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Even lying there, absorbed in a game that looks far more complex than it needs to be, Ren is captivating. The arch where his back meets his hips, accentuated by elbows digging in to the flimsy futon, controller timeworn and held together with tape and ingenuity. The way the sunbeams seem to stream in and envelop him despite the overcast sky, autumn clinging desperately against a slowly encroaching frost. The furtive looks he shoots back over his shoulder whenever he notices the prodigy has been staring, just a little too long to be nondescript.
Each glance brings red to Yusuke’s cheeks, too proud to admit to being caught. He looks away each time without fail, pretending to have been lost in an escaped thought. Though they’ve only spent the start of the afternoon together, it’s happened far too many times for his liking. Eventually Ren is going to say something. Eventually, a crooked smile and a furrowed brow won’t be enough.
Yusuke gets off the bed, trying to move gracefully so as to not disturb his friend, but little escapes the notice of a phantom thief. The game is paused, and Ren leans off from his elbow, rolling onto his side to watch him rise. “Everything okay?” he asks, in a voice that is very nearly drowned out by the ambient noise of Leblanc downstairs — a surprising lunch rush taking advantage of the cold snap.
“Everything is just fine,” Yusuke lies, his smile genuine enough to wrinkle his eyes. The confidence in his voice is less convincing, but he hopes that it’s enough to allow him — if nothing else — some time to seat himself on the couch behind the old CRT television set. Hardly a more advantageous position: if anything, Ren can see him better now, but the opposite also happens to be true. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I’ve been having trouble sleeping, I think…” He smiles, this much is true. “I think my eyes are beginning to revolt against the rest of my body.”
It’s a long moment that Ren watches him, as if considering every word individually. For all his insights, though, it’s Ren’s tact that is his most damnable trait. Even if he doubts Yusuke, he shows no sign of it. “Nap if you want,” is all he says, pulling back down to lie on his stomach. His eyes flick briefly back to the television, but he quickly looks toward Yusuke. “We can get dinner when you wake up, if you want. My treat.”
He smiles in response. Yusuke does not remember what happens next, sleep finding him the same moment his head touches the cushion.
🌸
It’s the wind that wakes him. A bitter cold, even indoors, filling the drafty attic space in a single blistering swoop. Yusuke feels the chill on his toes, even through thin woollen socks, and at the tip of his nose. He shifts before opening his eyes, fingers brushing up against a scratchy fabric. They curl around the quilt, pulling it up to cover the lower half of his face.
Only when he smells it does he remember he’s not home — the aroma is distinctly not his, unfamiliar in that familiar way. Eyes opening, adjusting to the dark, Yusuke pushes up, the weight of the sofa shifting beneath him. Ren’s room is stranger at night, that barren but rustic charm lost in tall shadows and the sounds of Yongen outside, the back alley still boisterous, no matter how dark it is outside.
“How long was I asleep?” he asks aloud, before realizing he’s alone. The CRT shut off, the window cracked open, the lights out, no silhouette of a sleeping Ren or the gentle meowing of Morgana. Yusuke groans, stumbling slowly to his feet. Only two sources of light greet him, both in opposing directions. The first is the light of the bathhouse across the narrow alley, the other coming from the cafe downstairs. The conversation from earlier died down, but he thinks he hears the news playing through the floorboards.
Not waiting for his mind to catch up to his body, he fumbles down the stairs, guided by the dusklit glow around the corner. It’s immediately apparent Leblanc has closed for the night, but the smell of sweet curry still wafts in the air. The first sight he sees — really sees, long enough to let his eyes focus — is Ren, hands in the sink, a lit stove behind him.
He’s watching the news with rapt attention, waiting for something, anything, but when Yusuke emerges from the stairwell, that attention shifts immediately. He smiles that lopsided smile, tugging a single cheek up, before letting his gaze fall back to the newscasters. “You looked so peaceful,” he tells Yusuke, “I didn’t want to wake you.”
Now with enough time to clear the afternoon nap fog, Yusuke squints at the throbbing birth of a headache right behind his eyes. Ever the stoic, he pulls a stool out and sits without comment or protest, simply shielding his eyes from the harsh fluorescent bulb in the overhead lamp. Trying not to stare at Ren, trying to focus on whatever the handsome newscaster was trying to explain. “How… how long was I asleep, exactly?” he asks after a moment, gravel in his throat. “What time is it now?”
