Chapter Text
He doesn’t remember when he started leaving food out for the stray. It just worked its way into Reigen’s routine at some point. He’d left old takeout bags on his porch one night, meaning to drag them to the trash when he left for work in the morning, and when he’d woken up the bags had been dug through and picked clean. The first thing he felt was guilt- he wasn’t exactly the most organized man in the world, sometimes forgetting about and allowing food to rot in his fridge before he remembered to toss it, so the trash hadn’t been pretty. He’d left a small plate of fresh rice out the next night, as an experiment and apology to whatever animal had been subjected to his awful food, and sure enough the bowl was empty come morning time. Apology accepted.
It’s almost unconscious now. On his way out of his apartment in the mornings, he leaves a piece of his breakfast on the small plate next to his front door. On his way back from work, the scraps are always gone, and he leaves a few pieces of whatever takeout he’s picked up on the way home as dinner. That’s always gone in the mornings, too. It’s a straightforward routine, and hell, being single and nearing his thirties, Reigen likes the feeling of being depended on.
He figures it’s a shy cat. He hasn’t seen it, so it could just as easily be a raccoon or maybe a nosy neighbor who doesn’t want roaches near the already dingy apartments. But he pictures a big, sleek tabby in his mind when he thinks about the animal that is coming and taking the food he leaves out. Something elegant. He’d only had a cat once before, a small fluffy thing that really belonged to his older sister, but whenever she was out Reigen would let himself into her room to play with it. He had a feeling it liked him more, but their secret friendship and Reigen’s only experience with a pet ended when his sister moved out and the little cat went with her.
It isn’t picky, whatever this creature is. Always eating what he leaves out, and never wastes even as much as a crumb. Reigen wishes he could afford some better food for the animal. Whether it be some cheap cans of wet food or kibble from the small market across the street, but he barely has enough to make ends meet himself, let alone treat a mystery animal. So, the little scraps of meat and steamed rice will have to do for now until the business picks up. If that ever happens.
He’d even left an old blanket out once, way at the beginning of their secret arrangement, hoping to coax the animal to come cuddle up and sleep by the food and maybe start the long journey to trusting him. But when he stepped out the next day, the blanket was gone, and he chalked it up to his neighbors mistaking it for garbage and tossing it out. Sure, the blanket was losing threads and wasn’t exactly the same color it was when he bought it anymore, but it wasn’t just garbage. But the neighbors are orderly people, an older husband and wife, always neat and collected. Always looking down their noses at Reigen’s messiness with disdain during the spare chances he passes them in the dim hallway. Their clothes are consistently neatly pressed and hair parted, looking like they have somewhere important to be. Look at me all you want , he thinks as they go, but we ended up in the same shithole , and it feels like winning. He hasn’t tried leaving something material out like that again.
He thinks about more than just affording better meals, too. He thinks about leaving some kind of a camera contraption up, and at least being able to put a face to the creature, or maybe staking out his peephole all night just to get a glimpse- like a child promising they’ll guard the living room for signs of Santa on Christmas Eve. But he can never make it that late, sleep always claiming him before long- he’s always been more of a morning person. He daydreams about seeing if he can lure it closer to his home, eventually inside to the warmth. His apartment is nowhere near nice, the cheapest he could find in the area, but it’s home. He’s always felt like he was a cat person, and he wouldn’t mind having a little buddy around, but he’s never been able to afford one from the shelter. Picking one up off the street would be a much easier solution. He wouldn’t feel so bad about not being able to give it a lavish life- anything would be better than the streets, after all. And being that he’s mostly friendless and seemingly incapable of making genuine connections, having an animal for company is on his mind more often than not.
But, he just doesn’t have the time or the energy to put any of his plans into motion yet. Doesn’t really have the time or money to do much of anything except go to work and fail at trying to get people interested in psychics. So, he leaves a piece of bread or whatever he can scrape from his breakfast in the mornings, and in the afternoons he tosses aside some rice and meat. It’s easy, it’s consistent, and at night he dreams of falling asleep with a fluffy tabby cat curled in his lap.
—
Shigeo is hungry. And it sure beats digging through the trash or stealing. He feels a little guilty sometimes, taking food from whatever animal the small plate was intended for, but he’s hungry, and it’s always fresh. It’s not enough to satisfy his full appetite, but it’s a start, and it sure helps supplement if he can’t score a meal for the day.
The man in the apartment with the plate is loud, and stomps his feet when he walks, and sings in the shower. He hums to himself when he walks up and down the creaky apartment stairs. His alarm clock goes off for at least 10 minutes before he even begins to stir. He watches TV for at least 30 minutes before he goes to bed. The old floors groan under his steps, and the pipes squeal whenever water runs.
