Ramen, Love Letters, and the Value of Silence

by Cryptographic DeLurk

.

.

Malik had not been very understanding on the phone, when Rishid called to report the difficulties he was having with the museum curators.

"They're our clan's artefacts," Malik had bitten. He sounded annoyed. Or the part of him that didn't sound bored, at least. "It's not for them to decide the terms of their loan and return."

From the other end of the line, Rishid could not hear the impatient way Malik tapped his foot on the floor, or the squeak of the office chair, as Malik reclined. But the familiarity with his brother's gestures made such auditory cues unnecessary for their perception.

"When you return there tomorrow, you will remind them who you are, and who it is that's in charge of the items," Malik insisted.

Rishid was not sure who he was to be in charge. He felt wholly unsuited for this position and lamented, once again, that Isis had been occupied with business in Tunisia.
Malik's unwillingness to see after the clan business himself was beyond lamentation.

Rishid knew better than to voice any of this, though. He scuffed his feet against the tiled walk in front of the museum and asked, instead, how he should go about it.

"Brother," Malik said, exasperated, "you have the clan's entire armed platoon at your back. You were second-in-command under my Rare Hunters. Certainly you know how to put a couple of academic suits in their place."

Rishid kept himself from sighing. The Rare Hunters were another issue entirely, and one he had no desire to be reminded of. Somehow Rishid had also been tasked with tracking down the stragglers from Malik's rebellious days. Without the Rod, and Malik's commanding presence to keep them in place, Rishid worried about what could be done about them.

But, more pressing, was the issue of the museum. It wasn't really as if Malik was suggesting sending an armed platoon in to secure the items… was he? This was Japan, after all.

"Of course not," Malik said, and Rishid could see his eyes roll, and the kohl eyeliner clump in Malik's tear ducts. "The threat should be more than enough."

Rishid had nothing to say to that. Except a deferent acquiescence.

"Rishid," Malik sighed, "one day it will get through to you. You are among the elite of this family. You have no reason to be intimidated the way you are." Malik did not wait for a response. Which was just as well. As much as Malik said otherwise, he did not enjoy being challenged by Rishid. Or anybody, for that matter. "Take care of yourself, brother. I'm busy now. But I'll check back in with you before your night."

Malik cut the call after that. Rishid found himself worried about Malik's moods and, just as quickly, reminded himself that they would pass.

He turned back to the museum, and looked at the pristine white of the building through the trees, before turning away.

He had been dismissed for the day. Maybe if he was Malik or Isis, he would have marched back inside and demanded a more rapid resolution to their disagreement. But Rishid was not Malik or Isis. He turned away from the building and walked out towards the sidewalk and the streets. He towered over the other passers-by and adjusted his white turtleneck anxiously. He was ignored for the most part, by those that didn't look strangely at him and his tattoo and jump out of the way of his steps. He was approached several times by guides, offering to give him directions in English. And Rishid found himself without the heart to tell them he knew how to speak Japanese better, and had nowhere to go besides. He blushed and waved them off and tried not to hide his face as he turned away.

He felt uncomfortable, here in a foreign country. But then, he felt himself an outsider in the clan halls in Egypt as well. His silencing presence peeled away to reveal an insecurity and softness he felt unable to convincingly wield. He wished he had Malik's silver tongue and cleverness and commanding presence. Or else Isis's regal bearing and cool logic and unwavering firmness. But there were things about yourself you could not hide, and the truth was Malik and Isis were raised for leadership and persuasion, and Rishid knew only to fall comfortably into the space behind their backs. For all he could have been their elder (not only in age, but in position) he was not. And his hard shell would only scare those who did not speak to him, and his soft-spoken hesitance would neither persuade, nor cow, those that did.

…

Hey! Hey! Pull over! It's that guy! I gotta go say hi!

The motorcycle revved.

Oi! Jackass! I told you to pull over!

The bike slowed, but did not stop. The driver sighed.

What is it now?

See! Over there! An outstretched hand pointed rudely across the crowd. We gotta go say hi!

I swear to God! We can't do this every time you see some dark-skinned foreigner.

No- Fuck you. I'm sure it's him this time.

We don't have time for this. The driver grumbled. Gotta get to work.

No, you've gotta get to work. I've got nothing better to do than pick at my toenails. So I might as well go introduce myself. C'mon, let me off.

…

I said let me off you dickhead!

The motorcycle screeched to a stop, as the passenger elbowed the driver in the face and forced the handlebars sideways. They swerved off the road into the curb.

Ow! What the fuck?!

The clip on the passenger's helmet clicked open. There was a shuffle of rearranged bags.

It's like you want to get us both killed, you idiot!

Nyeeh, heh~ You love me and you know it. I'll see you Friday.

There was another sigh.

Yeah- Yeah- See you Friday… And, oi, don't forget to return my spare helmet!

