Chapter 21: Boiling over
"Come on, Atem, we're gonna be late!" Yuugi shouted.
"Coming, aibou!"
Atem looked at the green sweatshirt he was holding in one hand, and the red sweatshirt he was holding in the other, trying to decide which one to wear. The red one had a print of a king card on the front, and Atem liked that; he thought it was funny.
Just when he'd decided to wear the red king sweatshirt, Yuugi's head appeared around the door of the guestroom.
"What's taking so long?"
"I'll be right there," Atem said, his head halfway through the sweatshirt's neck. He pulled the garment down and smoothed it with a few brushes, looking at his reflection in the mirror by the wardrobe. He caught Yuugi staring at him.
When their gazes met through the mirror, Yuugi blinked and smiled hastily. "Hurry up, we're gonna be late."
Yuugi's smile had an instantaneous effect on Atem: something in his chest clenched as he thought, Ra, he's beautiful.
His partner was wearing a purple shirt over black pants, and he'd added a couple more belts than he strictly needed to. The color of his shirt made his eyes stand out more, and Atem had to try hard not to stare.
Yup, he was in big trouble. That had sank in by now—and it got hammered in even more firmly every time he looked at Yuugi. Which was several times a day.
It was both blissful and torturous. Whenever Yuugi was at work, Atem caught himself missing him and wishing he were there, but at the same time also dreading the time Yuugi would return—because when Yuugi was at home, Atem had to be very careful to conceal the storm that raged inside him every time Yuugi grinned at him or brushed by too close. The yearning sometimes became an almost painful, physical feeling, like a dull ache in Atem's chest. Ηe'd grown accustomed to the little flip his heart made every time Yuugi talked or laughed or touched him, but that didn't make it any less torturous.
It was like a weird form of sickness. He guessed that was where the word lovesick came from.
Gods. Lovesick. Was that what he was?
"Come on, Atem!" Yuugi shouted as he left, presumably to go put on his coat.
Atem allowed himself a sigh.
The worst thing was that... He didn't know what he should do. Should he tell Yuugi about his feelings? Should he tell anyone? The idea filled him with dread, because it could go horribly wrong in so many ways. He didn't want to risk... this. He'd rather yearn and hide it than risk driving Yuugi away or... make things between them awkward.
He sighed again and put one of his new gold bracelets on, next to the scarab one. He didn't have to decide anything right now. For now, he would just go to Jounouchi's with Yuugi, and they would have fun. The way friends did. Best friends.
…Oh gods, he was in such big trouble.
He gave his eyeliner one last check and left.
They took the bus to Jounouchi's place. It was raining and the bus was packed; Yuugi stood close to Atem, occasionally bumping into him, and Atem spent the short ride hearing his pulse very loudly in his head.
Jounouchi's apartment was on the third floor of a well-kept building. The apartment itself was spacious and bright, albeit not as huge as Yuugi's. Honda was already there, sitting on Jounouchi's couch with a controller in his hands.
"Hey guys!" Yuugi called brightly when he walked in, and there was a round of shouts and loud greetings.
Atem smiled and relaxed.
This was fine. This was familiar. He was happy like this. He didn't have to change anything.
It would be fine. Maybe he was just confused; maybe this was just a side-effect of having a body, and it would go away after a while. He just had to be patient and... not freak out.
"Look, Yuugi's wearing three belts!" Jounouchi shouted. "Nature is healing!"
Yuugi laughed, and Atem found himself laughing along, something tight inside him uncoiling.
Yes, this was fine. He would be fine.
They ordered pizzas and played videogames until late. On the ride home, the bus was significantly emptier, so they managed to find two seats next to each other. Yuugi was smiling sleepily throughout the ride, gazing out of the window at the rain and the city lights.
"Tonight was nice," he said.
"Yes, it was really fun."
"We should do that more often now that you're here." Then Yuugi's smile faded and he groaned. "I wish I didn't have to go to work tomorrow."
"You say that every night."
"Yeah well," Yuugi grimaced. "I feel it every night."
Atem didn't know what to say, so he gave Yuugi's shoulder a gentle pat. It was true that Yuugi worked for many long hours, and he needed a lot more rest, but he was doing the responsible thing and sustaining himself. Not just sustaining; he'd built a name for him, a name even bigger than when Atem had been around. That took work.
Comparatively, Atem was feeling like a bum. Yuugi was working all day, and all Atem did was loiter around the apartment and the park, reading books or playing games by himself, waiting for Yuugi to be back. It was... disgraceful. And boring.
He looked at Yuugi's sleepy eyes, watched as the passing lights reflected on them.
Maybe it would help if Atem found a job, too. It wasn't that Yuugi needed financial help, but it wouldn't harm if Atem started pulling his weight. It was high time he started doing that. It'd been more than two months since his return. The way he was living now was okay, but there was an imperative need for a more... permanent arrangement.
He was a king, after all. It was unbecoming to live like a beggar. He didn't want to feel like a parasite. That was more Yami Bakura's thing—not his.
…Speaking of. From what Atem knew, the Thief had not resumed his role as the parasite in Ryou's life; in fact, Ryou had told them that he hadn't seen him in months. Atem was wondering how the Thief managed to get by in his new life. Had he gotten a job? Or was he surviving by stealing?
It would be highly shameful if Bakura had gotten a job, when Atem himself hadn't. It would be humiliating.
Atem kept mulling it over as they got off the bus and rode the elevator up to Yuugi's floor.
"Home sweet home," Yuugi yawned as he took off his coat. "I'm exhausted."
But what sort of job could Atem do? He didn't have any sort of working experience, and he doubted that his single year as ruler of Egypt counted.
To be fair, he had spent several weekends behind the Kame Game Shop's counter, back when he was in the Puzzle. He hadn't been the one to man the register per se, but he remembered what the job entailed, more or less.
"What's up, Atem? You look troubled," Yuugi said.
Atem was quick to smile. "Oh, nothing important, aibou."
Yuugi gave him a calculating look, then smiled softly. "Okay. Goodnight, then." He brushed Atem's arm once, and Atem felt his heart skip a beat.
"Goodnight, aibou."
Later, lying awake in his bed, Atem looked at the shadow paterns on the ceiling, lost in thought. From the open door, he could hear Yuugi shift in bed and then settle. He had to resist the urge to go and crawl into bed next to him.
When had such thoughts become this expected, enough to think of them as normal?
It was true that he'd always wanted to be as close to Yuugi as possible. At first he'd thought it was because he was used to a much deeper level of intimacy. Nothing came close to sharing a headspace with someone, nothing scratched that itch quite right. But...
He couldn't imagine himself next to anyone else but Yuugi. He couldn't picture himself touching anyone unless it was Yuugi, or hug, or date, or kiss—
Maybe he'd come back wrong. Maybe, during his 'rebirth', that intimacy and affection they'd shared didn't register right, and got twisted into something—
He huffed loudly into the night. He was getting nowhere with these thoughts; he only managed to make himself feel worse. So, he'd go to sleep, and next morning he'd try to think about what job would suit him best. It would be good; it would give him something to focus on that wasn't Yuugi. Or his feelings for Yuugi.
Yes, that might be just what Atem needed.
The plan worked, to a certain extent. In the morning, he made himself a cup of tea and sat in front of Yuugi's laptop, ready to look up job listings on the internet.
Yuugi had left for work while Atem was still asleep, but he'd left a post-it that read Good morning Atem! on the fridge. It had made Atem smile, so he'd taken it with him to the living room and left it by the laptop. He caught himself staring at it and smiling more than once, so in the end he decided to put it back on the fridge and stop being distracted by it.
He wasn't sure what sort of job he was looking for. Maybe a position as a clerk in some kind of shop. Maybe a waiter. He could always ask Kaiba—and he was certain Kaiba would be more than willing to give him a job—but he didn't want to. He wanted something simple and easy, and Kaiba was the opposite of that. He would try to suck him into grandiose plans for new, promising games and Atem... he wasn't ready for something like that yet. He thought he could understand Yuugi's reluctance to work with Kaiba a bit better now.
Of course, that left him with few options. Most jobs required plenty of previous work experience, or a university degree or two. He wasn't sure if Kaiba had forged a university degree for him but, even if he had, Atem would hesitate to use it. A high school diploma he could accept, because he could actually remember some of high school, and he was confident he could reply to a question or two about it. However, if anyone ever decided to ask him about what he'd studied in university, his tale would collapse.
Yuugi returned home long after it had gone dark, as usual. Atem was sitting with Yuugi's laptop on his legs, still looking through endless listings.
"Hey, Atem!" Yuugi said. He looked as exhausted as ever, and his work suit clashed oddly with his hair; it was a sight Atem still wasn't used to, and he didn't think he'd ever be. "How's it going?"
"Good. How was your day?"
"Long." Yuugi collapsed on the couch next to him. When his eyes flicked to the laptop's screen, he frowned. "What've you been up to?"
"Oh, this?" Atem turned the screen towards Yuugi. "I've been looking at job listings online."
Yuugi blinked at him a couple of times. "...Job listings?"
"Yes."
Yuugi still seemed confused. "For... you?" he asked, uncertainly.
"Yes, aibou."
"Oh," Yuugi blinked a few more times. "You know you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to," Atem cut across him, "—but I want to. I think it's time to take my life in my hands. I can't keep sitting here all day doing nothing."
"Okay," Yuugi nodded. "Alright, if that's what you want, sure, go for it!"
"Thank you, aibou."
"So, what did you find so far?" Yuugi looked at the screen with curiosity, leaning closer to Atem.
"Um..." Atem had to swallow and calm his quickening pulse. "I found a couple of listings that seem interesting. Look." He clicked on a tab he had left open on Yuugi's browser.
"But..." Yuugi said, turning to look at Atem. "You don't have a resume, right?"
"What's a resume?"
Yuugi breathed out a laugh. "I can't believe we almost forgot! You're gonna need one if you're looking for a job. It's like a summary," he explained. "A list of your degrees, your diplomas, and your previous work experience."
Atem frowned at him, nervous. "I don't have any."
"Oh, we'll find something. I'll help you write one." Yuugi took the laptop on his knees and opened a new text document.
It didn't take long for them to finish. Yuugi wrote Atem's age and contact details, and under 'education' he put Domino High. They decided there was no way they could use his time as Pharaoh under 'previous work experience', so they both agreed to simply write clerk at Kame Game Shop in as big a font as they could.
"That's it?" Atem asked.
"Yup!" Yuugi beamed at him and hit save. "I'll print some of these for you tomorrow, just in case you need them."
"Thank you, aibou."
Yuugi sobered up a little and gave Atem a thoughtful look. "Are you really sure about this, Atem?"
"Yes, aibou. I think it's the next step I should take."
"Yes, but..."
He could see where Yuugi's uncertainty was coming from. "I know it's something new for me. But it will do no harm to try it out."
Yuugi made a grimace. "Yes, but... You know. No offense, but you've never worked before."
Atem smiled. "Being a Pharaoh was hard work."
"Oh, you know what I mean!" Yuugi pushed Atem's arm playfully, and Atem had to take a second to calm his pulse.
"I know. But you all started somewhere, didn't you?"
"I guess."
"And, anyway," Atem grinned. "It can't be harder than saving the world, right?"
Yuugi laughed. "You'd be surprised."
Atem returned to the laptop, taking it from Yuugi to browse through the open tabs. "I thought I'd start with something easy. Something anyone could do. Look. 'Pet shop clerk needed. Requirements: experience with pets and domestic animals.'"
"Do you have experience with pets?"
"Aren't Duel Monsters sort of the same?"
"No," Yuugi said and started laughing again. He looked at the tabs Atem had opened. "Hmm... I guess you could apply to this one. 'Barista-waiter. No previous work experience required'. They'll probably train you themselves."
"Yes, that could work."
"Okay, let's send out a resume."
"What? Right now?" Atem asked, panicked.
"Yes." Yuugi smiled at him slyly. "Don't tell me you're nervous."
Well... Atem was a little nervous. He didn't even know what a barista was. But he'd decided he'd do this, so...
"No, it's okay. Go on," he said.
He watched over Yuugi's shoulder as Yuugi set up a new email address for Atem and then proceeded to write an email.
"You're good at this," he remarked as Yuugi's fingers flew over the keyboard, typing pleasantries and a cheerful introduction.
"I've written pleeeenty of emails in my life," Yuugi said. When he was done writing, he attached Atem's meager resume and sent the email out. "There. All done."
"And now what?"
"Well, if they like your resume, they will call you to arrange an interview."
"Oh." There wasn't much to like about his resume, so Atem's spirits fell a little. "Maybe we should send out a couple more, just to make sure I'll get at least one reply."
"Sure."
They spent all evening looking for job listings and sending out copies of the same email Yuugi had typed at first. Atem went to bed exhausted, nervous, but overall feeling pretty hopeful and good about himself. He'd made a big step today. He was slowly getting the hang of this life.
Two days later, Atem found a message in his email inbox. One of the places he'd sent a resume at had replied: it was one of the coffee shops that were looking for a barista-waiter, and they were asking him if he could drop by for an interview on Thursday morning.
"What should I wear?" he asked Yuugi on Wednesday night, pondering the contents of his wardrobe.
Yuugi hummed, shifting through the garments hanging in front of him. "Normally people wear something formal, to make a good first impression. I could lend you one of my suits, but... I don't know. Maybe it'd work to your advantage if you showed a bit more of your personality."