Shigeo crouches in the abandoned crawl space between the man’s apartment and the hallway next door, clutching his tattered hoodie as close as he can to himself and shivering under his stolen blanket. The crawlspace is always a little damp, the small leaks from the pipes in the walls turning the air dank, and making the chill of the night so much more biting. He listens carefully for the sounds of life to peter out in the apartment, for when it’s safe to move the board covering his entrance and go fetch his evening meal and stretch his legs. He’s learned his food givers routine well, knows what to listen for and the creaks of his floorboard. It’s almost second nature at this point.
He won’t get caught. He’s been doing this long enough. He can’t get caught. Getting caught would mean going back there , to the bad place, and he absolutely will not risk that. So he sits, and waits patiently for the generous man to get bored of whatever reality program he settled on for tonight. He waits for the sound of his 3 light switches clicking off, the deadbolt and chain latching, the creak of the springs from his bed, and then he makes his move.
Shigeo shifts the board silently, using his powers to help him. He can’t afford to make even the slightest mistake, and dropping the board would be a fatal one. He discovered the crawl space by accident, almost 6 months ago now if he’s been keeping track correctly. He had been fresh on the run when he found it, looking for any kind of safe haven, panicked by the sound of quickened footsteps nearing him. They had been chasing him for hours, and there was no end in sight. He’d somehow landed in this old apartment complex, running and weaving through hallways to try to throw them off his trail, chest heaving as he tried to think of his next move. His steam was running out, and they were nearing closer by the second. He’d only meant to lean back on the old wall and struggle to catch his breath for a moment, when he felt the rotted wood paneling give in behind him and he tumbled backwards into the previously covered up crawl space. It felt like a sign from God, and he used what was left of his powers and strength to move the rotted board back into place above him, effectively covering up his position.
It had, miraculously, worked. The pounding footsteps didn’t even bat an eye in the hallway, and kept up their pursuit. Shigeo passed out from exhaustion the moment he was sure they were gone, and woke up to one hell of a back ache and several splinters that needed his attention, but he was safe.
The crawl space has been his home ever since. It’s a decent space, enough room for him to stretch out on the floor to sleep. He has room for his meager canvas bag with a mix of essential things and trinkets, and his makeshift bed (really more of a nest) of stolen newspapers and pieces of found fabric in the corner. He’s even gotten around to decorating, as much as he can, with small rocks and flowers he finds outside littering the baseboards and an occasional newspaper clipping stuck to the wall as best as he can manage. He doesn’t know what they say, but the pictures are nice. And his most prized possession, a small stuffed frog he’d rescued from a dumpster a few days into his successful escape- in almost pristine condition, dressed in corduroy overalls. He’s cleaned it as best he can, and it stands guard at the foot of his bed. He’s taken the time to make a small home out of the crawl space, since he’s never been able to have a place to call home before. Everytime he thinks of the cramped, concrete room he was kept in at the organization- the bare white walls, the harsh fluorescent lights, the windows he was constantly watched from, he picks up a new rock to decorate his room with. To make it feel like his.
He doesn’t know if they’re still after him. Doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to check without risking his freedom, but for right now he’s content. He gets to roam the streets at night, taking in his surroundings, feeling the fresh air and trying so many new things. He climbed trees, dipped into ponds, and sprinted until his lungs screamed for air and sweat rolled down his face. He can spend as much time outside as he wants, feeling the pricks of cold winter wind and the hot summer air. He gets to go home to his own room when the sun starts to rise, pick up some food on his way, and sleep in a space that he’s made his own for as long as he wants. No one bothers him. Even if he passes people on his nightly exploratory strolls, they never spare him a second glance. His hair is finally getting long, no longer kept shaved clean, and rests below his ears. He has clothes that he’s managed to source, albeit rugged, that aren’t thin hospital gowns. He isn’t poked and prodded every other hour, or forced to display his horrible powers to a room of onlookers who hadn’t even given him a name while hooked up to whirring machines. He’s living his own life, and he’s happy.
He’s discovered stars, the moon, and what cold rain feels like when it’s beating on his face. The fact that light can be warm . He’s discovered that complete pitch black is hard to find. Even outside at night, street lamps and nearby buildings illuminate the paths he walks. And if he finds himself off the beaten trail, the night sky somehow provides just enough light for him to see where his feet need to go. He had never had that before. The bright fluorescents that burned the back of his eyelids were his only source of light, and at the same time every single night they shut off, leaving Shigeo in complete darkness. He hadn’t even been able to see his hand right in front of his face with nothing else to do but sleep.
