Chapter Text
The train ride to Leblanc took the last of his yen he had saved over the month. The defeated Yusuke walked slowly, taking the dusty and old streets of Yongen Jaya, passing by the supermarket and the gossiping housewives walking around. He knew that his purple hair and white kosei uniform made him stand out more than he wanted. He hated attention; it should be the art, the attention it receives, the strikes of the brushes that captivate an audience, the piece so beautiful that it's hard to look away. The artists are those behind the scenes, managing every aspect of the play that brings others' emotions.
It's not the artist but art that his mind wandered to as he reached the door to Yongen Jaya.
“Welcome,” a small voice calls from inside the cafe, although the starving young man didn’t hear it. He walked inside and sat himself on the stool, ignoring the voice calling to him. He pulled his sketchbook and a pencil out before putting his bag down, relaxing his posture just a little.
“HEYYY,” the voice was louder, pulling his attention from his ready sketchbook on the counter. He turned his head to find the long orange-haired girl standing right beside him, in her usual oversized jacket and long black boots.
He sighed in relief, “Ahh, Sakura-san, how are you doing?”
The girl shrugged, peering over at his sketchbook. Yuske turned around to find an empty cafe, empty seats, and empty tables, just the two of them.
“May I inquire where everywhere is? Akira said that we would complete some mementos missions today.”
“Akira’s running some quests, said the inventory's low, and everybody else canceled" Futaba shrugged, still peering over with eyes intently glaring at his sketchbook.
It was always Futaba's weird way of speaking that mystified Yusuke.
“Well, they all canceled, so it would be unwise to stay, yet my wallet is dry at the current moment.”
“Well, that sucks,” Futaba said, still looking at his sketchbook. There was a moment of silence between them; something in the air made him feel uneasy before he finally took the hint.
“Futaba, do you want to look at my sketchbook?”
Futaba nodded aggressively.
“Well, you cannot.” Yusuke crossed his arms in full defiance.
“Aww, come on, you're always sketching during our meetings, and you never show your sketchbook to anyone. What type of things are you hiding?” Futaba whined as she sat on the chair next to him. The cafe was quiet, as the dim evening lights shone through the windows. The way Futaba looked at him with wonder, her facial expressions of happiness or sadness, stirred something in Yusuke's mind. He wasn’t the type to notice things, especially things that didn’t capture the piece he wanted to make.
“I still refuse,” he shook his head.
Their conversation was ruined by the small rumble in his stomach.
“When was the last time you ate?” She asked curiously, with her eyes shifting to his stomach.
“Two days ago, there was a bean sprout off the floor that I couldn’t refuse.”
“Off the floor?” She looked skeptical.
“Indeed,” he cleared his throat, as the realization of what he said suddenly felt embarrassing. He never cared about shame or pride unless it came to his art, but his confession shook him a little.
Futaba’s eyes lit up as she got out of her seat and hopped onto the other side of the counter.
“Inari, I’m going to make you the best curry you ever tasted, and if you don’t admit it's the best you ever had, then you have to show me your sketchbook.”
Yusuke was in no position to refuse, as his stomach’s cries felt as loud as a battlefield.
“I accept your challenge,” he said as he shook her hands. Her hands were cold, but they filled him with some unexplainable warmth.
Futaba ran into the kitchen, getting started. He watched her gather materials out of the pantry, with ripe onions, garlic, butter, honey, and other ingredients. She pulled out a drawer full of spices in many different containers, all with different containers. The open containers created a beautiful aroma that filled the entire kitchen with an intoxicating smell. She quickly started to put all the spices together, mixing them, and then went back to cutting down vegetables. Yusuke was lost in the quick motions of mixing the pot, the crackle of the spices mixing with the oil, the careful cutting of the vegetables, and the chocolate, so she didn’t cut herself. The way she gracefully moved through the kitchen reminded her of an ice skater moving in a carefully calculated routine.
He opened his sketchbook to try to capture this never-before-seen beauty. He traced an outline of a face, one with curly hair that waved through the wind, thick glasses that covered her face, a face with a devious smile on the lookout for shenanigans, and another one with a face lost in thought. He fixated on the hair, with one with long, straight hair that draped to the neck and a few with wavy hair, all beautiful, dancing through the white sketchbook.
He was lost in thought until he was brought back to reality with his name. He looked up to find the once dazzling and neat kitchen an absolute mess, with spices knocked onto the floor, diced onions all over the counter, and the aroma of the curry now filled with the smell of burning and smoke.
“Inari, can you get the rice? I’ll handle the rest.”
Yusuke shut his sketchbook and tiptoed his way through the absolute mess of a kitchen. Oil was spilling all over the counter, and the smoke was overflowing from the pot. Gracefully dodging the mess, he opened the bottom pantry that she pointed to, dragging out a big bag of rice until he started hearing an unfamiliar sound of bubbling with massive amounts of steam coming from the unfamiliar concoction that Futaba cooked up.
“Inari,” she backed off with a concerned look.
Yusuke heard a loud BANG before he figured out what was going on, closing his eyes.
He felt some type of hot, sticky sauce as he opened his eyes to find both him and Futaba on the floor, covered in what was supposed to be curry.
Futaba started wiping the curry off her glasses as she glanced around to find that curry was quite literally everywhere, with even some dripping on the roof.
“Sorry, Inari,” she tried to apologize, “I’m so stupid. I thought that if I followed Akira’s directions, then I—“
“It's quite alright, Futaba,” Yusuke interrupted her spiraling, wiping the curry off his Kosei uniform. It would be a while before he could wash it again, but for some reason, he wasn’t even concerned.
He thought about his original statement, except that despite how the curry concoction imploded itself, from a sense, the destruction of the emotions and feelings of guilt, regret, and sadness could be considered an art. An art he would never partake in, considering he could barely cook himself, but standing in the middle of all the chaos and destruction. It was an alluring sight of just the two of them standing face-to-face. Futaba's facial features, her orange-colored hair covered in sauce, her stained glasses, her smile, and the way her eyes met his made him think that maybe, just maybe, the artist was just as beautiful as the art.