Chapter Text
you wanted to touch his hands and lips
and this means
your life is over anyway
[Richard Siken]
“What are you going to do?”
Reigen frowns, unwrapping his ice lolly. It’s a stinking hot day and he can barely function, much less think. Besides, it’s not like Mob to be so… talkative. If you can call it that.
“Eh?”
He looks at the older man, who is – of course – all in black, god knows how he can stick it in this weather. Mob is fiddling with a small carton of milk, his large fingers fumbling with the child-sized straw. They’re sitting side-by-side on the bench just outside the Family Mart they often frequent, a favourite haunt of theirs. They’re a familiar sight to locals by now: a large gloomy-looking man with a bad bowl-cut and a blonde teenager in a boring old gakuran. Reigen has been following Mob around for the best part of seven years. The truth is that he’s not so little anymore.
“I mean,” Mob mumbles, concentrating on his carton, “you’ll graduate soon.”
“Yeah?” Reigen shrugs. “I’ll go to university. I already got a place.”
“I know.”
Mob finally manages to finagle the straw into the tiny hole in the carton. Reigen watches him bring it to his mouth and start to drink. Strawberry, pale pink, with cute little cartoon fruit all over it. It’s meant for a kid and Mob is so hilariously huge, so comically sombre. Three big gulps and the carton begins to compact inwards, hollowed out. Reigen is eighteen and has accepted the fact that he’s probably not going to get any taller. He goes back to his ice lolly, licking it thoughtfully.
“I guess I’ll have a little more free time than I do now,” he adds carefully. “Between lectures, I mean. We can finally start our ghost-hunting business.”
“Arataka, we are not starting a ghost-hunting business,” Mob says flatly.
“You’re wasting your talent, Mob.” Reigen exhales.
“For the last time, it’s Kageyama-san,” Mob scolds – or tries to. He looks scary but he hasn’t got it in him. Life’s already kicked the shit out of him. “O-or Shigeo-san, if you absolutely must.”
“I like Mob,” Reigen says. “It’s cute. Besides, you won’t let me call you ‘shishou’.”
“I’m not your teacher. I’m not a master of anything.”
“Guess not.” Reigen side-eyes him, then smacks him on the shoulder. “Jeez, lighten up. I get that you always look like you’re attending a funeral but come on. I’ll still have time to hang out with you, okay? Even if it is just sitting on this bench.”
“Yeah,” Mob says again. He tosses his empty carton into the bin, a perfect shot. He rarely uses his powers so Reigen doesn’t think he cheated. “But I’ll understand if you… you know…”
“What?” Reigen snorts. “Make some friends? Hang out with people my own age?”
Mob looks at his feet. “I think you’re unpopular by choice, Arataka.”
A gang of boys from Reigen’s high school walk past them, gakuran jackets slung over their shoulders, laughing, jostling. He recognises them but he doesn’t know their names. They go into the shop without acknowledging either of them and Reigen nods.
“Maybe,” he agrees. “You weren’t?”
“Not by choice. It was… difficult for me to fit in, even with a popular brother.”
“Tch. “Popular”. None of that shit matters when you’re an adult.”
Mob’s mouth quirks up a little in the corner – the closest he gets to a smile. “How would you know?”
“I’m good at studying people. I know how the world works.” Reigen watches the boys from his school through the glass as they paw through magazines in search of things they shouldn’t be looking at. “Us outcasts gotta stick together, Mob. You’re cool as hell. You could really be something special if you wanted.”
“I don’t use my powers unless I need to,” Mob counters. “They’re dangerous.”
“Yeah, I know.” Reigen yawns. “Still a waste. Data entry. You’re not even good with numbers.”
“Well, what are you going to be?” Mob asks softly.
“I dunno.” Reigen aims his lolly stick at the bin and misses. He heaves himself up to retrieve it, his school shirt sticking to his back. He’s aware of Mob watching him, his only audience.