He’s discovered that people wear clothes that aren’t just different sizes of white lab coats, and that people are loud when they talk to each other. That even he can be loud, he’d tested it by howling at the night sky as loud as his throat could manage before it split. No more hushed whispers from the corner of his closed off room. He’s discovered people have names when they speak to each other, and don’t just refer to each other as “doctor,” or numbers. He’s even picked one out for himself, now. A name he heard in passing while he was sprawled out in the grass at a park he’d discovered nearby and listening in on the conversations of passersby on late night walks.
“ Shigeo.”
It stuck out to him. He remembered it long after the people strolled by, and even after he went home when the grass felt too prickly and before the sun rose.
“ Shigeo.”
He’d tested it out a few times by himself, when the man in the apartment next door had left for work and he’d retrieved his breakfast. When he felt confident that no one would hear him practicing saying it out loud. He hadn’t needed words at the organization, had barely even heard his own voice himself. It rolled nicely off his tongue.
“Shigeo.”
He liked it. He liked having a name. Something that was his, that really couldn’t be taken away. Now he was Shigeo, and he felt like more of a person now than he ever had in his entire life.
Life at the organization had no meaning. He had been at the complete will of the people in charge. They gave him his meals- the same bland dish 3 times a day. They monitored exactly what he ate, how quickly, and it was a great call for alarm if he didn’t fully finish his meal, dared to ask for more, or had a day where he didn’t feel like touching it at all. There were constantly eyes on him. Always at least one machine hooked up or a bright light shining overhead. Even if no one was with him in the room, the machines whirred with life and recorded his vitals. Even if there was no presence around him, he felt their eyes through the cameras propped in the corner of his concrete room, as if waiting for him to reveal some big secret.
Wake, be watched, eat. Do what they tell him in a room of horrified onlookers, eat again. Be watched, monitored, tested. Eat. Sleep. Rinse, wash, repeat.
–
Reigen is exhausted.
His business is going nowhere, and he’s having to supplement income with odd jobs advertised in the papers that leave him feeling sore and oftentimes dirty. His brain wanders back to the mound of ignored emails from his mom, offering him office jobs in the area. She sends at least 3 a week.
He’s stopped and grabbing a few drinks on his way home. He tries not to make a habit out of it, and probably only goes once or twice a year. Not that his budget can afford any more nights out, but he likes to pretend it’s because he’s a very put together adult. But today is a special occasion, he’s finally going to call his landlord to break his lease on the office and go back to the corporate world. He had a good run with the small business owner scene, but Spirits & Such can’t seem to get off the ground. And patience only goes so far. Not to mention the debt.
Disappointment is an understatement. He’d really wanted the job to take off, to finally put his mark on the world and prove to his family that he could be somebody. And really, sitting in a boring office job day after day in a cubicle with no windows was going to drive him insane. Just going through the motions in life didn’t suit him anymore. That’s how he’d survived high school, coasted through college, and landed himself at a random sales company with nothing to pride himself for and a hell of an individuality complex immediately after graduation. It was exhausting. But hell, he’d given a taste of freedom the best chance he had, and this was just the comedown. Maybe he needed the reality check.
So, a few pity drinks at the bar and some takeout as he stumbles the rest of the way home before he calls his landlord in the morning is how it’s going to be. Then he’s going to have to suck it up and admit to his mom that she’s right, he does need help, and yea, maybe starting the business wasn't a very good idea in the first place. He’s already wincing imagining how that conversation is going to go, imagining his fathers sneer on the other end of the line. But he pushes onward. Reigen Arataka is nothing if not stubborn, and he’s going to enjoy his last night of independence, dammit.
His parents had never been very sympathetic towards him. Or much of anything, really. They love him in their own, special way, and deep down Reigen knows that. They’d supported him through high school, given him a roof over his head, and paid for half of his now seemingly useless university education. They want to see him succeed, even if their definition of succeeding is a little different than his own. His mom calls on occasion, asking how he’s doing and if he’s eating okay. She updates him on the comings and goings of their family, Oh, Arataka, your father got promoted, and, Your sister is starting her own law firm . And his favorite, Have you been seeing anyone lately? His answers tend to come from a well rehearsed place, a litany of yes , no I hadn’t heard, and no mom, not yet . The phone calls always end up leaving a weird taste in his mouth when she finally hangs up.
