1

I bless you madly

sadly as I tie my shoes

I love you badly

just in time, at times, I guess

Because of you I need to rest

Because it's you that sets the test

-David Bowie, "Cygnet Committee"

The rain was starting to pick up.

A stream of people spilled out of the narrow subway entrance onto the sidewalk. Most of them eager to get home. All of them eager to avoid the rain. But as the stream reached the crest of the stairs, it was forced to part around a solitary figure.

In the midst of the crowd pouring onto the sidewalk, Ryou Bakura barely noticed the occasional nudges and dirty looks. He was lost in thought. Huddled in his black polyester overcoat, he stared at the downpour, rain spattering on his upturned face, and wondered if he should stop for groceries on the way home.

There were considerations. The weather, for one. Spring had made a few flirtatious overtures throughout the week, but the shadow of winter still weighed heavy on downtown Domino. The rain was only going to get worse.

Alternatively, the store meant more walking. Normally, he liked walking. It felt more private than the train, and he preferred that brief taste of the elements. But when the cold bit through his clothes and the rain pounded on his umbrella like a demonic marching band, he had to doubt his commitment to the custom. Normally, walking let him clear his head, reset after the monotony of life. Today, however, it only heightened the agony of anticipation.

Thus the third, and most important, consideration: in his bag he could feel the burning weight of his latest acquisition: a new Monster World campaign module, promising hours of immersive, escapist entertainment by way of Blade of the Necromancer, a world where humankind was once again threatened by a evil overlord with a penchant for black magic and a weakness for customizable player characters.

Counterpoint: what was the point of escapism without snacks?

An excellent counterpoint. Considering the matter settled, Ryou returned his attention to the sidewalk, and he moved forward again, blending back into the crowd, trying to walk while he rummaged through his messenger bag for his umbrella.

It only took a few extra minutes to walk down the block to the corner store, and only a few minutes more to run inside and purchase an armful of cookies, but in the meantime the downpour had intensified.

Starting to regret his choice, he pulled his collar up around his neck and tucked the plastic packaging under his coat as he hurried the last few blocks home. His vision was hampered by the rain; he held his umbrella low and close with one hand and his groceries in the other, his eyes fixed on the ground as he wound his way up the sidewalk.

He failed to notice the person who lurked in behind the stairs. He was almost to the shelter of the overhang when they finally stepped forward, obstructing his path, and forced Ryou to look up.

Startled, he bobbed into an awkward bow, fumbling with the packages as he recited the usual apologies. Then the evidence of his eyes slowly, painfully, connected with his brain and he stopped short.

He looked up.

"Malik?"

He hadn't seen Malik Ishtar since…well, since Egypt. Sure, they'd exchanged a few emails afterward, brief courteous notes that never acknowledged the things they had in common, but that had been years ago. It didn't explain why he was here, in Japan, or why he wasn't wearing a coat, or why his clothes were soaked with rain and spattered with darker spots, spots Ryou could only hope were mud.

Malik stood still. He seemed impassive, strangely so, frowning as he examined Ryou, tilting his chin slightly as if he were puzzled.

"You're the wrong one," he said. "I want the other one."

"The other—?"

Oh. Oh.

Ryou shook his head, took in Malik's clothing again: disheveled, dirty. His distinct lack of jewelry, his flat expression, his indifference to the weather. He'd cut his hair at some point. It was growing back out now; the rain plastered it over his ears and down his neck. Obviously he'd changed. He'd grown a little taller, put on more muscle, but there was something else different about him, too. Something that didn't sit well. The way his eyes looked, maybe, or the set of his jaw. There was a strange flatness of affect there, an unhurried indifference that marked him apart from the Malik Ishtar that Ryou knew.

"You're not Malik," he said. "You're his—"

His…what? Ryou had heard Malik refer to his alternate personality as a monster: a refracted segment of his childhood twisted by suppressed memories and given shape by the Millennium Items.

But the Millennium Items had been destroyed. This…person…wasn't supposed to exist anymore.

Ryou squared his shoulders, adjusted his grip on his groceries, hefted his umbrella a little higher. "Where's Malik?"

"Gone."

They regarded each other through the rain.

"Now," Malik said. "Summon your friend. The thief."

