5.
The apartment was quiet when Ryou woke up.
He rolled onto his back, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. In the window above him, gray clouds crawled through a pale yellow sky. Rain was coming—a few drops were already streaking tenderly down the glass. He'd better bring an umbrella to school.
He turned to the digital clock on the nightstand. 6:07 a.m. Still early. But even in the early morning, the silence felt wrong.
He threw back the comforter and sat up. The futon on the floor was unoccupied, the bedding rumpled. The two plastic bags from the secondhand store sat gaping open on the floor by the closet. In the kitchen, the light above the stove had been left on, and a cabinet door hung open, but in all those signs of life, there was no one living.
He was alone.
It was impossible for someone to hide in an apartment this small, but he dragged himself out of bed and checked the closet and the bathroom, just to be sure. Empty.
He went to the front door and opened it, staring out in the cold morning air as goosebumps rippled over his bare arms.
On that first night, he'd considered the possibility of Malik trying to leave, but the possibility hadn't worried him then. Not like it did now.
Malik could take care of himself, but he might draw attention doing it. There was something off about him, something even strangers wouldn't fail to notice. His thoughts and speech were too eager, too direct, his approach too tilted. It was as if his internal compass was spinning past true north completely and orienting him along a newer, unknown axis.
Ryou had tried his best, but he hadn't quite aligned himself to Malik's orientation, and he knew most people wouldn't give Malik the courtesy of trying. Malik was capable of patience; Ryou had seen that over the last few days, but who knew how far that patience extended, and what he'd resort to when it eventually ran out?
Ryou could only hope that, wherever he was, Malik wouldn't make a scene, wouldn't get lost, and would come back soon. Would come back at all.
A sudden breeze made him shudder. He closed the door. Hope was a free action. He could still get ready for school.
He cleaned himself up, got dressed, made breakfast, ate breakfast. He paced a little, made a cup of tea, checked his email, browsed a few forums. He had an early morning class, a soul-crushing course on statistics, and he knew he'd have to leave soon if he wanted to be on time. But something held him in place, pushed him to turn the kettle on instead, to slowly and perfectly brew another cup of sencha, and then to sit at the kitchen table with a steaming mug, slowly sipping while he stared at the door.
The minutes ticked by. He gave up on the idea of getting to his first class on time, and then on going to that class entirely.
When the cup was empty, he still sat, his leg jogging nervously under the table. With a finger, he traced the sigils Malik had carved into the table the other night, wondering if they meant anything. Probably not.
But if they did-
Compulsively, he got up and went into the bathroom. The symbols drawn on the mirror in blood were still there, pale and flaking off the glass. The rough shapes of them were still visible. They weren't the same as the symbols on the table, but they used the same forms, same line patterns. Whatever language it was - if it was a language - they were connected.
He went and found a notebook, flipped to a blank page. He would have liked to take a photograph, but he had yet to replace his phone and he didn't have a proper camera. Instead, he sketched out the symbols, both in the bathroom and on the table, noting their locations relative to each other, their relative size and the number of strokes.
Then he found some rubber gloves and wiped the mirror down. His tolerance for blood and gore might have stretched beyond the limits of polite society, but even he drew the line at biohazards in the bathroom. He was digging under the sink for a disinfectant when he heard the front door open.
Malik was pulling his shoes off, a plastic grocery bag swinging from his hand. He looked around the room, stopped when he saw Ryou in the bathroom doorway.
"Good," he rumbled. "You are finally awake."
He was soaking wet, his shirt plastered against his skin, rainwater dripping out of his hair and onto the linoleum. Wherever he'd been, it hadn't been indoors.
Ryou carefully pulled his gloves off, kept pulling until they were inside out. "Where were you?"
Malik paused, then shifted uneasily, the plastic bag around his arm crinkling as it brushed against his clothes. "Outside."
"Where?"
"I don't know." His voice was rough, terse. It warned Ryou not to pry further.
Ryou didn't care. "You should have told me you were leaving."
Malik took a step forward. "It was-!"
He made a wild gesture and stopped. In the silence that followed, he stared at Ryou, eyes wide, as if alarmed at his own outburst.
"It was," he said again, and then frowned. "You..." He trailed off, his jaw slackening for a moment before he blinked, shook his head. A tiny patter of rainwater cascaded onto the floor. Ryou waited, but Malik made no move to come further into the room, no attempt at an answer. He only stood there, swaying slightly, his gaze drifting toward the floor, looking very much like a child waiting to be punished.
Ryou sighed. "Hold on."
He washed his hands and retrieved a spare towel from the closet. "You should have at least worn a coat," he said. "I know you don't want to be—"
He stopped. He hadn't noticed from across the room, but Malik looked truly awful. His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders tense. There was a grimness to his expression, a nervous tightening in the way he held himself that dissuaded Ryou from delivering the lecture he'd been rehearsing all morning.
"Are you okay?" he asked instead, taking the plastic bag— heavier than he'd expected—and setting it down on the floor. He pressed the towel into Malik's limp hands.
Malik sniffed loudly, rubbed his nose on a bare wrist. His eyes were fixed on the puddle of water that had formed on the linoleum below him.
"My throat hurts," he said.
Was that why his voice sounded so rough? The last of Ryou's fury melted away, the worry that had crept along underneath it blossoming into a stab of anxiety.
"I see," he said. "Why don't you take a shower? Get into something dry. I'll make you something to eat. And then—if you want—we can talk about this."
Malik nodded. He seemed defeated now, his energy sapped as he pressed his face into the towel. He stood there without moving for a moment, then sighed heavily and straightened.
Ryou watched, worried, as Malik trudged past him to the closet, where he picked up the bag of clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.
In a moment the shower started running. Ryou glanced at the bag on the floor. He leaned over, plucking at the plastic handles to get to peek inside.
It was full of fruit: oranges, pears, a pomegranate, even a small plastic tin of what looked like dates.
Bemused, he picked the bag up and set it on the kitchen table. One more thing he didn't understand.
