Chapter Text
Seasoning City had been broken and re-glued together so many times—like a vase someone kept sticking on the same wobbling wood table, then kept knocking over after every reset attempt—that it would be a miracle for it to look the same as Mob remembered.
And yet it did. The sum of its parts, for as much or as little as these individual parts had shuffled over time, amounted to a general picture that was unswayed by four years of progress and damage. Buildings stacked and slotted together neatly as shelves assembled by an expert. Foliage of all sorts, plants and trees growing between spaces in the concrete, flowers in boxes set parallel to the lines and rows of buildings, made peace with the tarmac—respectfully following the edges and binding over broken parts with healthy green stems. The net of power wires sagged in places, but overall appeared to bear the burden of gravity with no greater fatigue than they had years before. Now, as the world sank deeper into winter, cold was a preservative, the atmosphere itself a refrigerator.
Yes, it was indisputable: if the city had aged, it had done so gracefully. As the day faded, sunset spilled red and orange over the milky web of clouds that had blotted out the sun and greyed most of the daylight. Building windows reminiscent of submarine portholes revealed yellow lights blinked sleepily on like fireflies. In front of some, curtains swished closed. Workers and patrons emptied into the streets, shoe heels slapping against the pavement, messenger bags at hip-length brushing tweed and linen fabric and making a shush-shush sound.
At least one thing was different, though.
Mob, bundled in a long black coat and with his oversized red scarf tucked over his mouth, had easily traced the path from the train station to the Spirits and Such Consultation Office. Wind nipped at his cheekbones and the sliver of his wrists that were exposed when he jammed his hands into his coat pockets. He was rewarded for his ability to remember the way by the Spirits and Such office sign, which jutted out from other buildings like it was waving “hello.” But, as if to underscore the way that such a “hello” could be ironic, the blinds were drawn shut, and there was no light to be seen through the slats that would signal anyone was ready to welcome clients. There was no “welcome home.”
The idea made Mob’s throat constrict. A certain kind of anticipatory anxiety had lingered with him on the train. Before then, even, if he were honest—as soon as he thought about coming back. He had learned more than a thing or two about coming to peace with certain aspects of himself, but to come to peace with abstract fears like the one that wrapped around him like a cloud on the train was another matter altogether. Now, there was a chance that there simply was no such thing as Spirits and Such Consultation Office anymore.
Yet that concept seemed impossible in its own right. It should still be there, even if it was something else or was now called a new name. The fundamental spirit of the thing would surely remain. Reigen always found a way to make things work, and hadn’t he promised Mob that in the future, no matter his career path, that Mob was welcome to walk whatever path with him?
There would, of course, be another chance to check tomorrow.
***
Mob walked to one of the restaurants that he often haunted with Reigen after they had finished meeting with clients, or waiting around the office for clients. It opened during his last year of high school and lacked a theme like counterparts that Reigen accused of being gimmicky. Derivative. Not this restaurant, though. Founded by a chef who broke from her previous employment in another city, seeking to follow her dream to cook what she preferred and no longer operate beholden to the commands of a chain restaurant, the restaurant served an unpredictable assortment of foods that all had some familiar redolence in the aftertaste of every dish. Mob knew all this because the owner had spoken to him and Reigen once, stopping at their table after they had come to the restaurant three times within a week; Mob found her story inspirational.
Like the city itself, the restaurant was well-preserved. So well-preserved, in fact, that there was a familiar figure at the old booth that Mob thought for a moment might be a ghost or figment of a hopeful imagination. A halo of golden hair, bright not because of the overhead lighting but in spite of it, and the faint outline of a shoulder slouching into grey suit fabric.
At the sight, Mob lingered for only a moment. Then he hurried over, the rush of steps and swish of his shoelaces skipping over the tile floors. His blurted proclamation came out more earnest and loud than he intended:
“Shishou!”
Reigen blinked up at him, eyes wide as saucers. Same purple tie. Same thin frame. He was as familiar to Mob as the city. Approaching him at this booth was like stepping into a well-worn pair of shoes or pulling on a familiar, favorite old coat. A thousand versions of Mob had come up to a thousand versions of Reigen, just like this. The past fanned out all around them like hands of a clock going around. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
There were dark circles under Reigen’s eyes. The low light of the restaurant, though, smudged or softened whatever other marks time might have left.
