Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Still Point of the Turning World

Reigen wakes up feeling like a million yen. This is not, of course, enough to retire on at thirty-five – but it’s not a bad way to start the day, all the same. He’s refreshed and full of energy, his skin tingling, his blood pumping. He lies still for a long moment, the sunlight pouring in through the half-open curtains over the bed and floor. He can’t move without heaving Mob off; he’s a big brute these days, tall and heavy and strong, and he’s still sound asleep with his head in the middle of Reigen’s chest, snoring a little. Reigen plays fondly with his fine soft hair as he looks at his alarm clock. It hasn’t gone off yet, due to start shrilling in ten minutes, and being ahead of the game already makes him feel like he’s going to have a great day.

“Mob,” he says softly. He shakes him a little, kisses the top of his mussed scalp. “Wake up.”

Mob stirs, raising his head blearily. His bed-head is always something spectacular to behold. “Wh…? Taka…? Wh-what time is it?”

“Almost six.”

Mob flops down again. “Too early,” he grumbles.

“Not for me. I have to get ready for work.” Reigen pinches his cheek when he doesn’t move. “Don’t you have a lecture this morning?”

“At ten,” Mob says, pulling his face free.

“Lucky.” Reigen pushes him. “Get off.”

“Stay,” Mob pleads, snuggling against him.

“I can’t. It’s Wednesday.”

Mob says nothing to this, half-asleep, but he does shift his weight when Reigen pushes at him again. Reigen slips out from beneath him and pads away to the bathroom to shower. His hair is fluffed up, teased to the roots with the residue of Mob’s power, and he scrubs it thoroughly with soap and hot water to try and get it to settle. When he’s out and dry and half-dressed, he combs it out damp and it’s a little better but it’s not as obedient as usual. It’s hardly surprising when he feels so tingly and overcharged, brimming with borrowed power.

Still, this feels like… a little more than he’s used to. Mob is a deeply emotional person, his powers feeding off his feelings, and he’s become more potent over the years as they’ve grown closer and closer. He’s an adult now, a calm and measured young man with good control over his abilities, but during their most intimate moments, he often produces a lot of excess energy that just sort of… ebbs into Reigen and stays there for a while, oozing into him like osmosis. Reigen is used to it by now, it even comes in handy at work from time to time, but it’s usually worn off by early afternoon.

This morning it feels like there’s way more of it than normal.

He goes to the kitchen to put on the kettle and get some breakfast. He knots his tie as he stands at the sideboard, looking for something to practice on. Nothing breakable, sometimes his control slips, and he’s heard about Mob’s brother bending every spoon in the house when he first discovered his powers, not something he wants to replicate. He settles on the milk carton, concentrating on it, trying to lift it off the counter. He finds telekinesis much more difficult than exorcisms, which just sort of happen whether he exerts much effort or not. This is probably because he doesn’t have any natural ability whatsoever, attempting the feat with a fragment of borrowed power, but he enjoys the challenge. It feels good if he can get an item to move even a few inches.

Today, however, is different. There is so much energy in him, crammed right down to his fingertips, that it doesn’t take much of him glaring and muttering ‘Move move move’ to make the milk carton hover almost a foot off the sideboard. He almost can’t believe it, blinking at it for a moment, before getting a crazy surge of confidence that implants within him the very good idea to pour the milk into his coffee cup without using his hands. He manages to maneuver the milk near the cup – not the other way around, he’s not that advanced – and starts nudging at it, trying to tip it but not too far, he doesn’t want it everywhere, juuuuust enough to get a little bit in. It’s not easy, even with all this extra juice, going too far one way so that he panics and knocks it upright again, almost too far the other way, and he’s putting so much pressure on it that the cardboard is starting to buckle—

“You’re concentrating way too hard,” Mob says right behind him. Reigen jumps, losing control completely, but Mob catches the milk before it hits the counter and spills everywhere.

“Please stop creeping up on me,” Reigen exhales, his heart pounding. “I can’t take it.”

“Sorry,” Mob says without much sympathy. He moves right behind him, broad and heavy, wrapping his arms around him. “But you are concentrating too hard.”

“Excuse me for not being as naturally talented as you,” Reigen grumbles, leaning back against him. He’s big and warm and smells of them, still in his pyjamas. “You’ve had powers all your life.”

“You say that like you suddenly have them,” Mob mumbles, nuzzling against his hair. “You’re just sponging off me – as usual.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Reigen watches the milk bobbing an inch or two above the surface, feels how utterly relaxed Mob is around him. It’s so effortless for him. He can cook an entire meal using his powers without getting up from the sofa. “...I was just experimenting. It feels like you gave me a lot more than normal.”

“Mm,” Mob agrees. “It does.” He gives him a squeeze, then outstretches his palms around him. “Give me your hands.”

“Why?” Reigen asks dubiously.

“I’ll help you.”

Reigen sighs, putting his hands into Mob’s. It’s unbelievable to him but Mob’s are bigger, wider palms, longer fingers. The years have changed many things between them. Mob hasn’t called him ‘Shishou’ for a long time.

“I know you,” Mob says gently. “You’re overthinking it, telling it to move or pour. Ritsu used to make this mistake a lot, too. The thing is, you don’t have to think anything.”

“That’s hard, you know,” Reigen says. He watches Mob rearrange his hands, fingers relaxed, palms open.

“Yeah. I’ve had plenty of practice. It comes naturally to me. Still…” Mob whispers close to his ear. “Try again.”

Reigen exhales through his nose. “Okay.”

He tries his hardest not to think in tangible elements easily separated, to put words and commands out of his head; to consider the way Mob has always seen the world, neatly boxed into bits that can float at his fancy. He can feel the power surging in his body but he’s not sure if it’s really him or if it’s Mob, he’s pressed so close to him that it’s hard to tell. Their pulses pound in perfect tandem.

The milk shivers – and then it tilts, pouring neatly into his cup. Reigen jolts, feeling the rush of energy go through him, the spark of victory, but then the milk rights itself again and floats into Mob’s outstretched palm.

“That was you,” Reigen says, deflating.

“Are you sure?” Mob asks, calling himself a glass from the cupboard.

“It was too... precise,” Reigen goes on.

“I helped,” Mob admits. He gives him another squeeze and lets go, getting himself a glass of milk. He retreats to the kitchen table with it, watching.

Reigen finishes making his coffee manually, two big spoonfuls of cheap instant granules swirled into the milk, topped off with boiling water. He stirs it in silence for a moment, looking at his muddied image on its surface through the steam. He can see that his hair still isn’t entirely flat.

“What does it feel like to you?” he asks.

“Using my powers?”

“Yeah.” Reigen takes his mug by the handle and turns towards him, leaning the small of his back against the sideboard. He lets his eyes settle on Mob, who is thinking. His pyjamas are rumpled and his black hair remains uncombed. Reigen loves seeing him like this: unkempt, intimate, just for him. It makes him remember what they have now, that he’s not just a black gakuran buttoned up to his throat and empty space beneath. Mob is older, mature, wise beyond his years at almost twenty-two. Still, some things never change: he’s clearly concentrating very hard on this query, staring at the ceiling, his brow furrowed.

“Mob, don’t think too hard about it,” Reigen says, sipping his coffee. “It’s okay if you don’t know how to answer.”

“Well, Ritsu asked me this once, too,” Mob replies. “Years and years ago. I tried to explain but I guess he wasn’t very satisfied. He understands now but I think it’s still not the same for him. I’ve always had these powers. I don’t know anything else.”

“That makes sense,” Reigen says. He can see Mob is giving it more thought. “Mob…”

“I… can best describe it like moving your muscles,” Mob goes on. “Like, when you want to move your hand, you don’t think ‘move’. You just… want your hand to move so it does.”

“I understand,” Reigen says. “Like language. We don’t consciously think about sentence structure in advance when we speak – it just comes naturally. With a first language, anyway.”

Mob nods. “That’s a good example, too.”

“I suppose getting powers at thirteen was like learning a second language for your brother,” Reigen goes on. He looks at his own hand, the power still tingling in his fingertips. “At my age, it’s even harder.”

“It would be easier if you’d awakened your own powers, I think,” Mob says. “That’s just the residue of mine.”

“Well, maybe,” Reigen agrees, “but the day I borrowed them to fight Claw, it came so easily to me. I didn’t even have to think about it. …Of course, that wasn’t telekinesis, but still.”

