For the ask game:
"You're not breathing. Breathe."
"You're not breathing, Mitsuhiko-kun. Breathe."
Mitsuhiko breathes.
"Good," Conan tells him. "Keep doing that." He rests one hand on Mitsuhiko's shoulder, a little awkwardly.
Mitsuhiko appreciates the attempt at comfort, even if he's frustrated at himself for needing it in the first place.
He's faced down kidnappers and murderers and terrorists.
He should not be this worried about public speaking.
"That's it," Conan encourages, exaggerating his own inhales so that Mitsuhiko is reminded that breathing is, in fact, necessary for his continuing consciousness.
...Maybe he can just allow himself to pass out briefly. They probably won't make him go on stage if he loses consciousness for a few minutes.
“It’s going to be fine,” Conan says confidently.
Mitsuhiko's jaw twitches. It's easy for Conan to say that. He's not the one who's about to give a speech in front of the entire high school, even though by all rights he really should be.
It's tradition for the highest scoring student to give a speech during the entrance ceremony, and although Mitsuhiko knows that he is intelligent and tests well on exams, Conan is on an entirely different level.
...This may be influencing his current state, Mitsuhiko acknowledges. He has no trouble talking to groups of twenty people or fewer, even if they're all adults and he needs to force them to take him seriously, but he only actually does that when he is confident in his own conclusions, or when Conan has explained the answer to him. In short, he can talk to groups of people when he knows and believes in what he’s saying.
Standing in front of hundreds of his peers with nothing but a single-spaced sheet of pristine paper with pithy words about doing their best together and being good representatives for the school is something entirely different.
Especially when the one standing on the stage should really be Conan.
But Conan had missed entrance exams last year, thanks to something he'd claimed was 'a really nasty cold' that had sent him to Haido Central Hospital for over a month. His illness had been so bad that Mitsuhiko hadn't even been allowed to visit him. When Conan had finally emerged, he’d looked pale, gaunt, and haunted, so Mitsuhiko hadn't pressed for further answers (even though he had really wanted to).
Conan had only been able to take the entrance exams later because his mysteriously absent but wealthy parents had purportedly pulled some strings, but it had apparently been too late to put him into the class rankings.
That's the only reason that Mitsuhiko is here, five steps from the stage and holding himself very, very still so that he doesn't accidentally crinkle his speech. His legs feel weak, like he'll collapse if he takes even a single step further. The stage is big and bright and incredibly intimidating, and he does not want to go out there.
"Mitsuhiko-kun, look at me."
Mitsuhiko's gaze snaps to Conan involuntarily. Conan's using the tone he uses when he needs to get adults to listen to him, the one that's firm and urgent but level. Looking at him when he sounds like that is second nature to Mitsuhiko.
Conan's eyes bore into him, like he can see every single miniscule insecurity that Mitsuhiko has ever had even as he disregards them as unfounded.
"You can do this," Conan tells him, like he really believes it.
Well.
If Conan believes he can do it...
Mitsuhiko takes a deep breath and steps out onto the stage.
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