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He should’ve seen it coming.
Once the deed was done, the warning signs became clear as day.
They presented themselves in the bushes when running home late, at the corner of forlorn smiles, the intonation goodbyes had at the end of the word. They leered through thick sunny days and drooping eyes.
Shigeo Kageyama wasn’t very good at noticing them.
He has been training himself to see them, trying to read between the lines and use his sympathy to find the underlying meaning. He did try. Despite that, Shigeo got easily swayed by lies and excuses. It was hard to go against one’s nature, after all.
However, that doesn’t mean his resolutions hadn’t borne fruit; Mob might not get it at first, but when he did, he made it count.
Cue, Shinji Ikari.
It was easy to notice when the boy felt down. He wore his emotions on his sleeve. The attempts to laugh it off were feeble and soft. Shinji tried to keep everyone beyond arm’s reach—the closer they got, the heavier he disregarded and masked his feelings, and the deeper they got hurt. Being vocal about things came off as more than just an unstoppable force; it made him seem pathetic.
He’d scream his throat raw for help. He’d bite and tear until his meat pulsed. He’d apologize for feeling as his nails hid blood and run away so fast and so far that his knees burst. He’d sob his eyes out in the bathroom so Misato wouldn’t hear (but she always did, so why even try?).
Once Shinji started showing red flags, they were, for once, not bleeding.
——
The first time it reared its ugly little head was atop a tall, grassy meadow near Salt Middle School. Silence was not unusual when Shigeo and Shinji hung out together. It wasn’t suffocating but understanding—cloudy, soothing, peaceful. Their silence meant more than words. Their fingers grazed as they lay on damp splotches of grass, as the wind huffed through, moving the petals of flowers and shirts, and kissed their skin cold. It was warm in a way that filled them up. It wasn’t lonely.
When Shigeo and Shinji lay together this time, it felt like it was just Mob and himself. It was nothing like before. There was an unspoken distance, unreachable. He was so close to Shigeo yet so far away. Kageyama also understood that his mind often wanders, but this felt different from thinking about dinner or the upcoming math exam. It was more. Thicker.
Nevertheless, that change went unquestioned. It wouldn’t be a lie to say it went unnoticed as well. When Shigeo pointed at the funny shape of a cloud, Shinji didn’t respond; he did not probe it. It was normal. There was nothing wrong. They went back to their business.
The second occasion was similar. Shinji didn’t comment on ordering a pastry to share at a cafe. They are both terrible at making decisions and usually sway toward what everyone else is having, so there was no difference. The two barely go out to eat because of this. It’s hard to decide where to go, hard to choose what to eat, hard to place their order, hard to pinpoint who is paying and how much they should tip, if at all. The noise, the people, the strobing lights, and background music– it was a bother, but in the end, it was worth it.
Shinji was too distracted by the details of Shigeo’s face to realize that the waitress was taking their order.
At the time, Shigeo didn't even begin to discern it.
Looking back, it was clear he had been memorizing the face he wanted to see last.
——
The third time was different. A smile that tasted of freedom; Staring at the hot, winding barrel of the sun. Hesitant and unsure, a reckless change of routine. Shinji gently pulled on Shigeo's sleeve after Shigeo was discharged from school and thrown into the clubs. He said he just wanted to see him run. Shigeo didn't see a shred of Ikari’s signature shame, which he carried like luggage. His cheeks flushed red —redder than the color that painted itself when he was panting breathlessly on the track— and he nodded.
Shinji didn't greet the telepathy club, not even when Tome cocked a brow and pointed it out.
Shinji sat down on a bench, not running behind.
Shinji observed from afar.
The thudding of cheap sneakers faded to distant raindrops, and then the main group passed by like a thundering storm. He watched, he watched Shigeo try to keep up.
Shinji carried Shigeo in his arms after passing out.
Almost dropped him three times.
Took him in, placed a cool water bottle in his hands.
When Shigeo woke up, Shinji was already gone.
——
The fourth time was unchained under the weight of reality. He sliced into the Spirits and Such office with such ease that it seemed unnatural. Took a step in as a recurring client and not as the kid that buckled behind Shigeo upon entering— too apologetic of his own existence, sweaty and overly polite. When Reigen opened the door, Shinji bowed less, his head not reaching his knees anymore at the cost of shame being replaced by the biggest, warmest grin of anticipation. He went straight to the couch and sat down. He accepted the – albeit confused – offer for tea and gave Serizawa a brazen greeting. He didn't apologize for almost knocking over the mug he was handed because his fingers were too cold to feel.
