Work Text:
The attack comes swift and unexpected, Futaba barely catches the tilt to Lilim’s lips, the feral glow to her gaze, before they’re gone. Not even a second later, Yusuke stumbles back with wide eyes and a gape.
“Crap, Fox’s been inflicted with—”
Yusuke abandons his katana before she can finish the sentence, fleeing around the corner with the speed of a bullet. Lilim cackles—a high-pitched, coarse laugh that sounds more like a scream than anything joyous.
Futaba narrows her eyes, already pulling up the thermal map. “Somebody go after him!”
“On it!” Ryuji rushes off down the tracks and around the corner, Makoto and Sumire taking the empty places on the frontlines.
Futaba tries not to panic as the battle continues, as Lilim sways side-to-side proudly. She shouldn’t panic. He’s fine. They’ve had teammates run off before.
But never right away like that. And never in the dark serpentine hallways of Mementos either.
It’s weird for a status ailment to be super-effective like this. When it is, there’s always some strange fix, or they have to wait for the person to reclaim some sense of normalcy—which can take hours or days at a time.
Futaba’s eyes shift from the ongoing battle to their heat signatures, watching as one approaches and the other moves away. Yusuke’s signature—or the one she thinks is Yusuke’s—is cold.
He’s never been hit with a regular case of fear, let alone an animalistic case like this one. Usually, he's a victim to despair or hunger, and he says the former ‘inspires his artistic endeavours’. Futaba supposes the latter is close to the norm for him.
Her fingers thrum against her thigh in an unsteady rhythm. Pat. Pit. Pit. Pit. Pat. Pat. Pit. Pat. The heat signatures approach the escalator. Pat. Pit. Pat. They’ve stopped moving. Pit. Pat. P-
“Oracle!” Akira’s smooth voice calls, drawing her attention back to the battle. “Any weaknesses?”
“Wind and nuclear,” Futaba replies, looking back at her half-complete analysis of Lilim. She begins typing again, but her eyes keep jumping to the heat signatures. It’s been at least five minutes since he ran away, and she can only figure out so much from her Persona’s powers.
They finish the battle only a few moments later with no more casualties, and Futaba immediately looks back at the map. They’ve left this floor.
“Where are they?” Akira asks from beside her. (When did he get there?)
“The floor below us,” she mutters as a reply, “it’s a waiting room.”
He nods, hearing her words and orders everyone to move out.
She follows, ignoring that sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
He’s fine , she thinks.
*-*
They find Ryuji in the middle of the platform, arms out and eyes wide as if he's approaching a wild animal. Yusuke cowers in the corner, frantically mutturing things under his breath. His eyes are squeezed shut, and at some point he took off his mask, leaving his too-pale face invisible. (It’s at least two shades paler than usual, which she didn’t think was possible.)
Ryuji turns to face them with a grimace. “He’s seeing some pretty scary shit.”
Futaba’s mouth runs dry. There’s no way of really knowing what he’s seeing, what he’s feeling. No way for someone to calm him down, no way…
Akira steps forward hesitantly. Yusuke pushes himself harder against the tile with a quiet whimper. (How he knew Akira was approaching with his eyes squeezed shut is beyond her.)
“Skull,” Makoto says, “did you try giving him some relax gel?”
“Don’t have any,” Ryuji replies, still grimacing. “Even if I did, I can’t get close without scarin’ him.”
“We…could always slap him,” Ann says with a brief shrug.
“It doesn’t particularly seem like he would appreciate that right now,” Akechi says pointedly and gesturing to Yusuke, who has his head clutched in his hands—as if to block out some kind of noise.
Akira mock-scoffs. “Since when do you—”
Futaba inches away as the talk shifts to methods of snapping someone out of a status ailment and other chitchat. Talking and standing around isn’t gonna help him; and her Persona isn’t giving any useful information either.
She moves towards Yusuke haltingly, trying not to disturb him. She can make out pieces of the broken muttered words. Trap. Leave. Weak.
Futaba swallows. “Yusuke…?”
He straightens instantly, his face turning in her direction. But he doesn’t run away.
“Fu-Futaba?”
She steps a little bit closer, until they’re only about an arms length apart. She can hear his breathing now, heavy and uneven.
“Yeah, it’s…me.” Her words are quiet and awkward. It’s awkward. He’s scared, probably experiencing a lot of horrible emotions, and she doesn’t know what to say to comfort him.
There’s a moment of silence and calm, and she thinks that maybe her being here is enough.
But whatever peace he found dissipates the second after she thinks that, and he’s trembling—shaking —violently.
“I didn’t—! It was not my—!” His words continue like that, sentences chopped off before finished. Instinctively, Futaba reaches for one of his hands.
It’s cold as ice, cold enough that she might’ve dropped it if he wasn’t wearing that expression. Fear, anxiety, terror. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, those emotions are there. Thin tears are sliding down his cheeks too.
Futaba’s never been inflicted with any status ailment, and fear…
Her friends have tried to explain it to her a couple times. Sometimes, it shows you your worst nightmares. Sometimes, it makes you see things that aren’t really there. And sometimes, you’re submerged in complete darkness with a pit of dread crawling up your stomach. It leaves them disturbed for days.
So she can only imagine what he’s seeing.