That prompts another smile from Ren. It’s simply not fair. “Nearly midnight,” he says, pulling his hands from the sudsy sink and wiping them on his apron. “But it’s okay, you can stay the night. Boss doesn’t mind. In fact, I think he likes you more than he does me.”
It’s a bit too much information at once. Missing curfew, the closing of the subway station, the whole of the afternoon, dinner — add on top of that Ren’s idea of humour, teasing him so mercilessly, it takes a moment to catch up. But Yusuke leans back, eyes never leaving his friend’s. “Forgive me, I—”
Though he begins to apologize, Ren interrupts. “I told you to sleep. You looked exhausted.” Their fleeting eye-contact is broken as he turns away, but not until Ren makes sure to meet Yusuke’s gaze and hold it longer than necessary. “I made curry. Your stomach was rumbling in your sleep.”
“How embarrassing…” the words emerge before he can stop them, sufficiently horrified already without needing that extra needling. The lid of the dutch oven being removed wafts the smell of the concoction across the whole room, though, and Yusuke knows better than to turn down a free meal. Luckily, Ren lets the red drop from his cheeks and doesn’t speak, doling out two heaping plates of Sojiro’s leftovers.
Two plates are set down before him, and Yusuke grabs one without hesitation. He waits for Ren to round the counter, mute the television, and pull a stool up next to him to start eating. It’s delicious, of course it is, but all he can think about is that if he’s eating, Ren can’t possibly expect him to hold a conversation.
🌸
Yusuke’s first mistake was finishing his meal first. The second was taking Ren’s place at the basin to clean up after them. He realizes his mistake a moment too late, when he realizes Ren’s frame is standing five feet away from him, leaning against the counter, blocking him into the small kitchenette space behind the bar.
He tries to focus on the smell of the soap — lemon and melon — then the heat of the water against his hands. But eventually it’s the silence that draws him in, ringing in his head, and the temptation to look at Ren too much to deny. Rather than meeting gazes, as he expects, it’s Ren who looks away this time. Yusuke has to wonder if Joker is capable of shame. Nothing in all the months they’ve known each other has pointed to it, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t.
“Be honest with me,” he asks, despite watching the floor rather than his guest. “Are you okay? You’ve been distracted lately.”
Few people can see through a lie quite like Ren Amamiya. Yusuke knows better than to push his luck with them, because the first degree interrogation is better than the third. Rather than come up with an elaborate reason for him to poke holes in, he simply swallows back a lump in his throat and nods.
Ren chuckles. It’s a sharp, sudden sound, likely one he doesn’t realize he makes until it’s made. It prompts a look from Yusuke, but this time he notices that Ren doesn’t try to turn away. Despite the humour in the tone, his expression is clear: disbelief, concern, support. Still, he doesn’t push it any further than it needs to. “Have you painted lately?” he asks instead, another way to word a similar problem. “Or are you still blocked?”
It’s a deft touch. A thief’s hand that knows exactly when to turn the pick to break the lock. Somehow Ren was disarm an enemy without a word, convince a shadow to ask him for salvation, or save the world without breaking a sweat. Of course he can see through Yusuke’s paper-thin reluctance. His eyes close, pulling the plate from the sink to set it in the drying rack, using the opportunity to look away. “Is it so obvious?” he asks, offering a sigh. “Am I truly so easy to read?”
“I’ve always been a fast reader,” he teases in response, and Yusuke hears footsteps moving away and opts not to turn around. “What’s the problem this time? I thought that we had a breakthrough.”
“It’s different now,” Yusuke answers. When he finally has the courage to turn around, he sees Ren looking at his phone. His heart races, then stops, then races again. He wishes he understood what that reaction meant, but he’s already pushing past it. “I don’t know how to explain it to somebody who doesn’t paint. The desire is there. My technique has never been stronger. But each time I try to put brush to canvas I…”
He’s already said too much.
But as is his way, Ren chooses the wrong point to focus on. “I paint .”
It’s so jarring a thought that it pulls Yusuke out of his head to bring forth a short, sharp laugh. He covers his mouth with his hand, not wanting to insult his host — his friend . Ren doesn’t seem to mind. “You?” Yusuke asks. “You’ve never told me that before.”
“When you start talking about painting, it makes me realize I’m not very good,” he explains. “So for both of our sakes, I… don’t bring it up very often.”
Though Yusuke can’t decide if the story is sweeter or sadder, he takes pause and steps around the bar. “I’d like to see your paintings, if you have any,” he says, earnestly. “I won’t take no for an answer. I’ve bared my soul before you. You deserve to have that chance yourself.”