Reigen asked what he was doing here. Shinji replied, Waiting. Reigen answered, Ah, of course, for Mob.
After a thick blanket of silence lay over them, Reigen asked again —a customer's smile that draped too much on the corner of his mouth —what was the occasion? Arataka’s face softened into something more paternal-– What are you two planning to do? New shop opening up? He didn't forget to add: If you need a tip for a date, don't feel scared of asking!
There was suffocation for a while.
Nothing, Shinji answered, I just had a good day.
He stood up when Shigeo arrived, and Reigen, as if on cue, was called for an exorcism. He threaded the doorframe as Reigen offered Serizawa to go with him instead of Mob so they could spend time together. He waved goodbye as Shigeo invited him to go along.
He left as if he didn't wait at all, and Reigen finally, finally noticed the dried blood under his fingernails.
——
The fifth time merged into the sixth.
——
The seventh time came with unimaginable love. The kind of love that held heavy between lingering touches, stuck and hefty and unimaginably sweet. Shigeo was greeted with a hug; Shinji ran towards his arms, brimming with anticipation only to gently configure the weight of his limbs around Kageyama's waist; treating the procedure of an embrace like a profound, bone-deep surgery. Any wrong movement could kill them both– One of them sooner than anticipated.
Once the pilot managed to wrap his arms in a way careful of his heart, the strangest thing occurred; Shinji —forgetting the spines that anchor so deeply into his chest— leaned in.
He pressed his body against Shigeo’s, hungry for the warmth that the other exuded; and for the first time in long, buried years, a missing puzzle piece in his stomach reassorted and clicked into place– the numb colors of war becoming dazzling butterflies. Shigeo didn’t even know where to place his shuddering hands. His breath hitched in surprise, rumbling breathing resonating against Shinji, and hastily, carefully as if he might break apart into glimmering glass pieces or bright orange juice, placed them on his back, returning the embrace with a warmth that reached up to his core.
It was simple.
It meant far too much.
They both lingered, wordlessly, in the arms of the other.
Delicate as it started, harsh it was as Shinji pulled away.
It was fleeting. Sickeningly strong. Once it was over, their hands trailed softly against the edge of each other’s skin, grazing the tips of their fingers together. Interlacing it with bows of blood. Shinji tugged Shigeo away from home; into the streets, away from the frame. Cars zoomed by. It was a serenade, one where flowers bloomed with every step, one where birds died in its wake. Ikari never let go of Mob. He stuck to him for the whole day like a love leech; the gentle and painstaking display of continuous attention morphing into eternity.
Instead of heading to the park, on the seventh day, they went to the expensive cafe that served those towering parfaits. The ones with strawberry decorations on top of whipped cream. The ones that looked straight out of a dream and were above the psychic’s pay grade.
Shigeo ordered a milkshake, instead. There was more milk than vanilla.
His face was red like fresh fruit as the two held sweaty-cold hands underneath the table. For a fleeting moment, they were on top of the world. At its peak, unstable and on the verge of falling.
Shigeo puckered his lips on the straw while he updated Shinji about the upcoming exorcism that was set in a different city. It was a short description. His club group was going, too, for training- so it truly was killing two birds with one stone, as his master would say.
Even Hanazawa-kun was going to attend.
Shinji clutched Shigeo’s hand, uncharacteristically rhapsodic, and paid for the shake.
He emptied his wallet that day. Plushies, snacks, trinkets on the street. Didn't hesitate to let go when necessary— but lingered before he inevitably circled back.
At 8PM- thirty minutes away from Shigeo’s bedtime- Shinji leaned against the boy’s chest, every single penny wasted. The bench of the park was callous and freezing underneath their figures. His hair smelt like copper; The metallic scent of liquid devotion. Neon and fluorescent under the poundage of plush. Shigeo felt Shinji’s weight on his skin, burrowing deep between the bones, screaming with quiet love. It was a strong kind of love, a sorrowful kind of love that was going too fast. The day was going by too fast— their relationship, the confinement that had settled. He was not used to the strength of this contact. And, most importantly, Shigeo could feel his partner wasn't used to it, either.