But the passenger wasn't listening. He bounded up to the intersection, and then through the crosswalk, against traffic. He dodged the cars with an effortlessness that was somehow unbroken, even when they missed him only by a hair and he turned angrily to flip them off.

He weaved his way through the crowd, and swung in front of Rishid who, until this moment, was oblivious to his presence.

Rishid blinked. The passenger's eyes scrunched shut, as he grinned widely. He lifted a finger up under his nose sniffled quickly before speaking.

"Man that'll show Honda! I knew it was you," he cocked his head. "Ishtar-sama~" he added jokingly.

The passenger was still wearing his bike helmet, and its dangling straps swung sideways in motion. And Rishid wouldn't have known the passenger's face, but his bleached hair was hair sticking out from under the helmet. And nobody forgot that voice and those mannerisms.

"Ah, Jounouchi… Katsuya, is it?" he asked, just to be polite.

"None other," Jounouchi grinned smugly and placed his hands on his hips. "So what are you doing here, eh?" he asked. "Need someone to show ya around, man? I haven't forgotten the way you and your siblings took us around Egypt. Driving around those dunes and the pyramids, and-" Jounouchi sighed suddenly and collapsed his chest. "Aw, damn, it's been years and I still owe Honda and Yuugi for the plane ticket there…"

Rishid felt not entirely capable of a response. Certainly he remembered Jounouchi and little Yuugi and the Pharaoh and the others, and how they had come to Egypt, and gone boating and driving and visited the treasures and tombs of his clan, and how none of it had taken their mind from the loss of their friend. He remembered seeing Jounouchi, blank-eyed, possessed, with gritted teeth – drifting through the warehouses at Domino's wharf, and he remembered feeling helpless. And he remembered his battle with Jounouchi on top of the Kaiba Corp blimp, and how Jounouchi bristled angry, reckless, and wild the whole time – and Rishid felt beaten despite his own clear advantage on the duelling field. And Jounouchi was, perhaps, looking for sympathy regarding the exorbitant cost of international travel – Rishid was not sure. He was trying to decide what, of these many thoughts and recollections, to respond to, but Jounouchi had moved on.

"So, are Malik and your sister in town, or…?"

This Rishid knew how to respond to.

"Master Malik and Miss Isis are seeing to clan business elsewhere."

"So it's just you, eh?" Jounouchi grinned as if he weren't disappointed at all. He lifted a hand to hit sideways at Rishid's arm, and Rishid tensed, and then relaxed when the hand only slapped him playfully. Jounouchi had apparently not developed any reservations about being overfamiliar since their last meeting. But something about it always managed to flit on the right side of inoffensiveness.

"So, are you sightseeing? Need someone to show you around the city?" Jounouchi waggled his eyebrows. "Naw, don't worry, man. I owe you one for everything you did for Yuugi, so I won't charge you~"

"I'm afraid I'm in town on business," Rishid said stiffly. "And do not have time for any extensive vacationing."

Jounouchi actually seemed to wilt at that. "Ah~" he turned his face down and scuffed his foot against the ground, considering.

It reminded Rishid amazingly of Malik in one of his sulkier moods. But, while Rishid would have struggled not to rush to indulge Malik's likely manipulations, he felt no reason to hold himself back now.

"I'm free right now," he said. And it sounded awkward, but Jounouchi seemed to perk up immediately, so it encouraged him to continue. "I have nowhere to be."

.

.

"This is Anzu's favourite place," Jounouchi grinned, as he pushed Rishid ahead into the noodle shop. He hustled Rishid into a chair at a small table against the wall, and turned to start barking rapid-fire instructions at the chefs behind the partition to the kitchen.

The shop was rather full, and several people turned to look at Rishid as he scanned the room. Feeling the weight of their stares, Rishid directed his attention at the set-up on the table. There were pickled vegetables in serving jars, a couple of glass shakers filled with spices, a napkin dispenser, stacked duck spoons, and a cup filled with chopsticks.

Jounouchi slipped into the seat across from him. "This place has the best pork ramen," he trilled.

Rishid shuffled in his seat. "Jounouchi Katsuya," he addressed, "the tomb-keeper doctrine forbids the consumption of meat."

Jounouchi stared at him a second, and then-

"Son of a bi-" he cursed, turning his head down. "Don't go anywhere!" he commanded, as he rose from his seat. "I'll fix it."

He rushed over to the kitchen partition and resumed his conversation with the chefs.

Rishid closed his eyes. He imagined there was nothing that they could do to remove the flavour of the meat from the broth but, then, he would be lying if he said he really took such things as seriously as Isis. He remembered Malik, escaping the legacy of the tombs, and ordering kabobs of grilled meat off the streets. They had made him so sick, Malik had never touched meat again, although Rishid had felt a little relieved that it had not crushed the rest of Malik's ambitions to be more than the tool he was raised to be.

