3
"Zeami defined Noh as the embodiment of yūgen," The professor said. "That is, refined elegance. That which is beyond words."
Ryou was only half listening. They'd already spent two weeks on Noh drama and his initial interest in the subject had started to become oversaturated with information.
Normally, he'd be more attentive, but there was no need to make a pretense of it today. Here, in his strategically chosen seat (second to last row, near the wall) he was far out of the professor's line of sight. He doodled in the margins of his notebook instead of taking notes on aesthetic theory. His mind kept drifting, his thoughts always returning to Malik Ishtar.
He'd had a peculiar feeling ever since he'd left Malik at the library. It was a vague sense that he was being watched, that someone wanted something of him. It reminded him of the feeling he used to get before the Spirit of the Ring exerted his power: that creeping pull toward the abyss, the thrilling chill up the spine, an unnerving warmth in his palms.
The professor's voice lulled on. The two girls in front of him were looking at each other's phones and whispering, a faint giggle escaping one or the other every few minutes. Ryou sketched out an eye: the pen sliding smoothly over the eyelid, then the iris.
Had Malik understood yet what he was looking for? Could he even find it, with the Spirit of the Ring gone? What would happen if he couldn't get resolution? Would his other self be trapped forever?
It didn't seem likely. Malik's family had been able to keep him under control in the past, and back in Battle City Atem had been able to help Malik regain control of his body, even after the cause seemed lost. Malik would be okay. Probably.
Ryou wished he could talk to Yuugi. His own memories from Battle City were hazy at best. The times he wasn't in a coma he was possessed, and the Spirit was loath to share memories. The things Ryou saw on television afterward were divorced from the flashes of nightmares he did remember: ghouls emerging from the night, the Spirit's laughing curses, dreams of wide open deserts.
Ryou drew more eyes. Yuugi remembered. He would know what was best—
He'd had never been able to talk to Yuugi about what had happened. How could he? Their experiences were so different, the feelings involved so complicated...it was easier to say that he was glad it was over and move on.
Yuugi would have listened. Ryou had always known that. But he'd always told himself that Yuugi wouldn't understand. In a way, it was easier to believe that no one could.
But he understood Malik. Maybe it was selfish, but that feeling of understanding, of knowing that there was someone out there who might understand him, made Ryou want to keep Malik's presence a secret for now. Whatever help Malik was looking for, Ryou could offer it.
It wouldn't be the fastest route, and maybe it left the other Malik trapped in his body for a little while longer, but Ryou wanted to believe that by taking things slow, by earning Malik's trust, he could do more good than by asking someone else to step in and get the "right" personality back in charge.
Besides, he'd promised not to get anyone involved. He had recognized Malik's emotions, and had connected with him, on some level. The two of them were the only ones that really knew the Spirit of the Ring as anything other than an enemy. That had to count for something.
A hand appeared in front of his face. He sat up, startled, and self-consciously pushed an arm out to cover his notebook.
The lecture was over. The girl who'd been sitting in front of him was standing now. She'd been waving to get his attention.
When their eyes met, she grinned. "You okay?"
Her name was Natsuko. She was a drama major with warm dark eyes and a penchant for gel pens. That was all Ryou knew about her.
He hadn't made much of an effort to make friends once he entered college. Maybe it was habit, after all those years where friendship was an impossibility. Or maybe he'd just given up on the concept. Certainly he didn't make himself approachable. He didn't think he needed more friends. Yuugi and the rest of the gang lived on the other side of the city now, but they were still there. Having a group to play Monster World with a couple times a month was enough.
"I'm fine," he said, finally, and flashed her his best please-leave-me-alone smile. The rest of the class was trickling out the door behind him. He caught a glimpse of Natsuko's friend standing a few tables over, obviously waiting for her to be done. Great. He'd thought he'd left the painfully protracted conversations about his love life back at Domino High.
"Had a late night," he added, closing his notebook. Time to get out of there. He stood up and began packing up his things.
His mind was on the library already, wondering what might have happened in his absence. He didn't realize Natsuko was still standing there until he was shrugging on his coat. He paused, the collar bunched up around his shoulders. "Oh, um…yes…?"
Her smile was apologetic. She knew he wanted to leave. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Seems like you have something on your mind."
He sensed himself getting irritated and smiled, hoping to soften the edges of his words. "Yes, well…" Not exactly her business, but it gave him an opportunity to flesh out his excuse. "An old friend stopped by last night and we ended up staying up late, you know…"
"Oh." She seemed pleased. Maybe she was relieved to hear he actually had friends. "Sounds fun."