Shinji was what mattered. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His hands were clammy, his breath unsteady, and his face flushed red. Ikari’s gaze was clutching. Clinging. By the end of the day, Shigeo could tell one thing:
Ikari’s goodbye was definite.
It was then that Shigeo realized something was wrong with Shinji.
——
The eighth and ninth times were radio silent.
Completely, utterly, radio silent.
Shigeo had never been the type to call. He asks how Shinji is going, sometimes, late at night in moments like these, but they settle for typing instead. He still likes hearing Shinji’s voice. When exhaustion bears through— that’s when calling becomes sufficient.
He thought about it with the second ring.
Hanazawa, besides Shigeo’s futon, advised him not to. At least not this late in the night. He told Mob that Ikari was probably just sleeping early and couldn't hear the ringing. Shigeo’s shoulders loosened in understanding.
They didn't share rooms, he was just hanging out. Shishou bought two dingy chambers of a three-star hotel that pretended to be five— one for Ritsu, Mob, and Serizawa, the other for Teru, Dimple, and himself. But truth be told, it all didn't matter; They shared just one place all the same.
The road trip was rough. It’ll forever be a memory to return to. There was no way to put it lightly, but it was fun.
Shigeo, once the late-night reunion was over, lay motionless on his futon — wondering if Shinji had fun, too. If he hung out with his friends. If he managed to have a break from piloting, if he went out to eat or watched a cool movie. His words reverberate— I only have fun with you here.
He really wished he was lying.
He turned to his side, a hard and cold pillow nestling his cheek. Everyone else was snoring softly beside him, Ritsu gritting his teeth the same way he did when he was young, the residual warmth of the night fading alongside filtered moonlight from the window’s curtain. It bathed the wooden room in a blue glow, shadows eating away the corners. A peaceful, quiet night. A restless night. Like a broken dial tone. There were no external sounds, the crickets kept uncharacteristically quiet, and the presence of bystanders centered around the only humans in the room. All that was loud were Shigeo’s thoughts, and even then, they were silent— albeit the quietude didn't make them less prying.
The psychic strained his eyes shut, trying to match the slow breathing of his surroundings. Shinji was fine tonight. After the job, tomorrow at early morning, when noon approaches, he’ll regard the erratic behavior. He’ll buy flowers and maybe a gift from a local store. He’ll bring cake wrapped in napkins, and they will eat it together inside his bedroom, on top of his bed. It will all come by. It will be nice. He’ll love.
With comfort in mind, Shigeo felt safe enough to slip under the hems of sleep.
50%
——
Tweeting birds announced the arrival of the tenth day.
They chirped gentle songs of joy, feeble and meek under the rays of early sunshine. The sun was a plump orange in the bright sky. A morning like in the movies, painted in watercolor hues, radiant and smiling above; The clouds, cotton-like in their appearance, singing of life.
A beautiful morning for an exorcism.
It was quite comedic in a way. Even Ritsu was too tired to wake up by himself, so Reigen knocked on their doors, chest full of enthusiastic fervor, and replaced the morning birds with thrilled “wake up”s. A cacophony of drowsy moans and grumbles consumed the room, leaving only Shigeo who lingered awake in his silence. Soon after, the room was stuffed up with the poignant smell of soap and movement— rapid and tired, sluggishly pushing through the stickiness of the bathroom sink —time clicking its case closed by the second of inaction. It was a big one they’ll melt (”with a handsome pay too!”) in a whole ginormous mansion, all courtesy of Shishou’s remarks on the office’s phone. Shigeo’s heart thudded softly under his chest; This wasn’t his first major case, but it would be the first one with all of his friends. To live is to love and have fun— probably.
And even when Shigeo took a sight of his dearest brother, and evidenced that he probably wasn’t as enthralled as he was, the feeling of warmth didn't wash away.
It was going to be a good day.
54%
Breakfast was cheap hotel toast with milk much to Shigeo’s delight, and he didn’t spill it over the cat t-shirt Teru gave him. The room shone brighter in laughter as Shishou did, though, and even if Shigeo felt guilty, it would be a lie to say he didn’t revel in that laugh either.
