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Yusuke was wrestling with the tangled morass of nostalgia. For him the feeling was that of a thick yet somehow unreachable color of memory; a longing for exemplary times never to be experienced again. For their old group chat constantly dinging on his phone, for his days full of shared meals and shopping and palace runs. For the sick beauty of Mementos, even while each turn of the Mona-bus turned his stomach. It was strange to think that their bond had only spanned a year—but such an intense year. An intensity which, ultimately, led nearly all of them down new paths.
All but himself. He’d been happy with the path he was on, enamored with the life of a “starving artist.” He’d had no family to disapprove of his choices—in fact his found family fully endorsed his artistry—and there was nowhere he’d rather be than where he already was: surrounded by people who loved him. ALL of him, even his eccentricities.
But Akira would be returning to his hometown with Morgana. Ryuji was determined to return to running; he’d be moving away to undergo rehab. Haru and Makoto would be starting college; Ann would be studying abroad. Even Futaba would be starting school, a shift which still shook Yusuke even though she wasn’t moving away.
In an afternoon of announcements Yusuke had found himself left behind.
The rest of it all happened with an unprecedented swiftness. Their leisurely ride with Akira and Morgana to the bullet train had instead turned into a farcical car chase—and Yusuke had been so angry. That these people, these suits, could still be taking things away from them; it was inexcusable. But they’d managed a quick goodbye at the station, Ryuji and Futaba hanging out of the van as Makoto drove off, another chase imminent as Akira and Morgana faded behind them.
After the chase had died out there had been silence, each of them likely thinking as Yusuke was thinking: an end may indeed be a beginning, but it still carried the weight of being an end. He looked forward to a meal together, reduced numbers as they were, to sit in the feeling.
But Ryuji had to finish helping his mom pack, and Haru had a business meeting to attend. Futaba had to figure out what books to get for school, and Makoto had to look at apartments with her sister. Makoto asked where Yusuke would like to be dropped off; he’d answered, honestly, “Where indeed?” He’d been confused when this had made them laugh, but had smiled at their mirth.
His final school year was uneventful, or so it felt. Even while he won competitions and received accolades, he felt…quiet. “Real life is hard to compare to the thrill of a palace,” he’d posted in the group chat. The others had all agreed.
Akira and Morgana had visited once during that year, and they’d all gotten together at Leblanc, save for Ann who they called in on video. Ryuji let his hair go black, won a scholarship, and moved again. Akira got into a top university. Ann made her move abroad permanent. Futaba started a computer club—hacker club, Inari—at her school. Yusuke received several scholarships from different institutions, but found himself jaded at the prospect of more formal education. He wanted to learn, but to be free of the pressure of external expectation. He turned the scholarships down with humble thanks.
Soon to be homeless, Yusuke had appealed to Boss—I can bring my artistry to the kitchen for but a simple place to stay—and though Boss had turned down the kitchen help—I think I have it handled, thanks kid—he gave Yusuke the attic. Akira’s attic, now his.
And it stayed Yusuke’s for years; it still was Yusuke’s. Even after Futaba went off to college, Yusuke and Boss continued their family dinners every night after closing the café for the day. Akira, Morgana, and Futaba came on Saturday nights, the whole family together at least once a week. It was easy for the place to have become home, to remain home. Yusuke found himself unsure of those moments, already missing them even as they were occurring.
He locked the group chat to his phone, so it would never be auto-deleted even when it was no longer used. He learned to video chat with Morgana, who could hit a space bar with his paw. Yusuke and Ryuji got into a promise-to-meet-up-but-never-actually-meet-up pattern which Yusuke was still confused by. He created paintings inspired by the pictures of Ann he found in fashion magazines.
He and Boss had their first argument, about why Yusuke wouldn’t sell his art. Yusuke tried to explain the revulsion he felt towards such an act, the sheer anathema that was still locked in his heart at the prospect of becoming anything like Madarame. Boss had called such a thought immature, had asked, “What’s your plan for when I’m gone?” Yusuke hadn’t seen the point in worrying about such things; this had only frustrated Boss further.
Yusuke had told Futaba about the fight when they’d next spoke; she’d rolled her eyes. “Oh Sojiro. Don’t worry, Inari. You’re family, I can’t let family starve. I’ll keep you supplied in daikon sprouts for as long as you need.” She’d laughed when he’d replied that indeed, the sprouts were very nutritious.