Hoping that the conversation was over, Ryou made a beeline for the door. To his dismay, Natsuko followed him, her friend trailing behind by a few feet.
"You always seemed interested in the lectures before," she said, as if this was an explanation for her sudden concern. "You like Noh?"
"I guess."
"Do you like Western theater too?"
Where was she going with this?"Sometimes."
"The drama club is doing Shakespeare this weekend," she said. "Romeo and Juliet. The Takarazuka version. Professor Ueda made an announcement a few weeks ago."
Ryou had to admit that he did have a vague memory of the professor mentioning a performance. And he had seen flyers to the same effect posted up around the school.
"I'm Mercutio," she said proudly. And then, in a rush: "You should come see it! We still have lots of seats. Bring your friend, even. I promise it'll be fun."
She was just plugging her event? Ryou was relieved, even a little grateful. It had been a long time since someone had gone to the trouble to directly invite him to something. "Maybe I will," he said. "Thanks for letting me know."
"I'll get you tickets," she said, beaming, and peeled away to rejoin her friend. Ryou tried not to laugh as he walked away. He didn't know what about him had screamed theatre enthusiast to her, but he preferred this kind of ambush to one that involved an awkward confession.
Still, what a bizarre sales campaign. Was she doing this to everybody? Ticket sales must be lower than usual.
He saw the library building rise up in front of him and quickened his pace, ducking through the smattering rain to the other end of campus. He slowed when he saw Malik standing outside the library. In the exact same place Ryou had left him.
Uh-oh.
Ryou approached cautiously. Malik hadn't been standing there all morning. He'd be drenched if he had. Only his hair and shoulders were wet. Rivulets of rain dripped down the sleeves of his t-shirt along his arms, which were crossed firmly over his chest as he glared at the facade of the library building. There was a hint of petulance in his expression, an immaturity that might have been amusing if Ryou didn't know what Malik was capable of when he didn't get his way.
Ryou stopped just out of arm's reach. "Did you go inside?"
Malik jerked his head toward him. He hadn't noticed Ryou's arrival.
He covered his surprise quickly, his mouth screwing back into a scowl. "Yes."
Ryou waited, but Malik had resumed his angry surveillance of the library doors. Apparently he didn't think the issue warranted further explanation.
"So why are you out here?"
"I was…asked to leave."
"Why?"
Malik's frown intensified. He shrugged.
"Did you…" The possibilities were endless. "...attack somebody?"
Malik scoffed loudly, rolling a shoulder back as he stared stubbornly at the library facade. Hopefully that meant No.
Across the walkway, the library doors opened. Malik stiffened as three students came out. When they saw Malik, they immediately leaned toward each other to whisper. One laughed loudly, the other two hissing at him to shut up. They stared openly in Malik's direction, casting additional curious glances toward Ryou, who calmly ignored them.
"Fools," Malik muttered darkly.
"Don't worry about them," Ryou said, smothering a brief urge to laugh. "They're no match for you, anyway."
The other students must have sensed it, too. Whatever had happened had made some sort of impression: they weren't going to come anywhere near Malik. They'd even gone to the trouble of crossing the lawn instead of coming onto the sidewalk.
"So no one got hurt?" Ryou asked.
"No," Malik said, sounding very much like he wished the answer was yes.
Ryou decided not to pry. If no one had gotten hurt, he didn't need to care. "Sorry that happened," he said. "I shouldn't have suggested it. The library is a place people go to study. I should have known you would stand out."
Malik glared at Ryou. "I spoke to no one."
"Even if you didn't-"
"I did nothing!"
Baffled, Ryou watched as Malik, face screwed up and flushed with emotion, turned away from him. This was deeper than a petty annoyance with a few dumb jerks. Was Malik offended? Embarrassed? Either way, Ryou had made a wrong step somewhere.
"Well," he said, slowly, trying to come up with a diplomatic way to change the subject. "It sounds like you worked hard to avoid creating a scene. I appreciate that."
No response. Ryou pulled his jacket closer around his shoulders. "We should get out of the rain," he said, and looked at Malik more keenly. "Aren't you cold?"
"Yes."
Another surprise. Malik had been acting indifferent to the weather. Was he just accustomed to suffering in silence? It wasn't an idea Ryou was comfortable with.
"Well, I've got a few hours," he said. "Let's find you a change of clothes."
"I'm fine."
"You just said you were cold."
