Content warnings for this chapter: physical assault & injury, blood mention, name-calling
7.
Ryou woke, afraid and disoriented, to a clattering sound. Crows screeched on the roof. It was dawn, or close to it: a pale grey seeped into the room, shadows left congealing in the corners. His hand was cramping. In his sleep, it had instinctively curled around the handle of the knife under his pillow.
Something clattered again. This time, he recognized where it was coming from: the crows were hurling nuts against the shingles in order to crack them open, the discarded shells rolling into the gutter above his window.
He let go of the knife and rolled over. It wasn't just his hand: his head hurt, too. He hadn't slept well. For what felt like hours, he'd laid awake, lost in a shallow, restless immobility. His thoughts had crawled from idea to idea with no purpose or logic, but he hadn't been able to stop thinking. Eventually he must have stumbled into sleep; he could remember dreaming of stone, and darkness, and the constant, silvery trickle of sand from a high place. He couldn't remember why the dreams had been unpleasant, but they were: he'd woken choking on dread, his shoulders aching from tension.
His sweater scratched against his face as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He'd slept in his clothes.
Malik was on the floor, silent and immoveable. He was asleep, or seemed to be—Ryou couldn't see his face, tucked into the crook of an arm, but his body was still, his breathing regular.
Ryou had half-expected him to be gone by now. He examined himself for relief, or for disappointment, but he could only identify a pounding headache and a crawling, spiked sense of irritation.
It would have been easier if Malik had just left.
Carefully, negotiating both his tender skull and the prone body beside him, Ryou made his way off the bed and into the bathroom.
The light wouldn't turn on. He fumbled in the dim space under the cabinet until his hand closed on the ibuprofen bottle. Crouching over the sink, he took two and then washed his face, which at least made him feel half-alive, even if the bitter taste of the tablets made him want to hurl. He wasn't sure if the nausea was from the headache or the beers he'd had last night — he didn't drink enough to know if this was a hangover—but likely it was all one and the same, his dry-mouthed reward for last night's foolishness.
All that vulnerability, with nothing to show for it. He took a moment to curse Malik for making such a useless suggestion. Ryou wouldn't make that mistake again.
He cleaned himself as best he could in the dark, trying to make as little noise as possible. Too ill-tempered to bother with changing clothes, he switched out his sweater for a more comfortable hoodie before he crept out the front door.
He made sure to close the door just a little too hard, and then he stood on the balcony a moment, relishing the cool morning air. The parking lot was glassy with rainwater, the sky above him brightening. They might actually see some sun today.
Ryou made his way downstairs and around the back of the building, where a small stairwell hid a doorway to the basement. There were a couple of old laundry machines down here that didn't work anymore, and a few extraneous pieces of furniture: lawn chairs, a foosball table, open house placards - and the fuse box.
The door was already open. His landlord was inside, talking to a man in a jumpsuit. When they saw Ryou hesitating on the threshold, they broke off their conversation and reassured him that the power would be back soon. Ryou left before the conversation turned personal, though not before his landlord, a well-meaning, potbellied woman, asked if he was all right.
"You look a little pale," she'd said.
Back outside, he found himself pacing around the parking lot. He'd hoped that resetting the fuse box would be a quick fix for the power, but it had also been an excuse to get out of the apartment. Now he had nowhere else to be.
He considered walking down to the convenience store. That could burn an hour. He didn't want to sit in the apartment, dark and buckling under the silence, and wait for judgment.
He stood there a few minutes, testing his nerve, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Going downstairs was one thing. This felt like running away.
Better to get it over with quickly. Ryou went back up the stairs.
The apartment was still dark, sunlight only starting to slant through the window. Malik was sitting up, the blanket pooled in his lap as he ran his hands through his hair, but he froze when the door opened, his face turning towards Ryou.
Malik's eyes were sharp. Sharp too, was the downward twist at the edge of his mouth. "God-fucking-damn it," he said, in perfect English, and then added, in Japanese: "I should have known. How long have I been here?"
When Ryou didn't answer, Malik sniffed, looked around the room. "Great," he murmured. He added something else under his breath, and then struggled to his feet. He swayed a bit, standing there, before he turned back to Ryou. "So? Answer me."
Ryou found his voice. "What?"
"What day is it?"
"…Saturday?"
"Shit." Malik ran a hand over his face. It paused as it reached his mouth, his eyes fluttering closed. He looked ill. A faint gloss of sweat shone against his skin, a distinct tremor making its way up his legs as he took a deep breath.
Reluctantly, Ryou took a step forward. "Maybe you should—"
"Don't touch me."
Ryou stopped. "Are—are you okay?"
Malik dropped his hand. "What do you think?"
He wouldn't look at Ryou. He was looking around the apartment again. Looking for something. He located the bathroom door and lurched toward it.
"Wait," Ryou said. "There's no light—"
The door slammed shut.
Ryou stood in the center of the room, slowly curling his fingers into his jeans, his fingernails scraping against the ridges of the denim. There was no sound from the other side of the bathroom door.
Malik should have just left during the night. He should have left the moment they both knew he would. What was Ryou supposed to do, with this hot and fraying temper he didn't understand? What could he offer Malik now, besides an apology? Surely Malik hadn't stayed for that.
Ryou eyed the door. White laminate over plyboard, with nothing but silence behind it. Maybe he was overthinking this. Malik was obviously overwhelmed. Maybe he didn't know what he wanted, either.
Reluctantly, Ryou went to the closet and picked over the clothes scattered around the floor, looking for something clean. He assembled a set and made a tidy pile beside the bathroom door, then rummaged through the storage bin under his bed until he found a flashlight.
"Malik," he said, setting the flashlight atop the pile. "The power's still out. I think the water heater is still working, if you want to…I don't know. Shower. Whatever you need. There's more stuff in the cabinet. I'm going to leave a light and some clothes here by the door. If you want them."
There was no answer, but Ryou knew better than to wait for one. He retreated and turned on the radio, an expedited way to create the illusion of privacy in his small apartment, and then went into the kitchen, carefully stepping around broken shards of a coffee mug and the upended table.
He righted the table and swept up the ceramic, then bagged up the empty cans and took the recycling out. When he came back, the pile by the door was gone.
With nothing better to do, he busied himself with trying to figure out how to heat a pot of water. He found some tealight candles and started arranging them in rows on the counter. In the walls, he heard the rush of water through the pipes. A shower would give Malik some time to cool off, at least.