He was gaining a name for himself. Ann texted him out of the blue: “Yusuke! Your art’s in Vienna!!!!!! VIENNA!!!!” She’d attached several selfies of herself in front of the piece. He’d replied that he was glad she’d seen it, and that he’d been flown there a few months earlier for its debut. She was sad to have missed him, so he responded that he’d seen her in an Italian fashion magazine while perusing it for inspiration. That had made her happy, and she’d promised to call soon. He found himself already lamenting the call’s end, though it hadn’t even happened yet.
Haru declared that she would become his patron; they’d fought about it but Haru was an immovable force. He gifted her a piece he still thought of as his finest, though it was, still, no Sayuri. Makoto contacted him for help on an art forging case—it was great fun and interesting work, and he asked to be included in such future cases. He had long video calls with Akira and Morgana. Akira worked with an organization to help juvenile delinquents reenter society. Yusuke often gave Akira art to be sold at the organization’s fundraisers.
“And HOW,” Boss had asked one night, “is this different from you selling your art?”
“Simple,” Yusuke had replied, because it was simple, “it is not for my benefit.”
Boss had sighed, and they had finished dinner.
Yusuke painted, painted, and painted even more. A reporter wrote an article on him, calling his life monastic. Yusuke had thought that rather vulgar until he realized his life was rather monastic, and that he enjoyed it. A life in quiet pursuit of beauty—a noble calling to be sure.
One day while drinking his morning coffee he saw Ryuji on the television, wearing a gold medal and speaking with a reporter. Yusuke watched his friend’s face, flushed red and bright with exertion and excitement, voice loud as he thanked his coach and his mother, and set his sights on winning gold in the next Olympics. Yusuke painted him that day, a flash of light through darkness. He named it The Olympian and gave it to Akira for a fundraiser. Akira kept it instead.
That autumn Yusuke’s phone rang, an unknown number. He ignored it; he’d long been used to random people calling with pleas to buy his art or conduct interviews, neither of which he was interested in. He paid no mind when the shop phone rang downstairs, either. He’d just finished a piece, and was looking at it over and over, feeling it out for flaws. He closed his eyes when he was happy with it, breathing in a sense of calm satisfaction.
He didn’t notice Boss until he was standing right next to Yusuke, smiling. “Phone for you, kid.”
Yusuke blinked at him. Boss knew not to bother him with trivial things while he was painting, so he took the information to heart and went downstairs. He picked up the receiver right as Boss exclaimed, “wash the paint off your hands firs—dammit, Yusuke!”
“Oh—my apologies,” Yusuke said, and then, “May I ask who is calling?”
The caller was laughing. “Wow dude, you really haven’t changed, huh?”
Suddenly Yusuke was 17 again. He pulled out a chair and sat down hard (and got paint on the chair, resulting in another apology to Boss). “And neither have you.”
Ryuji snorted. “You free tomorrow?”
Yusuke tried to remember the occasion he was clearly forgetting. “Yes.”
“It’s nothing special, just want to catch up. Think you and I could demolish a hotpot?”
Yusuke pressed his hand to his chest (leaving more paint in its wake). “Such gluttony!”
Ryuji laughed again. “Come on, we deserve it. It’s a reunion lunch!”
“Very well. I accept your invitation.”
“Cool.” Ryuji supplied him a time and place before saying goodbye. Yusuke sat for a while, staring at the paint covered phone, admiring the beautiful colors before washing them away to Boss’s satisfaction.
It was only when he saw Ryuji the next day that he realized how long it had actually been. The black hair remained a surprise, though Ryuji was still as lean as he’d ever been; a runner’s physique. Ryuji scrolled idly though his phone, slouching less than he used to. Yusuke sighed. Years apart from someone he’d once seen daily, had once counted as the closest of family—a circumstance he would have never been able to accept at the time now presented to him as a mundane fact. He felt a wave of preemptive sadness, found himself missing Ryuji even as he looked at him. Could he feel nostalgic for a moment he was currently in?
Ryuji looked up and grinned. “Yo, Yusuke!” He waved as though Yusuke hadn’t already spotted him. Yusuke smiled; he’d missed this exuberance. “The Weekly Lunch Bros are at it again!”
