Anzu tags along to the latest of the diplomatic talks, and finds that she is thoroughly out of her depth. To compound matters, her appearance seems most unpleasing to the King's Regent. Matters are compounded to an even greater degree when she asserts herself on the issue of Prussian self-determination; somewhat ill-advisedly, she goes as far as to suggest a plebiscite in a roomful of imperialists, before storming out of the room with great dignity. Meanwhile, Mai thinks back on the aftermath of the previous meeting: more specifically, a conversation with the Ambassador during which a handful of truly alarming insinuations were made. Frustrated that Anzu's faux pas may have intensified an already precarious situation, she responds logically and punches a wall. On London's streets, Kaiba catches a glimpse of a figure who can only be a ghost: the face of exiled royalty. Ryou and his thieves are plunged into a dangerous encounter with their newly acquired rival, the greatest bounty hunter in Albion – cue a fraught stalemate, and retreat on both sides. Anzu is reluctant to speak to Mai – but later, when the Regent chances upon her practicing ballet, the two speak, and a fragile, tacit understanding is forged, for the moment. Time to check up on our dastardly outlaws, methinks...!
xXx
After the encounter with their newfound rival, Ryou expected the logical course of action to be to escape back to the Diabound and set course for somewhere far away from Italy. If nothing else, the fact remains that they have just stolen priceless artefacts from the Sistine Chapel. Clearly a swift getaway is in order.
But no. No, they are to have dinner first.
Brushing aside all of Ryou's protestations that this plan is highly ill-advised and ruinously self-indulgent, Marik and Bakura wax lyrical about the great Italian culinary tradition, lamenting at great length how tonight is their final opportunity to savour the heady taste of Buccati all'Amantriciana, or sample the delectable Cannolo Siciliano. Apparently the fact that they are soon to be pursued by the entire Roman police force, and the most accomplished bounty hunter in Albion matters little in comparison to this tragedy. Apparently it would amount to cowardice of the highest possible degree to turn tail and flee at the slightest hint of adversity – at least not on an empty stomach.
"Plus," says Bakura, "they'll hardly be expecting it."
Marik nods, emphatically. "Can't fall into the error of predictability."
Ryou simply wishes they could fly away and be done with the whole affair. For, aside from anything else, amidst the inviting atmosphere of a carefree holiday, there has been a strand of peculiarity to their time in Rome. Nothing particularly dissonant on its own. Merely a small collection of rather odd, rather worrying incidents which accumulate to reveal an altogether rather disconcerting trend.
Oh, he is giving it far too much significance! It is hardly at the forefront of his mind. Just a corner of stray thoughts, all a little darker and a little more mysterious than one would otherwise expect. Chiefly, there is his thieves' insistence that they sleep aboard the Diabound, refusing point blank to spend the night on the ground, in the city. Were it concerning anyone else, Ryou would attribute it to paranoia – fear, perhaps, of capture and arrest. However, Marik is impetuous, and Bakura is rash; Ryou would not associate caution with either of them. Certainly the idea that either would experience any more fear than necessary is absurd – seeing as vigilance, excessive or otherwise, is a quality they most definitely lack. Furthermore, if one of them was frightened, the other would undoubtedly tease him mercilessly about it, and both are uncharacteristically silent on the matter.
No, whatever it is, it cannot be groundless anxiety. It must be justified.
Furthermore, there are times when Marik's expression will dissolve into a seething glare in response to the most innocuous of Bakura's statements. By now, Ryou is more than accustomed to the tone and nature of their ordinary banter. They will tease, snipe and berate each other to no end. And yet, it is like the harmless antagonism of kittens: they always bicker with their claws sheaved. Or, rather, there may be a flicker of claw, or a snatch of bite, but never enough to draw blood or cause legitimate offence. There is always, always a noticeable spark of irony to their interactions – a frisson of understanding, Ryou supposes, or an unspoken contract, by which struggle is both reciprocal and harmless.
In these moments, that spark is conspicuously absent. Oh, it is present on Bakura's side – and Ryou would wager that he sees the jibe as equal to any other - yet Marik views it seriously. Moreover, he takes acute offence; anyone would think it was a breach of trust. Ryou cannot understand it; the remarks are inexplicable and, for him, meaningless. He cannot even recall what was said. But he remembers the look of sheer poison that Marik gave in response.
