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There were very few times in Yusuke’s life prior to meeting the Phantom Thieves where he truly felt like himself. For years, he didn’t think that “self” even existed. Not one he had much of a say in creating, anyway.
At age 12, he gazed into the cloudy bathroom mirror and asked, “Who am I?”
An artist? his thoughts responded. A student? A son?
Yusuke knew he was all of those things (at least, he was expected to), but what else could he be? How could he define himself beyond the label of artist, student, son? Was he brave? Kind? His Sensei certainly never told him he was, and he knew him better than he knew himself.
But he had talent. If he didn’t, those paintings would still be his own.
The first time it happened, Yusuke felt naively joyous. To be recognized at such a young age was a “privilege,” he’d said. “You’re incredibly lucky, child. More so than you realize. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. They’re simply jealous they weren’t the first to discover you.” And Yusuke believed him. Out of all the students’ work he could’ve chosen from, he chose him.
Then it happened again. And again. And again. Suddenly, in an assembly line of “privileged” students agreeing to hand over their work, Yusuke didn’t feel so lucky anymore.
“Who am I?” he repeated. The storm outside made the atelier whisper back, wind finding every crack in the mildew-covered walls and chilling him to the bone.
Loyal. Unwaveringly devoted. He can ask anything of you, and you’ll agree to it.
That, he knew to be true.
*****
At age 14, a student he’d barely spoken to approached him with an unexpected request.
“I can’t tell anyone else,” she said. “Especially not Sensei. He wouldn’t understand.”
“Of course he would.” Yusuke didn’t sound very convincing.
“No, no, he wouldn’t. It has to be you.”
“Why?” He’d already forgotten her name. What was it again…?
“I don’t know you. It’s like- like confessing your sins to a priest.” As if to better illustrate her point, she brought her hands up in a gesture of prayer. “This way, I won’t risk losing the only family I’ve got. Madarame sucks, but without him, I’m not sure I’d be here right now.”
“If you don’t know me, how can you trust I won’t reveal your secrets?”
“Because you aren’t a snitch.” She narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t, are you…?”
“Certainly not.”
He should feel honored that a stranger thought of him as safe; easy to confide in. However, her reasons for doing so were directly tied to his greatest flaw. A habit he couldn’t, under any circumstances, break, regardless of whether he knew it was being used against him.
Kitagawa Yusuke couldn’t disappoint people. They could tear him down, then build him back up, then tear him down again, and he’d let them. So long as he remained useful enough to keep around, he’d let them. Their happiness was his happiness, after all.
“Okay… just- don’t freak out. Got it?”
He nodded.
“Okay. Okay, okay, okay.” She flapped her hands, rolled her shoulders, took a few deep breaths, and simply stated, “I’m a boy.”
Is this a joke? Is she making fun of me? Eventually, he replied, “I don’t believe I understand. You’re a… boy? How?”
She (he?) curled in on herself a little. “I don’t know how, I just am.”
“How long have you known?”
“A couple years, maybe more. I think a part of me has known my entire life.”
“Well, is there any way to fix it?”
She stiffened. Her eyes were glassy, and she blinked rapidly to stop the tears from falling. “Not you… please, not you, too…”
“My apologies…” Yusuke trailed off, still not remembering her name. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He made no move to comfort her. Even if he wanted to, he had no idea where to start. “My only exposure to this sort of thing comes from Sensei, and he says—”
She sat up, head hitting the wall behind her. “Fuck whatever he said!”
“Excuse me…?”
“You have questions, right? You gotta have questions.” She leaned forward, searching for… something within his expression. Her brows furrowed in what Yusuke assumed was concern, which didn’t make any sense. He should be the one concerned about her. “Even if you follow every order exactly as he gives them, you must’ve hesitated at least once, right? You have to know you’re being manipulated. Please tell me you know.”
“I- I don’t…” Yusuke scooted away, partially because she looked like she might be sick. “This will pass.” He forced a voice far too mature for his age; one he routinely put on around those who regarded him like he wasn’t a child in an oversized suit. “You’re going through a rebellious phase, and that’s perfectly normal. I did, too, if you can believe it.”
“What do you mean by ‘rebellious’? Yusuke,” the use of his first name startled him, somehow, “what did he do to you…?”
*****
“So, I’ve been thinking…” Yusuke began, and Madarame responded with a disinterested “hmph” from where he sat at his easel. He hadn’t touched the brush in over an hour. Another “artistic slump”, most likely. “I recently received a letter asking for my uniform application. There’s- there’s a reason I’ve been putting it off.”
