Content warnings: Language, recreational alcohol use, mild acts of anger, possible second-hand cringe/embarrassment

6.

As Ryou held a soapy plate under the flow of the faucet, Malik slunk behind him on another loop of the kitchen.

Things had been quiet. Ryou wasn't in the mood to play the host, and Malik, who seemed to sense that something was amiss, had resumed his routine of wandering the apartment, examining every corner of Ryou's life.

For dinner, they had shared a small meal of silence and freezer leftovers. Glumly, Malik had pushed vegetables around his plate, every so often breaking into a mammoth yawn. Now he was at the bookshelf again: paging through books, picking up figurines, studying DVD spines. If he had thoughts, he kept them to himself. Maybe that was a good thing. Ryou's nerves had been rubbed raw; another pointed question might have split him open completely.

Still, the silence itched. Ryou could see the shape of what was happening now, knew what they were hurtling toward. All he had to do was rip the bandage off. Break the silence, alleviate that itch, tell the truth.

He said nothing. He could be honest with himself. Not with other people.

He could probably blame that, at least, on the Spirit of the Ring. By the time the Memory game was constructed, Ryou had lost all his bargaining power. Hiding what he felt had been his last defense, one he clung to until the end. The truth wouldn't have slowed the Spirit's velocity or deterred his course. It would have only made him push Ryou away even sooner.

No, easier to stay silent and wait for the worst to happen. Better the comfort of knowing what was coming than the uncertainty of trying to fight it.

At least the dull ache in his chest was familiar. He had remedies for this feeling. Basic tasks: preparing a meal, or doing the dishes. Simple processes, with designated steps and clear objectives. No thinking necessary.

Malik circled the room again. The slow drag of his footsteps neared, slowed, then came to a stop as the chair in the kitchen scraped against the linoleum. Ryou heard the faint patter of fingertips on the table. Once. Twice.

Ryou turned the faucet off, twisted to stack a glass in the drying rack. "You okay?"

"I want to do something."

Interesting. Ryou grabbed a dishcloth and dried his hands as he turned around. "Like what?"

Malik was leaning forward, chin propped on the heel of his hand. Stray blond hairs drifted over his eyes, unnoticed, as he tapped the table again. "I want to go out."

Instead of answering, Ryou draped the dishcloth over a cabinet door, arranging the folds until they were straight and the edges were even.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he said eventually. "You're tired."

Malik scratched his jaw against the bandage on his palm. "This will make me less tired."

"Sleeping will make you less tired."

"Boring," Malik said. "This will work better."

"No."

"But—"

Ryou glanced toward the table again. Malik shut his mouth. They both remained still a moment, looking at each other. Finally, Malik lowered his hand, brushed his knuckles over the surface of the table.

"Sleeping will not help you," he muttered.

Ryou blinked, then felt color rash across his cheeks. This used to happen in high school. He'd get comfortable, forget to hide his feelings, and suddenly everyone would crowd around to ask if he was okay. Back then, the well-meaning concern was overwhelming. It had never occurred to him that normal people would care if he was unhappy.

Even with Malik, he should have known better than to let down his guard. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm fine, really—"

"So," Malik interrupted. "Let's do something."

He stood up and came closer. Warily, Ryou sidestepped, backing up along the counter until there was an arm's length of distance between them again.

"Okay," he conceded. "What should we do?"

Malik took another step forward. Unwilling to retreat a second time, Ryou lifted his chin to meet Malik's eyes. Their height difference was only significant at close range. Chest to chest, the room started to feel a lot smaller.

Color flashed through his peripheral vision. Ryou stared, stunned, at the brilliantly decorated slips of paper Malik held up in front of him. The words swam into focus: Romeo & Juliet: A DMU Production.

"Oh, no way," he said, laughing, and staggered back, trying to push the paper away. Why had he not thrown those out when he'd had the chance? "Absolutely not."

"No?" Undaunted, Malik followed him, pressing closer, waving the tickets in his face. Ryou took another step back and stumbled, his shoulders collided with the corner of the refrigerator. Still laughing, he shook his head.

"No."

Malik rested a hand casually against the fridge door, cornering Ryou. He wasn't laughing. "What if I insisted?"

"Insist all you want," Ryou said, grinning up at him. "I'm not going to that. Neither should you. You'd hate it."

"Oh?"

"I mean, do you even know—"

Before he could finish, Ryou saw the smirk. "Ah," he said. "You do know."

Malik twisted his head a little, looking down at him, and then took mercy, laughing gently as he flicked the tickets against Ryou's forehead.

"Yes," he said. "We have Shakespeare in Egypt, also."

"Not an idiot," Ryou conceded. "I get it."

Malik grinned at him. "So."

"So." Ryou put his hands behind his back, leaned against the counter behind him. "Do you like it? Shakespeare?"

Malik tapped a finger against the fridge for a moment, then shrugged. "Perhaps," he said. "I think my sister does." His gaze fixed on Ryou again. "And you."

"Me?"

"Yes," Malik said. He glanced at the fridge, poked at a Kaibaland magnet hanging askew on the door. Anzu had given it to Ryou years ago, one of those tacky picture frames with Duel Monsters patterned around the outside. He'd lost the picture she'd given to him with it; the frame was empty. Carefully, Malik pushed it up, straightening it until it was at right angles with the fridge door. He looked back at Ryou. "You are happier now."

Ryou twisted his mouth, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smile. Sure, he didn't mind a good adaptation of Titus Andronicus, and Kurosawa's take on Lear wasn't bad either, but romance wasn't his thing, and a gaudy, amateur take on the most overplayed love story of all time wasn't his ideal Friday night.

Still.

He reached out, took the tickets out of Malik's hand. "Fine," he said. "But I'll bet you anything you won't like it."

"No?"

"No," Ryou said. "This isn't going to be like real Shakespeare. This is like a musical, with dancing and costumes—"

He looked at the tickets again. They were sparse on details, but Natsuko had mentioned yesterday that this was based on a Takarazuka production. "And it's all girls, I think," he said. "So maybe you'll be into that."

Malik burst out laughing. "I see," he said. "And you will bet anything?"

Ryou eyed Malik, who twisted a lip toward him—a complacent smirk—and dropped his arms, moving to lean against the counter beside him. It was a peace offering, a way out, but Ryou didn't move away this time.

"Okay," Ryou said. "Fine. What do you want?"

Malik shook his head. "Your bet," he said. "What do you want?"

A rush of thoughts pressed against the back of Ryou's teeth, but he swallowed them. This was just a game.

"Maybe I'll make you get some rest for once," he said. "You're going to kill yourself if you go another night without sleep."

"Hmm," Malik said. His amusement had simmered down to a low undercurrent, just a bit of light reflecting out the eyes as he leaned over, just enough to bump his shoulder against Ryou's. "You can do better," he said. "Continue to think about it."

The theater department had commandeered the larger of the university's two theaters for the performance, a feat made obvious by the immense floodlights they had installed outside the building. The lights illuminated a black banner mounted on the moulding above the main doors, where, in reflective gold paint, someone had painstakingly scripted the words Her only love, sprung from her only hate…

"Oof," Ryou said, tucking his hands inside his coat pockets. "They really went for it, I guess."

Malik wasn't listening. He stood behind Ryou, his hands crossed over his face, massaging his temples with the pads of his thumbs.

Ryou watched him for a moment. They were standing just outside the building. Around them, couples and families emerged from the dark and streamed up the stairs, huddled together, leaving trails of excited chatter behind them.

