Archive of Our Own

Ryoji Mochizuki is standing on something solid, his legs trembling beneath him as they—barely—hold his weight.

Ryoji Mochizuki is surrounded by a dense crowd of people, uncomfortably warm beneath the scarf wrapped around his neck.

Ryoji Mochizuki is, and the breath he instinctively sucks in with shaky lungs is the first he’s had in a very long time.

He remembers the Fall; he remembers SEES’s futile attempts to strike him down—but he remembers Minato’s miracle, too. Most importantly, he remembers being sealed within the Sea of Souls, his dear friend bound indelibly before him to keep humanity safe.

But there's nothing concrete after that—how long has it been? Time is a shaky concept to something like Nyx, and since New Year’s Eve, Ryoji has been nothing but a scrap of consciousness within her vast existence, clinging to something approaching humanity for reasons unknown. By all rights, he should’ve been swallowed up in the very first moments of 2010. (By all rights, he never should’ve existed at all—)

But now Ryoji is here, wherever and whenever here is, and he’s just squeezing his eyes shut, forcing his mind to think past the implications of that—

—when the sensory overload hits.

He finds himself hyperventilating, standing on this awful concrete surface with so much noise pouring in from all sides. Digital announcements over an intercom, trains roaring down their tracks, music playing somewhere nearby, people talking and calling after each other—

All of it overlaps over each other and over the heat and over his rapid breathing, filling his head with static and making his hands shake violently. Some of the reflexes he borrowed (stole) from Minato must have stayed intact, because he still knows how to move his legs, how to reach up and cover his ears. He manages to retreat until his back hits a blessedly solid wall, a little further away from the rails.

He doesn’t know where he is, or when he is—or what, or why, or how he is, for that matter. He’s still shaking several moments later when he tries to open his eyes; everything is only slightly less overwhelming, but he needs to figure out what situation he’s found himself in. After all, the fuzzy gestures of memories that helped him function in Iwatodai haven’t deigned to grace him yet.

This time, he’s able to focus a little better, take in his surroundings. It’s an underground train station, absolutely crammed with people. The display on one of the overhead signs tells him that it’s mid-evening, though it doesn’t have a date.

It’s all still way too much, and he feels his head continuing to fill with cotton as he lets his hands fall from his ears. The press of people grows for a moment as a train pulls into the station and deposits some of its passengers—but then it lessens again as an equal number of those on the platform board it. A rail system, something he’s familiar with, even if this is so much worse than Iwatodai’s—

The train pulls away from the station, and the mass of people around him continues to mill, overwhelming and uniform and utterly incomprehensible. But then someone comes rushing down the stairs to his left, looking harried, glancing between a sleek black smartphone and the overhead signs. Ryoji watches, a little mesmerized, as he swears under his breath—the sound’s clear as a bell to his ringing ears.

It’s a teenager, maybe his Minato’s age, with messy hair and a school bag over one shoulder, pulling a small suitcase behind him. He rubs vehemently at his eyes, swears again, and then makes his way to lean against the wall several feet from Ryoji as he types something into his fancy phone.

Either this kid is a serious tech geek, or more time than Ryoji dreaded must’ve passed. “Missed the damn train,” he says under his breath, and shifts his school bag on his shoulder. At least, that’s what Ryoji assumes happens. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the bag moved on its own.

The guy appears to finish sending his message, because he sighs again, adjusts his back against the wall, and reaches to fidget with something in the ear nearer Ryoji. He catches a glimpse of something small, white, and wireless through his thick hair—a hearing aid? No, that’s not right. He’s not sure what it is.

The kid glances over the station reflexively, his eyes barely catching on Ryoji or anyone else before he turns back to his phone. Of course Ryoji wouldn’t catch his attention, if he hasn’t attracted anyone’s so far—this is apparently a city big enough that people go out of their way to mind their own business. Ryoji probably just looks like another student waiting for his train.

But to him, this stranger is shining like a beacon, like a lifeline, someone he can latch onto for help in this crowd of overwhelming strangers. It’s not quite the inexplicable pull he felt toward Minato in November, but it’s not dissimilar—it’s like this guy is the only person he can focus on with any amount of certainty. He doesn’t have the capacity to wonder why; right now, he can’t imagine asking anyone else for help.

He pushes himself off the wall, barely noticing his aching back, and takes several unsteady steps toward this stranger with no real plan of what to say to him. The guy is reading something on his phone now; his face twists in displeasure, and he shoves it into his hoodie pocket as Ryoji comes closer. He tries to stop a respectful distance away, but he thinks he misses the mark—the kid tenses when Ryoji enters his peripherals, his eyes flashing as he looks over.

Ryoji swallows to try and get some saliva into his parched throat, and probably takes too long—the silence is definitely awkward. The kid doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t move or relax, because why would he? And eventually, Ryoji just croaks out the first question that comes to mind—

“Can you tell me what year it is, please?”

The kid’s frown deepens. “Is this some sort of ARG?” he asks, sounding irritated. “Because I’m not involved.”

Ryoji has no idea what an ARG is. “Please,” he repeats instead, and the kid’s frown gets deeper still. His bag rustles again, except this time, Ryoji can tell with some certainty that the guy didn’t make it move himself.

“2017,” he says eventually, short, and then pulls his phone right back out. He reaches up to fiddle with the white thing in his ear again, turning his head away from Ryoji; he couldn't make it clearer that the conversation is over.

Ryoji can read the signs perfectly well. Except—seven years after the Fall, after the Seal, and his breathing picks up as he tries and fails to process this. He still—inexplicably—appears to be a teenager, but even if he had a way to contact any of the others, Junpei, Yukari, and the rest would be in their twenties by now. They’d probably remember him, but they’d remember him as the Appriser: the monster who, for all intents and purposes, killed their field leader and friend.

Minato, standing willingly between Nyx and Erebus for all eternity. But if Ryoji is here, then what does that mean for him? Did his sacrifice truly buy humanity less than a decade? It doesn’t make sense—the Seal was a miracle, infallible—but the Appriser walks amongst humanity again, and that can only mean one thing—

“I need help,” he croaks, and then wipes at his face with one hand, desperately blinking back tears.

The guy seems intent on ignoring him, but Ryoji doesn’t move—can’t even think about moving right now—and eventually he sighs. “There’s an information desk up that way,” he gestures toward the stairs with his head, and doesn’t look at him straight on. Regardless, Ryoji can see him keeping him in his peripherals.

“No, I—”

He’s not sure what, exactly, makes things click in his head. The catalyst might be the realization that the thing in the guy’s ear is a headphone; he can hear tinny music filtering, barely, from his direction, so reminiscent of how he could hear Minato’s from feet away—

He knows with sudden certainty that there’s a very good reason his instincts led him here. “Oh,” he says faintly, because the longer he stares, the louder it screams out to him. “You’re a Wild Card, aren’t you?”

That gets the guy’s attention—he tenses all over, letting go of his suitcase handle to stand up a little straighter. His bag rustles again, more blatant this time, but Ryoji doesn’t spare it a thought.

His own arcana hangs heavy in his mind, a bold and black XIII. And he clearly remembers Minato, the Fool at first: ultimately, humanity’s Messiah who gained the Universe so that he could, without hesitation or reservation—

This boy resonates with the World—a different deck, a different destiny, but the same meaning nonetheless. A Fool who has finished his journey. A Fool who managed, through either luck or skill, to survive whatever threat to humanity he was pitted against—

“Say that again,” the guy says, his voice lower, more of a threat. Ryoji swallows; the more he looks for them, the more he can see echoes of Minato’s power in this stranger. So he doesn’t hesitate to take the plunge:

“You’re a Wild Card,” he repeats, and manages it a bit stronger, this time. He stops trying so hard to hold back the tears in his eyes, and feels a couple tumble down his cheeks. “You’re a Persona user who can summon a whole compendium’s worth of demons from your soul.”

A cat with piercing blue eyes pokes its head out of the guy’s school bag, staring intently at Ryoji like it can understand him. Like it’s trying to solve a puzzle. Like it’s ready to pounce on him at a moment’s notice.

The cat, a Magician. Huh. Well, it wouldn’t be the first—Cerberus was a shining example of the Strength arcana, after all.

The guy glares at him. “And what if I was?” he challenges. “Yaldabaoth is gone. The Metaverse is gone. I’m done with all of that.”

If Ryoji were in a better state of mind, he might have realized that Nyx would recognize both of those names. As it stands now, they’re unfamiliar to him; he dismisses them both as irrelevant to his current problem. “I need your help,” he says instead, his voice breaking. “Something’s gone wrong—I’m not supposed to be here.”

The guy’s frown deepens as he searches Ryoji’s face with hard eyes. “What kind of help?” he asks eventually, and Ryoji takes a shaky breath. To be honest, he hasn’t even gotten that far in his panic; his only real thought is put me back.

“Do you still have access to the Velvet Room?” he asks, a shot in the dark.

The cat’s eyes sharpen, and the guy just tenses further. “No,” he says shortly, and Ryoji squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think of a second-string plan before this guy abandons him entirely.

Minato, the only Wild Card he’s ever known, was kind to a fault despite his apathetic exterior. Minato would have helped a desperate stranger in the subway, he’s sure of it. And maybe it’s an assumption too far, to hope a Wild Card who’s walked a different path will be the same way, but something like trust still pulls him magnetically toward this abrasive boy with the cat and the sharp eyes.

A Fool does not gain the World by ignoring those around him. Ryoji flinches as a train comes and goes at his back—maybe one this boy could’ve taken to replace the one he missed. His eyes certainly flicker to the overhead signs when it pulls into the station—but he stays where he is, staring Ryoji down with steely eyes not unlike Minato’s, on that last, desperate battlefield.

He’s quiet for several seconds even after the screeching rails die down, staring at Ryoji like he’s measuring up his worth. Ryoji has no idea what he’s looking for, and has nothing to offer but the pleas he’s already voiced. Instead, he swipes his eyes clear before letting his hand drop, keeping eye contact in the hopes that it’ll do something in his favor.

“Joker,” someone says sharply; it takes Ryoji a moment to realize it’s the cat. It’s staring even harder up at Ryoji than Joker is, and the edge to its voice borders on alarm. (It speaks volumes to Ryoji’s state of mind that he barely pauses to wonder at the concept of a talking cat at all.) “Something’s off. Ask him what he’s got to do with the Room.”

Joker’s gaze flits toward the cat briefly, his frown deepening before he shifts his posture. Ryoji doesn’t know anything about combat—picked up none of the instincts or the footwork that Minato fought and bled for—but the body language reads even more closed-off and wary than before. He needs to de-escalate this before he loses what little ground he might have gained.

Joker opens his mouth. But Ryoji starts first: “I was never a guest myself,” he says; he can’t tell if his tone comes out pleading or apologetic. “I’ve only passed through a few times. But of everyone I can think of, Igor would probably know best what’s going on.”

Joker’s eyes fly wide. The cat shifts in his bag, too—maybe its gaze has turned more considering than lethal, or maybe Ryoji’s too hopeful for his own good. “You can understand me,” it says, tilting its head to the side. It’s not quite a question, but Ryoji nods anyway.

Something changes behind Joker’s expression. But before Ryoji can try to parse it, he straightens up, grabbing his suitcase with one hand and Ryoji’s wrist with the other. His grip is firm, not unnecessarily tight or cruel—but it’s the first human contact he’s had since that night in Minato’s room, begging him to kill him. The sensation is just as overwhelming as the auditory overload from earlier.

Even so, he can’t bring himself to pull away. The burn of skin against his own is drowned out by the desperate relief as Joker pulls him up the subway stairs and into a bustling city center.

Akira’s been in a foul mood all evening—ever since he left Leblanc, the end of this trip, en route once again to the hometown that hasn’t felt like home in years.

An impulsive stop in Shibuya, longer than anticipated, made him miss his train out of town. A nasty reply from his mom, after he let her know he’d be late, curdled his stomach until it was dangerously close to bubbling over. And a disoriented stranger he took for drunk, harassing him as he waited for the next train—that was just the icing on the cake.

(He just wanted to be left in peace with his headphones. The playlist Minato gifted him is full of heavier music than he usually favors, but it fits his current mood perfectly; now, if this kid with his stupid scarf would just—)

But then there’s you’re a Wild Card, aren’t you and I need your help and I’ve only passed through a few times, like the fact that he knows about the Velvet Room at all isn’t remarkable on its own. Akira’s perspective on the situation is shifting, his mind racing fast as a shuffled deck of cards—because this guy is clearly setting off alarm bells in Morgana’s head, but he hasn’t once acted aggressive or even assertive. Akira’s been a jerk, doing his level best to convince him to leave them alone, but the guy hasn’t so much as gotten defensive about it.

Akira’s confident in his ability to read people—an occupational hazard—but he’s also not one to dismiss such a visceral reaction from Morgana. Which leaves him with this: the guy may be a threat, but he doesn’t appear to actually mean them any harm. Whatever he thinks is going on, he’s giving it to them straight.

At this point, even if Akira could get him to leave them alone, he’s pretty sure it’d just come back to bite him in the ass.

So here he is, giving up any hope of actually leaving Tokyo tonight—instead re-emerging into Shibuya as the sun sets, casting around for a place with outdoor seating and plenty of public cover so they can talk. He may be a risk-taker, may live for those rushes of adrenaline he gets while he fights for survival—but he’s not stupid. Whoever this kid is, he doesn’t want to get caught alone with him, even with Morgana as backup.

(He’s feeling more like himself already, his temper settling back down, secure beneath the surface. Is it the realization that dealing with this means he gets to stay another night with the Sakuras? Or is it the thrilling feeling of the unknown that he hasn’t felt in months, since the Metaverse crumbled into nothing?)

He spots a boba stand with a bunch of little tables out front, and heads that way, his grip on both his suitcase and the scarf guy crushing. He comes along without resistance—without even complaint—and Akira still can’t quite make sense of the facts in front of him. Just as easily as the irritation bled away, he unconsciously slips behind Joker’s mask: dusty and stiff from disuse, but comfortably worn-in like an old pair of gloves.

Analytical, cool-headed, and adaptable—he can do that right now. Maybe this guy’s dangerous, but he’s not actually threatening them; he just seems desperate to get help with whatever emergency he thinks is unfolding. He’s probably not technically human—but, hell, Akira’s old hand with those types by now, between Morgana and the twins. He’s even added Aigis, Labrys, and Teddie to the roster within the last few months.

All he has to do is figure out what he means when he says I’m not supposed to be here. That’s nothing. That’s easy.

“Are you sure about this?” Morgana asks, once Akira joins the queue in front of the stand. His voice is low as he glances over his shoulder.

Akira looks, too—the kid’s eyes are trained on the ground, and he doesn’t appear to have heard the question. If Akira focuses, he can feel fine tremors up and down the arm in his grip.

