It's a long, long, sleep, and she remembers snatches of it once she wakes up. She remembers not being able to breathe, not being able to move, trying to cry out in pain but barely being able to whimper. She's not sure how many of these vague flashes are dreams. She tries to tell herself all of them are.
—
She remembers, kind of. The memory is there, she can feel it, thrumming insistently against the back of her mind, but she doesn't want to look at it. It's like a lion in a cage, and if she sticks her finger through the wire it's liable to get bitten off. It's dangerous.
Ryoga doesn't want to talk about it, either. Her first night home he's happy, so happy he's nearly glowing, and he babbles at her about his new friends. He shows her the changes he's made to his deck and even plays a board game with her, something they both outgrew long ago. Every subject of conversation is harmless, as if she's returning from a long vacation.
He must have been lonely, she thinks. She can't imagine losing him for so long—it's been nearly a year, he told her, with a flicker of something dark and sad in his eyes. She had hugged him again at that. It isn't right, she thinks, for a twin to be twinless.
She's grateful to the friends he's made. She'll need to remember to thank them later.
—
Kotori invites her out shopping with a few girls from school. It's nice to walk and chat about silly things; it feels like it's been ages since she's done something so normal. They browse, admire window displays, and bemoan their allowances.
They're walking past the food court when a nearby TV screen switches to a commercial for a new dueling show, promising the inside scoop on big name duelists. Faces flash across the screen, some she doesn't know, some she does—and one she definitely does.
"Oh," says Sei longingly. "When do you think IV is going to come back from his hiatus?"
"He's probably still recovering from his huge loss to Shark," teases Sachi.
"You don't know it was a huge loss! The transmission cut, remember?"
They start walking again, bantering, but Rio is frozen in place. There are a thousand things running through her mind: his smirk, his unnerving monsters, the shock in his eyes right before everything went to hell. Him hovering over her, blood running down his face. His panicked voice. She can almost hear the echoes of his words, but they're too far away.
"Rio-san…" says Kotori. She sounds concerned. Rio wonders how much she knows.
"Ah, sorry," she says with a smile. "I was just thinking of something. Hey, Sachi-san, do you want to hear some embarrassing stories about Ryoga?"
—
Her body betrays her. Her body remembers, even if she doesn't want it to.
The smell of smoke makes her heart race, even when it's only someone down the lane grilling outside. Flames, even ones on TV, make her feel like she's choking, gagging. Once a particularly vivid image even makes her vomit, and afterwards she feels shaky and trembly and hollowed out. Even tiny candles make her tense up, as if they'll lash out at her from across a room—why not, it's happened before.
She's ashamed of herself, because she's supposed to be strong. She's supposed to be able to protect herself and not need anyone else's help. She's afraid of a threat that isn't even in front of her, cowering like a child.
She tells herself that thinking about it only makes it worse. Maybe if she tries hard enough to ignore it for long enough-but isn't that what she's been trying all along?
—
She doesn't have nightmares at first, but they catch up to her eventually. She invariably wakes up sweaty and hot, and even cold showers aren't enough to take away the ghostly sensation of burning. She dreams about the arc of fire snaking downward, slowly, painfully slowly, but she's rooted in place and can't move a muscle. She dreams of monsters in the flames with ghoulish smiles and bloody teeth.
Sometimes he's there. Sometimes he's calling out to her through the flames, but she knows he'll never reach her.
Sometimes he just leaves her to die.
—
Ryoga knows. He's heard her wake up enough times gasping for air, and seen her excuse herself when something hits too close to home.
He doesn't know what to say, and she's grateful for it. She doesn't want to admit she's not okay. She thinks he probably doesn't want to, either. He wants her to be his strong little sister again, from before the fire had burnt away her confidence, and they could go back to how they always were.
One night she slips into their room with wet hair, shivering a bit in the cold air, only to find the lights on. He's dug out an old game, one she always loved but he always hated, and is setting it up on the floor.
"Hey," he says awkwardly. "Do you want to, uh…"
She starts to cry, which freaks him out a bit. He was never very good with these feeling things. "It's okay," she says into his shoulder, his arms around her, thicker than she remembers. "It's okay. I'm happy."