Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10216796.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      モブサイコ100_|_Mob_Psycho_100
  Relationship:
      Kageyama_"Mob"_Shigeo/Reigen_Arataka
  Character:
      Kageyama_"Mob"_Shigeo, Reigen_Arataka
  Additional Tags:
      prequel_to_'Pig's_Blood', this_is_a_trainwreck, someone_help_them_oh_god
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-03-11 Completed: 2017-04-21 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 27659
****** Scarlet Letter ******
by snowtears
Summary
     He is Mob, he knows all about going unnoticed, but it's not enough,
     it's not like this. He feels like they can do whatever they want and
     get away with it, nobody would even see them. Nobody knows where they
     are. They could vanish completely and never come back.
Notes
     So this... is a prequel to 'Pig's Blood'. I don't think that thing
     needs a sequel, the ending pretty much speaks for itself, but
     honestly I really felt like I could explore more of this mess from
     the other side. This is set a bit earlier (at least six months) and
     is from Mob's perspective instead of Reigen's. They can be read in
     either order, I don't think it makes much difference in the end.
     This will also be three chapters! I hope to keep the update schedule
     fairly regular!
     (Thank you to everyone who read/commented/supported/kudos-ed both
     'Pig's Blood' and 'salt water'. I really really do appreciate it so
     much! <3)
***** i *****
Scarlet_Letter
[i/iii]
Friday and the last bell shrills. Tonight the world will burn up, peeling
lights, pounding music, the perfume of petrol on crosswalks. He's a world away
in the locker room with the squeak and smell of rubber. He wonders so much what
lipstick tastes like, if it's as bright as it looks.
"Nii-san."
Ritsu. His voice is like a breeze, cool, insistent. Mob feels him behind him as
he changes his shoes.
"Yes?"
A pause. Ritsu doesn't like to ask stupid questions if he can help it.
"Are you... do you have your club today?"
Mob straightens, putting his gym shoes in his locker. Ritsu, Ritsu. He's
fourteen and not subtle at all.
"Not on Fridays," Mob says. "You know that."
"Oh, well..." Ritsu clears his throat. "I have student council but the
meeting's going to be short. If you wanted to wait, we could walk home
together, maybe get some ice cream–"
His own brother sounds like he's asking him out on a damn date but Ritsu has
his motives and Mob, to his credit, sees through him to his core. He pulls his
overnight bag from his locker and shuts it with a bang. He turns to Ritsu,
smiling.
"I can't," he says. "I'm not coming home tonight. I have work. We're going to
the next town over for an exorcism."
Ritsu looks betrayed rather than surprised. Mob had a feeling he knew, watching
the little tremor at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh," Ritsu says. "You and... and Reigen-san."
"Yes."
Ritsu takes a breath. "Do–"
"Yes, they know. I asked and they said it was okay." Mob has already pulled
that chip off the table.
Ritsu looks up at the ceiling. A crowd of second-year girls goes past behind
him, laughing about weekend plans, new clothes, star-colored nail polish.
"Is that the truth?" he asks calmly.
Mob shoulders his bag. "Why would I lie?"
Ritsu shrugs. "I don't know." He sounds like he really doesn't. Despair.
"I have to go," Mob says. "We need to get the bus."
"Can't that guy drive?"
"I don't know. I never asked."
"He should have a car."
"Why would he need one?"
Ritsu gives another savage shrug, meeting Mob's gaze. "I don't know," he says
again. "He just seems to inconvenience you a lot."
"I don't mind." Mob turns away. "Bye, Ritsu."
"When will you be back?" He makes Mob feel so guilty, like his mouth is full of
syrup when he speaks.
"Afternoon, I guess." He pauses, looks back at his brother again. Ritsu, so
burdened, burned out. His shoulders can't take the weight. "We can hang out
then, if you want."
Conditional. Ritsu hangs on it like a bloodied hook. He nods, stepping forward.
"Yes," he says. "Yes, let's... go to the arcade or..." He trails off, his
tongue curling. Both of them, it's like they've forgotten how to be young,
slithering out of their soft sweet skins. Mob knows he wants to ask if he can
come too, go into the next town and disappear, drape himself in Friday night–
But Mob can't bring him. He doesn't want to. In so many ways he is selfless but
not here, not like this. He is consumed, consuming.
"Sure," he says, smiling. His eyes settle on the red band wrapped around
Ritsu's arm like a bandage. "We'll go to the arcade. We'll get ice cream."
"And takoyaki," Ritsu says like an echo. "Your favorite."
"Okay," Mob says.
"We can call Hanazawa-kun," Ritsu says. "And Suzuki-kun. We can all go
together."
And be normal, Mob thinks, though he knows he'll smell of cheap hotel bedsheets
and Arataka Reigen.
"Sounds fun," he says. He nods, turns away again, starts to walk. "See you
tomorrow, Ritsu."
He wonders if Ritsu really will call Teruki and Shou or if he'll be selfish,
too, and want him all to himself when it comes to it. He doesn't really mind
either way. He understands. Lately he wants Reigen all to himself, finds
himself resenting clients, resenting Serizawa. He hasn't ever thought about it
before but now he wishes Reigen had a car, too. Then it would be just them and
metal and glass, shiny and hard like a shell. They are the grit made gorgeous,
pearls nestled side-by-side. The backseat of a bus beckons.
He half-expects to hear Ritsu again, right at his back, shouting into his spine
how can you be so stupid but it doesn't come. Ritsu has a mouth like the back
door of a church; it locks, heavy, and Mob hears no more from him.
The afternoon is a warm one and the front yard of the school is still bustling
with students. He sees Tsubomi laughing with her friends under one of the trees
but his gaze barely passes over her, strangely disinterested. He surprises
himself. He wishes he still cared but he doesn't. He's tired himself out,
spoiled himself forever. He doesn't need this. Friday, Friday, when this world
all rattly and narrow vanishes, swallowed up by Saturdays, Sundays, sheets,
sweat. These girls act like adults but they have no idea.
More girls at the gate, five or six of them, skirts brushing the backs of their
thighs. They wear them shorter than they should with pleats like iron rods.
They're whispering, giggling, and he wonders what they're so excited about. He
has to sidestep them, maneuvering around their blockade, and he looks past
plush pink lips pulling over teeth to see Reigen leaning against the railings.
He seems pretty oblivious to the girls ogling him, staring into space with his
hands in his pockets, and Mob feels his knees go a bit weak. He wasn't
expecting him, not here, not...
"Shishou." He makes himself take a step forward as he says it, clutching the
strap of his bag. Reigen glances at him, blinking, and so do the girls.
"Oh, hey, Mob." He looks at his watch. "You're out sooner than I expected."
"Yeah."
Mob watches his eyes slide towards the girls, who break formation and move away
as soon as they are spotted. Now they mutter, they look curiously between them.
Unexpected. It's testament to how soon gossip is forgotten, particularly the
sort that breeds on the internet; they don't recognize him as the fraud psychic
skull-dragged for lying on national television, don't connect him with Mob at
all. They are surprised that this is who he was waiting for.
Mob knows precisely why they were appraising him. He's handsome, mature,
standing cool and fresh amidst the seethe of middle school boys in their
wrinkled gakurans, a glimpse into a world beyond this one. The shore ends here.
Mob's eyes settle on his tie. Today it is red.
"You didn't have to come all the way here," he says.
Reiegn shrugs, thumbs over his shoulder. "The bus stop is this way. It seemed
stupid to make you walk all the way to the office and then back the other way."
"Oh, okay."
Reigen nods, rocks his whole body as he turns. "Come on, let's go."
Mob catches him up, falls into step alongside him. He doesn't look back,
doesn't spare Salt Middle School another glance.
"Got everything?" Reigen asks idly.
"Yeah." Too late now, anyway. He notices Reigen doesn't have an overnight bag
of his own but that's usually the case. He'll buy a cheap toothbrush and sleep
in his underwear. It must be wonderful, Mob thinks, to be that carefree.
"Those girls were looking at you," he says.
"You're very obsessed with who girls are looking at."
"They were, though."
"Maybe they thought I was someone's sugar daddy," Reigen says dryly – but it's
dry because it's not entirely untrue, in a way.
"I think it's because you're good-looking, Shishou," Mob says, attempting to
disarm him.
"You think?" Reigen teases. "You're not getting a bonus for that."
"I guess you wouldn't be interested in middle school girls, anyway," Mob says.
He looks up at him through his hair.
"Easy now," Reigen says in a low voice, not meeting his eyes. He tugs a little
at the knot of his tie, straightens his lapel. "You're going to have me hanged
one of these days."
It's a new suit, Mob notices, more charcoal than gray. It's still cheap and
doesn't really fit him very well but Mob thinks he looks nice, like he's made
an effort. He likes the tie a lot. Reigen is blonde but it's a warm gingery
shade like raw honey and the red suits his coloring. Mob doesn't usually notice
things like this but now he can't help it.
He wants to say all this, or articulate it somehow, but instead he says, "You
should get a car, Shishou".
"Eh?" Reigen shoots him an odd look. "Why would I need a car?"
"It would be more convenient for jobs like this."
"True enough," Reigen says, "but jobs like this aren't that common. The bus or
train is just as convenient. Besides, cars are expensive to run. I walk to
work, I don't really need one."
Mob looks up at the sky as he walks. Ritsu would have done a better job of
convincing him.
"We could go places," he says.
"What kind of places?"
"I don't know." Mob shrugs. "Somewhere."
"We're going somewhere right now."
"For work."
"Where do you want to go, Mob?"
"I don't know," Mob says again.
Reigen reaches out and ruffles affectionately at his hair.
"You're fine where you are."
They reach the bus stop and have to wait about twenty minutes in the damp heat,
Mob fanning himself with a schoolbook, lending another to Reigen for the same
purpose. He has a lot of homework due in on Monday that he doesn't want to
think about. He doesn't want to think about Ritsu walking home alone, either.
He's glad when the bus sighs up, sags, buzzing and empty. They get on and go to
the back, Reigen next to the window, one leg crossed over the the other. He's
not very talkative today, which is unusual, but Mob reasons he could be nervous
about the job. He seems pretty convinced this one is the real deal. Mob can
smell the cigarettes on him and knows he's been smoking.
"You shouldn't smoke, Shishou," he says.
"I swear you were a police dog in another life," Reigen grumbles.
"It's bad for you. You could get sick."
"You sound like Serizawa."
Mob isn't very pleased about that. He doesn't say anything, clutching his bag
against his belly. Bus rides make him nauseous.
"You alright, Mob?"
"Yeah, I'm okay."
"Are you happy to stay away tonight? We can come back if you want. It'll be
late but–"
"No, I want to. My parents are okay with it." Mob looks at him, meets his eyes.
"I do want to."
Reigen frowns a bit. Mob knows he shouldn't have mentioned his parents and how
trusting they are but he can't take it back now. Instead he holds his gaze. He
loves Reigen's eyes – they are nothing special, dark brown, common-colored, but
they are so piercing and so kind.
"Only if you're sure," Reigen says.
"I am."
"Okay." Reigen pulls his gaze away, turning it towards the window. He props a
palm against his cheek, watching the world blur by. He exhales. "How was school
today?"
"It was the same as usual. I got picked on in class and didn't know the
answer."
"Again?"
Mob shrinks in his seat. "I'm not good at math."
"You have your exams this year."
"I know," Mob mumbles. The thought fills him with dread.
"We'll study together. I'll help you, okay?"
"Okay," Mob says, looking down. Reigen is always helping him, he's practically
dragging him through school by the back of his gakuran. Even now, his bag
bulging with homework, he's hoping Reigen will help him, pull him through just
enough to pass. Not much else matters. He will never be Ritsu. He doesn't know
what he wants to do with his life. He just wants to survive.
"What about that girl?" Reigen asks. He asks this a lot. Clockwork, wound-up.
"Tsubomi-chan? I saw her today."
"Did you talk to her?"
"No."
"That's no good. When are you going to confess to her?"
Mob shrugs. He doesn't think there's much left to confess. "I don't know. Maybe
when we're in high school."
"Ah, you say that and then when you get to high school you'll find some other
excuse." Reigen nudges him. "You're only this young once, don't waste it.
Before you know it, you'll be an old man like me and it'll be too late."
Mob can't tell if he's speaking from experience or not. He doesn't sound very
convincing. He looks at him, sees the back of his shirt collar is damp, sees
the gentle slope of his jaw and the tiny cut near his ear from shaving in a
hurry. He looks at the world going by behind his head, Seasoning City vanishing
like a mirage. Now it does not matter.
"That's okay," Mob says. "I don't mind."
"Maybe not right now," Reigen says, "but..."
Mob leans his head against Reigen's shoulder. "But what?"
"I don't know," Reigen sighs, letting him settle. "Regret is a funny thing. You
can't help but wear it for everyone to see."
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The job is certainly the real deal but it's an easy one. Mob has been feeling a
lot more powerful lately, psychic energy seeping into every last new inch that
he grows, and the hulking malevolent spirit squares up to him for all of three
seconds before he neatly dispatches it. Reigen is about as much use as he
usually is but he closes the sale with a lot of over-dramatic hand-waving and
more and more Mob sees that this is an act, too, and he loves him, he loves him
he loves him–
"We can eat well tonight, Mob," Reigen says cheerily, leading him along the
street like he knows where he's going. "They gave us good money since that
horrible thing was such a nuisance. What do you fancy?"
The street is unfamiliar, of course, but the sights and smells are not,
brightly-lit restaurants beckoning at every turn. He doesn't know what he wants
– ramen, katsudon, yaki soba, donburi, cha han, takoyaki except it makes him
think of Ritsu and he doesn't want that either, the night is drawing in and
everything is loud and neon and brilliant. He's the youngest person out here,
still in his school uniform, and this is a tear in time and space and his
classmates, his brother, they don't know it, don't understand why he doesn't
need them. He's with Reigen, who seems like a child sometimes with his wild
hands and wilder mouth but isn't, he has an adult body and an adult brain,
addled, and he doesn't have to worry about exams, all he thinks about is food
and sex, eating and fucking, how he could go for a good fuck on a full stomach.
Mob clenches and unclenches his fists, looking around. He is overwhelmed.
"I don't mind," he mumbles. "You pick, Shishou."
"You said that last time and then whined there was nothing you wanted."
This is true and Mob thinks it unkind of him to bring it up. "I won't complain.
I really don't mind."
"Fine." Reigen takes him by the shoulders and steers him into the nearest
restaurant. "In here. I'm starving."
Mob thinks there must be some hole to another dimension inside him because he
can eat and eat and never seems to be full and his suits still hang on him like
there isn't an ounce of meat on his bones. Mob was overenthusiastic when
ordering and can't manage all of his own and Reigen is only too happy to finish
it for him. His mood certainly seems much improved, chattering away through his
mouthful about his dull day in the office, and Mob listens and wishes more and
more that he could be there all the time. He remembers once telling Reigen that
he didn't think he would always work at Spirits and Such. Now he doesn't want
anything else. It's a dead end but he likes dead ends. They are one way.
(He hasn't told Reigen this. He plans to finish high school and turn up the
next day at 9am and that will be that.)
He wonders what the hotel will be like. Reigen overspends on food but usually
picks the cheapest accommodation he can find. Sometimes there are cockroaches
and broken springs and biker gangs outside. Mob doesn't really mind – he never
feels unsafe – but he's seen enough rust running red from taps to last him a
lifetime. He looks at Reigen's tie again, at the bob of his throat as he
swallows. He wishes he could bottle this feeling, this sense of being
untethered, a sliver where they slip unknown and faceless into a room they do
not know. He is Mob, he knows all about going unnoticed, but it's not enough,
it's not like this. He feels like they can do whatever they want and get away
with it, nobody would even see them. Nobody knows where they are. They could
vanish completely and never come back.
A moment of silence, then, for bleached 7-11s in the hours between seven and
eleven, a temple of strange rituals. Mob waits inside near the door because
what Reigen needs to buy is mostly behind-the-counter and he's too young to see
that sort of thing. He looks at a rack of toothbrushes in bent packets and
wonders which color Reigen picked. He must have a hundred more at home, hoarded
like trophies. Mob slides his gaze towards him and sees the cigarettes on the
counter. He plays it off lightly, acts like he's not addicted, but Mob knows he
is. He can taste it on him.
Reigen buys them both a limp packeted mochi and they eat them as they walk to
the hotel. Reigen more or less shovels the whole thing in one bite but Mob
gnaws more carefully at his, pulling at it, feeling it stick to the roof of his
mouth, thick and sweet like old bread. He licks the cornflour off his lips
afterwards, notices that Reigen has some on his chin.
"Shishou." He points at his own. Reigen blinks, then wipes at his jaw, the
cornflour glimmering on the back of his hand.
"Oh, thanks, Mob." He licks it off and the wet stripe left on his skin glows
green in the weird light.
Mob admires this. He loves how greedy he is, like he could take a huge bite out
of the world. Those girls, god, he'd chew them up and spit them out. Tsubomi
Takane. She wouldn't stand a chance.
Mob's bag is dragging on his shoulder by the time they get there, a dull ache
spreading through him. The hotel is actually nicer than he's used to on these
excursions – there is carpet, a vending machine, a foyer free of loud arguing.
Reigen gets two card keys even though they won't use either of them and Mob
follows him up three flights of stairs to their room.