Ryou creased his forehead, baffled. "What?"

Malik did not respond. But he had to know. Surely he knew.

Ryou took a short breath, exhaled.

"The Spirit of the Ring's not here anymore," he said, slowly. "So I can't do that."

"Why?"

"Because he's—gone."

Malik did not move.

"He's gone," Ryou repeated, with more finality, tightening his grip on the umbrella.

Slowly, Malik shrugged, twisting his head to view Ryou from another angle, his expression unreadable.

His voice was quiet under the patter of rain. "I'm not."

Stunned silent, Ryou took a moment to weigh the implications of Malik's words. He didn't remember much of the Battle City tournament—he wasn't conscious for most of it—but he'd heard stories from the others. Stories that painted this version of Malik as destructive, sadistic. Demonic, even.

He studied Malik again, more thoughtfully.

I'm not.

Malik hadn't spoken it like a threat. Sowhat if it wasn't? What if it was a question to be answered, instead? Malik should have known that the Thief King was gone. So why did his other self come here, knowing that all he would find was the shell of a host? But, as Malik insisted, he was not gone.

So why should anyone else be?

It was compelling. And Malik didn't seem motivated by a taste for violence. Even if that changed, Ryou could probably handle it.

Probably.

Ryou glanced up at his apartment, weighed the potential dangers against his growing curiosity, and shrugged. Blade of the Necromancer could wait until tomorrow.

"Maybe I could help you," he said. When he saw no immediate reaction from Malik, he continued. "It's pretty cold out. Maybe you want to warm up, eat something. Maybe then we could figure out what's going on. If you want."

Malik growled dubiously, but when Ryou took the initiative, moved toward the stairs, Malik stepped aside and let him pass without incident.

Once he reached the second story landing, Ryou folded down the umbrella and shook the excess water out. He glanced down at Malik. "You coming?"

For a moment he thought Malik would ignore him and turn away. Instead, Malik kicked the railing, glared briefly into the street, and followed Ryou up the stairs.

Ryou's apartment was small, a three hundred square foot studio with little maneuverability and even less seating. Still, it was bigger than student housing, and Ryou had been living here for long enough that it felt more or less like a home.

Malik stood by the door, arms folded, and watched Ryou hang up his coat, put aside the umbrella, and place his cookies on the counter.

Tenderly, Ryou stashed his bag, with the new Monster World capsule inside, on his desk. He could only handle one supernatural mystery at a time.

Ryou returned to the kitchen, where he turned on the stove and began to pore studiously through his cupboards. He flicked through various packages of instant soba noodles, trying to look as if he was torn between yakitori chicken and teriyaki. He needed a minute to think.

So a ghost showed up at his house. Wasn't the first time. But why?

Instant noodles wouldn't do. Tea first, then dinner. Ryou found something suitable, a nice oolong, and returned to the stove. He bent over the kettle and turned it on, using the action as an opportunity to sneak a glance at Malik again.

He should have offered Malik a towel. He was just standing there, dripping water on the floor, eyes fixed on Ryou. His bland expression gave no insight into what he might be thinking.

Ryou was taking an unnecessary risk. When the devil shows up at your door, you don't invite him in. You run for your life. Ryou knew that. Intellectually.

But his track record with the paranormal was riddled with bad decisions. How could he resist the opportunity to sate his curiosity? How could he turn Malik away, with so many questions unanswered?

Besides, he needed to detain Malik. If this…version…of him was as dangerous as people claimed, then Ryou was well-equipped to minimize the damage, contain the situation, notify the proper parties. Arguably, he was doing the right thing.

"Do you want something to eat?" Ryou asked. "I could make dinner."

A low grunt sounded from Malik's corner of the room. Encouraging.

"How long have you been in Japan?"

No response to that, either. Clearly this iteration of Malik was more reticent than the original.

Shrugging, Ryou went to the fridge and opened the door. As he contemplated the various condiments, produce, and leftovers, he sensed Malik in the kitchen, circling the table, approaching him from behind.

Ryou turned. Malik was upon him. He pushed Ryou back against the open refrigerator, his fist wrapped in the collar of Ryou's shirt.

Bottles rattled. Ryou grabbed at the fridge door to maintain his balance, but he did not struggle. He found his footing, and warily stood still.

