Perfection

by Amarthame

Sometimes, first impressions get do-overs, and even your final, absolute judgment can be re-thought. Sometimes, "forever" has to wait until next time. But practice makes perfect, and everything has to work out. Marik Ishtar/Ryou Bakura Angstshipping.

Series: Yu-Gi-Oh!

Pairing(s): Angstshipping (a.k.a Marik Ishtar/Ryou Bakura)

Summary: Sometimes, first impressions get do-overs, and even your final, absolute judgment can be re-thought. Sometimes, "forever" has to wait until next time. But practice makes perfect, and everything pays off.

Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and all related characters, etc. do not belong to me.

Other Notes: Now, this fic will have three chapters, no more and no less, and I have most of it roughly planned out, with no set update schedule decided upon quite yet. But this fic, for whatever lameriffic record wants to know, has made me beat my head against the keyboard approximately 297% more than any other fic I've ever written. xD This first chapter has copious amounts of my blood, sweat, and tears in it. So please, pity me and review.

Okay, but in all seriousness, a few things to keep in mind here: First off, I'm writing based off of the anime; I have not read the manga. So, anything inconsistent with the manga I apologize profusely for, but I wouldn't know anything about it. Second of all, I never use either Marik or Bakura's names in order to refer to their respective 'Yamis.' Third of all, this, like all my work, probably has typo's and such in it, because I have no real beta who checks for such things. Try to endure. xD

And that's about all I have to say about that. Once again, reviews are encouraged more than ever, and the constructive variety would help entire bucketfuls. 3

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Perfection:

Three First Impressions

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The first time Ryou saw those golden tresses and that smooth tan skin, he thought he was seeing an angel.

He awoke; everything was blurry, covered in a thick layer of gauze and shrouded in a bright, unrelenting fog. The first thing he knew was the light—his eyes were open, finally. His mind was numb and thought was lost on him, but Ryou's senses and dulled muscle memory knew that his eyes hadn't been closed long. Ryou's memory was gone, a gaping hole in reality that he couldn't imagine the breadth of, but he would have known, had he had cause to think of it, that he hadn't merely been unconscious these last few days. But the light—the light was new in Ryou's perception, reality and consciousness when before, he hadn't even seen darkness.

And from the light promptly emerged the second thing Ryou's senses delivered to him: the blurry image of violet eyes set on a face the color of sand in the shade, surrounded by golden locks that spread around his features like a halo. The image was shaky, merely a single glimpse clouded by the fog that refused to dissipate around Ryou's mind, but even so it was bright and clear, the singular thread of reality that held Ryou high above the dark threat of unconsciousness.

Ah, Ryou realized as the fog loomed and prepared to consume his savior entirely, An angel...

Then bright red, then dark, opaque spots obscured the entirety of Ryou's eyesight; his senses stretched through to his nerves and his nerve endings; he gasped.

The pain, sharp, stabbing, infinite, in his left arm hit him like countless daggers. Stab, twist, stab, twist, on and on until it felt like his arm was being wrenched off—and even then, the pain spread and penetrated everything—his very brain was overwhelmed, and numbness gave way to the bright, vital red of blood and the searing lash of pain. Shock blanketed him, then the blotches obscuring his eyesight gave way to a lurching vertigo, and Ryou's mind was gone. He fainted.

"Hey, hang on! Do you hear me? Get up!"

Is that...?

The deep voice broke through the blind spots that had spread and covered all his senses, and he grasped onto it as it was his only light, and Ryou let the reassuring, concerned tone pull him up into reality again.

The stabbing in his arm threatened to overwhelm him again as soon as his mind came up out of the darkness, but through the bright ache and the fog obscuring his senses, he felt something new—something warm and solid, supporting his body, just like the voice had supported his soul. Through the fabric of his shirt, on his chest, stability—a warm hand, holding him up. And an arm, wrapped around him—and his arm, over broad shoulders.

Ngh... My arm... I can't—

"Come on, just a little further," came his angel's smooth voice, deep and encouraging.

Ryou's mind gathered its strength and shook off as much of the fog as it could—just enough to reach his senses out to his entire body. He could feel, so much more acutely, the pain in his arm; there it was, the piercing, penetrating screech of white-hot throbbing pain that spread so much from its source that he could hardly tell if it came from his shoulder or his forearm or his chest or his head or anywhere at all. And the hot trickle that fell all around it—blood, Ryou's, soaking through the bandage he didn't know he had had and threatening to run down his arm.

It hurts...