Far be it from him to comment on the esoteric persiflage that is the foundation of the Marik and Bakura relationship. But there must be some cause.
There must be some explanation for the fact that the two, though exuberant as ever, look increasingly harried - eyes shadowed and awash with a marked lassitude denoting lack of sleep.
They are in a cosy trattoria on the outskirts of the city, waiting on a coach in the foyer to be properly seated. Ryou and Bakura share a menu; Bakura is attempting – with limited success – to persuade Ryou to order steamed calamari, whilst Ryou demurs, with increasing resolution. All is sanguinity and light repartee, as per usual. Then – something shatters. Bakura's look hardens into apprehension. A glance across the table reveals Marik's face to be a mask of anguish and... pain?
"Change of plan," says Bakura, smoothly, flinging aside the menu to grasp his partner by the shoulders. His nails dig in with enough pressure to be painful, but Marik seems relieved by the intervention. "We dine on board the Diabound tonight."
"Wha –"
"Move, wretch!" he orders, with forced cheer that borders on hysteria. Ryou bites his lip, alarmed, but complies.
As they exit the restaurant – Bakura half-dragging Marik, who stumbles with every step – the silence is filled, and the tension somehow heightened, by Bakura's forced prattle, concerning cookery, and flying, and everything they pass that might be of minor interest: "Oh, look – what a pretty lamppost!" Ryou winces for the thief's sake with every word, absurdly wishing that there was some way he could facilitate the deceit, and fool himself into believing that everything is ordinary.
When they finally clamber on board the Diabound, the panic dissipates. Admittedly, Bakura remains tense, but Marik waves a conciliatory hand, sinking into a nearby armchair and smiling with reassurance. "Sorry for the fuss, demon child," he says (though there is a creeping strain of weariness to his tone.) "Saw someone in there we wanted to avoid. The Countessa Louisa de Figlio, to be precise. Old nobility. Robbed her two and a half times. Second time quite a story." And thus, he launches into a lengthy narrative, most of it improbable, much of it inexplicable, and some of it, Ryou is certain, anatomically impossible. All of it, nonetheless, entertaining – though Bakura's patience seems to waver a third of the way in; it is evident from the way he keeps clawing at the chaise longue.
Eventually, Marik concludes - by this point somewhat incoherently. Ryou is not entirely sure how tortoises came to be an integral aspect of the narrative, but the tangent was admittedly amusing. All the time, he has been exchanging pained looks with Bakura, but the latter has made no concrete attempt to stem the flow of speech. Presumably they are to humour him.
Having finished, Marik stands, abruptly. "'M going to have a bit of a rest before dinner," he announces, vaguely, half collapsing in the direction of the hallway. Bakura promptly leaps to his feet, haphazardly guiding him into their bedroom.
He reappears again, once Marik has presumably been helped into bed. "Apologies, wretch," he mutters, exhaustedly. He makes a motion to sink back onto the chaise longue, but seems to think better of it. "Food," he says, distractedly. "Got to get food. Right. Dinner's going to be makeshift."
Together, they clumsily assemble some approximation of a meal: bread, cheese and – bizarrely – some of the leftover slices of kiwi fruit.
"Is he all right?" says Ryou, eventually, after enduring several minutes (or millennia) of fraught silence.
"Marik will be fine," replies Bakura, shortly, biting into a crust of bread with startling vehemence.
What follows is another inadequate handful of silence, during which cutlery, crockery and cooking all at once become subject to intense scrutiny, in lieu of anything productive to say. Ryou upsets his cup, in order to remind himself of sound. It performs this function faithfully; the raucous clatter cuts through the fuzz of silence like a watersnake through a river, or one of Bakura's knives.
Bakura tilts his head to the side. "You did that deliberately," he observes.
"Yes," says Ryou, for there is little else to say.
The spreading pool of water drizzles slowly from table to floor.
Bakura sighs. "Look, Ryou. Marik is an idiot."
Ryou blinks. This hardly seems an appropriate way to initiate a conversation.
Another sigh. "Marik is an idiot, and he's been trying to hide how using alchemy to heal you drained his energy."
