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The end to Yusuke’s career as a phantom thief comes and goes without much fanfare. They say their goodbyes; spring break concludes; the next semester starts, a little lonelier than the last.
In truth, he had anticipated that the return to isolation would feel suffocating. While he’d long since developed a tolerance—even a taste—for solitude, that was before he’d experienced true companionship. One can’t miss the light of the sun without a glance of its rays, and now memories of it burn in his heart.
But such fears went unfounded.
While his friends are indeed busy pursuing their futures, the end of phantom thievery by no means meant the end of their camaraderie. His phone never goes too long without an update, or a joke, or a check-in from someone in the group chat; he visits LeBlanc, occasionally meeting up with those who remain in Tokyo; he still has their summer road trip to look forward to. All that to say: there’s nothing to worry about.
Thus assured by the strength of their bonds, Yusuke turns his attention towards far more important matters. Now that his obligations no longer include the fate of society and existence at large, he has an abundance of free time to more acutely develop his career as an artist.
His experience in this realm is at once extensive and severely limited. As Madarame’s former pupil, Yusuke’s work has been submitted to many prestigious art competitions; he’s even won several of them. Madarame had a knack for intuiting what would appeal to certain judges (though it’s always possible that his appeal may have been bribery).
Regardless, all of Yusuke’s own endeavors had been dependent on Madarame’s direction—where to submit, what to submit, and what to withhold for Madarame’s use—leaving Yusuke ignorant of the logistics involved in such matters. His proficiency had been limited to rubbing elbows with his former teacher’s associates.
Kawanabe ends up being a great source of unsolicited help in rectifying this, alerting him to resources that collect open calls for art. Yusuke spends hours meticulously combing through each entry. How could he not? For the first time since childhood, he has the freedom to present his own work (especially his best work) without reservation. No need to conceal his own skill, his own name for the sake of appeasing, or protecting, or elevating his former teacher! He can pursue his own artistic independence without abandon! As well as, to a lesser extent, a little prestige and maybe some degree of financial compensation. The latter two being lamentably necessary to survive as an artist.
So filled with passion and inspiration, Yusuke’s sure he’ll be preparing for a show by the end of the week! Except… an issue arises.
Which show?
Competitions are most familiar to Yusuke, and provide the opportunity for significant gains in reputation and funds. But, juried exhibitions may be more beneficial for establishing his presence in local art institutions. And, should he submit to a show with a general theme? A specific theme? No theme at all? Should he decide on what he wants to paint, then find a show that matches his idea? Or should he create his work based on where he’ll submit it? Should he prioritize commercial or non-profit galleries? How much should he focus on attracting and establishing future patrons?
As Yusuke finds himself paralyzed in this wretched state, his ambitions follow suit, and he comes to face a regrettably familiar foe:
Art Block
He should’ve known; when abandoned by the fickle whims of inspiration, freedom becomes less of a boon, more of a shackle.
In usual circumstances, Yusuke is no stranger to finding beauty in the mundane; the ability to do so is an important part of being an artist. However… his current surroundings prove quite the challenge. It’s difficult to find anything particularly striking about sunlight splayed across dull concrete, or lackluster hues of an artificial pool, or worn plastic crates on the verge of collapse. Rather inelegant compared to the idyllic reputation fishing tends to have.
“Dude.”
Even the sparse scattering of people, ostensibly here for recreation, seem more listless than relaxed. Much of the crowd consists of older gentlemen with rather traditional fishing gear: a hat of some sort to shade their eyes from the sun, practical vests in beiges and browns, and empty buckets all bereft of fish. Not that a bucket full of fish would be a terribly exciting prospect; aesthetics aside, the greatest disappointment had been discovering that the fish caught wouldn’t be brought home. Not even a prize to claim (or dinner to enjoy) for their efforts. Start to finish, a pointless endeavor.
“Dude,” Ryuji says, bumping his shoulder against Yusuke. “Stop gettin’ distracted—you’ll miss out on the fish.”
And with that reminder, Yusuke turns his attention back towards still waters and a slack line. “I'm not convinced there are fish to catch,” he retorts.
As if to punish his admittedly petulant tone, an older gentleman across from them jerks his rod and, with an expert swipe of his net, scoops up his prey: a rather impressive looking carp. His timing couldn't be worse.
Ryuji fails to disguise his laugh as a cough.
“…Convinced yet?”
Yusuke huffs out an irate breath, his ire mainly directed at his own irritation. Recursive in the worst of ways. He takes another breath, slower, deeper, so that the full release might take some of his petulance with it. Not all, but some. Enough to acknowledge that it would be remiss of him to spoil the limited time he has with Ryuji. It’s much more rare to see him since he moved; they only have Golden Week before he’ll be once again consumed by his busy schedule of rehabilitation and conditioning and track meets.
Yusuke offers an olive branch and admits, "I'm afraid I haven’t been in the right mind to enjoy your company.”