Maybe Ryou shouldn't have been so calm, but he didn't know what else he could do. In the face of uncertainty, his senses always seemed to go cold, his thoughts arriving in stately, logical processions. Later, when he was alone, things would fly apart, and he would relive the last few days, enumerating every inevitable mistake, but right now, in the eye of it, he just had to get Malik out the door: end things in the most painless way possible.
Do what you have to do. And don't stop.
He lit the candles, then used a set of matching bowls to balance a metal grate above them. A lidded saucepan went on top, filled with enough water for two cups of tea. While he waited, Ryou leaned on the counter, watching rows of tiny flames.
There didn't need to be any apologies. Hadn't he apologized already, and hadn't Malik wronged him, too? Hadn't he inconvenienced Ryou for three days, threatened him, and destroyed his property? They'd apologized to each other, as much as they needed to. This new Malik was a blank slate. They didn't owe each other anything.
He eyed the still surface of the water. This might take a while. Sighing, he pushed himself up and checked the fridge.
Most food would have spoiled after a night without power, but the shelves was almost empty. Malik had eaten him out of house and home. Systematically, Ryou went through what was left, tossing out what wouldn't keep.
By the time he'd taken the garbage out again, there were small bubbles collecting at the bottom of the pan. Carefully, he transferred the water into two mugs, outfitted with some bagged tea he'd found in the back of a drawer. While he waited for it to steep, he browsed through the fruit that Malik had brought back the day before. He pulled out two pears and sliced them, but it was more out of boredom than hunger. He didn't feel quite as terrible as he had when he'd gotten up, but it'd still be a while before he had anything approaching an appetite.
He was halfway through his cup when Malik finally emerged from the bathroom.
It was the most presentable he'd looked all week. The clothes were as ill-fitting as ever, but Malik had made an effort to amend this by rolling up sleeves and tucking in loose ends. And he'd apparently had no qualms about going through Ryou's toiletries, either — he had some kind of product in his hair, and even appeared to be wearing eyeliner, though Ryou had no idea where he'd found that.
He'd also taken the bandages off his hands - Ryou could see the red lacerations on his palm as Malik pulled anxiously at his collar.
"The fuck you looking at?"
Ryou shrugged from his seat at the kitchen table, where he'd been paging through Languages of the World. "There's hot tea," he said. "If you want it."
A small furrow appeared between Malik's eyebrows as he looked over at the setup on the kitchen counter. Ryou had put the second mug over a single candle to keep it warm. A plate of sliced pears, untouched, sat beside it.
"Help yourself," Ryou said, and went back to reading.
He got through two paragraphs before Malik spoke again. This time, his voice seemed a little hoarse. "You have coffee?"
Ryou frowned, ignoring the little spark of irritation that had ignited in his chest. Maybe Malik wasn't being pointlessly demanding. Maybe this personality had more defined tastes, and less developed manners.
Either way, the answer was the same. "No."
Neither of them moved. From the desk, the radio DJ softly announced the next song, a generic soft rock number. Everything on this station had the same vaguely familiar sound, the kind of thing they played in department stores. It helped, that sonic reminder of the real world. This morning was an anomaly in the pattern of Ryou's life, a small outlier that wouldn't change anything. It didn't matter, really, how this conversation ended, only that it would end.
"Look," Ryou said calmly. "You can leave whenever you want. It doesn't have to be a big deal."
Malik took a step back. Then he turned to look at the front door, a dry scoff escaping his throat as he shoved his hands into his jeans. When he turned back, he was smiling, but there was a trace of cold hostility in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "Fine," he said. "Yeah. Fuck it. I'm leaving."
"All right."
Still Malik stood there, staring at him.
Ryou took a sip of tea and fixed his gaze on his book. Words were more palatable than people right now, and he refused to be baited into this interaction—whatever it was. Discourtesy was a sin Ryou felt like committing today. Malik might be pissed off, but Ryou had given Malik an opportunity to leave gracefully. The least Malik could do was take it.
Malik eventually stirred into motion. Between sentences, Ryou watched him cross to the futon, rummaging through blankets. He was looking for his wallet. When he found it, he stood, tucking it into a pocket. His head turned in Ryou's direction.
Ryou studiously turned the page.
Malik's voice was even. "You seen my phone?"
Ryou didn't look up, but he did hesitate, rubbing one finger around the rim of his mug. Malik had asked what day it was earlier. Was the personality shift that disorienting?
"I never saw you with one," he said, finally.
Malik's sigh was more resigned than irritated. Perhaps this had happened before. "All right," he murmured, with that searing note of finality, and straightened his shoulders. He turned to leave — and stopped.
His head was turned toward Ryou's bed. No—
Toward the nightstand.
Ryou stood up, but Malik was already reaching out to pick up the wooden figure of the King of Thieves. He held it up to the light streaming in from the window, turning it from side to side. His arm lowered. He looked over his shoulder at Ryou.
"I'm taking this."
A laugh escaped Ryou's chest, a flame of shock that was extinguished as soon as it hit the air. "What?"
"I'm taking this," Malik said calmly. "You owe me. This is my payment."
"I owe you?"
"Sure," Malik said, tilting his head. A smile had appeared at the corner of his mouth, calculating and unfriendly. "You know. For damages."
Malik was fucking with him. He was obviously fucking with him, but the accusation — and the brazen entitlement behind it — was fanning a blue blaze of outrage that couldn't be tamped down.
Ryou crossed the room, held out a hand. "That's mine," he said. "Give it to me."
Slowly, a grin spread across Malik's face. "No."
"I'm not kidding."
"Neither am I," Malik said. Holding the figurine between his thumb and index finger, he lifted it up to inspect it again, just above Ryou's head. "If you want it so bad," he said, deliberately. "Take it."
Did Malik take him for an idiot? Ryou had played this game before. So had every child that had ever set foot on a playground.
He punched him.
It was more of a jab, really, and it was the gut, not the face—Ryou knew better than to depend on his own ability to throw a punch, but he did know exactly where the flesh under Malik's shirt was still healing, where sensitive nerve endings wouldn't appreciate the pressure of his cupped fingers burrowing deep into the skin. It was quick and easy, more than enough to make Malik buckle, all the oxygen in his lungs rushing through his teeth in an undignified grunt.
Ryou pushed him onto the bed and latched onto Malik's arm.
He'd meant to snatch the figure back, but he'd underestimated Malik's strength. He had only a few seconds to press his advantage. He wasted them trying to pry a fist open.
The body under him heaved. Ryou started to fall in one direction before getting jerked backward, his scalp screaming in protest. Malik had him by the hair.
