Taking a break from Addressed to You. Actually, to be more precise, making sure I don't go into writer's block for it. (Onoes! D8) This is just my inner author and my inner artist banding together for something art-related. Enjoy~

Female protagonist is named Tachibana Mizuki like all my other ones.

Disclaimer: Persona 3, Persona 3 Portable, their characters and terms (c) Atlus

Worth a Thousand

April 15

"Hey, whatcha doing?"

Mizuki looked up from the paper in front of her to behold Yukari's curious gaze. A small smile spread across her face as she resumed her work.

"Nothing much."

"Is that a sketchbook? I didn't know you drew."

"No, I don't. Just sketches."

"Mind if I take a look?"

To this, the other girl simply gave another smile as she closed the book and headed to her room.

May 2

The others had learned by now that asking to see Mizuki's drawings was fruitless. Nonetheless, they would often try to sneak peeks as they walked past her, curious about what she could possibly want to capture onto paper. She hadn't seemed to use the sketchbook much, but today she seemed like she'd gotten a Muse or two in her.

September 3

She was at her sketchbook again. Even though it hadn't been a week since he joined, Ken had already learned that outright asking to see the products of her work would be turned down. Curious as he was about his new "leader", Shinjirou left her to her own devices. Like he'd said yesterday: she'd do her thing, and he'd do his. He wasn't about to go poking his nose into something that really didn't concern him.

Septermber 15

"Operation Sketch Reveal, commence! Robina, what is your position? Ow!"

"What is with you and your stupid nicknames?"

"PMS. Marked and logged. Boxingman, what about you?"

"How did I get dragged into this?"

". . . . Also PMS. Alright, that's cool, I can de- OW!"

Cradling his abused head, Junpei crouched with Yukari, Fuuka, and Akihiko outside the kitchen doors. Inside, Mizuki was there, spiral-bound book in hand and pencil scratching away at the paper. Yukari's angry expression was more because of Junpei's antics, but one could certainly tell that she was as curious as he was about the contents of that treasured book in their leader's hands. Akihiko was looking like he was thinking it was a bad idea to stalk the younger girl, while Fuuka just looked confused. Recovering (for the most part), the goofy junior glared at his classmate.

"Why'd you both hit me? I know you're dying to know what the heck is in that thing!"

"Shhhh! Keep your voice down, Stupei!" Yukari hissed. "This was your idea, so don't blow it like you do all your dumb ideas."

"Guys, let's just call it off . . ." their silver-haired senior mumbled.

"What the hell are you morons doing?"

The sudden sound of a gruff voice behind the spying group caused them all to jump. Yukari had to clamp her hands over her mouth to keep from squealing. Fuuka, being who she was, was the quickest to recover her voice.

"O-oh, Aragaki-senpai . . ."

"Spying on the leader? I can see it from you clowns." A scoff at his best friend's way. "But Aki, you too? I didn't think you stooped to their level."

"N-no, that's not it . . ." Akihiko began to defend his position.

"Ara? Why's everyone standing outside the kitchen?" The collective group (save for Shinjirou, who was already facing that direction) turned to see their leader behind them, head cocked inquisitively to one side. Four mouths opened to explain, but then her scarlet eyes had found the dark upperclassman and her lips had spread into an excited smile. "Oh, is Shinjirou-senpai planning to cook again? I wanna learn! C'mon, senpai, teach me!"

And looping an arm around his, she half-dragged a sputtering, protesting, not-at-all-pleased Shinjirou into the kitchen. The door closed behind them, leaving the little band of spies standing there looking . . . rather stupid.