"Enough of this," Malik said. "Where is the thief?"

Ryou looked up. Malik was taller than him, and heavier, but then again, so were most people. It wouldn't be enough to scare him.

"Please let go of me," he said, keeping his voice low and neutral.

Malik put his left hand on Ryou's shoulder, digging his fingers into his skin until the pressure was unbearable.

"I know you're hiding him," he said. "I know you can summon him."

By this time Ryou, reaching blindly behind him, had managed to get a hand around the neck of one of the glass bottles in the refrigerator door. He didn't bother to answer Malik, just braced his shoulders against the freezer as he swung his arm.

Malik leaned back in surprise, lifting one arm to shield the incoming blow.

None came. Ryou had snapped his arm backward. Liquid and glass sprayed the back of his leg as the bottle shattered against a shelf. Before Malik had time to retaliate, he jammed the broken end of the bottle against Malik's stomach, just under the ribcage.

Ryou raised his chin. "I told you," he said evenly. "He's gone. Now let go."

Malik stared down, shook his head, as if in surprise, but he did not release Ryou. Instead, he grasped the bottle, fingers closing around the shattered edge, grinding it into his body. He squeezed, shards of black glass trickling through his fingers onto the floor between them.

He looked back up at Ryou, eyes wide, his breath strained, and grinned.

In a rush of clarity, Ryou realized the magnitude of his error.

He was used to the Spirit of the Ring, who preferred coercion over force, who had a vested interest in keeping Ryou's body intact. He was used to petty bullies, thugs who lost interest as soon as they realized that Ryou was no easy target. He had not anticipated this twist in Malik's personality, one who had no regard for life — and no aversion to pain.

Malik began to laugh.

It was a guttural sound, an unhinged, half asthmatic rumble that came from somewhere deep within his throat.

Slowly, Malik loosed his grip, pieces of broken glass clattering to the floor as he straightened. He let go of Ryou's shirt and patted his shoulder, the gesture oddly paternal.

"Very good," he said. He looked Ryou over. It was a reappraisal Ryou was used to. Most people found their first impression of him lacking. But Ryou wasn't used to the reverse, to studying his enemies from new angles.

He hadn't expected the laughter, which was unsettling only because it had surprised him, and because, despite the strangeness of it all, Malik was smiling. He was genuinely delighted.

And Ryou found that he couldn't help grinning back. It had been a long time since he'd been face to face with fear. Now that he was here, all he could think was how familiar, how natural it felt to be afraid. How good it felt to stare it down.

Malik turned to go.

Ryou watched him walk to the door, baffled. When he realized that Malik meant to leave the apartment entirely, he scrambled forward.

"Wait," he said.

Malik paused, looked back.

Ryou felt liquid soaking into his socks and looked down, assessing the remains of what he now realized had been a bottle of soy sauce.

He stopped himself, in an effort to avoid stepping in glass, and gestured: at the blood dripping from Malik's fingers, and at the blood soaking into his shirt.

"You're hurt," Ryou said. "Let's at least stop the bleeding." Even injured, he suspected Malik was capable of wreaking damage across the city. Better to keep him contained while Ryou decided what to do.

Malik found this suggestion amusing. He raised his hand and examined the lacerations. Casually picking a shard of glass out of his palm, he flicked it toward Ryou, who resisted the urge to flinch as it skittered across the floor toward him.

"It will stop on its own," Malik said. "Blood is nothing. If the thief is gone from this place, you are useless to me."

Ryou bit back a smile. A reversion to the old order of things. This attitude, at least, he was familiar with.

"You're right," he said. "You might not bleed out. But still—if you don't clean that properly, it's going to get infected."

Malik looked skeptical. Ryou thought quickly and added, "I mean, I'm sure you wouldn't want to die of sepsis so soon after getting control of your body back."

Eyebrows furrowing, Malik narrowed his eyes to thin slits. He looked at Ryou, at the blood on his hands. Back at Ryou.

"I don't know how deep that wound is," Ryou said. "But if any internal organs—"

"It's not that deep!" Malik snapped. He returned to the kitchen. Standing awkwardly beside Ryou's small excuse for a table, he held his hand slightly away from his body, fixing Ryou with a sour glare.

