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Yuta's sat cross-legged on his sofa, holding his steaming takeaway in one hand, chopsticks in the other, mouth full of noodles, and eyes narrowed suspiciously at the fortune teller.
Mark sat awkwardly on a wooden chair opposite him, a good distance away. His hands were clenched together on his lap, his ankles twisted together and tensing with every tick of a clock somewhere in the flat.
When Yuta swallowed a slow, silent minute later, he said, "Why is your hair brown now?"
"I've dyed it that way."
"And the tattoos?"
"I removed them."
"...And you're telling me, that if I hadn't gotten hungry, you'd be dead?"
Mark nodded.
"I don't believe you."
Of course he didn't. "What is there to not believe?! It's on the news-- dude, we are literally watching the news right now! I was right--" he jumped up from his seat and kneeled in front of the muted television. His finger tapped to an empty spot on the pavement just beside the road. "--there. I was five seconds away from being obliterated, and you're telling me I'm lying?"
Yuta shrugged with a dumb smile on his face. "All I'm saying is that I'm having a hard time believing this whole palm reading bullcrap."
Mark's breathing was still shaky. He tried to calm himself for a few seconds by holding his breath. "So why did you come see me? So I could tell you what you wanted to hear? No, sorry. Not happening. Now let me see your hands again."
Yuta swallowed a prawn. His tongue picked at his teeth whilst he pushed his chin into his neck incredulously. "What the fuck for?!"
"I don't know! To see if my death date is on there or something!"
Yuta gave in after a moment of consideration. What harm could having another look do? Besides, the second he asked for money or anything that hinted towards a scam, he'd shut him down straight away. Mark carefully sat beside him and picked up his hand. His index finger traced the lines as he closed his eyes.
A minute passed, and Mark suddenly said, "Here." His eyes shot open. He pointed to a line and stared up at Yuta intently.
Yuta blanked. "That's from carrying shopping bags."
"Yeah, only you live alone."
His jaw dropped. "Um, fuck you too?"
Realisation set in, and Mark panicked. "No, no, I wasn't being rude! Like, I meant, like, you live alone, so you don't buy much, so your shopping bags haven't been heavy enough to make this groove, so why is that line there? I wasn't being rude, I swear."
"It fucking seemed like it."
Mark scrunched his nose at that. "Well, I'm sorry... This line just confuses me though, because even if you did get this line from holding bags, it wouldn't be so short and curved. It should be longer and straighter, but this? Odd."
Yuta nodded and picked up his phone. He typed in his password, one-handedly with ease, and opened Google. "So let's see what that means."
Mark clicked his tongue, his eyebrow raised. "Online divination? Bullshit. Those Texans don't know what they're on about. They 'read palms' for money, not for helping others." He scoffed. "Anyway, I do it right. They're all like, This line shows how many kids you'll have! This one says how long you live! Oh, what's this? You'll encounter wealth at forty? Are they right? Absolutely not." he mocked, putting on a high voice that was borderline whiny teenage drama queen.
Mark dropped Yuta's hand with a sigh.
Yuta was puzzled at his reaction. Online bullshit? "So... what does it all show? How do you read a palm?"
Mark didn't expect Yuta's interest. The Japanese had been unwilling thus far, that for him to start a conversation or ask a question that wasn't laced with doubt or malice came as a pleasant surprise. It took him a few seconds for his thoughts to load. "I... can't really explain. It's just-- well, the lines on the palm of your hand don't tell you the future, or anything, actually. It's not like reading the pages of a book. Instead, the lines drop you little hints. Uh... Ooh! Like, a woman came to me a month ago, and there were three patterns on the, sort of, this area-" he tapped on the three soft cushions of muscle just below where his fingers met his palm. "-of her hand. What made it interesting was that she had synesthesia, and those patterns reminded her of the letters E, J, and O. She left after that, but she called the office a week ago to tell me she was having triplets, and that names of her children were to be Emma, Jamie, and Oliver. Her husband chose the names. She didn't tell him about visiting me."
Yuta's lips parted in curiosity. Honestly... it kind of amazed him. But he wouldn't tell him that. Plus, that could have been made up! Mark could have been lying to drag him further into the con. He probed, "So, your phone number?"
