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“Sumi! Sumiii, look!” Futaba gestured with one hand, flapping with the other, “Uwaaa, it’s the best part! Look, it’s the final showdown!”
You rubbed your eyes, looking over at the computer monitor. You were sitting on Futaba’s bed, legs stretched out and hair spilling over her sheets. She’d swivelled her chair to show the screen to you; on it, her chosen party was confronting the big bad in a void. You’d managed to look up in time to see the cat animatronic speak.
Even if we can't get everything back to normal! We should be able to protect what's most important!, the text read. “It’s so good, isn’t it?!” She said, obviously struggling to stay in her seat, “I mean, it’s the culmination of everything! Everyone’s coming together to take back the future!”
“Sounds familiar,” You joked, watching as the seven-winged angel turned her party members into frogs. Futaba groaned and flipped through menus; the items weren’t labelled, but she seemed to know what they all did, anyway. You didn’t understand how, but it wasn’t that different from how Joker seemed to know every single Persona’s name. Maybe it’s a navigator thing, and his is because he’s a wild card.
“Yeah, it kinda hits harder now,” She muttered, clicking through screens and speeding through attack animations so quickly you couldn’t read them. Deciding that she’d call on you when something happened, you turned back to the open notebook in front of you. Picking up your pencil, you returned to glaring at choreography sketches.
The clicking of buttons and the heaving breathing of a stimming Futaba fade into background noise as you draw up concepts. You’re still not used to doing things like this alone, and ordinarily, you’d welcome her company; she’s a good friend, and she always makes you feel better.
You glance over. But, well…
You’re not very well versed in video games and their culture. Kasumi had liked some of them, and you’d played Pokemon, but neither of you had ever really liked them enough to play them together. You had fond memories of Pokemon Sapphire, yes, but you’d never done anything besides trade some Pokemon once or twice, and once you’d grown up a bit your Gameboy Advance had been left to gather dust. It now sat charging on Futaba’s desk, waiting for her to ‘homebrew’ it, whatever that meant. You were aware enough, from Phantom Thieves group chats and nights spent screaming in frustration at Joker’s CRTV, that games were generally shared. Futaba had invited you here with the promise of playing games, and then sat down and did it herself.
It’s true that you’re not very interested in RPGs, especially old ones like this -- everything looks so similar, and the mechanics are so mean that it sucks the fun out of it. However, the story looked good, but you hadn’t really been paying attention; it was clear that she just wanted company, after all, even if she kept on calling to you to look at certain scenes.
Sometimes, you couldn’t understand her at all. You didn’t understand anyone most of the time, but Futaba always seemed so open that moments like these left you struggling. Maybe I can ask Joker or Akechi about it -- they’re the same as her, right?
“Duh duh duh duh duh da da daa!” Futaba’s victory cry interrupts your thoughts, and you return to looking at the monitor. The angel burst into light, fading away into the swirling purple clouds. As the battle screen faded away and the final cutscene played, you watched Futaba’s face as she spoke, “Mwehehe, everyone says Cait Sith is the worst party member, but his Breaks are good one you get used to them! Legendary scene time!”
The two rivals faced off in a fated showdown -- there was just one problem. “Why is that one shirtless?”
“Tits out for the apocalypse,” Futaba replied, grinning. The protagonist used an attack that reminded you of Vorpal Blade, and it faded away into an animated scene. Turning to you, she asked, “So, what do you think of Fantasy Finale 7? ”
“Um,” You scrambled to collect your thoughts, “It was really good! You looked like you were having fun.”
She stared at you; when you didn’t say anymore, she turned away. “Alright,” she said, clicking off the game to her cluttered desktop, “It’s getting kind of late.”
You grab your phone and turn it on; the display reads 10:54 pm . “Oh, wow, it is. I’d better get going!” You get up and gather your things, grabbing your school bag from its place beside her bed and putting them inside, “Thank you for today!”
“No problem,” She says, fiddling with the keyboard. Waving, you exit her room and head for the front door. You make it to the last train, and you attribute the roiling in your stomach to the swaying of the train. Nothing is wrong, after all.
Sumire Yoshizawa: Hi! Do you wanna hang out again sometime??
Sumire Yoshizawa: I had a lot of fun last time!
