Work Text:
DOMINO DAILY TO BE SOLD TO KAIBA CORPORATION
The Domino Newsgroup agreed Friday to sell its flagship newspaper to Kaiba Corporation, ending the Yamato family’s stewardship of Domino’s leading news organization after seven generations. In a statement by Kaiba Corporation’s chief executive officer, Kaiba Seto…
Jounouchi stopped reading after that part. That was four weeks ago.
Sometime around 3 AM every morning, Domino went down like a boxer in the fourth round with secret instructions to throw the fight: taking one terrific punch and staggering backwards, toppling onto the mat with a resounding thud. All the snarling, seething bluster and frothing muscle came to a cold, dead stop. Really selling it. No doubt about it. This guy’s not getting back up, and all the money goes into all the right pockets.
Well, of course he does, later, to fight and lose another day, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that at 3 AM, something shifted in the city, just as Jounouchi’s alarm went off, less than halfway through his dad’s graveyard shift at the 24-hour parking garage, and by 3:30 he was at the printing warehouse, teeth chattering, and by 3:41 he was on his route, zipping through the limp, massive body of the city on his bike with the basket full of rolled-up newspapers, and by 3:58, he was the only person in the world, his face washed and cold with night.
Yuugi was at home, asleep. Honda was at home, asleep. Anzu was at home, asleep. His dad was at work, awake. Who the fuck cared where Hirutani and the other Rintama guys were. Passed out in a karaoke room, probably. Everyone was right where they belonged. It was a nice feeling. The streetlights watched him pass without really seeing him, like big, blind, unblinking eyes, and the only dents he made in the world were the thumps of his good aim and the relentless tikatikatik static of his spoke card.
It used to be the king of hearts from one of his dad’s decks of cards. Now it was a spare Scapegoat. Once he got home he was going to throw it out, probably. It was too battered to be used in a duel. Or he’d just stick it in his wallet and throw it down when the check came, for a laugh.
Jounouchi finished his first neighborhood and flew down the freeway underpass to his second neighborhood, feeling like a dark little bird, swooping down streets and rollercoastering around corners like he had wings instead of wheels. It was cooler and sleeker without the dorky-ass helmet, but Honda had bought it for him and thunked it on his head when he tried to turn it down, thumping his fist pointedly on the hard white plastic. I don’t wanna scoop your brains off the sidewalk, you moron! So he wore it.
The route kept getting shorter and faster. People kept canceling their subscriptions or moving to online-only, and then Kaiba Corporation had swept in, made an assessment of all the costs and assets and stuff, and said no more paperboys, especially paperboys getting paid under the table because you’re not eighteen yet (but we’ll take you anyway, because it’s a good, wholesome job for good, wholesome boys. Keeps you off the streets or whatever. Right.) And that was the end of this.
Jounouchi doubted Kaiba had anything to do with the decision. He was that far gone from normal people life. Like, he’d probably told some guy wearing a tie to buy the paper (the whole paper), who told some other guy also wearing a tie to figure out where all the dead weight was, and that guy told a THIRD guy, no tie this time, to let go of all the paperboys. And then it was the poor warehouse manager who had to do the dirty work of telling everyone. We’re switching to a more efficient distribution model, yaaaadda yadda yadda. Did Kaiba even know newspapers still had paperboys? Fucker. What the hell was Jounouchi supposed to do now?
He didn’t even listen to music on his route. All the music felt fake compared to the perfect quiet of Domino right before dawn, like the songs knew they couldn’t compete with the deep, mountainous silence, so they didn’t even try. All the hot, sweating rock ballads and squealing guitar riffs and growling canine basslines just fizzled out of his tinny headphones and died. To be fair: his headphones sucked ass. But honestly, there was nothing wrong with spending some time alone with your thoughts at 5 AM, sweating under your jacket and kissing up to the broken vending machine in the alleyway behind the bookstore so that it popped out a Gatorade, on the house just for you, handsome.
At this dark blue hour, there was no need to throw elbows on the dance floor. He didn’t have to prove he was good enough to hang. He could just be, awake and alone, set free and swift on the street, thinking about Atem.
And everyone else, of course.
But Atem, a lot of the time.