Ryou stared back. So it had been that easy.

The industrious purr of the churning hotpot brought him back to his senses. He gestured at the floor, at the congealing mess of soy sauce, blood, and broken glass.

"Don't move," he said. "Let me get this cleaned up."

Carefully, he stepped across the floor and found the broom head under the sink. He swept up most of the glass, using an old rag to wipe up the rest. Unfortunately, his entire apartment would smell for days, but Ryou considered it one of the better possible outcomes. They had both survived. So far.

He poured some hot water into a bowl, and then then he cajoled Malik out of his shirt and dumped it in the sink — no time to go down to the laundromat. He ducked into the bathroom, where he retrieved a well-used first aid kit and an old, clean washcloth, the latter of which he placed in the bowl of water to soak.

As he moved around the apartment, Ryou maintained a constant awareness of Malik — his expressionless face, his intense gaze. It forced Ryou to maneuver the cramped space carefully, wary of the unpredictable reaction a brush of skin could create.

He returned to the kitchen and sat in the sole chair. He reached across the table, tested the temperature of the water with his fingers, glanced up at Malik, and hesitated.

He was in uncharted territory. In the past he had always been treating wounds on his own body. How would Malik react to being touched? He hadn't known Malik that well to begin with, but he didn't strike Ryou as a touchy-feely kind of person.

Ryou took a breath. Kid gloves, he told himself.

Malik stood still, expectant, blood shining in bright streaks as it slipped down his skin and soaked into his jeans.

Ryou didn't have time to bandy about with insecurity. He waved Malik over, had him stand in front of him and proceeded carefully, gingerly going over the skin, dabbing at the excess blood, looking for loose glass. There wasn't much. The bottle had broken cleanly, to Ryou's relief, and the damage was all superficial. Malik might not even end up with a scar.

It bothered him more that Malik said nothing. He stood completely still, without any semblance of self-consciousness as he watched Ryou work. The lack of reaction was so unnerving that Ryou kept glancing up, just to make sure everything was okay.

The fourth time he did this, he found Malik frowning down at him.

"What?"

The question was gruff. But not quite threatening.

He flushed and busied himself with wringing out the washcloth. "I just want to make sure I'm not hurting you," he said.

Malik snorted, a sound of such elegant derision that Ryou understood completely the message it conveyed:

He was stupid to think that he could hurt Malik. He was stupid to care if he did.

"People used to fear me," Malik said. "Are you different?"

Musing? Or testing the waters? Ryou nodded politely, aware that he was treading on dangerous ground. "I could just be better at hiding it." He leaned back in his chair to reach for the hydrogen peroxide. "Do you prefer it? Fear?"

Fear was a useful tool, he knew. The Spirit of the Ring had employed it frequently. Ryou relied on it himself, from time to time.

Another rumble of laughter. "We will see," Malik said. "You are interesting."

Ryou nodded. The Spirit of the Ring had thought so, too.

"To be honest," he said, soaking the washcloth with the peroxide. "I don't really remember you. That probably helps."

Malik might have had a response to that, but as Ryou applied the peroxide to his skin, Malik's words melted into little more than a hiss and a reflexive jerk back.

Ryou pulled the washcloth away. "Sorry! I should have warned—"

Malik cut him off by clenching Ryou's hand and pulling it back against the wound. He sucked air through his teeth and laughed.

"No," he said.

They were trapped in that moment, the two of them frozen in place. Seconds ticked by, and Malik exhaled slowly, his jaw clenched. He didn't let go of Ryou's hand, even when Ryou tried to pull away.

Watching him carefully, Ryou slowed his breath to match Malik's. They took one breath, and then another. Malik's grip was strong, but with every exhale he relaxed, increment by increment.

The moment he could safely pull his hand away, Ryou leaned back and clenched his fists, his heart pounding with adrenaline. He needed to proceed with more caution. He didn't know Malik. He didn't know his triggers. Didn't know how to treat him, except with basic respect.

When he began again, he did so more gently. He warned Malik ahead of time about the peroxide, and asked him to stay still while he applied it.

Malik indifferently obeyed Ryou's directions. He took a breath at every initial sting, and his fingers twitched, but he stayed motionless until Ryou was satisfied that the wound was clean.