Atem frowned. "My personality?"
How could he show that? He wasn't even sure what his personality was. Did everyone have one? Maybe he didn't.
Yuugi laughed a bit. "You know. You could wear the clothes you bought last week. And some of that new jewelry."
"But that's what I wear every day."
"Exactly. It's who you are." Yuugi shrugged. "So, maybe show them that."
"What if that makes a bad impression?"
Yuugi shrugged again. "Then maybe that job wouldn't be the right fit for you. But you don't have to worry about that yet."
"Okay, aibou. If you say so."
On the morning of the interview, Atem was so nervous he didn't eat any breakfast. He kept pacing Yuugi's apartment, repeating his lines out loud to make sure he wouldn't mess them up.
"Hello. I am Atem Mutou. I am a Domino High graduate. No, I didn't go to university because of, uh... family problems. My grandfather got sick and I had to take care of his shop."
They had decided that this would be the most believable story, and it would match with what was on his resume. Not to mention that it painted a picture of a responsible and honorable young man, and Yuugi said employers loved that.
Yuugi had left him a post-it note that read Good luck Atem! by the kettle, next to Atem's favorite mug. Atem might be too nervous to eat anything, but he brewed some tea, and he took Yuugi's note with him.
He couldn't decide if he wanted to wear leather pants, black skinny jeans or the baggy one with the many pockets. What would showcase his personality the most? Maybe a schenti would, but no one wore those anymore; plus, it was freezing outside. In the end he picked a pair of leather pants, for the sake of familiarity, and put on all seven of his rings. His new piercings hadn't healed enough to wear more elaborate earrings yet, and that was a shame. He couldn't wait to take out the simple silver studs and wear something dangly, gold and extravagant.
Thankfully, he didn't need to ruminate that much on whether he'd put on eyeliner or not. Yuugi had said he had to show them his personality so, as far as Atem was concerned, that meant eyeliner was in. He had gotten pretty good in drawing a double wing that reminded of the way he wore eyeliner back in Egypt, so he did that now with a certain, steady hand. Then he paused and looked at himself in the mirror.
Did he look like a barista-waiter? He had no idea. He simply looked like himself.
He'd gotten himself a nice, oversize coat and boots with plenty of buckles, so he put these on, made sure Yuugi's note was in his pocket, and left.
The coffee shop he had to go to was downtown. Atem had looked up the bus routes online, and knew exactly which one to take. By now, he felt confident enough to navigate the city all by himself.
Look at me, he thought, staring at his blurry reflection against the bus's window.
He was on his way to a job interview. For an actual job. Like a regular person.
He flexed and unflexed his fingers, watching his rings glitter. He'd have to get used to the idea that magic was gone from his life. Completely gone. Gone were the shadow games, and the Items, and his labyrinthine soul room.
Every day he turned more and more into a regular human being. And he liked it. Maybe, in another few months he'd stop being amazed by it.
He got off the bus and opened his umbrella against the light drizzle. The coffee shop was close to the bus stop, so he walked there, checking his phone again and again to make sure he wasn't late. He found it easily and walked in; it was warm and noisy, full of chatter and the noise of grinding coffee beans.
Atem walked up to the counter and smiled at the girl behind the register. "Hello. My name is Atem Mutou. I am here for a job interview."
"Oh, right," she said and turned around to shout over her shoulder, "Mr Takahashi! Someone's here for you!"
A man walked out of a door that was labelled Staff Only: he looked a bit grumpy and austere, and didn't bother smiling at Atem. He simply looked at him up and down and said, "Yes? What is it?"
Atem smiled again, trying not to show that his stomach had suddenly tied itself into a knot. "Hello. Are you Mr Takahashi?"
"Yes. You're here for the job interview?" Atem nodded, and the man gestured towards the door behind him. "Come on in."
Atem followed him into what proved to be a large kitchen. There was another door on the back, leading to a cramped office. Mr Takahashi sat behind the desk, and Atem took the remaining seat across from him.
"So," Mr Takahashi said. His eyes paused on Atem's hair, then on his earrings. "You're Mutou?"
Atem's mouth had gone very dry. "Yes. I'm Mutou. I mean—Atem. Atem Mutou. Mutou Atem," he blurted out, and immediately panicked. This was not at all what he had rehearsed. He'd messed up the introduction. He took a deep breath, trying to stifle his rising panic.
Mr Takahashi raised an eyebrow. "How old are you?"
"I'm ninetee—I mean, twenty-nine," he amended hastily. Gods, he kept messing up.
Mr Takahashi looked at a sheet of paper in front of him. Atem realized it was his resume, printed out. He saw the single line that read Clerk at Kame Game Shop under 'Previous work experience' and suddenly felt ridiculous. He wouldn't be surprised if Mr Takahashi laughed at him.
But he had to keep his his head. This was like a duel—and you never allowed your opponent to see you were panicking during a duel. He tried to think of the desk as a dueling arena, and the stacks of papers as Duel Monsters cards.
It didn't work. His palms were sweating as he clenched and unclenched them on his lap. He started fiddling with one of his many rings.
Why was this so hard?
Mr Takahashi kept looking at Atem's resume, even though there wasn't that much to see. Surely, the man must have memorized it by now.
"So, Domino High, huh?"
"Yes."
"No college, or university? Why?"
Atem blurted out the story he'd cooked up with Yuugi. When he mentioned the Kame Game shop, Mr Takahashi arched an eyebrow at him.
"Then you must have plenty of work experience. Tell you what. Why don't we go back outside and get you behind the counter? I want to see how you handle customers."
"Um—now?" Atem breathed.
"Sure." Mr Takahashi got to his feet. "It should be easy for you."
Atem had no option but to agree and follow. He wasn't ready for something like this; Yuugi had said they'd just talk and ask him questions. It's just like a duel, he kept telling himself.
He accepted a staff apron and put it on, wiping his sweaty palms on it.
The coffee shop was loud with the chatter of customers, the whirring of coffee machines and the clinking of cutlery and porcelain. Atem gulped and looked at the cash register. He had no idea which buttons he had to press to operate it.
Mr Takahashi was standing close by, watching Atem with his arms folded across his chest.
A customer walked in and approached the counter.
Atem froze for a couple of seconds, panicked, then he thought of Yuugi. He tried to remember what Yuugi had been like in Kame Game Shop: bright, cheerful and smiling, always willing to help. He tried to imitate that.
"Hello, how can I help you?"
He had no idea how well he did after that. He took a couple of orders, and Mr Takahashi had him serve a couple of tables afterwards. Balancing the tray was hard, and Atem kept watching the glasses to make sure they wouldn't topple over. The whole ordeal lasted about twenty minutes and, by the time it was over, Atem was drenched in sweat. He tried not to show how relieved he truly was when Takahashi told him to put the tray down and follow him back to the office.
"So," Mr Takahashi said as he settled in his chair. "I don't know what you did in that shop of yours, but it's obvious you don't know how to operate a cash register."
Atem thought fast. "Ours was an old model."
"So is ours," Mr Takahashi said. He contemplated Atem for a while. "You are not as swift with the tray as I would like. You need plenty of work. I suggest you practice at home. If you wish to make it here, you need to think of the tray as the extension of your arm."
"I see," Atem said. Maybe he'd have more luck if he served the drinks on a duel disk instead of a tray, then.
"And you have the stiffest smile I've seen on a waiter. You need to relax."
Mr Takahashi did not look pleased. Atem knew when he'd lost a duel, so he ventured to ask, "I didn't do well, did I?"
"Tell you the truth? No, you didn't. Now, I appreciate hard workers, and I'm willing to train you. But I have more candidates to see first, so..." He stood up. "I'll contact you."
Atem realized he was being dismissed, so he stood up too. "Thank you for your time."
As he put on his coat and walked out, he doubted he'd hear from Mr Takahashi again. He'd really messed this interview up.
He decided to return home on foot, to walk off his leftover tension. Well. Maybe he'd do better in the next interview... If there was a next one.
He moped on his own as he walked, thinking to all the things he could have done better. He didn't even call Yuugi to tell him how he'd done; he was too ashamed. He needed a while to... digest what had happened.
Something caught the corner of his eye and he stopped in his tracks. He looked at a shop window across the street, and found a wadjet eye staring back at him out of the display of an old bookstore. Atem paused there, looking, until his curiosity took the better of him and he crossed the street.
Half of the bookstore was below the street level, so Atem had to crouch a bit to properly look at the display. All the books were old, their pages yellow and their covers fading. To the left was a collection of books about Egypt: the embossed, once shiny wadjet eye was on the cover of a book that read Egypt Under the Ptolemaic Dynasty. And, a bit further to the left, was a piece of paper taped against the window. It read Personnel needed.
Atem stared at it, his heart thumping hard. He glanced at the sign overhead: Sakamoto, Books and Antiquities. The store looked old and rather unkempt: the shop window was dusty and the brass door full of rust. Through the window Atem could see the inside was dim and packed to the brim with books and bookcases. The paper that read Personnel needed seemed to have been there for a while, too: the letters had started fading and the tape on its edges was peeling. Everything about this place screamed ancient.
Atem pushed the door open and walked in.
A bell sounded overhead; the old, rusty door creaked. Atem climbed down three steps and into the shop, blinking to adjust his eyes to the dim light. The strong scent of old paper and aging wood hit his nostrils, along with the smell of damp earth he'd learned to associate with underground places.
The muffled sound of a record playing came from somewhere, soft and a bit distorted at times. Everything around Atem looked like it hadn't been disturbed in ages: rows and rows of books sleeping on shelves, unpolished furniture, discolored maps, paintings with blackening frames and cracking paint, and several instruments Atem had no idea what they were for, crowded on tiny tables and frail desks.
Before Atem could take a step further in, a man walked out of the back of the shop, stooping and old. His hair was white and his face full of wrinkles, but his eyes shone behind his glasses as he peered at Atem. "Yes? How can I help you?" he barked with surprising ferocity.
"Um... Hello," Atem tried to smile. He pointed towards the shop window. "I—uh... was wondering if you have more books about ancient Egypt?"
The man examined him for a while, his sharp gaze pinning Atem to the spot. Then he gestured towards a bookcase. "Take a look over there."
Atem had to climb over stacks of books and an old, yellowing globe to reach the bookcase the man had indicated. The shelves were dipping under the weight of the books on them. Atem angled his head to read the titles. The Art of Medicine in Ancient Egypt. Light Broken Through the Prism of Life. An Ancient Egyptian Book of Hours.
The man was watching him.
Atem picked a book that said Mythological Papyri on the cover and opened it. The pages were rough and yellow; he turned them with care, fearing they might crumble under his touch.
"You can take a look over there, too." The man pointed at a few piles of books on the floor, next to Atem's feet.
Atem picked a book off the top of a stack. It was full of pictures of hieroglyphics, and he paused. He recognized most of them. He turned the page and came across an invocation to the goddess Isis he remembered from his childhood.
He read it with a small smile, then moved on to the next book. This was a small treasure right there: all these books filled with the history and life of his people.
He noticed a short table full of miniature sphinxes and tiny busts of Pharaohs, next to a couple of complicated-looking brass instruments. Atem picked up a small statue of Horus and looked at it with reverence.
The old man shuffled closer. "That's a nice bracelet." He was pointing at the lapis lazuli scarab on Atem's wrist.
"Ah. Yes. It was a gift."
"Scarab," the man said. "To symbolize rebirth. Metamorphosis."
"Or renewal," Atem nodded.
"Not a random gift, I suppose?"
"No, not at all."
"Hm." The man's intelligent eyes sparked. "How about this? You know what this is?" He pointed to a different table: on it was a board of senet, its pieces set as if in the middle of some forgotten game.
"Senet net hab!" Atem exclaimed. "Of course." He took a good look at the board. "The cones are losing."
"You know how to play?"
"Yes." Atem looked at the man. "Do you?"
"Of course. But it's not often I find someone else who does. Let alone someone so young."
Atem gave a wistful smile. "Sometimes I do feel ancient."
"How old are you?"
It was the second time he got asked that question that day. Atem hesitated. Something about the old man's demeanor and the way his eyes kept sparking made him say, "Sometimes I'm twenty-nine."
"Sometimes?"
"Yes. And sometimes I'm three thousand years old."
"A fellow old man, I see."
Atem laughed quietly. He looked back at the board of Senet. He would like to ask the man if he wanted to play a game with him, but then he remembered the yellowing piece of paper taped on the shop window.
"Are you still hiring?" he asked.
The man narrowed his eyes to better look at him. "Are you interested?"
"Yes. I'm—I'm looking for a job."
The man's gaze was cutting; Atem felt like he could see to his soul, the way Pegasus had with the Millennium eye. Except that this was a regular old man, with no Millennium Item and probably no shadow magic in his wrinkly hands.
"Have you worked in a bookstore before?" the man asked.
"No."
"Have you worked somewhere else?"
Atem decided to be honest. "No."
"Hm..." The man leaned closer. He lifted a hand to his glasses and lowered them, still scrutinizing Atem. The yami didn't move. "Hm," the man hummed again and put his glasses back on properly. "Salary is four thousand yen a day. Pay day is at the end of each week. I can't pay more than that."
Atem had no idea if that was a lot or not. But he guessed it would be a place to start. "Okay."