He turned his attention to preparing a hot meal. Soup would be best for a sore throat, but he'd eaten most of the leftovers for his own breakfast and he didn't have time to make a proper soup from scratch. Perhaps he could dress up some broth with udon and soft tofu.
He got to work, taking comfort in the repetitive motions and improvisational flux of cooking. There was a full pot simmering by the time he heard the bathroom door open behind him.
Malik came into the kitchen, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, and slumped into the chair at the table. He'd thrown the borrowed flannel over one of the thrift store shirts and exchanged his wet jeans for a spare pair of sweatpants. They cut off a few inches above the ankle, but he didn't seem to mind, although Ryou suspected that Malik's other personality would strongly object to the entire look.
Personally, Ryou found it charming.
Malik retrieved an orange from the bag as Ryou set a mug of green tea down in front of him. "Start with this," he said. "There's lemon and honey in it. It'll make your throat feel better."
Malik put the orange down, picked up the cup. He held it for a moment, gauging the temperature before he took a sip, but when he did, he hummed in satisfaction, a low note that started somewhere deep in his chest.
"Thank you," he said.
Ryou smiled, surprised. "You're welcome."
Malik met his eyes, and then looked away again. "You were angry when I came back."
Ryou rested a hand on the table, contemplating. "A little," he admitted. "I didn't know where you were. I missed a class."
"You did not…go?"
"I didn't," Ryou said. "It's all right. I do have another one coming up that I need to be at. There's a test. But we still have some time."
Malik nodded, then. "I see," he said. "I…that is good."
Something was still bothering him. Ryou dished up a bowl of soup. He wasn't particularly hungry himself, but he brought the desk chair over so they could sit together, along with a plate and a paring knife.
While Malik ate, Ryou took the orange. As he separated the fruit from the rind, careful not to puncture the internal skin, he was surprised to see that the flesh inside was dark and ruby-colored instead of the pale gold he'd expected. A blood orange.
Once the rind was off, he separated the slices with his fingers, and then picked up a segment and glanced at Malik.
"Can I?"
Malik, who'd been watching closely, made an indifferent gesture, and Ryou took a bite. He hadn't had one of these in a long time. It was sweeter than it was tart, with a berry-like brightness to it. A little bitter, but he doubted there was an abundance of good tropical fruit in central Domino to begin with. Malik must have spent a small fortune on the contents of that bag, though Ryou couldn't imagine why. A sudden craving?
He pushed the rest of the plate toward Malik. "I have to leave soon," he said. "I think you should stay here and get some rest."
Malik bit into an orange segment, chewed meditatively. Ryou couldn't tell if he was thinking or just ignoring the question.
Finally he swallowed. "You shouldn't go."
Ryou almost smiled. Back to blunt resistance. "Well, I am." He tilted his chair back, paused, calculating. "What were you doing out in the rain?"
Malik picked up another orange segment. "I like the rain."
Not the answer he was looking for, but Ryou played along. "You don't get rain in Egypt?"
"In the winter, sometimes."
Ryou attempted a few more questions, prodding from different angles, but it was obvious that Malik wasn't ready to divulge what he'd been up to that morning, and Ryou wasn't going to grill him about it. Malik would open up, given some time and space.
"Well," Ryou concluded, surrendering. "I have some umbrellas by the door. Take one next time." He stood up, began collecting the dishes.
"I have to leave soon," he said. "Will you be okay here by yourself?"
Malik didn't respond right away. He seemed to be genuinely considering the question, so Ryou waited, hoping that Malik would agree that peace and quiet were what he needed right now.
Finally Malik shook his head. "No," he said, heavily. "I will come with you."
Malik had taken the question seriously. Ryou wouldn't dismiss his answer. He made some quick risk assessments and came up with a plausible compromise.
"I can miss my afternoon class," he said. "Do you think you could try waiting in the library again? Just for an hour."
Malik looked dubious. "Can I wait…outside?"
"Inside," Ryou said. "Doesn't have to be the library. But it has to be inside."
Malik's frown deepened.
"Or you can stay here."
Finally, Malik shook his head. "Not here," he said. "I will go with you."
Before they left, Ryou gave Malik some immune supplements and then made him sit at the table while Ryou went over his hair with the blow dryer. He didn't want to risk Malik getting sicker than he already was.
Not that there was much he could do. If Malik was going to resist sleeping, his immune system would continue to be compromised.
If they stopped by the drugstore and picked up some sleep aids—
No. It would never work. Malik wouldn't take something like that willingly, and Ryou wasn't reckless enough to try drugging him against his will.
Maybe Malik would take cold medicine. He was more docile than usual this morning, his eyes half-closed in feline delight as Ryou ran the dryer over the back of his neck, pulling loose locks of blond hair through his fingers and bringing them into the path of the rushing warm air. It was the most Malik had let Ryou touch him so far, and it made Ryou wonder if the sudden cooperation was due to the slow platform of trust they'd been trying to build between them, or just the exhausted acceptance of someone addled by sleep deprivation and an impending head cold.
Either way, Ryou was enjoying this new sense of domestic camaraderie. He no longer worried about drawing Malik's ire. There were still glimpses of darkness: slivers of rage or self-loathing that seemed to surface under duress, but it was not the sadistic edge Ryou expected when they'd met a few days ago. In hindsight, even the few times Malik had tried violence seemed pro forma: a pre-proven methodology for dealing with a situation he didn't understand. Malik had changed, and was changing, but whatever he was becoming was still a mystery to them both.
At least a warm meal and change of clothes had improved his mood. Once they left the house, he kept close behind Ryou, umbrella pointed up as he peered at the pale sky, and on the subway he was absorbed by the passing scenery, face pressed to the window as they watched the grey buildings swipe by one by one. He followed Ryou without a complaint down the city sidewalks and through the campus, and if he was quieter than usual, he at least seemed content.
They were almost to the library when Ryou heard someone call his name. He hesitated, debated pretending that he hadn't heard, but Malik heard it too, and stopped. Reluctantly, Ryou turned around.
Natsuko was jogging toward them. The hood on her blue raincoat had fallen off, and it bobbed up and down behind her like a little bird as she drew closer, breathlessly laughing.
