Slightly AU.
Prologue
The colorful play of lights flash around the very dark room, flickering as people dance, their images changing like a slow-motion scene in red, yellow, blue, green, black and white, the square tiled floor mirroring the movements; the upbeat music so loud it makes his heart drum at each peak of the tune.
Ryo blinks sluggishly, both his elbows supported on the wooden brown bar counter layered with glass.
He's dressed in dark pants and a black jumper, his grey overcoat tossed to the side of the counter. Closing his eyes while massaging his temples with his fingers, he takes a deep breath, the lights make his sight hurt and the hectic moves leave him queasy.
I shouldn't be here.
He watches a bit more, in a state of lethargy, he's been feeling slow ever since his last underground duel ended. The visual and auditory stimulus just adds to his tiredness rather than waking him up. Looking at the whisky glass on his hand, he chugs the little that was leftover down, his throat burning from inside, making him grimace.
Landing the cup with a thud, he straightens up, using his arm as a hanger for his coat. This is the first time he's dealing with this much alcohol, and it doesn't seem any useful for improving his performance in duels or heightening his senses. Perhaps he should stop before he can no longer remember the night.
His plain visual aside, everyone else is dressed for a party, they're using plain black masks covering only their eyes as per the dressing code, but he isn't. His face is for show because he is one of the "stars". The barman prepares drinks for some other people who sit on the tall bar chairs nearing his sides.
A celebration, he said? For who?
Saruyama, his manager, convinced him this was a well-deserved party, and that if he came, they'd get even more sponsorship. As soon as they entered the nightclub, his manager patted him on the back and with a "have fun", he ditched Ryo at the doorstep, vanishing somewhere into the upper area.
Is he testing me?
His gaze zigzags confusedly, aiming towards the upper floor almost above his head, he can see the metallic plates forming a corridor connecting the two pairs of iron stairs on each end of the whole dancing salon.
To see how I'd do alone? Or did he think I'd entertain myself while he's on business?
With a huff, he turns around, the barman flaunts the whisky bottle, he replies holding his hand up in a stop, shaking off his head, grabbing his coat and directing his unstable steps at the upper floor. His boots clack on the metal of the stairway, the lights and sounds that become more vague affecting his balance, he stumbles to the side, supporting a hand on the guardrail before he falls.
I'm sure he's somewhere up here.
Getting a hold of himself, he slides his hands while trudging up, his sight blurring at intervals and refocusing, by the time he realizes, there he is, at the upper floor. The big square tiles are all in black, but so polished he could see his worn out reflection.
This is pathetic, Ryo Marufuji.
Indeed, a pathetic man he was, right after losing, he was so discouraged and puzzled he wound up here, in the lowest gutter of the dueling world. Back in school, they've called him a perfect duelist, the Kaiser. Thinking about it, the school always had an elitist system with the dorms, but he was never at the bottom of the food chain. He never had to deal with many obstacles and except for the shadow duels, his school life was mostly filled with blandness. Had a challenge been presented at the time, would he have taken this path?
Then, give him a couple months in the pro-leagues and for the first time in his life, he was on the losing end. He was miserable. Not knowing what's wrong, not being able to recognize the issue. Is this how those students always losing the exams to change dorms felt? He didn't know.
His hand slides again, following the line of the railing towards the wide upper area, he can see padded three-seater couches across each other separated by a black table with a crossed metallic frame supporting it near the guardrails, the setup repeating across the whole semi-open room, the table closest to him had some glass cups and dirty plates, someone must've been there not long ago, was it Saruyama? The place is too big and crowded for him to be sure.
This seems like a VIP area of sorts, but strangely enough, there's no one here. He can see the dancing salon below, the lights don't bother him as much anymore, but this place is still too dark.
On the opposite side of the railing, he sees two toilet doors with respective signs for ladies and gentlemen and on the middle of the wall, a double door, above it a "V.I.P." golden sign plate hanging and two burly men standing and guarding the door. His manager must've entered there.
Rolling his eyes, he supports both hands on the railing, turning his back at that VIP area, in his line of sight, on the other end of the room he can see a silvery structure supporting the lights that move from one side to another, making the play of luminance on the salon below, the disco globe deflecting all that twice as much and make the scenery even more convulsing.
Even with his senses foggy, he hears a faint sound of someone climbing the stairs, no, two people, his body swirling at them in a mechanical response.
Two ladies come over to him, their red lipstick shining as the lights blink, their eyes squinting mischievously under their dark masks, a smirk on their faces. One of them holds a red handbag from a famous brand, matched with rings, collars and elegant jewelry and the tight dress.
"Wanna join us for a drink, Mr. Duelist?" she brushes a hand on his arm.
Standing up in an imposing posture, he glares at them, his eyebrow curving so slightly down they could only notice his deadpan, unfazed expression. From appearance alone, he can tell they're certainly older than him even if just a couple years.