"This is better than usual, Shishou," Mob says. He can't help it.
"Yeah, well, there were cockroaches in that last one we stayed at. I could hear
them in the walls."
"It was probably mice."
"No, it was definitely cockroaches." Reigen gives a little shudder. "I know
what they sound like."
He opens their room and steps inside, Mob close at his heels. It smells of
laundry detergent, perhaps a little too much, and it's a bit stifling. It's
small, too, but there's a bed and a TV and a dresser and a balcony. The
bathroom light buzzes but it's not unbearable. Mob goes to the bed and drops
his bag, sighing with relief.
"Heavy?"
"Yeah." Mob rubs his shoulder. "I came straight from school so I had to bring
all my books."
Reigen frowns for a moment at the way Mob is massaging his shoulder – wrong,
probably – before his gaze drifts to the bag. "Have you got homework?"
"Yes."
"Do you need help?"
"With the math," Mob says. He's not so hot at the other subjects either but he
can muddle his way through them, more or less.
"Okay." Reigen thumbs at the dresser. "Get it out, let's tackle it."
Mob blinks at him, letting his hand drop. "What, right now?"
"No time like the present." Reigen shrugs off his suit jacket and hangs it up.
"Let's get it out of the way."
Mob is disgruntled – he'd been hoping for a cuddle and a bit of TV first, maybe
– but he supposes Reigen is right. Once he gets settled, he won't want to do it
at all. He roots it out and goes to the dresser, sitting down, opening up the
workbook. Dry dizzying pages of numbers and symbols, calculations he can't
understand for the life of him. He starts to feel sick just looking at it, his
fingers white on his pencil. Why does this even matter, why–
"Let's see, then."
Reigen is behind him, peering at the book. His red tie drapes over Mob's
shoulder, the sore one, the one that pulls him sideways to the ground. Mob
glances up, sees him in the mirror folded around him like some patron saint, an
angel of mercy, an eater of worlds.
"Oh, I remember this," Reigen says. "This is easy."
"I don't get it," Mob mumbles.
"You will. I know a good way of doing this, never fails."
Reigen takes the pencil from his hand and turns the page afresh, beginning to
explain. Mob watches his hand move across the paper, the quick neat strokes as
he bends numbers to his will, but he doesn't talk like he does on the job. He's
slower, calmer, more deliberate, and Mob leans his head back against his chest
and feels his heart smother him. 'Shishou' is a half-smiling joke sometimes but
Reigen is actually a good teacher: Mob listens, he watches, he understands.
"Mob." Reigen prods his cheek with the blunt end of the pencil. "Are you
falling asleep?"
"No, I get it, I get it." Mob straightens.
"Alright." Reigen scribbles out a sum. "You do this one."
Mob takes the pencil back and frowns his way through it. It's still not easy
but he does understand the mechanics of it now.
"Good." Reigen flips the page back. "Let me see you do the first one."
Mob labors it, only taking the tiniest bit of prompting, and Reigen pats his
head when he writes in the answer.
"Excellent. Got it now?"
"I think so."
"Not so hard, right?"
"I guess not, not when you explain it like that."
Reigen grins. "Special technique." He unknots his tie. "I'm going to go have a
quick shower. If you get stuck we'll look again when I get out."
"Sure."
Mob watches him in the mirror, his deft fingers on scarlet silk. He wants to
join him but tonight the invitation is definitely not open. Reigen drops the
tie on the bed and wanders away, unbuttoning his shirt. He never allows Mob to
undress him. He's very particular, he always removes his tie and his belt
first. Mob hears the buckle jingle as he closes the door. He doesn't hear the
lock but it might not have one. Either way, he doesn't push his luck.
Once Reigen is gone, however, the motivation to finish his homework utterly
seeps out of him. He does a few more of the sums and then leans back in the
chair, staring up at the ceiling. There's a crack, long and thin like a secret.
He looks at it for a long time, making the pencil spin lazily in mid-air. He
feels very restless, his skin tingling, his lips soft and powdery from the
mochi. He really is becoming very powerful lately, there seems to be no end to
it, filling him to the brim. He's scared but then he's always scared, Ritsu all
smeared in red. He thinks about the time they fought Claw and how he managed to
push every last ounce of it into Reigen, how his body didn't buckle, didn't
break a sweat. He thinks about it when it's hot and dark and they're close, if
only he could cast it off, let it surge into him through his bare heaving skin,
fill him up. Reigen would take it, he knows. He would bear it. He wouldn't
mind.
Mob lets the pencil clatter back to the desk and sends a wave of energy
throughout the room, lifting everything in turn. He does it gently, quietly,
but it's enough to feel the slight pull, it just takes the edge off. It's a bit
like a workout. He wonders how Gouda and Onigawara and the others are getting
on in high school. He doesn't really miss them. He just wonders. He's still in
the Body Improvement Club but he doesn't care very much about it anymore.
Perhaps he should be more scared about that, this creeping apathy, but then he
looks at Reigen and it really doesn't matter. Reigen, who is so warm and
constant and calming, malleable like molten gold. He'll always exist outside
the school gates, beyond their understanding. That is where he belongs.
He takes up the tie, making it weave overhead like a ribbon. He has no idea how
to tie one, watching Reigen's fingers loop it under his collar in amazement,
but he can make it do all sorts of things with his powers. He makes bows and
shapes and animals, watching the red silk gleam, and then lets it drop into his
lap like a coiled python. He picks it up, runs it through his fingers, cool and
slippery. Reigen wears cheap suits but his ties are always nice quality,
vibrant and strong. Mob wraps it around his arm, pulling it tight against the
black fabric of his gakuran, and looks at it for a long moment. He knows Ritsu
won't tell.
He loosens the tie and lifts it, draping it across his eyes. He closes them,
feeling the silk heavy against his eyelashes. Now he is blind, maybe mad, hear-
no-speak-no-see-no. He thinks of Reigen in the shower, scrubbing at his skin,
out out–
The bathroom door opens.
"Mob." Reigen, lemon-sharp. "That doesn't look like your homework."
Mob tilts his head back towards him, letting the tie slide off. He looks at him
in the fluorescent haze of the bathroom doorway, lit up like a stained glass
window. He's barefoot and barechested, rubbing at his hair with a towel. He has
his suit slacks on but there's no belt and the button is undone and Mob can see
the start of that downy trail of hair below his navel.
"Did you even get wet?" he asks, staring, unapologetic.
"I told you I'd be quick," Reigen needles. "Have you finished?"
"I got stuck."
Reigen lets the towel drop around his shoulders like a stole. "You just want me
to do it for you." He doesn't say it unkindly. It's not accusing. It's a fact.
"Does it matter as long as it's done?" Mob says. He knows Reigen isn't going to
literally do his homework for him – he just wants to push him a bit.
"I suppose not," Reigen replies, putting his weight on one leg, "but there's no
point in the end if you don't learn anything."
"I'll never remember this. I won't ever need it. It's useless."
"It's more use than psychic powers," Reigen says frankly. "You can't get a job
with those. Unless you fancy moving freight, I guess."
Mob almost says 'Maybe I'll just lie about having them, then, seems to have
worked for you' but he doesn't. Reigen is plenty of things but he's not cruel.
He doesn't say these things to make Mob upset.
"It's okay, Shishou," Mob replies. "I don't really want you to do my homework
for me."
Reigen raises his eyebrows, going into the convenience store bag. He fishes out
the cigarettes and a cheap yellow lighter. "I know," he says coolly, unwrapping
the carton, shaking one out. "You're just being a shitty teenager. You just
want to do whatever you want."
"Yeah," Mob says, watching him cross the room to the balcony. "Like you do."
Reigen pauses with his hand on the latch, looking at him. His hair is wild and
damp around his face, his skin is flush from the heat of the shower. He looks
so raw, peeled back, the glistening inside of an oyster. Pearls are pried from
them alive.
"Do you think I can do whatever I want?" he asks.
Mob shrugs. He wishes he hadn't said it.
"You're an adult, aren't you?" he mumbles.
"Yeah," Reigen says. He unlatches the balcony, steps past the curtain. "I am."
The night air floods in, replacing him. It smells of run-down cars and all-
night ramen, it blares, it blinds. Reigen spares him the smoke but it's too
late. He lets his gaze drop to the crumpled bag with its distorted smiley face,
a weird unwelcome likeness of Dimple's (LOL) cult. He can see the other things
in there, the toothbrush, the lubricant, the condoms. His heart quickens a bit,
even now. He knows Reigen won't make him, he'll ask a thousand times if he
wants to, he won't mind if he says no. Mob does want to, desperately, but some
nights he thinks he likes the idea of it more than the act. Something to fill
his body on Friday night, something to fill his head on Monday morning, and the
days in-between are like glue. In hotels they use a condom but if they're in
the office they forgo it. Mob likes it better without because it makes him feel
like he really could force his power into Reigen if only he pushed but he knows
it makes a mess. He doesn't care about that as much as Reigen does because he's
not the one who has to wipe it up. Reigen is a martyr about this, some saint of
sanitation, scrubbing Mob clean like he's stained him. He is very careful not
to mark him even though Mob wishes he would. He wants a bite on his throat, a
bruise on his thigh, some sign to make people whisper between the lockers the
way they do about the girls with ill-placed band-aids on their white necks. He
wants to wear it for everyone to see.
He doesn't know what's happening to him. He should be scared of this, too,
because sometimes Ritsu looks at him like he doesn't recognize him but Mob,
he... he doesn't mind, finds it doesn't matter. He looks at himself in the
mirror in the morning and sees his youth still plump in his cheeks, his skin
doesn't pull neatly over bone like Reigen's, and for the first time in his life
he thinksI'm Shigeo Kageyama. I can do what I want. I want to be red.
Reigen would be angry if he knew what he thinks – or disquieted, at least. He
doesn't anger often, never at him. He doesn't have to know where his mind is
when he gets picked on in class. Nobody would ever guess it of him, would they?
(Not Kageyama. Not Mob. Look at that face.)
He gets up and goes to his bag, quietly going through it. Reigen is still
smoking on the balcony with his back to him, he can see his shape against the
pale-powder sky, and what he doesn't know does him no harm. Mob puts the
blister pack in his pocket and goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. The
room is still warm, the mirror cloudy with steam, and he can't appraise himself
in it. He doesn't stare because he's vain but because he's looking for things
like new eyes or extra rows of teeth. Reigen is too used to him. He doesn't
trust him to notice.
He pops out one of the pills – just one, he doesn't want to fall asleep, just
make himself drowsy – and puts it on the counter, watching it roll like an
upturned beetle. He picks up the glass next to the sink and uses the bottom to
crush it into a fine powder. He dusts it off, scrapes it into the glass, tops
it up with water. He swills it until it's dissolved and then swallows it in one
gulp, rinses so Reigen won't taste it. He doesn't want him to find out he does
this.
Reigen is still outside when Mob emerges. He's probably sulking a bit, which he
does when Mob talks back to him. Mob likes this about him, too. It's sort of
endearing. He takes off his gakuran jacket, leaving him in just his school
shirt, and drapes it over the chair as he passes. The second button is a bit
loose, he knows he needs to stop absently twisting at it. His mother has
already sewed it back on for him once. The girls' uniforms are better because
they don't have buttons but they have pleats that rest like ramrods on the
backs of bruised thighs. He knows what it feels like, doesn't he, because
Reigen's ideas are stupid but not really because it worked and he got past the
gates. He doesn't dwell on his own embarrassment too much but sometimes he does
think about Reigen, who only wore it to make him feel less self-conscious, he
realizes. There was no way he was ever going to pass for a teenaged girl. He
doesn't fixate on the skirt, which is completely irrelevant. He's seen Reigen's
legs, he's seen what's in his pants. Instead he fixates on the red, the blazer
pulled tight across his shoulders, the stain of lipstick on his mouth. He
wonders what it tastes like, where Reigen got it, why he even bothered.
He comes to the balcony and stands on the threshold, wrapping the curtain about
himself. It's red, too, or it was once, now sun-faded, ochre like old blood. He
pulls it close like a cloak and Reigen hears the crush of the fabric against
his flesh. Mob only gets to look at his back for a moment longer – his skin
that never sees the sun, the secret sigh of his spine – before he turns to him.
Now Mob sees the narrow dip of his waist, the edges of his ribs floating like
ice. He's thin, not alarming but noticeable. He suddenly looks like he doesn't
weigh anything, like if Mob touched him he'd shatter, blow away. Is this the
shape of adulthood?
He doesn't want to think about who else has touched him, who else has tasted
him. He is a moon on a string: this is his orbit.
"You alright, Mob?" Smoke-filled. Mob doesn't move.
"Yeah," he says. "I'm fine." He holds the curtain tighter. "You shouldn't
smoke, Shishou."
"I know, I know." Reigen doesn't stop. "I'll quit."
"No, you won't."
Reigen laughs. "You're mouthy tonight," he says. All is forgiven. He puts out
his arm. "Come here."
Mob drops the curtain, feels it pull like his skin peeling off as he goes to
him. Reigen drops his elbow around his shoulders, uses him as an armrest, and
Mob stands there and lets him do it. He likes Reigen to touch him, he doesn't
really mind where or how or why. He wishes he'd pull him a little closer, hold
him a little tighter, but they're alone and the door is locked and it's Friday
night, the weekend, the week ends. There is time enough.
Their room is on the fourth floor and the balcony overlooks the street below.
This place wears its heart on its sleeve, its ribcage on the outside, bleeding
neon over the bricks. Voices, laughter, the faint thrum of bass, a night that
pollutes. The moon swims beyond the steam like a bloody thumbprint smeared on
the sky. There's a squeal below, a clattering, a baying giggle like an echo.
Mob pulls away a little, leans over the balcony to look. Reigen's wrist still
rests on his shoulder as he strains and sees three girls go by beneath. They're
older than him but he can't tell by how much, armed to the teeth in glittery
heels and short skirts. They shimmer like samurai, jewelry clinking, eyes
outlined with stardust, mouths gleaming pink, peach, scarlet. One has long
glossy black hair like Tsubomi.
"Going clubbing," Reigen says. He sounds bored as hell. "There's no way on this
planet they're old enough."
Mob looks at him and he shrugs.
"Still," he adds, "points for effort. They almost look twenty, I suppose. Maybe
they'll manage it."
"Do you think that's where they're going?" Mob asks, watching their backs,
their pale legs, their teetering feet like ballerinas.
Reigen snorts. "Of course it is. It's Friday night."
"Is that what girls do on Friday night?"
Reigen pauses a moment, looks at him, frowning. Trying to gauge if he's being
obtuse.
"Some of them, I guess." Another shrug, a little more defensive. "I'm not an
expert."
"Oh," Mob says.
"Why?"
"I don't know. I just wondered."
Reigen smiles teasingly at him, draws him back. Mob snuggles against his side,
pressing his cheek to his summery skin. He smells of off-brand shower gel.
"Is that what you want to do?" Reigen asks. "Do you want to go out clubbing?"
"No." Mob would be more alarmed by this but he realizes Reigen isn't asking
seriously. He knows him too well for that.
"I'll take you," Reigen says, laughing. "We'll have a good time. We'll go right
now if you want. I don't know what we'll do about that school uniform of yours
but maybe if we rough you up a bit, they'll think you're a thug and let you
in."
"I don't want to do that," Mob says resentfully. He looks at the floor of the
balcony. There's an old stain of god-knows-what near his foot.
"I know, I'm kidding." Reigen rubs at his hair affectionately. "I don't want
to, either. It's never been my sort of thing."
"What is your sort of thing, Shishou?"
Reigen doesn't answer for a very long time, finishing his cigarette. Mob
doesn't think he's ignoring him, rather carefully considering his answer. In
the end, though, all he says is 'I don't know'. This is because he doesn't
really want to say. Mob knows because he does it a lot himself. Reigen never
pushes him to answer so he doesn't, either.
"Okay," he says again.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?" Mob's eyes trail to the burnt-out cigarette but he knows Reigen
isn't really very apologetic about that.
"You asked me a question and I didn't give you a proper answer."
"I don't mind."
"But you so rarely ask questions. I suppose you really did want to know."
"It's okay, Shishou," Mob says gently. "I understand." He closes his eyes,
feels his heart through his skin. He aches thinking about bites and bruises but
Reigen, so slender and pale, he must mark so easily.
Reigen sighs. "I know." He presses a kiss to the crown of Mob's head. "You're a
good kid, Mob."
His voice trembles a little bit, blurred edges, neon tongue. Everything he says
is like dropped change, skittering and silver. Mob nuzzles insistently against
him, pushing his skull against his jaw.
"Am I?" he asks. It's quiet, he doesn't care if it gets lost.
"Yeah," Reigen says. Mob feels him swallow. "You're my only treasure."
***** ii/ii *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you for your support and comments on Ch. 1! I really really
     appreciate all your feedback, it's very helpful to me and it's so
     nice to hear what you think of this sad horrible mess. Here is Ch. 2
     and it's... yeah, NSFW. ^^
     ...Also it was only a matter of time before I started quoting
     'Lolita'. :/
II/II
It's beginning to grow cold, the hour creeping close to midnight. He thinks
absently of pumpkins, mice, shoes made of glass. How raw and red her feet must
have been, telltale.
