When The Stars Don't Listen.
Each night, he waits for the first star. He can remember the first time his mother told him about the powers that they held, their ability to grant wishes, to create dreams. The way they could offer a spark of hope, if you just confided in them.
They've been his constant companions, his closest friends, since that cold night when he was five. He had known he should have been in bed, but there had just been something … special … about the night sky that evening, a promise hidden between the fading hues of pink entwined with consuming darkness.
The first still will not be up yet for some time, although he is certain that it is visible from other areas in the city. It doesn't bother him that his stars talk to others, first. Just as long as they listen to him when they do arrive. He wonders sometimes if it gets too much for the stars to bear, carrying the secrets and fears and dreams of so many people, and having to try and grant them all. Is there a special process that determines who shall be blessed by starlight, or is it merely a random draw based on nothing more than when you made your plea?
It has to be something more than a lottery. He refuses to believe otherwise. Hope is far too important to simply draw or disregard from a simple hat.
He has never heard the photo album complain, however. Not when he was seven and dropped chocolate all over it. Not when he was nine and accidentally tore one of the inner pages.
Not last week when he had hurled it across the room, shattering one of the carefully placed vases on the far table.
'I won't hurt you today,' he promises, running a loving finger across the brittle and brown cover. 'I love you too much.'
Hate you.
Love you.
Hate you.
Love you.
Sometimes, he can't remember quite which emotion is which.
But he is careful this time, as he gently opens the cover, a small hand shaking. He glares at the offensive hand, annoyed that it has not learnt yet how to still by now. But it is an empty glare, one that is given often at times like this and is used to getting no answer.
The first photo is of Joanna and Masato. At least, that is what he calls them. He has never been able to find out who the pair who grace the front page of the album are, yet he feels as though he's always known them, for they have been with him his entire life. Joanna looks very pretty today, he decides, noting the way her dark hair is curled romantically at the nape of her neck, as was the style for American women in the late fifties. Even though the photo is faded, he can tell that she is beginning to burn slightly.
Masato of course isn't burning; his skin has long lost its subtlety and has hardened to the Egyptian conditions.
They seem well, so he simply exchanges a pleasant 'hello' before turning the page.
The next face he knows well, even if time has not treated it kindly. He feels guilty for not lingering on the one living link he has to the broken and disjointed past the album holds, but there are more faces to visit before he loses his nerve.
He absently notices that his hand has started shaking harder now.
Mohammad, Ria and Albert – the names are scribbled in tiny handwriting across the backs of their photos- are looking as serious, bored and Australian as usual. The out of place picture of a single pyramid surprises him as it usually does, as the album is supposed to be a shrine to life, whereas the pyramid personifies unwavering death.
Their picture is next. He likes to pretend that they both look composed and loving – it is, after all, the only picture he has ever been able to find of them. She looks intelligent and witty, dignified and calm. She certainly doesn't look wind-worn and tired, the tiny smile on her face, forced. He is handsome and broad, with a startling sense of humour. Not the slightest bit nerdy or geeky. Certainly not.Slowly, he brings that horrible, trembling hand up to his lips, before gently pressing it against each of their foreheads.
"Hello, Mother. Father." It is a formal greeting, far too reserved. And yet, he feels as though he knows even Masato and Joanna better than the strangers before him. "School was … it was fine, today. I did well on my history test." Well, some consider 52% a decent enough mark. At least it was a pass. "I've added a new card to my, my deck-" his voice cracks, and he swallows once, twice. Swallows down pain and anger, swallows down hurt and denial. Just once, he wishes they would talk back, acknowledge his existence.
He wishes many things. Perhaps that is the problem. Greed is not something that is often rewarded.
"One wish, then." That seems reasonable, he tells himself. He knows the first star is supposed to be up about now, and a quick glance out the window confirms his thought.
One wish.
"I wish I knew my parents." He says it softly, his gaze alternating between the photo and the window. "I, I wish I knew more about them than what a faded photo can tell."
He wishes that they were his, even if only in death. All they are at the moment is someone else's past. His Grandfather still finds it too difficult to talk about them, so Yugi is left with nothing.
One wish.
Surely that is not too much to ask?
*
He wonders what he will wish for this time when the first star does decide to finally visit him. Stretching lazily in his seat, he decides that perhaps tonight he'll make a wish for one of his friends, as he doubts they would ever wish on a star themselves. His last wish had been directed at the history test he'd taken today – all he'd asked for was a pass, a reward for the study he'd actually done in preparation.
68%. And people said wishing on stars was a silly game meant only for children.
