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When it’s over, Mob lies down beside him. There is silence as they chase their breath, seared muscles and burning hearts slowing down, settling into shape. Mob has a cramp in his right foot from arching it so he moves it, toes spreading, ankle circling, getting the blood back where it belongs. The room is dark with a perfect line down the centre from the gap in the curtains. The clock at the bedside says 23:39.
Mob finds his hand beneath the sheets, slips his own into it. It’s hot and damp and he can feel his pulse. After a beat, he feels him squeeze back.
“Arataka.”
“Mm?” Soft, still breathless.
Mob exhales. “Nothing,” he says.
“Eh?” Reigen turns his face towards him in the dark. Mob can’t see him but he hears the rustle on the pillow, the closeness of his voice. “You’re such a weird kid.”
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Still a weird kid.”
Mob rolls over and puts an arm across him, pulling him close. He buries his nose in the crook of his neck. He smells of old cologne and incense and them.
“Is that all?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Mob mumbles against his skin.
“Alright.” Reigen pats his hand. “Sleep well.”
But Mob doesn’t sleep yet. He lies draped over him with his eyes open, picking out the familiar shapes of the furniture in the dark. He can hear the slow lull of traffic going by outside, the tick-tick of the clock in the kitchen as the minutes swell into being and then disappear. Sometimes Reigen is pretty talkative at this time of night and Mob wishes he was tonight. He’d be content to listen to him ramble about anything he chooses, coupons he got from the local supermarket or an ingenious money-maker for the business. It’s a comfort to hear him talk.
“Arataka,” he whispers. He gets no answer. Reigen is asleep, he can feel the gentle rise and fall of his body against his chest. He’s a light sleeper and Mob knows he could easily nudge him awake, debates it for half a moment, decides to leave him. It’s not that he needs his attention at all times. His warmth and weight are enough.
Mob sleeps deeply by comparison. He drifts off and awakes some time later, the space beside him empty. He hears Reigen further away down the apartment, the closing of a cupboard, the gush of the kitchen tap. There’s a greenish glow off to the left and he squints, expecting to see the clock with its luminous numbers.
“Dimple,” he says softly.
“Yo.”
“It’s been a while.” Mob rolls over to look at the ceiling.
“Guess so,” Dimple agrees. “Time passes differently for spirits, you know.”
“Mm.” Mob breathes out. “Time passes no matter what, I suppose.”
“You getting all philosophical in your old age, Shigeo?” Dimple grins. “Wait ‘til you’re like me.”
“I don’t want to be like you.”
“Ouch.”
“You could pass on if you wanted to.”
“Is that a threat, Shige?”
“Shigeo. And no. I just… wondered if you ever get lonely.”
“Ugh, I’m sorry I came.” Dimple sinks through the floor. “See ya.”
“Bye,” Mob says, a little belatedly. He wonders if he offended him. Dimple has never struck him as being jealous of those still living.
“Are you talking to somebody?” Reigen comes back with a glass of water, Mob’s boxers low on his hips. Mob can see him in the clock’s glow, in the thread of light from the street outside.
“Just Dimple.”
“Haven’t seen him for a while.”
“Yeah. I think I upset him, though. He’s gone.”
“How could you upset Dimple?”
“I asked him if he got lonely.”
“Does he?”
“I don’t know. Why else would he come here at 2am?”
Reigen shrugs, coming to the bed. He’s good at understanding people but not ghosts. Dimple was a person, once, but Mob has never thought to ask how long ago. Time does not hold still for anyone; not for him, not for Reigen, who will soon be forty-five. He’s a little grey at the temples, a little soft around the middle. Mob wraps his arms around him from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. Reigen leans back against him.
“Something the matter, Mob?”
Mob shakes his head. “No. Just… thinking.”
“About Dimple?”
“No. Well…” Mob frowns, scooting a little closer. Reigen fits so nicely against him like he’s meant to be there. “I just remembered something. It was a long time ago now.”
“If it’s about that time I didn’t pay you—”
“It’s not.”
“Oh, thank god.”
“The first time I met Dimple,” Mob says, ignoring him, “he was leading that cult. He surrounded himself with people looking for something to laugh about.”
“Sounds pretty lonely to me.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Mob, if you’re feeling guilty about it all these years later, don’t be. You did the right thing by destroying that cult. Their smiles were fake.”
“It isn’t that,” Mob says. “I remember what you said that day – that I happened to save people only I could save.”
“That’s still the truth.”
“I know. But… Dimple got really mad about me not laughing and I had to fight him. He actually made me angry. I lost control of my emotions.”
“Well, jeez, what were you, Mob? Fourteen?”
“Yeah, but… that wasn’t like me, really. Getting angry at a ghost, I mean… Dimple is a friend now but at the time he was nothing special. He wasn’t like Mogami.”
“Guess he hit a nerve, huh?”
“I suppose. He said I’d never be able to laugh or cry with the person I loved.”
Now Reigen laughs. “Well, he was completely wrong about that!”
“I know,” Mob sighs. “I just remembered it, is all. I wonder… if Dimple regrets it.”
“What, saying it? I’m sure he regretted it the instant you punched a hole in him.”
Mob squeezes him tighter, a little annoyed. “I mean,” he says, firmer, “if those are things that he regrets. That he didn’t laugh or cry enough when he was alive. If there are people he misses.”
“Probably. You should ask him one day.” Reigen turns his head and kisses him on the jaw. “You remember the strangest things at the strangest times, Mob. I hope you don’t stew over all the mean shit I’ve said to you over the years.”
“All the time,” Mob deadpans.
“I’m sure.” Reigen pats him, squirming free. “Come on, back to bed. I was just getting a drink.”
Mob lies down, lifting the covers for Reigen to cuddle up next to him. He knows that sometimes he wanders at night, smoking on the balcony or watching the empty streets, observing the hours go by, and he’s glad to have him beside him now. It’s a Tuesday night in September and they have work in the morning.
These are the minutes that do not matter; the matter that makes up all that matters in the end.