"So… What happens now…?" Ryou asked quietly, sitting on the edge of the hotel bed as he watched his partner search for his clothes scattered around the room.

Marik hesitated for a moment, he let out a deep sigh before sliding his tank top back on, covering the old scars that mixed with new scratches on his back. He did not face Ryou as he spoke. "My flight leaves at one… So… I guess I'd better get my shit together." He replied simply, slipping his socks back on and searching around the room for his boots.

Ryou bit his lip, messing with his shirt that still sat in his lap. "I-I meant… What… What about us?" He dared to ask, looking up at Marik. "Now that Battle City is over. And… Your dark side is gone… Do you… Think that… We might…"

The older man turned to face Ryou finally. He carefully approached the pale duelist, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Ryou… I think you're really great. I do." He sighed, finding it hard to look into the dark brown eyes as they began to fill with tears. "I know that I used you, and the Spirit of the Ring. And. I'm really really sorry. But after everything that I put everyone through during the tournament… I think it would be best… If… I didn't try to start a relationship right now. You understand… Don't you?"

—

Ryou laid on his couch in his tiny apartment, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. Hints of sunlight slipped out between the shut curtains in the living room and he briefly wondered how long he'd been laying there. "Are you gonna get up and do something with your life today?" The Spirit asked in the back of his head. Ryou ignored the question, rolling over onto his side as though The Spirit would not be able to see him cry if he hid his face. "Really? Come on, boy. He wasn't even that good of a lay…" He muttered.

"Shut up!" Ryou cried, throwing the ring across the room in an angry tantrum before he broke down into tears again. He buried his face in his hands. Why? Was he not good enough for him? He knew it would not have been fair to ask Marik to stay in Japan just for his sake. But would it have been too much for him to have left a phone number or email address? What was Ryou supposed to do now? The first person he had ever connected with was across the globe and had probably already forgotten about him. It was probably better for Marik this way, though, Ryou thought.

He had been wearing the same clothes for days, he could not remember the last time he bathed, or ate more than just a small snack. He was a mess. He felt sick, used, heartbroken. What was the point of doing anything or going anywhere? Everything seemed to only get worse or more complicated when he was around. He could not blame Marik for not wanting him. Who would? He was nothing more than trouble, especially when paired with The Spirit of the Ring.

"H-Hey…" Ryou called out into his seemingly empty apartment.

"What?" The Spirit of the Ring asked in a rather bored tone. One could only watch their host lay around and cry to themselves for so long.

"Can… Can you do me a favor?" He asked softly, wiping his eyes and sitting up on the couch. He held out one of his arms, hand in a fist as he exposed his scarred forearm.

The Spirit gave him an incredulous look, eyeing the well placed scars carefully. "Really?"

Ryou nodded, sniffling quietly. "I just… I can't… I can't anymore…" He mumbled hopelessly.

The Spirit easily took over Bakura's body and the adolescent immediately relinquished all control. "I'm not going to kill you…" The Spirit muttered, rising off the couch and heading to the kitchen. Ryou did not say anything, but The Spirit could tell he was listening. "You're stronger than killing yourself over some boy." He continued, opening a drawer and pulling out a knife. "And you might think that no one wants you." The Spirit carefully unsheathed the blade with an unsettling familiarity. "But I still very much need you, Ryou. I won't have you thinking you're useless." He held his arm out over the sink to catch the mess that was to come. "Also… I don't want to hear you complaining about this later…" He ordered bluntly before pressing the blade to his delicate skin.