At this, Ryou's head snaps upwards. "It did?"
Bakura shrugs, helplessly. "It isn't... constant. Most of the time, he's perfectly normal. Health-wise, I mean. Most of the time, he's as you've seen him: prancing around like a buffoon, spouting aimless philosophical drivel and yelling at newspapers. But occasionally he has – turns. Of weariness. Alchemy that advanced, you have to pay for. He'll be fine tomorrow, I guarantee. Thing is, he didn't want you to know."
For a moment, Ryou cannot speak. The weight of this new knowledge hangs leaden about his shoulders, and dulls his nerves to the extent that he lacks the power to move. He drops his fork – this time, accidentally.
Bakura reaches across and brushes it out of the way. "I hope this hasn't become a hobby," he comments, wryly. "Dropping things, I mean." It is mark of the extraordinary circumstance in which they find themselves that he deigns to explain the joke.
"N-no," says Ryou, shakily. He seems to have regained autonomy over his limbs and speech. "But – it was my fault! Th-that he healed me, I mean!"
Bakura snarls – half frustrated, half feral. "This sort of ludicrous folly is exactly why he didn't tell you! Use your brain, wretch. Marik would be far more emotionally damaged if he'd simply let you die. You know what an insufferable moralist he is. You're practically irrelevant to the whole situation."
Oddly, Ryou derives no small amount of comfort from these words.
The following morning, Marik is, as predicted, perfectly fine. So perfectly fine it is almost jarring. Ryou finds he cannot reconcile the events of the previous night with the newly invigorated form of his tutor and friend, blithely fantasising aloud about maiming various autocratic politicians and drinking black coffee – pungent, sugar-free and bitterly strong – with renewed gusto. As they finally set course for a place known as 'France', Ryou finds that yesterday's unsettling experiences sink to the back of his mind with more ease than he would ever have thought possible.
xXx
Throwing himself down at the head of the breakfast table with all the grace of a child throwing a temper tantrum, Atem broods - all dark thoughts and darker lashes. Ishizu glances from her newspaper to Mana with mild amusement. Mana restrains herself. To giggle would only encourage him.
"Atem," Ishizu begins, playfully twirling half a piece of toast between two fingers, "if you do not cease with the storm cloud impersonations, I am not passing the scrambled eggs."
"She views it as a duty to her country," Mana adds, voice laden with the utmost sincerity.
Atem looks at them balefully, before conceding defeat and straightening. "I had hoped that I would know what to say to him," he moans, obviously not feeling the need to clarify the identity of the object of his confliction.
Mana watches the woebegone King for a moment and then, seeing that his plate is still empty a full minute after he sat down, she takes pity, skewering a generous helping of grilled tomatoes with a spare fork.
The moment he attempts to speak, no doubt to express more sorrow at his own uselessness, she pops it into his mouth.
"Eat," she commands, imperiously. "Then you may talk."
They descend for a while into that fleeting and companionable silence found almost exclusively in the presence of food – most specifically, breakfast.
Ishizu is the first to break it. "Not to dismiss such a pressing matter, but have either of you read today's news?" The blank looks she receives are a more than sufficient response. "No? News has just reached England: the Sistine Chapel has been robbed."
This is enough to startle even Atem. "The Sistine Chapel! What was taken?"
"A series of tapestries by Raphael," replies Ishizu. "There were no witnesses, and the police believe the culprits left by air within a few days of the crime."
Atem frowns. "Could they not have searched parked ships in the area?"
"Rome is thronged with airships – nothing could be easier than escaping through the crowd. The thieves will be gone before the day is out," predicts Ishizu, breezily.
Mana idly picks at her mushrooms, the only remnants of her previously brimming plate. Atem is picking at a bread roll, which is, at the very least, an improvement. The matter seems to have piqued his interest. Mana turns to him, giving a strand of his fringe an affable tug (this elicits an undignified yelp, which she graciously ignores). "And what are your thoughts, Inspector Atem?"
"Do not play with my hair," he says, sternly, and takes a bite of his bread, as if to punctuate the statement. "I suppose the tapestries are a national treasure, or some such?"
"Priceless," intones Mana, pretending not to notice Ishizu's delicately raised eyebrow.
