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“One time…” Serizawa starts, keeping his phone by his ear using his shoulder, arms outstretched to uphold three cardboard boxes, stacked. “I had sent my mother flying when she went in to hug me. I was uh— freaking out, and she didn’t know how else to calm me down than to approach me.”
Reigen hums on the other line, urging Serizawa to continue.
He hurriedly tosses said boxes into the back of his car, a slam sounded when he threw the trunk shut. “She recovered. I didn’t send her very far, fortunately. But I was too terrified to leave my room and apologize, and she was too scared to overstep a boundary again.” He sighs, entering the drivers’ end of the car and resides silent for just a moment, pushing his phone into the phone mount that remains by the wheel, attached to the dashboard. “We spent many years only exchanging small words– and even then, that could have been an opportunity to apologize, and I never did– not then.”
Guilt has always been perched on his shoulders, indenting his collarbones with its weight to remind him of the years he’ll never get back– all the potential moments spent with his mother lost in space and time– out of reach.
But a part of him hopes that maybe he can make up for some of it– maybe. He’s consistent to reassure himself when he drives past street signs that fill him with childhood nostalgia and familiarity, swelling his heart tenfold with memories of before he had turned twelve.
“You eventually apologized to her though, didn’t you?” Reigen is quick to ask.
Serizawa gestures to activate the turn signal, humming. “Yeah, I did– though I wish I had done it sooner. I had a really long talk with her not too long after you hired me and got me cleaned up.” He chuckles lightly. “She barely recognized me when I walked through the door.” He wants to continue, to talk about how he had hugged his mother so tight, and how she hugged him back, and how he doesn’t know how she could have forgiven him– but for now, he’ll swallow his words and conserve them for another day, to save himself the spilling of reminiscent tears. He clears his throat rather quickly, the low rumble of his voice filling the silence that sits idle on the line. “Sorry if I went on too long, Arataka. I know you have a client coming in soon, if I’m correct?”
Reigen’s smile can almost be seen from across the line, a ghost of how vibrant it is when it’s directly in front of Serizawa. “No worries, I’m not doing anything right now– no scheduled clients for another twenty minutes, and then I close the office for the rest of the night right after. And it’s not like emails are that important, y’know?” A creak from his chair is sounded, fixing his posture as he adjusts paperwork into one neat pile, light crinkles heard as he does so.
The Spirits and Such Consultation office has, for the most part, maintained its regulars that come in for advice. But the influx of new visitors has increased, he notices, and walk-ins have doubled alongside those that request services at a specific date and time. He would groan tiredly from the bustling line of clients if it weren’t for the fact that it was a rewarding symbol of success– that maybe he can keep this afloat for a few more years.
Serizawa ushers him to just get said emails out of the way instead of allowing them to linger and stack, and it didn’t take long until he was greeted with silence when they both had abandoned the other line.
The interior of the car was painted by the somber night, monochromatic shades of blue casted from the moon pouring into every corner and every crevice. There’s an intense, radiating gleam that shimmers in the transparent reflection of each individual window, and soon it flows to the whites of his glassy eyes.
“Get ahold of me when you’re on your way back, Katsuya,” Reigen had said, moments before he had closed his flip phone, hanging up.
Serizawa had replied how it was only three boxes– how he was only going to be taking what remained in his room. And it wasn’t much, just some CD’s encased by dust-collected cases, a variety of books he had not once read, and maybe his television, if he can muster the courage to unravel his ability despite being so close in proximity to his mother, let alone the very room that made him believe he should be stripped to the bone of psychic powers.
But Reigen had swiftly countered with an “I don’t care, just let me help,” and that had been that.
And soon enough, he finds himself in the driveway of his mother’s home. Though a slight sting of dread diffuses throughout his chest, there’s a burning excitement flaring from the depths of his ribcage– the excitement to see his mother once again, to ask how she’s doing and what her plans are. It’s something he would have never done when he had swaddled himself up in the suffocating darkness of his room.
He balances all three boxes with his left hand, knocking on the door twice with his right, patiently staggered atop a withered welcoming mat with said letters engraved into the rough fabric. Maybe he can buy his mother a new one, just for the sake of consideration. He’ll search around online later.
