*** STOP: Don't read this yet. This is actually a fanfic of another fanfic (yes, I have dragged the fandom down to the level of fanficing other fanfiction. I'm not apologizing.) The lovely Miss Macabre Grey wrote a Angstshipping story called, Copacetic, that broke my heart. I mean, come on, vegetarian pasta bake with no mention what-so-ever of sundried tomatoes in EVOO, or tofu-cashew ricotta, or even a nice Italian-style tempeh sausage crumble? I can't have that, so I kicked Ryo out of the vegetarian fandom. Okay, okay, I was sad for other reasons, but I don't want to put spoilers in this AN, so just go and read Copacetic and then come back and read this. This story works as a independent piece; however, a lot of the imagery and symbolism pays homage to the original story, so I think you'll appreciate both stories more if you read them together. And now a word from our sponsors . . . ***

***I, Grey, give full rights for this cool kid to write away.

Sit's way too cool for me, guys. I bet her babies pop out as masters of the English language. She certainly took my fanfic and made an even more epic fanfic from it (but you do have to read mine to fully love hers).***

I never did get a chance to try the bacon. I reached for it, wanting it, both to see if it'd be better than the rest of breakfast and to see how it'd disappoint me, but just as my hand stretched out, my stomach lurched and turned. My body, going so long surviving off of Marik for substance instead of actual nutrition, could not longer handle the grease, or tough, dense fibers of muscle in the meat. I dropped a twenty on the table, enough for the bill and a tip, and ran out of the restaurant, tears blurring my vision.

Once home, I pushed the door open, forgetting to close it, and ran straight for the toilet. I made it in time to flush my breakfast. The sausage spices burned the back of my throat and tongue on their way back up; they melded with the faint taste of maple from the ham. I watched it all spiral down into the sewers along with any happiness I'd ever known. After rinsing my mouth, I stumbled around the apartment, aimless, not sure what I should be doing. Why should I go to work if I couldn't go home and cook Marik dinner? Why should I straighten up the apartment if Marik wasn't going to come home and notice? Why did he leave me for someone else?

I still loved him, so why wasn't I good enough?

The steel trash bin caught the corner of my eye. I ambled towards it, reaching down and fishing the ten, jagged, crumpled squares of note out of the trash. Sitting on the kitchen tiles, I rearranged the pieces like a puzzle and read the hateful letter over and over. The other night, he'd wanted to have sex, but I insisted we ate dinner first – I should have dropped on the bed right away, let him know I still needed him. I shouldn't have played that RPG. He shouldn't have had to find me in the living room. I should have been more passionate . . . but how could I when he barely touched me? When every move he made was stiff and distant? How was I suppose to know he needed comfort when he never talked to me? The thoughts circled in my head, my fault, his fault, my fault, and each time I read the pieces of letter, tears would push down my cheeks. I fell asleep on the kitchen floor, tears soaking into the scraps of paper. When I blinked my eyes back open, I realized I smeared the ink on the paper from the salt water, and that the front door still stood wide open.

Good, I thought, maybe if I leave it open Marik will come back. He doesn't have his keys anymore, so it has to stay open.

The phone rang and I jumped to my feet, sprinting and reaching it before the third ring. "Marik?" I asked into the receiver.

"Ryo, are you okay? You hung up on me the other day and haven't answered since, and your shop is closed."

I cringed at Yugi's voice. Every sound that wasn't Marik's voice was a grating, screeching noise. "Yugi, it's a bad time right now. Can I call you back in a few days?"

"Please, just tell me what's wrong. I'm worried."

I didn't want to tell him. I wanted to leave the phone line open in case Marik tried calling, even if I knew he wouldn't. Despite my unwillingness to speak, a sob chocked from my throat, and I heard myself saying, "Marik left." I was crying again, surly I should have shriveled into a raisin by now, or a least a dried, dead mummy laying in a sarcophagus. The latter was the better metaphor because I felt dead, dead with my heart hooked out of my chest and placed in a jar to be seen but not actually functional.

"I'm coming over."

"No," I cried.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Yugi, don't," but he didn't hear me. He'd already hung up the phone and I did the same.

I shut the front door, but didn't lock it, and when I heard them knock I shouted for them to come in. I knew it'd be them and not just Yugi. He didn't do anything without Anzu. She ran into the room and scooped me up into a hug.

A plastic bag dangled from her left wrist and she reached inside and pulled out a pint of ice cream – Ben and Jerry's Karamel Sutra."Who needs a boyfriend when you have this, right?"

I tried to smile, but wanted to scream that I did. I needed Marik. The golden caramel in the center of the ice cream reminded me of the color of Marik's skin and I could only taste the cold when I took a polite bite. The only thing that ever tasted sweet was Marik's kisses and I'd never again get to run my tongue along the familiar bends and turns of his mouth that I had come to know so well.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Yugi asked.

I shook my head no, using the spoon in my mouth as an excuse not to speak.

"I know it hurts now, but don't worry. You'll find someone better."

I knew Anzu wanted to be nice, but I wanted her to shut up. She had Yugi, and he'd never leave or get kissed by another girl and then forget that he ever loved her. At that moment, I hated my friends. I hated them for being happy when I felt as if I'd been stabbed by a Ring Wraith. My heart felt like a cruel, cold wound that would never heal.

