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Nestled on a quiet side street, the café was a favorite for local academics, students, and those with an interest in foreign desserts. During the fin de siècle, before the Great War, the owner had spent his time in the twin capitals of the Dual Monarchy, where he had become immersed in coffeehouse culture. In Café Central and Café Prückel, he developed a knack for crafting the finest Linzer tortes and apfelstrudels. He had learned how to dance between the crowded Thonet chairs and omnipresent newspapers to ensure that the mugs of coffee stayed full. In Budapest, he became acquainted with the singers of the opera house that was only a block away when he worked at the Művész Kávéház. There, he was introduced to the wonders of dobostorta with its multiple layers of chocolate buttercream and hardened caramel top. At the Auguszt Cukrászda, he fell in love with pogácsa biscuits – including ones with potato and ones with túró soft cheese. His years abroad had now translated into success as he cultivated a loyal clientele.
The café was the favorite for an odd couple. The owner had watched them with great interest over the years that they had been patrons. In the first year, they came separately, never running into each other. The shorter of the two, a man who was often dressed in black and white attire, often came in on the evenings. During the warmer months, an albino snake accompanied him – sometimes wrapped around his neck and other times nestled within the sleeves of his haori. Clearly, the man was returning from some work and came to spend an hour or two of his evenings. Even though the man's mouth was wrapped in bandages, the coffees he ordered were always finished by the time he left. It was as if he was stealthily consuming it when no one was looking at the corner he occupied. Any pastries he ordered were nibbled at and rarely ever finished. Sometimes he would sit in the corner and stare into the coffee before retrieving a folded newspaper from his pocket. Other times, he arrived with a notebook in hand, where, after having consulted the newspaper and scowling, he would furiously write before tearing off a sheet of paper and stuffing it into an envelope.
He always picked the same three newspapers: a local paper, a prefecture-level paper, and a national one. Once, the man accidentally left one of his notebooks because there was a commotion outside. Someone, most likely a drunk, had shouted that a demon was on the loose. The man left in a flash, leaving behind a mostly full mug and the notebook. After one of the wait staff brought the notebook over to the owner, curiosity got the better of him, and he opened it. Surprisingly, despite the man's scowling and unapproachable demeanor, the notebook was filled with poetry. Love poetry, to be exact. The prose was as sweet as an apfelstrudel and metaphors as ephemeral and delicate as tiramisu. On a hunch, the owner opened the previous day's newspaper to find a column that was written in the same style. There, on page seven, nestled on the bottom right among various book reviews, was a poetry column that appeared twice a week. Below a pair of haikus and a longer poem composed of a dozen verses was the author’s name: Kaburamaru. It was a decidedly odd name.
Kaburamaru did not return until the next evening. When he ordered an einspänner the next day, the owner returned the notebook to him. It was the first time that he saw Kaburamaru react with surprise. The second time was when Kaburamaru arrived with a colleague who was taller than him. She wasn’t just taller than him but wider in frame, too. Contrary to the graceless university braggarts, she moved with grace when she squeezed past crowded tables and picked up another plate of pastries. She was gentle when exerting her strength, never careless when she helped the staff move some crates.
The woman, whom he learned was named Kanroji, exclaimed to Kaburamaru that she had heard about the café in a newspaper and had wanted to try it as she loved Western sweet treats. Kaburamaru claimed that he had not been to the café before – an act that immediately failed when one of the wait staff greeted him and asked if he wanted his usual. Kanroji took it in stride as she laughed and playfully pushed Kaburamaru.
“Aww, did you want it to feel more special, as if it were your first time here, Obanai?”
“Ah! So Kaburamaru was a pseudonym,” the owner had thought.
Before Obanai could even marshal a response, Kanroji opened the menu with her eyes as wide as dinner plates as she saw the wide array of treats.
“You have to tell me what you’d recommend!”
From then on, the two were regular fixtures at the café. Obanai still maintained his evening vigils, while Mitsuri, who eventually introduced herself after asking how a dobostorta was made, often came in the mornings. When Mitsuri came alone, sometimes she brought a sketch pad and drew. After the owner asked her about her art, she blushed and said that she hoped to be a painter. A wistful look came over her as she spoke, as if this dream was far away and unattainable. The owner and wait staff didn’t know how the two had met or where they worked. There was a secretive air to it, yet it did not feel like they were involved in some sort of illegal business. Yet, that look in Mitsuri’s eyes unsettled the owner. He remembered when he met with the second son of one of the bakers he had apprenticed under. It was the last time the owner saw him alive before the boy, who still had that youthful roundness to his face untainted by hardship, returned in a box after catching a stray bullet somewhere in the Bukovina. The very same wistfulness was in that boy’s gaze when he looked out at the Danube and proclaimed that after the war, he would expand his father’s business to Kraków. Yet, as he watched the steamers pass by on the river’s blue waters, etched within that wistfulness was a look of resignation. It was the realization that the dream would not come to pass. And indeed, it had not as a youthful boy who was barely nineteen died for a country that also perished two years later.
