The Ignored Credits

AU Ryou knew what it was like to be alone, everyone getting up around him and leaving, ignoring all that wasn't 'important' to the big picture. But someone else was watching the credits with him in the darkness. Someone else… BakuraRyou

My new fear is that when I die, I won't have lived life the way I wanted it, or I wont be remembered as someone who did anything noteworthy or memorable or interesting… or that I just wont be remembered at all. When you read this fic, you can sorta tell it spawned from this fear. Currently listening to Coldplay's album 'Parachutes'

I don't own Yuugiou. Something tells me if I did I would fall under the category of 'noteworthy' and wouldn't be so depressed.

To Lauren. Live your life. Make sure its interesting enough for the both of us, just in case…

(P.S. Methinkies this fic was inspired by a really touching movie I saw that other day called Stay. Made me sob for, like, an hour. 'Tis now a new favorite. Has anyone seen it? Please tell me if you did! If you haven't, though, please go watch.)

The two on the screen nuzzled, and their eyes were alive and burning with happiness.

"I always loved you, Seika," the boy whispered the brunette's ear, and his co-star looked at him as though she was clutching to his words, clutching to them for dear life.

A girl behind Ryou blew her nose loudly, so that it was like a foghorn in the cinema's hushed darkness. Several people coughed, and he heard more sniffling amongst the audience.

Yes, it was a sad movie. His fingers toyed with the inedible kernels of popcorn remnants that had settled at the bottom of the now pretty greasy paper bag. His watch glowed in the darkness: twelve minutes past two. The movie was supposed to finish at two-fifteen. After, his friend Malik would come off work, and he would meet him for lunch. But for now…

"Oh, Kurosawa-chan," she whispered longingly, and leaning into him, their lips met.

The kiss was passionate for something feigned. A dutiful kind of diligence attached to something that could only be love was woven into it so that their hands wandered over each other, raking though the other's hair, their lips parting as their bodies meshed. The two actors made an aura of their own on that silver screen, something the spectators yearned for, something that had the majority of those that shared the theatre with Ryou sobbing softly. He himself felt moved and happy for the on-screen couple, happy to a point that it almost hurt, but another part of him wondered why he couldn't be touched like that, loved by someone just like that, the whole happy ending package. But the thoughts and feelings petered off into darkness, akin to the movie that was fading into black.

The word 'owari'(1) appeared on the screen, and he heard the scattered rustling and shifting and murmuring, along with the snivels of the few that were still crying for the lovers. Cell phones were turned on, and some actually began to ring. A sluggish procession was soon formed in the illumined carpet isles leading to the numerous doors labeled 'exit'.

Ryou unhappily paid heed to the rush before sighing and making himself truly comfortable, removing two or three candy bars from in his pants pocket and readying himself for what he really felt was the best part of the movie: the credits.

It was the boy's sincerest thought that everyone should stay and watch the names stream all too quickly up the magnificent screen, and pay tribute to the hard working men and women that had enabled the laughs and tears and the gasps and all round emotion absent from the audience's everyday lives. Everyone from the director to the make-up artists and stunt doubles… but these individuals were ignored, utterly and completely, left in the wake of people that had such important lives to return to… lives so important, so hectic, that they had to hand over yen to a cashier and receive a ticket stub to watch high profilers feign feeling and invoke it in the listless, ignorant public, because these commoners most obviously were too busy to feel it on their own, even if it was their money that salaried the on-screen personas.

But Ryou… Ryou was not busy. He was of the opinion that had all the time in the world. In his mind's eye, he often envisioned himself floating: not chained to anything, but watching everything from… from behind the scenes, just like these people. All the graphic artists and sound checkers and camera men and costume designers… watching the magic unfold, utterly unbeknownst to the world, even though they had some hand in it all. He chewed ardently on his chocolate bar, grounding the nougats of nuts dipped in caramel with his molars. Dark honey eyes flickered over the screen, and they spied two or three names that were familiar from other instances he had watched the credits. Brown pupils trained themselves on a name that raced up the dark backdrop, and, unwrapping more junk food, he crammed a piece of the snack into his mouth and thought up what he liked to call 'his own screen play' for the person.

Akira Yuki, he mused, and next to the name he saw the title of 'Script Editor.' Ryou spent a good few seconds munching and deliberating, and, finally settling on something, kicked off 'his own screen play' as the editor's name scaled up the screen and out of view.

