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The words that come easiest are the ones Ren doesn’t have to think about. The first time Sojiro hands him a chopping board and Ren instinctively mumbles a “thank you,” both of them freeze. Ren watches Sojiro decide that the kindest thing to do is to not acknowledge it, and feels the same old mingled rush of gratitude and shame that comes every time he’s the subject of kindness: I shouldn’t need this but god thank you thank you.
Afterwards, a voice in Ren’s head whispers that maybe now he’ll be able to go back to faking some semblance of normalcy, that he can stop making everyone jump through hoops to accommodate his newest bid for attention, that he’ll be able to just talk the way everyone else seems to do so effortlessly.
No dice. The thick closed-off feeling in his throat and in his head are still a near-constant presence, any words he has to think about before he can say them feel like they’re being dredged up from the bottom of a deep well, and even though he keenly misses his friends, the thought of being in a room with seven people who all want him to talk fills Ren with a cold panic.
Still, the moments where he can say something again feel like a victory, even if only a tiny one. Enough that next time Ren is helping Sojiro prep on a Sunday morning at Leblanc, he texts that he’s fine to stay and keep helping after they open. The same old slow stream of regulars nursing their drinks for far too long is comforting, and Ren finds that he can say “thank you,” “here you go,” “enjoy.”
If Ren lets himself think about it, it feels ridiculous to be proud of being able to murmur a few words—but the rhythm of Leblanc, the comforting weight of his apron and the old familiar movements keeping his hands busy all work to quiet his brain down just a little.
“Sojiro,” Ren says, and the thickness in his throat is starting to come back but he pushes through. He gestures to the empty spot in the fridge where the peppers should be.
Sojiro sighs, wipes his hands on his apron. “I’ll go grab some more.” He gives Ren an appraising look. “You okay to watch the store while I’m gone?”
Ren nods before he can think too much about it. He’s watched the store a hundred times, for far longer than it’ll take Sojiro to go down the street to the convenience store. That was before, but Ren tells himself firmly that that shouldn’t matter. Nothing has really changed. Besides, the only customers are rising from their booth and getting ready to leave.
“I’ll be quick,” Sojiro promises, and heads out after them.
Ren clears the vacated table and wipes it down. He stands by the counter and runs his hand over its cool mottled surface, listening to the quiet sounds of Yongen outside, the bubble of the siphons and the rattle of the wind on the windows.
Ever since those first few weeks after juvenile hall, back home again but knowing he’d have to leave it soon, Ren has been determined to not take anything about this place for granted. A stupid part of his heart still aches for the specific creak of his bedroom floor back at his parents’ house, for the discolourations in the ceiling above his bed that always reminded him of raindrops, for the sound of his mother humming along to the radio. Another part misses the hiss of his grappling hook retracting, the surge of power when he called forth a Persona, the hum of Mona’s engine.
Ren is never going to let himself not notice what he has again. At least when he misses Leblanc someday he’ll know he understood what he had when he had it, that he saw the blow coming and knew how much it would hurt when it landed.
The bell rings and Ren looks up hoping for Sojiro, but instead it’s a man in a suit he’s never seen before.
“Large cappuccino to go,” the man says, one eye on his phone.
Ren swallows. “Sorry,” he says, a little too quiet, “we don’t do takeout.”
“Seriously?” The man glances up from his phone, gestures to the counter. “You don’t have one to-go cup back there?”
Ren shakes his head. Use your words, the echo of his father’s voice says. At least pretend to care about what other people are saying. “It—it’s not that kind of place,” Ren manages at last.
The man scoffs. “Too pretentious for to-go coffee, huh? Come on, I’m late for a meeting and I’m not gonna make it through without some caffeine.”
Ren realises his hands are still twisting in nervous circles on the counter, and tucks them away behind his back. He goes to say that he thinks there’s a coffee counter at the station, then remembers it’s a Sunday and he isn’t sure if they’ll be open. It’s too many words, and it isn’t what the guy wants to hear anyway, and now Ren is just standing there silent for much too long as his throat burns.