Once everyone started leaving, Shigeo strayed by the entrance — focused on making a mental rundown of his plans one last time before taking off alongside the group. His echoing brain chants: Eat breakfast. Go to the exorcism. Meet the body improvement club. Go for a jog with them, and while on it, pick flowers for Shinji. By noon, Shigeo will be there at his apartment. He’ll give him the flowers and— he’ll ask. Shishou propelled him through. He made a promise. He’ll ask what’s wrong. It will all go by swiftly, Shigeo reiterates, it will all go by swiftly, Teru mentioned, it will all go by swiftly, it will all go by swiftly— his worries are valid, but it’ll all go by swiftly.
Admittedly, Shigeo had to put in effort not to repress anxiety in the back of his brain. It had become such an instinctive thing that going on without it felt weird— but definitely not unnatural. Using mantras as reminders that his thoughts matter is something Reigen has told him to do; and it works, sometimes. These all-consuming reflections are homogeneous in that they’re all his, but different in their tone— and Kageyama is fine with it. He can pick his favorites, if they’re not too dangerous. He’s happy because of that. He’s allowing himself sweet little harmless things.
Shigeo sucks in a breath and shuts his eyes, the soles of his feet now beyond the exit—- outside, therefore, life goes on.
What took you so long?, Ritsu asks, and Shigeo replies, I was just thinking.
57%
—
The exorcism unfolded without (almost) any issue. Ritsu would argue the opposite, and he did when confronted with Teru’s upbeat attitude. Reigen wasn’t lying– it was a big one. The spirit was not just a singular, measly spirit, but a quantity of them, all pale and wide-eyed with ghastly, long, enrapturing limbs. They clung to the mansion’s walls like gangly spiders. Shishou did not appreciate that comparison. And while on the same note, he was not sure if it paid as much as the owner said it did, but the nearly fractured bones and shattered windows must make up for what it’s worth. Or that’s what Reigen claimed, at least. Shishou always knew best (most of the some-times), and Mob’s never been too interested in pay, so questioning his words wasn’t at the forefront of his mind. Serizawa was just glad it was over— Dimple had a nice spider-meal.
Words were uttered by the mouths of others, albeit the flimsy vibration of Shigeo’s phone remained as quiet as the dead. The ghost of its unbeating heart awaited anxiously in his pocket, and dust, and web-covered, and a slightly bruised Mob couldn’t do anything but wait for it to speak. Everyone already had their say. But him.
Thus, in the wake of its silence, the boy steps in and simply admits to himself– it was fun.
His friends are laughing wholeheartedly. It’s a nice thing to hear, a sonnet of loved voices; Shigeo feeling a sentiment akin to the time his parents and Ritsu huddled around a campfire in the woods after a storm. It’s warm. The ground smelt like fresh dew, and embers licked his face as Shishou clapped his shoulder, smiled, and asked— not to him, but to everyone— if they wanted to go out for ramen.
The group’s faces lit up.
What a nice thing it would be if he could go, too, but he had plans to follow. The cheering and order-predicting died down at the mention that Shigeo wasn’t going, leaving only disappointment behind its merriment. Teru left a curious query to which he answered earnestly: The body improvement club was waiting, and so was the hot asphalt to run on, and so were the kaleidoscopic-petaled flowers which he was going to pluck out like feathers.
That’s alright, Mob— Reigen understood— we can all go out tonight before packing up and leaving. They agreed, and Serizawa even tuned in, we can invite your boyfriend, too, if you’d like. And he thought that would be nice. And he thought that would be love. Shinji liked shoyo ramen, didn’t he?
—-
The body improvement club waited for Shigeo on the corner of a department store next to a park, towels fixed and limping down their sweaty shoulders. His feet already stung slightly from the lone crossing run, his friends already in the dingy hotel a few kilometers away. They had a fast, store-bought meal just to save money for the night. Cruel sweat wrung itself across the warmth of his forehead and dripped to the floor. President Musashi loomed ahead with a similar ardency in his grin, beckoning him to come closer as the boy doubled over. Between pants, Shigeo nodded and stumbled toward the club with a hopefully mirroring smile.
The group slapped him on the back, as they always did. Physical encouragement was as good as mental, Musashi retorted, and Shigeo didn’t doubt it. Running has always made him feel better. What started as an exercise to impress had fluctuated into something dear to his body—and to a body leaking with unused exuberance at the seams, it felt like the best way to let the steam out. Even if it involved passing out face-first on the pavement or scraping his knee. His brother called it anemia; the blood that poured out from his wounds, he called liquid energy. Shigeo was fine with both descriptions. Variegated crimson. Red in an aimed determination that dwindled in his veins like survival, the change he ought to search for in mellowness against the ground.