The man arched his white eyebrows at him. "What's your name, son?"
"Atem."
The man hummed again. "Atum. The first god. Or the god of the evening sun."
Atem nodded.
"So you're from Egypt?"
"You could say so. I lived there... way back."
The man smiled a crooked smile. "Three thousand years ago, I suppose."
Atem chuckled, but decided against telling the man how close to the truth he was.
"Well, Atem," the man said then. "Make sure to be here at nine o'clock on Monday morning."
Atem did a double take and froze, staring at him. "What—? Won't you—Won't you interview me or... Have me do a trial, or something?"
The man pointed at the stacks of book on the floor behind him. "Think you can pick these up and put them on the shelves?"
"Of course."
"Then that's all I need. See you on Monday." He gave Atem another one of his sharp looks. "I'm Sakamoto Asa."
Atem bowed. "Nice to meet you, Mr Sakamoto. And... thank you so much for—"
Mr Sakamoto waved a hand in a dismissal. "Nine o'clock, Monday. See you then, old man." With that, he hobbled to the back of the shop, disappearing among the bookcases.
Atem returned to Yuugi's apartment, reeling and still trying to wrap his head around what had happened.
He had landed a job. Somehow.
"Atem? How did it go? Did you get the job?" Yuugi said when Atem called him.
Atem smiled upon hearing his voice, feeling the tension in his shoulders finally melting away. "Hey, aibou. Um... Yes and no."
"What do you mean?"
"I messed up the interview. I don't think I'll hear from them. But... I got a different job. I think."
And he told him all about the bookstore and Mr Sakamoto.
So, Bakura would have to go to his landlord's apartment and spend all evening there. Just Ryou and him.
It was okay. Bakura could do this. Even though Ryou was getting more and more difficult to handle lately. It was for the best: that was what he kept repeating in his head as he was getting ready. It was all so they could put an end to this.
But fact remained that he had no particular desire to spent three to five hours in an enclosed space with an irritable and hostile Ryou. No one in their right mind would look forward to that.
He huffed to himself as he put on his boots. The more he thought about it, the less up for it he felt, so he decided to suck it up and go before he changed his mind.
"Hey, grumpy-pants!" Yuki called when Bakura got out of his room. "Where're you going, looking all grumpy like that?"
"Hey, Yuki. I'm meeting with someone," Bakura grumbled, locking his door.
"A date?"
Bakura flinched. "Hell no! Not a date!"
She giggled at his outrage. "I'd hope so, cause you're not spruced up enough for a date."
Bakura looked down at his black jeans and black hoodie. "Why? What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing, sugar; you look bad-tempered, as always."
"You'd be bad-tempered too, if you knew who I'm meeting," Bakura mumbled to himself and curtly waved her goodbye.
He walked to Ryou's neighborhood, stopping at least three times to roll and smoke a cigarette. When he reached Ryou's block, he hesitated. He stalled for time by rolling yet another cigarette, and paced around the apartment building, looking for reasons to postpone ringing the bell. He scowled at the familiar entrance, then walked to the small side-alley he used to hide in the early days of following Ryou. He looked at his hideout with something akin to nostalgia: back then, he'd only had to watch his landlord for afar, without actually interacting with him. Those had been simpler times; back before Ryou had started exhibiting increasingly concerning behavior.
A few weeks ago, back when Ryou had gone all glazed-eyed and indifferent and dropped his knife to Bakura's feet, Bakura had thought it had been a one-off thing: just Ryou's idea of freaking him out. Now Bakura could see that this was something of a pattern. Push Ryou enough, and he got alarmingly reckless. First giving up the knife, then taking that fucking detour through those alleys. Bakura couldn't help but wonder if inviting him in his house counted as another one of Ryou's reckless ideas.
He'd have to be extra careful today, or Ryou might decide to run into a kitchen knife, just to spite him, and then Bakura would have a really hard time explaining that to Malik—or the police.
Hell. Something was very, very wrong with his host. Even Bakura could see that.
He finished his cigarette and flicked it in the alley, watching the butt disappear among the rest of the trash. Okay, now he was really out of excuses. And, if he ran any later than that, Ryou would chew him out.
He steeled himself and rang the doorbell.
"Hello?" Ryou's voice sounded through the intercom.
Bakura chewed on his words for a while. "It's me," he said at last.
There was a second of pause, then Ryou buzzed him in without a reply.
Bakura knew Ryou lived on the fifth floor, but he'd never actually been in the building—or in the apartment itself, for that matter. He pressed the elevator's call button and, when nothing happened, he sighed a few curses and set for the long climb of stairs. A few minutes and countless number of steps later, he reached the fifth floor and saw a door was cracked open, letting out a thin strip of light.
Bakura glanced at the name on the doorbell, just to make sure; it read Ryou Bakura. The door itself looked old; the paint was peeling in places.
Of all the times he'd pictured himself getting in Ryou's apartment, getting in through the main entrance after being actually invited in was not what he'd expected. With more than a little trepidation, Bakura pushed the door all the way open.
He remembered Ryou's old apartment very clearly. He recalled the huge living room and the specifically designated gaming table, the generous kitchen, Ryou's spacious bedroom, the guest-room-turned-into-workshop, even the washroom. It had been an expensive condo to rent, and Bakura had figured out early on that his ex-host would no longer be able to afford anything of the sort. Still, walking in Ryou's current apartment came as a small shock.
The apartment was small and sort of cramped. There was no entry hallway; Bakura walked in straight in what he supposed was the apartment's main living space, which was a joint living room and kitchen, separated by a counter. Bookcases were everywhere; against every inch of free wall, laden with books, miniatures and cd cases. There wasn't much else in terms of furnishing: just a single couch which seemed familiar, down to its worn grey cover. A few movie posters hung on the walls; horror movie posters, judging by the looks of them. The titles on them read Night of the Living Dead, Suspiria, and Jacob's Ladder.
Ryou was leaning against the kitchen counter, looking at him. A cigarette was smoking in a tray in front of him. "You're finally here," he said. He lifted his cigarette and added another layer in the cloud of smoke that hovered around his head.
Bakura closed the door, noting how much the lock rattled as he did so. Everything, down to the door, seemed long due for some maintenance; someone like Bakura wouldn't even need tools to break through that lock.
He took another good look around as he crouched to undo his boots. To his right was a hallway that led to two closed doors; Bakura supposed one of the two was Ryou's bedroom. The other door probably led to the bathroom, and that was it. There wasn't much else to explore.
When Ryou had set his rules and said Bakura was not allowed to go through his stuff, Bakura had expected... more. Not as big an apartment as the old one, but... Something bigger than this.
Bakura took off his jacket, realizing how chilly the apartment was. He wondered whether the heating was broken, or whether Ryou simply didn't have enough money to pay for it. He twisted his mouth, but he didn't say a word. He was used to worse: the rooms above the Golden Egg never got truly warm, either.
Ryou put his cigarette out and went to the kitchen. He filled the kettle with some water and put it on the stove. "I'm making some coffee. Do you want a cup?"
Bakura couldn't tell whether Ryou was trying to dispel some of the tension, or whether his good manners were so deeply ingrained that he couldn't hold back the urge to be a good host, even to him. Either way, he appreciated the offer.
"Yeah," he said. After a few awkward seconds, he added a stiff, "Thanks."
See, Malik? I'm being polite and all, he thought with a small twist of his mouth.
As Ryou prepared the coffees, Bakura took a few more steps in the apartment. He saw that the stack of Spellbook pages was on the coffee table, next to Ryou's notepad and a couple of pencils. Bakura's gaze wandered away from it, to the bookcases around the living room. He approached a shelf and peered at the titles on the book spines. He recognized several tabletop RPG rulebooks, next to a series of science fiction novels.
Bakura moved to the next bookcase. There was a stereo on one of the shelves, and tens of cd cases. He glanced towards Ryou to make sure that he was still occupied in the kitchen, then picked up the small stack of CDs laying on top of the stereo. All of them were cheap copies, their titles penned with permanent marker in Ryou's neat handwriting.
Bakura hesitated for a while, then he turned on the stereo. Loud electric guitars and screaming echoed in the small apartment, making him flinch. He hastily picked a CD that read Erik Satie and replaced the one in the cd player. The screaming stopped and somber piano notes filled the room.
His landlord was truly baffling sometimes.
"How the hell do you go from metal to this?" Bakura called over his shoulder.
Ryou turned around, holding two steaming mugs. He left them on the kitchen counter and wiped his palms on his jeans. "We agreed you'd stay away from my stuff."
"I thought some music might help," Bakura lied.
Ryou shot him a sharp look, but he didn't say anything else. He sat down cross-legged on the carpet and took his notepad in his hands. "Let's begin."
Bakura let the piano play. It was sort of pleasant, albeit sad.
He picked his coffee mug from the counter and asked, "Where do I sit?"
Ryou shrugged, so Bakura claimed the couch. He took a good look at it as he sat down, running a hand over the cover. It did seem to be the couch from Ryou's old apartment. The springs were a bit noisy and the cushions dipped in the middle, but it was definitely the same. Bakura settled more comfortably on it, trying to push away the disturbing sense of deja-vu.
He wondered how many of his old stuff Ryou had kept. He wondered what had happened to the diorama and the miniatures they had made together.
Ryou had probably gotten rid of those. Or they were stuffed in a box at the back of some closet, kept decidedly away from the light of day.
He took a sip of his coffee and nearly gagged. "Fuck, how do you drink this thing? Have you not heard of sugar, landlord?"
Ryou eyed him coldly over his own mug. He took an obnoxiously slow sip, licked his lips and said, "Sugar's on the cupboard above the stove."
Still cursing, Bakura went to the kitchen and proceeded to add three spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee. Then he ventured another sip.
Hm. Not great, but it was definitely improved. Better than the Golden Egg's coffee, in any case. It would do.
It would be even better with some whipped cream, or at least some milk, but he didn't want to ask Ryou for more things. He had no idea what might make his landlord tick—and he wasn't eager to find out.
He sat back down on his seat and leafed through the Spellbook pages.
"You're supposed to work on page seven," Ryou said.
"Yeah, I know. What are you gonna do?"
"English."
"English?" Bakura repeated with disbelief.
Ryou eyed him coldly. "Yes. I have to go to university, you know."
"I thought you'd help me with the Spellbook."
"I have to finish my homework first."
Bakura huffed loudly. Was he supposed to work all on his own, then? Not that he needed Ryou. It was just that... his landlord helped, sometimes.
Whatever. Bakura could do it. Even without help.
Ryou had already started working on whatever it was he was studying, scribbling away on a piece of paper. He was frowning darkly, looking unhappy down to his core. It wasn't easy to tell if it was English that made Ryou this glum, or Bakura's presence. If Bakura had to bet, he'd say both.
"Do you even like it?" he asked.
Ryou looked up, perplexed, and Bakura nodded towards his English textbook.
Ryou looked away again. "It's studying," he murmured. "You're not supposed to like it. You're supposed to just do it."
"Do you ever do anything that you enjoy? You don't enjoy your studies, you don't enjoy your work—"
"Nobody enjoys their work."
"Malik does," Bakura said, thinking of the way the Tomb-Keeper's eyes lit up whenever he was talking about the stunts he'd done or the new tricks he'd learned. Hell, he was probably riding his bike through an explosion right now, swooshing through the flames. Crazy bastard.
Ryou's face turned even more unhappy. "That doesn't count. Malik was lucky."
Bakura let out an incredulous laugh. "Lucky? You think it was luck? Cause I don't think anything was handed to Malik in a plate. He knew what he wanted, and he went out there and took it."
"Do you enjoy your job?" Ryou shot back.
Bakura waved a hand. "My job is just a temporary means of survival. It's not supposed to be permanent."
"Maybe my job is temporary, too."
"Really? How long have been working in that lame-ass store?"
A muscle twitched on Ryou's face, but he answered through gritted teeth, "Three years."
"That doesn't sound very temporary to me."
"It is temporary," Ryou snapped. "It's only until I finish my studies. Then I'll be able to... teach English or something."
Bakura cocked his head and examined Ryou's sullen expression. "Do you want to do that?" he asked, because he really, really doubted it—judging by how much Ryou seemed to hate studying it. And Bakura could tell that Ryou hated it, because he knew what Ryou was like was he was really into something. He could clearly remember younger Ryou, inquisitive and sharp, devouring history and archaeology books and spending endless hours learning to read ancient languages all by himself, for no other reason than that he found them interesting.
There was none of that passion here. If anything, there was a sort of deep-seated irritation, as if studying was a chore that couldn't be avoided.
Ryou's expression looked pained for a while, then it hardened back into a frown. "No chit-chat, remember?"
That was a blatant excuse to avoid answering, if Bakura had ever heard one. For a few seconds, he considered pushing Ryou a bit more, just to see if he would manage to get a halfway honest answer out of him, but in the end he decided his curiosity wasn't worth the argument that might blow up.
He closed his mouth and took page seven in his hands. He located Zorc's half-symbols without much effort, and then the conjoined form of the two symbols together. Now all he had to do was focus.
Focus. Excellent. Bakura could do it. No problem whatsoever.
Thank the gods the piano cd was still playing, or the silence would have been too oppressive, what with Ryou glowering at his textbook as if trying to incinerate it with the power of his gaze and Bakura being forbidden to open his mouth.
