Ryou Bakura wakes up on a normal morning. It is snowing. Nothing happens. Life goes on. Probably.
In this fic, Ryou lives in a house, not an apartment, and is alone because his father's often gone because of his work as an archaeologist. Other family members are dead or not there.
I'm no native English speaker, so... sorry for possible language mistakes.
I'm reasonably sure that we survive
And that my darling somewhere is alive,
As I am reasonably sure that I
Shall wake at six tomorrow, on July
The twenty-second, nineteen fifty-nine,
And that the day will probably be fine;
(Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire)
It was snowing again.
The very first thing he saw when he woke up were the flakes dancing - the picture slightly blurred by the steamed up window - before pale blue, almost white sky, upward, from side to side, joyful, in circles, all eventually falling.
He closed his eyes for a short moment, while his mind automatically collected the information this fact provided him with...
The spirit had been the last one in control, and had gone to bed himself. He might have pushed him back into control right now, or he had been since longer, his body to exhausted for him to be awake.
He would have pulled down the blinds.
It was still winter. Either only little time had passed - last time he knew, it had been middle of march - or a very long one, nearly one year at least. It was also possible the seasons weren't the same anymore, but he pushed this idea aside as improbable.
He opened his eyes, and half sat up with difficulty. As far as he could tell, there were no wounds on his body. Just this general tiredness one feels after a long, regular physical effort.
The light provided by the single window on the wall just across his bed was faint, almost didn't enter the bedroom, and left the furniture and objects as imprecise shadow-forms. At first sight, all of them seemed familiar, and nothing was missed.
He glanced over to the bureau beside the bed, where his clock radio was standing, with the numbers turned to his side. Eleven fourteen.
So he had overslept. He sat up completely, and reached over to the clock radio. As expected, it was turned off: the spirit had taken over his body for more than one day. He'd have to check for Yugi later, if he had time before being gone again. Maybe a bit of the snow had have time to melt the day before.
He moved the beam from "off" over "radio" - music could be heard for an instant, to loud, a disturbing noise - to "alarm clock", as he did every day he got a chance to, and therefore was nearly sure, although he could not remember it, that had done so the last day he had been alive.
He stood up and looked down at himself. He was wearing jeans and a shirt, but the spirit had taken off his socks. The jeans were dirty, some parts covered with dirt or blood, he couldn't tell; the shirt was perfectly white. He recognised it, he must have taken it from his sport bag. His hands were clean. He checked his jeans' pockets, found nothing unusual, only his money purse, his keys having been laid down on the bureau. There wasn't an unusual amount of money, but he didn't know for sure. His deck was there as well, despite of the danger of bending the cards, but he didn't touch that, not more than the ring on his neck.
He walked over to the window and looked outside; the paths, the roofs, the gardens, and, partly, the street were white with fresh, untainted snow. He slowly reached up to open the window, and leaned forward, a little, deeply breathed in the glacial air. He could hear no sound, the world outside silent and peaceful, and empty. He tried to lose himself in contemplation, but the freezing cold was too uncomfortable to allow him to concentrate on anything else.
He closed the window, and went downstairs. He stopped in front of the large mirror that hang on the wall in the anteroom, between stairs and the front door, and stared at his reflection. His hair was tousled as always when he just got up; his dark-green eyes stared back at him with a tired expression.
The stone floor was cold under his bare feet: in a hurry, he went back upstairs, looked for his slippers, couldn't see them, went back down, to the living room, and switched on the light. It was clean. Nothing seemed to have been moved.
He hesitated in front of the phone, tempted to leave it, knowing how only its closeness was increasing his chances of being banned away.
Then he picked up the receiver, and dialled the number of the game shop, waiting for Yugi's grandfather to answer it. He let it ring once, twice, ...
After twelve times, he put the receiver down. For a moment that seemed like eternity, he stood there with his hand still on the phone, staring at the snow dancing in front of the window. It might not mean anything.
He checked the answering machine as well. No messages. It didn't say anything. They could have been erased.
He tried Yugi's number a second time, without any more success.
His legs were shaking slightly when he rushed to the front door. His boots were still wet. He put on his coat directly over the shirt, and went outside. The door was unlocked. There were no traces footsteps in the snow. He checked for mail on the way, stunned for a moment when he found the mail box empty. Maybe today was Sunday, or maybe the subscription for the daily newspaper had been cancelled. He vaguely wondered if there had been letters or postcards from Egypt. He'd check the bin if he got the chance.
He stood still in front of the empty box, trembling from the cold, and had to force himself to make the gesture of closing it. Slowly, he looked down the empty, shining white street, and waited until the temptation of going to check the game shop faded away under the realisation of the danger.
He went back inside and took off his coat and his boots. He went upstairs and changed, then down again to put his jean in the laundry. He found the washing machine closed and filled with still wet clothes.
When he'd hung them up, he went to the kitchen. He was not hungry, felt slightly sick, as he usually did when he ate too much just before going to bed. He opened the fridge. He had made a habit of making a list of the content some time ago, but it usually disappeared. The packet of apple juice had been nearly full and was half-empty. The milk had become sour, he made a mental note not to buy any next time.
He filled a glass with water and went back to the living room and sat down on the sofa. He dialled Anzu's number, and put the receiver down after letting ring twice.
The sky had cleared outside, and the pale, golden light of the winter sun melted into the artificial light of the room. The snow was falling in light flakes. He took a sip of water.