They were good friends, and I really did love them even when I hated them. They spent the night, keeping me company, forcing me to watch comedy movies so I'd remember I was still capable of laughing. They even took turns looking over the Magic Shop for me so I could take a week to sit in my pajamas and feel sorry for myself. Which is what I did, re-reading Marik's goodbye letter twenty-thousand times and thinking of twenty-thousand different scenarios in which I could have done better and kept him.

Nevertheless, time is indifferent. It didn't care about my pain, hot blue veins of searing electricity that sliced through my bloodstream. It kept ticking past minutes and days and weeks with the patience that carved canyons out of mountains. After enough of it flooded past me, that pain started to ebb, or rather I grew numb to it. That's how I felt, numb, the wound didn't heal. I merely became a wraith myself, an undead ghoul that went about my day smiling when I should and working when I should and eating when I should (chicken with carrots and asparagus, chili with beans, tomatoes, and shredded pot roast, pork chops with apple chutney, wild rice, and salad).

Every time I ate meat I felt like I cheated on Marik, though it was a little late for that; however, I did feel physically better for it. My hair grew longer and thicker, my nail beds looked rosy and healthy, the purple shadows lining my eyes disappeared. I stood in front of my stove, two quarter pound burgers sizzling in a cast iron skillet, cheddar cheese on top, beads of condensation sweating along the boarder as the square cheese melted against the round patties.

A funny thought hit me at that moment.

Hope Marik's new boyfriend doesn't like burgers.

Would my replacement give up meat for Marik? Would he cook Marik macaroni and cheese from scratch because Marik thinks the boxed kind tastes like oil and card board? Probably not. Does he even try, or does he tear into meat right there at the table? Does Marik stare at the floor while beef juice dribbles down his new lover's chin? Does he taste it when they kiss? Well, Fuck them both.

I felt good at that moment. That night at dinner, I ate my cheeseburgers without guilt. When I finished, I found Marik's letter – I kept trying to throw it away only to dig it out of the trash again – and I burned it.

It wasn't that easy. Some days I'd wake up and realize the bed was empty and feel all the loneliness and betrayal as if it were seconds old, but more and more, in the spaces between missing him, I felt happy. Happiness by my own will without Marik lingering to ruin my moments. The feeling was better than the taste of bacon, hot and crisp out of the skillet. I went on a few dates with boys that caught my eye, but nothing came from them. There was no connection, no common ground, no spark of life, so I let them go, content to spend evenings in my living room with dice for company. Marik's letter complained that I hadn't change enough over the years, but why should I? I liked my magic shop and board games and filet mignon, wrapped in bacon served with avocado, and nights curled on my couch reading Stephen King and Poppy Z Brite, or watching horror movies on Netflix.

Today is my birthday and, coincidentally, Labor Day. September 2nd, I'm thirty-three years old. It's hard not to think about Marik, with so many years of us spending this day together. My memories are bitter-sweet. Jonouchi and Honda want to drag me to a strip club, but I lied and said I already have a date – the thought of some girl with a fake tan, hair long and blonde like Marik's, giving me a lap dance really doesn't seem like a good way to celebrate. It's five o'clock, and I'm sitting behind the counter of my magic shop shuffling tarot cards and asking questions. I keep getting the World card, the Lovers, and Death (which isn't a bad card, though so many people think it is). No, Death is about change, a transformation to something better. It's a good card. I smile every time I flip it over. I put my cards back in their satchel and on the shelf where they belong. I'm closing early, using Labor Day as an excuse, but the real reason is my birthday. Just because I don't want cigarette smoke and silicon in my face, doesn't mean I'm going to sit and mope all evening long. I decide to treat myself to a nice dinner. Maybe it's a little dumb, going out by myself, but I want someone else to do the cooking and wash the dishes for a change.

I drive home and shower, my hair up in a bun so I don't have to bother with the hassle of drying it. Afterward, I dress in a pair of dark washed jeans and a bright, turquoise colored, button-up shirt. I lean closer to the mirror to look at my face, trying to picture wrinkles that aren't there, and at least I don't have to worry about my hair going white. Actually, getting older doesn't bother me. How could it? I feel healthier now than I have in years.

Glancing online, I find a nice steak house with good reviews. I am not spending thirty bucks on my birthday for subpar service or food. I get in my car and drive. I think about walking in case I want to drink beer - the restaurant is only two blocks from my apartment - but decide against it. Inside the restaurant, the hostess shows me to a table and takes my drink order, bringing water and lemonade a moment later. The staff smiles as they walk about, but there's a sense of lethargy below the friendly surface. It's Labor Day; everyone else is enjoying barbeque outside, but they're stuck in a restaurant, working without hope of good tips because the building is near empty. I feel guilty for being there. Propping my chin up, I think perhaps I should have stayed home with a pint of ice cream.

I look at my menu, but I don't really need to; I know exactly what I want. I'm still staring at the menu when the waiter asks if I'm ready to order. I only see his mid-section out of the corner of my eye, my face still hidden behind the menu. White, button-up shirt, black slacks, the standard uniform for a steak house. A small, black rectangle of apron hangs from his waist. I order a t-bone (medium-rare because it's just so right) baked potato, and steamed broccoli. Do I want at least one beer? It is my birthday. I can't decide. I blame the fact that I haven't been out to eat at a nice place in years.

"Do you want A1?"

I'm still lost in my thoughts, frowning at their menu's lack of darker beer options (I'm so done with blondes, even in my beverages, brunettes all the way from now on). The waiter's question catches me off guard. I snort and say, "No, are you kidding me?" It isn't until I hear myself speak that I realize I'm being rude. I drop the menu away from my face, feeling like an asshole. "I mean, no, thank you."