He guessed that the fact that he didn't have to go outside to smoke counted as a small blessing. He rolled a cigarette, settled more comfortably on the couch, and took a deep, blissful inhale.
Much better.
The symbols on the paper seemed to coil and uncoil behind the smoke. The two halves of Zorc's symbol peered up at him. Light and darkness. Half a light and half a darkness and, further down, the two combined.
He tried to focus. He finished one cigarette and lit another. Across from him, Ryou mimicked him.
Time passed quietly, full of the sizzling of cigarettes and papers rustling. The piano stopped at some point, and Ryou changed the cd to something orchestral, somber and mystical and full of the ominous sound of bells.
Bakura looked at the half-symbol that symbolized darkness and thought back to what Ryou had said yesterday. 'Just like Yuugi and Atem, or—you and me.'
Ryou and him. Host and yami.
Were these halves supposed to symbolize them? Had this ancient, perverse book anticipated such a circumstance? A whole, divided in two pieces, scattered and then, somehow, reunited? Just the way these symbols, after all the winding shadows and endless twists and turns of this page, were somehow reunited into a new symbol, different than the previous one...?
He touched the half-symbol that symbolized the darkness and tried to see himself in it. He was supposed to be the dark, right? The twisted one. The evil, the one without a touch of good. Zorc's hate, and greed, and wrath, combined with his own hate, greed, wrath, and his raw, sizzling pain—it had all made for a truly twisted combination. Forever locked in an endless loop, alternating: grief giving its place to fury giving its place to hate giving its place to greed, again and again and again.
What a sight it made. From the outside, it must have been repulsive for most eyes. One would have to be really uncommon to see beyond—maybe to have a touch of darkness themselves, because like recognized like. It was law.
He looked at the half-symbol that symbolized the light. Was that Ryou, then? Ryou had plenty of rage inside him too, and greed, and pain, but somehow he wasn't the same as Bakura; somehow, he had reversed these things to goodness, and kindness. Mirror image; same, and yet not quite.
He stole a glance at Ryou now. His face had relaxed, the frown giving its place to a look of concentration.
Darkness had spat Bakura back out and in front of Ryou's feet. Was this why? Like had recognized like? Or had simply the half of Bakura's darkness been drawn to the half of Ryou's light—?
Was there any light left in Ryou, anyway? Or was this whole idea absurd to begin with? Ryou had been light, once; he had been kind and gentle and good. Good to the bone. The real thing. He had been.
But it was hard to believe that this was still the same Ryou. The Ryou that snarled at Bakura and hissed and could morph his face in such a perfect mask of hate; the Ryou that had walked into that alley two nights ago with the calmness of a dead man, and the Ryou that gave up his knife with a smile; the Ryou that now sat across from him, resigned to all the things he hated... That Ryou couldn't be the same as the old one. Could it? Was the kindness still in there, somewhere, hidden under layers and layers of—
There had been kindness in Bakura, hidden under all the layers of darkness. There had been a self he had forgotten about.
Maybe Ryou was the same.
Mirror image through and through, eh, landlord? Bakura thought. Like recognizes like.
Yes, when looking at it that way, maybe it wasn't so absurd that the shadows dropped him at Ryou's feet.
The symbols seemed to understand him, at least. They sounded soothing on his brain. They whispered of a journey.
If he closed his eyes, he could almost picture it: himself among the dancing shadows, floating in the hissing void. The shadows had been talking to him for so long he had stopped thinking about what their words meant; he had absorbed them like water, all meaning dissolved. Trying to swim back through all that and reach the core of it, the heart, it was—
Painful. He didn't want to search there.
He lit another cigarette. The shadows kept dancing at the corners of his eyes, almost mockingly. They were singing of gold and blood, muffled and distant. Bakura wasn't sure if he wanted to listen, but he tried to, hesitantly.
He was so close. So close.
...Nothing.
When he finished the last of his tobacco, he put the Spellbook pages down and looked at the clock. Three hours had passed.
"Got anything?" Ryou asked. He looked tired, eyes slightly puffy.
"No."
"Shit..." Ryou said under his breath. "Do you think it's the spell, though? The spell that brought you back—?"
"I don't know, landlord; I told you, I got nothing concrete yet."
"Yesterday you said I was right."
"I said you might be right. I need more time."
Ryou huffed loudly through his nose, but he didn't comment further. Bakura was glad; he could feel his eyelids drooping with exhaustion. He didn't want to deal with a pissy Ryou right now. His brain felt like it could use some sort of thorough scrub. Or maybe a glass of alcohol.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"My shift ends at eight. So let's meet afterwards," Ryou said. He also seemed too tired to argue. Good.
Bakura left, marveling at how little banter there had been, considering. He had actually managed to last three hours in Ryou's apartment without them murdering each other. That was quite the achievement, right?
There had been no progress, but one couldn't ask for too much.
He zipped up his jacket and set for the Golden Egg.
Ryou wasn't sure what to think about that first day he'd spent alone with his yami. It hadn't been good, but it hadn't been as bad as he'd expected, either. Just having Bakura close by had made Ryou feel tense to the point of exhaustion, but there hadn't been any explosive arguments or—
Of course, that didn't make it okay. But it made Ryou think that they might make it through the week.
He sighed and got ready for work. After the dressing-down he'd gotten from his boss, he put extra effort in his appearance before his shift, trying to smooth out his hair and making sure that he'd eaten a good meal—and maybe drank a couple of cups of coffee, too. Today his hair was being extra stubborn, so he pulled most of it up in a bun, leaving just his bangs and a few errand strands to fall freely around his face. It was the most care he'd put in his appearance in a long time. If he managed to get a few days of proper sleep, too, he might even look good.
Oh well. He would get all the sleep he needed after he got rid of Bakura.
Tuesdays normally weren't so bad: there was a steady trickle of customers, but nothing too crazy or demanding. Ryou was folding clothes, quietly humming to himself, when the manager approached him with a girl in tow.
"Hey, Bakura, do you have a moment?" Mrs Nishimura said. She didn't sound cross or displeased with something, so Ryou forced himself to relax.
"Of course, Mrs Nishimura," he said, placing the sweatshirt he was holding on top of a neatly folded pile.
"This is Zoe," Mrs Nishimura said, gesturing towards the girl next to her. "Zoe, this is Ryou Bakura."
The girl gave Ryou a bashful smile and said, "Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, too," Ryou said.
"Zoe is our newest employee. It's her first day today, so I would like you to show her the ropes. She'll be your helper in Zone Two today."
"Oh," Ryou said, taken aback. "Oh, yes, of course," he added hastily, trying not to show how nervous he felt. He'd never trained a new employee before.
"Thank you, Bakura. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask me."
"Of course, Mrs Nishimura."
The manager left, leaving Ryou with the newcomer, who kept smiling nervously at him. Her cheeks were very pink, and they seemed to turn even pinker the longer she looked at Ryou.
"Okay, umm..." Ryou said. "Have you ever worked at a clothes shop before?"
Zoe shook her head. "No, I was a waitress."
"Oh, really? So was I, before I came here," Ryou said. Zoe smiled again; she seemed to relax a bit.
"I just moved here, to study game design," she said in a small voice, still looking very pink.
"Game design? That's neat," Ryou grinned. "I have a friend who is a game designer. You might have heard of him; his name is Yuugi Mutou."
Zoe's eyes went wide. "You're friends with Yuugi Mutou? The Yuugi Mutou?"
Ryou chuckled. "Yes, we've been friends since high school."
"Wow, I can't believe this! I admire him so much."
"I'll make sure to tell him," Ryou said.
Zoe was pleasant to work with: she listened carefully to everything Ryou had to say and was a quick learner. The first two hours went by fast, with Ryou showing her the basics, and she proved to be a lot more help than Ryou expected from a new employee.
"You're a hard worker," he told her at some point, as they were hanging coats on a rack. "I'm sure you'll make a great game designer."
"So, what do you do?" she asked, then she flushed. "I'm sorry; I mean—do you do something else besides..." She gestured around.
"I study English," Ryou said, but he avoided her eyes. His mind went back to Bakura and yesterday's discussion. He felt his shoulders stiffen.
"Oh, that's nice. I thought—I mean... At first, I—" She fumbled with the coat she was holding, her face a deep red.
"What?"
"I thought you might be a fashion model or something. You look so... I mean, you are..." She stopped talking, evidently too embarrassed to continue.
"Oh," Ryou said, and now it was his turn to blush. "Umm... Thanks," he added with an awkward smile. He used to get that a lot at some point, but it had been a while since anyone had given him such a compliment.
She glanced at him, still beet-red, and flashed him a grin.
"Let's move on to the suit jackets," Ryou said hastily, inwardly hoping that this wouldn't end with her hitting on him. She was nice and pleasant to work with, and he didn't want to disappoint her by rejecting her—but he also didn't know her long enough to tell her that he wasn't into girls at all. In fact, none of his colleagues knew that; coming out at his workplace wasn't something that Ryou aspired to do.
But still. A compliment was a compliment, and it felt good. It made Ryou stand a bit straighter as he arranged the suit jackets on their hangers, and smiling to the customers became a bit easier, so much so that another couple of girls blushed when Ryou offered to help them.
Yeah, as far as Tuesdays went, this one wasn't so bad.
It hadn't been an easy night for Bakura. He had woken up five times, one of them panting so hard he had thought his heart would explode. Even so, he managed to get a really good workout in before lunch. If he kept this up, he would be more than ready for his match on Saturday.
That gym had proved to be godsend: training on the heavy bags was so much better than doing sit ups in his room.
Now, as he walked down a busy street, he rubbed his sore knuckles, noticing the parts where the skin had broken. They would scab over soon enough. He knew that, after a while, the skin would harden and stop breaking altogether.
Despite the awful night he'd had, his workout had put him in a good enough mood that he decided to kill some time by walking around Domino before heading out to Ryou's place. He bought himself a nice cup of coffee, full of caramel syrup and whipped cream, and loitered about, gazing at shop windows.
It occurred to him that Ryou's workplace was nearby. His landlord would be out of work soon, so Bakura decided to pay homage to his old days of stalking and headed to Domino's main shopping street. He still had more than half an hour to spare.
He reached the shop five minutes before eight, so he finished his coffee and rolled a cigarette while waiting. Through the window he caught sight of Ryou's white head. His hair was up in a bun, which kinda suited him, if Bakura were to be honest.
At eight o'clock, Ryou disappeared for a while, then reappeared wearing his jacket and wrapping a scarf around his neck. He had almost reached the door when a girl from inside the shop yelled, "Bye, Ryou! See you tomorrow!" loud enough for Bakura to hear, too.
Ryou waved at her, and the girl's face turned as red as the t-shirt she was holding.
Ryou even had a slight smile on as he walked out. That, paired with the messy bun on his head and the way he held his body straighter than usual, he looked almost... Well. 'Dazzling' wasn't a word Bakura would use, but his landlord did look good. Better than usual.
Then Ryou's eyes fell on Bakura and the smile was wiped from his face. He marched up to the yami and hissed, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Bakura smirked. He nodded towards the girl inside the shop, who was still casting glances towards Ryou through the window.
"New fangirl?"
Ryou huffed loudly, but he avoided Bakura's eyes. "Shut up."
"You've always been popular with the ladies, I gotta admit."
"What do you want?" Ryou snapped, fixing him with one of his trademark deadly glares.
"It's time for our session."
"Yeah, but we weren't supposed to meet here."
Bakura shrugged. "I was in the area."
Ryou huffed, but he probably decided that there was no point in arguing. He dug his fists inside his pockets and started walking, and Bakura fell into step next to him, still smirking.
They walked in silence to Ryou's place, Ryou decidedly ignoring Bakura as if the yami were an annoying stray that followed him around. When they got in Ryou's apartment building, Bakura pointed towards the dark elevator.
"Does this thing never work?"
Instead of a reply, Ryou set out to climb the stairs.
Ryou's apartment was dark and colder than usual. Ryou walked wordlessly around, turning on the lights. The Spellbook pages were where Bakura had left them the previous night, along with Ryou's textbooks.
"If you want tea, make it yourself," Ryou said. He took off his shoes and went down the small corridor, to the furthest one of the two closed doors. He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, casting Bakura a weary glance. Then his face hardened and he walked in. Bakura heard the door lock.
The yami shook his head, rolling his eyes to himself. Ryou was really paranoid sometimes. Did he think that Bakura would try to sneak up on him while getting undressed? He had no interest in doing such a thing.
He made himself comfortable on the couch and picked up Spellbook page number seven.
Oh joy. That shit again.
Ryou walked out, and Bakura noticed that he had changed from his work clothes into an old pair of jeans and a loose knit sweatshirt. His hair was still up in a bun, significantly messier than before, leaving several tufts to fall around his face.
Ryou went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. It was only when he glanced at Bakura over his shoulder that the yami realized that he was staring and hastily turned his gaze towards the page.
He'd better concentrate. Last day's standstill wouldn't do.
Thirty minutes later he realized that he really wasn't feeling page seven today, so he started searching among the rest for something that would catch his eye.
"What are you doing?" Ryou said, peering up at him. "You're supposed to work on page—"
"I know, but it's not gonna happen today."
"Why not?"
"It's not clicking."
"Not the right vibe?" Ryou drawled with a small smirk.