Yusuke’s smile changed to a frown as he sat down. “I still reject that name on principle.”
“Well, can’t change tradition.” Ryuji’s smile went sheepish. “Hey, uh, I’m sorry that it’s been, well, years instead of a week. I suck at keeping up with people.”
Yusuke took a sip of his water—it tasted of…cucumber? How unexpected…and refreshing! “You certainly do.”
“Jeeze…cut a guy some slack!” Ryuji scratched the back of his neck. “I said sorry.”
“Indeed.” Yusuke ran his eyes over the menu. “I shall forgive you if you cover my meal.”
Ryuji laughed. “Deal.”
They ordered and chatted over hotpot. Ryuji lived and breathed running; he had little time for anything else. Yusuke smiled in confusion as Ryuji rattled off times and records and training schedules. His mother was doing well, thriving actually. Ryuji had several sponsorships, all which were working towards letting his mother retire. He spoke of it lackadaisically, but when Yusuke remarked that Ryuji was a good son Ryuji took the compliment humbly instead of bringing himself down.
In keeping with the old days, they walked to Inokashira Park—Yusuke, also in keeping with the old days, fully rejected Ryuji’s suggestion they run there—and found a place to stretch out and digest. Yusuke lay on his back, staring at the myriad fall colors above him. Ryuji heaved a sigh next to him.
“ ‘member when we fell asleep and the park-keeper yelled at us?”
Yusuke frowned. “He was incredibly rude.”
“Uh yeah, but only because you talked back to him. And people think I have a big mouth.”
“I was merely explaining how wrong he was to accost us.”
“Yeah, helpful.”
They fell into a comfortable silence. The air was cool, but not yet cold; Yusuke could hear the lake’s quiet susurrus. He closed his eyes, imagining the motion of the water, inverting the colors in his mind. What would a body of water look like in Mementos?
Ryuji shifted. “Do you keep in touch with everyone?”
Yusuke opened his eyes and turned towards his friend. Ryuji was sitting up, staring at the water. “In bits. Regularly with some, sporadically with others.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you not?”
Ryuji rolled his shoulders. “I’m shit at it. I really am sorry. I just…there’s so much to do, and next thing I know a whole year has passed.”
Yusuke understood. “It is remarkable. I often wonder if one morning I will wake up, look in the mirror, and behold an old man.”
“Jeeze dude, thanks for the thought.”
“Hmm.” Yusuke sat up, running a hand through the grass. “It is frightening, but also beautiful. That we meet new versions of each other over time, only to find our friendships renewed. It is easy to keep in step when side by side, but to do so at a distance? THAT is beauty.” He smiled at Ryuji. “I am honored to share such a friendship with you.”
Ryuji was staring at him with a remarkable expression. Yusuke pulled out his sketch book to capture it.
“Dude…”
“Please don’t move.” Ryuji rolled his eyes—really quite rude—but held still while Yusuke sketched a rough outline. “Wonderful, thank you.”
Ryuji started a lazy stretch. “I wonder if everyone is mad at me for not keeping up.”
Yusuke added the outlines of Edo period clothing to Ryuji’s form. “I believe they would just be happy to hear from you.”
“Yeah. I mean, I was happy when Akira called me a few months ago. He said you gave him a painting of me?”
“Ah yes.” Yusuke added some shading to the sketch. “The Olympian.”
“Hah, thanks.” Ryuji paused his stretch to rest his chin on his knee. “I, uh. I fell out of touch with Akira for a while a few years ago. I mean, we’re talking now, but I still feel bad about it.”
“Hmm.” Yusuke needed a thinner charcoal—ah, there. “I’ve kept up with him regularly.”
“Well yeah, you live with his family.” Ryuji leaned back onto his arms. “What you said about keeping in step? It was like that with Akira too. It was like everything came back, you know?”
“Indeed.” A bit more shading for the sunlight. “Akira has a warm ease about him.”
“Hah, I guess. We talk every day now. I didn’t realize how much I missed him. Or how the things that were so…impossible to think of back then are, well…not impossible now. I wonder what it would have been like to know the stuff I know now back then, you know? But even without that it was still just so good back then.”