When he finished with Malik's torso, he moved on to his hand. This would be the more time consuming job. There were small shards of glass still embedded in Malik's skin, nearly invisible under the congealing blood. Ryou poured out the bowl and refilled it with warm, clean water and sat it on the edge of the table. He had Malik submerge his hand in the water and washed the broken skin gently, lifting it out of the water periodically to check for pieces of glass he may have missed.

When he proceeded to cotton swabs and tweezer, Ryou found himself grateful that Malik had yet to show any sign of impatience. If anything, he seemed mildly interested in what Ryou was doing: his head was bent slightly to one side as he leaned over the table, watching Ryou with a quiet, unnerving intensity.

To dilute Malik's attention, Ryou began to ask him questions. They were innocuous ones designed to tiptoe around danger, and they managed to tease out a few details. The "original" Malik had returned to Japan that morning, presumably to clean out an old Ghoul lair in upper Domino—the details were vague there—and his personality had changed over sometime in the afternoon.

Ryou was reassured by this news, and by the uneasy tone in Malik's voice. If he was that insecure about the possibility of losing control of his body, it could happen at any time. That gave Ryou some leverage.

But then again…if Malik's main personality came back, he would certainly be less forthcoming about his desire to see the Spirit of the Ring again. He might deny knowing anything at all.

This personality was more forthcoming, and seemed honest. He might be unpredictable, and maybe even dangerous, but they had already brokered an uneasy peace. It was an awkward balancing act, but the current state of affairs was more to Ryou's benefit.

Ryou decided to risk forging forward in his interrogation. He approached the subject tangentially, in an attempt to dispel suspicion.

"I think I might remember you, a little," he said, dabbing antiseptic on Malik's palms. "Now that I think about it."

Ryou waited until Malik grunted vaguely in reply before he continued.

"Battle City was kind of a blur. But there are flashes, little things. I was unconscious for most of it. I guess some of that was your doing."

Malik tossed his head proudly, nearly jerking his hand out from Ryou's grip. "I remember," he said. "I was looking forward to killing you."

"The Spirit of the Ring—he stopped you, then."

"He delayed me."

Ryou couldn't help it. He snuck a glance up, lowered his voice. "What's stopping you now?"

Malik shrugged, a mulish expression crossing his face. "Something changed," he said, "My other self...changed."

Changed? Maybe Malik meant his reconciliation to the Pharaoh. Something like that could contribute to a balanced psyche, smooth out the edges of a person's subconscious—but Ryou was only guessing. He was used to the paranormal, not the psychological.

There were other possible culprits.

"The Millennium Items tend to do that," he ventured. "Change people."

Malik shrugged again.

Ryou released Malik's hand and took out a roll of bandage tape, passing it from one hand to the other. "Did it change you? The Rod, I mean."

Malik looked surprised at the question, as if he'd never considered it.

"Perhaps," he said. "My other half has kept me…buried for some time. Now, I feel his rage…but it feels different. Wrong."

Wrong? Based on Malik's closed expression, Ryou decided that he'd better not ask.

He took Malik's hand back and finished the bandage work quickly, giving them both an excuse to end the conversation.

Once finished, he sat back in his chair, rubbing out the ache that had been collecting in the back of his neck. Too much time bent over tables and desks. He really needed to get up and stretch every once in a while.

Malik examined the bandages closely before grunting with what might be considered approval. "You have done this before."

Ryou almost laughed. "A few times," he said. "The Spirit of the Ring liked making messes. Not so much cleaning them up." He stood up and began to gather the components of the first aid kit together. He glanced at Malik again. "I guess that's one thing you two have in common."

"What?"

"You're not used to being in a body," Ryou said. "So you don't know how to take care of one."

He went into the bathroom to put the first aid kit away, and came back to find Malik watching him, his arms crossed over his bare chest.

Ryou paused, "Did I say something wrong?"

"You are very strange," Malik said.

There was no explanation, although Ryou waited for one. He shrugged. "I get that a lot."

His answer seemed to satisfy Malik, who rolled one shoulder with disinterest and then turned his attention to the painted figures on Ryou's windowsill. The conversation was over as far as he was concerned.

Bemused, Ryou watched.