Malik shrugged. "I like it."
"You're not acclimated to this weather. You'll get sick."
"I said it's fine."
Did Ryou want to pick this particular hill to die on? He regarded Malik, who was getting more and more drenched by the second, who was stubborn for obtuse reasons, who would likely stand out here all day to prove a point.
Malik obviously thrived on confrontation. Ryou need to try a less direct method of attack.
He brushed by Malik, striding down the sidewalk as if the conversation was over. He refused to look back. Yesterday, Malik had chosen to stay with Ryou instead of leaving. This morning, he hadn't wanted to leave Ryou's apartment. Ryou wasn't sure yet why that was, but it established a pattern of Malik seeking out a sense of security, of avoiding the unknown. Ryou was gambling that Malik would rather go with Ryou to a new location than stay somewhere strange alone.
Still, the sound of Malik's quick stride coming up beside him was nerve-racking. For a moment, he wondered if he'd goaded Malik too hard, if he'd made a serious error in judgment, but the steps soon settled into a regular rhythm just behind him. As they meandered off campus grounds and the library disappeared into the trees, he started to relax. Ryou was still mostly operating on intuition and guesswork, but it was nice to know that he was making progress. Perhaps it would be possible to keep his peculiar houseguest in check after all.
When they passed the subway entrance, Malik demanded to know where they were going.
"Shopping."
"Why? I want to go back to your home."
"You need a coat. You didn't have one yesterday."
"So?"
"You'll get sick without one."
"I don't care about that."
Ryou shoved his hands into his pockets and quickened his pace. For some reason, Malik's careless attitude irritated him. "I don't care if you want to or not. This is what we're doing."
"Why? I said that I don't care—"
"Well, it's not your body, is it—?!"
They both stopped. Ryou was flushed, surprised at his sudden vitriol and embarrassed by it. Malik stood in the middle of the sidewalk, giving no mind to the pedestrians stepping around them with irritated looks.
"This is my body," Malik said. His voice was quiet, but it was forceful, too: underlined by the faintest tremor that Ryou might not have noticed if he wasn't shaking with anger himself.
Malik was only angry because he was afraid. Ryou knew that, but he didn't know how to appease him.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I…what I was trying to say was, it doesn't seem like you know very much about taking care of yourself. And you have to take care of yourself."
"Why?"
Ryou could have given him an answer, but he couldn't have said anything to soften the embittered, hateful look in Malik's eyes.
He left the question unanswered instead, floating in the air between them. Malik shifted his attention to the street, to the passing cars. They were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, obstructing the flow of traffic. Ryou stepped to the edge of the pathway and after a moment, Malik followed him.
Together, more slowly, they began walking again.
A few blocks up Ryou led them off the main road into a narrow, emptier street. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I wasn't really…I was worrying about your other self."
"It doesn't matter."
Malik's eyes were on the sidewalk, his features glum. The rain had petered out as they walked, but his hair still hung in wet strings around his face, giving him a bedraggled, hangdog look.
It made Ryou worry, but there was no point in apologizing a third time. He continued to lead the way, Malik following with quiet indifference, for another few blocks until Ryou found the place he was looking for.
"Here we are."
Malik glanced up at the building in front of them, screwing up his eyes as he attempted to read the faded neon sign in the window. "Used goods?" he said. "What is this?"
"I didn't know if you had any money," Ryou said. "I don't have a lot. Anyway, if you're not going to be in Japan long, there's no use investing in something expensive."
Malik lost interest in the signage. He stepped closer to the window and stared inside at the display of antiques and oddities. There were a couple pre-isolation objects: a stool, a vase, some embroidery. Ryou could tell at a glance that they were replicas - garbage meant to draw in whatever tourists got this far off the main thoroughfare — but there was a ceremonial sword he thought he'd like to get a closer look at.
But first things first. He gestured at the door. "Come on," he said. "Let's get out of the cold."
He held the door open for Malik and followed him inside, nodding a cordial greeting to the cashier, a teenage boy who looked to be in high school. Behind the counter, sitting on a stool, an older man was sifting through plastic bags full of costume jewelry.
Ryou skirted past Malik to the back of the store where a couple of racks labeled Men's Clothing stood beside a shelf of scuffed and dirty shoes. It was a small selection, but he'd been in this store before and had been able to find things of decent quality. He flipped through the hangers quickly, looking for something that would repel rainwater and fit someone with broader shoulders than the average Japanese man.
By the time Malik had made his way to the back of the store, Ryou had found three likely candidates.