"You going to be okay?"

"Yes," Malik said, and put his hands down. He wore only a white sleeveless shirt, with the flannel button-up knotted around his waist. An long umbrella was tucked under one arm, his one concession to Ryou, who'd insisted that Malik keep at least some form of weather protection on him.

"Because we can—"

The end of the umbrella swung out, lightly rapping against the back of Ryou's leg. "You worry too much."

Ryou withdrew a step, frowned. "I think this level of concern is appropriate for the situation, actually—"

An usher in the brightly-lit doorway caught Malik's attention. Without waiting to see if Ryou would follow, he lurched toward the entrance. The lack of sleep was catching up with him: his movements were getting increasingly erratic and clumsy. Worse, he kept turning his head to stare at people, swiveling like an animatronic weathervane. Soon, someone was going to say something.

Reluctantly, Ryou climbed the stairs. At the top, Malik was accepting a playbill from the usher.

"Hey, hold on—"

Malik swerved toward Ryou, swinging the umbrella onto his shoulder and nearly bludgeoning a pair of freshmen girls who were coming through the doorway behind him. Only when they shrieked and threw themselves out of the way did he notice them, twisting his head in their direction to watch impassively as Ryou attempted an apology on Malik's behalf.

When they left, casting agitated glances behind them, Malik looked back toward Ryou and cocked an eyebrow.

"Nervous?"

He wasn't even trying to hide his amusement. Ryou frowned and snatched the playbill out of Malik's hand. "Not yet," he said. "But maybe I should be."

Malik pursed his lips, shrugged. "Maybe."

"Is this what you're like in a good mood? I'm not sure I like it."

Malik flashed him a grin: a quick, easy one, incongruous on his exhausted face.

"Yes," he said. "You like it."

Stalling, or maybe just speechless, Ryou tucked the playbill under his arm. They were blocking the door, so he ducked aside to make room for some students who wanted to go in. He thought he recognized a face in the group — someone from his statistics class.

People stared. He knew that. He could feel the looks on his back, hear the hastily cut-off whispers, knew he would catch people looking away if he turned too quickly. He was used to it. It had been happening since he was a kid.

Over the years, he'd found ways to minimize the attention: go quiet and polite, deflecting all points of interest until there was nothing to look at anymore. When the Spirit had arrived, he'd cribbed on Ryou's existing coping mechanisms, then taught him new ways of manipulating that attention. Now, Ryou could use violence or intimidation or chaos to dispel it. He could deprive it until it withered and starved, or he could feed it until it burst.

Attention didn't bother him anymore. Managing it was a task he could do without thinking, and the pressure had faded to an annoying itch in the background of his mind: a kind of social tinnitus.

But Malik couldn't be ignored. He seemed to like attention; he drew the eyes of the crowd like a mirror, full of light and color. Yet all those eyes could not pierce him. He harnessed them like tools, reflecting them instead on the objects of his interest. He could direct the entire wattage of the world's attention to the minuscule details of Ryou's life, if he wanted to. He didn't care if Ryou was boring, wasn't deterred by intimidation. He'd looked, with all that light, and he'd stayed.

Was that way of looking how Malik had drawn the Spirit to him? Because he was right: Ryou did like this. He loved the new chaotic fluctuations in his day, the small lively moments of distress. He felt an inherent thrill when he watched Malik threaten the status quo. Smoothing things over afterward wasn't a chore: it was another little manipulation of the social order. It felt nostalgic. It felt fun.

But it couldn't last. Every swell of delight was dragged back by an undercurrent of guilt. This week was one transient moment, and Ryou couldn't see how it could continue. Malik might see him, but he didn't understand who Ryou was. Soon, Ryou would have to tell him.

A regiment of girls, armed with flowers and chittering with laughter, passed by. Ryou watched them go inside, decked in color and life, and gestured limply at the wide double doors left in their wake. "I guess we should go inside," he said to Malik. "Ready?"

The building swam with people: teachers, students, parents, volunteers. Watchfully, Ryou kept close to Malik as they made their way into the auditorium, but Malik seemed to have sobered somewhat; they found their seats without incident, though the seats themselves were disappointing. Ryou had been hoping for something near the back, by the door, but Natsuko had been generous: they'd been seated square in the middle of center left, five rows back. A good view, with no escape route.

He looked at the stage, at the brightly painted scaffolding peeking out from behind the curtain, at the sheer silver gauze draped over the orchestral pit, and allowed himself a small sigh.

Maybe Malik had been right. Maybe Ryou was nice. So nice that he'd become approachable. He'd chosen meekness over repulsion and lost the edge the Thief had given him, minimized himself to the point of mystique. He'd wanted to be underestimated, and now people projected whatever they wanted onto him. Stronger personalities directed his course. He didn't want the endless gifts and invitations and conversations from the girls in his class. He didn't want his friends imposing their company or their concern on him. He didn't even want Malik bullying him into breaking the social contract. Sometimes, yes, he enjoyed these things—but he wasn't choosing them. Companionship wasn't enough. Excitement wasn't enough. He wanted—something different. Something only he could do.

At least the Thief had given him that.

He sat down beside Malik and flipped open the playbill, searching idly for familiar names. Enough self-pity. What could he choose now, that mattered? The thing he wanted didn't exist anymore. He was just like everyone else. He should be happy with company and excitement. Wasn't that what most people wanted?

Malik's knee prodded his. "I know what you are thinking."

Ryou peered dubiously over the top of the cast list. Malik was slumped low in his seat, his eyes closed and his head tilted up toward the ceiling. He looked like he should be sunbathing on a beach in Okinawa, not waiting to be entertained by a collegiate drama club.

Sensing more mischief, Ryou went back to studying the list of tech support crew. "Is that right?"

"Mhm." The seat beneath Malik groaned as he stretched his legs out and put his hands behind his head. "You are wondering what will go wrong."

Ryou flipped the page. "Interesting guess."

"Shall I tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"What will go wrong."

The next page was all advertisements. Ryou rapped his fingers against the glossy paper, then closed the playbill. "Okay," he said. "Enlighten me."

Malik's arms hung across the umbrella in his lap. "You think this is foolish," he said. "That it will be bad. But it will not be bad. It will be good. I will enjoy it very much." He lifted his eyelids to grin at Ryou. "And then you will have to give me what I want."

He was looking at Ryou, and Ryou couldn't look away. He was caught in that spotlight of interest again, that confident assertion that felt wrong in its rightness. He might wilt under its unwavering heat. He had to say something. He had to stop this—

"Excuse me."

A balding middle aged man and his much smaller wife stood beside him, their coats in their arms. Ryou stared, watching the apologetic looks on their faces morphing into confusion as the silence wore on. It was only when Malik stood up that the short circuit corrected itself and Ryou's brain cells started to fire. He shot out of his seat to make room for them to get by, mumbling a formulaic apology as he privately added this entire night to his lifetime tally of regrets.

When the couple had squeezed their way past to their seats, Malik took a step in, leaned close to murmur in Ryou's ear.

"Very enjoyable, so far."

Oh, that was irritating. Ryou tossed his hair, looked cooly in Malik's direction. "You know," he said. "I'm not a fan of vague threats."

"I see." Malik paused. "Shall I be more specific?"

