Rating: PG-13 because of things I'm putting in later
Disclaimer: Obviously Yu-gi-oh does not belong to me. I am making no money from this.
Think of Domino like a dark fast city.
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The stitching of pockets are different than those in the rest of clothing. Pockets are put on after the pants or the shirts of the jackets has been stitched up and put together. Pockets are sewed on as an afterthought. The way things in them are put there for memory.
Dried daisies from the park, fortunes from a fortune cookie, receipts, keys, mints from last summer, little forgotten things.
He should know. He's been a connoisseur of pockets since he was 13 and had angles and cracks in his voice. They've evened out now. He almost looks normal.
Normal enough or ghostly enough for him to not be seen in the crowded subways, or in the musty sidewalks of domino city. Normal enough to slip his hands into coat pockets, briefcases, a women's purse, even the front pocket of the illustrious businessman.
It's really what he finds that makes the difference. It's a hard life and you've got to stick it out if you want to survive. He sells everything he finds. The guilt of the items in his pockets lays heavily on his mind. Ryou found early on that bills weighed lighter than watches and wallets. He pawns everything as soon as possible; never goes back to the same store twice.
It's always men in stores like those that remember. They count their money miser it out, blow cigarette smoke in his face. They've got words soaked in honey and stored away, unwrapping them carefully in front of people like Ryou.
Hello sir.
Think sir.
The syllables melting off one at a time and Ryou can taste them so tangible it makes him shiver. But he's no fool. He walks away with money in his pockets, lighter than air.
Domino is a dead city. Not like the ghost town way to the north with the people leaving and the cars rotting in the winter snow. No. Domino is already dead.
The cars never stop in the night; it's on continuous cycle of headlights and taillights outside of Ryou's window. High in the west part of town, on the edge of the dangerous alleys and crooked officials and just before the white edges and clear glass of uptown is his building. It has become a turning point and threshold of sorts.
He only knows because Honda is a taxi cab driver, and unto them is the history and the map of the city laid out in their palms. The secret trail of taxi cab drivers Honda calls it and he laughs.
He's never been in love. He's kissed and been kissed, and their was the artful poses and postures of love in those. He's never been in real love, never felt it open and pump through his veins.
If Domino became a person it would be a person without a soul, untouched and layered in grime and tears.
This is why:
There was a man with hair as pale as his, and a suit that might have been all the silk he ever touched in the world all along the back of his arm. It was a quiet simple breath to slip the Rolex off his wrist.
Ryou doesn't sell this one. It's too pretty anyways with the little diamonds set all along the rim, and the soft heartbeat tick. It lays on his nightstand a beautiful piece of work off of the beautiful man with white hair and a sliver of face and nose that was like nothing Bakura had ever seen.
But then, Ryou doesn't see that many people in a week.
There's the shopkeeper down at the corner, and his grandson with the golden hair. He buys his groceries there because he is a creature of habit. Honda who visits off and on parks a yellow taxi at the corner and honks until he looks out the window.
"Come on Ryou. Come on!" Honda yells down from the corner with his hat on crooked and his face flushed because Domino is always cold, or swelteringly hot.
They drive high high uptown with the meter off and the engine running.
It was easy to walk away after that. The watch lingers heat into his cold fingers. Stolen heat, like this stolen watch, he glances back again to find the man. He glances back often when he knows he shouldn't. That moment is the last moment to tuck away a memory, hide it in the pockets he has so many of inside his head.
"Come on." Honda whispers driving the car, letting it purr out in front of them like a live beast. They're riding out between rows and rows of shoes that shine, ladies with diamond rings and pools in their backyards. They are stumbling in on their yellow steed like invaders in this holy land of perfect green lawns and pure white camellias.
This man is sharp. He can tell by now who will run to the authorities, who will be flustered, who won't know until they get home. There's a split second, really, before he takes the watch where he knows he shouldn't be risking this. It's a dare though: building those great white houses across town, so big Ryou can't even imagine what they put inside. The risk, the dare bubbles up in his vein high enough, hot enough to overflow. Honda slips the tiny words of his mantra out of his lips whenever they drive, "We'll step into the world of kings just for a day, just a day."
This is in his mind when he undoes the button on the cuff before touching the watch. This is in his mind when he slips it in his own pocket and walks away down the street.
When the man turns around and catches his eye, he thinks that maybe he already has.
A/N: um I do mean to continue this, sorry about the weirdness, I'm kind of tired at the moment. Yes, Ryou is a pickpocket, and the man in silk who he stole the watch from is Bakura, who will be coming back. Some of the fragments are intentional. If you have time please review.