Futaba Sakura: no thank you sorry
Futaba Sakura: im not feeling up to it
Sumire Yoshizawa: Thts okay! Take your time
Sumire Yoshizawa: that’s*
Futaba Sakura: thanks
Something is wrong.
Futaba was always texting you -- well, she texted everyone incessantly, but especially you. Except she’d just stopped without any warning; your messages went unread, and no matter how many more invites you typed out, you never had the courage to send them. The silence was discouraging, and that lurking worry led you to where you are now; standing outside Leblanc, hoping to talk to Sojiro. Not Futaba, because if everything is fine you don’t want her to think you’re a worrywart. Maybe she’s just had a week-long migraine, or a really bad flu. That’s definitely it, but it’s important to check; your teacher was always hounding you about including sources in your reports, after all, and you’ve been working on your flaws.
Clutching your bag’s handles, you go to knock on the door; emphasis on the go to , because the moment you raised your arm, it swung open. Your fist smacked into Akira’s chest, and you blinked at each other.
“Sumire! Were you gonna knock?” Morgana calls over his shoulder, poking his head out of his bag. You nod, clasping your hands in front of you. Am I blushing?
“...This is a cafe.” Akira says, smiling. Oh, you are definitely blushing. He chuckles, “It’s okay, I forget, too. Sometimes I knock on the roof of Akechi’s dumpster.”
“Eh? His what ?”
“Akira! Quit joking around! We’re gonna be late!” Morgana took a swipe at his head. You scrambled to get out of the way, and he waved as he stepped past, breaking into a jog as he rushed down the lazy streets of Yongen-jaya. You’d never thought you’d see a human-turned-cat yelling go, go, go, go at a notorious criminal, but the Phantom Thieves always find new ways to surprise you. Shaking your head fondly, you step inside of Leblanc.
It’s the same as always; a modified copy of Sayuri on the wall, empty save for Sojiro Sakura manning the counter. A soft melody plays on loop from an unobtrusive speaker, and the TV plays a cheesy game show at low volume. Sojiro raises his head from his newspaper, looking at you. “Oh, Yoshizawa. Welcome.”
“Th-thank you for having me,” You stammer, going and taking a seat at the counter, “Um, there’s something I want to talk about? If it’s okay.”
He sighs, shaking his head, “It’s always okay. You kids deal with too much already, it’s the least I can do to listen.”
“That’s very kind of you, thank you,” You can see him going to open his mouth, and decide to be rude just this once, “It’s about Futaba. Is she okay?”
“She’s been fine. What makes you think she isn’t?” His tone was serious, and you did your best to ignore the quivering in your knees.
“She’s… oh, it’s silly,” You pull your ponytail over your shoulder, running your fingers through it, “She normally texts me a lot during the day, but for the past week, she hasn’t talked to me at all. I’m worried about her.”
“Ah,” He says, and nods, “Did anything happen before she stopped talking?”
“She was playing a game while I was over. That was it.”
“ She was playing a game? Not we were playing together?” He raises an eyebrow, “That’s not how she phrased it to me.”
Your stomach sinks, “Y-yes, that’s… that’s what happened. I’m sorry, I should…” You make to leave, but he reaches over the counter and puts his hand on your shoulder. You look into his eyes; he shakes his head and then sighs.
You brace yourself for a stern talking to. “You like coffee, kid?”
“...Eh?” Your brain stutters and then starts again, “Um, it’s okay if it’s got some sugar in it!”
He steps to the complicated devices that you’ve seen Akira use before, fiddling with them. “Alright, Yoshizawa, you’re a smart kid, so I’m going to be blunt here: you know Futaba’s autistic, right?”
“Um. Yes?” You blink. What does that have to do with anything? “It’s why she flaps her arms and doesn’t like crowds much, right?”
“Yes, and partially.” The machine whirrs, and he raises his voice to compensate, “That last bit’s more complicated, but put simply , yes. Autism is a neurodevelopmental disorder, which means it’s of the brain and it happened during development. She can’t change herself or how it affects her, and it changes how she sees social situations. You understand that?”
“Yes, that’s why she struggles to talk sometimes, right?” He nods, and places a cup under the nozzle. You continue, “It’s also why she doesn’t like to look anyone in the eye.”