The man casts a disparaging gaze around Leblanc and then lasers in on Ren. “What are you, a high schooler? Where’s the actual staff?”
He’ll be back in a minute, Ren needs to say. The words echo dizzily through his head, shifting and distorting. He’ll be back in a minute. He can’t make himself look up at the man anymore and he hears the echo of his mother’s cold sigh in his head from whenever he failed to acknowledge one of her friends, embarrassing her again with his obstinacy and deliberate strangeness. He’ll be back in a minute, he’ll be back in a minute, he’ll—
The bell above the door rings again, and Ren knows the sound of Sojiro’s footsteps without having to look up.
“Finally,” the man says, exasperation clear in his voice. “You work here?”
“I’m the owner,” Sojiro says, tone polite but wary. Ren can’t look at his face either. His gaze is fixed on the whorls of wood in the countertop that had felt so comforting under his hands just a minute ago, like the twists of yarn in the blanket Ren uses when he sleeps over at the Sakura house, in the bed he’d made Sojiro buy because his parents don’t want him and sometimes if he stays in the attic too long he shuts down like a broken machine.
The problem with trying to appreciate the things he has is that Ren knows he doesn’t deserve any of them.
“What seems to be the problem?” Sojiro asks, a warning note in his voice that the man doesn’t heed.
“I just want a large cappuccino to go,” the man says. “And you probably shouldn’t leave your shop in the hands of some spaced-out kid. Ever hear of customer service?”
The last part is directed at Ren, who still can’t look at anyone in the room let alone think of a response, let alone make his raw useless throat form the words to say it.
“This isn’t a Starbucks,” Sojiro says, voice as cold as Ren’s ever heard it. “Don’t like it, hit the road. And you don’t talk to my kid like that.”
The man sighs again. “Waste of time,” he mutters as he heads out the door. “Don’t know how this place stays open.”
Sojiro shuts the door hard behind him. “Ren,” he says, and there’s that kindness again, that warm concern and Ren can’t stand it, can’t bear to keep taking and taking when he knows full well that one day Sojiro will have had enough just like everyone else.
With shaking hands, Ren unties the strings of his apron. “S-sorry,” he says, and it’s agony now, but he forces himself to keep going. “I—I just need a minute.”
Sojiro says his name again but Ren is already heading for the stairs, pausing only to hang his apron on the hook (a fragment of memory, coming home in a haze and leaving his jacket and backpack on the floor by the front door instead of hanging them up: you think it’s okay to drop your stuff everywhere just because you’ve got yourself in a state? You think you’re the only one who’s ever had a bad day?).
When Ren gets to the attic he sinks to the floor, hugs his knees to his chest and tries to breathe. He can’t believe how pathetic he’s become. He used to stand side by side with his friends and fight back against the corrupt and the powerful, he used to battle gods and now he’s hyperventilating on the ground because he couldn’t hold his own against a mildly rude customer.
Ren hears the sound of the bell downstairs and realises Sojiro must have left. The surge of misery in his chest tells Ren he must be as manipulative as his parents always said, retreating when he really wanted to be comforted, never just saying what he wants, never saying anything at all when it really counted.
It’s good that Sojiro isn’t forcing himself to come and deal with Ren when he doesn’t want to; it might slow the inevitable build of resentment a little, give Ren a bit more time borrowing the warmth of a family that isn’t really his.
Ren hears footsteps on the stairs and sobs from sheer relief, though no tears actually come out. He can’t even cry right. Crocodile tears—
“Hey, it’s alright. You’re alright.”
Sojiro sinks down beside him, resting a warm hand between his shoulder blades.
“S-sorry,” Ren stutters. “I, I’m—”
“Hey, cut that out,” Sojiro says, voice soft but firm. “No more talking, alright? It’s not gonna help you calm down.”
The relief of being instructed not to speak after a lifetime of use your words is so acute that Ren heaves out another awful dry sob.