Akira Yuki, he began, the chocolate melting on his taste buds and the crunch of the nuts grounding and melding into his fabrication, so that it was like a beat, lived an average life like any other bloke out there, having his fair share of friends and enemies, until he… until he failed his high school entrance exam. He was devastated, but did a re-sit, and he successfully entered a school. His parents had spurred him on since his sister went to the best college, and it came that he was able to chat with his friends less and less because of his intense studies. It became hard to look his friends in the face after, knowing that they had all done so much better than him, so he was a tad happy he wasn't allowed to see them as much as he wanted. It was his mum in particular he'd disappointed… she had set her hopes so high for him.

Ryou moved onto another chocolate bar, resuming his melancholic mendacity in the darkness.

It wasn't all good, though. His friends had missed him, and when he enrolled the same school they had, they were overjoyed. But his parents had drilled such a terribly hard study timetable into him, he wasn't able to spend time with them like before, and he found that he didn't quite want to. He was… he was so frightened that he'd slip again. The few times they did manage to speak, he was snappish and brooding, saying all the wrong things. They pulled away from him in the end, poor fellow, saying that he wasn't the same person that he used to be. He studied hard and left high school with high marks in all of his exams, but he wasn't happy… for heaven's sake, no.

Pale fingers crumpled the wrapper, and were absently stuffing it into one of the beverage holders on Ryou's side, while the teen's mind raced, the light from the screen washing over his face with a pale glow so that it seemed that his sullen notions lit up his face to angelic proportions.

So he became a script editor because he knew that his friends would have understood that he wasn't able to spend time with them, but they weren't able to get past how dreary he became or how absorbed he was. He was almost sure that on the off times they had spoken, if he was pleasant and happy, they would all still be chums today. He saw his old best friend in a coffee lounge the other day, and they said hullo, but it was so awkward. He couldn't help but feel that all the words were… wrong. Yes, 'wrong.' That's the ticket. And he realized that's where the jimmy was.

The globe representing Universal Pictures began to tail after the last straggling names and titles, and Ryou's body rose automatically. He did not have to command it: it associated the Universal symbol with a general uprising motion; that was how much he watched the films.

So the chap decided to edit scripts: so the words would not be 'wrong' anymore, and that things could flow the way they were planned, no failures involved, and that everyone could see the happy ending he had wanted but never got. The one where he had his friends and hadn't failed his mum and had good exam results and was able to talk to whomever he wanted without anything missing the mark… just like that.

Ryou's coffee eyes still lingered sadly on the screen, as if calling to Akira Yuki, or asking him some sort of question.

"Bollocks, you're quite the glum one, aren't you, Ryou?" He whispered softly to himself. He had realized that the editor's 'screen play' had blossomed from his own depression and yearnings and shyness, and was a wrung out rendition of his own existence, the tale riddled with failures that hadn't entered his life… yet. The hands in his pockets, clenched around candy wrappers from the other films he had watched that day, were chilly. He sighed again.

"No one's sharing this with me," he murmured desolately, his chest almost aching and writhing, as if agreeing with him, "no one else is here, in the dark-"

"Ra fuck it all, Ryou-chan, you're still in here? For fuck's sake, the movies done," someone snapped behind him, and the boy turned slowly on the spot to face his friend, Malik, who was still dressed in his usher's uniform, hands on hips, glaring at him.

"Malik!" Ryou greeted cheerfully, instantly shoving the 'screen play' to the back of his fuddled mind, and he jogged up the aisle to meet the blonde, who was eyeing him distrustfully with narrowed amethyst eyes.

"What the fuck were you mumbling about?" the Egyptian interrogated, sounding annoyed by something or the other. But Malik always sounded annoyed… the blonde's excuse was that it was due to the job. Always ranting about how much he hated the uniform, which was a violent purple, and his name tag especially, which was a disproportionate lilac movie screen with the letters of his misspelt name printed across it in some puerile, yellow scrawl. Ryou remembered him raving and shrieking "M-Y-L-I-C-K?! IS THIS SOME RA-FUCKING IDEA OF A JOKE!?"

And, of course, just like Malik was always irked, most of his sentences almost always contained the word 'fuck'… it was a habit he had picked up from someone he was seeing named Marikku, who, Ryou was told (somewhat begrudgingly), thought the name 'Mylick' to be quite amusing.

As if the blonde could read his mind, he randomly spat the word "fuck" and picked at the nametag pinned to his blouse, eyeing it distastefully.