“You had a purpose that day,” Mob says, staring directly at him. “You did that to protect us.”

Reigen laughs weakly. “I suppose.”

“Do you wish you had them?” Mob asks.

“Not really,” Reigen says. “There have been times when they would have come in useful, sure, but I’ve never been hung up on not having them. I didn’t even think they were real until I met you.”

Mob nods. “They’re not all they’re cracked up to be.”

Reigen snorts. “Well, we know that. Still… it’s fun to borrow them once in a while.” He smirks. “You gave me a lot today. I guess that means you enjoyed yourself last night.”

Mob looks directly at him. “I can take it back,” he says, deadpan.

“Oh, come on, let me have a little fun,” Reigen teases. “It’s nice not to have to beg you and Serizawa to do my job for me.”

Mob looks at his milk. “As long as you’re careful,” he mumbles. “What you’ve got might feel like more than usual but it’s still only a fragment-”

“Aren’t I always careful?”

“Not always.”

“Hm.” Reigen rolls his shoulders, loosening them up. “You’re cruel to me.”

Mob puts his glass down on the table, getting up. He moves towards Reigen, who is already backed up against the counter, putting his arms either side of him to box him in. Reigen doesn’t blink, looking up at him. Mob is much taller than him, his eyes big and dark and serious.

“Are you going to scold me?” Reigen asks. “Mob, please, I know what I’m–”

“No, you don’t,” Mob interrupts. “Don’t get overconfident. That day, you were using all of my power, a complete transfer. This isn’t like back then.”

Reigen breathes in. He can’t hold Mob’s blistering gaze for more than a moment, dropping his eyes to his coffee. He can see both of them in it now, two shivering shapes that swim on the tension, almost touching. He reaches out with his free hand, finds Mob’s, closes his fingers around it.

“I know it’s not,” he says. “I’ll be careful.”

“I… don’t want anything to happen to you,” Mob says quietly.

Reigen squeezes his hand. “I swear you worry about me more than ever. Bet you didn’t think twice about my wellbeing when you were at school.”

“Things are different now,” Mob says gravely.

“Well, yes,” Reigen agrees, “but that doesn’t alter the odds of me getting killed on the job.”

“Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not. If anything, this gives me an edge.” Reigen reaches up and pats Mob’s cheek. “It’s like you’re protecting me.”

Mob nuzzles his cheek into his hand. “I’m serious,” he says, pouting a little bit.

“So am I,” Reigen replies softly. He moves his hand, lets it trail to the back of Mob’s neck. The short hair there is cleanly-cut, crisp beneath his fingers as he pulls him down. “When have you ever not protected me, Mob?”

He kisses him. Mob tilts his head and closes his eyes, opening his mouth, enjoying it. He’s still shy about initiating things but he is easily encouraged, pressing his big body against Reigen’s, his powers bubbling at their surfaces. Reigen fumbles to put his cup down, just about getting it onto the sideboard without it sloshing over his cuff. He braces his hands against the sideboard and Mob wraps his arms around his back, holds him close. His power is thrumming once more, happiness overspilling his large frame, and Reigen feels the echo of it in his own body, amping up the residue left in him. His hair is lifting off his forehead and so is Mob’s.

Mob is still bad at breathing while kissing and breaks away, his face pink. Reigen smiles up at him, watching his chest heave.

“That’s what happens if you hold your breath,” he teases. “I do still have some things to teach you.”

Mob tries to lean in again but Reigen ducks aside, out of his reach. He smoothes his hair down, feeling the crackle of power against his palms, and straightens the knot of his tie.

“Mob, I need to get to work,” he says, looking at the clock. “I’ll have to take some toast on the go at this rate.”

Mob looks at the floor. His hair is still standing on end. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay,” Reigen replies. “But I really need to get going. You should probably shower and start getting dressed, anyway. You don’t want to miss the train.”

He pauses, retrieving his coffee. Mob is just standing there, shifting his weight from foot to foot, awkward as hell.

“What’s the matter?” Reigen asks.

Mob gives a lopsided shrug. “...I think I just gave you even more,” he admits finally.

“Hmm.” Reigen smiles. “Well, I’ll just have to do my best to burn it all off, won’t I?” He catches Mob before he can speak: “I promise I’ll be careful. Extra careful. You’ll just have to come check I’m still in one piece after your last class, won’t you?”

Mob’s eyes darken. “I was planning to.”

“Great,” Reigen says. “Ramen?”

Mob nods. “I’ll be there.”

Reigen smiles. “Of course you will.”

Mob is eventually persuaded to go shower and Reigen is able to finish getting ready and leave. He’s still just about on time, checking his watch as he pulls the front door shut behind him. His office isn’t far, the walk takes him twenty minutes at most, and it’s a beautiful morning, fresh with the final fragments of September. He goes to the balcony and looks down. He’s on the second floor and has to take the stairs up and down, rattly metal things that shake at every footstep. It’s still early and there’s nobody around, he makes doubly-sure to check before easily vaulting the balcony. Mob’s borrowed powers heighten his leap and slow his descent and he lands as lightly as if sliding off a chair. He straightens his jacket, pats down his hair, squints up the apartment window to be sure Mob didn’t see him do it. Nothing. The curtains are still drawn. Good. He doesn’t need another scolding from that brat.

He puts his hands in his pockets and starts off. Truth be told, he’s frothing with so much energy he kind of feels like sprinting at the very least; and the flat roofs of the buildings around the apartment complex look extremely tempting. It would be so easy for him to climb up and make his way to work across them… but he doesn’t know how much power that would take up. He might need it for a job later, best not to waste it. Besides, knowing his luck, someone will see him. He’s had enough of being hounded by the media to last him a lifetime.

The walk is a pleasant one, the exact same route he’s taken every day for over a decade. It goes past the gentle grassy slope and the railway bridge, through the underpass with dripping graffiti, around the edge of Mob’s old school – the same one Reigen went to years before, the front yard empty and quiet. In another hour or so it will begin to fill up with students in their familiar uniforms, blue and white and black. Reigen has almost forgotten what Mob looked like back then; it’s hard to imagine him so small and unnoticeable now. His body still tingles from last night, from the feel of him pressed up against his back, immovable.

They’re running low on a few things in the office so he calls into a Family Mart on the way. It’s almost empty, the few other customers people like him in suits, over-eager, half-asleep, milling between the aisles like millstones. He wonders what kind of jobs they’re in, sizes them up in short order: call centre, data entry, clerical. This could so easily have been him. He tries to repress the fact that it was him for three whole years of his life, that he was the one stacking as many UCC coffee cans as he could carry, anything to keep himself awake. Mob is in his final year of university and Reigen wonders what he will do when he graduates. It’s not something they’ve really discussed. He doesn’t think that Mob really has all that much ambition, not the way his brother does, and he doubts he’s as easily bored as he is. Maybe data entry would suit Mob just fine. As for Reigen, he’d rather leap from the balcony head-first without powers than go back to that call centre but he and Mob are, after all, very different.

He picks up a bag of green tea and some snacks, then gets himself a UCC can from the fridge for old time’s sake. At the counter, as the elderly cashier rings up his items, he stares at the back wall and deliberates over buying cigarettes. He rarely smokes these days, two or three a week at most, both Mob and Serizawa detest it, but sometimes he enjoys one if it’s quiet and he’s on his own. He doesn’t think there’s any left in the desk drawer (in fact, he’s fairly certain Serizawa threw them away last time he was cleaning). He caves and buys a pack of Seven Stars, resolving to hide them better this time.

The office is just a block or so over from the convenience store and he makes it there just after seven-thirty. The city is starting to come to life, people beginning their commutes, breakfast places opening up, cars honking several streets over. Reigen stands on the pavement for a long moment and looks up at his sign, which is filthy. It’s too far for him to lean out but Serizawa could do it easily with his powers, he’s sure. He’ll ask him later (very nicely, of course). Eventually he lets himself in and goes up the dark stairwell. It always smells of old plaster and incense, partly his doing. He’s an expert at unlocking the office door without turning on the hall light, though the lock bears the scratches, and he gets it open and turns the sign in pretty much one motion, practiced. The office beyond looks exactly as it did when he locked up last night, minimalist and perfectly-ordered. He puts the carrier bag down on the desk and goes to open the blinds, letting the warm peach-cream light spill in slats across the worn carpet. He sinks into the swivel chair, looking at the clock. It’ll be a little while before Serizawa arrives and they’ve probably won’t have any customers this early, though he likes to get in before eight just in case. Sometimes people call in on their way to work, complaining of stiff shoulders that, in truth, they slept funny on. He looks at his hands for a long moment, feeling the power in them, and wonders if they’ll go to waste today. There are days where they don’t get any truly supernatural cases; it probably isn’t a great idea to do massages with them at full whack, he might break somebody’s spine. That wouldn’t be good for business.