“Oi, Mob!” was the ready, easy reply. “Fancy seeing you here. It’s been a while!”
Like with the Spirits and Such sign—the faintest hint of something sardonic, lingering at the edge. Maybe. Mob swallowed hard. He pulled his scarf away from his mouth. “I’ve been busy,” he managed.
Reigen’s smile, like his response, seemed at ease. He tented his fingers, set his elbows on the table like he assessing a client.
“Been getting popular at that university of yours?” Reigen asked. Confident, assured, no matter how tired he looked. He delicately arched an eyebrow.
Mob considered this. “Well. No, not exactly,” he decided. “And I just graduated.”
There was a lot to say about university, and also nothing at all. Mob felt the way he did when he had first started trying to run. A lot of old feelings had come back to him lately. Old concerns about where he fit in the world, things he had pushed past and run through and swallowed and brushed off. Some battles were not simply won, a book easily closed. Some battles were ongoing. This was something that Reigen surely understood. Mob was about as old as Reigen was when he had founded Spirits and Such.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Mob, struggling to breathe, unwound one circumference of the scarf around his neck. Reigen broke from his assessing posture to bring the short glass to his lips. A lemon bobbed at the surface with a few globes of ice. Mob watched Reigen take a long sip, until the lemon and ice were at the bottom and there was nothing of the liquid left, and when Reigen set the glass back down, he prompted, “Sit. For old time’s sake, if you have the time.”
“I have the time,” Mob said softly.
He sat. Unwound another circuit of the scarf around his neck. One of the ends draped on the edge of the table, and when Mob glanced up and found he couldn’t hold Reigen’s stare, he occupied himself by undoing the scarf’s last twist and then beginning to fold it into neat squares. Do you remember you were the one who gave me this scarf? Mob wanted to ask—but he did not.
“You look different. But also the same.” A pause. “Eh, never mind. I can’t say for sure,” Reigen said, sounding a little sour. “If you haven’t been getting popular, have you been keeping up with your running?”
Mob folded the scarf into the tiniest square he could manage, then set it across his knees. “Yes, Shishou.”
“Now, now. Don’t be calling me that,” Reigen said, not unkindly.
He picked up the short glass like he was going to take another sip. Mob watched as Reigen, finding it empty, brought it to his mouth anyway, emptied a few of the ice cubes onto his tongue, and crunched. The sound of him biting down on the ice cubes was loud, and Reigen grimaced.
Mob lowered his eyes. “Is Spirits and Such still open?” he asked. Held his breath.
“Of course. The people of Seasoning City still need the help of star psychic Reigen Arataka.” When Mob looked up again, Reigen jutted his thumb at his chest, right over his heart. “Did you stop by the office or something? It was a slow day,” Reigen assured him. “I generously gave our staff a half-day off.”
“Of course, Shishou.”
“I was never worthy of being called that. Mob.”
***
There was much to discuss, and Mob wanted to say many things—ask for advice, make declarations, blurt things. Mostly, though, he managed just silence. He let Reigen order a dish on his behalf, then pay the bill. Reigen, gifted with speech in ways that Mob had learned to appreciate but never replicate, easily filled the downbeats of silence. He told Mob about recent clients, about Dimple and Serizawa and Tome Kurata, who had also stopped working for the office upon graduation from high school but had come to visit just last week, believe-it-or-not. Then:
“Do you want to swing by the office?” Reigen offered, as Mob was unfolding the scarf and preparing to wind it around his neck again. “Dimple started keeping—ah, shall we say, mementos from cases.”
“Mementos,” Mob echoed. His fingernails dug into the fabric.
“It’s probably easier to show you than try to explain.” Reigen drummed his fingers on the table. “Like a collection. Things to remember clients and cases by.”
Mob smiled. “Do you like remembering clients?” He thought of photos from family vacations and tried to imagine Reigen giving similar consideration to cases that came through Spirits and Such.
“It wasn’t my idea. All Dimple’s. I don’t have a reason for wanting to remember clients,” Reigen assured him. “But there’s quite the collection now….”
Admittedly, Mob hadn’t considered Dimple to be sentimental in such a way. But:
“Let’s go,” Mob murmured.