"Well then," pronounces Atem, "it is imperative that they be recovered. Are there any suspects?" He slams his palm to the table in a businesslike fashion. The milk jug teeters.
Ishizu is plainly apathetic to their banter – normally, she would be all for playing along, yet these days, she has been markedly distracted – and, with a long suffering sigh, returns to the article, scouring it for clues. Mana mentally urges her to relinquish her pride and make something up. Atem has been miserable since they arrived in England, and she will not let the perilous initial steps to his happiness be jeopardized by the Kemetic ambassador's lack of an imagination, or, indeed, material facts.
"No," says Ishizu, at length. "There are no leads-"
"-however," Mana interjects, "in my humble opinion, uninformed as it may be, I believe that any thieves skilled enough to steal a series of – undoubtedly weighty and inconvenient to carry – tapestries from the finest chapel in Rome…" she pauses for breath. Ishizu looks mildly bewildered. "…are doing so for glory."
"Glory." Atem seems to consider the word, rolling the syllables around his mouth like a new and interesting sweet.
"Indeed," Mana replies, pleased at the response. "Why would any criminal so talented and accomplished need money? This crime was committed for the sake of prestige."
Atem inclines his head. "'Criminal', singular?" He asks, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
Mana frowns. "I suspect it was a lone thief," she says, in a tone that broaches little compromise.
"Do you, now." Atem looks like a cat that has spotted a plump sparrow with a limp, after previously experiencing an unexpected encounter with an unguarded pot of cream.
"I do," she says primly.
"And I suppose," Atem continues, tone shamelessly mocking, "that he is dashing and mysterious, yet unreasonably lonely. No doubt he is also misunderstood, and the mere sight of one as beautiful as yourself would place him upon the path of righteousness. He would renounce his life of crime, anonymously replace all his stolen goods and vow to take your hand in holy matrimony." The tale is concluded with a sweeping gesture of the arm, nearly toppling a nearby salt cellar.
Atem stops, looking distinctly smug, so Mana elbows him, scowling. Atem returns the gesture with twice the force, and in a moment, they are locked in a fierce battle, armed with their elbows and the occasional (though by no means gentle) kick at the opponent's shin.
Ishizu watches with some amusement, waiting until they are thoroughly entangled, attempting with little success to stifle their giggles. Having given them their moment of mirth, and not without some reluctance, she steers the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Atem, you must speak to your brother. Postponing the issue will not resolve it."
Suddenly serious, Atem extricates a hand from Mana's grip in order run it through his somewhat dishevelled hair. "I don't know... how to talk to him," he says, weakly. "I have been trying to force myself to approach Yugi, but the very thought of speaking together - what on earth would I say?" Hopelessly, he tails off. Then, rather wryly, he adds: "And what would he think of me, coming all the way to England to see him, and subsequently refusing to do so much as show my face?"
At that, Ishizu chuckles. As, she imagines, would the King: all sunny laughter, ease and charm, as Atem has described him countless times. "No doubt he would be delighted at the very suggestion that you were in the country." She smiles, softly. "If he knew, there would be no keeping the two of you apart – and, moreover, your hesitation would be forgotten in an instant."
"He's your brother," Mana interjects, before Atem – who is looking decidedly ambivalent - can manage a reply. "I'm sure he won't mind if you stutter a little."
Atem looks at his plate, and then quickly up again at Ishizu's sympathetic smile. "You're right," he says finally, expression resolving itself to a look of fierce determination that kindles a nigh involuntary grin on Mana's face. "I will speak to Yugi." He bites his lip. "I have no idea what I will say-"
"-but it will come naturally," finishes Mana, smoothly. "Like everything else you've ever worried about. Just tell him how you feel."
Atem nods. "I will speak to Yugi as soon as I next see him," he vows, as though repetition might equal resolve, and, for a little while, they are silent again.
Mana veritably soaks up these precious moments of contentment. She covets the time spent with her friends in which she has no responsibilities or obligations, yet she knows that their stay in London can scarce afford to be wasted. The peace talks are long, frustrating and – at times – decidedly dull, but nonetheless painfully necessary. The two sides must be forced to reconciliation; they cannot continue locked in this pyrrhic tangle of antagonism. Would that her own duty included a joyful reunion with the boy King!