He drops some sugar cubes into the mug, swirls it with a spoon, and then slides it across the counter to you. Using your sleeves to cover your palms, you grab the mug and blow on it. You take a sip; “It tastes wonderful,” you say honestly, placing it down gently.
“That’s not all that it does,” He scratches the back of his neck, sighs, and continues to speak, “One of the less talked about parts of autism is special interests. It’s something that they kind of… obsess over. They need to know everything about it, and tell everyone about it.”
Oh. You go to speak, but he raises his hand and shakes his head, “No, let me finish. Futaba… after her mother died, I wasn’t able to take her in right away. The people who took her in didn’t treat her right. The rest is her story to tell, but specifically, they didn’t treat her the way you should treat an autistic kid. It took her months before she told me her favourite food.”
“Oh,” You breathe, “Oh my God. I’m the worst.”
“You’re really not, you’re just a kid. There are worse things you could have done. But from what she’s told me, she was trying to hang out with you in her own way. It’s hard for people like her to share, or talk to people. It’s enough to just sit with her for a couple of hours. Sometimes she just sits with me while I do the taxes, and that’s our family time.”
“I feel like shit ,” You put your head in your hands and moaned, “I don’t know anything about games, and I thought she was just trying to… ugh, I don’t know. I was stupid. How do I make it up to her?”
“I’m not her. I don’t know what she wants from you,” He gestured in the direction of the Sakura household, “That’s a question better directed at her, but I get that you kids can be anxious. It’s up to you what to do, and I’m here to support you. Just know that if you hurt her intentionally, I won’t ever forgive you.”
You hop down from the stool, grabbing your bag off of the floor and yell, “Yes, Boss, understood, Boss! Thank you so much, Boss! I’m eternally in your debt!” as you sprint for, and out, the entrance to Leblanc.
“Wait! You didn’t finish your--”
You don’t look back; you’ve got an apology to make.
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The Sakura household loomed over you, representative of your failure as a friend. Its shadow fell over you as you stood on the doorstep, notebook in hand. Despite the chill, you held your head high and didn’t hesitate when you knocked.
It was silent for a moment, and you prayed that your book wouldn’t be soaked through with sweat. The door opened a crack, creaking like a Shadow’s dying scream. Through the gap, you can see Futaba; her glare pierces through you, but you don’t waver. You’ve got this.
“Why are you here?” She asks, voice shaking.
“I came to apologise.”
“Why didn’t you do that on Friday?” She snaps, throwing you. “I know you talked to Sojiro at Leblanc. Why didn’t you come and apologise then?”
“I-- did he tell you? What?” I’ve just stumbled, that’s all; this show isn’t over yet.
Futaba blinked, and then opened the door wider, “Wait, hold on. Did nobody tell you about the bugs in Leblanc?”
“The what in Leblanc?!”
“Oh, I’ve had Leblanc bugged for a while,” She shrugged, “It’s how I found out about the Phantom Thieves. But you not knowing doesn’t excuse you not saying sorry! You had the chance!”
She goes to slam the door, but you jam your foot in the door, taking the pain and yelling, “Wait, hear me out!”
Glaring, she opened the door. You didn’t dare enter; you stood upon the threshold, her just beyond it, separated by a thin piece of wood and your own obliviousness. You offer the notebook over to her, “That’s all my thoughts on FF7. I downloaded Mist, bought it and spent all weekend playing it. The fact that I didn’t pay attention to what you were trying to tell me was my fault, and I’m sorry. I want to be a better friend to you, and that means being better.”
She reaches over and takes the book, opening it. She looks up at you, eyebrows raised, “This is gymnastics choreography.”
“Turn the page!” You laugh, “And I know you take things literally sometimes, so -- I’m trying to reach out. We both kinda suck at this.”
She snorts, and then steps aside, “Alright, probation. No more implying things anymore, gotcha. You’d think I wasn’t the autistic one here.”
You step over the threshold, taking off your shoes while Futaba closes the door behind you, “I dunno, there’s no age cap on a diagnosis. Either way, wanna play some games?”
“Only if you teach me how to cartwheel,” She grins, clutching the notebook to her chest; you walk to her room together, side by side.