Their eyes meet, and neither looks away from the challenge this time.
🌸
“Your organizational prowess never ceases to surprise me,” Yusuke says, watching from the bed as Ren pulls the large sheet metal shelving unit away from the wall — no small effort. It scrapes on the wood, a horrid sound that feels too loud for the lateness of the hour. Even though he only moved it a few inches at most, the process feels deliberately secretive — like he’s being granted access to something exclusive.
He is, but it’s easier to think of that in hypotheticals.
For all his easy charm, the usual self-assured Ren seems to have disappeared somewhere behind the shelves. He looks back at Yusuke, trying to smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. When the artist gives no signs of telling him to stop, he pulls a few large canvases from against the wall. “I always thought those were just pieces of artwork for downstairs,” Yusuke confesses in a low voice, trying to hide just how eager he was to see Ren’s work. “I never thought to ask.”
“That means my plan was working,” Ren retorts. “You can’t laugh. They’re not very good.”
“Nonsense,” he whispers. “I’m sure they’re beautiful.”
Again their eyes meet, a silent contract between them — Ren sussing out any bad faith, Yusuke barely maintaining his composure. After a moment, Joker pulls one of the paintings away to turn it around for display, accompanied by a visibly shaking hand.
Abstract is too kind a term for the contents of the first painting, as it implies an organized chaos — something that can be put into words, defined. Ren’s painting is nothing but a wash of colour that he hasn’t bothered to blend, running the prism. It evokes nothing but noise. “You hate it,” he says after a minute, no hurt in his tone. “It’s okay, I hate it too.”
Squinting, Yusuke leans forward. Elbows on knees, hands curled into loose fists to prop up his chin. “I think it’s lovely,” he says, passive and thoughtful. “You must have painted this not long after arriving. I can feel your passion. Your fight against an unjust system, reflected in anger and chaos and fear.”
It’s not often he gets to make Ren speechless, so he cherishes the moment.
“I’d like to see what else you have,” he continues. “That is, if you feel comfortable sharing.”
Another brief hesitation, punctuated by Ren stretching to lean the first painting against his sofa. He pulls back and checks the canvas first, study in his eyes, before revealing it to Yusuke.
Unlike the first, the composition on this work is cleaner — and more apparent. A simple landscape, showing the empty interior of Leblanc in low light, not too dissimilar from how they had just left it. It takes him an extra moment to spot Morgana curled on one of the stools, and a figure just outside the door — perhaps Boss silhouetted in the low light. This time, Ren says nothing, his gaze simply remains lowered, fingers clutching at the corners of the canvas, stark white.
“This is marvelous,” Yusuke whispers. “I think you sell your talents short. You have quite the gift.”
The little exhale of relief Ren makes it just loud enough for Yusuke to hear, and there is a palpable relaxation from him, as though Yusuke had assuaged the worst of his fears. It was a strange vulnerability that he isn’t accustomed to receiving from Ren, but certainly nothing to complain about. “One left,” he narrates, voice nearly cracking from the low pitch.
“I see two more canvases behind the shelving unit,” Yusuke prompts in return.
All at once, the hesitation returns. “They’re blank.”
“Both of them?” Yusuke asks — he’s never before had a reason to doubt a word from Ren’s mouth, but Ren has never given him a reason to before. “My, you certainly are prepared.” He returns his friend’s usual kindness and opts not to press any further than he needs, instead shifting his position against the mattress to lean in more expectantly. “Show me,” he requests. “Please.”
Ren lets out another soft breath, then gives a weak smile, before turning the final painting around. The last piece closest resembles the first, but the colour blends and fades together, and the gradient flows across the canvas — a more controlled retelling of the first. But, unlike it, charcoal grey depictions of eight phantom thief masks block out areas of the colour — one for each of their friends. “Well?”
“It’s lovely.” Yusuke cannot think of anything more to say. Usually so caught up in the big picture, he finds himself more entranced by the small details as his eyes wander over the piece. Joker’s mask, right next to Fox’s — not quite overlapping, but bound together. “I think it might be my favourite.”
🌸
The midnight hour stretches on. Ren throws on a movie and struggles to stay awake, while Yusuke — following a nap that already crossed the threshold into sleep — fidgets at the foot of his friend’s bed. He half pays attention and, when he does, it’s the cinematography that fetches his attention first.
