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Walk the World for Him.
POV: A disturbingly caring, OOC Yami no Bakura.
Summary: Yami no Bakura watches with a sense of familiarity as his omote prepares for the arrival home of his father.
Date Started/Finished: Saturday, 28 August 2004.
Running through the door with the exuberance of a child. His doe-brown eyes over-filled with expectation and glittering hope. He raced around, stocking near-barren cupboards full with newly brought groceries. The house was awakened with the smell of furniture polish and citrus-scented cleaning products.
It was familiar to me.
He was thorough in everything he did. Every surface was dusted, cleaned and polished with a vigor that I would have once puzzled over. I didn't think much of it that day – it was something that the Yadunoshi simply did on these occasions. Everything had to be perfect on these occasions. Something had to make him stay.
He finished his cleaning frenzy at least half an hour ago.
That was when the waiting begun.
His perch on the edge of the sofa was at first, hesitant. He was unwilling to ruffle the smoothed and fluffed cushions. The television set blaring, but his eyes were trained firmly upon the miniature mantel-clock that had once been his grandmothers.
The hope in his eyes had begun to dwindle by the time the clock reached 6.45 pm. He hadn't spoken a word since 6.00 pm.
The clock was steadily closing in on 7.00 when he began to sink further into the sofa. The cushions that he had taken such care in smoothing wrinkled and twisted under his shifting weight but he didn't take any notice. His eyes never left the clock. There was still a possibility.
By the time 7.30 came around he was curled up in the corner of the sofa, the hope that had once lit up his face had died out into glowing embers.
He knew already. I didn't understand why he continued to wait.
He didn't speak, he didn't move. His eyes were firmly imprinted upon the clock as it ticked closer towards 7.40 pm. There was desperation beginning to leak into those soft brown eyes of his. It was almost painful to look upon.
The anticipation had drained from his face by the time the clock reached 8.00. His shoulders had slumped and his eyes peered with fading loyalty up at the mantel clock, flickers of hope sparking to life every now and again before they too died away.
The television was turned off eventually, having been ignored for long enough that it seemed foolish to leave it blaring. I was left with the only option of watching him – he didn't notice.
It was 8.30 when the silence was broken. The disturbance came in the form of the shrill ringing of the telephone.
He rose in a dejected silence. His body drooped as though he had lost some war of wills. His voice was small and sad as he spoke – something that was becoming familiar to me. When he returned his head was drooped and he didn't speak. He wilted like a dying flower as he sank back into the sofa. He didn't even look up when the pile of magazines that had been stacked neatly upon the coffee-table scattered across the ground.
The silence savaged the air as he sat. His delicate hands cradling his head as his body trembled with disappointment. His face said it all. His voice was soft as his lips formed the familiar words.
"He's not coming."
"I know."
His eyes shift to meet mine and a miserable smile finds its place on his tear-dripped face. Irony stills the tears in his eyes as he lets out a hollow laugh, turned frosty with the bitterness that made my hands shake.
"Just like old times, right?"
I nodded.
"Yeah, just like old times."
The Yadunoshi is silent now. His eyes focused on the blank television screen as though to convince me he is engaged in something else. He seems to have forgotten that he turned it off.
He would walk the world for a simple sign, a smile, from his father.
His father couldn't walk a god-damned mile.
Cathy-Bloom.