The door opens, and the juxtaposition of the welcoming warmth of his early childhood and a nauseating reminder of his adulthood leaves him frazzled, and it almost impairs him of his vision to catch a glance at his mother or his surroundings. Though she’s quick to greet him with a smile and a kind voice, eradicating any blindness as she begins to pull him through the threshold of the entryway, grabbing a box or two to lift a weight off his shoulder.
Serizawa lifts a leg to grab one shoe, then the other, and as he places them next to his mother’s, paired together neatly, he takes in how much he has grown. It’s like he can almost vividly envision the dirtied white sneakers that would reside unevenly placed next to her’s, until one day they had begun to collect dust, destined to freeze in time.
His mother would pick hers up on the way out to run an errand, and for just a moment she would stare at the frozen ones that resided in the same place everyday, wondering if today was the day they no longer fit her son’s feet– if today was the day her son would come out and ask to come with— to get new shoes. Alas, he never did. For fifteen years, he had collected dust alongside those small, white sneakers.
But here and now, these leather work shoes shine with pride, now the same size— if not a bit bigger— than his mother’s, and placed just as neatly.
“I’m not going to be able to stay as long, mom, I apologize.” He drops a single box next to the other two that were placed by the help of his mother, residing beside his confined bedroom door.
She nods, just a small distance away from him as she grabs a mug of tea. “No worries! I know you want to get the rest of your stuff out of here.”
“It was long overdue. I would have done it sooner…” He rubs the back of his neck as he trails off, other hand shaken with reluctance as it molds around the doorknob. “Just needed to psych myself up a bit.”
She knows. She knows from the way his posture stands straight, spine without a dent, open hand clenched as if to conceal– to act as a dam, to enclose any sort of psychic ability that might even have the audacity to make the walls of the house tremble. There’s a fear that’s embedded deep into him still, she can tell.
His palm maintains a steel grip tight on the knob, the reverberating pace of his heart crying in both of his ears as his hand begins to turn, then push– until the door is just ajar. And little by little, with every beat that his heart pulses blood, a creak echoes and he can identify just a bit more of what he plans to bring back with him.
Dusted shelves that have maintained possession of unidentifiable books is the first that comes into his peripheral vision. Following– and it makes his heartstrings strum an aching, retched tune– is a yellowed picture of him and his mother. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine there, with the way he shyly smiles with a front tooth missing.
He may waltz on into his dim room with the intention of taking and leaving, but an expansive amount of nostalgia crashes onto him, entrapping him into one place like quicksand would when seizing the knee and below. Though, it’s a type of nostalgia that tastes bitter and stings like salt on a wound when reminisced. It never feels warm, and it never will.
He’ll lift his hand, drawing a finger over to that picture he saw just a moment before, and brush it over his younger self, featherlight.
That small, toothy grin will never not make him feel a form a juxtaposition of both ache and delight. Because he’s happy here, even though, unbeknown to him, that his own self would one day be his enemy– an internal battle with no one but himself and the destruction that he’ll never be able to compensate for.
A very small part of him wants to keep the picture to himself– it was the only thing that had stopped him from drowning in his tears for many years encased in his room. But in hindsight, giving it to his mother doesn’t sound all bad– not bad at all. He knows his mother will need it much more than him. At least he had somewhat of a comfort from the reminiscence of a photo, all she had was a withering string of hope she held onto, clinging onto it like she was drifting over a cliff. No amount of framed pictures could’ve ever been the glue for her fragmented wishes.
He will choose the latter.
The last book is pulled from its prolonged rest, and the shelf now resides empty for a new purpose. Despite the cleanliness of everything else, the television still resides on the floor, practically staring holes into Serizawa with eyes it doesn’t have.
But he’ll brush it off for as long as he can, slowly dragging on time by sluggishly placing books in neat piles in an almost ample box, and he’ll focus so attentively on the angle of the tape when he binds the box’s flaps together. He’ll even dust the shelves, wiping them down until there’s nothing but the remains of the fluid used to eradicate the dust.
Easily, he could have carried all three boxes down in one trip just by mere strength, but he appoints to taking three trips, leaving all boxes by the front door, one by one and stacked neatly.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead using his backhand, everything has been brought out from the depths of his room, only leaving memories to remain.
Alas, he’s caught in place when he is, once again, reminded of a task he has yet to take care of, and he knows there’s no other way to pick the television up except to use the ability he was both blessed and cursed with– and leaving it here to rot would simply be rude.