"Thought that was you," she said. "I tried to catch you this morning but I didn't find you."
Did she know his schedule that well? Ryou glanced at Malik, and Natsuko followed the direction of his gaze, taking in the Egyptian for the first time. She paused, and Ryou saw what she was seeing: a large, odd-looking foreigner in sweats, bags under his bloodshot eyes. Malik stared at people too closely, didn't blink as often he should. Ryou had gotten used to it, but he knew it could be unnerving, coming from a stranger.
"Malik," Ryou said, calmly, "This is Natsuko. She's a classmate of mine."
Malik gave Natsuko a jerky nod, and she swallowed, seeming to stand up straighter as she nodded carefully back.
"I was on my way to the student union building," she said to Ryou. "But I saw you and thought I'd give you these." She pulled a few slips of shiny paper out of her pocket and passed them over.
"Ah," Ryou said, seeing the drama club logo, the bright graphics that read Romeo & Juliet: A DMU Production. Then he looked closer. "This is for tonight?"
"Yeah, guess we did too good a job offloading tickets. This was all that was left. But there's one for you, one for…" she glanced at Malik again. "Your friend."
"Right," Ryou said.
She was doing everything in her power to avoid staring. "Is everything okay?"
Ryou wasn't sure exactly what had prompted her to ask that question, but he didn't like that she felt compelled to ask it. "We're fine," he said shortly. "Thanks for these. Maybe I'll see you tonight."
She flipped the hood on her raincoat back up. "Okay," she said. "Um…see you then, I guess."
As she strode quickly back up the path, Malik shuffled closer to Ryou. "Tickets?" he asked.
Ryou pushed the papers into his coat, wishing he'd just told her no yesterday. Now she'd wonder if he didn't show up, and he wasn't going to show up. Priorities aside, there was no way he was taking Malik to what was essentially a musical.
"It's nothing," he said. "She was just being nice."
He escorted Malik to the front door of the library, and then reluctantly left him there, extracting a promise that Malik would stay until he got back.
"Scare people all you want," Ryou said. "But don't get kicked out."
That had managed to coerce a laugh from Malik, but still Ryou worried as he cut across the grass to the science building. There was something Malik still wasn't telling him. He hadn't wanted to be left home alone this morning, and he hadn't wanted to be left here, either.
Ryou wished he'd figured out a foolproof way to breach Malik's defenses, but for now he'd have to get through this next class. Then it was the weekend, and he could ditch the rest of his responsibilities and devote himself to helping his perplexing houseguest.
There was no reason to worry. Nothing bad had happened. Nothing bad was going to happen.
There was a test. Impatiently, Ryou marked off answers with brisk strokes. Multiple choices were selected based on instinct, and written essays were dashed off in handwriting so terrible he felt a little sorry for the adjunct who'd have to interpret it later. He wasn't worried about grades—his scores were good enough to cushion him through one bad performance, and if they weren't, he was capable of getting cozy with the department heads. They'd give him a do-over, if he wanted one.
He turned in his test and left, taking the stairs two at a time.
The rain had slowed a little over the course of the morning. He didn't bother with the umbrella and pulled his coat closer around his neck, ducking through the drizzle, but when he caught sight of the library building, he forgot about the rain.
A small crowd of students was milling around the doors. They had clumped into small groups under individual umbrellas, some of them streaming back into the library, some wandering away. It was obvious something had just happened.
Ryou scanned the crowd, but there was no sign of Malik. He went inside and stood in the lobby, observing the scene while he politely stamped his shoes on the rug. The building seemed in a state of subdued chaos: people were talking too loudly, their books left open on the tables as they stood casually around their chairs.
A pair of librarians were standing by the front desk. One made a comment, the other laughing quietly in response.
Ryou walked toward them.
"Excuse me," he said. "What's going on?"
The younger of the two, the one who had laughed, smiled warmly at him.
"Nothing, really," she said. "Fire alarm went off. Gave us all a bit of a scare, but it must have been an accident. They just let us back in."
A vast improvement over other possibilities, but it did little to ease Ryou's worry. "Did you happen to hear what set it off?'
She shakes her head, but her senior said, "I heard one of the students saying they thought the foreigner was acting suspicious."
"The strange looking one?" the younger woman said, at the same time Ryou asked, "Was he blond?"
The senior librarian nodded, glancing quizzically at Ryou. "You saw him too?"
Ryou hesitated. "Just from a distance," he said. "Is he still here?"
They both shrug. "The building was evacuated," the senior told him. "I haven't seen anyone like that coming back in."
Ryou thanked them both and wandered back to the entrance. By now, the small groups had dispersed, leaving only a few stragglers still outside. There was no sign of Malik.
Of course this had to happen. He peered up and down the tree-lined walk and then went back inside. Knowing that it was pointless, he spent twenty minutes walking a circuit of the building, scanning the study rooms, checking restrooms, peeking between the rows. Nothing.
Malik had obviously left, but Ryou didn't know what else to do. If he went out looking, they'd just end up missing each other.
He made his way back to the entrance. His best option was to stay put. This was where he'd told Malik he would be.
There were suitable windowed areas in the library where he could wait, but he went to the lobby instead. An imposed quiet would only feel oppressive right now. The lobby, walled off, was louder: the tiled floors echoed, and the front doors regularly swung in and out, bringing with them wafts of fresh air and local noise.
There was a row of chairs by the stairwell, which he pushed over a few feet to get a better view of the front doors before he sat down and unzipped his bookbag. If he had to kill time, he might as well study.
It didn't go well. Rubbing a highlighter nervously between his fingers, he flipped back and forth between the same page four times in the space of twenty minutes, most of his attention diverted to the bare sidewalk outside.
Nothing happened out there either, and eventually he got tired of his heart jumping any time someone new strode into view. He gave up on the textbook and pulled out the notebook underneath.
He flipped through it. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, just for something easier to focus on, but he stopped when he found the notes he'd inscribed that morning, the carefully copied images of the unknown symbols.
