AN: Okay, everyone, here's the new chapter! Took us longer to complete than expected, but then again, it's a little bit longer than the last one as well! Have fun reading! Special thanks to Seren147 for making me aware of some unfortunate (and partially slightly amusing) choices of words in the first two chapters! With this update, I'm fixing this as well. Special thanks to my boyfriend as well for his help and support.
Ryou had waited until well after midnight, before he dared to slip out of his room in the upper floor in order to get to the painting in the east wing. He did not want anyone to ask him silly questions about his nightly activities, therefore, he had dawdled away the hours with a good book and a few cups of black tea, he had fixed himself beforehand. At least, falling asleep was nothing to worry about, for this night's storm was even more intense than the last one's. Big raindrops drummed against his windows, creating a sound that would exact a toll on even the calmest man's patience.
Upon his return to the east wing, he found the painting unchanged, still sporting an English hound. Lifting the heavy frame from the wall was a difficult task for the thin boy, and while he struggled to bear this mysterious object to his room via an auxiliary staircase next to the kitchen, Ryou cursed his weak physique and scolded himself for not working out on a regular basis.
Having the painting undergo all sorts of occult rituals, including an investigation with a pendulum and an attempted contacting via the Ouija Board led to another disappointment. No paranormal phenomenon occurred and in the end, the picture had suffered irreparable damage from the procedure, forcing Ryou to think about tactful ways of disposing this useless thing. He couldn't possibly hang it back on the wall like this, without risking to draw unwanted attention to his unusual interests. Sighing, he donned his black coat and began dragging this cursed dog down the stairs once again. It seemed that everything had been an illusion, after all. The white haired teenager felt numb on the inside. He was no longer able to feel the excitement that had marked the last night. Neither did he recall his burning sense of confusion upon learning about the painting's mysterious transformation, nor could he memorize how the weight of disappointment had dashed him to the ground after even the last of his attempts had failed, to find anything special about the old canvas he was now carrying through the dark, desolated kitchen; just a deep, dark void filling the core of his being, crawling through his veins, toying with his senses – bringing forth memories of the past!
Like bloodthirsty bats from a cave, the hateful reminiscences emerged from the dark reaches oh his being, jittering upwards in a spiral of deadly lunacy; like a flock of dark bats, they mobbed him in a dome oh his own failures. They were fluttering to his sides and in front oh him. He could sense their mad dance above and below… and fell their assault from behind.
In a procession of unholy solemnity, the images of sorrow drifted past his mind's eye.
He was sitting on the backseat of a car. His small fists punched the bolsters to his sites, before crossing his arms in front of him and pouting. His mother's smiling face turned into his direction; she leaned back in the driver's seat as she spoke forgotten words of warming love, despite his horrible attitude. Her head still turned, she still somehow sensed that something was not quite right, yet, alas, too late. All of a sudden, a horrible sound of clashing metal drowned all other sounds, including his mother's warm voice, just as a…
"NO", Ryou screamed aloud, dropping the portrait. "I DON'T WANT! DON'T WANT!"
He yanked a sharp knife out of a block and, with all might, rammed it right into the wooden surface of the kitchen table. Broken-winded, he remained in this crude position, his body partially standing in front, partially lying across the board, his arms shaking, his face twisted in a grimace of tremendous struggle. His hands, which were still resting on the knife's handle felt sweaty, his fingers were trembling.
It took Ryou a deep breath and quite a lot of effort to loosen himself from the table's surface. Slightly horrified by his own lack of control, he fearfully examined the damage he had done. The knife had cut a deep gash into the wooden planks, yet Ryou was confident that it would go unnoticed by the cook. It was obvious that she only had eyes for this bum of a gardener…
He immediately regretted this expression of tastelessness towards his father's employees, even though he hadn't even said it aloud. It was simply a sign of Ryou's returning composure.
After making sure that he left the kitchen in a condition similar to that, it had been in when he had entered, the boy flipped his coat's collar up and stepped outside into the rain. The long, black cloak did not spare his clothes from getting drenched, however. Ryou did not mind. The same applied to the painting with the thick pointer, especially, since it had been ruined anyway.
The garden gate was locked, yet it took Ryou little time to climb over the hedge to his left. At first, he considered disposing of the picture somewhere in the town, but then he decided to take the route to his left, leading down to the cliffs. The wind whipped against his lonely figure, as he paced the muddy way downhill, causing his coat to blow behind him in a spectacular fashion, while he kept his free arm raised to shield his face from the forcefully driven raindrops that still kept blurring his vision. He knew this path, the green hills that framed it to the right as well as the swampy plain that lay to his left. The loneliness of boy and nature was undisturbed; the nightly hour as well as the harsh weather had driven even the toughest man home by now.
When he finally reached the cliffs, Ryou almost fell right over the edge, for the moon was hidden behind black clouds and the rain's sough almost drowned the sound of the waves. "A tempting idea, in hindsight", Ryou thought to himself. Death by heedlessness. All problems solved, yet now, it was too late. "For a fully-aware leap down into the dark tide", Ryou assessed cynically, "I'm simply lacking the courage." With a apologetic look in his eyes, he winded up and hurled the pointer's portrait into the deep, where it was swallowed by the darkness after a few meters. Only a distinct noise from below gave Ryou the assertion that it was now the sea's possession. And the sea did not return what she had claimed. Or something along those lines, Ryou remembered, was what he had overheard during one of his rare visits to the local pub.