Fixing my statement sounds worse somehow, but I hear him chuckle. I glance up at my waiter, seeing his face for the first time. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I know I should be breathing, but I can't seem to manage it. His skin is dark honey still dripping from the comb over a frame of sinew, and his thick muscles earned by real use. His hair is straw spun into gold hashed around his head in a sloppy mess of spikes and cow licks. I think that maybe I'm not done with blondes after all because God damn, he's gorgeous.

He's scribbling my order, smile pushing thick lips wide against his face. "You're the first customer I've ever had that knows how to eat a steak. Usually everything is well done and covered in steak sauce. Or worse, ketchup." Despite trying to seem professional, he visibly winces at the thought of other customers.

"No, they don't." I slap the menu on the table. "I mean, ketchup? Really?"

"Yes," he answers a touch of excitement leaks past the neutral-but-friendly-customer-service veneer that all food service workers wear. "I want to tell them no. Go to a diner and get french fries if you want ketchup, but, you know, that probably wouldn't help my tips."

"It'd still be tempting."

"It is."

A pause stretches between us, and I want something to say. Something witty and impressive that will bring that smile back to his lips and give him an excuse to stay at my table for a moment longer. Of course, my mind is blank. I'm not witty or impressive, so he steps back from my table. He fidgets with his pen. "I'll put in your order." He takes my menu and walks away.

I bet he has a girlfriend, maybe three. He probably played football in high school and beat nerds like me up for fun. I sigh, missing my menu. It gave me something to do with my hands and attention. I check my pockets and find one of my dice bag. I'm surprised I didn't lose it in the wash, it wouldn't be the first time. I pull out various dice and toss a jade-green twenty sided one. It lands on thirteen. Figures, that's my luck. I roll again, eight, fourteen, six, twelve, eleven, three, one.

"What do you play?"

I almost fling the die to the floor; instead, it drops on the table. I look up and see my waiter with a pitcher of water in his hand. I shrug. "A little bit of everything."

He fills my glass. "I try to play, but it's hard to gather enough people. Even when we do, it seems like something happens and we never finish a campaign."

"I have the same problem. All my friends are into cards."

"Everyone's into cards these days, but there's more freedom with rpg's."

"I know exactly what you mean!" I can't let him leave. I have to keep the conversation going. Something. Anything. But all I say is, "So, you . . . like rpg's?"

He scratches the back of his hair, a sheepish grin on his face. "Yeah."

I can tell he's about to leave again. Damn it, Ryo, think of something better to say. I take a drink of my lemonade, my mouth dry.

"Well, your order should be ready in a few minutes. I'll make sure those jerks in the back don't overcook it since you're not going to drown it in ketchup."

"On the count of three," I blurt the words out my mouth, hardly aware of them. "Say your favorite table-top rpg."

It works. He stops from walking away. "Okay."

"One. Two. Three."

We say it at the same time, Monster World.We both pause from our words, almost as if we wounded each other with the unexpected similarity. Then we laugh, so loud that the other waitresses scowl at us. Shit, he's working, and I'm going to get him in trouble. I need to shut-up and let him do his job. I stare at the table and tilt the die from left to right with my pointer finger.

"Yeah . . . your steak. Those cooks don't know the difference between medium-rare and medium-well, so I better check it."

"Thank you," I mutter, almost too quiet for him to hear me.

He brings my food to me a few minutes later. I smile. I try to seem excited about the steak, and it does smell good, and the juice wells up around the bone, little glints of melted fat catching the light and gleaming, but my stomach is in exactly thirty-seven knots, and I don't know how I'm going to eat dinner. I start with the broccoli. It's steamed right, yielding to the teeth but not mushy. Then I attempt to eat the potato, that I leave half finished on my plate. It's time for the steak, I cut into it and the rich red color of the meat welcomes my eyes. The meat's tender, like a first kiss. Like my first kiss, lying on Marik's college dorm bed with his weight nestled comfortably and perfectly on my belly and between my legs. Fire Starter played on his TV beside us. He rented it because I mentioned I liked Stephen King. I have trouble swallowing. I hadn't felt this hurt in a long time. It's like I'm back in the little family restaurant on that first morning, chewing on sausage, tears salting my egg yolks.

My waiter's back, filling my water glass although it's only an inch from topped. "It's perfect." I smile. I'm incredibly good at faking happy. I do it for my friends. I did it for Marik.

"Good." The water spills a touch from the over-filled glass, as if shedding the tears I can't.

He glances around, the restaurant is still near empty, but maybe he was making sure his manager wasn't watching. "Favorite job class?"

"White Wizard. You?"

"Diabolist."

"Alignment?"

"Lawful evil. You?"

I smile. This time it's real. "Chaotic good. Looks like we're complete opposites."

"They say those attract." His dark, velvet eyes go wide, the expression on his face suggesting that he hadn't meant to say his sentence out loud. "Uh, you need a refill." He grabs my lemonade and vanishes.

I make myself eat the steak, every succulent bite, but, oh, how I wish my nerves would calm down a bit so I didn't feel a little sick with each swallow. He brings back more lemonade. I try to take a few sips, just enough to show an effort.

He brings the ticket, and I must be losing my mind because his cheeks almost look rosy, even through his honeyed complexion. He grabs my plate as leaves again. I stare at the ticket, a generic, lined slip of paper reading Hello, my name is Kek, and I'll be your cashier. Everything printed in faded, business-blue ink, except the name Kek which is hand written in bold, careless penmanship and black sharpie. I stick my debit card into the long, rectangular, black folder, and leave it at the edge of the table.