Reigen ushers him back into the bedroom, turning to pull the balcony door shut.
Mob stands behind him and looks at his back, appreciating it while he can. He
never sees it because Reigen rarely turns his back on him. He should bear a
telltale of his own, a big scar right between his shoulderblades, Mob saw the
fabric of his suit hanging in tatters with his own eyes – but there is nothing
there. He is so defiant. He does what he wants.
Mob comes to him from behind and wraps his arms around his waist, holding him
tight. He's so slender and has bones like a bird, all full of air. He presses
his cheek against his spine, feels him breathe in.
"Arataka," he sighs. It's Friday night, he can call him that. It's like a
secret between him and Reigen and various sets of walls. He likes using it, he
deliberates over how he says it, he loves feeling him shiver at it.
"Shigeo," Reigen says, putting his hands on top of his. They are big, cool,
nails blunt and flat. They feel so good on him, inside him, but Mob tenses a
little, wondering if he's about to pry him off. Reigen only uses his real name
when he's being very serious. Perhaps he thinks he's being too forward.
"Shishou," he concedes, lower, softer. He kisses at his spine, gives a little
graze of teeth. He feels him straighten, stretch, and he should sink his teeth
in, however many rows there are, and bite out his spine. He doubts it would
make much difference: Reigen would remain upright. Still. On nights like this
he echoes his greed, he just wants all of him all the time all to himself, all
all all, those extra eyes and teeth would be so useful, all the better to see
you, to eat you, to leave behind only a scrap of scarlet cloth. He wonders what
he tastes like, if he's as bright as he looks. Maybe he will stain his mouth.
He wants to suck his cock but Reigen will never let him, he gently guides his
head away when he gets too close. Mob asks why and Reigen jokes that it
wouldn't look good if he were to die unexpectedly, hit by a bus on the way home
from school, because they'd do an autopsy and they'd find his stomach full of
weekend clutter. Mob doesn't laugh at this joke because he doesn't think it's
very funny. Reigen doesn't laugh, either. He doesn't really look at Mob when he
says it, either, although sometimes he crosses one leg over the other. He seems
so restless all the time, nervous, manic. He only settles when he's asleep.
(Mob with his mouth against his spine. how can you be so stupid.)
"Do you want to tonight?" Reigen asks him quietly.
Mob turns his head to look at the carrier bag near the bed and Reigen feels
him, tightens his grip on his hands.
"Never mind that," he insists. "Never mind what I bought. Do you want to?"
"I do," Mob says. He's beginning to feel warm and calm and a little drowsy,
melting against Reigen's back. "I do, Shishou."
"I won't mind. I won't ever make you do anything you aren't comfortable with."
"I know." Mob nuzzles against his spine, his silky hair pulling over his skin.
"But I do want to."
Reigen exhales deeply, his fingers gentle over the backs of Mob's hands.
"Alright. Let go."
Mob releases him obediently, letting his arms drop to his sides. Reigen pauses
a moment before he turns to him, the neon glare glossing over him from behind.
He glows weirdly at his edges like a ghost, something Mob should exorcise. He
always thinks of him as much solider than he is, bigger, bolder – but bare like
this and he barely seems old enough himself, a brat playing at Businessmen in
too-big suits. It makes Mob love him all the more.
"I should make you finish your homework first," Reigen says. "It might give you
some incentive."
"Is that what you did on Friday nights, Shishou?" Mob asks. "All your
homework?"
"Yes."
Mob doesn't believe this for a second. He stares him down, unimpressed, and
Reigen grins.
"Kidding," he teases. "I was in a biker gang. I used to spend my Friday nights
running illegal drag races."
Mob believes this even less but now he says nothing, a little wrong-footed. He
can't always read Reigen very well. He doesn't know how he's supposed to react
to such a blatant lie. He knows the truth is probably somewhere in between,
unremarkable, and that's how he likes him.
"I'll do it in the morning," he says eventually, low-voiced, a calculated risk.
Reigen isn't really a morning person and won't be as reliable, he'll be groggy,
even a little grumpy. He'll moan at the math with a mouthful of bad hotel room
coffee and smoke over Mob's shoulder but that's okay, he can put up with that
if only tonight will be a dead end with no way out. Ritsu with his mouth that
locks tight, Reigen with his heart that opens wide, Mob somewhere in between
with his tongue and his pulse that cannot lie.
"Fine," Reigen sighs, folding his arms. "But I really am going to make you do
it. No excuses. I'll put my hand on the back of your head and pin you to the
desk."
He says this with no trace whatsoever of irony. Mob nods, lets his head dip,
his ebony hair falling forward.
"Yes, Shishou," he says demurely. He feels Reigen's hand on his skull, carding
his fingers through his hair. He's so gentle.
"Come on," he says above him, quiet. "It's getting late."
He takes his hand back and moves away. Mob lifts his head, watching him go to
the bed, sit on the edge, take off the towel still draped around his shoulders.
He lines it up corner-to-corner and folds it once, twice, perfectly precise.
Everything he does has purpose. Mob watches his hands, stares at the stretch of
tender tendons against his skin. He's seen him come, he's heard what noises he
makes when he's close, he's felt him rut and cling – but he doesn't know what
he's like when he's utterly undone. Even when he orgasms, panting in Mob's ear,
holding him tight, he still seems fairly composed, just a little askew with
wild hair and wide eyes. He doesn't pull apart at the seams. Mob wonders what
color he is inside.
He pads over to him and clambers into his lap, straddling him. Reigen drops the
towel to the sheets and loops his arms around him, pulling him close. He puts
his face against his neck and breathes him in, sighs him out, and Mob drapes
his arms around his shoulders and moves with the rhythm of him. His power is
simmering lower and lower as the drug kicks in, leaving him relaxed, perfectly
pliant. He wouldn't do it if it wasn't Reigen, who he knows he can trust. Hell,
he wouldn't do any of this if it wasn't Reigen. He wants them to know, to be
drenched in scarlet, but that 'A' is for Arataka only.
He kisses him. He knows he isn't very good, he's not great at breathing at the
same time, but Reigen doesn't seem to mind too much, letting him lead. Mob
wishes he was better, bigger, older, sometimes he feels like he doesn't satisfy
him at all, that Reigen is just indulging him because he's actually kind of a
pushover, at least when it comes to him – but all the same, he feels his pulse
quicken and he supposes even a fraud like him can't fake that. Sometimes he
tries to say he loves him and Reigen stops him, kisses him, swallows it up
because he's so greedy and because Mob doesn't have a mouth like Ritsu's. He's
too honest. He can't keep a secret to save his life.
Reigen breaks the kiss, squeezes his cheek.
"Breathe, idiot," he says softly.
Mob nods, panting. "S-sorry."
"It's fine, I just don't want to have to take you to the hospital if you pass
out. God knows what they'll do in a place like this." Now he pinches both
cheeks. "Steal a kidney, maybe."
"That's what you like to do on Friday nights, isn't it?" Mob says, shaking him
off. His face aches. "Steal organs."
"Ah, you got me. That's what I'm going to do to you. I can get a hundred
thousand yen easy for a kidney."
"That seems cheap, Shishou," Mob says reproachfully.
"That's pretty much my business model," Reigen replies, shrugging. "Your liver
would be worth more, anyway."
"What about a heart?" Mob is actually curious.
Reigen scrunches his nose. "I don't think there's much of a market for that."
Now a lazy grin, gorgeous. "Why, have you got one to spare?"
"No," Mob says, meeting his eyes. "Mine's already taken."
Reigen's reaction to this is rather subdued. It's like he was expecting it. He
smiles calmly, he kisses Mob on the cheek.
"You're a good kid," he says again, quiet, close to his ear. "You're honest and
kind. Don't ever let anybody take that away from you."
Mob doesn't like how he says it – it sounds so wistful, so sad even though he's
smiling. He's never known about Mogami's conjured world, the six months of
torment, and even now Mob can't bear to tell him how close he came to breaking.
He hugs him tighter, burying his face against his bare shoulder. He could pull
himself from his own body and seep into him, go deep inside him, put his hands
around his heart – but even then, he feels like he wouldn't know what he's
really thinking. Reigen seems so transparent but he, too, is like glass.
Everything bounces off.
He sinks back to the bed, settling against the pillow, and Mob comes with him,
lying along the length of him. He's awkward and bony but Mob's body fits
against his very well, their shapes compliment each other. Mob puts his head in
the dip of Reigen's neck and they lie very still for a while, breathing, their
ribcages rising to-and-fro like the tide. Mob can feel his hand on his back,
soothing through sweltered cotton, and his head feels heavy, his limbs feel
weighted. He could fall asleep like this but–
But but but. He doesn't want to. Tonight he is determined. He knows what he
wants. He's thought about it all day, blank-faced. It's Friday night and Reigen
is his, this hotel room is theirs. It has a lock, what luck, and they don't
have to be quick, they can take all night to fuck (and what else, what else,
suck, thick, cock–)
Crack. Bad luck. Mob winces as he hears the mirror break. His powers are
sedated like this but his control isn't as good, either. He feels Reigen's hand
on the back of his head.
"Don't get overexcited," he says gently. "We've got all night."
"I'm sorry," Mob mumbles. He lifts his head to look at him. Reigen's eyes are
on the ceiling. He seems very disinterested in the mirror. Perhaps he thinks he
knows enough about curses already.
"It's okay," he says.
Mob kisses him on the jaw, then his throat, beginning to work his way down.
Reigen hesitates a moment but then lets him, sighing when Mob's warm mouth
pulls over the jut of his collarbone, the gentle slope his chest. Mob can feel
his lungs, his heart, the riverbed of his ribs. There's no-one like him – and
Mob, he could bite, he could bruise, but he doesn't think Reigen would like it
and he'd never want to make him upset. He matters too much. Instead his mouth
is like a butterfly, skipping curiously over his skin, short-lived. They have
powder on their wings like cornflour, they burn brightly like wet neon stripes
on the backs of palms. Reigen is a bit wriggly but Mob knows he's ticklish so
that doesn't mean anything. He also knows he hasn't got long before Reigen
grabs him by the hair and stops him going much lower. He won't be rough but
it'll be firm enough, a warning, and Mob won't disobey him even though maybe
hecould go for a good fuck on a full stomach. The chances of him being hit by a
bus and his belly found brimming with adult semen are pretty low, paranoid,
pathetic. Besides, any vehicle that hits Mob will crumple like a rusted can.
He comes to his navel and Reigen catches him by the back of the neck.
"Stop," he says; and Mob does, settling again, resting his cheek on his
stomach. He's lying between his legs now, Reigen parting his thighs just enough
to accommodate him, and the polyester of his suit slacks is pulled taut over
them. He's the one who looks ready for a postmortem. He's so slim but there's
no definition, he's soft, he caves inward like a fruit on the cusp of decay.
Mob skates his fingertips over him, tingling, tracing the dip of his navel, the
tangle of that whispery hair, the flat coin of his button, the grizzle of his
zip. He runs his nails over it and they catch, audible, and he can feel the
curve and the heat of him through the fabric. So close and yet worlds apart,
separated by suits and school uniforms. Reigen grunts a little, bends his
knees, tightens his grasp on Mob's neck.
"Don't," he says, exhaling.
Mob stops his fingers from wandering but remains on the zip, cool like a
lightning bolt under his touch. He can feel him starting to swell, to squirm,
and this is the closest he gets to losing his composure, really. He seems
pretty indignant; sometimes he acts like he can't believe this is really
happening to him.
Mob pulls his head away and dips lower before he can catch him. He presses his
lips to him, kissing the mound open-mouthed through the fabric, feeling him
twitch, his thighs go tight, his hips push upwards, his back arch, the thick
rush of blood–
"Mob." Reigen sits up sharply, looming over him like a cage. He takes his jaw
firmly, pushes him away, and Mob doesn't resist, satisfied.
"I said don't," Reigen says. His face is a little flushed. His eyes say
otherwise.
"You do it," Mob says.
"I'm an adult."
"You can do what you want."
"Exactly." Reigen looks pointedly away.
"That makes you a hypocrite," Mob says.
"Of course it does. All adults are hypocrites."
"I want to," Mob insists.
"Tough luck." Reigen grasps him under the armpits and hauls him up, twisting,
putting him firmly against the sheets. Mob's head hits the pillow and he sinks
back. He doesn't really have much fight in him anymore, snuggling down as
Reigen climbs over him and gets off the bed to fetch the bag. It rustles in the
quiet room as he picks it up, puts it down on the mattress, sits next to it.
Mob turns onto his side and watches him go through it, picking carefully over
the banal spoils. He bought more than Mob realized – toothpaste, disposable
razor, deodorant, the sort of things he could have brought from home if only he
wasn't so willfully disorganized. He deliberately goes out into the world with
nothing but the clothes on his back.
He puts the lube on the bedside table, he opens the condoms, takes one out,
puts it between his teeth as he reseals the box. Mob reaches out and touches
his arm and he jumps.
"Shit, you startled me," he exhales, looking at him. He takes the little silver
packet from his mouth, holding it between his finger and thumb. "What's the
matter?"
"Nothing." Mob presses his nails into his skin, leaving little crescent moons.
His eyes settle on the sharp precise edges of the condom and Reigen follows
them.
"You don't want to?" he asks again.
"I do," Mob says softly. He shifts, looks up at him. This has never occurred to
him before. "...Do you?"
Reigen blinks at him. He is surprised, taken aback. "Do I...?"
"Mm. You ask me all the time and I... I never ask you." Mob runs his fingers
over the pale underside of Reigen's arm, tracing the rivers of blue vein close
to his skin. "...I never even ask you how you are, Shishou. I'm sorry."
Reigen exhales. He is smiling. "You really are growing up, huh?"
Mob frowns, not looking at him. "You aren't going to answer me."
"Thank you for asking."
Reigen touches him on the head but Mob shakes free. He doesn't know whether
Reigen is simply difficult to get a straight answer out of or if being an adult
really is this complicated. He finds him hard to decipher anyway and him
behaving like this frustrates him all the more.
"Shishou," he says bluntly, "I feel like I take and I take from you and give
nothing back."
"That isn't true at all," Reigen replies quietly. "You know that."
Mob exhales. It comes out a bit shaky. "I-I just... don't want to burden you,
I..."
And then Reigen is folding over him, putting his arms under him, holding him
close. "You will never be a burden to me," he whispers, breathless. "I will
never reject you, Shigeo."
Mob clings tightly to him, nodding. He hangs around his neck like a noose but
there's nowhere for him to fall, Reigen's body holding him down, in, together.
He is cement in his familiar grey, he is bloodied brick in his new tie, he is a
wall. He can take the weight.
Mob nuzzles for his mouth, finds it, kisses him again. He's dimly aware that
he's even sloppier than usual, the drug is really starting to take hold now,
but Reigen doesn't fuss about little things like that. He kisses back, taking
over, and Mob feels his hands slide into his hair. He wishes he could go
without but he knows himself too well; he'd be too nervous even though they've
done this a hundred times before. He would struggle to control his powers, he'd
lift things, throw things, break things.
He could hurt Reigen, he knows, and that's the thing he dreads most of all. He
doesn't need another Ritsu, staining scarlet from the head.
Reigen pulls back, smiling at him. "You're always so relaxed when we do this,"
he says softly. "I'm glad." Uncanny, perhaps, but he doesn't say it with any
real conviction. It's just a passing observation. He runs his thumb over Mob's
bottom lip.
"Yeah," Mob sighs against him. "It's because it's you, Shishou."
This isn't untrue. He knows he wouldn't let anyone else touch him – not even
Tsubomi, if he's really truthful. He'd rather die, honestly, but Reigen is
different. He will never laugh at him, he will never patronize him, he will
never ask to be impressed. He understands him. Sometimes they don't even need
to speak. It doesn't matter that Reigen is getting to the other side of ripe,
that his mouth isn't red, that they'll never kiss in a clubroom, blossoming and
stolen. Mob knows he isn't an adult but he feels it, somehow, when he looks up
at Reigen and realizes this. It's like he's been let in on a secret. He knows
the taste of neon and smoke and cornflour.
Reigen's smile wavers the way it does when it's really sincere. He rubs at
Mob's cheek with his thumb.
"God, I don't deserve you," he whispers. "I really don't."
"Don't say that," Mob pleads, He takes his wrist, he presses his face against
his neck. Reigen is damp again already, shivery, and Mob can feel his bones all
sort of jangly and loose inside him. He wonders what really holds him together
sometimes – what colour the thread is, if it's red and runs between little
fingers.
Reigen unbuttons his school shirt without looking, peels it open like old skin
off sunburn, pours attention over his throat, his collarbone. Mob whines,
shudders, his breathing growing slow. He wants him, he needs him, he'll let him
do whatever he wants. His power feels like a thick clot of mucus in the back of
his skull, heavy, half-set. They're not out of the woods – they never will be,
he just never really knows what could set him off – but it's safer. He can
enjoy it as he does when he's not fretting underneath him, sweating, because
Reigen is so selfish and slipshod in other things but not in this, he's
attentive and tender, he always takes good care of him. He's worshipping him
right now, scattering his mouth downwards over his heaving skin, and it feels
like applause in the next room but the feathery pull of his thick hair is loud
and bright. He never stays too long in one place, there's no way of predicting
where he'll be or what he'll do in the next moment. This, too, Mob loves about
him in everything that he does, that he bends so far he might break but
doesn't, he burns so brightly between black gakurans and blue skirts. Mob
imagines him set loose in the sanitized hallways of his school, a gold-shaped
hole in the greydom – how he might snap his clever fingers and everything would
strip away, paint and uniforms and flesh, and leave behind something else
instead, trembling and raw. And those fingers now, they pry at his button, slip
it through the hole with a practiced wiggle, and then his zip eases down and
it's a relief, it's getting too much. Reigen puts his palm to him, cupping that
warm giddy glow, pressing down just hard enough, and Mob gives a very
undignified squeak and his hips rise, his body going all taut like a bow.