Ryou threw an arm out, landed a glancing blow. It wasn't enough. Malik shoved his face into the mattress.
Weight pressed into Ryou's back, holding him down. He struggled anyway, out of sheer spite, and was rewarded with an increase in pressure between his shoulder blades.
"The fuck is wrong with you—"
There was more: a stream of Arabic so visceral a translation wasn't necessary, but Ryou didn't hear it. He stared into a landscape of white flannel and reached out, fumbling blindly under his pillow. His hand closed on the handle of the knife.
When he pulled on it, there was a tearing sound: the velcro that held the sheath in place ripping apart. That sound was the only warning Malik had.
Ryou swung. He wasn't sure if he connected with anything, but he felt the weight on his shoulders disappear, heard a yell. Ryou twisted onto his elbow, glimpsed an opening, and lashed out with both feet.
That connected. The bed vibrated as Malik's body slammed into the floor.
Ryou sat up. Malik must have tripped over the futon: he was kicking away the blankets on the floor, pushing himself onto an elbow as he lifted his right arm. The shirt was ripped, but Ryou didn't see any sign of injury— although the outrage in Malik's eyes said otherwise.
"You fucking psycho."
Ryou stood up, the knife held loosely between his fingers. It wasn't one from the Thief's collection. It was a practical weapon, functional: a hunting knife with a four-inch blade and an aluminum handle that fit nicely in Ryou's hand. He adjusted his grip, and saw Malik warily edge a few inches backward.
Ryou took a step closer. "Give it back."
Malik stared up at him, panting. Ryou saw the flicker of the tongue on his lips, quick and silent, like a snake tasting the air, and then Malik exhaled forcefully, making a sound that might have been laughter.
"Ask me nicely," he said.
"No."
"Well, then." With a grunt of effort, Malik pushed himself up. He gathered his legs under him, settling into a cross-legged position before he grinned up at Ryou, cupping his fingers forward in a universal come on gesture. "Let's go, you freak," he said, looking as gleeful as a kid at day camp. "Show me what you got."
Ryou was angry; he wasn't stupid. He lowered the knife. "Stop this."
"You're no fun."
"And you're obnoxious," Ryou said cooly. He'd caught his breath. His temper was still catching up. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"Too late," Malik said, a sarcastic edge slipping into his voice as he pointed at his jaw. "Got me right here. Might even bruise, if you're lucky."
"You deserved that."
"I bet I did. Come on and show me what else I deserve. Stab it out."
"I'm not—"
Wait.
Malik's hands were empty. How long had they been empty? Ryou spun back, searching the floor. The figure. Malik must have dropped—
A hand closed around his ankle. Ryou realized his mistake, but it was too late to correct it.
Malik pulled his legs out from under him.
Ryou didn't make it to the floor. He didn't know what broke his fall. He only knew that it had sharp edges, because those sharp edges had collided with the back of his head.
It hurt. A lot.
And then it didn't hurt at all.
Someone was saying his name. The voice was familiar, urgent. Something was wrong.
Ryou opened his eyes. Malik was crouching over him. That furrow between his brows had appeared again, along with another one at the corner of his mouth, but when he saw Ryou look at him, both furrows disappeared, his expression smoothing over into a mask of cool neutrality.
"Well, at least I didn't kill you," Malik remarked. "I thought I might have for a second."
He saw Ryou try to sit up and put a hand to his chest, holding him down. "Don't. You hit your head."
Ryou just stared up at him. When had he — Ryou's eyed moved up, past Malik, where he could see the outline of the bedside table looming above him. Oh. Yes, he had hit his head, hadn't he? It had hurt — no, it still hurt.
Definitely still hurt.
His jaw felt like a tectonic plate crashing into his skull. He ground the words out anyway. "This is your fault."
Was that the flicker of a smile? "Yes," Malik agreed. "Couldn't help myself. I might point out that you did try to stab me."
With effort, Ryou reached up and attempted to push Malik's hand away from his chest. "Go away."
"No." Malik matched Ryou's frown with an equally severe one. "Do not look at me like that. You were out for almost a minute."
Above them, a new soft rock song was winding its way into the air, drooping through the room one plucked guitar string at a time. This was ridiculous. Malik wasn't supposed to lecture him. He was supposed to leave.
"I'm fine," Ryou insisted, but Malik didn't budge. He said the words again, with less certainty. The effort of talking was flooding his skull with an ocean of broken glass. He gave up on trying to move. "Where is it?"
"What?"
"The wooden—the mini. Give it to me."
"Oh, that stupid toy—" Malik sat back, looked around the floor. "I don't know. I think I dropped it."
"Give it to me."
"I don't know—"
"Give it to me."
"OKAY! Hold on—" Malik dropped out of Ryou's eyeline. As he cast about the room, muttering something condescending under his breath, Ryou stared at the ceiling, where the lights had started to flicker. The power was finally coming back.
"Aha!" Malik reappeared at his side and pressed the wooden figure into Ryou's hand. "Here you go, you lunatic."
"I'm not a lunatic," Ryou said, closing his fingers around the figure. He closed his eyes. Damn, his head hurt. "You tried to steal from me."
"I was pissed off," Malik said. When Ryou opened his eyes to glare at him, Malik shrugged. His face was calm, as impassive as ice, but something lurked beneath the surface, a shadow of movement in the water.
Maybe it was anger. Maybe it wasn't. Either way, Ryou wouldn't tempt fate by arguing with him. Instead, he twisted his body to the side, making another halfhearted attempt to get up. This time, Malik didn't stop him, and Ryou managed to roll onto an elbow.
The wave of nausea hit him like a truck.
While Ryou counted his breaths, trying desperately not to pass out, Malik sucked in a breath. "Shit," he said. "You're worse than I thought. I need to—"
He rose and disappeared out of Ryou's eyeline. Ryou took another deliberate breath, and then, gingerly, careful not to disturb the delicate equilibrium between his head and the rest of his body, he reached up to touch the back of his skull, where an angry rose of pain was starting to blossom.
His fingers came away dry. That was a relief. He'd been so sure that he'd felt blood. Slowly, he twisted his neck, looking for the knife. He wanted to turn around, but he didn't think he was ready to try that particular maneuver just yet.
On the other side of the room, Malik was rummaging through his desk; a book thumped, something small skittering across a hard surface.
Ryou counted to ten, then made another effort to sit up. This attempt went better, and he managed to push himself up with his hands.
"I told you not to move," Malik snapped. A drawer opened, then slammed shut. He was muttering again, a continuous unintelligible stream of complaints that punctuated his every movement. He kicked the chair aside and then slammed another drawer.
