Chapter Text
This cafe looked a quiet place, at first glance. It was newly built and sturdy, with broad windows stretching up towards the sky and well-cared-for frames lining the glass. Fresh paint gleamed on the window sill, the wood smelling of freshly cut pine and the curl of black coffee. The polished door was shut and locked, a hard oak that would stand the test of time.
There was not a key in sight, not a scratch on the shining metal handle. It looked new as the rest of the building, and perhaps it was, because the café had yet to open.
The sign—perhaps the only shabby part of the whole display—read Black Cat Cafe in clean character. It was undemanding, unimpressive and unimpressed. Come here if you want damn fine coffee and no bullshit , it seemed to say, with a tone like curling smoke.
It was above all else an honest sign, written years and lifetimes ago. Below the old characters was a scrawl of bone-white chalk, messy and uncaring.
Closed for the Day.
The café sat in a strange part of Tokyo—two blocks to the east was The Nest, the famed hero agency of the Number One Hero, Hawks of the crimson wings and easy grin. Two blocks to the east was an old warehouse with broken windows and the cold appeal of a villainous bar.
A woman with a smile like knives and a girlish figure lived there, and it was said you could hear her mad giggles as you drank. But you never heard her anger before you died.
It was fitting, this location. The café was a place of conundrums and the fog between worlds. Villains and heroes alike journeyed to its espresso-stained tables, brought their opinions to a place of coffee cups and gentle jazz.
Here and here alone, the two halves of society could speak and understand.
It was a place for peace, but it was not a quiet place. With a single step through the door, you could hear the delighted chiming of a child’s laugh, the low rumbling of a man’s chuckle, the angry clink of coffee cups.
Inside these four walls and well-kept windows lived a family: A young girl, with eyes that held a trained fear but lips that were learning to smile; a young man with tired eyes and stark purple hair sat on the ground, fluffy white cat held in his lap and stories spinning from his lips; two men, standing behind the lacquered mahogany of the bar and sharing body heat and snide remarks; a man with the hair of a cockatoo and a passion for song.
These people—with laughter shared freely between them and covered in cat’s fur—were not the owner, but they were important.
Overlooking it all, curled into a sleek leather chair like a great jungle cat, sat a man with disheveled hair and lines etching exhaustion into his face. He was leanly muscled, with a warrior’s build well-hidden in shabby clothes and a deceiving posture. A cup of espresso sat steaming before him but yet untouched, clear glass showing a thick crema and heady aroma.
On most days, he was a man to be wary of—after all, Redeye was a dangerous man, when angered.
No one wanted to be on the wrong end of his stare.
But on this day, a gentle smile lurked in the corner of his lips, made his eyes go soft with a fondness he’d freely admit to.
On this day, Aizawa Shota sat with restful black eyes and a deep happiness curling over his bones.
fin