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Foggy mornings had always been an advantage to him.
The enshrouding mist, covering everything that could be in sight— only leaving a blank canvas and a damp feeling in the air. Although it was far from its peak of usefulness today, in battle, such a thing was best used to escape from the opponents.
That was the point of fog, in a way. To isolate the entrapped so that they believed no one was around, was there for them. So that someone could come for them, could deal a finishing blow. Or, alternatively, so that person could be the one to do so.
In a sense, these kinds of mornings nulled the world around. With everyone too busy trying to find their way, the birds chirped quieter, the cars blared less, the common sound of children and families long gone due to the weather. It was different for him; simply put, he was an esper. Should someone approach, he'd know.
There was no one around him, anyway. Besides him, it was empty, and it was better that way.
It's not long before he's proven wrong; In fact, the defier in question was so close it's surprising he hadn't seen them in the first place. Their uniform wasn't the same as his. Black fabric from head to toe, literally nothing else special about it. And they wore white shoes too— If you're going to be forced into a theme, at least make it match.
...I know this person, don't I?
“You there," Teru says. The boy stops, turning on his heel.
When he immediately recognizes the face, he feels stupid. Because it's stupid that Teru didn't realize sooner this was Mob. Of course it was Mob; who else went to Salt Mid, unabashadley sporting a bowlcut, and could completely fade themself from Teru's sixth sense? Only Mob, local poker face, filled with powers only artists could dream of.
“Ah. Hanazawa-kun. It’s been...awhile. How are you?”
“Right,” Teru scoffs, “Hanazawa-kun.”
Oh.
I didn’t do that.
Mob opens his mouth, yet Teru cuts him off, “And you’re...Mob, right? I believe Asagiri's mentioned you before. Salt Mid, right?"
Mob nods. It helps Teru notice his posture— hunched shoulders, hands being wrung together. Must be a nervous habit. "Yeah. That's my school. Or— well, that's obvious. Sorry."
Teru shrugs. "So, Mob, does she bother you often?"
"Yeah," Mob agrees, and while Teru wants to believe that Mob relaxes, part of him knows Mob didn't, "It's...frustrating, I don't hate her but I just want to get on with my day. Ah, but maybe I'm getting her way without realizing it...ah. I guess, uh, that's my fault."
"Probably," Teru agrees, and his own words offend himself, "She's said something like that."
"I'm sorry. I'll try to tell her that— if...if you see her, could you maybe mention it, too, Hanazawa-kun?" Mob asks.
Teru frowns. "I don't do favors," he says, "And we aren't friends. Stop saying -kun as if there's anything between us. We don't know each other."
But we are friends, Teru thinks. And it’s been so long since we haven’t been friends.
“Oh,” Mob says, looking down, “I’m sorry.”
Teru sighs; Instead of acknowledging Mob, he walks to the side of the river, sitting down so that he's just barely not touching the water. When Mob finally follows and sits nexts to him, Teru begins to speak.
"You see the fog?" Mob nods. "It comes from the river. Some sort of evaporation, I believe. Water going back into the sky, basically. Pretty, isn't it?"
"Yeah." For a dismissive response, Mob stares at it like a child full of wonder. "I never knew it came from the river."
Teru blinks. "Have you ever drowned, Mob?"
They go quiet. Mob stares at Teru as if he had just asked if the other had ever drowned, which is what had just happened. Teru stares at Mob as if he had asked a completely normal question, awaiting a response. They stare. And they stare for a minute. And another minute more, until Mob shakes his head, "No. It sounds painful."
"Ready to try it out?"
What?
Grabbing the back of Mob’s head, Teru shoves it beneath the surface, watching as the water begins to bubble.
One.
Mob shifts beneath his hand. He’s trying to escape, but all Teru does is shove his head deeper.
Two.
Ah, now his shirt sleeve is wet. Damn.
Three.
Mob’s struggling harder now; There’s more movement, he’s half-thrashing to be freed. It's the panic setting in, the realization that he can't breathe. The inescapable terror of having no control.
Four.
“It doesn’t feel nice, does it?”
Five.
He pulls Mob’s head out of the water— The gasps that rack Mob’s body as he shakes look just as painful as the process that got him there. Water comes out of his throat as Teru drops him to the floor, an odd thud noise as Mob's head hit's the grass. Wincing hard as he continues to cough, Mob reaches for his neck, holding it as if doing so would suddenly make this all easier. But it's not. It's not going to be easier. It never will.
He’s in pain, Teru realizes, Oh god, he’s in pain, and I did this.
