Technically, you're too old for teenage angst.

[idonthaveityet]

Characters: Yami (idonthaveityet) and Yoshida (NPC)

Rating: PG-13, language

Summary: Set Monday. (Shock, horror, awe; log finished early!) Yami's got a Problem with a capital P, is as oblique about it as he possibly can be, feels quite emo, and has a chat with Varon's boss.

It did look that way. And it wasn't. It wasn't and Yami knew it wasn't because Varon wasn't like that, wouldn't take advantage, hadn't asked for anything in return for what he'd done and Yami didn't think he would. Trusted him not to. Not like that, wasn't going to be like that, Varon wasn't going to do that to him.

...So maybe Yami didn't know as much as he'd thought he had. Or maybe things had changed since then. Or maybe he'd hit his head (so hard he couldn't remember doing it) and that explained this, or maybe this was some sort of withdrawal-induced nightmare. Maybe the makeup gods saw fit to punish him in innovative new ways for how many times (and how...creatively) he'd cursed them.

Or maybe it was just inevitable and damn it all to hell (or oblivion, that was worse, was what Father would've said, except that Father didn't curse in anger like Yami did, but coldly, except that Yami didn't remember how he'd know that or if it was true, he just had the image, and wasn't this a lovely little tangent to take, instead of thinking about It?) he didn't want this.

The whole situation, he wanted it gone. Wanted to be able to say that he didn't want it with more authority, because no one could take it seriously if he said it like he was lying to himself. Now denying it was like an amnesiac trying to say his name, that same fundamental lack of certainty.

But at least with an amnesiac, if the words were given to you by someone you trusted absolutely, you could have confidence in it. There was no sickening knowledge, this deadweight on your chest and this ache behind your ribcage that started up the moment you realized It, that you could never be sure because it wasn't your name, no matter how desperately you wished it was. And if you can't even bring yourself to wish with half your heart...

And either way, it was like trying to choose between being burned to death or being flayed alive. The pain was too intense for there to be a real comparison, and if done properly, the suffering could be prolongued for about the same duration. The corpse would be equally mutilated. There was just no winning move.

So he sat curled up small by the window, and evidently looked as miserable as he felt, and insisted when Varon asked that he was fine and nothing was wrong -- Varon left eventually, said he'd be around if Yami wanted to talk about it, but that almost made it worse. There was no almost about it.

He'd never been one to smile a lot, though, so hopefully this new...affliction wouldn't make it too difficult to do his job. Or, he tried to tell himself that, but the pitying glances as unnecessary purchases were made ran rather contrary. Profit was the same, but....

He hit his head back against the window glass, shut his eyes and tried to feel what it was like to lose consciousness. Not really, not painfully, not in any way that would do damage, but just for a minute, just so he could breathe. It didn't work, but he swallowed hard and kept his eyes shut and hoped somehow that would help.

Well, someone was happy this morning. Yami had wandered in that morning looking like the whole world was against him, and the longer he sat there the more and more he began to look like a lost, kicked, neglected puppy. Yoshida had watched Varon go over to prod him, then leave again a short while later, having apparently made no progress.

And, of course, it would essentially be one of the many emo-inducing issues the teenagers of today suffered from. My girlfriend broke up with me; my parents don’t love me; I am a tortured soul - go away and stop stepping in my misery aura.

Then again, bad Yoshida, judging the boy by stereotype alone. Maybe there was something genuinely wrong, or maybe, by the way he was bumping his head against the window, he was sick. And of course it was Yoshida’s sworn duty as the boy’s boss to go and figure out what the hell was wrong with him. An irritating sense of curiosity was not the primary reason no, of course not.

Summoning someone else to take the desk, Yoshida wandered over to the seats, doing his best to appear casual yet interested, genuinely, in his employees. And while yes, that was the case, and he did have his concerns for those on his pay roll, he also had a nasty habit of sticking his nose into other people’s business.

"What’s up, Yami?" he asked, dropping onto a bench near him. "You look absolutely fucking miserable."