“And that is…?”
“I was wondering if- if there was any way I could…” Why was he so nervous? He hadn’t done anything wrong. “Could I perhaps… apply for both the male and female uniforms…?”
His Sensei said nothing for a moment, staring ahead at the nearly blank canvas. Then, he stood, crossed the room in three determined steps, and before Yusuke could process the situation, smacked him across the face.
“Is this your idea of a joke!?”
Yusuke tugged at his bangs, throat tight with the pained scream he desperately wanted to release. “N-no! No, of course not!”
“Then why on earth would you ask me something so outrageous!? You’re smarter than this, Yusuke! You know better!” He kept his hand raised, teasing an impact that never came.
“I’m sorry… I’m s-sorry, Sensei…”
As always, Madarame remained rather vague about what his student had done to upset him. Yusuke should know, Sensei shouldn’t have to tell him, but he didn’t, which only made him spiral even deeper into shame.
While the other students ate dinner, Yusuke sat alone in his bedroom, icepack pressed to his cheek. His thighs stung as he struggled to get comfortable, the tight uniform like sandpaper against his abused skin. Eventually, he gave up, and with a shaky breath, finally let himself cry.
*****
“Answer me. What did he do to you?”
“I upset him. That’s all.”
“Why?” Her questions were quickly becoming frustrating. “Did he give you a reason?”
“None you would accept,” Yusuke scoffed.
She rose from her knees, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her hoodie. “I don’t think I’m gonna get anywhere with you. Not today. Not here. Just- try to understand that he might have… other reasons for keeping you in line, besides what he claims. He isn’t looking out for you. If he was, you wouldn’t be so afraid to approach him.”
“What gives you the right to presume my emotions?”
“Because the fear in your eyes is the same as mine.” She turned away, adjusting the fit of her tear-stained hoodie. “Yusuke… when you get out of here—and you will get out—you can choose a new life for yourself. Choose something better than this, please. It’s not too late. If he ever tells you…” An awkward pause broke up the sentence, and she visibly wrestled with what to say next. “If he ever tells you you can’t be… you- you can be anything, okay? Okay.”
Yusuke nodded, because how else could he respond to that?
“You won’t tell anyone my secret, will you?”
“No. Never.”
“Good.” She (he?) smiled weakly. “You really are too kind for your own good.”
*****
At age 16, Yusuke started asking questions again. Questions like, “Is it possible for me to create with pure intent, or will it only ever be in spite of him?” and “Would my mother be proud of what I’ve created?” and “Is it wrong that I sometimes wish he were dead?”
Most of all, though, he asked, “Who am I?”
He was still an artist, though he hadn’t drawn or painted anything in weeks. He was still a student, just not his student.
And he never really felt like a son, despite the neglected part of him that still called Madarame “father”. The word left a sour taste in his mouth, perhaps because he didn’t actually want him to be. Even at his most vulnerable, when he desperately craved their familial connection, Yusuke couldn’t see himself that way. Do I not think I deserve to…?
Things finally came to a head one uneventful day in Mementos.
Futaba collapsed across the safe room bench, arms flailing dramatically. “Blegh. I just realized I forgot to do my shot for the week.”
“You do ‘em yourself?” Ryuji asked. “Shit, you’re braver than I am.”
She nodded. “Does Mei help?”
“Yep. Can’t look at a needle without feelin’ faint.”
Yusuke was completely clueless as to what they were talking about. “Shots? Needles? Forgive me for intruding, but are you two alright?”
“Did we not tell him?” Futaba looked to Ryuji, who shrugged. “I don’t think we did.”
“Tell me what?”
Ryuji jostled his leg, a habit he fell back on during awkward situations. Did I make things awkward? “We’re, uh… we’re trans, Fox.”
Oh.
“It ain’t like we were tryna hide it from you. We just couldn’t find the right moment.”
His head spun with conversations he’d sworn to forget, but never did. Thoughts he’d tried to bury, but never could. He still didn’t remember her name. His name. Maybe it was for the best.
“Now it’s my turn to ask: are you okay?” Ryuji scooted closer. “You look a little pale.”
“So you… aren’t a boy?”
“Dude, what? ‘Course I am!” Ryuji’s expression darkened to something borderline hostile, not unlike the boy Yusuke made a similar mistake with years ago. Yet amidst his anger, amidst the instinct to firmly plant himself between Futaba and their accuser, Yusuke also saw fear. The same fear that kept him running, and the fear that encouraged him to never run again.
