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Ryou hadn’t been joking about the spray bottle.
This shouldn’t have come as a surprise, given that in their brief friendship (relationship? set of encounters? break from the never-ending ennui of eternal damnation on this too-bright, too-loud, spinning blue marble?) Ryou had never bullshitted any of his many threats. Granted, they’ve ranged in both creativity and improbability, but Ryou had kept his word about each and every single one.
And yet, the blast of wet that catches Marik between the eyes also catches him completely off-guard.
He has a brief moment of unspeakable rage, a throwback to what he’s been told is a really piss-poor way of handling things and expressing his feelings , and his hands twitch just the slightest, the curl of knuckles into the promise of a fist, before he thinks better of it and wipes the water from his face instead.
Ryou, of course, hasn’t even looked up—one hand is hovering over the makeshift tabletop of stacked textbooks and the other still on the trigger of the bottle, casually aimed right at Marik even though Ryou fired blind. Marik and the startled underclassman exchange glances while Ryou hums over his cards. The student clutches her bookbag a little tighter and there’s a joke to be made there, a soft tilt forward and the curl of his lip, not quite sneer, not quite menace but—but Ryou shakes the spray bottle, sloshes the water inside just enough for Marik to hear it over the ringing in his head. Now that he’s sure his kohl is already running the threat’s not quite as potent but Ryou must know , because he finally looks up (at the school girl, not Marik, not yet) and stretches his arms over his head. Marik watches an errant drop of water fall into Ryou’s hair when he says, “I apologize for him. We haven’t got him civilized just yet, only just barely house-trained.”
Marik’s voice is gravel and crunch and crack when he speaks (he doesn’t mean to do it no matter how much it does help his aesthetic, it’s just that he’s not got much need for talking lately, let alone people to talk to) and the girl flinches. He’s seen Ryou rolls his eyes enough times to know he can do it so hard that you see nothing but the whites for a solid second but it fascinates Marik every time; he knows the accompanying huff and sigh like the back of his hand. If he’s lucky, if he comes on time, Marik can stand in the exact place necessary to catch the setting sun on his bracelets and shine it right in Ryou’s eyes, and he does just that as he says, “That’s hardly fair. I only chewed your slippers once.”
The girl, poor confused, terrified thing, cracks the smallest grin. Ryou doesn’t. Marik scowls. Ryou stares at the cards, finally sets down the spray bottle in favor of flipping over them over instead. Marik, gods help him, leans forward—he’s just as enthralled as the schoolgirl is, as half of Domino is, with this white-haired, wide-eyed boy, with his ratty blanket and his textbooks as a table and his fortunes. Yugi Mutou may very well be the King of Games, but Ryou Bakura makes his living with a very different sort of deck these days.
It’s a deck that happens to be Marik’s least favorite, today. Ryou’s explained time and again that this is the standard, the world’s most popular version, but that holds very little sway with Marik. Ryou has at least a dozen, perhaps even over twenty, stuffed in his backpack and propping up or resting on priceless artifacts in the Domino Museum warehouse, all nicer than these stale pictures and scratchy cardstock that drags against Marik’s fingertips the few, few times Ryou’s let him touch. He’s using only the named cards today— the Major Arcana , Ryou hisses once, head in Marik’s lap as he tries to see how long Ryou’s bangs will stay upright (it earns him a solid slap, but the record stands at seven seconds)—one of Ryou’s simpler, cheaper readings.
After a long moment, Ryou leans back with a sigh. He doesn’t smile. Both Marik and the student watch his face, though probably for very different reasons. It marvels Marik, this strange sort of mercy that Ryou has, where bad news comes with a smile but when—
When the news is good, Ryou leans back with a sigh, claps his hands together, and says, “Well.” His finger (long, slim, such a nice snap, Marik’s sure, if he were to break it) hovers over the first card. “Let’s begin.”
Marik takes a seat on the edge of the blanket, settles in for the long haul—depending on how much she’s paid, this could take nearly an hour. His foot ends up poking Ryou in the thigh and there’s a tiny, tiny twitch just under Ryou’s right eye that makes Marik practically giddy.