The friendliness of the surrounding chatter drowned out the statement that he did not need to stretch, yet Jun preferred to take precautions against sore legs. He made a fizzling attempt to reach the tips of his tennis shoes, as the rest did it with barely any conscious effort. Shigeo’s muscles strained with ardor beneath his skin, verve sizzling askew in his veins. The boy groaned past parted lips—cold sweat dripping down his chin even though he had barely done anything but prepare. The rest of the club was already in a far different exercise—Shigeo definitely needed to catch up with them.
There was a hefty presence eroding through the air that stank of relief, a trail of residual stamina swindling through Shigeo’s bones. Through the fingers, he followed, the existential detritus twisted and bent at angles around and between his joints. The afternoon glow bathed the club in golden light, illuminating Captain Musashi’s upbeat complexion like water drapes in a fall. Shigeo felt sparks in his chest. Everyone seemed ready for the run.
Fight on!
Over the course of the year, Shigeo had gotten better at exercise— only stumbling here and there. Nonetheless, the exorcism had drained him quite a bit; the endlessly dripping faucet of stamina made the whole running business harder than it needed to be.
Blossoms and clovers bloomed between the sidewalk’s cracks, a mosaic of verdant melting in the afterglow of avid gray. Even if the psychic couldn’t divert his attention (otherwise his face would be flat against the floor), he still made an effort to focus on its vibrant beauty. Perhaps this was better: concentrating on the ever-changing oaks, damp grass, on the tunneling sky—the clouds that shaped cats, the birds that sang poems, the beetles that crawled through blades—instead of paying active attention to the sting in his knees. Yes, maybe his feet almost tripped over a pebble on the ground, but it was worth it to feel the wind gently caressing his cheeks. The air tasted of mist and berries; he shivered under the cold aria’s guffaw.
He shut his eyes for a second. His mouth was parched and hanging slightly agape—he seriously regretted not having a water bottle at hand. The noon rays pressed against the living backdrop, illuminating the gentle dew of small yellow clover-flowers that danced motionlessly in the current; Shigeo thought Shinji would like them, Shigeo thought how nice they’d look peppered in his hair. The minutiae were engrossing. Even the strong, distant sound of “fight on!” and avid footsteps melted in the afterglow of his image.
Perhaps that was why he failed to notice the bump ahead of his feet.
70%
Ow.
Warmth rolled down his nose, sniffing quietly as if to suck all the blood back in. There was less than usual, at least. And he didn’t collapse immediately! That was a good thing. Definitely a good thing. His knees were scraped, though, and pebbles were stuck between the wounds. He’ll worry about that later.
Shigeo rolled onto his back and put a damp hand over his eyes, breathing all the dirt unhurriedly, thinking about how similar this heat felt to the times when he passed out in the meadows—right behind the heavy shuffling of the Body Improvement Club. They didn’t seem to notice him yet. Or maybe they knew he could stand up for himself? There were quite a few definitive options.
For now, he settled on inhaling and exhaling the unavoidable spring ardor, imbued with light floral aromas that swam around his skin, now closer to the ground. Shigeo idly wondered if the yellow, clover-shaped flower smelled as good as it looked. He nudged over the grass, still lying against the cement, and—
Flowers! He had to pick the flowers!
Shigeo stumbled upward, staggering slightly on his feet, before dizzily making his way into the small field beside the sidewalk. He ran his eyes through the grass, his chest slowly heaving up and down. To be artful with the skill of picking flowers, you’d have to be knowledgeable about their individual types. That is a thing Kageyama was aware of. Each petal held a forsaken meaning, hues, all colorful, meant something individually. Hatred, peace, love. He knows about this because of the things his mother says sometimes, perched against the window with a broken vase in hand. But at the same time, Shigeo does not know. He’s not knowledgeable about this. Just about the fact that it exists.
Nevertheless, he’ll try to find pretty blooming ones amidst the damp grass, white ones, purple ones, pink ones, blue ones. Shinji is kind of like Shigeo; they both don’t have a favorite color. Yet, unlike himself, if questioned in the spotlight— Shinji would say blue. It’s one of those things he does to appease people. Blue, the color of submission. Blue, the color of his suit. That’s what Shinji told him one night on top of his bedroom’s bed, and that’s what Shigeo understood. So he’ll refrain from choosing them.