("And Mana," adds Atem, the air of an afterthought doing nothing to erase the considerable dignity of the statement, "I never stutter.")
Well, each to their own part.
xXx
In all his years as butler to Maximilien Pegasus, Duke of Wellington, Frederick Moloney has yet to experience what most would term a 'normal' afternoon. Amidst unannounced visits by dirt-smeared ruffians, last minute caprices involving visits to certain stately homes and whimsical requests for the most ridiculous, childish and seemingly random items, Moloney has long since come to the conclusion that should he have known the nature and extent of high nobility's eccentricities, he would have retreated as far and swiftly as his immaculately shined boots would carry him and opted for a safer career in perhaps investment banking. True, he is by no means young enough to withstand the remorseless cut and thrust of market forces – as his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper moustache could readily attest were it not concealed by an ingenious blend of viscous ink and darkest boot polish – and yet, whenever confronted by one of those looks of Master Pegasus', he is immediately flooded by the insane urge to propel himself into any other vocation, however volatile, rather than face whatever bizarre command with which he is to be assaulted this time round. Doubtless he would have tendered his resignation years ago had he not been certain of acute failure if flung into the turbulent outside world.
For now: "My lord, I have procured the books you requested. Though, if you will permit me to say so, they hardly seem... congruous to your position, age or gender."
My lord has in fact instructed him to find leather-bound editions of a selection of Gothic romances, all at least several decades old if not more, and most – as Moloney judges – filled to the brim with the most lurid sensationalism imaginable. Exactly how his master could ever imagine Lewis' The Monk to be appropriate reading material – much less Le Fanu's Carmilla – is unfathomable to his butler. At the time, he did indeed attempt to placate him with recommendations of a more suitable variety – selected, in fact, from his own collection. Yet somehow Rupert Smileson's Morality Tales for the God-fearing and George Upmanton's Perseverance and Fortitude: A Guide to Steadfast Entrepreneurship failed to pique his employer's interest nearly so much as the vampire novels of Stoker or Polidori – a fact which Moloney fervently believes can only be interpreted as a demonstration of the upper class decline into philistinism. Or, at the very least, of the obstinacy of one particular noble.
Thus, he applies the only weapon a servant in his position might justifiably implement without retribution: sardonicism. "Might I suggest sir, for further reading, Anne Radcliffe? Or perhaps I am to look into the penny dreadful genre in the future?"
His employer blinks up at him, all wide-eyed wonder and ruffled lace. He is sprawled supine across a candy-striped sofa; delicate pipe poised in hand, emitting pungent fumes. Directly above him rests a painted depiction of a scene from Shakespeare: Rosalind and Orlando in the Forest of Arden: she clad in becomingly ragged boys' clothing, peering out amidst curling leaves; he unaware of her presence as of yet, carving maladroit verse into the bark of a nearby tree - all offset by vibrantly patterned wallpaper. Positioned in the centre of a marbled coffee table is a magnificent chess set: the board carved from alabaster and the fragile pieces shaped out of blown glass. The white King is notably absent. Adjacent sits a crystal vase of yellow roses, trapping neat little glimmers of light and throwing them out in rainbow coloured streaks across the room. The temperature is stifling and the air fragrant; it appears Pegasus has been lighting scented oil in his new Kemetic incense burners once again. The very perfection of his pose seems suggests that it has been deliberately cultivated, as though he expects to be framed as a portrait or condensed into a colour plate for one of his beloved novels. The tomes in question lie in a bewildered pile at his feet.
He considers the suggestion, face alight with enthusiasm. "See that you do, Moloney!" he says. Contentedly, he begins to peruse the topmost volume, sliding a slender paper knife through the folds of newly printed pages. "Yes, the more I think about it, the better I like your idea." Clearly the prospect of a passive-aggressive war with his butler does not make the agenda today, for he is implementing avoidance tactics, conniving in his placidity. Moloney has experienced such techniques before; oh yes. The show of sincerity to combat sarcasm - his master is a wily one.
They fall silent for a few, non-confrontational moments, during which Moloney stands stiffly in the corner; feet tucked neatly together, brow faintly perspiring, whilst Pegasus thumbs daintily through the pages. It is instances such as these that Moloney can safely say he detests. The awkward, silent ones. Never in his life has he served so bewildering a gentleman. Why does he not simply pontificate at languid length like the rest?
