A/n: I've debated on this for a few weeks, but this is the conclusion to my Persona 5 series that started with "Ungrown Up", followed by "No Romance".

Please stay safe, healthy, and remember, #BlackLivesMatter.

Form of Habit

Bad Habit

Her hair was as long as it was in her youth.

The warmth of summer breezes danced against trees. It encouraged young men and women as they paraded down the street, cheerful for happy hour; perhaps interns.

Heels clicked; laughter rolled alongside summer breezes; heard through her windows. She listened while brushing her lengthy hair. It was time to dye it again, as she donned the carrot top color most of her life; darker strands showed at the root.

Futaba was exhausted, but Friday had rituals. It was the day of the week that demanded her best efforts. It didn't require her to work or cook, but to do the thing she struggled with every so often – socialize.

She stared into the mirror, with fully painted lips. She was unsure why she chose the color, but it tasted like cherry. The salesgirl in the mall insisted on it. "You'll be the most kissable," she wondered how many young women believed the lie. She purchased it, as she wanted to lie to herself.

She pinned up her hair into a messy updo. Her dark roots were to be hidden at all cost – unless her potential suitor earned the right to release her locks.

Friday.

It left her feeling empty, but became ritual, over time.

Since the departure of her former colleague, and her expulsion from the institute they both previously employed, Futaba often felt emptiness. It didn't take time to find new employment as many institutions coveted her research. Since the opportunity, she spent hours in labs and at her computer, ignoring the outside world. It was much like she did in her youth, with her heart, dark and broken beyond repair. Hours of work distracted from it - or so she hoped.

The affair that near ruined her career and the man shouldn't have loved.

Friday nights were for recovery. Futaba gathered courage and set out to find some new companionship, temporary as it may be. Seductive dress; dance; drinks she paid for because she could afford to. Her goal: meet a man and let the night decide their fate.

She pulled on a black dress without sleeves. The garment had an exposed back, which highlighted the nape of her slender neck. Her smoldering red heels commanded attention.

Underwear? No underwear? The decision had nothing to do with the arousal of a potential partner, but that she forgot her favorite pair at the last man's apartment.

Futaba stepped into the living room, coy, like in her history, before becoming an expert Phantom Thief. She met eyes with her roommate, Yusuke. The dark-haired artist sat on the sofa, reading. His hair had grown over the years, sitting past his shoulders in length. He had a half-up, half-down look, annoyed with hair touching his forehead while he read. Outside of brushing loose strands from his pale face, he did not move an inch, until their eyes met.

Being Yusuke's apartment was walking distance to her previous workplace, Futaba's occasional crashing turned into his offer of the room he previously used as a studio. His successes enabled him to buy an actual studio a few subways stops over, and a studio in Kyoto, which he leased out to another artist for supplemental income.

Though the two former Phantom Thieves were roommates, they also considered the other an unromantic life partner; their long-running joke. Well – it was funny to her. Yusuke made his feelings for Futaba evident. Both ignored his confession.

It was also a Friday ritual to ask Yusuke's opinion. He disapproved of her sexual freedom – not at all for what one would think – but because he feared Futaba wasn't emotionally equipped for empty sex. Though she had many partners, with the worst one – a married man – she had fallen hard, and he was right. She didn't take the end of the relationship well. Though much time passed, he still regretted being right.

"Hurry now, it's getting good. I'd prefer not to lose my train of –" Futaba was always beautiful to him, but at that moment he could not fathom words. He damned himself. He lost his place in the text.

Futaba had shown him many dresses. Many outfits, and many stylish heels, but for some reason – perhaps the enticing dance of summer – she made him feel the coldest of shivers up his spine. She was so beautiful it troubled him.

"You look," he faltered, "do you have to go?"

Futaba bit her cherry pouted lips. She asked Yusuke for his opinion because he understood art, and he understood manhood – whatever that meant to one as 'unique' as Yusuke.

"Does it look good?" She spoke of the dress, hoping to steer him away from the judgment of her – the person. Though she wanted to hear she looked good, Futaba settled for 'this looks good on you' instead. It was safe.

"Are you ignoring my question, like you ignore my blatant feelings?"

"How?"