Ryou grit his teeth, curtailing the laughter that threatened to burst out of him. He wouldn't give Malik that satisfaction. He sat back down, taking his time: rearranging his limbs in his seat, folding his hands in his lap. As Malik sat down beside him, Ryou smiled. He could play this game, too. "There's no need to make threats at all," he said. "You're the one who wanted to come here. Once you realize what you've gotten yourself into, you'll want to forfeit, and I, being a benevolent host, will graciously accept your loss."

"Is that so?"

"Just say the word. We can leave right now."

Above their heads, the lights started to dim. Malik glanced upwards, smiled, and settled back in his seat. Casually, as if it meant nothing, he draped an arm over the back of Ryou's chair.

"Too late."

Neither of them moved. A young woman's voice came scratching over the loudspeaker. As she began to make opening statements. Ryou gave Malik's arm a pointed look. Malik lifted his chin, just so.

The stage lights blinked on. The curtain was rising. Ryou glanced forward, bit his lip, then leaned over the invisible border of the armrest. The prerecorded sound of trumpets blasted out of the speakers as he pressed his face close in Malik's ear. "Just so you know," he murmured. "I hope these are the worst two hours of your life."

Malik chuckled quietly in the dark as Ryou withdrew and pressed his head back, ignoring the pressure of Malik's arm behind him. If Malik wanted to be stubborn, well, Ryou could, too. He'd win any battle of wills. He was plenty proficient in suicidal obstinance.

Unfortunately, while Malik did move his arm after a few minutes, DMU's theater club had apparently decided to defy expectations.

The production wasn't that bad. The leads were all charismatic — Natsuko was as energetic on stage as she was in real life—and the musical numbers were as frequent as they were loud. Sure, the acting was scattered and the sets were cheap, but the cast's enthusiasm picked up the slack and kept things moving. Really, Ryou was disappointed. He would have preferred poking fun at a terrible production to sitting through a decent one.

It was impossible to gauge what Malik thought of it. He seemed to be following the action on stage closely, but every time Ryou turned to check his expression, Malik would catch him at it, then give him an infuriating little smirk, like he was tallying a point won or lost. As the play paraded on, Ryou stopped looking. Deprived of attention, Malik would get bored eventually.

It worked better than he'd hoped. When intermission finally rolled around, Malik was nearly horizontal in his chair, his knees pressing into the row in front of them. He wasn't asleep; he opened one eye as Ryou drew closer, then grimaced and pushed out an elbow in a halfhearted attempt to shove him away.

Should Ryou have felt bad about the sense of triumph he was feeling? Perhaps. He sat back, grinning shamelessly as he watched Malik sit up and rub his face.

"Too loud to sleep?"

Malik snorted, then closed his eyes again, kneaded the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He hadn't yet complained of a headache, and his sinuses sounded clearer than they had that morning, but he had to be feeling miserable. Ryou took mercy on him.

"You know," he said. "If you want, I'll tell you how it ends. We can leave right now."

Malik laughed without opening his eyes. "No."

Certain that he'd made his point, Ryou was content to let him rest, but after a few minutes, Malik lowered his hand.

"I know how it ends," he said. "Everyone dies." He had a strange little smile on his face, almost somber. "You like that kind of ending, don't you?"

Ryou raised an eyebrow, unsettled. Right again. "It's egalitarian," he said, trying not to sound defensive. "Everyone gets what they deserve. Can't help but be satisfied with an ending like that."

Malik's eyelids lowered; he nodded. On stage, the curtain rippled as invisible crew members shoved set pieces around.

"Egalitarian," he murmured, rolling the word around in his mouth. "Well. Perhaps."

The second act was shorter than the first, but Malik's posture degraded rapidly as each scene progressed. Toward the end, during a ballad that featured a pitchy Benvolio agonizing over their inability to deliver bad news, Ryou dared a glance in Malik's direction and saw that his body was starting to list dangerously close. Only one arm, propped up on the chair, prevented him from toppling into Ryou entirely. His palm was jammed into his temple, fingers cupped over his face and obscuring his eyes.

Certain that Malik was asleep this time, Ryou leaned forward, but then he caught a glimpse of light bouncing off of Malik's pupils, glittering out from under his fingers. He didn't look back at Ryou. He was looking at the stage.

The drama continued: Juliet's burial, rushing to the grave, Romeo's long and lengthy lament to God and the audience, the dramatic suicide just as Juliet awoke up from her herb-induced coma.

She was artfully wailing over Romeo's body when Malik stood up.

The umbrella rolled into the chair in front of him and then clattered to the floor. Along the rows behind them, complaints and hisses of irritation pierced through the music as Malik whirled in one direction, and then the other, making a circle of disoriented, truncated movements. He was looking for a way out, but there wasn't one. They were in the middle of the section, in the middle of the aisle.

Malik wavered, shifted his weight. He was going to make a run for it anyway. Frightened, Ryou leaned forward and caught him by the wrist.

At the touch, Malik recoiled, stumbling into the knees of the person behind him. He caught himself on a chair and spun back toward Ryou, crying out with a hoarse, sharp sound that was audible even over Juliet's sailing soprano.

The chorus of hisses wavered. In the corner of his eye, Ryou saw the beady swing of flashlights. Some ambitious usher had started down the aisle toward them.

He stood up. The actors had continued blithely on. Blue and pink light emanated from the stage, outlined Malik's clenched jaw, his wide eyes as he peered into the dark crowd of irritated people behind him.

Ryou reached out again, put his hands on Malik's shoulders. Malik tensed at the contact, but didn't try to pull away. Still Ryou gripped him tight, whispering under the wailing violins of Juliet embracing Romeo one last, desperate time: "It's okay," he said. "Stay. It's almost over."

Malik just stared. He jerked away, opened his mouth, as if he meant to say something—then stopped.

The music had changed. All around them it lifted, elevating into a ripple of soaring notes that reverberated throughout the audience.

Romeo was waking up. Baffled, Ryou watched the lovers fall into each other's arms. Somewhere he couldn't see, a narrator was speaking over the music, saying something about the power of true love's kiss and the magical purity of Juliet's tears. The music swelled once again, even higher: a reprise of the love theme, an impromptu duet. Behind him, the angry whispers to sit down had disappeared; everyone stared at the stage, trying to make sense of what was happening.

"Ha!"

Malik was laughing. He clapped his hands together with delight. "Yes!" he shouted. "Good!" Behind him, scattered, confused applause had begun to join in, intensifying and rippling out until the whole auditorium was applauding along with him.

There was a young woman in an usher's uniform standing in the aisle a few seats over. Ryou gave her a wave. She shrugged in response and started back up toward the doors.

Malik was grinning at him. Amused despite himself, Ryou pressed a finger to his lips. They stood there, watching as the music swelled for a final chorus, the entire cast coming onstage to force the reconciliation of the two families, do some extravagant dance number and mime a wedding. Then, abruptly, the curtain dropped.

The crowd convulsed as people rose to their feet all around them. Politely, Ryou joined the applause, though he couldn't help but feel a bit ridiculous. Oh well. This whole night was ridiculous. Leaning into it seemed like the only appropriate response.

There was a curtain call, another quick reprise of the love theme, and then the house lights came back on, the magic of the theater dispelled. People around them began to fumble with coats and bags and busy themselves with filing out of their aisles in an orderly fashion.

As soon as he could, Ryou pulled Malik aside, out of the way of the crowd.

"What happened in there?"

"I do not know," Malik said, pleasantly. "You were surprised, too?"