"You know," says Pegasus, idly twirling his fingers about the air, "these stories have an edge of the melancholic about them."
Moloney now rather repents of his previous thought. Silence is far preferable to whimsy. "That, I imagine, sir, is due to the fact that they are horror stories," he says, crisply.
"Indeed," says Pegasus, thoughtfully. "What a dim view they take of life! The protagonists and their dreary satellites - stuffy and rationalistic, the lot of them. You have your doctors, and your clergymen, and your young, aspiring professionals... all tediously packaged with science and Sophian piety. As dear Will Shakespeare would cry: whip me such honest knaves!"
Moloney's calm expression stiffens. Cracks at the edges. "You find that horrific?" he inquires, in a harassed sort of way.
"But of course!" confirms Pegasus, eyes a-gleam. "Oh, they would reduce the world to pinpoints on a graph, if given the chance. But – and herein lies the fascination – they are not the focus of the story. No, they serve as a rather gloomy backdrop, no more. Now!" He snaps his fingers, sharply. "Enter the real focus... the villain. The vampire. The sensual seducer, come to mystify and threaten their precious, perilous order. The vampire is your real aristocrat, haunting the stuffy bourgeois in their muddled rationalism. Like it or not, nobility will always surface, with deadly flair and violent panache. One does not escape the divine hierarchy so easily. And thus, the cowed middle classes retire terrified to their beds, fearing the descent into dark and the sleep of reason."
Moloney feels that he has indulged this delirious ranting much further than necessary. He resolves to put Pegasus back in his place with a pertinent argument. "But it is common knowledge – though do not imagine that I have ever gone as far as to read such material – that in the end of these stories, the supernatural forces are defeated. Surely it spells triumph for the protagonists?"
Pegasus laughs melodiously. "True enough. But you must not take these stories so seriously, Moloney!" he chastises, playfully. The butler makes an indignant choking noise. "They are morality tales at heart, invented to assuage the growing fears of the middle classes. Nothing more. A child's trick. A game to scare oneself by night and reassure oneself by day. They are all nonsense. But delightful nonsense nonetheless. And quite informative - would you not say so?"
Moloney looks beseechingly towards the ceiling. It offers no advice on how to keep his patience. "I would not presume to say anything on the matter," he replies, with admirable control – bows once, and retreats.
xXx
By the time Ryou manages to catch Marik alone, they have been in the air a few days, and the turmoil of anger, conflict and gratitude that has left him floundering and irritable is beginning to show in conversation. So it is no surprise, when he encounters the thief reading before dinner, that Marik seems to know exactly what Ryou wants to say.
"You wanted to speak to me?" His signature mocking grin is conspicuously absent. Ryou finds himself wondering if the Marik curled on the chaise longue now, hair slightly askew and expression vaguely contemplative, bears any resemblance to the creature behind his glamorous façade of opulence and wit: the real Marik.
"I did," is all Ryou can muster. And then, because the thieves have always managed to distract him from their faults with incredible ease, and he does not want to forget why he is here, he adds: "Why did you hide it from me?"
And now, the ghost of a smile, faint and slightly whimsical. "I knew that you would ask me that eventually."
Ryou is still standing, and he feels hot and uncomfortable next to someone so languid, whose every movement seems to question his resolve and to imply that he is overreacting. "Answer the question," he demands. "I'm not a child, no matter what you call me, so why did you hide it from me?"
Marik frowns, as though he is teaching Ryou a particularly difficult grammatical concept, and Ryou is failing to appreciate it. "Sit," he says. His legs are splayed across the entire seat. At Ryou's sceptical look, Marik rolls his eyes, muttering "fine." He tucks his leg underneath himself to make room for two.
As soon as he has settled, Marik replaces his book on the table, allowing his full attention to rest on Ryou's face, causing Ryou to squirm.
"Why do you always assume the worst of people?" inquires Marik. "If I have hidden anything from you, it was to prevent you from worrying." Before Ryou can respond, he leans towards him, resting his chin on his shoulder in a manner strangely reminiscent of the night he and Bakura had decided they were pirates. "And yet, you equate that with treating you as a child. Really, demon, this paranoia is unwarranted." The slight warmth of Marik's breath grazes his neck, both a taunt and a challenge.