Sojiro’s hand moves in slow circles over his back. It’s the kind of thing parents did in movies that made Ren’s chest hurt to watch without him ever knowing why. The shame in his head is as loud as ever, but the steady warmth of that hand moving over his back drags some of the tension out of Ren’s body despite himself.
Ren huddles there and drinks in Sojiro’s quiet patient presence, shuts his eyes and breathes in the familiar coffee and cigarettes smell, until his breathing has evened out. His eyes and throat ache horribly, the floor is cold and uncomfortable, but Ren can’t bring himself to move and break this spell.
Sojiro lets out a long sigh. “I shouldn’t’ve left you alone.”
Ren shakes his head. He considers for a second trying to dig out his phone and reply—to explain that Sojiro shouldn’t be sorry, that Ren should have been able to handle it, that he’s sorry for screwing up Sojiro’s business again— but even now that his hands have stopped shaking he doesn’t think he could do it. There’s a thick, soupy feeling filling his head, and all the steps needed to decide on words, think through their implications, put them together even in written form, stretch out ahead of him over impossible miles.
Sojiro sighs again. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You can handle it, you kids can handle anything and everything all on your own. Doesn’t mean you should have to.”
You really can’t handle this? His parents’ voices echo, asked over and over if Ren ever tried to head off a situation he was worried he’d break down in. A question, but really an instruction: find a way to get through it. Find a way to be better.
Ren had thought he had it figured out. For the first time in his life he had friends who were more than just people to sit with at lunch, and somehow he’d even become someone they looked to for answers. The momentum of it let him keep pushing, keep being who he was supposed to be, until Maruki’s palace fell, reality snapped back to itself, and Ren was alone in the quiet of a cell.
Ren comes back to the present as Sojiro moves his hand to Ren’s shoulder and pulls him gently into a sideways hug. There’s a shard of panic buried beneath his gratitude, because Ren has no idea how to be cared about like this, which means he doesn’t know the rules—what he’s supposed to give in return, when it might end.
“You know none of this is your fault, right?”
Ren shakes his head minutely into Sojiro’s shoulder. He doesn’t know anything anymore. But the fact that there’s one person who doesn’t think it’s his fault, even if Sojiro is wrong, even if he changes his mind someday…Ren basks in the warmth of that absolution like a cat in the sun, and only shifts to pull out of the hug when his leg has fallen fully asleep and his breathing is coming slow and even.
“We’re closing up early today, and I don’t want to hear another word about it,” Sojiro says, rising from the floor with a groan. “Got no taste for serving up coffee after dealing with that asshole.”
Through the soup in his head, Ren wonders if the bell he’d heard earlier was Sojiro stepping outside to flip the sign to closed.
“What do you say we go back to that sushi place once Futaba and the cat get home? Gotta make sure we get Morgana his tuna this time or we’ll have a riot on our hands.”
Ren hesitates, familiar guilt telling him he shouldn’t be letting Sojiro spend money on him. They’d argued back and forth about money for days—in the end, Sojiro let Ren use leftover Metaverse funds to get some furniture for the attic, but wouldn’t let him contribute anything to the cost of the new furniture in the spare room. Ren thinks about it every time he sleeps in that brand new bed, how the space he took up in Sojiro’s life was supposed to be neatly-defined, with clear borders: one year, one payment from his parents, and Ren tucked neatly away in the attic.
Now the year is over and Ren is still here, his life twining with the Sakuras in ways he never thought he could ask for, and he’s so grateful and so frightened all at once.
So Ren should say no to the sushi, no to more kindness he doesn’t know how to repay, but it sounds so good to sit and not be expected to talk; to listen to Futaba and Morgana bicker, watch and bask in the warmth of their presence without needing to say anything himself.
For a moment Ren considers digging out his phone to give his answer, trying to school the words in his head into some kind of order and put them out into the world. Instead he turns to look at Sojiro and nods, and thinks maybe the uncertainty and terror of it all is worth it, if he gets to have this for even a little while.