Chapter Text
He raised an eyebrow. The man in front of him seemed… anxious? No, that wasn't the word. Desperate? That could be; it was what best fit his attitude. Iruka sighed and brought his right hand to his head, running it back through his hair in a vague gesture. In the process, he undid the bun holding it, letting his mane fall in a chestnut cascade. Then, he returned his gaze to the grey-haired man, who was watching him like a hopeful puppy.
“I've drawn the cards for you more than ten times,” he said at last.
He wrinkled his nose, feeling the scar on his face contract with the gesture. He had used different readings, different decks, and different arcana, but the man refused to accept reality. A reality that, yes, could be sad and painful, but that didn't stop being the truth.
“The cards lie,” the grey-haired man said with a haughty tone.
Iruka rolled his eyes. He brought both hands to his head and exhaled a sigh heavy with exasperation.
“Then why did you come if you don't believe them? Don't waste my time,” he grumbled with evident annoyance. Or rather, with a mix of frustration, anxiety, and a tremendous urge to hit the guy in front of him.
“How can she not love me? We were together for years! We were partners, we were childhood friends!” The man's voice cracked. It showed in his tone, in his wounded gaze, and in those tears accumulating in his eyes, refusing to fall.
Iruka sighed again, torn between anger and compassion. In the end, he understood perfectly.
The tarot reader looked at him again. The man worked in a flower shop just a block away from Iruka's tattoo and tarot studio. He knows this because the man told him, because he has some scratches on his fingers, and because he smells of jasmine, gardenia, and roses. He smells of fresh flowers. A sensitive, sweet man. He didn't need the cards or astrology to know it; the man was simply… sweet. Too sweet for the amount of information the cards had given.
He nodded. Defeated; he couldn't deny that his heart softened a little seeing the florist so distressed. The same thing happened with his ex; he himself would draw the cards a thousand times waiting for an answer that would never come, because that's how stupid the heart is.
With a sigh that he dragged from the bottom of his lungs, Iruka slammed his palms on the table, making the rings on his fingers clink.
“Fine,” he conceded, settling into his chair. “One last time. But let it be clear: my fee is per reading, not for an emotional validation session. If I hear that the cards lie again, I'll have to charge you extra for damages to my professional morale.”
The grey-haired man blinked, surprised by the other's brusqueness, and sniffled discreetly as he tried to regain a shred of dignity.
Iruka didn't waste time. With methodical movements, he began the cleansing ritual to purge the dense energy the stranger had left floating over the tapestry. He took the deck, tapped it three times against the wooden table to “wake it up,” and put away the previous cards. Then, he took a lighter with his tattoo studio's logo and lit the tip of a sandalwood incense stick. He blew out the small flame and let the white smoke begin to float between them, enveloping the space in a mystical aroma that clearly wasn't doing anything for his client's nerves.
He shuffled leisurely, cut the deck into three, and spread the cards.
“Concentrate. Think about your… 'situation,'” Iruka requested, making subtle air quotes with a sarcasm that was completely lost on the florist.
The man closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and, with fingers still somewhat trembling, pointed to three cards. Iruka turned them over one by one.
Seeing the combination, the brunet was stunned. If the previous cards were bad, these were the esoteric equivalent of being run over by a garbage truck.
“Well?” asked the grey-haired man, leaning forward with a tragically hopeful spark. “What do they mean?”
Iruka rubbed his temples. The scar that ran horizontally across his nose creased so much it seemed to contract his entire face. He met all sorts of strange people in his shop, but this guy took the prize.
“They mean the universe is screaming at you to go to therapy. Kakashi, right?” He asked somewhat awkwardly. Iruka was never good with his clients' names. But this man had been waiting for over two hours for answers that weren't coming, so the name was embedded in his head. “But since you're clearly afraid of self-reflection, you came to waste my patience.”
“Excuse me, but I'm serious,” Kakashi replied, a bit defensively due to the stranger's tone.
“I'm serious too.” Iruka tapped his fingernail on the first card. “Look at this. The Ten of Swords reversed, crossed with the Tower. Look, we don't know each other, but tarot isn't quantum physics; it's logic. This speaks of a betrayal in the past, a total collapse, and a destructive guilt you've been dragging for years. The cards are telling me that your current relationship was doomed from day one because you built your idea of 'love' on a tragedy with your childhood best friend. Does that ring a bell?”
Kakashi visibly tensed in his chair. His eyes widened beneath his grey fringe.
“That… could be anything. Relationships are complex…”
“Don't give me that. I know you work at the flower shop in the gallery around the corner, I've seen you pass by.” Iruka rolled his eyes, resting his elbows on the table. “Let's see. This has a name and surname. The Five of Cups is right here. You're so focused on crying over the past — that is, over what 'could have been' before everything went to hell with that friend — that you don't see reality. From what I see, that guy survived whatever happened between you, didn't he?”