A quick glance at the clock on his desk tells him that the first star should show up in another half an hour or so, and he reaches for his pen – he does still have homework to do, after-all. Even though he hates calculus deeply, it would be a waste of tonight's wish if he were to make his teacher come down with a horrible cold and be absent tomorrow.
He cannot see, cannot feel. If he were in a more logical mood, he would know that one sense cannot whitewash all others, but he cannot think either, making that thought redundant.
All he can do is run.
It is only instinct – or is that luck? - that allows him to safely navigate the maze of side streets without finding himself in a deeper trouble than the one he is fleeing. What that trouble is, he can't quite remember – his memory is another victim of all the sounds that are consuming him, drowning him in their rising volume. The echoes of dark laughter and threats stained with annoyance play briefly on his conscious, serving only to force his confused legs to pump harder, run faster. They don't know what they are running from anymore, either.
And then, it all comes crashing down.
He crashes along with it.
The concept of time is so foreign that he can't even hazard to guess how long he stays there, stranded on knees that have collapsed beneath him, palms almost moulded to the grimy sidewalk. He doesn't lift his head from where it rests against his pained chest, nor does he force open his eyes, he is simply content in being able to see and feel anything, even if that anything is only darkness and pain.
As that pain begins to make itself known more sharply from various parts of his body, he becomes somewhat less content.
With a soft growl, he pushes himself up into a crouching position, dark eyes drifting open. Now that his heart has slowed into a more familiar rhythm, the ache in his lungs has become apparent. Whoever said running is good for your health hadn't been doing it while being chased by brainless thugs, obviously. Standing up causes him to wince – he must have knocked his left knee against something in his haste, although he can't remember what.
He can't remember anything about his escape other than the noise.
But he can remember now what happened beforehand.
He growls again. He despises gangs. Despises how weak they are, despises their need to pick on those who are frailer and smaller, despises them for caring only for themselves and the pain they cause others.
He despises himself for once being one of them. They will never let him forget. Simply by existing, they will never let him forget.
Rubbing his right shoulder –injured by a lucky punch, no more – he hobbles through the alley he's found himself down, trying to pinpoint his location. He can vaguely recall running east, but east covers a hell of a lot of territory, some of it which he swore to himself he'd never again enter.
Yeah, well. Empty promises and all that. He's always been good at those.
He stumbles, and it is only luck that guides his hand to the base of the billboard just to his left. An almost hysterical giggle rises to his throat as he turns to 'thank' the billboard for keeping him on his feet, but any thanks dies a quick death as he realises just exactly what the billboard is advertising.
Even here, surrounded in a misery and dreck that is not merely his own, he cannot escape Kaiba.
"You're a bastard, you know that?" he hisses at the overly large face of the boy who seems to think making his life a living hell is an Olympic sport. "You're a prick, arrogant, selfish, self-serving …" his voice drifts off, lost beneath the bitterness.
"You're all that, and so much, *so much* more, and yet you have everything. Everything." He echoes the last word hollowly. "And I have nothing."
They are thoughts he would never voice aloud if others had been around, especially Kaiba, but there is so much truth in them that the pain in his chest radiates more from the inside than the bruises that stain the surface. It is not only that Kaiba has money and all the trimmings that go along with wealth, but he has the most important treasure of all: Mokuba.
He would kill just to see his younger sister.
"You don't deserve him," he whispers softly. "You don't deserve to have someone who loves you unconditionally and whom you can give the entire earth to. You don't deserve him …"
Just like Joey doesn't deserve Serenity. But there is an important difference there: he doesn't have Serenity in his life as a result, while Kaiba has Mokuba despite of it.
"I hate you," it comes out in pained breathlessness, although there is nothing shaky about his glare.
Because of Mokuba.
"I hate you."
Because he has everything at a glance.
"I hate you."
Because he can't imagine wanting to be anyone else.
"I bet that surprises you, doesn't it?" Bitterness stains his voice. "Joey Wheeler, he who hates the grass you tread on, would still walk in your shoes. It must be nice, having no responsibilities to anyone else but yourself, to not have to worry about where the money to pay the bills are going to come from, or the fact that the past you thought you'd finally managed to escape has suddenly renewed its interest in you."
As dizziness sweeps in a new wave over him, one word came to mind. One perfect, mythical word that seemed to taunt him simply by existing.