"I told you, I'm fine," Ryou said. "Leave my stuff alone."
"I'm looking for a fucking phone!" Malik said. He was digging through Ryou's bag now. "What's the emergency number here? 112?"
"119," Ryou said heavily, pressing his shoulders against the nightstand behind him. And then, as his brain made a few clunky attempts at logic: "I don't have a phone."
"What do you mean, you don't have a phone?"
Ryou might have had a sharp comeback to that, if his skull hadn't been pounding. Instead, he just took another breath. "Do you not remember anything?"
Malik threw a notebook onto the desk. "I remember fine."
"It doesn't seem—"
"Shut up!"
Behind him, the radio on the desk skidded into a burst of notes. Neither of them had noticed the song ending, the guitar chords fading away, and the raucous strum of the station jingle startled them both. Ryou saw Malik jerk up, his arm flying out toward the radio, but before he made contact his hand stopped in midair, his body frozen. He stayed like that for the space of two breaths, his fingers opening and closing slowly, and then, deliberately, he leaned forward and turned the radio off.
In the silence that followed, he let the bookbag slide to the floor. "Shit," he said, his voice flat.
Ryou didn't have the faculty to wonder what Malik was thinking. That grating broken-glass feeling was crawling up into his temples now, stabbing into the back of his eyes. No way this was a concussion. A concussion meant he needed help. He didn't need help. He'd just aggravated the headache he'd already had. A migraine, that's what this was. He'd be fine with some sensory deprivation and a couple more painkillers.
"Hey." Malik knelt in front of him. "Don't pass out. I'm going to go find a phone. You need a doctor."
"No," Ryou ground out. "I don't need—"
Where was Malik? Already gone. He hadn't waited for Ryou's objections. Ryou could hear him on the stairs outside, leaping down them two at a time.
When the rattle of the stairs faded, Ryou closed his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of a groan. What a mess. He should have just let Malik do what he wanted. He would have, if Malik hadn't been an insufferable—
This was Ryou's fault, somehow. He knew it was, even if he couldn't keep track of where exactly he'd gone wrong. He'd figure it out later. Right now, it was probably better to avoid thinking at all, in case his entire nervous system decided to go up in flames.
He curled his fingers around the wooden figure nestled against his palm, seeking out familiar shapes by touch. Fighting for it was one of the stupider things he'd done. But still. There was a part of him—a not small part—satisfied with the outcome. As a victory, it didn't count for much, but it was a victory.
He slipped the figure into his pocket, then held still for the space of a few breaths, until another wave of glass crested behind his eyes. Well, what was he waiting for? There was medicine in the bathroom. It was six feet. Six feet was doable. Since when had he ever needed help? He'd dealt with worse on his own. He opened his eyes, counted his breaths, and leaned forward.
Too soon. He felt the equilibrium break, the nails inside his skull piercing into him from three hundred and sixty different angles, the ground rushing up at him, and then rushing past him—or was that the ceiling? No, the floor. Definitely the floor. Or—no—he'd landed on the futon. He needed to—
No. Forget getting up. At least here, with his face pressed into a sheet, his head felt farther away, the pain muffled by layers of cotton. And the sheet smelled good, too. Strange, but in a warm, distinct way, the same kind of smell as his grade-school classroom, or his friend's houses, or —
What was he doing? Ryou numbly tried to steer his stuttering, trudging mind toward a less cringeworthy train of thought. He couldn't just lie here. That bastard probably wasn't coming back. He'd just needed an excuse to leave.
He made another attempt to move, or he thought he did. Nothing happened. He kept his eyes closed. He'd try again in a moment.
It took him a while to notice that he was in his soul room.
He sat up. He didn't know how long he'd been there. His head still hurt, but the feeling was diminished, a dull ache he could almost ignore. Had he passed out? He must have. Usually he only dreamed of this place. A brisk wind roared down from the sky, rushing through the broken windows. It chilled his skin as he pushed himself to his feet. Grey light illuminated what remained of the stained glass, leaving faint patches of red and blue shimmering on the surface of the walls.
This place had been a flourishing garden once; a hothouse in the tower of a great glass castle, where the air was warm and thick and fragrant. Now it was a ruin. The glass had been broken a long time ago, the pots smashed, the plants overturned.
Not everything had died. The garden was overgrown now: uncultivated, soil spilling onto the tiled walkways, vines creeping up the walls and over the broken pottery.
It had been a while since he'd dreamed himself here. He didn't try anymore—found the empty pots and cold air of little comfort. He turned, looked reluctantly at the stone columns rising in front of him. Between them, bent slightly inward by pressure, was a massive slab, a good seven or eight feet tall, wider than both his outstretched arms.
Once there had been a door here, a placewhere the Spirit of the Ring had carved a place for himself, but it had been sealed for years. Now it was just a memorial, one that leaked sand from its seams and taunted Ryou with its immovable presence.
He reached out, put a hand on the surface of the stone. The texture was abrasive and cool to the touch, scraping his fingers as they ran across its width, but he could feel something else too, something he couldn't see. Raised marks, like symbols, proceeding in a circular pattern. As he traced them, he recognized their shapes. And he recognized the pattern too: could see the lines that drew it together, the skeleton it was building. He knew what this was. He knew what it would do, when it was finished.
He kept going, writing over the letters as he felt them, his excitement building. This wasn't a dream. This was real. He'd stumbled into it, maybe, or had been led, but it didn't matter. He understood it now.
Then he made a gesture — a final stroke — blinked, and saw his own face.
He stared, confused. Then the rest of the image swam into focus; the fluorescent lights above his head, washing out his skin, the bathroom wall behind him.
The lights flickered, but held. He stared at the mirror, at the pattern of sigils drawn in a circular shape on it. Drawn in blood. He didn't know whose blood it was. It wasn't his, he didn't think, shifting his eyes to stare at his two hands, both clean—but had there been blood before? He thought he remembered—
But he had done it. He could feel the motion of his arms, still latent in his bones, and the knowledge, fading fast now, of what he'd been doing. A budding panic. He couldn't forget. If he forgot—
He could hear footsteps on the stairs outside. The front door opening. The knowledge receding, a tide that outpaced him, the harder he ran after it. Someone was coming, someone was coming and he couldn't remember—
But if someone saw— he stumbled against the door. If he was still in here, and someone saw —
He scrabbled for the doorknob, pulled it open. Malik was on the other side—already on the other side—his arm raised. He'd been about to knock.