"Nice?" Reigen sighs because he's a hypocrite. He moves his wrist, palming him,
and Mob feels his face blaze hot from the blush. He nods, turning his head
aside, pushing up against him. His legs are badly quivering, there's no way
he'd be able to stand if he needed to, but Reigen is all over him in all kinds
of ways and he doesn't need to do anything at all. He's growing against his
hand, he can feel the pricklings of that pressure already, and he wants Reigen
to push a little harder, grip a little tighter–
Reigen removes his hand. He's well-versed, he knows he doesn't need much of a
nudge in any direction, really, and Mob pants beneath him, letting his hips
sink.
"Shishou," he grumbles, frustrated.
Reigen smiles down at him, sweet and clear like sugared water. "Be patient," he
chides. He kisses his knee. "You can't have it all in one go."
Big talk from someone who eats as he does – and swallows arguments whole,
besides. There is no reasoning with Reigen because he is already so reasonable.
Mob simply shivers and nods, the spike in his belly descending. He knows Reigen
is right as always, sensible as always; if nothing else, he's still wearing his
uniform and he has no other clothes.
"You're doing well tonight," Reigen adds gently. His voice is like an echo, he
sounds so far away even though Mob can feel him. "The furniture isn't so much
as rattling."
Mob nods again, his skull lead-lined. He can barely lift it and there's no room
in it for anything other than Reigen. School and homework and Ritsu, they can
can all burn up on a neon funeral pyre. He can smell the smoke already but
realizes, slow, that it's coming from Reigen as he leans over him to reach for
the condom and the lube. He's been waiting all day for this moment, torturous
hours tick-tick-tick, apart from Reigen and then beside him, bus, restaurant,
balcony, bed. He used to be interested in lots of things but now he's not.
Nothing else makes him feel like this, nobody looks at him the way Reigen does.
Those eyes, that smile, these are his barrier. He needs nothing else. He thinks
of the razor, the toothbrush, the whole box of condoms. They could stay in this
room forever, they could live on ramen and mochi, they could disappear. Nobody
would know – and this room, yes, it has a door with a lock but he could fix
that, he could make it cave in and then there would be no way out. He likes
dead ends.
Reigen undresses him like he's skinning a fish, fast and practiced, a little
ruthless like those expensive places where it's still alive on your plate,
fresh, flesh. He isn't as careless with Mob's clothes as he is with his own –
he folds them into neat squares and puts them on the bedside table. He never
sends him home with rumpled clothing or unkempt hair, he's much too
considerate. Mob lifts his hips to let him take down his underwear, watching
him do it, feeling the rush of cool air as he's completely exposed. He's hard,
aching, quivering, but Reigen does not slaver over him – in fact, his eyes
don't flicker south at all. He keeps his gaze on his face, gauging him, reading
him. Mob meets it, breathing deeply. He feels flayed alive and it's so intense
and Reigen's face is so neutral, it betrays nothing, but his eyes smolder. Mob
shivers beneath him.
"Cold?" Reigen whispers.
"No." Mob shakes his head, just about manages to. It's true. His skin is
burning up. "I... I just want..."
Reigen smiles as he trails off, indulgent, generous. "Go on," he says. He
reaches out, puts his hand to Mob's neck, gentle pressure. "You can tell me
what you want."
Mob most certainly can't, even drugged to the nines, and he bites his lip and
looks away. Reigen doesn't mind because he's used to it, he understands him so
well besides, and pulls his hand down Mob's body, fingertips firm over his
collarbone and chest and belly. He comes to his cock, teasing at it with the
slightest of touches, and it's torture, his whole body tingling. Mob whines,
pushing himself up against his palm, enticing him to grip tighter.
"Hm?" Reigen tilts his head. "Here?" His fingers trail off, skimmer downwards,
tease at his entrance. "...Or here?"
Mob keens again, biting at his bottom lip. He hates Reigen trying to get it out
of him like this. He'd rather he just put it in him. He's not stupid, after
all. He knows what he wants. He opens his legs a little wider and sees Reigen
raise his eyebrows.
"I thought as much."
Mob can't really see what he's doing but he hears him uncap the lube, smells it
like a pink tint on the air. Reigen always gets flavored ones even though Mob
thinks they all taste equally disgusting and wishes he wouldn't waste the
money. He tenses as he feels Reigen smear it over him, his first two fingers
settling again at his entrance. He's used to it but it still makes him nervous
– and Reigen doesn't warn him because it's better to take him by surprise. They
breach him both together and Mob takes a sharp inhale, his fists clenching, and
his power bubbles a bit but it doesn't boil over, not yet, not–
"Breathe," Reigen coaxes. "Breathe."
Mob exhales with him, adjusting – and it's okay, he's used to it, used to the
shape and feel of Reigen's fingers inside him. There's a stretch but not too
much, he can take it, it's Friday night and this is how he wants to spend it.
His fists unfurl and Reigen sees them.
"Feel okay?"
"Y-yeah."
"Good."
Reigen moves his fingers, prying them apart, pulling him open, sliding ever
deeper up inside him. Mob's knees tremble and he sinks his teeth into the heel
of his hand, feeling that dizzying heat pool in his belly already. Reigen
nudges at his prostate, he knows his whole body like the back of his hand, he
doesn't push too hard and it's maddening, absolute torment, and Mob lifts his
hips, tries to angle himself better, to push back harder, if only he wasn't so
groggy he could use his powers and make Reigen give him what he wants–
“Trying to get yourself off?” Reigen eases his fingers out. He sounds amused
but only just. “Wait a second, just... wait, okay?”
Mob coughs, sighs, gives a frantic nod. “S-sorry...”
“It's okay.” Reigen kneads soothingly at his thigh. His voice is low and deep
and raw. “Don't worry, I'll get you there.”
Mob knows this, he knows, he knows. Reigen is good with bodies in all sorts of
ways, he can read them, understand them, give them what they need – and none
more so than Mob's, he'll soon have him seeing stars. He just has to wait a
little longer, that's all, and Reigen will give him whatever he wants. He tries
his best not to be impatient, fidgety beneath him as he prepares himself. He
wants to help but he can't gather the strength to lift his arms, never mind his
head, and anyway Reigen seems pretty distant, methodical. He tears the condom
packet open with his teeth but it's not urgent or suggestive, he does it the
same way he breaks apart his chopsticks, and Mob can't see him roll it on but
he hears him sigh a little bit through his nose. Then the thick scent of the
lube again, unnatural, chemically-engineered citrus. There must be math that
goes into all these things – thought, design, money. Friday nights are a
commodity and they are caught up in the wheels. He thought Reigen was smarter
than this but he's just as likely to be crushed.
Reigen takes his thighs, his fingers wet and tingling from the lube, and Mob
feels the indents of them pressing and pulling at his plump flesh. He wishes
Reigen would bite a big chunk out of him because he's real, he wasn't grown in
a greenhouse, but instead all he does is lift him onto his knees, propping his
ass off the mattress. He's still wearing his suit slacks, Mob can feel the
fabric bunched against his lower back. Reigen rarely strips off completely but
Mob doesn't think it's because he's self-conscious. None of it matters when
he's crowded up against his entrance, anyway.
"Are you okay?" Reigen asks gently.
A nod.
"Comfortable?"
"Yes." It sorts of feels like he's upside-down, in a way, but it's not
unpleasant. He nuzzles deeper into the pillow, his head pounding.
Reigen's fingers push in a little harder, they slip, distort. "...Are you
sure?"
He doesn't mean about being comfortable, at least not his shoulders, his neck,
his spine. Mob doesn't answer him – he knows he can be obtuse when he feels
like it – but wraps his legs around his waist, closing around him, holding him
tight. He can feel his sticky skin against his calves, feel the bumps of his
backbone against his ankles. He stares up at him, unblinking, and Reigen seems
so worn away at his sharpest parts, blurring like a mirage, an oasis. He has a
woodblock smile, cut into his mouth, reused. He looks away, laughs a little.
"You know I can't beat you in a staring contest," he mutters.
Mob gives an impatient squirm. He feels like a frog nailed to a board, ready to
be dissected, and Reigen won't pick up the scalpel because he feels sorry for
it.
"Shishou," he grumbles.
Reigen inhales deeply, looking at the ceiling. "I guess I can take that as a
yes," he sighs.
"You seem... like you want me to say no," Mob says softly. "Sometimes, at
least."
"I don't, I don't," Reigen whispers hurriedly. He reaches for his face, rubs
his thumb over his cheek. "I just... want to be responsible, I..."
There's a tremor at the corner of his mouth as he trails off. Mob nuzzles
against his hand.
"You are responsible, Shishou," he says.
"I don't want you to feel that you have to do this just because we have
before," Reigen says. "You don't have to do anything, Shigeo – not for me, not
for anyone."
"I know." If there is any urgency in Reigen's words, he does not hear it.
Instead they settle across him like cool flat stones, weighted, waited. Reigen
is so composed but he comes apart in other ways.
"I know," Mob says again. He looks at him – he's swimming a little overhead.
That's a trick of Mob's anyway, an old one, frogs that paddle in mid-air. It
doesn't impress Tsubomi.
"But I want to," he says. "I already said I want to."
Reigen hunches his shoulders. He looks very young all of a sudden, sullen,
vulnerable.
"I just need to be sure," he says. "I'm the adult. I owe you that."
"You're unfair, Shishou," Mob replies. "You keep making me say it."
"I know." Reigen gives his cheek an affectionate squeeze. "I'm sorry. You put
up with so much from me."
Mob puts his hand on top of his. He tightens the twist of his legs a little,
trying to give him some encouragement.
"I don't mind," he says. He doesn't want him to talk about regret, he doesn't
care if it's red, weary, wearable.
Reigen's sigh goes through his whole body. "That's the thing with you. You
don't mind about very much at all."
Not untrue, of course, but Mob won't give him the satisfaction, not when he's
being like this. He grips tighter at his hand, slides up his arm, pulls him
down close so they're crushed up together with bent spines. There's a core of
damp pulsing heat at the center of them – he feels like the bass in a room
crowded with supple bodies and spilled beer, something he can only imagine.
Friday Night, fridaynight. It's loaded, it has expectations, deliberations,
humiliations. There's a reason Monday morning is a scaffold. He wants to
whisper 'Fuck me, Arataka' right in his ear but he can't bring himself to do
it, it's not him, it's not them. Reigen would be horrified, he'd look at him
like he doesn't know him. It would be worse than extra eyes, two rows of teeth.
Some things are better left unembroidered.
"Please, Shishou," he murmurs instead. His breathing is shallow, he can barely
focus on him. Instead he feels him, breathes him in. "I-I've waited... all day.
Please."
Reigen doesn't say anything to this. Mob feels him a tense a little, then the
long slope of his exhale. His heart is pounding but it's slow, Mob can feel
every thrum of it, and he re-adjusts and changes his grip and he smells of
smoke and petrol and green-glow sidewalks, these adult things in human form.
School uniforms don't fit him. He's not the right shape.
He pushes inside Mob easily, he's the right shape for that and they're made for
each other. The way he sighs as he enters him, no-one else hears it, has, will.
Mob is so relaxed and drowsy he barely flinches, taking him in to the hilt.
It's just enough of a stretch – he feels so good inside him. Sometimes he
thinks about moaning things like 'You're so big, Shishou' to make him flustered
but he can't bring himself to do that, either, it's not really his sense of
humor, at least not in practice; and anyway, it's not even true. He's seen
other boys in the locker rooms. As in everything, Reigen is pretty average.
Still, nobody knows Mob's body the way he does. He starts to move, gentle and
practiced, holding Mob's thighs and keeping him angled just right. Mob lets his
legs unravel, he can't concentrate enough on keeping them locked, they feel so
heavy at the joints and they just kind of hang, knees knocking idly against
Reigen's ribs. It feels nice – Reigen isn't particularly skilled but he's
intuitive, attentive – but it's like there's a sheet of frosted glass between
Mob's body and brain. He wishes he didn't need the pill, it would feel even
better, but he doesn't trust himself – and he can feel his power simmering a
little, even now, and knows he's right. It isn't worth it. He can't hurt
Reigen, he can't, he can't–
"Mob." He feels Reigen grab at his chin, squeezing his face. "Stay with me."
"Sorry," Mob mumbles. Reigen is making his mouth pucker and it's hard to talk.
Reigen stops moving. "Are you alright? You seem... out of it."
Mob hasn't even got it in him to panic. He nods languidly, smiling as best he
can. "I'm fine, Shishou. You... you can keep going..."
But Reigen doesn't move again for a long while. He withdraws his hand and Mob
knows he's watching him intently, studying him, so he squirms underneath him,
turns his head aside, arches his throat, offers himself. Reigen doesn't bite,
looking up at the ceiling. He stares at the crack for a long time. Mob has no
idea what he's thinking.
As for him, well, Reigen isn't wrong: he is pretty out of it, his limbs feel
like cotton worn thin, his brain buzzes like a nest of bees drunk on
wildflowers, neon, laboratory-lemon. He can feel Reigen inside his body, hyper-
fixated and full to the brim, distorted like he's drying around him, shrinking,
shriveling. If he put his hand on his stomach he'd feel him, if he looked he'd
see the shape of him flush inside him even though there are things in the way,
organs and bones, basic anatomy. He does look and sees nothing but pale flat
flesh, his own prick pink and hard against it – but that doesn't stop him
thinking that if only Reigen would move again, just once more, he'd come up
through him and tear him open and he'd be gloopy and coated in cornflour, he'd
bleed red bean paste. Maybe that's what it would take: Reigen wouldn't be able
to resist him then. He'd swallow him in one go.
He writhes a bit, tries to get a bit of motion going, but from this angle it's
too much, even without the drug. He still doesn't have the upper body strength.
"Shishou," he fusses – because he thinks Reigen is being absurdly neglectful,
staring into space.
Reigen, to his credit, seems to realize this too because he shakes himself and
looks down at him apologetically.
"Sorry, Mob," he says. "I was just thinking."
Mob doubts it was anything as weird and violent as splitting him in two and
finding he's made of mochi but that's fair enough because he doesn't usually
have thoughts like that, either. He supposes maybe his power resents being
cooped up and is eating out the back of his brain in retaliation. Either way,
he doesn't really care, he just wants wants wants. He tries to lift his arms
and Reigen reaches down and takes him under them, hauling him upright. He
shifts him into his lap and Mob sighs into him, resting his face against the
crook of his neck.
"Better?" Reigen whispers in his ear.
"Mmm."
Mob nods, wraps his arms around him as best he can. He has to hook his fingers
together to keep them there. He breathes out deeply through his nose as Reigen
spreads his hands over his hips and begins to move again. Mob is barely riding
him, slumped against him with his legs trembling, letting him do all the work –
but that's okay because Reigen is pretty lazy in other situations so it all
evens out in the end. He can feel Reigen's mouth on his neck, his collarbone,
his shoulder – but no teeth, only the shape of the words he's whispering. He
can't hear him over his own panting, shallow, gasping. He holds him as tight as
he can – and if someone were to come in now, break the lock, find them, Friday
night unraveling, even if it was Ritsu, he would not let go.
He doesn't last much longer. He hardly has time to gather the nerve to politely
whisper "Shishou, I-I'm going to come" before it happens, rinsing through him,
rolling like an echo. He spills himself against Reigen's belly, he bites at his
shoulder hard, he knows he leaves a mark. Reigen hisses through his teeth,
sighs it off, holds him close. He's still going but his breathing is sharp and
tight, his hips are frantic, his moans are high and jagged and right in his ear
and Mob could happily collapse but he holds himself upright just long enough,
he moves with him as best he can, he puts his hands in Reigen's hair and hangs
on, hangs on–
Reigen shudders, he swears spectacularly under his breath, he arches his back,
he whispers 'Shigeo' like a talisman. Mob doesn't feel him come, of course,
it's all contained, buttoned-up, respectful. He likes his voice like this,
though, ragged and breathless. He nuzzles against him, listening to him come
down, and he really can't resist when Reigen rocks his weight forward and they
sink to the sheets. Mob hits the mattress, still clutching at him, and Reigen
recovers against his neck. He sounds like he's run a marathon but Mob supposes
this is pretty much the only workout he gets. He kisses at his damp hair.
"Arataka," he murmurs. Four As, one at either end, far too many. How
unbelievably greedy.
"Hm?" Reigen shifts, lifts his head.
"Nothing," Mob says, his eyes sliding shut. He's spent, he knows he's going to
fall asleep. "Just... your name, I... I like it..."
"...You're a weird kid," Reigen says fondly. He disentangles himself, pushing
himself up. Mob feels his hand on his forehead, brushing aside his hair.