Did he really not remember? Ryou decided not to press the issue. Whatever had happened was harmless. Perhaps they'd earned the ill will of all the unfortunate theatergoers behind them, but no one was going to come seeking vengeance over a blocked view. Could have been worse, he told himself. Mantra of the week.

"Something like that," he said. "You ready to go home?"

Malik was shaking his head. "No," he said. "Out. Now."

"I—"

Malik's index finger prodded Ryou in the chest.

"I win," Malik said. "I decide what happens now."

It was a bad idea. Ryou knew that. And he knew who he'd seen in that auditorium, too: his cheeks illuminated in blue light, looking down at him with cold, distant eyes. So why was he shrugging? Why was laughter constantly threatening to spill out of him, the threat of another absurdity more tempting than all the warnings of his intuition?

Because Malik wanted things. Even if he wasn't the raging fire he was years ago, something in him was still burning. He still believed he could have what he desired. He hadn't let himself fade into obscurity. He'd stayed confident — even dangerous.

Malik was looking at Ryou now, waiting. Intense as a forge, as playful as a flame. Ryou hadn't been burned yet, but he did feel warm. And he hadn't felt like that in a long time.

"Okay," he said. "One thing. Then home."

Progress was slow. The lobby was crowded and they hadn't even reached the doors when Ryou heard someone call his name. Behind them, Natsuko was worming her way through a group of girls, her face plastered with stage makeup and her arms full of flowers.

It was a good thing about the flowers. She was in high spirits, still flushed from the adrenaline of performing, and from the way that she looked around as she approached, Ryou got the sense that she wanted someone to take her burden and free up her hands so she could embrace him.

Thankfully no one appeared, and she shrugged the bouquet — yellow and white roses — higher in her arms and made a little bow instead.

"You actually made it," she said. "Thanks for coming."

"You're welcome," Ryou said. "Thank you for the tickets."

She gave him an odd look. He was being too stiff. She'd expected compliments, not vague platitudes. Before Ryou could course-correct, Malik stuck out a hand.

"Congratulations," he said somberly.

She laughed and shuffled the roses in her arms once more to reach out and shake Malik's hand. "Oh yes, you were our biggest fan, weren't you? Juliet told us all about it backstage."

Of course she did. The whole building probably knew what Malik had done by now. Damn him, Malik didn't even have the decency to be embarrassed. He actually smiled at Natsuko, like a normal human being. "Well, Ryou said it would be unpleasant."

Natsuko's hand, clasped in Malik's larger one, lurched to a stop. Her face had acquired a tight sort of blankness, the details hidden under her accentuated stage makeup. She turned her head in Ryou's direction. He didn't meet her eyes. He was too busy inspecting the patterns in the tiled floor.

Interesting color, brown. Lots of depth to a hue like that.

"Is that right?" she said faintly.

Malik continued talking. "It was not so unpleasant. There was a lot to look at. But very tiring. I was not—how did you say—? 'into it'?" His gaze wandered toward Ryou's agonized expression.

"I was not into it," he repeated, and grinned. That bastard knew exactly what he was doing. Helplessly Ryou watched Malik shake Natsuko's hand once more, adding: "The ending was very good."

Natsuko stared up at him, and then, to Ryou's dismay, a smile spread across her face. She started to laugh, and shook her head as she gracefully withdrew her hand from Malik's grip.

"Well, the theater's not for everyone," she said. "Can't fault a guy for being honest."

She gave Ryou a pointed look. He met it, shrugged, smiled. He knew when to ask for forgiveness. Genially, she granted it, reaching out to give him a friendly pat on the arm.

"It's always the quiet ones," she said to Malik. "I bet he gives you a lot of trouble."

Ryou wasn't about to let Malik answer that. "It was a bold choice," he said. "The ending. Does your club always revise the scripts?"

She laughed. "No, this was the first time. We do a lot of comedies. We were going to do a straight production at first, but after a few rehearsals we decided that the original was too depressing." She saw his expression and quirked a lip. "I'm guessing you're not a fan?"

"He wanted everyone to die," Malik said.

"I never said that," Ryou protested. "I just think that the ending was written that way for a reason."

"A dumb reason, I bet," Natsuko said. Malik laughed.

"Don't take her side," Ryou told Malik. "You just like chaos."

"I like when people do what they want."

"Well, sometimes that gets you killed."

"Not me."

Ryou shook his head and turned back to Natsuko, who was looking at him with that same odd look as before, her head tilted, hair slipping off her shoulder as her eyes slid up to Malik, considered. Her expression softened; she smiled at Ryou.

"You two are cute together," she said. "How'd you meet?"

She couldn't have picked a more efficient way of stripping Ryou of his good mood. "Oh," he said. "No. It's not—"

Malik put a hand on Ryou's shoulder. When Ryou spun toward him, he shook his head.

"Don't," he said.

Natsuko wasn't paying attention. Someone in the crowd had shouted her name, and she'd turned her head, bobbed hair swaying slightly as she searched the sea of faces.

She turned back to them, bowed slightly. "Got to go," she said. "Thanks again for coming—even if you hated it." She winked at Ryou from over her bouquet. "Have a good weekend."

Ryou waited for her to leave before he wrenched himself out from under the weight of Malik's hand.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

Malik looked lost, his hand still wavering alone in the air. "I…do not understand."

Ryou resisted the urge to raise his voice. There were too many people, on every side. He took a breath, tried again, more calmly: "Why did you stop me? Just now."

Malik looked from left to right, as if an answer could be approaching through the crowd from any direction. Finally, he lowered his hand, let it hang lifelessly at his side.

He looked at Ryou. "It was wrong," he said. "The thing you were going to say."

Ryou had made a mistake. He saw it now: the reason he'd been burned. He'd thought that as long as he pretended he didn't know what was going on, he could prolong the moment when he'd have to call it by name. A stupid thing to do. Malik had his own capacity for self-awareness. Of course he'd noticed that things had changed. Of course he'd made his own assumptions about what was happening.

"No," Ryou said, heavily. "It wasn't wrong."

Malik had an uncertain look in his eyes, a tense bearing in his shoulders. As a woman brushed by him, he almost seemed to shudder, his head swinging too quickly toward her, his hands clenching into fists, just for a moment.

It wouldn't do any good to talk here, in a press of people, lights beating down on their heads. "Come on," Ryou said. "Follow me."

They snaked their way through the doors. The moment they stepped out of the building, the warm night air crushed them like a vise. City lights reflected off low, heavy clouds, the air sticky and acidic. It would start to rain soon.

It was quieter out here, but there were still people in every corner: couples strolling hand in hand, groups of friends loitering on the grass. A pair of kids screamed across the walkway in front of them, their parents nowhere to be seen.

Seeking somewhere private, Ryou guided them to the administration building next door. Behind it was a small undeveloped clearing: a couple trees that had been left standing in order to elevate the eyeline and provide some visual interest. He'd been here before: the ground was hard and stony, the wire fence and power boxes unaesthetic. No one else came back here except the occasional office worker looking for a private place to smoke. This late, with the building empty, there'd be no one around.

Stepping carefully on the uneven ground, they made their way into the clearing, maneuvering past hedges taller than they were. Tree branches extended overhead, obscuring the imposing shapes of the stormclouds.

Ryou stopped. The streetlights from the main path were obscured by the walls of the building. A single room on the third story, far above them, was their main source of illumination, and even that was barely enough for him to see the outline of Malik's shoulders, his hair wavering in a swift breeze as he waited a few feet away.

