Crochet Club [Ishimondo]

CH 3- Something's not right....

It had been a few days since that accident.

It still pissed him off, but Mondo found that there was little he could do about it. Tengan was the head of the company, and apparently, was under Mr. Ishimaru's protection, too. He grumbled at the memory, finding exasperation pooling in the well of his stomach. It burned, it absolutely scorched his insides. How could Ishimaru let that son of a bitch run free? He was pissed too! Mondo could see it. He had an eye for catching his friend's habits. Eyes rolled over to watch Taka's fingernails leave imprints in his skin, now red with frustration. This was recognizable, as it was what he always did when he was truly, deeply upset. If it weren't for his "morals obligations", as he called them, Oowada was sure he would have thrown a punch right alongside him.

But he didn't. And now, things were awkward.

Ishimaru and him no longer walked to meetings together, nor did they grab coffee together before lunch. Infact, it seemed like Ishimaru timed his new schedule just right to always miss Mondo when he entered a room. The both of them had really only crossed paths maybe once or twice within the last three days. Mondo would give a smile, and Ishimaru would give a curt nod back. He'd grip onto whatever he was holding a little tighter as he walked away, eyes forward, as if afraid that if he looks at Mondo for a second longer, he'll turn to stone. Mondo never felt good after those interactions. He might even consider himself a little bit thankful that the current day was coming to a close and he had yet to catch a glimpse of a freshly pressed uniform, jet black hair, and polished boots. He wasn't sure what he'd say if he did, or if he was really ready to talk about the situation, either.

While a complicated situation, it didn't compare to what was actually keeping him from clocking in his 6 hours of sleep each night. It was something else entirely.

Something more black and white.

Mondo chewed on his nails, so antsy that he sometimes missed and accidentally sunk a tooth into the soft padding of his cubicles. Blood was now dripping onto the floor, but he couldn't find it in himself to care as he recounted the scene, teeth burrowing even deeper into flesh each time it replayed.

Ishimaru was talking, Tengan was talking, but he couldn't hear anything. Not because of the dynamite that took his hearing earlier, but because of how unfocused he had become.

A familiar sight. That's what got him. There was something small scurrying around on the floor, barely three feet tall. It dashed across the hallway that Ishimaru's back was turned to, going at speeds Mondo was sure he had only seen from one thing, and one thing only. He didn't want to believe it. Mondo wishes Taka could have seen it. Maybe then this silence would end. Maybe then he wouldn't feel so alone.

Mondo was sure he had been the only one to see it, because everyone else in the office was continuing on as if the most dangerous creature on the planet hadn't just infiltrated their base. Nine to fivers were stapling papers together, coating files in sloppy red ink, and talking over a coffee made from a machine past its prime as if nothing was different, as if nothing had changed. But Mondo knew better, and that's what made him feel like a loon. That's what brought him to knocking at Fujisaki's dorm after the lights to Future Foundation had long turned cold, and the only sound in the hallways was the persistent buzz of a nearby vent. He looked to it as he waited, watching flies swarm in and out of the crates with half lidded eyes, until finally, there was shuffling behind the door. The door opened.

"Mondo?"

Chihiro rubbed their eyes, long sleeves brushing against even longer eyelashes. They blinked once, and then again, as if in disbelief. "What's up?"

Mondo lowered his head, finding himself unable to make contact. For a short while, the tapping of his shoes upon hard floors acted as the drums to the nearby vent's buzzing chorus. There was a short period of silence where all Mondo could do was breath, paying close attention to the way his shirt tightened when he inhaled, and how he felt loose all over when he exhaled. "...Can I come in?"