"Have you complained to the manager about that little mishap there yet?" Ryou remarked lightly, and Malik made a fed up sounding noise by clicking his tongue. The usher turned and began to walk towards the exits, and Ryou trudged after him, pulling another candy bar from his pocket and unwrapping it with fingers slightly numb from the cold.

"What, that bastard, Jounouchi?" he responded, capricious sounding as usual, "He's a piece of shit, keeps snickering with his stupid friend Honda every time I pass them. They're fucking in the parking lot behind the dumpster, Ryou, trust me."

Before he could respond with some sympathetic words, he began to muse on how truly unwise it would be to actually trust Malik. He was snapped out of his thoughts when Malik bristled suddenly, "You changed the topic, Ryou. Just 'cause my names 'Mylick' doesn't mean I'm stupid, no matter what that fuckface Jou and his friends think."

"Pardon?" Ryou asked, not alarmed with his friend's small temper tantrum. He had introduced the boy to coffee the previous month, and that spurred the addict in him. As soon as they got to the café for lunch, some caffinated beverage or the other would calm him down. Ryou just had to endure his hot-blooded ramblings for the walk over.

Malik looked at Ryou, who just stared cluelessly back, and sighed impatiently, making several edgy gestures before settling with a choice swearword or two.

Ryou was beginning to worry that the boy was having too much coffee.

"You were just standing there like a lifeless, Ra-forsaken ass, mumbling to yourself. Just gaping at the screen." To emphasize, he wheeled around just as they approached the designated exit and let his jaw fall and his plum-colored eyes gloss over, and for comic effect, he scratched at his armpit. Ryou roared with laughter.

"Don't laugh," Malik prodded, but he himself was wearing a satisfied, amused smirk on his face, "It was some camel shit like 'no one's sharing this with me…'" Heliotrope eyes then appraised him dubiously, and the British boy began to blush.

"O-Oh, that…" he mumbled, remembering his angsty moment in front of the screen. Malik greedily eyed the candy bar Ryou was clutching in his hand and sneered, plucking it out of the boy's anesthetized fingers.

"If you were talking about this, though," Malik said airily, and Ryou's mouth opened slightly as he made a offended sounding noise in his throat that just made him sound like he was choking, "you could have just told me that you were fucking depressed you had no one to give your food to. Bastard fanatic supervisor Anzu-baka doesn't let anyone snitch snacks on the job." He then crammed the whole sweet in his mouth, and growled, "Cunt fucking whore." Ryou sighed tiredly, and fished out another chocolate from his pocket to eat instead (A/N: 00 how much does he have in there? It's settled, he's wearing cargo pants, like… like L::sweatdrop::)

They broke through the doors, and Ryou squinted as the light assailed his eyesight, vulnerable due to the darkness in which it had been shrouded for the last hour and a half. Malik just snickered at him, chewing contentedly on the candy bar and swallowing. Through the neon patches of light and blindness that perforated his vision, he was able to follow the lump down Malik's throat, and the Egyptian threw out rather carelessly, "Ryou you need to get a life. Preferably a fucking sex life." He then grinned suggestively at the boy, who just blushed.

"But Malik," he balked, "you know how much I like the pictures. And besides, don't you have Marikku? That's enough happiness for both of us."

Abruptly, the words 'nobody's sharing this with me' flared in his mind. Ryou bit his lip and looked away quickly.

"Oh, that bastard," Malik commented, not noticing his friend's deviation. The words were still angry, but in a… Ryou came to himself and struggled to describe it. Angry, but in a loving way. Yes. He smiled. Malik could never drop his cross disposition, "Yeah, he's great, one for me and everything, but…"

Ryou grin widened, and he said blissfully, "But nothing! Don't be silly, Malik-chan. Everything's great with you two. You have your happy ending now."

Malik just looked at Ryou as if he was an unknown species he drudged up from one of the cinema's smelly toilets.

"Ra, just listen to you… 'happy ending' my fucking ass. Too much movies!" He gesticulated wildly for stress. "Get a life! I saw you come out of Nakari-sensei's Last Paradise and you just strolled into Seika and Kurosawa-"

Ryou's face screwed up.