The owner could not think of what kind of conflict, much less one in Japan, would enlist such an odd couple into their ranks. When he heard the two speak in hushed whispers, he could not make sense of the “oni” they discussed or their status as “pillars,” nor did he know what an “Upper Moon” was. What the owner did know was that his two favorite customers, if times had been happier, would already have been happily engaged or even married.
It didn’t take long for the owner to connect the dots from the figure of a tennyo who featured in Obanai’s poetry to Mitsuri. For Obanai, Mitsuri was a real, living, tennyo on Earth. Together, the two became the source of a betting pool held by the owner and the wait staff – would they or won’t they? Even though one was gloomy in his black and white while the other was lucent with her pink and matcha greens, the two got along famously. It was a cause for celebration when the two finally arrived after several months of absence, hand in hand. Yet, even after that glimmer of happiness, the two returned to the café less and less. Obanai’s poetry column was published less frequently, even though it occupied a larger space on page three. As for Mitsuri, even after some of her work had been exhibited in a nearby gallery, she sketched far less when in the café. Instead, the two sat in silence, leaning against each other as they enjoyed the other’s presence, as they solemnly ate and drank together. For when they did talk, they spoke in tired, hushed whispers.
Then, on January 2nd, 1922, the owner spat out his tea when he looked for Obanai’s column.
“Due to personal health reasons, Kaburamaru’s works are on hiatus. We eagerly await their return and pray for their good health and fortune.”
Neither of the two was seen in the café for months. In that time, a trend of increasing disappearances plummeted. The palpable fear that was felt on the streets vanished, and a weight that rested upon the owner’s shoulders was lifted. It was not until later in the Spring that the couple returned.
Hand-in-hand, Mitsuri and Obanai stood before the café. It was early enough in the Spring that the two still felt a residual chill as Winter tried to cling on. Mitsuri exhaled and looked down at her fiancé. Even though there were new scars on his face that peeked out from the bandages worn over his mouth, he was still the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. His heterochromatic eyes glowed with a kinder energy. Finally, after learning to believe in a future for himself, his rough exterior softened to match the font of sweetness that welled up from within him. Even though Mitsuri could no longer feel Obanai's hand, the muscles in her right arm tightened to pull on a string that went through her prosthetic forearm and down into her new hand. She gently squeezed Obanai's hand. Every day, she was thankful to the Swordsmith Village for their expertise that had been used on the Yorichii Type Zero, which allowed her to reclaim her independence after having lost her arms during the final battle.
Obanai had also barely survived. His legs had been taken from him. If it hadn't been for Shinobu's swiftness and Giyuu's willingness to give some of his own blood on the spot, even after having lost his own arm, Obanai would have perished too. Though he knew Mitsuri could not feel it, he squeezed her hand back. Between the two of them, they had only one pair of functioning arms and legs. It had taken a while for the finalized prosthetics to be made. The crude leg prosthetics that he wore so that he could relearn to walk paled in comparison to the ones he wore now. While running took extra care, his old agility was returning. As for Mitsuri, until she had been fitted with her current arms, she stubbornly painted by alternating between holding the paint brush in her mouth or with her feet. Painting became an exercise in learning to use her new arms and hands. The dream of being a painter had become attainable.
“Ready?” Obanai asked.
Mitsuri smiled. “Ready!”
There was a pause before the duo stepped toward the entrance. The adjustment to civilian life was still something they were getting used to. The fact that the two were now disabled, just as badly as some soldiers who returned from the intervention in Eastern Siberia, was also something that they needed to adjust to. The two had a regimented morning routine in which they worked together to attach each other's prosthetics. Then, as they went about their day, they worked in tandem. Getting used to the prosthetics was an ongoing process. Some days, Mitsuri directed Obanai through various recipes after she had closed her hand too tightly and shattered a glass. For the days with Obanai's phantom pains were too great, Mitsuri carried her lover to a wheelchair so he could maneuver around their home himself. Over at the Butterfly Mansion, Shinobu and Giyuu had their own system. When Giyuu cooked, Shinobu served as his missing right hand.
The bell tied to the café’s front door rang as the two walked in. Despite the crowdedness of the café, they effortlessly made it to the front counter. The staff member who manned the register goggled at the two. It had been back in December when she had last seen the pair.
“Welcome back! It's wonderful to see you both again.”
