CONTENT WARNING: The section "8/30 – Monday, Afternoon, Cafe Leblanc" contains a brief but intense mention of anti-sex worker sentiment, including multiple slurs. Please take breaks or skip sections as necessary. Stay safe.
8/30 – Monday
Afternoon
Cafe Leblanc
"I think Sojiro was trying to play it cool," Futaba said, "but my uncle called this morning."
Ren almost instinctively glanced towards the door to make sure Sojiro wouldn't walk back in mid-sentence. "Changed heart?"
She nodded, firm and almost excited. "I could hear him apologizing through the phone." And Futaba paused, as if collecting her thoughts. "He's still an awful person. I don't know if I'll ever forgive him, for what he did. But I can be happy about this, right? Like, it's still a victory."
"Absolutely," Ren said.
"That's right!" Morgana proclaimed, pacing back and forth across one of the booths. "We should celebrate. Like go out for sushi again!"
Futaba stuck out her tongue at the feline. "Nope, better idea. Special occasion coffee."
Ren chuckled. "Blue Mountain, right?"
Futaba nodded, grabbing a stepping stool from next to the sink and sliding up to the bean counter. "Mom's favorite. Mine too, it's good stuff."
"Do you need any help making it?" Ren said with a smile, looking over his shoulder to the counter. "I do work here after all. Gotta earn my keep."
"Oh, shush." Futaba stuck her tongue out. "You're the one who did the change of heart! Let me give back a little!"
Just as Ren was opening his mouth to protest, the sound of a chime came from the door above LeBlanc's entrance. Standing in the doorway, taking a glance around the small shop, was celebrity detective and Ren's self-proclaimed debate partner, one Goro Akechi.
"You're famous boy," Futaba whispered, leaning over the counter to get a better look.
"Guilty as charged, I suppose?" He gave a half-hearted smile that quickly dropped as he looked at Futaba, confusion on his face turning into dawning recognition.
Ren glanced at Morgana, and the two shared an expression of similar concern. It was unlikely that he'd heard the talk about changing hearts from outside, but underestimating the detective was a quick and easy way to end up on the police's radar, or worse.
Seemingly satisfied with his internal deduction, Akechi stepped inside, setting his briefcase by one of the stools and setting a small green notebook on top of the counter. "Hope I'm not interrupting," he said, flashing a smile that Ren could swear was half-intended to irritate him. "Is Mr Sakura in today? I thought the sign said you were open..."
"I can serve you," Ren said, sliding out of the booth and over to the counter. Almost on instinct, creating a barrier between the detective and Futaba, who continued watching him with wide-eyed curiosity.
"Much obliged," he said. He stared through Ren, at Futaba. Behind him, he could feel her shifting in place anxiously. "Excuse me," he said, throwing on the cheery tone and bright smile. "You're Futaba Sakura, aren't you?"
Ren felt a stiff spark of concern. How did the detective know his sister?
Her eyes narrowed and she peeked out from behind Ren. "Yeah."
Akechi nodded. "I've heard the basics of your situation from my partner, Sae. She says you're a brilliant young girl, and she doesn't throw words like that around lightly." The elder Niijima. Of course.
Futaba, seemingly unimpressed, shifted again, poking her head out from around the other side of Ren. "Okay," she squeaked out.
Akechi nodded, drumming his fingers absently on the countertop. "I was always curious, though, if you'd indulge me with an answer to one question?" Ren wanted to interject, tell her she didn't have to talk to him, but he bit his tongue. She could decide for herself, couldn't she?
"Go ahead," Futaba said, finally moving from behind Ren and leaning back against the far wall. Her fingers tapped against the side of her leg as she eyed the boy. Without another word, Ren scooted past, keeping one eye on the so-called Prince as he busied himself with the coffee pot.
Akechi looked as though he was searching for words, holding his chin in one black-gloved hand. "You took Sojiro Sakura's last name. But you were close with your mother, weren't you? Was there something that made you not want to hang on to that part of her?"
The question was not what Ren was expecting, and he flashed a look at the other boy, but Akechi's eyes remained intently focused on Futaba. There was something different about the way he asked that, like he wasn't just trying to get a rise.
Futaba was silent for a little while, and the tap-tapping of her fingers against her leg slowed to a stop. "What are you trying to say?" she demanded, voice quiet but firm. "Explain."
Akechi shrugged. "Just a question."