His feet swiveled under the blades of dirt. In his hands were five, little yellow flowers, all of which he apologized for plucking. (Maybe it hurts the plants. That would be bad.) There were also two big red ones— the ones tiny bugs liked, so he made sure to grab the ones that didn't have them tucked up, sticking onto the flower’s sweet insides. Shigeo didn't want them to become homeless. And, of course, tiny cyan flowers, so small they looked like blossoms, cluttered together to make a big clump of blue. It was a shabby bouquet. His hands messily clung to their hems as best as he could. Even though his nose still throbbed, the boy still leaned in; They did smell as good as they looked. Tiny hints of iron droplets, eclectic with fresh spring rain.
—
Soon after, the Body Improvement Club noticed Shigeo’s absence. They went back for him and then they finished their run together. Shigeo’s detour was shorter than the rest’s, though— after all, he did spend a large amount of time dilly-dallying around the park. It was now late noon. The warm afterglow of the sun consumed all around it, dark silhouettes eating away the shapes of others. The sky was smudged in beautiful oranges and yellows, golden light softly dusting the decaying clouds as if in a fairytale painting. It was almost dream-like. He wanted to swim in its sky. Every day was beautiful, in Shigeo’s opinion, but today was just perfect. He truly didn't know why, he just felt it in his bones.
The sound of his soles against the pavement reverberated against the cement. Cars zoomed by, and birds followed them askew. The grip Shigeo had on the bouquet was getting slightly sweaty, and if he looked closer, some flowers were already starting to wilt brown. It’s okay, though. It does not matter if they fade, as when he arrives at Shinji’s apartment, he’ll put them in a glass- maybe the one with stickers holding it together. They could get a pot later.
His feet carried him through the ramen place, the corner convenience store, the gaudy, sun-stricken city. The morning dew had rightfully melted off the windowpanes. He would’ve asked Reigen to come along, but the matter felt too personal— and the place was close enough not to warrant a ride. It was a brown, layered building, one that wasn't even owned by Shinji —or in this case, Shinji’s parents— but his caretaker: a fierce woman named Misato. She had been sweet to him. Ritsu claimed he saw similarities between the woman and his master, but, quite frankly, Shigeo didn't see any. Perhaps it was their posture? The way they laughed? All the little big things Shigeo can’t name? He doesn't know. Maybe he’ll talk about this later with Shinji.
Shinji.
Shigeo’s heart feels like it skips a beat, just as he skips through a corner. Pebbles rise from the earth with every elated step. Elated, that’s what it must be, because the thumping in his chest must have no other meaning.
80%
What thumping?
The pebbles rise with the wind. It is quite windy, after all.
He takes his phone out of his pocket with a flimsy, shaky hand. It brandishes with the same four unseen messages:
< hi. :-) (sent at eight in the morning, right after waking up.)
< how are you? (sent at twelve thirty, after the exorcism.)
< love you. (sent at two and forty-five pm, before going running. )
< im coming over soon. (sent eight minutes ago.)
Sent eight minutes ago.
Has that much time really passed?
Shigeo brushes through the silent messages, gaze lingering on the last one for a while. He knows the road well enough not to care where he’s going. He does not need to look up; all that matters for now is enclosed in between, and in a room, and just a kilometer away.
When the road begins to get bumpy, Shigeo finally decides to pay attention to his surroundings again. It’s not a big deal; it just means he’s getting closer to the destination. Everything around was painted with similar, tall dominating buildings, towering through their heights, gigantically gazing at him. They are tall, almost industrial, but the green was prevalent — patches of grass with bustling pines and bushes crammed beside sidewalks and more buildings. Tokyo three at its greatest splendor.
Shigeo didn't even realize he was clutching the phone until he typed, I’m here, and plucked it away once again. The trees shivered coldly, afternoon breeze dancing circles around Shigeo’s footsteps.
And, without much hassle, he finally arrived at his destination.
Shinji’s apartment loomed ahead.
It was tall— taller than he, of course. And the balcony of the highest floors was layered in a way akin to a dessert. He doesn’t come here as often as Shinji comes to his house, having only visited the place about four times— not counting this one— so the novelty of it hadn't quite worn off. From what Mob knows, the other girl— Asuka, and Ms. Misato weren't present, so Shinji is alone. Shigeo will fix that. He sucks in a breath, stepping through the entrance.
