AN: “They find each other in every universe” but it’s every Sojiro having a hater-to-parent arc with every Ren. (Pattern credit: @cafekitsune)
“You’re not in the position to be vague,” said Sojiro sternly.
The kid hummed for show, then slid a 1000 yen bill out of his coat, the cheeky bastard. “I think one house blend could help with that.”
“I don't serve brats.”
Kurusu chuckled derisively, waving the bill pinched between his index and middle finger. “In a backstreet dump like this? C'mon.”
Sojiro raised his brow at him. The café’s speakers filled his silence with idle jazz, and the longer it played, the more Kurusu’s smile faded. Finally, his arms dropped, and he sprawled himself over the counter.
“I promised Yoshizawa to hold back on the martinis, and this is my backup,” he mumbled against the wood. His fingers feebly raised the bill. “Get me that espresso, and I’ll talk. Nothing gets me talking like a good cup, I swear.”
Sojiro scowled. Someone ought to teach the kid some manners, one day. He waved off the bill. “Save it. This isn’t a strip club.”
He started the machine, and got to work.
The whiff of Blue Mountain soothed him. His back was turned, but he could tell Kurusu’s gaze was tracking his hands. It was no different than having Morgana nearby. Before Sojiro could so much as glance at the counter, his customer would lower his chin and demonstrate an astonishing talent for keeping his mouth shut—up until his order was finished.
Kurusu was right. His shoulders went lax at the sight of a porcelain cup. He hooked his left finger on the handle, and took slow, careful sips.
The left finger was the cup holder. The right finger, Sojiro recalled, was the trigger finger.
The cup clinked softly on the plate, and Kurusu talked. He muttered his sins to Sojiro for two hours. He made the counter a confession booth, and Sojiro the priest. His story wasn’t new—Japan had all kinds of throwaway kids left to their wits, but nobody would’ve expected the twists and turns one junior Faust had taken or the cracks he slipped into. It was no wonder Sumire tensed when Sojiro commented on his cologne. He was wrong.
Kurusu had been reeking of gunpowder the entire time.
Sojiro took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes and groaned. “Unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” laughed Kurusu, “not exactly the kind of guy you'd want your daughter to bring home.”
“If it were up to me, I wouldn't have my daughter bring any guys home, let alone a killer,” Sojiro said harshly. “You know we have cameras here, right?”
“Counted on it,” admitted Kurusu. It was a helpless admission. “Sorry. I wasn't kidding when I said this place makes me talk like nothing else.”
The cops would’ve had a much harder time at the precinct. Of course. Sojiro was reading him like a book. “You said the coffee makes you talk.”
Kurusu spread his arms out. “Leblanc is the coffee, and the coffee is Leblanc.”
Lawyers, Sojiro thought, exasperated. He should kick him out. All he ever seemed to bring with him was doom, gloom, and a body count. Hell, he was a serial killer—a fantastical scenario parents used as a worst-case hypothetical. If Shinichiro Yoshizawa had known what guys his daughter spent time with, he'd lose his mind.
But he didn't know, so it was down to Sojiro to be the designated adult in the room.
He took Kurusu’s empty cup to the sink. "If you're done, you can get up and leave. Kids like you are bad for business."
"I can imagine,” Kurusu said, laughing. He got off the bar stool, and left the yen on the counter. "I'll only make five more visits, tops, and then I'll be out of your beard."
“Good riddance,” Sojiro threw over his shoulder.
Kurusu hummed in agreement, but he wasn’t moving.
Daylight swept over Yongen-Jaya. Searing, golden light that reached through the café’s stained windows, and burned imperfect shapes into the tables and seats. A dozen perpetually smiling customers could’ve filled the booths, but Sojiro kept his doors closed for the day. He had abstained from city trips, and won’t be returning home until late evening. Sumire had told him about the living illusions outside, how there was no way to differentiate between phantasms and real people without context. With that knowledge, Sojiro doubted he’d get anything done.
And he might not be the only one.
A whole minute passed. Sojiro cleared his throat as he wiped the counters. “You better leave no loose ends behind. You've caused more trouble than you're worth.”
The music playlist had long since halted. Kurusu’s cup was cleaned, and left to dry. When Sojiro looked back, Kurusu was still there. His amusement was gone, mouth set in a grim line. Pushing his fractured glasses up his nose, he said, “You don't have to worry about that.”
Sojiro didn’t like a single word of it.
He approached the counter, and placed his hand down. “This is my establishment. You’re not going to tell me what to worry about.”
“Look, it just,” Kurusu paused, softened, then wiped his face clean of emotion, “it doesn’t matter. Nothing I do in the next thirty days will matter.”
A dry chuckle crawled out of Sojiro’s throat. “Oh, no. No, it matters.”
“I'm a dead man,” Kurusu retorted, sharper.
“Not today,” Sojiro bit back, “and not right now, so what are you going to do about it?”
Silence. Another stiff, helpless silence. Kurusu’s fists were balled up at his sides, and his eyes burned into Sojiro’s like a loaded pistol. It was the day after November twentieth all over again. The clocks halted, the world was liquid light, and Sojiro was standing his ground against a phantom on fire.
“What do you want? Really, what do you want?”
For a moment, it almost looked like Kurusu would explode—until he didn’t. His fingers uncurled. “Dead men’s wishes only belong in writing.”
And the explosion shouldn’t have come from Sojiro, but it had.
His hand slammed down on his beautiful mahogany.
Kurusu’s eyes went wide.
In a sudden, unnerved motion, Sojiro grabbed a notepad out of the pocket of his apron, then flung it on the counter. He took out a pen, clicked it, and placed it down, too. His customer looked at him, and Sojiro looked back with his arms crossed. He jutted his chin out at his offering. "There. Write it."
At first, Kurusu hesitated. The notepad could’ve been searing hot from the way he approached it. But Sojiro was a figure of authority, and he knew Kurusu wouldn’t pass up on rebelling against authority. He’d seen it. His flintlock eyes regained their spark, and he started to write. The pen crossed something out, then rewrote a newer, sharper line. Kurusu ripped the paper out in a single, defiant gesture, and offered it to Sojiro.
Sojiro plucked it from him. He skimmed over the kanji.
He did it again. And again.
All his energy left him like a puff of smoke. He lowered the paper, and rubbed his eyelids. “You can’t be serious.”
Kurusu said nothing.
Sighing, Sojiro shoved the wish and his stationery back into his apron, then beckoned Kurusu over with a flick of his wrist as he made his way to the kitchen. There was no audible indication he was being followed, no clacks of shoes or shuffling of fabric, but he knew. Kurusu followed in his footsteps like a second shadow.
