Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ How to Save a Life ❯ How It Is: Chance. ( Chapter 5 )

How to Save a Life

 

PART 2 - - - HOW IT IS.

 

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The only way to feel again is to let love in.

- Goo Goo Dolls (Let Love In)

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November, 2016

 

Just a typical day.

 

Kissimmee Park was bustling with citizens of all different ages. The afternoon sky was pale gray - though not blearily so, as the sun still poked out from the clouds to brighten spirits. Snow fell at irregular intervals; currently flurries drifted down from the heavens, melting before they received the chance to touch the ground. The bare limbs of the trees creaked as the wind blew gently against them.

 

A tall, slender form stood on the shaded sidewalk, one hand buried into the left-side pocket of a designer black coat while the other gripped a piping hot cup of coffee. A stylish mop of hair swished to and fro with each graceful step of the figure - a young man, no older than twenty-nine.

Under the flickering city streetlights the flawless, sun-kissed skin of his face shimmered. His cropped hair, however, was a startling contrast to his beautifully natural skin shade and the mixture quite a sight to be hold - for it was extremely light. Blonde, though not exactly blonde - for it was certainly not a shade that could simply be bought in a tube.

 

The tone was a sand color; the sort of sand that basked endlessly in the proud Egyptian sunlight. And when the sun hit it at just the right angle it shimmered like the finest quality gold. Cut stylishly in thin, face-framing layers and glimmering in the afternoon sunlight, any passerby could easily tell the man took great care in keeping the tresses healthy.

Even more spectacular than his hair were the man's eyes. An unnaturally beautiful amethyst color sprouted like a morning sunburst from the iris and slowly faded into a pool of lilac. Able to penetrate a soul with even the slightest of glances, the twin orbs seemed to intoxicate everything and everyone they landed on. They stood out even bolder (as if the color alone was not enough) thanks to an intriguing kohl pattern jutting outwards from the lateral tip of each eye. The eye paint swooped out darkly and then dented back in slightly - hiding from the world one of his many secrets, scars from his childhood.

 

His cheekbones were genuinely high and sharp, forming his face in the perfect shape that wealthy people across the world paid thousands of dollars in order to attain. They were tinted prettily with the chilly wind's touch, slightly rosy even with that gorgeously bronzed skin covering his handsome face. Firm full lips pursed slightly, evidence that many deep thoughts occupied the man's mind.

His shoulders and torso, clad in a crimson sweater under the thick and long black coat, were broad and muscular - indicating a fit and healthy body lay underneath the garments. Moving downward, a leather belt peeked out from the hem of the sweater to hold up a pair of khaki cargo pants. An expensive-looking pair of black motorcycle boots prodded boldly out from the pants as he shuffled down the street absentmindedly, looking about the park and taking in the first signs of winter.

Still lost in his musings, the young man lifted the neglected (yet still steaming) cup of coffee to his lips and took a savoring sip. Almost immediately afterwards, a pink tongue shyly poked out and ran smoothly across his lips to wipe away the evidence of the caramel macchiato before retreating back into that luscious mouth again.

 

He nodded politely at two young women making their way past him. They paused to stare at him as he continued to walk, both blushing furiously at the privilege of being granted attention from the god-like man. The waved weakly at his retreating back before hurrying along their way, whispering excitedly to one another.

 

Malik Ishtar was perfect.

 

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You smile, hiding behind a God-given face.

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Just a typical day.

 

Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary - at least, not for the slim figure briskly making its way down the street. The figure was male, but could easily be mistaken for the opposite gender due to the natural curvature of his body. His perfectly tapered waist only served in accentuating his hips, which were already wider than the hips of a typical man.

 

Long legs covered by a tight black fabric moved hurriedly back and forth, taking the boy - he must have been a boy, judging by the youthfully round shape of his face - where he needed to be on that chilly day. The pants revealed his legs as almost unnaturally slim, similarly to the way the disgustingly overlarge sweatshirt obviously concealed his emaciated torso and arms.