But now, his tight family relationships are far from his mind. He’s sitting on a wobbly barstool, popping handfuls of salty peanuts into his mouth when he takes sip after sip and pretends to watch some sports-thing on the various staticky televisions spread around the establishment. This bar is always the same, and even as little as he goes he knows it well. The old, faded posters have never changed, the barstools remain wobbly, the same stations are always playing loudly on the TVs. The only difference Reigen can spot is the ominous water stain on the wall behind the urinal in the bathroom getting slightly larger with time. He doesn’t know anything about sports, and maybe only has about a 20% chance of guessing what game they’re even playing correctly, but he watches anyways. Anything to make him look like he’s not just some loser trying to get as drunk as possible with nothing better to do.
He gives up after a while, deciding it isn’t worth it. He just wasn’t cut out to be a sports guy. Or maybe the laughter and chatter from people around the bar is starting to get to him in ways he would never admit out loud. He chugs the rest of his drink and orders two more right away, wanting more than anything to just go home and wallow in his own self pity.
–
The alcohol has him feeling warm, a little dopey, and in a whole lot better of a mood than before. He clutches the brown paper takeout bag close to his chest, not wanting to risk dropping it in his inebriated state. He went a little overboard on the ordering, getting all of the usual favorites and even throwing in an extra portion of fried rice for the stray. As much as he hates to admit it, a stable income will be nice to have again. He can treat himself more often, and maybe get around to finding out more about whatever animal is hanging by the apartment.
Feeling somewhat okay with the new life he’s internally resigned himself to, he finally stumbles up to his front door. The rest is methodical. He opens the extra rice and dumps it haphazardly into the small plate by the door, grinning to himself and wishing he could see the strays face when it finds the feast he’s left. He heads inside, launching the rest of the takeout onto his countertop and kicking his shoes off while bracing the wall. He shuffles out of some of his clothes, leaving his jacket and tie in a mangled pile next to his shoes. He typically takes the time to hang his jacket up right away so it won’t get wrinkled, but hey, who cares now that he won’t have a job to return to by tomorrow.
Deciding a warm shower will be the perfect start to his evening, he gets some worn pajamas to change into. Current plan: eat his food on the couch and watch TV as late as he pleases. He has nowhere to be tomorrow, and he feels like a grade schooler for how excited he is at staying up late. It’s been a long time since he’s treated himself to a night of complete relaxation, one that isn’t clouded by the stress of his finances or his insecurities. He’s determined to make that happen.
Reigen’s in the bathroom warming up the shower when it happens. He doesn’t realize how drunk he really is, and hasn’t even gotten around to kicking his pants off yet. The ratty bath mat that's at least 10 years old is to blame. Its corner is kicked up, a tripping hazard. The kind of hazard that would be completely fine for sober Reigen to handle- a mild irritant, if anything. But he isn’t sober, and it isn’t fine.
It happens so fast his brain can’t comprehend it. His foot catches the corner of the bath mat, and before he even realizes what’s happening his graceless limbs are tangling together and he’s plummeting to the dirty tile floor. He throws his hands out on instinct, but it’s too little too late. He knows he hears himself cry out. He knows he feels his head smash into the side of the tub, and for a split second, he knows the world goes black.
Then he knows nothing.
—
A sudden crash shakes Shigeo’s crawl space, and he jerks to attention at the unexpected sound. It was loud . He’d been listening carefully to the man’s apartment, after hearing the food dropped, and waiting for his chance to go claim it. He holds his breath, an ivy of panic beginning to coil around his brain. He’s almost expecting a horde of people in lab coats and uniforms to bust in and finally take him away again. But, nothing.
The apartment next door is dead silent.
Shigeo frowns. That isn’t normal. The man that lives there is noisy in everything he does, each footstep reverberates through the floor, he hums and whistles with almost every move he makes. The apartment is never silent unless he’s gone, or asleep, and even then most of the time he snores. Shigeo can’t help the dread that fills him, the innate instinct that something is wrong. The crash sounded bad , and he’s not sure what to do.
He shifts his weight on his heels, anxiety crawling up the back of his throat. He can’t just leave the man there, he’s been the only one to show Shigeo the slightest amount of kindness, even if indirect. The food had helped him out on more than one occasion, and was always something for him to look forward to. Not to mention the blanket, which he’d snatched when he saw it laying there and the nights were getting cold. He owes a lot to that man, probably his whole life at this point. He can’t shake the feeling that something is horribly wrong.
He waits. He waits to see if any of the man’s actual neighbors are going to come out and check on him, but nothing happens. And the apartment is still so silent. No one else seemed to hear the crash at all.