He gets the cigarettes out of the bag, finds his lighter in the drawer (at least Serizawa left him that), unwraps the pack and lights himself one. It’s been maybe a month since he last did it and he enjoys the first drag, leaning back in his chair. He exhales the smoke through his nose, watching it cloud upwards, silvery streams like ink in water. He catches it up with the powers, pushes and pulls at the feathery tendrils, distorting it into more distinct shapes. He’s seen Mob do this with far more finesse, forming it into pictures, even words, but he can’t do much more than get it into blobbish shapes. His dog isn’t very dog-like and his tree looks more like a pitchfork. If Dimple was here, he’d try to make it look like him to annoy him but he’s not so it doesn’t seem worth the effort. He gives up on this venture and fishes the UCC coffee out of the bag, setting it on the desk in front of him. He leans back again, holding his cigarette between two fingers, and concentrates on the can. It vibrates a little, then wobbles, but it doesn’t do much else. He hunches forward in his chair, staring at it more intensely. He’s not trying to make it float, not that that’s even happening; just trying to lift the tab and pop it open. It does twitch a tiny bit but doesn’t rise. His eyes are starting to ache and he realises he’s holding his breath so he relaxes, sitting back again. He takes another inhale on his cigarette, thinking about Mob’s words. He understands perfectly what he means, it’s not like he has to make a conscious effort to breathe or speak or move his hand, but once you start considering the mechanics of the thing, the ability to do it unconsciously becomes more difficult. If you think too hard about breathing then you have to do it manually, after all; say a word too many times and it starts to sound weird. He’s not saying it’s easy for Mob, knowing that he’s struggled with the weight of his powers over the years, but he’s definitely got an innate ability that Reigen just does not possess. What Reigen is really good at – and which Mob is not – is talking.

“Open,” he says casually, not even looking at the can, not concentrating on it, not even acknowledging its existence in his peripheral.

The can explodes, spurting cold foaming coffee all over the desk. Reigen manages to skid his chair back just in time, narrowly avoiding being splashed. He breathes out shakily, looking at the remains of the red can spread out like a flower. The desk is absolutely drenched and he’s glad he’s taken to putting the laptop in the safe overnight.

He sighs, annoyed with himself, and resolves to finish his cigarette before mopping it up. Coffee and psychic powers clearly do not mix so he decides he’ll make some tea instead.

By hand – the normal way, like the commoner he is.

He has a morning full of massages pretty much back-to-back – ha ha – and all but collapses into one of the worn blue chairs at around half-one, loosening his tie. His jacket is long-since discarded over the back of his swivel chair.

“Seriously?” Dimple says derisively. “You act like you’ve been out tilling fields all day.”

“Shut up,” Reigen says, stretching. “Four in a row is tiring.”

“You’re just out of shape. You don’t know what real work is.”

“Whatever.” Reigen closes his eyes. “I don’t want to hear about the Muromachi Period.”

“I’m not that old!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Reigen exhales deeply. His arms are sore from a cluster of customers with incredibly poor posture and not much else. As a result, he’s still got plenty of excess energy seething in him. Usually it’s mostly gone by now. “You know I could exorcise you right now.”

Dimple sniffs. “You wouldn’t.”

Reigen opens one eye. “Try me.”

“Shigeo wouldn’t be happy with you.”

“I can live with that.”

Dimple snorts. “No you can’t. Remember that time he stopped coming here for a while? Bet you cried yourself to sleep every night.”

Reigen raises his hand. “I’ll do it,” he threatens. “I have a lot to burn off today.”

Dimple darts away across the office, hanging in the topmost corner like a cobweb. “I’ll tell Shigeo!”

“Go ahead,” Reigen says, yawning.

“He’ll stop sharing his powers with you. Think about that.”

Reigen snorts. “Please. It’s not a deliberate thing. It just… happens.”

“Yeah, I know how it happens.” Dimple’s smile broadens. “What’s that like, your little student growing up and–”

The door opens. Reigen sits bolt upright, straightening his tie, but it’s just Serizawa back from a small job. He has lunch in a carrier bag, the smell of take-out ramen filling the office, rich and warm.

“Sorry I took so long, Reigen-san.”

“It’s fine. Perfect timing, actually. My last client overran a little. You would not believe the knots this guy had.” Reigen pats the coffee table. “Thanks, Serizawa. I’m starving.”

Serizawa brings the bag to the table and begins to take out the cartons and chopsticks. Dimple flies behind him, floating at his shoulder.

“Katsuya,” he says confidentially, “while you were out, Reigen threatened to exorcise me.”

Serizawa doesn’t seem particularly moved. “I’m sure he was only teasing,” he says.

“Exactly,” Reigen retorts, taking his carton. “Learn to take a joke. You’ve been dead long enough.”

Serizawa sits opposite him, passing him a can of melon soda. Reigen opens this by hand; though he notices, as he digs his chopsticks into his food, loosening the noodles up, that Serizawa, much like Mob, does things idly with his powers. He separates his chopsticks and opens his box, both without using his hands. He barely seems aware of himself doing it. They eat in companionable silence for a while. It’s nice to have someone to eat lunch with, even if they don’t say much. Dimple floats indignantly near Serizawa, perhaps as insurance – as though Reigen is really going to exorcise him. Like he could catch him, slimy little bastard.

“Can I ask you something?” Reigen says at length.

“Me?” Serizawa asks.

“Yes. It’s… well, kind of personal, please don’t feel that you have to answer it. I just wondered.”

Serizawa nods. “Okay.”

“Were you born with your powers?”

Serizawa pauses. He puts his carton down. “Why do you ask?”

Reigen shrugs. “I just wondered, is all. Mob and I were talking about it. He was born with his but his brother awakened them later.”

Serizawa nods again. “I was born with mine,” he says. “They were… well. I wasn’t very good at controlling them. You know the rest.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to bring up painful memories.” Reigen stabs at his noodles. “I suppose I’m just… trying to understand them better.”

“Yeah, now that they directly affect you,” Dimple says heartlessly.

“Shut up,” Reigen grumbles.

“You’ve noticed, haven’t you, Katsuya?” Dimple says slyly. “That recently Reigen actually seems to have a real psychic aura about him?”

Serizawa frowns. “Well, yes, of course,” he says, “but it’s Kageyama-san’s aura.”

Reigen becomes extremely interested in his ramen. “Oh, you can tell that?” he asks, slightly strained.

“Of course. Kageyama-san’s aura is very powerful. All auras are unique, naturally, but Kageyama’s is instantly recognisable.”

Reigen exhales. “I see.”

“You know where Reigen’s getting it, right?” Dimple goads, elbowing Serizawa in the shoulder with an arm that he grows specially for the task. “Right, Katsuya?”

“Kageyama-san is transferring some of his power to Reigen-san,” Serizawa replies. “This is not uncommon, especially for powerful espers. Suzuki-san was able to do it with ease.”

“Ex-exactly,” Reigen says, buoyed. “Mob just gives me a little juice in the mornings to help me out.”

“I bet that’s not all he gives you,” Dimple mutters.

The phone on the desk rings. Perhaps Serizawa is becoming uncomfortable with this conversation because he leaps up to get it.

“Will you shut up?” Reigen hisses at Dimple.

“Please,” Dimple retorts. “What are you being so coy about? Like it’s not incredibly obvious you have a thing going on with Shigeo.”

“You don’t have to be so vulgar about it.”

“Vulgar?” Dimple grins. “Oh, Reigen. You must want me to spell it out.”

“I really don’t.”

“You honestly think Serizawa doesn’t know how Shigeo is giving you those powers?”

“I don’t see what that matters,” Reigen snaps, snatching up his soda. “What difference does it make to you, anyway? You’re dead.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“If this is about protecting Shigeo’s innocence,” Reigen says over the can, “you’re a bit too late for that.”