"Sleepy?"
"Mm."
"Okay, let's get cleaned up. Then you can sleep." He's back to being brisk and
practical again, even if he's still short of breath. Mob feels him ease himself
out of his body, hears him rustling around the sheets with the telltale crinkle
of the bag. He can barely open his eyes so he doesn't, he just listens. The zip
seems very loud all of a sudden.
He feels the dip and shift of the mattress as Reigen gets off the bed, hears
the soft pad of his feet on the carpet, the running of water from the tap. Then
he's back, the mattress jostling as he leans over Mob, pressing a warm damp
cloth to his shivery skin.
"Did you bring your pajamas?" he asks.
Mob nods. "In... in my overnight bag..."
"Okay." Reigen gently wipes him down, cleaning off the lube and sweat and
semen, anything that litters him, screams in scarlet. Mob likes this bit almost
as much as the sex because he likes attention from him in every way imaginable.
He's too tired to be aroused when the cloth comes between his legs but he
enjoys it – and he enjoys the feel of the towel afterwards, too, drying away
the cool burn. Reigen thinks about that sort of thing. This is why he has
clients who keep coming back to him even though they've never been haunted in
their lives – they're mostly older women, housewives, and they just adore him.
These are the ones Mob resents the most but not tonight, not right now, because
he's here and they're not and Reigen uses 'Shigeo' so sparingly because he
gives it such a weight.
Reigen leaves him with the towel draped over his lap and goes to get his
pajamas for him. Mob wonders vaguely what time it is, how many hours have
stretched between this moment and his walk to school that morning with Ritsu.
He can't remember what his little brother was talking about, only that he
noticed him wearing his red armband already. He'll be President next year, Mob
knows. He takes it all very seriously.
"Mob." Reigen sits next to him, the edge of the bed sagging downwards. He puts
his hand on Mob's shoulder, cool and firm. "Shigeo."
Mob takes a breath, forcing his eyes open. Reigen is staring down at him and he
doesn't look very happy. He has Mob's pajamas in his lap and in his hand...
"What's this?" Reigen shakes the box of pills at him. "Did you take these?"
Mob's heart sinks. He must have found them in his bag. There's no point in
lying.
"Only one," he admits quietly.
Reigen takes a deep breath, his shoulders drawing up like a bow. "I knew it,"
he says flatly. "I knew you didn't seem right. I should have stopped, I–"
"I always take one, Shishou," Mob interrupts softly. He reaches for Reigen's
arm, puts his hand in the crook of his elbow. "Every time we..."
Reigen's eyes widen, his lips part, the color drains out of his face. He looks
completely devastated, staring at Mob for a long time in complete silence. His
fingers tremble on the box.
"Why?" he manages at last. His voice cracks. "Why do you...? Oh god, is it
because you don't want to...?!"
"No, no," Mob says. He wants his voice to be urgent but he can't muster it. He
pulls himself closer. "I do want to, I just... I don't want to hurt you.
They... they dull my powers–"
"I knew that wasn't right, either," Reigen interrupts. His voice is
uncharacteristically cold. "For things to not even be rattling..."
They both know this is because Mob nearly killed them both the very first time
they had sex. If there is loose furniture then there has to be some kind of
lock on his powers. That is the trade-off, the only way. Reigen should know
this, having almost had his skull caved in by his own filing cabinet, and for
this reason Mob is not going to apologize.
"I don't want to hurt you," he says again.
"Then we shouldn't be doing it," Reigen sighs. He throws the box across the
room – it's savage but calculated, hitting the wall and dropping into the
wastepaper basket.
"Are you angry with me?" Mob asks quietly. He realizes he can't tell.
"I'm angry that you felt you had to do this," Reigen replies – but his tone is
pretty bland. He looks fixedly at the wall. "I'm angry at myself. I knew you
weren't right, I did, but I didn't stop."
"I didn't want you to stop," Mob says. "I did this so we could... well, without
worrying."
"Why are you worried you'll hurt me?" Reigen looks down at him. "Because of the
first time? You were nervous, it's understandable."
Mob can't hold his gaze. He closes his eyes again. "I don't trust myself," he
says softly.
"Well, I trust you."
Despite himself, despite the immense kindness and selflessness of these words,
Mob feels annoyed. Reigen is such a fucking know-it-all sometimes.
"They're my powers," he says. "You don't understand."
"Well, I wish you would understand how this looks," Reigen snaps, losing his
cool. He gets up, tosses Mob's pajamas at him. "Like... like I drugged you so I
could...!"
Mob doesn't open his eyes, makes no move to dress. Reigen is a drama queen, he
overreacts at the stupidest things, he can't even say it.
"Who does it look that way to?" he asks.
Reigen says nothing else. Mob hears him huff angrily and walk away from the
bed, then the slam of the bathroom door. A moment later comes the whoosh of the
shower starting up again. He really is just being over-dramatic now, showering
twice in less an hour to make a point – or maybe he really does feel the need
to scrub himself raw, shed his old skin drenched in Mob's scent, the scarlet
circle of teeth sunk into his shoulder. His hands are stained the color of sin,
skin, veins worn thin. If he rubs any harder they'll break, it'll never wash
away.
Mob falls asleep, thinking about Reigen gleaming gold and running red, and
wakes up again quite abruptly some time later, dreamless. Now it is dark, the
lights are off, and he's in his pajamas and under the covers. Reigen is next to
him, very still. He has his back to him and his breathing is even and Mob
thinks he's sleeping. He rolls over and looks at his back – there's an orange-
green zigzag of light spilling in from the noisy street outside and it mottles
his skin, turns his hair the color of rust. There is no scar on his back but
there definitely is a mark on his shoulder. It'll bruise. Mob reaches out, runs
his fingers over the shape of it, feels him flinch.
"You're awake," he says, surprised. He takes his hand back. "...I'm sorry."
"For what?" Reigen sounds tired.
"For biting you."
Reigen shrugs. "It'll heal." He turns over to face him. His hair must have been
damp when he got into bed because it's wild, sticking up in weird places. He
never lets anybody else see him like this.
"Are you still angry?" Mob asks.
Reigen sighs. "I know why you did it," he says. "You think I don't understand
but I do. I know you're afraid of hurting people."
Mob says nothing, watching Reigen's mouth as he speaks. The light makes his
teeth look pink and yellow and green.
"But I don't want you to do it again," he says. "Shigeo. Do you understand?"
"But I could hurt you," Mob replies. He feels exhausted by this, it's so
constant, every day, every time he looks at Ritsu, at Teruki, at Reigen who
doesn't remember or can't or won't or–
"We'll think of something," Reigen says. "If a room is too dangerous, we'll
come up with something else, somewhere safer."
"...Oh." Mob sighs this, relieved, ridiculed. Reigen is so practical, so...
"I thought... you'd say we couldn't... I mean, you did say that, you–"
"I know. I didn't mean it."
(Actually, what he said was shouldn't, not couldn't, and Mob knows this and so
does Reigen.)
"Aren't you afraid?" Mob asks quietly. His eyes flicker to the bite on his soft
skin once more. He's tasted him but he doesn't feel like he's gained any
knowledge.
"No," Reigen says; and maybe this is why. Maybe Reigen is just really fucking
stupid. Or nihilistic, naive, trusting, optimistic, infallible, immortal. He is
defiant, after all.
He drapes himself over him and Mob reaches up, wraps his arms around him,
cuddles him close. The smell of smoke is gone, now he is Saturday morning,
soap, skin, sheets. Mob feels his mouth against his throat.
"I won't reject you," he promises. "No matter what, I won't reject you."
The room is dark and bruised and glowing: green, yellow, red, the color of
souls, of sins. Light of my life.
 
***** iii/iii *****
Chapter Notes
     So I realise that my chapter numbering is hugely misleading, haha
     (ii/ii is just a lame pretentious stylistic thing, tbh). *This* is
     the FINAL chapter of this story. Thank you to everyone for all your
     amazing comments and support so far on this fic! It really really
     means a lot - especially since this pairing gets so much hate. >.>
     Special thank you to Nuschanchel, who drew yet more gorgeous artwork
     for this story: https://ynna-anny.tumblr.com/post/159425298390/
     inspired-by-last-chapter-of-scarlet-letter ...You absolutely spoil
     me, omgggg. XD
     [Lastly, I can't take the credit for the line 'Look at this tangle of
     thorns', which is a direct quote from 'Lolita'.]
     Please enjoy the final chapter! Thank you all so much! <3
[iii/iii]
Monday and the first bell groans.
The bright blurred world of Friday night is over and so are its afterbirth
realms: snuggling into Reigen's arms well into Saturday morning, arcade games
and junk food with Ritsu and Teruki and Shou. His mouth is still sour from his
Sunday spent struggling with homework, wishing he could fill his time doing
something, anything, else. He called Reigen to ask him for help with something
but he didn't answer and called back three hours too late. Sometimes Mob
wonders what he does when he's not with him.
He changes his shoes and stands staring at the rack for a long time. He can
hear the bustle of the new school week unfolding itself behind him, a wall of
white noise about shopping trips and games and ice cream and secret chains of
texts. He wonders what Reigen is doing right now, if he is late opening the
office, if Serizawa is there. It seems so unfair that Serizawa should so
effortlessly get to spend every day with him, should he choose, and he, Mob,
does not. Serizawa seems so focused on getting himself an education – they
should swap places. He fiddles absently with his second button, honestly thinks
for a ludicrous moment about proposing it, but he'd have to do it in front of
Reigen, who would laugh until he realizes he's serious and then get annoyed.
Despite his patience, he does seem to take Mob's ever-waning interest in
school, not to mention his under-performance, as some sort of personal affront.
He's very like Ritsu in some ways but Mob thinks it's okay for him when he's so
lazily intelligent. Sometimes when he talks Mob thinks in despair shut up,
please just shut up–
Like the pill, which he went on and on about on Saturday morning, taking Mob's
face, making him promise he wouldn't ever do it again. He shows his anger in
strange ways, he acts like he's been assassinated. Sometimes Mob finds him so
hard to read – he just can't make any sense of him at all. He thinks of the
weeks, months it took him to finally work up the courage to confess to him,
always putting it off, finding some excuse to do it tomorrow, and he knows it
was because he was scared Reigen would be angry, that he'd look at Mob like
he'd stabbed him in the back–
But Reigen had been so calm, he'd said he knew and had known for some time,
he'd been gentle with his hands on Mob's shoulders. Everything had been in the
air, Mob had had absolutely no control over his powers while he waited for an
answer, waited to be rejected, but even then Reigen had seemed so completely
unruffled. He'd said 'Okay' and everything had dropped and Mob had clung to him
and cried. Look at this tangle of thorns.
His shoes are shivering on the shelf. He reaches out and presses his hands atop
them, holding them still, letting out a breath. He puts his head down, his
forehead pressing to the cold metal. His heart is hammering, he can feel his
power seething in every atom of him, he doesn't know if he can hold it in. He
feels suddenly overwhelmed with the need to hear Reigen's voice, for him to say
okay, it's okay, you'll be okay. He fumbles in his bag for his phone, searches
with trembling fingers through his contacts, finds him glittering amid a
clutter of other people he doesn't care about. He doesn't hesitate, he hits
Dial and brings it to his ear but even over the thump thump thump of blood he
hears the dull click of it going straight to voice-mail. Reigen must have it
turned off and Mob doesn't want to hear his bullshit recorded message, he
doesn't want to hear the half of him that isn't real. He wants the half that is
his. He calls the office instead and it rings, it rings, and he clutches the
phone with both hands and readies himself, he'll cut Reigen off before he
starts his spiel–
But Reigen doesn't answer. Instead he gets Serizawa, soft-spoken, ultra-polite.
Mob hangs up on him before he can finish asking how he can help and stands
staring at the phone for a long time, feeling desperately betrayed. He hopes
Serizawa won't recognize the number and call him back. He doesn't want to talk
to him. His thumb hovers over the Call icon, he could ring again and if Reigen
is there he might get the hint, he's smart like that in ways Serizawa isn't–
"Kageyama, get to class."
Tokugawa, student council president. He makes it his business to scout the
locker room every morning for dawdlers. Sometimes he has Ritsu with him but
today, thankfully, he is alone.
"You'll be late," he says, glaring fixedly at Mob. "Again."
"S-sorry." So Tokugawa knows. Mob frowns, pockets his phone, grabs his bag. He
wonders if he's been looking at the register or if Ritsu has mentioned it – not
to tattle, he wouldn't, but because he's worried.
He wonders if Ritsu has said anything else.
"Hurry up," Tokugawa snaps, standing aside. "You should already be at your
desk."
"Sorry," Mob says again, although he isn't, not really. The shoes have stopped
quivering but he feels like he's getting dangerously near to an explosion. He
wants nothing more than to curl up under one of the benches and be left alone,
call and call Reigen until he picks up, but Tokugawa doesn't budge, waiting for
him. Mob makes the mistake of lifting his eyes towards him, briefly, and he
sees Tokugawa watching him impassively. He's not an unkind person, really, but
he has hard eyes and an unsmiling mouth. Usually Mob finds him intimidating but
this morning he just can't muster it. He stops, stares back, unblinking.
"Why are you stopping?" Tokugawa asks, exasperated.
"I don't know."
Tokugawa drops his eyes, runs them over him, scrutinizing him. He does this a
lot to everyone but now Mob feels defensive, wondering if he does have a mark
on him after all, some visible sign of his secret. His hand goes instinctively
to his neck even though his gakuran has a high collar and anyway Reigen never
uses those neon teeth of his. Bony fingers, though; maybe he's bruised Mob's
jaw. Tokugawa's eyes flicker impatiently towards his hand. Can he tell anyway?
Perhaps he's a telepath like Takenaka, he knows everything like thick old
blood, he is merciless. He doesn't need Ritsu, he doesn't–
"Seriously, get to class." He turns away abruptly. "You'll be late."
He stalks off without another word. Mob looks at the clock and realizes there's
thirty precious seconds left to discipline more dissenters, something someone
like Tokugawa isn't about to waste. As for Mob, he lets out a breath he didn't
realize he was holding and something knots in his belly and there's a sudden
groan of metal all around him, a shockwave shuddering across the lockers and
shoe racks. They bend and pucker, crumpling inwards, and it takes every inch of
control he's got to make it stop. He pants, his fists clenched at his sides,
listening to the pop and wail of distressed steel settling. He prays Tokugawa
didn't hear.
The final bell has long shrilled by the time he calms down enough to unbend the
lockers as best he can. He trudges to his classroom at a snail's pace, it
doesn't matter since he's late anyway, and the scolding he gets sails over his
head as he mumbles his apologies and slides into his seat. He keeps his head
down. It's better if he doesn't look up, not today. This isn't torment at the
hands of Mogami, this is fine, he can get through this. He's still got his
family, he's got Ritsu, he's got Reigen–
Ah. Yes. Reigen. Who Mob is terrified of hurting. He curses himself over and
over again for leaving the box in plain view in his bag, for not insisting on
getting his pajamas himself, for being so careless as to get caught. Reigen
thinks he's doing the right thing, there's no way he'll let Mob of out his
sight again, at least not in places where they can be horizontal. There's no
point in trying to sneak them anymore, anyway. He always suspected Reigen sort
of knew, in a way – now he will notice immediately.
Mob doesn't know what else to do. Reigen might trust him but he doesn't, he's
the one with this monstrous power buckling inside his body, he's the one who
can feel his grasp on it beginning to slip, he's the one who looks up at him
and sees him smile so lovingly and thinksi'm scared i'm scared i'm scared.
Coming up with another solution... Reigen might be full of madcaps and miracles
but Mob doesn't see how he can fix this, what he can possibly suggest to make
it safer. It's not just nervousness that makes his power spike, after all. He
loves Reigen very much: that's the thing he has the least control over.
He can't concentrate. He lets the lesson wash over him, a background rumble
like the sea inside a shell, staring down at his blank workbook. He's dimly
aware that he's twisting at his second button again, the thread is coming away
from the fabric, and all he can think about is Friday night, neon-edged, the
sounds Reigen makes when no-one but Mob can hear, the way he smells and tastes
and feels when his bones are bare and there's not a thousand buildings between
them–
And Saturday morning, too, rumpled bedding that feels like somewhere foreign,
the scrub of Reigen's stubble against his neck, Mob kissing him awake. Monday
morning wouldn't be so bad, maybe, if he could wake up like this.
(He's sitting on the edge of the bed, putting on his shoes, hoping they'll get
breakfast before they go their separate ways because he's hungry and because he
doesn't want it to end. Reigen, freshly-shaven, his bedhead matted down with
water, is knotting his tie in the mirror, the red running over his fingers. Mob
pauses to watch him and Reigen sees him in the glass. He stops and Mob looks
away but it's too late.
"Something bothering you?"
"No," Mob says. He's not thrilled about having been made to finish his homework
but they did it sitting up in bed and it was as pleasant as math problems could
ever hope to be.
"Are you sure?"
Now Mob frowns, looking at his feet. "That."
"That what?"
"That bothers me," Mob says. "The way you always ask if I'm sure about stuff.
It's like you don't believe me."
