Wish you Luck, Wish you Love [Muichiro Tokito x OC]
Chapter 3. Accidentally In Love
"What's the problem? I don't know
Well, maybe I'm in love (love)
Think about it every time
I think about it
Can't stop thinking 'bout it
How much longer will it take to cure this?
Just to cure it 'cause I can't ignore it if it's love (love)
Makes me wanna turn around and face me
But I don't know nothing 'bout love, oh~~~"
— Accidentally In Love - Counting Crows —
After school, Seira Iguro found herself standing on her tiptoes in the first-year hallway, grumbling under her breath as she yanked open Muichiro Tokito's locker.
Unlike her locker—two rows lower, mercifully closer to her height—Muichiro had somehow decided to choose the highest locker in the entire column. The one that was practically touching the ceiling.
He clearly picked it because it was inconvenient for short schoolgirls to reach. Yet, unfortunately, said schoolgirls had apparently taken this as a challenge.
Because based on the position of the locker, they must have: formed pyramids, stood on each other's shoulders, or stolen a ladder from maintenance—just to cram all their gifts inside.
And the moment Seira opened it, the thing exploded.
An avalanche of pastel envelopes, glittery keychains, heart-shaped notes, fancy snacks, scented stationery, and at least three stuffed animals came pouring out like she had just opened a cursed treasure chest. Only instead of being hexed, poisoned, or melting into a puddle of blood and flesh, Seira was simply buried alive beneath excessive affection.
She let out a shriek as the pile rained down on her, followed immediately by the most exhausted sigh humanity had ever produced.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered, shoving a handful of envelopes into the cardboard box beside her.
Next to her, patiently holding the box, stood Minako Kanroji—her other, much less annoying, more considerate best friend, her voice of reason, and the only person calm enough to deal with Seira's raging teenage hormones.
Minako's long black hair was braided neatly over her shoulders, her round glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she leaned closer.
"Seira... why is Tokito's locker like a shrine?" Minako asked, staring at the mess with wide eyes.
"Because," Seira grumbled, standing on her toes again to reach the top shelf, her hand wildly flung around to try and feel for any more of those little trinkets, "he's annoying and oblivious and for some reason the universe decided he should be pretty."
As if to prove her point, more letters slid off the top shelf and rained down directly onto her head.
Minako blinked hard behind her glasses. "Are all of those... love letters?" She sounded genuinely impressed, as she couldn't even process the sheer volume, nor believe it had she not witnessed it with her own eyes.
"Obviously!" Seira snapped, grabbing one at random and waving it like evidence. "'Tokito-kun, your eyes shine like the morning dew—' bleh, I can't even finish it."
Minako quietly adjusted her glasses, leaning over the growing pile of pastel stationery and glittery trinkets. The pile smelled... nice. Sweet and floral notes were layered together. The girls must have sprayed the letters with their personal choice of perfume.
"There's... a lot," she murmured, not sure if a lot did the pile any justice.
"There's TOO MUCH," Seira said, dumping another armful into the box. "I swear, he can't even fit a textbook in here. And did you see this—?"
She yanked out a knitted sweater.
Minako tilted her head, trying to make out the shape of the wadded-up piece of fabric that had been living in the darkness of the locker for God knows how long. "Is that... handmade?"
And it definitely was. Beautifully made. Tight, even stitches. Soft yarn. Love poured into every loop.
"FOR HIM!" Seira cried. "Someone sized him. SOMEONE TOOK MEASUREMENTS."
Minako gently took the sweater from Seira's hands, turning it over with careful fingers as she examined the stitching, admiring the craftsmanship.
"Wow..." she murmured, nodding in quiet appreciation at the skill on display. Compared to Seira, Minako was obviously far less reactive, yet her voice couldn't hide the fact that she was genuinely impressed. "These girls must really like him."
Seira scoffed so loudly it echoed down the hallway.
"They must be BLIND," she declared, arms flinging open dramatically. "If they actually knew how smirky and bratty and ANNOYING he is, they wouldn't be wasting their time knitting sweaters and writing poetry about his stupid eyes."
As she spoke, Seira could practically picture it— Muichiro leaning against the lockers with that infuriating smirk, head tilted as he watched her crawl her way through his pile of gifts. It made her feel like a monkey dancing on strings at a circus while he sat there eating popcorn. And the applause he gave her performance felt like a casual afterthought, yet somehow sounded deliberate, like he'd been paying attention to her the entire time.
She honestly couldn't understand this type of admiration the other girls had for him. Especially not for the Muichiro Tokito she knew.
Minako blinked. "...His eyes are nice, though. You can't deny that."