“Right – because you’re the one in charge in that relationship.” Dimple floats away. “Whatever you say.”

Reigen wants to shout after him but Serizawa is still on the phone so he holds his tongue. He can’t believe his life has come to this, that he spends his days being bullied by a university student and a floating ball of snot. He moodily finishes his ramen, half-listening to Serizawa take down the details of a job. His phone manner has improved a lot as he grows in confidence. It makes Reigen think of Mob, who has changed so much over the years. He’s barely recognisable as the quiet, stoic middle schooler in his black uniform, tagging after Reigen like a shadow. Now he is the one who strides ahead, a whole head taller; he has blossomed into a wonderful young man, strong and handsome and gentle. Well, he was always gentle. Bowlcut’s the same, too. It suits him, really. Reigen can’t imagine his hair any way else.

Serizawa puts down the phone and opens the laptop. “I’ve accepted a job for this afternoon,” he explains. He starts clicking around on the calendar.

“Okay,” Reigen says, thinking he might sneak out for a cigarette. “Did it sound real?”

Serizawa nods. “A malevolent force in an apartment block, things moving, going missing… oh.”

“What’s wrong?” Dimple asks, floating behind him.

“...I double-booked,” Serizawa says. “We already have a job.” He glances at Reigen, looking panicked. “I’m sorry, Reigen-san, I-I can call the client back-”

“Let me look.” Reigen gets up and comes to appraise the calendar. It’s pretty chock-a-block. He squints at the one Serizawa has highlighted. “I see.”

“Shall I call back?” Serizawa asks, although he looks like he really doesn’t want to.

“It’s fine,” Reigen says. “There’s two of us. We can do both.”

“Are you sure?” Serizawa looks a little doubtful. “These are both…”

“I have a lot of energy today. Haven’t had a chance to work it off.” Reigen taps the screen. “You take this one. I’ll do the one you just booked in.”

“O-okay.” Serizawa takes a post-it and writes down the details for him.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell when you’re not using Shigeo for your own gain, huh?” Dimple says.

“Uh huh.” Reigen takes the post-it and folds it up, putting it in his pocket. “Pity god-hood didn’t work out for you, isn’t it?”

“Whatever,” Dimple grumbles. “You need me to come with you to make sure you don’t get yourself killed?”

“Oh, you do care.”

“I just don’t want to explain to Shigeo. He probably wouldn’t take it well.”

“Thank you so much for your concern but I’ll be fine. This sounds like an easy one, even if it is a real ghost.” He nods towards Serizawa. “I left Serizawa with the difficult one.”

“Th-that’s okay,” Serizawa says hurriedly. “This sort of thing is easy for me, it just… comes naturally.”

Same as Mob. Reigen nods. He does realise that he will probably never understand.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” Dimple sighs.

“You must be bored with your infinite existence,” Reigen says. “I’ll exorcise you and put you out of your misery.”

Dimple shoots behind Serizawa again. “I was talking about your sleazy business practices, you fraud!”

Reigen grins, going to get his jacket. “How you think I’ve survived this long?”

Chapter Text

ii/ii

I’ll be over after six. Got a late lecture and then a seminar.

Okay, see you then. I’m out on a job.

Reigen types his reply and snaps his phone shut, slipping it into his pocket. He feels it vibrate against his thigh as Mob sends him another message but he doesn’t take it out to check it. Likely something along the lines of be extra extra careful, anyway. He appreciates the concern but this is pretty routine, he was doing this sort of call-out before Mob even wandered into his office all those years ago. With varying levels of success, of course, but that won’t be the case today: he’s still got plenty of Mob’s residual power teeming to the very tips of him. He feels like he could tangle with something pretty powerful and still have plenty to spare. He can almost hear Mob scolding him in that deadpan way of his and smiles. Serizawa is right: this aura is definitely Mob’s, form-fitting, familiar. It feels like he’s right next to him, wrapping his arms around him, keeping him safe. Mob might be worried but he is not, not when he feels like this.

The apartment building is not unlike his own, flat and square and bland. It has three floors and worn railings and peeling greyish paint. The client lives on the second floor so he heads up the stairs, taking them slowly. He can’t sense anything overwhelmingly off about the place, certainly nothing malevolent, but then he’s not as acute as Mob or Serizawa. Maybe he should have brought Dimple with him after all.

The client is a middle-aged woman named Yamamoto who lives with her teenaged son; however, she is not the only resident awaiting him in the apartment. There are two young housewives, a man in his mid-forties and an elderly couple. All of them have the same complaint – doors banging, things being moved or knocked over, a general feeling of creeping cloying coldness that passes through.

“At first I thought it was a bad draught,” Yamamoto explains. “We all did – maybe there was a problem with one of the walls in the building. But then…”

She looks around the small living room. The other residents all have about the same expression on their faces. It’s the one Reigen recognises as ‘not wanting to be thought of as crazy’. Pretty common. People come into his office and whisper their problems to him like they don’t really want to be heard.

“Did you see something?” he prompts. “Any of you?”

A lot of head-shaking.

“Hear something?”

More head-shaking, exchanging of looks. Clients like this, the sort that feel embarrassed about even thinking their problem might be something supernatural, are extremely frustrating. He already feels like an outsider, sitting amidst them all in this small neat square of sofas and coffee tables. He’s only here because they’re desperate. They wouldn’t entertain his type otherwise, he realises that.

“It’s more… just a feeling,” Yamamoto says eventually, looking at the coffee table. “I can’t really describe it. It’s not there all the time, it comes and goes.”

“What kind of feeling?” Reigen pushes. He’s never going to get anywhere with these people if he can’t get even a basic straight answer. “I assume it’s not a good one.”

“Of course it’s not,” the elderly man says coldly. “We wouldn’t have asked you to come here otherwise.”

Reigen, of course, does not let this tone bother him in the least. He’s used to it.

“Does it make you feel nervous?” he asks. “Anxious – like you’re being watched?”

A pause as they all consult with each other – and then nodding.

“I see.” He clocks the windows, the types of doors. They’re all new-ish, last twenty years or so. “How old is the building?”

“Fifty years, maybe?” says one of the housewives.

“I think it’s more like sixty,” the mid-forties man adds. “End of the 1950s, I’m sure.”

“Is the plumbing original?”

Now there’s a baffled silence. The elderly man squints at him. “What difference does that make?”

“Well, I’m not ruling out a ghost or spirit of some description,” Reigen explains, “but the feeling you’re describing is not uncommon in older buildings. It’s easy to chalk it up to a haunting but often it has a less-interesting explanation.”

He’s speaking from experience; several “hauntings” in old buildings they’ve been summoned to over the years have simply been cases of old pipes.

“There’s something called infrasound, just below the hearing range of humans, scientifically-proven to cause feelings of uneasiness and fear. A common complaint is the idea of being watched.”

“And what about the things moving?” asks one of the women. “Being knocked over?”

“As I said, I don’t want to completely rule out a ghost,” Reigen says, “but the sound is usually caused by vibrations in old plumbing, industrial machinery, that sort of thing. Even minor earthquakes – enough to knock over your belongings – can cause the sound to be emitted.”

The old man straightens in his seat. “I told you it wasn’t a ghost!” he needles at his wife.

“Well, we just thought it best to check,” she replies softly.

“If that’s really the case then we don’t need to pay you,” the middle-aged man says, like people haven’t tried this shit on Reigen a thousand times.

“If it’s not a ghost then you’ll be paying a plumber,” Reigen replies pleasantly. “And they won’t be as cheap as me.” He gets up, addressing Yamamoto. “May I have a look at your boiler?”

“O-of course.” She rises, beckoning. “This way.”

The others have lost interest, rising too, beginning to leave. He’s glad. If there really is a ghost, the gathering has likely done nothing but make it conceal its presence. He follows Yamamoto to a small closet, which she unlatches to allow him to see the boiler. The pipes do look pretty old, as he suspected. He taps them a bit and listens, Yamamoto standing behind him with her hands clasped together. He doesn’t have the feeling they’re describing – he has definitely felt it in other old buildings – but it’s not impossible that the plumbing is the problem.

“What do you think?” Yamamoto asks.

“The pipes are old,” Reigen says. “Did you speak to the landlord about your concerns? The draughts, for example.”

“Well, yes. He said he would come out to look at it.”