Bakura narrowed his eyes at him. "Exactly."
He found a familiar page. He must have worked on it before—but, at this point, few were the pages Bakura hadn't worked on at time or another. He lied back on Ryou's couch, stretching his legs out over the cushions, and examined the symbols, holding the page inches from his face.
It stirred some memory in him. Especially the bottom part: that sharp angle that stopped suddenly and resolutely...
Of course. It had been all the way back to the start: this page had triggered some sort of image in Bakura's head. A landscape full of sand and rocks and a terrible noise tearing through the air. Bakura wouldn't call it exactly a vision... But he didn't know what else he would call it.
He focused on it again. Compared to the rest, this one seemed friendlier. At least, it did today.
He tried to picture the dunes from his vision, the shape of rock mountains in the distance. He'd seen that landscape before; maybe back when he was young. He tried to remember.
Ryou got to his feet and went to the kitchen.
The yami closed his eyes and covered his face with the page, blocking out the light of the overhead lamp.
Where had he seen those mountains before?
There was the sound of water splashing and the clatter of porcelain as Ryou started washing the dishes. It was soothing and monotonous, and Bakura listened to it, thinking about mountains and the vast blue sky.
Those mountains had been in Egypt. He knew that much. They hadn't been close to Kul Elna; Bakura remembered the area way too well. Somewhere far away then? Further towards the south?
He'd travelled south once, following the Nile upstream, towards the headwater. Had that been when he'd seen those mountains?
The noise from his vision was a mystery. It had felt like the sort of sound that could shake the earth, and yet everything around had been quiet for miles.
He had to remember. He had to think harder.
"What are you doing?" Ryou's voice came from somewhere overhead.
Bakura did not remove the page from his face. "Reading," he answered.
There was a scoff from Ryou's direction and the faint rustle of clothing as Ryou sat down on the carpet. "I will work on page seven, then, since you won't."
"Be my guest," Bakura murmured without moving.
There was silence for a while.
Too much silence.
They hadn't put any cd on today. Without music and without Malik's presence to dispel the tension, the atmosphere was too heavy. He would never admit that out loud, though, or Ryou would remind him that he wasn't there to have fun.
He huffed and tried to think about mountains.
That noise had talked to him. There had been words. It had said—It had said—
...What the fuck had it been?
Bakura racked his brains until he felt like his whole head had caught on fire. Oh great; a headache was just what he needed.
When he finally sat up to roll a cigarette, he saw that Ryou was copying all of page seven on a clean piece of paper.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for familiar patterns."
"Okay," Bakura shrugged. He couldn't really judge Ryou's method, since Bakura had even less of one.
He left around midnight, once more without any progress to show. Ryou had been openly disappointed with it, but it wasn't like Bakura was doing it on purpose.
That night was even worse than the previous one. He kept getting flashes of the mountains from his vision, but every time he looked around, he found himself in Kul Elna—and then flames consumed everything. Bakura woke up again and again, until his t-shirt was so drenched in sweat he decided to give up on sleep and go for an early morning shower.
It was right before dawn; the club had closed its doors an hour ago. Nobody was awake at this time in the morning. It was one of the rare instances the old building was hauntingly quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional snore coming from behind a door.
Bakura padded to the communal bathroom and walked in one of the shower stalls. The upside was, he had all the warm water to himself.
He walked out forty minutes later, feeling marginally better. The building had started waking up; Bakura could hear a couple of early risers shuffling in the corridors downstairs. The kitchen would likely still be empty, so Bakura headed there, dreaming of drinking coffee in the peace and quiet.
Somehow, he managed to pull through his workout later, but he was exhausted when he finally left to go to Ryou's.
He rang the bell to Ryou's apartment, already feeling that he wanted to leave and go get some decent sleep. It was important that he got proper rest in the days before his match.
His landlord was as hospitable as ever—which was to say, not much—so Bakura ignored him as best as he could.
"What's wrong with you?" Ryou asked at some point.
"Tired," Bakura replied.
And, one hour later, Ryou had put his notes down and snapped, "Are you even trying?"
"I am, landlord," Bakura growled, glaring at him over his page.
"It doesn't look like it."
"What would you like me to do? A couple of somersaults, maybe?" Bakura said, irritated, and Ryou scowled.
"Make an effort."
"I told you, I am!"
"You were about to fall asleep!"
"No I wasn't," Bakura lied. "And whatever, just shut up and let me focus."
Ryou made an indignant sound before murmuring, "Of course, focus, you always need to focus."
He was grating at his nerves, but Bakura decided to not reply. An hour later he gave up and left without talking to Ryou—something for which his landlord would undoubtedly be very happy about.
He went back to his room for another night full of the jarring images of mountains and some sort of voice he couldn't make out.
Ryou made sure to lock his room before Bakura arrived again. He wanted to hide as much from him as possible. It was weird, and maybe a little bit absurd, but he hated the idea of Bakura in his bedroom. Well, he hated the idea of Bakura in his home in general, but it was a small comfort to think the yami wouldn't set foot beyond the living room.
Ryou splashed some water on his face and set to brew a strong cup of coffee. The weird dreams, which had stopped for a couple of nights, had been back full-force, complete with flashes of Amane and his Mom and, unfortunately, his father. His dreams always got more bizarre and unpleasant whenever he spent many hours pondering the Spellbook.
Bakura was not late—thankfully—but he looked like crap. He always looked like he had rough nights, but this time he looked like he hadn't slept at all: his eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and his hair was even more of a nightmare than usual. When Ryou asked, the yami murmured something about 'bad dreams'.
Ryou gave Bakura a more careful look. There was a haunted quality about his eyes, and he visibly hesitated before taking the Spellbook pages in his hands.
"Does it make it worse?" Ryou asked.
"Does what make what worse, landlord?" Bakura said, his voice gruff and bordering on exhausted.
"The Spellbook. Does it make your dreams worse?" He refrained from adding 'too'.
Bakura stared at him. The look in his bloodshot eyes was disconcerting, and it almost made Ryou look away.
"Are you gonna make me stop reading it if I say yes?" Bakura said.
Ryou pressed his lips together. He guessed that no, there was no room for such generosity. Bakura must have read the answer on Ryou's face, for he twisted his mouth and said, "Then don't ask."
Whatever. Ryou shouldn't have asked, anyway.
"Yo, Bakura," Enki said when Bakura walked in the Golden Egg that night. "Got time for a drink?"
"I can't," Bakura growled as he passed through, "I gotta meet Ishido." He was in no mood to see or listen to his boss, but he had received a text from him two hours ago, while he was at Ryou's, and he knew he wouldn't be able to ignore him much longer without repercussions. Better go see what that bastard wanted, and then he'd be free to go upstairs and crash.
"Come up for a drink afterwards," Enki said.
"We'll see."
It seemed to be a slow night in the underground casino, quieter than usual. Bakura glanced at the cage on his way to Ishido's table. Despite everything, he was feeling pretty good about Saturday's match. His training was paying off.
It turned out that Ishido had a new job to give Bakura. Nothing as complicated as the last time: this time Bakura wouldn't have to sneak into anyone's house or threaten them at gunpoint. If Ishido was to be believed, Bakura would have to meet one of his many drug dealers, receive a certain amount of cash and bring it here. Simple enough. And, this time, Bakura would get paid for it: or, more accurately, Ishido had said that he'd 'throw a tip in' with Bakura's next fighting wages.
Bakura knew better than to argue, so he agreed without much ado. On his way back upstairs, he decided that yeah, he would like a drink, so he found Enki. They sat together on the far end of the Golden Egg's bar counter, nursing glasses of vodka and talking a bit about the job. They fell silent before long and spent the rest of the hour watching the show on the stage or observing the people around the club.
The job turned out to be, indeed, very simple. The following morning, Bakura went to the designated place at the designated time and found Ishido's man waiting for him with the cash ready. All Bakura had to do was carry the money safely from one end of the city to the other and hand them over to Ishido. It was over and done with quickly, with more than enough time left for a workout before going to Ryou's.
Ryou, of course, was insufferable as always. He huffed and puffed and scowled when Bakura walked in, and snapped at him twice while Bakura tried to make himself some coffee.
"Why don't you make it?" Bakura had snarled when Ryou told him off for the third time.
"I'm not the one that wants coffee."
"Then shut up and let me do it! Get off my back, I'm not about to steal your fucking spoons!"
"Fine," Ryou had hissed before storming off to the living room. "If you make a mess, you'll clean it yourself!"
Bakura made a few mocking faces which, fortunately, Ryou didn't see because he had his back turned to him.
When had his landlord become such an annoying prick? He used to be such a sweet little child. It almost made Bakura feel nostalgic about the time he was in the Ring. Almost.
He took his coffee to the living room and sat as far away from Ryou as he could in this cramped little space. He'd give everything to just be able to take these Spellbook pages and go somewhere where he wouldn't be glared to death, but it couldn't be helped. Ryou would never accept to leave him from his sight as long as Bakura had the Spellbook in his hands. It was as if he expected Bakura to grab the pages and make a run for it, and then use the spells to bring about world domination or something. Which might be fun to do, just to mess with Ryou. As payback for all the glaring.
Bakura huffed and pushed those thoughts away. He'd grown sick of it, but he had to focus. Focus, focus, focus.
Damn those symbols, anyway. Why did Zorc need to make it this complicated?
It took Bakura nearly half an hour to get over his irritation and calm down enough to settle and concentrate on the page in his hands. After that, it wasn't exactly smooth sailing, but at least it was quiet. Ryou kept copying the Spellbook on his notepad, every once in a while humming or frowning, and Bakura kept digging into his memories, trying to place those mountains.
He knew there was something important about this vision, something that eluded him. And the way that symbol twisted and turned made something in Bakura ache with recognition.
"Still nothing?" Ryou said two hours later.
Bakura simply grunted in reply.
Ryou put his notepad down and pointed at it with the tip of his pencil. "I found Zorc's name in three more pages. So far, I spotted it eight times. I bet there's more."
"How's that of any help?"
Ryou looked outraged. "Well, it's something!"
Bakura shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat."
"I'm trying! It's not like you've given me anything better to work with!"
"How's that my fault? I'm trying too, you know!"
"You're not even working on the right page."
"It's—" Bakura hesitated. "Look, it's a hunch, okay? I feel there's something on this page that I need to take care of first."
"Like what?"
"I don't know! Just—I need time."
Ryou rolled his eyes. "Of course. It's always about what you need."
"What's that even supposed to mean?"
"I mean it's been three days! I thought you'd have something by now, or else I wouldn't have suggested this!" Ryou gestured from Bakura to the room around them.
"I didn't force you into it; it was your idea!"
"It looked like we were on to something!"
"We are! If you could just be patient for once—"
Ryou let out a cold laugh. "I've been more patient with you than you deserve."
"Yeah, yeah, Saint Ryou the Patient, patron of annoying brats," Bakura said.
Ryou's eyes flashed. "Strike one," he said. "One more and you're out of here."
"Don't bother; I'll leave on my own." Bakura threw the Spellbook pages on the coffee table and got to his feet.
"Will you be more careful?" Ryou shrieked as a couple of pages fluttered and fell to the floor.
"Oh, for fuck's sake!"
"Just get out of my sight, will you?"
"That's what I was about to do!"
Once outside in the cold night, Bakura grumbled a few choice words and took out his phone. He dialed Malik's number as he walked, marching fast to get away from Ryou's place as quickly as possible.
"Hey, Bakura!" Malik said cheerfully when he picked up.
"When are you coming back?" Bakura said at once.
"Uh-oh. You don't sound happy. What happened?"
"Nothing. So when are you coming back?"
"Certainly not before Sunday. What's wrong?"
"Ryou's being a pain in the ass, as usual."
Malik chuckled. "That's what he keeps saying about you."
"And he keeps watching my every move, as if I'm gonna rob him when he's not looking! What am I gonna steal, anyway? There's nothing in there worth nicking."
"Better not say that to his face; I don't think it will put him at ease."
"Whatever. It's no wonder I've made no progress."
"Maybe that's why he's so on edge."
"Yeah, well, he's not helping!"
Bakura kept venting for about fifteen minutes, while Malik just listened, occassionally chuckling or making small comments. By the time Bakura reached the Golden Egg, he was feeling somewhat decompressed, albeit still terribly irritated.
"Get back as soon as possible, okay?" he told to Malik as he climbed up the stairs to the third floor.
"It's not up to me, but I'll try," Malik said.
With that, Bakura hung up. It was weird to admit it even to himself, but he had missed the Tomb-Keeper's presence and his laid-back nature. Malik made everything around him a tad more bearable.
"Hey, grumpy pants!" Yuki called. "Wow, you are even grumpier than usual!"
"Hey, Yuki," Bakura mumbled.
"Wanna come in and chill with us?" She pointed behind her; from inside the room, Mei and Rin waved at him.
"...Sure, what the hell."
Five minutes later, Bakura was sitting on the floor in Yuki's room, his back against the frame of her bed, while Yuki and Rin were sitting on the room's only two chairs. Mei was lying on the bed behind Bakura, smoking lazily, while the others passed a bottle of booze among them: it was some sort of sweet, pre-made cocktail, but it wasn't half-bad.
"So, why are you so grumpy tonight?" Yuki asked and took a swig.
"It's nothing," Bakura said, scowling even harder.