With that, Seira bit her tongue so hard it left a bitter taste in her mouth. But she knew it wasn't the bite that caused it. It was her own chastising thoughts seeping in.
Fine. FINE. She could admit—privately, in the locked vault of her soul—that yes, Muichiro Tokito had unfairly pretty eyes. That soft teal-gray, sea-glass color was honestly illegal. And yes, he was the type of prodigy who seemed to be born perfect.
In fact, if someone told her he woke up every day with that knotless, silky waterfall of hair without ever brushing it—or that he washed his face with shampoo and still somehow had flawless skin—she would believe them instantly.
Because that was the kind of effortless human he was.
But she would never, under any circumstances, admit this out loud. Not to the hallway, not to the universe, and certainly not to sweet, perceptive Minako.
She dumped another handful of letters into the box with a long, tired sigh. "Pretty faces can't fix ugly personalities," she muttered. "And Muichiro Tokito is a professional menace!"
And that was Seira Iguro's first day of high school—getting tricked, manipulated, outmaneuvered, and emotionally bamboozled by Muichiro Tokito.
Once again.
—
By the time she finally made it home, Seira plopped onto the couch with zero dignity, still in her rumpled uniform, hair half-combed, socks mismatched from that morning's chaos. She didn't even bother changing. She simply collapsed, limbs sprawled, eyes glued to the ceiling like it held all the answers she'd been searching for her entire life.
She thought about the timeline of her suffering: Preschool → kindergarten → primary school → secondary → now high school.
In every stage of her existence, she had been losing battles to Muichiro Tokito left and right. Let it be a competition, exams, some stupid, trivial arguments, or his talents for tricking her into doing things for him.
Why?
Why?
It wasn't that she wasn't smart. Academically, they were neck-and-neck. Head-to-head. Rivals, equals, competitors. In shogi, she was only—ONLY—a little behind him. Like a single wrong move behind. Like one tiny mistake behind. Like a hair behind.
But in everything else? He beat her without trying.
It was like he could read her like a book. A very short book. With big font. And pictures.
He always knew which buttons to press—the exact pressure points, the exact words, the exact expressions that would make her react. All he had to do was leave a breadcrumb trail—one smirk, one quiet comment, one plate of food—and Seira's competitive, gullible, easily-baited soul followed it without a second thought.
She threw an arm over her face. "I hate him," she mumbled dramatically.
A beat.
"...I hate him."
Another beat.
"...ugh."
Her entire body sank deeper into the couch cushions. She groaned, long and pitiful. She then groaned again, louder this time, as if hoping the universe would hear her suffering and send compensation.
Instead, she heard the soft clatter of chopsticks from the kitchen.
Obanai poked his head into the living room, a plate of dinner in one hand, Kaburamaru draped around his shoulders like a scarf. He peered at her sprawled body on the couch, blinking once.
"...Bad day?" he asked.
Seira snapped upright just enough to glare at him from under her arm. "Don't even," she hissed. "You abandoned me."
Obanai stared. "What—?"
"YOU LEFT ME," she accused, pointing at him like he was the root of all evil. "I was late, I got detention, and you—YOU—just waltzed into school like you owned the place!"
Obanai opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at her. Looked at the ceiling. Looked at Kaburamaru, who hissed back in confusion. "I... told you to wake up on time," he said carefully.
Seira gasped, offended that her brother even had the audacity. "ARE YOU BLAMING ME FOR MY SUFFERING?"
Obanai pinched the bridge of his nose, a long-suffering exhale leaving him. "You overslept, Seira."
"YOU COULD'VE SAVED ME!"
"You overslept."
"You left me to DIE!"
"You overslept."
Seira flopped back onto the couch dramatically. "You're heartless." She wailed pathetically, and if she could, she would have added a couple of tears to top it off.
Obanai rolled his eyes so hard his entire head seemed to orbit with them, and Kaburamaru had to reposition himself due to the sudden movement. "You're still alive."
"Barely."
"Dinner?"
"No. I'm too tragic."
He stared at her. "...You can have the extra egg."
Seira sat up instantly. "Give it." Her spine sprang up so fast she was lucky she was only fifteen.
Obanai snorted. "Thought so."
He set the plate down in front of her. Steaming rice topped with oyakodon—tender chicken and egg glazed in shiny sauce—sat before her, smelling like heaven. Seira grabbed the chopsticks, ready to devour the food out of emotional support necessity.
Obanai sat nearby, watching her for a moment. "So," he said. "What happened today?"
Seira froze, chopsticks hovering mid-air as images flashed in her mind: detention room, Muichiro stealing her sacred tamago, the chase down the hallway, the locker explosion. She shoved a giant bite of food into her mouth to hide the simmering frustration.