"If you're trying to say Sojiro is a bad parent, you're wrong. And my mom wasn't a bad parent either." She took a deep breath. This was obviously hard for her, but Ren saw the unmistakable passion in her expression. "I love my mom, and my new dad."
"But your mother isn't here," Akechi blurted out, and immediately his eyes dropped to the floor and he recoiled, as if he recognized that was a mistake. Rather than apologize, he pushed forward. "Why wouldn't you want to hang on to such a vital part of her?"
Futaba scrunched up her face. "You're a lot meaner than you are on TV," she mumbled. "Guess that's expected though..."
Akechi watched her with an intense stare, silent.
"I don't even know why you care," she said with a shrug. "But I'll answer. Names don't really mean a lot to me. I've got a good name." She winked at Ren, no doubt suppressing the joke that had popped into both of their heads immediately. "But I don't care about names. My mom isn't gonna come back to life just 'cause I kept her name. I'm hanging onto more than just some word, I'm hanging onto her legacy, her research and work and her memory. That's what matters."
Akechi, for his part, nodded along, following her words carefully. When she was done, he gave a meek smile and nodded. "I see. So you took Sojiro Sakura's last name to make things more convenient for him, am I right?"
She just nodded.
"I suppose that makes some kind of sense," Akechi said, "I can respect that." Ren placed the finished cup of coffee in front of the boy as he spoke. The detective gave his server a nod of gratitude. "But I just can't understand that perspective, myself. "
Futaba took a step forward, like she just caught something. "What does that mean?" Even Ren hadn't picked up on it, but she was right. What he'd just said implied…
Akechi's expression soured rapidly, and he looked as though he was about to storm out the door, but he composed himself. "Well, I suppose it's only fair..." he tugged on one sleeve before picking up the cup of coffee and taking a sip. "You answered my question. I'll do the same." He looked for a while, at some space in the air between Ren and Futaba. "I trust you'll both have the good sense not to share this with the press," he said, a half-joking tone that was also deadly serious.
Futaba reached up, miming zipping her mouth closed and then flicking the key away.
Akechi even smiled a little at that, for a moment. "There's a reason I found your case so interesting, Miss Sakura." Ren noticed that Futaba's eyes widened a little at the title. "It actually resonated with me on a personal level. I couldn't help but empathize." His gloved fingers tapped absently against the cup, and he gave a distant smile, eyes staring into some other place and time. "You wouldn't think it looking at me now, but my childhood was very similar to yours. The experience of being bounced around different places to live is quite a familiar one. My mother was in a relationship with...pardon my language," and he smiled sweetly, "a real piece of shit."
Futaba giggled a bit at that.
"She wasn't equipped for a child, she already struggled to make ends meet...and he didn't have any such dedication to her." Akechi's fingers stalled, some tension across his face, like a dark curse he was struggling to keep down. In an instant, that tension vanished, almost as if he had noticed Ren's awareness. The detective really didn't seem eager to drop his mask, not here. "He left when I was first born, and my mother had to fend for herself. She couldn't manage it, but she gave me everything she could."
Futaba nodded intently, the story clearly resonating with her.
"She died when I was still young." Akechi said it almost hauntingly simply, a sterile truth. "The adults at the foster homes I ended up in always called her a whore or a slut, talked about how irresponsible she was for having a child under such circumstances." His glove squeaked as his grip on the cup tightened. "I resented that."
"That sucks," Ren mumbled. However he felt about the detective, the experience he was describing was, frankly, abhorrent. Unfair to the point of fury, some awful helpless disgust. Ren couldn't help but sympathize.
"Indeed it did," Akechi said with a sigh. "And it occurred to me, between so many foster homes: nobody cared to remember my mother. She'll never be in headlines or live on in the memories of the people." He grinned, a self-satisfied look. "So I'd make them remember her, in my own way. I could have changed my name any number of times now. The adults at those foster homes tried to convince me. But I refused." His gaze shifted down to his briefcase, adored with a large letter "A" on its face. "Nowadays I'm doing quite well for myself, aren't I? By carrying on my mother's last name, I've ensured every daytime talk show host in the country has it on their lips and at the ready." He chuckled.
"I getcha," Futaba said, voice still soft but resonant. "That's one way to look at it. I think that's pretty cool, too."
Ren couldn't help but feel the same. It was more emotionally understandable than most of what he'd heard from the detective, and he couldn't help but feel a kinship between them. There were a lot of no-good adults in the world ready to give up on kids like the three of them in that café.