By day it was embarrassing to feel so cut up about it. Excusing yourself from math class to go have a quiet little moment by yourself on the roof and then Mr. Takenaka finds you and you’re just standing there sniffling and nose-dripping for no reason you can explain without sounding insane, staring at your sneakers while he’s like, “don’t you have any pride? Aren’t you too old to be cutting class?” And you really wish you could tell him to fuck off, can’t a guy have a quiet little moment by himself once in a while? Can’t I take a break from being the toughest guy around? But you don’t, and when you get back to your seat Honda and Anzu both give you the look, the concerned look, and Yuugi is still staring out the window, just like he was when you got up and left. Clouds drifting across his eyes.
By night it was easier. Jounouchi threw a newspaper. It hit the door - thump - and bounced to the front step - thump number two. It was just easier to feel sad at night. It flowed through him like a river: always moving, always changing, always itself. But just before dawn, specifically - which was still part of night, but wasn’t sunset, or midnight, or 2 AM, which all had their own special flavors, adrenaline and bravado and anxiety, all of which Jounouchi had tasted before - it was also easier to feel hopeful, less dragged down by all of your dad’s bullshit. And everyone else’s bullshit, but mostly his. Atem had left, but Atem had gone home. And it was nice to know that when everything was over, and you don’t have any more games left, you just went home, and everyone who ever thought you were something special is there, waiting for you with open arms. That also made the sadness easier.
He’d never feel like that on the bus, or the arcade, or in class, with a million other distractions pelting him from all sides. It only happened at this hour, when he had space to think about it, and now the hour was ending. Morning was close at hand. The edge of the sky was starting to glow and the street-light eyes were going to sleep, closing one by one. Jounouchi threw another newspaper, the thick forest in his basket cut down to half a dozen tilting trunks, tied up in rubber bands in a rainbow of colors.
When his basket was empty, he went east and then north, instead of just north, and took the scenic route along the waterfront, pedaling without hands, just because he could. The trees in the parks held darkness like a sponge, thick and laden with it. Nothing had shadows yet: the distance between the cool, sleeping city and the light was still too wide. The streets were starting to leak cars, drip by mechanical drip. He usually got home before traffic started to gush.
But not today. Jounouchi stopped on the bridge over the river where it met the ocean, a structure like a hollowed-out mountain range, its cables and suspenders making sharp peaks that swooped away to the riverbanks. A blue cloudbank sat atop the ocean horizon, softer and fluffier than merengue, and atop that sat a luminous, wispy peach sky. He ferreted his pack out of his jacket pocket, tapped out a slim, crisp cigarette, and lit his first and only smoke of the day, taking a slow, indulgent drag. The hit sizzled through him, hot and minty at the same time. With the cigarette dangling from his fingertips, cool and casual, he slouched over the railing, watching the river run backwards. The tide was coming in.
He could keep waking up early, probably. Roll out of bed at ass o’clock in the morning for a bike ride through Domino. Keep the hour secret, like a penny in his pocket, something to rub for extra luck. But then it really wouldn’t work that great as an excuse anymore, and his dad read the newspapers too, and he knew he was losing the job. Sorry Dad, can’t do it, I’m going to bed, I gotta wake up in six hours - what the hell for? Just to fuck around? No dice.
There were other jobs, delivering pizzas and stocking grocery stores and working registers at the konbini that glowed like snowglobes all night long, but they were all so... crowded. Glaring with color and customers.
The cigarette burned a bright cherry red, brighter and hotter than anything else in sight: the parks, the ocean, the asphalt, the glow of the sun below the clouds. He flicked the butt. A clump of ash burst off the tip of the cigarette, flaking away. He tried to follow the ashes as long as he could but the vastness of the air absorbed them in seconds, tiny white flakes vanishing and winking away to nothing over the shallow, shining waters. Smoking was something to do with his hands more than anything else. Another excuse to steal a moment from the day and think. He knew he had to stop, though.
Fuck! He was running out of excuses.
He wanted to bring someone else out here to enjoy this with him, maybe - Honda or Anzu. Yuugi, probably. Coax a smile out of that distant, dreamy look. Check it out! Isn’t this nice? Don’t you feel refreshed? Alive? Like anything could happen today?
He sighed, smoke feathering in the brisk air.
“Hope you’re getting good sunrises in paradise, buddy,” he said. “Can’t be better than this one, though.”
The light kept rising.
He smoked through the rest of the cigarette, cut the sour taste with the rest of the Gatorade. Not the best combo. But also not the worst.
Then he got back on his bike and went home, for one more hour of sleep before school. No one was waiting for him with open arms - he knew that already. But everything wasn’t over yet. The day was only just starting.