His fragile body began to shiver with the cold that crept through his skin into his inside. With one last look over the dark ocean's panorama, he buried his hands in the coat's pockets and went back home.
Upon his return, he did not waste any time. Stripping of his soaked clothes, he fetched himself a woollen blanket from his under bed drawer, before he came to the conclusion that he would not find any sleep this night. Instead, he carried the blanket as well as his laptop und his arm down into the eastern wing, in order to spend the rest of this stormy night in a small cosy room that was located ´next to the hall of painting. Locking the door behind him, he lit a fire in the fireplace before draping himself in the warm, woollen blanket on one of the two couches. The fire's warmth and flicker scared away the shadows of the past, and the shiver disappeared from Ryou's limbs.
He had deliberately chosen this room. Not only was it small and cosy, furnished with soft settees, it was also located in the midst of the east wing and therefore lacked any windows. The raindrop's barrage was barely audible in here, sparing the young man the unpleasant sensation of mistaking their pounding for a patronising voice, laughing, mocking him from afar.
Cramming all these sinister thoughts back into the darkest chasm of his mind, Ryou logged into ICQ and used the ungodly hour for keeping in touch with his friends from Japan. Both Yugi and Jounochi were online, as well as Honda. Anzu had left a note and Miho was offline… thankfully. He was a patient man, yet her continuous attempts to flirt with him were a major annoyance, even to him. She was surely attractive, yet of a sickeningly jejune temper. Besides, he preferred girls as friends, not love interests or, in Miho's case, appendages. He had never told anyone and, thus far, always evaded thinking about in a detailed manner, yet he had already more or less accepted that he felt strongly attracted to members of his own gender. Still, as of now, he had never been forced to actually explore what it meant, for he had never met a young boy, who was feeling the way he did without being a complete jerk or a "nelly".
Ryou enjoyed almost two hours of pleasant, mostly trivial chatter with his pals, the most exciting part being Yugi and Jounochi announcing their visit at Ryou's estate for the 1st of November, next week's Wednesday. It was just the moment he wrote, that he would feel honoured to welcome the two of them in the family's manor (He did not bother to actually ask his father, if he was okay with it, for he probably wouldn't notice their presence here anyway), he suddenly experienced a quaint sensation. The feeling was unusual, yet familiar; Ryou immediately knew who was calling to him. He could sense the ethereal voice that merged force with warmth, slip into his ears once again, whispering his name, and he felt like aerial hands gracefully settled on his shoulders. They stroked his very being, offering comfort and salvation. Excitement flooded all over his mind, washing away the dark thoughts, replacing them with the bright light of untainted pleasure.
And then, the ethereal voice ceased to speak, replacing the soft, affectionate whispering with a pair of perfect, aerial lips, being passionately pressed on Ryou's mouth. A single tear escaped the white haired boy's eye, yet it was not a tear of sadness. The moment, which, Ryou suddenly realized, was the one of his first kiss, drowned him with happiness. Shyly, he returned the kiss, embracing the air in front of him. Was this… what love was supposed to feel like?
The annoying sound of a missed message suddenly roused Ryou from his experience; the ethereal hands withdrew. Rashly, he saw off his buddies', before he wrapped himself in the blanket and listened carefully. The voice had returned, and it was guiding him. Ryou followed the luring whisper back into the kitchen, a candleholder in his hand. It was asking him to open a wooden door with iron trim, yet Ryou found it secured with a shiny, new padlock. Just as he was about to slam his fists against the planks in disappointment, the voice lightened the way once again, and suddenly, Ryou knew what he had to do. After retrieving a thin knife from a drawer the voice had led him to, Ryou's hands began seemingly to work on their own. In a few cunning moves, they unlocked the door, revealing a narrow staircase that led down into the untapped cellar storeroom.
The stairs, build of stone, felt rough beneath the young boy's bare feet, and the sound of his steps echoed through the empty vaults. The storm had grown in intensity during the last hours, and the rain was far from ceasing as well. Earthy water welcomed Ryou's toes, as he descended from the last winder. Apparently, the rain was seeping into the basement through some crack.
Lifting the candle holder, Ryou managed to get a formidable scheme of the room. Dusty racks covered the walls, most of which were empty. Yet, in the darkest corner, the boy spotted some object, covered by a black cloth. Excitedly, Ryou ran over to the shelf and yanked away the cloth, thereby blowing up the dust around him. After a short cough attack, Ryou brought the candles near the object he had unveiled. Ryou sighed in relief, as his gaze met the brown eyes of his ancestor. Was it just him, or had the patronizing smirk become more of a friendly smile since he had last seen the portrait?
Then, he frowned. It was not bloody likely that the picture had moved down here on its own. Ryou sensed conspiracy around him. Therefore, he was barely surprised when a familiar voice spoke up from behind him: "You should not have come for him, my son."