"Try these on," he said, passing them over. He didn't wait for Malik's objections or opinions and moved on to shirts. Might as well find something dry for Malik to wear while they were here.
He pulled a few promising-looking sweaters and glanced back. "Do they fit?"
Malik had put on the second coat, a navy blue cotton-lined rain jacket, and was picking curiously at the lining. The coat was on the shabby side, but it was a good brand, and it would be warm.
"This feels good," he murmured. His mood seemed better, had seemed to lift once they'd arrived at the store. Maybe all he'd needed was a distraction.
Ryou stepped closer, appraising the fit. Shoulders a little tight, as he suspected, but if Malik liked it…it's not as if it needed to last forever.
"Good enough," he decided, and held up the sweaters. "How about these?" he said. "You can try them on back there." He gestured behind Malik, at a tiny fitting booth with a curtain drawn across the entrance.
Malik took the shirts, sifting through them and immediately dropping two onto the floor. He removed the jacket, carefully folding it over his arm and handing it to Ryou. Then he peeled his wet t-shirt off, revealing a neat row of white bandages on one side and a slew of scarred tattoos on the other.
"The dressing room—" Ryou protested, scandalized, but Malik was already pulling on a black v-neck sweater.
Ryou snuck a glance at the front of the store. The older man was bent over the jewelry display, paying them no mind, but the teenaged cashier was staring openly. Great.
"I like this," Malik declared, adjusting the collar of the sweater. Ryou sighed. Forget the shopkeepers. It was only slightly indecent, and Malik wasn't really doing any harm.
He plucked at Malik's sleeves. Too short. And too small. In something this tight and revealing, Malik looked too much like his other self. Seeing him in something other than a t-shirt and jeans reminded Ryou that the other Malik was somewhere in there, trapped in his body while they were out here playing dress-up.
Ryou ignored the faint pang of guilt. "It suits you," he said. "But let's try and find something that fits better."
After a few rounds of this, it became clear that Malik had a clearly defined sense of taste and didn't need Ryou's guidance. Ryou browsed nearby for a few minutes, in case he needed to intervene, but Malik seemed to enjoy sifting through the used clothes—he touched and pulled out every shirt, as if he needed to assess each one independently—and soon Ryou felt free to wander toward the front of the store. He wanted to examine that ceremonial sword in the window.
The window display was roped off from the inside, intended for viewing only. Ryou glanced at the shopkeeper, but the old man was on the phone and the teenager was browsing a magazine. Ryou stepped as near as he could and leaned over the display to get a closer look.
The label said late Edo period. The handle was worked leather, neatly braided, with some metal detailing as it met the blade, which was nicely curved and had an appropriate shine, but there were a few nicks. As a whole, the sword was quite worn. There was no sign of the sheath, either.
Ryou straightened, considering. It probably was an antique, but Edo period? He didn't think so. A sword like that wouldn't be in a shop like this. But then again…it was in bad condition. Maybe no one else had wanted it.
The Spirit would have known for sure. Ryou had practically grown up in museums, but the Spirit was the one with a knack for spotting forgeries. It had been a real problem when Ryou was younger, particularly when he went out of the country with his father. More than once the Spirit had possessed him just to gleefully tell some poor tourist that their prized Hyksos scarab was actually a 19th century replica.
"What is that?"
Malik had edged up behind him. Ryou took a step back and nodded toward the sword. "Just looking," he said. "What do you think?"
Malik shifted the small pile of clothing in his arms and eyed the blade. "Dull," he said eventually. "Can't cut with that. Bruise, maybe."
"Yeah, but is it real?"
Malik shrugged. "It won't work," he said. "So it's useless."
Ryou laughed. Malik's characteristically pragmatic dismissal was refreshing. He abandoned the sword and took Malik to the cashier's counter, where he helped him lay the clothes out. Three shirts and a jacket-not a bad haul. He noticed that Malik had only selected name brands, too, even thought they all ranged widely in quality. Perhaps he'd absorbed a sense of taste from his other self.
When the clerk gave them a total, Ryou started to fumble through his pockets, but Malik surprised him by producing a wallet, which he handed to Ryou.
When Ryou opened it, he found it full of banknotes. He stared into the open billfold, baffled. The amount of cash stuffed inside was almost comical. What was Malik planning to do with all of this?
The clerk had got a glimpse inside the wallet, too. His eyebrows were way up.
"He famous or something?"
Malik tilted his head curiously. Ryou counted out the appropriate amount of change and put it down on the counter.
