"Hey, Mom."
Did he ever say those words before? Ah. Probably not. Upon ensuring he's still more or less on his own and unlikely to be bothered by anyone, Yusuke sits on the ground, pulling his knees to his chest and flashing a shaky smile at the grave. In the warm air of early August evening, he feels cold. Amiss. Somewhat ridiculous, but he urges himself to go on.
"R-recently, I have become acquainted with girl whom I would like to call my friend one day. You — I, I wish I could say you would have been as fond of her as I am, but that may be an incorrect assumption, considering how little I know about your tastes." Yusuke lets out a huff of strained laughter, looping his arms around his bent legs.
"She's quite a peculiar one, this new associate of mine. At first, I sensed an aura of certain... abrasive fragility hailing from her, but, despite her horrid past, she has shed it and risen above the obstacles on her path to the truth and strength. And—"
Without any perceivable reason or warning, his articulation breaks, the carefully composed sequence of words he planned to say crumbling, falling apart, leaving him even more—
—more—
Damn it. Just yesterday, it all seemed so, so much easier, so less harrowing— and now— Now— Absolutely nothing makes sense now. Yusuke runs his trembling hand through his hair, unable to look up back at the tomb.
A small breeze glides, brief enough that it takes less than a minute for the tepid, humid air to resettle in its previous motionlessness. The world stays calm and still, gilded with the sun, yet Yusuke has the impression of being in a middle of a storm. In this melancholic quietude of summer's midpoint, he can almost feel the angry wind tugging on his limbs and swallowing each sound.
Do your words count if no one hears them?
And this fleeting observation shatters the fine stalemate; the fragments of pre-rehearsed speech realign enough to allow Yusuke to continue. He has to, he needs to— He continues, growing more and more worked up.
"And that brave girl was able to face her late mother— to converse with her—" he's fumbling, flustered by how he's wishing to vocalize every anxiety in a span of an infinitesimal moment "—and, Mom, I do know it's unsightly to the core, yet I cannot shake off the— the envy—!"
Yusuke cuts himself off, overwrought with the shame and fear (that he barely manages to internalize before getting even more hideous), and with quite a bit of — honest-to-god relief. There are, in the end, things he can't speak. They are processed, yes, apprised by Goemon's quiet presence and set free with slashes of watercolors and graphite, yet turning this darkness into words that vibrate in this air... Indeed. It's, to some extent, akin to a sip of black, bitter coffee, or executing a spirit-draining but successful move. Pain and pleasure, soothing and uncomfortable, all at once.
Apart from that, the only person at the cemetery is an old miss, about two hundred meters away. If Yusuke bears in mind to keep his voice down, no one will hear. It will count, but it will not at the same time. When blue and orange lights mix, all that emerges is white. His words will fall into this awaiting nothingness, like pebbles into a river stream, because no one is listening. Despite the foolish hopes, this doesn't feel like conversing with his mother. She does not exist anymore. He will never see her again, unlike Futaba could, and the childish twinge of being deceived should not persist any longer.
Yet it does.
"It's not fair," Yusuke says with great effort. "It's truly unjust. All of it. Your death which shouldn't have occurred this early. What Futaba was forced to endure. My pathetic jealousy." He pauses, waiting for the correct words to swim out of his mind's blackened pond. "At the very least, I'm aware of the last part, and that's why I came here, to visit you, to— confide in you. Because I cannot run away from such painful truths, not again."
A gaudy golden museum, teeming with pulsing portraits. Veins-like lines, crisscrossing walls of Mementos. What the so-called Sayuri held in her arms with reverie. And the smell of oil pigments, the rough feel of a paintbrush handle, creaking of canvas. Not everything demands to be watched. Tentatively, Yusuke closes his eyes and lets his head drop, until all he can view is black.
"I am an artist. It is my duty not to shy away from the purest veracity, but to depict its untainted form. For that very reason, I need to stay candid to how I perceive my experiences. This is why I— I hoped that speaking out loud of my faults would allow me to let go of them, and, bearing in mind the most recent ones are connected to you, I pondered talking to you—"
For the second time in five minutes, his throat closes, and all Yusuke can do is ride out the howling, noiseless wind. There's dampness at his cheeks, as if the rain of this internal storm broke through his skin's border. Or, perhaps, what remains of torrential rains has made its last appearance.
His mouth feels dry. Even with his friends, he doesn't speak this much. With such an amount of unfurling honesty.
"Talking to you," he picks up, his murmur so low he barely hears it, "for I dare not reveal my worries to my companions. I dread their judgement. You, however, cannot criticize me like that."
Because dead say no words, goes unspoken.
"Holding a grudge like that should not have happened," he says without any doubt. "Futaba did nothing wrong to me — and while this disgusting envy may not be unreasonable, I shall... I shall spare no effort resisting it."
Because I can't bare the image of anyone knowing of this stormy darkness , he doesn't say. But, ah, does it matter? In this summer solitariness, words voiced and unvoiced carry the same weight.
Another droplet of rain spills down his cheek. Yusuke opens his eyes, then looks up at the cloudless stretch of blue sky.
"I promise."
