Out of all the people in their niche little group, Inari was the easiest to get annoyed at. He was so stupid! He didn’t get things, or he made such-- such aggravating remarks! Futaba seriously didn’t get how Akira could just sit there and talk to the stupid fox-face, have an actual conversation with him and enjoy it.
“It’s easy,” he’d said when she asked in so many words, the clacking of dishes their only company. “Yusuke’s not so bad, Futaba, just strange sometimes.” He grins a little, using the back of his hand to brush his bangs that really need a good cutting out of his eyes as he looks over at her. “Some people could say the same about you.”
“Yeah, well, he’s way more weird than I am. Who goes out in heavy rain just for art? He’s lucky he’s so stupid.”
Akira’s laugh is sputtering and he dries his hands, leaning on the counter in front of her. “Not stupid enough. Do you want to come with me over to the dorms? I’m bringing some of Boss’s curry.”
Futaba’s about to make some remark about why would she want to go see Inari, but she snaps her mouth shut and grins, nodding. He’d be a totally pitiful sight! She could definitely get one over on him!
She’s in charge of holding the precious cargo on their way to Kosei’s dorms, Akira standing in front of her seat to keep her from harm, and she keeps an eye on the people around them, eavesdropping in. There’s talks here and there about the Phantom Thieves, but it’s not anything interesting; a sale on clothes, a group of kids chattering about some King guy she thinks might be the same one their leader learned some moves to stop that cheater guy with, what movies were playing... Atlantic Cusp sounded interesting, anyway, but who wouldn’t be excited by robots versus aliens?!
When they arrive, when they find out his room number and are given access to it as friends, Futaba notes a few things: all artists are strange. She’s pretty sure not all of them are actually artists, because one of the girls Akira’d mentioned before is a shogi player, but she doesn’t care enough to look into it. Another thing is that Inari’s room is a mess with different supplies cast about in some artistic rage, maybe, but she steps through them as easily as she had her own room before it’d gotten cleaned up by the spirits or whatever. The final thing is that somehow, Inari is even paler than usual, and she pokes his cheek experimentally until his hand weakly slaps hers away and one eye slides open, looking surprised to see her until Akira comes into view too.
“Ah, so that’s how you came.”
“I can go places on my own too!” Wait. “And I didn’t ask to come along, Akira invited me. I wanted to see how sick you were.”
She’s sure it’s clear from her tone that there’s no worry involved, that she’d come to have teasing material and stuff, but Inari’s response is simply a word of gratitude for thinking about him, as unusual as that was for her, and Futaba crouches at the end of his bed, irritated.
He and Akira talk about this and that. Inari gets scolded for not taking care of himself, but in the next moment the question of inspiration comes up and along with it the answer of a telling hum. All for nothing, huh. Sickness suited him. The curry’s received well (Inari always liked free food, and Sojiro’s was the best around) and Akira glances at her for a moment before excusing himself to the bathroom, his apology either ignored in favor of food or accepted in spite of Inari’s chowing down.
“And then there were two,” she mutters under her breath, turning her position to face Inari and hug her legs. Being without Akira was... still kind of frightening, honestly, it tenses her muscles despite her heart wanting to be brave, but it’s more fine with the rest of the team than with a buncha strangers.
Still hard to make conversation though.
... Something tells her that Akira’s gonna take the scenic route, too, and Futaba scrolls through her phone, thumb lightning fast as she types replies on forums and checks in with the group chat. Nothing. Boooring.
“Outstanding as always,” Inari’s voice breaks the silence and he sets the container of curry aside, now empty of its contents. There looks to be some more color to his cheeks now, even if his eyes have the tell-tale signs of being out of it, and Futaba’s heart swells with pride at Sojiro’s cooking.
“Of course! There’s nothing that curry can’t fix. Thooough one bowl probably isn’t gonna do it, so you’d better be prepared for Akira to mother hen you all better.”
Inari’s eyes close and he hums happily, hands clasping habitually as they rest on his lap. “I don’t believe I would mind that. Sen... Madarame,” he corrects his stumble, “left that sort of behavior in the past. I’m rather used to taking care of myself.”
“Wow, that’s a surprise, Mr. Sick.”
“I was just unlucky today.”