Fuck. Yami went over this with Varon; he didn't want to do it again. He didn't want to do anything again until this disgusting, fist-to-the-stomach feeling went away and he was less inclined to see if the glass broke first or his skull did.

A more caustic part of him reflected that it must really be terrible to be a normal person and have this sort of 'not getting what you wanted' thing happen all the time, but the past six months or so had been one big exercise in getting nothing that you wanted and things brutal enough you hadn't thought not to want them instead. He'd had such a perfect record for so long, always three steps ahead of everyone around him, and blissfully unaware of the fact that he should be resented for it.

...And now he was crumpled on a bench, feeling about as impressive and optimistic as a wet dishrag. Slowly sinking in the dingy oil-slicked water that rolled off into the street whenever the garage's concrete floor was deemed to need a scrubbing. And being washed away by that water. And run over by a car. Repeatedly. And then being kicked along by a bored five-year-old a few blocks, and then falling down a storm drain. And then sitting there. And rotting. In the cold, filthy water, with all the pungent, half-decomposed leaves plastered to the rust-stained concrete.

He cracked an eye open to see that yes, it was Yoshida, then peeled himself off the window and upright some. Blinked and tried to remember what question he'd been asked. 'What's up?' 'I have a terminal case of wangst and my emo is swollen. I've become pathetic and shivery and I resemble a threadbare dishcloth. Kill me now.'

"Nothing." And he shrugged and put his head back. He liked being haughty here; it made him feel like he had before Marik. Pity he couldn't make it stick. "Doesn't concern you. Or anyone else. Unless you'd like to fire me for it? I'm not doing particularly stunning today, hard as it might be to imagine."

Oh, cheerful. Moody little bastard today, or always? Special treat for the customers, or just the boss? He resisted the urge to fire back some sort of sarky comment, but he wanted to know what was wrong with the boy, and it didn’t seem like the best approach. Sales had gone up since he’d arrived to sit around looking pretty, and who knows? Maybe the moody-pretty-boy-in-the-shop-window look worked with the customers, and it was actually beneficial to sales.

He’d see later, when he’d done the counting for today. But as it was, mission! Find out what emo issue the boy had.

"All right, you’re sitting there looking like a moody little bastard for nothing? And no, you’re not getting fired for having a shit day. I’d have had to fire myself decades ago." Paused, "I realise I won’t be your first choice for venting to, but, hey, we both have time to burn."

...That was true on both counts. But Yami didn't feel like opening up, and that was what he was asking for, of course. Not 'venting steam' but prying open the ribcage to get at all the nice squishy bits underneath, tear them out and analyze them and come to the conclusion that should've been obvious from the start: Yami was, to put it bluntly, screwed. Not literally.

Not that literally would've been much of an improvement. ...Well. Technically, he c-

There wasn't a way to fix this, and being this upset was just crying over the sky being blue. You couldn't change it, and you could hope for clouds or going blind or something, but at the end of the day, the sky is blue is blue is blue, and that's all there is. No question to it, no choice about it, it just happened one day, and ever since, that's been it.

"Much as I adore spilling my guts for an audience, I doubt somehow that there'd be much use in whining about it."

"Ah, so you prefer the method of shutting up and hoping no one notices?" Yoshida snorted, fishing a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, "There’s that whole spilling whatever it is makes you feel better stuff, but whatever." He slipped out a cigarette and lighter, offered one to Yami - noted, non-smoker - and lit up. Glanced at the clock - yeah, he definitely had time to waste away talking to Yami.

"And, hey. You’ve seen the absolute twats in this place. I deal with whining on an hourly basis. May as well get my fill for this hour before I have to go back to the counter."

Yami breathed out slowly. Yoshida wasn't going to go away until he got something, but Yami didn't know what he wanted, didn't particularly care. That was the thing about licking your wounds: it hurt your pride even worse, and if you had to do it in front of other people, they could damn well have the courtesy to shut the hell up and let you brood in peace.