“Somebody,” he says.
Mob frowns. “What does that mean?”
“Ugh, Mob, you’re so dense. Of course you don’t get it.”
Mob shrugs. “Why don’t you just… try to be a good person?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Reigen picks up his bag and jacket. “Where’d you hear a crock of shit like that?”
Mob looks up at the clouds beginning to gather overhead. “I don’t remember,” he says.
Reigen has known Mob since he was eleven years old. They met by chance outside the train station one rainy afternoon when Mob, looking his typical imposing joyless self, stood next to him and said, quite tactlessly, “There’s a curse on your back”.
Of course, any sane eleven year old would have politely nodded and moved away; Reigen, on the other hand, found that this explanation was pretty uncanny, given the awful day he’d just had. He not only accompanied this strange man down a deserted alleyway but was, in fact, the orchestrator of the detour, demanding that Mob remove the curse. Mob did so, somewhat reluctantly, and Reigen did have to admit that he instantly felt a hell of a lot better. Shortly thereafter he began his campaign of following Mob around, begging him to teach him to use psychic powers, pleading for his help hunting ghosts, suggesting that they start a supernatural business of some sort, all things that Mob stoutly refused to have any part in. He was very frustrating, not to mention wasteful, and Reigen almost gave up on him quite a few times over the years, but… there was something about him, all the same, that made Reigen like him. He had a funny sort of contradiction about him, pitiful yet majestic all at once, rather like a lion in a cage at the zoo. He didn’t react or rise at all to being called pathetic; not that Reigen actually meant it but he supposed people calling you names didn’t really matter when you could bend a truck in half with your mind.
Mob had a very basic boring job doing data input at the accountancy firm his brother worked for. This was the longest-lasting in a whole string of shitty jobs that Mob seemed incapable of holding down for any significant amount of time. He was useless at most things, it seemed, and always managed to get himself fired. He appeared to accept this as his lot in life, never complaining, which Reigen found somewhat depressing. He didn’t know much about Mob’s past but it seemed like he just had absolutely no fight left in him. At thirty-two, he was the same as ever, content to waste away sharing a job and apartment and life with his brother.
Reigen had met Kageyama Ritsu precisely twice and did not like him. The feeling was mutual. Where he saw Ritsu as a sour-faced stranglehold on Mob’s potential, Ritsu saw him as a time-wasting nuisance who Mob was too polite to say fuck off to. Reigen supposed he was just being protective – it was clear which of the Kageyama siblings had the more dominant personality – but that didn’t mean he had to be nice to him. Mob had once confessed (most unlike him to gossip) that Ritsu had always wanted psychic powers of his own but never managed to manifest them and Reigen could see how this must be frustrating to someone like Ritsu, who seemed to have pretty much everything else going for him. Still, he treated Mob kindly, shielding his ineptitude, allowing him to live with him, and Reigen supposed that probably made him an okay brother, if nothing else. He didn’t have any siblings of his own so he wouldn’t really know.
Anyway, Mob seemed pretty stubborn about not getting on board with Reigen’s master plan to use his powers for the Forces of Good so that was that on that.
For now, at least.
Reigen graduates and goes to a local university and not much changes. He and Mob still meet up a few times a week and sit on their bench and talk about nothing. Reigen comes to terms with the fact that he has stopped growing, stretching his legs out and observing that Mob’s are longer, that his feet are bigger. Once he tries to put his head on his shoulder but Mob shrugs him away. Reigen is used to people keeping him at arm’s length and is not offended. He wishes that Mob was more open, more accessible, but he respects that he’s not. He can talk enough for the two of them, anyway.
“You should come visit my dorm room, Mob.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To see it. It looks cool. I have some nice posters and some plants, too. You like plants, right?”
“I do.”
“So you should come.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m thirty-two years old.”
Reigen shrugs. “You don’t look it. Besides, not all university students are eighteen. Some are older. Who would know?”