“Hey…it’s, it’s gonna be alright,” Futaba mutters, tracing the back of his hand in a way she hopes is comforting. She’s never had to try to comfort someone like this. In fact, all she really knows is from anime, and how her mom used to give her the warmest hugs.
“No, no, they’re going to—you’re going to—you will leave and I—” He tries to pull his hand away, but she doesn’t let him.
“Yusuke. I’m right here.”
“But you can’t—”
“I’m right here, I’m not leaving.”
*-*
It is dark, lonesome, lifeless and horrifying. There are voices—vehement, roaring voices echoing as though he were in a sizable empty room.
‘You are being manipulated again,’ they taunt. ‘You are like a lamb to the slaughter, killed time and time again because you fall into their control.’
Somewhere in front of him is Futaba Sakura, and a part of him wants to listen to her, listen to the enticing words that fall from her lips as syrup, but he does not, because he should not.
And if he does indeed listen to her…
‘Your so-called friends are just like him.’
That is the sad truth, is it not? If he opens his eyes, they will turn to him with curled lips and cold eyes.
But the voices need not—
Something—no, some one grabs his hand. It is like touching a doorknob in freezing temperatures, burning, burning and painful. He needs to leave, his mouth moves, Futaba is saying something, and perhaps he should listen but—
‘You are pathetic, giving into their false pretences of sincerity!’
The confinement is suffocating, the touch is too warm and Yusuke can’t breath—
Arms, thin, warm arms wrap around his waist firmly. Holding him in place.
And beyond the scream, beyond the wetness of his cheeks, beyond the endless sea of darkness; he can feel a heartbeat. Like a candle in an expanse of black.
For a second, there is calm.
And the voices begin again, the darkness overshadows the light and he needs to leave .
‘Weak of heart, you are. Pitiful, they see it now. They will leave.’
He tries, and he struggles. He needs to escape—
But the arms around him tighten. Not leaving.
He shakes.
‘Deception.’
His fists clench and unclench.
‘Like a lamb to the slaughter.’
His breathing, he still can’t breath but—
But there is warmth. And comfort.
There are arms wrapped around him, a body pressed flush against him, holding him. And there is a heartbeat, a candle.
Slowly, he stops shaking.
(The voices, the voices—)
He tenses, but she does not leave. No, she is still there.
Slowly, his breathing becomes longer. Even.
Tears drip down and off his cheeks.
But there is not an expanse of darkness, of black. His eyes are closed, and he keeps them closed, still fearful of what he might find if he opens them.
If he opens them, will she be gone? Will everyone be gone? Will they turn to him with scorn and narrowed eyes?
Hitched breaths and heartbeats are the only sounds in his ears, and he listens.
His fingers curl into Futaba’s clothes.
And finally, he wraps his arms around her too, returning the hug.
*-*
His breathing’s evened out, thank God. Futaba didn’t think about what she would do if it didn’t work, if he kept crying and shaking. But it worked.
She lingers a moment longer than she should, before stepping back and looking at him. His face is still pale (but in a more normal way) and his eyes are still closed, as if he’s bracing himself for something.
“You can…” Futaba takes his hand again, unsure. “Y'know, you can open your eyes now.”
Yusuke nods, but his hand tightens around hers.
Tentatively, he opens his eyes, blinking at her. She smiles slowly, softly, making a note to tell Sojiro he’s eating with them tonight.
Someone clears their throat, followed by a distinct yelp.
Right. The others are still there. Without a second thought, she grabs Yusuke’s hand, dragging him back along with her.
“Akiraaa! Can we go home? I hunger!”
They’re all staring at her with weird expressions, like she just finished another really-deep-but-also-concerning rant (those are Akira’s words) about Featherman. But when that happens, Akechi at least retorts with some long-winded argument. Today he just has his arms crossed and stares on, uninterested.
She shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, looking down.
Then realises she’s still holding Yusukes hand.
Oh…ok.
Wait, they haven’t given him—
“Ryuji—” she whirls to him “—the relax gel!”
That snaps them out of their creepy daze. Ryuji grins, tossing her the vial. She hands it to Yusuke and he drops her hand to use it, which is…
(She resists the urge to grab it again.)
Yusuke returns to his usual self not long after, beginning another one of his rants about creative perspective.
Futaba stays silent, watching him from the corner of her eye throughout the ride back out of Mementos. He’s seated next to her, chatting idly with Haru. He looks a heck of a lot better now; with his mask returned and hair smoothed. The usual contemplative smile rests easy on his lips.
She turns back to the window. What happened back there? Why did she…?
It was…weird, and she didn’t really think before she hugged him. What if he hates her for it? No, he wouldn’t hate her for helping him—but what if she ruined something? What if she made him uncomfortable? Are things going to be awkward between them? Maybe she crossed some unknown—
A familiar slender hand wraps around hers, and Futaba looks down.
It’s Yusuke’s hand.
Distantly, she feels her cheeks heat as she furrows her brows. “Inari?”
Yusuke tilts his head, his cloudy grey eyes only showing concern. “You seem anxious. Is this helping?”
Taking a breath to calm herself, she mutters a quick thanks and turns back to stare blankly out the window.
But she doesn’t let go of his hand.
(And she ignores the fluttering feeling in the pit of her stomach.)