Shigeo pushes himself up with his hands, rubbing his palms together anxiously when he makes it to his feet. He paces a little in his small space, trying to make a plan. Should he go check? Is it any of his business? What if he compromised his only hiding place and it turned out the man was fine? He stops pacing.
What if it wasn’t fine? What if he’s hurt himself badly, and Shigeo was the only one who knew? It would be his fault if the man was injured and Shigeo just left him to suffer. He couldn’t be cruel like that. He’s faced enough cruelty to last a lifetime. He was going to be different.
He curls his hands into fists at his side, and he makes a decision. He slides the board covering his secret entrance to the side and steps into the dim hallway. He’s never seen anyone in this hallway when he’s come out before, but he whips his head around to check just in case. The coast is clear. The board is moved back, and he keeps going.
He stands in front of the shabby apartment door. The chipping paint and rusty door knocker are ominous and uninviting, and Shigeo feels fear grip his insides so harshly he freezes. He knows what going inside could mean. He could lose everything if he’s wrong. Everything he’s learned and worked for these past 6 months would be gone in an instant if he goes back to that place. He reaches a hand up to twist absentmindedly at the ends of his growing hair. Anxiety churns in his stomach, and he feels the disorienting urge to throw up.
But then his eyes move to his feet and land on the small plate. There's a heaping pile of fresh food, like there always is, and it’s still steaming from the heat of being cooked. He feels tears prick the corner of his eyes at the sight, at the emotion that comes with being cared about. He knows what the right thing to do is. He breaks out of his paralyzing fear and moves.
It isn’t hard to unlock the door from where he is. Two seconds and an effortless flick of his hand later, and the old door is swinging open, creaking loudly like it always does before slamming into the wall. Shigeo flinches and steps inside quickly, wanting away from the open hallway, and shuts the door behind him the second he’s in the threshold. Then, he stops.
He has never been inside an apartment before. Never been inside any building outside of the facility and his crawl space, really. It’s nothing like he could’ve imagined. There’s actual furniture littering the space, a couch and a bed with various fuzzy blankets thrown across it. The overhead light is warm, painting everything a nice hue instead of the beating white fluorescent Shigeo associated with being indoors. There’s carpet under his feet, and he takes a distracted moment to wiggle his toes against it and feel the warmth from it. The man has so many things Shigeo almost feels dizzy trying to take it all in. Every surface in his apartment is home to something- a mix of colorful books, potted green plants, dirty dishes, mounds of clothes- and so many objects Shigeo has never even seen before and would never begin to know what to call them.
He shakes his head, forcing his eyes away from the clutter and tries to scan the apartment for any signs of life. There’s nothing in the room of note, so he takes a few unsteady steps into the space, feeling wholly out of place and exposed, like a gangly deer in an open field during hunting season. His legs are shaking, the adrenaline of the situation catching up to his body. He forces himself to swallow the lump in his throat, trying to take a deep breath and willing the nausea away. He peeks his head around the corner where the only hallway is, and a gasp he doesn’t even feel coming jumps from his mouth.
Low and behold, the person he’d dubbed “the man in the apartment next door,” is there. Finally revealed to Shigeo. He’s fairly tall, lean, and soft, light brown fans from his head. He lays sprawled on the floor, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his bare chest. His arms splayed by his head, and a small pool of blood is forming around them and spreading to his sweatpants. His eyes are screwed closed and skin a ghostly pale color, and a thin line of drool spills from his mouth. The shower is still on behind him, and the air in the bathroom is suffocatingly steamy.
Shigeo jumps into action. He’s hurt himself before, learning the ways of the world had its own new set of dangers that were easier learned the hard way. No one had been there to patch him up, so by trial and error he knew how to handle his injuries- he even has one right now, a wound deep in his forearm from an unfortunate tumble in the park a few days ago that landed him on a pile of broken glass. But this was far beyond his reach. He had never seen this much blood in his entire life. His occasional scrapes and bruises pale in comparison.
He grabs the man by the shoulders and wrenches him up as best he can, leaning him against the ceramic bathtub and shutting the shower handle with a quick jerk of his powers. The man is still breathing harshly, and a large, nasty gash is now visible along his temple. Blood still seeps freely from the wound, and Shigeo presses his hands against it. He flails his aura around and finds purchase in a white shirt on the floor of the bathroom. He snatches it and ties it haphazardly around the man’s bleeding skull, making sure it's tight enough to maintain constant pressure and trying to ignore the blood spilling onto his fingers. Dull red instantly starts to color the cloth, and Shigeo feels another wave of nausea hit him at the sight.