“Mmm.” A gentle, classic wind aesthetic—yes, perfect. “It is hard not to feel nostalgic. I find I succumb to the feeling often.” Even in this moment, he thought, though the thought frustrated him.
“Yeah. In a way I feel like that about everyone. I miss them, but I miss being…in that time, I guess? And when I’m winning, like REALLY getting the gold, I can tell because I feel everyone with me. I know it’s stupid, but it’s like we’re all there, running through a palace, just, flying.” Ryuji laughed. “Dumb, huh? It was all like, six years ago, and I’m still thinking about it.”
Only six? Yusuke stared at the finished sketch. Six years…it seemed much longer. It seemed an age. “I suppose the old man is young yet.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Ryuji checked his phone. “Well I have to go—more training to do.”
Yusuke closed his sketchbook, the patinaed concept of nostalgia calling him once again. “Yes, I need to go paint.”
They stood; Ryuji gave him a light punch on the shoulder. “Oh yeah—Akira mentioned that Futaba got into that program she wanted. He said you wanted to get everyone together to surprise her.”
Yusuke smiled. Akira had already told him that his venue and food suggestions were “a bit on the grand side,” but Yusuke was undeterred. “Yes, a winter reunion for our future Dr. Sakura.”
Ryuji shook his head. “It’s scary how smart she is—she’ll tear through that program. But yeah, I’ll be there. I promise.”
“Excellent.”
Ryuji’s shoulders rounded for a moment. “It’s…yeah.” He straightened up and grinned at Yusuke. “Let’s keep calling and texting and stuff, yeah? And let’s do this again soon. We can become the Monthly Lunch Bros.”
Yusuke’s eyes went round. “That…name! It’s atrocious!”
“Haha! You love it!”
Yusuke closed his eyes in resignation. “I joyfully accept your invitation, though I reject that name with enmity.”
“Awesome. See ya soon, Yusuke.”
Yusuke bought a large canvas on the way home, much to the chagrin of everyone sharing his subway car. He partook in a contemplative dinner with Boss, over which they spoke of the nuances of nostalgia. Yusuke couldn’t get it out of his head—there was so much sadness contained within the happiness of having known someone. The need for growth resulted from the wish to stay in place, yet to do both was impossible. A young heart could never imagine distance from the closest of friends, yet distance was a direct result of growth—distance was what was expected. So truly, should one mourn friendship’s end at its very beginning? Or simply rejoice within it, baring oneself to its eventual passing and the following gentle sadness?
It was a tangled mess. This was why nostalgia was sepia—a form of brown, as so many colors mixed together, losing themselves in the confusion of human feeling.
Akira called via video that night, still at his office. Yusuke propped up his phone and regarded the blank canvas.
“Ryuji texted that he had lunch with you today.”
Yusuke perused his colors. He needed to pick up more supplies, it seemed. “So he did. It was good to see him, though I’ll never be used to the black hair.”
“HAH, same here.”
“And you—you need to watch more TV as to finally truly require glasses.”
“Well, I’ll work on it.” Yusuke glanced at the phone; Akira was looking to the side, attempting a reserved look and failing. “I’m glad you got to see him.”
“Yes, I am as well. Have you gotten to see him yet?”
“A few times, so far. We’ve been calling daily, too. It’s—well.” Akira sighed and looked back to the camera. “It’s funny how feelings from years ago can wake up out of nowhere, just as strong as ever.”
“Ah.” Yusuke turned back to his paints. “Will you tell him?”
Yusuke remained silent with Akira. “Yeah,” Akira said at last. “Yeah, I will.”
The sepia tint of nostalgia—perhaps there was more to it than just that. After all, the sadness of being apart reinforced the happiness of being together, both in the moment but also in the past. Even in the future, at the prospect of seeing each other again. Nostalgia: a warm sense of a past time. Growth: understanding that which was hard to understand in the past. Anticipation: the opportunity to, at last, act upon that understanding.
It was all indeed a tangled mess, but a riot of a tangle. A collaboration of color, as opposed to a resigned blend. And it was nothing to flee from, daunting as it was—it was, perhaps, even necessary.
“You’ve inspired me, Joker, as usual. I must paint.”
Akira chuckled. “Alright. I’ll check in with you soon—we have a reunion to plan.”
Yusuke didn’t hear him; he was already painting.