a/n: I spent a while kicking myself for not tying a couple things together better in "Monsoon Malabar". Then I thought, what the hell, it's not like my feelings are resolved yet, nor is the game short on missing scenes that seriously should have been included. Thus, two-shot.
Come on, Atlus. Traumatizing your protags to quantifiable degrees, I get. Proceeding to staunchly block them from acknowledging it or receiving any sort of direct emotional support from their loved ones? That's where you start losing me.
You've never seen that look on his face before.
No. You correct yourself. You have; once. What feels like a long time ago, which really wasn't, when a scruffy-haired teenager wearing clear-lens glasses wandered into your café for the first time, speaking to you in a low and obliging voice. A mask of cool politeness, which you had been too busy spitting on to care about why it was there.
It tells you, as Akira dumps his bag on the counter and files into the bathroom, that somehow, for some reason, he feels the same way right now as he did when he was fresh off the train to Tokyo. And you've had plenty of time to finally ass yourself into putting yourself in his shoes for those first few weeks. It wasn't rocket science, really.
Alone in a vast, faceless swell of people who would only ever look in his direction to hate him.
The toilet flushes. Akira opens the door and rounds the corner to wash his hands in the sink, not acknowledging you or the empty bag on the counter.
Maybe you're waiting for him to tell you what's wrong, like that has a snowball's chance in hell of happening. Or maybe you're just not sure how to broach the subject when the scars you left are probably still in there, somewhere, the swollen red lines in the whites of his eyes. You don't know how welcome you are to him.
You miss your opportunity; Akira shakes his hands dry and scoops up his bag, then briskly heads upstairs.
Where's the cat? you wonder. Worry curls in your stomach like rotten milk, though you're not certain for what, exactly.
You've already closed the shop and cleaned up, but you start the burner anyway. Before long, the aroma of coffee swirls through LeBlanc's interior, suffusing from the wooden walls, with hints of robust spice from the pot that bubbles on the stove.
You're not the best with words. Jeez, you're not the best with anything when it comes to them. But like hell is that little punk going to drift right on past you like a ghost, as if you're the same damn piece of work that looked at him like he was a wad of gum stuck to your boot nearly a year ago.
As if you can't help him, the way he helped you.
In retrospect, it must have been pure dumb luck, because no way in hell are you actually good enough with kids to pull off some brilliant fatherly gambit.
But it works.
Just as you're heaping rice onto a plate, you hear the telltale creak of the old wooden stairs. You pretend to be preoccupied and go on ladling a thick, steamy blanket of curry on top, and when you finally turn around, you're actually a little surprised to see Akira sitting hunched at the bar. You'd expected to have to lure him over from the doorway.
Wordlessly, you slide the plate in front of him. Clap down an empty mug and some silverware, then make your way to the boiling carafe.
Akira starts eating with slow, precise bites. He avoids the curry until you're hovering over his mug, serving his coffee, and then he heaps the rich stock into his next bite, reaching for his mug before he's finished chewing.
You lean back against the counter, arms crossed, pretending you give a crap about the news. Truthfully, it's not often that you see Akira eat with this much mechanical vigor. You're not sure what the hell kind of potato diet his parents had him on back in the country, but the kid tends to get a bit green-faced if he shovels down too much rich food. You remember overhearing Sakamoto poke fun at him about it back in May, in fact.
Sure enough, when you look back, he's cleared less than a third of his plate and is already slowing down. With a slow breath, Akira sets down his utensils and grimaces.
"Something wrong?" you ask. It's a test. The way Akira's pupils fly up to you, heavy like iron balls, confirms what you'd already figured out. Showing mercy, you lift the corner of your mouth and point. "With the curry. What, too good for my home-cooked meals now, hotshot?"
And then you dare to think that you might not be completely inept at this after all, because Akira's lips pull into a smile and he shakes his tangled frock of hair.
"I prefer calamari," he quips with some life. "Escargot, garçon."
You slide your thumb and index beneath your glasses, pinching the bridge of your nose with a sigh. "Stop it. Like you even know what that means."
Akira grins wider, taking another bite of rice, and you're relieved. That the haunted look is defrosting from his face, and that whatever has him upset, it hasn't completely crushed his appetite. Because he's still looking wan and exhausted in a way that you haven't seen since November, as if someone went and beat the hell out of him again without leaving bruises this time.
"I know you're not usually here this late," he ventures through a mouthful of curry. When you raise an eyebrow, he elaborates. "It's Christmas Eve."
"So what?" you ask bluntly.
"What if I wanted to bring a girl up?"
That has you laughing, and you shake your head.
"Nope. Sorry. You're stuck with me tonight, punk."
The atmosphere feels a bit more comfortable after that, and you dread having to ruin it with whatever bombshell awaits on the horizon. The same subject that keeps either of you from suggesting bringing Futaba over to join in. You spend a full minute watching the snow skate across the shop's window before Akira breaks the silence with one solemn word.
"Sojiro."