Maybe there was something useful he could do. He took the notebook to the librarian from before, the younger one who had smiled at him. He showed her the symbols he'd copied down, told her it was for an art project. Maybe she could find a book with symbols that looked like these, or even a language, something with hieratic or pagan origins?
Eager to help, she made a copy of the page in question. When she gave it back, he saw the incomprehensible handwriting on the previous page and remembered the verse Malik had recited on the train.
It was another lead—or at least another way to occupy his time. Ryou went upstairs to the history section, found the aisle for ancient civilizations and scoured the shelves.
Eventually he found what he was looking for: a translation of the Book of the Dead and a collection of liturgical works dedicated to Osiris. Malik had said that his verse was a funerary text, and Ryou was curious to know if the origins were indeed Egyptian, or something even older.
When he returned to the research desk, the librarian had pulled three more books for him: The Book of Signs; Codes and Ciphers — A History of Cryptography; and The Languages of the World, Ancient and Modern.
He took the pile of books back to his perch by the door and started taking notes.
It didn't take long for him to realize just how gargantuan a task he'd taken on. Some of the characters were so generic they appeared all over the place. Others didn't seem to appear at all, making it next to impossible to nail down even a common root.
He moved on to the funerary verse. The Egyptian texts he'd picked out turned out to be useless: Malik hadn't written a translation down, so he only had his memory to guide him. The books didn't have images, so he couldn't compare the original scripts, either. At least the language itself seemed definitely Egyptian; the characters closely resembled the hieratic script in Languages of the World.
Confirming the language didn't seem particularly useful. Other than the sharp slant of Malik's handwriting, the verse didn't seem to have anything in common with the symbols on the next page.
Ryou went back to those and focused on finding a linguistic root, keeping a running log of possibilities on a blank page as he doggedly cross-referenced every character with any and all images he could find in the textbooks. It wasn't exactly effective research, but he didn't have much choice: the Domino University didn't have much of a history department and he doubted he'd find an expert on Ancient Near East languages on short notice.
By the time the narrow text burned his eyes and his stomach had started to complain that lunchtime was long gone, he was ready to give up. He slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes, crossing his arms over his face to block out the distant fluorescent lights above him.
He was wasting his time. Why was he looking for patterns in doodles and scratches? Malik was just broken; stray thoughts and ideas leaked out of him like a sieve, and Ryou was gathering them up, trying to connect them as if the right configuration would answer his questions.
But it wouldn't work, even if an answer existed. No answer would make sense. A pattern couldn't fix a person.
That thought didn't stop him from obsessively turning the symbols over in his mind: stretching them, squashing them, adding flourishes, removing lines, looking for common threads and coded connections. It was better than feeling helpless, and there was something relaxing about the exercise, too, a kind of mental puzzle that promised the satisfaction of a solution, if only an imperfect one.
There was one symbol he kept coming back to: a circle with a line running diagonally through it, like a crooked theta. Lots of variations of that. Lots of meanings.
He visualized the shape, rotated the image until it was upside down. His mind was getting cloudier now, soothed by the familiar throb of alpha wave activity. Mirrors, he thought, the word meandering sleepily through his brain, and he rotated the symbol again, this time reversing it horizontally, as if he was looking at it from behind.
Another image—growing vines, caladium leaves, broken glass. Rough stone floors littered with dead vegetation. He took other symbols, rotated them too, arranged them against the granite. He was relaxed now; he knew, without needing to think about it, what he wanted. Something pleasing, something repetitive, like a visual anagram, a snake eating its own tail. Circles split down the middle, balances weighed on both sides, neither found wanting.
But the balances didn't weigh; something was missing, and for a moment he thought he glimpsed what it must be, saw a solution. He turned his head to find it—
A loud snap, like the release of a rubber band, shot through the granite and dead leaves, scattered the symbols. He fell through the void that remained, his entire body jerking in anticipation of impact—
The books on his lap crashed to the floor as he sat up, blinded, disoriented.
No, not blinded. The building was coming into focus again. Faint grey light poured in from the windows.
It was darker than before. The lights weren't on. How long has he been asleep?
Even as he stared up at the ceiling, the lights flickered, then burst back on with a crackle of electricity. Somewhere in the room behind him, someone was talking loudly. More faintly, there was relieved laughter. The power must have gone out.
His head was pounding. He pressed his fingers to his temples and leaned forward, blinking, to reach for his notebook. He'd had a thought, something important he wanted to remember. He needed to write it down—
Malik was standing in the doorway.
Ryou stared. It took him a while to process the image, to translate it into words, to remember why he'd been here in the first place. "Oh," he finally managed. "You're back."
Malik gave him a faint smile, but did not answer. He trudged across the lobby, sinking wearily into the empty chair beside Ryou. With a deep sigh, he bent forward, running his hands over his face. His hair was frizzy and bedraggled, his shirt stiff. His coat had gone missing again.
Ryou was still holding the notebook. He stared at it, at the rough sketches, the tiny notes in the margins. He'd picked this up, a moment ago. He'd wanted to write something down.
He couldn't remember now. "So," he said. "Are you okay?"
Malik's voice was rough, hoarser than it had been that morning. "I don't know."
Ryou laughed a little, tossed the notebook down. "That makes two of us." He pressed his hand to the back of his neck, massaging the knotted muscles. It had been a terrible position to fall asleep in. No wonder he had a headache.
When he looked up, Malik was staring at him, and Ryou smiled, trying to reassure him. "I'm fine. I just woke up. I think I'm still a little confused."
"You sleep too much."
Ryou laughed a little. "Is that what you think?" He sunk back into the chair. His body was too heavy to hold itself up any longer.
Malik said nothing. He was kneading the knuckles on his right hand in agitation. The skin around his eyes was swollen, his gaze distracted.
"Hey," Ryou said. "Tell me what happened."
Malik shook his head vaguely, took a moment before answering. "I don't know. I don't understand." He paused. "He is angry. I don't know if he is doing it. But...it takes so long to find my way back."
"You get lost?"
Another vague shake of the head. "I don't know why," Malik said, his voice quieter now, as if he was speaking only to himself. "I didn't want to go."
