Title: It Has To Be Different

Summary: Marik never expected his holiday in Japan to have an occurrence like this. Nor had he ever thought Ryou Bakura would ever snap. Could be a sequel to Dreaming, if you squint really hard.

Characters: Ryou and Marik, again.

Rating: T+

Pairings: Strong friendship. Nothing more. (Unless you firmly make yourself see other things.)

Total Words: 1 655

Warnings: OCC-ness, violence, gore, dark themes, slight insanity, still no plot.

Extra Notes: I feel bad for doing it to Ryou. Kinda. But this one wouldn't go away. And I am subject to my muse.

Disclaimer: It's all mine! Not.


Whatever Marik had been expecting, it wasn't this.

Ryou and him had obviously spoken about getting together to hang out sometime in his two-week visit to Japan, but they had never made concrete plans. And so the white-haired teen's text had taken the Egyptian by surprise. But he had responded to the barely-concealed plea in the message, wondering what on earth would have Ryou upset enough to turn to him at nearly ten PM. He expected the door to the small apartment to be opened by a sheepish Ryou who immediately explained away the confusing turn of events.

But instead of an apologetic look the first thing that hit him was the smell.

He couldn't place it at first yet even so his stomach reacted. It curled in nausea as his skin prickled uncomfortably. Trying to make his understanding catch up to his memory-induced reaction he scanned wildly about. His eyes immediately locked in to the towel wrapped around the other teen's forearm. The white, conventional kitchen cloth was speckled with a red Marik knew only too well.

His lavender eyes shot immediately back up to the brown ones, searching for answers as he tried to swallow his alarm. The usually warm points were almost dead- glazed over with a sort of hopelessness that made the Egyptian want to turn and run. He didn't want to face whatever the problem was- he'd had enough of them in his own life. Before he could act on his cowardice he forced himself into the apartment, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Ryou didn't say a word; he just stared. The silence grew from uncomfortable to sizzling with tension. The wrongness of the circumstances- the smell and the look in Ryou's eyes and the lateness and the silence- grew and transformed into something that seemed to press down on them in a suffocating weight. Marik couldn't take it.

"What the hell?" He'd meant for it to sound gentler.

For another beat there was silence. Then: "I need you to tell me he was real."

The feeling of surprise slammed into Marik for the third time that evening. His mind struggled to understand the teen's desperate words, fumbling around in confused darkness. Seeing this, Ryou tried again.

"I… I need you to tell me the spirit was real. I need you to… to honestly tell me that the Millennium Ring was possessed. I need you… I need you to tell me that he did those things that… I need you to tell me it wasn't me."

If Marik had been an artist, he would have called the image of Ryou's face The Drowning Man. As it was he was not an artist, just another teenage boy who understood the desire and desperation that was pouring from Ryou in waves. Firmly he grasped the other boy's shoulders, making sure he was easily shakable if words didn't do the trick.

"Five thousand years ago there was a man in Egypt known as the Thief King. There was also a great dark power known as Zorc. Now one of those souls, or a bit of both of them, got trapped in the Millennium Ring. And a few years ago this soul entered your body and took over. Do you understand?"

Almost dumbly, Ryou nodded. Some of the sheer panic had left his body and eyes, but there was still blankness. Still uncertainty. Marik tightened his grip, trying to drive the truth home. It was important that he doubted as little as possible. It was so very, very important.

"You could do nothing to stop him- you weren't strong enough. No, not only that- you had no clue what was happening. You did nothing to warrant getting the Ring and… and… it just wasn't your fault. It wasn't you. You tried to fight it. Remember? Yugi told me about the whole Change of Heart thing on Pegasus' island. It wasn't you."

The young Egyptian had never been good with words for comforting purposes. He could command an army, intimidate, manipulate, sweet-talk. But comfort and compassion… They were almost foreign languages to him. However, this time he could speak those languages. This time he knew exactly the right words to calm his friend down, to change his eyes back to warmth. This time he knew, because this time he understood. He had the words because they were ones he'd needed to hear himself. But the words had never been directed at him in all honesty. Because in his situation, they were not the truth.

"Do you understand?" A mute nod from a head whose expression was flooded with relief. The mouth opened, no doubt to either apologize or thank, but he cut across the forming words. "How long…?" How long has it been plaguing you?