"No," Ryou said shortly, glad that Malik didn't find the question worth answering. There was no point drawing further attention to themselves. He folded two of the shirts and handed the third — a nondescript striped crew neck — to Malik along with the jacket. "Put these on," he said. "No point in walking around in wet clothes."
The clerk shook his head as Malik promptly began to change. "You guys are weird."
Ryou ignored the clerk's comment, but something about it grated at him. He was used to people saying things like that. He'd been the odd one out since he was a kid. So why did he care? Was it because the clerk had lumped them together? Or was he just feeling defensive on Malik's behalf?
He folded Malik's wet clothes into a spare plastic bag as they left the store. He didn't need to interrogate his feelings. The clerk hadn't meant anything by it. He was overreacting.
Malik interrupted his train of thought. "Where are we going now?"
Ryou checked the time. They'd spent longer in that store than he'd thought. No time for detours. "I have to go to this next class," he said. "Statistics is after that, but I think it'll be okay if I skip it today. Do you want to try the library again?"
Dark silence from Malik. Obviously an unacceptable option.
"Is there somewhere else you want to wait? A cafe? A shop? You can't just stand out in the rain."
Malik shook his head, dismissing all offers. "Boring," he said. "I'll go with you."
A flash of panic burst within Ryou. "It's Accounting 201," he said, reasonably. "The most boring option there is. You'll have to sit quietly and listen to someone talk about math and money for an hour."
"But you will be there."
"Malik—"
"I don't want to wait," Malik said. He glanced at Ryou, meaningfully. "I don't like waiting."
Point taken. Ryou wasn't going to win this one without a fight. Briefly, he weighed the possibilities, and then dismissed them. He wasn't going to muster the energy to mount a credible defense. He'd won enough fights today, and he was tired. "You have to promise not to cause any trouble. Don't talk to anyone."
"I understand."
Ryou sighed and walked a little faster. Somehow, Malik's reassurance wasn't convincing.
At least they could always duck out early. If Ryou kept on his toes, the worst-case scenario would only involve the loss of a little social credit or half a letter grade.
They made it to class a little before the lecture started, which gave Ryou time to inform Professor Sato that he had a friend visiting for the week who didn't know very much Japanese and wasn't comfortable waiting by himself.
"No problem," Sato said, shuffling a stack of handouts as he made a cursory glance across the room at Malik. "But remember we have that test on Tuesday. Your friend will need to stay outside for that."
"He'll be gone by then," Ryou assured him, rushing through a thankful bow.
He returned to Malik and staked out some desks in the back of the room, near the door. It was a smaller classroom, with individual desks scattered in rough rows, and Ryou watched with some trepidation as students started to trickle in.
Malik eyed every person that came in the door. The expression on his face was sour; he glared openly, seeming to relish the surprise and alarm that flickered over every student's face as they saw him.
Ryou leaned over his desk toward Malik. "Don't make a scene," he said. "Just stay quiet and everything should go fine."
Malik's head snapped toward Ryou. "Stop worrying," he said shortly. "I'm not a fool."
Something had gotten him angry again. Ryou sat back up, stomach churning, and watched Professor Sato queue up a slideshow.
A few more students arrived, giving Malik curious looks as they took their seats, but no one made any comment within Ryou's range of hearing. As class started and the lecture began, things seemed to settle back into the normal rhythm of things. People took notes or stared out the window or at the front of the room. The alarm of Malik's initial appearance had faded into the background once he ceased to do anything worth paying attention to.
It was a promising start. Ryou followed suit, keeping an eye on Malik, but Malik only stared stonily at the professor. He was, true to his word, behaving himself.
It was a relief to know that they might still make it through the day unscathed. Maybe Malik had learned his lesson from getting kicked out of the library. Ryou settled into his seat and redirected his focus on the lesson.
Professor Sato had abandoned the problem sets today to expand on a lecture he'd started last class on the differences between capital and revenue expenditures. It was less than riveting, even for the few who cared about such things, but Ryou did his best to be well-mannered and set a good example.
As the lecture went on, however, he realized that something was wrong.
It was subtle. Malik did seem to be making an effort to blend in, but Ryou saw that he was becoming agitated, that his posture had started to stiffen. In increments, Malik sat up, slowly curling his fingers over the edge of the desk. His jaw had begun to clench, muscles jumping in agonized concentration as he continued his impassive observation of the classroom.