Ryou stared at the back of Malik's neck, at the muscles in his hands, clenching slightly as he pressed his palms together. "He's trying to make you leave, isn't he?"
Malik exhaled, slowly. "Perhaps."
"Are you losing time?"
"Time?"
"Do you remember leaving the building?" Ryou clarified. "Or are you just waking up in a strange place?"
Malik turned away to think, stared at the scuffed grey tile beneath them. A couple girls passed through the lobby, turning to glance in their direction. Ryou met their eyes, kept staring until they broke their gaze. He watched them push through the entry doors, leaning together to whisper once they were out of earshot.
"I remember some things," Malik said, finally. "They...run together. I saw them go by. But I remember. I remember I tried to stop. I couldn't stop."
As Malik lapsed back into silence, Ryou picked at the upholstery of the armrest. If one side of Malik was losing control, it meant the other side was fighting for it. The original Malik Ishtar had been quiet so far, slipping through the cracks when opportunity allowed, but it hadn't seemed like he'd been fighting, not till now. What had changed? Had Ryou messed up? Or had Ishtar just run out of patience?
"Ryou." Malik, who had twisted toward him, was leaning over the arm of his chair. "Don't make me wait for you anymore."
It was a precaution that wouldn't do much good, not if the original Malik was determined to take his body back, but this one was desperate for reassurance, and it was a promise Ryou could keep, at least for a few days.
"Don't worry," he said. "I don't have any more plans this week." He sat up to stretch. "We should get out of here, I'm starving. Where'd you leave your coat?"
Malik couldn't have been less interested in the disappearance of his outerwear. He shrugged, glancing around as it might appear in front of him. "Inside," he concluded, "Maybe."
"Let's go find it, then," Ryou said, leaning forward to pack up his books. "Maybe someone turned it into the lost and found."
He stood up and offered a hand to Malik, who took it and let Ryou pull him up out of his chair.
"Do you remember where you left your coat, or took it off? Maybe it's still there."
Malik shook his head, but when Ryou moved to go inside, Malik reached out, pulled him back.
"Don't," he said.
"You'll need it later," Ryou said, and peered up at Malik. "Ah," he said. "You do remember something."
A brief, annoyed glance. "No."
They stood for a moment in the lobby, Malik studiously avoiding eye contact as Ryou considered events, baffled, until he realized he knew why Malik was embarrassed. Delighted, he shoved his hands into his pockets.
"We don't have to go in if you don't want to," he said. "We probably won't find it anyway." He leaned in, conspiratorially. "I heard about the fire alarm."
Malik opened his mouth, closed it again. He turned, peered off into the middle distance, plucking distractedly at the hair on the back of his neck.
"The sign said 'exit'," he mumbled.
It took Ryou a moment to connect the dots. "As in…emergency exit?"
"…Maybe."
Ryou couldn't help it. He burst into laughter.
"Sorry," he said. "I thought—but you just didn't read it—"
"You are mocking me."
"I'm not, I'm not," Ryou promised, trying desperately to stifle the glee that bubbled up inside him. "I'm relieved, actually. I was worried you were, I don't know, lighting fires or—"
He saw Malik's pained expression and choked on another spate of laughter. "I am so sorry," he said. "I'm just—it could have been anything, and it was just—just a door."
Malik shifted his feet slightly. He seemed taken aback, not quite sure of the joke.
"I did not mean to scare you," he said, but Ryou shook his head.
"I'm fine."
"You worry too much."
"I know," Ryou said, smiling. "It's terrible."
Malik studied his face. He might have smiled back—a slight twist of his mouth, too quick, and then it was gone.
"I see," he said.
The light in the lobby shifted. The clouds were moving past the sun. Outside, the sidewalks were still shimmering wet; the rain had let up for the moment, but dark clouds still lurked on the horizon, promising more to come.
Ryou knew that his laughter was mostly cathartic, that he was clutching at a moment where they could be friends: not enemies in an uncertain truce, not victims of an shared trauma. He felt the weight of the books in his bag, knowing that they wouldn't be much help. He was grasping for straws, trying to draw meaning out of mayhem. Malik's scrambled psychology wasn't going to resolve into a code or an instruction manual. Catharsis? Friendship? It was the best they could hope for, and the most he had to offer.
"So," he concluded, "No coat. Are you hungry? Let's go get something to eat."
Malik opened his mouth to reply, but his words were swallowed by a deep yawn, his jaw audibly creaking as he threw his head back, closing his eyes. And even as Ryou was wondering if they should go home instead, Malik closed his mouth. He nodded decisively.
"I want noodles."
Ryou took Malik off campus to a nearby square downtown, where several restaurants were perfectly situated to satisfy a student's craving for a cheap meal.
They found a cozy little ramen joint and huddled around the kiosk up front to place their orders. Ryou, never a picky eater, selected the special, but Malik deliberated over the menu for several minutes. He seemed to want to order for himself, so Ryou leaned against the counter to wait.
The aching in his head had started to fade, but it left an unsettling sense of discomfort behind. It bothered him that he'd been so fixated on those letters, that he'd been convinced—if only for a moment—that they mattered.
Linguistic textbooks could not have been what Malik had in mind when he'd asked Ryou to help him, but there was nothing else he could do, except wait around and be supportive, and how helpful was that? Malik was slipping into fugue states. He was fixating on funeral hymns and wandering the city for hours at a time, obsessed with a stranger who'd been dead for four years.
But, the voice in his head nagged, Malik and the Spirit hadn't been strangers. Enemies, maybe. Maybe something more complicated.
It couldn't be more complicated. How long had they known each other, how many times had they met? They weren't questions Ryou wanted to entertain, not after what he'd gone through. He'd already spent years sifting through memories, trying and failing to put a name to his own relationship with the Spirit. He'd settled with the past. Going back now, reexamining those memories, would tarnish them.
Malik had decided what he wanted. He fed money into the kiosk and took the meal tickets the machine sputtered out. Before Ryou could intervene, Malik brought them to the waitress waiting politely behind the counter, who tore them and passed the stubs back.