“And did he?”

“I’m not sure. We don’t see very much of him. He runs three other buildings.”

Reigen nods. “What kind of things get moved or knocked over? Are they in specific rooms?”

“I’m not sure about my neighbours,” Yamamoto says, “but my son’s room was the problem in here.”

“Was?”

“He won’t sleep in there anymore,” she says. “He sleeps on a futon in my room. He still uses it to get dressed or study.”

“And he’s complained of the same issues?”

“Not exactly. He doesn’t like to talk about it much.”

“Will you show me the room?”

“Of course.”

Her son’s room is small and square, typical of a teenaged boy. The bed, as she explained, is unslept in, and the desk is piled with books, as are the shelves. There’s a lot of manga with bright spines and a few posters on the walls. It’s nothing out of the ordinary; even when he closes his eyes and really concentrates, focuses on nothing else, he can’t sense anything. He looks again at the desk. There’s a photo frame face-down on the surface. Yamamoto sees him looking and frowns, crossing the floor to it.

“This… is one of the things that keeps getting knocked over,” she says softly, lifting it. Reigen sees that it’s a small family photo of Yamamoto, a young boy who must be her son and a man in a suit, all smiling.

“My husband,” she says.

“Is he at work?”

“He left us.” Yamamoto’s voice is very quiet. “It was a few years back. I don’t know where he went. He gave no explanation.” Her eyes widen. “It… couldn’t be him, could it?”

“You’d know if your husband had died, even if you were estranged,” Reigen says. “Legally you would need to be informed.”

“I… I suppose so.”

“How did your son take it?” Reigen pauses. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not well. A lot of the arguments Kenji and I had were over him. What prep school he would go to, his grades, that sort of thing. I… I’m not proud of it.”

Reigen nods. “And… what’s your relationship with your son like?”

“A bit strained,” Yamamoto admits. “It has been ever since his father left. I suppose he’s at that awkward age, too…”

“How old?”

“Just turned fifteen. He was twelve when Kenji left.”

“Not a good age,” Reigen agrees absently, looking around the room.

“It’s not just us!” Yamamoto insists, like she’s afraid he’ll think she’s just making it all up. “I-I mean, it’s not just Michiya acting out–”

“No, I understand. There’s the matter of your other neighbours, to begin with. All of them have the same complaint. That’s why I thought it best to start with the plumbing.” He rubs at his neck. “Please think hard, Yamamoto-san. What else might you and your neighbours have in common?”

Yamamoto frowns. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Something else that might make you all a target.” He looks again at the photograph. “For example… do all of your neighbours have children?”

“Oh.” Yamamoto blinks at him. “Yes, they do. “The Yamadas have two grown-up children, Honda and Nakamura both have babies and Eijiro has a daughter somewhere. He’s divorced.”

“I see,” Reigen says, nodding.

“Do you think that’s the connection?” The phone starts ringing and Yamamoto bows her apology to him. “I’m sorry, I just need to get that.”

“Take your time.” Reigen waves her off, watching her shuffle out of the room. When she’s gone, he tries to concentrate again, probing with his borrowed powers. It’s a little bit easier without her presence to tangle in his search. This case is a weird one and he’s starting to wish he’d left it to Serizawa and taken the other job. He wonders if he could call Mob. He’d be annoyed but he’d probably come…

No. He clenches and unclenches his fists. This is nothing. He’s got borrowed powers and a brilliant brain. He can figure this one out himself. There’s no need to bother Mob.

He goes to the desk and appraises the contents of it. There’s really nothing out of the ordinary. Even the family photo, even with the unfortunate context, is perfectly normal. Maybe it really is the plumbing and he begins to wonder if the pipes run behind any of these walls, that might explain why sleeping in here is so unbearable—

Wait. He can feel a sudden spike in Mob’s powers, prickling at him, hackles raising. Pinpointing spirits precisely is still pretty much beyond him but he’s getting that feeling now, too – a strange strained sadness, the weird fear that he’s being watched. It’s so sudden, so oppressive, that it makes him rule out pipes completely. A train, perhaps? That might explain the fleetingness, the vibrations big enough to knock things over. He goes to the window to look but there’s too many buildings in the way so he takes out his phone to check if there’s any train lines that run near this building. He hears a distinctive tak as he’s looking down at his screen, sees the photo face-down once again when he raises his head. He moves back to the desk to set it upright again but finds that he can’t lift it. There’s resistance, as though someone – or something – is holding it down. That cold terror is draining through his entire body, cloistering, suffocating, and Mob’s powers are going crazy, lifting his hair off his forehead. There’s something in this room with him, no doubt about it. He can’t see it but he can sense it, clear as day. The desk trembles, a few books toppling, and he swears he sees something move in his peripheral as he holds it down. He turns, breathing hard against the hideous feeling of dread over taking him, trying to shake it off as Yamamoto hurries back into the room. 

“I heard something fall!” She seems startled. “Are you alright, Reigen-san?”

“I’m fine.” Reigen lets his eyes dart around the room, searching every corner. “There is definitely something in here but…”

Yamamoto clutches at her skirt. “But what?”

“I don’t think it originates from this room,” Reigen finishes. The feeling is subsiding as he speaks. “What I mean is, I don’t believe your son’s room is haunted.”

“Then where is it coming from?” Yamamoto asks.

“I’m…” Reigen exhales, his gaze settling in the furthermost corner of the ceiling. Mob’s powers are calling his attention to it, straining after the vanished shape that he saw only for a second. There’s a small thin wardrobe in this corner, stretching right up to the low ceiling. “Yamamoto-san, do you mind if I move that wardrobe?”

“Oh.” Yamamoto blinks. “I-I suppose not.”

“Thank you.”

It’s extremely light, made of thin plywood, and he’s able to push it out away from the wall by himself. A foot or so is all he needs to see the wall behind it. There’s a huge stain, ugly yellowish-brown-black like a bruise, spreading from the corner and all the way down the wall. He doesn’t know if it’s water-damage or what, only that it looks like it’s been there for a while. He beckons to Yamamoto, who comes to look.

“Did you know this was here?”

She seems horrified, covering her mouth with her hands. “N-no, I didn’t!”

Reigen looks up at the ceiling. His borrowed powers are still pointing to this like the arrow of a compass. “What’s above you?” he asks. “Another apartment, I’m guessing?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who lives there?”

“There… there was an elderly man but I think he must have moved out. I haven’t seen him for a while.”

Oh jeez. Reigen’s stomach sinks. “Heard anything?”

“No.”

“Did anyone, you know… go and check on him?”

“None of us really knew him,” Yamamoto says, looking pale. “He kept himself to himself, he never seemed to get any visitors…”

“I see.” Reigen takes one last look at the ceiling and steps away. “I’m going to go upstairs and look. We may need to call the police.”

He lets himself out of Yamamoto’s apartment and goes to the stairs, ascending to the final floor. Well, this afternoon is turning out to be eventful. It’s been a while since he’s come across a dead body, anyway. He puts his hand into his pocket and closes it around his phone, debating once more if he should call Mob. He exhales, shakes the urge off. This is hardly the most dangerous job they’ve – he’s – ever been on. He’s not an expert on sizing up spirits, not the way he can with people, but the presence in Yamamoto Michiya’s room didn’t feel especially powerful. Resentful, yes, and angry – but not, you know, Mogami or anything.

He goes to the door of the apartment directly above Yamamoto’s. The paint is worn away and there are a lot of dead insects around the light on the walkway but otherwise it seems ordinary. To the naked eye, at least; now that he’s right in front of it, Mob’s powers amplifying his own abilities by pretty much 100%, he can definitely sense the dim aura of raw threat emanating from the beyond the old wood. He rings the doorbell but it just makes a gargled buzzing sound that cuts off halfway through. Deceased batteries, he concludes, and bangs on the door instead. He does, of course, get no answer, which is about what he was expecting. He’s never seen a ghost answer the door, anyway. He tries the handle out of sheer audacity, expecting it to be locked, but it turns and creaks open a little, stopped by the pile of junk mail on the doormat. The light of the day spills in a thin sliver down the dark hallway beyond. He steps over the threshold and into the silent stillness of the apartment, the hush floating atop the innards like a layer of fat. It has the definite frozen staleness of death. He bends down and picks up the mail, stacking it neatly into one pile, sifting through it. It’s all junk, flyers and ads and coupons, though he does come across one thing with an actual address on it that matches the apartment. It’s addressed to a Minagi Gendo.