The man shifts then, letting out a small hiss, and Shigeo nearly jumps out of his skin. His eyelids flutter, revealing glazed, soft brown eyes. He doesn’t have the strength to keep them open long, only enough to give Shigeo a cloudy,
very
confused look and a small questioning sound before his eyes are rolling up and he’s out again, head lolling to his chest. Shigeo gulps, sweat pricking the back of his neck at the feeling of being so fully seen, but knows there's no time to dwell on that now. The brown haired man needs help as soon as possible, and Shigeo is incapable of handling this himself.
He’s seen you. Crush him.
The thought hits Shigeo like a train and his hands falter. The dangerous words play on repeat in his brain, memories of his days of being told what to do by people who wanted to see him suffer.
No. No. I’m going to be different.
He gets back to his feet, doing his best to wipe the man's blood onto his clothes and off of his hands, trying not to think about how he’s going to have to trash this outfit when he’s finished, forcing his brain to not think of anything except getting this man the help he needs. Using his powers to aid him, he hauls the man to his feet and works an arm around his waist as best he can while draping one of his limp arms across his small shoulders, guiding the two of them out of the bathroom door. Blood drips from Shigeo’s attempt at a bandage onto the floor, leaving a gruesome trail in their wake. Shigeo’s aura wraps around the man, lifting him and easing most of his body weight off of Shigeo. He makes another choked off sound when they start to move, but his eyes don’t open again. The hand resting on Shigeo’s shoulders gives a weak twitch.
Maneuvering to the front door takes almost all of Shigeo’s concentration, but they manage. His aura is multitasking- supporting the man’s weight, moving him forward in pace with Shigeo, knocking the man’s belongings out of the way to make a path to the opening front door as if parting the seas. He’s having to concentrate a lot more than usual. Nowadays, he really only uses his powers to leave his crawl space. After his successful escape from the organization, he wanted to use them as little as possible. He never wants to think about what his powers are capable of doing ever again. It’s his turn for a normal life, after all, but right now he knows he needs to rely on them if he’s ever going to get this man the help he so desperately needs.
Together, they make it out of the threshold of the man’s front door and into the hallway again. Shigeo weighs his options. He’s nowhere near as familiar with the man’s neighbors as he is with his apartment, being that they’re much quieter and seemingly more reserved. But he’s not too keen on hauling the man to a doctor himself, or really revealing himself to another person at all. His goal is to be seen as little as possible.
The man makes another garbled, wheezing noise, and Shigeo sucks in a breath. He can feel more blood dribbling onto his shoulder from the man’s head, the bandage already rendered useless. He hauls them forward until they’re at the unit next door, and props the man up gently against the solid door frame. Once he’s secured in place, Shigeo winds his fist back and slams on the door in quick succession, wanting to get their attention on the first try. He hears a shout from deep inside the apartment, and-
He’s gone.
He’s zipping back to his crawl space before he even registers that his feet are moving. Flinging himself back into the room and slamming the wood paneling shut as quickly as possible, finally letting himself break into gasping breaths when he’s safe inside. His hand clutches at his chest, fisting at the fabric while he heaves, borderline hyperventilating. He had been seen. The fear was crushing him.
He hears the door swing open from the unit, the tenant inside probably gearing up to chase off whoever dared knock on their door so late. He hears them let out a choked off cry of shock, and a frantic “ Reigen? What on Earth?” before the feet are rapidly stomping into action. He hears the sound of more voices, of people shuffling and moving and cries for a hospital getting further away until they eventually fade to silence.
He’d done it.
His chest spasms again, the overwhelming panic taking over him. He rips off his bloodied, ruined clothes and launches them as far across his room as he can, gagging as he desperately tries to rub the drying blood off of his hands, collapsing to his knees. He feels hot, the feeling of sweat pricking his body overwhelming him, but he can’t help being wracked by shivers all the same. He hauls himself to his bed, limbs shaking and burrowing under his blanket and pulling it over his head while he tries to control his breathing, grabbing his frog and shoving his face into it.
It isn’t working. His brain keeps going back to the man- Reigen’s? - eyes meeting him. The moment his life of being invisible ended. He rolls over, getting to his hands and knees and dry heaves over the side of his bed, but nothing comes up, his throat searing itself in the process. The cut on his arm hurts and it feels like the world is caving in around him. He collapses, the shaking in his arms and exertion from his powers catching up to him and becoming too much. He hasn’t used his powers for much since he’s escaped, but being this out of practice is a whole new shock to him. Bitter tears sting his eyes and burn down his cheeks. His various things scattered around his room now float rapidly in the air around him, swirling in a twisting tornado of grief.