“I’m not going to your dorm room, Arataka.”
Reigen grins. “Fine,” he says, closing his eyes. He knows when to concede. He looks at his watch. “Wanna get some takoyaki?”
Mob exhales, stretches, the sinew in his big body swelling like a panther’s. “Alright,” he says without much feeling.
Reigen has stopped asking him if he wants to go look for ghosts and yokai, even though all these years later that’s still the real question on the tip of his tongue. He knows Mob thinks he’s grown out of it.
He hopes he will soon. He’s almost nineteen, after all. It’s about time he started taking life seriously. That’s what everyone tells him.
The time passes quickly. Reigen is naturally academic, or at least possesses the skills to be good at learning without trying too hard, and his grades are high. In his final year, companies come to the university to hunt for promising candidates and he gets several offers, which he laments about to Mob outside the Family Mart as they share steamed buns. He’s twenty-two years old and Mob, handsome and doe-eyed as ever, is thirty-six. He never did visit Reigen’s dorm.
“What are you complaining about?” Mob asks. “You’re lucky to get so many offers. I didn’t get any. I barely passed even with Ritsu’s help.”
“But they’re all for boring companies,” Reigen moans. “Three are for insurance, for god’s sake. And one was data entry – I know that’s what you do but I’d rather jump off a bridge.”
“Well,” Mob says calmly, “was there anything that seemed less dull than that?”
Reigen sighs. “Well… there was one sales one. I’m good at talking to people, I guess I could be okay at that. It was selling water coolers or something.” He tips his head back, looking up at the clear night sky. “Ugh, I’m not ungrateful or anything, I just… I dunno, always wanted to do something more interesting than selling insurance. I want to be somebody.”
“You don’t have to take any of them,” Mob says. “But if it’s a good position and salary—”
“Heh. You sound like my parents.” Reigen straightens, looking right at him. “You sound like your brother.”
Mob stares back him, his dark eyes unblinking. “You’re lucky,” he repeats. “No company wanted me. I’m terrible at holding down the most basic job. I got a job stacking shelves at a supermarket after I graduated and I couldn’t even keep that for three months. Even if it’s not what you want, you’re being given a good opportunity.”
“I know,” Reigen says, looking at the ground. “…I guess I’ll think about it.” He sighs again, deeper. “I just… don’t want to get trapped.”
“Trapped where?” Mob asks without expression.
“I don’t know.” Now Reigen slides down the bench, feeling sulky. Mob doesn’t seem to have much ambition, no wonder he doesn’t understand, but Reigen has no idea how to say this without sounding unkind. “I’ll think about it,” he says again.
“Okay,” Mob says.
Reigen looks slyly at him. “You still don’t want to start a ghost-hunting–?”
“Absolutely not,” Mob interrupts.
Reigen shrugs, not letting his disappointment show. Mob’s dismissal hurts more this time than it ever has before. This is because he’s running out of time, graduation looming on his horizon like gloomy grey sun.
“Suit yourself,” he says softly.
In the end, he takes the water cooler job. He told himself that he wasn’t going to, that he’d carve out his own path to glory, but pressure from his parents and university advisors eventually wears him down. He watches his classmates take offers or stress themselves out over interviews and realises that he has to make a decision. He wants to be somebody but the world won’t wait for him to work out who that somebody is.
His parents are so proud of him for getting himself a Good Job straight out of university that they buy him his first suit as a graduation gift. It’s an expensive brand, dark blue, with a green silk tie to complement it. He puts it on in the morning of his first day, looking at himself in the grimy half-length mirror of his tiny rented apartment. He’s never owned a suit before and he barely recognises himself. Despite himself, he thinks he likes it. His mother told him to part his hair and comb it neatly to create a good impression but, when he tries it, it looks terrible, war flashbacks of Photo Day at school. Instead he combs it back, hoping it will stay put long enough for his employee photo to be taken. He takes a selfie just before he heads out and sends it to Mob with a message saying First day! Wish me luck!. Mob knows he took the job, of course. He was the first person he told. Reigen can’t help but feel that Mob is relieved that he settled for it in the end.