His name is Kek? I realize we never gave names, but I guess that wouldn't matter if I would only know him for a night.

He returns with a tall, styrofoam cup. He gestures by lifting the cup and lowering it to bring my attention to it. "Lemonade to go."

He sets it on the table near my hand. I reach for it too soon and our knuckles brush together for an instant. "Sorry," I whisper. God, I can't even hold a cup without doing something awkward.

He dashes off to run my card. He takes a long time to return. I shape my dice in a circle, then a line, and then a pentagram (pointed up to magically summon my waiter back to my table).

When he does return he's careful to stare at his shoes. He hands me the black folder so I can sign and retrieve my debit card. "Thanks-and-have-a-nice-night," he says in one breath, the way people damned to customer service often do.

I don't know what I did wrong; maybe it was my hand bumping into his, maybe I somehow offended him, maybe it was just a bad time. Whatever it was, I must have done something wrong because he's avoiding my eyes. I sign my name and leave a standard twenty percent in the gratuity line. I'd like to leave more, but I don't want to seem like I'm flirting if I'm already bothering him.

"You know." His voice is soft and barely there, like a peacock feather dragged across your bare chest – not that I would know, but I imagine things like that sometimes. He continues speaking with the same quiet tone. "Don't forget your dice because if you leave them here they'll never make it to lost and found."

"That wouldn't be too much of a problem. I own the magic shop across town, and it sells a lot of games that use dice."

"Wow, that's . . . really cool." He peaks up at me for a moment. It looks like he's washed his face recently. His cheeks are beyond flower colored now; they're medium-rare. He looks back down, as if aware of his complexion. "Maybe, maybe I'll have to go and check out the games one day."

"Open until seven. I'll give you a ketchup-is-for-french-fries discount."

A giggle, too soft to be a laugh, escapes from his mouth. A sound has never in my life made me so happy. His giggle makes it feel like I'm growing wings in my chest, and they're about to burst through my ribs. He covers his mouth with his black order book. "Have-a-nice-night." He walks back to the kitchen at the quickest pace one can move without it transitioning into a sprint. I'm afraid to hope, but I start to suspect he wasn't staring at his feet because he was offended after all.

I watch him go. I don't want to leave. My apartment is empty except for memories, and I can't even decide if the good ones out-weigh the bad anymore. I used to be sure that most of the memories were good. What I mean to say is, I still know many of them are good memories, but it's like fast food cheeseburger good, tasty but not really good for you. Besides, I still have the taste of a certain steak on my lips so the thought of anything else feels disappointing (and the thought of nothing at all is worse yet).

I can't stay all night, so I scoop the dice into their bag so I can leave. I stop, picking out two ten-sided die from the cluster, one blue and the other purple. I set each die in front of the pepper shaker so that a zero faces up, super critical.It's not enough. What if he doesn't visit the shop? If we were social, we'd have more friends to play campaigns with, but that would likely cause us to not miss the game so bad that we'd strike a conversation with a stranger in a restaurant. I stuff the bag into my pocket and fish out my wallet to restore my debit card back to its proper slot. I already left a tip, but I notice ten dollars in my billfold, and I really didn't tip enough so I pull the bill out of my wallet and set it down on the table. I forgot to return Kek's pen to the order book after signing my bill. My fingers snatch the pen, and I write Ryo by my phone number on the bill. I trace the letters and numbers a few times to thicken them and make them noticeable.

Biting my lip, I stare at the money. It's so damn cliché, but I don't hate it enough to stop myself from believing in the small hope it gave me. I start folding the green paper, inspiration possessing me from an unknown source because I'm not clever enough to think of something this good on my own. I fold and crease until the ten dollars is reborn into a jade butterfly. I leave it propped against the salt shaker, just behind the two dice. I stand and leave.

The night air is tinged with the promise of autumn, my favorite season. I suck a breath into my lungs and hold it. I felt confident as I walked away from the table, but I'm already regretting my boldness. I mean, what if I misinterpreted the entire situation? I probably did. He probably has girlfriend, and he'll go home, and they'll have a good laugh at my expense. I should go back and get the butterfly. No, that would be embarrassing. I'll just never eat there again. Why the hell did Marik have to dump me? I could be home making him dinner right now . . . on my birthday. I stop halfway between the restaurant and my car, looking up at the stars. I forgot that's what I did last year. I made him dinner. He said, since it was my birthday, that I should order a pizza, and I lied and said I wanted to cook for him. Fuck, why am I crying in a parking lot on my birthday?

I move my feet again. I should at least have enough shame to go into my car before I start to cry. A beep distracts me, a text to my phone, probably Honda trying one last time to get me to go the strip club. Maybe I will, just to avoid my apartment for a few more hours.

I don't recognize the number. I frown and check the message.
I know of a 24/7 mom & pop hole in the wall. Motor oil for coffee, but the pie will make you miss your grandma. I get off at midnight. ~Kek

My knees almost hit pavement. I run to my car so I can sit down. I read the text four times. I turn the phone off and back on, but the text is still in my message folder and not a hallucination. I read his name until the image is burned into my brain. My hands shake as I key a reply, okay, c u at 12.