"Come on, tell us! Lady trouble?"
Bakura let out a scoff. "Yeah, as if."
"Someone annoyed you more than usual, though. Come on. Who is she?"
"His name is Ryou," Bakura said through gritted teeth. "And he always annoys me."
"Oooooh, a boy!" Yuki said, grinning.
"It's nothing like that!" Bakura snapped. He extended his hand and Rin passed him the bottle.
"Who is he? How did you meet?"
Bakura stalled for time by taking a few big gulps. "He was my... landlord, once," he said.
"And you keep seeing him?"
"I have to, I don't have any choice."
"Why? He's not your landlord anymore, is he?" Yuki gestured at the room around her. "You live here now."
Bakura scowled and took another swig before passing the bottle to her. "It's complicated."
"I bet it is," she said with another mischievous grin.
"I told you, it's nothing like that! There's this—project we gotta finish together."
"How come, if he's so annoying?"
"I told you, I don't have a choice. It's gotta be us."
"So what did he do?"
Bakura huffed heavily. Then he took out his tobacco bag. "He hates my guts, you know," he said, catching a filter tip with his lips. "And he believes that a day that he doesn't remind me of that is a wasted day."
"Why does he hate you so much?" Mei asked from behind him. She passed him the lighter and Bakura lit his cigarette.
"Look. I—" He hesitated again. It wasn't like he could tell them about Zorc and the Millennium Ring and... the afterlife. In the end he said, "There's history between us. A lot happened."
"I bet there did," Yuki said, her grin turning even more mischievous.
Bakura ignored it by taking a deep drag of smoke. "Anyway. Thing is, he hates my guts and actively tries to be as irritating as possible, just to get on my nerves."
"Do you hate him?" Yuki asked.
Bakura frowned at his hands. What sort of question was that? How was he supposed to answer it?
"He annoys me," he said, even though that wasn't exactly an answer. "Being around him isn't fun."
"That's not what I asked."
"I know," Bakura growled and took another drag. "Look, I don't know," he said at last. "I never really cared about him. If I wasn't forced to see him every day, I don't think I'd give a damn about him at all," he said, even though a part of him shifted uncomfortably, reminding him of the days when he didn't have to see Ryou every day, yet he chose to stalk him. But they didn't have to know that, either.
"Hm. I see," Yuki said and passed him the bottle.
"He just makes everything so hard," Bakura added. He took a swig and went on; he could already feel the pleasant buzz of alcohol in his veins. "Can't he just chill for once and cooperate?"
"Have you told him that?"
Bakura let out a sharp laugh. "I can't really talk to him. He reacts in the weirdest ways." He took another big gulp. "You know what he did the other day? He made a fucking detour through Ainomo district after midnight, just to see what I would do."
Rin frowned, he face scrunching up, but Yuki said, "And what did you do?"
"I followed him at first, to make sure he wouldn't do anything stupid. And he started shouting and told me to stop acting like I care. What am I supposed to make of that, huh? What the fuck does he want from me?" He took a couple more swigs, aware that he was hogging the alcohol but not really caring.
Yuki and Rin exchanged a look. "Uh..." Yuki started. "It doesn't really sound like you don't give a damn, you know."
"I don't," Bakura snarled. "And I told him that. Then I left him there, since he wanted that so badly."
"You left him at Ainomo alone at night?" Mei said, shocked.
"Don't worry, he's fine," Bakura waved a hand.
"It could have gone wrong, you know," Yuki said, demanding the bottle back with an impatient gesture. Bakura gave it to her.
"He can take care of himself. He even used to walk around with a fucking knife on him. Here," Bakura took out Ryou's knife from his pocket and handed it to Yuki.
She took it with a perplexed frown. She turned it over in her hands a couple of times and then handed it back to Bakura. "Why do you have it, though?"
"Because he fucking dropped it at my feet. It was weeks ago." He put the knife in his pocket, then took the bottle back and downed a generous swig; he was getting tipsy, and damn, he needed that. "He smiled and dropped his knife and told me to take it and use it. See what I mean? He's weird."
Yuki and Rin glanced at each other again. Bakura didn't like the look on their faces.
"It seems there really is a complicated history here," Rin said carefully.
"I told you. He hates me."
"Why do you still have his knife on you, though? You said it's been weeks."
"I was planning to return it to him."
"Why didn't you?"
Bakura stared at Yuki, stumped. Well, he had been planning to return the knife, but then days had passed and Bakura had become used to its presence in his pocket. After all, it would be weird to give it back now: he would have to admit that he had held on to it for this long.
"Whatever; the knife is not the point," Bakura grumbled. He finished his cigarette. "The point is, he annoys me and I have to see him again."
"Can't you find some excuse and get yourself out of it?"
"No; I have to do it."
"Can't you just make up, then?"
Bakura laughed, even though the sound tasted bitter in his mouth. "He'd rather kill himself than make up with me."
"What about you?"
Bakura stared at his hands again. What was up with the uncomfortable questions tonight?
"It doesn't matter what I want," he said in the end. "I'll be out of his hair soon. Then it will all be over."
He stayed at Yuki's room for an hour longer; they emptied one bottle and opened another, talking until they were all exhausted and drowsy.
Thankfully, after a while the girls had stopped asking Bakura about Ryou and had started talking about their own annoying customers. When they heard that Bakura had a match the following night, they took the bottle of booze away from him and gave him a huge bottle of water instead. Then they went on to fill him in on silly Golden Egg gossip.
It had been... nice, actually. The same way that talking to Malik was nice. He'd gone to sleep feeling a lot lighter than before, even though he tried not to think too hard about all the questions the girls had asked.
He had a fairly okay night. His nightmares woke him up only twice so, when Saturday morning came, he felt more well-rested that usual. Thank the gods the girls had forced him to drink a gallon of water last night, or he might have woken up with a hangover, and that would have made things so much worse. He didn't push himself too hard during his workout, to keep himself relaxed and ready for tonight's match, and made sure to have a hearty lunch. No alcohol. Minimal smoking, too.
He had decided that he wouldn't go to Ryou's today. It was a fight night, and Bakura needed all the tranquility he could get. Surely his landlord would understand—he might be happy about it, even. One day without Bakura in his feet.
He took out his phone and typed a quick text.
To: Yadonushi, 13:48
cant come today i got a match
That should do it.
He put his phone away, thinking again about Yuki's question. 'Do you hate him?'
...Did he hate Ryou?
Bakura knew hate. What he felt about the Pharaoh was hate. What he felt about Ishido was hate. But... Ryou? He wasn't sure if that was hate. It wasn't nowhere near as obliterating.
As he put his jacket on and went outside for some fresh air, he decided that he didn't need to answer that question. Just like he'd told Yuki yesterday, the answer didn't matter.
Ryou replied to his text an hour later, probably on his lunch break.
From: Yadonushi, 15:03
Tomorrow at 8 pm
Bakura wondered whether he should grace that with a reply or not. Then again, it wasn't really a question, so he decided he didn't need to answer. Tomorrow at eight it was.
Putting on his fight shorts that night, he felt good about himself. Funny how fighting had turned into a regular job. He greeted a couple of fighters in the locker rooms, and even gave a nod towards Kyo, the guy he was scheduled to fight. The boy seemed nervous as he greeted him back.
Bakura warmed himself up with a bit of jumping rope and pushups, then a good few solid minutes of shadow boxing. He felt good. He would be fine.
He made sure to avoid Kyo as much as he could, just in case the guy tried to strike a deal with him again and fix the match's outcome. Bakura had no intention of doing such a thing. If anything, he craved an honest, brutal fight. He had lots of pent up frustration, and every time he thought about Ryou he could feel his irritation spike.
The shouts of the crowd and the commentator's booming voice were a familiar throb in his veins. He walked out among thundering roars and whistles.
Damn, this crowd loved him already.
Rumor about him must have really travelled far, because the underground hall was even more packed than usual. He could hear some chanting Diabound.
Heh. Alright. He'd give them a show.
Kyo walked in the cage after him, throwing Bakura apprehensive glances. Bakura grinned at him and the guy blanched. Nice.
He scanned the crowd once from his vantage point, just in case someone familiar had decided to pay him an unexpected visit again. Not that there were many chances of this happening: Malik was in Tokyo and Ryou was probably throwing a one-man party to celebrate his yami's absence.
All Bakura saw in the crowd was roaring faces and a couple familiar patrons, so he turned his attention back to Kyo.
The bell sounded above the pandemonium and Bakura jumped into action.
It felt so good to be doing this. He'd sparred a coupled of times with the other guys at the gym, but it couldn't compare with the pure adrenaline that fueled his limbs right now. Everything else was erased, fading behind the harsh glare of the spotlights, and all Bakura could see was his opponent, muscles rippling, sweat already glistening on him.
Not even alcohol could wipe everything away like this. Bakura floated around, relishing the speed of his body, and attacked.
He took a few hits, landed a couple of punches himself. Kyo was agile and inventive, so what the hell was he so nervous for? He was more than capable. Was it Bakura's fame that had stressed him out this much? Maybe.
He couldn't blame him. Bakura's blood was rushing in his veins, his breath filling him like a solid thing, his feet as light as smoke; he was intoxicated, feeling that he could glide away like a shadow, untouched, unbothered. The memory of old power stirred in him, as if he held the forces of the shadows in his fists again, remembering what it was like to slice through the night with Diabound, terrible like a dark god.
He was unstoppable. He was unrelenting. He caught Kyo and brought him down, pinning him on the floor and holding him there. Kyo started writhing like a bag of snakes, but Bakura brought his fists down on him, breaking through his defense and hitting the corner of his jaw, then cheekbone, then nose. Red splattered on Kyo's face, glinting like myriads of rubies. Bakura was a deity swimming in red, a sea of red, more and more, as he kept hitting, and hitting, and—
A sharp whistle sounded. Bakura's fist hovered above Kyo's face, stopping inches before it made contact again. Kyo's eyes were two blurred slits, his mouth half-open on his bloody face, and one of his hands was repeatedly tapping the side of Bakura's legs. The touch was so light and weak Bakura hadn't even noticed but, with the feeling of coming back up for air after a dive deep down, he realized: Kyo was tapping out. He'd tapped out.
Bakura unclenched his fist. He relaxed the iron hold of his knees.
He was breathing hard, his pulse was louder than anything, and he could feel his chest heaving with such force that it hurt. It took a few seconds too long for his hazy brain to register that he was in the ring, and he had won. He'd won. He didn't need to go on.
Kyo's nose was broken. Maybe his jaw was cracked too. It was hard to tell.
Still breathing hard, Bakura climbed off Kyo. He pulled the mouthguard out and took a few wonderful, big gulps of air. Slowly, the roar of his pulse gave its way to the clamor of the crowd and the indistinguishable shouts of the commentator.
His body was still tense with the urge to attack-defend-survive, but he tried to bring himself back from that place. It was over; he'd won.
Kyo was still lying down where Bakura had left him, his face a bloody mess, but he was still awake; he brought a hand to his nose, curling slightly in to himself.
Bakura blinked at him for a few stupid seconds, then moved to help him. Kyo groaned and cradled his face as a couple more guys, including Aaron, walked in the cage. After a quick announcement of Bakura's victory and a round of cheering, they were both ushered to the locker rooms.
A few of the other fighters patted Bakura on the back when he walked in; some patted Kyo, too, as a consolation prize.
"What the fuck, dude," Kyo mumbled when he could talk again.
"Don't speak," Aaron told him, tipping Kyo's head back and observing the damage on his nose.
"I had tapped out," Kyo said.
Bakura collapsed on the bench next to him, still panting. "I didn't notice," he rasped.
"Yeah, right."
"I said don't speak," Aaron snapped.
"It's just a fucking show. Did you have to go that hard?"
"Sorry," Bakura said hoarsely, but he didn't really mean it. It was a match; he did what he had to do.
Kyo hissed in pain when Aaron prodded his nose. Bakura left them to it and went for a shower.
It took him the better part of an hour to come around completely and get dressed. Even though he hadn't gotten too many hits himself, there were several spots on his body that hurt to the touch and his head throbbed. Maybe he would get a few bruises as commemoration. Less than Kyo, in any case.
He walked out and watched the last match of the night while smoking a cigarette. Then he left without stopping at the Golden Egg for a drink, even though several 'fans' offered to keep him company. He went upstairs to his room and collapsed onto his bed, his hair still wet from his shower and his body aching all over.
He fell asleep quickly and, for the first night in ages, he slept soundly until morning.
Malik took in the bright signs and the colors around him, humming to himself. Tokyo could be a lot at times, but he enjoyed walking among the thick crowd, observing the bustle of the big city. He preferred Domino, of course, but Tokyo wasn't bad.
Or... It wouldn't be bad, if Malik didn't have to look over his shoulder every once in a while.
The uneasy feeling in the pit of Malik's stomach had begun a few days ago, after Ryou's offhand comment about how the yamis had been reborn close to their lighter counterparts. Ryou had been at home, so Bakura had appeared in front of his doorstep, and Yuugi was walking on a street, so Atem had appeared a bit further along his path, and Malik...
Malik had been in Tokyo at the time.
He swallowed and looked over his shoulder again, scanning the crowd.