"Anyway, famous boy," Futaba said, waving a hand rapidly in the air. "I hope you don't mind or whatever, but me and this guy have some celebration coffee to make."
"Sorry," Ren added, giving a sheepish smile.
Akechi chuckled, lifting up a hand. "Oh, of course. Don't let me stop you." He reached into a pocket, dropping several coins onto the countertop and finishing the cup with one gulp. "I should be going anyway." He stood from his spot, scooping up his suitcase and taking one last glance between Ren and Futaba. "May I ask the occasion?"
Futaba's whole face broke into a wide grin. "Just saying goodbye to a real piece of shit."
█████
Morning
Yamanashi
The Trickster hadn't brought his loved ones to his childhood home. Sun, moon and sister; exempt from invitation. There was something of a fear there, as though they might see the bloodstains he scoured from his memory, the implications of mistakes made when he was too young to know how to cover his scars. More horrid than shame, they might pity him. Beyond that, the Trickster's parents never did dispose of that awful name he outgrew the instant he could recognize himself in a mirror. His sister would know what that means, and it might disgust her as it disgusted him. His sun might understand, or he might require an explanation the Trickster was not at all ready to give. His moon was familiar with what it takes to kill a name, he wasn't afraid she would ever repeat it, but for her to know it would be for her to become Dionysus, and he, Damocles. There were some blades the Trickster could only trust a few people with holding.
"Blue glass shards," he said, crouched down to eye-level with the doorknob, picking the lock of the house he had once called home, "clear glass jar. It should be on the mantle, but they might have moved it somewhere else."
"I know," the young woman not currently in the cat mask said, "you already told me. Like five times." She sighed, and the Trickster could hear her footsteps behind him. Back and forth, back and forth, a quiet pace.
"Cold feet?" he asked.
"Fuck you," she replied.
"It was an honest question." Click. He tried the doorknob, and it turned, and he pushed, and it didn't budge. Dead-bolted. The Trickster sighed, repositioned his tools, and got to work on the second lock.
She grumbled something under her breath. "I just don't want someone to walk by, see two teenagers breaking into a random house, and jump to conclusions."
"If there's even anyone still living around here," he said, "they probably still recognize me. It's only been two years. Fuck." He laughed. "Two years. Getting closer to three, now."
The young woman was quiet, a time. "There's a lot of empty neighborhoods, huh?"
"Yep." The wire strained, and he held his breath, maneuvering very carefully as to not break it inside the lock.
"Still got the better half of a year," she muttered, "and not everyone even believes there's going to be an apocalypse. But I guess I'm more surprised the city's not abandoned by now."
"I might be madder about that if evacuation would fix anything. Maybe they're assuming Shibuya will just soak up the Fall like the world's biggest sponge and everyone else would be fine. It's cute, almost." God, he was sounding like █████ again.
"They're not idiots for clinging to hope, ███." Almost a chastisement, but she didn't sound angry. Just tired.
Click, and turn, and the door finally swung open. The Trickster stood, pocketed his lockpick and stared into the abandoned house. "Ladies first?" he offered.
"No thanks." The young woman not currently in the cat mask might have been smiling, but he looked at her, and that smile was gone.
"Alright." And he stepped inside. It was cold, and dusty, and empty. And he knew it. Antediluvian furnishings that his father had obsessed on – brought home in between paychecks when he had a couple thousand yen burning a way through his pocket – and his mother had always compared unfavorably to his grandmother's tastes. He could see the kitchen farther down the entrance hall, and the den, and beyond both, the door to the office he had never been allowed to play in. Around one corner was his parents' room, and around the other...
"I'll take the bedrooms," the young woman said, while they walked. Maybe she could read his mind, or maybe she didn't need to. "Do you want me to look for anything else?"
"Like what?" and he could keep the spite out of his voice. The Trickster just hoped she knew it wasn't towards her.
"I don't know. Anything. Books, toys, stuffed animals." The young woman not currently in the cat mask shrugged. "Stuff of theirs you want to burn?"
"No. And if I wanted to burn their stuff, I'd just set fire to the whole house." Every drawer in the kitchen was hanging open, and he could see a pool of water across the floor from the unplugged refrigerator that hadn't been allowed to properly defrost. "If I could make sure it was only this house that burnt, I'd probably be considering it. Too risky otherwise."
"Mm," the young woman said. She slipped by, a hand on his shoulder a moment, and then she half-jogged around the corner.
