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Futaba hit enter on her final line of encryption and slumped back in her chair. Take that, potential snoopers, the Phantom Thieves group chat was now virtually un-hackable. The fact that they’d been relying on the app's built in encryption before she’d come along made her shudder.
She put her bare feet onto her desk and tipped her chair back, lolling her head against the back rest, and shrieked in surprise. Her feet slipped off the desk and the chair thudded back to the ground. She spun it round. “Inari?” she said.
Yusuke was sitting on her bed, sketchbook in hand. “Oh, are you done?”
“You scared me!” she said accusingly, tucking her feet back up onto the chair. “Why are you here?”
He blinked. “You let me in,” he said, “about two and a half hours ago. You said you’d only be a minute.”
Oh, right. Now he mentioned it, she did remember doing that. Or rather, she remembered Sojiro shouting up that one of her friends was here to see her, and calling back down to tell him to send them up, her attention never leaving her computer screen.
Yosuke’s sketching pencils were littering her duvet, and at some point he’d kicked off his shoes, because he sat with his legs crossed and socked feet. “I saw you were busy and left you to it,” he said, “I was content to sit here drawing.”
“Oooh,” said Futaba, making grabby hands at the sketchbook, “can I have a look?”
Yusuke clutched the book a little tighter. “It’s not done yet,” he said, “But I suppose, since you are the subject…” he flipped the sketchbook so she could see. It was a graphite drawing of her, or rather, the back of her, hunched over her desk.
“God, Inari, you’ve made me look like a gremlin.”
The corner of Yusuke’s mouth twitched. “I only drew what I saw before me.”
Ok, that meant war. Futaba lunged for the sketchbook, and Yusuke leaned backwards, holding it to his chest protectively. Not to be deterred, she leapt off her chair and Yusuke countered by scrambling backwards until his head hit the wall. Outside of the Metaverse, he could be significantly less graceful.
Cackling, Futaba stole the sketchbook while he was distracted by the pain. She retreated to her chair and stared down at the drawing. Her initial plan had been to rip it out, but looking at it again… well. It was still a good drawing, even if it made her look like a trash goblin. The shading was lovely, and he’d paid real attention to all the details of her desk. Maybe she wouldn’t rip it up. Akira would probably hear about it and be disappointed in her. He’d told her recently that Yusuke had only just gotten out of some kind of art slump.
“Could you give that back, please,” said Yusuke, who’d apparently recovered from his all-out attack on the wall and was now extending a hand for the book, “It’s private.”
This was, of course, the wrong thing to say. Futaba grinned. “Oooh,” she said, “are there nude models in here? Risqué self-portraits?”
“No,” said Yusuke haughtily, “but an artist’s sketchbook is for their eyes only.” He looked a little panicked.
Futaba flipped the page.
She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but the drawing on the previous page was similar to the one that followed it. It was Akira, behind the counter at Leblanc, brewing coffee. She let out a frustrated little snort. This wasn’t blackmail worthy at all, there was no reason for Yusuke to be squirming so uncomfortably on her bed, arms still outstretched to take the sketchbook back.
She flipped back another page. Akira, again. This time, his face was in profile, and he was looking at something far-off. The drawing was a little looser, some of the details not quite completed, and Futaba figured it’d been drawn without Akira’s knowledge.
“It’s all just portraits,” said Yusuke, quickly, “so could you give it back, now?”
“Not so fast, Inari,” she said, holding the sketchbook above her head. “There’s gotta be something in here that’s making you so desperate to get it back.”
The next page was Akira, again, and this time he was modelling for it, if the way he was staring down the viewer was any indication. The page after was a series of quick sketches of someone in Shujin uniform that Futaba figured were probably Akira as well, though there wasn’t enough detail in the face to really tell.
She was beginning to understand why Yusuke didn’t want her to see this.
Except for a few sketches of Ann near the beginning, the sketchbook was nearly all Akira. Yusuke had slumped back by this point, defeated. She took pity on him only when she reached a page of small, cartoonish drawings of Akira clearly completed entirely from memory. She closed the sketchbook and looked up. Yusuke’s face was in his hands.
“So,” she said, trying hard to keep the laughter out of her voice, “I had no idea you were so thirsty.”
Yusuke’s head shot up. “Excuse me?”
He looked scandalised. “You’ve got the hots,” she explained, “For Akira.”
Yusuke was rapidly turning scarlet. “I don’t–” he spluttered, “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, sure it isn’t,” said Futaba, tossing him the sketchbook, which he caught easily. “I’m sure there’s a totally heterosexual reason for why your very professional artist sketchbook has little anime Jokers in it.”
“He’s my muse,” said Yusuke firmly.
“Like that’s any less gay,” said Futaba, rolling her eyes. “Give it up, Inari. You’ve got a crush on him.”
Yusuke opened the sketchbook to a drawing of Akira that Futaba would consider high on the thirst list. It was from the chest up, but the top of Akira’s head had been cut off – the centre of the sketch, instead, being Akira’s collarbones, lovingly shaded, peeking out from the v-neck he was wearing. Yusuke’s expression could only be called fascinated.