But, despite that, he could feel: his legs, supporting him, if only barely. It was foggy, and his legs were almost numb, shaky and distant in a perpetual pins-and-needles-like sensation. He could feel enough to begin to move of his own accord, and it took an excessive amount of will to keep his eyes open, to crane his neck upward if only a little, so as to see his angel's face, if only barely through his feverish haze.

There... I see him... But...

"Who...?" Ryou heard his own voice, weak and shivery, and the effort of speaking and moving and a sudden jolt from moving his arm overpowered him and he couldn't feel his legs—they had given out.

"Hey, no, get up! Come on, hang in there, we're almost there," insisted the angel, straining audibly from the effort of keeping Ryou standing.

Why is he...?

"Get up! You can do it!" The voice came, concerned and persistent, warm and reassuring...

What... happened... Why?

"Hey, don't you dare pass out! It's just a little bit further, so come, get up!'

And Ryou grabbed hold of the voice and pushed onward.

He didn't learn anything about his angel until much later, but he couldn't believe that he had been wrong about him—couldn't believe it when his friends told him that it had all been an act, that his angel had only ever been using him.

***

When Bakura first became acquainted with Marik, he had no idea what to think of him.

He stood on the edge of recovery from yet another infinitely long memory blank, stood with his friends across from Marik's family on the pier. He was entirely out of place there; the Pharaoh's lost memory and Marik's supposed sins were part of his friends' lives and part of the Spirit of the Millennium Ring's plots, but Bakura himself had no connection to the whole ordeal. He felt almost like a stand-in for the Spirit's crimes—the same face with a confused expression and no Millenium Ring around his neck. He was just a reminder of the darkness, a victim whose liberation gave the rest of the group some sort of closure. He wished that he could be as certain of his freedom from the Spirit as they all seemed to be, but dwelling on that was wasteful now, and beside all the points being addressed in the relatively cheery farewells being exchanged a few feet in front of him. So he stood silent, let himself be the stand-in.

After all, this was important for Yugi and everyone. The least he could do after all the trouble he'd caused was respect that.

The entire tournament that his friends had told him about was gone from Bakura's memory, and he wasn't surprised; he had gotten used to those kinds of memory blocks, and knew what it meant. The Spirit of the Millennium Ring—his "other self"—had been causing trouble for everyone again. He felt guilty, despite the fact that nobody blamed him. But how could he not? Even if he was only the Spirit's host, that didn't relieve him of his responsibility. It was his body, after all—people had suffered at his hands, even if that hadn't been strictly by his will. People had looked into his face and seen malice peer back. People had called his name and heard his voice respond, but in tones that he was sure he himself had never heard coming out of his throat. It may not have been Bakura's soul that spoke those words or took those souls or carved that arrogant, terrifying reputation, but that didn't change that it had been his body.

So maybe it wasn't entirely logical, but Bakura always felt guilty for the Spirit's crimes. He had always been the one who had to clean up after the Spirit's messes, after all, and the feeling of every movement that the Spirit had made using his body haunted Bakura's muscles and told them that they were at fault, no matter what. He knew that whatever the Spirit had done had been terrible, and it was second nature to Bakura to feel as though it were all his fault. But here, on the pier, even that guilt gave way to a deep confusion. He couldn't know exactly what the Spirit had done, as nobody had really been watching him until the Battle City Finals. How he had gotten tied up into the whole ordeal was a mystery in everybody's eyes.

But Bakura's friends had told him most of what had happened, of course. He knew about the Egyptian God Cards, knew about what everyone had gone through for their sake. He knew about Marik's vendetta, and had even been told why exactly the whole ordeal had never been fully Marik's fault. No matter what blame fell to the Spirit, the entire chain of events had been of Marik's design, or carried out by the hand of Marik's darker persona.

Bakura looked at the man and saw him talking with Yugi, smiling gently, guiltily. He was struck by the image of a golden-haired angel that had saved him once, what felt like much too long ago. But this man—this man who looked like Ryou's angel—couldn't possibly be so divine. His mind tried hard to reconcile Marik with the angel who led Ryou back from the brink of death, but Bakura's now-innate skepticism had already set in. He was used to his memory deceiving him, ever since the Spirit had arrived.

Looking at Marik, it was clear, in a painful, tragic way, that the man was no angel. Bakura had been told of Marik's sin, but he could have seen, even if he hadn't been told a thing, the immense guilt that Marik carried. It was plain on his face, and the lack of reaction to it by everyone around, everyone who could see it, only corroborated that the guilt was not unjustly earned.