It takes a bit— a lot longer than the time he was in the water— before Mob's back to normal, excuse the soaked head. He still shivers. In the way he shakes, in the way he wraps his arms around himself. He shivers, uncomfortable and lost. Part of him wonders how a boy so powerful could look so pathetic.
“First time?” Teru asks. Mob doesn't say anything, but it was easy to tell from his reactions that yes, it was likely his first time. "Usually they leave you in for longer."
Oh god. I’m sorry— oh god are you okay— I’m sorry.
Mob snorts; And then he coughs, and gasps, and then he's back to normal. Teru watches as he opens his mouth, as if to say something. He doesn't. Silence leaves his lips, and after a few moments of boring hesitation too long, he shuts it and just looks up at Teru.
Every time he looks, Mob's eyes feel just a little bit more empty.
"I could be going a lot worse on you," Teru decides to say, "You're making it so easy to treat you as if you're a commoner."
"Why are you?" The question takes him off guard, "Why are you going easy on me?"
"What does that mean?" Teru asks, "What the fuck do you mean, 'why are you going easy on me?' Do you want me to do worse?"
"No," Mob says and Teru thinks, almost in unison.
The Teru in control scoffs. Mob's eyes widen as Teru moves his hand, the sudden after effect of Mob floating way too high in the air suddenly apparent. Neither say anything, merely watch each other.
And Teru sighs. "Here. I'll go rougher, since you want it so badly."
Mob drops. His legs catch him first; They crumple, serving as nothing but the receiver of fall damage as something within them snaps. And with nothing for balance, everything else hits the ground, knocking the wind from whatever was inside his body.
It takes about a moment of processing before Mob's in tears. Ugly, but quiet, tears. Streaming down the side of his face, wet and gross and continuous. Teru makes a face of disgust.
Oh god.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Mob asks, but it isn’t a question; it’s a whimper.
I don’t want to, he thinks, I— Mob, I’m so sorry— I don’t want to.
“Because,” is what comes out, “It’s the same situation as Reigen. I never actually cared about you.”
“How did you know about Reigen?” Mob asks, “You weren’t there.”
Teru scoffs, a thought of remorse blatantly ignored by somebody that definitely was not him, “Because it was true of everyone,” he says.
“Dimple only wanted to use you for your powers,” He takes a step towards Mob, “Ritsu only ever used you to make him feel better about himself,” another step, “Tsubomi only cared because of your powers,” one more, “Hell, even Tome only used you for her stupid club,” he stops.
And he grabs Mob— by the hair— yanking him so they met eye to eye. “Nobody’s ever cared,” Teru says, “And they never will.”
He let’s go, watching as Mob’s head hits the ground. Mud smears against his cheek- it's dark and wet and grimy and if nothing else, let me apologize pLEASE—
But Mob lies there. He’s stopped. He does nothing; no fidgeting, no ragged breaths, no tears streaming down the face in pain. No coughing, no reaching for his neck, no sniffling through his pain. He just lies there.
He looks dead. It's hard to say if it's the kind of rotting corpse dead, or the child's doll turned into vengeful spirit dead, but he's somewhere in the spectrum and even anywhere near such a thing meant danger. He barely moves, and Teru wonders if he's afraid to.
You did this, he remembers, It doesn't matter if it wasn't exactly you; It'll stay as trauma.
This is all you, Teru. Don't act as if this never could've happened. The reason it's happening in the first place is because it's a possibility.
How could you ever make up for this?
You did this, Teru. And there will be no way to make up for it.
Not when it's Mob. Not when, of all people, you hurt Mob.
Teru— the Teru who actually seems to have hold of his body— ignores the thoughts. Instead, as if to add on, or perhaps just to torment the thought, Teru brings his leg back; both his internal being and Mob’s external flinch as foot connects with gut.
It’s a rough sound, hearing brittle ribs crack in just close enough to the wrong way.
Mob gasps in pain; It's sharp, a desperate gasp for whatever oxygen his body can get ahold of. He shakes as the breathing becomes less and less consistent, more ragged and torn and offbeat. Disorderly is the word. He's heaving for whatever he can get, and by god, the world offers him very little.
It's sort of painful to watch. A helpless, suffocating boy on the ground, clutching his chest and struggling to even so much as survive at this point. Mob had been so easy to break Teru couldn't help but wonder if Mob had ever tried not to, or if he had just given in without argument?
He needs help.
"You're not very strong," Teru comments instead, "Maybe try working out more." And he laughs— he has the audacity to laugh— before turning and leaving.
"It could do you some good."