Anxiously, Ryou leaned over and prodded Malik's arm with the end of his pencil. Malik flinched, and Ryou startled back in response, but neither of them made a sound. A few heads from the nearest desks turned toward them, and then away. When Malik's eyes met his, Ryou tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, trying to inaudibly convey his concern.
Malik frowned, his teeth grinding, and turned back to the lecture, ignoring him. Ryou sat back up, bewildered. Was Malik angry at him?
As he puzzled over this thought, Ryou's attention was drawn to a light, sharp scratching sound. He turned his head and saw Malik's fingernails dragging against the underside of the desk.
Not a good sign. Ryou leaned over again, raised his eyebrows more insistently as he held his hand out: palm down, fingers spread.
Obediently, Malik loosened his hold on the desk. Then he slumped back in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest as he tossed his head. He huffed, like a horse trying to shake a fly.
Ryou grimaced as two nearby students leaned toward each other and started to whisper. Malik needed a distraction, and badly. After a frantic moment of rummaging through his bookbag, Ryou pulled out his literature notebook and a spare pen. It would do.
Quietly, conscious of the need to avoid drawing attention, he opened the notebook up to an empty page and slid it onto Malik's desk, placing the pen firmly on top of it.
Malik looked at it for a moment, and then back at Ryou, who held up his own pen and mimed writing with it.
Unimpressed, Malik picked up the pen, examining it briefly before turning his attention to the notebook. Letting the pen dangle loosely from his fingers, he started to turn the pages back.
Ryou sighed and turned back to the projector. It wasn't what he intended, but if Malik wanted to read Ryou's notes on the history of Japanese theater he was welcome to do so. Ryou just wanted a few moments to focus on fixed assets and incomes.
That focus evaporated within seconds. When he heard the unmistakable scratch of a pen, Ryou couldn't resist. He had to look. Keeping his body turned toward the front of the classroom, he tilted his head at the smallest possible angle that let him divert his gaze.
Malik had found Ryou's doodles of eyes from that morning, and had apparently decided to elaborate on them: darkening the outlines, drawing extensions out of the corners and lashes. He covered what few notes Ryou had with dark, chaotic lines that seemed to form no shape. His style was striking, but childish, the pen pressing hard enough to tear the paper in places, and Ryou watched with morbid fascination as Malik bent over the page with an expression so intense it was almost endearing.
Ryou didn't interfere. It wasn't exactly quiet, but it kept Malik occupied.
He split his attention for the rest of the lecture between note-taking and watching Malik's progress. After a while, Malik seemed to tire of filling in empty space. He started writing instead, in some language Ryou thought at first was Arabic but later revealed itself to be some kind of sloppily-drawn pictographs. Presumably hieroglyphics, though Ryou didn't know enough about ancient languages to be sure.
When the lecture ended, Malik was so absorbed that he didn't seem to notice, and Ryou waited until most of the students had filed out to let him know it was time to pack up.
"Wait by the door for me," he said, and went up to Professor Sato to thank him for his lenience.
"Your friend certainly stands out," Sato said drily, glancing at the corner where Malik had started to stand up, still peering intently at the notebook. "Where is he from?"
Uneasily, Ryou shifted from one foot to the other. "Cairo."
"Hm. So far away? How did you two meet?"
"Uh…in a chat room." It was a flimsy lie, and had the opposite of its intended effect. Sato raised an eyebrow knowingly, regarded Ryou with some new understanding. What was that look?
Ryou beat a hasty retreat, flushing and bowing awkwardly as he mumbled something about getting to his next class. Why was that was the first thing he could think of? He could have just said that they met at a game tournament. That didn't have implications. It was even true.
"Why do you look like that?" Malik asked as soon as Ryou was back within earshot. "What did he say?"
Ryou focused on ushering Malik out of the classroom, ignoring the burning sensation in his ears. "Nothing," he said. "We're done here. Let's go home."
That shut Malik up, and he happily followed Ryou out of the building without any follow-up questions. It wasn't until later, on the train ride home, that he said, thoughtfully, "It wasn't right."
Ryou dragged his attention away from the blurred walls of the tunnel. "What?"
Malik was leaning against the window behind him, his arms loosely draped over the notebook. He had yet to relinquish it back to Ryou.
He tilted his head up, toward the fluorescent lights, his hair reflecting off the window behind him like a halo. "Your class."
Ryou had no idea what he meant by that. "You mean, you couldn't understand the lecture?"
"Not that…" Malik shook his head. "It felt wrong."
"Is that why you were angry?"