Ineffectually, Ryou tried to push the door closed again. Malik was faster, moving almost instinctively as he shoved a shoulder forward, wedging himself into the doorway.
"What are you—"
Then he stopped. His eyes fixed on the mirror. Ryou could see his expression in the reflection; the dumbfounded pause, then the slow paling. Malik only looked at it for a moment, but a moment as all he needed. He withdrew, pulling the door closed as he went.
Ryou collapsed against the closed door, dumbfounded. Why did—?
"The hell you doing?"
That wasn't Malik's voice.
"He in there?"
It was Honda. It was definitely Honda. Why was it Honda?
Malik's voice was quiet, harder to hear through the door. "He's feeling sick." His voice lifted. "Right?"
Ryou stood there, panting. He sucked in a breath, swallowed. "Right," he said, pressing his forehead against the cool paneling. It wasn't quite true—his headache had lifted. The back of his head still stung, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been. He was thinking clearly now.
There was silence on the other side of the door. Then Honda's voice again. "You throw up?"
A lie would buy him time, but time wasn't what he needed. If Honda had reason to be concerned, he'd never leave. What was he doing here, anyway?
He glanced at the mirror, half-expecting the symbols to have disappeared, but they were still there, messy and darkening on the glass. They looked familiar, like something he'd seen before, but the sense of déjà vu only made him more uneasy. And Malik had seen. Who knew what he was thinking now? If he told Honda, or if Honda saw—
Honda would destroy the mirror if he knew about it. That was a certainty.
Ryou reached out, turned on the faucet. "No," he said, raising his voice over the sound of the running water. "I'm okay. Just…give me a minute."
He needed to get them away from the door. He pushed his hands under the cold water, washing them, a paltry attempt at deception.
He thought he heard a voice and turned off the water. It was Malik this time, quiet and calm: "…talk to you a second?"
Ryou hesitated, but Malik wasn't talking to him. A moment later he felt the vibration of footsteps, moving away from him. He pressed his ear to the door, heard faint murmuring voices to his left. Malik wasn't an idiot. He'd realized why Ryou hadn't come out yet—he'd moved Honda to the kitchen, where he wouldn't be able to see into the bathroom.
Slowly, Ryou turned the knob over, lifting up on the handle to eliminate as much creak as possible. He cracked the door open, got a glimpse of Honda's shoulders by the refrigerator, and slipped out.
Both Malik and Honda turned toward him, but Ryou had already closed the door again.
Malik looked pale still, just a little out of breath. He stayed put against the kitchen counter, but Honda took a step forward. His hair was tousled, a bike helmet cradled under his arm. On his face, a single, skeptical eyebrow was rising.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine," Ryou said.
"Malik said you passed out."
"Maybe," Malik interrupted. "I said maybe he passed out."
Both of Honda's eyebrows were lifted now as he shifted his attention toward the fridge. "That's not what you said."
"I think I know what I said."
What was Malik thinking? If he was trying to rush Honda out the door, it wasn't working — Honda was studying them both now, a little puzzled quirk to his mouth, a lift to his chin. Ryou knew that look anywhere. It meant Honda was about to stick his nose where it shouldn't be.
"Listen," Ryou said. "He's exaggerating. I'm fine, okay?"
Honda ignored him. "You said something about a concussion outside," he said to Malik, who crossed his arms and shrugged as he leaned back against the refrigerator. Great, he was doubling down.
Ryou stepped in before he could make things worse. "I really am fine," he said. "I did hit my head, but I don't think—"
Honda's eyes were still narrowed, but at least he had turned them in Ryou's direction. "You hit your head?"
"…Yes?"
"'Yes'? That's it? You're not going to tell me what happened?"
Ryou shrugged and avoided looking toward Malik, who was studiously rearranging the magnets on the fridge.
"I fell."
He was equivocating, and he wouldn't hide that he was. It risked pissing Honda off, but the two of them had gone through this song and dance before. Ryou knew what he was doing. There was a long period of scrutiny, which Ryou withstood with a carefully blank expression, and then his friend's lips split into a weary laugh.
"No shit," Honda said. "Will you at least let me look?"
Honda made Ryou sit down while he checked the back of his head. Patiently, Ryou answered his questions. Yes, he felt fine, his balance was fine, his memory was fine. Everything was fine.
Malik ignored their conversation and made his way to the other side of the room, where he stood near the bed for a while, poking through the blankets with his foot. He was looking for something, and eventually, he found it, leaning down to pick up Ryou's knife.
Ryou tried to keep an eye on him around Honda's shoulder, but it was hard to do without being obvious. He kept getting the feeling that Malik was staring at him, even though every time he caught a glimpse, Malik's eyes were fixed somewhere else, his hands thoughtfully flipping the blade back and forth.
Usually, he was looking at the bathroom door, which somehow made things worse. Malik could be thinking anything. Planning anything.
"Even if you feel fine," Honda said, leaning against the kitchen table, "You really should go to a doctor to make sure."
"Maybe I will," Ryou said. "Later."
"I can take you right now. I'm headed over to—"
"I don't see how this is your fucking business," Malik interrupted. The knife flipped from one hand to the other. "He said he's fine."
Honda turned his head to look at Malik. His expression didn't change, but Ryou could hear the rasp of irritation in his voice, the way he bristled when he noticed the knife. So much for Ryou's careful defusing of the situation. "Look, dude, you're the one who asked me to come up here—"
"I said I needed a phone! Not a fucking—" Malik reached for his next word, couldn't find it, and then spat a word at them in Arabic.
"Hey," Ryou said sharply.
Malik tossed a dirty look in his direction but directed his reply at Honda. "There's no problem here. You're not needed anymore."
An incredulous scoff escaped Honda's lips. Slowly, he turned to look at Ryou, who shrugged helplessly. And then Honda's expression changed, he kept turning his head, his gaze extending to the apartment itself: at the twin mugs and rearranged furniture, the rumpled futon, the clothes strewn all over the floor. "Okay," he said. "I get it. You two want your privacy."
Ryou withered in his seat. If that was a joke, Honda was going to die. If it wasn't—
Malik burst out laughing. "Fuck you," he said, and passed the knife into his dominant hand.
Honda frowned, casting an uncertain glance in Ryou's direction. God, it wasn't a joke. Ryou felt his body seize up, his joints locking as he shut down his body limb by limb, devoting every neuron to pushing back against the invisible force, that tectonic plate of pressure, that seemed to press in on him from every side.
Honda straightened. "Sorry," he said. He was moving carefully now, his tone low and measured. "Just thought I sensed some tension, is all."