As she spoke, she couldn't help but notice the artificiality of Mitsuri's hands. After all, they were visibly segmented and different from flesh-and-blood ones. Mitsuri didn't notice the glance, but Obanai did. A knot formed in his stomach as he worried that the employee would say something, as the two had received far too many questions and comments when they went out. Thankfully, the employee didn’t say anything and maintained her smile.
“I think I remember your usuals. Iguro-sama, an einspänner along with two túró pogácsa, and for Kanroji-sama a fiaker and a millirahmstrudel?”
“Yes, please!” Mitsuri beamed.
“That will do,” Obanai answered softly.
The duo paid and were directed over to an empty table in their usual corner. As they maneuvered over to the table, the woman at the register waved the owner over. The owner blinked several times to be sure that indeed he was seeing things right. Even though the pair was halfway across the café, the sight of them reminded the owner of seeing soldiers returning from the front. In Obanai, he noticed the awkward gait of a soldier who had only recently relearned to walk. He was cautious with his steps and how he placed his weight. Within Mitsuri, he saw the stiffness of a soldier whose prosthetics could not fully encompass the former range of motion. Rather than moving her arm over to push aside a chair that was in the way, she turned her whole torso until the chair was directly in front of her before she pushed it aside.
“I'll bring their orders over,” the owner said.
As they made it over to their table, Obanai remembered how he had first walked with all the grace of a newly born fawn when he received his first pair of leg prosthetics. With how crowded the café was, he made sure that each step was well thought out. He clutched at the canvas bag that he carried over his right shoulder. Occasionally, as he walked, he checked that Mitsuri was still behind him. She smiled reassuringly at him, and he felt his worries ease away.
“One step at a time…easy does it…”
Upon reaching their table, Obanai sat down in the chair across from Mitsuri. She pouted at him and scooted her chair to the side.
“Move over here,” she cooed.
The sides of Obanai's mouth turned upwards as he smiled. He moved his chair over until he was shoulder to shoulder with Mitsuri. From his canvas bag, he withdrew Mitsuri's sketchbook, a set of pencils, and his notebook. Mitsuri eagerly took the sketchbook and opened it up to where her last sketch had been. She carefully picked up a pencil and ever so carefully tightened her grip on the pencil to hold it firmly.
“1921, December 27th,” read the date of her last sketch. It had been a scant few days before the final battle in the Infinity Castle.
For a moment, Mitsuri's breathing hitched, and she felt an odd tingling at the point where she new arms connected to what remained of the old. She swallowed and looked over at Obanai. Even though the lower half of his face was covered, Mitsuri could see that there was a similar shell-shockedness, too. The page that Obanai had opened to was also dated to the same day – to the last time the two had visited the café. Both had sketched and written in the time since then, but not in the special notebooks they brought with them for their coffee rendezvouses.
As they looked over at each other, they shared a wan smile before chuckling.
“Despite it all…” Obanai said.
“I still found you,” Mitsuri added.
Obanai's eyes flickered around the café. When he was sure no one was looking at the two directly, he leaned over to Mitsuri.
“Can I…” he began.
Mitsuri giggled and brought her face to be level with Obanai. She placed a soft kiss on his cheek, which sent a pleasant electrical sensation through Obanai.
“Always,” she said.
Blushing, Obanai uncovered his mouth. There were more scars all along his face now, courtesy of having been bitten. Each scar had been kissed many times by Mitsuri as she declared her love. The scars marked their collective survival and persistence. Despite it all, they remained with their friends.
Obanai glanced around one more time before he closed the gap between himself and Mitsuri's patient yet expectant lips. The kiss was short yet deep. To Obanai, Mitsuri's lips were the sweetest things he had ever had the pleasure of tasting. Though he was surprised when Mitsuri said the same thing to him, after all, any of her myriad of homemade desserts had to be sweeter than him in his own view, he did feel joy at her words.
Their kiss was quick, but it filled them both with resolve. Together, they returned to their crafts – there was a newspaper column to return to and a sketch to be made for a future art installation.
It wasn't long before the owner stopped by their table with a tray in hand. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched his favorite customers draw and write. Perhaps now the old weight they had carried like soldiers could now be put to rest to enjoy the fruits of peace. He transferred the coffees and pastries over. He had agonized over what, if anything, to tell the couple.
“It's good to see you both again,” he said. There was an unexpected tinge of hoarseness to his voice. He wondered if he would have said similar words to those who had left for the war if they had returned alive. His mind went to his meeting with the second son and then to the telegram he received one month later about his death. There was so much to say, yet he did not know how to phrase it.
“I…no, we hope to see you too regularly once more.” He gestured to the table that the pair sat at. “It's been…vacant without you two here. If you come by on a weekday evening, I'm sure we can talk together once again about recipes and literature when it is less busy here.”
