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Makima was kind. Her hands were gentle, careful against his as she brushed his damp skin dry with a pink stained towel. Mob never liked to watch—never liked to see the cloth change color, the way it broke from a clean white into a spotty, uneven, bleeding red. A red that dripped down the front of his shirt and spattered across the sink and coated his fingers. A red that matched the strands of her hair, the color of his eyes.
He would watch her hands instead, letting his sight haze over and thoughtlessly follow the slow movements as she helped clean him up. Her hands were soft, for the most part. Only a slight callous on her index fingers, which reminded Mob of the ones he used to get after spending too long writing with a pencil, working late on homework.
He hadn’t been to school in a while. Makima said she’d teach him everything he needed to know, and so far she'd taught him so many things. He trusted her.
He trusted her—her caring hands and sweet voice and little smiles.
“You did good today, Mob.” She spoke to him so nicely, with a mellow voice that reminded him of how his mother used to sound. The memory made his eyes clear, refocusing and adjusting, this time bringing his gaze up to stop at her face. Her smile was small, as it usually was, just a controlled tilt of lips, but Mob still thought it made her look pretty.
She smiled at him often, but he’d learned not to look too deeply at her eyes. Her smile was beautiful, a gift reserved for doing well and making her happy, but her eyes were pits of deep water. They never quite reached the same emotion, and Mob could sense himself drowning each time he gazed too sincerely. He wanted to find something there someday, some semblance of emotion—love, joy, pride—but every time, no matter what he said or did, how he behaved or who he hurt, all he saw was nothing.
None of it mattered. There was only ever an unwavering stillness, nothing close to content. It was a constant look of firm dedication at one thing and one thing only. And Mob already knew what that was.
“Mob?” This time he did look at her eyes, meeting them with his own soul on display. “Were you listening? You were lost in your head during the drive back, too.”
Makima set the towel down on the sink, and Mob let his arms drop back to his sides. Her brows pinched together, just slightly, then raised the back of her hand to Mob’s forehead, pushing his hair aside to test the heat of his skin. He heard the low hum in her throat, one she did while thinking.
She lowered herself to her knees in front of him, her hands reaching out to grasp his shoulders, keeping him in place—keeping him focused with the weight of her palms.
“You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you, Mob? You can talk to me, whether it’s good or bad.” She sighed, and smoothed down the folds on his shirt. Makima was always gentle, even when she was cruel—especially, when she was cruel. Her words never lost their charm, their angelic articulation that wore all the worry from his bones down to an invisible ache.
All Mob could do was nod.
Makima stayed silent for a moment, eyes searching his blank expression with a refined scrutiny, then he felt a fingers on his face, caressing the plane of his cheek.
“I wish I could hear what you think about, sometimes. Your mind is such a mystery to me, and you never tell me anything anymore, but I know you’d talk to me if you needed to.” He tore his eyes away, unable to hold the intense gaze any longer for a lack of breath. “I trust you, Mob. You mean so much to me.”
He’d heard this all before. The way her tone quiets, and settles into a tender sentiment.
I trust you, Mob.
I care about you, Mob.
This is for the best, Mob.
The words felt like nothing. He felt like nothing.
He nodded again.
“Of course, Shishou. I’m just tired. Really.”
She smiled, again. He said the right thing. Her scrutiny would look elsewhere.
But his hands were still pink, and he remained stained.