The way he’s hiding behind his scarf reminds Akira abruptly of Futaba—specifically, the way she shields herself with her hair when she's overwhelmed.

“Yeah,” he says, just as low, and consciously relaxes his grip to be more comfortable. The guy doesn’t seem to notice that, either; Morgana narrows his eyes—but ultimately nods, trusting his judgment.

He’s not sure he could explain in words why he pays for two identical drinks, when he makes it to the register—but within minutes, they’re passed back over the counter to him. He lets go of scarf guy’s arm, instead pushing one cup into his hand—all but forcing his fingers to close around it when he doesn’t seem to register its existence immediately.

The kid startles; his gaze skitters a little closer to Akira before sliding away again—but he gets a grip on the cup. Akira doesn’t say anything—just grabs his own boba, and then puts his hand against the guy’s bony shoulder to guide him to sit at a well-lit table nearby.

As they get settled, Akira watches him, looking for clues to his identity or his power or what he might be thinking—but there’s nothing to be gleaned. They’re the same age, or close enough; he’s taller than Akira, but gangly in the same underfed way that Yusuke used to be. He hasn’t said a word since answering Morgana’s question on the platform, and more than a few tears have slipped down to disappear behind the hem of his scarf.

If Akira saw him without context in the city, he’d say he’s just another miserable kid—a little under-dressed for the autumn chill despite his massive scarf—probably having a hell of a bad day. Nothing more, nothing less. Except—

Well, he’s met most of the Shadow Operatives’ associates—and the ones he hasn’t, he’s seen their pictures. This guy isn’t one of them. And even disregarding Morgana’s instinctive distrust—if there’s a Persona user out there that Mitsuru Kirijo doesn’t know about, then this is going to become everyone’s problem eventually, anyway.

Akira takes a deep drink of his boba before setting it down beside his bag on the table, all business. “So, what’s your name?” he opens with. It seems as logical a place to start as any—something for Futaba to search through the census for, if nothing else.

The guy huffs an exhausted sort of laugh. “That…would depend on who you ask,” he says, his grip on his own cup tightening. He stares into it, doesn’t drink a drop, and doesn’t follow that ominous statement up with anything else.

Akira inhales, praying for patience. He leans forward on one elbow, and props up his chin on his hand, and fights down the frown that wants to form. “Well, what do you want me to call you, then?” he clarifies, and the guy startles, finally looking up at him. His expression says clearly that he’s never considered that question before.

“…I was called Ryoji Mochizuki for a while,” he says after several long moments, his gaze sliding away again. He’s been soft-spoken this whole time; here, his voice grows even smaller. “I didn’t mind it.”

Right. Akira files that away, pulls out his phone under the table, and keeps talking. “Okay, Ryoji,” he says. “You have to realize that I have a whole lot of questions, right?”

Ryoji almost laughs again. “Yes, I can imagine,” he says. “Where do you want me to start?”

“How about with how you can understand me?” Morgana butts in indignantly, sitting up straighter from Akira’s bag. Ryoji blinks, and seems to take a closer look at him. Akira takes the opportunity to open his text thread with Futaba:

“You’re not a cat,” Ryoji is saying, actually sounding a little surprised. “You’re—what are you?”

Morgana appears too startled to even snark back—Akira’s impressed. “A product of the Velvet Room,” he fills in eventually. His phone buzzes silently in his hand, an acknowledgement from Futaba. “Usually, people can only understand him if they see him talk in the Metaverse first.”

“The…Metaverse,” Ryoji repeats, a furrow in his brow. Akira’s pretty confident it’s honest confusion—but for someone who talked so familiarly about Personas, he isn’t sure how—

But then he remembers the high-level overviews he got from Kirijo and Narukami—how their own experiences with Shadows differed wildly from the Thieves’. How every time humanity’s subconscious rears its ugly head, it comes in a brand new form, with a brand new vocabulary.

Well, now he knows: Mochizuki’s experience with Personas probably wasn’t within the last three or four years. “The plane where our team fought Shadows,” he clarifies. Ryoji takes a deep breath.

“So Igor created you from the Sea of Souls,” he says, and Morgana nods. “So… Yes, I suppose that makes sense. I’m also a product of the Sea of Souls, so it’s not surprising that I can understand you naturally.”

“Huh,” Morgana says, sounding skeptical. “And—”

Futaba’s report confirms a theory, but it isn’t what he wanted to hear—he clenches his jaw, looking up at Mochizuki for a moment. Definitely not a normal Japanese citizen who’s flown under their radar, then. Something inhuman, who knows what a Wild Card is, and is familiar with the Velvet Room.

Akira, Narukami, and Arisato are the only Wild Cards in existence, according to everything Kirijo’s group has ever found. So, it stands to reason that anyone who’s familiar with the concept knows at least one of them. It’s this gut instinct that convinces him to reply:

It’s less than thirty seconds later that Futaba messages not him—not the Thieves’ group chat—but the rarely used Official Shadow Operatives chat.

She’s broken down enough of the older squad members to create a separate meme channel—with Iori and Narukami being her biggest co-conspirators—but Kirijo has insisted on keeping this one for official or emergency matters. It’s scarcely been used at all in the last several months—mostly to tell the Thieves and the Inaba squad about the developments with Minato, and a handful of one-alarm fires that Futaba, Yamagishi, or Aigis were able to quickly sort out.

A thread has never been initiated by a Thief before, let alone Futaba, and Akira is worried enough that he stops pretending to pay attention to the others’ conversation. He sits back in his chair and brings his phone out from under the table, his heart rate picking up as he sees that no, she definitely didn’t type into the wrong chat on accident.

—with a pin dropped for Akira’s exact location. Something runs ice cold in his chest as his grip on his phone tightens, and Morgana’s increasingly shrill voice fades further into the background. He thought something felt off; he didn’t think it was something to panic over.

An active threat, precedent for starting an apocalypse—it’s almost surreal how separated Futaba’s clear panic is from his current situation. Akira tears his eyes from his phone to glance from his mostly-full boba, to Morgana talking shop with this Ryoji kid, to Ryoji himself.

Even Morgana’s relaxed his wary stance, and is busy arguing some kind of petty semantics Akira missed the context for. The forlorn, faintly panicked expression on Ryoji’s face hasn’t changed; one hand has started fidgeting with the end of his scarf, and his eyes are red and still a little bright.

Despite everything, he doesn’t look dangerous at all; he just looks small.

Akira’s barely fired off a thumbs-up in reply when he feels Morgana’s claws batting at him through his hoodie. “Joker,” he says impatiently, and Akira fights down a grimace, looking up from his phone. He’s been distracted for way too long. “Have you been listening at all?”

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something—ah—urgent came up in the group chat. Someone’s coming to meet us here in a few.”

Morgana narrows his eyes before jumping to perch on Akira’s shoulder, instead. He scrolls back before tilting the phone so Morgana can see, and waits with some trepidation as his tension ratchets right back up.

Ryoji’s watching them, still terrified, but still heartbreakingly earnest, like he’s just willing to wait out whatever this might be so Akira can keep helping him. Even now that Akira’s looking for it, he still can’t see even a hint of aggression or malicious intent in his face. There’s…something more going on here.

“So, you mind giving me the short version of what I missed?” he asks after Morgana jumps back down to the tabletop, and Ryoji startles before nodding quickly.

“I’m—not human,” he says, looking back down at his boba. “I don’t even know why I’m sentient at all. I only exist to act as a warning that Nyx is about to end all life on Earth. And that should’ve happened, seven years ago, but other Persona users were able to stop the Fall by permanently sealing Nyx away.”

Something about this story is starting to sound awfully familiar; suddenly, it makes a little more sense why Futaba put out a call specifically for people from Iwatodai. Akira didn’t get all the details of SEES’s experiences, but he remembers Kirijo mentioning how part of Nyx grew itself a soul, and thought he was human for a few weeks before remembering his true calling.

(He was plenty human. He was our friend, Yamagishi had corrected her quietly. Kirijo had sighed heavily—but did not argue the point.)

I’m not human, claims the boy in front of him, crying at the idea that he might harm others just by existing. Akira hadn’t understood Yamagishi’s stance, back then. Now, he thinks he might be starting to. He tries to interject:

“I think—”

“There should be no way for me to be here,” Ryoji barrels on; he doesn’t seem to notice that Akira tried to speak at all as he wipes at his eyes with the heel of one hand. “The Great Seal is perfect—Minato gave up an eternity to make sure of it. But my existence here means something must’ve gone wrong, and I’m terrified that Nyx is going to—”

Behind Ryoji, Akira sees Sanada turn the corner; he looks near-terrified as he scans the crowd, and he’s jogging as fast as he can without attracting too much attention. Akira raises a hand to catch his eye, startling Ryoji into silence. Maybe the lack of Shadows or blood or screaming might calm him down a bit—

But Sanada sees him quickly; just as quickly, his gaze slides over to take in Ryoji’s back. His face just manages to pale even more dramatically, and he breaks into a run directly for them.

Ryoji turns at the same moment, and his back goes rigid as he sees Sanada. “Oh,” he says, very faintly, but doesn’t even try to rise from his seat, either to flee or to defend himself.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sanada demands, as soon as he’s within speaking distance. He soon comes up level with their table, doing his best to angle his body to get between Ryoji and the others.

“Fancy seeing you here, senpai,” Ryoji says, more faintly still, and Sanada’s fists clench tighter. “To answer your question, I have no idea.”

Sanada makes an incomprehensible noise before running both hands through his hair. Morgana remains tense, his body coiled and his ears flat against his skull. And Akira watches Ryoji as he shrinks further down into his chair, still clutching his untouched boba to his chest.

He was our friend, Yamagishi said. Sanada’s hands are shaking with barely-contained emotion—not all of it anger or fear. Akira’s known this guy for less than half an hour, but he thinks that if Ryoji isn’t human, then he doesn’t know many people who are.

“He just came up to me at the station and said he needed help,” he explains to Sanada’s back, and he twitches. “Asked me what year it was, and then asked if I was a Wild Card. Morgana sensed something off, but I didn’t think anything was seriously wrong until Futaba sent out that SOS. He hasn’t threatened me, or anything.”

Sanada considers Ryoji for a moment longer. “And what’s your side of the story?” he asks eventually. Ryoji bows his head.

“Same as his,” he says quietly. “I appeared on the platform maybe five minutes before he came in. The last clear memory I have of this world is—is Minato casting the Seal.”

Sanada takes another deep, unsteady breath through his nose. Akira doesn’t know him well—doesn’t know any of the other squads well, with the growing exception of Yu and now Minato—but seeing him this unnerved is starting to get to him, too.

From what he knows, Sanada has been fighting Shadows for longer than anyone but Kirijo—Sanada survived the Dark Hour that killed more than one of his friends. Akira still has a deep-seated distrust of adults—especially law enforcement—but Sanada’s never once given him a reason to doubt him in particular. Minato told him plainly that he would trust Sanada with his life—and frequently did, back when they fought together.

And he’s here in sweaty workout clothes, even more under-dressed for the weather than Ryoji is—instinctively putting himself between Akira and the perceived threat. Like he was at the gym on his day off, and dropped everything to run and help him, without any knowledge of what he was running into.

“Akihiko,” Ryoji’s saying urgently, “do you have any way of checking on Minato and the Seal? Or—do you know anything about the Velvet Room, and how to contact them?”

Oh, Akira thinks, almost absent-mindedly—he doesn't know Minato is living in Tokyo now. And then a moment later, he realizes: oh, shit.

Sanada has grown very still, his gaze frozen on Ryoji’s terrified face, like he's just had the same thought. ”Fuck,” he says, and then surges forward, grabbing Ryoji by the bicep and pulling him to his feet. “Kurusu, we’re going to Leblanc,” he says. “Come on.”

Akira nods automatically, already on his feet, abandoning his drink to swing Morgana’s bag onto his shoulder and grab his suitcase before following the other two. With his free hand, he pulls out his phone, but Sanada is faster—sending a quick, one-handed update to the group even as he hauls Mochizuki across the Scramble, down the stairs, and to the train station.

Futaba answers within seconds, like she’s been waiting on tenterhooks the whole time. Akira pushes down the brief stab of guilt for worrying her—she must’ve been seriously panicked, if Mochizuki just turned up in Kirijo’s files as “the one who caused their apocalypse and killed their Wild Card.”

Futaba’s typing indicator appears and disappears several times, but she apparently decides to let Sanada answer. Probably for the best, since he’s the one who actually knows how this is playing out. Sanada’s only a few seconds behind her, despite typing one handed:

So, more than a few members have been lurking, waiting for news on the possible apocalypse. But Kirijo gets hers in first, cutting off everyone else’s initial reactions:

Akira winces, and catches a glimpse of Sanada’s grimace as well. He’s not entirely sure why Kirijo thinks they’d joke about this—but before she can get more irritated, Akira pulls up his phone camera and snaps a picture of the two of them from the side as they come to the platform to wait.

The chat’s quiet for several seconds, like everyone needs to process this. Then, first:

Kirijo starts typing, but Futaba beats her to it:

Sanada sends a thumbs-up, then shoves his phone back into his pocket with a heavy sigh. Akira keeps an eye on the chat, but it’s settled down again—and he’s soon distracted by Morgana as he peeks out from his bag to read the messages.

“Wait,” he hisses. “This guy killed Minato? I thought—”

Ryoji flinches like he’s been physically struck. “An oversimplification,” he defends himself, weakly, like he doesn’t even believe it himself. He curls in even closer around his boba cup. “I know he’d disagree with it. But—functionally, yes.”

Sanada looks like he means to say something too, but then he glances over as their train pulls into the station. “C’mon,” he says instead, and leads the rest of them forward.

“So,” Ryoji starts to Akira, once they’re settled, “Morgana introduced himself, but I didn’t catch your name.”

Ah, that’s right. “It’s Akira,” he says. “Uh—sorry for being such a dick to you, earlier…”

Ryoji shakes his head, attempting a laugh. “I literally walked up to you out of the blue and asked what year it was,” he points out. “I’m just glad you even gave me a chance.”

“Still,” Akira insists, because—yeah, it was a bad first impression, but any idiot with eyes could’ve seen that Ryoji was in distress. It doesn’t sit right with him, that he’s excused from any blame just because Ryoji was acting a little off. “I shouldn’t have been so mean. I was in a shitty mood, and I took it out on you, so…I’m sorry.”

Ryoji’s eyes soften; Akira is reminded suddenly, vividly, of Minato. “Please don’t feel bad about it,” Ryoji says, “but thank you. You’re very kind.”

They lapse into silence, though it’s not nearly as awkward or tense as it was before. Sanada’s relaxed too, still holding onto Ryoji, but more as an afterthought than anything else. Ryoji even takes a few tentative sips of his boba—then several heartier ones, once he apparently decides he likes the taste.