"I didn't want to ask about this," Ryou said. "But I think I have to. Or you're going to get confused about what's going on."

Malik said nothing, but Ryou could hear him breathing in the dark. Carefully, he took a step closer, feeling out the rocky soil under his feet. He lowered his voice.

"The Spirit of the Ring," he said. "You loved him, didn't you?"

He heard Malik take another breath. Then another.

"It's okay if you did," Ryou said. "It's…okay. It is. But I need to know."

His eyes were adjusting to the dark; he could see Malik shaking his head, hair swaying in front of his face.

"I don't understand—"

"Yes, you do."

Malik raised a hand to his face, then lowered it again.

"I don't understand," he repeated, dully.

"Look, I get it if you don't want to talk about it. But we have to. I think you're—"

"It wasn't like that."

"What?"

"It wasn't like that," Malik repeated. He pressed his hands to his face, his voice muffled as he spoke to Ryou through his fingers. His shirt stood out pale in the dark: a frigid shadow. "You couldn't understand. You didn't know—you didn't know a damned thing about what was going on, so what could you fucking have to say about it? Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me what you fucking think? I—"

The shadow twisted, obscured as Malik folded over himself, panting. Another spate of words began to stream out his mouth, the consonants hard and undecipherable. Ryou didn't know what language Malik was speaking, but that didn't matter. He didn't have to know the words to understand where this was going.

He was just taking a step back when Malik lunged forward.

The uneven ground helped as much as it hindered: as Ryou retreated, he stepped on a rock and lost his footing. The ground was sloped, and he stumbled backward several more steps, his velocity increasing until he slammed into the brick wall behind him.

All his breath left him at once, but the impact lingered, tremors reverberating up his spine all the way to his skull. Rattled, he gasped for air and stared into the dark, fingers scrabbling at the rough surface of the wall. Finally he seemed to find his feet under him; he balanced, inhaled, took stock. He wasn't hurt. He could make out Malik's shape nearby, crouched close to the ground. He was doing something else now. Ryou heard the sound of rocks and gravel shifting.

It was warning enough. When he saw motion—just a smeared shape in the dark—he ducked, and a handful of gravel smattered harmlessly off the bricks above him. Warily, he edged backward along the wall, making some distance between them, but Malik didn't throw anything else.

Ryou stood still, waiting, for one minute. Then another. The wind rose, whipping in a sudden gallop through the branches, and a little later he heard the unmistakable slap of fat raindrops hitting the building above him. The rain picked up: it hammered now, smashing through the trees and into the ground. He was safe, here against the wall, but he saw the dark shape of Malik's shoulders shift, his head rising to look up at the sky.

Malik moved again—Ryou could see his body shifting in the dark—and then he spoke:

"Are you all right?"

Ryou could hardly hear him over the rain. "I'm fine," he said. "Are you?"

Malik didn't answer. Tentatively, Ryou poked his way along the wall toward him. As he left the shelter of the building, rain pelted his shoulders, but he ignored it, lifting the hood of his coat and moving closer to join Malik in a crouch.

He was already soaked, having made no effort to shield himself from the rain. Ryou looked around, futilely, for the umbrella. If Malik had dropped it, it would be impossible to find in the dark. Maybe it had rolled down against the building.

Slowly, Malik sat back on his heels. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his right eye, and then his left.

"'You couldn't understand'," he said.

Ryou paused, and eventually Malik leaned forward again, crossing his arms over his knees. He turned his head toward Ryou, but in the dark, his expression was hard to make out. ""I keep hearing it," he said flatly.

"Oh."

"That word," Malik said. "Love. It has made us angry. Perhaps I do not understand, either. It is true, yes?"

Ryou paused. They needed to find shelter; the rain was only going to get worse. "I don't have an answer for you," he told Malik, and stood up. "But if you want, I'll tell you what I do know, and you can decide for yourself."

When Malik hesitated, Ryou held out a hand. "At home," he said. "Let's get out of this for now. I think there's a storm coming."

They picked their way back across the campus. When Ryou tried to point Malik toward the auditorium, where a crowd of people had gathered under the eaves, Malik ignored him and kept forging through the rain. Surrendering, Ryou pulled his coat closer and followed Malik down the tree-lined walk. The train station wasn't far, and while Ryou disliked the idea of walking through a spring storm without adequate weather protection, he was in no mood for crowded public spaces. He had a feeling Malik wasn't, either.

You couldn't understand.

Ryou knew, logically, that the other Malik had spoken in anger: that he'd said things in a way that was calculated to hurt. Ryou knew that, but logic didn't stop the slow spread of uncertainty that crept under his skin, or the pinprick of doubt in the back of his mind.

It wouldn't be useful to dwell on those feelings. Best not to think about them at all.

He quickened his stride, dodged a brimming puddle. Malik, whose legs were longer, kept outpacing him.

The streetlights shimmered off of a thousand slick surfaces, yellow sparks appearing only a moment before they disappeared under a new deluge. Water seeped up the legs of Ryou's jeans as it streamed past him into the storm drains. In shallower sections of the sidewalk, pools were forming, some of them almost too wide to step over.

The pools were tricky to spot in the dark — focused more on keeping his shoes dry than where he was going, Ryou only saw the subway entrance a moment before he collided with it. He stumbled to the side and grabbed at the handrail for balance.

Malik was almost fifty meters ahead. He had stopped walking to stare into a brightly lit window. Fluorescent tones gleamed through the glass and reflected against his skin, outlining the curve of his brow, the bridge of his nose.

Ryou called his name. Malik turned, slowly, in Ryou's direction.

His hair was plastered against his face and down his neck, his white shirt so wet it was translucent: as he lifted an arm to point at something in the window, Ryou could see the dark outline of his tattoos through the fabric. Ryou opened his mouth to call again, but Malik had turned away.

Ryou watched him go inside the building.

The subway stairs beckoned. Ryou could picture the bright open tunnels beneath his feet: how dry they must be, and how quickly they'd get him home. Rain pounded on the hood of his jacket as he looked again down the block. Malik hadn't emerged.

Reluctantly, Ryou approached the window. The bright light was coming from a convenience store, one he hadn't been to before. Ryou scanned the glass, but it was just advertisements, nothing notable. Inside, he caught a glimpse of Malik marching toward the counter, his arms full of—

Oh no.

When Ryou stepped inside the store, bells jingling over his head, Malik was already shoving his assortment of silver cans toward the cashier. One of them was tilted slightly in Ryou's direction, the gold star on the label visible, but Ryou didn't need to see labels to identify what Malik was casually arranging on the counter.

"Hey," he said. "No. We're not doing this."

Malik took a handful of bills out of his wallet and put them down. Idly, he picked up a can, examined it, then pulled the tab. The beer—an Asahi—let out a crisp tsst and then a metallic snap, eloquently drowning out Ryou's disapproval.

Malik took a long drink before setting the can down. As he pocketed his change, he turned in Ryou's direction, calmly.

"Yes," he said. "We are."

Ryou, fighting a sickening urge to flee, stayed rooted between the aisles of snack food and school supplies. It wasn't prudishness — he'd been around alcohol and was neither enticed nor disgusted by it. No, that thing he felt was the slipping terror of impotence. Malik had been accommodating over the last few days, and Ryou had mistaken that indifference for subservience. He'd imagined himself leashing Malik's wilder tendencies. But there was no leash. Malik could walk free at any moment. He might be doing it right now.

