Work Text:
For years, Yusuke had lived with rage bubbling deep under the surface that only rarely manifested itself in his paintings. He had felt a deep gnawing sense of shame when Ann had stared deep into a painting he had given Madarame and saw the anger he infused into it with every stroke. She had not realized the painting was his, but he’d quickly pulled her away, lest she see more of what Yusuke refused to confront.
It was only after he had fallen into the halls of Madarame’s Palace, saw the shogun Madarame perceived himself to be, and saw a painting of himself hung up alongside the other students, that Yusuke decided to put his anger to good use.
After the garish museum came crumbling down around them, Yusuke began to wonder if he should have asked a few more questions beforehand. He'd been willing to gloss over the logistics of a Persona and the power that came with it. He'd been willing to overlook the supernatural elements of entering a construct built from the desires of a corrupt individual's heart. Perhaps, he should have wondered more about why Ann wanted the final decision to change Madarame's heart to be entirely his own. The possibility of a Palace owner’s mental shutdown seemed much more likely once Yusuke had time to sit alone, drained of energy and numb to anger, to really think about what could result from this. He had been hurt and disappointed countless times by Madarame's deeds and yet, Yusuke could not push his anger to the point of wishing the real Madarame harm.
The night Yusuke returned from the wreckage of Madarame’s Palace, Yusuke ate dinner alone.
Eating a meal alone had not been out of place at the atelier as of late, but Yusuke had cooked that evening and Madarame had simply never come out of his room. The next day, having not seen his foster father since the previous morning, Yusuke knocked on his bedroom door. There was no answer and peeking inside, Yusuke found Madarame’s frail form huddled beneath his blankets.
“I made breakfast,” Yusuke announced hesitantly, waiting for a reprimand.
“...Thank you, Yusuke,” Madarame sighed, deep and heavy, as if it pained him to speak at all.
Yusuke felt a sharp pang of worry in his chest. He swallowed his dread and continued, “Shall I bring you a bowl?”
“...Sure,” Madarame murmured distantly, “If you’d like.”
This was unusual. Was this the change of heart?
Yusuke decided to push his luck. He didn’t know what a change of heart looked like, he hadn’t thought to ask. That was an oversight he would chastise himself for later. Yusuke wondered if this was what he should have expected or if something had gone terribly wrong. He pushed the door open wider and leaned into the room, “About… About the girl from before… You called for security, but I think that is unfair.” He quickly decided to continue the lies he’d been telling, “Y-You left the door unlocked and...”
“Yes, I…” Madarame replied, much to Yusuke’s surprise, “I told them to stop looking… I needed to think.”
“...Alright.” Yusuke slowly closed the door. That had been exactly what they needed, so why didn’t it feel like a victory?
When Yusuke texted the group chat to inform his newfound friends of Madarame’s decision to call off his security’s search for Ann, he also attempted to gain more clarification on what a change of heart looked like.
He was disappointed to hear back that none of them actually knew the finer details. The previous success had resulted in the man in question claiming a week's worth of sick leave before admitting his crimes to the entire school and calling for his own arrest. The possibility of death had always been speculation. The assumption was that it could be difficult for a person to have their worldly desires taken from them and be forced to find something new while crushed under the weight of their guilt. The subsequent discussion of whether Madarame was strong enough for a change of heart made Yusuke set his phone down.
It wasn’t as if they hadn’t warned Yusuke. They had said as much, repeatedly asking him if he was ready for such an outcome. At the time, Yusuke had said yes. He hadn’t allowed himself to process what he’d been told. He had a goal, one of freedom and salvation. Yusuke did not like Madarame, but he did not want to see him dead.
It was less than a week- about four days of half-eaten meals to pick up from Madarame’s room and Yusuke daydreaming in class- before Madarame stepped foot outside of his bedroom. Yusuke had returned to the atelier from school to find Madarame standing in the kitchen and speaking on the phone.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice strong and resolute, “There’s a lot that needs to be said… Thank you again.”