"It's not that I don't believe you," Reigen says gently. "I... just want to be
certain–"
"Do you think I'm incapable of saying no?" Mob looks up him again. Reigen sees
him do it, turns to him. He hasn't pulled the knot of his tie all the way up
yet and it hangs loose at his collarbone. For a long time he doesn't say
anything, although he looks like he wants to, like he could say any one of a
number of things and can't decide which. Finally he lets his shoulders slope,
his chest bending inwards.
"I'm sorry," he says.
Mob blinks. He hadn't been expecting – or even wanting – an apology and it
catches him off-guard.
"For what?"
"For seeming dismissive. That wasn't my intention. I respect your choices,
Shigeo. I don't want you to think that I don't."
Mob doesn't say anything to this. He doesn't really know where to start. Most
of the time he doesn't notice that Reigen doesn't really treat him like a
teenager, more like an equal with an adult body and an adult brain, but now
it's very obvious.
"It's okay," he mumbles at last, dropping his gaze to his knees. "You don't
have to apologize. That's... that's not what I..."
"I know it isn't – that's why it's important for me to say it." Reigen comes to
the bed, sinks down next to him. Mob doesn't look up. "You don't leave a dent
in this world," Reigen goes on gently. "You don't do unkind things."
Mob shifts. "I made you upset," he says thickly.
"I was upset for the wrong reason. I want to apologize for that, too."
"Wrong...?"
"I was selfish. I only thought about myself, how it would make me look." Mob
hears him sigh. "But you're right – who would it look that way to?"
"Nobody," Mob says.
"Exactly – so I'm sorry."
This seems quite silly to Mob. "I don't really understand why you're
apologizing for that, Shishou," he says. He looks up at him finally, sees one
side of his mouth quirk upwards a little. "But it's okay," he adds. "I forgive
you."
This seems to be what Reigen wants to hear, anyway, although Mob isn't sure
exactly. It's worth it to see him smile properly. He leans in and kisses Mob's
hair, puts his arms around him, pulls him close. Mob nuzzles against him. His
new suit smells strange, unfamiliar, like it doesn't belong on him, a corpse
dressed for his own funeral.
"Do you forgive me, Shishou?" Mob mumbles. He feels him stiffen, swallow, raise
his head.
"...Forgive you?" Reigen sounds like he's about to laugh, nervous, hysterical.
"What for?" He gives him a little shake. "Mob. What're you saying that for?"
"For taking the pills," Mob says dully. Really, Reigen has a mind like a sieve
sometimes.
"Oh, god, don't start apologizing for that," Reigen groans. He holds him
tighter, burying his face against his shoulder. "Please don't, Shigeo. I know
why you did it, okay? I get it. I'm not angry, I promise."
Mob frowns, listening to his muffled voice. He sounds like a child, a little
petulant. Mob doesn't think it's very fair that Reigen should get to apologize
while he, Mob, does not. Adults really are such hypocrites.
"Shishou," he sighs, looking at the crack in the ceiling, "you're so unfair.")
"–yama. Kageyama!"
A ball of paper hits him on the head and bounces off. Mob bolts upright,
alarmed, stares wildly around the room to see the teacher and the whole class
looking right at him. A cold sweat breaks out over him and he shrinks in his
seat.
"You come in late and then space out," the teacher, Ishida, says coldly. "Any
more insolence and you'll be out in the hall."
Mob drops his head again, his face burning. "I-I'm sorry." He fidgets anxiously
with his button, pulling it this way and that, and through his hair he glances
to the left and sees Tsubomi. She isn't one of the ones looking at him with sly
half-grins, amused at his expense. It's like she can't even see him.
"Kageyama!"
Mob jumps, yanking his button clean off. It skitters across his desk and goes
bouncing onto the floor, rolling away out of sight, and he pushes up and is
about to go scrambling after it–
“Leave it!" Ishida barks. "Stand up. I've asked you to answer this question
twice."
Mob does stand, his legs trembling. There's nothing that terrifies him more
than getting picked on in class – even worse when he's not prepared for it. He
wasn't listening at all. He wipes his sweaty hands on his jacket, his heart-
rate soaring. His desk is starting to quiver ever so slightly and he braces his
leg against it. He's aware of everyone watching him, vultures on the scaffold.
"Well?" Ishida demands.
"Wh-what was the question?" Mob mumbles.
A small thrill of laughter goes throughout the room. They do get a good laugh
out of him at times like this. He puts his hand on the desk to keep it down.
His control is starting to slip, he can feel it working itself loose.Breathe.
Reigen. Breathe.
Ishida taps impatiently at the board. There's a sum there, the kind Reigen
showed him how to do.
"What's the answer to this? Quickly."
Mob stares and stares at it. It's gone, he can't remember how to do it, the
memory of Reigen and the dresser and the mirror turning to dust. He has
absolutely no idea. He sees Ishida look at his watch, hears the class becoming
restless, whispering, giggling.
"I-I don't know," he says faintly.
Ishida's eyes narrow. "Did you do your homework?"
"I-I did–" Mob starts.
"Then why don't you know?"
Mob stares blankly at him. He can feel his hair starting to lift at the roots.
"I don't know," he says again. "I-I'm sorry, Ishida-sensei."
"Apologizing is no good, is it?" Ishida snaps. "Sit down. Nakamura."
Nakamura, a fair-haired boy two rows away, stands and rattles off the answer.
Mob barely hears him – he does not sink back into his seat. Instead he sways
where he is, holding the desk down, fighting to get himself under control. Half
the people in the class know about his powers in some way or another but this
isn't bending a bar or floating a frog, this is much worse, this is about to
break him in two and he doesn't know why, it's just Monday, it's just–
"Kageyama, sit down!"
Blank. Silence. He feels it swell in him and froth over, flowing between his
fingers. It's a short sharp burst but it surges through the classroom, shoving
at desks and chairs and legs, making the windows shake madly in their frames.
He takes a breath and it stops just as suddenly and now the room is filled with
a ghastly absence of all sound. There's a radius of bare space around him, all
the other desks pushed away, crowded up against each other and their occupants
with them. Ishida is flat against the board, his own desk two inches from his
body. He doesn't dare breathe. Drop a pin in this room and you'd hear a
symphony.
Mob steps around his desk, pushes in his chair, picks up his bag and leaves. He
closes the door very quietly behind him, starts walking. He doesn't know where
he's going to go but he can't stay here. He thinks about going to the clubroom
but Tokugawa or one of his ilk will find him. It might be Ritsu and that would
be worst of all. He starts down the stairwell, picking up speed as it spirals
downwards. He just wants to get out of here as soon as possible, he won't be
halted, if anyone tries to stop him–
The handrail bends under his touch, glooping inwards like some Dali-drenched
nightmare. He jerks away from it, scrambles down the last few steps, presses
his back to the wall to catch his breath. The corridor is long and empty either
way, his panting bounces off the painted walls. The light surges overhead and
he closes his eyes. He doesn't want to look. All this has come so suddenly upon
him and he doesn't know what to do; he never used to struggle to control his
power but now it grows and grows, stretching out the shape of him, pushing him
to breaking point. Ritsu, with his own ability, can sense it, he knows. He
doesn't come as close to him as he used to, he barely touches him. How short-
lived it was, truly, his own brother not being afraid of him. This is because
Ritsu is sensible. He is good at being alive.
Mob gathers himself together enough to get out of the school, at least, keeping
close to the edge of the grounds as he crosses towards the gates. It's a
beautiful day, warm and brilliant, the concrete strewn with a froth of pink
petals. There are no cherry-blossoms here, they must blow from elsewhere, they
can't cling on at all. They're half-shriveled underfoot already, short-lived.
There's an outdoor gym class going on nearby, he can hear the whistle, the
shrill of girls' voices. He's supposed to have that this afternoon, his kit
folded in his bag, ritual humiliation.
Well. There are plenty of other ways to get a workout.
Nobody notices him leave, nobody stops him, nobody calls after him. He steps
through the gates and the world behind him burns up, these strange false walls
that cannot contain him, a reality in which Reigen does not exist. Now he is
free of it, he can do what he wants, he can wrap himself in red. This is an
adult world, the sunlit streets of Monday mid-morning, paved with convenience
store coffee cups, crumpled newspapers, fresh packs of cigarettes. It feels
brand-new and brave.
He knows people are looking at him because he's in his gakuran but no-one
approaches him. He must look either too good to be bunking off or too bad to
bother with. He goes into a 7-11 and is aware of the cashier watching him as he
mills around the aisles, bracing himself for an interrogation, but then he
catches side of himself in the fridge door and sees that his hair is standing
on end, flickering like black fire. Ah. That'll be it. There isn't much he can
do about it, really, the tension wound up tight inside him, so he goes about
his business without paying it too much heed. He's used to seeing himself like
this, besides. It doesn't shock him.
He wants to buy something for Reigen. He knows going to the office in the
middle of the day will inconvenience him and it feels wrong to turn up empty-
handed, not to mention that Reigen buys him food all the time and he suddenly
feels that he should return the favor. Of course he's going to pay with the
wages Reigen gives him anyway but that seems like a moot point. He wanders up
and down the snack aisle for a long time, deliberating. Teruki is good at this
sort of thing – he'd call him for advice but Teruki will be in class where he
should be at this hour.
In the end he picks up two plain mochi in green plastic packets and takes them
to the counter. He carefully counts out his change, slides the silver coins
across, waits in silence as the cashier tallies it up and takes his offering.
He can see the things Reigen buys on the back wall, hidden in plain sight,
cigarettes, condoms, the boxes look so similar, a visual code he's not supposed
to understand. The cashier sees him looking and clears his throat, pushing the
mochi towards him insistently. They seem childish and embarrassing by
comparison, those sleek silver boxes that Reigen won't let him touch, but it's
done now. He takes the mochi and puts them in his schoolbag, nods, leaves the
store without a word.
Reigen's office is a bit of a walk. It's in the part of town where the rent is
cheaper, getting towards the edge where there are a lot of gutters and
chainlink fences and not much else. Mob often wonders where Reigen lives, what
it looks like. He's never been to his apartment, although he wants to, he
wishes Reigen would take him home with him, but Reigen always has such a
reasonable and gentle way of turning him down and he can't argue, can't get the
better of him. He wants to bring Reigen home with him, too, show him his house,
his room, but Reigen just raises his eyebrows at him whenever he suggests it.
Mob doesn't see what the problem is, of course they're not going to do
anything, not with his parents and Ritsu there, but Reigen seems to think it's
inappropriate and won't be budged. Admittedly Mob has thought about what it
would be like to be fucked on his own futon instead of some strange bed but he
hasn't ever said it. He isn't always great at reading Reigen, true, but somehow
he knows he wouldn't take it very well. He gets upset about strange things.
At last he turns the corner and comes upon the street he knows so well, the
Spirits and Such sign jutting outwards against the clear sky. He remembers the
first time he ever saw it, the tentative bubble of hope rising in his body like
blown glass at thinking here was someone just like him, someone who could help.
Naturally he had figured out pretty quickly that Reigen didn't actually have
any psychic powers, he was all smoke and mirrors, but his advice, his
understanding, his kindness... He had helped, his influence had been the balm
Mob so badly needed–
But now he hesitates at the door to the building. He can see his silvery
outline in the glass, knows his hair is still betraying him. He reaches up and
tries to push it flat again but it laps through his fingers like running water;
unsurprising when he feels this anxious. Reigen probably won't be thrilled to
see him – he might be annoyed at him for skipping school. What if he's not even
here? Sometimes he goes out for a job and is gone most of the day. What if Mob
goes up and it's only Serizawa? Maybe that's why Serizawa answered the phone,
maybe–
The corner of the Spirits and Such sign splinters. It sounds very loud in the
quiet street, the crack of glass like a pistol firing, and Mob jolts his head
up to look at it. It's superficial damage, barely noticeable, but he gazes at
it in despair. Now Reigen really will be cross. He doesn't know what to do. If
he was calmer he could try to fix it but in this state he'll only make it
worse–
The window opens and Reigen leans out, reversed Juliet. His hair is bright
burning gold in the sun and he's back in gray and pink, the color of dawn
between bedraggled blinds. He appears so suddenly that Mob is alarmed, stepping
back, and Reigen looks right down at him. He blinks, shakes his head a little,
stares at him like he thinks he's hallucinating. Mob can feel his pulse sky-
rocketing as he looks at him, a few little stones near his feet beginning to
bounce on the pavement. He sees Reigen's eyes dart to this, watches him sink
his teeth into his bottom lip. Without a word, he points downwards to the door,
leans back in and shuts the window. Mob supposes this is less an invitation
than a demand that he get inside right now so he hitches up his bag and pulls
open the office door. The narrow stairway is cool and dark, the smell of
incense clouding down from the office, and he feels a little light-headed as he
makes his way up the steps. He can hear Reigen's voice as he comes to the
landing – he's going a mile a minute so it must be a client. That's even worse
than Serizawa, Mob doesn't think he can stand to watch his oozing falseness
today and he doesn't want to go in so he stands outside and makes the door
rattle helplessly. The cheerful 'Open!' sign clatters against the frosted glass
and he hears footsteps beyond it, not raising his head as Reigen opens the
door.
"Come in, please," he says – but Mob doesn't move so he takes him by his
gakuran collar and pretty much bodily hauls him over the threshold.
"Just my student," Reigen says breezily, shutting the door. He must be saying
this to his customer, which Mob resents deeply. He raises his eyes just enough
to clock the middle-aged woman sitting on the other side of Reigen's desk. She
has a glossy patent handbag clutched in her lap, deep lines in her face,
somebody's mother. Her forehead creases further when he sees him and Mob drops
his gaze again, staring steadfastly at the floor, his own feet in their white
school shoes as they forcibly cross it. Reigen has him firmly by the shoulders
and is quick-marching him across the room to the low coffee table. Mob doesn't
resist, lets him push him into one of the plush blue chairs. Reigen doesn't say
anything but he gently pulls his hand across Mob's head as he moves away, going
through his maddened hair, his thumb rubbing at his temple. His touch is a
comfort; Mob feels a little of the tension go out of him, lifting his head to
watch him go back to his desk. He has a sway in his hips that he puts on when
he's with customers – it makes him look like he can't be toppled. He eases
himself back into his seat and he has that careless teenager-ish lift in his
shoulders, that lovely smile that isn't really very sincere but isn't unkind,
either. He might be a liar but he is also a listener. The problems some clients
come to him with are ridiculous, Mob has heard them with his own ears, but
Reigen never mocks them, never insinuates that they're insane. He takes them
seriously, or seems to, and sometimes that's all they want in this world. There
is something preservational in his deceit – which is why, Mob knows, he
understands about the pills.
...How hypocritical of him to go on about them, though. He won't let Mob lie,
he won't let him apologize, he does everything in his power to prevent him from
being anything like him. Sometimes Mob thinks about taking up smoking to see
what he does. He'd hit the fucking roof, no doubt. Adults are so strange.
It seems to take forever but eventually he does finish up with his client,
leading her to the door. Mob wasn't listening but her issue seems to have been
resolved because she's smiling and thanking Reigen profusely. Reigen waves her
off with the kind of false modesty that comes from being basically useless in
his chosen field and, when she's gone, he turns the sign around and locks the
door. Mob steadfastly looks at the carpet as he hears him approach. He wanted
so badly to see him, to hear his voice, but now that he's here he wishes he was
somewhere else. Reigen sits on the coffee table, insistently right in front of
him, feet either side of his own. Mob stares at his shoes now, black leather,
well-polished, the laces on the left tied a little crooked.
"Oi," Reigen says in a low voice. "What's this?"
Mob doesn't say anything. He doesn't look at him.
"Mob," Reigen says.
Mob clenches his fists on his knees. A beat – and then Reigen reaches out and
puts his hand atop one of his fists, squeezing it.
"Mob, come on," he says quietly. "Why aren't you in school? Did something
happen?"
Mob forces himself to shake his head. He can't see Reigen's face but he guesses
he probably looks pretty disbelieving – fair enough when his hair is still
misbehaving. He hears Reigen exhale.
"You don't want to say?"
Mob takes in a breath. Reigen can read him like a book. He gives a stiff little
nod.
"Okay," Reigen says. He pats his fist and gets up, moving away. Mob wonders if
he's going to turn the sign back around and get on with business as usual but
instead he hears the click of the kettle, the gentle hiss as it starts to boil,
the clatter of cups. He doesn't really want tea but he can't gather the energy
to refuse, either, so he just sits there looking at his laces until Reigen
comes back. At least Serizawa isn't here anymore; he's not the most social of
butterflies, true, but he's also not very good at recognizing when people don't
want to talk.
Reigen puts one of the round clay cups down in front of him and sinks into the
chair opposite. He doesn't say anything, not even a casual 'Here you go', and
Mob feels overwhelmingly grateful that he is the way he is. Nobody understands
him the way he does. Mob lifts his eyes a little bit and finds himself staring
through the steam at Reigen's crotch, not because he's horny but because he
really can't bring himself to raise his head any higher. Maybe Reigen notices
because he crosses one leg over the other, leaving his foot dangling in mid-
air. He has his own cup of tea but he's not drinking it, holding it one-handed
with his palm arched over it like a bridge. It's too hot for him. Serizawa tops
it off with cold water when he makes it but Reigen never bothers, he's much too
impatient. Mob can always feel when he's burnt his mouth.