"There, I gotcha covered," Jounouchi winked, as he drifted back into his seat. "Sorry, I guess I shoulda taken you somewhere else, if I had known…"

"It's no trouble," Rishid said.

Jounouchi did not seem entirely convinced. But he busied himself with the utensils and the pickles. Lacking a dish, he served them out into one of the soup spoons, and picked them up dexterously with his chopsticks, occasionally wincing at the sharp smell of the vinegar.

Not knowing what else to do, Rishid tried to imitate him. He picked a pair of the white plastic chopsticks from the cup and tried to arrange his hands around them. He was starting to think he was getting the hang of it when one of them dropped from his fingers.

"Don't know how to use 'em?" Jounouchi said. He shoved his own chopsticks in his mouth, and reached over the table. He picked up the one Rishid had dropped and tried to show Rishid how to hold them. "Like this, yeah?" he said.

Rishid grimaced. He felt the need to excuse his ignorance. "Master Malik had somebody on-board to cook our meals, last time I was here," he said.

"Oh, wow! Your own cook – fancy~" Jounouchi said, through gritted teeth. His own chopsticks oscillated up and down, hanging from his mouth. "Then you haven't had much Japanese food, huh? Maybe this'll be special after all then." Jounouchi frowned. "Eh, screw it- I'll go see if I can get you a fork."

Rishid didn't realise how distracted he was, until Jounouchi let go of his hand. The chopsticks Jounouchi had been trying to position in his hand fell to the surface of the table, he had had been holding them so lax.

Jounouchi was off bothering the waitstaff again. Rishid waited patiently, and Jounouchi returned a minute later, with a fork wrapped in a napkin.

"I think I'm freaking them out," he admitted, grinning sheepishly. "Between my bleached hair, and your tattoo, they probably think we're mobsters or somethin'." He slid the fork across the table at Rishid. "They seem a bit too eager to please."

Rishid frowned as he picked up the fork. It seemed an odd size, like it was for serving rather than eating with.

"It seems I am only intimidating," he sighed, "when I do not mean to be."

"Yea-" Jounouchi said, lightly. "But you don't always get to choose how people see you. Sucks~" He puffed his cheeks. "Even before I started dying my hair, you wouldn't believe the amount of shit I got. Oh, man, and you wouldn't believe the amount of trouble I got Honda into when…"

Their ramen came to the table not long after that.

"No meat," the waitress said pointedly, as she set Rishid's bowl down, although she looked at Jounouchi when she said it.

Jounouchi nodded and continued talking. He swirled noodles deftly onto his chopsticks, and spoke through bits of noodle and green onion and pork.

And Rishid was ashamed to say he let his mind wander. He tasted the soup and, although he could not identify the flavour, or even whether or not he enjoyed it, the warmth of it was comforting. As was sitting here with somebody who obviously didn't mind him.

He remembered Jounouchi holding him, after he'd collapsed on top of the Kaiba Corp blimp. And he'd done his best to congratulate Jounouchi on his victory, while delivering the news of his latest and final failure, in his attempts to protect Malik from himself. The wind had been whipping high over the Domino City skyline, the blood was rushing from his head, and his fear for Malik had left him cold. And the only warm thing in his world had been Jounouchi's arms and lap and smile.

When his mind came to, he found himself nodding at Jounouchi's unknown stories. Japanese was still too difficult to understand, without affording it his full attention. And here he'd been, sitting comfortable, and picking up on the subtle cues when Jounouchi expected nonverbal signals of encouragement. He struggled, determined to find some way to rectify his rudeness, when Jounouchi seemed to call him out on it.

"Oi! You there, Rishid?" Jounouchi asked. And his name rung clear in Jounouchi's voice. "'Ey, why are you so quiet?"

Rishid flustered. But Jounouchi's eyes were curious, and not so critical as he expected.

Rishid remembered – even Isis had garnered a fair number of red slaps to her cheek, for speaking out of turn. And there had been hardly anything Rishid could say that wasn't out of turn.

He found himself unable to share that, though. And Jounouchi was waiting, looking for all the world more innocent than he had any right to be.

"I suppose," Rishid decided, "that I often feel there is nothing I could contribute to a conversation."

Jounouchi waited for a minute. He seemed to digest that. And then-

"Yeah, I gotcha." He reached for his spoon and took a large slurp of his broth. "Here, let me tell you a story," he said.

"So I used to get all these challenge letters in High School. People who had something to prove, and wanted to fight with me… You see, I'd made a bit of a reputation for myself, back in Middle School mostly."

Rishid did not understand. But he made sure to listen this time. He crossed his arms, and sat back in his seat.

