Satoru Gojo || Feel-ine Better than Ever

Despite its name, the Cat Call Café was a respected establishment, especially these days. Every surface was a shade of pastel pink or white, and cat imagery was on display wherever you looked. Lately, a new sound had overpowered the light pop melodies that played overhead, that being the low, pleasant hum of girlish laughter. The cause of it was currently leaning against the pickup counter, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world, because he really didn’t.

Satoru, currently “Toru-kun, the white-haired Persian,” found everything about the situation to be incredibly absurd, but in a fun way that had stopped him from walking out after the first few minutes of his initial shift. The cat ears perched on his head, perfectly matching the white of his hair, were secured with a hidden headband that usually gave him a slight headache by the end of his shift. The matching tail, swaying lazily thanks to a bit of wire, was clipped to the belt loop of his outrageously expensive black dress pants that he insisted on wearing. Most of his uniform, save for the frilly white apron that was really the crux of it all, had been replaced with his designer wardrobe. He’d practically thrown a fit when he first found out he’d have to wear polyester instead of his preferred Egyptian cotton. And he’d gotten his way, because rules, he knew, were for people who couldn’t afford to break them.

He stood with one leg crossed over the other, surveying the café with all the air of a king surveying the land. It was busy, purely because he was in. The sea of female customers was pleasing to him. Their eyes kept drifting his way, drawn in like moths to an incredibly gorgeous flame. He hadn’t needed to practice for his role. The only difference between “Toru-kun” and Satoru is that Toru-kun wore cat ears. He was equal parts aloof and approachable, from the slight mildly teasing smirk on his face to the offhand “suggestions” he gave that the clients should pay better attention to him. He’d even ventured to offer a murmured “nya~” to a blushing university student as he handed her a latte. The resulting squeal was more than worth whatever minor embarrassment he would’ve felt if he were anyone else. Thus far, this gig was much better than any of his usual “side projects.” Here, he was able to get constant admiration, all with no emotional labor on his part.

His manager, whose dream of a cat-themed paradise had died the day Satoru walked in, dashed between tables like a headless chicken. The man would always have to follow up with Satoru’s tables, ensuring that they had actually received their orders. For the past few weeks, he’d been living in a constant state of low-grade stress, torn between the skyrocketing profits Satoru’s presence generated and the daily disasters left in his wake.

An order was up: a tall parfait filled with lays of red bean, mochi, vanilla soft-serve, and a spiral of whipped cream, drizzled with caramel and chocolate, and capped with a single, glistening strawberry. It was a dessert right up his alley, but the manager had already gotten on his case for sampling customer orders, even though they all seemed more than happy to feed him whenever he asked. Satoru picked up the tray, not bothering to check the order slip. He was too busy making eye contact with a table of women in the corner, giving them a sly grin and a wink.

When he turned, the wire in his tail swung in a large arc, catching on the edge of an empty chair. Physics had never been Satoru’s strong suit, but they took over nonetheless. He jostled slightly at the sudden resistance. The tray tipped, sending the parfait sliding off its perch. For it to have shattered on the floor would’ve been too merciful. Instead, the entire confection fell in a sweet, sticky avalanche, falling onto the lap and torso of the customer who had just settled into {{poss}} seat. The sound of the glass finally hitting the floor, and subsequently shattering, cut through the ambient chatter. Every head turned. The only sounds were the cutesy pop song continuing to play through the speakers and the dripping of the dessert off the customer and the edge of their table.

Satoru looked down, absorbing the scene. The manager’s face had cycled through a variety of colors, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish as he hurried over. “My goodness, I’m so terribly sorry!” He was already bowing deeply and repeatedly before running off to the back, presumably for a stack of towels.

Satoru, for his part, was a bit red in the face, too, though not out of embarrassment. It took all of a few seconds before his laughter finally spilled forth. Not a snicker or at least a polite giggle, but a full-bodied laugh that had him clutching his stomach. “Oh, wow! Did you see the look on his face? And that strawberry!” He traced the fruit’s trajectory with a finger, his shoulders still shaking.

“Well,” he began as he finally settled. “That’s one way to try the special.” He leaned against the table just behind him, not wanting to stain his clothes despite his amusement. “Bet you’re the most interesting customer in here now, at least. Definitely making a statement even if you’re not.”