I sit in my car. It's only 9:48. Actually, I spent much more time inside the restaurant than I imagined. I lean back into my seat and try to take a nap. I can't go home. I refuse to sit at home and feel sorry for myself. I know I would. I'm excited about my plans with Kek, but if I go back to my apartment, with the furniture Marik and I picked out together, I'll just be miserable. I don't want to be miserable tonight. I do doze, until 11:15, a text from Honda wakes me up. I reply that I'm still on my date. Well, it's less of a lie this time, at least.

I see him walking across the parking lot at 12:22. Now I wish I would have gone home and brushed my teeth. I find some gum in my glove box, and step out of my car to meet Kek in the parking lot. His hands are hiding in his pockets and he's still staring at his shoes, but now it's cute because I realize it's because he's nervous.

"Uh, Ryo, right?" Kek's asks scratching the back of his head.

"Yeah. And you're Kek?" I sound so stupid, but we really didn't ever exchange our names properly.

"The one and only." He laughs a bit awkwardly, but I don't doubt his claim; I've never met anyone else with that name. I haven't met anyone like him either, so the name works well for him.

"Whose car?" I ask.

"Um, well, I guess I should drive since I know where it is."

"All right." I nod and follow him to his car. It's a '68 Dodge Charger, a motley of primer and older, plum paint. I run my hands across the hood.

"I'm trying to fix her up."

"Bet she sounds mean."

"A little loppy right now. First thing I'll do is change the spark plugs. That should help."

"I'm glad we're taking your car. Mine isn't nearly as fun." I nudge his shoulder. "But I bet it's a lot cheaper on gas."

Kek rubs his shoulder where our bodies touched a moment ago. He still doesn't look at me. "It's a four speed, that helps, and I don't drive it like a kid."

I climb in the passenger seat and hold my breath as he starts the car. Even with the slight miss, she does sound angry, Tiamat roaring as she births the gods. Kek gives me a side glance right before pulling from the parking lot. "Should I?"

I can't suppress the grin on my face. "Yeah, open her up."

He presses his foot on the accelerator and the tork punches us into our seats. I love anything I can build. I love Monster World because I can create an entire world. I love owning my own business because I can set everything just so. I love fast cars for the same reason. You can always work on them; they're a project. Marik always told me to keep myself grounded and stick to "normal" cars. My gas is cheaper, my insurance is cheaper, cops don't follow me down the road, but – but-but-but, sorry, Marik, but – the vibrations from the engine are thrumming up my spine, the cold wind spills into the car and shreds our hair, and we're both grinning like demons as the speedometer climbs. It's almost as good as an orgasm. We hit our first red light, and he stops, keeping at the speed limit when we drive again.

I can't help but notice the way he handles the stick shift, and I have to take a slow breath. My mind doesn't normally go straight to the gutter, but the adrenaline from the car seems to be having a voracious effect on my mind and nerves, or maybe it's all the red meat I've been eating. Probably both. The diner isn't too far, a standard affair with red vinyl seats and autographed photos on the walls. We find a round booth in the corner and sit together, close though not as close as I want, but I'm afraid to nudge closer. Our waitress is a woman in her forties. Her lipstick is too red for her face, and her foundation is three shades too bronzed. The heavy make-up settles into the lines of her face, creased and weathered from a hard life. Her customer service lacks any of the charm Kek's had. She takes our order for coffee and lemon meringue pie.

We sit in awkward silence. We're both too introverted to know how to start a conversation. Kek pulls my dice from his pocket and rolls. They land on eighty-two.

"You're luck is as bad as mine."

"I've never rolled a super critical before."

"Surely once."

"No. Not ever."

I'm not sure why, but his statement makes me incredibly sad. "Roll them again. Maybe tonight's your night."

His smile is so small it's more of a nervous twitch of his lips. "Probably not."

"You'll never roll a super critical if you never roll."

Ah, there it is, a proper smile on his face. Why do I feel like I'd slay a dragon if I knew it'd make him smile?

He rolls a forty.

"That's closer."

His eyes, the color of his car's original violet paint job, flick up to my face. "So, you said you own a magic shop?"

Ah, yes, that is how people start a proper conversation, isn't it? They talk about basics like careers and hobbies. "Yes. I'll never be in the Fortune 500, but it pays the bills, so I'm happy."

"It sounds awesome."

"What about you? How long have you been a waiter?"

He blushed and looks away again, and I feel stupid again. A waiter probably isn't exactly a job you brag about. Why the hell did I bring it up?

"I actually just started. I decided to go back to school. I feel stupid, walking around with all those nineteen-year-olds, but here I am."

"What's your major?"

"Criminal justice with a minor in child psychology."

I stare. I don't know why, but I wasn't expecting his answer. "Wow, that sounds really interesting. What made you want to go into criminal justice?"

"Uh," he rolls his dice again, fifty-seven, and stares at them as if he didn't want that number. "My old man was a jerk. I grew up an angry, rotten punk and spent most of my teens in juvie for hurting people. I guess . . . I guess I just want to stop anymore me's from growing up in the world."

"So you want to work with troubled kids?"

"Yeah."

"That's incredible." I scoot a little closer, feeling guilty when the waitress picks that moment to bring us our pie. She's glaring at me. Well, you old crone, go ahead, it makes you look even older. For some reason I imagine her waiting until Sunday and recounting this moment to all her friends in church like it's the greatest scandal she's ever seen. I'm angry enough at the look she's giving me to slide right next to Kek. I smile at her, that sweet, happy smile that I use to fool the world almost every day.

Kek's stabbing his pie with his fork but not eating it. That sweet, subtle-as-a-circus blush is back on his face, and it makes me hungry, but not for pie. I let the coffee burn my mouth. He wasn't kidding; it's motor oil. "This coffee really is bad."