Instead of answering, he simply turns his face away, letting out a heavy, bothered sigh, uninterested in whichever proposal they tried to hook him into. Following strangers in a place like this? That's like asking for problems, no matter if they take the shape of pretty women. He learned his lesson the first time with Saruyama baiting him into this underground world with those sweet promises of glamour and fame.
They giggle, exchanging a glance, one of them saying while waving her fingers at him in a bye-bye. "Alright, sweetie."
They disappear under the intermittent lights, he can hear their giggling as they fade away. How many times was it now? First, some women wanted his autograph, which he refused; second some men wanted to talk about his duel style, he also refused; then some other group of men and women invited him for a drink while flirting; all those people approached him like he's an attraction in a zoo.
So much bullshit.
Those are the same people who'd watch him writhe in pain in the pit, and then they act all friendly as if they're not the ones patronizing his suffering and relishing it with a good cup of wine.
He's not the only one, though, he saw other older duelists, or rather, other people without masks, like him, with the difference they seem to be enjoying themselves down in the dancing platform and making out with women right there. They've been in it longer than him.
Well, that could be me.
He scoffs, supporting both elbows on the railing, swaying his head negatively at the bad joke.
No way. All I care about now is…
Even if he's sunk to the bottom, right now, what matters to him is to fix his dueling career, combing his hair with a hand, he exhales. God, he's reeking like alcohol. What is he doing here exactly?
You know what?
With or without Saruyama, he'll get out of this place, go home, shower, get a good night of sleep, clear his head and come back to the underground tomorrow, no more partying. Not that he partied hard to begin with, he was just standing and drinking bored for what seemed a very, very long hour or more, he isn't entirely sure of time.
Inside the kitchen,
The sound of sizzling pans, glass cups clinking and running water added to the shouts of waiters coming in and ordering the special menus and shots. Amidst the hurry from the workers, a particular waitress cleans the top of the small kitchen counter, the long sleeves of her white, high collar buttoned shirt getting drenched and soaped, some wet stains showing on both her social black pants and female's waistcoat, her curves shaded by the uniform.
As soon as she's finished, a waiter carrying an empty tray bumps her to the side with his body, so brusquely she totters a few steps to the side.
He gnarls at her while placing his tray on the recently cleaned counter. "Don't dawdle around too much, we got work to do!"
She wrinkles her nose at him, curbing her urge to stick her tongue out, her blue eyes narrowing in a petty contempt under the mask, her pink ponytail flailing as she shakes her head in disapproval, cleaning the counter to the side.
"Come on, don't be mad at her, she's new!" another waiter shouts from the doorframe
"We gotta serve one of the stars around, I have no time," he rushes, yanking a slim, tall glass goblet from the black cupboard above the counter and pouring a shot of expensive Brandy on it.
"To the newcomer?"
"Oh, yeah, and he's leaving. Our scouts got refused, can you believe it? But since it's his first time here, let's make this a spectacular night for him, right?"
With a grin, takes a small package from his pocket and sprinkles a white powder into the drink, mixing it with a small spoon, his other colleague grins.
"I can't believe you!"
"We need to make the clients have fun so they come back! Orders of the house!" he guffaws, as if the joke was so fun he couldn't hold back. "You know the job, we make them drink this and they'll be ordering everything we have to offer, then we get to suck their wallets dry."
The waitress on the side observes distrustfully, her hands moving slower as her attention is divided, what did he just pour in there? His demanding voice startles her:
"If you have time to laze around, how about you come up with me and clean the table? The clients up there already left!"
It was an order, she gasps, collecting whichever tools and products she need in a tray and quickly following after him, the auto-closing door shutting in her face because her colleague didn't even bother to hold it for her. Pushing it with a shoulder while gnawing her teeth and gripping the tray firmly with both hands, she darts outside, into the mix of confusing noises and lights, getting a glimpse of her co-worker waltzing past the dancing crowd, rushing to catch up to him while avoiding the people and trying to make sure none of the objects on her tray falls.
They go upstairs, to the VIP area, there's only one person besides the guards and a young looking man. He's one of the "special guests" as they call it around, the people who were brought here by their managers, some celebrities of sorts, she doesn't understand much about it, but rules say they don't need to use masks and they should be treated like VIPs.
"Go clean that table," he says between his teeth, urging the waitress to do her job, his face making a 180 turn to a polite smile. "Sir, we've brought a gift."
Ryo's legs wobble as he turns to the side, recovering his center of gravity, he can tell something's off, underneath that seemingly friendliness.
"I'm good," he retorts in a mumble.
"A free drink, courtesy of the house," the man adds, that smile remaining unchanged on his face.
"I'll be leaving now, so I don't need this."