When she began to move away, Malik opened his wallet again. "Wait." He scooped up a handful of bills and held them out to her. "Here."
She balked. The amount in Malik's hand far exceeded the cost of two bowls. "Sir, I can't-"
Malik didn't move, and she turned to Ryou, her plaintive expression speaking volumes. Reluctantly, Ryou leaned forward and put a hand on Malik's arm. He wasn't in the mood to run interference, but Malik wasn't going to be denied, and lunch was on the line.
"It's okay," he said. "You already paid, right?"
Malik was stiff as a board. "This is...for good service."
The waitress weakly protested, something about it being part of the job, and Malik shook his hand, insistently, in her face. "Take it!"
She stepped back, alarmed, and Ryou reached out and pulled Malik's arm back. "Okay, hold on," he said, shooting the waitress a reassuring smile. "Let me see that."
He held out his hand and reluctantly, Malik conceded the money, watching as Ryou flipped through it in search of something that wasn't yen. He recognized an Egyptian bill that wasn't worth very much, a bronze-colored 1-pound note with a picture of a mosque on it, and extracted it from the collection. He slid it across the counter.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Please take this. It's important to him."
She hesitated for another long moment, looking back and forth between Ryou and Malik, but eventually she made a little bow, took the money, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Ryou handed what remained back to a subdued Malik, who put it into his wallet and then followed Ryou into the back corner of the restaurant, where Ryou slid into a booth facing the door.
Silently, Malik sat next to him. Ryou turned away, taking a moment to arrange his bag on the seat.
Beside him, Malik squirmed a little. "Ryou-"
"It's okay," Ryou said, keeping his voice light. "We don't tip here, you know."
"I know."
"You know?" Ryou turned. "So what was that?"
Malik shrugged: a small, imperceptible lift of the shoulder. "You said you were hungry. I wanted them to hurry."
A bribe? It was almost charming. "Does your other self do that?"
Another shrug. "Sometimes."
Ryou swallowed a smile and settled back into the polyester bench. It wasn't exactly a flattering picture that Malik was painting of his other self, but it was an intriguing one.
Malik plucked at the embroidery on the wallet, an expensive-looking slim leather piece that Ryou had no doubt was handmade. "Was she afraid of me?"
Ryou considered, shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "Just confused."
"My other self has never been treated in this manner."
"Guess he's better at reading people." Ryou slid his elbow onto the table, rested his chin in his hand as he regarded his companion. More thoughtfully, he added: "It's more about how you do things than the fact that you do them, you know? Like a vibe you give off."
"Vibe?"
"Yes, like a—hmm. Like an aura? Essence? A lot of it is just social intelligence. If you don't do things the way people expect, they get nervous. They might not even know why."
Malik mused on this. The waitress brought out a pot of tea. Ryou saw Malik watch her closely as she walked away, her pace a tad too quick to be natural.
"Why do people like you?"
Ryou laughed, but stopped when he saw Malik's quizzical expression. "They don't."
"Some do."
"…Some do," Ryou conceded. Mostly women. "But it's not…" he shrugged. "It's not something I ever figured out, really. But I think…I guess they just think I'm nice."
He poured himself a cup of tea and then poured one for Malik, who curled his fingers around the ceramic.
"You are nice."
Ryou laughed again, more nervously. "No," he said. "I'm just polite." He took a sip of tea, lingered over the warmth. "It's the easiest way to get people to leave you alone."
Malik's eyes were dark, fixed solely on his. "You want to be alone?"
Ryou frowned uncomfortably back. There was an implicit trap in that question. "That's not what I said."
"I do not understand."
Ryou stared across the restaurant, at the large bay windows at the front of the building. It had started to rain again, and a few people had trickled in to get out of the weather, but so far no one had ventured this far inward. They were still isolated in their dark corner.
He was too tired for this conversation. People had asked him things like this before, people like Jounouchi or Anzu. They meant well, but they weren't capable of seeing his point of view. They were kind people, easy to like. Easy to know. They didn't have to worry about the ways they fit into the world.
The ramen arrived, in two large steaming bowls. Malik cupped the bowl in his hands, as if he intended to absorb its warmth, and looked at Ryou. "Will you not explain?"
"No," Ryou said, snapping apart his chopsticks. "Eat."
Beside him, Malik silently obliged, and Ryou made himself take a breath. Oof. He really was in a mood.
It wasn't just the headache and the hunger. He'd never liked talking about himself. All his life, people had asked him questions, but they rarely wanted honest answers.
He didn't blame them. Honest answers were never flattering. There was no way to say "no one understands me" with a semblance of dignity.
Still. Malik was just curious. No need to be an ass about it.
"There's a difference," Ryou said. "Between wanting people to leave you alone, and wanting to be alone."
It was more of a peace offering than an explanation, but it must have been enough. Malik nodded at him and kept eating. Sighing, Ryou returned to his meal.
At least the ramen was good.
After that, they were both content to eat in silence. Malik ate quickly, and once he had emptied his bowl, he leaned back in his seat. His arms were crossed over his chest and his eyes were closed, almost as if he were napping, though Ryou doubted that was the case. Maybe Malik had a headache, too.
Ryou took a longer time to finish. He was keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the customers at the front of the restaurant. Today, there was very little to see, but people-watching kept his mind off other things, like the uncomfortable anxiety that was stirring up the center of his gut.
What was he doing? It had felt nice at first, knowing someone was relying on him, that he had mattered. But Malik was getting worse, not better, and Ryou was just uselessly clutching at straws in the dark. His memories couldn't be trusted, and neither could the Spirit of the Ring. This was just a cosmic joke at his expense, one last prank pulled from beyond the grave.
Malik had started to mumble again. It was mostly inaudible: the faint sound of half formed plosives, the occasional exhaled vowel, but Ryou recognized the rhythm instantly. The funerary verse.
Angrily, he pushed the dregs of his ramen around the bottom of the bowl. At least this frustration felt familiar. He'd experienced it on a daily basis when the Spirit of the Ring had been around. In those days, it had been nothing but fermenting plots, cryptic riddles, questions with no answers. He'd gotten nothing but a fistful of scars for all those years, and he doubted he would get much better this time around.