It was all well and good that Yoshida wanted to know, that he cared or was morbidly curious or just had nothing better to do, but it wasn't going to fix anything, and it wasn't going to make Yami feel better, and it wasn't going to remove that stupid sick feeling proximity brought on or the fact that --

Fuck. Varon's jacket. Still wearing Varon's jacket. Wanted it off, wanted it gone, wanted it far, far, far away. Wanted to scratch and claw his skin off so as not to have any more contact with it because he didn't need another reminder and now he was wincing and cringing and over a jacket? When had anything like that become important? So much had been just nothing before, and now that silver necklace threatened to choke him.

...At least he was well cried out, so that wouldn't be an issue.

And Yoshida. He wanted something. Yami squirmed out of the jacket, set it on the floor and nudged it out of sight under the bench with the toe of his boot. Quick glance up to see if Varon was around. Of course not. Good.

"Where would you like me to start, then?" He crossed his arms and settled back against the window. "The backstory or the problem?"

Both eyebrows rose up as Yoshida watched Yami squirming and wriggling away in the jacket. Varon’s old one, if he recalled. Yeah. It completely drowned Yami, but whatever. Yami tucked it away under the bench, and that in itself was odd, considering he had a whole bench beside him to put it. But whatever, again. Odd guy.

He took a draw of his cigarette, glanced at the clock again. Tch. He was his own boss - he made his own bloody hours. "Whatever you prefer." After all, he was telling the story. And either way, he could do his helpful bit for the day, with any luck, and even if he didn’t manage that then he certainly would have met his curiosity quota.

One thing you got to do a lot of when you had a conscience, a bleeding heart, and the crusading spirit was talk. Always spouting off speechs and saying exactly what you thought and why you thought it and why whatever was happening had to be stopped. Yami was good at it, at making the speech, and giving a voice to a movement or an ideal. He was always good with idealism, and optimism had gone hand in hand with it to pull up all the confidence he'd ever needed and more.

Talking about himself, on the other hand, entirely separate from a message, that was rarer, and he didn't have practice with it. The first few times he'd been hit head-on with a "Enough about that, what do you...?" he'd had to stare and try to figure out what exactly there was to talk about, because wasn't what he was trying to accomplish so much greater than where he was from or this or that about Yami the person.

Yami the person turned out to be rather crumbly around the edges, and Yami the person had a rather important part of his memory missing: the part with a father, and he'd never missed Father more than now, because he didn't remember him but he knew he'd have had something more to give than just the responsibility he'd handed off. He gave Yami a place, a lovely one, one that made him feel like it was all the identity he'd ever need.

But Yuugi was half that identity, because the only duty he'd ever had, the only thing he needed to do to honor his family and make his father proud of him was take care of Yuugi. And then Yuugi went away, and Yami the person turned out to be a hell of a lot weaker than Yami the person had any right to be. Couldn't even deal with something as mundane as a crush without --

But he was trying to say something to Yoshida. Rattle off clinically the situation with the doctor. He opened his mouth, and there was Kaiba, telling him he shouldn't give the information away like it was nothing. He didn't know whether Kaiba was right or not. He didn't know what it was okay to tell Yoshida. He didn't know much at all, and he felt smaller without the jacket, even though it was a constant reminder of how very little he was.

"...The backstory's not important. I want to quit. Need to. That's all that particularly matters." Another glance around. No Varon. There wasn't going to be a Varon again. "Varon and I are going to fall out in two weeks, so you have your notice right now that you'll need to replace me. I can't work with him after that."

And that hadn't been his plan until now, to tell Varon and walk away from him for good and have all the loose ends tied up beforehand, but. Tch. He was good at making things up, and it sounded perfect now. Wouldn't even be difficult to carry through on.

And odd would be an understatement, evidently. A pre-determined fall out. Tucking Varon’s jacket under a chair. Made him wonder if there really was something more to them than meets the eye. But he supposed it was understandable for Yami to want to sort out the situation around them before a break-up. It would save them having to be ridiculously awkward in the work place.

All the same, they’d gone to such great lengths to keep it covered up, if no one had cottoned on in here yet. It seemed a shame to waste such efforts. But they were still only young men yet - lovers came and went, after all. Couldn’t blame them for covering it up, though, the way society was, even to this day. Shame, really.

