Pairing: Bakura x Ryou
Genre: AU, romance
Rating: PG
Words: 820
Summary: Ryou knows he doesn't have to, but he takes painstaking care in shaping his handwriting when writing to Bakura.
Memory Album
Installment Seven: Scrawled
It is Friday afternoon.
The wind flips the pages of his notebook and pulls at the pegs securing his memories to the ground of his mind. He is afraid that if he doesn't reach out to hold them, they will fly away from him, lost to the pathways of the sky. But they are intangible, like so many of the things which wound him, so he merely sits and watches as blank page after blank page scrolls past his vision.
Everyone has always mocked him for his poor handwriting. Perfect, prissy Ryou, they call him, and then giggle as they point to his scrawled and very imperfect notes. The letters make jagged angles and disproportional loops, a collection of swiggles and curves that resemble the disorder in his mind more than anything else. Half of the time, they don't even make sense to him. They are merely scars upon pristine flesh, after all, and he takes them at their paltry face value.
They are more like art—an embodiment of emotions that, perhaps, he is still unaware of. In his view, their academic value is worthless; he takes them simply for the sake of the action—just to see the marks crisscross over the page. Perhaps hey help him study in a way, but that is only speculation. So it really doesn't bother him when others poke fun at his poor handwriting.
The only time he cares about the appearance of his lettering is in his notes to Bakura.
He sits in class often, practicing the shape and position of his letters. He makes painstaking effort to curl his G carefully and differentiate between his A's and his U's. When he takes his time, his lowercase T's and F's take separate forms, and suddenly his script is neat and flowing, dancing across the page like so many nimble sprites. However, he only applies this care to one singular instance.
The notes are sporadic, spur of the moment events. He fills the papers with his heart and soul, spilling out his thoughts and emotions via uniform lettering. They speak of transcendent values and intimate concern, and he knows that they will be safe from prying eyes, for Bakura understands how important they are to him.
Bakura has often laughed at the care he takes, stating that he can read even his messiest writing, so he need not try. He must agree with that, but he still wants his letters to be perfect. There's a reason why he must do this, he's sure of it; but he can't quite explain it, can't quite grasp it—so he just lets things be and doesn't question the workings of the universe.
A sheet of loose paper escapes from between the pages of the notebook, the oddball of the group—separate and disconnected from the community, left to fester in solitude. He reaches out and snatches it out from the air, crumpling the crisp paper with his fingertips. With almost apologetic care, he smoothes out the crinkles and press it flat with the palm of his hand. He lets his body heat and the pressure of his flesh seep into the piece of paper, almost as if he could iron it back to flawlessness. But his efforts prove futile, so he just toys with the corners of the folded paper as he watches the cars drive past him.
A few more pages flip in his notebook and already it is growing late into the afternoon.
The paper unfolds easily in his hand and he allows his eyes to scan over the words absently. They blur and swirl together, a mass of neat curves and lines, commas and question marks—and he really isn't reading at all. Time passes too slowly in the sphere that surrounds him, and he is forever searching for something to occupy himself; looking for something to fill that void until the missing piece is returned to its slot.
He stops on his signature at the bottom of the page, tracing the syllables before jumping up to the word above: a prelude, or perhaps a sweet confession. Love, Ryou, and suddenly Bakura is standing in front of him, eyebrow arched and the line of his mouth contorted in a smirk.
Heat rushes up to his face, wrapping around the curves of his cheekbones and tainting his pallor. Hastily, he folds the letter along its creases once more before pressing it hesitantly into the other's palm—then he is grabbing his books and bag from besides him, head lowered and hair tickling his neck. But before he can sling the backpack over his shoulder, it has been snatched away from his grasp and Bakura has slipped his hand into his empty palm as a replacement.
Bakura grins winningly as he apologizes for being late to pick him up, but he has already forgiven him and the brushing of lips is merely a bonus.