 

His skin was pale, almost deathly so, but anyone who asked received the response that the color was what the boy had been blessed - or cursed, depending on the viewpoint - with at birth. This fairness only made him seem more feminine, and almost unreal - more porcelain, fragile, youthful, like a divine goddess of some unknown religion.

 

The boy's face appeared healthy, even if the rest of his body did not. Youthfully round, as stated before, with traces of baby fat still evident. His cheeks were aglow with a pretty blush thanks to the nip in the air, and his dark chocolate eyes reflected the multicolored Christmas lights decorating the surrounding trees and buildings as he passed them. Thin, petal-pink lips gently parted, releasing a puff of white air every few seconds as he breathed.

 

Crowning his head was a halo of silky-soft silver-white hair, which blended in perfectly with the falling snow around him. The colorless locks framed his face angelically - making him seem even more ethereal - and touched down to the center of his back.

 

Though he looked perfect, Ryou Bakura, in many ways, was anything but that.

 

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And you stand there - a frozen light in dark and empty streets.

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Just a typical day at work.

 

Copy orders, run them back to the kitchens. Serve the food; make small-talk with the customers - smile at their jokes, their pathetic attempts at flirting. The same routine as always.

 

“May I help you?”

 

“What can I get for you?”

 

“What's exciting at the bar that I can offer?”

 

Giggle at their stories, blush at their compliments - but do not overindulge.

 

Ryou memorized it long ago.

 

He'd been working at the upscale Italian bistro for almost a year now - hired right away; the boss said he was a natural people person. He received a decent pay, thanks to the generous tips of his happy customers. He liked his job and, furthermore, he liked the restaurant; it was one of the nicer places he employed himself in quite some time.

 

On this particular night, business teetered on the slower end of the spectrum (season would not start for another week or so) but the restaurant remained alive enough to keep him constantly moving. Back and forth he traveled from the kitchen to the center dining room, serving his assigned tables - twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-six, twenty-eight, thirty, thirty-two - and mopping up spilled drinks whenever the busboy happened to disappear on `break'.

 

His current consumers ranged from an easy-to-please elderly couple and kind-hearted single mother and her two children to a shameless trio of teenagers (one boy, his girlfriend, and another girl) who each took every available opportunity to hit on him. His shift ended in twenty minutes (eight-thirty) leaving him an hour to get to his next workplace and change into his uniform.

 

“Hey, Ry” - the addressed waiter shuddered (as he typically did) at the abbreviation, earning a puzzled glance from his co-worker - “Something's wrong with one of the meals at twenty-two. They asked me to get you.”

 

Ryou turned his head to glimpse the aforementioned table, seeing the single mother waiting patiently. He sighed and nodded. “Thanks Dane,” he replied, slinging the black tray under his arm and sauntering over to twenty-two. He mustered his best smile as he reached the table. “How is everyone so far? Good?”

 

“Actually,” the woman started, “I ordered this pasta with no mushrooms. And as you can see” - she paused to gesture towards her plate to indicate the problem - mushrooms which were not supposed to be there.

 

Petal-pink lips pursed apologetically. “I'm terribly sorry about that, my lady. Pardon my reach,” he said, taking her plate. “I'll just take that back to the kitchens. They'll make you a new one.”

 

“Sorry... I know it must be an inconvenience on you.”

 

Ryou flashed a winning smile, almost swearing that she turned her head in order to hide a blush. “Don't you worry about it; it's no inconvenience. My customers deserve the very best - I won't settle for anything less than that for them.”

 

She laughed softly. “You're too sweet.”

 

“You're flattering me.” Ryou looked over to the kitchens. “I'll be back soon with your mushroom-less meal. My apologies for the mistake.”

 

Again she chuckled. “Not a problem.”

 

Ryou let his façade slip slightly as he turned his back on her and made his way back over to the kitchen. Chocolate-brown eyes darted to the nearest clock. Ten minutes left.