It was strange. Malik was strange. The Spirit of the Ring could be oblivious, bordering on rude, and Malik seemed the same at first glance. But he was guileless, too, and oddly devoid of self-consciousness in a way the Spirit had never been. The Thief King of legend might have been capable of wandering shirtless around Ryou's apartment, but he never would have submitted so willingly to first aid, or made his feelings so overt. He might have found Ryou interesting, but if he ever admitted it, it was because it suited his agenda.

Malik said it because he thought it was true.

He had reached the bed. He turned slightly, the light reflecting off his skin as he bent over to examine a set of volumes on witchcraft. In that light, the scars on his back stood out in sharp relief.

Faced with an uncomfortable, voyeuristic sensation, Ryou turned his attention back to cleaning up the kitchen.

The two weren't comparable at all. The Spirit of the Ring was-always-in control of his faculties. Malik was split into pieces, trapped in his own body. Ryou couldn't make the mistake of thinking the person he was talking to represented Malik Ishtar in any sense that mattered.

He took the bowl to the kitchen and ran cold water out of the tap. He might as well take a shot at scrubbing the blood out of Malik's shirt.

Standing at the sink required him to have his back to the rest of the apartment, so he craned his ears to listen carefully over the sound of the water, making small glances back every few minutes to track Malik's movement around the apartment.

He almost missed the sound of a drawer being pulled, and it took seconds longer to recognize the sound for what it was. He spun around.

"Don't touch that!"

At the bedside table, Malik looked up. Ryou wiped his hands hastily on his jeans as he strode across the room. He snatched the small wooden figurine out of Malik's fingers.

"This stuff is off limits," Ryou said, shoving the drawer closed. "It's private."

Malik grinned. His expression alarmed Ryou: the anticipation of a predator sighting new prey. Cursing himself for his carelessness, Ryou strode back to the kitchen, aware of Malik's laughter as he followed.

"You are very fierce, Ring-keeper," he said. "And very foolish."

"Maybe," Ryou said.

"I could still take it from you."

Ryou stood in front of the kitchen counter, stiffly lifted his head. "I could still make you leave."

More laughter. "What makes you think I want to be in this place?"

"Because," Ryou said. "You haven't found what you came here for."

He looked down, at the figurine in his hands. It was the same size and the same style as the figures used in the Memory World game, but this one was unpainted, unfinished. It was the only piece left, because it had never been used.

This particular figure, an early prototype of the thief king, had been set aside because it was damaged. A deep crack ran through the unvarnished wood, revealing where the grain had split during the carving process. It had been imperfect, and the Spirit had demanded it replaced.

Ryou ran his thumb over the crack, feeling the divot in the wood, the surface starting to wear smooth after years of similar gestures.

He looked up, into Malik's eyes.

"The thief," Malik said. "He is really gone?"

Ryou had never been sure. He'd seen the Millennium Ring buried with the pharaoh's temple, had heard Atem and Yuugi assure him that it was over, the spirit destroyed. The table had been burnt to cinders, the ashes thrown into the bay. But he'd never been sure.

"The Millennium Items were destroyed," he said. "You knew that."

"Yes."

"So he can't come back."

Malik did not challenge the assertion. He narrowed his eyes, studied Ryou. After a moment he nodded and took a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket. He stepped forward, held the paper out.

Uneasily, Ryou passed the wooden figure to his left hand and took the paper. It was slim and worn, and slightly damp: an old note from a sticky pad, the adhesive dusted over and smooth to the touch.

On the front, in a near-illegible scrawl Ryou recognized, was a message:

Come see me.

He unfolded the paper, turned it over. There was nothing else.

"I don't understand," he said.

"He wrote that," Malik said. "Your thief."

Ryou knew that. He had recognized the handwriting instantly, knew how the spirit wrote: impatiently, the pen barely touching the paper, letters stretching toward the edge of the page. The Spirit hadn't cared for the written word, rarely wrote anything down. Ryou usually did it for him. Ryou remembered.

Ryou didn't remember this. He didn't recognize the paper, where it came from, who it was meant for.

"To you?" he asked, making an effort to retain his composure. "Was it for you?"

Malik pursed his lips, shook his head. "To my other half," he said. "Once."