Good luck, is Mob’s predictable reply. Not even an emoji to go with it. Classic Mob. A pause, then: Ritsu says good luck too
Reigen snorts. Yeah, right. He knows Ritsu is ecstatic that he took this job, if only because he thinks it’ll stop him from pestering his big brother – if you can call sitting on a public bench three times a week “pestering”.
[“We’ll still hang out,” Reigen had promised last night.
“You might not have as much time now,” Mob replies. “Corporate jobs are tough. You’ll have long hours and work commitments.”
“You’re important to me,” Reigen says, frustrated. He doesn’t know how else to say it, not in a way that Mob will decipher, accept.
Mob gives as close to a smile as he’s capable of. “Still,” he says, “I’ll understand.”]
Reigen walks to the station and gets on the train, becoming part of the sour-smelling crowd crammed in door-to-door, the first of many mornings to come. Maybe they can tell that he’s fresh meat by the factory creases in his suit, the crispness of his collar, the cheapness of his cologne. He clings to the rail as the train sways, his knuckles white.
[“Are you nervous?” Mob asks.
“No,” Reigen replies, lies. He tries to put his hand on Mob’s but Mob, of course, pulls away, goes in on himself like an anemone. “I-I bought a book about being a successful salesperson,” Reigen adds hastily, coughing, trying to cover it up. “It seems easy enough. I know I’ll be good at it.”
“I’m sure you will be,” Mob says gently, clenching his fists on his knees. “Tell me something you learnt.”
“The key to walk-in sales is a smile,” Reigen parrots off.
“What does that mean?”
“It means people will buy whatever you want them to as long as you seem kind.”]
He repeats it now, muttering it under his breath. It’s on a Post-It note on his bathroom mirror, reminding him, rewinding him. Now his life begins. He’s been very lucky to get such an opportunity. He has to take it seriously.
He’s not the only newbie. There are six of them, harvested from nearby universities, four young men and two young women. They’re all in brand-new suits and skirts, gleaming shoes, fresh lipstick, sleek hair. The girl next to him in their lengthy induction smells sickly-sweet, too much perfume. He almost zones out the way he used to do in lessons and lectures, catches himself, forces himself to focus. He makes sure to bow as low as the rest of them do but not a fraction more.
They get their photos done and printed onto pass cards, which are hooked onto lanyards and hung around their necks like nooses. They are given a tour, following their guide in silent single file, hatchlings imprinting on the first figure of authority they see. Nobody asks any questions, observing the rows and rows of desks filled up with employees on phones. Their guide, a senior manager, explains that they’ll be on the phone most of the day, making and taking calls, selling contracts, taking bulk orders. There are catalogues to help them get to know the water coolers but the quicker they learn about the different models, the better. It sounds more natural if they know it off by heart, gives the customer more confidence in buying.
One by one, they are dropped off at their desks. Reigen is the last-but-one to be shown to his, which has small panels to give it the vague function of a cubicle. On his way down the aisle, he did notice that the other employees stick things to these flimsy panels, postcards, photos, Post-Its of their own. Perhaps they give it a small sense of personality, individuality. He imagines standing in the middle of this room and telling these people he wants to be somebody, knows that they would laugh. Here you are just some body, yet another.
He sits at his desk, adjusts the swivel chair, looks through the catalogue. If he takes it home, he can learn it all quickly, probably in a week or less. He peels off a Post-It note and writes out his memorised mantra carefully, sticking it to the panel on his left. Then he leans back in his chair, playing with his lanyard, and looks around his workstation, calculating the size of the space the world has allowed him.
It’s not much bigger than a coffin, he thinks – and nowhere near big enough for somebody like Mob.