He picks up his own cup and takes a sip. He didn't want it but now that Reigen
has put it in front of him he does, fresh and metallic and soothing. He feels
like he's finally starting to wrest back some control over himself and he dares
to leave it floating in mid-air to go into his bag and root out the mochi.
Reigen isn't paying him any attention, perhaps on purpose, gazing at his awful
poster of himself peeling off the far wall. Mob hesitates, gathers his nerve,
shyly slides one of the packets across the low table towards him. The plastic
crinkles loudly on the wood and Reigen looks at him, drops his eyes to the
offering.
"For me?"
Mob nods, closing his fist around his own. He withdraws his hand and sits back,
watching Reigen reach out and take it.
"Thank you, Mob."
Mob nods again. He doesn't know why he suddenly feels so shy when Reigen's
heard him shriek on his back like a banshee, he's seen and felt and tasted
every last inch of him, but the rustling of that packet as Reigen opens it
suddenly seems more intimate than anything they've ever done behind a locked
door.
(Then again, the door is locked. No way in – or out.)
He opens his own to distract himself, the mochi practically pouring out over
his fingers, coating them with cornflour. Some of it goes onto his gakuran and
he tries to wipe it off and makes it worse. He licks them clean, looks up at
Reigen, who seems to have this trouble every meal of his life. He's crammed his
in his mouth in one go already, of course, still chewing. He looks like he's
enjoying it. He has cornflour on his chin again – and some on his tie, too. Mob
feels something break and ease inside him as he looks at him, his heart
unswelling. His hair drops at last, falling flat and heavy against his
forehead. He lets out a breath.
"Feel better?" Reigen, his mouth full. Good man, bad manners.
Mob nods, biting into his own mochi. He doesn't really mind about making a mess
anymore, tearing it in two with his teeth. The filling oozes out over his thumb
and he sucks it off. Reigen isn't going to judge him.
Reigen swallows, takes a sip of tea, winces like he regrets it. How his tongue
must live in terror. He swills it around, waiting for it to cool down, and now
Mob feels like he can look at him properly. He finishes his own mochi and takes
his cup from mid-air to wash it down, watching him intently. Reigen sees this,
meets his eyes, accepts the invitation.
"I've been thinking," he says. "About, well... a lot, of course, but especially
what you said about the car. I think I will get one after all."
Mob blinks. Reigen is pretty stubborn – it's unlike him to change his mind,
especially over something that involves a lot of money.
"I mean, it wouldn't be anything fancy," Reigen goes on. He tips his head back,
taps his chin, feels the cornflour. He wipes it off on his cuff, hugely
unglamorous. "Just something used. I don't care as long as it runs, you know?"
"Why?" Mob asks. His voice feels a little creaky in his throat. "For work?"
"Well, yes, work – but also you're right. We could... go places."
Mob doesn't know where to look. "Oh."
"I was thinking..." Reigen trails off for a moment. Mob looks at him through
his hair, sees him roll his shoulders like he's deeply considering something.
"Well," he continues finally, "you're getting older, your powers are bound to
become a bit of a hassle. I thought perhaps it might be better if you were to,
ah, discharge some of that energy. We could drive up the mountains where
there's nobody around and then it wouldn't matter. What do you think, Mob?"
Mob looks down at his tea, at his own moon-pale face wavering in it like a
mirage. "I think it's a good idea, Shishou.”
"Do you really or are you just saying that?"
Mob frowns. He doesn't look up. "You're doing it again. Asking if I'm sure."
"Well, this is a serious matter. If you think it will help then that's what
we'll do."
Mob hunches his shoulders. "I don't want you to have to buy a car just because
of me," he mumbles. "They're expensive."
"We've made good money lately because of your hard work. It's not a big deal,
really." Another pause. Now Reigen drops his voice a little. "Besides, cars
are... safe. There's no furniture to lift, they're designed to keep the
occupants as intact as possible."
Mob looks up at him again. Reigen is leaning forward, his legs uncrossed,
looking at him very seriously.
"You understand what I'm saying, don't you?" he says. "Shigeo?"
Mob nods, holding his gaze. "...I understand, Shishou."
"Good." Reigen leans back again, loosening up, folding his arms. "A car it is,
then. It's exciting – I've never had a car before. What color should I get?"
He sounds pretty deadpan, really; the question is probably rhetorical.
"Red," Mob says.
"You think? I was thinking more like silver or something."
"The color of money.”
Reigen grins, genuinely amused. "You're so cruel to me," he teases. "What's red
the color of, then?"
Mob shrugs. He can think of a thousand things. "I don't know. Red bean paste."
"If you say so." Reigen runs his gaze over him. "Where's your button?"
"It came off."
"Have you got it?"
"No, I lost it."
"Careless."
"Mm."
"I don't have any here, I'm afraid. I've got just about everything else in that
desk drawer of mine but no buttons."
"It's okay, Shishou. There'll be a spare at home."
"As long as you don't get in trouble at school."
"I'm already in trouble at school," Mob says, looking past him. "Or I will be.
I walked out of class."
Reigen nods. His expression doesn't change. "Why?"
"I couldn't answer a math question." Mob pauses; he knows Reigen knows that's
not all, he's waiting for him to finish. "...I-I couldn't control my powers."
Reigen inhales deeply. "I see."
"I didn't break anything," Mob says. "I didn't hurt anyone – but I guess they
were all scared." He looks up at the ceiling. "So now I don't know what to do.
I can't go back."
"Of course you're going back," Reigen says. "You can't not go to school."
"I'll go back tomorrow," Mob says – although he thinks maybe he won't.
"You'll go back today." Reigen looks at his watch. "It's not even midday."
Mob shrinks in his seat. "I don't want to. Ishida-sensei will be angry."
"I'll speak to your teacher. I'll come with you, okay?"
Mob looks at the floor. He can feel his hair starting to lift again. "I don't
want to," he repeats.
"Mob, you have to go to school." Reigen sounds exasperated. "I know it sucks
but there's nothing I can do about it. You have to go, it's the law."
"Why do I have to go? So I can get a job? I have a job already. Why can't I
just quit and work here with you all the time?"
"Stop it, Shigeo."
"You can't even tell me why!" Mob cries. He's spiking again, his hair flaring
like a halo, the coffee table trembling. “You're the one who said I don't have
to do anything I don't want to. You're the one who said it's okay to run away!”
“Obviously that doesn't apply to going to school.”
“I don't see why not. It's all pointless.”
"You think I'm being unfair?" Reigen asks. He stands up. "You can't just do
whatever you want, psychic powers or not."
Mob clenches his fists on his knees again, looking away because he has to or he
won't be able to keep his power beneath his heel. It's frothing, bubbling,
threatening to break him open. He can't endure Reigen's et tu act a moment
longer.
"I'm sorry," he says stickily.
"You don't have to apologize."
Mob feels his nails burn against his palms, squeezing tighter. "I want to," he
says. "I want to and you won't let me. You are unfair, Shishou."
Reigen doesn't say anything to this. Mob sees him move in his peripheral, a
ghostlike blur of gray, and then the coffee table is suddenly shoved out of the
way and he's right in front of him again. Mob still doesn't want to look at him
but Reigen doesn't give him much choice, dropping to his knees before him so
their faces are almost level.
"You're angry with me," he says.
Mob almost wants to roll his eyes because surely that's a given, come on now,
Reigen's usually sharper than this–
"You've been angry since Friday night," Reigen goes on.
"I haven't," Mob says.
"You have," Reigen insists.
"Now you're telling me how I feel?"
"I'm telling you it's okay." Reigen takes his face, makes him look at him.
"It's fine for you to be angry. I don't always say the right thing. If you're
upset then you don't have to be sorry for it."
Mob can feel his pulse thrumming in the heels of his hands, pressing warmly
against his face, his fingers scoping out the shape of his skull, the bend of
his brain. He meets his eyes and up close he can see the dark circles under
them like he hasn't slept well for weeks. The little cut near his ear is still
healing and he's got another one, fresh, underneath his jawline, clumsy as hell
when he's not being watched. He looks so young.
"And if I am sorry?" Mob asks. "Will you accept it?"
"Of course I will." Reigen smiles at him, weak and wavering, waterlogged. "You
know that."
Mob pulls his eyes away again. His breath hitches in his chest. Reigen's hands
drop from his face and go around him, pulling him close, and he reaches up and
takes two fistfuls of his worn familiar old suit jacket. He buries his face
against his neck, breathes him in, and he smells like himself again, smoke and
lemon and cheap detergent, the same brand he's used for years. Mob feels his
hair settle again as he clings to him and he wants to cry but it won't come,
his throat is swollen and sore and he hiccoughs miserably like a landed fish,
and Reigen holds him close and he desperately wants one of his miracles. He can
so easily fix the lives of strangers who wander in off the street and Mob was
one of those once but Reigen's solutions don't come in silver boxes, they
aren't bought over the counter, they don't dissolve in water.
He wonders if he still has that scarlet circle of teeth on his shoulder.
"Let me take you back to school," Reigen says softly. It seems like a long time
since either of them has said anything. "I promise it will be okay."
Mob sighs against him, he shudders miserably. He knows he hasn't got much
choice. It's not a miracle but it's a brick or two, the start of a bridge. He'd
prefer a wall but there you go.
"Okay," he whispers. He feels Reigen's hand at the back of his head. He acts
like he's going to pin him down but he never does.
"Good. Drink your tea and we'll go."
Reigen kisses his hair and unfolds from him, unfurling, pulling away and it's
so painful, Mob doesn't want to let go but he can't keep hold of him. His hands
are empty and Reigen is gone, his slender back swaying in vanishing gray. He
goes back to his desk and puts a few things in order as Mob finishes his tea
and tidies himself up as best he can. Reigen brings him a comb, orange and
flimsy, and puts the coffee table back. Mob appraises the combs and thinks
there's no way it would ever get through Reigen's hair, surely.
"I'll leave a note for Serizawa," Reigen says, scrawling one out on the coffee
table. "I gave him his own key so he shouldn't have any trouble getting in –
unless he's lost it again..."
"Where is Serizawa?" Mob doesn't want to say he knows he was here earlier.
"Out on a job. I send him by himself now if it's not too far, it helps his
confidence a lot."
And it's probably the real deal, Mob knows, but he doesn't say this either.
Reigen has been nothing but kind to him this morning and he doesn't deserve it,
not today. He watches him fold the note and write Serizawa's name across it and
his handwriting is so incredibly neat, it doesn't match his mad-handed act at
all. He puts it on the desk and retrieves his keys.
"Okay, Mob, let's go."
Mob still really doesn't want to but he's too exhausted to argue now and he
knows Reigen is right, besides, even though he doesn't want him to be.
Sometimes he wishes he was a bad influence, that he ran drag races or stole
kidneys, that he'd sneak him into night clubs, that he'd let him do whatever he
wants – but the worst he can come up with is a hotel room with a few
cockroaches in the walls and even then it's not on a school night. Mob comes to
his side and he unlocks the door and they step through and then he locks it
again from the other side. Now, too late, Mob wonders what he wrote to
Serizawa, if he was truthful about his coming here or if it was another
spectacular lie designed to amuse, bemuse, confuse. Gone to join the circus,
perhaps, or off to steal a huge diamond on loan to the museum. He wonders what
lies he'll tell Ishida, how he'll pull it off.
Mob looks up at the sign when they get outside, the sun glinting over the
crack.
"I broke your sign," he says, stopping. Reigen turns, squints up at it.
"Is that what that sound was? I thought it was a gun." He tilts his head. "I
can't see it."
"It's in the corner."
"Oh." Reigen frowns up at it. "Well, that hardly seems worth bothering about."
He turns away, shoves his hands in his pockets. "The neon's starting to burn
out anyway. I should get a new one."
He walks off and Mob catches him up.
"Shishou," he says.
"Yes?"
"You thought it was a gun?"
"That's what it sounded like."
"So you stuck your head out the window."
Reigen falters. "W-well, yes, when you put it like that..." He recovers, waves
his hand dismissively. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. It was just you."
"Yeah," Mob echoes, looking intently at the pavement. "It was just me."
"Oi, don't be like that." Reigen jostles him. "I mean it was just you in the
sense that... well, you're not going to kill me, are you?"
"I guess not."
"What do you mean,you guess not? Jeez, remind me never to dock your pay..."
The walk back to Salt Middle School takes about twenty minutes, calm and
companionable through the quiet sunlit streets. Reigen lights up a cigarette
and Mob tells him he shouldn't smoke and Reigen lies about quitting and all's
right with the world. Mob thinks about taking it out of his hand with his
powers and crumpling it, flinging it as far as the eye can see, turning to him
and saying 'I don't want you to do it again, Arataka, do you understand?' but
he doesn't know what he would do, how he would take such an assault on his act.
Reigen has admitted more than once that he only ever started smoking because he
thought it made him look cool, which is so very like him, really. Careless, Mob
thinks with his gakuran gaping. At least no-one is looking at him with
suspicion anymore, maybe because his hair is lying flat but more likely because
he's with Reigen, who is an adult and looks mostly well-put-together. Maybe
they think he's a teacher – which, like so many things, isn't exactly untrue.
He wonders if that is precisely how he plans to get into the school, hopes to
god he hasn't got other ideas that involve blue skirts and sailor collars.
...Perhaps he's not really planning on coming all the way in with him – maybe
he'll stop at the gates where he belongs, unable to cross. So many spirits have
this trouble, after all. Maybe his name will be enough.
"Shishou."
"Yeah?"
"You... you don't have to come in and talk to Ishida-sensei. I don't want you
to get in trouble."
Reigen waves him off. "It's not trespassing if I'm there to discuss your well-
being. You're my student just as much as you are his."
Mob frowns. "What are you going to say to him?"
"I'll tell him the truth."
Mob is quiet for a moment. What a liar. "Which is?"
Homework, pills, powers, hotel rooms, condoms, mochi, neon light, bloodied
teeth, scarlet letters, R for Ritsu, for Reigen, for red.
"That you're stressed and you're young and you're trying your best," Reigen
says calmly. "I don't think he can argue with that."
"I wrecked the classroom."
"It was an accident."
Mob says nothing to this, hitching up his bag. They're nearing the school, he
can hear it over the low flat rooftops.
"I think a car is a good idea," he says instead. "I do."
"Well, it was your idea."
Mob doesn't mention it was Ritsu's, actually, and only out of spite. He just
wants Reigen to know that he appreciates him.
"You can come with me to choose it, if you want."
Which sounds like another afternoon alone on the job for Serizawa. Reigen is a
genius at getting out of doing work for his own business, frankly.
"Okay," Mob says. "I'd... I'd like that."
"Good."
Reigen rubs at his hair, gentle, affectionate, and then they stop. They're at
the gates. They stand still for a moment, side by side, watching the world
beyond filled up with the cool crush of youth with too-short skirts and second
buttons shining, schoolbags weighed down with books that drag on shoulders,
ache, leave marks. It's loud and bright and crisp, it doesn't have blurred
edges or strange oozing colors but it does have teeth: an erected scaffold as
clear as day.
"Must be lunchtime," Reigen mutters, looking at his watch.
"Mm." Mob shrinks back instinctively, feels Reigen's hand on his spine.
"I'll come in with you," he promises. "Come on."
Mob takes a breath, makes himself nod. "Okay." He watches Reigen push open the
gate, doesn't resist his gentle urging. He steps into the schoolyard, waits for
Reigen to join him, half-expecting to him to melt but of course he doesn't, he
closes the gate behind him, locks himself in, and he's still solid at Mob's
side. He isn't a ghost – he has consequences.
"Huh." He puts his hands in his pockets, looks up the square block of the
school. "Hasn't changed a bit."
Mob blinks at him. "Changed...?"
"I went here, too." He strides off. "Come on."
The fact that he never thought to mention this before means Mob isn't sure if
he believes him – but then the truth is that he's never asked, either. He can't
imagine him in black with a line of gold buttons, can't see him as anything
other than what he is even though it's hard to say where he really begins and
ends. Mob catches him up again, it feels like he's always running after him,
and falls into step alongside him as they cross the yard. Students are looking,
leaning in to whisper – the ones from Friday night, Monday morning, caught up
between red ties and overturned desks – but Reigen doesn't take much notice, he
can afford such neutrality. And Mob, he so badly wanted a bruise, a bite, a
badge of honor he'd be too shy to show off, but now he doesn't need one. There
is something breathlessly batshit about this, letting Reigen run loose like a
river in such a place with windows and doors, somewhere that could so easily
flood. He hopes Tokugawa can swim – that he won't push Ritsu under to stay
afloat.
The halls, however, are deserted when they get inside. Reigen goes to look at
the map on the bulletin board, folding his arms.
"If you tell me which room it is, I'm sure I can find it," he says absently.
"If you want to go and meet your friends."
Mob shakes his head. "I'll stay with you."
Reigen frowns at him. "You should eat some lunch."
"I'm not hungry."
This is true – but also he doesn't want Reigen to know he doesn't really have
any friends anymore. Most of the ones he had – the Body Improvement Club, the
Telepathy Club – were a year above him and have already moved over to high
school and he hasn't got the energy to replace them, never mind the interest.
Sometimes he eats lunch with Ritsu but mostly he sits by himself at his desk
and stares out of the window or has long text message conversations with
Teruki, a friendship he doesn't have to buoy himself for. He knows he's
regressing, going back to the way he was before, but now he doesn't care about
changing it. All that gets him through the day is the thought of going to work
after school.