“So, what’s Leblanc?” Ryoji ventures to Sanada, a couple of stops later. “And what have you and the rest been up to?”

Sanada hums. “All eight of us are still up and kicking, even Koromaru,” he says. “Mitsuru started a dedicated group for tracking and fighting Shadows—Aigis and I help full-time, but everyone else is part-time at best. We’ve picked up two other teams of Persona users since then—a group from out in the country in 2012, and Kurusu’s team just a few months ago, here in Tokyo.”

Ryoji nods, looking thoughtful, and takes another gulp of his drink. Akira wonders abruptly—if he's been in limbo since 2010—how long it's been since he actually had something to eat. “And Leblanc?” Ryoji asks. “Is that—your base, or something?”

Sanada hesitates a moment, looking around the crowded train car. “I’ll get you caught up once we get to Yongen-Jaya,” he says eventually, and Ryoji frowns but doesn’t argue.

Akira could find his way to his old haunt in his sleep; he leads the others off the train several minutes later. Ryoji requests a detour, briefly, so he can toss his empty cup when he sees a trash bin—otherwise, he hasn't been anything but compliant and agreeable the whole trip.

“It’s a claustrophobic area for a hideout,” he attempts to joke, his voice a little strained as he wraps his arms around himself against the chill. He trails several feet behind the others as they wind their way into the backstreets, but Akira trusts that he won’t try to run off.

Sanada sighs deeply, turning to look him in the eye. “That’s ‘cause it’s not,” he says, and Ryoji twitches. “Leblanc is a cafe back here that Kurusu used to work at.”

“…Okay,” Ryoji says slowly. Akira pauses too, watching as Sanada wipes vigorously at his face.

“You said you weren’t very aware of anything between the Fall and today,” Sanada says, and Ryoji nods hesitantly. “You’re sure there wasn’t anything about the Seal, or Minato, within the last few months?”

“I didn’t know if it’d been a few days or a few centuries when I appeared in the station,” Ryoji says blankly. “The fact that I exist at all is a miracle.”

Sanada grimaces, and takes a deep breath. “Yeah, there’s been a few of those going around lately,” he says. “The thing is, that Elizabeth woman from the Velvet Room managed to pull Minato off the Seal without breaking it.”

Ryoji stares for several seconds. “Come again?” he asks eventually, his voice wavering, and Sanada’s face contorts further.

“Minato’s here,” he says bluntly, and Ryoji definitely flinches this time. “He’s at Leblanc right now, two hundred feet down this road.”

“He can’t be,” Ryoji says, even smaller. “The Seal, it—”

“You’re welcome to ask Elizabeth how, if you ever manage to catch her,” Sanada says. “None of us have gotten a straight answer out of her—but he’s been here for five months, and the world hasn’t ended yet.”

“Yes, but now I’m here, which means the world is ending,” Ryoji insists. Sanada sighs heavily through his nose.

“Well, between you, Minato, and Elizabeth, we’d know if that was in real danger of happening, and how to stop it, wouldn’t we?” Sanada snaps, and Ryoji flinches again.

Akira starts walking again—he figures, the best way to sort everything out is just to get Ryoji and Minato into the same room. It’s obvious Ryoji cares deeply for him—and even though Minato never mentioned him when they talked, it very well could’ve been because it hurt too much. He never heard him talk about Sanada’s friend who died, either—and it’s not like Akira talks much about Akechi, if he can help it.

“C’mon, guys,” Morgana calls over his shoulder, and one of them makes a little noise before two more sets of footsteps follow behind him.

It’s past closing time, but Minato waved off Sojiro’s offer to finish cleaning up himself. It’s true that he’s pretty tired today, and he’d admit it if pressed—but he thinks his head’s in a spot ripe for spiraling right now, if he were left on his own in the attic. It’s not anything in particular, today; it’s just the same bullshit his brain has done nearly his whole life. He’ll deal with it when he needs to, but if he can prevent it with something as simple as human interaction… well, he’ll take what he can get.

He spent most of today hanging out with Akira, Morgana, and Futaba, since the former are on their way back to Akira’s hometown tonight. Truthfully, it was a little exhausting; needing human interaction as an introvert is a delicate balancing act, but it’s one Minato perfected during his last year in Iwatodai. And anyway, it’s…nice, to hang out with them. He likes them—they’re fun to be around.

But the cafe’s quiet, now that the others have all left. Sojiro’s counting change in the register, and Minato has one headphone on while he washes the dishes, listening to a playlist Akira made for him of his favorite music. So far, it’s all slower, jazzier stuff than he usually favors, but it isn’t bad to listen to at all. And it’s hand-picked by one of his friends—he’s never going to complain about something like that.

The bell above the door rings, and Minato jumps, wondering if he missed a goodbye from Sojiro. But the blaze of Satanael’s wild abandon against his back tells him otherwise; he turns, something like alarm rising in his throat to see Akira lingering on the threshold with a frown. He lets the door fall closed behind him as Morgana leaps from his bag to perch on his shoulder, but neither of them says anything immediately.

Minato forces himself not to panic—just waves with one hand before turning back toward the sink, trying and failing to shove down the anxiety rising in his gut. Maybe he’ll be able to get this pot cleaned before he hears about whatever new horrors they have to deal with. Just in case, though, he catches the controls for his headphones between his chin and shoulder, pausing the music so he can hear better.

“You forget something?” Sojiro asks skeptically, after the silence stretches for several seconds. “Thought you’d be on your way home by now.”

Akira makes a noncommittal noise. “Got held up at the station,” is all he says, which does nothing to reduce either of their worry. Then, a little louder: “Minato, do you have a second?”

Damn it. He rinses off his hands, pulls his headphone free of his ear, and turns around as he wipes his hands on his apron. “What happened?” he demands, the dread only growing as he gets a better look at the tense set to Akira’s face.

Akira grimaces, like he knows exactly what image he’s projecting right now. “I don’t think it’s anything bad,” he’s quick to say, but Minato doesn’t relax a bit. “But—someone you know approached me in Shibuya. His name’s Ryoji.”

At first, Minato’s sure he must’ve misheard the name. Akira’s best friend is named Ryuji—something he had to get used to quickly, so he didn’t startle every time someone mentioned the guy—so for a split second, he thinks that’s who Akira means.

But the phrasing’s all wrong, if that were the case. If Ryuji needed something from Minato, he’s got his number. And Akira certainly wouldn’t miss his cross-country train home just to come back and tell him this.

But if Ryoji appeared in Shibuya—

“That’s impossible,” he hears himself say, his voice small. Because it’s the only thing that makes sense, but—it doesn’t, it can’t—

Minato notices, distantly, that Sojiro’s taken a couple steps closer. One hand might be outstretched for him, like he’s concerned, but anything he’s saying is drowned out by Akira’s reply: “Yeah, that’s what he said, too. But—uh—long story short, he and your friend Sanada are outside—he wanted to—”

Minato doesn’t hear the rest of that sentence; he shoves himself off the sink’s edge and all but flies down the narrow cafe. Akira sidesteps in barely enough time to avoid getting bowled over, and Morgana’s howling something like indignation, but Minato doesn’t hear any of it as he fumbles the doorknob with still-damp hands.

He finally wrenches it open and rushes through, looking around frantically in the dim light. He catches a flash of yellow and then he’s rushing that way without conscious thought—because only fifteen feet away are Akihiko and Ryoji, who looks just as spooked, just as horrified as Minato feels. Ryoji’s barely taken a single step before Minato closes the distance, fisting one hand in his scarf as he yanks him against his own chest in a crushing hug.

Ryoji embraces him back just as tightly, taking shaky, uneven breaths against Minato’s hair that he feels reverberate in his own ribcage. Minato can’t even give him any crap for it; his own eyes are welling up as he buries his face in Ryoji’s shoulder. His scarf feels exactly the same as it did, back in December. Hell, he smells the same, which would be a bizarre and extremely creepy thing to say if it weren’t Ryoji.

Akihiko might be saying something, off to the side—if he’s talking to Minato, he doesn’t hear a word of it. But there are two other voices, too—Akira and Sojiro, who apparently followed him outside. Minato doesn’t hear them, either, because Ryoji’s taking a deep, shuddering breath like he’s trying to say something, so Minato pulls away just enough to be able to look at him properly.

“You’re alive,” Ryoji says eventually, breathless, and his face contorts in grief all over again when he meets Minato’s eyes.

“You’re alive,” Minato counters, his own voice wavering dangerously. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Based on logic and reason, Ryoji has no right to exist—especially this long after the fact. But Minato hasn’t felt so much as a twinge of oddness from the Seal, since it settled down from whatever Elizabeth did to it; this isn’t another apocalypse. Erebus is still firmly separated from Nyx, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that whatever’s going on, Ryoji isn’t here as the Appriser, this time.

“I don’t know,” Ryoji says. His hands twitch, like he wants to pull them away to bury them in his hair, but can’t bring himself to let go of Minato. “I thought something must’ve gone wrong with the Seal, but then Akihiko said you’re here, so I—”

“The Seal hasn’t changed,” Minato says firmly, gripping Ryoji’s hands a little tighter. “I’m still connected to it, and I’d feel it if something went wrong.” Ryoji’s face contorts, and Minato realizes with a flash of clarity exactly what his main concern is: “You’re not endangering anyone by being here, I promise.”

“You can’t know that,” Ryoji argues, except his voice cracks, and Minato’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers from how tight his grip is.

“I kind of can, actually,” Minato says, and attempts to quirk a little smile. “It’s a perk of being the Universe.”

Ryoji sobs, ducking his face into his scarf for a moment before pulling Minato close again. Minato returns it without thought, letting out a shaky breath as he tries to wrap his head around the implications of this. This must’ve been how Junpei felt when he found him washed up on the beach, he realizes distantly; he reminds himself to apologize later for giving him what might be an actual heart attack.

“Minato,” Akihiko’s saying distantly, probably not for the first time, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get inside.”

It makes sense. It’s a reasonable thing to do, because he was feeling fatigued before this brand new revelation, and the adrenaline rush is going to wear off eventually, leaving him to crash even harder than before. Time must’ve passed that he wasn’t aware of, because he realizes he’s shivering as the evening chill settles in deeper. When he glances over his shoulder, Akira and Morgana have gone back inside; Sojiro’s standing alone by the door, holding it open and sending an appraising look their way. Minato knows how much he hates to be kept waiting.

But just because he knows he should do something doesn’t mean he can force his legs to move, not when Ryoji’s still draped all over him with a crushing grip, dampening the collar of his shirt with barely-suppressed sobs. Minato's pretty sure that if they were to let go of each other, Ryoji’d disappear into the aether all over again. “Hey, kid,” Sojiro calls, not unkindly, but Minato twitches anyway. “Your friend like curry?”

Minato stills, and Ryoji picks his head up, wiping his face on his scarf before he looks at Sojiro, too. “I don’t know,” he croaks, sounding amazed. He straightens up a little, looking between Minato and Akihiko like they might know more than him. “Do I?”

Akihiko rolls his eyes, but there’s that fond look on his face that hasn’t changed a bit, all these years later. “How should I know?” he points out. “Maybe you should go find out.”

Ryoji’s still standing in place, looking a little dumbstruck and a little shell-shocked. Minato doesn’t feel all that much better, but he manages to get his feet moving—pulling Ryoji by the hand as he walks back toward Sojiro.

He's pretty sure Akihiko follows them, but other than that, Minato barely notices the logistics of everyone else settling inside Leblanc. He's too busy steering Ryoji into the booth seat by the door, and then collapsing right beside him. By the time they’re settled, they’re sitting hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder.

Minato’s cultivated a decent personal bubble for most of his life; back in Iwatodai, it could irritate him that Ryoji broke through it so often. Here, though, he finds he doesn’t mind it at all. It’s less an exception and more like the dizzying relief is drowning out everything else. Ryoji’s breathing has evened out some, but he’s still wiping at his face every so often. He sniffles wetly, too, until Minato grabs the napkin dispenser from the center of the table and slides it into his line of sight.

Their hands are still intertwined, even as Ryoji sloppily blows his nose one-handed—for Minato, it’s somewhere between keeping him grounded and convincing him Ryoji isn’t going to disappear every time he blinks. He wouldn’t be surprised at all if Ryoji were thinking similarly.

At some point, Akihiko sits down at the bar; soon, Sojiro appears at their table, holding two glasses of ice water. “So, Akira got me up to speed,” he says as he sets them both on coasters, sliding them in front of Minato and Ryoji. “I thought I told you kids to stay away from any more supernatural bullshit.”

Akihiko frowns over his shoulder, but Minato’s pretty confident that Sojiro’s—mostly—joking. “Sorry about that,” he deadpans. “I’ll be sure to turn the offer down, next time a friend gets resurrected from the dead.”

Sojiro heaves an incredibly put-upon sigh, but he doesn’t seem all that upset. Maybe Minato’s imagining it, or maybe he’s fighting down a little smile. “You want a coffee, too, kid?” he asks Ryoji, and he startles like he wasn’t expecting to be addressed.

“I don’t know that, either,” he says. “Sure?”

Sojiro tuts, muttering something about feeding people properly as he heads back toward the kitchen. Akira’s deposited Morgana on a barstool, pulling an apron from the back and starting in on a batch of curry; Sojiro grabs a canister of beans and steps toward the grinder. “So,” Ryoji says, and Minato turns back around, “Do you work here, too?”

Minato blinks, and follows Ryoji’s gaze down to the apron he’s still wearing. He was expecting more serious questions—about the Seal, about Elizabeth, about the supernatural bullshit that has defined both their lives… But then, Ryoji’s always been full of surprises. “Yeah,” he says, and scratches at a spot of dried curry sauce on his chest. “Sojiro is letting me stay in the attic for now, so I help out when I can.”

“Living in an attic, huh?” Ryoji asks, a smile starting to form on his lips. “Is it the romantic kind, or the horror movie kind?”

Minato rolls his eyes, shoving him with his shoulder. Ryoji laughs, and the sound rekindles something warm in his chest that’s been snuffed out since that awful night on the bridge. “Technically, it’s Akira’s old room,” he says, “so anything nasty you have to say about it—it’s really his fault.”

“I can hear you,” Akira calls from the kitchen without turning around; Minato just tilts his head toward Ryoji and dramatically rolls his eyes. Ryoji muffles a laugh into his scarf.

The cafe falls quiet for a little while; Minato’s perfectly happy to focus on the sound of Ryoji breathing, the feeling of his chest expanding against Minato’s shoulder as they lean into each other. The pan sizzles from the kitchen, and Sojiro starts to pour coffee into several mugs he’s lined up on the counter. The smells are familiar, after living here this long; Minato feels himself relaxing into a doze, despite himself.