“Madarame?” Yusuke asked, stepping through the doorway. The older man jolted in surprise and turned to face him.
“Yusuke, you’re home,” Madarame said with a weak smile. He took one hesitant step forward before closing the gap and greeting Yusuke with an awkward hug, reminding him of being small and running to embrace his foster father after school. When Yusuke tensed and refused to return the embrace Madarame pulled back. He gestured toward the empty seats at the kitchen table. “Sit, please. I need to speak with you.”
Yusuke sat.
Madarame lowered himself into the chair across from him, his hands clasped together and resting on the tabletop. He sighed, his eyes flickering to the floor when they could no longer hold Yusuke's gaze. “A lot is going to change very quickly. I am going to hold a press conference. There is a lot I have gotten away with that I can not let go unpunished… and, for you, I want to start with an apology.”
-
Madarame’s apology had not been what Yusuke expected, but in hindsight, he didn’t know what the other outcomes could have been. Very quickly after Madarame’s press conference, after Yusuke watched his mentor and father sob openly on national television about his misdeeds, things changed. There was talk of assets to be redistributed, possible jail time, and former pupils to contact. Yusuke made a single appearance on the news, before he decided to hide and let Madarame’s other former pupils take the lead.
Yusuke sat alone in the atelier at night a few days after Madarame’s arrest. This was not the first time he’d been left alone and he feared it would not be the last. However, it was the first time he’d leaned back on the armrest of the living room couch, lit only by the light of the television as the news sank their teeth into another revelation about Madarame’s false career. Yusuke had never once thought this would happen in the years he’d been under Madarame’s care. He’d expected to feel liberated, but in many ways he felt lost.
In his hand, his phone vibrated as texts came in. It was strange how lonely Yusuke still felt when the friends he’d made less than a month ago were a mere text or phone call away. Pulling himself away from the airing of his mentor’s dirty laundry, Yusuke looked down at his phone. He’d missed 6 messages from the Phantom Thieves group chat.
Ryuji: Check the Phansite! Ppl are seriously talking about us!
Akira: pretty cool
Ann: Madarame is still all over the news.
Ryuji: Things might be looking up!
Ann: We're still hanging out on saturday right?
Ann: After school?
Yusuke smiled as he watched his friends respond. He’d like to get out of the atelier and spend an afternoon less alone. So the following day, Yusuke packed a bag and chose not to return.
Surrounded by a storm of near-daily lifestyle changes, Yusuke found comfort in what remained of the familiar. Japanese art had been familiar.
The Sayuri, the gorgeous painting his mother had created out of love and defaced by their mentor, was no longer available to Yusuke. Yusuke still had the replica - though an original in its own right - tucked away safely in the cafe that Akira lived above. Yusuke didn’t want the skeptical looks he might get from his classmates if he kept it nor did he want to hide it away and keep it for himself. A painting was meant to be seen. It felt selfish to keep it secret.
The Sayuri had once been an unobtainable goal for Yusuke; inspiration to work harder and do better for his teacher. He’d lose himself for days, desperate to grasp at the emotion he’d felt when he stared at pictures taken of the painting. He did it, not only to fill in the blanks of a new exhibit for Madarame, but to achieve the beauty he’d believed his foster father had once achieved.
Now, the painting was a reminder of the mother Yusuke had never gotten to know. Gazing at its beauty made the ache of having never known her nigh unbearable. When he began painting again, merely a week after Madarame’s change of heart, Yusuke painted to keep her memory alive.
It did not come as a surprise to him that every painting he produced felt like a hollow imitation.
There was a familiarity in Traditional Japanese art that Yusuke still found comfort in. He refused to let Madarame’s influence taint the love he’d had for it, especially when the style was practically intertwined with his understanding of his mother. Unfortunately, his love for the art form did nothing to make his artistic endeavors feel any less empty.