"Free. You're free, Kaiba." Oh, God. The hand pressed up against the billboard starts to shake slightly and he wonders if he is going to throw up - he's not sure if it is bile rising up through his throat, or his heart. Alone in an empty street where colours seem to be fading to shades as opposed to the bright, individual hues he's sure they're meant to be, he starts to doubt the wonder of all the things that are supposed to be right in his life. Friendships. His sister. Proving
them all wrong.When not backlit by the light that always shines from Yugi, they don't seem so wonderful, just complicated and restraining. Almost as though he's caught in a web of good intentions and false hopes, a promised freedom that is really a trap of his own making.
This time he doesn't bother to catch himself as he sinks back down to the ground, resting against the billboard as it suddenly becomes more difficult to breathe.
He laughs darkly as it begins to rain. Some poetic statement needs to be made, he knows, but he's never been good at poetry, so simply lets the water soak him in silence, the water not washing away the dirt and grime, but solidifying it, making it officially a part of his being.
He laughs again, although only the ignorant or those in denial would classify it as such. To anyone else, it might sound vaguely like a sob. But there is no one else here, and he has always been very, very good at denial.
As rain begins to pool around his fingers, he glances disjointedly down at his hand. There is a sheen of water over the pavement now, reflecting the world around him as twisted and chaotic. It is a world he feels he might be more at home with. A grimace that is meant to be a displaced smile forms as he sees stars in the reflection, remembering the silly songs his father used to sing to him before …
Before. That is all that needed, as he has always chosen to ignore everything that came afterwards.
"Star bright, star light, first star I see tonight," he sings the little ditty light-headedly, ignoring the way he can't seem to quite hear his own words. "What to wish for, hmm? Maybe ice cream. I feel like ice cream about now." Honey eyes close briefly. "I bet you guys get that wish a lot, but mainly from kids half my age, right?" Part of him feels stupid for talking to the stars, but they are the only ones who care enough to listen at the moment – billboard!Kaiba had certainly turned out to be a lost cause when it came to holding a conversation.
"Him." He finally says softly. "I want to be him. Even if for just a couple of days." A smirk somehow manages to find its way to his lips, although it is one that is empty of all emotions. Lifting his hand out of the water, he then smashes it down against the pavement, sending ripples through the reflection until the twisted city disappears, taking the stars with it.
He rests his head back gently against the bottom of the billboard, reminding himself that stars don't grant wishes to stupid fools, before his own world finally turns black and he slumps unconscious to the pavement.
He knows he doesn't actually have to see the stars for them to hear him, but it isn't quite the same if he can't.
Perhaps it would be better to go back to his room, where he can watch for the first star from his window. Surely it would be warmer there, and the small ledge he's now sheltering under on the veranda isn't offering him much protection, especially now that the wind has started to pick up as well.
"Maybe I'll just go inside for a little while," he allows, although he silently promises to be back out the moment the rain stops. As silly as it seems, this is his own little wishing spot, and he always stands here if possible to greet the first star. Still, it is with a sense of relief that he shuts the door – and the harshening weather – behind him as he returns to his family's flat, feeling sorry for anyone who might be stuck outside.
The streets could have been empty, for all the effect the people clogging
the sidewalk were having. He isn't quite sure why he abandoned his limo in
favour of murky skies and a sprinkling of rain, knowing only that black leather
seemed suddenly smothering; tinted windows too dark. The weather wears little on
him, unable to penetrate through an expensive coat that could quite possibly
withstand hurricanes – or should, considering the price, and a sleek umbrella
with his company logo printed on it.
He must look strange, he ponders, a dark smirk in place. After all, everyone
else is rushing for shelter or their cars, attempting to escape the rain before
it loses its subtlety and becomes something more violent and far more difficult
to ignore. But then, he's never been one to rush, just as he's never been one to
run away from the threat of something becoming more dangerous or darker.
It is only rain. There are far worse things to fear in life.
Not that he ever admits to fearing anything. Not in public, where he would be
publicly humiliated. Not in private, where he would have to then admit to the
even more painful truth of being human.
Best to ignore fear altogether, if at all possible. Along with all those
other pesky emotions that do little more than cloud thought and befuddle already
over-complicated minds.
The small suburb he is currently walking through is not one of his usual
haunts, too close to where the line between wealth and poverty is blurred, but
unavoidable on his way back from dropping his younger brother off at his
sibling's painfully middle class friend's house. It isn't so much that the
friend lacks money that irritates him, but the fact that he simply can't see
what this friend has to offer Mokuba that Seto himself obviously doesn't, for
his brother to seek out someone else's company.
