Wish upon a Moon, Dance atop a Star
Summary:
Can
a broken Ryou Bakura find his way to his heart and soul again?
A/N:
And now without further ado…the story! Please sit back, relax, and
plunge right in! :)
The moon's dulled rays hit the dark surface of the churning waters below. Shadows danced across the field, while the moon gazed at her reflection in the rippling depths. A haunting melody drifted in the air, and then disappeared into the darkness. Water splashed across the rocks. The waves rose, gained speed, surged, and hit the rocks, then receded slowly, drained, defeated after their one glorious moment of defying gravity.
A lone figure stood at the edge of the precipice, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. His pale colored hair shone liquid silver in the moonlight, dancing about his face as the wind tugged playfully at the long strands. Bright droplets glistened, slipping down his cheeks, plummeting into the abyss below, gathering in the vast waters, swirling darkly.
The figure rocked forward dangerously, his feet slipping off the crumbling edge—
-.-
"Yo, kid!" A tall lanky man shouted into the kitchen. He ran his hands through his graying hair, and leaned against the counter. He surveyed the front room, and shook his head exasperatedly. Soft, dim light glowing from sparse light bulbs hung low on the ceiling created a hazy sort of lethargic atmosphere—perfect for attracting clients.
The music was turned low, but he could hear the deep, bass beats thrum in the speakers. The lingering scent of smoke and alcohol hung in the air cloyingly, and he could just imagine the boy rushing through the room, serving cantankerous customers and cleaning on some days, while during other days, calming the rowdy crowds with his boyish charm.
He almost pulled down a stool down to sit, but stopped. Chairs were neatly aligned in perfect squares. The tables were wiped clean of all crumbs and spilled drink. And he knew only one person had worked the central shift tonight.
His shoes clicked on the floor as he walked around the room, fiddling with his watch. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly as he noted the late—or early—hour.
"Hey, kid!" He shouted again. He leaned against the counter, his back to the door. Seconds later, he heard the door burst open, and gasps of breath behind him.
He could feel the nervousness roll off the boy in waves, and could imagine the ever-present panicked shine in his eyes before he turned around to face his employee. He would normally find it funny, instilling such a deep fear within his employees' hearts that they followed his directions to the letter. He'd been doing that for years to get his workers off their lazy bums, as they were continually wont slack off.
Who wanted to work here, anyways? A sorry bunch of half dressed men and women who couldn't make it in their younger years, and yet hoped to earn some quick cash. He knew what they did during their breaks, and before and after, but did nothing to stop it, so long as it didn't interfere with their work.
He flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his suit before completely facing the younger.
"Sir?" The breathless syllable hung in the air, lighter and purer than the smoke stinging his eyes.
Once again, oddly enough, the worry in the boy's soft voice tugged at a remote place in his heart, one that he'd buried many years ago. He found it strange that he could decipher so much about the boy from a single word. What was stranger, still, was that he could hear the boy clearer than he could hear the crescendo of the pounding music reverberating throughout the room. There was so much wrapped up in that voice, that he was sure it could carry halfway through the world and knock down those listening hard enough.
The boy shifted, and lowered his head so that his hair covered his eyes. He could see teeth dig into a pale lower lip, fingers pluck listlessly at his borrowed uniform. The ever-so-slight hitch in the younger's shoulders as he walked closer, his heels echoing against the slick floor.
"What time was your shift over?"
No pleasantries. No greetings.
The boy shifted nervously.
"N-Nine o'clock, sir." The answer was intoned as a question, murmured softly, the answer flowing from an aching tongue.
He'd known what the boy had to do at times. He didn't condone it of course, but he had told his steeds not to let it get out of hand. As long as it brought in the cash, it wasn't a problem. And the boy hadn't been hurt—well, hurt enough to scar permanently—either physically or emotionally. And he was nice enough to allow him to keep the extra tips.
He found it strange trying to justify his actions with himself.
"What of Liza?"
The boy squirmed uncomfortably.
"Wasn't closing her duty?"
He studied his fingernails, aware that the only people remaining were they.
"She-she wasn't feeling well," the boy said quickly, his tongue almost tripping over the lie. He knew they both recognized it for what it was, too. But it would be useless to acknowledge.
He sighed as a man would sigh when it wasn't he who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but when he saw it all balanced precariously upon another's.
He nodded, and finally glanced at the boy. He watched as his hand reached out to cup his chin, and raise it so he could look at the boy's face. He peered closely at his high cheekbones, the color flush on his cheeks, the barely concealed bruises lining his jaw, a disgusting faded purple color—remnants of the brawl last week. Childish features, his mind pure as white snow in a dump like this.
He didn't belong here.
He dared not look at the questioning eyes, so filled with innocence and hope, untainted by the evils of the world, though he danced dangerously with them daily—almost flaunting that innocence. Almost begging to be taken, to be tainted, to be…
He shook his head at the direction his thoughts had taken. The warm skin cupped in his palm was smooth, uncut by a razor's sharp edge. Those teeth were at his lip again, betraying his nervousness. He wiped a smudge of soap off the curve of his nose with his thumb and, uncharacteristically, pulled the boy into a rough embrace.
He rubbed the boy's back as the younger tensed, and then finally sagged wearily against him. He trembled and his shoulder shook before the boy tightened his hold on his waist. He could feel the boy's warm breaths puff against his shoulder, his arms slowly curl around his waist, his heart beat rhythmically, his body pulse with life.
"If you were my son," his voice echoed in the dark room. "I'd raise you with mounds of caramel flavored toffee and mugs of hot chocolate every day."
The boy felt whole in his arms, alive and safe. He wished he could hold him forever.
"You'd spoil me rotten," the soft voice responded from the folds of his suit. His lips curved into a half smile.
"Damn right I would," he agreed. He rested his chin atop the boy's head, and breathed in the faint scent of ripe blueberries. He allowed his eyes to slip shut, just for a second, to relish in the complete peacefulness of the atmosphere; there were no insistent customers, no tinkling of glass against groaning countertops, no rush—just the child in his arms and the music vibrating in the air and the scent of soap.
The dark windows glared at him, reminding him of the outside world, and his place and his duties and his subsequent helplessness. He itched to pull the shades down, but didn't want to let go of the boy.
Finally, he released him, and gave him one last pat on the head. He whirled around, and swept away, upstairs into his flat, blindly stumbling over neatly stacked boxes. He wished he could have told the boy to leave—the boy whose name rang in his ears, so reminiscent of his long dead son, the same knowing eyes, the same tranquility, the same omnipresent kindness…
His hand curled over where his heart should have been, and a hollow ache pulsed in rhythm with the music downstairs. He wished he could have said something to comfort the child, but he had nothing left to say.