October 11

She'd seemed completely normal in school. Still paid attention in class, still smiled and laughed with the classmates that flocked around her. But her friends could sense the falseness in her cheerfulness, hear the emptiness in her laughter, see the lack-lustre in her smiles. And the moment the weekend hit, she had locked herself away into her room and refused to come out. If someone pressed their ear to the door as they tried - unsuccessfully - to get the girl to eat something, anything, they would be able to hear the faint sounds of pencil against paper. Anyone could see that, despite her strength, Shinjirou's injuries and resulting coma had affected their seemingly unshakable leader the most. It was like watching a train wreck: one car after another crumpling the carriage in front of it until you were left with a twisted heap of scrap metal.

"She's a mess, Shinji," Akihiko told his comatose best friend on one of his visits. "She's just . . . God, it's so hard to watch her like this. She acts all fine at school, but the moment she comes home she just breaks down. Like someone just sucked her soul away."

December 3

"I'll be back on New Year's Eve . . ."

Ryouji's footsteps seemed to hold an ominous ring as he wordlessly strode from the room. All she could do was stare after him, her heart reaching out for him even despite the knowledge of his identity. The pain in his eyes . . . she wanted to wipe it away. Just like she wished someone could wipe away the pain that still ached in her.

"Damn it, Shinji, say something! Or wake up, will you?" Akihiko knew it was wrong to vent his confusion and frustration on his defenseless friend, but his emotions were roiling over. He couldn't bear to see their leader crumble so. "Mizuki's just not herself without you. You told me to look after girls; why aren't you looking after Mizuki then? She needs your help more than ever now . . . Damn it!"

December 25

Mizuki ignored the "No Visitors Allowed" sign like Akihiko had countless times before. Seated in the visitor chair, only the ticking of the clock and the constant rhythmic beep of the electrocardiogram breaking the silence, she held his hand, feeling his faint warmth. A small smile flickered on her lips.

"Merry Christmas, Shinji."

Leaning over, brushing her lips softly, tenderly, lovingly on his, giving him the only present he would ever receive that year.

Plip.

A droplet of liquid landed quietly on the unconscious man's cheek, quivering tentatively there before rolling off his face. More joined as the tears she thought she'd cried herself dry of surged back full force.

"Liar," she whispered.

January 31

A crushing surge of power, with such force that it winded her and brought her to her knees. She wanted to scream. Wanted to cry. But this power, like the fear of absolute death, was nothing in comparison to the pain of losing the one she loved. Shinji . . . if only you were here.

"Alright. Let's do this."

His voice, the love that filled it making it stand out from amongst the other voices of her friends. Blink. For a moment, Mizuki fancied he was standing behind her, one strong, warm arm wrapped around her waist, the other raised to hold her outstretched finger steady. Blink. He was gone, but the sensation of his support remained. A single tear slid down her cheek.

"Messiah! Great Seal!"

"Shinji . . . Thank you. I love you . . . always."

He pulled her petite body close, feeling the warmth of life slipping from her slender frame. His voice was rendered into a husky whisper from the emotion that overflowed into it.

"I'm glad . . . I met you."

Porcelain lids sliding closed over ruby eyes, soft, full lips curved delicately into a peaceful smile as Mizuki passed from the world she'd protected. As if to make up for all the tears she'd shed for him, his vision went blurry as he buried his face into her silky cinnamon hair that smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla and wept silently but bitterly.

Shinjirou couldn't remember his room looking this bleak. But then again, the moment Mizuki had left him behind, everything had seemed less vibrant. As if without the energetic, optimistic, bubbly, silly, courageous, compassionate, beautiful, loving girl that had saved it, the world had lost a portion of that positive energy that Mizuki had practically incarnated. Akihiko had told him that since that kid Ryouji's proclamation of the Fall, their late leader had taken to sleeping in the brunette man's room. She still kept everything in her own room, but his room seemed to be her place of escape, a place she would go to find solace from the pressures and pains of her reality.