At the time of the yamis' return, Malik had been at the studio, doing a shoot. It hadn't occurred to him before, but... What if that was why he didn't see Mariku? What if his yami did return along with the others, but simply got lost in the maze of the studio or the vast city? What if—
What if he was back, and Malik had just, somehow, missed him? What if their paths just didn't meet?
Ever since Ryou's comment, the same thought had been doing circles in Malik's head, making his stomach clench and sweat break out in the back of his neck. He couldn't shake off the unease and, now, as he walked to the studio, he kept casting careful glances around.
And to think he'd teased Ryou back when he'd been freaked out about Bakura being back.
Malik froze suddenly, stopping in his tracks. His head whipped around, chasing the glimpse of blond hair he'd caught out of the corner of his eye. He thought he'd just seen—
No. He was becoming paranoid. There was no way he could have seen Mariku. His eyes were playing tricks on him, because he was stressed out and couldn't stop thinking about him.
He hesitated. He considered turning around and following that blond head, just to make sure, but he dismissed the thought with a shake of his head and a self-deprecating chuckle. Had he really come to this? Running around, chasing ghosts? No. He had to keep it together.
After all, it'd been two months. Maybe he didn't come across Mariku at first, but he would have seen him by now, if he were indeed back. Somehow... they would have met each another.
He convinced himself to keep walking.
He had more things to take care of, anyway. He had to inform Ryou and Bakura that he'd stay in Tokyo for a while longer and, truth be told, he was more than a little concerned about that. It was a miracle they hadn't killed each other yet, but Malik knew that their Spellbook sessions weren't going all that well. They wouldn't be happy to receive Malik's update, that was certain.
He took out his phone and typed the same text to both of them.
Hey, I've got news. I'll have to stay for a few more days. We're doing some reshoots. Sorry
He hit send and sighed heavily. His message wasn't bound to go down well.
Oh, well. They'd managed so far. Surely they could hold out a few more days.
"So. In three days, huh?" Grandma Aiko squinted at the ticket Mariku had left on the table.
Mariku nodded.
"Hm. Okay then."
She looked up at him. Her face was scrunched up in the expression Mariku had learned to recognize that as sad. He didn't like sad. It was as bad as upset.
She let out a long breath. "Well, I hope that young man of yours will be worth all the trouble."
Mariku hesitated. He really didn't know what would happen when he met Malik. Last time he'd seen him, Malik had—
No. Now was not the time to think about it. He took deep breaths, just like grandma had taught him.
"I don't know," he said.
"Well. If it doesn't work out, you come straight back here, you hear me?"
Mariku nodded. "Okay."
"And don't forget to call. You don't want to keep and old lady worrying for too long."
"Okay."
Grandma looked at him. The lines in her face changed. She smiled. "I think I'll make you some cookies, for the trip. What do you say?"
He tried to mimic grandma's smile. "Okay."
Even though no nightmares had woken him up, Bakura woke up feeling drained. His whole body hurt.
No working out today. Maybe not even tomorrow. He deserved a couple of rest days.
He checked his phone and found a text from Malik: it said that he wouldn't be back for a few more days. Bakura's spirits immediately sank. "Shit," he breathed. He had thought Malik would be back tomorrow; it had been his one consolation. "Shit," he hissed again. He put the phone down without replying.
More days with just his landlord and him. Oh, joy.
In the afternoon, he got ready to go at Ryou's, huffing disdainfully at the prospect. He checked himself in the mirror, but he only had a small bruise on his cheek. He was okay.
He bought a coffee on his way to Ryou's—large, extra syrup—and tried to mentally prepare himself for the rest of the evening. He could already feel a headache brewing in the back of his skull. Lovely.
He reached Ryou's neighborhood right on time but, when he rang the doorbell, nothing happened. He rang again, cursing under his breath.
His hands were freezing and his coffee was going cold rapidly. What was his landlord doing?
He glanced up towards the windows on the fifth floor. They were dark.
Mumbling more curses, Bakura took out his phone and typed a text with freezing fingers.
To: Yadonushi, 20:06
where are you
Bakura could try picking the lock of the entrance. It wouldn't be hard—and then he wouldn't have to sit out in the cold any longer. Hell, if he wanted to, he could pick the lock to Ryou's apartment, too: all that pathetic old door would take was a puff of air and it would budge.
His phone buzzed.
From: Yadonushi, 20:08
I'm on my way. Got held up at work
"Great," Bakura grumbled. Breaking in Ryou's apartment was sounding more and more enticing.
His phone buzzed again.
From: Yadonushi, 20:09
Just wait for me. Don't do anything stupid.
Bakura scoffed, his breath fogging up the air in front of him. If he really wanted to break in, a text wouldn't stop him, but he could already feel his headache gaining speed and he was in no mood to deal with a pissed off Ryou on top of that. In fact, he was in no mood to deal with Ryou at all.
Damn the Tomb-Keeper and his stupid reshoots.
Ryou arrived ten minutes later, nearly panting. He'd wrapped himself tightly in a scarf, but whatever was visible of his cheeks and nose was red from the cold.
"About time," Bakura said, teeth chattering.
Ryou shot him a sharp look while trying to fish his keys out of a pocket. "Hello to you, too." He kept searching in his pockets. "I suppose Malik told you the news, too?"
"Yes," Bakura said darkly.
"Hm."
Ryou was still searching for the damn keys. It wouldn't be dignified to start hopping on the spot to warm himself, but Bakura might have to, if Ryou kept taking his time. He should have broken in when he had the chance.
"Will you hurry up?" Bakura growled.
"Just hang on a sec."
"Hang on? You're late and it's cold—"
"Oh, don't be such a baby; I was only five minutes late—"
"Twenty."
"Whatever." He finally took his keys out of a pocket and unlocked the entrance. "There."
Bakura rushed in, hissing a few curses. He didn't even bother checking whether the elevator had been repaired; he run up the stairs and, by the time he reached the fifth floor, he had somewhat regained the feeling in his limbs.
Ryou arrived a couple of minutes later, distinctly more out of breath.
"You should work out more," Bakura remarked.
Ryou shot him a sharp glare. "Keep your opinions to yourself."
The apartment was chilly, but still infinitely better than the street. Bakura took off his jacket and blew on his hands to warm them.
"Does this place have any heating?"
Ryou glare was even darker than the previous one. "It does, for those who can afford it."
...Oh. Was his landlord that badly off, then? Even after working for so many hours at that lousy store?
"I'll give you cash if it means I won't freeze my ass off," Bakura said.
"I don't want your money," Ryou snapped at once. He hung his jacket on the coat rack and went to the kitchen. "I'm gonna make myself some coffee."
"Don't bother making me a cup, I already have one," Bakura said, lifting the paper cup he'd brought with him.
"I wasn't gonna," Ryou replied in clipped tones.
What a lovely start they were off to. The tension was already thick enough to be cut with a knife.
Bakura took his seat on the couch, watching Ryou move about the kitchen out of the corner of his eye. His landlord looked tired today, which was surprising: Bakura would have thought that, without him in his feet, Ryou would have managed to get a few hours of proper rest. Or maybe he never let go of the tension. Maybe that was why he was so uptight all the time.
Ryou took his cup of coffee to the living room and sat cross-legged on his usual spot on the carpet. He glanced towards Bakura. His gaze paused for a while on the bruise on his cheek.
"I won," Bakura said, because he didn't want to let Ryou entertain the opposite; his pride was on the line.
Ryou pressed his lips together. "I didn't ask."
"No, but you were wondering about it."
"Oh, so you can read my mind now?"
Bakura smirked. "I can read you better than you think."
"I really doubt that," Ryou said and took a sip of his coffee. "Let's begin." He pushed the stack of Spellbook pages towards Bakura. "You'd better work on page seven today."
"It doesn't work like that, landlord."
Ryou arched an eyebrow. "What does it work like, then?"
"I don't choose the page," Bakura said. "It's sort of the opposite."
"The page chooses you?" Ryou said, half-mocking.
"Yes."
"Hm." Ryou leafed through the pages and picked one for himself. "Typical," he murmured, just loud enough for Bakura to hear.
"What's typical?"
"You, never taking responsibility for anything," Ryou said, looking at the pages as if he couldn't even deign to look at Bakura while talking to him.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Bakura growled.
A slow smirk stretched Ryou's lips. "Can't you read my mind and find out?"
He was maddening beyond belief, but it was too early to start arguing. Bakura's headache was now a loud thump in the back of his head; the inside of his skull felt raw.
He would work on page seven, then, even though he doubted that would make Ryou happy. He would find some other minor thing to get annoyed over—Bakura was certain of that.
For the better part of an hour, he struggled with page seven, but he couldn't find anything beyond what they'd already discovered.
"It's no use," he grumbled, tossing the page on the coffee table.
Ryou looked up, his cold brown gaze moving from the page to Bakura. "Giving up already?"
"I'm taking a break."
He got to his feet, and Ryou scowled at once. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to smoke a cigarette somewhere where I won't be glowered to death."
"No, you'll stay here, where I can keep an eye on you."
"What's the point? I won't take the fucking Spellbook with me!" Bakura snarled.
"I don't care. As long as you're here, you're my responsibility."
"Can I go to the bathroom by myself, or will you watch me there, too?"
Ryou narrowed his eyes. "Don't you mock me."
"Then stop being ridiculous. I don't even get why you have to be like that all the time."
"Like what?"
"That," Bakura said, gesturing towards Ryou's general area. "Just give me a fucking break. How do you expect me to focus when you have fit every time I breathe wrong?"
"Don't pin this on me!" Ryou said, raising his voice.
"Then stop being so goddamn aggressive all the time! This whole fucking thing was your idea, and you can't even put your hate aside for one fucking second—"
"Put my hate aside?"
"Yeah! Can't you just forget about the past and stop being petty for one goddamn hour?" Bakura said and shook his head before taking out his tobacco bag. He'd smoke here, just to get Ryou to shut up, but god damn it, his landlord was getting more and more irritating with each day that passed.
He'd thought that the conversation—or whatever this had been—was over, but then he heard Ryou's voice, dangerously quiet. "You're telling me to forget?"
Bakura looked up at him. Ryou had been hostile and annoyed before, but now the quality of his anger had changed: it was no longer his usual, constant, low-simmering annoyance. It looked like some emotion was boiling behind his eyes, deep and dark.
"Did you forget?" Ryou went on. "When others wronged you?"
Now, this was crossing a line. "We are not the same, landlord," Bakura said, voice low. "You can't even compare the two, so do me a favor and shut up."
"How is it not the same?" Ryou asked.
Bakura grit his teeth. Was his landlord honestly comparing his situation with Bakura's...? Was he actually saying that Bakura's justified and very well-deserved loathing of the Pharaoh was the same as Ryou's petty anger towards him?
His landlord was really a stupid brat sometimes.
"You don't know a damn thing," Bakura growled.
"I know more than you think."
"You are a spoiled brat who's angry because you have to spend time with a person you don't like; I had everything taken from me by someone who thought my life and the lives of everyone I knew were tools to be used. We are. Not. The same," Bakura snarled, fixing Ryou with a glare. He'd started breathing hard, so he took a deep inhale, to calm himself.
Instead of cowering, Ryou's expression hardened. "You think I'm angry just because I have to spend time with someone I don't like?" He glared at Bakura with eyes reduced to slits, but his mouth trembled. "You think that's it? You... You have no idea what you caused, do you? What you did."
Bakura rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I tried to end the world, I know."
"No, not that. Fuck that. I'm talking about me."
Where was his landlord going with this? What sort of absurd thing would he pin on Bakura now? "I never did anything to you," he said.
Ryou's eyebrows arched. "What?"
"You heard me. My quarrel was never with you. It was with the Pharaoh, and maybe his puny vessel. I never did anything to you."
For a while, Ryou kept staring at him. Then he started laughing. And laughing. The sound was all wrong, broken and distorted; as far away from a real laugh as it went. "Oh, that's precious," he said in between his eerie giggles. "You never did anything to me."
Bakura wished Ryou would stop laughing like that; there was not a trace of genuine amusement in it, and it made the skin on the back of Bakura's neck crawl. "Well, I didn't—"
The laughter stopped, Ryou's expression changing fast: anger rumpled his face, morphing it into the purest expression of hate Bakura had ever seen. "You... You ruined my life. You ruined me." Saying it out loud seemed to have taken some toll on him, because suddenly he was shaking from head to toe.
Bakura stared at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"The shit I'm in," Ryou's voice trembled. "Everything. Everything. It's because of you."
Bakura looked around at his landlord's sad excuse of an apartment, at his tattered jeans, the bags under his eyes. How could any of that be Bakura's fault? He'd been dead for more than a decade.
"Hard to ruin someone's life when you're dead and gone," he said.
"You'd already ruined everything before you left. You—" Ryou stopped talking. His expression took an edge of disgust. "You really have no idea, do you?"
"Either explain or stop saying that," Bakura snapped, annoyed afresh now, because he really didn't know how the hell the conversation had taken this turn and he wasn't all that keen to continue.
"Do you remember this?" Ryou hissed, and lifted his left hand. The scar on the center of his palm gleamed, silvery in the light from the lamp overhead.
Something in the pit of Bakura's stomach squirmed uncomfortably as he remembered: he remembered the prop tower and the spray of blood and him—Zorc—laughing like a maniac; and he remembered Ishido's men, pining his hand down, threatening to break it just because they could.