And the Trickster was alone. It wouldn't be in the kitchen, so he turned towards the den. A couch that had always been too small for three people, a fireplace that probably hadn't burned in months yet was overflowing with ash – it had always been his job to clean it – and an empty spot for the television his mother insisted they couldn't afford, and his father had bought anyway. They'd taken the TV with them, but they'd left the drawing of an asymmetrical butterfly he'd painted when he was five, framed and alone on a mantlepiece that his mother had never been satisfied with, always fiddling and rearranging some twelve picture frames in every configuration possible. And there, on the left side, nestled against where the chimney jutted out into the mantle–
There was only dust. That object of supreme importance was nothing more than an afterimage in his mind's eye.
The Trickster stepped closer, one foot up on the fireplace brick.
A faint outline where that jar had been. Just a circle in the dust, a little less here than elsewhere. Or maybe it wasn't even that much, maybe it was nothing more than a trick his mind was playing on him. There was no name here, not his, and no heart, the Trickster's proud reminder cast aside.
That's right, how could ever have forgotten? It was not his home anymore.
Without even looking, the Trickster reached over and grabbed the drawing of the butterfly he'd been forced to sign with his deadname, and threw it into the fireplace as hard as he could.
8/31 – Tuesday
Afternoon
Cafe Leblanc
"Gonna be pretty boring around here when you're back at school," Futaba mumbled. She leaned over the back of her booth, scooting her elbows between Ren and Ryuji so she could poke her brother in the cheek. "And you're taking Mona with you too! It'll just be me and the old man, bored out of our minds, sipping coffee and watching the world move on without us." She shook her fist dramatically at the ceiling.
"I think I liked it better when you just called me Sojiro," the cafe owner said, sounding almost believably forlorn.
"Shujin's not a boarding school," Ren added with a little chuckle. "I'll be here mornings and evenings. Plenty of time to hang out with my favorite Taba."
"And we'll be stopping by a bunch too!" Ann smiled warmly across the table. "Leblanc's our regular hangout spot, after all."
"Thank you again for your hospitality, Boss," Yusuke said from his spot at the counter, nursing an iced coffee.
Sojiro waved a hand. "Don't mention it. I think I might be getting used to how lively it's become around here. It's not that bad. Keeps me on my toes."
Ryuji smacked a worksheet down on the table with force enough to rattle everyone's drinks. "That's two! 'Koto, hit me with the third!"
Makoto glanced up from her notes, raising an eyebrow. "Oh!" In an instant, her surprised smile warped into a mischievous smirk. "You look a little winded there, Sakamoto. You're welcome to take a break, if you wish." She steepled her fingers. "I'll even grab a soda for you, my treat."
But the blond just glared back across the table, eyes narrow. "No way. You're not making me tap out that easy. You said three, and I'm doing three." Ren couldn't help but wilt from his boyfriend's intensity. "Now, hit me."
"If you insist." With a careful, precise movement, Makoto slid a worksheet across the table.
Ryuji snatched it and immediately hunkered down, back bent, flicking his pencil back and forth between two fingers.
"I'm not sure whether to be impressed or intimidated that you weaponized his competitive spirit into academic pursuits," Yusuke noted, leaning back precariously to get a better vantage point of Ryuji's enthusiasm. "I think I might be both."
"Bout time someone figured out how to get him to pay attention to his work," Morgana said, snickering from his spot next to Futaba.
Makoto shrugged, pride and humility in equal parts. "I'm surprised it took me as long as it did, Ryuji's remarkably attentive once he sets his mind to it." The jock didn't say a word, but Ren spied what might have been a proud little smile on his face. "But now that I know his learning style, I should be able to find similar tricks to aid the rest of you with your studies."
Futaba immediately threw her hands up in a tense guard straight out of a low-budget kung fu movie. "Don't mess with my brain, scary lady."
"You don't have to worry, Futaba," Makoto chuckled, "I think out of the group, I'll probably be focusing on Ann next."
Ann made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a groan.
"I'm sure you'll live," Ren said, stifling a laugh.
"Feel free to laugh it up now, Amamiya." Makoto leaned her chin on her hand, giving Ren a crocodile grin from across the table. "You are absolutely next."
Ren blinked. "Uh." He cleared his throat. "Good luck Ann, please give her as much trouble as possible."
"Oh fuck off!" Ann crumpled up her scratch paper and threw it at his head.
So many thanks and credit to Jane for writing the very first scene of this chapter. It was a huge help, and took a whole lot of pressure off me. She did an amazing job with it in my opinion, and I'm very grateful.