There is however one positive about having left his limo, and that is that it
allows him to come across Not that he cares whether people find him rude or not. They will form
opinions of him, either way. He wouldn't care about his reputation at all, if it
were not for the fact that the rumours and half-truths often hurt Mokuba, who
sometimes falters in the face of some of the taunts from his peers. His younger
brother is brave, but so soft at times as well, that he would not always be sure
that they were related if it were not for the obvious physical resemblance.
Besides, the whole point of all this is to make sure Mokuba has no reason to end
up like him in the first place, so he has no right to complain.
He contemplates entering his favourite restaurant, only to be firmly put off
by the family seated at the front window. He can hear them even over the wind
and through the glass, and finds his eyes narrowing in contempt. For such a
formal setting, they are acting like brutes, and he is fairly positive that the
twin boys at the table have spent most of their lives in a basement, as even the
most basic decorum seems to be absent.
He is not hungry, so the loss of a decent meal doesn't bother him, he has
other things on his mind anyway, he finds. Things such as memories, and thoughts
about how rain is supposed to wash away sin, and yet he protects himself from
this promised purification. Idly, the business part of him mind comments that
one of his billboards is down the side street he has just past, and for a moment
he contemplates checking on it to make sure it is still graffiti free. But he
cannot be bothered, not this evening. Besides, he isn't in the mood for any
confrontations tonight, and empty side streets are never quite as empty as the
promise.
Brilliant laughter over stupid jokes that make little sense. Childish
comments and inane conversation. The parents actually encouraging such pointless
behaviour.
He cannot get that family in Worse, he finds that the group of four has become larger in his twisted state
of mind, including Yugi and Tea, Joey and … and – what is his name? Ah, Tristan
– as well. They are making greater fools out of themselves than usual; yet don't
seem to care how very much out of place they are.
He hates them all with passion, especially tonight. Is it not bad enough that
they stain his days, must they invade his nights as well?
But his mind refuses to let him tear his eyes away from the table of happy
people, even as his feet keep walking through the streets on their own accord.
He curses himself when shocking blue lock on Joey, wondering why everything
always seems to come back to the mutt. It is Yugi who beat him, and yet it is
Joey who comes constantly to mind when Seto falls into reflection. Stupid Joey,
who doesn't have a care in the world. Loyal Joey, who has friends in spades and
love in buckets.
Flawed Joey, who lives the perfect life.
He will never understand how someone like Joey can have everything, while
Seto has nothing.
"Nothing," he whispers to the wind, only ever the wind. He does not even have
a soul that is his own, nor does he exist outside of a name that was forged by a
man he despises. Joey has no responsibilities, no demons. He laughs bitterly at
the thought of the mutt having to try and justify his own existence in an
attempt to lose the guilt of murdering someone. He doubts Joey even really knows
what violence and hate is, outside their own petty feud.
"I hate you." It comes out as a growl, just the thought of Joey has once
again managed to elect unwanted emotion.
For invading my thoughts.
"I hate you."
For being more real and open than anyone should be allowed to be.
"I hate you."
Because I might have been able to be you, once.
The realisation startles him, and although he tries to push it away, destroy
it, he finds that it will not be disposed of quite so easily. Could he have been
Joey, if it had not been for Could the thought of having friends have seemed less an unnecessary chore,
and more a desired end?
Well. One thing is for sure. If he HAD been like Joey, he certainly would
have been far more intelligent.
It does not matter, either way. He is not Joey, nor will he ever be Joey. How
can he be, when the mutt has always had everything so easy, while Seto himself
hardly even knows the meaning of the word? They are two different to ever be
alike: the mutt defines freedom while he himself invented the very traps that he
has found himself in.
But that doesn't mean that he doesn't occasionally wonder what it would be
like …
He is a caged dragon. Brilliant, powerful, stunning. And yet, still always
trapped. Sometimes, he thinks he would trade his dragon soul for the heart of a
pup, if given the chance.
"Just for a couple of days," he speaks to the wind, his constant companion on
this walk. He almost laughs when he realises that the first star of the evening
has just appeared in his vision. His humour dissolves slightly for just a
moment, and he quietly echoes his own words. "Just for a couple of days."
As clarity makes a welcomed return, he shakes his head in annoyance,
wondering what inspired him to make such an insipid request, and to a
star of all things. Reaching into his cell phone, he quickly calls his
driver, barking orders into the innocent piece of technology. He doesn't have
time for silly games and childish wishes. He has work to do.
Joey can keep his precious freedom. Seto doesn't have time for it.
*
Maybe. So many possibilities. Perhaps it is Ryou who deserves his wish tonight; after all, none of the others have a horrible, violent spirit actually living inside of them.
Maybe.