Malik had mistaken his silence for reluctance. "It's all right," he said, and held out the pale can with a gold star on it. "Join me."

Ryou recoiled away from that outstretched offering. He turned toward the door, reached for the handle, braced himself for those jangling bells—

The door opened—only an inch—and then slammed shut again. No bells. Stupidly, ineffectually, Ryou pulled on the handle again. Then he saw the hand above his head, holding the door closed, and felt the warm pressure of another body pressed against his back.

Malik was leaning over Ryou's shoulder, his weight against the door. Unwilling to let go of his only chance at escape, Ryou adjusted his grip on the handle.

In the reflection of the glass, Ryou could see Malik take a breath, could feel his chest expanding. His hair, dripping wet, made a dozen tiny impacts on Ryou's head and shoulders.

He didn't speak above a whisper. It didn't matter. His voice still cut through Ryou's skin, lighting up his nerves like a switchboard.

"Join me," he repeated. "It will help."

Their eyes met through the glass. Ryou renewed his grip on the door, his palm sweaty against the brass. "How?"

There was a small light in Malik's eyes, a note of grim amusement in his voice. "You were worried, before. But not now." His voice lowered. "It is easier to hold onto anger, yes?"

"I'm not angry."

"I think you are."

A hiss made its way through Ryou's clenched teeth. He was angry, but not at Malik. He was angry at himself: for thinking he could control this situation, for letting the delusion drag out this long, for believing the stupid weak part of him that said he could get away with a few days of playing pretend with no repercussions and no scars.

Malik, perhaps satisfied, straightened up, putting a few more inches of space between them. "You can be angry," he said. "Anger, I understand. Just do this with me."

Ryou dared a look over his shoulder. Malik's head was down, his expression somber, but when he saw Ryou's expression, his lips pressed together briefly: a shadow of a smile.

"It will quiet my other self," he said. "And perhaps…that will make whatever you have to say easier."

Ryou thought about it. He didn't let go of the door. "We go home first," he said. "Then I'll do whatever you want."

Malik nodded, with no sign of triumph, and released the door. Before Malik could say anything else, Ryou slipped outside. He stood under a canopy and waited until Malik reemerged, a paper bag in his arms. Together, without speaking, they made their way to the subway.

They didn't talk on the train. Ryou stared out the window and watched the dark tunnels streak across the glass.

He tried not to look in Malik's direction. He was calm, even if his body didn't seem to agree: it would sweat or shake or raise his pulse at inconvenient moments. He didn't want Malik to notice, even if it meant nothing. And it did mean nothing. The future could be predicted. The end was coming, and that was a good thing. He needed to get some space, some perspective.

When they got home, Ryou insisted on changing his clothes. He pointed out the hairdryer and towels and left Malik to handle his own needs. In the meantime, he scrounged up an elastic and tied back his own hair — only slightly damp around the edges — and sat on the kitchen floor with a sweaty can of Super Dry.

It was cold and light, just slightly sweet. Not what he'd normally crave on a cold wet night, but despite its lack of comforting properties it did promise to make hard things easier, and he needed that promise now. He downed the entire can, in long quick gulps, and then, shivering, set it down on the floor beside him. He propped up his knees and leaned forward, pressing his face into his arms. His head hurt again: a stinging pressure that pushed against the back of his eyes.

Beyond the bathroom door, he could hear the dull roar of the hair dryer. Eventually it shut off, and Ryou listened with his eyes closed to the sound of the bathroom door opening. The floor vibrated as Malik came closer, with one larger tremor as he lowered himself down beside Ryou, and then came the hiss of another can snapping open, a heavy sigh, a faint ringing tap as Malik set the can down. Farther away, Ryou could still hear the distant crack of thunder, the rhythmic roar of the rain. The storm was in full force now. It would batter the city until late into the night.

"It is unkind," Malik said. "To make your guest drink alone."

An attempt at humor? Ryou couldn't tell. He twisted his head, enough to get one eye on Malik. Eloquently, he picked up the empty can beside him, tapped it on the ground so Malik could hear the echo.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm kind."

Malik smiled, took another can out of the bag and slid it over the ground toward Ryou. Ryou didn't touch it, and when Malik didn't say anything else, he turned his head back into the darkness.

Nice and kind. That was a joke.

They sat in silence for a long time. Every minute or so Malik took a sip of beer. Eventually Ryou heard the rustle of the paper bag as Malik retrieved another can. He'd drunk one on the walk home, so this must be his third. Ryou sat up and watched Malik snap the lid open. This one had the gold star on it. Sapporo.

He eyed the can Malik had given him earlier. Another gold star. Tentatively he opened it and took a sip.

Dry, flat. It wasn't any better than the Asahi. Ruefully, Ryou kept drinking. Malik should have bought shochu, or whiskey. They'd have to drink gallons of this for it to do any good.

"My sister is kind," Malik said abruptly. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the laminate cabinet.

Ryou eyed him and took another reluctant sip of beer. "Isis?"

"Mhm. My brother, too."

Were they making small talk now? It was better than talking about the obvious. Ryou swirled the liquid in his can, gauging the volume, then tilted his head back to down the rest. He grimaced as the liquid seeped down his throat, cold tendrils reaching out to clench at his lungs.

He didn't know how to talk about family. Didn't know why Malik wanted to. That first morning, he'd seemed so frightened at the prospect of being found. "I thought you hated them."

Malik shook his head, the cabinet behind him creaking. "They hate me."

"That can't be true."

Ryou had met the Ishtar family a few times. He'd found Isis and Rishid to be elegant, somber people. Distant, but they'd been exceedingly polite—and they'd doted on their brother.

Malik's hands pressed limply into the floor on either side of him, as if he were testing the solidity of the world underneath him. "I am not their brother," he said. "And yet I am. I make things…complicated. They wish I did not exist."

Before Ryou could digest this, Malik opened his eyes and saw the empty can dangling from Ryou's hand. He reached out to take it, peered inside, and looked up at Ryou.

"Another?"

Ryou didn't need to answer; Malik saw the look on Ryou's face and paused, mercifully. "Not to your taste?"

"Just not my thing," Ryou said. "But I can keep going if you want to."

Malik gave him a brief smile then—a merciful moment of warmth—and then reached for his own beer. "A good host," he said.

Ryou watched him swallow, saw the muscles in his throat jump. A stray drop of water streaked down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. He'd done an uneven job with the hair dryer: only the top layer of his hair was dry.

Malik put the empty can down. "I remember," he said, roughly, "My other self eating fruit…in the market. After we left the darkness. It was our first day in the sun. And our sister brought us dates." He shook his head, his hair swaying through the air as he looked up at Ryou.

"You are like them," he said. "I think. They would—for my other self—she would take him places. Isis would buy him dates. Rishid would give him clothes. They would lie beside him when he could not sleep." Malik looked at Ryou, and his eyes were wide, weirdly dilated, his expression strange and desperate. "They would not do that for me. But you—"

"No," Ryou said sharply. Malik blinked at him: confused, vaguely wounded. Desperate for somewhere else to look, Ryou stared at the floor, at the brassy shine of a transition strip where the carpet met the linoleum, and tracked that golden light across the floor to the wall, where it burrowed into the baseboard. "You have the wrong idea," he said. "I'm not like them at all."

"But you—"

"I had my reasons," Ryou said. "It wasn't kindness." Already the words were creeping up, trying to find their way out of his throat. He didn't want to tell the truth. He didn't want to admit how selfish he'd been.