"But I didn't watch Nakari-sensie's Last Paradise. I saw that last week, you know that. Maybe you're having too much coffee, Malik-"

"No I'm not!" the boy snapped crossly, and they passed by the snack counter. A deep, male voice jeered from behind the concession stall, "Malik, why don'tchya lick my-"

The boy spat back quickly, before anyone could stop him, "Honda's doing it for you, bastard, don't ask me!"

A raven-haired boy erupted in laughter, lime-green eyes crinkling at the corners as he handed a couple their fries, who took their time to shoot scandalous looks at Malik. Ryou groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"Nice one, Malik!" the boy hailed from behind the register, and Malik beamed, yelling a response of "Thanks, Otogi!" Before he could respond though, a brunette with terribly augmented breasts bore down on him, and he recoiled in fear, handing the waiting couple their change and scurrying to the back to prepare more caloric food. Ryou felt Malik shudder next to him.

"Anzu-baka," he muttered darkly, glaring at the girl who skulked around the service escritoire. Ryou in turn looked at the girl, and then quickly away, wondering mildly if physical endowments could actually blind someone. He laughed out loud at this.

Malik looked at him and shook his head.

"See, now you're even laughing to yourself… fucking freak. No wait." He stopped for a moment, and frowned, "Look who's talking."

The exited the theatre, and Malik poked disgustedly at his badge again, and he ripped it off of his shirt instead of unfastening the catch, and pocketed it. Upon inspection, Ryou noticed several similar rips where Malik normally pinned his nametag. The boy decided not to comment on the sensitive topic of the 'Mylick nametag.' He had a feeling he'd be deeply saddened if both of his eyes were skewered on the nametag's metallic clasp because he had uttered a few wrong words to Malik.

"You're watching so many movies you're mumbling and laughing. You even watched over Nakari-sensei-"

"But I didn't," Ryou protested, "I was watching the Cherry Blossom Kiss double feature when that was going on-"

Malik looked at Ryou incredulously once again. Ryou felt a little smile coming on: he was used to getting that look from his friend.

"What kind… what in Ra's fucking holy name, Ryou? What do they call you over in England? The P word, I forgot-"

"Poofster?" Ryou said mildly, like asking a question, and Malik grinned ferally.

"Right," he said, procuring a cigarette from what seemed like nowhere, and he lit up with a sleek lighter adorned with skulls and cross bones. A gift from Marrikku, Ryou could tell: the lighter and the smoking habit. After exhaling a pall of smoke, he said dryly, "You're a poofster. So go fuck someone so you wont be one anymore. And for the love of Ra, I don't want to ever hear you watching fucking crap like Cherry Blossom Kiss or Nakari-sensei's Last Paradise-"

"I didn't watch it!" Ryou objected again, but this time, his voice was a bit shrill. He was very picky with what he did and did not watch. Malik cocked an eyebrow and dragged lazily, remarking, "Listen, whatever you want, baka. But I'm not blind. You walked out, I called you, you ignored me. I'm not in the fucking mood to-"

"Then please don't pursue it," Ryou pleaded, but his voice had that indiscernible edge in it once more. Malik just shrugged and looked at Ryou through the haze of smoke that wafted between them. This was the first time in their three years as best friends an argument like this had happened, but the mauve orbs through the miasma were not surprised… just volatile, like they always were.

An awkward silence seamed and drifted between the two, and Ryou took the time to brood over how he had just snapped at his friend.

The unhappiness is eating at you, Ryou thought desperately, his head downcast and eyes staring listlessly at his weathered sneakers marching across the sidewalk. And the words wormed themselves up from the darkness from where he had shoved the screenplay:

He saw his old best friend in a coffee lounge the other day, and they said hullo, but it was so awkward. He couldn't help but feel that all the words were… wrong.

He moaned, and looked away. He heard Malik sigh, and say in a voice as close to concern as the Egyptian would get, "Something's fucking wrong with you, Ryou. Don't even say sorry-" he stopped the boy before he could open his mouth, "-just do me a favor. When you want to tell me what the fuck is screwing with your Ra-damned mind, call me." He threw in, "If the phone's busy, Marikku wants phone sex again, the bastard."

Ryou laughed softly, nervously. Malik threw the cigarette onto the asphalt and ground it out with the heel of his combat boots, and he cast Ryou that wild, rapacious grin he gave people when he was happy. Malik never smiled like a normal person.