He paces around his room a few times, hands so clammy he’s sure these abilities of his would just slip out from them, sliding on the walls and colliding with objects that hold so much fragility. Sure, over the years he has grasped control and conditioning and he knows how to resist, but something deep within him is swarmed with guilt and reluctance, and it makes him sick to his stomach.
It doesn’t matter if his abilities go on a rampage during an exorcism– the spirit was gone no matter and the building that was haunted had already been abandoned for years– destruction hadn't mattered.
Here, in the comfort of his mother’s home, a simple slip up might make the glass shatter– or cause the power to short circuit and die– or in a worst case scenario, it would crumble and leave to be nothing but a torn pile of regret. He would have burdened his mother again.
The tie that is roped around his collar begins to be hoisted by nothing but air, a sickening, looming anxiety burdening every ounce of him as he acknowledges that now, there is indeed no going back, for his emotions have always been the one in control.
He jerks his head down in a swift motion, focusing all his weight on the soles of his feet, to keep the gravity focused on them and nowhere else. A small figurine may bump into the back of his head, riding the air alongside the rest of the objects in his room, and the mere thought of everything crumbling to his feet may have a steel grip on both his heart and his brain, but within it all, swimming through all the brisk anxieties, he will drag his arms out and allow his hands to pursue warmth. His hands will cradle the calming memoirs of when he had first learned how to ride his bike, an echoic memory recalling when he can once again conjure up the clapping from his mother’s hands that had sounded behind him.
He breathes in, air inflating his lungs as an arm is raised. Every individual finger of his is spread apart as he sways around each and every object, and as he breathes out, he lets them down gently, all except for a heavy weight he can feel balancing on the tips of his fingers. Slowly raising his head and dragging the direction of his eyes, he can only pray it’s the television that was left airborne.
It is; he sighs of relief.
Discreetly, he scans the walls of his mother’s house for any cracks or scrapes that may have stemmed from when his ability overcame his hands. No matter, he’s certain a morsel of confidence has sprouted within him when his mother catches his eye, balanced on the ground and without a scratch.
“Come back soon, alright?” She says to Serizawa upon them sharing a hug that bids a temporary farewell. “Maybe next time you come over, we can talk more about how that night school is going for you. It sounds interesting!”
They have phones– they could discuss that on their phones. But Serizawa knows why she keeps adding reasons to why he should visit.
Little does she know, he doesn’t need a reason if it means he can make up for all the times he spent absent in her life. He’s insistent on ensuring he can see her, and that she can see him.
“Sure,” he starts, scooping three boxes up in his arms with his television now waiting in his trunk. “I’ve met so many people– I’ll be sure to tell you about that sometime.” And he says it heartily, with a pep in his voice that hastily ascends an octave.
She grins, smile lines forming from her nose to the ends of her lips. He’s standing so proudly now, clean cut and dressed orderly, though casual, and it’s nothing like the Serizawa she’d catch a glimpse of from behind the door, hunched and curled up in on himself with nothing but the flashing lights from a videogame to illuminate his figure. She sees a new man– a different one, almost like a counterpart– but she loves each counterpart the same, no matter.
Gliding her arm from around the boxes that stand tall by his face, her hand reaches his cheek and cups it. “I’m very proud of you, Katsuya.” That’s all she says; there’s not much more to say besides that.
He grins back, a grin that can speak thousands of words he cannot muster yet. Thank you for believing in me… Thank you for waiting for me… And thank you– oh my god, thank you, for still supporting me.
As he walks out the door, that small, simple statement will linger. It’ll follow him into the car, repeating like a broken record within his skull as he finds himself passing those nostalgic street signs once again.
The streetlights his car treads past illuminate the interior, highlighting the boxes of his belongings to remind him that he did it, and perhaps he gained even more of a grasp of his ability.
“I forgot to call you on my way home, sorry– I’m here now,” he says to his phone, lifting the trunk of his car once more, turning his head to set eyes on the door of their apartment.
Reigen easily dismisses it, and Serizawa can almost vividly envision him waving his hand around, mirroring his tone. He’s quick to tread through the entrance, closing the door behind him as he shoves his phone in his pocket.
Out of breath, he places a hand on Serizawa’s shoulder as he lays his eyes on the boxes, especially enthralled by the stacked array of books.
“Hey, I know some of these!” He smiles, hovering a hand over one of the books he so greatly wants to grab. “May I…?”