After a month, Yusuke set aside his reluctance and asked Akira for help. To stop painting in his mother’s style felt like a slight against her, but continuing to produce such uninspired pieces felt just as disgraceful. After Akira graciously agreed to help, Yusuke found new inspiration in Mementos.
When he asked the other Phantom Thieves what emotions the winding tunnels of Mementos invoked in their souls, Ann shivered and declared it creepy, Ryuji winced at a pulsating wall and called it gross, Akira quietly observed their surroundings and muttered that it was eerie. Morgana requested that they remain focused on the shadows. Yusuke sat back, closing his eyes as he attempted to not be carsick as their bumpy ride took them closer to their target.
To be faced with truths of one’s own desires, Yusuke thought to himself, the physical manifestation of your and your fellow man’s hearts, was creepy, gross, and eerie. Yusuke wondered if it could be beautiful as well.
Yusuke wasn’t certain how to find beauty in his art or if the final product even needed to be beautiful. He could admit that he was obsessed with the topic. He’d always had been, but as of late, Yusuke had given into the urge to find beauty in the world and shove into a bottle to preserve it forever. Yusuke knew what the world found beautiful, but the world was a harsh place. He wanted to paint that, but to be told his paintings are childish, rudimentary, and uninspired by critics, even after he regained his motivation for art, left a nagging thought eating at the back of his mind.
Was their beauty in the world to begin with?
It was these sorts of melodramatics that Madarame had told him were pointless; that many adults thought were over exaggerations of a moody teenager. Perhaps they were, but Yusuke thought it may be a valid question nonetheless.
There was beauty in what his mother created and Yusuke still felt the love pouring out of the canvas each time he visited it. It was there and he knew it, but as he stared into the brushstrokes, Yusuke wondered who gave art its meaning.
The painting would still be stunningly beautiful had his mother not painted it, Yusuke was certain of that, but had it been Madarame instead would he still feel his breath catch when he gazed upon it? Yusuke wasn’t sure.
“What are you trying to say with your paintings?” Akira asked when Yusuke showed him various pieces he had finished and despised days later. Akira didn’t know much in the ways of art, but he’d been helpful thus far. “They look nice… and I guess I see a lot of anger in them. I like it.”
Yusuke frowned, “They were not meant to be angry. They were meant to be beautiful.”
Akira hummed quietly to himself and took a step back to change his perspective, something Yusuke had taught him to do. “If you want to find beauty in the ugliness of the world, what’s wrong with anger?”
“I did not set out to paint anger,” Yusuke replied, his voice wavering despite himself. He was endlessly thankful for Akira’s help, but that didn’t make bearing his soul any easier.
“Why not? You’re angry,” Akira asked calmly, “What better place for it than art?”
Yusuke sighed and brushed his hair away from his face, “I don’t…”
“Maybe try something new?” Akira eventually recommended, “Take a break.”
Yusuke attempted to heed Akira’s advice. The final catalyst was an art project from his teacher, a request to present art in a different style than each student usually handed in, something fun to try. Yusuke had a few qualms setting aside the style he’d grown to find so much comfort in, but he was aware he needed to hand in what the prompt required of him.
He had traveled to Leblanc, intent on complaining to Akira while the cafe was closed. Akira sat with Ann and Ryuji in a booth, flipping through notes and occasionally trying to study, while Morgana slept on the floor taking in the last few moments warm afternoon sun by the window. Although their curriculum was slightly different, Yusuke took the open seat beside Ann and placed his sketchbook down. He brought a welcome distraction to the group as they allowed him to air his well-crafted complaints.
“That sounds like fun,” was not what Yusuke wanted to hear from Ann.
Nor had he been completely pleased with Akira’s encouraging statement, “Can’t wait to see what you make.”