It was his fault. This was what he got for indulging demons and ghosts. He should have been less curious, less empathetic. Maybe if he'd cared less, the mystic parasites of the world would have latched on to some other pagan weirdo and left him alone.
He pushed his hair out of his face and caught a glimpse of Malik, who had opened his eyes—and was staring at him.
"What?" Ryou said, startled, but Malik didn't answer. Instead, he reached out, impulsively, toward his face.
Ryou was too surprised to dodge the contact, but when he felt the pressure of Malik's fingers against his cheek he shuddered and jerked away.
"What's going on with you?" he snapped, rubbing the heel of his hand over his cheekbone. His face, he knew, was burning red, so he hunched his shoulders instead, frowning at the table.
"I don't know," Malik said humbly.
"Well, what do you want?"
"Impossible things."
"That doesn't mean anything to me," Ryou said, struggling to contain his frustration. "How am I supposed to help you? Why does nothing you say make sense? Why is your other self coming back suddenly?"
Malik broke his gaze, shifted his body forward, suddenly interested in his empty bowl, in his cold tea. "I don't know," he repeated.
"Does it have to do with you not sleeping?"
"No."
Ryou couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "You sure?"
"It's you," Malik said. He lifted his head, peered up at the wood trim on the ceiling. "You and those words," he said, more thoughtfully.
"What does that have to do with me?"
Malik tapped a finger against his temple. "In here," he said. "I can see them. When you are here, they are loud, but when you go…" he clenched his fist briefly, fingers tightening around his thumb. "I can hear him instead."
His mouth twisted. Whatever his other personality had to say, it wasn't particularly pleasant.
Ryou pressed a knuckle to the bridge of his nose. The headache was back in full force. He didn't like the implications that whatever was happening to Malik depended on Ryou's proximity to him. Something, some force, had driven them together, kept them in each other's orbit, and would continue to do so until…until they reached the punchline of whatever horrible joke they were stuck in.
He thought again of the Spirit, of that feeling of bitterness that came snaking through his ribs whenever Malik brought him up.
"I'm not him," he muttered, speaking to his closed fist. "You know that, right?"
Malik shifted in his seat. "Not who?"
The pangs in his forehead doubled. Ryou sighed and sat up, defeated. "Forget it," he said. "Let's just go home."
They made their way back to the apartment in glum silence. Ryou was in no mood to talk, and Malik, obviously exhausted, seemed to be pushing the limits of his stamina. Unaware of his surroundings, he was unable to focus on small details like swiping a metrocard or a changing crosswalk signal. He would summon short bursts of energy to push his way through a crowded subway car, then slump against the wall in exhaustion when they had a chance to stand still.
He was going to make himself seriously ill if he didn't stop. Ryou had to figure out a way to distract him, or at least get him to sleep. Maybe a film would work again.
At the very least, he could be a little empathetic. Ryou already felt bad for losing his patience with him back at the restaurant. None of their problems were Malik's fault.
He considered what might help. "You know," he said, eventually. "People get songs and phrases stuck in their head all the time."
Malik paused. They were climbing the stairs to the apartment, Malik lagging a few steps behind. "So," he said. "This is normal?"
Ryou hesitated, jiggling his keys in his hands. "I don't think you're in quite the same situation," he said, turning to the door. "But maybe the same things people do to get rid of it could help you." He pushed the key into the lock. "And unless it's really bothering you, it probably isn't doing any harm, either."
The suggestion seemed to lift Malik's spirits, and he was receptive when Ryou suggested that they spend the evening finding ways to distract him. It wasn't just for his sake — Ryou needed an excuse to stop thinking, too. They were circling a drain, and they were tired. Struggling more wouldn't help at this point.
Their progress stalled when Ryou suggested that they try another movie, an option Malik flatly dismissed. Ryou's next few suggestions—sleep, read, tv—were rejected, too. He had a feeling that what Malik really wanted to do was talk, but Ryou wasn't about to indulge him. He needed not to think about the past—or about anything else.
In the struggle between helping Malik and helping himself, self-preservation won out. Desperate for a break, Ryou retrieved The Languages of the World from his bag and handed it over.
"Here's a project," he said. "Look through this. Write down which ones you know, or look familiar, and the page numbers."
When Malik only stared blankly at the book in his hands, and then up at him, Ryou held up his notebook, showing Malik the symbols he'd copied down. "These," he said. "What language is this?"
"I don't—"
"Please," Ryou said. "Just look."
Malik looked as if he had more to say, but he must have sensed Ryou's agitation. He took the notebook. "This will help?"
"I don't know," Ryou said, exasperated. "Just—just let's do this for a little bit. Okay?"
"Okay," Malik said reluctantly, but he did take the books, and he did sit on the floor by the bed. He even started to leaf through the pages, though he did so with such marked disinterest that Ryou knew his allotment of peace and quiet was limited.
In an effort to stave off interruptions for as long as possible, he dug an old pair of headphones out of the back of a desk drawer and plugged them into his laptop, queuing up his library on shuffle. His ears were immediately blasted by a pop ballad he hadn't heard since high school. Cringy, but it would work just fine as a barrier between him and the outside world. He turned it up.
He opened his browser and reached for the bottle of ibuprofen on the shelf above him. Jou and Honda must have passed on a message to Yuugi. He'd sent Ryou an email— a quick hello and a reminder to let him know when he had a working phone again. There was another note from Ryou's father, a routine check-in. Ryou dashed off a quick reply, explaining that his phone was broken and that he was in the process of replacing it, then moved on to his regular trove of web forums and fansites. Before long he found a forty-page thread about how to combat metagaming and forgot everything else.
He was on page twenty-three when he felt the air move behind him. Malik was looking over his shoulder.
Reluctantly, Ryou pulled an earbud out. "Find anything?"
Malik shook his head. His attention drifted to the stack of Monster World manuals by Ryou's elbow. Gingerly, he ran his fingers over an embossed title.
