Warning: Drug use.
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He sees lips moving in front of him. Pale coral on a bronze canvas. Marik.
The voice reaches him as if through a fuzzy, fuzzy maze of cotton.
"Holy shit, Ryou... That money was for food".
Ryou's head is heavy and swimming and the movement of Marik's lips is not in sync with the sound of his voice. Still, Ryou blinks and smiles.
Everything feels too unreal - like a dream. And dreams do not matter. Good or bad, they are not real, and you can't get sad or mad or stress over a dream.
"Get a grip, Ryou, or you'll do some serious harm to yourself".
Ryou's smile fades from his lips. He manages to get enough of a grip to give an honest, if somewhat slurred, answer.
"I don't care".
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