And yet, Bakura found himself wondering, how could he have possibly done all of that? How could he have tried to kill Bakura's friends, turned the magic of the Millennium Rod against innocent people? His entire bout of vengeance was sadistic and cruel, and while Marik was clearly no angel, how could he be so much of a demon as to have really done all that he had reportedly done in cold blood?

Bakura peered thoughtfully, uncertainly, at the man standing there, opposite Yugi's group on the dock. His hair was flaxen and his skin smooth brown, his eyes were clear violet and his posture clean. He stood up straight, residual confidence that meshed seamlessly with the fake confidence that he forced into his expression. But Bakura saw through it—maybe, just maybe because that sort of act was a constant state of affairs for him—and saw those eyes, violet, turned slightly down and shaded by gold hair that reflected the light diligently and shielded his eyes absolutely. Bakura saw those eyes, the eyes of someone who knew he couldn't afford to look weak, couldn't afford to look like he still needed help after everything that he had caused. Someone who felt so guilty that he couldn't let himself bring others to trouble themselves any further for his sake. But that wasn't all—Marik's eyes shone with something else, deeper than that, that Bakura could not decipher no matter how hard he stared. But even that was dulled and covered by the most jarring discovery that Bakura found in that expression.

Despite those brown hands at his sides that trembled from his nerves, despite his confident demeanor, despite that strange other emotion, despite everything, Marik's expression spoke volumes of detachment. Bakura recognized the defense mechanism as his own; he had seen that same dull shock hanging over himself in the mirror before. It was the sort of shock that ebbed through your veins slowly, because taking it all at once would be supremely devastating. The sort of shock that never quite hit until after the fact, after everything was said and done and carried out, after you had had some time to think about the haunted feeling in your bones and the paranoia lurking in you like a shadow. The shock that drove you mad, that couldn't be experienced at its zenith and that had to be subdued no matter what, to keep you from thinking about it anymore than you already had.

That dull shock that came with realizing that you could never trust your own body ever again.

Bakura knew that his was a different situation; he knew that Marik's transgressions were partially of his own design. He knew that Marik's darkness was a part of him—not merely embedded in him by a cruel, mocking fate the way the Spirit had been planted in Bakura. He knew that Marik was not the victim he was. But when Marik parted company with Yugi's group, Bakura could still see all too much of himself within the man.

And Bakura felt, more than anything, that he was watching his only kindred spirit leave him.

***

When Ryou Bakura first really met Marik Ishtar, he couldn't help but be utterly grateful for the man's presence.

He had received a phone call early one evening, about a year after parting company with his Millennium Ring and the spirit inhabiting it. The call had been an odd, pleasant sort of break from the monotony of a life that had become little more than coping with the peaceful-yet-devastating aftermath of the Spirit's deeds. Yugi and everyone were, for the most part, going on with their lives; they had learned to be satisfied in the closure Atem's departure had given them, even if Yugi wasn't quite used to the silence that came with not having another soul with him at all times. Even if Anzu still gave Yugi subdued longing glances, hoping that Atem would be back, with his steely, reassuring gaze, even if Jounouchi still wished he could have dueled with that legendary dueling mastermind, even if Yugi still missed the weight of his Millennium Puzzle... they were doing alright. They still hung out together as friends, still laughed genuine laughs and grinned real grins and were light on their feet and in their hearts. But Bakura...

He could remember the distinct feeling of jolting into consciousness suddenly, falling over promptly from extreme hunger and fatigue that he couldn't remember working up. He couldn't forget the hopeless, anemic sensation that had rattled his bones with the complaint that his body had been overtaxed far beyond its physical limits time and again, being forced to run ( and stand and walk and duel and sprint) on less than nothing as its energy had depleted itself from the sheer strain of sustaining itself. His body, he was sure, had never fully recovered from that repeated abuse, and he would never be rid of the brittle feeling in his bones. Bakura remembered the feeling of thinking back and realizing, weary and horrified, that it had been days or weeks since he had last been consciously aware of anything around him. Even worse were the things he couldn't recall—the crimes he and his muscle memory knew his body had committed. He didn't have to recall the feeling of looking down at his hands and seeing strange, alien hands that were not his at all—he still spent long hours late into each night seeing those hands shake, and knowing that they had always shaken like this, quivering from fear and residual shock rather than from any physical strain they had ever felt.