Jounouchi continued. "But, yeah, even after things started to look up because of Yuugi, I kept showing up for those fights until it was about the end of my first year. And then, one day, I stopped… I read the challenge letters and threw 'em in the trash and stood all those guys up. Y'see, after I came runner-up in this one tournament, I realised I didn't need to bother with that kind of stuff anymore. I didn't need to beat up these assholes to prove I was worth somethin'."

Rishid nodded. He knew how fickle worth was. And how Jounouchi had more than proven himself, both in the estimation of Rishid, and his siblings.

"But, anyhow, you made me think about that for some reason." Jounouchi grinned. "'Cuz you see, I was exactly that kind of asshole back in Middle School – the kind that wrote out challenge letters and snuck around and shoved them into the lockers of every tough bastard I could find. And pretended it was about honour, and not just that I needed to punch somebody's teeth in."

Jounouchi sighed. He ran his hand through his hair. He took a moment to shovel more noodles in his mouth.

"But, anyhow, yeah, one day somebody stood me up." Jounouchi frowned. "I thought I was the toughest shit around, but some asshole decided I wasn't even worth the time. I was standing there for a whole hour, behind the school's bungalow, before I realised he wasn't coming. And it seemed so unfathomable and inevitable, and I was so angry I punched the wall and broke my wrist. And I spent the next two hours sitting there, too tired to move.

"And my hand hurt so bad, I couldn't think of anything. And the sun was setting and it was getting late, and I remember it being so quiet. I could barely hear the sound of my own breath."

Jounouchi paused. He rested his hand, holding his chopsticks, against the side of the table. The noddle shop was full of chattering people. But, for a second, silence spread out between them.

Then Jounouchi grinned, lopsided, and laughed.

"And, heh, maybe it didn't mean anything. Because I was back to raising hell with Hirutani the next day. But, lookin' back, it was the maybe first time it felt like nobody was yellin' at me."

Jounouchi picked up his ramen bowl and shovelled the contents into his mouth. He spoke through the soup.

"So, yanno, I thought maybe by not responding to the letters in high school, I could maybe give that kind of moment to a couple of those sorry punks who were out for my blood." He laughed. "Or, I mean, maybe that makes it sound more altruistic than it was. But I think silence is worth somethin' all by itself. It's cool that maybe you can give that to people even when you show your face, yea-?"

Rishid felt himself smile in spite of himself.

"So, I think you got a lot to contribute to a conversation whether you speak or not," Jounouchi tried to explain. "Wow, I sound like an idiot," he sighed. "But, yeah, don't be afraid to say somethin' if you want to."

"I appreciate that," Rishid said. "I'll keep that in mind." He leaned forward and took up his ramen.

Perhaps it would even help him at the museum tomorrow.

"Aw, man, I completely wasted my school days," Jounouchi grimaced into his ramen. "Yanno, some of the other guys even got themselves girls. They didn't waste their fuckin' time writing challenge letters and sneaking them into lockers when they could do better with love letters… Geez, I wrote all those challenge letters, and not a single love letter – what a waste~" he said emphatically. "How about you," he pointed at Rishid accusingly with his chopsticks, "you ever get a challenge letter, or a love letter?" he asked.

"Never," Rishid said. He shrugged.

This seemed to bother Jounouchi, though. "Never?! Neither one?!" he said, scandalised. "We have to fix that."

He got up and ran over to the waitstaff again. Rishid watched him curiously. When he came back, he was clutching a pen in his hand.

"Okay, I got this," Jounouchi said. He grabbed a napkin from the dispenser. His eyes met Rishid's for a moment and they narrowed suspiciously. He arranged the napkin behind his ramen bowl, so Rishid couldn't see what he was writing.

He seemed to consider it a long time, before finally scribbling something quickly.

He clicked the top of the pen, and folded the napkin professionally, before handing it over to Rishid. "For you."

Rishid reached forward and accepted the napkin. He wondered whether it would be a challenge or a love letter.

It turned out not to be much of a letter at all. Rishid heard himself chuckle. Jounouchi had written Rishid's name at the top, in messy block letters. Then he'd drawn a giant, lopsided heart in the middle of the napkin, and ended with his signature scrawled at the bottom.

"Okay," Jounouchi said, scratching at the back of his head, embarrassed. "So I'm not much of a fighter anymore, but I'm not much of a writer either." He reached out for the napkin. "Hey, you can give it back now."

Rishid smiled to himself and folded the napkin shut. He ignored Jounouchi's hand and reached down to stuff the napkin in his pocket.

"That's the problem with letters and speech and words," he said. "Once you give them, you can't take them back. I guess I'll just have to accept your sentiments."

Rishid felt himself blush. He worried for a moment, that he'd taken what was only meant to be a joke too far.

But Jounouchi coloured red too.

"That so," he said. He grinned, with just a tiny hint of arrogance, and reached over to grab the soft-boiled egg in Rishid's bowl with his chopsticks, and took it for himself.

.

.