Ann seemed remarkably excited about the whole thing. Yusuke was painfully aware that diversifying his artistic ability was a boon and not a detriment, but Yusuke could not explain the adverse reaction he felt when Ann showed him styles he could try. Realism, abstract, pop art, and cubism.
Pop art was interesting in its own right, beautiful even in its use of color, but Yusuke’s nose crinkled at the idea of attempting something so… different. Ann declared that she’d try pop art in solidarity if he tried cubism. Yusuke winced. He hated to denounce any form of art as ugly, but… the more cubism he looked through the more he concluded that cubism was not for him.
While Ann continued to distract herself from her studies to look up pop art inspiration, Yusuke spied Ryuji doodling in the margins of his notebook. One would think he wasn’t paying attention to what Akira was reading aloud to him, had he not been nodding along and occasionally looking over at Akira’s notes. Ryuji, he learned over time, doodled to stay focused. The doodles themselves, mostly odd toothy faces and simplified animals, were not great in their rushed construction, but Yusuke could appreciate their simplicity. Ryuji's drawings weren’t so much crudely done as they are merely unpolished. Yusuke watched and found an unexpected sense of admiration for them.
There are no expectations of something greater from Ryuji’s creations and yet they said something to Yusuke. Many claimed there was a story behind every painting, every drawing, every creation. What gave Yusuke’s prize-winning paintings more weight in the artworld than Ryuji’s study doodles? Was it the experience? Was it the name? Was it the medium?
A piece of art was merely a reflection of an artist, a window to a point in time for its creator. Was it the composition that gave the art its beauty, was it the state of mind of the artist, or was it the meaning the viewer took from it?
Ryuji doodled in his notebook to help himself focus. He created images that were easy to draw and easier to replicate through muscle memory. They were tactile, a way to keep the brain stimulated while partaking in a boring task.
Pop art was distinctly western, far from anything Yusuke had been introduced to while training under Madarame. The color and vibrancy of the art felt distinctly Ann. It was a little wild and unfocused in its color pallet, but fun and joyful instead of garish as Yusuke had feared.
By contrast, Akira did not have the same interest in creating art as their friends. His notes were neat and carefully done, most likely a result of rewriting them after class. Was the lack of creation due to a personality quirk or of self-repression? The more he watched Akira click the base of his pen and draw indistinct shapes into the table with his fingernail, Yusuke decided it was repression.
Yusuke pulled his eyes away from his companions, putting an end to his people-watching in order to lookup more examples of cubism.
When Yusuke returned to the dorms, he sat on the floor beside his rolled-up futon and set out to put an under sketch to canvas. After two weeks of work, the final result was… mediocre in execution. Despite recognizing this, Yusuke turned in the painting and received a glowing review from his teacher who appreciated how far out of his comfort zone Yusuke had tried to go. Yusuke didn’t feel that nagging sense of unworthiness for unjust praise when his teachers applauded his work. Instead, he felt a small swell of pride he hadn’t truly experienced in years.
When his class began to talk about realism throughout history, Yusuke found himself curious. He’d sketched his friends for various drawing exercises, but despite his training in figure drawing, Yusuke had leaned heavily on his traditional style. Although Yusuke saw great beauty in the style, he could never quite capture the same feeling he’d experienced while looking at the person in question. He wanted to put their faces, their stories even, to paper or canvas more than once, but never succeeded in doing so. He wondered if perhaps, he’d been holding himself back.
So, after debating with himself while lying on his futon and staring up at the ceiling, Yusuke turned on his dorm room lights, picked up a pencil and started drawing his friends faces as accurately and as detailed as he could manage.
As he drew, he faintly thought that once he no longer had to be so frugal with his allowance, Yusuke might even take the time to dump and throw thinned paint onto a canvas and see what came of it. The tension he hadn’t realized had found a home between his shoulder blades slowly released. He would return to Traditional Japanese art, in time, but at that moment Yusuke no longer felt like he was trying to recapture something lost to him. There was comfort in the familiar, but catharsis could be found in change.