The owner withdrew the money the pair paid with and set it down on their table.
“Don't worry about today, it's on the house.”
He hurried off with a laugh as Obanai's protests were absorbed by the din of dozens of other conversations.
“Aww, come now! You've missed coming here, haven't you? I remember you reminiscing back when you were still bedbound.” Mitsuri playfully nudged Obanai.
Obanai sighed and picked up his einspänner. It was crowned by a particularly large amount of whipped cream that was dusted with cocoa powder.
“I just want to be sure they know we aren't expecting any sort of special treatment,” Obanai grumbled.
He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. A contented sigh left him as the familiar taste of espresso sweetened by whipped cream spread over his tongue. Mitsuri giggled and pointed at the cream that was left on his upper lip. She carefully reached out with one of her new hands, slowly extending her index finger outwards with a calculated twitch from a muscle in her arm stump. Such an advancement was normally impossible, even with the great advancements in prosthetic limbs, because of the Great War. It was only because of the earlier construction of the Yorichii mechanical battle doll that Mitsuri could be so precise with her hands. She was eternally grateful to the Swordsmith Village that she could still hold the hands of her loved ones and be precise in her movements. It was only after a week of her hospitalization that she realized the true gravity of her injuries. After a week, her brain fog finally disappeared, only to be replaced by a sense of loss, a lack of wholeness. Now, months later, she finally began to feel whole once more.
Obanai remained still as Mitsuri scooped some of the whipped cream up. She then reeled back in her fingers and licked the cream off them. A pleasant sweetness swept over her tongue.
“Ahhh! Heavy whipping cream is so good!” She shook with delight.
Obanai smiled but held a hand up to the side to hide it from any potential prying eyes. While others had caught a glimpse of him without bandages at the café, he sported additional scars where the flesh looked even more raw.
“Do you want any more, dear?” Obanai asked.
Mitsuri nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, please! But…” She looked down at her hand and frowned as she struggled to move her fingers. “I think my muscles are a little tired,” she said with a downcast look. “It's…hard to move.”
Obanai skimmed a generous helping of whipped cream from his coffee and onto his finger. Last year, he wouldn't have dreamed of doing such an act so publicly. But now, he was in love and didn't care.
“Here,” he said as he lifted his finger toward Mitsuri.
With green eyes going wide with both gratitude and hunger, Mitsuri wolfed down the whipped cream in a single motion. She licked her lips with contentment. As she was about to thank Obanai, a thought occurred to her.
“Hey, Obi?”
“Yes, mochi?”
Mitsuri fidgeted. “Can you…can you put one of your hands against my cheek? I want to feel your warmth. I miss feeling it from your hands.”
A look of surprise and then of realization crossed Obanai's face. He pulled his bandages back over his mouth as he felt his face redden.
“Of course,” he answered. His voice jumped to a higher pitch as he spoke.
He raised his left hand and gently pressed it against Mitsuri's right cheek. A soft sigh escaped Mitsuri as she closed her eyes. She pressed herself against Obanai's hand, imagining that she was absorbing his warmth into herself. His hand felt the same as when they held hands back when she still had a flesh-and-blood hand. She felt the calluses on his palm and the writing calluses on his fingers. It was a roughness that she dearly treasured as it represented Obanai perfectly. It was an exterior roughness that surrounded an internal sweetness. As a member of the Corps, he fought hard while nurturing a desire to protect others. As a writer, the calloused fingers marked where, after long hours, he finally made a breakthrough for the perfect metaphor. Even though his charge tongue and thorniness had led him to argue with Giyuu and Tanjirou, that internal sweetness had finally seeped out. He now considered Giyuu to be a genuine friend, and he was always happy when the Kamados visited.
Scarred and wounded both mentally and physically, the two persisted. Finally, there would be peace.
“Obi,” Mitsuri spoke softly, “We need to plan that wedding sometime soon, you know?”
She giggled when she felt Obanai's hand warm up.
“Maybe a fusion wedding – both Japanese and Western…I think the Caterpillars would be lovely flower girls.”
“We could get the cake from here then,” Obanai added. His eyes darted back toward the counter, where the owner and several wait staff immediately pretended to have been looking elsewhere.
“Mhm. Something tells me they would really like that,” Mitsuri murmured.
“You're not wrong,” Obanai said as he rolled his eyes at the wait staff.
For a while, the two sat with Obanai's hand resting on Mitsuri's cheek while leaning against each other. They whispered ideas back and forth that were then jotted down by Obanai with his free hand. Finally, after Mitsuri felt she could move her hand once more, the two returned to their coffees, clinking them together as they savored every living moment. They had each other and their friends. United in their love and in the shared memories of the past, they eagerly looked toward a peaceful future.