Kakashi swallowed hard, completely pale. The tattoo artist was laying bare his private life in five minutes. “He… yes. He survived a very serious accident when we were young. He's alive. In fact, he works on the same block as me…”
“Exactly. He's alive, he moved on, and he forgave you, but he does not want to have a relationship with you again!” Iruka retorted, relentless but maintaining that strangely professional tone. “The romantic love between you died in that hospital years ago, Hatake. What's left is pure toxic nostalgia on your part. The cards don't lie, you're lying to yourself.”
Kakashi stood speechless, staring at the pieces of illustrated cardboard as if they had teeth. His arrogance had completely evaporated, replaced by the shock of being lectured by a ponytailed tattoo artist he had just met.
Iruka sighed, his expression softening just a millimeter out of compassion, although the sarcasm was still there.
“You're very good with plants, for sure, but a complete emotional illiterate. He doesn't love you. End of communication.” Iruka gathered the cards with a clean movement and put them away. “Now, please pay for the consultation at the front counter. And seriously, find a psychologist, because the stress of your reading is going to turn my hair grey.”
Kakashi nodded. He could still sniffle, his face completely reddened by the tears he had. God, Iruka felt bad being like this with him, but the guy had to understand! Besides, they didn't know each other; he could have plenty of empathy and such, but if they didn't know each other, why should he be completely kind to him? He's a client, not a friend. At least his friends aren't this stubborn.
The grey-haired man left the bills on the tapestry, murmured an almost inaudible “thank you,” and crossed the studio door, making the small entrance bell ring.
Iruka let out all the air he had been holding. He ran a hand over his face, exhausted, and stood up to clean up the mess on his table. As he lifted the velvet tapestry, his fingers, still clumsy from the tension of the moment, stumbled upon the deck of cards he had just put away.
The case slipped and fell to the floor with a dull thud.
Iruka cursed under his breath, bending down to pick them up before they scattered completely. However, he stopped halfway. As a tarologist, he knew perfectly well that in his profession, coincidences didn't exist. When a deck fell, or when a card jumped out on its own, the tarot wasn't asking for permission to speak; it was giving an order.
And right in front of his boots, perfectly aligned face up as if an invisible hand had arranged them, were three cards.
Iruka frowned and crouched down, feeling a strange shiver run down his spine.
The first was The Two of Cups. An unexpected romance, a mutual connection arising from nowhere, an undeniable attraction between two souls who are just beginning to cross paths.
“Please, no,” Iruka whispered to himself, feeling a sense of foreboding.
The second, indicating the current situation, was The Wheel of Fortune. Destiny in motion, an inevitable change of cycle, the cosmic irony that the universe was about to turn his life upside down, whether he wanted it to or not.
And the third, describing the person involved in this whole mess, was the Knight of Cups. A figure speaking of someone wounded, a hopeless romantic carrying a heartache, someone desperately seeking emotional guidance… and who, conveniently, had the same melancholic energy as the guy who had just walked out his door less than a minute ago.
Iruka stared at the three cards on the wooden floor, completely stunned. The scar on his face contracted, but this time not from annoyance, but from pure disbelief.
He looked back towards the glass door of the shop, where the lanky silhouette of Kakashi could still be seen walking away under the light of the gallery's streetlamps.
“No, no, no. Don't even think about it,” Iruka complained to the floor, pointing a finger at the cards. “That guy is a nuclear disaster. I just told him he's an emotional illiterate, don't mess with me!”
He snatched up the three cards, shoving them back into the deck almost furiously, as if hiding them could erase the prophecy. He stood up abruptly, his heart beating a little faster than normal, and glanced sideways at the money Kakashi had left on the table.
The universe definitely had a horrible sense of humor.
The little entrance bell let out one last bronze sigh. Its echo was still vibrating in the air when Iruka, with a tired, routine flick of his wrist, turned off the “Open” sign. Suddenly, the “Luna y Espina” studio was plunged into a mystical twilight; the brass plate on the facade was left behind, and the space was only inhabited by the soft amber glow of the lanterns guarding the outside gallery.
With almost ritualistic movements, Iruka put the decks into their silk bags and wiped the wood with a microfiber cloth, but his eyes lingered on the purple velvet tapestry. The atmosphere still felt dense. That man's desperation — Kakashi, he remembered the trembling stroke of the signature in his logbook — floated in the air, persistent and bitter like a stale perfume that refused to evaporate.
“What a piece of work,” he murmured to the walls. His own voice returned a strangely small echo, worn out by the day.
He adjusted the leather backpack on his shoulder, turned the key in the lock, and surrendered to the night. Outside, the city breathed a clean scent of recent rain, mixed with the green, damp fragrance of the pines from the nearby park. Iruka walked unhurriedly, dragging his feet with deliberate slowness, allowing the icy street wind to sweep away the cobwebs in his head. Halfway across the pedestrian bridge, the scar across his nose began to sting — that physical reminder that his body had reached its limit — and he rubbed it with the back of his hand, gazing at the distant car lights.