“So, your daughter’s probably gonna be coming over soon, and Aigis is a little under an hour out,” Akihiko says to Sojiro. It’s not loud, especially not by his standards, but it breaks through Minato’s hazy mind like a gunshot. He startles awake; Ryoji squeezes his hand reassuringly, managing to shift even closer to him. Akihiko continues, looking down at his lit-up phone screen: “Also—Naoto’s still on their way, have you met them?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Sojiro says with a heavy sigh. “Y’know, I’d really appreciate it if you kids told me ahead of time, if we’re dealing with a situation here…”

“I’m pretty sure it’s fine,” Akira says airily, waving a hand over his shoulder as he stirs the curry. Morgana makes it clear what he thinks about that, plenty expressive just with his tone and body language for Sojiro’s benefit; Akihiko makes a face, glancing over his shoulder at Minato and Ryoji like he just about agrees with Morgana.

Minato rubs harshly at his eyes, sits up straighter. If he’s on his own here in Ryoji’s defense, then so be it. “There’s nothing wrong,” he says, loud. It nearly comes out in the voice he uses (used) in battle—the one his teammates followed instinctively, before they even consciously recognized the orders. It saved their asses—and their lives—more than once in Tartarus. “If something changed about the Seal, I would’ve felt it. Ryoji’s here as something separate from Nyx.”

“You’re saying he’s human this time?” Akihiko demands, and Sojiro just looks more skeptical still. Minato nods immediately.

“I’m almost positive. I’m not going to worry unless I hear otherwise from Elizabeth,” he says, more forcefully still. Akihiko sighs, muttering something unkind about Elizabeth as he clicks his phone awake again. (Has he met her? He knows Aigis visited the Velvet Room for a short time, though she doesn’t consider herself a Wild Card—but when would anyone else have met her? Just another thing he’s missed—)

“I guess you’re the expert,” Morgana says, though he doesn’t sound happy about it. At the very least, it snaps Minato out of his spiraling thoughts.

He’s still learning to interpret Morgana’s facial expressions, because his emotions—complex as any human’s—don’t always translate well to a cat’s features. Here, at least, the skepticism and raised hackles around Ryoji are abundantly clear…though it’s not what he was hoping for.

He’ll worry about convincing them all later. For now, he moves on, voicing the question that’s been nagging him this whole time: “How did you guys even find him?”

Ryoji’s breath hitches, and he hunches further into Minato’s shoulder. However, from the kitchen, Akira actually laughs. “We didn’t,” he admits, turning around and leaning back against the counter by the stove. “He just latched onto me in Shibuya, and then refused to leave me alone. I didn’t know who he was until I asked Futaba to search his name, and he turned up in Kirijo’s files.”

Ryoji ducks his head further like he’s embarrassed, but Minato can’t help but blurt a laugh. Somehow, that’s the most Ryoji answer he could possibly think of. “That’s how our friendship started too, actually,” he says, and turns around to poke Ryoji lightly in the cheek. “You can’t just go around annoying people into being your friend, y’know—we’re gonna have to get you better people skills.”

The idea that Ryoji is here to do that—that either of them are here, human, with the spare time and ability to do that—is exhilarating. It’s something Minato hasn’t allowed himself to hope they’d ever have. “Excuse you,” Ryoji says, muffled by his scarf but still managing to sound petulant. “People love me—”

Sojiro soon passes out coffees to the four humans here, with more mugs on standby for the late arrivals. He made Minato's favorite blend, and presses it into his free hand instead of just setting it in front of him on the table. Minato relaxes into the scent and into Ryoji's side a little more, waiting a couple minutes for it to cool off. Meanwhile, Ryoji sniffs tentatively at his own mug, looking baffled.

“Did you seriously never go to Chagall?” Minato asks, just as surprised. “That’s one of the most popular spots in Paulownia.”

Ryoji shrugs helplessly, making a face. “I think Junpei said something about not giving me more energy?” he says, except it comes out more like a question. And—yeah, okay, Minato will admit that Junpei may have had a point, but—

“Well, just so you know, Sojiro will take it as a challenge if you don’t like it,” he warns him. “Apparently, he spent a lot of time last year finding stuff Akira’s friends would drink.”

“That was because Ann brought in a strawberry frappuccino from Starbucks,” Akira offers from the kitchen. “He about had an aneurysm. Said he’d make her as many mochas as she wanted until she liked one, as long as she never brought one of those abominations in here again.”

He uses exaggerated finger quotes that have Sojiro sighing theatrically. Whatever he says in reply, though, is drowned out by the cafe door opening behind Minato, and he turns to see Futaba come in ahead of a second person he doesn’t immediately recognize. Both of them take in the cafe as a whole as they step inside; Futaba skitters to sit at her customary stool at the far end of the counter, looking more anxious than Minato’s ever seen her. The second person hesitates just inside the door, not far from Minato.

“Welcome in,” Sojiro calls to the newcomer, and they wave, giving a small nod before turning to Akihiko.

“Sorry I’m late,” they say. Minato was hoping their voice would help him guess at their gender, but no dice—it’s just as androgynous as their appearance. “I hope you don’t mind me barging in—I was most of the way here by the time you sent out the all-clear.”

Akihiko waves them in, and they take a seat next to him, though they take their fair share of glances toward Minato and Ryoji. Futaba’s staring blatantly, fidgeting with her hands and gnawing at her lip.

Minato thinks the context for this might’ve been somewhere in the conversations from earlier, but the exhaustion and brain fog are just settling in deeper as the night goes on. So instead, he just asks outright: “Hey, Futaba,” he calls softly, and she startles, her eyes flickering back to him, instead of Ryoji. “What’s wrong?”

She curls in on herself a little bit, and doesn’t respond immediately. Minato fights to keep the frown off his face—he recognizes the body language, as clear as if the ghost of a young Chihiro was sitting in Leblanc. And he also remembers what the others have told him, about how Futaba used to be similar: easily overwhelmed and terrified of others. She must be badly shaken up, if she’s in this sort of state; anything negative from him would just make it worse.

Silence hasn't bothered him for a long time—even more so since the Seal—so here he lets it stretch, even when Ryoji starts to shift, uncomfortable with the staring. Akihiko and the new person are talking quietly, and Akira and Sojiro are busy behind the counter. Morgana cracks first; he sits up from where he’d been dozing on the counter, half paying attention to Akihiko’s conversation. Now, he stretches before hopping to curl around Futaba’s shoulders, instead.

“The longer I’m around him, the less worried I’m getting, to be honest,” he says, once he’s settled. “He and Fox will get along great—he seems like kind of a weirdo.”

Akihiko chokes into his coffee, and Ryoji squawks, but Minato just laughs a little, ducking his head to hide it. Morgana’s…not entirely wrong. He’ll need to introduce Ryoji to the rest of the Thieves regardless—but he’s thought before that some of Yusuke’s weird reminded him of Ryoji. Their respective quirks will more than likely just amplify each other to new and strange heights—he's looking forward to seeing it in action.

And he thinks Morgana might be softening the truth a little—the clear distrust from barely ten minutes ago certainly didn’t disappear that quickly—but it at least helps loosen Futaba up, enough to say what’s on her mind. “Okay, so, I don’t know the nice way to say this,” she says, her voice tense and a little higher pitched than normal. Minato flicks a hand, like he could wave away her worries about social niceties. That stuff’s never really mattered to him—even if they weren’t as close of friends as they are.

She seems heartened by this, and takes a deep breath, glancing to Ryoji again. “That guy showed up in Kirijo’s files as a—a component of Nyx,” she says. Ryoji twitches, and Minato squeezes his hand to ask him to stay quiet a moment longer. “And—Sanada said that he’s human this time, or whatever, but he still killed you, right? So why are you so happy to see him?”

Minato can’t quite keep the grimace off his face, and Ryoji’s just grown stiffer at his side. Futaba’s face is flushing red now that she’s finished speaking, and her gaze twitches toward the wall as she crosses her arms over her chest, hunching in further. “So, first off, that’s a very reasonable question to ask,” Minato says, if only to get that look off her face. She glances over at him for just a second before returning her gaze to the wall—but Minato can’t help but notice that Sojiro and the newcomer are clearly interested in his answer, too.

He takes a moment to organize his thoughts, make sure he says this in a way that’ll make sense to other people. “But he didn’t kill me. Even saying Nyx killed me would be a stretch—but that’s beside the point,” he tacks on hastily, since Akihiko looks ready to argue that one with him.

“The point is, Ryoji isn’t Nyx,” he continues, a little louder. “Ryoji’s his own person, who I care about, a lot. And I thought I’d never see him again, so of course I’m happy he's here.”

Futaba hesitates for several seconds, thinking hard, before giving a barely-visible nod. “Okay,” she says, her voice small.

Minato hesitates, wondering whether it’s a horrible idea—but ultimately decides to chance it. He’s found that gently pushing at the edges of his friends’ comfort zones can do wonders, in the exact same way pushing his own boundaries does. “Do you want to come sit over here?” he asks, and Ryoji’s breath hitches against his shoulder as Futaba’s eyes fly wide. “Seems a little silly to be yelling across the cafe like this.”

He won’t press if she says no, but he also isn’t planning to retract the suggestion. It pays off several seconds later, when Morgana whispers something that Minato doesn’t catch, and Futaba mutters something under her breath about grinding her courage stat. She rises to her feet and steps over to their table quickly, like she wants to get there before she can change her mind.

She sets up in the outer corner of the opposite bench—as far away from Ryoji as she can get while still sitting at the booth—pulling her feet up under her and wrapping her arms around her knees. Morgana hops to sit on the ledge beside the booth, close enough to provide support but not too close to crowd.

“That’s better,” Minato says with a little smile, and she nods, still looking incredibly tense. “Well, Futaba, this’s Ryoji, one of my closest friends from Iwatodai—Ryoji, this’s my friend Futaba. She’s Sojiro’s daughter, and basically Akira’s sister—we’ve hung out a lot since I moved in here.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ryoji says with a little smile, waving with his free hand. Futaba nods again, and might eke out something like a yeah, but she’s staring firmly at the cafe door rather than either of them.

Minato decides to redirect for now, give her some room to adjust. “C’mon, try your coffee,” he says to Ryoji, elbowing him in the ribs and making him jump. “If you don’t like it, Sojiro’ll need enough time to chew you out.”

Ryoji hesitates for just a moment, looking a little regretful as his gaze lingers on Futaba, but ultimately accepts the topic change when Minato squeezes his hand. “Yeah, all right,” he says, rolling his eyes, and reaches for the mug.

He takes a careful sip, and Minato watches with some amusement as his face twists. He knows it’s not the temperature—as he takes a deep, comfortable drink of his own—so it’s clearly the taste. Ryoji visibly swallows with difficulty, washes it down with some water, and turns to Minato, looking wounded.

That expression only grows when he sees Minato’s face—he’s apparently not hiding his smile as much as he thought he was. “Coffee’s an acquired taste,” he says placatingly. “Even I didn't like it much, the first time I had some.”

“You did this on purpose,” Ryoji accuses, but any bite to his words is drowned out entirely by the almost-comical way he chugs more water.

“Never,” Minato says, mock-offended, but he turns back toward the bar before Ryoji can reply. “Hey, Sojiro—!”

By the time they’ve all settled down again, Sojiro’s firing up the espresso machine to make Ryoji the Ann Takamaki special, and Akira’s emerged from the kitchen to dole out generous helpings of curry for everyone in the building. “Okay, so this is actually something you’ll like,” Minato promises, when Ryoji looks skeptically between him and the three steaming plates set on the table.

“I haven’t met anyone who doesn’t like Boss’ curry,” Akira agrees as he reappears, holding a plate for himself and a smaller platter that he leans over to set on the ledge for Morgana. He elbows Futaba, making her jump. “Hey, budge over, or else let me sit on the inside.”

Futaba freezes, her gaze flickering toward Ryoji like she doesn’t know whether it would be worse to make Akira sit closer to him, or to do it herself. Minato keeps his attention on his plate, mixing up his first few bites—knocks his knee pointedly against Ryoji’s when he doesn’t do the same—and only has to wait a few seconds to hear Futaba climb out of the booth, letting Akira sit on the inner corner.

“It does smell pretty good, I guess,” Ryoji admits as the two of them get settled again, He pokes at the sauce with his chopsticks, looking closer at the bits of lamb. “You made this, Akira?”

“You literally watched me stand in the kitchen the whole time,” Akira agrees with a snort. “Minato can make it too—but it’s Boss’ recipe. We’ve just been deemed worthy of gaining his sacred knowledge.”

Minato watches as Ryoji takes a tentative bite—and feels something else in his chest ease at the way his face lights up. “Oh, wow,” Ryoji says, almost reverent, but doesn’t waste more breath for speaking before taking a second bite. Then: “Yeah, okay, this more than makes up for the coffee!”

“Rude,” Futaba says—apparently a reflex, because her eyes widen before she twitches away again. She’s sitting on the bench properly this time, but not much else has improved about her general demeanor—and she hasn’t touched her own curry.

“Might wanna start eating,” Minato warns her lightly, and she glances toward him. “If you don’t finish that fast enough, he could steal your plate. This’s the first meal he’s had since 2009.”

Futaba’s eyes widen marginally. “Not technically true,” Akira says. Minato looks over, watching with some amusement as Ryoji continues to dig in, barely pausing for breath. “I bought him boba on the way over here.”

“Boba’s not a meal. A snack at best,” Minato argues. Then, to Ryoji: “You’re lucky, y’know—my first meal when I came back was made by Junpei. I was honestly impressed he made me a grilled cheese without burning the place down.”

“He what?” Ryoji asks, aghast. He actually picks up his head to look at Minato in shock, though he’s speaking with his mouth full.

“That’s what I said,” Minato agrees with a little grin. “He—”

Sojiro comes out with a mug filled past the brim with whipped cream, which he places gingerly on one of the last empty spaces on the table. “If you don’t like this, there’s no hope for you,” he says, and Ryoji looks up at him with wide eyes. “Lemme know what you think, all right?”

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” Ryoji says, his face falling. He hesitates before setting his chopsticks down carefully, reaching for the mug.

Sojiro scoffs, shaking his head. “Ann’s not the only one who likes a little coffee with her sugar,” he says. “Ryuji’s the same way. Even Haru likes it sweet, from time to time.”

Ryoji slurps some of the whipped cream off the top, making a mess of the area around his mouth—but Minato barely has time to quirk a smile about it before he’s taking a tentative sip of the mocha underneath. After a moment, he takes a deeper draught, a smile barely visible behind the rim of the mug—and when he comes up for air a moment later, he beams up at Sojiro.

”Much tastier,” he agrees. “Thank you very much!”