He takes his phone out of his pocket as he moves into the apartment, flipping on the torch. The blueish beam plies over the narrow hallway, sweeping like a lighthouse he moves it from side to side. The aura is definitely present, prickling at his intrusion, but Mob’s power reacts to it on its own, shielding him with a barrier that the spirit has no hope of breaking through. Whether this is because of the extra energy Mob bestowed on him or because Mob’s power is just naturally protective, he isn’t sure. All he knows is that’s he’s in no immediate danger from this place or the restless spirit that dwells within. He enters the living room, finding a light switch with his torch and flipping it on. All the curtains are drawn, which explains the darkness in the middle of the day, and there’s a layer of dust on every surface, greyish mouse-fur fuzz that clings. There’s a half-empty glass of water on the low table, the surface swimming with gunge as thick as whipped cream. The room is not unlike his own in both size and layout, sparsely furnished, something that sits uneasily in him with a curdling uncanniness. He puts the stack of mail on the table as he passes, feeling the presence needling at him but with caution, cowed by his barrier. Without words he can feel it take on the shape of questions, why are you here, what do you want. He could ask the same.

The television, a small boxy thing from the eighties, probably as old as him, is unplugged but his reflection distorts as he passes it, jumping like a video tape. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck go up, drawing the cloak of Mob’s power more tightly around him. He steps away from the TV and hears glass crack beneath his heel. Looking down, he moves his foot to see splinters of clear glass from the face-down photo frame half under the table. He crouches down and winches it out, turning it over.

It’s similar to the one in Michiya’s room, although clearly it is decades older, faded in the middle, bleaching outwards like a dying sun. It depicts a man about Reigen’s age, a woman in traditional dress and a young boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old, in a school uniform. He would take a confident stab at the man being Minagi Gendo; the others, probably a wife and son, perhaps a sister and nephew, maybe a friend. Long absent, any which way. He rubs his thumb over the edge of the frame, feeling the grit of ground-in dust.

Something in the room changes. That numb icy dread descends on him again and there’s a sudden increase in pressure, massive, pushing against the walls of his barrier. He concentrates on maintaining it, feeling the whole apartment shake beneath his feet, all the old belongings dislodging dust as they tremble and fall. This is an attempt to expel him, crack his shield like a nut, and while it’s about as effective as the wind trying to crumple a car, he realises he’d be in trouble if he wasn’t toting Mob’s powers today. Mob still lives at home with his family and doesn’t stay over with him every night, after all. Reigen finds himself extremely glad – as the TV screen cracks loudly – that he talked Mob into coming home with him last night, not that he needed much persuading. Now Reigen just needs to pinpoint the ghost and wrangle these powers into exorcism mode before they’re all burned up protecting him.

He pulls the power to his core, concentrating on centring it. Honestly meditation techniques are just as useful in this line of work, something he’s observed many times before (usually at more opportune moments than this, admittedly). It settles like a cool orb in the middle of him, drawing towards his vital organs, the pounding of his heart. He still can’t fix on the source, it’s too much for him to concentrate on all at once, but Mob’s power – even residual – is so much stronger than the spirit. He pushes outwards and the pressure breaks off with a snap, the malevolent force receding. It tears away through the apartment with a violent gust, shaking and unsettling everything in its path. This is fine by Reigen, who can now follow it to the source. He pulls his power back, doesn’t let the shield drop as he moves through the apartment. He knows the thing will have him if he lets it down for even a moment. He walks down a short corridor, dark and grimy, no windows, to the final room. There is no door, only a thin curtain that separates it from the hallway. It crackles with unpleasant energy as he pushes it aside. The room beyond is so dark he can barely see, dense with that malignant aura, thick as fog. It smells of old rot, sour and damp. This is the bedroom, the curtains drawn tight to block out the world that turns outside. He knew he was right: the futon is in the middle of the floor, the covers draped over a thin frail shape. In the bleakness he can’t see much else.

The spirit is unsettled by his entrance, trying to scare him as he feels for the light. It bangs things, knocks things over, makes the floor and ceiling shake. Reigen is unfazed, having seen worse from Mob when he’s in a bad mood, moving further into the room until he finds the switch. At last his fingers slide over it and he flips it on. It takes a moment, buzzing and flickering, but at length the room fills with a dull yellowish glare. It’s sparse, just as filthy as the rest of the apartment, the edges of the futon scattered with empty packages, tissue boxes, bottles, used bandages. His eyes fall on the old man and he has to avert them for a moment, his stomach giving a queasy lurch. He takes a deep breath, composing himself, and looks back.

Minagi Gendo has been dead for a while. Most of his emaciated body is covered by the blanket but his head is still visible, skeletal and gaunt on the pillow. The cloistered conditions of the apartment have given his decay a strangeness, the corpse rotting slowly, drying out like a mummy. There are no flies, no maggots – just that weird hideous stain that spreads beneath the futon and down the walls of the apartment beneath. That’s that mystery solved.

They will need to call the police, of course, though it looks like the old man died in his sleep and no-one noticed. There’s a word for this that escapes him right now; besides, it’s something about that that Reigen just doesn’t really want to think about so the first thing he does is move around the futon, stepping carefully over the debris, and kneel down next to Minagi’s body. He takes the edge of the cover and pulls it quickly over the corpse’s head, covering it completely. As soon as he does so, the wind dies, the rattling stops. He doesn’t lower the shield but he senses a lull in the hostility. At the head of the futon, the source gathers and solidifies into a shape. He can’t see spirits as clearly as Mob, whose whole world is populated by both the living and the dead; to him the ghost is only the shape of a man, just bordering on the form of human-ness. He knows that it is Minagi Gendo. He puts his hands flat on his knees and doesn’t move.

“You can stop now,” he says softly, “don’t you think?”

He lets his gaze go over the rubbish, the crumpled cartons, the stained ashtray full of wizened cigarette butts near the pillow. He thinks about how the fridge must be full of rotting food, about the nature of the stain that has leaked into the Yamamotos’ apartment, piss and shit and oozing fluids from the break-down of a human body, about the fact that it will be someone’s job to clean all this up. How did not a single person notice?

“Nobody came,” Minagi says. It’s a thin rasp, barely audible. “Never once. It’s been years since anybody came.”

“I don’t think that’s the fault of the Yamamoto family,” Reigen replies. He hasn’t got Mob’s patience; he wishes he understood them the way he does but he can’t. “Or anyone else in this apartment block, for that matter.”

“Nobody came,” Minagi rasps again. The room shakes once more but Reigen doesn’t flinch. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe not,” Reigen agrees vaguely, though it unsettles him, somehow. He pauses for a moment. “You have a son.”

The spirit stops. “How do you know? Did… did he send you here?”

“No. There’s a picture in your living room. The man is you – the boy must be your son. Estranged, I assume. That’s why you haunt the families in this block who also have children.”

He’s expecting a retaliation to this, another flare of temper tantrum, but Minagi doesn’t argue.

“They take it for granted,” he says. “Especially the Yamamoto boy. He won’t even speak to his father on the phone. He acts as though he doesn’t exist.”

“So you terrify him. He won’t even sleep in that room.”

“It’s no less than what he deserves.”

Reigen exhales, rolling his shoulders. Mob would be able to make this ghost understand why doing this is only hurting himself; he exudes a natural gentleness, a sensitive understanding, as insistent as a tsunami. Reigen can only think about it practically – that hating Yamamoto Michiya is only a projection, presumably, of Minagi’s feelings towards his own son, that haunting him isn’t going to change anything about his own circumstances. Logic like this seems to be beneficial only to those still living, people who can actually make a positive change to their lives. It would be wasted on Minagi Gendo, whose entire existence has warped and twisted around this misplaced malignance, tethering him to the apartment in which his remains have festered for months. It’s clear to Reigen that the ghost can’t stay here any longer.

“This isn’t doing you any good,” he says bluntly. “I’m going to exorcise you.”

“I know,” Minagi says. “I can sense how powerful you are. I’m not going to fight you.”

Reigen shifts on his knees. “Do you mind?”

“No. I can’t leave this building otherwise.”

Reigen nods. This is common of ghosts who make a nuisance of themselves – they’re usually trapped. Exorcism is often a relief.