He could see the imprint the wrinkles in his blankets made of her small sleeping form, curled up into a little ball. It looked like the way she escaped besides sleeping was sketching; there nestled on the bed was Mizuki's sketchbook. With no girl to protect it, he finally let his curiosity - a curiosity that had surfaced sometime in mid-September - get the better of him and he sat down on his bed, reaching over to snag the hardcover book. On the very first page was just a simple sentence, smack dab in the middle of the paper.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

He squinted slightly. It seemed she'd tacked on the "They say" at a later date; it was hard to tell, but he detected a slight difference in the way it was written. Well, it wasn't really important. Shinjirou flipped the page.

The contents afterward stunned him. Each and every page was filled with beautifully drawn sketches of the members of S.E.E.S., dating all the way back in mid-April - Akihiko had explained to him that that was shortly after Mizuki's Persona had awakened. The dates were all chronological, and Shinjirou could basically understand everything that the girl had experienced since her arrival in Iwatodai. There were pictures of her friends doing everyday things, of the Arcana Shadows she'd fought. One of his eyebrows shot into his bangs when he noted one of the sketches she'd drawn in early July; he'd have to make sure to ask Akihiko about that . . .

Then he hit the September sketches, and he was forced to do a double take. It had been that singular month he'd been with her, and she'd drawn almost daily. A vast majority of the sketches were of him: every date they'd gone on, the party, even a sketch of him when they'd spent the evening with him just making her blab about anything and everything. It was like that until very abruptly, the sketches stopped. And on a page that was crinkled and stained from what he realized were tears, were the words:

Why, Shinji?

A pang of guilt. If Akihiko's expression was anything to go by when he'd explained everything that his best friend had missed since falling into a coma, Mizuki had basically crashed and burned. Making a face, he quickly flicked through the subsequent pages, where other than the handful that depicted some important real life events, the fragmented but rather disturbing images of her nightmares - namely, nightmares of October fourth - haunted the paper much like it must have haunted her mind.

December seemed to be her turning point. There were less nightmares, but it seemed that never once did her heart or mind stray far from him. A visual memoir of seeing the decorations in Paulownia with Akihiko (damn it, now he owed the boxer one). A Christmas sketch of his comatose face. One of a guy who he could only assume was that "Ryouji", another of the group at the shrine for New Year's . . .

The pictures stopped abruptly after that. At least a quarter of the sketchbook wasn't filled, but as he made to close it, pencil marks at the back stopped him. Flipping it open again, he jerked to a stop as his dusk-brown eyes widened in disbelief.

But I know a person who is worth a thousand pictures.

On the next page was a meticulously drawn portrait of himself, not with the deep-set scowl that was a norm on his face, but with a gentle smile - a smile that he hadn't shown anyone but her. Hands now faintly trembling, he turned to the next one.

And it stopped him cold.

For on the smooth paper was a drawing of him and Mizuki standing close together, facing each other. She was using his hands to support herself on tiptoe, and their faces were so close that their lips were almost touching. Almost, but not quite. Her eyes were closed, and his were barely open, but the expressions on their graphite faces spoke volumes. Immediately his eyes flew to the bottom right hand of the page to check the date.

September second.

The day he finally rejoined S.E.E.S.

Shinijrou had always suspected that Mizuki had an incredibly sensitive intuition and sharp perception. In his interactions with her, and in the conversations he overheard between her and others, she'd always seemed to have a way of knowing exactly what to say, and when to say it. Of knowing exactly how those around her felt, and reacting accordingly. The man had always attributed this to her abilities as a Persona user and a leader; he didn't believe in psychic powers or stupid superstitions like that. But this . . . Had she truly loved him that much for that long? They'd only met twice before, and not for a substantial amount of time. They hadn't even spoken much to each other in those meetings. However, he couldn't possibly deny that her emotions had been very clearly portrayed in this singular piece.

The messages finally pieced themselves together. "'They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I know a person who's worth a thousand pictures', huh?" Shinjirou pulled his beanie over his eyes, and his smirk faltered a little. "Leave it to you to make such sappy things up. But damn it, Mizuki . . . If I'm worth a thousand, then you're worth a thousand more, you moron."

~Owari~