"I… dunno. I think… Today. Last night. I dreamed…"

He didn't have to say any more: Marik understood it all. "And that?"

Shame crossed the pale face of his companion as he immediately tried to hide the arm Marik had just gestured to. A slight rush of colour entered his cheeks in embarrassment, and his eyes skittered nervously to the table. Marik followed his gaze and found an antique-looking knife glinting on the surface. His stomach lurched.

"You cut yourself."

More shame. Ryou could not look him in the eyes. His fingers picked nervously at the frayed edges of the towel. Marik waited, his gaze boring intensely into the side of his head. He would not let it go without an explanation. The white-haired teen sighed.

"I…" He seemed unable to go on. Gesturing helplessly at nothing, he clenched his jaw and struggled for words. Finally giving up on finding an adequate verbal justification, he slowly began to unwrap his crudely bandaged arm. There were three angry red lacerations, dry after all the pressure put on them. Marik had no time to assess them properly before Ryou was turning his arm, angling it in a different way. Between and beside the fresh cuts were scars of old ones. "He did those." Ryou's voice was quiet. "I… I wanted to know if it was different when I did it myself." A deep breath. "I needed to know that it was different."

Slowly, the blond found himself nodding. At that moment he knew why he'd been the one Ryou had called. Everybody else would have been despairing or panicking. And yet he could not, because the older teen's actions were almost an exact mirror of his own.

"It is different." His voice held full, unwavering conviction. "Where're the bandages?" He knew there were some.

"Bathroom. But you don't have to-"

Marik was already walking. In the cabinet he found an entire First Aid Kit. The amount of bandages inside made his mouth thin in an odd mixture of comprehension and déjà vu. It was only when he returned to the living room that he realized how hot it was in the apartment. There was sweat on both his and Ryou's foreheads. His companion looked uncomfortably embarrassed, shifting around and unable to meet the Egyptian's eyes. Somehow they ended up sitting on the couch with Marik watching Ryou tend to his own wounds with practiced fingers. Some abnormality niggled at his mind as he watched, but because he was focusing on the wounds themselves it took a while for him to realize what was wrong.

"You're shaking," he frowned.

Ryou's smile was apologetic. "It's really cold in here, I know. Sorry."

Marik stared at him blankly, looking for signs of sarcasm or humour. There were none, and his gaze flickered up to his forehead, wondering if he'd imagined the sweat. But no, there it was clinging to the pale skin and mattering the white hair. Frowning deeper, Marik suddenly extended his hand and placed it against Ryou's forehead. The teen jumped in surprise, blinking rapidly. His skin beneath Marik's fingers burned.

"You're sick. That's why you were dreaming… things… last night."

"I'm not-"

"Have you eaten anything today?" It was more out of the need to win the argument than actual concern.

"No. I wasn't hungry."

"Wasn't hungry as in 'too busy for food' or as in 'I'll just chuck it back up again'?"

"Marik, I'm not-"

"Yeah, yeah. Okay." Silence. "Get me a blanket, would you?" The brown eyes narrowed, still slightly glazed because of the fever. "For me, twat. Seeing as I'm here, I might as well take advantage of your television. The movie that's on is good."

Ryou complied and even though he was sweating from the heat, he threw the soft material over himself. As he watched the unknown movie, he kept his peripheral vision on his friend. When Ryou had fallen asleep- not even an hour after the movie had started- the blanket was transferred onto him. Unconsciously, the shivering teen snuggled down deeper into the soft warmth. Mutely Marik watched him, paying special attention to the furrow in his brow and the way his hands clenched. He could guess the content of the dreams.

"It is different," he told Ryou quietly yet firmly. "It has to be different."

If it wasn't, then the little bit of sanity the two of them were griping with all their strength would be nothing but an illusion. He knew the importance of the differentiation. He knew exactly how much was riding on the fact that there were two souls, not one. He knew from personal experience that it was not the last time the panicked doubt would creep up on the teen. And he feared that Ryou would not have to be feverish for it to come again. He knew. He'd been there. And even the comfort of somebody who knew would ultimately not be enough. Because when it came down to the crunch…

"I has to be different."

With the plea sent to every deity, spirit and general fate known to man he returned his thoughts to the movie.


It's proof to show that I'd bleed for this

I'd cut myself to shame

To get to know [the] masochist

Who's stolen my first name

-Blue October