Chapter Text
He remembers the smell of the concrete.
Smushed up against his face, it was impossible to ignore. That breath of dirt and sand, pushing out strangled gasps of panic through too-small lungs.
It’s a memory so vivid it’s as though he can walk through it, so many years later.
A world of color melting into oppressive grays.
And of course, the smell of blood.
Mob’s twenty-seventh birthday comes and goes with little fanfare.
He shuffles awkwardly into his childhood home, meekly greets his mother, then father and finally his little brother.
They smile warmly at him. Mob bends his spoon. Ritsu adjusts it back to normal with a nod of his head.
Ritsu’s all grown up now. It shouldn’t be as surprising to Mob as it is. He’s tall, confident and aloof, but there’s no doubt that he’s not the kid he once was.
After all these years, Mob still can do nothing but stare in wonder.
They talk, and Mob doesn’t have much to add to the conversation, which is expected.
He listens, dazedly, at Ritsu’s stunning list of accomplishments, and awkwardly steers the conversation away from topics relating at all toward himself.
“It’s the same-old,” he’ll explain.
Same job, same apartment, same life.
Except, that wasn’t quite the truth.
But with how Ritsu’s smile strains at the mention of his job, how the air tenses around the questions are you alright, Shige?, and how Mob’s heart beats faster, palms become sweatier, at the mere thought of his actual answer to that question, he knows it’s just one of those things he has to add to his growing list of Don’ts.
It’s a very long list.
“I’ll be alright. Thank you for tonight,” is something Mob can say, finally able to abscond into the fading sun, away from mothers, fathers and little brothers.
“Nii-san, wait up!”
Mob freezes with a start, craning his head back around to Ritsu jogging toward him. He’s holding a tupperware and a soft smile, hair golden in the sun’s glow, dress shirt billowing softly in the breeze.
“Ah, Ritsu. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
Ritsu smiles reassuringly, pushing the tupperware into his hands lightly, “You forgot to take this.”
Mob blinks, and it takes him a second to realize Ritsu hadn’t actually been touching the tupperware—which he realizes, now, carries two large slices of cake, decorated with intricate pink and white frosting.
“You’re really impressive with that, Ritsu.”
Ritsu’s psychic power deposits the cake into Mob’s hands, and Ritsu slides into step next to him, “I try to practice every so often. Helps with the chores.”
Mob smiles internally. His brother really is great.
“Hey, how about we go on a little adventure? It’s not everyday that my big brother turns twenty-seven.”
“Oh, well,” Mob says, looking down, “You don’t have to do that for me. I wouldn’t want you to miss your train.”
Ritsu gives him an easy smile, “It won’t take too long. I think we’re past due for a trip down memory lane.”
Memory lane, he thinks, as they walk through their childhood neighborhood, following familiar streets, familiar turns.
The park is empty at this hour.
Ritsu almost bursts out laughing when he glances Mob’s direction, “You don’t have to look so disturbed.”
Sweat beads on his forehead, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s alright. Don’t worry about it,” he claps a hand against Mob’s back, and Mob jumps despite himself. “Come on, I wanna check out the swings.”
“I haven’t done something like this in years!” Ritsu cheers, flexing and bending his legs in a manner deserving of applause.
He’s much taller and older than the average park-goer, and everytime he comes back down from a wide swing, Mob is certain he’ll scrape his knees or shoes.
He doesn’t, of course, cresting back into a soar above the horizon. Smiling, again.
At one point, he releases his hands entirely. A soft blue glittering aura wraps around his form, bolstering him forward.
Mob watches, squished uncomfortably in the tiny seat, kicking his legs, back and forth. Back and forth. Fiddling with the chains beneath his fingers.
“It has been a while,” Mob mumbles.
And it has, hasn’t it? Distance makes memories grow foggier, but Mob has always remembered this park, shrouded in golden light.
Tsubomi. Dogs, water. Like a grainy polaroid, the edges blurred. The sun never set.
Boring, she had said.
“I remember it being—bigger.”
Something in his chest tightens, and he freezes, thinking of Ritsu’s strained smile, are you alright, Shige, sweaty palms.
The thing is, it’s been getting worse.
A counter. A timer. The heart pounding tick of clock marching to an inevitable end.
86%
Brimming under his skin, as always, lies his power. Building. Begging for release.
The acknowledgment of the festering tangle of emotion makes his throat tighten, that counter clock up.
88%
It—it was a good day. He had a good day. A mantra, repeating.
The counter—
Ritsu skids to a stop beside him, “You okay, Nii-san?”
—it doesn’t go down anymore.
Mob nods tightly, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat, “Should we—ah, should we try something else?”
Swelling emotion triggers another, its presence giving rise to more. Unsafe.
But he can hold it, even if he sits at 99% forever. He will.
Seesaw, slide, (attempted) dome climber. Nerves loosening, breathes evening.
Ritsu pulls his phone from his pocket and perks up, “It’s been longer than I’d thought.”
Mob blinks, squinting warily at the sky. The sun hasn’t set, which is a relief.
“I should probably let you go, then,” Ritsu says.
“Yeah, I-I—”
“I had fun today,” Ritsu finishes for him. “Happy birthday, Nii-san.” He places a comforting hand on his shoulder before bringing him into a hug.
Mob wonders how they look from the outside: overdressed, for sure. Ritsu wore a suit; Mob wears the same thing everywhere—a navy blue sweater under a black topcoat. Uncomfortable, maybe. Safe, certainly.