Malik was still and silent beside him. Ryou refused to look in his direction, and finally he heard Malik sigh, the heave of his chest reverberating through the cabinet at his back.

"You are angry," Malik said. "I understand that. I don't understand why."

Carefully, Ryou turned toward him. Malik was staring at the ceiling. His hands were draped loosely over his legs, his limp posture belying the strange tension in his voice.

"I used to be angry, too," he said. "At my siblings. I used to want to destroy them." He made a strange sound, and it took Ryou a moment to clock it as laughter. It wasn't like any kind of sound he'd heard from Malik before — sharp and desperate and brief, like a gasp—but there was no light in his eyes when he turned his head in Ryou's direction.

"I would have killed them," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "I tried. I wanted to. I did want to."

His eyes lowered; he stared at the floor without seeing it. "Now," he said. "I cannot find the thing I want. My other self has changed. He is angry, but I cannot find his anger. I do not understand him. I do not understand you. I want to be angry, too. Anger will tell me what to do."

The distant hum of the rain buzzed in Ryou's ears, his throat closing over words he didn't want to say, but there was no way around it anymore.

"Anger won't help this time," he said. He met Malik's questioning gaze, tried to smile and failed. "It's not your fault. There's just nothing you can do."

Malik was shaking his head. He didn't understand. Ryou had to explain: he knew that. But he didn't want to. It had been hard enough for him to emerge from that pit, hard enough to take years, and he didn't want to dive back in, not even to help someone else who was drowning.

But there was no one else. He'd invited Malik to stay, had promised to help him. And he was the only one who knew. He pressed his face into his arm, spoke into the fabric of his sweater. "Your other self," he said. "The thing he wanted. You won't find it. It's gone."

"The thief?" Malik said, and Ryou nodded.

"Because he is dead?"

Ryou nodded again, and then heard Malik laugh. He looked up, alarmed, to see Malik shaking his head, leaning forward.

"No," Malik said. "No. I am here to fix the broken thing. I cannot want what is impossible."

"People want the impossible all the time!"

Ryou had spoken too harshly—Malik was staring at him, mouth slack with surprise. Struggling to tamp down his anger, to inject some empathy into his voice, Ryou tried again: "What makes you think you're special? Maybe your other self just didn't like how he felt. Maybe he just wanted a break, or—"

Unbidden, the image of the yellow post-it note floated before his eyes. The faded scrawl of an old message, forgotten among the detritus of the past.

"—Or maybe it just hit him all at once," he finished, hoarsely. That note was nothing, garbage—but in Malik's hands it had taken on religious significance, become the symbol of a pilgrimage he could never take. And he'd tried anyway, followed it all the way to Ryou's apartment, looking for someone that wasn't there anymore, because the apartment was empty, its only living occupant an abandoned vessel, with nothing of value left inside—

Ryou's fingernails were digging into his arms, snagging on the seams of his sweater. He forced them loose, squeezed his hands into fists. Stupid, stupid. He was past all this. He'd moved on. He was normal.

"No," Malik said. He was shaking his head, slowly. "No. Why did I come here?" he asked. "There was a reason—"

"There's no reason," Ryou said bitterly. "There's just me."

He loosened a fist, felt the tremor that threatened its way down his arm, and shut it tight again. "Maybe to you, I look like him," he said. "I tried to talk to you about him, once. Maybe you knew I was the only other person who would understand. Your other self—there was something between him and the Spirit, I think. I don't know the details—" he stumbled over his words, took another, shakier, breath. "But it wasn't enough. Neither of us were. Nothing could make him stay.

"I think you came here to wait for him to come back. But he's not coming back. He's gone."

Malik sat forward. His eyes were fixed on the table in front of them. The empty beer can, forgotten, was slowly being crushed in his fist. His lips parted slightly, the faintest twist of a grin trembling at the edge of his open mouth, as if he wanted to smile, but had forgotten how. Without warning, he stood up, letting the can clatter against the floor, and crossed to the table.

In one fluid motion, he gripped it with both hands and heaved, knocking it and the chair to the floor.

A coffee mug had shattered on the linoleum, pieces streaking along the floor. Malik watched as Ryou reached out to pick one up, a chunk of black ceramic with the Domino History Museum logo still visible on one side.

"I apologize," Malik said. When their eyes met, he gave Ryou a hollow smile. "I had to make sure."

Ryou returned the smile, equally hollow. He understood. He'd gone through this too, the cycles of useless anger and unbearable loneliness. He too had tried to use rage to dig himself out of the black hole the Spirit of the Ring had left for him, but misery had dulled the edges of his feelings, made things like anger and nostalgia lose all poignancy, until the entire world had lost its sharpness and become a blur of pale colors, signifying nothing.

Ryou watched Malik trudge across the room to the front door and throw it open. For a moment, the sound of the rain and wind drowned out the ache in his throat; a distant roll of thunder settled over his body like a veil, softening the sharpest edges of his thoughts.

In the end, it hadn't mattered that the Spirit had hurt him. It hadn't mattered that he'd been used. Telling himself that he was free didn't make him happy. The relief he'd felt when he'd finally admitted to himself that he missed the Spirit of the Ring, despite everything, was all that had gotten him through the dread months of depression, when he'd blamed himself for everything that had happened.

Now he didn't blame anyone. He couldn't change his feelings, and the Thief had been caught in a trap of his own, one that hinged on his own death. There had been no way to change their course. It wasn't that bastard's fault that he'd died, and it wasn't Ryou's fault that he'd been left to live on alone.

Gingerly, Ryou got up. As he made his way across the disrupted landscape, his steps seemed heavier, the world approaching at a tilt: evidence of the alcohol that had finally reached his bloodstream.

As he approached, Malik moved aside to make room for him in the doorway, where the rain scattered over the threshold in cold bursts. Silently, they stood shoulder to shoulder, watching miniature pools and streams forming in the concrete landscape. Trees in the distance rippled in the dark, bent low by the storm that moved laboriously over the city, a gigantic crawling thing unmoved by the tiny lives it crushed on its journey from the sea.

"It's weird," Ryou said. "I'm glad I'm not the only one who knew him. It seemed, sometimes, like the Spirit—I don't know. Needed people. You—your other self—must have seen something, made him feel understood. But—"

He crossed his arms, uncrossed them. This is why he didn't like to drink. He couldn't stand this slipping world, the clashing tides of recklessness and despondency that now seemed to rise through his body. Malik was wrong. None of this was any easier.

"But it really sucks, too," he said. "Before, I could tell myself that I had to remember him, because no one else would. I guess I thought that made me special. But I wasn't, was I? You knew him too. Maybe even better than I did."

It was a net across the abyss: a plea for Malik to tell Ryou what he was thinking. But Malik said nothing. It was as if he hadn't even heard him.

It wasn't like that. You couldn't understand.

Ryou had thought he knew what happened. He'd imagined what might have transpired between the Malik Ishtar and the Spirit of the Ring, but Malik had insisted he was wrong. Maybe Ryou was wrong. Maybe he'd catastrophized, jumping to the worst possible conclusion—

Or maybe Malik thought he didn't deserve to know. Who was Ryou to say otherwise? He'd already proved his uselessness.

Malik shifted his weight, leaning outward to catch a spritz of rain on his palm. He brought it back to the light of the doorway, watching the divergent trails the water made down the contours of his fingers as he twisted his hand one way, and then the other.