He raises his hand up, denying it, his steps still unbalanced as he dresses his overcoat, his body sways to the side, staggering a few steps to the nearest couch, his knees stumbling onto it, bending down to support his hands on the cushions at the back.
At this point, the waitress is on alert, exchanging a glance with her companion. Ryo's in a daze for a few seconds, only hearing the silent steps drawing close, a pair of hands getting a hold on his arm, helping him up. He gapes upon seeing the worried stare fixated on him, he can't tell well the features of the lady in the darkness besides that pink hair. Has he ever seen this color of hair before? It doesn't matter.
She, on the other hand, can tell a lot more from his distant, seemingly standoff stare: he's hammered. Shouldn't he be on his way home? Should they call a taxi for him? She doesn't know the procedures they do in those cases.
A voice yells at her, her hands immediately letting go of the young man. "Hey! Who said you could harass the clients?"
"It's fine," he dismisses it, putting a hand to his forehead. "I'm leaving."
"Oh, you can take the drink and leave, then," he lifts the tray.
"If you insist," his eyes squint very slightly when he grabs the cup.
"My best wishes for your night, Sir."
Again that strange, chilly sensation crawls under his spine as he looks into this man who happily stands, his arms crossed in front of his waist in a formal posture. The pink-haired waitress panics, casting a glance at her co-worker who is completely fine in watching the disaster unravel.
As Ryo brings the cup closer, he stops, looking at his image ripple on the clean liquid, his eyes narrowing subtly.
He flinches awake when his whole wrist is hurled down by a pair of hands all of sudden, a few droplets of the drink flying out, splattering on the ground. His gaze instantly turning to the culprit: the waitress. His brows furrow, she has quite the grip on his arm too, squeezing it tight, her eyes wide open in nervousness.
"Let go of me," he asks, annoyed. What's with the woman?
"Hey! I've already told you to stay away from the clients!"
Her friend stomps closer, fuming from his head, she quickly switches a glance between the encroaching storm of a waiter and Ryo, then looking at the cup and shaking her head off to him as if telling he shouldn't drink that.
He scowls at her, his lips splitting apart, about to voice a question, but as her colleague arrives, in a last, desperate attempt, she slaps Ryo's hand, so strong it bounces to the side, dropping his glass that shatters, splashing the drink everywhere on the floor, his shoes include, he takes a step back in shock.
"You little-" her colleague grits his teeth, grabbing her by the scruff of her waistcoat and effortlessly dragging her away. "Apologize!"
She bows deeply, many times as her colleague berates her, pointing his finger into her face. Ryo has enough of this whole place and sincerely he doesn't care whatever is going on here. Taking the animosity of the man as a cue he was distracted, he leaves quietly.
By the time the waiter calms down, taking short breaths to gasp for air, the duelist is no longer there.
"What?! See what you did?! We just lost a client! Don't you know we get money by taking them and making them pay for more drinks and services?!" he raises his hand, but stops midway, his brows so angled down she could see the sweat accumulated there. "I'm snitching on you for ruining my task, girl!" he prods his index onto her shoulder bone, pushing her back at the force. "You're getting fired tonight! And do you know what happens to bad girls like you who can't work properly, huh?" he smiles viciously. "You'll regret this."
Threading down the stairs like a furious tornado making each step clink extra loud, he leaves her alone, she circles her head around, her brows coiling upwards in dismay, her shoulders slumping. Not this job too. And what was that ominous last declaration?
At an apartment complex, in the suburbs
The taxi drops Ryo by the door of the building, he totters out of the taxi that quickly leaves, making his way mechanically to the door, on one of the upper floors of the 4 floor building.
His hand misses the keyhole a few times before he can finally open the door, closing it with a clunk and messily shaking his feet and launching his boot onto the floor, as well as undressing his coat and hanging it on one of the hooks on the wall to the side of the entrance. A headache plagues him, his left temple pumping, his vision unclear in the darkness of the room when he walks straight to the bed, plopping there without hesitation, putting an arm over his forehead. A vibration quaking his phone in his pocket, he begrudgingly draws his cellphone out, laying it flipped down onto the bed, letting his own face sink into the mattress.
What is wrong with everyone in that place? Well, it's a nightclub, but he was sure at least half of the people approaching him were paid to do it, not to say that waiter who offered him a laced drink, it was so obvious. He'd have broken the glass himself by "accident" had that girl not done it for him. Talking about which… Who is even stupid enough to make a fuss instead of discreetly solving the problem?
He'd think dealing with fans was the easiest part, but compared to the school fangirls and the guys who admired him in school whom he never had any particular problems with, those underground people are insufferable. It's tiresome. While his thoughts run wild, his eyelids are so heavy he can't keep them open. Soon, he's snoozing.
How much more of this will he have to face until he can go back to the pro-leagues? And which price is he willing to pay for that? In his journey of self-destruction, he may find a silver lining, one that will change his life.