Chapter Text
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 thinks I'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."