"Each time you ask, how you look - when you plan to go meet other men - is that not clear disregard for my romantic feelings for you?" Her word choice made no difference. He knew her well; he knew what she meant; he always knew.

"We don't have that sort of relationship." She discouraged him.

"Yet you live here, knowing I won't ask you to leave, and knowing you don't plan on returning my affections. Is that not disregard?"

"What is your problem?"

"Friday night rituals will not make you feel better, Futaba. If it did, you wouldn't ask me for reassurance every time you left your room."

"You're an asshole." She meant it.

"You're an asshole!" He also meant it.

"I'm an asshole! Really?!"

"Yes! Because I'm in love with you and you throw it in my face, then ignore me. You're an asshole."

Futaba regretted opening her mouth. She knew he never chose her side. She should have known he'd fight her about what she thought was best for her. Who was he? Merely a jealous man. He didn't know the extent of her heartbreak and the depths of its broken state – rather – she pretended he could never know; never understand.

"Fuck you, Yusuke."

"Of course." He returned to his book. He suspected no good would come of her asking, and he was right. He hated being right.

Futaba grabbed her things. Her keys jingled as she made her way through the door with a slam. Yusuke groaned loudly. In fighting with her, he was wrong as well. He hated that too.

Futaba – with light beads of sweat building on the nape of her neck – waited on the train platform. She scrolled through social media posts about the next club to go. A young couple stood beside her and spoke loudly about their plans to visit a love motel. Both of them, a bit intoxicated.

Young men whistled as they walked past her; she unscathed. One man shouted, "hot stuff", and the young woman of the motel bound couple, pulled her boyfriend closer when she heard this. As the train arrived and people departed, Futaba remained in her spot. The whistler, the loudmouth, the motel couple and her transport had come and gone and she didn't move. Not once.

He laid in bed. He loathed seeing Futaba return drunk or worse – with another man to toss like an object. After the event - at a distance - he watched her unravel and decay, quietly while saving face. A face he loved as hard he tried not to.

Where did he get these feelings? It was unexpected and then overlooked; by him, especially. He tried to block every thought of when it could be, but more recently, he felt it when he looked at her in the kitchen.

Sakura-san and Akira stopped by for dinner, which they did every other month. Those nights, Futaba cooked, he stayed out late, to allow their blended family time to be just that. He returned a little earlier than usual but saw no guests. Futaba was in the kitchen alone. She ate rice - straight out of the rice cooker.

"Something wrong?" He inquired.

"They're not coming." She blew lightly on the hot grain, "Sojiro's sick so he's staying home. Akira got him soup."

"I see."

"I didn't check my phone until after I finished dinner. Now I have all this food and no one to eat with."

"I am pretty hungry."

"You're always pretty hungry." He smiled, "Grab a bowl."

They sat on the couch with their legs intertwined. Yusuke told Futaba about an artist he wanted to partner with for a presentation at his Almer Mater; Futaba told him of her cooking adventure and how she wished to have the meal with someone she loved. He was hurt then, realizing the pang in his chest came from being not being that person in her eyes. Though their knees knocked and they were so close together, he could smell her shampoo – she longed for another.

Suddenly, the air conditioner stopped blowing. He sat up in bed, a few minutes later, unable to fall asleep to the sounds of the laughter and merriment of Friday night youth. He grabbed the remote off the nightstand and pressed it. Nothing. He pressed it again. Still, nothing. He hoped it wasn't – but it was very possible.

"Fuck." He muttered and smacked his palm to his forehead.

The air conditioner was now broken. As if the night could get any worse. Properly fed up Yusuke searched his nightstand for one, lone cigarette. It was a dirty habit he picked up in his last relationship, that he promised he'd break. That was a year ago. He had yet to fulfill the promise.

He tried to do better. He didn't keep the cigarettes in the apartment, which placed him in this conundrum. He'd have to leave to go buy them.

As he slid on his slippers to head to the nearest convenience store, Yusuke reprimanded himself. He promised to quit smoking – failed. He promised himself he'd stop worrying about Futaba's love life – failure once again. She didn't love him. He failed to respect that; it was something that became more difficult as time went on. Outside of Haru, who took a break from dating, most of their friends were paired up; married, or committed.

Though he loved their happiness, he wanted the same things for himself. Not a casual partner for intimacy. Not only a successful career, passive income, and the extremely luxurious modern two bedrooms in the high-end boutique apartment building – with the broken air conditioner - more.