Malik's eyes flicked toward Ryou, but Ryou refused to look at him.
"It's not that kind of tension," Malik said, uncertainly.
The room lapsed into silence. Both of them seemed to be waiting for Ryou to say something, but neither one seemed to want to look directly at him. "So," Honda said, shuffling his weight slowly from one foot to the other. "What are you doing here?"
"It's complicated."
"Try me."
Another loaded pause, another careful shift of weight, another pass of the knife. "I may have," Malik said. "Had a—an episode. I lost a couple days. No big deal. Nothing happened."
Honda's voice took on a harder edge. "You hurt anybody?"
"No."
It was a no that didn't offer room for contradiction, but Honda didn't seem to agree. The silence took on a stonelike density, the same kind of claustrophobia you might find in a deadened space of air far below the surface of the earth.
After a minute, Malik leaned back, the bed creaking under him. The blade flashed in the sunlight as he pointed. "Ask him. He'll vouch for me."
The bubble of stale air around Ryou burst, flooding with cold certainty. He felt the pressure on his lungs recede, his eyes filling with water, the edge of the table biting into his fingers.
He stood up.
No one moved. They were waiting for him to speak, still waiting for him to speak, but he couldn't find the words he wanted to say. His vision started to swim, but not before he saw the way that Honda's eyes narrowed, his stance shifting slightly forward, or the way Malik sucked in a breath, only to let it out, several agonizing seconds later, in a quiet huff of what might have been laughter.
A hook caught, a line tightening in Ryou's chest. That laughter, that single crystalline note of derision, rang out inside his skull. It knew the truth he was being pulled toward. It knew what he'd refused to understand.
It didn't matter what those marks were on the bathroom mirror. It didn't matter what the characters meant, or if it was a spell, or what that spell did. They had only shown up when Malik had, because they were for Malik. Malik had been given the words. He'd been the one who was summoned. The words were for him. The message was for him. Ryou was only there to put the words in order. He was only there to deliver them to Malik. He was only there to play the part: to fill his role as the thief's most useful, reliable tool.
There was going to be nothing left for him.
Something pressed into his shoulder. Contact: hesitant, reeking of concern.
Ryou recoiled, spinning on Honda. "Get away from me."
Honda's arm was still outstretched. "I just—"
Ryou pushed his hand away. "No."
Honda's nostrils flared, but all he said was "okay." He took a step back, pressing a knuckle to the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath.
Ryou couldn't look at Malik. He just stood where he was, his hands limp at his sides, his eyes fixed on the dimples in the linoleum between his feet. He should tell him to leave. He should tell them both to leave. But Malik wasn't going to go anywhere, not after he'd seen the mirror. And if Malik didn't leave, Honda wouldn't, either. All Ryou could do was stand there, fighting to force his lungs into a slow, shallow pattern of motion. He put every effort into that rhythm. If he missed a beat—if he lost control here—he'd regret it forever.
Honda was saying something to Malik. Something about how he should call his family.
"I don't know if you know this," he said. "But they've been calling around, looking for you."
Malik's voice was quiet, oddly flat. "Oh."
Classic Honda: unflappable in a crisis. It was annoying, but it worked. He was the embodiment of cool professionalism as he offered Malik his phone, suggesting that Malik could step outside and use it to call his siblings. Ryou didn't listen to Malik's response. He was only vaguely aware of the front door opening and closing, the brief kiss of fresh air sweeping over his ankles and then disappearing again.
When they were alone, Ryou sank back into his chair, folding his hands over his eyes. Through his fingers, he watched Honda shove his fists into his pockets, nervously swaying from one foot to the other. He was looking at Ryou. Poor bastard. He didn't realize that this is where his usefulness ran its course. The only thing he could do now was walk away.
Honda cleared his throat. "Look," he said, quiet but forceful, "I'm sorry about before. I didn't know—"
"Don't apologize to me," Ryou said. He wasn't in the mood to absolve any sins. He leaned over the table, staring at the patterns in the grain, the markings Malik had carved there, only three nights ago. He pressed a finger to a carved symbol in the wood, let the edge of it dig into his skin. "I'm not mad at you, anyway."
"I think you are."
Ryou lifted a shoulder, let it drop. Honda could believe what he wanted. "Look," he said. "What do you want to know?"
"What?"
"Just ask me and I'll tell you. I want to get this over with."
Honda was silent for a moment. "Did he hurt you?"
Ryou extended another finger, pressed it into another symbol. Two parallel lines, with a third intersecting. Once upon a time, this meant something to someone. Now it was just an abstract shape. "No."
"Bakura–"
Ryou pressed his fingers flat against the table. None of this was ever going to mean anything to him. "I'm not protecting him," he said. "He doesn't need protection."
"How'd you hit your head?"
"We got in a fight," Ryou said. The truth seemed like the quickest way out. "I attacked him. He knocked me down. I fell into the nightstand. Wasn't his fault."
Honda didn't sound convinced. "What about the knife?"
"It's mine," Ryou said. He dared a glance up, attempted a smile. "I tried to stab him."
It took a long time for Honda to find a response to that. "Fuck."
Ryou gave a dry laugh. "You see?" he said. "Maybe I'm the problem."
"You're something, all right. The hell is wrong with you?"
"I don't know."
That seemed to catch Honda off guard. "Hey," he said, and took a step closer, leaning down. "What's going on?"
Ryou averted his eyes. There was a time, when he was much younger, when a friend's earnest concern was enough to win his confidence. Not anymore. "That part I can't tell you."
Honda's voice was sharp. "Won't, you mean."
Ryou shouldered the resentment without complaint. "Won't, then."
Silence from above. Ryou let it grow. Honda was waiting for an answer he wouldn't get, because it was an answer he could never understand. Ryou didn't need his attempts to help, didn't need anyone to fumble through the dark after him, trying to tell him something he already knew. Honda was better off helping someone who wanted his help. Maybe they'd be grateful.
"Do you talk to anyone?" Honda asked, finally. "Yuugi says every time he tries to bring up what happened you just shut down. I'd like to help but—" He gripped the edge of the table as he straightened, his knuckles pale as he stared out at the front window. Beyond it, they could both hear the faint tones of Malik's voice, the occasional rise as he said something in a language neither of them knew.