He doesn’t know how long he lays awake for, trying to catch his breath and pulling at his hair, feeling the strands and trying to ground himself to them. Eventually his blinks get longer, his breathing evens out and his tear tracks dry. His hands drop from his face and he reluctantly lets sleep come, and tries not to dream of the man’s gaze while he goes under.
—
“Please crush the object in front of you.”
The boy sits, staring blankly at the concrete box placed in front of him. Boredom eats away at the back of his brain. He can crush this in two seconds. And they know that. Why do they keep making him prove it?
“99. Please crush the object in front of you.”
He brings a hand up. No point in stalling now. It’s child’s play, a small burst of his powers and the concrete box is crumbling in on itself instantly. It leaves a mound of refined dust.
The people in the room read the various screens and monitors around them, writing down observations of importance. He doesn’t know what they’re looking for. It’s the same everyday.
There’s several wires connected to his brain, feeding gibberish numbers and diagrams to one big screen displayed in front of the room. He doesn’t know what any of it means. It seems like today is going to be a big day, like the day they’d asked him to crush a car or lift heavy objects and hold them as long as he physically could. There’s a wire going directly into his arm, monitoring his pulse. It stings a little where it brushes his skin.
“We’re ready to move on.”
The sea of lab coats move, and the Man in charge brings forward the boy's next object. A thin wire cage. A small, blue bird rests inside.
The Man moves aside, eyeing the boy with the same hard expression he always wears. His clipped red hair sways from the sudden increase of energy in the room. The bird chirps, hopping around inside the cage, its feathers rustled. A few of the monitors start beeping.
The boy can’t help the intense interest that flares through him. His eyes are trained on the bird, watching its every move. He’s not sure he’s ever seen one in real life before. A living, breathing creature with the ability to fly.
“Please crush the object in front of you.”
His heart rate picks up. The bird chirps.
“99. Please crush the object in front of you.”
—
Reigen’s dreams are twisted. Confusing. He spends a lot of time feeling like he’s close to floating to the surface of consciousness, but he can’t breach it. He’s always taken back down again. His brain swirls with fleeting images of a small, black haired boy, movement, and being shaken awake on his neighbors doorstep. He occasionally registers a chorus of beeping, dull pricking at his sides or around his head, and hushed murmurs whispered above him.
“Arataka?”
His consciousness jolts. Sudden and aware for a moment, before calming again.
“Arataka.”
His eyelids flutter, bright light seeping in. He groans, the clouded feeling crashing down around him as he stirs. He feels heavy, groggy, like someone’s tied thousands of pounds of weights to his body. He blinks against the light, eyes struggling to focus on the sterile background around him. He’s in a hospital bed.
He becomes aware of a lot of things. An IV pricking uncomfortably in the back of his hand, a bandage tied tightly to his head that brings an intense pressure with it, and starchy hospital blankets tucked around his legs. The smell of alcohol tickles the inside of his nose. The fact that he can only focus on one of these details at a time.
And his head fucking hurts .
He hadn’t been very aware of it until now. Too floaty and confused to focus on a single feeling. But now, the pain is flaring. He screws his eyes shut, trying to block out the bright fluorescents and sink back into the feeling of nothingness with a groan. A warm hand grasps his shoulder, grounding him.
“Are you in pain?”
The voice is familiar. It sparks right on the tip of Reigen’s tongue. Older, feminine, and sounding very tired. He can’t think of it for longer than a moment, the pain in his head all consuming. He clenches his teeth and gives the best nod he can muster, not sure he would be able to speak if he even had the strength to try. He hears shuffling in the room, the sound of a button being clicked.
“That should help.” The woman speaks again, voice low and wavering, the small hand back on his shoulder is squeezing lightly.
Reigen wants to open his eyes. He wants to figure out what’s happening to him. Wants so badly to ask about the little boy. Who was that? How had he gotten inside? He knew for a fact he’d locked the deadbolt. After an unfortunate instance of being robbed within the first month of living at that dodgy apartment all that time ago, he was always sure to lock the deadbolt and chain when he was safely inside. The questions swirl in his brain as disjointed thoughts and words, no difference in the end or beginning of the next stream of consciousness. He swims helplessly.
The pain is ebbing away, and along with it goes his awareness. He sinks again, letting the numb black take him back in. He falls back asleep.