Something tripped inside Ryou, an electric shock of emotion that triggered instant resentment. "So what?" he said. "You finally decided to follow through on it? I told you, he's not coming back."

Malik reached forward and snatched the paper out of Ryou's hands. "Then why," he snarled. "Am I here? Who am I to kill, if this spirit is dead? What power does he have over us?"

Ryou had no idea. He didn't know why the Spirit of the Ring would try to contact Malik. He didn't know why it would matter, or why Malik would care so much he'd lose control and bring back a personality that wasn't supposed to exist anymore.

"Do you know when it was written?" he asked, putting aside his roiling emotions in favor of a more logical line of questioning.

Malik shrugged.

"Was it during Battle City? Or later?"

"I don't know," Malik said, frowning. "I was…weak. There was much turmoil…inside. I do not remember."

Ryou turned away, stared contemplatively into the sink. He put the figurine in his pocket, kept his fingers wrapped loosely around the warm wood. "The spirit never talked about him," he said. "The real Malik."

"I am real."

Malik's voice was quiet, firm. He stood behind Ryou, the two of them frozen for a moment, waiting, perhaps, for first blood.

Ryou had to capitulate first. "I know you are," he said. "I'm sorry. I don't know why this happened. I didn't know the spirit had anything to do with — with you — after Battle City."

Malik was silent, and Ryou shifted his weight. He examined the stained linoleum of the kitchen counter and tried to quell the strange unease he felt. This revelation was bewildering. The spirit had always been secretive, but Ryou would have known of any communications with Malik. He had no lapses in his waking memory, no unexplainable bruised mornings. He had regularly checked his internet history, set up a security camera in his bedroom. He thought he'd been careful. And there had been a trust, of a kind, between them. They were collaborators. It was just the two of them.

That's what Ryou had thought at the time.

"Why are you looking for him?" he asked. "What would you do, if you found him?"

"Kill him."

When Ryou turned, Malik wouldn't meet his eyes.

Not the truth, then. But perhaps tangential to it. Ryou didn't know enough to guess.

"Lucky for you, he's dead already," he said. "Problem solved."

"I want to be certain."

Ryou bit his tongue and turned back to the sink. Submerging his hands deep in the soapy water, he scrubbed at Malik's shirt with a little more force than was necessary.

Malik waited, with preternatural patience.

Ryou tried to focus on the situation. No matter how he felt at the moment, how much fear and hope and betrayal lay all muddled together, the inevitable truth cut through the turmoil: he needed to know more.

He had wanted to leave the past behind. Wasn't that why he'd moved out, gone to college, put some distance between himself and the years of possession? But here the past had arrived again to taunt him, dangling devastating possibilities. If Malik was here, what other specters might be summoned? Could be summoned?

He pulled the shirt out of the water, examined it closely, but he'd done a good job. The blood was gone.

"Well, your shirt's going to take a while to dry," he said. "You might as well stay the night. I still have a few things that belonged to the Spirit. You can look at them. I don't know if they'll help."

A pause. "You'll help me?"

"If I can," Ryou glanced at Malik. "So long as you say you're not going to kill me or anything like that."

Malik laughed, the sound more pleasant now that Ryou expected it. "Very well," he said. "I will abide by the rules of hospitality."

Ryou was amused, encouraged by Malik's laughter. He hazarded a guess: "What, like don't kill the host?"

"Take what is offered," Malik corrected, "Should the host provide a decent welcome."

Ryou smiled down at the sink.

"You're in luck, then," he said. "The spirit always said I was a good host."

A/N:

Thank you for reading! Some minor notes:

1. I chose not to give Yami Bakura and Yami Marik names for this story, as they don't have other canonical names. Both Yami Malik and Malik are referenced by name Malik Ishtar, though it should usually be clear by context which one is being referenced. Yami Bakura is usually referenced as the Spirit of the Ring, Thief King, or variants thereof.

2. While the text occasionally refers to the Malik/YMalik relationship as being psychological in nature, he is not intentionally portrayed as having any kind of real-world diagnosis. The language used is based on his depiction in the canon, especially the manga, and future chapters will take additional license with those concepts.

3. This is a multi-chapter work with 9 chapters currently drafted and 10-11 planned total. I will try to stick to a once monthly update schedule, subject to change as I wrap up the last couple chapters.