It's funny. You can count on a single hand how many times Akira has called you by your given name, the same way you can use the other to count the number of times Futaba has called you 'Dad'. No instance has failed to jumpstart that alarmingly warm tightness in your chest.
You hear Akira's tone, take one look at his steel-cut face, and god damn it. There's a first time for everything.
You don't need to answer; you just watch him. Akira pushes aside his plate and leans over the counter, like there's something latched squarely between his shoulders, bowing him under its weight.
"I talked to Sae Nijima today. There's something I have to tell you."
Abruptly, with cold fingers digging into your gut, you don't think you've earned this after all.
But you know that tone (you heard it in Wakaba), and you know this kid (no-good, good-hearted brat), and you lean forward on the counter with both hands, hovering over Akira's slouched form like you can protect him from it. Because the weight is all in his eyes - without the mask, where you saw your scars - and if you let anything else pile on top of him, you feel like whatever god damn part of society he's shackled to this time will sink him to somewhere you can't reach.
Sometimes you feel like this whole country is sinking. Up until some snot-nosed brats showed up and started stealing hearts, you almost thought it it deserves to.
You don't think Akira is aware of you posing over him like some puffed-up, overprotective bear. But maybe whatever else you've done tonight has helped. Because he sits a little straighter, pulls of his glasses, and begins to talk.
And you listen.
The conversation had lasted well into the night. The subject matter, though, guaranteed that you'd lie awake in your bed for well over an hour afterward, trying to wrap your old brain around everything that Akira had trusted you enough with to divulge.
Most of all, he trusted you not to tell his friends. Not to tell Futaba. And damn him, you're not sure what kind of father that makes you, but it makes you one disaster of a probation officer. Not that you've cared about that crap in months. Absently you wonder if he even writes in that journal you gave him, that you never checked once since tossing it onto his dresser.
It looks like you'll never get the chance to now.
By the time your alarm goes off, you're still awake enough to shut it up on the first ring. Four in the morning sharp, which means that the darkness still bogging through your windows has nothing to do with the snow flurries outside. Akira's usually up by six on Sundays. Futaba won't be awake until nine, if you're being generous with your estimate.
It's a short walk, so you don't bother bundling yourself up. You pull on a pair of warm boots, wrap yourself in an overcoat, and make sure your front door is locked this time on your way out.
When you make it into LeBlanc, peeling off and tossing your winterwear into a booth - seriously, what are the chances you're going to get customers on a snowy Christmas Day - you see Akira is in fact there at the counter, doing a crossword puzzle. He's dressed in a ridiculous-looking cardigan and fleece pants, because sure, who the hell cares? They're sure to dress him up however they damn well please in juvie.
"Mornin," you say as you hang your hat next to Sayuri. Akira twirls his pen through his fingers and returns your greeting with a warm look.
"Morning."
You still haven't seen the cat, which you don't bring up. Nor can you bring yourself to say something insensitive and stupid like, 'So, today's the day'. Instead you pull your apron off its hook as you make your way behind the bar, and after a moment of deliberation, you take the spare that has now established itself Akira's and toss it at him.
He drops the pen to catch it with a glint of confusion in his eyes. Understandable, considering you don't open until five, and he expects to be picked up by Tokyo's Finest before seven.
"Got a new lesson for you." You tie the apron behind you with one hand, using the other to flick off the droning television screen. "If you're not too busy."
Akira watches you with something equally cautious and curious in his eyes. It doesn't escape your notice that he seems lighter today - whether from sloughing off some of his weight last night, or that he's simply that strong, to have accepted it like a man. You're proud of him either way.
And you're relieved.
Sure enough, Akira rises to his feet and slips on his apron like he was born doing it. You're accustomed to tending the bar together, so when you turn to your wall of coffee beans, your ward is moving to fill the kettles with water and set them to a boil.
He's just finished placing the last one as you plunk the jar onto the counter. While you pry it open, he reads the label in a murmur.
"Malabar?"
"Monsooned Malabar," you correct, popping the lid off. Setting it aside, you tap the label again to point out the tiny caption he'd missed. "It's a processing technique for coffee beans."
Akira waits, clearly expecting you to launch into your usual connoisseur's sermon, but you're silent as you scoop the beans out. Puzzlement is creeping back into his expression, and as amusing as it is to see that stupefied look on a face that's usually so composed, customers don't pay for gawking. "What are you standing around for? These beans aren't going to grind themselves, you know."
And so you take him through the process, one last time. He doesn't need the coaching; his hands are quick, and he toils effortlessly through the fog of steam that fans across his glasses. But you talk him the whole way through, criticize the way he works the grinder, lightly praise the fineness of his coffee grinds. He must think it's weird how much you're talking, given you haven't hovered over his work with this much scrutiny in months.
But there's a smug, cocky, no-good tick in his smile whenever he deigns to retort, and you ineffectively put him on rice-washing duty twice before the grinds even hit the press. You don't glance at the door once. Neither does he, and it gives some senseless part of you comfort to know that you're the last person he'll actively watch coming through LeBlanc's entrance.