“Huh,” he said, “a crush, you say? I genuinely hadn’t considered that.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I suppose my fascination with Akira does go beyond aesthetics,” said Yusuke, in a low voice. “Is it possible I…? No. Well, maybe.” He paused, and then looked up at Futaba. “It’s entirely possible I have a crush on Akira.”
“There we go,” said Futaba.
Yusuke ran a finger over sketchbook-Akira’s collarbones, and Futaba gagged dramatically. “That’s my brother whose graphite-form you’re feeling up,” she said.
Yusuke frowned. “You and Akira aren’t related.”
“Not the point,” said Futaba. And anyway, weren’t they legally foster-siblings or something like that? “Point is, you have it bad and apparently only just noticed.”
“I’d never had it pointed out to me before,” said Yusuke, which was… yeah, ok, Futaba could believe that. The boy was thick as cement when it came to social interaction, and that was coming from a literal shut-in.
She leaned forward and looped her arms around her knees, “Well now you have,” she said, “Are you gunna do anything about it?”
“Should I?”
“Jeez, I don’t know,” said Futaba, “That one’s on you to figure out. But I think Akira likes you back, just FYI.” He certainly worried about the other boy enough.
Yusuke fell silent, and Futaba found herself fishing about for something else to talk about. “Want to go to Leblanc?” she settled on, “Akira will be getting back from work about now.”
“Flower shop?” Yusuke guessed.
“Convenience store, actually,” said Futaba, who had maaaaybe tracked the GPS on his phone earlier that day to figure out where he’d gone after she hadn’t been able to find him.
Yusuke waited while she located her shoes and shrugged on her parka, packing up his sketching stuff and putting it back into his bag, and then the two of them went downstairs.
“Sojiro?” called Futaba, on the off chance he wasn’t already in the café, “I’m heading out.”
No reply. So he was either manning the café or ‘buying cigarettes’.
It turned out to be the former, because he greeted them from behind the counter when they arrived. “You two were up in Futaba’s room for a long time,” he said, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t have to be worried, do I?”
“Ew,” said Futaba, wrinkling her nose, “No way in hell. Inari here’s in love with Akira.”
Yusuke practically yelped a disagreement, and Futaba waved a hand.
“Ok, he’s got a crush on Akira, same difference.”
“Really?” said Sojiro, sounding amused. “That’s not all that surprising.”
“I only just figured it out,” said Yusuke.
“Oh, I mean on his end,” clarified Sojiro, “the kid talks about you constantly.”
“Oh?”
Sojiro chucked. “I think he’s worried you don’t eat enough, if the way he was hounding me for that curry recipe was any indication.”
Yusuke looked so delighted, it was a little pathetic. The shop was empty, so Futaba made use of the booth nearest the door, slumping over the table with her head resting on her forearms. She was tired. Guiding Yusuke towards emotional revelations took a lot out of her, and she was happy if Sojiro was willing to take over.
The two of them kept talking. She tuned it out, pulling her phone from her pocket.
Akira had messaged her.
> Hey, are you seeing Yusuke today?
> I need to talk to him.
Glancing at Yusuke, who had now sat down at the bar, Futaba typed out a reply.
>> maybe
>> what about
The response came a minute or so later.
> It’s personal.
Ooh, that was intriguing.
>> is it about how ur in love with him bc I know all about that
>> sojiro says u learned to make curry for him
>> why don’t u make curry for me :(
The three dots appeared immediately, indicating that Akira was typing. Futaba wondered if he’d left work yet, or if he was sending this from the break room.
> How tf did you figure me out?
Futaba laughed. She’d called it.
“What’s so funny?” asked Yusuke.
Futaba threw him her phone, which he caught despite the lack of warning. She had to admit, the boy had good reflexes. Even Sojiro looked impressed.
There was a pause in which Yusuke read the messages, still open on her screen, and then he turned bright red, and began typing something on her phone.
“Hey,” said Futaba, “give that back.”
Yusuke shook his head, still typing. Futaba was too lazy to get out the booth and besides, Yusuke was freakishly tall, so any attempt to steal it back would be worthless. Instead she folded her arms and sunk down in her chair, pouting.
A minute or two later, Yusuke tossed her phone back. She missed, and it clattered on the table.
“Hey!” she said, but Yusuke was already getting up from his seat and slinging his bag back over his shoulder.
“Sorry,” he said, “But I really should go.”
He left without further word. Sojiro scratched back of his head. “Odd kid.”
Futaba wasn’t listening, she was busy inspecting her phone for cracks. If he’d so much as chipped the screen she’d make his life in the Metaverse living hell.
She unlocked it to check it was working ok, and that’s when she remembered that Yusuke had been typing. She opened her chat log with Akira and sure enough, there were new messages.
>> This is Yusuke, Futaba just gave me her phone.
> Please don’t read the messages.
>> Too late.
> Ah shit.
>> I feel the same.
> You do???
> Oh my god.
> This wasn’t how I wanted to do this, fuck.
> I had plans to woo you.
>> Woo me?
> They were very romantic.
>> Where are you now?
> Shibuya station.
>> Wait there, I’ll meet you.
> Ok.
“Go Inari,” said Futaba, impressed. Apparently, he wasn’t as hopeless as she’d thought.
Her phone buzzed in her palm with another message from Akira.
> Futaba we need to have a serious conversation about the concept of private messages.
> But also, thank you.