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"You know," Mobs voice is choked, hard to hear through the roar of traffic against their backs. It's been barely a few hours since they've gone out here for a break, to fill their heads with petrol and fuel rather than the thoughts swirling amongst them. The sun is low in the sky. It'll be dark soon.
Minori shifts, focusing renewing to the boy beside her. "Yeah?" She asks. She plays with her nails, watching the way Mob shifts into himself, just a bit.
A beat of silence. Nothing.
She's about to ask again, ask what he wants this time, when he finally speaks.
"... I forgive you."
It comes out so little she almost thinks it's a joke. She can't help but let out a laugh, the sound of it drowned out by the roar of a motorcycle behind her.
"Forgive me?" She repeats, voice high. When Mob simply looks at her through his bangs, she cracks up again. "Kageyama-kun, what are you talking about?"
Its silly. Stupid. Dumb. What is there to forgive her for? The time she made him pay for drinks instead of her own? The time she got mud in his shoes?
Theres too many. What does Mob, of all people, need to forgive her for?
Mob stiffens. "Before," he begins, voice weaving in volume with the rush of cars beside him. She has to strain to hear him. "Before, all those months ago.. when you--when I.."
He trails off. Looks to the side. The river is marked with dirt patches; the koi in here are almost nonexistent through the stream, and Minori wonders, absently, what he's seeing in there.
She picks at her nails again. Its chipping a bit, barely painted on last week, and she remembers the chorus of compliments she got at school that day. Personally, it's an ugly colour for her skin, and she hates wearing it.
Mob shudders in a breath.
"When we were in that.. job," he begins, voice shaky. "With that.. that evil spirit. Mogami-san."
She nods her head along. "I remember that," she says, and she taps her fingers against the railing. "First time we met, right?"
"Right."
A curious look across. "What about it?" She asks.
Mob doesn't say anything for a bit. She would've thought he might've been done with the conversation, but, no--Mob takes a while to sit though his thoughts, sort everything out to make coherent sense. She knows that by now, and with the roar and drizzle of traffic and river, she probably could've seen the storm coming from a mile away.
"When Mogami-san made you.. I mean, well, when you bullied me," Mob starts, and his voice is flat, monotone. There's a hint of something hurt in his expression, the faintest pinch of his eyebrows, and Minori feels something sick crawl into her stomach. "With people... back in middle school. Do you.. remember that?"
The memories are vague, half impressions, floaty little things -- but, yeah, she does. She remembers. The splinters of wood poked into skin; milk pouring down bare backs; jeers and laughter and chuckles and whispers. The faint eye watcher perched on the branch.
Mogami world.
She nods, taps on the railing once more, mind numbly occupied. "... Yeah. Yeah, I, uh, I remember that."
Mob only looks to the railing. His hands are tense at his side. There must be a million and one different things he wants to say; different things he wants to do.
"Do you remember.. that one time. In the.. in the locker room," a pause. This must be hard to choke out. "When you--when I.."
Confusion. Minori thins her lips into tight, worrying lines. Locker room? No, did something happen back then? Something jarring? It doesn't feel like it. For all she knew, the teasing and words stayed just as that: words. Expect for, ah, maybe when she got those other boys to crowd around her, but..
The memory comes back like the drizzle of warm water.
Something sick travels inside of her head, infecting her thoughts and snarling words into her ears--making her hands choke into a fist; making her hands choke into a grab, a pull.
Skin to skin contact. Gakurans and skirts meant nothing in that time. She can't bear to be in her own skin, suddenly, like there's a million different ants underneath it, chewing her up and spitting her out all in one motion.
Even if it wasn't her hands, her body is what he saw. Even if it wasn't her words, her tongue is what went into his teeth.
A spirit cannot be all wrongdoing in the world; there has to be humans as well.
She feels sick.
Minori nods. Grimly, she nods. Guilty, she nods.
"I remember."
Mob nods. He doesn't sniffle; doesn't tear away like she expects him to. There must be a hurricane eating away inside of him--and there was, somewhere, deep inside of him that looked more void than a person. Minori can still feel the ache of it over her body, feel the stare of its sockets into her skull, feel the universe rip the parasite from her psyche.
He doesn't do anything but the slight twitch of his fingers. Minori wonders, briefly, if that swirling vortex is under his skin, if it's readying to jump and bite and gnaw.
It doesn't.
Simply, Mob says, "I forgive you," and Minori doesn't say anything to that. She can't decide if she'll be enough for such a task. Apologies won't do anything, and her touch sure won't, either.
Instead, she looks to the river, looks to search for what's in it. The roar of traffic is minute in comparable to the roar in her head.
Mob is silent beside her. Laughter jeers in her head.
When it strikes three thirty, Mob intertwines his fingers into her own. His hands are dark in her pale complexion, and her fingers feel too warm it's feverish.
"I'm okay," he says, quiet, as they part off into the pathway. The crickets are loud here. "I forgive you. It was a long time ago, anyway."
Minori can't help but stare out into the bush. "I..." She pauses, bites her lip. What does she even say to that? "I'm sorry," is what she comes up with, unable to let her silence be her answer.
Mob just squeezes her hand. "It's okay," he says, again, "I forgive you."
She doesn't deserve that. Not really. But she takes it, anyway, nodding even as her throat chokes up and tears well into her eyes. The cicadas are loud as they turn into the street lamp, and Mobs hand is still in hers, tight and warm and close.
She sniffles. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
"Its okay."
She nods, tries to hold it in. Its burning into her skull like molten rocks. Her nails should be red and glassy and wet–covered in something that shows her guilt, her shame–its the least she deserves.
She can't help it. It spills out of her.
"I'm sorry."
Mobs an unmoving rock from the centre point. He doesn't weave, doesn't fret. "Its okay."
"I'm sorry, Mob, I.."
"Its okay."
She sniffles, again, and she can't help the sob that clears out of her throat. Mobs eyes shift to her, and she feels the vortex shift under his skin; aching, longing, painfully still.
"I love you," its a blabber, half consolable, and is this really the way to do this? It should be him crying, not her, but she can't help the disgust and sadness mix into one. "I--I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I love you, I'm sorry..."
Simply, Mob walls her across the road, secure. "Its okay," he repeats, and his voice is filed with an emotion she can't place. "I love you, too."
Minori sniffles. The cicadas are loud in her ears, and she sniffs up a wail, shoulders shaking.
"Okay," is what she replies with.
Mobs eyes go to the road. "Okay," he repeats. The silence that drags on between them is deafening. Minori feels her heartstrings tug. It's painful.
How could she do that? It might've not been with her own choice in mind, but it was with her own hands–made by the man who could easily pull out Minoris darkest actions and rip it right out onto the surface–made with some semblance of her own intent. It makes her sick to think about, even though the memory is muddled and Mobs words are little.
She shouldn't have done that. It's been months, yes, but she knows time doesn't heal everything.
Mob eyes her, hand tight, focus rigid.
“You okay?”
What an odd thing to say. She sniffles, nods.
She won't do such a thing to Mob again. Not to anyone. Especially not to the love of her life. She won't allow herself to. Not ever.