Kek smiles again, staring at his own mug. "Yeah, I don't know why I order it. I should just take the pie home and brew my own coffee."

"That sounds like a good idea. We should get to-go boxes."

DidIjust say that?

His breath quickens. "Really?"

I don't want to back down from my idea because of the consequential embarrassment. Instead, I try to make it work, although I know it won't. I hope it works, so I try salvaging what I've already made impossibly weird. "Well, if your taste in coffee is as good as your taste in steak I figure it'd be a good idea. Besides, I bet you have some games we could look at."

A touch of excitement lights up his eyes. "I do have some nice Monster World dioramas I can show you."

"Yeah," I grin, forgetting that this idea was a fuck-up because I really do want to see his game models. "Let's go."

He doesn't wait for the waitress. He jumps up and goes to the counter to ask for boxes. I have a feeling that, after working in a restaurant all night, he wants to just grab them himself, maybe even bring the ticket to the table as well. I do notice him handing her some money and my mouth drops a little as he walks back and stores our pie. "You didn't just pay, did you?"

"Yeah. I got it."

"I could have gotten mine."

"Trade off for the dice."

Now my cheeks feel warm, and I wonder if I'm blushing. "Okay. Thanks."

I hold the boxes as we drive back to his place, mostly through residential areas. It's a shame; I'd prefer an excuse for him to hit the gas again. His apartment is small, but nice. I notice he doesn't have any family photos on the walls. I also notice his collection of horror movies. I run my fingers against the DVD spines. "I've seen every one of these eight-hundred times."

Kek nods. "Me, too."

"I've also exhausted the horror section on Netflix."

"Me, too, but going out to the movies alone sucks."

"Yeah, it does . . . maybe we should go together sometime." I look away; my nerves can't handle seeing his response, but his voice sounds excited as he replies.

"I bet a lot of good ones come out next month."

"Yeah, there's always something in October."

Kek takes a step closer. "That's my favorite month. I still love Halloween, adulthood be damned."

"God, yes. People are always excited about Christmas, but I just want to take a dead tree and cover it in cobwebs, and bats, and plastic, severed hands."

A strange look covers Kek's face, as if he's trying to wake up from a dream. "Okay, come over here and look at this." He dashes to the first of two visible rooms in the apartment. "I was going to show you my smaller ones, but I think you might like this one better."

I follow and see a small bedroom that Kek has set up like a game room. In the center is a long table covered with an enormous Monster World set up.

"The campaign itself is a little dungeon crawl, but I can't stop working on it because of all the grotesque details I keep thinking to add."

I lean over his shoulder. It's the perfect environment for ghosts and skeletons. Several rooms have bodies hanging on meat hooks. Kek even painted blood trails running into little drains in the floors. Other areas have body parts piled on tables near necromancy altars. It's the kind of thing you don't show friends because they might drag you off to a mental hospital. It's the greatest thing I've ever seen. "We have to play." I run my hands on the model, admiring the subtle detail of the wenches and cranks that actually work, and hidden rooms filled with demons and chimeras. "I mean, I know it's late tonight, but we have to play with this sometime. It's like you've taken every awesome idea I've ever had in my head ever and crammed it into one diorama."

Kek leans close. "I wasn't going to show it to you, because most people would run out the door seeing something like this. Especially after only knowing someone for only one night."

"Especially with the car you drive." I wink at him. "But no, I love the macabre."

"Me, too." He leans a little closer again.

I look up at him. If I lean forward a little, our lips will touch. I start to, but hesitate.

Kek senses my intentions. His eyes are half lidded, and his mouth is parted. "If you're not sure, you could always roll some dice. That's what I did earlier before answering your question. People already think I'm a thug, so I tend to not mention that I was a juvenile delinquent."

"I thought that's what you did. You were frowning at the dice." I'm so close to his mouth.

"Want my dice?"

I think about it. It'd be funny. "No, because knowing our luck, I'd fumble." I hold each side of his jaw and fill the last centimeter between us. He makes a choked, half-grunt, half-moan sound, sending gooseflesh puckering across my arms. I start soft, experimental. It's been so long since I've properly kissed anyone that I wonder if I forgot how to do it. I don't think so though because he opens his mouth and my tongue slips inside him before I have a chance to second guess myself.

We're pressed together so close that Kek loses balance. He catches himself on the diorama, knocking over corpses and coffins. I pull him away so we don't wreck the game set-up. Kek pushes me against the wall. He's still in his waiter outfit and smells like the restaurant's kitchen, but I don't mind. He's pressed hard against me. I can only gasp fast snatches of air between bouts of Kek's mouth and tongue. He keeps whimpering the sweetest little sounds, and they make the nerves below my belly hitch. I'm clawing at his shirt.

Par my luck, my erection's growing at an awkward angle down my pant leg. It's uncomfortable, and I can't stand it any longer. I try to squirm to adjust it, but it doesn't help. There's nothing to do but reach down my pants and move it, but before I can pull my hand back out of my pants Kek's hand is with mine. His calloused palm, the kind of hand that builds dioramas and works on cars, strokes along my shaft with the same attention to detail that he gives all his work. We're still kissing, still hugging close together. The only space between us is what's necessary for Kek to maneuver in my pants. I'm shaking. It's been so long since I've done anything and even longer since it has felt good, and - oh, oh, oh,yes - if he keeps . . . rubbing my dick . . . I'm going to –

"Wait. Please." I gasp out the two words.