Sojiro huffs, and grins, and crosses his arms. “Glad to hear it,” he says. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet, kid.”

Ryoji’s smile grows, impossibly, sunnier, and he takes another drink before carefully setting his mug back down. Akira reaches across the table to claim Ryoji’s initial black coffee without ceremony, practically chugging it before passing the mug to Sojiro over Futaba’s head.

Ryoji gapes at him, scandalized; Akira just grins. “Can’t let that go to waste,” he points out, and then settles back into the corner. He props up one foot on the bench between him and Futaba, and takes a hearty bite of his curry.

Minato snorts—neither of Sojiro’s kids can sit like normal people for any length of time, apparently. Ryoji’s gone back to his own curry with a vengeance, and even Futaba’s picking at her plate now. Minato’s not especially hungry, but he’s also not interested in getting chewed out for being rude—so he eats a bit of his, too, more than happy to just savor the taste and bask in the comfortable atmosphere, the warmth of Ryoji’s hand.

“So, are you another of Minato’s old teammates, then?” Sojiro asks suddenly, and Minato looks over. He’s since gone back behind the bar, and he directed the question at the stranger still talking with Akihiko.

“Ah, no," they say, sitting up a little straighter. Akira and Futaba ignore them, sniping with Morgana quietly about portion sizes, so Minato figures they must know this person already. "I was a part of another group, from Inaba—our leader was Yu Narukami. I believe he's been by to see Arisato and Kurusu?”

“The kid with gray hair?" Sojiro asks, squinting, and—well, Minato's glad that answers that question. It explains why Akihiko's so familiar with them, at least, but he's still not sure how to address them.

They nod to Sojiro’s question, glancing over their shoulder at the booth for a moment. "Futaba requested backup, and I was the next closest person behind Akihiko, so I made my way over just in case,” they explain. "However, I'm glad the situation turned out to be benign.”

Akihiko snorts quietly, shaking his head. Minato makes sure Akihiko can hear his disappointed sigh even over Morgana’s increasing indignation, and Akihiko gives him an impressive side-eye over his shoulder that Minato just rolls his eyes at.

Sojiro and Yu’s teammate miss this exchange entirely, as Sojiro reaches for the coffee pot and offers them a refill. “So, kid, I think I just have to ask," he says with a sigh after he's set the pot back down, and they look back up. “What gender are you?"

" Dad!” Futaba barks, sitting up straighter and twisting around, like she hadn't been sniping at Akira and Morgana moments earlier. "I told you, that's not how you ask—”

Except the stranger barks a laugh of their own, shaking their head and waving a hand at Futaba. “It's not a problem, I promise," they say, before turning back to Sojiro. “Either he or they is perfectly fine—thank you for bothering to check at all."

“Yeah, well," Sojiro blusters, crossing his arms and thrusting his chin in Futaba’s direction. "I've got seven kids and a cat who'll disown me if I don't. And anyway, s’not like it costs me anything to call people what they wanna be called."

The stranger laughs, and even Akihiko chuckles at that. “Still, thank you," he says, and Sojiro shakes his head, turning back toward the kitchen. Then, the stranger turns fully on his stool for the first time to lock eyes with Minato.

"I apologize, I haven't introduced myself,” they say. "Naoto Shirogane.”

Minato shakes the offered hand with a smile. "Minato Arisato,” he says, "but I guess you already know that."

Shirogane laughs, looking a little guilty, and nods. "It's nice to finally meet you in person, after Yu talked you up for so long,” he says, and Minato can’t help but make a bit of a face. Yu, all things considered, seems like a chill guy—but Minato’s still figuring out which of them should be calling the other senpai, and the fact that Yu technically has more tenure in Shadow-fighting than Minato does feels…wrong, in a way neither of them have been able to pinpoint.

“I hope I live up to your expectations,” he says as they let their hands drop, meaning it mostly as a joke. Ryoji scoffs from behind him, and Akihiko sends him a look over his shoulder like he sees through the veneer easily. Damnit.

“Oh, that’s nothing you have to worry about,” Shirogane says, waving a hand. “We also spent years before that listening to your teammates talk about you, so Yu didn’t tell us anything we didn’t know already.”

Minato sends an accusatory look at Akihiko, who stares incredulously right back. “They wanted to know where our Wild Card was, when Aigis said she was just borrowing your power,” he says defensively. “And anyway, I’m pretty sure you could still beat most of our asses in a fight, so it’s not unfounded, either.”

“I’m not beating Aigis in a fight,” Minato argues, “or you. I’m out of practice.”

Akihiko rolls his eyes. “I don’t know how much that’d matter,” he points out, “but you’d at least give both of us a run for our money.”

“I think—”

“Hey, Minato?” Futaba butts in, in the voice that he learned very quickly means she’s trying to appear innocent. Uh oh. “What was your ultimate Persona’s name, again?”

Akira—bastard that he is—is having entirely too much fun tonight, if the way he keeps muffling his laughter is anything to go by. Minato sighs, turning to stare at her, unimpressed. “Really?” he asks flatly, and she turns on the puppy-dog eyes like flipping a switch. Goddamnit. Maybe introducing her to Ryoji was an awful idea, after all—both of them are entirely too good at that. With their powers combined, they may just be unstoppable.

Minato knows he’s not getting out of this one. “He’s called Messiah,” he deadpans, and Akira’s snickering grows louder. Sojiro fumbles a mug behind the counter, yelping in shock, and Shirogane looks impressed in that way that makes Minato horribly uncomfortable. Before anyone can say anything else, he adds: “If memory serves, your Wild Card shot a god in the face, and it died. So I don’t know that there’s a whole lot of room to talk.”

“I mean,” Akira says, still with that shit-eating grin on his face, “sure, he was a god, but you were up against literal Death. You have a friend with machine guns for arms, and those bullets weren’t cutting it. I don’t think Satanael would’ve been able to do much against Nyx.”

There are…so many things wrong with that argument, Minato doesn’t even know where to start. He glances over to Ryoji, hoping for some sort of backup—or at least moral support—only to see him deep in discussion with Morgana about the logistics of living life as a supernatural cat.

…Yeah, okay. Sure.

Some other day, Minato might’ve had the energy to keep up this debate when outnumbered and surrounded on all sides. But today, he was already exhausted an hour ago, before one of his best friends was resurrected from the dead. He’s not entirely sure how much longer he’ll manage to stay awake tonight, so he just slumps back into the booth seat, rolling his eyes.

“We’ll call it a draw, then,” he allows, even though he knows he’s right. Akira sighs dramatically, rolling his head back onto the booth divider for a moment before slouching further into his corner.

“Actually, Minato, that reminds me,” Akihiko says suddenly, and he looks over. “You might want to text Aigis before she gets here, let her know yourself that everything’s all right. I told her what you said about Mochizuki, but I think she’ll take it a little better, coming from you.”

Minato blinks at him a couple times. “Wait, Aigis is coming?” he asks. He thinks he keeps the excitement from showing too much in his voice—and no one side-eyes him for it, so he must’ve succeeded. “I thought she was out of town this week?”

“She is. Or, was,” Akihiko says, grimacing. “Kurusu and I put in the group chat that Ryoji appeared in Tokyo, and I think she might’ve actually chartered a plane to get back here as soon as physically possible. She’ll be here in about half an hour.”

…Oh, yeah, that makes a bit too much sense, actually. Minato glances over at Ryoji—he’s still talking with Morgana, still paying no attention to the rest of the table. Then, he pulls out his phone, starting to awkwardly type one-handed:

Aigis replies within seconds—Minato doesn’t know whether she’s just as fast of a texter as Futaba, or whether her phone’s SIM card is somehow hooked up to her internal systems. Between Aigis, Fuuka, and Futaba, Minato wouldn’t be at all surprised if that were the case.

He can’t quite hide the snort of amusement—it’s been an adjustment, getting to know an Aigis with a sense of humor, but it’s been well worth it. The fondness and pride swelling in his chest have long since outpaced the uncomfortable feeling of being left behind.

“Oh, you have a smartphone too?” Ryoji asks suddenly, propping his chin on Minato’s shoulder and blatantly reading his messages. It’s exactly the way he was in Iwatodai—Minato rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother trying to shrug him off.

“Everyone has a smartphone now,” he points out, and Ryoji makes a noise of fascination. “I asked if I could get a flip phone, and Futaba actually laughed at me.”

“Huh,” Ryoji says, tilting his head a little bit. “Do you like it?”

That’s a hell of a question. Minato grimaces at the on-screen keyboard—the bane of his existence—but he can also hear Akira’s shit-eating grin from across the table as he listens in. “It’s got its benefits,” he admits. “It’s basically a small computer—you can pull up the Internet and search anything you want, and there’s apps for everything. But typing on the little keyboard sucks.”

“You’ve got a point there,” Akira admits, and then shoves another bite of curry into his mouth. “You get used to it eventually, I promise. And no one types as fast as Futaba, so you can’t judge yourself against her.”

“Ooh, hang on," Ryoji says, hooking a finger around the headphone wire dangling around Minato's neck, still connected to his phone. "You can put your music on your phone now?”

“Yeah," Minato says, lighting up a little, despite himself. “Want to guess how much storage this thing has?"

Ryoji blinks, tilting his head at the phone consideringly. “Your MP3 had like, two…storage, right?" he asks, waving a hand, like the unit isn't the most important part of that equation.

Akira snickers; Minato rolls his eyes. "Gigabytes,” he fills in, "but yeah."

"Hm,” Ryoji says, squinting for a second. "So, a future-phone’s probably got at least ten gigabytes, right?”

Akira laughs so hard he chokes on his curry. Ryoji doesn't appear to notice, just smiling earnestly and waiting for Minato's response; he huffs, shaking his head. "One-hundred-twenty-eight gigs,” he informs him, and can't quite keep the grin off his own face as Ryoji's expression falls in astonishment.

“You're kidding,” he demands. “That's so much music! You must be in heaven!”

“I don’t even have that much music,” Minato admits. “And some of the storage is taken up by the OS, and pictures, and stuff.”

“Still, that’s amazing!” Ryoji insists. “There must be all sorts of new stuff that’s come out, huh—?”

He pauses, and maybe sees something in Minato’s face, because he falters, deflates; some of the melancholy encroaches back into his expression. “…Seven years, right?” he says, a little quieter; for a moment, he looks past Minato to Akihiko. “But you’re still…”

The table falls silent. Akira pauses from cleaning up the dregs of his curry, shifting uncomfortably; Morgana seems to have wilted, even as he watches Minato with ever-sharp eyes. Futaba, luckily, is focused on her phone with music echoing faintly from her headphones—she doesn’t notice a thing.

Minato’s plenty used to Ryoji’s sudden mood swings, but he’s also aware of how jarring they can be to others. “I think it would’ve been weirder if I popped back into existence at twenty-four,” he points out, matter-of-fact. It’s not even a lie. “It’s not that bad. Aigis still looks like a teenager, too.”

He glances back down at his phone, thinking he should probably reply to her message, but Ryoji doesn’t seem assuaged. “Akihiko said you’ve only been free for a few months,” he presses, and Minato glances over again. “How’ve you been doing?”

“It’s been…an adjustment,” Minato says—which is probably the understatement of the century, but, well. Even if he’s making a concerted effort to be more open with his friends about his well-being, this is hardly the time or the place for a heart to heart.

“But I’m fine—really,” he continues, as Ryoji’s frown twitches deeper. “Are you gonna let me text Aigis back, or are you volunteering to clean up the bullet casings after she’s done?”

Ryoji snorts the ghost of a laugh, but he lets go of Minato’s left hand and wraps his arm around his back, instead. Minato’s glad for the use of his second thumb, but it still takes him a while to type out his reply:

“Rude,” Ryoji comments, back to reading his messages as he watches Minato type. “You’re right though, that keyboard looks awful.”

Minato slants a look over at Ryoji; he looks like he can’t quite decide if he wants to laugh or get upset again. Minato nudges him, and after another moment of hesitation, the edges of his mouth twitch up, and he fires off a mock salute.

“Is that sass?” Ryoji demands. Minato genuinely can’t tell if he’s astonished or horrified. Then, he remembers that the last time Ryoji saw Aigis, she’d had actual emotions for roughly twenty-four hours; this’ll be an even bigger adjustment for him than it was for Minato.

“Aigis became a lot more human after she came back from the lab in December,” he says, and Ryoji’s eyes widen. “And the last seven years have done even more. When she wears shoes and a turtleneck, no one can tell she’s an android at all.”

“That’s amazing,” Ryoji says, a little awed. “I didn’t even know that was possible!”

“I don’t think anyone did,” Minato admits with a little, fond smile. “But she’s the one explaining pop culture to me now. It’s kinda surreal.”

Ryoji’s face falls a bit at the reminder of the time loss, and Minato rolls his eyes, elbows him in the ribs, and gingerly selects the smiling emoji as his only reply to Aigis’ text. He still doesn’t really get why the good, old-fashioned “:)” is considered passive-aggressive now, but never let it be said that he can’t be taught. Futaba should be proud.

He locks his phone and slips it back into his apron pocket, sitting back with a heavy sigh. Shirogane looks over his shoulder when the table falls into comfortable silence again; he hesitates before turning properly, frowning thoughtfully at Minato. “Arisato,” he starts, and he looks back over. “If you don’t mind me asking, why aren’t you receiving alerts from the Shadow Operatives group?”

“Naoto,” Akihiko starts, a warning all over his voice, and Shirogane slants a look at him.

“It would’ve saved everyone a lot of grief if he was able to confirm right away that the Seal was intact,” they point out; then, they turn back to Minato. “It also would’ve given you some advance warning that Mochizuki was here.”

”Naoto,” Akihiko says again, and this time Minato’s the one to frown at him.

“He’s right,” Minato points out frankly. “It would’ve made it a lot easier for everyone if I saw those texts.”

“You said you wanted time to readjust before talking about any of this stuff again,” Akihiko argues. “I was under the impression that the rest of the Operatives had agreed to honor that.”

And—well, that was true a month ago. Minato would prefer to stay in the only call for another apocalypse category with Yukari and Ken, at least for now. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to spiral into a meltdown because of a single, extremely relevant, question. Especially when, by all counts, any of this stuff is currently holding him by the waist in a cafe bench seat.

“Wanting distance from Shadow fighting is very different from avoiding talking about it completely,” he says with an even deeper frown. “And last time I talked to Fuuka about that was over a month ago. Who’s to say I haven’t changed my mind?”

Akihiko’s face goes through several complicated expressions, but he visibly swallows down all of his—probably valid—arguments. Minato’s glad for it; he’s already had the please be open with us, you spent your last month of life lying to all of us about the fact that you were dying, and we never want to deal with even a fraction of that again talk with several of his friends, including Akihiko. He doesn’t need it laid out yet again in front of an audience.