When Ryou finally fell asleep, he still had the nightmares, the terrible dreams of looking in the mirror and seeing him, that terrible monster who stole Ryou's body and life and name and would never stop plaguing him for as long as he lived. But he preferred even those dreams to the blackness of dreamless sleep; that sort of sleep was much too similar to the black spaces in his memory.

But he still lived on, had gotten himself into a college, tried to ignore the wary looks his friends still unconsciously pinned him with, on the rare occasions that he saw them anymore. He tried to stop himself from drifting from them, but as weeks went by without so much as a phone call in any direction, it seemed that even now that his was the only soul in his body, he was still inept at controlling his own life.

And yet Ryou endured as well as he could, and there were times, brief blossoms of warm light during online gaming sessions or rare outings with new or old acquaintances, when he felt almost happy with the way things were now. But he was getting far too used to the knowledge that those brief specks of contentment were becoming more and more fleeting, and he couldn't escape his own acceptance of that tragic fact no matter how hard he would try, not if things continued the way they were. He was trapped in monotonous helplessness, and it was becoming terrible for his health.

So when his routine dinner preparations were interrupted one evening by an unexpected phone call, it was a sudden jolt out of a reality he had stopped wanting anything to do with, and he welcomed the break. Marik was calling him.

He couldn't admit to remembering much, or anything, about the man. But that, perhaps, was why it was important for Ryou that they meet. Marik was a clear connection to a past Bakura couldn't remember—a past of ancient Egyptian spirits and relics that had nothing to do with him, a past of victimization by a vengeful thief who was out to casually steal everything Bakura had ever owned, all for the sake of a greater heist. Marik was part of a past that had denied Ryou any and all closure, and that haunted him like the memory of his dead sister.

And Marik wanted to see him, too, it seemed, since he was going to be visiting with Yugi, Jounouchi, and the others in Domino City anyway. He'd be there next week, he said, and wondered if it would be okay for him to drop by.

Saturday of the next week, Marik was sitting with a teacup in the living room of Bakura's modest apartment, looking less comfortable than his natural confidence was used to allowing.

"Honestly, I'm surprised that you agreed to meet with me. I don't suppose you really remember me at all, do you?" Marik's voice was gentle and firm, reluctant to allude to those past events.

"No," Bakura conceded softly, "I don't. But I'm glad that you came to visit, all the same. I don't really get many visitors, and it's good to see that you're well."

Marik offered a smile at that, then let the smile fade and pressed on, "Yugi and everyone told you about me, though, right? You know about what I did back then. To you, as well."

"They told me about all that, yes. They also told me that you had been deceived, so it was never entirely your fault in the first place." Bakura paused and looked down, frowning a little. He had suspected that Marik had come to see him seeking his own sort of closure, and he knew that Marik's closure couldn't be easy to attain, for either of them. Ryou could, of course, understand and empathize—he had no right to deny the man his finality or peace of mind. But he hadn't been prepared for this conversation to be quite as difficult as it was already becoming; anything surrounding the past was difficult to talk about, and Ryou could feel his hands beginning to tremble. But on top of that, Marik was making it acutely clear that Bakura was speaking with the one who had used his soul in the past the same way the Spirit had used his body.

But Ryou just stared passively at the man sitting across the coffee table from him, raised his teacup to his lips in an attempt to keep his hands steady, and tried to reign in his discomfort; he knew that the conversation was even more difficult for Marik, after all.

Marik caught the look and must have seen something disapproving in it, because he glanced down to his teacup guiltily. "I'm sorry, this is insensitive of me to bring up."

"Not at all," Ryou found himself saying, as much for his own sake as for Marik's, "You came to visit me for a reason, right? Despite that we don't really know each other." He tried to smile reassuringly when he saw Marik look up with the slightest hint of surprise in his expression. "I suppose... you must have something you wanted to get off your chest?" Ryou bit his lip at that, feeling a bit too bold in his persistence, but he relaxed when Marik nodded his head.

"Right," Marik said, then let out a slight, brisk sigh. "Bakura... I don't expect to be forgiven for what I did back then, so maybe it's selfish of me to come here. It just leaves a bad taste in my mouth to have left Domino like I did back then. You deserve a lot more than an apology, but I figure I ought to at least start with that." He paused, and looked down, and Ryou had almost enough time to be properly stunned by Marik's subdued tone and utter sincerity. "Bakura, I am deeply sorry about...using you like I did during the Battle City Tournament, and I know that I can't atone for it by just saying that. There is no excuse for my actions back then, and I—"

"Ah, please, stop..." Ryou found himself flustered, embarrassed, not having been sure what else to expect, but still feeling awkward on the receiving end of such a heartfelt apology. "You really don't have to apologize like that! I don't hold anything against you for any of that."