"Nothing," she lied through her teeth.
Obanai raised a brow. Kaburamaru flicked his tongue, completely unconvinced. He watched her shovel down food in brooding silence for a few seconds before sighing. "...Alright," he said, leaning back. "What did Muichiro do this time?"
Seira choked on her rice and Obanai calmly handed her a cup of water like this was just another Tuesday.
"What—why would you assume it was him?!" Seira sputtered.
Obanai stared at her with the dead, tired eyes of a man who had witnessed the same disaster play out for fourteen consecutive years.
"Because every time you come home like a corpse," he said flatly, "it's always Tokito."
Seira opened her mouth to argue. Then closed it. Then opened it again because she refused to admit defeat.
"He—he is such an annoying brat!"
Obanai raised a brow.
Seira launched into her rant: "He stole my tamago—my last bite—and then he ran away! And then he made ME clean his locker because it was filled with love letters from all those girls who must be BLIND and—and he just—he pressed all my buttons and ran away, probably laughing at me! And I fall for them! Every time!"
By the end of her tirade, she was gasping for air like she'd run a marathon.
Obanai waited patiently, sipping on his tea. When she finally stopped flailing, he shrugged. "If you're suffering so much," he said, "why are you orbiting around him like he's the sun?"
Seira froze. "That's— I don't— I'M NOT."
"You are," Obanai said. "You always have been. Childhood friend or not, you don't have to stick to him like glue. Make new friends. Join more clubs. Do something that doesn't involve chasing that boy down hallways."
Then, with the smooth suspicion of an older sibling who absolutely smells gossip: "...Do you like him?"
Seira turned into a malfunctioning appliance. "WH—WHAT??? NO! NO, I—ARE YOU—NO!"
Obanai sighed dramatically. "Good. Because you're in your first year. You should not be getting tangled in romance drama. Focus on school."
Seira scoffed so hard she nearly inhaled a grain of rice. "Romance? DRAMA? With Muichiro Tokito? As if. I'd rather get detention every day."
Obanai nodded sagely. "You're right, that would never happen. Honestly, I'll be lucky to have you out of the house by the time you're thirty."
Seira froze, offended in every cell of her body. Then she grabbed the nearest wad of tissues and hurled it at him. Obanai dodged effortlessly, barely shifting his weight.
—
That night, Seira lay sprawled in her bed, blanket wrapped around her like a burrito, glasses sliding down her nose as she flipped open her romance novel.
This was supposed to relax her. This was supposed to help her unwind from the most Muichiro-infested day she'd had in months.
It did not.
Because every time the author described the male lead—"dark lashes like brushstrokes", "mysteriously calm eyes", "soft, quiet smile that only appears for the heroine"—Seira's brain, unhelpful traitor that it was, immediately plastered Muichiro Tokito's face onto the character.
His stupid perfect hair. His stupid pretty sea-glass eyes. His stupid soft voice. His stupid smirk when he ate her tamago.
Seira let out a strangled noise and nearly YEETED the book across the room.
"Nope," she whispered to herself, clutching the pages tightly. "Nope nope nope NOPE. We are NOT doing this. I refuse."
She slapped the book over her face and groaned into it.
Why him? WHY?
She tried again. She turned the page, forcing herself to picture someone else—some fictional prince, some tall handsome stranger, literally anyone—But no.
It was still him.
Muichiro Tokito: prodigy, nuisance, tamago thief, professional button-pusher, and now ruining her fictional romances too.
She sat up, horrified.
"Absolutely not," she muttered to her empty room. "I do NOT like him that way. That's impossible. I would know."
And she did know. Seira Iguro was sure of it. She didn't like him. She was not in love with him. She would not—could not—ever, EVER think of him like that.
...Right?
Seira hugged her pillow, spiraling.
Okay. New plan.
To prove she absolutely did not like Muichiro Tokito in that way, she simply had to find someone else—someone better.
Someone who wasn't smirky or bratty or annoyingly perfect. Someone who wouldn't steal her eggs. Someone who wouldn't make her heart do that inconvenient hiccup-skip-sprint thing.
"Exactly," she whispered to herself. "I just need to find someone better. Easy."
Yes. Totally easy.
And once she did, Muichiro wouldn't be the stupid number one spot haunting her anymore.
Her heart thumped in her chest. She thumped her fist against her pillow. "No more Tokito! I'm going to dethrone him!"
Her voice was confident. Her soul was trembling. She turned her book to a new page. It described the male lead smiling gently at the heroine. Seira screamed into her pillow.
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