“I’ll inform the police,” he says. “They’ll notify your son and any other family members. You’ll get a proper burial.”

“No-one will come.”

“Your son will come, I’m sure.”

“...I hoped he would come here.”

Reigen stands up. His knees are starting to ache from the hard wood floor, no carpet. He turns towards the ghost, which floats hazily above the putrid futon. Already Minagi is so detached from the living plane that he has no interest in a proper funeral, nor shows any distress about the undignified manner in which his body was found. These are definitely the qualms of humans, not for the dead to worry about. Still… he hung on here, hoping that his son would notice. He hoped that he would be the one to find him, to be the first – and only – to grieve.

“You came,” Minagi goes on, adding it like an afterthought.

“Your neighbours called me.”

“Yes. If I hadn’t frightened them, maybe nobody would ever have found my body.” Another pause. “Thank you for covering it.”

Reigen nods. “You’re welcome.” He puts out his hand. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” The spirit lets his power drop completely, leaving no defence. “...I wish my son had come.”

Reigen has nothing to say to this. He knows nothing about this son, where he is, what their relationship was like. Promising to find him and tell him of his father’s death seems stupid and empty.

Instead he says, “It won’t hurt.”

“Heh.” Minagi gives a gristly laugh. “How would you know?”

Reigen is at the apartment block for the rest of the afternoon. He explains the cause to Yamamoto, that of course he exorcised the spirit, and she seems relieved. She shows very little emotion about the death of Minagi, only revulsion that a dead body was decomposing a few feet above her son’s bedroom for so long. The police come and go into the apartment, look at the remains, declare it a case of natural causes. A team arrives with a body bag and they cart Minagi’s dried-up corpse out on a stretcher. All the neighbours are out by now, whispering on balconies. Nobody seems remotely moved; like Yamamoto, the only emotions on display are disgust, some surprise, plenty of judgement. Yamamoto Michiya arrives home from school in the middle of it all, a tall bespectacled boy in a black gakuran just like the one Mob used to wear. His only response to the news from his mother that he can sleep in his room again is a surly shrug as he lets himself in. He reminds Reigen of teenaged Ritsu; Mob was never so typical.

It’s getting past dusk by the time he gets away. His payment is in the form of a cheque which he half-expects to bounce but that’s not exactly at the forefront of his priorities right now. He just wants to get away from that apartment building as quickly as possible. Even though Minagi’s presence is dispersed, his soul at peace, there is something intolerable about it. The residents are satisfied, they will get on with their lives, but to him it is unbearable. This is something he’s never felt before in the aftermath of a job, no matter who performs the exorcism. It’s not that he’s never done one alone before, either. He wonders if this is how Mob feels all the time.

He checks his phone as he walks. He has two messages, one from Serizawa, one from Mob. Serizawa’s says that he’s finished his job and is on his way back. Reigen replies to say it’s late and to just head home, he’ll see him in the morning. Then he checks the message from Mob. It says much the same: that his seminar has just wrapped up and he’ll be heading over to the office. Reigen is glad that he had the forethought to send Serizawa straight home, pausing to type a response to Mob.

Okay. Just finished the job. See you in a bit.

Mob types back. Everything fine?

All good. I’ll tell you about it later.

Truthfully there is something niggling that makes him not really want to go too much into the details of it, at least not to Serizawa and Dimple, maybe not even Mob. In the thick of it, shielded by Mob’s powers, he’d felt unaffected, purely pragmatic about the matter; he was there on business and Minagi had to go and that was that. Now, however, with Mob’s powers fading, the adrenaline easing, he comes away with a creeping cloying sadness. How quickly Minagi’s hostility gave way to hopelessness; months of lying alone in his own squalid decay, terrifying neighbours who hadn’t given him a second thought, so easily reduced to nothing by the simple act of covering up his corpse.

He feels his phone buzz in his pocket as he starts to walk again but he doesn’t look. He knows it’s Mob. That’s enough. He finds his cigarettes in his inside pocket and lights himself one, pulling the smoke in over his nerves. They’re not frayed, exactly, but they feel kind of rattly and loose – like they’ve been knocked around, which is not untrue. He exhales the smoke deeply. It doesn’t taste great but it’s calming, something to distract him. It’s the other side of rush hour, the streets busy with people in loosened ties and unbuttoned uniforms getting dinner. He’s going the other way to most of them, back towards the outskirts of the business district, the side with the cheaper rent. The neon light and smell of sizzling food grows lesser, more dispersed, giving way to convenience stores and bars. He stops at the mouth of an alleyway, familiar, lined with small establishments in which to drown your sorrows. At the very end, the neon sign blinking like a beacon, is the bar that he used to frequent years ago. He hasn’t been there for a long time, completely forgetting that it even exists. He wonders if the same people go there, the ones he used to know, who used to crowd him like moths. Have they changed, aged? Do they gather around someone else? Have they forgotten him?

He resists the urge to go in just to satisfy his curiosity, to see if the bartender is the same guy, the one who called him by his first name the way Mob does. He doesn’t need to know. It makes him think of birthdays, besides, and how he’ll be thirty-six in October. He shoves his hands in his pockets and makes the rest of the journey back to the office with his head down, looking at the pavement, at his feet on the worn slabs. There are dusty marks on his shoes from Minagi’s apartment. His knees must be dirty, too. He didn’t even think to check. There’s a reason the people who remove bodies and clean up after death wear overalls. He’s thought about overalls too in the past – like the ones they wear in that old American movie Ghostbusters, 1984, the same year he was born – but it’s never more than a fleeting consideration. As with the customers today, many people are embarrassed to even admit that they think their problem is a supernatural one. Half of them only let him into their homes because he looks presentable; same for Serizawa and Mob. Suits and school uniforms are bland, safe, they give away nothing.

He gets back to the office before Mob. It’s dark now and his sign isn’t turned on. Sometimes customers wander in late but he knows they won’t get any tonight, not when the agency looks like it’s closed. It’s a nice night, warm and breezy, and he doesn’t really want to go up into the stuffy office to wait for Mob. He considers waiting outside but, as he does so, his eyes fall on the fire stairs zig-zagging up the side of the building to the roof. He’s never been up there, never seen what the view is like. He climbs them slowly, one hand on the metal rail, cool and smooth as snake scales. The building is only two storeys with a flat roof, the sole feature the steel box for the air conditioning unit. There’s a knee-high rim around the perimetre. He goes to the edge and gets up on this wall, wide enough for him to hold his balance. He looks down. The drop isn’t huge, enough to break some bones if you fell, maybe kill you if you were very unlucky. At least you’d be found quickly, he supposes – not that he’s worried. He’s got just enough of Mob’s power left to save himself if he loses his balance. He hasn’t done anything like this for a long time; when he was in school, he used to climb all kinds of things for a better view, trees, fences, lamp-posts. Fell a few times, broke his wrist once. Didn’t get much sympathy from his parents, who told him to learn a lesson from it. He stopped climbing things after that. He never had anybody to do it with, anyway. At least studying was something you were meant to do by yourself.

The city is thrumming with life, chattering, honking, steaming. All over, in every street, restaurant, bar, home, people are convening at the meat of the day, exchanging greetings, touches, kisses on the cheek. Shoes are toed off, jackets are hung up, briefcases and bags are put aside for later. The power grid will surge as lights come on, kettles are boiled, TVs and radios are plugged in. He checks his watch. Seven o’ clock. Life does not start or stop at certain times but there are those who fall through the gaps, fridges filled with food that will never be eaten, festering with colonies of other lives.

Kodokushi. That’s the word. Lonely death. It comes to him the way that forgotten words do, without ceremony, placed at the front of his mind like a meal he’s ordered. It reminds him that he’s hungry.

“What are you doing?”

Mob, to his credit, at least appears in front of him this time, not behind. Just as well – he’d have made him jump to his inadvertent death otherwise. He’s floating in mid-air, his university bag slung over one shoulder, dressed in a slouchy black sweater and fraying jeans. This is not because they are fashionable but because they are old and Mob relies on Teruki to take him shopping when he’s home from his prestigious university two hours away.

“Contemplating the meaning of life,” Reigen replies truthfully. “Thank you for remembering not to creep up on me.”

“I didn’t want to scare you when you’re standing in such a stupid place,” Mob says bluntly.