"Poor Ryou-chan," Malik denigrated, slinging an arm over the boy's shoulder. He smelled like tobacco and fries and disinfectant and cheap cologne, mixed in with that spicy cinnamon shampoo the boy always used. Combined, it was a very nice smell, something that, oddly enough, fit Malik, "these are the beginning stages of losing your mind. You get obsessed with stuff. You like movies. I liked blood and guns and fucking shit like that." He grinned assuringly at Ryou, in that predatory sort of way he had, and the boy smiled back, thinking that he wouldn't end up like Akira Yuki and that Malik would fix it before things could get out of control. The Egyptian continued, "Nothing's wrong with being a fucking cracked nut, at least that's what Marikku says, and-"

Just then, a rock-riff ring tone blasted from Malik's pants, and the blonde disentangled himself from Ryou, unearthing his cell phone from his pocket and glaring at the caller ID screen.

"Speak of the cunt-fucking devil," he murmured, and he flipped open the phone, spitting, "What do you want, stupid?" A pause. Ryou stood in the middle of the sidewalk, and, oddly enough, he felt as though he was some sort of defenseless creature. And? And what, Malik? What if Malik didn't fix things? Ryou didn't want to be like Akira Yuki. He looked hopelessly at him, hoping he would catch his best friend's eye. Instead, the lilac orbs stared off into the lunchtime traffic, and his lips were twisting into a smirk.

"As much as I would love you to do that to me, you twisted fucking pervert, I'm going out to go drink coffee with Ryou now-" Malik said 'drink coffee' like a Christian would say 'meet Jesus' or a pot-addict would say 'smoke weed'. In all of his desperation, Ryou couldn't help but look at Malik oddly, who appeared to be listening to his lover banter on the other line. After rolling his eyes, he put his hand to the mouthpiece and nipped, "Marikku-kisama is a whore, so he wants to know if he could come with us for coffee." Once again, 'coffee' was said with peculiar reverence.

Ryou was thinking on the spot, and quickly. So many things were going off in his head, and he thought he was having an emotional breakdown, and for no reason. Malik was just looking at him lazily, waiting, but in Ryou's mind-

Call him later. It wasn't even a fight, you were just in bad sorts. Let him spend time with Marikku-chan-

The words streamed from his mouth before he could think anything else.

"Enjoy yourself with Marikku-san," Ryou said, and he was relieved the words came out of his mouth sounding pleasant, almost amiable, "You should spend some quality time with him… I-I'm going to go find out what's… what's wrong with me."

Malik's face screwed up, and he muttered, "Marikku, hold on, Ryou shit out his brain again this morning." He looked at Ryou severely, bristling, "Good Ra, you don't need to take me seriously, baka… and you haven't even met Marikku yet, and he wants to lick you, I mean, he got to lick fucking Otogi, he licks all my friends-"

But looking at Malik, in his current state of irrationality, he felt that distinctive 'backstage' sensation, the thoughts ripping wildly through his head as the amethyst eyes trained on him probably had a mind behind them that was wondering if he was stupid or had lost his tongue or really shit out his brains.

"No, no, go," Ryou said, and he even threw on a smile, which he was hoping fit well, "I don't feel quite well anyway, I'll call you later… I'm headed back to the films-"

Malik just looked at him in confusion and said, "Well, if you're not coming, we won't bother with coffee, I'll just go straight to the bastard's apartment… I gave you his number there, right?"

But Ryou was hastily backing away, and he nodded, the grin on his face feeling too big, like some sort of travesty.

"Well if you don't get me," Malik shouted after him, "we're probably-"

But Ryou didn't hear what Malik said.

No one's sharing this with me.

His heart twisted in his chest at the thought, but the movie theatre loomed over him, and he thought of more reeling credits, of seeing others like him, those behind the scenes, and he didn't feel so… so…

No one's sharing this with me.

He bounded through the doors, and a short usher with tricolored hair looked at him curiously at the ticket booth.

"Hi, sir," he greeted, his purple eyes unusually wide, "You sure do watch a lot of movies-"

"Yes," Ryou wheezed, "Yes, I do… What do you all have on now?"

"Oh!" the boy exclaimed, surprised, and he cast a look at the clock on the wall opposite of them, and then entered the time in the tiny computer in front of him. After a few moments of Ryou panting, the teen (who Ryou just realized was standing on a stool), said, "All you'll catch now is the end of Nakari-sensei's Last Paradise-"

"I'll take it," Ryou winded, and a little voice in his mind said wryly, "Just in time for the credits." The boy looked at him strangely, and printed out a stub for him, stating the price. Ryou grabbed the ticket and fished in his jeans for money. Killing time, he let his brown eyes stray to the boy's name tag. It read, "Yuucky."