"My other self," he murmured, "Created me to do what he could not. To kill our father. To carry his hate. I remember those things. When the shame grows heavy, I carry that too. We wanted to kill the Pharaoh. I could have done it; I could have carried even that. But this—"

His eyes were bleak as he lowered his hand. "I can not undo death," he said. "Impossible. You kill a man, a man is dead."

"That's okay," Ryou said. "You don't have to undo anything."

Malik still stared out into the dark. "I could have stopped him."

"He was dead when you met him," Ryou said wearily. He'd had these arguments with himself once already. He didn't want to relieve them now. "Dead and cursed. There was nothing you could have done."

Malik swerved on him. "Then how should I survive?" he asked desperately. "What do I become?"

Ryou didn't have the answer Malik wanted. He knew, as well as Malik did, that loss was harder to live with than hate. Loss couldn't sustain a body the way rage would. The only answer he had was the same one the Spirit had given him, the day Ryou had asked how he could bet his life on a losing game.

"You do what you have to," he said. "And you don't stop. Not until you get through it."

Malik was still staring at him. He was waiting, as if he expected something more. As if Ryou could give a better answer, and chose not to.

Ryou pressed his lips together, withstood the stare. "It's just grief," he said, more gently. "Just bear it for a little while. People survive it all the time."

Malik's voice was quiet. "You knew."

It was the accusation Ryou had expected, but it came too late for him to respond with anything more than a shudder. He was too tired to explain, too frustrated to apologize.

But Malik didn't care; he leaned toward him, encroaching into his space until Ryou shrank into the doorframe. It was a poor defense: Malik still loomed over him with those wide bloodshot eyes, that strange desperate expression.

"You knew why I came here," he said, "And you did not tell me."

"I guessed," Ryou said, making every effort not to meet those eyes. "And I didn't know what you'd do if I tried to—to force you to understand. And then—"

His face heated, and he hesitated, struggling for words that could be true without condemning him. He didn't think there were any. "It was nice, you know? Feeling important again. Interesting. It was obvious that you were confusing me for him, on some level. I know it was wrong, but…"

A golden line was shining on the balcony before him: the reflection of the porch light against wet metal, a yellow star fighting against the deluge. He pressed his foot into the metal bar underneath him, felt the ridges digging into his skin. "That's why you can't say I'm kind," he said. "I'm not. I wanted it to feel like it did before. I used you. I don't have an excuse. I knew what I was doing."

Malik hadn't moved, but now a tremor seemed to move over him, like a tree meeting the first bite of an axe.

"I know who you are," he said.

A laugh forced its way out of Ryou's chest. The sound was too loud, unnatural in his ears. "It's okay," he said. "It doesn't really bother me, getting mixed up with him. Not anymore. It's almost—"

Malik slammed his hand into the doorframe above Ryou's head. Instinctively, Ryou tried to draw back, but he'd done that already. There was nowhere left for him to go.

Malik only looked at him, a deep furrow between his eyes.

"I know what I know," he said.

The hairs on Ryou's scalp twitched. He could sense Malik's arm just beside his head, the thick immovable presence of it. Something about its obduracy, about Malik's presumptions and assertions, had rankled, and now, as Ryou pressed himself into a corner for what felt like the hundredth time that week, his nerves, already rubbed raw, split open.

"You don't know anything," he said. "So back off, okay? You can't bully me into being the person that you want—"

Malik recoiled. "You are not—"

"You don't know what I am!" Ryou snapped. "You don't know me. You don't know anything about me. I'm not him! I'm nothing—"

A white light flashed. For a moment, Ryou saw Malik's face in stark relief; a speechless tableau in black and white, and then, with a crackle of electricity and a distant pop, all the lights went out. Motionless, they faced each other, thunder rolling over them in the dark.

Somewhere, a transformer must have blown.

Ryou pressed his hands to his face. A flood of words had stockpiled in his throat, things he'd been swallowing for days and years, things he'd been longing to scream until his throat wore out.

He'd have to push those feelings away a little longer. If he unloosed that vitriol now, he didn't think it would ever end, and if he wasn't a good person, at least he was a fair one. Malik didn't deserve that. He wasn't the person Ryou was furious with.

"They'll get the power back up in a minute," he said, with some effort. "You okay?"

"Yes," Malik said quietly. "You—"

"It's fine," Ryou said. "Just drop it."

The streetlights flickered back on. The apartment lights didn't, but it was enough for Ryou to see that Malik was watching him. There was shock and sorrow on his face, and and something else too—

Intense scrutiny. That was it. There was some question on his mind, one he was waiting for Ryou to answer.

Ryou had no more answers. He stepped back to toggle the light switch, but nothing happened. He tested it a few times, frowning. A problem with the fuse box? Someone else would call the landlord, but that might take hours.

He was debating whether it was worth breaking into the basement to reset it himself when he noticed Malik closing the door.

"What are you doing?"

Malik turned to look at him.

"I'm tired," he said. "I want to sleep."

Coming from anyone else, it was the most innocuous answer in the world. From Malik, it set off an insensible burst of fear in Ryou's chest. Don't, he wanted to say. Wait. Stop— but he had no right to say those words.

Hadn't he already done enough?

"Okay," he muttered, his mouth suddenly dry. "Yeah, that's probably best."

Uneasily, he hovered by the door, standing on the wet linoleum as he listened to Malik move around the apartment in the dark. Golden streetlight streamed through the blinds, outlining his dark shadow as he bent over the futon mattress.

Ryou should have gone to bed, too. His head was starting to pound again. Still he stayed in place, frozen on the empty threshold. When the apartment was dark and still, and he heard Malik's deep, regular breathing—when he knew that tonight there would be no muttered chant, no rhythmic litany—Ryou made his way to the bed, carefully stepping over Malik's prone body, and sat down. Silently, he pressed his thumbs into the skin between his eyes in a useless effort to alleviate his headache.

He hadn't brought up the runes on the mirror. Malik didn't seem to register them as important, which was just as well. Ryou wasn't sure yet they meant anything, didn't want to drag out a false hope any longer —

No. He should at least be honest with himself. They did mean something, even if he didn't trust that their message was benevolent. Not that it mattered. Whatever they said, he was going to be the first one to read it.

It wasn't selfish as much as it was calculated. This was what he told himself, sitting in the dark. If they were important, he'd tell Malik what they said. If he was still around by then.

If they were dangerous—well, at least no one else would get hurt.

He felt jittery. His blood was still churning through the alcohol, and had since been flooded with unspent adrenaline. He wouldn't be able to sleep anytime soon. He had a flashlight somewhere. Maybe he'd do a little studying and hope for a late-night epiphany. Or maybe it would be better to dig up a book, or his GameBoy: go back to the things that used to matter, half a week ago.

He didn't do any of those things. He stayed where he was, breathing slowly through the gap between his wrists. Behind him, the storm continued to pound against the window. Tomorrow, he'd heard, the rain would stop.

The Spirit of the Ring had always hated the rain. Maybe that explained this strange sense of foreboding. Or maybe it was the presence of Malik's sleeping body at Ryou's feet: imposing and physical and still. Visions of tombs floated over the surface of his mind: impressions in the stones, the distant shearing of wind through the dunes.

Just like old times, he thought bitterly. What he'd always wanted.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Hopefully the next few chapters are a little shorter and I can get them out faster [doubt]

Next time, some familiar faces come calling.