The next time Reigen wakes up, he’s much more in control. He feels like he’s finally able to use his full brain capacity again. When his eyes open, it’s less of a fight. He still feels a little clouded and heavy, but the newfound clarity is relieving.
“You’re finally awake.” The frail voice next to him now has a remembered name. His mother.
“Hey, Mom.” He says weakly, turning to her and shocking himself with how shot his voice sounds. His mother gives him a wobbly smile, and he takes in her tired gaze. The bags under her eyes are dark and swollen. A rush of guilt strikes in his gut when he realizes she’s been holding his hand.
She’s wearing an old sweater and jeans, signs of her leaving the house in a rush. She typically would never be seen in the light of day with anything but her pristine blouses or something more business casual. One of her many lessons to him about public appearance- always dress to impress, because you never know who you could run into. One of her lessons that actually stuck with him, one he tries to still follow when he can put in the energy for it. Today had clearly been an exception.
“Hey sweetie,” her voice wavers, “I’m so glad you’re okay.” She stands from the small plastic chair pulled up to his bed, leaning over his chest and putting her arms around him for a tender hug- as best as she can manage without disturbing his IV. Her soft hair tickles his neck, and he exhales into it, the nostalgic feeling of being comforted by his mother when he’s hurt soothing him. She typically has it pulled into an orderly bun, but today it falls loose at her shoulders.
There’s a nurse in his room too, he realizes as he takes in his surroundings over her. She’s tidying some medical supplies in the corner of the room, trying to mind her business, but shoots him a tight smile when his eyes land on her.
“What happened?” He whispers to his mom now that she's close, not trusting his voice to be much louder without breaking from emotion. His brain still feels leaden.
She pulls away, sitting back in the plastic chair and taking his hand again, looking at it as if she can’t bring herself to make eye contact. “You fell,” she says simply, straight to the point and shrugging her shoulders, “In the bathroom. Trying to get in the shower, I’d bet. Gave yourself a real nasty concussion.” She pauses, clearing her throat. “It’s a miracle, really.”
“What is?” Reigen presses, knitting his eyebrows together in confusion. He instantly regrets doing it, a sharp sting of pain shoots through the side of his head. He can’t help but wince.
She takes a deep breath. “You shouldn’t…” she stops, clearing her throat before trying again. “The Sato’s next door brought you in. Said you managed to walk over there and knock on your own, somehow. It’s… a miracle that you were able to do that, given how injured you were.”
She stops. Reigen can tell she's choosing her words carefully, like she’s scared of upsetting him. But now he’s even more confused than before, thinking of making eye contact with the black haired child crouched in front of him and the feeling of being lifted. “What about the boy?”
She watches him then, a befuddled look painting her face, her hard face lines becoming more obvious. “What boy?”
“There was a boy,” he explains. “He was the one who came and got me next door. I don't know who- I’d never even seen him before.”
She’s looking at him very intensely now, blatant concern written all over her. “There wasn’t… any boy. It was just you.”
Reigen doesn’t say anything. Can’t get any words to form in his brain. There had most definitely been a kid, had he left Reigen once he got him into the hallway? Why wouldn’t he have just called for an ambulance himself?
“Sorry to interrupt,” The nurse pipes up from the front of his room, smiling brightly and coming over to fuss with Reigen’s sheets, “This can happen sometimes. In the case of serious head trauma, sometimes people hallucinate being saved when really they’re feeling an extreme amount of adrenaline being released. We call it the guardian angel phenomenon.”
His mother releases the breath she’d been holding. “Well, that's a relief.” She laughs. “Mystery solved.”
Reigen isn’t convinced, but doesn’t argue. It’s clear his mother is nearing her limit of stress she can handle, and he doesn’t want to upset her anymore than he clearly already has by accidentally convincing her he has permanent brain damage. But the boy had been real , breathing and living next to him, not a mirage. He’d felt his small, warm hands pull at his shoulders and lift him to his feet, dragging him to the door when his legs wouldn’t cooperate. He’d even heard him turn the water off, for Christ's sake. He tries not to let his scowl show on his face.
“When do I get out of here?” He asks instead, wincing when the words come out a little more annoyed than he meant. He blames it on the sheets starting to feel itchy where they’re bunched around his legs, and his head starting to feel woozy again. The sudden exhaustion clouding his brain. The nurse shoots him a pinched look, and clicks a button near his bed.
“Depending on how you’re feeling, probably tomorrow. We want to keep you one more night for observation.”
Reigen nods, no longer feeling the energy to hold a conversation. His mother pats his hand where she’s holding it as he feels himself starting to drift, “Get some rest, Arataka.”