Yeah, okay, he'd handled Ryou's body roughly from time to time, but his landlord was blowing this out of proportion.
"That was fifteen years ago," he growled, looking away from Ryou's scar, "and, in any case, that can hardly ruin a person's life—"
"Do you remember me?" Ryou said suddenly, eyes sparkling with something challenging. "Do you remember me crying and shouting at you to let me out? Do you remember me begging? Do you?"
For a few wild seconds, Bakura had no idea what Ryou was talking about, but then he realized he was talking about the Ring. He had to be talking about the Ring.
Bakura looked away, even though he could feel Ryou's gaze still burning holes in him.
Truth was, no, Bakura didn't remember. He'd locked Ryou away and that had been it. He had rarely caught a whisper of him. Bakura had just been that good in controlling everything in and around the Ring. Not at first, but... Later on.
Bakura had never wondered what it had been like for Ryou in the Ring. He had always supposed his landlord's conscience had slept, same as Bakura had slept for years.
Ryou probably read the answer on his face, because he went on in a livid hiss. "I've never begged for anything else in my life, ever. I hope that makes you feel special."
"So what?" Bakura said. What could he do about it now? It wasn't like he could change the past.
Ryou chuckled again, once, dry and hollow. "What does it matter, am I right? It's just me. It's not like I'm important."
"Look," Bakura said irritably, picking up a Spellbook page just to do something, "none of these things were done to you because I had a gripe with you or something. It was just a means to an end."
"Is that supposed to make it better?"
"I don't know!" Bakura raised his voice, turning to look at Ryou. "Does it make it better if you think I had a bone to pick with you—?"
"I guess not," Ryou said. "I still had to go through hell because of you."
Bakura scoffed. "Come on, landlord. I thought you were above such drama."
Silence followed this statement. Ryou kept staring at Bakura, face frozen. "Drama?" he repeated, his voice thick and tense, like a wire about to break.
Bakura got to his feet, determined to put an end to this charade. He would go downstairs to have a cigarette, and when he would come back up, everything would have calmed down.
He took a step towards the coat rack and heard Ryou's voice, sharp and furious, "Don't you turn your back to me!"
And that was it. Bakura whirled around, feeling his own blood surge to his head, too, and said, "What do you want me to say, landlord? What the hell do you want me to say?"
Ryou jumped to his feet too, gritting his teeth hard. "If you had even an ounce of dignity, you wouldn't ask me that!"
Bakura threw his hands in the air, annoyed beyond belief. "As if anything I say would make any difference!"
"Well, an apology would be a good start!"
This made Bakura scoff loudly. He wanted to say, Apologize for what? but then Ryou would rant again about how he destroyed his life, so instead he said, "And would that make it better? Would that solve anything? Words mean nothing, landlord."
"Oh, I know that. You taught me that."
"Then what the hell do you want?"
"I want the life that you stole from me!"
"I didn't steal a damn thing from you!" Bakura shouted back. "I'm not gonna sit around to hear your fucking delusions—"
"Delusions?"
"Yeah! I'm sure you've weaved a very nice and convenient tale in your head—"
"How's anything about this convenient?"
"It's very convenient to blame me for everything that went wrong with your life ever, even though I haven't been around for a fucking decade! Very fucking convenient! Go ahead, keep shouting about how I'm a monster, and I'm gonna go have a fucking smoke!"
"Sure you will," Ryou said, nose curling with disgust. "Go ahead, run away like the coward that you are."
That made something in Bakura snap. He took a step towards Ryou, towering as tall as he could, feeling fury propel him forward. "I did nothing to you! I didn't even give a shit about you back then!"
Something flickered across Ryou's face—something shocked pained—and then his face hardened back into a mask of hate. "And you think that wasn't enough? You took my life and you used it however you saw fit—"
"You were just collateral in someone else's fight, same as we all were at some point or another! You're not special! Suck it up and get over it!"
Ryou looked like he was slapped. He took half a step back before he realized what he was doing and hardened his resolve again. "Get over—? You—You have no idea—"
"I have a pretty good idea of what I have in front of me, and that's a sad, pathetic excuse of a man who keeps acting like a child! So life wasn't perfect for you, so the world wasn't fair, boo hoo. Grow the fuck up!"
If Ryou looked like he'd been slapped before, now he looked like he'd slap Bakura, or maybe punch him. Bakura was ready to deflect the hit the second that Ryou moved, but Ryou didn't; he kept clenching both his fists and his jaw, shaking from head to toe. "Get over it?" he said. "You are telling me to get over it? You fucking egotistical, self-serving, cowardly piece of—"
"I am the coward?" Bakura shouted. "You stand there, crying about how I ruined your life, and you think I am the coward? And you want an apology on top of that?"
"You owe me one!"
"I owe you nothing!"
"You ruined my lif—"
"You ruined it yourself!" Bakura yelled, loud enough to tear his throat apart, and Ryou flinched this time, eyes going wide. "Stop blaming everything on me! You call me a coward, and yet you don't dare to own up to your mistakes! You don't dare to look at yourself in the mirror! You have the nerve to ask me to apologize—well, apologize to yourself first!" Bakura looked down at him, contempt curling his lip. "You are sad, landlord. I might be an asshole, but at least I know it. You? You are just fucking sad."
Ryou looked stricken for a moment, and he looked so much like the teenage boy Bakura had known so well—tiny, and frail, and alone—but then he raised a shaking hand and pointed towards the door.
"Get out," he said, voice trembling as bad as his hand was. "We're—done. For good. Get the fuck out."
"With pleasure," Bakura snarled, whirling around to get to his boots. He pulled them on roughly and grabbed his jacket.
"Don't even think about coming back," Ryou said, his voice shaking so badly it was a miracle he was still able to form sentences. "You are—out. The Spellbook—You—You're done. For good."
Bakura turned to fix with a glare. "What?"
"Don't ever get close to me again. You're done. With the Spellbook. And us. You—"
"That's not up to you decide."
"I don't fucking care," Ryou said. "You're done. Stay the hell away."
"The Spellbook concerns me as much as it concerns you—"
"Get out!" Ryou screamed. He turned around and grabbed the first thing that came at hand—some sort of decorative miniature—and hurled it at Bakura, missing by inches. "Out!" he screamed again, tears streaming down his face, and he grabbed his mug off the coffee table. Bakura had to duck to avoid it; he heard it smashing on the wall behind him. "Out! Get out!"
He didn't wait to be told another time. Bakura walked out, slamming the door shut behind him just in time to hear something else shatter against it. There came another crash from behind the door, and a muffled sob from Ryou, and then Bakura was running down the five flights of stairs, barely seeing where he was going. His mind was hazy in anger and he couldn't stop listening to Ryou's shouts and seeing his face in front of him, and—
He strode out into the cold night, thinking of one thing. He hated him. He hated Ryou. He might have not known it before, but he knew it now, and he hated him so much it made his head spin.
He dared compare the two of them as if their situations were even remotely similar? Bakura had lost everything when he'd been a kid, and he had been left alone to fare with ghosts and a whole country that wanted him dead. And his landlord, the spoiled kid who grew up showered in daddy's money, thought he was the same because someone was unfair to him fifteen years ago? Bakura would laugh, if he weren't so damn furious.
How dared he pin everything on him? This brat just had to have someone to blame for his own mistakes, didn't he? And of course he'd blame Bakura. He was the bad one, after all. Always the bad one. Always the monster.
'You ruined my life.'
'This shit I'm in. Everything is because of you.'
Bakura kicked a stray can as he stomped along the sidewalk, distantly aware that his fists were shaking. He took out his phone and dialed Malik's number, barely registering what he was doing.
"Hello?"
"Your friend is out of control," Bakura snarled in the phone.
"Whoa, hang on. What's wrong?"
"He threw a fucking mug at me! And he said I'm out for good!" Bakura realized his voice was shaking; his head was roaring with the force of his pulse. Damn his landlord. Damn him, damn him—
"What the hell—?"
"I'll tell you what the hell!" Bakura crossed a street without caring about the traffic and flipped off the driver of a car that honked at him. "He thinks I am to blame for anything that went wrong in his life ever, and he can't go five minutes without rubbing that in—"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down, and tell me—"
"He likes to pin everything on me and won't shut up about it, whining like a baby all the goddamn time!" Bakura shouted. Silence followed, during which Bakura breathed hard, feeling his pulse racing.
"Okay..." Malik started hesitantly. "That's not new. You know Ryou hates you and, frankly, it's not without reason—"
"Okay, he hates me!" Bakura roared. "So? We all hate somebody! We all have somebody who treated us badly! He's not special!"
"Bakura, please stop shouting and let me—"
"He acts like he's some sort of martyr! I've been through worse shit that him, but you don't see me whining all day about it!"
"No, you simply tried to destroy the world."
"That's neither here nor there!" Bakura snarled. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"I'm on neither's side, Bakura, I—"
"Some help you are!"
"Hey, don't take your anger out on me!"
Bakura hung up with an infuriated huff. For a few maddening seconds, he had to resist the urge to hurl his phone against a brick wall.
He didn't know what he had expected of Malik. But of course, he was Ryou's friend; he'd never take Bakura's side if that meant going against Ryou.
Fuck both of them, then.
He crossed another street, shouting a curse to a car that zoomed too close to him, and made for the Golden Egg.
'You're out for good.'
What the hell did his landlord mean, 'out for good'? Who did he think he was? Did he think he could dictate what Bakura could or could not do?
The Spellbook was his. Rightfully his. He had a right to it, more than anyone else. He had a right to all the secrets it held, and fuck anyone who tried to take that away from him. He wouldn't have it. He wouldn't let anyone keep him trapped again. This whole mess was someone else's fault, and Bakura was one hundred per cent done with it.
And Ryou dared call him a coward on top of all that. That gutless, spineless crybaby had called Bakura a coward.
Fucking Ryou. Always acting like he was so much better than him, and now thinking that he could decide what Bakura had a right on. Well, Bakura had news for him. He could do whatever the hell he wanted, and no one could stop him—least of all Ryou.
To hell with all of them. Bakura was done cooperating, and he was done trying to appease others. He'd fix this mess himself.
So, first things first, he'd have to get what what was rightfully his. He'd have to get the Spellbook.
The following day, he ignored all of Malik's calls, and didn't even read the texts he received from him. He paced back and forth in his room, boiling in his own anger, checking his clock and waiting. Waiting.
He had a plan. A simple one, but those were usually the best.
Shortly before noon, he put on his jacket, grabbed a few bobby pins, a screwdriver and his knife, and left. He walked briskly along the frozen streets, keeping his head well-hidden in his hood and his fists in his pockets to avoid the cold.
His phone vibrated with another text from Malik. He ignored it.
He reached Ryou's neighborhood and made a beeline for the familiar alleyway; he slipped in his hiding spot with practiced ease and fixed his gaze on Ryou's apartment building.
On Mondays, his landlord usually worked the afternoon shift, leaving shortly after noon. If all went well, Bakura would see him soon.
Sure enough, fifteen minutes later the door opened and out came Ryou, looking grumpy and irritated. Bakura withdrew a bit, making sure he was well-hidden, and watched until Ryou disappeared down the street and around a corner.
Great. That meant that his landlord's apartment would be clear for at least the next five hours. All according to plan.
Bakura slipped out of his hiding spot and approached the building. He opened the main entrance without much trouble and climbed up the five flights of stairs. Once he reached the fifth floor, he approached Ryou's flaking door, took out his bobby pin and started working on the lock. It opened so easily it was pathetic; Bakura allowed himself a small grin as he pushed the door open and walked inside.
Ryou's apartment was dark, the shutters all down and the curtains closed. Bakura kicked the door shut behind him and hit the light switch.
For a couple of seconds, he took in the familiar living room. The fragments of the cups Ryou had smashed were gone, but the coffee had left stains on the carpet, right in front of Bakura's feet. Ryou's textbooks were still strewn about; one was lying open on the floor, next to a bottle of vodka and a full ashtray. The air reeked of stale smoke.
The Spellbook was nowhere to be seen.
"Shit," Bakura breathed. He had hoped the Spellbook would still be on the coffee table, right where he'd left it. But, not to worry. No matter where it was, Bakura would find it. He had several hours ahead of him; he'd comb the apartment, down to the tiniest cupboard, if he had to.
He looked in the drawer cabinet behind the couch, then he raked the bookcases, even opening a couple of boxes that turned out to be full of RPG miniatures. He searched behind the cushions of the couch, then under it, and even peeked under the carpet. Once he was positive he'd scoured the living room, he went to look in the kitchen cupboards. Still nothing.
What it possible that Ryou had hidden the Spellbook in the bathroom, or in the laundry basket? Surely he wouldn't have carried it with him to work.
Bakura stood still for a couple of minutes, looking around the apartment.
Well. There was one place he hadn't searched. Actually, there was one place he hadn't even set foot in: Ryou's room.
Ryou had explicitly stated that his bedroom was off limits, but his rules hardly counted anymore, so Bakura turned on his heel and went down the small corridor. The door to Ryou's bedroom was closed, and for a second Bakura wondered if his landlord was paranoid enough to lock his bedroom door every time he left the house. When Bakura tried the handle, it turned easily. Not locked.
Bingo, Bakura thought, a wave of triumph running through him.
He pushed the door all the way open and walked into Ryou's room.
.
.
.
.
.