"I know," Honda said. There was an unstable note in his voice: an anguish he was failing to suppress. "Maybe I can't…I mean, it doesn't have to be me. I just—"
A familiar ache of guilt crept up the back of Ryou's neck, the same one that came every time he was around his friends and he felt the pressure of their kindness: this silent waiting for him to take his walls down. They wanted him to be the person they thought he was. They didn't understand how that person had been corrupted, couldn't see that his personality was a fabrication, constructed at the whim of a ghost, glued together by memories of a fractured childhood. He hid behind bland courtesies, used idiosyncrasy to make himself feel real. He wasn't like them. He had no choice but to keep to the periphery, to offer the barest edges of friendship. If he came closer, they'd see that there was nothing there.
Behind him, the bathroom door leeched cold air along the baseboard. Going back in there, looking at that mirror again, filled him with dread. But—
But.
He'd promised Malik. The other Malik, the one who had listened to him, the one who had also done terrible things, and who understood the cost of regret. He'd come closer, and he'd seen something, and he'd asked for help. Maybe it was misguided—maybe he'd been seen something that wasn't there anymore—but he'd looked. He'd given Ryou a taste of friendship. He'd asked for help, and Ryou had said yes.
The answer was still yes. It didn't matter that jealousy was burning a hole in Ryou's chest, or that he wanted to crawl into a hole and count the eons until the world crumbled into ash. It didn't matter that overnight Malik Ishtar had become a selfish bastard with nothing to offer but ingratitude. Ryou was going to give him everything. Not because he had to — not even because they were friends. But because Malik had asked. Because, for a moment, he'd trusted Ryou enough to ask.
He looked up at Honda, at his curved shoulders, his angular face turned toward the window. His eyes shone in the sunlight, his eyelids fluttering as he blinked back tears. Ryou had made Honda cry before, but this might have been the first time he'd understood why.
"I'm sorry," Ryou said. He'd been wrong about his friends. "I'm not very good at this."
With a faint sniff, Honda's head turned, just a little, in his direction. Reluctantly, Ryou sat up.
"I'm helping Malik with something," he told Honda. "Or I was. It's—it's private, but things have gotten… complicated. And I don't know—" He folded his hands together, as if the small act of clenching his fingers can hide the deep itch of apprehension crawling over his skin. "I think he hates me now."
Honda was looking at him now. The faintest tract of a smile had appeared at the corner of his eyes. "Because you tried to stab him?"
Ryou forced a laugh. It felt abrasive, slipping through his teeth. "No."
"Do you hate him?"
Yesterday, Ryou would have had a different answer. But yesterday he'd been living in a delusion. "A little," he admitted. "I wish I didn't, but—"
"I thought you were going to kill him just now."
"Yeah," Ryou exhaled, the half-confessed wish dying in his throat. "Complicated."
Honda huffed, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand. "I guess I don't blame you," he said. "That guy has always been an asshole."
Ryou didn't know if he was supposed to laugh again. He offered a cautious chuckle, just in case, and Honda relaxed.
"He was here yesterday, wasn't he?"
Ryou nodded. "Did you know?"
Honda laughed. "No," he said. "I'm not that smart. Jou mentioned last night that the Ishtars had been calling around. I thought I'd come by and ask you since you were acting so weird. You were always on better terms with him than us."
"No, I wasn't."
"Really? But I thought—" Honda frowned, and then laughed awkwardly, shuffling his weight as he glanced toward Ryou. "Oh. The other one, huh?"
Ryou smiled painfully back. After a moment, Honda reached out, rapped his knuckles against the table, just beside Ryou's arm. He didn't try to say anything. They'd been friends for years now; he knew the limits of Ryou's tolerance for sympathy.
It shouldn't have helped as much as it did. Somehow, that little gesture pushed a breath of relief down Ryou's throat. Nothing had changed, but at least he felt like he could get through the day again.
"Anyway," Honda said, gracefully changing the subject. "I found him in your parking lot trying to argue some old guy out of his phone. Then he saw me and started ranting about how you'd had a concussion and needed to go to the hospital."
"Ah."
"I still think you should go to the doctor."
"I know."
"But you won't?"
"No."
Hiroto sighed, but it was more theatrical than resigned, and Ryou knew that he'd been forgiven. He watched Honda straighten up and circle the table. He wandered into the kitchen, leaning over to examine Ryou's makeshift candle-stove.
"What's wrong with your power?"
Ryou glanced up at the ceiling. When had the lights gone out again? Whatever problem the storm had caused certainly seemed to be lingering.
"Don't know," he said. "It's been out since last night. Landlord's supposed to be working on it."
Hiroto nodded. "Storm must have hit you harder than us." He glanced at Ryou, nodded toward the door.
"Should I tell him to leave?"
Ryou glanced at him, surprised. He shook his head. "I still need to talk to him."
"Will he listen to you?"
"He will. I think."
Honda circled back around the table. His fingers reached out, brushing over the rim of his helmet. He tipped it back, ready to pick it up. "So I should go?"
Ryou shrugged, trying to hide his relief. At least Honda wasn't making him say it. "If I thought you being here would help—"
"Don't kid me," Honda said soberly. "I can take a hint."
Ryou exhaled. "Okay." He clasped his hands. "Look," he said. "I'll get in touch later, okay? Let you know how things go."
Hiroto tilted his head.
"Really," Ryou said. "I can do that much."
"If you say so," Honda said, but he sounded tired, not bitter. "I'll be in touch tomorrow, either way."
He glanced at the door again. They could no longer hear Malik's voice; outside there was only gutter water and birdsong.
"You two aren't going to kill each other if I leave you alone, are you?"
"I have no intention of dying today," Ryou said drily. "I think it'll be okay. I'll talk to him. It shouldn't take long." There'd be no reason for Malik to stay, once he had what he wanted.
"Okay," Honda said, not sounding at all convinced. "I'm gonna trust you on this."
"Thank you."
Honda grimaced and scooped the helmet up, tucking it back under his arm. "Doesn't mean I like it. Don't do anything stupid, all right?"
"When have I ever?"
Honda only had to give him a look.
"Shut up," Ryou said, smiling despite himself. "You can't count high school."
"I wasn't," Honda said, "You tried to knife someone this morning."
"But I missed," Ryou said, flippantly, knowing that Honda would laugh. When he did, Ryou pressed his hands between his knees. "I thought you were going to trust me."
"I'm leaving you alone, aren't it?" Honda cracked the door open. They might have made up, but the damage had been done: his smile was still forced, his good cheer an inadequate cover-up for the concern that still bubbled under his skin. He was going to worry, no matter what Ryou told him.
"Hiroto," Ryou said, as firmly as he could manage. "I'll be fine."
Honda turned from the door. "I know you will," he said. "You always are." He held his thumb and pinkie up to his face. "Fix your phone."
