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Mob’s fine. He’s calm, discreet and tranquil the majority of the time, Reigen likes that, as he’s unable to admire complex feelings or relationships, probably it’s the whole reason behind his liking of Mob, the lack of mystery, children are easy to treat with. Until they are not, until your fingertips touch their river, fountain wet and cotton-soft faces, to catch their teardrops. One’s gone, other fells down, and it’s futile to kept trying yet impossible to not.
First thing he notices when that small body walks in is how he’s been crying.
So, Reigen warm milk in the microwave while Mob sits, seemingly helpless, the boy’s always dark, he’s blue —fading bruise—, useful, and docile, at times he’s red —lines under his eyes, bitten lips—, but lately he appears to be just Reigen’s. Holding a cup tightly with both hands, hiccups, Mob drank, fast as slow, while his ribs hidden beneath skin and clothes —the idea Reigen had of it—, bend with every beat of the hearth, whenever his back moves, except that instead of calcium, it where made of rice paper.
To be slid aside for him to enter.
After all, doesn’t his solitude, his permanent silent grants permission to pour meaning on his expressions, even if it stays senseless?
In front of him, Reigen surprises himself when kneeling to provide comfort, wondering if he will get used to the swelling of this eyes, to the bafflement and staying like that, close by, the man pay attention to his student’s shoulders, knees, and hands, to any and every single part of his frame that trembles, from minor wiring problems.
Pathetically, it can be heard: “Master, you need anything?”
Could something, from the very first time, feel like an everyday occurrence? The simplicity of it, brings a smile across his lips, is that Reigen may need it all, at once. But why it’s wrong to be selfish when there’s isn’t anyone else looking after Mob, in outstanding ways like acknowledging his work by buying him lunch? It gives him a greater sense of purpose, smile and lean on a knee, as if asking for Mob's hand in marriage, with the brief of his misplaced feelings.
“Just tell me what happened”
Within seconds —four, maybe even less— Mob does that gaze, awed by how Master could tell without any clue, and he start explain. His words are squally, uncompressible buzzing of rain that pours, with time, onto phrases, sentences for Reigen’s fingertips to listen and his rapid breath —one he couldn’t withdraw from—, cheeks and shivers, hands that tremble, broken voice building up, tearing down. All of what’s been done so many times that it should lose the charm fill his heart with more than just sympathy, waiting until his voice has left and only a cry remains, to respond unelaborated, casual phrases, the kind of superficial ones that will always save us, all to touch Mob.
Then he’s gently wiping away the boy’s tears, his damp skin. Reigen let the tears drop directly over him, from certain distance, leaving only his hands for Mob to physically rely on, submit to the hands that stroke his face, touch, pet and goes with his student through the entire tantrum, taking advantage of the benefits that this new simplicity will bring to their life, the man caresses his shoulder as it’s over and nothing bad will happen again, because it’s okay to leave it to his Master Reigen. So, they move through the afternoon.
By the door they wave goodbye and Mob’s eyes were still puffy.
Reigen doesn’t know if he rather never see him cry again or every day.