Malik closed his eyes. "Not angry." His voice was slurred, almost mournful. "I am never angry anymore."
Ryou looked past him and out the window, at their images, reflecting out over the moving terrain. Malik still seemed plenty angry to him, but he supposed that compared to Battle City, Malik's feelings would feel duller, less potent. "You said yesterday that Malik — that your other half — had changed."
"Yes."
"And that changed you?"
"I am," Malik said. "What he needs me to be."
The train slowed as they reached the next station. Passengers poured off, and new ones filed on. It was the middle of the day still, too early for the rush hour, and this was the last downtown stop. As they pulled away, the car was nearly empty. Ryou took a seat on a newly emptied bench and Malik joined him.
"What does he need you to be?" Ryou asked.
"I don't know," Malik said. "It has to do with you."
"Me?" Ryou said dubiously, "Or the Spirit?"
"What's the difference?"
Ryou should have expected the disappointment, but the shock of it still stung, and he turned away, fixing his gaze on the other end of the train, where an older man in a suit was slumped back, eyes closed. "We're not like you," he said. "We shared a body for a while. But we aren't the same person."
Malik grunted vaguely, in a tone that gave no indication as to whether he understood or not. Ryou clutched his bag in his lap, staring at the sleeping businessman. That man was no one special; just another drunk office worker sleeping off a bender in the middle of the work day, but maybe if Ryou stared long enough, he could pretend that he had switched places with that man. Maybe, if he focused, he could make himself believe that he was normal, that this kind of misery was normal, that all he needed was alcohol and solitude and sleep to make it go away.
"You are thinking something."
Ryou shook his head. He glanced at Malik, forcing some cheer into his expression. He gestured at the notebook in Malik's lap. "Can you show me what you were writing in there?"
Malik lifted the notebook, handed it to Ryou. Ryou flipped through the pages and found the one with the strange script. He ran his fingers over the words, feeling the indentations the pen had carved into the paper.
"What language is this?" he asked. "Egyptian?"
"Perhaps," Malik said, offhand.
"You don't know? Then what is it?"
"Funerary rites."
Perplexed, Ryou peered closer at the lettering. The lack of explanation was infuriating. "Is it from the Book of the Dead?"
"I am not familiar with that text," Malik said, thoughtfully. "But perhaps it may be found there."
"How do you know it, then?"
Malik frowned, crossed his arms. Ryou felt a twinge of guilt. His curiosity had taken precedence over his manners again, but he'd been presented with a new little mystery and he was dying to know how Malik was going to explain it away.
The train slid to a stop again. The doors opened, a few passengers quietly disembarking. They were left alone with the drunk businessman in the corner.
"It was written on the walls," Malik said, finally. He pointed out the open car doors, into the subway station beyond. "Like that."
Ryou followed Malik's gaze, saw the distant scrawl of graffiti on the far tunnel. "Someone wrote it?" he asked. "Where?"
"Underground."
Ryou looked at the page again, at the deep scores, the torn holes in the paper. Underground? Did Malik mean where he grew up? Ryou got the feeling Malik didn't quite know himself.
"Can you translate it for me?"
"Why?"
"Because I want to know."
Malik frowned, but when Ryou held out the notebook Malik eventually extended a hand and took it, sitting up a little as he peered down the bridge of his nose at the words, murmuring some of them under his breath. He began to speak, slowly, pausing in places as he struggled to translate a phrase into Japanese:
A road above will be made for him,
so that he may enter the sky.
He will go up with the sacred incense,
the king will fly like the bird,
he will alight like the scarab.
When he flies like the bird and alights like the scarab,
he will find your seat, in the ship of the Sun.
Stand up, make room, you who do not know the river,
that the king may take your seat.
He will sail the sky in your Sun ship;
the king will depart in your Sun ship.
When you come from the mountain of light,
he, who has no name, will be sailing your Sun ship,
so you may ascend to the sky and leave this land,
away from home.
When Malik read, his voice had a new sound to it, a contemplative tone Ryou hadn't heard before. Ryou was moved by the words, without really understanding them, and felt an immeasurable weight on his chest as he listened. Maybe it was just the slow way Malik spoke, as he translated it word by word, or the ancient imagery, but it made Ryou think of the memories left by the Millennium Ring: the cold desert nights, the empty sound of wind, the taste of blood.
"What made you write that?" he asked.
Malik didn't answer. He seemed lost in thought. The flashing tunnel lights raced by in the window behind him, leaving golden imprints of distant stations and the quiet roar of passing trains.