He has always hated mirrors, and the one that hangs on a slightly odd angle in his bathroom is certainly not proving to be an exception. Slightly critical eyes take in his own reflection, studying silver hair and wide eyes, wondering exactly what people think when they see him.
Freak. That is one of the more popular words that people have always associated with him. His slightly abnormal looks rarely go down well with the casual observer.
If only they knew that his strange white hair and occasionally 'disturbing' eyes were the most normal part of him. Perhaps they would not be so quick to insult his appearance if they knew his state of mind was such an easier target.
He isn't quite sure which of them finds this sharing of bodies/melding of
souls the most difficult. He personally finds it an invasion, something that
cannot be forgiven or ignored, and yet his other half seems to take it all in
his stride. He wonders what he sees when he looks in this same
mirror, if he sees an anger that burns in normally placid eyes, if
he sees someone who is not quite whole, anymore.
So many things to wonder about. Maybe one day he will ask.
He almost laughs at the thought of actually sitting down with Speaking of the weather …
He closes the small window on the far wall, blocking out the rain that is
starting to spill into the room, before turning back to the mirror. He hates how
the face he sees there is foreign, even though it has always been his. The hand
he rests gently against the glass is his own, yet he can barely recognise it,
wondering how much it has been tainted by Definitions, he has always liked definitions. That he cannot even define
himself anymore troubles him, that his own shadow is shared now by two,
disturbs. He is no longer himself, but a strange hybrid that has lost its right
to control his own body at all times.
He can barely remember a time when he was the one standing in front of the
mirror, as opposed to being the one trapped on the other side. He isn't even
sure now which one of them has control of his body at this very moment.
He is but a reflection of a reflection.
Yes. He hates mirrors. But that is not all he hates.
"I hate you." His soft British accent sounds out of place as he curses his
other half.
I hate myself.
I hate you.
I hate what I have become.
I hate you.
Sometimes, he can't remember quite which emotion is which.
There are so few rituals he still follows; yet he still turns to the window
when the first star rises. The Gods will surely listen to his plight, tonight.
That they have neglected their duties to him in the past is something he
ignores, as he slowly speaks to the star as though it will personally hand
deliver his message to the Gods.
"I wish you would die," he whispers it not to his reflection in the mirror,
but to one that is currently living in his head. "You have trapped me here, and
I cannot escape. I do not want to stay in this world you have formed for me,
remaining nothing more than an afterthought of the past. I wish you would die,
so that I could leave this hell of a future as well."
He wants to sleep again, to be ignorant of the fact that Bakura the Tomb
Raider no longer exists, that he is instead dependant of the weak spirit and
facade of a boy who owns his actual body. He wants to try and stop living his
past existence in a world that has forgotten he ever lived.
He wants to stop pretending he's real.
Because he's not.
Not anymore.
"It is good to see you this evening," he says with a serious that is not usual of him. "I would like to thank you for approving of my last wish, my parents were very pleased with my results." He pauses for a moment, tilting his head to the side in thought. "I have an odd request tonight, I suppose – I hope you do not mind. Instead of making a wish for myself, I'd like you to grant one for a friend of mine. It doesn't matter which one, they all deserve a little magic in their lives, I think. I know it might be a little difficult as well, as I kind of doubt any of them actually wish upon stars or anything," he says that last bit with a wry chuckle. "But hopefully you'll be able to help one of them, regardless."
He waits, then. He's not exactly sure why, he has never expected the stars to respond to him personally before, but there is something about tonight that is different: there is more than himself in this wish, there is something far more important and special. His friends.
There is no response, and part of the magic dies. The stars are not listening tonight; he can feel it deep within his soul. His wish will not be granted, nor will anyone else's. For a moment, he allows himself to feel pity for those who have chosen to wish on the stars for the first time this evening, those who are unlikely to ever wish again when morning does not deliver.
"Perhaps you will be more open to us all tomorrow," Honda speaks quietly, before turning his back on the night sky and heading back into the dark apartment. He will be making no more wishes tonight.
"Yugi?" The quiet voice of his grandfather startles him, and he turns
slightly watery eyes to the fragile man standing in front of him. Everything in
his grandfather's frame screams regret, and Yugi finds that he can't meet his
elder's eyes as he settles himself down beside Yugi. With great care, his
grandfather picked up the album, a shaking hand opening it to the front page.
"Elisabeth was your mother's best friend," the aged voice trembles, as does
the finger that points to 'Joanna'. "They met on a trip to Rome, where they were
both studying artefacts in the area. Your mother always loved Ancient Roman
ruins, her eyes used to light up so wonderfully at the mere thought …"
Fini.