His hand is out of my pants almost before the period can finish my sentence. He breaks our tornado of kisses, and I wonder why I bothered speaking because I didn't want him to stop. Maybe I expected him to keep going for a moment or two after I protested. I'm so close to release that I feel physical pain cramp my lower body.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, his face distressed.

"No, no, it was good." I look down. "Great, actually. It's just. Seems like this is going fast."

"I'm sorry," he repeats, shaking his head. He paces in front of his dungeon. "I don't know what's wrong with me tonight. I can't seem to do anything right." He stops and looks at me. "Come on. I'll take you home."

Home. It's not home. It's just where I sleep. The only thing that made it home is gone. "I mean, it's just . . ." I can't explain without bringing up Marik, and I don't want to do that on our first date. I hold out my hand, palm up.

Kek stares at it a moment. He blinks, confusion turning to understanding. He reaches into his pocket and hands me the two, ten sided dice. I walk up to the diorama and drop the dice, an honest roll, none of my tricks that help me get the number I want. Of course it's a forty-two because I don't really want to talk about it, had I been rolling for another kiss I'd be so far from the right number that it'd be a ninety-eight. I sigh and rub my face.

"I was in a long relationship, marriage long, and this is my first serious attempt to move on since it ended. It's overwhelming."

Kek grabs my shoulders and hugs me tight against his chest, a solid wall of warmth and muscle. I can only lean against him and keep my mind blank so I don't lose control of my emotions. His lips touch my forehead, teasing brushes of contact as soft as spider-silk. "Let's go slow," he whispers. "Maybe you can text me in . . . however many days you need."

"It's my birthday," I blurt out.

"Really? Happy birthday."

"Well, technically yesterday, but it's still my birthday until I go to sleep, right?"

"Yeah . . . you should have said something at the restaurant. I wouldn't have charged you for dinner."

I smile, my face still pressed against his waiter's shirt. "You bought dessert. You can't get my dinner, too. We weren't even on a date yet."

"It felt like we were."

"You're right. It did." I shudder. I want him so bad. Why did I make him stop? I'm an idiot.

"I still feel like I owe you a present. What do you want?"

What do I want? Why is that such a hard question to answer? It's odd; had someone asked me that yesterday, I probably would have answered Marik,but now I want so much more. I want to drive over 100mph. I want to look at trailers for Halloween movies. I want to play Monster World in a dungeon full of cadavers. "I want . . . I want to go to bed."

"Yeah, it's late. I'll drive you home."

Figures he'd misinterpret me. I suck in a shaky breath. "I don't want to go home. I want to go to bed."

He looks distressed again, as if he understands now, but he can't fathom what I'm saying. "My bed?"

"I mean, unless you don't want to—"

I don't have time to doubt what he wants because he picks up our kissing right where we left off. He scoops me up and carries me across the hall to the other room. I'm aware it's a bedroom, but I can't describe it, except that the comforter is red and black. He sets me on the soft material and we unbutton each other's shirts and then remove our own pants.

The sensation of cotton against my back and skin against my stomach feels like heaven. I must be in heaven because Kek is a golden haired angel, and I feel redeemed. But that's a bad metaphor, isn't it? Something a White Wizard would say to romanticize the situation. Perhaps I'm a damned soul and Kek's the Diabolist summoning me from the Pit. Regardless, I'm here now, and Kek's nipples are hard underneath my fingertips.

Somewhere in the chaos of kissing and sucking and exploring our bodies with trembling hands, we end up flipped. Now I'm straddled on top of Kek and sucking on his collar bone as he moans. I'm pretty sure it's going to leave a mark, so I make sure to suck where the collar of his shirt will cover up the bruise when he goes to work tomorrow. I pull away, and he grabs my hand, sucking on my pointer and middle finger. His eyes never leave mine, and his stare makes me weak in all my joints. Eyes still locked on mine, he takes my fingers out of his mouth, shiny with saliva, and presses them inside himself. Not sure what it is, but there's something exciting about him using my hand to start himself while looking at me like I'm the entire universe hunched over him. I hook my fingers, trying to find that bundle of nerves that turns the world into a kaleidoscope. I have no idea if I'm doing this right or not. His body is unexplored wilderness, but I must be doing something right because he's writhing against the black and red bedspread and calling out.

I place a few, tentative kisses on his chest and look back up at him. "Um, do you have any, you know." A sudden wave of bashfulness ties my tongue and lube is suddenly a four letter word that doesn't seem polite to say.

He reaches over the edge of the bed, but whatever he's looking for is out of grasp. I have to stop fingering him so he can search the floor for the little plastic bottle we need. I spread the cold gel over my erection. My fingers now slippery, I slip them back inside him, teasing his tip with my other hand while I flutter my fingers inside him. His moans are louder. I can tell he wants more, but I wait and tease him. I need to get him as close to orgasm as possible before I start because I know this isn't going to be the best example of my endurance.

When pre-cum drips from his head I reach down and lick it away. He's ready now. I turn him on his side and straddle his bottom leg, letting him hook his top leg around my mid-section. I'm inside him. How do I describe it? I can't, and that's why we call out ahs and mms and ohs back and forth to each other like a conversation, only without the use of symbolic language. Not just Kek's cheeks, but his whole face is coral. He strokes himself as I thrust, and I use my left hand to massage his balls as my right hand keeps balance.