Ryou couldn't stop thinking about the memories those words had triggered, couldn't shake the feeling of watching the sun sink into a distant sky from a window just out of reach. "Do you remember anything about him?" he ventured, changing the subject. "The Spirit of the Ring?"
Malik had resumed leaning against the window. His eyes opened and closed, with catlike slowness, as he stared at the ceiling. "He was…not afraid," he said. "And he was strange. Like you."
Ryou hadn't ever had a conversation like this. Not really. Not about the Spirit.
It was a strange feeling. He felt exposed, raw around the edges. He curled his fingers around the edge of his seat and pressed his knees together as Malik continued:
"Much, I do not remember. When he was in control, my other self conspired against me…pushed me away. And then, when I had forced him out, he retreated into your body. He protected those memories from me. Hid them somewhere. But you have not heard them speak either."
"Not during Battle City," Ryou said. The Spirit had also pushed him away, shoved him deep inside his soul room where there was nothing but dead earth and the sound of dripping water. "He didn't like me eavesdropping. And we didn't see you again until he was gone."
"No," Malik said. "There was one time." He glanced at Ryou, saw his expression, paused. "In Egypt," he said. "Before he went away. You do not remember?"
There had been an opportunity. Ryou had gone to Cairo with his father a little bit before the Memory World game, a short trip during Golden Week. The Spirit had been particularly active in those months, had been busy plotting that last terrible game. He'd been constantly pestering Ryou with ideas, instructions, observations.
But Ryou had been vigilant. He remembered that trip. He remembered the airport, the tombs, the cool nights and the hot days. He thought he'd accounted for every moment.
"What happened?" he asked.
"They fought."
"They fought?" Ryou searched his mind again, fruitlessly, for the shape of a memory, but he couldn't dredge up a single fragment of anything that had to do with Malik Ishtar. "About what?"
"I would not know."
"But you know they fought?"
"I do not know everything my other half does," Malik says. "I see things, sometimes, but it is…" He gestured vaguely outwards. "Far away. Sometimes I see what moves him. I can sense those things, even far away. But if he knows I am looking…" He shrugged.
"I could not hear them. I could only feel his heart, his pumping blood. His rage summoned me, but he knew I was there. He did not want me to interfere. He was very strong. I cannot remember what happened." He was silent for a moment. "We have not had rage like that since."
They reached the next station. The businessman at the end of the train jerked awake as they shuddered to a stop. He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair as he stood to get off, looking blearily around the station. As he disembarked, a young woman boarded, crossing his path. She regarded Ryou and Malik for a moment, and then walked up the car to go into the next one.
"Do you like it?" Malik asked. "Being free of him?"
Did he like it? Ryou didn't know how he could possibly answer a question like that. No one, not even Yuugi, had dared to ask him that.
"Why are you asking?" he said. "Do you want to be free of your other half?"
Malik tilted his head. "I cannot," he said. "I can crush him. I can bury him. I cannot be rid of him. We are one." He eyed Ryou. "But you said you were two."
Ryou studied the metal plating of the train floor, pretended to consider the question. The truth was, he'd already spent every long silent night of the last few years considering it. He was sick of that question, and he was afraid of the answer.
But Malik kept waiting.
"I did want to be free of him," Ryou said. "I really did. And then I was. And now I…I keep trying, but I…I don't know…" He blinked down at the floor, forced the words out of his throat: "I've never been able to get used to it."
He sat still, avoiding Malik's curious gaze. But Malik did not ask whatever question was tugging at him, and as the train pulled away from the station and began to accelerate, Malik did not look away. They sat in silence, the sway of the car on the rails their only substitute for conversation as Ryou stared at his feet and Malik, without moving, watched him.
A/N:
Whew! Thank you for bearing with me! This came out about three weeks later than I wanted to publish it, but I'm still struggling to get a feel for how long it takes me to edit a given chapter. I feel like I'm getting a little more disciplined through this process so maybe by the time we get to the end (it's looking like 12 chapters right now) I'll have improved my speed.
The text Malik reads from is a bastardized and heavily edited "translation" of a portion of the Book of the Dead. Citation below for those who are interested.
Next up: Movie night! Some old friends make an appearance. Hoping to get this one out sometime in the middle of June.
Book of the Dead Excerpt: Recitation 174, Crossing the Akhet, The Pyramid texts / "Spells for Passing through the Akhet" (Antechamber, West-South Walls), carved on the walls of the pyramids of Saqqara.