He wasn't going anywhere. Ryou sighed, closed the laptop. At least the blessed painkillers had started to kick in: he could think without wincing again. "You want to talk."
Malik lifted a shoulder, let it fall again. "I like to listen to you," he said.
Ryou said nothing, and after a moment Malik ran a hand over his face, sighed. He sank to the floor beside Ryou's chair, propping his arms up on his knees. "You said you want to be left alone, but not alone," he said. "I do not understand this. I thought maybe I could understand." He glanced up at Ryou, grinned self-effacingly, gestured at the books around them. "I do not think I will ever understand. This is a game to be played with others…correct?"
Surprised, Ryou turned his attention to the Monster World books. "No, you're right. I do play this with my friends." He flicked idly through a nearby folder. "I haven't in a while, but that's just because of school…since we graduated, everyone's been really busy."
"So you play alone?"
"No, I…I just build stories, prepare things. For when we do play." It was a half-truth. Sometimes he would write quests and save them for later, or post them online, but most of the things he built were for no one but himself. Labyrinths that had impossible solutions, game-breaking character builds, quest-lines with unsatisfying endings. Intellectual exercises, he called them. He had binders full of worlds no one would ever want to play.
He stacked the loose folders, shoved them back into place on the shelf beside him. "You know," he said. "I'm not used to having people around all the time. I need breaks. It doesn't have anything to do with you. You understand?"
Malik nodded. "We are the same," he said. "I think."
Curious now, Ryou glanced down at him. "What does your other self do for fun, anyway?"
Malik made a face and slumped forward, his forehead pressing against his forearms. "Things I do not understand."
"Like?"
Malik's voice was muffled. "He travels. He sees things. People. There are always people. Our brother and sister. Others—doctors, men in suits. He goes into the city at night," he said. "Into bars—" Another sigh. Distaste? Disapproval? Malik continued:
"But then he rides. For hours, for no reason. There is nowhere to go." He lifted his head, but his gaze was turned inward, pensive as he pressed his cheek against his arms. "Nowhere to go," he repeated, softly, and closed his eyes.
Ryou sat still for a moment, swiveling back and forth in his chair, but Malik didn't move. Eventually Ryou reached for the stack of Monster World manuals. He was standing up to put them away when Malik asked, bluntly: "Where is your family?"
Surprised, Ryou stood still a moment, and then continued shelving. "My dad works overseas a lot," he said. "I used to live with him, but his place is too far away from campus, so I'm here by myself now."
"The others?"
Ryou shoved the last book into place. "Dead."
"Hmm." Malik unfolded slowly into a standing position, wincing as he rolled his neck to the side. "I see," he said. "So there was just the thief."
Despite himself, Ryou smiled. "For a long time," he agreed. "But he wasn't much company."
Wasn't much of a conversationalist, anyway. It was rare that Ryou didn't feel his presence there, lurking under the surface, especially in those last few years. It had been comforting, in a way. Human connection might have been out of his reach, but at least he was never truly alone.
Some days, it had almost felt like a fair trade.
"You played this game with him."
Malik, now standing, was looking at the shelf of Monster World materials beside them.
"Kind of," Ryou said. There were a couple miniatures on the shelf next to the books, things Ryou had carved in his spare time, and Malik reached out to touch one: a cloaked lich, painted black. Imperfectly balanced, it rocked gently on its base as Malik withdrew his hand.
"You are good with a knife."
Ryou laughed, surprised. "Thanks."
Their eyes met briefly, then Malik turned, looked across the room at the bedside table, where the wooden figure of the Thief King sat under the lamp.
His voice was quiet. "Was that also for this game?"
Ryou looked too, but he didn't make a move to cross the room. Neither of them did. "It wasn't quite Monster World," he said. "But it was a roleplaying game."
"For the Pharaoh."
"That's right," Ryou said. His fingers twitched, and he shifted his weight, crossed his arms as he turned back to Malik.
"I made all the pieces," he said. "He threw that one away. It was broken, so he wouldn't use it. He made a new one for himself."
"Why did you keep it?"
Ryou clenched his hand into a fist. He wasn't holding the figure, but he could still feel the scratch of the rough wood, the bite of the cracked seam pressing against his palm. He should have painted it, he thought. Or repaired it. Should have done something to make it feel more like a toy and less like an idol.
"He liked to put people's souls into these figures," he said. "I always thought it was a joke of his, an ironic way to make us all equal. But the game was important to him. It seemed wrong to throw it away."
"You thought some part of him was in it."
Ryou shook his head.
No. He might have hoped that once, but that hope had died a long time ago. If anything, the pieces that had actually been used—the ones that had been destroyed when the game had ended—were the ones that he should have kept. This was just a reject, a piece of garbage he'd been too sentimental to throw away.
Why was he talking about this? He didn't want to talk about this. The words forced themselves out of him anyway, disgorging themselves as if they would poison him if left unsaid. "No one asked me why I helped him," he said. "Everyone thinks that he forced me. Or maybe they think he did it all himself. I don't know."
The Spirit of the Ring hadn't needed to ask him for help. Ryou had known what was needed, and had done it, because it didn't matter. He'd known, even then, that this was a battle that the Spirit of the Ring could never win.
"I told him that he couldn't beat Yuugi," he said. "He never could. But it didn't matter. I don't think he could have changed. He couldn't do anything differently, even if he'd wanted to. So it seemed like this was the only way I could help him. Even if it wouldn't do any good."
Malik didn't respond, and when Ryou glanced up at his face, he saw that Malik's gaze had turned inward again, that his expression was pained, some private turmoil turning itself over within him.
Ryou didn't pry. A familiar snake of apprehension was curling up around his own ribs, and he could only sit with the feeling, let it breathe, feel it expand. Soon it would move, agonizingly slowly, into his throat. He didn't fight it. He was used to living with this feeling, knew that what followed was worse, because soon he'd have to give that feeling a name, and then he'd have to tell the truth.
He'd never been any good at lying to himself.
A/N: I'm back! I'm sure we all agree that 2020 sucked, hope to get back to this over the summer. Hope everyone is doing well 3