Akihiko eventually, evidently, decides against saying anything at all—so Minato turns back to Shirogane. “To answer your question…from my point of view, I helped stop an apocalypse six months ago,” he says, and their brows rise. “And I’ve also been trying to get settled in Tokyo. That’s a whole extra layer of stress I didn’t want to deal with.”

“Fair enough,” Shirogane says, that impressed look back on their face that Minato hates—but to their credit, they don’t voice any of the follow-up questions they’re clearly desperate to ask. Minato nods, and then turns to Futaba—kicking her lightly under the table when he sees her still buried in her phone.

“That being said,” he says, when she glances up at him, “would you mind adding me to that group message with the same level of notifications that Yukari has?”

“Check your phone,” is all she says before she looks back down at her own. Minato frowns at her, but then realizes belatedly that the music echoing from her headphones stopped at some point. It’s something he does himself all the time, to listen to conversations he doesn’t want to speak in; he shouldn’t be so surprised she does it too. He must be even more tired than he thought.

Ryoji makes a little, questioning noise next to him, so Minato digs back into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He’s got a bunch of notifications from a chat he wasn’t in three minutes ago, and he opens it gingerly to check the damage as Ryoji leans closer.

“What’s a meme?” Ryoji asks, and Minato laughs so hard, he almost chokes on his own spit. Akira’s less lucky; he’s soon hacking up a lung as Morgana yeowls at him and Futaba starts thumping him on the back with one skinny arm.

“I’ll explain when you’re older,” Minato says, already half-distracted as he pulls up the keyboard. Hopefully he can get this sent before Mitsuru commits a murder.

He’s considering whether to reply when Sojiro asks across the cafe: “Wait, kid, how old are you, anyway?”

Ryoji freezes once he realizes Sojiro’s talking to him; Minato looks up to see Sojiro looking skeptical, standing with his arms crossed behind the bar. “What?” Ryoji asks, and Sojiro’s frown deepens.

“How old are you?” he repeats. “Are you still a minor? Do you have guardians out there somewhere that need to be notified you’re here?”

“Oh,” Ryoji says, his voice going a little quieter. “Um, no—no parents. Really, SEES are the only ones who would care that I’m here at all.”

Minato thinks immediately of the crestfallen faces of Kenji, Kaz, and plenty of others when Ms. Toriumi announced Ryoji had to leave unexpectedly. He’d been exhausted and distracted, reeling from that awful night on the bridge—seeing Aigis in pieces, sparking too badly to safely touch her—seeing Ryoji standing alone, his face gone horribly distant and resigned in a way Minato had never seen before.

The fear in Aigis’ eyes before she powered down was still seared into the backs of his eyelids; the truth of Ryoji’s existence and of Minato’s own past occupied every crevice of his mind in every quiet moment—but he can say with absolute certainty that SEES weren’t the only ones who missed him after he was gone.

“As for my age…” Ryoji starts when Sojiro just keeps looking at him expectantly, but then just as quickly trails off. “Strictly speaking, I'm about three months old?”

Sojiro visibly goes through all five stages of grief before tilting his head back, like he’s praying for patience. “Try again,” he says to the ceiling, and Ryoji blinks.

“What?”

“You’re not three months old,” Sojiro says, sounding like he’s desperately hanging onto the last bits of his sanity. “You’re at minimum in high school. How old are you?”

Ryoji blinks, looking cowed, before glancing from Sojiro, to Akihiko, to Minato. “The same age as Minato?” he says—asks—and Sojiro visibly ages a few more years as he tilts his head back down, frowning at Minato instead.

If he wanted to get into the details of the time loss, Minato isn’t sure exactly how old he is. But his birthday would’ve been a month after he died, and he thinks Sojiro might start throwing things if he doesn’t get a straight answer, so— “I’m eighteen,” he says, and Sojiro nods, taking another deep breath.

“So, eighteen-year-old Ryoji, do you have anywhere to stay?”

Ryoji blinks at him again. Opens his mouth, and then closes it again. “He can stay with me,” Minato says, blurts, and Ryoji’s grip around his waist seizes as Sojiro looks back over at him. “He won’t be any trouble, I trust him—”

“Of course he’s staying here,” Sojiro says with an exhausted sort of sigh. “I’m not gonna let some idiot kid sleep on the streets.”

Ryoji takes a shaky breath. “Thank you very much, sir,” he says, his voice breaking, and Sojiro shakes his head, turning away.

“Three months old, honestly,” he mutters to himself as he walks over to the kitchen, and Ryoji shrinks behind his scarf a little more.

“Don’t worry about it,” Akira says. His face has softened into something kinder, and he slouches further back into his corner, propping his second foot up on the bench and then throwing both of them in Futaba’s lap. “Sojiro likes to pretend he’s scary, but now he’s adopted literally everyone at this table. Futaba’s just the only one who made it official.”

Ryoji blinks at Akira, and then an inattentive Futaba, and then Minato. “You got adopted?" he asks, sounding baffled, and Minato rolls his eyes.

"Forcibly,” he admits. "And not really. But Akira’s friends asked him if I could stay here, and he said I looked too much like a drowned puppy to say no. So…here I am."

“You smelled like salt for a month,” Futaba chimes in without looking up from her phone, and Minato snorts.

“Take that one up with Elizabeth, for where she decided to dump me," he offers, and Futaba rolls her eyes but doesn't reply otherwise.

Ryoji looks like he's just about to burst with questions, but doesn't voice any of them immediately. "I'm just glad you had somewhere safe to stay,” he says instead, a little quieter. “And that you've been able to readjust. It can’t have been easy, after so long.”

“Sure,” Minato admits. “The thing is, nothing about being human is easy. We’re gonna have to get you caught up on that, since you’ll be sticking around this time.”

Ryoji slants a look at him, like he sees it as a deflection, but—honestly, Minato doesn't think he should be focusing on his own issues tonight. He’s exhausted, and he’s sure there’s plenty more trauma for him to unbury. But Ryoji is here, warm and present and alive, and as more and more time passes without any sign of foul play from the Seal, he’s just growing more certain that this really is a miracle without collateral damage.

Ryoji’s absently scraping his plate with his chopsticks, trying to pick up as many stray grains of rice as he can; Minato doesn’t hesitate to slide his own mostly-full plate over, stacking it on top. “There should be a little left in the pot,” Akira offers when he notices, going to sit up—but Minato shakes his head.

“I already ate a couple hours ago,” he says. “Right after you two left. I’m not hungry.”

Akira squints at him in doubt—but for all Minato’s depressive symptoms, for the last eleven years, undereating has never been one of them. A large appetite, stress eating, high metabolism, and semiweekly trips to Tartarus all seemed to even out to the scrawny teenaged physique he still hasn’t quite grown out of. “Sojiro,” he calls in exasperation, when Akira doesn’t let it go. “Tell Akira I already ate dinner, would you?”

“He did,” Sojiro says immediately, turning and raising an eyebrow. He’s at the sink, working on the dishes Minato abandoned. He almost feels guilty, except for the fact that it feels like he started cleaning those an entire lifetime ago. “Right after you left.”

Akira frowns, but seems to accept defeat, leaning back into the wall and crossing his legs at the ankles in Futaba’s lap.

They lapse into a comfortable silence for a while; Ryoji’s plowing through Minato’s curry without any signs of slowing down; Morgana’s snoring softly; Akira and Futaba are both absorbed in their phones. Minato’s just pulling his own up again, thinking he might start back-reading the Shadow Operatives chat, when Shirogane barks a laugh at something Akihiko said, a little jarring in the otherwise comfortable white noise of the cafe.

Ryoji looks up at the bar, and his face gets that melancholic air about it again; Minato frowns at him, trying to figure out his angle. But Ryoji looks across the table instead of addressing Minato: “Hey—um, Futaba, right?”

She startles, looking up at him with wide eyes. As Minato watches, Ryoji ducks his head a bit like he’s trying to appear smaller. “Would you mind if I asked you something?”

She stares at him like a deer in headlights until Akira nudges her in the stomach with his foot; then, she blinks several times in rapid succession. “Uh, sure,” she says, her voice still a little higher than normal. She swallows, like she’s trying to physically push down her anxiety.

“You said that what gender are you isn’t the appropriate way to ask someone that,” he says, softer still. He’s set his chopsticks down, and there’s a little pinch between his brows, like he’s genuinely concerned about getting this right. Futaba blinks owlishly at him. “How are you supposed to ask, then, if you’re not sure?”

Whatever concern was building in Minato’s chest eases; he fights down an amused little smile. Trust Ryoji to come up with the most disarming, benign question to ask someone who’s full of anxiety about the supernatural components of the evening. “Huh?” Futaba blurts after another second, and Ryoji just twitches further behind his scarf.

“Earlier, with your father,” he clarifies. “You said that what gender are you was an inappropriate question, right? I just—I’d like to know the correct way to ask. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Futaba stares at him. Akira’s not even trying to hide his shit-eating grin as he glances over at Morgana. Harbinger of the Apocalypse, huh? he mouths, tilting his head; Morgana rolls his eyes, batting at Akira’s shoulder and not dignifying that with a response.

“Um,” Futaba stutters, “I mean, that’s not like, a bad question to ask, it’s just—kinda rude? Usually you’d ask someone what their pronouns are, instead.”

Ryoji’s brows furrow a little deeper. “So, for example, Excuse me, what are your pronouns?” he asks, and Futaba nods quickly, adjusting her glasses.

“Yeah!” She hesitates, squinting at his face for a moment. “You—do know what pronouns are, right?”

“He’s from 2009, not 1909,” Minato cuts in with a fond eye-roll, and Ryoji almost laughs, the tension in his shoulders—hesitantly—loosening. “He’s got plenty to catch up on, but that isn’t one of them.”

“Ohhh,” Futaba says, her eyes lighting up—looking more like herself than she has all night. “Another Luddite, huh? Well, I’ve dragged you into the future, and I can do it again—”

“You didn’t have to drag me into anything,” Minato points out. “I’m a tech guy, just with seven years to catch up on. Ryoji is, uh…”

He stops for a moment, thinking about finding a gentle way to phrase it, but—he remembers Junpei’s bricked PS2, the way he had to reformat his MP3 after Ryoji handled it for thirty seconds, and…nah. “Ryoji is not that.”

“So you were the warm-up round,” Futaba says, squinting at Minato. He rolls his eyes.

“Remember that time you tried to explain VTubing to Akihiko?” he asks, and the guy in question squawks as Akira’s grin just grows wider. “I think that’s about what you’re gonna be dealing with. Except, with someone who was only human for about a month in 2009.”

“What’s VTubing?” Ryoji and Shirogane ask, nearly in tandem. Sojiro lets out his most bedraggled sigh yet; Akihiko’s buried his face in his hands, shaking his head.

“Don’t ask,” he says, sounding mortified, and Minato laughs at him.

“So it’ll be Merciless difficulty,” Futaba says, nodding to herself. “I can handle that. Do you know what the Internet is?”

Minato can’t help the little smile growing on his face as she asks him questions, rapid-fire; Ryoji’s doing his best to keep up, but he’s obviously lost within moments. Futaba can see it too, because she grins in that way that Minato knows means trouble, nods to herself, and curls back in around her phone, tapping away rapidly.

“Was that…good?” Ryoji asks hesitantly, looking over at Minato. His smile grows even wider; Akira laughs outright.

“You’ll have a phone by tomorrow,” Akira translates. “But I think you’ll regret it.”

Ryoji looks faintly alarmed. “Don’t insult me,” Futaba snaps. “He’ll have a phone in ten minutes.”

Ryoji’s panic visibly grows. “It’s late on a Sunday,” Minato points out—reasonably, he thinks. “Where are you gonna get a SIM card?”

Futaba picks her head up just to stare at him, dead-eyed. “Where do you think?” she deadpans, and Ryoji tilts his head.

“The store?”

“Noob,” she mutters; she shoves Akira’s feet off her lap and stands, stashing her phone in her pocket. “BRB,” she announces, and Minato twists to watch her hurry out of the shop, the bell ringing softly in her wake.

“Bee are bee?” Ryoji echoes, right back to confused, and Minato shakes his head.

“Be right back,” he translates. “She’s—oh. She’s got extra phones in her room, doesn’t she?”

He directs that at Akira, who agrees, righting his posture with some chagrin and instead leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “She’s got more phones than she knows what to do with,” he says. “You’re doing her a favor, taking one off her hands.”

“Oh,” Ryoji says, looking a little surprised. He looks over at Minato, like he’s hoping for clarification, but he just shrugs. He’s a tech guy, but Futaba’s on a whole other level than even Fuuka. “Um, okay?”

Morgana starts to say something, but then the cafe door opens behind Minato. It’s far too soon to be Futaba again, so he turns with some excitement to see Aigis step through, her face taut with worry as she sweeps the interior quickly.

“Oh, it’s you,” Sojiro says with a tired sort of wave. “Hey, Aigis,” Akihiko says, grinning.

“Good evening,” she says to them both. Her gaze pauses briefly on those at the bar before honing in on the booth. “It appears that Tokyo is still standing, after all.”

“I can’t believe you doubted me,” Minato says, but he can’t quite keep the smile off his face as he settles more comfortably back into the booth seat. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Aigis says, her own expression softening a bit. Then, she seems to take in the details about Ryoji: his arm around Minato’s waist, the way he’s stiff and uncomfortable with her presence. She straightens up even further. “Ryoji Mochizuki.”

“Hey, Aigis,” he says softly.

She stares at him for a long moment, searching for something in his face, before she focuses again on Minato. “You’re one hundred percent sure?” she asks.

It warms him that even after this long, she trusts his instincts on something so important. “Yes,” he says immediately, and she nods, adjusting the cuffs on her coat as she moves to take a seat beside Akira.

“Ah—Futaba’s sitting there,” Ryoji blurts, and Aigis stills. “She just stepped out for a moment.”

Aigis blinks, looking over at the empty curry plate and coffee mug set in Futaba’s spot. “Understood,” she says, and then crosses back to Minato’s side, seating herself on the outer edge of the bench without ceremony.

It’s not an especially wide booth, and in most situations it’d be a tight fit—but even with Aigis’ hip joints, it’s more cozy than cramped as Minato shoves Ryoji over a bit to accommodate. Soon enough, they’re all settled comfortably, and Akira starts stacking the empty plates and mugs scattered across the table. Akihiko comes over to help him ferry the mugs to the kitchen as well, and soon enough, the table is mostly cleared off.

Soon after, Sojiro makes his way over, setting a plate of curry and a mug in front of Aigis. “Here you go—eat up.”

“I don’t need—”

Sojiro gives her a look, and she deflates. “…Well then, thank you.”

Ryoji’s breath stutters as he watches Aigis take a sip of coffee. “I didn’t know you can eat,” he says in surprise, but then shrinks back a bit when Aigis turns to look at him.