Serizawa gestures a nod, and even before he could finish the motion, Reigen has it in the palm of his hands, using his thumb to smear some of the remaining dust that resided over the title plastered on the cover. “You have a good selection of books, you know that? Good taste!” He doesn’t even make eye contact with Serizawa though, he’s flipping through in bliss, pinching the hem of the pages with his index and thumb when he plans to turn to a new set of words.
“Actually…” Serizawa lets out a small chuckle, placing his hand under the hardback cover as he draws it over more to his own viewing. “I never read these. I wanted to– I read the summaries on the back and they intrigued me– I just never had the motivation. Besides, it was uh… always a bit too dark in my room to see the words correctly.”
A part of Serizawa wishes he didn’t for his own sake, but he manages to catch the way Reigen’s smile saunters down just a miniscule. He places his index finger under his chin as the gears in his brain turn, until his eyes widen slightly and his finger rapidly presses onto the book they both are holding. “Maybe we can read it together? Or something like that. I can’t control the fact that you didn’t read them in the past, but I want to see how you’d like them now.”
A warmth diffuses throughout Serizawa’s chest, and he immediately nods at the concept. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.” He can’t help but to smile.
He pulls the book back into his grasp before placing it back into the box, fitting nicely with the others like tetris. And within a heartbeat, Reigen has his arms around it, pulling it more towards his chest as he hauls it upward.
Serizawa musters the courage to attempt a simple lift of the television with his ability, raising his hands as he focuses his energy solely into the phantom grasp he has pressed onto it. With ease, it begins to sail with the air as it glides out from the car, and so much relief fills Serizawa he thinks he might collapse.
It’s like feeling the sickening dread of descending hastily in the sky, only to make direct contact with a soft cushion, gracefully breaking the fall.
Reigen isn’t far behind him as they begin to retrace their steps back to the apartment.
“This is heavy,” Reigen is quick to say, hauling the box up a second time to conceal a grasp. “How many books do you have in here exactly?”
Serizawa manages to turn his head. “Not sure– the amount definitely goes into the double digits though.” He opens the apartment door, twitching his head in direction to the entrance to signal that Reigen goes first, and he follows him shortly after. Carefully, he plops the television by the couch, Reigen driving the box forward with his hands until it resides right next to the television. “If they’re heavy, you don’t have to help. Honestly, I don’t even know why you want to. There’s not much, Arataka.”
It’s as if Reigen is offended, with the way his brow lightly furrows. “I don’t know why it’s hard to accept a helping hand.” He shrugs, though his voice softens upon exhaling. “But also, it’s nice to get to know more about you, y’know? I want to spend time with you– I want to know more about what you dislike, or what you like.” And in the end, he smiles, opening the door for Serizawa to go through first this time. “I like spending time with you, and I think these boxes of things you have are cool as hell.”
Serizawa finds himself dumbfounded as he pauses beneath the threshold of the door. The tonality of every word births new butterflies in his stomach and ever so slightly heightens the heat in his face.
“Arataka,” he finally musters with a light smile, crossing his arms as he steps further, waiting for Reigen to catch up to him. “You can just ask. No need to hold heavy boxes and get aching arms for that.”
But it’s too late now, for the gesture has already done its job.
Once again, Reigen shrugs. “Where’s the fun in that? Words don’t always do the trick.” And as they close distance between themselves and the car, Reigen begins to pick up pace, quickly opening the flaps of another box to reveal a second round of books. He curses under his breath, impressed as he is baffled. There may not be as many, the first box takes the prize for holding the majority, but this one holds smaller books, all paperback and adorned with entrancing covers.
“You might be right,” Serizawa replies, reaching for the final box, unraveling it and pushing it more towards Reigen’s viewing. “We can spend our time looking at these later, then.” He pulls out one CD case from many, squinting to read the title before looking back at Reigen. “The majority of these are just movies I really like. I guess all-time favorites? Haven’t watched them in a while.”
“Are you implying that we have a movie marathon?” Reigen’s asking with so much elation Serizawa is sure he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
But why would he ever say no to such an opportunity?
Everything he has done thus far, he’s sure would both exhilarate and excite the man bundled up all alone in his room. Because he’s finally living life to the fullest, taking a leap of faith he’s sure he would have backed down from if it were him from years ago.