Even at the best of times, he struggles to keep focus on a singular thing. His brain moves too quickly to appreciate what others take for granted, his thoughts a swirl of ideas and abstraction that bounce from one concept to the next. Always starting, never finishing.
His sketchbook, never too far from him, sits unopened in his lap. A pencil balances indelicately in the center, never quite rolling off the small plateau. Two things keep him from opening it up — the more pressing being that he has not drawn in some time and, when he does, he never quite captures the subject he hopes to see in his mind’s eye.
Yusuke flips his gaze to Ren, pillows propping his form up to a slightly obtuse angle, hands beneath his head, glasses off. Even in those few seconds of observation, he seems to cycle between sleeping and waking up again. Try as he might to look away, Yusuke watches the rise and fall of his chest — the slow, gentle pattern his breathing falls into as his body tries to relax.
He doesn’t realize Ren is watching him, too. At least not right away.
When he does, he feels his own heart stop — the groggy smile on his friend’s face turns his blood hot, and he scrambles in that moment, wanting nothing more than to disappear, or perhaps jump out the window behind him. “I was—”
“You blush when you’re nervous,” is what interrupts him, a whispered observation that does not help matters much. Yusuke’s jaw clenches, he quickly clambors off the bed. “No, wait— sorry—”
“No, it’s…” Yusuke stops after a few steps, the dramatist inside him shining like a beacon. He places a hand to his chest for a fleeting moment before letting it fall to his side. “Would you mind if I painted something? I don’t know when I’ll be able to sleep again, and I don’t want to keep you up. I can reimburse you for the supplies.”
There’s a brief silence that follows, Yusuke refusing to turn around as he hears the sound of restless movement on the bed behind him. “Sure,” Ren finally says. “There’s some paints on the shelf, and the easel should be tucked behind the canvas.” There’s a groggy element to him, not fully there. Because of it, he forgets a detail — something small, something he might have come to regret, but just far enough away from his thoughts to let go of.
He doesn’t catch it until he sees Yusuke pulling the pair of blank canvas away and he watches the world slow to a halt. Yusuke’s body seizes up, nearly dropping them both but he catches himself at the very last second. His eyes scan the front canvas, expecting nothing but instead finding faint lines of graphite, Ren, frozen, finds words catching in his throat. Apologies that come too late or don’t come at all — letting that silence linger as Yusuke’s eyes gaze over the piece.
It’s a minute that drags for hours before Yusuke finally looks toward him, expressionless. “This—” he whispers, throat stretching. “—Ren. This is — me .” At leat he’s confident that the person in the artwork is him. There are a few small discrepancies: the chin a little too curved, ears a little too high, but even without colour filling in the gaps, Yusuke knows the intent behind the piece. He even remembers the day — leaning against the railing, overlooking Tokyo Bay. “This is when you took me to Odaiba.”
Bracing for a harsher reaction, Ren allows his shoulders to relax, but the same dazed look lingers on his face. “I can explain,” is all he finally says. To his surprise, it’s met with laughter.
“Explain?” Yusuke repeats, finally moving from the center of the attic space to set the canvases down, leaning them delicately against the shelving unit. “There’s nothing to explain. Inspiration strikes us all when we least expect it.” He takes a few steps toward the bed, and Ren finds himself recoiling slightly, to his own surprise. But Yusuke crouches to grab his backpack, rummaging for a moment before tossing a sketchbook in Ren’s direction, landing on his lap. “I call this one Hope .” He waits a moment, watching Ren’s blank expression, before once more gesturing at the cover. “Go ahead. Open it.”
The first sketch wrenches Ren’s heart in a way he isn’t expecting — he had never seen Yusuke paint people , even as he attempted to replicate his mother’s Sayuri . But seeing a quick sketch of his own face staring back at him, lip bitten into a smile, catches him off guard. Each subsequent page is the same — some more complete than others, most quick doodles and practice, but every face, every form, is his own. The book is covered front to back with his likeness.
This, he thinks, is far more damning than a single portrait.
When he closes the sketchbook, it takes all of Ren’s strength to not let his fingers shake, gripping tightly to the cover. His jaw clenches, unable to bring his gaze up to meet Yusuke, who he can see straightening up and lowering back down next to him on the bed.
“Well?” the artist asks. “What do you think? I know none of them are as realized as yours, but—”
Ren interrupts. “How long have you felt this way?”
“Well, ever since I discovered your talent. Ten minutes—”
Any other time he might’ve laughed it off, but Ren’s voice quakes as he speaks. “I mean about me.”