“I don’t feel hunger,” she says after a moment of not-quite-awkward silence, “but I have functioning olfactory and gustatory systems. I’m fully capable of eating and drinking for social purposes.”

“Also, it would’ve been a problem in Tartarus if she couldn’t eat any of our healing items,” Minato points out, and Ryoji makes a thoughtful sort of noise.

“Never really thought about that,” he admits. “It makes sense, though, I guess.”

The table falls quiet again, even once Akira comes back from the kitchen and settles in his seat. Morgana’s dozing, snoring lightly on the ledge as Akira scrolls through his phone. Ryoji’s staring past Minato, watching Aigis eat—his face is difficult to read, even with their proximity, but his mind is obviously a thousand miles away. “Minato’s right,” he says eventually, and Aigis turns to him again. “You really are very human, aren’t you?”

Aigis looks at him levelly. “It’s been almost eight years since we last met,” she says. “I’ve had a long time to become comfortable with humanity, and to explore my relationship with it.”

“I’m glad for you,” Ryoji says with a tremulous sort of smile. “Genuinely. I…”

He trails off, and Minato glances over at him, but Ryoji’s gaze has gone distant again as he looks at Aigis. “Oh, so you did inherit the Wild Card,” he says, even softer. “I thought you might.”

Minato half-remembers a moment between worlds—his friends screaming for him in the aftermath of the Seal’s casting. I’m okay, a comforting and fleeting lie. A lasting echo of Ryoji’s voice speaking to them all: congratulations, you have the miracle you sought—

“I did,” Aigis agrees, just as quietly. “It was not worth the cost. I haven’t had that power since Minato returned to us, and I don’t miss it.”

Ryoji makes another noise of agreement. “I think that’s why you were so well suited to it,” he points out, and Aigis tilts her head, considering that.

Minato can’t help but agree. Strictly speaking, administratively, Mitsuru would’ve been the obvious choice for SEES’ new leader after his death—tactically, it might’ve made sense to choose Akihiko. But instead, it was Aigis who caught Igor’s eye—and the more time Minato spends with that thought, the more right it seems.

Aigis is still deep in thought when Futaba comes bustling back into the cafe several moments later; sure enough, there are two phones in her hand. Her face lights up when she notices Aigis, waving with her free hand as she gets settled back into her seat next to Akira.

“No apocalpyses today!” she says cheerfully. “Mona was right—he is just a big dweeb.”

“I can’t figure out if I should be offended or not,” Ryoji mutters to Minato, and he snorts.

“Futaba takes a bit to warm up to people, that’s all,” Akira says with a smile of his own, as the girls catch up animatedly. “It’s a testament to your dweeb-iness that it only took her an hour of sharing space to get comfortable with you.”

“Excuse you,” Ryoji mutters, just looking more put out, but Minato squeezes the hand around his waist with his elbow.

“Don’t take it personally,” he says in an undertone. “I’ll explain later, okay?”

Ryoji glances from him to Futaba for a moment; Minato knows he’s remembering he still killed you, right? and her skittish demeanor when she first arrived. “Okay,” he says, obviously doing his best to believe him, and Minato reaches to squeeze his hand properly with his own this time.

“Sooo, here you go,” Futaba says, presenting a smartphone to Ryoji across the table. He startles before looking back up at her, accepting the phone gingerly. “I don’t have any cases left, so don’t drop it before Minato can go out and get you one tomorrow.”

“Why do I have to do it?” he asks, rolling his eyes a little—but he’s not all that upset. Maybe he’ll take Ryoji out with him—he’d love to pick out an eye-searingly bright case for himself.

But Ryoji’s looking at the phone like it’s an armed bomb—and then looks even more apprehensive at the possibility of breaking it. He makes no move to press any of the buttons to turn it on, and Minato squints at it for a second. “Is that the same model I have?” he asks Futaba, and she nods as she pulls her feet up under her again.

Minato nods too, and peels the case off his own phone before holding out a hand for Ryoji’s. “Give it here,” he says, and Ryoji hands it off, overly cautious.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Futaba asks skeptically, eyeing his own case-less phone now. He rolls his eyes as he slots Ryoji’s phone into both layers of the bulky case.

“How many times have I dropped this thing? Zero,” he points out. “Also, Ryoji, since someone was dishonest with me, I’m going to tell you outright: this case is for old people so they don’t break it on accident. Phones are even more expensive than they used to be, so you don’t want to pay to replace it. Leave the case on, and you’ll be fine.”

Futaba squawks, looking offended. “Just because a case is for old people doesn’t mean it’s not trendy,” she insists. “I never lied to you!”

Aigis snorts, shaking her head as she finishes off her curry. Minato stares at Futaba with the deadest eyes he can muster; she blusters for a second before sinking further down into her seat, crossing her arms. “Who even told you that?” she demands, and he shakes his head.

“I’m not a snitch,” he says, offended. He tries to hand the phone back to Ryoji, but he just looks more frightened, so he sighs, and just decides to demo it for him, instead. “So, pressing the button on the bottom wakes up the screen—”

It looks like Futaba pre-loaded contact information for all of the Shadow Operatives, plus Sojiro and Leblanc, and added Ryoji to several group chats. Minato winces mentally; they’ll deal with those later, once he’s confident Ryoji can navigate the home screen and knows what an app is.

To her credit, she simplified the home screen even more than she did for Minato—there’s a folder labeled “DON’T TOUCH THESE” on the second page, and the first page is limited to just a clock widget, with phone and texting apps beneath it.

As he fiddles with a few settings, there’s movement to his right; he glances over to see Shirogane standing up from the bar and collecting his coat. “I should probably get going,” he says to the cafe at large. “I left some things hanging at work that I’d like to wrap up before heading home.”

Futaba twitches, in Minato’s peripherals—he turns to see her sink a little further into her knees. “I’m sorry for the false alarm,” she says, her voice smaller. But Shirogane scoffs, shaking their head; even Akihiko turns with a frown.

“It was absolutely the right call,” Akihiko argues. “Hell, if anyone on our team just ran into him on the street, we probably would’ve done something more drastic. No need to apologize.”

“I’m more than happy to help,” Shirogane says with a nod, and then glances toward Sojiro. “Especially when it meant I could eat such excellent curry. How much do I owe you, by the way?”

Minato tunes out the resulting bickering between Sojiro and Shirogane with practiced ease, instead looking at Akihiko as he also rises to his feet. “I should probably head out, too,” he says, shoving his phone into his shorts pocket and looking a little sheepish. “I left most of my stuff at the gym—I need to pick it up before they close for the night.”

Futaba just grows smaller, and Minato kicks her lightly under the table. “If you didn’t send that out, Akira might not’ve brought him here on his own,” he points out, and she looks back up. “This was definitely the optimal story route.”

She reaches across the table to swat him, which he dodges easily. “Nerd,” she mutters—but there’s a smile growing on her face, and she relaxes a little from the ball she’s curled herself into.

Shirogane waves their farewells as they step away from the bar, leaving several yen notes and a disgruntled Sojiro in their wake. Akihiko claps Aigis on the shoulder, then reaches across the table to do the same to both Minato and Ryoji.

“See you guys later, yeah?” he says with a little grin. “Don’t go causing trouble, Ryoji—Mitsuru’s even more terrifying than you remember.”

Ryoji’s breath stutters, and he nods violently enough that Minato can feel it. “Yes, sir,” he says, and Akihiko laughs, waving at the rest before following Shirogane out.

The cafe falls into another lull; it feels like a conclusion of sorts, now that everyone seems to have, truly, relaxed from the excitement of the night. Futaba’s absorbed in her phone again, and Akira seems to be nodding off; Sojiro’s grumbling as he stows Shirogane’s money in the register. Morgana’s eyeing Ryoji carefully—watching Minato as he fiddles further with Ryoji’s phone, and Aigis as she adds color commentary about which apps she thinks he might like.

“Joker,” Morgana says eventually, batting at his face with a paw, and he startles awake. “If you’re gonna sleep, might as well do it back at the house.”

“Mm,” Akira agrees, rubbing at his eyes roughly before sitting up. “Sojiro, you mind letting me crash for one more night?”

“Of course you can,” Sojiro says, rolling his eyes. Even Minato knows that was a stupid question. “I’m just about finished here—if you kids wanted to head over, feel free.”

Futaba hums, distracted, as she keeps typing—Minato’s phone is buzzing regularly in his apron pocket, and he’s a little terrified to see the damage once he finally pulls it up. Luckily, one of the first things he did for Ryoji was mute those conversations. Maybe he’ll be ready for that by the time he figures out how to open them on his own.

“Hey, get out,” Akira says, nudging Futaba in the shoulder when she shows no signs of moving. “I want to go home.”

“Just a second!” Futaba says impatiently. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“You’re always in the middle of something,” Akira complains, but peers over her shoulder regardless. After a second, he grins. “Yeah, okay—just make it quick.”

“You can’t rush art,” she snaps, but only a few seconds later, she straightens up, flips her phone to landscape, and snaps a photo of the three of them across the table. Akira’s grin grows dangerous when he sees the result; Morgana cackles, once he jumps onto her shoulders to get a good look.

“Go away,” Minato snaps, rolling his eyes. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Rude,” Futaba snipes, but she’s grinning too as she finally slides out of the booth. “Don’t blow up Leblanc while we’re gone! And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Minato stares at her, Akira, and Morgana—three known, internationally-wanted thieves, one of whom is a convicted criminal. “Uh huh,” he says flatly, and she just grins at him, offering Aigis a fistbump before bolting out the door.

“Nice to meet you, Ryoji,” Akira offers with a smile as he goes to retrieve his school bag and suitcase from the bar. “Sorry again for being such a dick at the station.”

Minato raises an eyebrow, glancing to Ryoji and searching for context. Ryoji just blinks at him for a couple seconds, like he also doesn’t know what he’s talking about, before he laughs a little, shaking his head.

“I already forgot about that,” he admits. “Please don’t worry about it, all right?”

Akira shakes his head, looking skeptical, before waving at Minato and Aigis, too. “I’ll come by tomorrow before I leave?” he offers, and Minato agrees with a little smile. Then, he follows Futaba and Morgana out the door, the slamming door ringing in the quiet, empty cafe.

Only a few moments later, Sojiro breaks the silence: “All right, kids.”

Minato glances over, expecting to see him finishing up with the till, but it’s already closed and locked. Sojiro’s leaning toward them across the bar, his arms crossed, his face a little more serious. “Aigis, you’re welcome to stay the night, as always.”

“Thank you,” she says, inclining her head slightly. Sojiro nods too, and then focuses on Ryoji.

“Ryoji, you get the same spiel as Minato: you’re under my care, which means that if you need something, you let me know, all right? I know kids these days aren’t used to having adults looking out for them, but that’s what I’m here for. You need food, extra blankets, toiletries—I’ll get them for you. If and when you need a new government ID, I'll figure out who can help with that. And if you need someone to talk to, I can’t promise I’m a great therapist, but I’m willing to give it a shot, since you’re not legal enough to get it somewhere else.”

Ryoji makes an attempt at an exhausted sort of laugh. “I appreciate it, sir,” he says, his voice breaking. “You’re far too kind.”

“No, I’m really not,” Sojiro says with a frown. “You aren’t the first messed-up teenager to drop into my life, and at this rate, you won’t be the last. You all should have someone to rely on while you sort yourselves out. You’re welcome here as long as you need it, and anytime after that, too.”

Ryoji doesn’t say anything to this immediately; Minato glances over to see his eyes bright with tears, just moments away from spilling over. “Thank you,” he croaks again. Minato carefully slides the napkin dispenser back in his direction, just in case, and Sojiro sighs heavily again.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, and then straightens up, squinting at Ryoji for a moment. “I’m sure Ann would love to take you shopping for clothes and essentials, once you’re up for it, since I think you probably won’t fit into my or Minato’s clothes.”

Minato nods; he wouldn’t be surprised if one of his million unread texts is Ann offering exactly that. “Minato, do you still have the spare futon upstairs?” Sojiro continues, and he nods again. “Good. Depending on how things shake out, we can talk about another proper bed, too. Or even a room divider, if you two decide you need your own space.”

Minato can't help but snort at the idea. After…whatever his relationship with Pharos was, followed by Ryoji, he doesn't think that'll be necessary.

Ryoji doesn't reply to this, grabbing a napkin and dabbing at his eyes. He looks more than a little overwhelmed once he lets his hand drop, and Sojiro sees it too. He sighs again, rubs at his eyes, and then looks closely at all three of them in turn. “Any of you need anything before I head out?”

Minato shakes his head, sees the others do the same. “All right. I’ll be by tomorrow around six—shop opens at seven. You don’t need to be up by then, but don’t come downstairs in your underwear when I’ve got customers.”

Ryoji nods again, like he’s committing this to memory—even though Minato’s one hundred percent sure Sojiro meant that as a joke. “And text me if anything comes up,” Sojiro adds, grabbing his things from the back before coming out from around the bar.

“We will,” Aigis says, and Minato nods.

“Thank you, Sojiro,” he adds, and he sighs heavily as he makes it to their table, reaching for the door.

“Don’t mention it,” he says again—and looks like he means to leave, but his gaze catches on Minato’s face. He hesitates before letting his hand drop, looking back over at Ryoji with an expression that Minato can’t quite read.

“And kid, try not to sell yourself short, all right?” he says, a little gentler. Ryoji blinks at him, obviously unsure. “I didn’t really follow all the supernatural parts of your situation, but I do know that Minato’s smiled more tonight than he has in the last five months put together. So if nothing else, you’ve made your friend happy by coming back in one piece. That counts for something.”

Ryoji blinks fast, a couple more tears leaking from his eyes, as he looks from Sojiro, to Aigis, to Minato. “Huh?” he croaks eventually. Sojiro sighs, shakes his head—and lets himself out the door without another word.

The silence feels almost deafening, now that the three of them are finally alone. It’s long in coming—and Minato’s grateful to Morgana and Sojiro for clearing the cafe as quickly as they did—but now that he’s able to focus completely on Ryoji and speak freely, he’s almost at a loss for what to say.

Thankfully, Aigis never has any trouble filling the silence. “I think he’s right,” she says, tilting her head at Minato thoughtfully. “I know I arrived late, but I don’t think you’ve stopped smiling this entire time.”

Minato rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother trying to argue it. If he thinks about it too hard, he’ll just realize they’re right—after all, he’s definitely smiling right now. “Let’s go upstairs,” he suggests instead, shoving Aigis lightly in the shoulder. She obliges easily, sliding out of the booth and allowing Minato to pull Ryoji out behind him.