His home awaited him just ten minutes away. The building was a modern block of severe lines, clean concrete, and colossal windows, but crossing the threshold of his fourth-floor apartment meant entering a completely different universe. Inside, there was no minimalism. The space welcomed him with the worn warmth of faded Persian rugs and burgundy velvet cushions piled on a wicker sofa. One entire shelf bent under the weight of astrology grimoires and herbalism manuals, while on the mantelpiece — a condemned structure he had transformed into a pagan altar — three huge half-consumed soy wax candles flanked a collection of smoky quartz and a colorful ceramic skull.
And then, of course, there were his guardians.
Three furry shadows materializing from the darkness of the hallway as soon as the jingle of his keys announced his return.
“Hey, old ones,” Iruka sighed, letting his backpack fall with a dull echo.
Sombra (Shadow), a scrawny black cat with eyes like yellow moons, was the first to claim his tribute, winding between his ankles with an urgency demanding affection before food. Behind him came Mochi, a plump orange specimen already marching with a fixed direction and languid meows towards the fridge. And finally, at the back, Urano (Uranus). The smallest and most enigmatic of the litter; a grey tabby that rarely showed up at first, unless Iruka returned with fatigue soaked to the bone. It was as if the feline could smell the wear and tear on his aura.
With silent devotion, Iruka served dinner in three fine ceramic bowls — premium food, a luxury he allowed himself for them even if he ate anything — and poured himself a glass of water, listening to the ice cubes clinking against the glass. He collapsed onto the sofa, threw his head back, and stared at the cracks in the ceiling.
The silence surrounding him was dense but strangely kind. A balm with no clients hopelessly in love, no major arcana spitting uncomfortable truths in his face. Only the rhythmic echo of the cats chewing and the distant hum of the elevator in the hallway.
However, his mind was an engine that refused to shut down.
On the canvas of his closed eyelids, the three cards that fate had thrown at his feet drew themselves again, clear and heavy. The Two of Cups. The Wheel of Fortune. The Knight of Cups. Three sentences pointing ridiculously towards the melancholic florist.
“It's a joke in very poor taste,” Iruka whispered into the void.
Urano raised his head from his plate, holding his gaze with the mute wisdom of cats, as if he knew perfectly well that Iruka was trying to lie to himself.
The brunet stayed still for a while longer, trapped in that inertia of exhausted bodies, letting his thoughts spin like dry leaves caught in a whirlwind of wind. Finally, more out of a mechanical impulse to quiet his head than out of true curiosity, he took out his phone. The screen lit up his tired face.
He opened Reddit.
His fingers slid listlessly through his usual subreddits, seeking the predictable comfort of r/WitchesVsPatriarchy, r/tarot, or the cynical memes of r/astrologymemes. But just as he was about to lock the screen, a notification in the suggestions tab froze his thumb. It was a post from a corner of the site he never frequented: r/relationship_advice.
The title, highlighted in dark, solemn letters, cut through the air of the room:
I went to a tarot reader and he told me to stop chasing my ex-best friend. I don't believe him. Advice?
Iruka arched an eyebrow, incredulity hanging in the air of the room.
With his heart giving a dull lurch against his ribs, he pressed the screen and opened the thread.
The user was hidden behind the pseudonym _.Hound — with a generic profile picture, devoid of identity, one of those the system assigns by default. The post was barely two hours old with a handful of erratic comments, but it was enough for Iruka to feel a sharp chill raising the hair on his arms. A cold suspicion began to branch out from the back of his neck.
He held his breath and began to read, devouring the words illuminated by the phone's ghostly glow.
I went to a tarot reader and he told me to stop chasing my ex-best friend. I don't believe him. Advice?
My tarot reader called me an 'emotional illiterate' and told me to stop wasting money. Is he right? Can you ever get a toxic ex back? : relationship_advice
My tarot reader called me an 'emotional illiterate' and told me to stop wasting money. Is he right? Can you ever get a toxic ex back?
I went to a tarot reader today. I won't say where or what his name is, but the guy was… direct. Too direct. I paid him to draw the cards several times (like ten, eleven, I lost count) and the same thing came up every time: that my relationship with my ex-best friend (with whom I had a years-long romance, very intense, very toxic, very codependent) is irreversible. That what we had broke because of guilt, because of a serious accident we had when we were young, and that although he moved on and forgave me, he doesn't love me anymore. Not the way I need.
The tarot reader told me I'm 'an emotional illiterate.' Exact words. He also told me my ex isn't coming back to me, that what we had was a tragedy with legs, that I should go to therapy and stop spending money on cards.
The problem is I'm still in love. I know it. I love him. We broke up a year ago — he ended it because, according to him, 'he couldn't keep drowning in my guilt' — and since then I haven't stopped thinking about him. We work on the same block. I see him almost daily. Sometimes he smiles at me, sometimes he ignores me. And I'm still there, waiting for something that probably will never happen.
Is the tarot reader right? Should I really let go? Or does tarot lie and I should insist?
I need advice. Real people. Not cards, not energy, not rituals. Just humans who have been through something similar. Can you get someone back after such a toxic relationship? Or am I wasting my time?
Thanks for reading.
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