His fingers finding enough yen to pay for the movie, he thanked the boy, using the name on the tag.

"Oh, its not Yuucky, it's Yuugi," he corrected nicely, "Jounouchi-sama hasn't fixed it yet… but I know he will. He's a nice boss."

Ryou stopped and considered the boy, who just stared up at him with innocuous purple eyes.

"Enjoy your film, sir!" he said earnestly.

Ryou felt a weak smile on his face.

"Yes," he said strangely, walking off and clutching his stub, "Yes, I will…"

-!I!I!I!I!I!I!I!-

The usher at the door- who's name was actually Insector Hoga- gave him a bit of problems about entering the theatre, but he kindly showed the boy his stub, which made the boy stare at him and drawl disbelieving in his skittish little voice, "You spent so much yen to see the credits?"

Ryou had smiled serenely at the boy, finally feeling in his right state of mind. People were already beginning to file out around them.

"That's the best part!" he replied happily.

The green haired usher just shook his head.

"Whatever. Go ahead. Just make sure you're out when the next movie starts."

-!I!I!I!I!I!I!I!-

Ryou waded into the darkness, watching names flash up the screen. He settled for a seat at the very back, not bothering to venture up to the front. He was to tired. He just wanted… solace. He ignored the seat next to him that had a tray of uneaten food resting on it.

That's just a bit wasteful, he thought, shoving yet another candy bar in his mouth as eyes searched out the protagonist for his next 'screen play.' They fell on a fell in on a stand in by the name of Bakura Touzou. He supposed the name caught his eyes because they shared a similar surname. He wondered vaguely if they were related.

Bakura Touzou, he thought, and as his mind wound and curled to its element, ready to unfurl another tragic story, he heard a voice behind him, abrasive and cool, almost… almost cruel.

"Excuse me," it said, "it seems as though you have taken my seat… and I shall let you know that it's not appreciated. And you do not want to see me when I am angry."

Ryou turned around, pupils dilating and still growing accustomed to the darkness. And that's when he saw him.

A mane of white hair floated around his sneering, pointed face like a death cloud, and unmistakably red eyes leered unkindly from behind slight, rectangular framed reading glasses. He wore a lose white blouse and black pants with a matching trench coat, and he did look very… suave. Ryou blushed.

"I-I'm sorry sir-"

"Certainly," he quipped coldly, and he brushed uncaringly past the boy, taking the seat next to him and beginning his meal of what looked like pizza with shredded bits of pork on it. He tore at it, his lack of manners contrasting terribly with his debonair dress code. His eyes raptly feasted on the silver screen, the names disappearing by the second.

"This is the best part of the whole Ra-damned movie," he growled, tearing at the pizza again, and a bit dribbled down his chin, "so if I may enjoy it in my own personal space, foolish boy-"

"C-Certainly," the Ryou stammered, slightly offended, and he stumbled down the aisle, lost for words. He caught a random seat far away from the man, but he couldn't help but steal a glance at him. He was tearing through a chicken thigh now, and he was curled up- no, perched- uncivilly on the chair, his wine-colored eyes behind sleek spectacles. The movie screen reflected on them, so they gleamed eerily when they caught the right light. He was like some poised predator ready to pounce, tearing at the meat and watching his prey… the screen? The crimson eyes flashed to Ryou now and again, as if warning him to keep away. The teen had to wonder if the man could tell he was looking at him, though. He seemed the type that would.

No one's sharing this with me.

Ryou chuckled at the thought, smiling, and bit into his own candy bar, watching more names and trying to think of a screen play for Touzou Bakura.

Someone else was there. Someone else was behind the scenes.

And it felt… it felt right.

I typed this whole thing in one sit, which is some kind of new record for me. Coldplay's 'Yellow' was on repeat, so I've been listening to it for the past, like, four hours… it a nice song though, so I don't mind . It's 3:55 A.M., so please be nice to me when you review. I liked Malik in this chapter. Malik was awesome. Sorry if the incessant dialogue stopped me from getting to the point, though.

Oh, and you want to know where Darkness Controvert is? It's around. One more page needs to be added. I know I said that last week, but…

Review please, tell me what you think, and if I can fix this. Oh, and has anyone seen Stay? Tell me!