“Guess the gods aren’t always on your side, Inari, too bad.”
Though apparently Inari brought rain wherever he went anyway, like a true fox spirit. Silence settles on them and the gentle patter of rain begins on the window, only proving the previous sentiment right.
“You didn’t bring umbrellas with you, did you?” He asks, already knowing the answer from the lack of any around. “It’d be bad if you two got sick,” Akira moreso, probably, “so please, stay until the rain’s finished.”
“Not my call! But sure, I don’t really feel like getting drenched on the way back anyway.”
And before the quiet gets too settled this time, Futaba spots a magazine on a miraculously free part of his table and crosses the room to snatch it, picking through it and catching sight of a familiar name.
“You’re in here!”
“Yes, for my piece that won an exhibit recently.” Inari’s too pleased, but Futaba nods and studies the piece that sat near the article with it. The dark reds and blacks reminded her a lot of Mementos, but the white that stretched like octopus tentacles from the center out...
She won’t ever claim to understand art or even try, it’s totally beyond her, but Inari’s piece rings with something in her and she clutches the magazine in one hand as she travels to crouch at his side instead. He moves a bit to accompany her and takes the magazine when she offers it.
“What’s with the big splotch in the middle?”
“That is the other part of humanity’s desires -- while the background shows the twisted desires mankind has in their hearts, the white shows the bright part of it. The shining light that casts away doubt and draws people to it.” There’s a pause, Inari’s eyes flicking to the door and then back to the page. “Our leader resembles it, wouldn’t you agree?”
Akira, a shining light that casts away doubt and draws people to a bright future. That looks into the depths of mankind’s desires and dares to reach into the distortions to find something worth saving. Futaba chews on her nail out of habit (and one that Inari clearly doesn’t approve of, from the look on his face) and she can see it, yeah. Even if that guy’s name didn’t mean what it did... Akira’s just that kind of person.
“Soooo you used him for inspiration? And the background’s Mementos.”
“Right on both accounts.” Inari smiles lightly. “It would seem you’re not as uncultured as I thought.”
She growls softly in her throat and snatches a piece of his stupid hair to tug sharply. “Shut your yipping down, Inari!”
Neither of them notice the door opening, neither of them hear Akira slip in, and they’re debating culture in terms of artistic and internet value (Futaba’s definitely got a leg up in this, since memes are an artform and Inari can’t dispute this after she shows him some on her phone) when he finally speaks up, smile wide. “Easy, isn’t it?”
“What’s easy?” Inari asks, but Futaba knows what he means and gives a shrug, climbing off the bed and holding onto the magazine tightly.
“He’s feeling better, the rain’s let up, so let’s go home, Akira! And stop by Akibahara on the way, there’s a new game I reaaally want to buy that’ll recover my HP by like, a whole bar.”
“Sure.” Akira pats her head idly and she jerks away, heart thumping loudly as it had the first time she’d asked him, before he goes back to Inari’s side and presses the back of his hand to his forehead thoughtfully. “... I’ll be by tomorrow to see how you are too. Do you need anything?”
“You needn’t bother, Akira, I will be fine on my own from here on.” Futaba almost calls him out on his words before, how he wouldn’t have minded being mother henned, but something keeps her quiet. “If I worsen any, I will let you and the others know, but I believe that I’m well on my way to recovery.”
“If you’re sure.” Chances are, Akira’ll come anyway, just saying he was in the neighborhood or something. Futaba thinks she might tag along again. “Take it easy. We’re not going into Mementos until you’re better, but don’t rush your recovery.”
“Understood. Please be safe on the way home, you two.” Inari pauses, then glances at Futaba. She stares back, trying to decide if she should straighten or hunch more at the intensity despite his illness. “Futaba, I’d like it if you could see the piece itself. A photograph doesn’t capture the true meaning behind it.”
“I’ll consider your offer, Inari, but only if you bring something tasty as tribute.”
Akira covers his laugh with a cough, gesturing to the door. “We should be going. Take care, Yusuke.”
“Bye-bye, foxy!”
He nods to them both and lays back down, face cast towards the window. Futaba steps backwards and turns on her heel, following Akira out into the hallway.
... Go see his piece for real, huh. Couldn’t be that different than a picture.