But losing a customer because of it? It was understandable that if there was going to be a break up between them then yes, they’d want to keep their distance, but sales had risen since Yami had came along.

"You could always switch your hours around, if you wanted. It’d be able to switch the timetable around in less than an hour, and you’re beneficial. I never knew I needed a window decoration, but that’s ignorance for you, eh?" He paused a minute to take another draw, "But if you’re relying on some crackpot psychic to tell you you’re gonna fall out with your friend in two weeks, then I’m afraid you’re being a little misled."

Yami had to smile at that. Wouldn't that be nice, if it was just some prophecy. Prophecies changed when 'protagonists' -- that was really an apt description Shaadah had come up with -- made them, because the only way they worked was to describe Fate in human terms, and a hero could take his fate and shatter it if he liked. There was still a choice there, still something individual.

What he had to do had nothing to do with him, and nothing to do with Varon, and yet once he walked away, the concept of 'Yami and Varon' would be gone. Just like that. No more Darkside, no more fairy lights, no more ungodly blue eyes -- and Varon's had always been ungodly blue, not a cobalt like Seto's or dark like Noa's or pale, pale ashes like Marik's or the penetrating, clear color Shaadi had. Yami hated blue eyes; it was in his blood.

"Not a psychic. I wish." He didn't think about what he wanted to do with the time tables, didn't let the words even sink it. It wasn't about what he wanted, either. He knew he couldn't have what he wanted, had had any of the arrogance that would've let him say he didn't care, consequences be damned, if he wanted it, he'd have it or at least fight his hardest to win it -- so it made no difference.

"No, I simply have to tell him something he won't like, and...it isn't going to be the sort of walking away you can turn back from." He paused, bit the tip of his tongue to keep from thinking about what that concept meant as more of the plan evolved in his head. "If you think it's the same to him whether I'm here at some other time or gone entirely, so long as our paths don't cross, then I will stay on, but I'm more concerned with what's best for him than your sales, shockingly enough."

"Him? Only notices what’s in his immediate circle, from my experience." And Yami just kept making it seem like a break up the more he spoke about it. Of course, Varon wouldn’t take that well, would he? Swapping the timetable as opposed to firing Yami meant that, if he needed to, Yami could just fob it off as it being convenient to the working schedule - targeting the times of the day when sales were highest or lowest, depending on the angle he wanted to take.

"He’s an idiot. If you’re going to break up with him and you mysteriously vanish from work, he’s going to take some sort of issue with it, knowing him. So nah. I can make up some sort of boss-excuse for why you’re not working the same hours as him anymore."

Break up? Yami opened his mouth to contradict him, but nothing came out, and Yoshida kept speaking so he shut his mouth again and listened. Timetable shift. That didn't sound that bad. He wanted -- he wasn't entirely sure what he wanted, making this up as he went along, but that'd never made him question in the past, so why now? -- to be able to give Varon that.

'That' being the assurance that after the night (because when could you make a confession like that and walk away for the last time except in the dead of night, so that when you left you stepped away from light and from what you wanted, and went into a soft and enveloping dark?) he told him, there was no need for them ever to have to interact again. That it was just over, there, done, and he'd never have to think about it again. Problem solved. Move on.

Yami nodded his assent to whatever Yoshida was saying without taking in a word of it. That worked. Whatever. So long as he could slip out of Varon's life just as cleanly as he came in, and it was all taken care of in the end. That was all that particularly mattered; he'd been fine before Varon and Varon before him, and a game of snap didn't change that any more than the Darkside anymore than saying good-bye.

"I'm done for the day." Not a question. He didn't quite bolt for the door, but it felt like it. Left Varon's jacket under the seat, and didn't wait for a reaction from Yoshida. Didn't care about Yoshida. Cared about getting out of here. "Tell Ki" -- had to stop using petnames; they drilled at something inside his bones and made him want to snap -- "Varon I walked home, but that it's fine and I don't need to see him."

Then the door was shut behind him and Yami was off. He was going the wrong way, too, but he didn't care. All that concerned him right now was tearing that stupid silver necklace off his throat and pitching it in the nearest gutter and walking away without a second glance.

...But he couldn't do it.