“You've been kinda grumpy, but no need to get dramatic.” This time, Ryuji rests his shoulder against Yusuke’s, a reassuring weight accompanied by an easy grin. “What's got you so sour? Art troubles?”
“In a sense.” The label of ‘art troubles’ doesn’t capture the full extent of what plagues Yusuke, but then again, what would? This stagnation, this paralysis is an all-consuming, devastating state to endure; it’s also a state he cycles through with regrettable frequency. Sometimes within the hour.
Yusuke’s main confidant used to be Akira, but the topic of ‘art troubles’ is difficult to approach when not face-to-face. In fact, it’s been quite some time since he’s had the opportunity to speak on it.
“There are times art seems to be as natural as breathing,” Yusuke starts, “and times art is as arduous as drawing blood from a stone. Unfortunately at the moment, it's more of the latter, and I’m struggling with the infinite possibilities, the directions I could go in.” A sardonic laugh escapes him. “Doubt and discord, while beautiful in their own right, can still spin the soul into chaos.”
“…I think I get it. It’s kinda like gettin’ psyched out at the starting line, yeah?”
Crouched low, knuckles against the rough surface of the track, back arched in anticipation—! But if that first step were to falter, ending the race before it truly had a chance to begin, an intolerable betrayal of one’s own efforts and ambitions… the analogue seems reasonably appropriate.
As they stare out at the surface of the water, the light liquid purl from the filter fills the air between them. It’s almost hypnotic in its constancy.
“At the moment… I find myself blind to what I know exists in the world around me.” Dulled, perhaps. “The flowers still bloom, vibrant as ever, and yet I find myself indifferent to them.”
It’s not a sentiment Yusuke’s used to voicing so completely. He doesn’t do it often. He’ll lament and moan about being abandoned by the gods of art easily enough, but articulating the extent to which he abandons his eye for beauty is… difficult to face. Reserved for discerning ears.
“Damn. That’s heavy.”
Discerning ears and an unrefined mouth, in this case. But, Ryuji’s frank assessment does startle a laugh out of Yusuke. It is, indeed, quite heavy.
“I think you’re way too in your own head about it,” Ryuji continues. “It’s like with fishing. The whole trick is not to think!”
Unlike Ryuji’s earlier analogy, this one is a complete non sequitur. On the surface, at least. While there was once a time Yusuke would’ve been content to dismiss Ryuji as hopelessly artless, that time has long since passed, and Yusuke’s curious as to where exactly Ryuji’s going with this. So he asks, “What?”
Ryuji clears his throat. With an inflection that clearly telegraphs the delivery of an impression, he says: “Don't think, feel!”
Yusuke doesn’t get the reference. “The feeling is also part of the issue.”
“Then… I dunno, don't do either? Just be?” With a shrug, Ryuji leans back, one hand propped up on the edge of his crate as the other holds the fishing rod in a rather blithe grip. He clearly isn’t expecting a bite anytime soon. “Well, whether you do or don’t, it's not like the world’s changed on you.”
And he’s right.
From all the times Yusuke’s experienced this very same dilemma, he’s always known that fighting against an artistic slump further deepens it into a chasm. But, as much as he struggles, his struggle begins and ends with himself.
“Woah, Yusuke!”
Even though he can’t see it at this moment, there’s beauty in the way sunlight softens the concrete. In the way the surface of the water ripples in a gentle motion, revealing only the suggestion of fish silhouetted beneath. And the crates… worn with time and use, aren't they a testament to the hours dedicated to a pastime that demands extraordinary patience?
“Yusuke!?
And it’s reassuring to remember that he doesn’t have to fight himself to rediscover what indelibly exists. The world, unconcerned with such affairs, remains as it is for however long he takes to open his eyes once again to it—
“Yusuke!!” Ryuji yells, smacking him repeatedly on the shoulder. “You got one!”
Yusuke’s rod yanks forward and, caught by surprise, Yusuke nearly loses his grip on it. He pitches forward to regain his hold—! Which results in him flailing precariously over the edge of the pool.
Ryuji valiantly grabs for Yusuke. Despite their best efforts to avert cruel fate, the two of them fall into the water.
Yusuke ends up painting a fish. Suspended in the air and curved majestically, a splash of water ellipses around its point of exit. Its grandiose figure—outlined by light that glances off iridescent scales—takes up nearly the entire width of the meter-long canvas. Below the body of the fish and above the surface of the water lies a distant horizon of concrete, which is dotted by splashes of color (barely recognizable as plastic crates). The painting, mostly for his own amusement, is titled ‘Freedom’.
He submits his piece to a small gallery limited to local artists, the only requirement for submission being a piece not previously exhibited (along with a modest fee). A casual environment soliciting whatever draws an artist’s discerning eye—it’s perfect for debuting what he had captured that day.
Yusuke doesn’t net first place, but he does reel in a tidy sum from an award granted by one of the judges.