Mob’s hands hang there for a second, unsure of what to do, but Ritsu’s pulling away before he can come to a decision one way or another.
“Before I forget—” Ritsu reaches into his suit jacket, extracting a small box, “I would have given this to you earlier, but, well, you know.”
He places it into Mob’s hands, and Mob almost drops it entirely when he opens it, “I can’t accept this.”
“Sure you can. You don’t have one, right?”
“I don’t.”
“Then, take it. It’s a gift.”
“Thank you,” he says, awkwardness intermixed with an odd feeling of sincerity hanging off every word. Slowly, he removes the watch from the box, wraps it around his wrist.
“Of course, Nii-san,” Ritsu responds, face growing suddenly pensive, “This is the least I can do.”
They lapse into a silence and Mob has to stop himself from fidgeting nervously under its weight.
“Nii-san?”
“Yes?” Mob says, almost too quickly.
“If you need anything, anything at all, you can call me.”
Mob frowns, nods and then bows, “Thank you for the gift, Ritsu. I appreciate it.”
Goodbyes, and Ritsu’s back is turned, walking into the distance, toward a sun that set without Mob even noticing.
Mob stands there.
For a moment, then two.
He turns around and walks the other way.
Mob’s twenty-eighth birthday comes and goes with little fanfare.
He shuffles awkwardly into his childhood home, meekly greets his mother, then father and finally his little brother.
They smile warmly at him. Mob bends his spoon. Ritsu adjusts it back to normal with a nod of his head.
They talk, and Mob doesn’t have much to add to the conversation, which is expected.
He listens, dazedly, at Ritsu’s stunning list of accomplishments, and awkwardly steers the conversation away from topics relating at all toward himself.
“It’s the same-old.”
Routine.
Monotony is the key, he’s come to realize—perhaps the most important realization he’s had his entire life.
A forehead and fist dripping with sweat, a heart thundering in his chest, a strained smile turned into a concerned frown, an air with tension so thick it’s nauseating.
Ritsu smiles. Not often, but he does. Strained smiles are reserved for Mob.
Same job, same apartment, same life.
(The list of Don’ts is so long he’s not even sure if it’s safe to leave his apartment anymore.)
Swelling emotion triggers another, its presence giving rise to more. Unsafe.
“Is that boss of yours treating you well, Shige?”
“Yes, very well,” Mob replies.
“Are you getting all of your essential food groups in? Your father and I, you see, we worry about you two very much.”
“Any girls? Your mother and I, you see, we want grandchildren, too, someday.”
A build up, checklist of concerns.
Not yet, Mother. Thank you, Father. I’ll do my best.
Routine.
And, here, the question:
“Are you alright, Shige?”
His hands are in his lap, covered in sweat, and his shoulders hunched. He gazes at his parents bearily through his fringe.
The counter doesn’t go down anymore.
Eyebags, sunken cheeks, pallid skin.
Like a creaking automaton, Mob lifts his head, face breaking out into a barely-there smile, “Yes, I’m doing very well.”
Then: a disturbance.
“Are you sure?”
Mob blinks, “I’m sorry?”
“My,” his mother says, reaching over the table. She grabs his face, tilts his head, this way and that, “I’ve never seen you so pale, Shige. And you’re sweating like a dog!”
Mob knows the lump in his throat is there even before he has to swallow through it.
“I’m—”
“Oh, poor thing, you’re sick, aren’t you?”
Mob’s too petrified to blink, so he merely nods stiffly.
Ritsu’s hand is on his arm, pulling him to face him, and he places a strong palm on his forehead. He sighs, “No fever. That’s good.”
Then, he frowns —a strained smile turned into a concerned frown— “You should have said something. You didn’t have to come over if you were sick. We could have rescheduled.”
For some reason, that’s a surprise to him, but he’s unsure why.
“It was just a cold,” he explains, lies, “It—I’m better. Now.”
Ritsu’s frown deepens, and there it is again, a disturbance: “Are you sure, Nii-san?”
“Ah, leave him alone, Ritsu. If he says he’s fine, he’s fine,” his father’s voice says, but it’s distant. Mob couldn’t focus on it if he tried. He gulps nervously, eyes pinned under Ritsu’s intense, scrutinizing gaze. Trapped.
Ritsu…is amazing. That doesn’t change.
Mob makes sure not to forget the cake this time.
“Nii-san, wait up!”
Unfortunately, it’s not a foolproof plan.
Mob freezes.
The park is empty this time, too.
Ritsu shrugs his suit jacket off, folding it over a set of metal bars. It makes him look younger. Free.
And then he’s soaring, unchained, dexterous and balanced around a soft, blue, glittering point. It never pulls him down, never suffocates.
Mob watches, fiddling with the chains beneath his fingers.
It—it was a good day. He had a good day. A mantra, repeating.
“You okay, Nii-san?”
Unsafe, unsafe, unsafe.
This time, it’s a small bundle of pristine white cards. Business cards. Mob stares.
“This is the least I can do.”
“If you need anything, anything at all, you can call me.” The same promise but filled with a new, strange intensity. Different, a disturbance.
Goodbyes, and Ritsu’s back is turned, walking into the distance, toward a sun that set without Mob even noticing.
Mob stands there.
For a moment, then two.
He turns around and walks the other way.
99.99%