Marik was taken aback, surprised at that, and he persisted, "How can you say that? I... I hurt you. I didn't even think of you as a real personback then! I allied myself with the Spirit of the Millennium Ring and I never even thought about how I was hurting you for the sake of my grudge, and I.. I wouldn't have cared anyway. You... you could have died because of me."

Bakura winced and felt a sudden rush of adrenaline to his hands as he nearly fumbled his teacup in his hands. He lifted the cup to his lips once again to cover up his trembling, letting his bangs cover his strained expression. His memory of that pain was acute, and he still had the scar to remind him of it. But he took a second to recover, and when he looked back up, he knew that his face was calm enough for him to let his concern show. "But you're different now, aren't you? You feel bad about what happened, and you wouldn't do any of that anymore."

"Of course I wouldn't!"

"Then that's enough, isn't it? I mean, I...can't forgive what you did back then any more than I can forgive what the Spirit of the Millennium Ring did." (Ryou noticed Marik wince at that, and felt a pang of guilt) "But if you've changed, and you have, then I can't hold any of that against you, either." He paused a moment, looking for the right words. "I guess I'm just saying that... It's all in the past now, so there's really no need to worry about it so much anymore."

Marik stared at Bakura for a moment, and Ryou realized that he must have said something that Marik wasn't expecting. The man was clearly thrown entirely off-guard, his face astonished, but he recovered swiftly and the smile that lit his features up like the soft glow of candle shone with gratitude. "I suppose you're right. Bakura... I thank you for that."

"It's nothing at all." Ryou offered a slight smile. "But, um..." He trailed off.

"What is it?"

"Well..." Ryou bit his lip. "Was that really all that you came to talk to me about?"

Maybe it was selfish of Ryou, and he was feeling like it more and more with each passing second, but he didn't want to think that he was just a victim that Marik regretted. He felt horrible thinking of it that way, because he knew that that made it sound like he was undermining Marik's apology. And he wasn't, not really, he simply... wanted to talk to Marik more, wanted to connect with him. After all that Bakura had heard about the man, nothing—not the sadistic shadow games, not the mind-control—struck him quite as much as hearing about how Marik had been shoved aside helplessly by his own darker persona. Ryou had felt, so strongly, that this man could understand something of what he was going through, even if their situations were a little different from each other's. He had wanted to talk about it with Yugi for a while, the feeling of having another soul within you, but he soon realized that Yugi wouldn't understand. Atem had been kind, and Bakura was indebted to him and everyone who had fought with him along the way. But Marik... Marik could understand.

He could understand what it was like to be held captive by the darkness.

Ryou wasn't sure what he wanted from Marik, exactly. It would be all too forceful to question Marik about his own dark experiences, as he knew how difficult and painful it could be think about anything like that. But somehow, even Marik's presence could manage to be enough for Bakura—just the sheer knowledge that someone like him, whose body had betrayed him so many times, could still go on living a normal life... That knowledge was enough. So Ryou had to hold onto that hope, malignant and expectant, that Marik would stay a little longer, at least.

He glanced up towards Marik, realizing that he hadn't received a response yet, and saw an expression that was a little uneasy. Not a lot, but a little, and enough to upset the bit of confidence that Marik had recovered in the past few minutes. Suddenly, Ryou felt like his question was all types of unacceptable, and before he knew what he was doing, he tried to recall it back.

"I'm sorry," began Bakura, looking down at his nervous hands and busying himself with methodically setting down his teacup, "That was tactless of me, I shouldn't have asked that."

"No, that's not it," Marik denied, looking to Bakura with a smile that was part-apologetic, part-nervous. "Truth is, there is another reason why I wanted to see you, but I guess I didn't think I'd get that far." He gave a shaky little grin, "I expected you'd want me to leave after the apology, or earlier."

Ryou looked up from his teacup abruptly, wide-eyed, nearly knocking over the cup with his sudden loss of concentration. "Ah," he let out, his mind suddenly lost for words.

"Bakura, you... Well, I imagine you wouldn't really want to talk about this, but... you know we have a thing or two in common, right? Or I mean, we used to, back then," Marik said softly, prodding the topic just slightly, as though testing the waters and seeing if it would float. He glanced over at Bakura, who sat with his hands folded carefully in his lap, looking down at them with unreadable eyes.

"Yes," Ryou agreed softly, "The Spirit of the Millennium Ring, and..."