“But you’re transgender, ergo you’d like to be a girl. Did I misunderstand?”
The tension was broken up by a laugh loud enough to make Yusuke jump in his seat. “You had me worried for a sec there, Inari!” Futaba hollered. “To clarify, I’m a girl. Skull’s a boy. I’ve been on estrogen for… hmm… a year and a half, I think? What about you, Skull?”
Ryuji tried, in vain, to stop his leg from bouncing. “Yeah, you- you really got me thinkin’… Never mind. Uh, I’ve been on T- er, testosterone for about a year.”
For a moment, Ryuji could no longer trust his teammate, his friend, and whatever else they might have been to each other. For a moment, Yusuke felt like Madarame, forcing fear upon his friends; upon the boy he loved.
“I’ve clearly upset you.” Their eyes met, and all Yusuke saw was the terrified child he knew too well. “My intentions do not negate this fact. I sincerely apologize, Oracle, Skull.”
“And I’m sorry for snappin’. I should’ve let you explain yourself first.”
“I understand why you didn’t.”
More silence, before Ryuji playfully bumped their shoulders together. “Words come out weird sometimes. You don’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing, pretty-boy.”
Pretty-boy.
Yusuke’s heart wasn’t sure how to react.
Ryuji never used “pretty” like a weapon. A means to an end. A way to humiliate him, as had been done countless times before. Madarame conditioned his student to feel both desire and repulsion for “pretty”. To salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs, though there wouldn’t be a reward after the bell chimed. He’d leave, tail between his legs, weakened and ashamed, only to return the next day, and the day after that, with no end in sight.
Ryuji could reclaim “pretty”, but Yusuke was nobody’s pretty-boy.
*****
Futaba hunched over her keyboard, furiously typing out responses to “shonen manga forum trolls”. Meanwhile, Ren lounged on her bed, elbows propped up with the nearest mascot character pillow as he mindlessly scrolled his feed. Yusuke took the space beside him, waiting until Futaba had finished… whatever she was doing before he spoke.
“Alright,” she spun around in her chair, “talk to me, Inari.”
“When did you realize you were a girl?”
Ren nearly dropped his phone, and Futaba wheeled her chair forward. “Wow. I, uh, I wasn’t expecting such a heavy hitter right off the bat.”
“You don’t have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“Duh.” She stretched her arms above her head. “Now, I’ve definitely got questions of my own, but I’ll wait to ask ‘em.”
Futaba took on her usual stance: knees tucked beneath her chin; arms wrapped around her knees. She stared at a Featherman poster on her wall, features scrunched up in intense contemplation as she pieced together the timeline of her youth.
“I was seven, I think. Until that point, gender didn’t really register as a thing people cared about. I honestly treated it more like a career path. ‘I’m gonna be a girl when I grow up,’ y’know? God- I wish it were that simple.” Futaba burrowed deeper into her knees. “I knew I didn’t fit in with the other girls in my class, but I still was one. Then my teacher caught on, and boy was I in trouble!” She faked a laugh, and it only made her sound sadder.
“I can certainly relate to that experience.”
“You…” Futaba shook her head. “Never mind, questions later.
“My teacher’s lecture pretty much boiled down to, ‘grow up,’ even if she didn’t use those exact words. According to her, there’re fantasies everyone needs to leave behind eventually, and this was one of them. When I asked Mom about it,” her voice cracked a little on the word “Mom”, “she immediately shut down her reasoning. Told me things aren’t always so black-and-white. Sometimes, boys can be born girls, and girls can be born boys. Looking back, I bet she was itching to use fancier language than that.”
Ren perked up. “‘You see, child who has just learned how to read, according to psychologist—’” Futaba threw a pillow at his face, and he threw it back at her.
“Sorry for not really answering your question. I don’t think I can pinpoint a moment when I first knew. I just… did.”
Yusuke hummed contemplatively. “Ah, so it doesn’t have to be specific. My assumptions were incorrect. Perhaps the answer I’m seeking requires me to examine my own past instead of relying on someone else’s. Therein lies the problem.” He tensed his muscles enough to make himself lightheaded, but it didn’t stop the shaking. “I’m… I’m afraid. A part of me doesn’t want to know, while another part has known since the beginning. Quite honestly, I’m angry at myself for ignoring them both.”
“Do you… are you saying you might be…?”
“Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure.” He wrung his hands tightly. “I don’t feel the same disconnect when someone calls me by my given name and pronouns. However, when I’m referred to as a boy, or forced to perform my gender—that is the source of my disconnect.”