The girl leans too far forward, blocks Marik’s view of the cards entirely, so he flops back into the grass, more than content to let Ryou do the explaining. “Achievement and success are on their way to you,” he’s started, practiced cadence a perfect middle ground between Isis’ prescient confidence and the flair that Marik remembers Rishid having, honed from endless nights of the same old bedtime story, “I would say to expect a promotion or some sort of status, but I think it’s far more likely your bout of poor luck will soon be over. Especially given the man—your father or a teacher, perhaps—who’ll lend you his support.” Marik cracks an eye open just in time to see Ryou shrug. “You know who I’m talking about.”
The girl nods along, smiles and ducks her head in all the right places. Marik likes these customers best, who keep their mouths shut, let him listen to Ryou speak. A hand closes around the foot he’s been absently tapping on Ryou’s thigh, slinks down to Marik’s ankle where Ryou taps an absent rhythm as he hums over the reading.
“This man,” Ryou says, “is someone you can trust. You respect him, and it would be in your best interest to get his advice. Especially,” here he looks up, the consummate psychic, the transcendent diviner (Marik’s heard this act a dozen times, memorized it down to the curl in the corners of Ryou’s lips), smiles at his customer, puts her at ease, “especially since you’re so afraid that things are going to get worse.” The schoolgirl flinches. Ryou’s nail clicks against the card. “This one here? The Wheel? Your luck is changing, Keiko, the wheel is turning. You just need to trust your own intuition this time, instead of whoever tricked you the last time. They have to go—you’ll be better for it, and justice will be done.” The hand on Marik’s ankle slips away as Ryou leans back on his hand, fingers curling in the grass, finally smiling. “Does that make sense to you?”
It does, Keiko assure him, them, scrambling for her things and brushing grass from her stockings and not quite meeting anyone’s eyes as she smiles and waves and heads on her merry way. Marik slinks up to take her seat before Ryou can pack up his things. He scoops up the cards, ignores Ryou’s scowl, and shuffles through them. “What does this one mean?” he asks, picking a card. They’re all in English but this card, with the crowned man all in red, scepter in hand, seems important.
Ryou frowns and props his chin in his hand, looks terribly put out even though they both know Ryou could talk about this for hours. “The Hierophant—a high priest,” he explains, sees the question on Marik’s face before he can even ask, “means conformity, institutions, a counsellor.” He smirks. “Or alliances. Servitude.”
Something roils sour in Marik’s gut and the card in his hand seems much more sinister between his fingers. “How apt.”
Ryou grins crooked and wide. “And that’s only the upright side.”
“Upright?”
“Flipped upside down, it means rebellion. Questioning traditions.” Ryou pulls Marik’s foot onto his lap, fingers pressing into the sore spots. He ducks his head to hide his chuckle, spits Marik’s words back at him. “How apt.”
Marik slides all six cards back into the deck and Ryou takes it from him. Marik stands, hovers over Ryou as he packs up his books and shoves the old blanket in his backpack and doesn’t step away when Ryou finally straightens. Ryou arches an eyebrow and glances him up and down, a foot apart, and says, “Don’t follow me home.”
“I want to see where you live.”
Ryou lets his breath hiss out from between his teeth and rolls his eyes. They’re standing so close Marik can see every little vein. “Oh, I imagine it’s a lot like your home, four walls and a door and a laundry hamper—” Ryou pauses, considers what he’s saying and who he’s saying it to. “Where are you staying?”
Marik shrugs. “You know that abandoned high school everyone keeps breaking into for fun?”
“Are you serious?”
He laughs. “Do you feel sorry for me?”
“Yes, but—” Ryou interrupts even though Marik had only just opened his mouth. “Not enough to take you home with me.”
It had been worth the try. Marik shrugs again, waves good-bye, heads down the road in the opposite direction. Doesn’t look back.
Ryou’s business is so good that he’s expanded to weekends, commandeering one of the chess tables further into the park for his readings (and if it happens to be the favorite table of a lanky, bespectacled, hoodie-wearing young man who bears absolutely zero resemblance to the CEO of KaibaCorp and his unbelievably short companion who can never quite squirrel away all of his unusual hair under a hat, Marik keeps his goddamn mouth shut). His customers come endlessly, loitering at the other tables and standing just out of earshot and waiting waiting waiting for Ryou, for that hair and that face and those hands that Marik doesn’t want to hold and break and kiss and bite not at all no no—
It’s another reading for another red-faced, middle-aged salaryman, cradling his broken arm against his chest and sitting straight-backed on the bench. Ryou glances at Marik sitting just to his right—he’s become part and parcel to these readings, he thinks, or at least no customers are ever brave enough to ask why he’s there—reaches for his deck, the one Marik has come to hate, and turns to his client. “Your name?”