He slipped outside. Through the door, Ryou could hear him saying something to Malik. Their voices were too quiet for him to make out what they were saying. He'd be able to hear their conversation nearer the door, but he wasn't interested in eavesdropping. There was something he needed to check first.
He went to the bookshelf, scanning the titles until he found the one he wanted: a tall slim volume with black and gold detailing on the cover. He flipped through the pages, scanning the illustrations. The one he remembered was near the end, in the top right-hand corner of the page.
A black background, with a pattern drawn in red. The symbols were different, but the shape was the same as the circle in the mirror, the position of the characters aligning exactly. The hidden geometry that he'd wrestled with yesterday seemed obvious, now that he saw it all together. He read the caption, and then read it again.
He turned the book over, looked at the cover.
He'd bought this in high school, special-ordered from an American publisher. He hadn't wanted to wait years for a translation, but despite his anticipation, he'd never made it past the first few chapters. The text was dense, filled with obscure English phrases that kept tripping him up, and then there'd been the Battle City tournament and all the days and nights of missing memory that followed. Most of his projects from that period had been abandoned, including this one. He'd never been good at picking up loose ends.
He opened it to the illustration again, moving his hand across the page to finger the bent corner of the paper. He'd never dog-eared his books, either.
From the parking lot, he heard the faint buzz of a motor. Honda was gone. Ryou paused, waiting, but he heard nothing more than the barking of a neighbor's dog. He tucked the book under his arm and went outside.
Malik was leaning over the balcony, his eyes fixed on the street, his sleeves wet at the elbows where they pressed against the railing. In the sunlight, his skin shone, his hair reflecting flecks of gold. He looked more vibrant than he ever had in the last three days of rain, but his expression was somber, almost guarded as his eyes slid over Ryou and then moved back to the street. Ryou, who'd braced himself for another confrontation, found himself on unsure footing. The anger that Malik had been stoking all morning was gone.
What had Honda said to him?
Hesitantly, Ryou joined Malik at the balcony, holding the book to his chest to keep it from getting wet. "You okay?"
Malik snorted. "I'm fine," he said. "You?"
Ryou hesitated. He hadn't come out here to talk about feelings, but he hadn't expected this reception, either. "Fine," he said. "Did Honda give you a lecture?"
Malik twisted onto one elbow to face Ryou. He looked amused by the question. "He really babies you, that guy," he said. "I'd be insulted, if I were you."
Ryou thought he was being baited, but Malik turned back to the parking lot without waiting for a response. He still had the knife in his hands; he was twisting it slowly, rotating the point of it against his fingers. "I guess it was a lecture," he said. "I'll get another one later. Isis is good at those. But it won't be that bad." His tone was light, almost friendly as he looked again at Ryou. "I mean, I've done worse, right?"
"I guess…"
Malik turned the knife over one more time. "This is in good shape," he murmured. "Sharp. You take good care of your stuff."
"I know." Ryou squinted up at Malik. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Malik laughed and flipped the knife in the air. He caught it, effortlessly, and held it out to Ryou, handle first. As Ryou reached out to take it, Malik's eyes fixed on his, bright and intense.
"I think I'm going to take off," he said.
Ryou would have dropped the knife if Malik wasn't still holding it by the blade. He collected himself, carefully slid it out from between Malik's fingers. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm saying this sucks, so I'm leaving. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"I—"
"No. Look." Malik grimaced slightly, folded his arms back over the balcony. "I fucked up," he said. "Coming here. I can say sorry, I guess, but I'm not going to stick around. I don't know what you're up to, but this place gives me the creeps and I'm sick of it. You do what you want."
"The hell I will."
Malik leaned back warily, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet, but Ryou only held out the book, letting his anger buoy him past the difficulty of what he needed to say.
"Believe me," he said. "I'd love to watch you leave. But what I want doesn't matter. You can't go. Not until you see this."
Malik took the book. "What do I—"
Impatiently, Ryou opened it for him, flipped to the dog-eared page, the red and black illustration.
"It's an evocation circle," he said, jamming his finger into the caption. "It summons things. People. Do you understand?"
Malik understood. Ryou saw his hands spasm around the dust jacket, his face paling in realization. "You mean—"
"I don't know if it will work," Ryou said. "I don't even know how to activate it. But I know what it's supposed to do." He took a breath, softened his tone. "It's for you. You can't leave. Not until you get what you came here for."
Malik stared at him. There was a moment that Ryou thought he might say something, but Malik only shuddered faintly, his breath quick and quiet. His eyes darted toward the apartment.
The book snapped shut. Ryou followed him inside and watched him approach the bathroom door, pushing it open with wary reverence. He saw Malik swallow, convulsively, as he stared at the mirror, as the dark symbols burning under the fluorescent lights. The book slid through his fingers, thunked into the counter, a corner of it tipping toward the floor as Malik reached out—
Then his arm reared back. His fingers closed into a fist, moments before it collided into the mirror. An involuntary cry wretched its way out of Ryou's throat, buried by the crunch of breaking glass, the sparkle of a dozen tiny shards cascading onto the tile.
Malik, breathing heavily, stared at his fractured reflections, blinking in tandem as they spiraled out of his fist like a kaleidoscopic flower. Carefully, he extricated his hand from the glass.
"Ow," he said. "Fuck."
Ryou was beside him, curling his fingers around the doorframe as if a handful of solidity could keep him from flying to pieces. "Why—" he gasped. "Why did you—?"
In answer, Malik only laughed, in a note that felt too high. Clutching his wrist, he looked up at Ryou, and Ryou saw the truth in his wide eyes, in his desperate laughter, even before Malik opened his mouth.
"Don't ask me," he said. "I didn't do it."
Ryou could only stand there, a shudder rolling over his skin: a mist creeping in from the sea, enveloping his body in a cold, drenching emptiness. It didn't make sense. Malik had wanted this. Both of them did. He'd been sure of it. It had to be a lie: an attempt at revenge, or a psychotic joke. There was no way—
But Malik wasn't joking. His laughter had fizzled out; he stared at the ceiling, watching the lights flicker in their sockets. When he took his next breath, the faint groan that escaped his lips seemed to linger, latching onto the glass and the thousand broken mirrors, thrumming with slow, Sisyphean resignation. His hand, draped gingerly over the edge of the counter, was slowly streaking with blood.
"You know, Bakura," he said. "I don't think it was supposed to go like this."
A/N: Thanks for reading! We're coming up on the last lap here, I anticipate two more chapters until this wraps up - but they're going to be big ones. :)