It doesn't usually take an hour to brew a single pot of coffee. You blame your punk of a ward. But by the time six rolls around, Akira is seated at the bar, a cup of Malabar coffee hissing steam into the air from a snow-white mug in front of him.
"Go on," you say. "Give it your best shot."
Akira takes a moment to savor the scent - you'll make a connoisseur out of him yet. Then he takes a slow, careful pull from the mug, and you watch his adam's apple work up and down, his untrained palate trying to suss out the complexity of the blend.
"It's… dry," he says haltingly, like he's unsure of the correct terminology. "And kind of nutty."
You grin from ear-to-ear. "See? Perfect for you."
Akira snorts into his coffee, sending droplets up into his face, and quickly sets the mug down while wiping his sleeve over his glasses.
"That was an elaborate process for one punchline," he grumbles. But you're not fooled. He adjusts his glasses, his eyes creasing with humor at the corners.
Your stomach twists and flip-flops and your chest tightens, and you ignore it. Because god. You're going to miss this brat.
You know what he's thinking, as you set a modestly-portioned plate of rice in front of him. He thinks this is the final lesson, a parting gift from master to pupil. If you had any damn lick of sense, you would be agreeing with him. Which is why, as he ignores the rice to stare at his mug with a faint line between his brows, you know what he's thinking.
"Listen up," you say in your familiar cadence. He snaps to attention, watching you expectantly. You cross your arms.
"I'm leaving this one to you. Figure out the secrets of Malabar yourself."
There. Your leap of faith. Akira's staring at you like you've grown a second head, and then a third one, and while that look is still funny on him, you aren't joking. He seems to realize this with a subtle click of his jaw.
"Sojiro. I don't think that's…"
"What? Possible?" You chuckle, and maybe it's bitter. "I don't want to hear that from you. You'll find a way."
You look away, and Akira looks at you. You wonder what he sees.
"Besides," you say, your eyes falling on Sayuri. "I've got a feeling."
You're not sure if Akira plans to formulate a response. It doesn't matter anyway, because an outline forms beyond the frosted panes of LeBlanc's entrance, and the bell jingles brightly to announce the entrance of Sae Nijima and two goons you don't care about.
Akira turns to look, but you step forward and wave one arm in full cantankerous fashion.
"Hey! What happened to seven sharp? Jeez… that eager for your scapegoat, huh? At least let the guy finish his breakfast."
"That should be fine," Nijima cuts in before the suits can start hollering.
It's not a victory. But when you turn to look at Akira, you couldn't be prouder of the way he stares Goon One down with that bastard smugness as he dutifully shovels down rice.
You don't usually trust your instincts, which sure as hell didn't do a damn thing for Wakaba. But maybe they're good for something. You allow yourself the nice thought, even while your eyes mist behind your glasses.
Akira's mop of hair (and that loud cat) is the last part of him you see, in the few seconds it takes for him to walk out of LeBlanc for what will be the final time in a while. Because you're being kind to yourself today, you allow yourself to tack on 'in a while' freely, too. You're man enough to admit that you've gotten sappy in your old age.
And you're really going to miss that punk.
The little journal is exactly on the counter where you'd left it; it stays there all day. Maybe some fool part of you thinks that if you don't open it, that last part of Akira won't leave the walls of this place. It's not that you're afraid of what he's written, or even of whatever wild tales he might have stashed in there - hell, you're pretty sure the early entries will have a few choice descriptives of you, unfettered from the nice-boy mask Akira had solidly cultivated in those days. You're almost looking forward to it. Few deserve it more than you.
It's when you finally close up for the night and send Futaba home with a thermos of curry that you feel like you've steeled yourself enough for it. Shedding your apron onto the counter, you roll your pink sleeve and pick up the journal. As you slide into a booth, flicking the cover open, you're startled into pause by the sticky note that clings in bright yellow to the first page.
On the note is Akira's deft scrawl, written in pen.
Monsooned Malabar
A technique applied to the processing of coffee beans. Whole beans are subjected to severe batterings beneath monsoon rains for a period of time, usually three to four months. Through surviving the process, the beans lose acidity while gaining a pleasant mellowness, with hints of spice. Also considered a somewhat eccentric blend. Nonetheless, sought out and appreciated by those with a fine palate.
Classy.
That's what I got from Wikipedia. I'll study up and give you a full report next time I make a cup for you.
Akira
You stare at the note for what can't be more than a few seconds, yet feels like an entire year in your mind. Then you pull off your glasses, wipe your eyes, and tuck the journal into your pocket.
As you leave out the front door, you press the note directly beneath the framed picture of a woman gazing at her child. You don't think too hard about that. Even you have a limit on how much sappiness you're willing to put up with.
But this, you think, is the last bit you'll allow. And you flip the sign to Closed, leaving LeBlanc empty for the night for the first time in a full, rich year.
You don't expect that to last.