It'll be different now, anyway – harder, worse, even with the ones that already
knew what he is. They all saw what he did.
"Alright, then." Reigen tires quickly of the map with its minuscule grainy
print. "You can lead the way."
Mob does so, taking him around the long way so they won't have to go up the
stairs with the twisted handrail. They come to the classroom and he can see
through the glass that the desks are back in order, Ishida behind his own bent
over a pile of books.
"Is your teacher in there?"
"Yeah."
Mob feels Reigen's hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze as he
leans past him and knocks. Ishida calls out a brusque invitation and Reigen
opens the door and lets it swing inwards. Mob feels his grip on his shoulder
tighten a little – to keep him in place, perhaps – as they stand on the
threshold. Ishida, who no doubt thought it was a student, looks up with an
impatience that quickly dissolves into surprise at seeing first Reigen and then
Mob.
"K-Kageyama!" He stands up, glances between them. Mob knows he should apologize
but he can't do it, his throat closing up. He drops his gaze. Really, his shoes
are so very interesting today.
"My apologies for interrupting you, Ishida-san," Reigen says over his head.
"Shigeo is my student. I'm aware of what happened earlier."
This isn't his sales-pitch voice, slick with snake oil. He's calm and
deliberate, perfectly serious. Mob has heard too much of this voice lately and
he agonizes on it, he can't concentrate on Ishida at all, just catches things
like scared and violent and unacceptable. Reigen seems pretty unmoved, either
way. He's too used to him, he's seen far worse.
"Wait outside, Shigeo," he says, letting go of his shoulder.
Mob doesn't argue with him, glad to get out of there, pulling the door shut
behind him. Whether Reigen bites Ishida's head off or completely kowtows to
him, he doesn't want to witness it. He knows he's capable of both. He feels
like he understands Ritsu a little better these days.
He drops his bag and presses his back to the wall and slides down it, sitting
on the cold tile. He draws his knees up and puts his head back against the
paint, sighing. He can't hear what Reigen and Ishida are saying but the muffled
lilt of their discussion comes under the door. He wonders what the outcome of
it will be, realizes Reigen cares more about it than he does. He appreciates
his efforts, every one of them, but it feels like it'll all be for nothing in
the end.
He hears his phone buzz in his bag and fishes it out, flips it open. Teruki is
texting him, four messages already and still going. There's one other unread
text underneath, Reigen from a few hours ago, he must have completely missed
it. He opens it.
Did you just call the office?
He stares at it for a long time, a bridge to a past now slipped through his
fingers, a missed opportunity. He upended his classroom not long after Reigen
sent this message and now he sees it preserved, that blissful willful careful
ignorance, floating in formaldehyde. It was an accident.
He snaps his phone shut and drops it back into his bag, wraps his arms around
his legs, puts his chin on his knees. Reigen and Ishida are talking with no
space between them, it's not heated but it's intense, they barely give each
other time to breathe. Reigen likes this sort of thing, it gets his blood
going, the harder he's pushed the more he won't give in – he'd have been better
off as a lawyer, maybe, although Mob doesn't know if he'd be able to act on
behalf of a murderer. Still, Ishida surely doesn't have much experience of his
students' adult lovers descending on him to defend their destructive behavior.
Having Reigen here is so weird and delirious and obscene. He never wants it to
end.
"Nii-san?"
Mob jolts, raises his head. Ritsu is a few feet away from him, pooled like a
solid smear of ink in the middle of the clinical corridor. The red band on his
arm is so scarlet, scarlet, worn on the left, the same side as his heart.
"Are you okay?" Ritsu asks. He takes a step closer but only one.
"Yeah, I'm fine." Mob smiles at him.
"Why are you sitting outside your classroom?"
"Just waiting," Mob says absently.
"For your teacher?" Ritsu frowns. "Are you in trouble?"
Trouble is so loaded. They both know exactly what he means. Mob feels tired
just looking at him.
"I'm fine, Ritsu," he says again. He wishes he would go. He doesn't want Reigen
to come out now, to spill into the corridor like stolen guts, for Ritsu to see
him. He knows Ritsu doesn't hate Reigen, not really, but it's a clashing of
worlds that he just can't take.
"Do you want to walk home from school?" Ritsu asks.
"I have work."
"Oh."
Ritsu knew this already, Mob knows. He straightens up a little. "Shishou is
going to get a car," he says. "He said it was a good idea."
"Yeah," Ritsu agrees coolly. "Maybe he'll drive it off a bridge."
Mob shrugs, knows he's just being savage for the sake of it. "Maybe," he says.
"Kageyama!"
They both look up, Ritsu craning his neck. Tokugawa is at the end of the
corridor, his arms folded, red ripe on the left. He's definitely calling for
Ritsu – he acknowledges Mob's existence but it's brief, barely-there. He's not
interested in him anymore.
"Come on," he says briskly. "We've got a lot to do before lunch is over."
"Coming." Ritsu nods to Mob. "Guess I'll see you at home."
"Yeah." Mob watches his brother turn, start to walk away, stop, take a breath.
"Kageyama," Tokugawa says again; and Ritsu pulls himself together and starts
off again, his hands clenching at his sides. He doesn't look back.
Teruki is still texting, the messages piling up, but Mob can't bring himself to
move, staring at the opposite wall. There's a crack in the plaster, another
one, the world pulling apart everywhere he looks. Nothing a lick of paint
wouldn't fix, really – or gold, perhaps, the way they used to mend broken
pottery back when things were too valuable to throw away. He thinks of Reigen's
hair in the sun, in the cold light of bathroom doorways. It is the east – and
here he is, a waiting horizon stripped bare of trees and hotels and cars. He
feels so empty inside; Reigen has opened him up and taken everything, all
that's left is this pretty pound of flesh and he's careful the way conmen are
because he's so caring. He doesn't leave a mark, he doesn't spill a drop, his
hands are clean but he wears it elsewhere.
It seems like a decade passes before the door finally opens. Mob lifts his
head, sees Reigen still nodding his thanks to Ishida as he steps out. He has a
hard time telling when his humility is sincere and when it isn't so he says
nothing, waits, watches him shut the door.
"It's okay now, Mob," Reigen says, looking down at him. "You're not in
trouble."
"Was I?"
"Well, he wanted you out of his class, said you were dangerous. I talked him
round."
"Oh." Mob doesn't really want to ask how he did it, what he said. Most of
Reigen's tricks are best left in the parlor. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it. I'm not going to let him bully you over something so
trivial. It would be very stressful for you to have to move class."
"Yeah." This is true, a dormant fear, and his gratitude swells. "Thank you,
Shishou." He knots his fingers together. "I-I mean it."
"I know you do." Reigen crouches down next to him, holding out his palm. Mob
looks and sees his lost button gleaming in the well of it. "Look what I found."
"Thank you," Mob mumbles a third time, taking it. This will save him a scolding
from his mother, too. Reigen's saintliness is usually pretty short-lived but
it's a powerful thing at its peak.
"Keep it safe," Reigen says, very self-aware. "I've got a sewing kit in my
drawer but I didn't think to bring it."
"There's a repair kit in our club-room," Mob says absently.
"Okay." Reigen puts his hands on his knees and pushes himself up. "Let's go,
then."
Mob blinks up at him. "What?"
"We should sew it back on as soon as possible so you don't lose it," Reigen
says. "Besides, it looks untidy to have one missing."
"O-oh." Mob scrambles up, grabs his bag. "Okay." He puts the button in his
pocket. "It... it's this way."
Everything is unraveling, the ground falling away beneath his feet, reality
turning neon-edged and nerveless. He's imagined showing Reigen his club-room so
many times – just like his school, his house, his bedroom, the shape of his
life without him in it, not so tight he can't make space for him. He can barely
believe this is happening, glancing at him every few steps to make sure he's
really there. Tokugawa. Ritsu. He doesn't know if he wants to bump into them or
not. He can't imagine the look on Ritsu's face. In fact, for the briefest of
moments, he can't even remember what Ritsu looks like.
The club-room is empty. Mob opens it, ushers Reigen in even though he's clearly
in no particular hurry, closes it tight behind them. There is no lock. It
smells a little sour, old sweat and protein, and it's stacked high with weights
and benches and towels and not a whole lot else. The Telepathy Club is long
gone and so are all their strange books with unbent spines. Mob wishes it was
cleaner, that it smelt better like too much laundry detergent, and now he
regrets bringing Reigen here. He clutches at the strap of his bag, watching him
appraise it with his hands in his pockets. He looks pretty bored but Mob knows
he's taking it all in, every last detail. Maybe a detective, then, instead of a
lawyer – then he could solve murders instead of getting killers off.
"Where's this repair kit, Mob?" he asks at length because he's neither, he's
some weird restless drifter who does what he likes. Mob knows he'll get sick of
being a phony psychic eventually, move on to something else – but that's okay.
As long as he takes Mob with him, it doesn't matter.
"Here." Mob pulls it down from the topmost shelf with his powers, sets it on
the nearest table. He pops it open and drops his bag as he goes to it. It's
pretty sparse.
"Black thread," Reigen says idly, coming up behind him.
"There's only red," Mob replies, holding up the spool.
"Red?"
"Our gym uniform is red. Well, the shorts are."
"Is there anything else? White?"
Mob rummages. "No."
Reigen exhales. "Well, red will have to do, then. If I go from underneath, you
shouldn't see too much of it, anyway." He takes the thread and a needle,
sitting on the nearest bench. "Take your jacket off."
Mob does, handing it to him, then fishes out the button from his pocket. He
hands that over, too, wonders if Reigen knows about second buttons, what they
mean to girls. He doesn't dare say it, though, watching him thread up the
needle, tie the knot, bite it off. He knows Reigen won't laugh, he just...
can't bring himself to breach it. It seems so silly and childish, especially
here where Reigen so very clearly doesn't belong, sitting on a battered old
school bench in his silvery suit and silk tie and shiny shoes. He didn't know
he could sew but it doesn't surprise him. Reigen's talents are a random
assortment indeed, he carries them like pocket lint.
"Mob, you're blocking my light," Reigen says mildly, not looking up.
"Oh." Mob shrinks back. "Sorry."
"It's okay. Sit down for a moment, I won't be long."
Mob braces himself against the edge of the table and hoists himself up onto it,
legs dangling. He feels like he hasn't grown at all in the past year but Reigen
and Ritsu both insist that he has. He wonders what it would be like to be
taller than Reigen; he's spent his life looking up at him, eyes aligned with
the knot of his tie, the nicks on his jawline, the shape of his mouth. He
considers what it would feel like to look down. He watches his hands as he
sews, the needle sliding silver, the thread held taut around his little finger,
wrapped tight enough to cut off the blood. The buttons gleam like coins in the
sun, payment left in open mouths for final crossings, and his own hands are so
empty. Now he feels that the mochi wasn't enough, realizes that despite himself
he didn't ask Reigen how he is today.
The weights are rattling in their racks. Mob knows Reigen can hear them but he
doesn't look up from his task, deliberately deaf. Maybe he's had enough, he'd
rather feign ignorance, pretend Mob isn't at the edge of ending the world. Mob
pulls them from their cages and sets them all spinning, even the heaviest ones
he could never dream of lifting bare-handed, and it's nothing to him, nothing
nothing nothing, he can't even feel the pull. Again he lets his eyes slide
towards Reigen, who sits at the center of this mad orbit but doesn't look up.
He has his own laws of gravity, he'll take them to the grave.
“Mob,” he says gently, “put them back.”
Mob wants to just let them drop but altogether like that and they'll probably
go right through the floor and then he'll be back at Square One, he'll have to
rely on Reigen to buy him out of trouble again and he could do it, probably,
Mob has every faith in him but it seems so unfair. He stops them spinning,
drops them back into their racks, swings his legs. Reigen finishes off his
stitching and stands.
“There.” He holds it up, admires his handiwork. “That shouldn't come off
again.” He takes the three steps to the table, closes the gap, throws the
jacket over Mob's shoulders. “Arms in.”
He doesn't even give him an opportunity to inspect it but Mob doesn't expect it
to be anything less than exceptional. He slides his arms into the sleeves and
shrugs it on and Reigen tugs it straight, starts to do up the buttons for him.
He begins at the bottom, backwards, bizarre, and works his way up, Mob watching
him do it. He says nothing, doesn't move, grips the edge of the table. Reigen
is so close to him, so intently focused on that glowing line of buttons as they
close, pull him together, and Mob feels his breath hitch as he comes to the
second one, newly-restored, sewn on tight in scarlet thread.
“What's wrong?” Reigen stops.
“Nothing.” Mob drops his eyes to his lap, lowers his head, but Reigen tilts his
chin up again so he can fasten the last button. It sits heavy against his
collarbone, feels like it's stuck in his throat. Reigen's fingers are still
under his jaw and he must feel him swallow.
“Are you su–?” Reigen catches himself, shakes his head. “I almost did it again.
I guess it's a reflex with you.” He presses his forehead against Mob's. “I'm
sorry.”
“It's okay,” Mob whispers. He knows Reigen won't stop doing it, like so many
other things, and that's okay, too. He reaches up and touches his face and even
this seems so bold, so reversed, perverse, he wants so badly to be immersed.
There are so many things he cannot have but this doesn't have to be one of
them. He can do what he wants.
He kisses him. He expects him to resist, pull back, push him off, say only
stupid people don't save it for after school – but maybe Reigen is stupider
than usual lately, he left his brain behind in his desk drawer because talking
Ishida into submission is nothing for his mouth, really, and there's no
correlation between the two. He kisses back.
This is the realm of second buttons, pleats like swords, lipgloss, bubblegum,
hair-ties. If this was ever going to happen it should have been Tsubomi, Tome,
maybe Mezato, some girl his age with long legs and a sweet smile who felt sorry
for him, they'd leave mouth-shaped marks on him in pink, peach, scarlet. They
wouldn't taste like smoke and green tea and mochi, they wouldn't be able to buy
condoms over the counter, they wouldn't know what the hell to do with them he
doesn't think because, well, he doesn't think, he doesn't need to, he doesn't
want to, he doesn't care–
His hands fist in Reigen's jacket and he pulls him closer, he opens his legs to
let him in and they're crushed up as close as they can be, all caution is
cannibalized and careless, the color of cracked-open heads. He feels Reigen
slide his hands under his thighs, dig his fingers in, pull him right up against
him, they could fuck if it wasn't for the fabric, if only it was only flesh and
Friday night. Mob puts his hands in his hair and gets his fingers caught, that
comb would never get through because it's thick, a thicket, and it tangles
underneath, so different to his own black-as-night, fine-as-gossamer. He can
taste his teeth as he pulls his hands down over him, feels his edges worn soft
or maybe they really were never sharp in the first place, lapels and collars
and buttons and zips and ties, the inventory of his invented job, he makes it
up as they go along. What does it matter what they wear and where.
He undoes the single button on his suit jacket without him noticing, slides his
fingers underneath, gets to his belt and starts to fumble with the buckle and
he's too loud and too unwieldy and he can't get what he wants, he can't make
locks out of nothing. Reigen jolts back from him, breathless, wide-eyed. He
grabs his hands, stopping him, staring at him for a long moment. Mob looks
right back at him, letting him hold him still, pound pulse panic.
“Shit, I-I don't know what I was...!” Reigen drops his hands as though he's
burned him, stumbles back. “I'm sorry, Mob, I was... got completely carried
away, I–”
“I initiated it.” Mob stares him down. “Why are you sorry? I don't understand.”
“W-well, it was... completely inappropriate, I mean, in your damn school, in
your club-room...”
Mob watches him hurry to neaten himself up. He won't look at him. His hands are
shaking a bit, they slip on the button.
“I don't care,” Mob says.
“I know,” Reigen replies distractedly. “I know you don't.”
“Should I?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Reigen looks up at him again. He opens his mouth, his brow creases, he thinks
better of it. He gives a deep despairing shrug.
“I don't know what to say to you,” he says. It looks like it pains him to admit
this – which Mob understands because he really is such an awful know-it-all
sometimes. He could do with being taken down a peg or two but not like this.
Mob regrets kissing him here of all places but he doesn't want to be sorry for
it so he says nothing. It's too late to ask him how he is.
“I-I should go, anyway,” Reigen says, looking at his watch. “Lunch is almost
over. Eat something. Don't be late for your next class.”
“Okay, Shishou.”
“And I'll see you after school. For... for work.”
Obviously – or maybe not. Mob nods sagely.
“Yes, Shishou,” he says clinically. He closes his legs, presses the bones of
his knees together, starts to fidget with his button again. “Have a good
afternoon.”
Reigen is nodding, backing towards the door. He sees him stressing the new
thread but says nothing. “I will. You too.” He finds the handle, all but
wrenches it open. “See you later, Mob.”
And then he's gone, the door slamming behind him, the weights shivering in
their cages. He leaves behind a gold-shaped hole at the center of the room,
somewhere he shouldn't ever have been. Mob flops back across the table, his
legs hanging over the edge, feet swinging. He can still taste him, bright as
hell, staining his mouth. He raises his hands above his head, stares at them so
white and clean of cornflour, wishes they weren't empty.
He wonders what color the car will be.
 
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