 

Upon reaching the kitchen, Ryou delivered the bowl, explaining the problem to one of the chefs - who nodded in understanding and set to work on preparing another dish. From there Ryou went to pick up the next set of meals for one of his tables - the group of teenagers. He balanced the three plates on the black tray, setting the side of the tray opposite of his opened palm on his shoulder, and made his way into the dining room to deliver.

 

As he began to walk away he glanced behind him for a moment, thinking he heard a familiar voice, and blinked when he saw someone he both recognized and, at the same time, did not recognize.

 

Standing near the door of the kitchens, shaking hands with the restaurant manager, was a tall, dark-skinned male appearing no older than twenty-eight. Silken locks of bleach-blonde hair framed his face, cropped to his shoulders.

 

At first, the white-skinned male thought it was a one-time customer from his otherjob. But then he caught sight of the maybe-not-a-stranger's eyes.

 

Angled lavender orbs took in the kitchen atmosphere, and underneath each eye there was a distinct kohl-lined scar.

 

Ryou felt his knees go weak.

 

No way.

 

It couldn't be.

 

No! Nonononono!

 

It just... couldn't be.

 

But it was. Malik Ishtar was shaking hands with the manager.

 

Ryou tripped over his own feet, loosing his footing and crashing into the waitress in front of him - sending three plates of food crashing to the ground around them and landing the white-haired man on top of the poor girl.

 

Several people gasped and rushed over to help pick up the mess. Ryou declined the arm offered to help him up, standing on his own. His mocha orbs immediately found Malik's lilac ones, and he swallowed hard as he noticed a look of recognition cross the Egyptian's still-handsome features. And then, to his horror, Malik excused himself and began making his way over to the waiter.

 

Panicking, Ryou did the only thing he could think of - run. Run away.

 

He quickly turned on his heal, ignoring the mess he had caused, and sprinted away from the scene. He could have sworn he heard a masculine voice calling out his name, telling him to wait, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. There was no way he was ready. Even after all these years he was still incapable of facing Malik Ishtar. After all the heartache, the indignity, and the misery the Egyptian put him through there was just no way in Hell Ryou could handle seeing him - speaking with him - after such a long and inexcusable absence.

 

Several moments later found the waiter locked in the handicap stall of the men's restroom with a wad of toilet paper compressed tightly in his fist. Tears poured from the corners of his eyes, sluicing down his face; his nose began to run as loud cries tore from his lips. Memories flooded his mind - memories he tried so, so hard to repress throughout the years.

 

Why?

 

He sniffed, raising his hand to his face and blowing his nose into the crumpled toilet paper.

 

Why am I crying so hard? I hate him...

 

Wiping fiercely at his eyes, Ryou attempted to take control of his breathing - failing miserably in the end.

 

What have I done to deserve this?

 

Despite his retching sobs, Ryou still managed to overhear the sound of the bathroom door swinging open. Heavy shoes - boots, most likely - thumped across the tile. Ryou sucked in his breath, not daring to make a sound in hopes of keeping the new arrival oblivious to his presence there.

 

The room was silent. And then:

 

“...Ryou,” a low, masculine voice said hesitantly.

 

The white-haired man bowed his head, more tears escaping his clenched eyes.

 

Why me? Oh, God... Why are you punishing me?

 

“Ryou?” Malik tried again, his concerned voice echoing through the bathroom.

 

Ryou dropped his makeshift tissues, curling his fingers into his hair and shaking his head back and forth slowly, trying to convince himself that this was not happening - it was merely his imagination playing a cruel joke on him; Malik Ishtar was not standing outside the bathroom stall, calling his name, after all these years.

 

Malik Ishtar didn't care enough to seek him out. Didn't care enough... to love him. Malik Ishtar left him - left him without a word, without a reason, without a second thought.

 

Malik Ishtar... Ryou Bakura did not - could not - love Malik Ishtar.

 

I hate you...

 

I hate you...

 

I hate you.

 

“I know you're in here.”