Ryoji looks around the attic in something approaching awe as they all get settled. He still hasn’t let go of Minato, and neither of them are willing to change that anytime soon—so the two of them sit together on his bed. Aigis grabs his desk chair and pulls it closer—but Minato sees the hesitation in the motion, and grabs her by the wrist instead. Soon, the three of them are arrayed in something like a triangle on the narrow bed: not ideal, but better than making Aigis sit further away than she wants to.

“It’s bigger than your old dorm room,” Ryoji says with a little laugh, and Minato snorts, too.

“Not that I’ve got anything to fill it with,” he points out. According to Futaba, most of the furniture is a holdover from Akira’s tenure—with the exception of the upgraded bed, which Minato’s incredibly grateful for. He’s collected a few knickknacks, and he’s got a new shelf for his bigger electronics collection, but it’s not like he needs more furniture than what’s already in here.

“Wait, is that Yukari?” Ryoji demands, sitting up straighter and staring at the Pink Argus poster above the couch.

“Yeah,” Minato says, his smile growing a little wider. “She’s kinda famous, apparently?”

“She’s stopped on the street frequently by Featherman fans,” Aigis informs him with her own smile. “If you’re interested, you should ask Futaba about her DVD collection.”

Minato, in a sudden flash of clarity, realizes exactly how much Ryoji will probably enjoy watching Featherman. Based on the exasperated look in Aigis’ eye, she’s thinking the same thing—getting him and Futaba going on the topic might be something they regret in the near future.

But Ryoji’s face has fallen again, and he shrinks further behind his scarf. “I don’t know if she’ll want to spend time with me,” he points out, and Aigis tilts her head. “It seemed like I frightened her pretty badly earlier.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Minato insists, squeezing his hand, but Ryoji just slants him a skeptical look. “Futaba—she’s like that with everyone, when she first meets them. You shouldn’t take it personally.”

Ryoji’s skeptical look just grows—and Minato tries to think of a way to explain it without just spilling what he knows of Futaba’s life story. “She has an anxiety disorder,” Aigis cuts in, and Ryoji looks over at her, instead. “Meeting new people is frightening for her. Additionally, at first, she believed you were a direct threat to Akira’s well-being. Even after she was corrected on that front, the resulting anxiety can take time to disappear.”

“An anxiety disorder,” Ryoji repeats quietly, like he’s parsing the meaning of the phrase—and Minato wonders suddenly how much of his own understanding of mental health ever actually transferred to him.

Aigis shared more information than Minato would’ve—but then, Aigis has also known Futaba longer. Maybe Futaba is more comfortable sharing than he gave her credit for. “It took a few days before she said anything more than hello to me, even once I moved in,” Minato adds. “She was skittish around me at first, too. Like I said, it isn’t a you thing.”

Ryoji hesitates for a moment longer before tentatively nodding. “What did Mitsuru write about me in these files?” he asks instead, looking a little afraid of the answer.

Minato grimaces—he’s just as nervous, since he hasn’t actually read them himself. He looks over at Aigis, whose face has grown a little pained.

“You will not find a flattering description,” she admits. “Based on her reaction, I expect Futaba found the files regarding the Dark Hour and our year in SEES. Mitsuru and I wrote those as objectively as possible—however, we wrote them very soon after the Fall, while the information was still fresh in our minds. That means our grief was also very fresh.”

…Which would, maybe, explain why Futaba was under the impression that Ryoji killed him. “I see,” Ryoji says quietly, shrinking in on himself a little more. “That… That makes perfect sense.”

“Losing three of our friends within six months—not to mention Mitsuru’s father and the others—changed all of us,” Aigis says, and means to continue, but Ryoji’s brows furrow, like he’s not quite following.

“Three friends?” he repeats. “Akihiko said the rest of you are doing well. Who else could you have lost besides Minato and Shinjiro?”

Minato sighs heavily, reflexively clutching Ryoji’s hand tighter. When he looks over at Aigis, there’s an expression on her face that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen there before: dawning realization, mixed with renewed exasperation and grief.

“The last thing I ever said to you as Ryoji Mochizuki,” she says, her voice quieter. She waits, expecting him to remember, but he just shakes his head, looking lost. “I told you that you were my enemy…and that you were also my friend.”

Ryoji’s still as stone, staring at her with wide eyes. Minato sighs again, and starts counting on his free hand: “Junpei lost you a week after he lost Chidori, just as he thought he was getting his feet under him again. Yukari never said it out loud, but she felt off-kilter for weeks when you weren’t there in class. Fuuka worried about you every single day until the Fall.” He grimaces, the memory seared into his mind even after the better part of a year: “On Christmas, she wondered if you were spending the holiday crying.”

It’s then that Ryoji breaks—which tells Minato that Fuuka’s intuition was right. “None of you had any reason to mourn me,” Ryoji says—demands—reaching to swipe at his eyes as his other hand’s grip on Minato grows crushing. “I’m Death. I was going to kill you—”

“We didn’t care,” Minato says, stronger, and Ryoji’s grip spasms even tighter. “You’re our friend, of course we mourned you—”

“I’m not human,” Ryoji insists, his voice breaking as it rises, too. “I’m part of Nyx, I’m barely a person at all—”

“Stop!” Minato says, louder still, lunging to grab Ryoji’s other arm and turn to face him head-on, leaning closer. “Ryoji, stop.”

He complies, his chest heaving, his eyes looking even brighter than usual behind the tears. “That’s one of my best friends you’re talking about,” Minato continues, lower, and Ryoji’s face contorts further. “If you don't stop shit-talking him, I’m gonna have to beat you up.”

Ryoji barks out a choked laugh, despite himself. “You tried that already, I think,” he says, his voice wrecked. “It didn’t really take. I wouldn’t recommend trying it again.”

“Watch me,” Minato snaps, and shakes him a little for good measure. His ankle is digging uncomfortably into Aigis’ leg, and his knees are starting to protest the extended kneeling position, but he doesn’t move, keeping eye contact with Ryoji. Maybe, if he’s stubborn enough about it, it’ll get through his thick skull.

Ryoji’s still crying; behind Minato, Aigis doesn’t say a word, waiting to see how this resolves. Minato holds his breath—and eventually Ryoji lets out an explosive sigh, turning his face away. “I’ll try,” he says, very softly, and Minato holds his arm tighter before just leaning forward and collecting him into a hug.

It's a long while before they let go. Aigis puts a hand on Minato's back, but she doesn't say anything—even when he pulls away, and rearranges his legs so his joints don't protest as much and so he can see Aigis again. “Tonight has been a lot," he admits after a few seconds, and Ryoji’s lips twitch up at the understatement. Minato lets out an expansive yawn halfway through the next sentence: "Why don't we get some sleep, and figure out the existential dread tomorrow?”

Ryoji hesitates, like he doesn't want to be the one to decide, but then twitches over with wide eyes as Aigis yawns, too. He blinks fast, his mouth slightly open, as Aigis scowls a bit at Minato for starting it.

Minato can't help but laugh. “Yes, she can yawn," he says, and Ryoji flinches back at being caught staring. “Don't have a stroke, but she sleeps, too."

Ryoji’s face falls in something like awe as he looks over at Aigis again, even as her chagrin only grows. "I have also started experiencing what Mitsuru refers to as tension headaches," she tells him as she rises to her feet. "I'm starting to think the concept of being human may be a scam, after all.”

Ryoji laughs, but cringes away like he's expecting her to attack him for it. "I may need you to teach me how it goes, then,” he says, tentative, after a few moments. His hand is starting to shake in Minato's own. “If it's not too much trouble."

Aigis stops from where she was stepping toward the storage shelves, in search of the spare futon, and turns to look him in the eye. "It would be an honor,” she says—so gravely that Ryoji seems struck dumb.

None of them say much as they move around the attic, preparing for bed; Minato digs out some of his baggiest pajamas to toss in Ryoji’s direction, and Aigis retrieves the small stash of clothes and essentials she’s taken to keeping here. Minato’s phone, set to vibrate since he started helping Sojiro earlier this evening, has been buzzing regularly—in his apron pocket, and then charging on the windowsill. So, it startles him when his text notification tone plays at full volume as he’s digging in a box for a spare toothbrush.

He passes it off to Ryoji with a gesture toward the bathroom downstairs, and then approaches his phone with a bit of exasperation as it dings again—and then a third time only a few moments later. Minato rolls his eyes, swiping it off the windowsill as he settles heavily onto the bed.

“Futaba, I swear—”

Except—he does have an alarming number of unread messages from the Shadow Operatives chat, but the notification that comes through for that as he picks up his phone only vibrates. He’s got half a dozen other unread threads, too—Ann, Mitsuru, and Sojiro among them—but when his phone dings a fourth time, another chat with an unknown number jumps to the top of his messages list. He blinks, frowning at it, before thumbing it open carefully.

Minato blinks hard—then rubs at his eyes before reading the messages again.

He decides not to dignify that with a response—if she wants to be cryptic on purpose, she can go right ahead. Instead, he gets right to the point:

“I did not,” Aigis says indignantly; Minato jumps. He didn’t notice her come up next to him to read over his shoulder.

Minato inhales deeply, shutting his eyes for several moments. He’s known this all evening; he argued as much against everyone else in the cafe an hour ago; but hearing it confirmed by Elizabeth is more relieving than he was expecting.

She replies only with a string of emoji that he’s not sure he’d have the processing power to translate, even if he weren’t exhausted. He goes to lock his phone—but then hesitates. First, he takes screenshots of the text thread and delves back into the group chat, whose unread count is edging dangerously close to triple digits.

He’s added so fast that Minato almost wonders whether she’s been waiting with her finger over the enter button. Regardless, hopefully it’ll keep Mitsuru’s blood pressure down, when the official channel was most definitely not being used for official business for most of the night.

To his mild horror, the meme chat appears to have been at least as active as the official one. He only has a moment to regret his life choices before Junpei—and Fuuka, of all people—are welcoming him with eye-searing gifs. Futaba’s a little more reserved; she just @’s him with a reply to a message from half an hour ago, which he clicks on with no small amount of terror.

“Oh, god,” he mutters, immediately locking his phone and tossing it down on the bedspread. “I’m never living this down.”

“Your emo facade is in shambles,” Aigis says with a solemn nod. It’s only slightly ruined by the smile she can’t quite keep off her face. “That is, indeed, cute a-f.”

“Oh, I know that one!” Ryoji says brightly, as he crests the top of the stairs. “Can I see the cute thing?”

His face is red, like he splashed water on it—he was downstairs for longer than would’ve been strictly necessary, just to brush his teeth. But his smile looks like it comes a little easier than it did before, and his eyes are clear as he crosses the room quickly to sit on Minato’s other side.

“No. Never,” Minato says, falling backwards dramatically—except Aigis is already pulling up her own phone to show him, and then Ryoji is cooing over the photo, too.

Eventually—after far too much heckling, and only after another round of yawns are shared between the three of them—Minato convinces the others to get off his bed so he can plug his phone back in and lie down. The three of them genuinely intend to sleep separately—Ryoji flops onto the spare futon and immediately sprawls as wide as possible, and Aigis grabs an extra pillow and blanket for the couch.

After all, the bed certainly won’t fit more than one person comfortably, and Minato’s not confident his joints will let him get up in the morning if he ends up sleeping on the floor. Anyway, he’s not exactly a cuddler, even with those he’s closest to—especially when he’s trying to sleep.

Except—well, despite his exhaustion, Minato finds himself tossing and turning for a good half-hour after they flip the lights and settle down. He’s too cold, even with the bedspread, and he’s oddly restless in a way that keeps him just this side of awake. For someone who’s always been able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat—for someone who fell asleep sitting up barely two hours ago—it’s baffling and extremely frustrating.

But it seems like he’s not alone. In Kyoto, Minato learned that Ryoji’s an obnoxious snorer; the silent attic tells him that he’s still awake, too. He can’t tell if Aigis is asleep in the dark, but eventually, she’s the one who breaks the silence.

“I believe both of you are still awake. Is that right?”

“Yeah,” Minato says, sitting up on his elbows and squinting in her direction—right up until she turns on her built-in flashlight, at which point one arm flies up to shield his eyes as he swears softly.

Sure enough, Ryoji’s sitting up on the floor, squinting in Aigis’ direction too. “Can’t sleep, either?” he offers, and she makes a noise of agreement.

“I have an idea,” she says. “Do you trust me?”

With his life? Yes—without a doubt, without hesitation. To have his best interests at heart in petty, everyday stuff? Well…that’s a bit more of a toss-up.

“That depends,” he hedges—except it’s at the same time that Ryoji says “yes,” and Aigis hears exactly what she wants to hear.

Only a few moments later, she’s easily moved his mattress to lay on the floor—ignoring Minato’s weak protests and just dragging it down with him still sitting on top. By the time he’s got his bearings again, she’s moving the couch cushions, too; in under a minute, the mattress, futon, and cushions are all butted up against each other to make some sort of lopsided, extra-wide bed. Credit where credit’s due: it—almost comfortably—fits all three of them.

“My back is going to hate me in the morning,” Minato gripes, and makes no move to force Aigis to put him back up on the bedframe. He’s down here; might as well see if she’s right. At least he’s still got the best mattress of the three of them. “Ryoji, if you koala me, I’m kicking you out.”

He has zero evidence to base this on—but Ryoji absolutely strikes him as a cuddler. “Yessir,” Ryoji says with a little laugh, his eyes crinkling in the dim light as Aigis turns again toward the couch to grab her covers. Ryoji settles back down, bunching up part of his blanket and hugging it to his chest, like he’s planning to koala that, instead.

That’s…very sweet, actually. Minato will never admit it out loud, but he already feels more at ease as Aigis settles down on Ryoji’s other side. “I would prefer not to cuddle as well,” she admits. “I just feel like I will sleep better in close proximity to you both.”

Yeah, that’s exactly it. Minato pulls the blanket up over his shoulders again as Aigis shuts off the light; Ryoji shifts on his futon, turning his nose into his bunched up blanket and letting out a deep sigh. Minato eyes the space between himself and Ryoji before deciding yeah, he’s comfortable with that.

Down here, the restlessness is gone; his eyelids already feel heavier. There’s something warm growing in his chest that has nothing—and everything—to do with Ryoji’s and Aigis’ body heat at his side.

Five months of spending his nights alone in Leblanc’s attic—before that, a year of fighting to feel rested around Tartarus and schoolwork and social links. They don't hold a candle to this. Ryoji’s breathing slowly evens out as he clutches his blanket tighter; Aigis stretches out an arm, her fingertips settling against the floorboards with a soft tap.

He never thought he'd have this again. Even these last few months, he hasn't ever dared to hope—

But here he is. Here they are. Here, and whole, and happy: their lives stretching out indefinitely before them.

Minato smiles. He drops off just as Ryoji’s snores begin to fill the attic, and sleeps better than he has in years.