“How do you feel about other pronouns?”
“I’ve imagined scenarios where they’re used, although it isn’t the same as the real thing.”
“Well, do you wanna experience the real thing?”
“…I’m not following.”
“Roleplaying. Hypotheticals. Ren and I’ll have a conversation using different pronouns, and maybe something will stick.”
“Hmm. Go on.”
“Hey, Ren!” Does she have to be so loud? He’s sitting directly in front of her. “Have you met my friend Ina- Yusuke? She’s a super talented artist. You should totally check out her work!”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of them,” Ren replied. “I loved that one painting they did—Desire and Hope, I believe it was called? Moved me to tears. They’ve got talent, alright.”
At first, Yusuke felt absolutely mortified. It was as if a shadow cast agidyne over him, then immediately healed all his wounds. He resisted the overwhelming urge to flee, though even if he tried, he’d likely pass out within the first couple steps. His legs were numb. He’d picked the worst possible day to skip breakfast.
This is wrong. This is so incredibly wrong. Nothing about this should bring me any joy.
But it did. After the stomach-churning dread came a much lighter feeling, one Yusuke was unfamiliar with. In trying to match it to the familiar, he remembered something that made his entire world spin on its axis.
Age 13. The day a gallery patron mistook him for a girl. He’d initially chalked it up to embarrassment. That’s how he should feel, of course. Madarame certainly had.
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t “pretty”, he’d thought. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.
What he felt that day wasn’t embarrassment. It was euphoria.
“Stop…” he cried out weakly. “Please, stop… I cannot take much more…” Ren put a hand on his shoulder, and he instinctively flinched away. “I- I made a mistake. I am a mistake.”
“Hey. Look at me.” Ren kept his distance, relying on the voice he rarely used outside the Metaverse to provide comfort. It wasn’t a command, per say, but Yusuke felt inclined to listen. “Am I a mistake? Is Futaba a mistake?”
Yusuke shot upright, his gaze shifting frantically between them. “No! Of course not! Oh. Oh no.” He wilted. “Did I make you feel like one…?”
Ren shook his head. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I just wanted you to recognize the standards you place on yourself, versus those you place on other people. We aren’t mistakes, and the same applies to you. You aren’t a mistake, Yusuke.”
“Whoever you figure yourself out to be, we’ll support you,” Futaba added. “Boy, girl, both, neither, something you can’t describe with words—at the end of the day, you’re still our Inari.” She moved from her chair to the space opposite Ren. “It’s also fine to not know. Labels can be pretty intimidating, so if you ever need someone to explain them for you, I can—”
Futaba cut herself off with a yelp as Yusuke pulled the shorter girl into a tight embrace. “Thank you… both of you.”
“I-It’s nothing…” she replied, a bit frazzled. “Just- hey- don’t get snot all over my hoodie! This is a limited stock item, Inari!”
“Sniff—sorry. In hindsight, I should’ve expected such raw emotion from a conversation of this nature.” Ren passed him a tissue box, and he just about emptied it. “I believe I’ve figured it out. My identity, I mean. The labels are… finicky, but in simpler terms, I understand.”
Ren pushed up his glasses. “Let’s hear it, then.”
Yusuke smiled. The pressure on her chest, like hands pushing down in an endless cycle of strangulation and resuscitation, finally eased up. She exhaled, each second counting for all the years she was forced to hold her breath.
The girl in an oversized suit, with cuts on her thighs and bruises on her back and five hundred yen to her name, thanked her. The boy in an oversized hoodie, with a choppy haircut and a broken nose and a suitcase hidden under the stairs, said he was proud of her.
Yusuke was proud of herself, too.
*****
At age 17, Yusuke still had questions, though she also had more answers than ever before.
She gazed into the crooked bathroom mirror, inspecting the hair she’d painstakingly braided, re-braided, then re-braided again. Yusuke signed her work with a ribbon once belonging to her mother, and in combination with her sudden, intense focus, it was as if the woman’s spirit came through to carefully weave each section together.
“There. You look beautiful.”
“Who am I?” she asked.
Loyal, her reflection replied. Whatever challenges you may face, you face them as a team. You’re a Phantom Thief not just in name, but in spirit as well.
She was still an artist. A student. A daughter, perhaps. She was a friend, girlfriend, sister. While these titles were indisputably important to her, they weren’t all of who she was.
Yusuke was both a lover and a fighter, and she wouldn’t deny either part the right to exist.