—
There wasn't much inside the place. A lobby, as plain as it could be, with no one at the reception desk. There are a few potted plants scattered here and there, but aside from that, there's a lack of life. The walls are white, with dull brown accents that highlight the grayness, leading to a maze of hallways beyond. He was okay with it. The emptiness is something he’s used to; even as an awkward, uncanny feeling runs through his skin (yet never seeps below).
An elevator waited for him on his right side. It was large, spacious, and smelled like an office— just as Shigeo remembered. He pressed a circular button, which then lit up red. A mechanical whirr buzzed overhead. With a soft, muffled thud, the elevator doors slid open, and the artificial scent of lavender hit the boy all at once. There was a mirror situated on the wall. Mob stared at himself. That’s weird, he didn't realize he was sweating.
Shigeo clicked Shinji’s floor. The elevator doors shut. Once again, the droning buzz began, this time pulling upward. The floor shook underneath Shigeo’s feet. A serene, classy tune started playing, bouncing off the enclosed walls, but not loud enough to form an echo. Motionless and frozen in time; left to await his release.
It’s silent except for that.
A long ride.
Once the doors slide open and the little digital number slots in place, Shigeo feels his heart throb. He strolls down the hallway, flowers in hand like a bride, passing through the countless closed doors in the walls. His chest aches in a familiar sensation; one that’s unnamed, but not bad enough to be described. Blueberry coats all there is. He walks through the hallway, and he tastes joy in his tongue as the grip on the bouquet becomes flimsier and flimsier.
A closed door awaits Shigeo by the end of his detour. Wooden, and firm like steel. His hands are finicky, all but staying still, as he leans in and rings the doorbell.
.
There’s no response.
.
.
He does it again.
.
.
.
His mother said it’s bad manners to ring a bell more than twice. But, really, these are different circumstances.
.
.
.
.
Shigeo’s head feels hollow. The fourth ring reverberates in the empty hallway, silent as if he didn't press at all. He quietly withdraws his fingers from the chime. Emptiness swallows the place whole.
He’ll ring again, just to be sure.
.
.
.
.
.
Quiet.
No sound of movement behind the door murmured through, no cloth against the floor, no nothing. Not even the faintest of a whisper. Shigeo was unable to tell if the beating behind his eyes was his soul or a headache. Maybe he can… text Shinji, to see if anything happened. Perhaps he’s in the bathroom. Or sleeping, or.. Listening to music, yes. He does tend to get quite engrossed in the symphony of tunes. It’s not new.
It all has an explanation.
Shigeo tries one last time.
…
89%
He takes out his phone from his pocket, and unlocks it with an echoing click. The ghost of a smile from his boyfriend greets him in full splendor. Light bears on the boy’s face as he fiddles with the buttons, fingers slipping on pixelated tapping sounds, and places a call to Shinji.
Ringing gets lost in the mocking hallways.
As soon as the dial tone starts, Shigeo opens the door.
He’s sure it’s nothing, he repeats. It must be nothing. Kaleidoscopic hues carry the entrance against the wall with a bang, and, to be quite frank, Shigeo can’t find it in himself to care. Cold chills from the opening burrow underneath his skin. Silence is all that greets him— not even Penpen is home for a squawk. It’s quiet. Shigeo has never been bothered by the sound of silence so much before. It feels wrong intruding, but just about everything here feels wrong, so it cancels out. Mob hastily slips even deeper into the apartment.
There are empty, dirty mugs on the living room’s table top, coffee stains marking the wood. There are even more empty cans of beer littered across the place. Some of them are crushed, others look almost intact except for a small opening. The place looks far from untouched; he could notice water damage in the ceiling, dirt beneath the floorboards, and clothes strewn on the floor. A well-lived house.
An unspoken weight settles in Shigeo’s chest, unarmed, unknown as it is, as pressured beating distributes itself throughout his body. There’s warmth. He spots the broken vase in the distance. Smiley-faced stickers laugh at him, quietly and sensibly, they laugh at him. He looks around the room, at the scattered trash, and they don’t do anything but laugh. He humors the all-encompassing mocking by walking towards the vase and carefully placing the wilting bouquet on its mouth. He’ll fill it with water later. The flowers can wait.
Nothing answers the sound of Shigeo’s footsteps. No one is aware that he is even in the apartment. The air carries out a lonesome song, and Shigeo struggles against it by calling Shinji’s name out loud.
