shorts. It covers a beige bandage.
For the first time in a long time, Mob's psychokinetic powers flare to life. His body glows iridescent and eyes glaze over. The lost takoyaki ball mimics his glowing kaleidoscope pattern before levitating the same trajectory upon which it fell. This time, it pops into Mob's mouth. He greedily gnashes through the soft, tender bite.
Psychic abilities are still useful for some minor conveniences.
Musashi watches the light show unfold before turning his attention back down to the button-up shirt folded over his lap. Every exposed chest and arm muscle flexes in a symphony as he lifts the shirt's sleeve and goes back to the delicate work of sewing its split fabric with old-fashioned needle and thread.
One of the most underrated skills honed by members of the Body Improvement Club: how to repair roughhoused clothing.
"Apologies for your injuries, Kageyama." Musashi doesn't lose a stitch as he talks. "For a moment I forgot you weren't Hideki, or Ryohei, or Tenga."
Mob pauses mid-chew and takes in the streets of Seasoning City, the lackadaisical atmosphere around Reigen's favorite takoyaki stand. Teenagers in baggy outfits ignore one another comfortably on their phones. The old woman whose house he and Reigen once exorcised for a cockroach-sized sumo kappa walks her Spitz past a navy blue sedan. A set of parents brings their toddler home from school, lifting both arms to make her think she's flying in that pretty purple dress.
He swallows his food, smiling.
"That's okay. I can handle a few scrapes, and I've been meaning to wash this shirt." Mob brings a hand to his stomach. The yellow fabric is still somewhat damp from the river. "Besides, I'm happy to be put in the same league as them."
Musashi scoffs, nearing the cuff of his shirtsleeve.
"Still. I hope this doesn't affect any other plans this weekend."
"No, nothing else strenuous, thankfully." Mob flicks a finger, and another takoyaki flies into his mouth. He covers his chewing with one hand so as not to appear rude. "I have a meeting with Emi tomorrow, but I'm sure she won't mind the bruises."
The high schooler finally stops and looks up.
"Emi." He runs his tongue along his lower lip, frizzy hair bobbing back-and-forth. "Wasn't she that girl who pretended to go out with you."
"We did actually go out briefly." Mob mumbles around his mouthful, and then finishes it off. "But yes. I'm one of the few people who knows about her interest in writing, so sometimes she asks me to be something called a 'beta reader' for her."
"Really?"
Mob nods. "Apparently I'm quite good at it. Honestly though, all I do is tell her about my thoughts and experiences as an Esper. She doesn't know how to capture every detail for her protagonist."
Musashi squints. His hum vibrates as he turns ever so slightly toward Mob on the wooden park bench they share.
A white minivan drifts by, extending the silence. They bask in gasoline exhaust.
"So what you're telling me, Kageyama, is there may still be romantic interest."
"W-What?!"
The takoyaki boat tumbles out of Mob's lap, his arms too wobbly and hands too creaky to catch the fumble. All three remaining balls roll down the sidewalk, trailing sauce into the cracks between paved squares.
"I- No!" Mob's voice warbles as he loses his nerve. He tries to act nonchalant, lifting his litter with psychic energy so it can be deposited in a metal trashcan nearby. Even this fails to pass muster, with the takoyaki following obscene sinusoidal waves. "It's nothing- I mean, it can't be anything like that. R-Right?"
Musashi accepts the error of his ways. He sets the unfinished sleeve down and jams his needle into a crochet pincushion shaped like a bowl of white rice.
"Shigeo."
Mob's encroaching panic subsides, replaced by a different sort of dread that pricks hairs up his neck. It wasn't often that the former captain used his forename.
"If there's one lesson I regret not drilling into you during my time at Salt Middle School, it's this." Musashi's palm feels twice the size of Mob's shoulder, even now.
The intricate mechanisms required to hold this muscular pulley are impressive to behold.
"'Body Improvement' isn't just about improving one's body. One must also improve their mind – nay, their spirit – to hone the faculties necessary to wield that finely crafted physique. I've watched you grow more than most in a shorter time than all, Shigeo. The way you carry yourself is far and above the meek child who first joined us in that requisitioned clubroom.
"Yet, you haven't fully escaped your chrysalis. It's no fault of your own. We all have room to grow, in all things. But to keep growing, you must embrace life. In all things. To be your complete self, you must have a spirit unburdened. There's no room for doubt. Run headlong into that good night. However that night appears to you."
A doe drinks in the wisdom of its buck.
"So… I should ask Emi out again?"
Musashi shakes his head. "You should do whatever it is your heart desires, Shigeo. Whenever it desires. And you should do it with all your being."
He shifts Mob's gravity when letting go of the rattled boy's shoulder, and goes back to his project. The final stitch to reseal the shirt's left arm.
"But probably don't ask that girl out again," Musashi grumbles. "You deserve better than someone who would play with your heart."
Thanks again to Mob Alice for really putting her heart and soul into organizing and designing a great lil Zine.