It is with a sudden rush of clarity that Ryou shrugs Marik away from him. "Stop mocking me," he says, shortly. "You should have known that I would find out at some point, and that makes me worry more, because now I don't know when you were actually happy and when you were just trying to make yourself look happy, which is really inconsiderate, and-"
"Ryou," says Marik, gravely, "you are rambling." He inspects his nails, apparently uninterested in their argument. "I don't understand why you're so angry, anyway."
"Stop interrupting me! I'm angry because you hid something from me, and it hurt." Ryou knows that he is nearly yelling now, and that he probably is overreacting, and that, in all fairness, Marik has a point. This is all inconsequential. "I'm one of you, now. You're supposed to tell me when something bad happens."
He had expected a reaction, but the look Marik gives him is dizzying in its intensity. His eyes are generally unreadable: startlingly sharp, but carefully closed to scrutiny, keeping the thoughts which undoubtedly glow below the surface well and truly shrouded. Now, they are wide and oddly bright, containing none of the anger Ryou had anticipated and even hoped for. Where there would usually be a calculated glint, Ryou can see only vulnerability.
"Sorry," Marik manages, averting his gaze. His voice is slightly strangled.
"No, I am, I didn't mean to shout, I-" Ryou cuts himself off, unable to quite understand why he is apologising, or what he has just witnessed. "I found out," he says, lamely. "Now I know, so it doesn't matter." And, in an odd way, it does not.
"Thank you," responds Marik, voice a little stronger, and he seems to have as clear an idea of why he says it as Ryou does. "Yes," he adds, repeating Ryou's words like a prayer, the flickering smile beginning to return, "you found out, so it doesn't matter anymore."
There is an odd pause, in which neither of them trust themselves to open their mouths, and then Ryou decides that there is no point in wallowing in indecisiveness, and takes the initiative to restart conversation. "What were you reading?" he asks, gently.
"Les Miserables," Marik proffers the book, regaining a little of his usual animation, "by Victor Hugo. And once you have learned Albian, you shall read it, too."
Ryou inspects the first page. "I don't recognise any of this," he says, ever the hopeless student.
Marik veritably beams. "That is because, uncultured demon, it is neither in Albian, nor Kemetic."
"So once I have learnt Albian-"
"-I will teach you French."
They both laugh at that, and the rest of the conversation falls into equally mundane territory. Any residual resentment over Marik's dishonesty has evaporated. Ryou is not used to the thieves showing signs of weakness, and now that Marik has, the guilt at having induced it is enough to make him abandon his grievance. Besides, Ryou trusts Marik, in some misguided, unconditional way, and now that he has apologised, Ryou is fine with meandering conversations about the plot of French novels.
"-so then, everyone on the barricade, whom we, as readers, have had described to us in loving detail – not a single ironically doomed hope, nor mildly amusing character flaw overlooked – dies."
Ryou blinks, wondering if, in his absent musings, he has missed something. "Isn't that a bit of an anticlimax?" he ventures, unsure of whether he is about to induce a fit of infuriated, intellectual rage.
Instead, he merely incurs a longsuffering sigh. "No," Marik groans, throwing himself dramatically against Ryou as though there is an invisible audience crowded into the Diabound's cluttered living room, observing his performance. "No, it is not an anticlimax."
"Marik?"
"Hm?"
Ryou thinks that maybe he is a masochist, but he has to say something. Pretending that the former half of their conversation did not exist is a short-lived solution. "Don't hide anything else from me, okay?"
Draping himself about Ryou's shoulders, Marik gives another gusty sigh – one of defeat. "Fine," he says. "I have nothing to hide from you."
"Neither do I," Ryou replies happily, and finds himself feeling strangely cheerful for the rest of the evening.
xXx
Notes:
- Heka – sorry, alchemy – has its consequences. Particularly of the healing variety.
- Ah, Les Miserables, how I love thee! Believe it or not, it was Al who came up with that reference.
- I don't think I've ever had more fun constructing a dime-a-dozen OC than with Moloney. Stuffed to the brim with Victorian sensibilities indeed!