Not the late walks to get cigarettes and the ashes of Futaba's affections. He didn't want that either.

Did he? If it meant he could have something of her?

Yusuke opened the door to the apartment door and laid eyes on his angry roommate; her face red and wet with tears. When their eyes met, she hid her countenance and sobbed. He reached his arms out and pulled the woeful genius into the apartment. He held her. She was a bit taller with her heels, but she fitted perfectly into his chest. She clenched his t-shirt and he felt her hot tears on his skin.

"You're an asshole." She hardly made out through her sobs.

"I know." He let loose hair lose, and as it fell from its updo, he placed his hand on her head. Her tresses sat on her shoulders, giving a mane that matched her lion cries.

"I'm so fucking alone."

Yusuke thought deeply. She hurt him – countless times – but because he enabled and permitted her to. Why? It was because he wasn't strong enough to give up cigarettes entirely. He wasn't strong enough to give her up, either.

"Are you?" Futaba's cries ceased. She leaned away from his chest, keeping a grip on his shirt. Their eyes met again, but this time, his were like a void; as empty as she felt.

He was one line she never crossed. Yusuke was important to her – so she discouraged him. How would she recover if that relationship was to fail as well? She wouldn't. She believed that. But she was lonely.

She tip-toed to reach him, and he held her small face in his hands, bringing her close to him. Their lips crushed together. He would come to regret it, but he longed for her. In their youth, he had fought and grown alongside her. Loving her that much, that long was unbearable – to get nothing for it. He was desperate. Desperate for her every touch and desperate for that kiss.

Futaba was surprised kissing Yusuke felt natural. His lips were as soft as his features and had much-needed tenderness. Nothing about him dominated. Though Yusuke consistently stuck out and was noticeable, his touch was delicate – refreshing. The way he ran his fingers through her hair, and the politeness in which his tongue entered her mouth.

Why did she overlook him for so long?

No one reached either bedroom; her dress never came off; she had no underwear. Yusuke pulled her hair. She scratched at his back and cried out in pleasure. The laughter of the young partiers eager for Friday night never made it to their ears.

His dark hair stuck to his forehead. He moaned loud and often, and Futaba appreciated he was comfortable enough to vocalize his pleasure. He had no fear his moans compromised his masculinity, nor fear of feeling too good; no fear of losing himself to her.

The evening settled in.

She lay on his chest; her black dress loosely covered their exposed bodies. Yusuke found one lone cigarette in the kitchen junk drawer; he smoked. Pure silence. She committed to not uttering one word. She was afraid if she did – the void would return. The loneliness would materialize and suck her in. Yusuke contemplated. He wondered had he not capitalized on the moment if the opportunity would never come again.

"You're not alone. You have me, Futaba."

She hesitated, "You don't want this Yusuke. It's not right I use men – to fill the emptiness inside me. I've been so heartbroken since – well…"

"Use me. For anything. I'm here." His cigarette glowed in the dark, and moonlight graced his pale features. The artist became art itself.

Futaba pulled away from him. She felt guilt and confusion. Yusuke offered himself in such a way it would destroy any remnants of their friendship. She didn't want that, nor was it even the last thing she wanted.

"We shouldn't."

"I'm okay with it. I doubt I can have a successful relationship with anyone while we're living together. And if honest – I'm not going to ask you to leave."

"This isn't a relationship. It doesn't mean we'll be together. Are you okay with that?"

"I accept it. I'm not saying to be my girlfriend, I'm saying – I'm okay. It's fine if you use me."

"Why? You get so mad at me when I'm with other guys."

"I get mad because you hurt yourself. But if you use me, only I'll get hurt. I'm okay with that – if it's you."

What was he saying? Why subject himself to such abuse? Such pain and leave himself open to be trampled on. She couldn't hurt her friend. She feared she might lose him, but her insecurities superseded her kindness. She feared to have to continue drowning in the sadness that plagued her the past year. She did not want to be alone - again.

"Okay." Futaba removed the cigarette from his mouth. She kissed Yusuke, deeply.

He'd have anything she gave, even ashes.

A/n: I write this to keep my creative up. Please read and review.

~ Blankedty