Work Text:
It’s almost Moving Day.
Futaba is somewhat used to jumping from place to place after Mother’s suicide, but every time she’s moved has been different, this time being no exception. She came away mostly whole from her childhood home, but missing layers. Like peeling a sticker label off a plastic bottle, she knew she’d never get that extra residue back, that it would remain stuck to the home where she grew up forever.
Moving out of her uncle’s, she couldn’t bring any of her old self with: if it was in his house, it was his property - though Futaba was lucky to even be considered that. She enjoys how the freeing air inside Sojiro Sakura’s house contrasts the thick fumes of her uncle’s, and how the circumstances distinguish themselves from those that pulled her away from Mother’s.
Physically, this house is big, though she rarely spends time outside of her own bedroom. Luckily her room is pretty spacious itself, and at this point it includes hundreds of her favourite things: Featherman collector’s figures, posters about hieroglyphics and egyptology, books and research papers on cognitive psience, about 5 monitors linked up to her pc and various consoles. If a younger Futaba saw what this place would look like in a matter of a few years, she’d think it was the coolest place on earth, ignoring the clothes, packages, and books strewn about the floor. All of this she'll leave behind, a fact she supposes she shouldn't be okay with. Alas, it’s almost Moving Day, she has to prepare.
Digging through dusty old boxes in her closet, Futaba finds a loose scrap of lined paper with a checklist scrawled upon it in thick black ink. Large, crimson stamps sit next to sentences spaced out on every third line and rendered unintelligible to most due to Mother’s poor handwriting, though Futaba’s always seen it as a fun code to crack instead. She doesn’t need to decipher anything to tell just by the stamps and comments next to each sentence though, it’s a promise list, it must’ve been among the things shoved onto Sojiro after Mother’s passing. The promises for whatever month this was from are:
- I will tidy up my room.
- I will get groceries instead of mom two times this month.
- I will go to school every day.
- I will clean the living room.
- I will wash the dishes instead of mom five times this month.
- I will get along with Kana-chan.
Kana-chan. Reading that nickname for the first time in years makes Futaba’s blood run cold. Not only did she kill Mother, she lied to her. Normally she’s not one to feel particularly guilty over lying, but Kana-chan… Getting along with her is a special case. It was the only thing a Mother who she burdened every day really wanted of her, and she never fulfilled it. Perhaps she never will. Or maybe she’ll move to exactly where Kana ended up, Futaba doesn’t know what her classmate’s ultimate fate was, though she kind of hopes they won’t meet again.
She puts the promise list back in its heavily cobwebbed forever-home. Looking at it only makes her feel sicker to her stomach. This house has a lot of reminders of Futaba’s past, but just as many of her present. Most importantly, this house has Sojiro Sakura himself. He's kind, he’s understanding, he tries his best to take care of a wreck like Futaba. He owns leBlanc, a café just next door which seems not to get many visitors, aside from the new boy Sojiro picked up a few months ago and his ever-growing vigilante friend group. That said, Futaba’s not exactly complaining that there aren’t many customers because it just means more food for her. The coffee and curry Sojiro makes is heavenly, in fact she’s pretty sure it’s the only reason she isn’t a skeleton by now. Yet, it’s not enough to make her stay.
She does find it odd how Sojiro can afford all the things she asks for considering how little patronage he gets. He acts annoyed whenever she asks for something new, but she’s aware if it were really a problem he’d let her know. That’s the sort of relationship they have: even lacking many two-way conversations, they know each other’s schedules and mannerisms to the beat. It’s why she knows that the cold demeanor she’s seen him hold towards the new kid will eventually warm up. She can see why Mother liked him. She’ll have to type him a ‘thank you’ note before she leaves. She does wish she’d shown more gratitude while he took care of her.
Finally finding what she’s been searching for, she marks off the calendar for her last day here, her hand shaking a bit while bringing the pen back down. She misses the lid, a long line of red ink making itself known against the pale skin covering the back of her hand. No point washing it, she thinks.
That note, it might be best to write it now. Futaba sits down on her desk chair, kicks around for a button, and boots up her PC, typing in the 30-character password within a sliver of a second out of pure muscle memory. Her eyes instinctively drift towards one of the monitors, where live footage of leBlanc idly plays as if this room is a security office. She lets her focus remain on it for a moment, witnessing a pixelated Sojiro teaching that delinquent boy how to make coffee. Maybe if she stayed a little longer she could’ve tried some of his, even if it wouldn’t have been nearly as good as Sojiro’s. There’s no time for regrets though, she knows he’s the leader of the group behind that “Phantom Thieves of Hearts” incident all over the internet recently. To get involved with them would be to give herself another tie she’d need to cut off to leave, not to mention how being thrust further into the spotlight would complicate the move even further. No more distractions. Futaba opens up an empty doc and starts typing at a cool 135 words per minute.
It would've made more sense, she reasons, to go through this whole ordeal long ago. When she had no medication, when she wasn’t Futaba, when she lived with her uncle, when Mother died. But at least then she could focus on the possibilities, the idea that it'd all be okay once she got the help she needed. Now, even with help, she feels worse than ever and she doesn't have anything to blame but herself .
Futaba stops typing. There’s no conclusion, no but s, no last minute twists. She doesn’t like it. She’s not satisfied with any of it. An abrupt end to a messy note, a messy plan, because she’s tired. This is what she’ll leave behind: everything unintended, untidy. She lays down. The cycle ends.