“I appreciate it. Still, I’m sure you would have caught me.”

Mob shrugs. “I guess.”

“You only guess, huh? Thanks, Mob.”

Mob lands on the wall next to him. “What are you really doing?” he asks.

Reigen grins, shrugging. “Just looking at the view.”

Mob appraises it himself for a moment. “It’s not very good,” he concludes.

“Well, what do you expect? This is hardly a premium location.”

This easy banter between he and Mob, old and comfortable and mindless, is settling. He feels himself coming back together with him at his side, a whole head taller, his warmth at his shoulder. He usually walks on his left, a force of habit.

Mob takes his hand, squeezing it firmly. “You want a better view?” he asks, already floating.

“You’re doing it anyway,” Reigen replies, feeling his feet leave the concrete. He squeezes Mob’s hand in return, reassuring him. “But okay.”

It’s so effortless for Mob, who lifts them both into the night sky, high above the office building. They’re clutching hands but Mob’s power is supporting his whole body, cradling him safely. It feels like treading water but without exertion, bubbles on the surface. The view is certainly better, a much larger scope of the city’s sprawl, though it’s not necessarily any more exciting. This is not Tokyo by any stretch; it’s just plain old Spice City, perfectly ordinary, brown-grey-blue. The neon glow is foamy, stickily clinging to the greasy underbelly of the night sky. It didn’t look like this a century ago, filled up with people that no longer exist; a century from now it will be different again and they will be the ones who are gone, cigarettes and ramen and dusty marks all swallowed up. He shouldn’t wallow in it. It’s enough, isn’t it – to be here, now, with somebody. With Mob.

Mob grips his palm tighter. “Are you happy now?” he asks, his tone familiar, searching and calm.

“Yeah,” Reigen replies. “I am.”

Over dinner he tells Mob about the job, about Minagi and how he died without anyone being aware. Mob is fairly clinical about the whole thing, tilting his head.

“How was the rent still being paid?” he asks, his chopsticks halfway to his mouth.

“His son was paying a direct debit every month,” Reigen explains.

“And he still didn’t notice that his father had died?”

Reigen shrugs. “Why would he? They weren’t on speaking terms. The landlord didn’t seem to know much more than that.”

Mob looks at his food. “That’s sad,” he says, though there’s no real weight to his voice. Reigen understands. Mob has seen plenty of things that he hasn’t, that he cannot.

“He didn’t mind being exorcised.” Reigen pauses, remembers something from a long time ago. “...Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe we should have found his son–”

“No, I think you made the right call,” Mob interrupts. He looks up, his eyes big and dark and piercing. “You did the right thing, Arataka.”

“Hm.” Reigen stirs his noodles in their broth. “It’s not easy having these powers, huh?”

“They’re nothing special, just something I can do.” Mob is more interested in his meal. “You told me that, remember?”

“I guess I didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“Yes, you did.”

Maybe Mob means that he understands what it is to be human, the beating of hearts and minds – but don’t they all? Experience is exclusive. All lives are different. This is theirs: ghosts, grubby signs, grabbing late-night ramen. It wasn’t always, it won’t always be. It was not Minagi Gendo’s.

They go back to Reigen’s apartment together. Reigen doesn’t ask Mob to come with him this time but he’s glad that he does. He doesn’t want anything tonight but his company and Mob must sense it, that he doesn’t want to be by himself.

He gets himself a glass of water and sits on the sofa in his pyjamas, listening to Mob brushing his teeth in the bathroom. He has his own toothbrush that he leaves here, his own shampoo and shower gel, his own pyjamas. Often Reigen looks at the two toothbrushes side-by-side in the glass, red and blue, like a pair of chopsticks. Sometimes he feels like he’ll never get used to it.

The television is directly in front of him, switched off. He can see the reflection of himself, blurred and grey; recalls the way it warped in Minagi’s apartment when he passed it. This time it does not change, only moves as he does, mirrored. It puts the glass down on the coffee table when he does. The water sways, half-empty, thick and grey. He recalls the dust like mouse-skin floating on the surface. It won’t happen to him, at least not tonight. Mob is here.

Mob comes into the living room in his too-short pjyamas that show too much wrist and ankle. His height surprises everyone, even himself.

“I thought you’d be in bed already,” he says, scratching his neck.

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Reigen gets up, taking the glass. “You go ahead.”

Mob nods, heading past him to the bedroom. Reigen pours the rest of his water into one of his plants and takes the glass to the kitchen, washes it, puts it away in the cupboard. Then he makes his way back to the bedroom, turning off the lights as he goes. Minagi’s apartment was about the same size as this, simple, similar.

Mob is already in bed, his face turned away. Reigen gets in beside him, feeling his solid warmth like a wall at his back, and reaches out to turn off the lamp. Mob rolls over and cuddles up to him; he wraps an arm around him, nuzzles against the back of his neck.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah.” Reigen pats his hand. “Do I seem down?”

“Not down, exactly… Just distant, like something’s bothering you.”

“You’re certainly a lot more observant these days.” Reigen exhales. “I guess… I’m still thinking about Minagi, that’s all.”

“It’s not like you to get hung up on a job,” Mob says sleepily.

“I know.” He almost can’t bring himself to say it. “I guess it’s selfish, I’m not trying to… you know, make it about me, it’s just… I can’t help but think how…” He sighs again, feels Mob squeeze him. “That could have been me.”

“Hmm?” Mob sounds a little more awake now. “You mean… dying like that?”

“All alone, yes. Nobody to even think of checking on me for months–”

“Don’t say stuff like that,” Mob interrupts. He seems a little cagey.

“It was just a thought,” Reigen says. “I’ve been pretty lonely for a lot of my life. It’s different now. I… I actually have friends. I have you.”

“I could say the same,” Mob says. “Who knows what could have happened to me. I might have ended up like Mogami. Like Suzuki.” He’s quiet for a moment. Reigen feels him breathing against the back of his neck.

“...I never told you this,” he says eventually. Reigen feels his stomach sink; sentences that start like that usually aren’t good. “You know when we fought Mogami all those years ago? I went into Asagiri-san’s body to push him out and he trapped me there.”

“Yes,” Reigen says. “Dimple helped out by breaking down the barrier.”

“Yes. I wouldn’t have got out if it wasn’t for him. But… well, Mogami created an entire false world where I had no powers, no family, no friends. You weren’t there, Ritsu didn’t know me. I went to school and came home to an empty house. It was just Minori and her gang bullying me mercilessly and nothing else. I guess in the real world it was only a couple of minutes but to me… it was six months.”

Reigen is quiet for a long moment, letting this settle like sediment. That case was years ago but now it comes back to him with renewed rawness. Mob had been so young then, only fourteen years old.

“I had no idea,” he says eventually.

“I know. I didn’t tell you.”

Reigen touches Mob’s wrist, feels his pulse, thick and slow. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to upset you,” Mob says. Then: “Or… maybe I thought you wouldn’t understand. I was naïve. I’m sorry.”

“Jeez, Mob, you don’t have to apologise for that.” Reigen feels him snuggle up to him. “Still… I suppose there was nothing I could have done about it, anyway.”

“No,” Mob agrees gently. “And we saved Asagiri-san. I guess she was lonely, as well. Mogami-san, too; Suzuki-san, Serizawa-san, Dimple. Me. You. Nobody wants to be alone, do they?”

Reigen pats his hand again. “You’re an old soul, aren’t you, Mob?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means… you’re like a wise ancient master in the body of somebody much younger. You’ve been like this since you were a kid.”

“So you should have been calling me ‘Shishou’,” Mob mumbles in his ear.

“Maybe.” Reigen yawns. “Too late now.”

“It’s never too late for anything,” Mob says. His voice is faint now, almost asleep.

“Mmm,” Reigen agrees, closing his eyes. “Maybe not.”

Tomorrow, he thinks, he’ll get the address of Minagi’s son from the landlord. He’ll go and see him himself, tell him about his father, how he wished he would come. Maybe he’ll bring Mob, who sees the way the world turns differently to everyone else. A matter for the morning, in any case. For now the world is still – or, at least, the one made up of the two of them and all their choices.

There’s a crack in the curtains, letting in a yellowish thread of light. Reigen uses the very last grains of his borrowed power to close them completely, exhausting it, and then he settles down and goes to sleep, Mob’s arm thrown over him, warm and heavy and safe.