The salaryman flinches. “Takahashi.”
“Your first name,” Ryou says, and the salaryman frowns at how unflustered Ryou is, how few fucks he gives about social niceties when they get in the way of his work, how if Marik was feeling particularly (unhinged? unstable? unbalanced?) misty-eyed, he’d say it was something he loves about this silly little boy.
“Kazuki,” says his client and Ryou starts to shuffle. Ryou doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t tell them to pick a card, any card, just shuffles and shuffles and pulls the first six cards from the top, spreads them and flips them over.
Marik hums under his breath and the salaryman’s eyes flick to him. Ryou pinches him under the tabletop and Marik pinches him right back. “You’re feeling satisfied with your achievements,” Ryou starts, “and you’re about to reach a period of fulfilment. The outcome of your business deal with be fair and in your favor, but the help and support you need for that outcome will only come if you ask. Listen carefully to their advice and your own intuition.” He glances up at his client, smiles. “Even if it tells you difficult things. Even if you need to sacrifice—it will only turn out for the best, but don’t be hasty. Since you’ve been unwell, this is a time for rest and patience.”
The salaryman nods. Marik yawns. Ryou asks, “Do you understand?”
The sun is casting long shadows across the table by the time Ryou’s clients finally run out and when he pauses to brush his bangs from his face, Marik takes the cards from his hand. “Read my fortune.”
Ryou doesn’t even pretend to consider it. “No.”
“Why not?”
“What am I going to tell you that you don’t already know?”
“Let me read your fortune, then,” Marik says, pulls six cards like he’s seen Ryou do, fanning them out across the cool cement table.
He hems and haws for a moment, waving his hands over the cards and generally making an ass out of himself until Ryou rests on calm, dangerous hand—a warning—on the table. Marik clears his throat. “Your apartment building has structural issues. I would move. A man will appear from the sky to wake the dead and offer them medical assistance, but I’m not sure what that has to do with you. Watch out for him, I guess.” He cocks his head to the side, stares at the next few cards. “A naked woman will sneak into your house and pour all the water in your teapot down the toilet, and another woman in a strange hat will steal the moon and paint English letters on your walls. And your neighbor is going to get rousingly drunk almost light his place on fire, meaning you’ll get no sleep and dogs will keep you up all night with their barking.” Marik looks up at Ryou, grins with all his teeth. “Was I close?”
There’s a wicked curve to Ryou’s lips and when he takes the cards from Marik their fingers brush. “No,” Ryou says, cracking each knuckle under Marik’s entranced eye, rolling his wrists and rearranging the spread to his liking. “Would you like to hear what it actually says?”
Oh, he would love nothing more. “Please.”
Ryou shrugs. “Catastrophic change. Surprises will not turn out the way you expect and new directions will be made apparent to you—to me,” he amends. Marik wonders if he’s ever read the cards for himself before. “This will be what I wanted, a new start, though not entirely how I had hoped it would come about. The choices I make now will have far-reaching implications. I am,” he frowns, like the word is bitter in his mouth, “I am afraid that my hopes will be dashed, given the circumstances, but instead a gift will come my way. A new relationship, potentially travel. I will need to pay careful attention to my intuition as well.” His eyebrows shoot up for just long enough that Marik thinks he may have a knack for this after all, turning cards and tables and all to watch the lovely, lovely gears in Ryou’s despicable, fragile head turn. “Someone, a man, isn’t quite who they seem. Trickery disguised as charm, and I must be sure he truly has my best intentions at heart. But I must trust my instincts, and open my mind to new and unexpected possibilities.”
“That,” Marik purrs, “is quite the fortune.”
Ryou leans back against the bench. “It is.”
They’re quiet for a long moment until Ryou finally moves, picking up his cards and folding the pillowcase he read them on and shrugging on his jacket. Marik watches him, head in his hands, lazy smile and half-closed eyes. “Feel sorry enough to let me in your bed tonight?”
Marik winks when he says it and Ryou’s eyes roll so far back in his head that somewhere, a Catholic priest gets the chills. He pauses, deck halfway in its case and pulls one card.
Ryou arches an eyebrow, slips the card and its deck back in his backpack. When Marik stands, Ryou hooks an arm through his. “No,” he replies, but laughs when Marik scowls. “But,” he says, makes Marik’s hair stand on end, “I think sorry enough to buy you a drink.”