The fortune teller smiled at his questions. "Exactly like my number. It was on your palm, but it didn't say you'd save my life by calling it. For all I know, you could have called me in a week, or never called me at all. Maybe I'd loose my phone in a month's time, and you find it? Could have been anything."
"Right," Yuta dragged out. Now that he thought about it, it really was a coincidence that he called Mark earlier. He was just hungry and craving some food from his favourite takeaway. He didn't know he'd mistype a number and call Mark instead. He glanced down at his own hand. "So what's this line mean then?"
Mark shrugged. "I don't know. It's quite colourful, though."
Yuta deadpanned. How can a line be colourful? ...Is he high? Was that really insence they were burning back at his workplace? Was it weed--?!
Mark pulled a face that Yuta'd have compared to a duck. "You're making that face again."
"What face?"
"The face you pulled when I told you my number was on your hand. I think you make it when you're doubting something. Like--" He tried to remake it by pushing his smile into his cheeks and knitting his brows together. He looked a little weird.
Even so, it made Yuta crack a smile. "I don't look like that."
"Sure," Mark nodded slowly before he relaxed his face. Pulling Yuta's expressions was taxing on his facial muscles, wow. His feet hit the ground and he jumped up. "Forgive my snooping," he said and he started to walk around his house, opening cupboards amd poking around. His stance was similar to a detective searching for clues, and had he been holding a pipe, he'd have been a spitting image of Sherlock Holmes.
Yuta was just about to protest against the man's snooping, but he stopped, realising that he was looking for something colourful.
The Canadian dove into the junk drawer on the coffee table, rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, and was just about to target his bedroom next, when his head started to buzz. It was the deep, almost unnoticeable symptoms of a headache, but it made Mark freeze.
He stopped in his tracks and twisted around like a periscope, and just like with a game of hot and cold, he used the vibrations in his skull to dictate his next move.
He found himself just in front of a cluttered shoe rack, head now imitating a swarm of angry bumblebees, and squeezed his eyes shut. In one swift movement, he reached out, grabbed the handle, and pulled open the upper drawer.
He must have opened it with too much force, because the contents of a small, clay bowl tumbled over and spilled dice, paperclips, and keys into the shoe rack.
"Ah, shi--" he was about to swear, but stopped himself. All of the items in the bowl fell perfectly into a white shoe as though directed by a funnel. Mark picked it up, and the buzzing stopped.
This was the colourful item.
The shoe was absolutely pristine. The main body was white, and had clearly been worn with care, but the soles had been painted to a theme that incorporated rainbows.
Yuta came to stand beside him as he emptied the shoe back into the bowl. "These. Your shoes. Where do you wear these?"
"Those ones? Special occasions only," he said, eyes casting over the pristine white and admiring its beauty.
Mark hummed. He picked up the second shoe. "Are you going anywhere soon with these?"
"I don't think so...?" Yuta claimed, but his eyes widened, and he hurried around the corner and into his bedroom. There was a loud clunking sound, a small ouch, and then the sound of a cupboard opening. When he came back, he had two card slips in his hands. "I'm going to a comic-con with someone. Does that count?"
"Well, are you going to wear those shoes?"
Yuta nodded. "Just for the journey."
Mark swallowed. Journey. Vehicles. Motorways. Crashing. Death. "You're going to have to be careful, Yuta. Or you could not go. ...You're looking at me like I'm mad." There was a pause. "Fine! But something's going to happen while you're there. How do comic-cons work? Do you, like, take along your favourite comic and share it with people? Or--"
Mark stopped talking when Yuta let out a laugh. "Dude, no. Cosplay."
"Oh..." Mark's face suddenly tinged pink in embarrassment. "Who're you going as?" Yuta showed him a photo of Black Butler's Undertaker, and Mark's eyes quickly dropped to look him up and down, and when they locked eyes again, he scuttled off past him and to the living room.
Yuta cocked his head. "You alright?"
Mark paused. "Yeah."
Yuta stared at the picture. What's wrong with Undertaker? He's pretty hot. At least, me as Undertaker will be pretty hot. That, I'll make sure of.
Mark sat himself on the sofa and stared intently at the TV. The damage done by that one lorry was irreparable. It would cost millions to restore the buildings, but the lives lost were gone forever.
But he knew he was meant to get hit by that speeding lorry.
Somebody wanted him dead.
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