Lingering on her reflection a bit longer, she found herself… mildly intimidated by the girl staring back at her. Not even a year ago, she’d sooner have fought the Reaper than go out like this. Now, floral skirts and vibrant cardigans were treated as welcome additions to her wardrobe, and one final spin by the mirror confirmed she’d chosen the right combination that day.
Yusuke met up with Ann in the underground mall, where her friend had already locked on to a sale nearby. She set aside the first of many shopping bags to hug her.
“You look great! I knew that skirt was a good investment.”
“Ann! As radiant as ever, I see.” Yusuke pulled away, hands hovering over her shoulders. “I am forever indebted to your fashion expertise.”
“Pshh- that’s just what friends do for friends,” Ann replied, and whether it was her tinted shades or a heat rising to her cheeks, Yusuke couldn’t tell.
They walked, hand in hand, through the busy mall, a pastime she enjoyed just as much as leisurely strolls with Ryuji. Ann’s hands were smaller, softer than his, and she’d often give her friend a light squeeze when she saw something that sparked her interest. It was a familiar comfort to contrast the overwhelming hum of large crowds and fluorescent lights, steering her away from dissociation. Months later, even when she knew the answer was yes, Yusuke always asked for the honor of taking Ann’s hand.
As they made their way toward Body Chop, an older woman politely waved them down.
“Sorry to bother you, but could you point me in the direction of Rafflesia?”
“Totally!” Ann turned back the way they came. “From that intersection there, turn right.”
“Oh, thank you!” the woman beamed. “You ladies have a nice day!”
Ann continued walking, only to be stopped by Yusuke, who hadn’t moved an inch.
“You okay…?”
“‘You ladies have a nice day,’” Yusuke repeated. “She- she called me a lady.”
Ann gasped. “OMG! How did it feel?”
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and she didn’t try to hold them back. “It felt… incredible. No one beyond the people I’ve told has ever… and even around them, I’ve never… I’ve never been called a lady before.”
A comforting squeeze. Ann’s thumb brushed over the back of Yusuke’s hand, giving her all sorts of fuzzy thoughts. “Well, according to me, and y’know, I’m always right, you’re a very pretty lady.” She put on her poshest sounding voice. “Lady Yusuke~”
Pretty.
There was that word again. Only this time, it didn’t carry the same burden. Yusuke didn’t carry the same burden. She could hear it without the accompanying chime of Pavlov’s bell, and knew its purpose wasn’t to provoke her.
The former Phantom Thieves saw her for who she was, not who they wanted her to be. And even if she didn’t entirely believe it herself, she believed them when they said it.
*****
“Heeeyyy pretty-girl, whatcha drawin’?” Ryuji asked, slipping his arms around their waist. His chin slotted perfectly in the crook of their neck, something he took full advantage of every chance he got. “Wait, is that you?”
“I’ve been attempting a self-portrait,” Yusuke explained. “Not for an assignment, just… practice. A way of seeing myself in a different light.”
“Cool, cool. How’s it goin’ so far?”
“Awfully,” they huffed. “My nose is all wrong, my smile is crooked, and I cannot add my moles without them completely ruining my face.”
Ryuji shrugged. “I think it looks just like you.”
“That isn’t a compliment,” they replied dryly.
Yusuke motioned to cross out the entire page, but before charcoal could hit paper, Ryuji snatched the pencil from their hand.
“Wh- hey! What are you doing!?”
“Stoppin’ you from makin’ a mistake, duh.” He twirled the pencil between his fingers, and it promptly fell to the floor. “You’re bein’ way too hard on yourself, Yu.”
“I’m being realistic. I bear zero resemblance to that portrait.”
“Can I peep your reference photo?”
“I suppose.”
They passed Ryuji their phone, and he stared at the photo, then the drawing, then the photo again. “Mmm… still looks like you.”
“If this is your method of making me feel better—no offence, but you’re doing a rather poor job.” They set the sketchbook aside. “The last thing I want is to be compared to… that.”
Ryuji, evidently, had yet to be dissuaded. “Can I touch your face?”
They pondered the odd question for a moment, picking the pencil off the ground and (unsuccessfully) attempting a similar twirl. “I… suppose…?”
He reached out, and they leaned into his callused palms, shutting their eyes.
“Cute,” he whispered.
“I’m not understanding the point of this—” Upon reopening them, Yusuke was instantly captivated by Ryuji’s focused expression. They revised the precise shade of his irises in their mind. Not just umber; umber with drops of gold. Perhaps some orange, too.