In the beginning, when I was in love and everything between Marik and I was nice, the sex was incredible, but I always took it for granted that it was good because Marik was just good in bed. This moment is a little different, because Kek – with the arch of his back, and the blush on his face, and the kitten-like mewls flooding out of his mouth – has a way of making me feel like I'm a good lover. There's a want and a need in his coital expression that makes me feel, for the first time, like I'm . . . appreciated.

He shoots his seed onto the bedcover, and I'm grateful because I can't last any longer. My left hand moves up to his belly so I can have a better hold of his body and push into him harder. Although he came, he's still moaning like I'm the entire universe hunched over him, and it sends my mind from the realms of redemption, to rapture. It's like light, both wave and particle, coursing through my nerves while stars, hot and white, shoot through me.

I sink back to my senses and the bed, finding myself tangled up with two thick biceps. He kicks the covers over us and uses me as a little spoon. I take a few deep breaths, trying to slow my heart beat that I can feel pounding against my eyelids. It's warm and comfortable, nestled against him and trapped in his embrace, but I know I should get up. I try to sit up, but Kek squeezes me tighter.

"I need to take a shower," I say.

"Do it in the morning. Let's go to sleep."

"Don't you have school in the morning?"

"Monday, Wednesday, Friday."

"What about work?"

"Not 'till three. You?"

"Usually noon, but I have a sign saying two in the afternoon because of Labor Day."

"Mmm, good."

It is past four in the morning, and I am tired. I guess it won't hurt to take a shower in the morning. Even sweating I can't smell worse than Kek, and he doesn't smell bad at all, just a bit like a restaurant. Actually, there's a certain appeal to the grunginess of cuddling together all sweaty and still sticky with the success of our sexual efforts. I'm used to everything being in order, everything in its place, everything satisfactory, but isn't that exactly what made my last relationship stale?

Is it stupid that I feel grateful? I'm grateful to Marik for leaving me, although that's no excuse for the shitty way in which he left, but had he stayed, I'd be asleep right now. Asleep and showered, with the clothes already stored in the hamper instead of crumpled on the floor, and no room-sized dioramas taking up space in the next room because it's not a good idea to take your hobbies that seriously, and my boring, fuel efficient car in the garage instead sitting in a restaurant parking lot, and no pie waiting in the fridge because eating sweets leads to extra pounds. Kek's right, we can take a shower any time, but this is the only time we'll ever be able to hold each other after our very first time together. I need to enjoy this moment. I'm rambling as I fall asleep, aren't I?

It's the smell of food that wakes me up. My teeth feel fuzzy and I want to get up and brush them, but I open my eyes and remember I'm not sleeping in my bed. It takes a moment for my brain to process my environment. I haven't been on a date with someone new in years, but I never considered myself the type to sleep with someone after a single date. Hell, I'm not even the type to kiss after the first date, it took three dates with Marik. Nevertheless, I feel calm, lying in a strange bed. I need to get up, though. I need to face Kek, make a plan for the day, hopefully even for longer than a day.

Kek walks into the room, dressed in gray sweat pants, a plate in each hand. I look at him, a little puzzled. One plate has food, the other plate has a slice of lemon pie with a lit candle sticking from the meringue.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath, as if preparing for a serious speech. "I rolled a lot of dice this morning, by the way. So here it goes. I'm bad at this – at people. I'm probably moving too fast, and I'm probably going about this all wrong, but I don't know how else to do it. I made you breakfast. I mean, it was your birthday, so I wanted to do something special, even if we just met. I had a lot of fun last night, and I'm not even talking about the end – though that was fun, too." He digs his toe into the carpet as stares at it instead of me. "I-I understand if this was just a onetime thing for your birthday. That's cool if that's how you want it. But, you know, but if you wanted it to be something more, um."

He looks up, cheeks medium-rare, just how I like them. "That would be cool, too."

I'm having trouble finding my voice. "You really do suck at rolling dice to come clean about all that." My throat is so dry, I wonder if I just ate a desert. I smile and continue when I look at the food in Kek's hands again. "You made me breakfast?"

He nods and grins. "Steak, eggs, and specialty birthday pie."

"I . . . no one's ever cooked for me before."

He hesitates but then sits beside me, holding up the pie so I can blow out the candle. I do, but I don't make a wish. Kek hands me the plates and I hold them, still too in shock to actually pick up a fork.

Kek reaches over and runs his fingers down my cheek. "Ryo."

My eyes shoot up to his at the sound of my name. "Kek . . ."

He swallows, looking nervous. "You make me feel like I can roll all zeros, one critical after another."

I lean forward, almost stopping because I haven't brushed my teeth, but I kiss him anyway. I don't need my tarot cards to see how this will turn out. I already know I'll be spending a lot of time here playing games and, although it's way too fast, although it's way too soon, I already know that one day I'll get down on one knee and hand Kek a wooden box with two vintage Nintendo control pads and a note card inside, asking if he'll be my player two.

They'll be plenty of time for that later. Right now, forget bacon, I'm having steak for breakfast. I don't need the boring routine of getting up, showering, working, and returning to a house that doesn't hold any warmth, (only to go to sleep early and repeat it all the next day).

When I leave Kek today, I won't live my life by routines I don't like. The last plan I need is to find everything that reminds me of my selfish ex-boyfriend, have a huge bonfire, go to work, and come back here to Kek. There's the day, all nice and planned – copacetic.

***So, if you like this fic, or Deathshipping in general, you should check out Monster Reborn over on Miss Grey's page (updates on Mondays). Also, chapter 1 of Trigger gets posted over here on Friday.***