"Exactly," Marik affirmed, and Ryou saw in his periphery a slight movement as Marik looked down as well. "I don't really have to say much more, do I? You understand what I mean."

"Yes, I believe I do," Bakura agreed, a melancholy little smile coming to his face. And he did understand—the shaking in his hands that was just one more way that Ryou would never be able to fully control his body, the ever-present fear that the Spirit would come back, the sleepless nights left wondering about the gaps in his memory and the time in his life that he'd lost forever... He didn't hold any delusions that Marik could have quite the same sorts of problems, but there were certain things that he could be sure of. Just looking at Marik, back then on the pier and now, he knew that Marik could understand his fear all too well. "I... had already thought that we'd be able to understand each other a little in that respect."

"We're sort of alone in that, aren't we? Nobody else knows what it's like," Marik's tone had darkened considerably by now, and Bakura heard something like old spite hidden in the dull regret.

"They can't know. The past really is over for them." Ryou heard a bit of a sigh and saw Marik move to sit up in his seat (when had he slouched forward like that?) out of the corner of his eye, and he looked up at the man. Their eyes met, and Marik smiled mirthlessly.

"I shouldn't have gotten us on this subject. This can't be pleasant for you."

"No," Bakura agreed, "But it's... nice to know that I'm not the only one who..." Ryou trailed off, not really wanting to finish the sentence. The urge to spill everything to someone who understood was almost overwhelming, but years of living alone, isolated from his peers and family, choked up his throat and kept him in check. Marik was still almost a stranger, he had to remember. No matter how long Ryou had been waiting for this opportunity, his hesitation was innate.

"Right," Marik replied, not quite seeing through Bakura's hesitation. "I guess... that's sort of why I wanted to meet you and talk to you. I thought maybe..." He hesitated himself here, "If I knew someone who could understand everything like you can, maybe it'd all be easier." And he fell quiet, waiting for a response.

Bakura let himself smile a little, a quiet elation and anticipation welling up in him. He wouldn't be alone anymore, would he? Even if Marik lived on an entirely different continent, the two of them couldn't really be separated entirely anymore... they could help each other through everything. Marik could... Marik could help. Ryou could stop having to come up with faulty excuses to himself for living the way he did, day in and day out.

"I think you're right. Honestly, I... I had been hoping to get to know you a little better," Ryou admitted despite his hesitation, "You see, I don't have too many friends myself, and to have you to talk to... I'd like that very much."

Marik's expression changed, and he looked quizzical all of a sudden. "What do you mean, you don't have friends? Don't you still talk to Yugi and everyone?"

Ryou shrugged. "Well, yes, sometimes, but I suppose they've been busy lately, and I've had my schoolwork to keep up with. We haven't really been in much contact."

"That's really too bad. So you just stay home on your own?"

"Well, there are a lot of interesting games on the Internet, and—"

"Bakura, you can't just live like that!" Marik scolded, but his eyes glowed now, with the sort of strong vitality that they had been entirely lacking before. Ryou, despite the slight chastising, found himself liking this change from the melancholy Marik of just a few moments ago. "While I'm in Japan, I'll have to get you out of your apartment somehow."

Bakura smiled. "Well, if you like, maybe I can show you around the city tomorrow. It's changed a little since you were last here." He thought a moment, and amended, "If you're not already busy, that is."

"No, I'm free. And thanks, that'd be great." Marik grinned and finished his tea.

Ryou let himself be quietly elated at that, realizing just then how long it had been since he had had the chance to do anything with any of his friends. And he and Marik kept talking like that, easy, friendly conversation about all sorts of things, from Marik's job to Bakura's schooling to Duel Monsters to everything. It was relaxing, and Ryou realized that this was one of those rare moments of happiness he had been missing lately. This wasn't one of the lonely Saturdays he was used to, and the change in pace felt sublime. Time flew imperceptibly, and the sun began to dip low on the horizon, reaching in through Bakura's windows. He offered to make dinner when it started to get late, and Marik offered his help. And when Bakura saw Marik off at the door, he felt like he could be sure that this wasn't going to be one of those sleepless, painful nights.

Marik, Ryou could tell now, wasn't the man he remembered, nor the man that Yugi or anyone had told him about. He lived the aftermath of the past in much the same way that Bakura did, but he was strong enough to cope and survive and find windows of happiness wherever he could. He lived each day with the conviction to overcome his own ever-present guilt.

And maybe that was why he had just become the source of hope that Ryou had never been able to find before.