He finally looks up, and the pair of them make a moment of eye contact. Ren tries to keep that brief courage up, while Yusuke looks for understanding. There comes a soft exhale of realization, shoulders slouching, breaking the gaze while his brow knits in frustration. “A while,” he finally says, “I suppose.”
“You… suppose?” That, somehow, garners a weak chuckle.
“I—” Yusuke begins, trailing off to collect his thoughts, “I don’t think I’ve ever considered it in so many words. I’ve had many muses in the past.” Another pause, and he reaches to retrieve his book from Ren’s lap. “None of them have ever affected me quite like you have. Is this what it feels like, usually?”
Before he can pull away with the sketchbook in hand, Ren’s clasps his palm over Yusuke’s wrist, a gentle touch to keep him there. Yusuke’s fingers go limp, releasing the book, slowly turning his hand over in the grasp. Ren releases as well, fingertips tracing over the lines on Yusuke’s palms, fingertips interlacing before separating. “I don’t know,” he answers simply.
“When did you realize?”
He swallows. “I kept thinking of that painting. I tried to draw it a dozen times, but I could never get it right. I could never—” Ren manages a crooked smile, eyes focused on Yusuke’s hands, desperate to reach out once more. “I couldn’t get it right. So I hid it away. Haven’t been able to draw anything since.”
“I know that feeling all too well,” Yusuke says. “I’ve been stuck for weeks.”
The silence is less heavy now, even as it drags on. Yongen outside carries on as usual, the sound of cars off the backstreets echoing down the alleyway. A drunk yells at the bathhouse, closed for the night. It’s a comfortable quiet, neither quite able to look at the other but dancing around the next steps. A game, of sorts, to see who blinks first.
To Ren’s surprise, it’s Yusuke.
The gap between them closes as uncertain lips press against his cheek, and a shaking hand takes a desperate hold of his. Yusuke’s abrupt arrival is enough to knock Ren back to an elbow, momentarily disorienting him — he doesn’t register the kiss for whole seconds after he turns into it, mouths meeting for a nervous, inexperienced kiss. Ren’s hand cups Yusuke’s cheek, encouraging him to stay even a moment longer, but the bliss stil ends far too soon.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “That was… untoward. I should let you sleep. It’s late, I—”
As he tries to stand, Ren takes hold of his hand to pull him back once more. “Don’t,” he asks in a low voice. “ Please .”
🌸
Yusuke does not know when the sun begins to rise, but somewhere in the haze, morning breaks. He isn’t even convinced he sleeps any more, lost in Ren’s arms, and his smell, and staring at the small birthmark just below his clavicle for hours. His eyes hurt even when he comes to, either from sleep or daydreaming, now simply watching the slow rise and fall of Joker’s chest.
Only then does he realize that he isn’t wearing a shirt, either.
His hands reach down blindly — comfortable, but now panicked — and sees that they both still have bottoms on. His fingers brush against Ren’s hip, and they linger, greedy, touch-starved despite playing the part of little spoon and sharing in the other’s warmth.
He tilts his chin up, head pressing flush against Ren’s chest, the beating of his heart just barely noticeable. He counts the beats between breaths, anything that allows him a few more minutes before he must come to terms with this strange new reality. For all his newfound fears, he finds himself relatively at peace. This is certainly preferable to a world where these feelings aren’t reciprocated — even if he doesn’t understand them.
Ren’s breathing remains level, mouth open and the slightest snore rumbling in the back of his throat. Comfortable as he is, content as he is, Yusuke isn’t certain he can linger in this position any longer. He pulls away, and feels a brief tug from his sleeping friend, but the subconscious hold doesn’t last, and he pulls himself away.
No longer with Yusuke there to support him, Ren begins to slip forward off his side. His arm abruptly reaches up, searching for the pillow Yusuke had blocked him from, pulling it in and replacing the warm body with a cool pillow. Then he rolls further, onto his stomach, as Yusuke stands up, hoping not to disturb him.
Before he takes more than a few steps, he turns back — Orpheus looking to make sure his love was still there — and finds a tranquil sight. The light shines in through the wide window, casting sunbeams down on his form, basking him in warm yellow glow. His heart tugs, regretful that he left the warmth, but rather than return he crouches down to collect his shirt, pooled on the floor next to the bed, and walks toward the empty canvas: right where he left it, behind Ren’s unfinished masterpiece.
And for the first time in a long time, Yusuke paints without hesitation.