His lover’s name bounces throughout the empty walls, right into the desolate hallway. It swims through breath and comes bearing no response.
Shigeo’s ribs were a cage around his heart.
Perhaps it was frivolous to try again, but he did just that. Quieter. A murmur of hay once was. Bile rises in his throat as he foolishly attempts to ignore the frigid sensation of wrongness. Chills run down his spine. It’s all too silent.
(Why isn’t he answering? Is he not home? Did he leave his phone somewhere else? No, that can’t be. Shinji told him he wasn’t leaving on the weekend. And, if he was, then it would mean he hasn’t been home for two days in a row. Is he showering? No, there’s no sound of water running. Sleeping? The least he could do is respond, right?)
95%
It’s better not to think about it too much.}
Shigeo screwed his eyes shut and swallowed in a breath. Shinji is fine. He just has to find him.
A drip of water shakes him out of his thoughts.
As a forlorn counter ticks upwards, he diverts his attention towards his surroundings. There was water damage in the ceiling, yes, but it wasn’t bad enough to leak. The faucet was tightly closed. Everything else spoke in such timid quietude that it was almost impossible for a sound to come out of it. Shigeo breathed in heavily, everything spinning around the room. Perhaps he imagined the dripping, or maybe it came from outside. There’s no way to tell.
Another droplet begged otherwise.
The sound came from the apartment’s hallway, and Shigeo could tell it was drowned out by a closed door. There was one place he didn’t check— and that was the bathroom. He hastily moved towards it, steps heavy, as numbers appeared at the corner of his eyes.
There’s a pool of water running below the bathroom door. Like the tub was leaking for far too long, keeping up with a bath longer than what must have been hours. Shigeo’s hands freeze at the doorknob. They don’t open, they don’t move— just linger still in place, useless as if they always were. There’s something beyond that door. He can feel it in every labored breath— a marathon throughout his body. It’s oppressive. Almost tyrannical in its own nature. His heart beats rhythmically against his ribcage.
Shigeo turns the knob and finds it unmoving. He swings harder. It’s locked.
Stepping on the puddle, he presses his face against the door. Another drip is heard, this time more intensely.
He murmurs Shinji’s name against the wood, and there is still no answer. If Ikari was taking a bath, then… he surely must have heard his breathing, right? But there’s nothing. Just an empty, gaping void.
Shigeo hesitates, for a second, to crack the lock open with his powers. He doesn’t want to do more property damage. Or disturb Shinji, if he was there. The liquid leaked against the fabric of his shoes, dampening his socks slightly. The floor painted itself with a thin coat of outside dirt. He didn’t want to break something or freak out over silence. The grip on the knob hardens, cold dressing up his hand against freezing steel. It stole his body's warmth. Shigeo didn’t want this incessant, tireless running. He didn’t want to open the door. He didn’t want to turn the knob. He didn’t want to see what awaited him beyond it. He wanted to cuddle Shinji on the couch or listen to music with him on the living room’s mattress. He wanted to close his eyes, and bubble up— he wanted to try and cook something with him. He wanted to watch an action movie, a brush of the knee, or a bump in the shoulder. He wanted Shinji to answer. He didn’t want to fear the source of the forsaken dripping, or the buzz of an empty room. He didn’t want to feel like this anymore. God, he didn’t want to feel like this anymore. So cold. So…
So…..
Shigeo refuses to put a name to his fear.
He wanted him.
As always, the boy swallows up the running emotions,
and opens the door.
—---------
The first thing Shigeo notices is the yellowish-white of the tiled walls. Used, damp, cozy for a bathroom. The overhead light reflects on its plain surface. It glistened precariously.
97%
Then, the sink. The handle had been cranked open recently, and moisture was still dropping from its opening. There were three toothbrushes set by the side of the sink, one red, one blue, and the other yellow. The red one looked shabby and used, the blue one untouched, and the yellow one well taken care of. An open toothpaste tube sat beside it. It was half empty. Crust was dwelling around its mouth. There was, too, a bar of soap placed neatly in a corner. The bar’s color started fading into a stiff dullness a while ago.
98%
A reddish hue marked the smooth marble of the drain.
99%
Finally, the last thing Shigeo noticed was Shinji’s stiff body lying limply in the overflowing bathtub.
—
On the tenth day, his lover’s cadaver drowned amongst the watered crimson in a bathroom.