“Gimme a sec…” He lightly pressed his thumbs against the sides of their nose, as if molding it from clay. Taking another look at the drawing, Ryuji nodded and said, “Yep, I’m right. You got your nose down pat.”
“How do you mean?”
“There’s a sorta curve to it. A little bump—riiight here.” He massaged the bridge, and Yusuke felt completely at ease. “‘S nice. You gotta nice nose.” They smiled softly at the soothing pressure, and he continued. “And your smile. Sometimes it’s crooked. I think I prefer when it’s crooked, actually. You always seem happier when it’s crooked.”
Ryuji was right. Yusuke knew how to smile inauthentically, often defaulting to subtle, thinly pressed lips even when they had no reason to hide. They’d gotten so used to surprise photos and conversations with strangers that, when their real friends finally came around, they were almost… afraid to show their teeth.
“I like your moles, too. You might say they, uh, ‘add character’. Plus,” he brought their face closer to his, “they show me exactly where to kiss you~”
They lay there together, touching, feeling, basking in each other’s company. Finding the features they once perceived as unappealing and showering them with love. The bend of Ryuji’s leg. The scars along Yusuke’s thighs. Hips too wide, shoulders too broad, faces asymmetrical.
Still beautiful.
“Ryuji?” Yusuke could sense he was starting to fade.
“Hwhuh…?”
“You’re beautiful.” They kissed the glow on his cheeks. “I cannot thank you enough for loving me in all my parts. I think I’m finally starting to love them as well.”
“Any time, pretty-girl,” he slurred. “Never thought I was that beautiful before you, either. But when you put things in that artsy perspective of yours, it’s hard not to believe you.”
Once they were certain he’d fallen asleep, Yusuke carefully reached for their sketchbook. They stared at the page they were so desperate to destroy, not feeling nearly as disgusted by it.
Makoto had a pronounced nose, and they enjoyed sketching her side profile the most. Futaba had a crooked smile, and it never failed to make everyone smile with her. Ryuji had too many freckles to count, though they were certainly up for the challenge.
They kept the portrait as it was.
*****
On her 19th birthday, Yusuke took some time to reflect.
The celebration was minimal, but not any less meaningful. Instead of inviting the friends who could attend, she decided to wait until they all could. Whether that be next week or next month, Yusuke looked forward to it.
She stayed over at Ryuji’s apartment the night prior, rising to an empty bed and a mouthwatering aroma drifting in from the kitchen. Her boyfriend soon returned with a tray of tea and confections, and suddenly Yusuke was wide awake.
“Got up extra early so I could be there when the bakery opened.” He set the tray on her lap, laughing as she immediately dug into a small slice of shortcake.
“The consistency is absolutely divine!” Yusuke polished it off with a satisfied hum, then went back to scrape the crumbs off her plate. “The perfect amount of filling, too!”
“Hell yeah! I knew I made the right choice.” He removed his jacket and sat beside her. “Happy birthday, Yu. I hope I can keep makin’ today special.”
“It already is.” She popped a strawberry in his mouth. “Growing up, I only wished to be loved. Now that my wish has been granted, I am content. No matter where I wake up or what I receive, I will always have love.”
“Stooop,” Ryuji groaned playfully. “You’re givin’ me too many ideas for what I should’ve written in your card.”
After they shared the rest of the confections—“Hey, these are all supposed to be yours!” “Respectfully, I cannot eat them on my own”— Yusuke changed into something warmer for their morning walk. It was a part of Ryuji’s routine that gradually became a part of hers as well, even on the days she didn’t spend the night.
They passed a few shops on their way to the trailhead, including the bakery Ryuji visited earlier. The line wasn’t too bad now, but that likely wouldn’t be true for long.
“I’m going to get another slice of shortcake,” Yusuke announced. “I cannot stop thinking about how delicious it was. Wait for me?”
“Sure.”
She stepped inside, cold cheeks tingling as they met the warmth of the bakery.
One of the employees waved from behind the counter. “I can help whoever’s next!”
“Ah, I would like…” She glanced up, and her mind went blank.
“What gives you the right to presume my emotions?”
“Because the fear in your eyes is the same as mine.”
“Yusuke…?” No other student ever called her by her first name. “You made it out…”
The boy was taller, though not by much. He had the arms of someone trained for kneading dough, and a sleeve of tattoos based on different famous art pieces. Despite the beard and piercings (which were even more numerous than Ryuji’s), Yusuke couldn’t mistake those eyes.
She noticed the tag on his shirt.
“Yuta”
Finally, Yusuke knew his name.