 

Ryou sniffed and took a deep, shuddering breath. Head still bowed, eyes still closed, he mustered up his courage to reply. “G-go... Go away.”

 

“Come on, Ry...”

 

At the nickname, Ryou flinched and felt his throat tightening - a precursor of the upcoming onslaught of tears.

 

He was closer now.

 

Cracking his eyes open slightly, the waiter spotted black boots beneath the cutoff of the stall door and he gave another small cry, twisting his hands in his colorless hair.

 

“Go away,” he repeated, voice a little firmer than the last time, yet still wavering. “Please, for the love of God... l-leave me alone.”

 

The bathroom was silent for a few moments, with the exception of the whimpers and cries Ryou fought so hard to subdue.

 

Malik sighed loudly and the door of the handicap stall creaked under the weight of his body as he leaned against it heavily.

 

“Don't be like this...”

 

The tears ceased their running and chocolate-brown orbs opened wide in surprise. Ryou swallowed the lump in his throat, feeling anger bubble over the sorrow.

 

How dare he? Really - how dare he?

 

After all he had done to him, Malik Ishtar actually had the gall to accuse (albeit indirectly) Ryou of overreacting. Well Ryou believed he had every right to overreact and demand the Egyptian leave him be, considering the circumstances of their relationship's end.

 

Waking up to an empty bed... just a note taped to the door. Impersonal... as if Malik wasn't even sorry. As if Malik didn't care at all... And he didn't. Did he? He never did... How could he have done that if he cared - if he loved him?

 

Ryou had every right to cry - to scream, yell, curse. He had the right to feel contempt, resentment, and hatred toward Malik Ishtar. If he wanted to ignore the Egyptian's presence altogether, he could; he had every damn reason to.

 

In his mind, Ryou sometimes found himself mulling over what he would do if he ever ran into his ex-lover. If he ever saw Malik again... sometimes he pictured what the situation would be like. And in his mind he always pictured himself landing a punch right on the Egyptian's perfect face - and it would feel so, so good when, as he held his throbbing fist and watched the skin around one of those perfect lilac eyes darken with a bruise, he screamed what exactly Malik Ishtar should do with himself.

 

Lying bastard... go to Hell!

 

And now, now that he had the opportunity to live that fantasy, he could not bring himself to even move. The rage boiled inside of him, urging him to do something, yet he could not even rise from the toilet seat.

 

“I hate hearing you cry... I've always hated it.”

 

Ryou begged himself not to fall victim to the line. Malik Ishtar was a charmer - always had been and always would be; knew the right things to say to touch a person's heart so their defenses would fall. But not this time. No, no... Never again would Ryou fall for those lies.

 

Then why do you always make me cry?

 

“Ryou... please... Come on.”

 

...Do you know? I gave up my whole life.

 

Gathering his strength, Ryou shakily rose to his feet; he's knees wobbled uncertainly underneath his dead weight. Slowly he moved to the door, leaning against it, his forehead pressed against the painted wood. From the way Malik's feet were positioned, one could tell he was standing the same way. One of Ryou's trembling hands moved to rest against the door, over where he guessed Malik's hand rested on the opposite side; he could swear he felt the familiar warmth of Malik's hand in his own.

 

“Ryou...”

 

Could Malik feel it, too? Their hands...

 

...For what? For what?

 

Overcome by a sudden urge that he couldn't explain, Ryou suddenly stepped back and unlocked the door. It swung open and revealed a handsome, well-built blonde man who looked so different from and so much similar to the one from the whitenette's memories. The past came back to life, Ryou's heart beating irregularly fast, as the Egyptian took a step forward.

 

...For you.

 

Without thinking, the pale-skinned waiter launched himself into the dark arms he'd missed for so long. Fresh tears spilled from his red-rimmed eyes as he clung to the other man, burying his face in the long neck. A pair of strong arms circled around his waist and Malik Ishtar said not a word as the smaller sobbed his heart out.

 

...Do you know? I never stopped loving you.